The days that followed crawled by slowly, the team on tenterhooks as they awaited the drop. Or rather, as Bucky and Steve awaited the drop. Though Tony had effectively washed his hands of the pair of them and the altercation caused by their actions, they all wondered if he would truly leave it at that, leave them to the work and the base, leave them in their broken state and refuse to have anything to do with fixing it. One day passed, and then another, with Bucky Barnes still a free man and Steve Rogers was not implicated as an accomplice, nor was Natasha Romanoff dragged down with them. The only person who had heard anything from the billionaire on the matter was Rhodey, who had reported that Stark just considered it unwise to act one way or another at that point. (One got the distinct impression that he had cleaned up the language and phrasing, but the gist remained as he stated it to be.) Instead, they were left to their own devices. Instead, he would let them sit in their guilt, and ignore them. Perhaps that would be a suitable punishment, for the time being. Either way, it left the ex-assassin at loose ends and the captain struggling to pick up the pieces, on top of everything else.
And it left those who cared for them with a bad taste in their mouths, and a slight fear of what could come in the future. For the moment, Holly was grateful to still have her husband at her side. She was grateful that spite and rage had not driven Stark to go after him, not that time. Not knowing what could come in the next few months, she was sorely relieved when she woke in the mornings and he was still there with her, bearing up as best he could. And when the Saturday of her first prenatal appointment dawned, he was riding shotgun, with an altogether different reason behind his pale face and wan smile. The drive to Saratoga Springs was done in silence, with the couple taking the Buick to blend in better. Even with the base's status as being unlisted, and their own home as well, it never hurt to try and stay incognito as they traveled to the nearby towns. Particularly when they actually desired to keep a low profile; ball cap and sunglasses returned, and even Holly had buried herself in layers in an attempt at disguise. A light fall of snow peppered the streets as they navigated through the city, parking a few blocks away from the hospital. As per the agreement reached between Cho and the clinic, they went around to the entrance designated for medical and general staff when they arrived, signing in with the security staff positioned there. Holly felt her hand start to sweat as Steve's grip encompassed hers, the feeling of being out of her depth returning in that instant. Up until then, the morning had passed quietly, passively, an excuse given to Bucky fairly easily. (He simply had blinked at them and shrugged when Steve told him they would be out for the morning; still, his eyes sparkled, recognizing that his friend wasn't being totally truthful. He let it slide, though, and they were both grateful for it). It almost seemed unreal, despite the confirmation Cho had given them earlier in the week, but the closer and closer they got to the examination room, the more undeniable it became.
For some time, they sat in the designated visitors' chairs, glancing nervously to one another, tepid smiles passed back and forth. Steve fiddled with the strap of the messenger bag he'd brought with him, papers from the base within and waiting. He'd insisted he bring it along, and Holly wasn't about to deny him that much. She knew what was in the bag; she didn't think it would be best to keep those papers out of the light. After several minutes had passed, and the pair were beginning to wonder if perhaps they had been forgotten, the door swung open again. A heavier-set woman bustled in, her lab coat being adjusted around blue scrubs. Her dark blue eyes twinkled in the florescent lighting, fingers tapping at the stethoscope around her neck. Steve sat up a little straighter in his seat, as if he were the one who would undergo examinations that day. Upon entering, she introduced herself as Carol Watson (Holly drew in a sharp breath at that, but Steve shot her a fast look and a minute shake of the head, understanding exactly where her train of thought was going. She'd already made comments about working with "Dr. Watson" before; it would probably be best to hold off on those for awhile).
"Hello, Mrs. Rogers, Mr. Rogers," the obstetrician greeted them warmly, holding out her hand to shake. As they did so, she settled back onto her rolling stool, laying her compiled notes on the nearby counter. Smiling widely, she said, "First of all, congratulations."
The young woman across from her gave her a small, but genuine, grin. "Thank you."
"Secondly, before we begin with the examinations and everything else, I understand you have some concerns." The young couple glanced at one another, most likely wondering how she'd known so quickly. Carol chuckled quietly to herself; oh, the stories she could tell about new parents...but that was not on the cards for the day. "In that regard, you are like a lot of new parents. I will certainly do my best to put those to rest."
"Again, thanks. At this point in time, we're both kind of just digesting this all," Holly stated, her bluntness softened with the lopsided smile that followed it. Steve merely tipped his head in agreement, biting the inside of his cheek as his wife proceeded to inquire what exactly would be required of her for the appointment. Questions about her menstrual cycle, its duration, any related symptoms and her health up until that point were lobbed back, with him glancing around the room curiously and tuning them out. It was a little disconcerting to see the set-up of the examination table across the way; the stirrups were not something he was overly familiar with. As Carol asked after Holly's habits (did she drink? How often? Was she a smoker? Did she take any prescribed medications?), he nearly allowed himself to be lost in a fog.
That is, until the doctor asked them for the family's medical history. A sick, cold slide wormed its way up his throat from his gut, and he coughed. Turning to him, Carol waited patiently as he attempted to find his words.
"That's the thing that has me worried," Steve broke out, cursing himself inwardly for the lack of tact he was showing. However, it could not be helped; he truly was concerned, and he could not let it wait any longer. Catching Holly's swift glance, he bent to reach into the messenger bag he'd brought with him, the file folder he'd retrieved from Helen days ago in hand. With a heavy heart, he held them out, waiting for the doctor to take them from him before speaking again. Holly's warm fingers threaded through his cold ones as he shrugged, attempting to explain himself. "I, um...well, Doc, it's my—"
"—Your personal medical history," she filled in, paging through the documents he had proffered. It was common knowledge at that point that Captain America had once been the archetypal 'small, skinny guy.' However, that description barely scratched the surface; there was quite a list of ailments to consider as well. It had been cleaned up and printed out on modern computer paper, but it still ran long. The asthma was a given, but after it followed astigmatism, scoliosis, arrhythmia and high blood pressure, and a number of others (she shivered when she got to the pernicious anemia; she recalled the old treatments of the disease—eating raw liver—and pitied him terribly for living through that sort of hell). Going over them once again, she looked kindly at him. "I can see why you would be concerned, Mr. Rogers. But, given that there are special circumstances regarding your case, I'm not sure that you have much to worry about. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of consulting with Helen Cho about you both when she referred you to me." It came as part of the referral, but she did not want to be stepping on any toes right off the bat. When Steve merely canted his head in the negative, she continued, "I may not be a premier geneticist, but I believe I have a grasp of the situation at hand. She believes—and I concur—that you were altered on a genetic and cellular level due to your participation in Project Rebirth. It was, essentially, one of the earliest forms of what is now known as epigenetics and genome editing, even if it has never been solidly labeled as such. Your transformation penetrated to the very core of you just to even make you as tall as you are now, let alone everything else that was changed. Because the original conditions were altered, or even erased, to make you as you are, it is unlikely that you are a carrier for any of the hereditary issues you previously had now." Off the look of incredulity he shot her, she raised an eyebrow. "Unless you have developed anything new since then?"
Steve stared at her, a little flabbergasted. It wasn't something he had ever considered, that he wouldn't be sentencing his own child to a lifetime of illness.
Tongue loosening, he swallowed hard, the cold twist in his heart starting to dissipate. "No, nothing."
The doctor nodded, tapping a thumb against the stack of papers before her now. "We can do carrier testing, though, to confirm it. And Doctor Cho and I will confer as well in case anything does crop up."
"I'm more likely to screw the kid up genetically, huh?" Holly piped up then, the melting of the tension allowing her to jump in again. She shrugged a shoulder when Steve frowned at her pronouncement, his hand squeezing hers as a form of reassurance. She had tried to blunt her words with a grin, but it fell a little flat.
"It's not like that at all, Mrs. Rogers," Watson chided her, a humorous glint in her eye. Rising from her chair, she beckoned the younger woman to come forward. Motioning for her to take a seat on the examination table, she went on, "In the meantime, we've got a few more things to take care of."
Another physical was to be conducted, and a pelvic exam followed shortly after that, with Steve stepping discreetly out of the room for it (at Holly's request; she'd hated gyno exams before that day, and she did not want a witness to yet another with her). The fast thumping of his heart did not slow in that time, the relief flooding through him so thoroughly as he waited patiently in a bank of chairs down the hall. When he came back, the doctor had finished drawing blood to test for numerous possible infections, immunities to other illnesses, and her Rh status. As the samples were capped and handed off to a nurse, Carol had postulated that the due date would fall sometime around the end of July, perhaps the beginning of August if the baby decided to take its time. The appointment was not by any means short, but it did seem that they were back on the street again soon enough, the next one scheduled four weeks from then.
"So no sonogram this time," Holly muttered as they exited the hospital, narrowly avoiding the avid stares of the staff as they went out the back door. Layers on, cap crammed onto the head and sunglasses to shield them as they meandered away from the facility, the cold bite of the December air cutting into them. She was flipping through the printed off pages Dr. Watson had handed to her, clicking her tongue. "Just a big, ol' list of things I can and can't do or ingest for the next several months. Awesome."
Steve, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, slid his arm around her waist. The messenger bag with his copies of his history shifted against his hip as they walked, the bottle of prenatal vitamins Holly had been given clicking inside. Glancing up at the cloudy sky, he exhaled slowly.
"This is all so surreal."
Holly looked up at him, blinking and smirking. "Honey, you could literally be talking about anything that's happened in your life...ever."
His chin dipped down, a chuckle floating out. "I guess. But this is definitely not something I ever pictured."
The smirk softened, and she snaked her arm around him then. "What, being a father?"
His lips twisted in a bittersweet, rueful smile, fingers tugging on the bill of his ball cap.
"Partly. No, it's mostly that the baby might not...be like me. Not like how I was. Out of everything, that was not something I was expecting," he admitted only to her. He had many fears in regards to the newest alteration on their lives, and that was one that really made him to sick to think about. To be told that, more than likely, his child enduring a similar life he'd led up until his early twenties would not happen alleviated something deep within him. Her arm curled tighter around his waist when he confessed that, the brush of her thumb along the scratchy wool of his coat muted. Lifting a shoulder, he continued, "That, and that I was there with you, and nobody looked twice at me for it. Men weren't...well, they generally weren't part of the process when I was growing up, as far as I knew."
A flash of memory came to him, of the many trips he'd taken to the hospital back in that day both for his ailments and to find his mother at her job. He remembered the rooms designated for new fathers to await the arrival of their children, some of their stern, nervous faces surfacing in his mind.
Holly tipped her head back, shrinking a little further into her coat as a freezing breeze passed. "Some men still aren't, but the attitude has changed, for the most part."
"Yep. I'm okay with it," Steve confided, pulling her in a little closer to shield her. The last block was disappearing fast beneath their feet, and they rounded the corner, approaching the parking lot in which they'd left their car. "I wouldn't like not knowing what was going on with you or the baby."
She snickered, tucking the papers under one arm and increasing her pace. "You do like having answers. I'm glad you were there, too. This is kinda freaking me out. It's a first for me, too."
"And it hasn't even been a full week since we've found out," he pointed out, matching her step. As she gave a low groan, he smirked and retrieved the keys to the car from his pocket. He dropped a peck in her hair before letting her go. "It'll get better."
"Yeah," she replied mildly, shaking her head as she waited for him to unlock the doors. Soon enough, they were climbing into the vehicle, papers and bag stashed in the back seat under the shield (their constant companion, as ever). Withdrawing her phone to check the time, she blew out a sharp breath. "Alright, I've been poked, prodded, examined, and drained of fluids. Mama needs a treat."
An affectionate warmth filled Steve upon hearing that, and he smiled broadly.
"And what does Mama want?" he asked, turning the key and starting the engine. Heat slowly began to fill the cab, and outside errant flakes of snow were starting to fall as he let her ponder the question.
Checking the time again, she leaned back in her seat. "Lunch with my baby-daddy sounds good."
Ready to agree, his hand paused on the gear selector when she said that, brow furrowing. Walking himself through the modern vernacular, he frowned in distaste.
"...Please don't ever call me that again."
Holly laughed, sticking her tongue out at him.
"No promises, Nerfherder."
xXxXxXx
A week had passed since the fateful day of the Stark and Barnes reckoning, and the air around the base was no longer popping and bubbling with tension and hostility. Rather, it was starting to cool down to a simmer. Though it was by no means resolved yet (indeed, it was highly unlikely any such thing could be resolved in such a short amount of time), it still was dropping down to a tolerable level to deal with.
As it was, the Black Widow bore up the strain remarkably well; to her mind, she had seen and experienced much worse in the workplace. The Avengers were still several shades of gray lighter than SHIELD had been, and nowhere near the inky blackness that was the Red Room. Besides, there was more to think about in the last few days besides the debacle amidst the team. A sojourn into Quebec had yielded some interesting results in terms of information. Having performed some follow-up on Sam and Wanda's previous mission in November, the person they'd tailed actually had a viable connection to Klaue. A drop and exchange of goods would be happening within the next month, one that the odious man would be attending to in person. Whether or not the information was true, or if it was just a trap set for the team to fall into, remained to be seen. Either way, she'd left a strung-up dealer in the middle of the streets of Montreal, and she gotten what she'd needed from him. All that was left was the interminable paperwork.
Working diligently throughout the afternoon, she had shut out the world around her to get it all completed, ready for debriefing the next morning. Her phone had buzzed a couple of times, the missed calls mounting as she went about her task. Having glimpsed the number as it popped up each time, she'd sighed, and resolved to return them the instant she had a free block of time. She did not think the caller would be so persistent, though, nor would he use his override privileges she'd given him to establish a secure connection.
"There, I'm using the wall link," a familiar voice chirped suddenly, making her head snap up in surprise. The high definition display on the wall nearest to her was lit up, opening to show a man sitting in what looked to be a work room of sorts. The edges of a desk bled away from the edges, colored papers and half-spilled boxes filling a quilted bedspread behind him. The white door along the far wall was shut, affording them some privacy. Twinkling bright eyes stared at her, strong jaw quirking as the mouth turned up in a smirk. A baby with his sandy hair and his mother's brown eyes was in his lap, cooing and insisting (via wiggling legs and squirming body) that he bounce him on and off. "You better talk to me this time."
"Clint," she greeted the man onscreen. A weary smile broke over her face upon seeing him. It had been some time since she'd had a chat with her erstwhile best friend, video or otherwise. Gesturing to her dwindling pile of paperwork, she murmured, "Been kind of busy."
"Apparently. Otherwise, you would've picked up the damn phone," he retorted smartly, a discreet wink shot at her. He knew full well the kind of workload she had; it was only six short months ago that his had been the same. Still, he jerked his chin up, stoically bouncing his baby boy and snickering as the child gurgled. "Now you have no excuse to ignore me. Isn't that right, Nate?"
Tickling under the baby's chin, Clint Barton stood his youngest son up on his legs, holding him close to the screen to say hello to 'Auntie Nat.' The ex-Avenger waited until she obliged him with a smile and a coo-filled wave. When that was finished, he lowered the little one back down, grinning widely at her.
"Yes, because I'm the only guilty party here," she said, picking up the thread after a few moments. Fingers pushed the paperwork away from her as she swiveled in her chair to fully face the screen. Crossing her arms, she raised an eyebrow at Clint and gave him a feral smile. "I did try calling you last week, but somehow I got sent to voice mail three times. Wonder what you were up to?"
He matched her raised eyebrow with one of his own, and chuckled under his breath.
"The kids were with their grandparents for a week. What do you think I was up to?" Before she could voice an answer, he mimed a stretch with one arm, scratching through his close-cropped hair. "Finally got to sleep consistently and soundly for the first time in months."
They shared a laugh at that, with little Nathaniel giggling along and waving his fist in the air. He was supposed to be calming down for bed, but his father wasn't exactly enforcing the schedule at the moment.
"Sure, that was all that you and Laura were doing," Natasha concurred sarcastically. Leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, she asked him, "When's Baby Number Four due?"
"No, no, no," Clint quelled the query immediately. His eyes had widened significantly at the suggestion, and he was quick to shut it down. "Trust me, that ain't happening. Being extra careful now. Otherwise, Laur threatened to drug me and bring me in for the ol' snip-snap. As my Christmas gift, of course."
The curve of Natasha's grin grew, and she tilted her head to the side.
"She taking donations for that?"
"Okay, alright, let's get off that, and move onto another subject, please," he replied, now desperate to speak of other things. It really had been too long since they had spoken. For the first time in years, the two friends inhabited two very different worlds, and while Natasha would never begrudge Clint for making the choices he had, it was difficult for them to connect now. However, it would not prevent them from catching up. With a gentle prompt, Nat did inquire after her niece and nephews, and about the projects that the archer was undertaking with all his free time. The kids were doing well, on top of their schoolwork for the most part (Cooper was starting to slack a little more often, his enjoyment of video games and any activity outside of homework overriding everything in his mind), and Laura was well enough herself. Clint had taken up Nate-wrangling duty whenever classes were in session, and thus far he had completed the flooring. The dining room was being converted into a den and workspace, separate from the one upstairs that he was currently hunkered down in. To her ears, it all sounded so...peaceful, domestic. A world away from hers, a world that she could barely touch every once in awhile. Though she could see the worry in Clint's eyes (he was starting to lose his ability to dissemble very swiftly) that he was boring her, she wasn't at all. It was novel, and she rather liked it. Still, he was just as eager to hear what had been going on with her, and said as much.
"You gotta tell me about the new guy," he requested, shaking his head at his own words. That descriptor didn't quite fit. "Well, old guy, I guess, given how he is a century old and we have met before. Point being, how is Barnes adapting?"
The easy smile on the Black Widow's face lessened to a degree, her gaze focusing on a point above the screen. She had told Barton that she would keep the channels of communication open during the summer months, and when he arrived back East in November, she'd reported how she would be training him in. Natasha was unsure of how much Clint needed to know about the situation with Barnes.
"He's...he's trying," she confessed quietly, crossing her arms over her chest and sitting back. "Some pretty disturbing knowledge was brought up, and it's sort of weighing down on his progress. The team isn't sure they can trust him after it came to light. Some of them, anyway."
Clint hummed at that, cradling a calming Nate in his arms as he pondered that information.
"I'm assuming that includes you," he posited. Off the bare flicker of her eyes, his brow furrowed. "Or maybe not."
She shrugged, remaining silent. His eyebrow arched at that.
"So you don't, then."
"It's not that simple," she riposted, catching herself off-guard with the honesty. Perhaps she shouldn't have given into it, but Clint was one of the very few people in the world that she trusted enough to let her guard down. Especially when it came to confusing scenarios that she was thrown into. "All his actions have been laid bare, and he isn't hiding or running from it."
"Ah, point in his favor, then?" Barton wondered. The fiery redhead lifted a shoulder at that, her expression bland.
"I suppose so."
Clint stared at her for a long moment, saying nothing. His sharp gaze missed nothing, not the bend of her body, nor the slide of her eyes as she thought. The minute tics restrained and hidden were laid bare before him, as they had been from the beginning. Though he did have bouts of impairment (such as with the thing she'd had with Banner, and that was mainly because it came so far out of left field that he couldn't have believed it, if Laura hadn't said anything about it), he was able to detect her shifts in mood and mind quicker than most. But, he figured, it would be wiser not pursue that course. For the time being.
"What did he do?" he asked instead, his tone dropping. When she didn't answer right away, he chewed the inside of his lip, glanced away. "Can't be any worse than what I—"
"Not at liberty to discuss it without express consent," she interrupted him. The situation between Barnes and Stark had thrown them all, but that was one of the hard and fast rules of it. Nobody would talk of it outside of the organization, not without Bucky or Tony granting permission. As it was, they were definitely not willing to divulge. Softening the harshness of her words, she calmed her tone. "If you rejoined the team fully, then you can be clued in. But, off the record...no, it's really no worse than what happened with you." She frowned then; Barton's experiences with mind control and manipulation really weren't all that different from Bucky's, but there was at least one marked one. "It was...slightly more specific."
A few moments of silence passed in which that information sank in, what wasn't being said sifted through and stored away. In the background, Natasha could hear the raised voices of Cooper and Lila, their mother's admonishments for them to tidy up the mess they'd made downstairs floating through. Barton half-turned in his seat, listening as the voices faded several seconds later. Looking back at her, he sighed.
"...Okay. Well, in that case, I don't really have much to say to that. If he's trying to right his wrongs, I'm not going to nay-say the guy," he commented, knowing that his opinion would not hold much weight, given how he was in partial retirement. Lifting a shoulder slowly, so as not to disturb a sleeping Nate, he continued, "I imagine Cap is getting a lot of flak because of it all, too."
The grimace that graced her lips told him all he needed to know about that, but that didn't stop her from speaking.
"It's shaken a couple people's views of him. Which happens when you put people on pedestals." Tossing her hair, she tucked one of the loose curls behind her ear, exhaling slowly. "We're all treading very carefully around one another for the time being."
To be honest, it was like walking on egg shells around everyone, and that got on her nerves more than anything else about the entire situation. It wasn't as if any of the others hadn't any blood on their hands. She certainly had more than her fair share, and yet she was respected, an equal. Barnes was at least repentant of his deeds, unlike some others she could've named. Either way, it made everyone soft-spoken and edgy. And vigilant of one another. The archer huffed out a quiet breath, canting his head to one side.
"Makes for a tense environment," he responded, having no idea how true a statement that was. Blinking, he rocked his now-sleeping son as he considered something for a few seconds. "You planning on escaping for Christmas, since we are edging ever-closer to the holidays?"
That was right; Christmas was only weeks away. However, her employment did not always allow her to celebrate holidays. A noncommittal tip of the head, a few fingers flicking in the air preceded her answer.
"Don't know. Depends, as always. And..." she trailed off, rubbing at the back of her neck, "well, I'm not sure I should leave this year."
Not with everything so uncertain, not with everyone still looking askance at their leader, at her. If she stayed, she could be able to prevent things from falling into worse disarray. And then again, she could exacerbate the problem. All she knew was that she had two compatriots who could use support now, more than ever. A look of exasperation decorated Clint's features, and he tutted under his breath at her.
"You didn't leave last year, either. Or the year before that." He fixed a mocking glare on her, concern threading his voice. The previous year, she'd been at the Tower, watching out for any blips on the radar regarding Loki's scepter...and with Bruce. Though she was removed from the place, she might not have been removed from the memories. New ones had to be made, to blot out the old, and he would see it done. "You're allowed to take off, take care of yourself every now and again, Nat."
She snorted, running a hand over her face to conceal the grin that threatened to bloom. "I know, Mother."
"The kids miss you," he pressed, lifting the sleeping baby a little for emphasis. Nodding back in the direction of the door, he told her, "Lila keeps asking about how you're doing."
"And they're the only ones, right?" she joked, shooting him a knowing look. Without missing a beat, Clint shrugged and tilted his head to the left.
"Eh, I could take or leave it." A corner of his mouth turned up as she rolled her eyes at him. Letting the levity pass, he maintained his focus on her, the glitter in his bright gaze holding an edge of sincerity. "We all miss you."
The honesty in his tone caught her, clinging around the ragged edge of her heart and pulled. It showed only as a twitch of an eyebrow, the grave set of her countenance growing starker as the time marched on.
"I'll...I'll see what I can do," she reasoned eventually. Natasha had not been away from the base for any longer than a few days, even when on mission. She did have time off to use, and she had given so much in the last six months. The last year. The last several years. Glancing up, she spotted the spring of hope in her best friend's gaze, and that wore away at her resolve even further. "See if they can survive without me for a few days."
"A week. You're staying for a week," he stipulated, not giving an inch on the demand. Raising his chin, he declared imperiously, "They can figure it out."
She smiled, knowing that in his mind, the matter was settled. Barring any emergencies or disasters, Natasha Romanoff would be staying with his family for the holiday. With her family. Vaguely assenting to the plan, she soon enough signed off, allowing Barton the chance to put his boy to bed and for her to deposit her reports for filing and review. Her office was situated down the hall and around the corner from the captain's, and soon enough she made her way there, prepared to drop off his copies in the receiving box attached to the door. However, a sliver of light came through the cracked portal, the blackout controls on and turning the glass walls and inset panels opaque. Screwing up her brow, she approached the room cautiously. It was after eight o'clock at night; Rogers was hardly ever at the base after that time, unless there was a mission in progress and he was manning the comm controls. Did he have his own work to finish? He generally was meticulous about tying up the loose threads. Pushing the panel, her eyes widened as she noted the brunet man seated at the desk, rather than a blond.
"Oh," she breathed, hovering in the door frame. Cupping a hand in the air, she went on, "I thought you were Steve."
The wry smirk the fellow shot her invited her to return the gesture, and she obliged. Scratching at the scruff along his jaw, Bucky Barnes folded his arms and rested them on the desk top. Under the overhead light, she could see the light purple bruising beneath his eyes, the tense set of his shoulders under his red Henley shirt. The desktop computer before him was opened, the display screen a scanned-in drawing sent by a young fan. It had been distributed to them all, a little girl having labored over the artwork to get in all of the Avengers, even the new ones. The bright colors and cheeriness of the crudely-etched faces went quite a long way to lift the spirits of the team, and evidently it went far enough that the captain preferred to see it every time he booted up the computer. Bucky's gaze slid over it as hers did, and he chuckled slightly.
"Sorry to disappoint, doll," he drawled, sardonic to the last. The use of the pet name made her blink, but she otherwise took it in stride. It wasn't the worst thing she'd ever been called, and she wasn't exactly there to tidy up his outdated vernacular and vocabulary.
"What are you doing in Steve's office?" she asked instead, leaning a shoulder against the jamb. Steve's personal museum, she privately renamed it; the room was filled with the memorabilia he'd reclaimed from the historical societies, his dress greens now in a display case along the back wall, a few of his framed comic covers hanging up. The modern touches in the room were overwhelmed by nostalgia, but she was hard-pressed to find any fault with it. It wasn't her space, and it could have been worse. Returning her attention back to the other man out of time perched there, she waited for an answer. After the first couple of days hiding out at the base, he'd returned to the house, taking up his room and offered space again. He didn't often stay after Steve did, unless he had a training bout with her or a private video meeting with his therapist, neither of which were on the schedule for that day.
"He let me have unlimited access. I'm catching up on a few things," he explained, shrugging his shoulders. Hefting a bag off the floor, he placed it before him, digging through and starting to remove the contents. "It's quiet here."
Tilting her head, she grinned and raised a brow. "Is it not quiet at the Rogers residence?"
A derisive bark of laughter shot out of him then, unbidden. The implication of her words had rolled so fluidly over her tongue, and she snickered even as he ducked his head and scrubbed a hand over his face. Shortly, though, the smirk he was sporting faded away, his blue gaze dropping to the edge of the desk before him.
"It can be, but, well..." he trailed off, metal hand coming up and swiping at the loose strands of hair on his forehead. Taking the opportunity to come in, Natasha dropped her papers into the receiving box with alacrity. Tucking her hands into her pockets, she approached him carefully, stopping within a few feet of the desk.
"Things are okay there?" she inquired, light eyes tracking him with genuine concern.
"They could be worse. They probably should be." He let his hand tap along the desktop for a moment. Blue eyes dipped towards the framed photo at the corner, a candid shot of the captain seeing his bride for the first time. Focus locked onto it for a second or two before he met her eye line again. "Steve told her the truth. Which was for the best, I think."
Natasha frowned, thinking she understood the lay of the land. Something inside her burned, but she refused to acknowledge it.
"And she's shutting you out."
Truth be told, she hadn't expected that kind of behavior from Holly, but she knew that people could change at the drop of a hat. They could desert one another for reasons for far lighter reasons. Bucky shook his head, setting the record straight swiftly.
"No, that's not it. It was never easy between us, and it's definitely not that way now, but she's not going out of her way to treat me terribly," he said. And it was true; Holly hadn't specifically targeted him or made him feel all the worse for imposing in her home, with his myriad of sins. In fact, she really hadn't much to do with him at all. He snorted to himself. "No matter what I deserve. It's just...far more awkward."
If Steve wasn't in the room with them, the air became so thick with what was left unsaid, what was left in the wake of the fall-out, that conversing seemed to be a struggle. It would take time, to rebuild to the tenuous equilibrium they'd developed when he first came out of rehab. Much like with everything else in his life. Sensing his discomfort with the topic, Natasha cleared her throat, closing the distance between them.
"What are you trying to catch up on?" she wondered, dipping her chin towards his set-up on the desk. He'd removed several DVD boxes, a couple of granola bars, and a notebook. Trailing a finger over the cover of the notebook, she barely had time to recoil when he snatched it away. At first, she'd assumed it was a private journal, but he had flipped it open to a page, his slanted scrawl decorating it.
"Right now, films. Apparently some pretty good ones came out, and I missed them," Bucky told her, gesturing for her to read the list. One title marched after the other, and she grinned. It reminded her of the red booklet Steve used to carry around, his list of essentials to understanding the modern world around him. She wondered how many running lists there were now between the two men, and inwardly she visualized them nattering on about everything they'd missed.
"That's right, you did," she rejoined, her mouth curving up as she glanced over it again. "Not a bad list here. How far have you gotten?"
Barnes leaned forward in his seat then, a hairsbreadth from her bent form as he tapped his finger along the lines. She held her breath for a moment as he muttered quietly, taking the tally and narrowly avoiding her own skimming finger.
"I've gotten in a good amount. Have some time to kill nowadays," he pointed out almost needlessly. Though he'd been in training for a few weeks, Fury was still hesitant to bring him on mission with the helicarrier crew. Anything with the main team was also put on the back burner, until he'd proven his sanity and competency. It wasn't enough to have Steve or Natasha vouch for him, not anymore. Consequently, his evenings were free to fill as he chose, and he could only utilize the gym so many times before he started tearing out his hair in frustration. His brow furrowed as he paused beside one title on the list. "I've made it down to this one, but the order has me confused. I'm supposed to start with the fourth one, go until the sixth, and then switch to the first and watch until the third." He risked a glance up at Natasha, hyper-aware of her proximity at the moment, her blue eyes searching his. "She...Holly insisted this was the correct order, that that was the only way to watch them. And Steve was right there with her when she handed them over."
"Wow," she exclaimed, blowing out a low whistle. Gently hoisting the box for the fourth installment, she held it up almost reverently. "You do realize that she basically lent you her babies, right?"
If it was a joke, it barely qualified. The Star Wars movies were among Holly's prized possessions; only her books mattered more in regards to her affections for material things, and that was a narrow margin, indeed. For God's sake, she owned a dress that was patterned after the little blue and white droid, having worn it to work at the base (given how nerdy a lot of the staff were, it actually allowed her to blend in). Natasha wanted to make sure he comprehended how deadly serious she was about that.
Also, she wanted him to know how, even despite the awkwardness, the other woman was actually trying in a small way to reach out to him. Even if it were only for Steve's sake.
"I got the impression they were important," he mumbled, eyebrows arching. Lifting a shoulder, he continued, "Evidently, there's a seventh installment coming out. I have to catch up before that."
Natasha nodded, taking another look at their surroundings before pulling back. "You want me to clear out? Give you some space?"
She hadn't gotten further than a few steps when a clearing throat made her stop. Shooting a look back at him, she witnessed the coy tip of his head, the metal hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. Back in his day, she might have reckoned those to be affectations, but in that moment, they seemed somewhat genuine.
"Actually...I wouldn't mind the company," Bucky professed. Hastily, he flicked a few fingers in the air, providing a plausible explanation for his want of a companion. "I usually end up pretty confused about some of the stuff in the pictures, and frankly, I think Sam is getting tired of fielding my questions. So if you wouldn't mind answering them, you could stick around. If you wanted."
He was not making the offer lightly, she knew that much. Bucky Barnes was not easily given over to people, for obvious reasons. He was often melancholy, often brooding, lost in his mind and the darkness that had consumed him for so many years. There were days where she'd found hardened agents scurrying away from him just from merely getting to close to him in the halls, the aura of anger permeated so. But that wasn't all he was; slowly, but surely, he was figuring out that he didn't need to shut himself out, and off, from the world. His demons didn't need to eat at his soul, constantly fed by his personal loathing and self-hatred. And so there were times, like now, when he would seem downright personable. She knew what a cost those times came at.
The deepest, darkest part of her was screaming, railing at her for not walking away. The beat of familiar, similar, this has happened before pounded and pulsed, a low ebb shuddering in her heart. She was not ignorant; she knew herself, knew that things were taking a turn. However, that turn could come to nothing, as it always had before. It wouldn't dictate her actions, and it did not mean she would inevitably be drawn the exact same course again.
While she was having her mental debate, she noticed the fall of his face, the blankness sliding over his features the longer she remained silent.
Inwardly, she shook her head at her own behavior. Such speculation was childish, and she was reading further into it than necessary. Barnes was becoming a friend, had been for the last few months. Naturally, he'd prefer her company over the others. It wasn't a hard concession to make, and so she'd oblige.
"In that case, we should move this party elsewhere. I'm not sitting in a desk chair for over two hours for this," she murmured, her agreement making him sit up straighter and his mouth to curve upward again. Hooking a thumb at the door, she said, "At least there's a couch and food in my quarters. Come on, Barnes."
The communal rooms were out of the question, but at least he could be welcomed into her space. And before she thought about that phrase too hard, she was helping him scoop up the DVDs and meager eats he'd brought with him, waiting until he'd pushed all back into his borrowed bag before leading the way out. Clicks and heel rings of their boots echoed in the open space, with him matching her pace easily. The subtle shift of his stride, wherein he was brought closer and closer to her, did not seem to be deliberate, but it did put Romanoff on high alert. The stark contrast of their forms stuck out to her as they walked. The tall, unyielding cut of him was a foil to her lithe gracefulness, even in the simple act of moving from one place to another. He did not lumber; he was as light-footed as she when the situation called for it, despite his bigger build. No stoop, back erect, gaze sweeping out ahead, a lifetime of training not forgotten even in the time away. It was doubtful it ever would be forgotten.
Forcibly, Natasha pushed the drifting thoughts away, shoving them down. Whatever it was that was drawing her out in such a manner, it needed to be redirected. Barnes was Barnes, and he would be no more to her than any other person on the base, on the team. Better to find another distraction for him, another person to commiserate with.
In the end, it could save her so much.
Crossing through the security points, they eventually made their way onto the floor of apartments. Passing the communal kitchen, Natasha's eyes flicked over, catching sight of a distraction, one that would suit her purposes. Halting in her steps, she held up a hand to preempt Bucky from going on without her. Flashing her a confused look, he waited even as she brushed it off, her hand waving through the air.
"Hey, Maximoff," she called out, jarring the younger woman out of her trance. The utensils that had been floating around her dropped, but she caught them deftly before they hit the floor. Mildly impressed at her improved dexterity, Natasha gave Wanda a partial grin. "You up to anything?"
Glancing down at the utensils in hand, Wanda smiled ruefully and placed them on the nearby counter.
"No," she confessed. The look she cast the Black Widow bespoke of the rest of her unexpressed sentiment: As you can see. Evidently, her robotic partner-in-crime was nowhere to be found; the Vision was seeing to disparities between their personal networks and the Oracle grid, a task that would encompass the entire evening, it seemed. Left to her own devices, Wanda had taken to "exercising" her mental faculties, improving on her telekinetic ability. It was her hope that by the end of the season, she would be able to lift any one of them in combat while still being able to perform other abilities. So practice, practice, practice, she would. Starting with small items.
"Want to join us?" Romanoff offered, ignoring the sudden tenseness of Barnes' body as she spoke. The tut of her tongue was barely restrained. If he wanted to have any success, any chance of reforming his image and moving beyond his past, he couldn't allow himself to be shut out anymore. If she had to be the one to push him, then so be it. "Movie marathon."
Wanda dragged her widened gaze away from the other woman, instead focusing on the taller man. Her brother had advised her to be cautious around him, that Barnes was still unknown entity and it would be best for her to have her guard up around him. Privately, they had discussed the untenable position they'd all been put in, and the twins, while maintaining a wary front, were not about to judge Barnes wholly by his past failures. Failures that, unlike them, he had no control over. His fate was not in his hands back when he was contracted to kill so many people. Unlike them, unlike her, where her sole purpose and goal a mere year ago had been to maim and destroy her enemies at will. They too had been manipulated by HYDRA, but not the degree that he had. His soul was open to her inner eye, more open than some others' she'd come to count on as teammates and companions. While he was no innocent, she knew that underneath the layers was remorse, sorrow, repentance.
However, it wasn't the man's past that had her hesitating. It was the things unsaid that gave her pause. She looked at both of them for the moment, the raw energy swirling around both the Black Widow and the would-be Winter Soldier nearly overwhelming. The raw energy that, unbeknownst to either of them, passed from one to another almost seamlessly. It seemed like a line, one that she was not sure she was willing to cross.
"I...I suppose," she replied after a few moments, her green gaze locking on the soldier. "If you do not mind."
Slightly unnerved by her eyes, the intensity of them not quite matching the carefree set of her face, Bucky stumbled a bit over his speech.
"Um, no. That's okay," he said, darting a look back to Natasha for a moment. For her part, a sense of relief swam up inside her (not entirely quashing the rebellious slide beneath it) as Romanoff beckoned her fellow Avenger forward, inquiring as to her experiences with the great American saga that they were about to partake in. The younger Maximoff twin had, like so many others her age, watched the films before, and she had no complaints. She certainly would not mind watching them again, particularly now that she had a sort-of connection with the Jedi herself. Quirking up his brow, Bucky wondered if it had to do with her lifting the spoons and spatulas beforehand, and she nodded proudly. Exhaling softly, Natasha ignore the lurch in her stomach, and focused on having forged the beginnings of a path for the auburn-haired girl and the fellow.
Comments flew amongst the trio, the women speaking more often than the man, as they entered the quarters designated to the Black Widow. From across the room, a set of dark eyes watched as the younger woman tapped the arm of the Winter Soldier, twitching his sleeve and asking him something in Slovak. In turn, he retorted in Russian, to which the redheaded woman laughed over her affronted compatriot and ushered them both inside. The dark eyes blinked, and Sam Wilson rubbed a finger at his temple. While he did not begrudge Bucky his chance to start mending fences, he was a bit curious about something.
"Okay, dude's almost one hundred and a known assassin," he groused aloud, dropping the book he'd been reading in his lap—he would be spending the evening alone, as his companion of choice was deep in relief follow-up efforts for the next few days. Shooting a glance at the teammate nearby, he hooked a thumb in the direction the trio had gone. "How the hell does he have any pull?"
To his mind, it seemed that he personally needed six months, good luck, and a glowing recommendation to get anywhere with women nowadays (something Kay confirmed when he brought his suspicions to her later on, with a laugh and a kiss). Not that he would want to see the guy languish as a pariah indefinitely, but in one night he was entrenched in the company of two very beautiful women, even after the darkness of his past had been shoved into the light. It was worth pondering, for a moment or two.
A loud snort came out, followed by a distinct eye roll.
"That's like asking what the meaning of life is," Rhodey countered swiftly, not even bothering to raise his eyes from the tablet in front of him. Frankly, there was little he wished to discuss regarding Barnes, even when it came to posturings. Shaking his head to the screen in his hands, he rose from his chair, sauntering towards his quarters. "I have no answers for you, man."
Thus the Falcon was left to his own devices, shaking his head and crossing the room to see if four would be considered a crowd. If he wanted answers, it would be best to go to the source, after all.
xXxXxXx
The buzzing alert on the handheld device rattled it against the end table, the clatter echoing in the silence. In the darkness, a sharp breath came, a low grumble on its heels. With a curt command, the lamps in the room sparked, the yellow glow lighting up the space. In the middle of the big bed, Tony Stark had rolled over, reaching out for his handheld to shut it off. He hadn't slept soundly in over a week, his dreams laced with death, destruction, and the eyes of the murdered haunting him. The eyes of a murderer...
The last week and few days had been spent in a sort of fog, with Tony withdrawing into his mind. Outside of his therapist and Pepper, he'd refused all contact with the outside world, relieving the horrible events of the previous Wednesday. His brain refused to let him rest, let him forget. Barnes's confession was forcing him to relive his parents' death, all the pain and anguish rising from beneath the thick walls he'd buried them behind. When he returned to the Tower, his initial response to the still-roiling rage and sorrow was to get stone drunk, a tried and true method of the past. However, when he woke the next morning, hung over and laid out in his bathtub, the pain was still there. It could not be numbed, or shoved away, and his heart ached so badly at his wish to be able to do so that it nearly broke him all over again. It was no wonder that he hardly got any sleep.
That night, however, he'd actually been able to fall asleep, mind blank and blissfully devoid of the fanciful, horrible dance of his mind. So, of course, that was the night wherein his faithful AI had roused him, jarring him awake well past the midnight hour. Leaning back against the headboard, Tony flicked his eyes shut, a small moan of discomfort bubbling in his chest.
"What the hell, JJ?" he barked at the air, not minding his tone in the least (with Pepper in California for the weekend, he could be as loud and pissed off as he damn well pleased).
"Mister Stark, I have detected a presence in the downstairs laboratories," JJ reported, not put off in the slightest. In fact, the program's tone seemed to hold more than mere placidity. An undercurrent of worry seemed to be invading its words, distress coming to the fore.
Tony groaned aloud. There was almost always a presence downstairs; after all, the building was home to offices of the Stark Industries corporation, as well as being his home. People came and went at all hours, employees of the company passing in a steady stream day in and day out. That was why he was woken?
"So one of the lab rats is puttering around. So what?" he snapped, the heel of his hand rubbing harshly against his eyes. A nearly imperceptible huff seemed to come out of the AI, but it persevered nonetheless.
"If it were merely one of the daytime personnel, then I wouldn't say much one way or the other, sir. It was opened with the interns' access code." It paused as the billionaire arched an eyebrow. Interns primarily worked during the day, but there had been a few times where some of the older ones—college kids, God love 'em—would stay through until the morning hours, working on some project or another alongside one of the laboratory workers. One of them coming in at that time, with no supervision, was puzzling. JJ went on, "Last four digits of the personal I.D. are 0506."
The end numbers broke through the haze of sleep then, bringing Tony into full alertness. Those four digits sounded extremely familiar.
"It's Mister Parker, sir," the AI reminded him smoothly, as if sensing his momentary lapse of memory. Peter Parker? School Nights Parker was there? The kid was still hanging around, his final presentation in August having earned him a spot in the year-long program. On occasion, he would pop downstairs to check on his progress, take a look at all the things Parker was making headway with in between schoolwork and his home life. Lately, though, he'd been showing up less and less. He'd contracted an illness roughly around the beginning of November, and though he'd made a full recovery, something about the incident had shaken him out of his normal state (he'd been a little twitchy before, a little nervous, but that seemed to have multiplied). It had made him concerned, but not unduly. It was entirely out of character for him to be making any trips into the city past midnight, even if it was a Friday night—technically Saturday morning. Coming in from Queens wasn't exactly the easiest jaunt, not in December and not in the middle of the night.
"Peter? Why would—" Stark was cut off by the screen of his handheld lighting up. Security camera feed had been redirected to show him the teenager's path through the facility. The look on the kid's face was one that cut him to the quick; the rage and the unadulterated sorrow was visible even in the low lighting as he moved from one point to the next. The kid was on a rampage, it seemed, moving from lab to lab, pushing and shoving tables and chairs as he went. It was when footage of him seemingly screaming and flipping a steel table before collapsing to the ground that Tony understood it went beyond a mere expression of feeling.
"He is in a highly agitated state, sir," JJ supplied as the billionaire's eyebrows shot up. Understatement of the century, right there. "It would probably be best to save the questions for him specifically."
A retort was barely withheld in that moment, Tony's brow furrowing as he threw the covers off his lap.
"JJ, triangulate the kid's position," he commanded hastily, bolting out of the bed towards his dresser. Swiftly retrieving the first clean shirt and set of jeans that came to hand, he threw them on haphazardly. He needed to get to Peter before he inflicted any more damage, before he hurt himself. "Tell me which lab he's in."
"Yes, sir. Latest scans point to him being in Laboratory B."
"Uh-huh," he mumbled, fumbling with the button on his pants and marching towards the door.
"...Perhaps it would be best if you remembered your shoes, Mr. Stark?" the trusty AI called after him. Recalling the images of broken glass and strewn laboratory instruments from the footage, he quickly tromped back into the bedroom to snatch up a pair of sneakers.
"Yeah. Right."
JJ seemed to hum at that. "And also, I would suggest hurrying."
"Already on that, JJ," he called out, wedging his foot into the left shoe and jogging out of the quarters at double time. The right shoe was shoved on when he reached the elevator, a hand carding through his mussed hair. Descending to the research floors, he jogged down the hall to the correct space, the door already open. Stepping over the threshold, Tony's eyes widened as he stared. Graphs and papers littered the floor, carpeting it. A couple of broken beakers had joined them, the glinting glass reflecting the single bank of lights that had been turned on. His gaze ricocheted over to the steel table, overturned and shoved into the far wall. The pieces of equipment that had been stacked atop it were flung all around, the legs of it jutting into the air. He could only stare at the wanton destruction; no kid at the age of fifteen and weighing less than ninety pounds soaking wet should have been able to do that kind of damage.
And speaking of the fifteen-year-old...he glanced over to the far wall, where the kid in question was seated. Heavy jeans encased his legs, though they were scuffed with dirt and a spatter of something darker. The sweatshirt he was wearing was bulky, torn at the shoulder to reveal the bright red and blue of the shirt below. He'd grabbed one of the stools designated for the space, and instead of breaking it (like a few others), he was perched atop it, arms curled around himself and his head drooping. The bow of his body, the grip of his fingers in his shirt, put Tony on alert. Coughing once, he paused to see if that would grab the boy's attention. When he did nothing but flinch, Stark sighed.
"Holy crap, kid. What the hell happened?" he wondered, bending to pick up a few of the scattered papers. The superfluous gesture did no more to draw out the young man than his coughing had, and he shrugged to himself. Walking over to a counter against the west wall, he dropped them there, casting another glance at Peter. "You're gonna have to log a lot of hours to make up for this, you know that, right?"
Peter sniffed, his chin dipping closer to his chest and a shuddering gasp coming out. Tony's brow furrowed. What had happened to the kid to make him do all that damage? Why did he do it?
"You're supposed to be in Queens right now, unless you've suddenly moved since the last time I saw ya," he said, gentling his tone despite the attempt at levity. Striding closer, he peered down at the boy, shocked to see that he was shaking. "What's going on?"
Peter's darkening eyes shimmered with tears, his jaw twitching as he ground his teeth. Hands were firmly laced together, their quivering barely repressed as he sat on the stool, awaiting his punishment. When nothing came, he risked a glance up at the billionaire. Compassion was in the older man's gaze, and it caused something to crack within him.
"Tony...Mr. Stark, I, I..." he stuttered, brown hair flopping into his eyes. His throat constricted harshly, and he was unsure that he was even able to breathe.
"What's wrong?" Tony reiterated, coming even closer. Hesitantly, he reached out, his hand patting his shoulder lightly. "C'mon, Pete, talk to me."
In between the gasps and the suppressed sobs, Peter was able to sputter, "...It's all my fault, all my fault."
"What's your fault?" the older man nearly whispered. What kind of trouble had the young man gotten into? How in the world did Peter Parker get into trouble in the first place? It had to be bad, given the state of the laboratory; it could've been chalked up to pique or unresolved anger issues, but Peter had never, ever displayed those characteristics before.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Peter shuddered once more before speaking. "Uncle Ben...he's dead. I killed him."
Tony's jaw loosened, and his dark gaze went wide. "What?"
It came out slowly, haltingly. The kid had been sneaking out for the past month, heading into the city to partake of the underground wrestling circuit on the weekends after his guardians were asleep. His uncle, suspicious of the teen's antics, had followed him out, catching him just as he was about to go in to watch a match. They had been on their way home, walking to catch the next train and Peter receiving a lecture about his behavior, when it happened. Screams, the sounds of panic, surrounded them. People rushing by and out of the way as a couple of guys brandished guns. The panic flooding around them as they crashed into Peter and Ben. His uncle shielded him as they were threatened, his military training kicking in to defend his young nephew. The thugs took a few good hits, and dealt some in return. And then...a gunshot. Ben was on the ground, bleeding, and the lowlife thugs were running. Someone else on the street had called the police, an ambulance, but the kid had been unable to do more than grab his uncle's hand and beg him to hang on.
He was gone by the time they were halfway to the hospital, the ride in the bus blurring after that.
The grim lines in Tony's face stood out in the harsh lighting above as he listened, his jaw tightening as Peter spilled out all he could remember. Looking up at the older man, Peter's expression grew more agitated, taking the look on his face as reproof.
"I know, it's my fault. If I had just stayed home...he, he wouldn't be..." he choked out then. Eyes widened as he considered something else, and he croaked, "And Aunt May...oh, God..."
At that moment, Tony gripped both his shoulders, the grasp anchoring the boy. Bending a little at the waist, he looked at the youngster directly, forcing him to maintain the contact.
"Hey, listen to me: this isn't your fault, okay? It's the other guy's, for choosing to pull the trigger." At his words, the teen's face finally crumpled, and he would've fallen off the stool had Tony not caught him. Tears poured down Peter's face, equal parts sorrow and shame fueling the cascade. Instead of being chastised for crying like a baby, Peter was allowed to let his immense sadness flow forth without censure. And for his part, Tony felt the empathetic pain rip through him, knowing exactly what it was like to lose someone that important, to lose someone that he loved. It took a few minutes for the sobs to drop in decibel, but when they did, Tony spoke up again. Biting his lip for a second, he carefully murmured, "Ben...well, I didn't know him, but I know you, and he did, too. You're not a bad kid; you're a teenager, but you aren't built to actually hurt anyone. He knew that you didn't mean for it to happen. In all likelihood, he probably saw it as the right thing to do: protecting you from being shot, instead. You didn't kill your uncle, kiddo. That's not on you. He wouldn't...he wouldn't blame you. I don't blame you."
The silence stretched for several long minutes, with Peter struggling to get his breath back. When he did, he lifted his pale face, finding reassurance and sympathy in Tony's eyes.
"This is not your fault." He looked at the teen expectantly, waiting for the kid to indicate that he had at least heard, if not listened. Sluggishly, the boy nodded, and the billionaire exhaled sharply. "Alright. Now it's time to get you back to your aunt. Where...where did they...?"
Peter flinched again, understanding what he was trying to ascertain.
"St. Mary's Hospital," he replied, the name of the hospital wherein his uncle's corpse resided causing a shiver to wrack him. Guiltily, his vision focused on the toe of his shoe. "When they were calling her in, I ran."
Stark arched an eyebrow. That particular hospital was miles away, and to make the trip from Midtown and back...
"You ran all the way from St. Mary's to here?"
The twitch at the corner of the teen's mouth was the closest he could get to smiling ruefully. "...I think I hitched in the back of a truck at some point. She's been calling me non-stop since she found out I left."
He took his cell phone out of his pocket, holding it out to let the older man see. Sure enough, the screen was lit up with missed notifications, voice mails and text messages littering the device. Tony just looked at him, and he shrugged off the nagging feeling that had resurfaced then.
"Too afraid to talk to her," the older man stated, a world of experience lying behind the words. Flicking his fingers at the boy, he muttered, "Gimme the phone."
Dialing back, the older man was in low-voiced conference with the woman on the other end of the line, letting her know of her nephew's safety and health. At some point she must have asked how he had gotten there, and without missing a beat, Tony told her that he had called him for help, and that he'd been in his care in that time. Grateful for that, Peter shivered again, arms tightening around his middle as he awaited his fate. In less than five minutes, Stark tapped his thumb to end the call, tossing the device back to the kid lackadaisically. Lightning fast, Peter's hand shot out to catch it, tucking it away swiftly. Tony watched him for another second or two, clearing his throat before hooking his thumb at the doorway.
"Okay, I'm taking you home," he told him. When the teenager did not move from his seat, he sighed. Stepping over to him, he took the boy by the elbow, guiding him away from the stool and out of the destruction he had wrought. It could be dealt with another time. "Come on, she's waiting for you."
To say the car ride from the Tower to the little house in Queens was tense was something of an understatement. There was still so much left unsaid, things that could not be expressed, pain that could not be assuaged with a few words and a good cry. The boy wasn't healed, and the broken man who was bringing him home was unable to pick up the pieces for him. As hard of a pill as it was to swallow, Stark knew that time was going to be the only thing that would dull the heartache, the hurt, the what-ifs that would forever be unanswered. Following the GPS directions given by JJ fluidly, the vehicle came to a stop in front of a little white house, fourth in the row along the north end of the street. The porch light was on, the figure of a woman pacing in the front room as she was backlit by lamps. Noting the new arrival, the figured paused, peering out as both man and boy exited the sports car. Tony walked the kid up the path, intent on getting him physically to the house and into his aunt's care. Politely, the older man knocked on the door, not wanting to barge in. Not that night, at least.
"Thank you, Mr. Stark," Peter whispered, scrubbing his face hard and sniffling. Shuffling and lock clicks came from the other side of the panels, and the kid's shoulders tightened in preparation.
"You're welcome," Tony managed to return before the door flew open, a blur of brunette hair and thin arms wrapping themselves around the poor kid. The boy, though he had been scared to even speak to her before that moment, immediately melted into her embrace, hugging her back fiercely and burying his face into her shoulder. Awkwardly, Tony took a step back, mind churning and tapping his fingers along the pockets of his jeans as the little family before him held on to one another.
"Peter, thank God! The police have been looking all over for you, I was so afraid..." May Parker cried, holding the kid tightly for a few more moments, some muffled words pouring out of the kid into her shoulder. Drawing back, she cupped his face, asking him if he was okay. The barest nod was given in response, the fast flow of distress and sorrow running between them. After a moment or two, she let him go, curling a hand around his wrist before he could escape into the house. Turning to face Tony, he blinked in surprise. She was not as old as he pictured her to be; honestly she might even have been his junior by a few years. Fixing her liquid brown gaze onto his, she attempted to remain strong even with the tear-streaks lining her face. "Thank you for bringing him home."
Scratching his neck, the billionaire coughed and straightened his spine.
"No sweat. I, uh...I'm sorry. For, well..." he let his speech trail off, the sharp flit of heartbreak flashing across her irises even as she dipped her chin in acceptance. Canting his head, he cleared his throat, flicking a few fingers back towards his car. "I'll just be going."
The thought that had been sitting in his mind grew, and before he'd gotten a few steps away, he stopped. Half-turning back towards them, he fixed his gaze onto Peter, a decision reached.
"Oh, and, uh, I know this is pretty poor timing, but I figured you should know." When the teenager quirked his eyebrows, he explained, "If you still want the lab assistant position with me, it's yours."
Confusion bloomed over both his aunt's face and his own, but she was able to speak up first.
"Lab assistant?"
Maintaining his gaze on the boy, Tony said, "Yeah. I know you and my PA have been going back and forth about it, might as well cut out the middle man."
His eyebrow rose the barest fraction, and he hoped against hope the kid would prove his intelligence and catch on. He might not be able to make the pain go away, or change the past, but he could at least give the kid somewhere to go.
Thankfully, Peter slowly nodded, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. "That is...thank you, Mr. Stark."
Tony nodded once more, pivoting on his heel and feeling the tiniest part of his own aching recede with each step. They didn't have to suffer, either of them.
"See you whenever you're ready to start, kid," he called over his shoulder, climbing back into his vehicle and driving off into the night.
A/N: A bittersweet chapter this time around. Probably to counteract the Christmas fluff that is inevitably on the docket. :)
Sorry being a little late with this chapter. I got sick, tried to heal fast and then had a wedding to attend, so my free time for writing was taken up. Slowly but surely, I'm getting better...Hope the longer chapter makes up for the delay.
I think the process of pregnancy would be interesting to Steve. Particularly as men were not expected to be part of it at all back in his day, and then he's thrust into a time where it's so encouraged for men to take an active role. Also, there are a lot of considerations to make in regards to him and children. Mainly in what fun illnesses and conditions he'd pass on, or even if he would after undergoing Rebirth (dude was a genetic fun-bag of all the bad things, really). My personal understanding of it is that he basically underwent a genetic rewrite via SSS and Vita-rays, with all his ailments and conditions eradicated. It wasn't just a simple blood treatment he got back in the day; Steve was, quite literally, rebuilt from the ground up. In my reasoning, that means he was "recoded", and that code is what he will be passing onto his children, rather than if he remained as his skinny, small self. Sorry if I talked in a redundant circle, but to me, assigning any of his past conditions to a future child, when he may not even carry the coding in his DNA any longer, doesn't seem quite right. Also, this is a superhero fanfiction. Disbelief, suspension, et cetera. I'm no geneticist, biologist, or any sort of doctor (which is probably incredibly obvious). If I was, I doubt I'd have any time to write this at all.
I promise, I won't make you guys go through every little ailment and doctor's appointment that Holly will have to have during her pregnancy. Just the first one to set up what her life is going to involve over the next nine months.
Things are still tense around the base, but some people are still reaching out to Bucky in some ways. Some definitely more than others. ;) Slow going there...And yeah, I'm a bastard for offing Ben Parker. But hey, canonically, this is about the time he would have died. I just wanted to give Peter somewhere (and someone) to go to...especially now. It's something Tony needs, too, sadly enough.
I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Star Wars, etc.).
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!