The drive home on Sunday was done in an almost contemplative silence, at least in part. Holly, having kept her promise of meeting Sarah and her mother for breakfast, had pushed the encounter with Tony to the back of her mind. Conversation turned to her getting in touch with the other bridesmaids—three of Sarah's cousins, and Aaron's step-sister—about ordering dresses and squaring away a couple of future party details. As well as that, there was a gift presentation to go through as well, since her birthday had been nearly two weeks earlier (a bookstore gift card and chocolate bars, wrapped up in a novelty t-shirt that proclaimed the wearer to be a "Super Mom." It came with a matching onesie for the baby, and both were decorated with her husband's shield symbol. Needless to say, Jane and Sarah Collins greatly enjoyed her arched eyebrows and gaping mouth). However, it continued to lurk in the shadows as breakfast turned to the noon hour, the simply spoken words springing up as the cabbie navigated back towards the Tower, going slowly as the city was still recovering from the blizzard from the previous weekend. There were no more surprise visitors when she finally got back on the road, with the exception of Kay breezing in with no further information about her friendly neighborhood muggers. Police paperwork was still being processed, and it was unlikely she would find anything before Monday morning, anyway. It was past one o'clock by the time the city traffic had melted away, the highway unfurling before the blue Buick as the brunette manned the helm.
As there was a stretch of three plus hours, the drive itself wasn't entirely devoid of chatter, but when Kay leaned her seat back and declared she would get a bit of shut-eye before arriving home, Holly did have the time to think. Progress had been made, that was her thought the night before. She wasn't sure in which direction, or even if it was much at all, but it had to be a decent amount. It was enough for Tony to give her a facsimile of his normal smirk, to treat her courteously. A little personal nudge to head in the right direction. If not towards forgiveness, perhaps...just a chance to try again.
She hoped Steve would see it that way when she told him. She hoped he would realize that the sorrows and the hurts could only lie for so long, and it would be time, soon enough, to do something about it all. The idea buoyed her spirits somewhat, the last leg of the trip covering yet another gas stop—she was hungry for something greasy, at least to tide her over until dinner, and Kay concurred. The chewy chicken strip infused with cheese went down easily enough, and with a last chorus of the musical album playing, the car was turned off the main road, snow and gravel crunching as she thumbed the garage door sensor and drove in. Parking next to the truck, she stayed put in her seat for a moment or two, listening to the engine as it ticked and pinged in its cool-down. Glancing to her right, she caught the small grin Kay was giving her phone, a message tapped out before pocketing the device.
Turning to look at her companion, the brunette hooked a thumb in the house's direction.
"Want to come in for a bit, not be in a car for awhile?"
Kay chuckled, unbuckling her belt and zipping up her coat. "Thanks, but I promised I'd meet up with Sam. An additional fifteen..."
Taking out her phone again, she bit her lip upon spotting the time, estimating in her head the additional warm-up and driving she would have to put her car through.
"...Twenty minutes, won't kill me," she corrected herself. Holly nodded, tapping the wheel once before unbuckling herself. The garage was frigid, but at least they were out of the wind. The overnight bags were removed, placed on the concrete floor as they were withdrawn. Making her way around the car, the brunette slung an arm around the blue-haired woman's shoulders, thanking her for acting as her bodyguard and promising to pay her back as soon as she could. To her credit, Kay was stiff for only a second or two in the embrace, returning with a sociable back pat.
"By the way, what were you doing to keep yourself busy yesterday? While on the street, I mean?" Holly asked when it ended, her hands going into her pockets. She had meant to ask her blue-haired friend the day before, but then she'd been hustled off the street and back to the Tower so swiftly, the inquiry flew right out of her head. A wide smile decorated the agent's lips, and swiftly she crouched down by her duffel bag. Unzipping it, she reached deep inside it, picking and pushing away the clothes and the wig still inside. Crowing in delight, she found what she was looking for, and soon enough she was holding up a digital camera. It was cumbersome and well-loved, the shutter button looking worn down.
"Can't help it. It goes almost everywhere with me," she breathed, standing up again. Turning it on, she turned the dial, switching over to the memory card and letting Holly take a peek as she scrolled. One after another they went by, Kay's eye in the captured moments. A couple kissing at a bus stop, pigeons perched on a construction awning, a snow-encrusted sign blocking out the letters for the cross street.
"Neat," Holly exclaimed, admiring the pictures as they went by. Slyly, she darted her gaze up, and she forced her face into a neutral expression. "And then you upload them to your Instagram account, right?"
Kay barked out a laugh, giving her shoulder a sharp tap before she turned the camera off again and stowed it safely away.
"Shuddup," she grunted, swinging her bag up easily. A last wave was shared between the two women, and then Holly was fetching up her own bag and purse, the garage door closing just as Kay rounded the corner to get to her own vehicle. Going out the side door, Holly listened for a few moments as the engine on the far side of the structure fired up, idling as it warmed up. Inhaling deeply, she made her way up the freshly-shoveled path to the back door, codes punched in and accepted in record time. The cold of the day was washed away as she stepped into her kitchen, flicking on the light as the darkness of the evening was creeping upon the world. The house itself was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the crunch of snow as Kay's car backed up and motored down the track. Calling out her husband's name, a rumbling baritone answered back quickly, coming directly from the living room. Wandering in that direction, she paused on the far side of the couch, letting her gaze run over him. Steve had, in his moment of peace, claimed the chair, a blanket curled around his waist and spilling over the end of the cushion. His long legs were stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle in place of being propped up on the coffee table. The overhead light was on, illuminating both the empty glass of whatever he'd been drinking in his right hand and the opened book in his left hand. Apparently, he was still absorbed in the text, too absorbed to notice the impassive look descending upon her face as she read the title. The face of the returning king of Gondor stared back at her, the tip of her own bookmark still wedged in near the back cover. Everything about him, from his posture to the bit of his own face that she could see, was relaxed, the weight of the world off his shoulders for a moment.
All Steve was missing was a cardigan and a golden retriever curled up by his feet on a woven rug. And a crackling fireplace; it would add to the ambiance, she mused privately. Giggling under her breath, she let her bags drop to the floor, unbuttoning her coat. Slinging it off her shoulders, she looked up in time to see him peeking over the pages, amusement written over his brow. Clearly, he wasn't as absorbed as she'd thought. She let the coat fall along the back of the couch, her scarf and gloves placed atop it.
Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she jerked her chin at the book in his hand and murmured drily, "Stole it back, I see."
A smirk curled his lips, and he leaned forward to deposit his glass on the coffee table. "You were two chapters away from the end, anyway."
Shutting the book and placing it beside the glass, Steve's blue eyes glimmered as he sat back and unfolded his legs, patting his lap for effect. Taking the hint, Holly traipsed across the floor to him, knees hooking over his leg as she sat down. Squirming a bit to get comfortable, she slid her arm around his neck, the other curling into his shirt as she gave a kiss in greeting. He reciprocated gladly, one palm cupping her cheek, the other curled around her thigh.
"So, it looks like all is quiet on the western front. Or, at least the home front," she noted with a wry grin, drawing back after a few seconds. Casting her eyes across the room again, she did not find anything out of the ordinary for the room. Steve looked around as well, shrugging a shoulder.
"Nothing exploded, I can say that much. Had to go in for some planning," he told her, reaching out and twining his finger around the strands of her ponytail. "Got a couple dust-ups in Europe that need some taking care of. Chapman's team is on it, but we're on call in case anything goes sideways."
She inclined her head, pursing her lips a little. "Gotcha."
"How is Sarah?"
"Good, she's good. Got her eye on a few places for her studio, keeping Aaron on his toes. Already has her dress ordered, and made me get mine, too," she confessed, fishing her phone out of her pocket and thumbing through the pictures. Finding a full length one, with her giving an exaggerated wink to the camera, she showed it to him. His chuckle at her expression morphed into an appreciative hum when he saw the rest of her get-up. Idly, his thumb brushed over the screen, rolling to the next picture wherein Sarah had joined her, dazzling hand gestures making her look like a display item. She snickered at that one, taking the device back and secreting it away again. "Generally, she's herself."
"Sounds about right," he responded, eyelids drooping as her fingers continued to run and shuffle through the short hairs at the back of his head. He leaned into her gentle ministrations, contentment on his features. Her free hand, though, fidgeted in her lap, tucking into the end of her sweatshirt's sleeve as she contemplated how to phrase her next sentence. Endeavoring to just bite the bullet and get it over with, she cleared her throat.
"I, uh, I saw somebody else, too."
Steve's eyebrow rose minutely as she let the statement hang. "And your tone indicates that might not have been a good thing."
"I don't think it was bad, per se," Holly stated, her eyes darting to her right. Canting her head, she muttered, "Awkward as hell, yes, and uncomfortable—"
"Who was it, doll?" he interrupted, wanting an answer more than a tangent. Swallowing, she took a deep breath before focusing fully on his eyes once more. Head and heart were in agreement with her on that one, and she would follow their cues.
"Tony." Immediately, she felt Steve stiffen underneath her, tension straightening his spine and his jaw tightening. Holding up a hand, she attempted to stall any sort of reprimand or confused inquiry that was taking shape in his mind. "Before you say anything, I didn't go out of my way to find him. He came down to the quarters, and just asked if I was okay."
A blanket of skepticism cloaked his irises, concern and wonderment layered beneath it.
"That's all?" he asked, watching as she nodded her head. His own fingers started to fidget then, invisible patterns traced over the material of her pants. Concentrating on a point on the far wall, he continued, "How...how was he?"
"Not at his best," she said, focusing on his trailing digits. The image of the exhausted man, of Stark's acrimonious irises and the deep grooves cut into his face, surfaced, and she closed her eyes. "The pain isn't going to go away, but he's getting by, it looked like. I don't know. I hadn't seen him since...before."
Before the fallout, she meant. Groaning slightly, Steve tipped his head back into the cushion.
"And all he wanted to know was if you were alright?" he reiterated, still somewhat nonplussed by the billionaire's approach of his wife. Holly let her head bob up and down, fingers curling around his against her leg.
"I think it was more out of politeness than anything else, but I think he still cares, deep down," she posited. When Steve blinked at that, she squeezed his hand in hers. "At least a little."
Minutes ticked by, with Steve digesting the news, his teeth clenching and his eyes screwing shut against the dull throb of pain. Watching as his throat constricted against a swallow, Holly continued to hold his hand, waited for him to say something. Soon enough, he found his tongue again.
"I should...shouldn't have—" he started, when a finger was laid across his lips in a shushing effort.
"Stop," she cut him off, her mouth turning down into a frown. "Don't do that."
When she removed her finger, his brow furrowed. "Do what?"
Sighing deeply, she shifted, rising from his lap and crossing her arms over her chest.
"Take the entire blame for something out of your control," she said, trying to stop him from going into that downward spiral again. The downward spiral of misplaced guilt. "You know, that thing you do whenever a situation like this presents itself."
He snorted at that, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. "Don't think a situation quite like this has presented itself before."
"Formula's familiar, though," she riposted. Ticking off the points on her fingers, she shuffled away from him, walking back towards the far end of the couch. "A: something bad happens that affects you personally, plus B: you're unable to act to it in what you deem as the correct way, and it equals C: everything about said badness is all your fault, including the factors you had absolutely zero control over. With the solution being to self-flagellate, and then throwing yourself headlong into danger as penance."
Steve's eyes narrowed, and he scoffed, "It's not like that at all."
Vehemently, Holly shook her head, turning to face him and settling her hip against the arm of the couch.
"Oh, no, it's exactly like that. Sure, you've gotten a bit better about it since I've met you, but my God, sweetheart, you've got it down to a freakin' science now." Her fingers flicked through the air. One of his hands had curled into a fist, his knuckles pressed against his mouth. "Two summers ago is a pretty good example."
"Holly." The warning note in his voice told her that she was pushing it, but she willfully ignored it.
"Or we could reach even farther back to what happened with Bucky initially—"
"Enough!" he spat out, the fist coming down and thumping against his knee, making her jump slightly. A muted groan rumbled in his throat as he rose from the chair, turning and crossing over to one of the bookshelves. Hands scrubbed at his face as he kept his back to her, one of them raking through his hair. Fingers curled around one of the higher shelves, it creaking a little as he rested his weight against the unit. The silence between them was heavy, permeating the room for some time. Holly bit the inside of her lip, berating herself for perhaps pushing him too far with the last point. Still, it did not negate her feelings on the matter, nor her thoughts. Quietly, she waited until a low sigh poured out of his nose, and for the slight slump of his shoulders to indicate the dissipation of the frustration. Gingerly, she picked her way over to him, stopping behind him and laying a palm between his shoulder blades. When he did not shrug her off, she let her thumb rub small circles into the material of his shirt, gathering herself before speaking again.
"My point, Steven, is that you're not responsible for everything. Just one part; a pretty important part, from my perspective, but just the one." And it was just from her perspective. But her perspective also witnessed her husband take on sorrows and hurts that did not belong to him, sharing in suffering because he felt he should have been able to do something about it all. He couldn't get stuck in that mindset interminably. Not when solutions were called for instead. "You should concentrate on making amends for that, and not the whole. That isn't on you."
A final rub of her thumb, and the warmth of her fingers disappeared from his back.
"Now, are you hungry?"
Grinding his teeth for a moment, he let himself nod eventually. "Yes."
"Me, too. Better get cracking," she told him, the light footfall on the carpet telling him she had moved away. Off the quizzical expression he shot her over his shoulder, she supplied, "It's your turn to make dinner."
A flash of incredulity sparked over his features, but Holly missed it as she bent to retrieve her bags. She had said her piece, and it was his turn to cook; her stomach growled at the thought of eating soon, and let her fingers brush over it briefly as she walked towards the stairs.
"Gonna ride roughshod over me while I'm doing that, too?" Steve snapped at her as she went, not entirely happy with the turn of events. She rolled her eyes, but did not bother to stop in her tracks.
"Please," she groused back, determined not to feel bad about the goading she had given him. It was meant well, and in her opinion, something he needed to hear. Perhaps she could have chosen better examples, but she was working with the material given to her. As she made her way to the bedroom, she started hearing the over-exaggerated clanks and thumps from the room below, the man she'd married just as determined for her to hear him go about his task. Quirking her jaw, she just craned her neck towards the ceiling, silently asking for patience. Dirty clothes went into the hamper, the birthday present set atop the dresser, and her purse was hooked up in the closet. Taking the opportunity to change into leggings and a new maternity sweater (still a little big on her, but it was warm and comfy), she managed to get down the hall to the office to answer another email from the new publishing house that was interested in her manuscript. A video meeting was scheduled for the end of the week, and the smell of something savory made its way up to her when she'd moved on to checking her favorite websites. She could practically feel the baby turn and roll in excitement in her belly at the prospect of dinner; the fried and greasy amalgamation from the gas station seemed like a distant memory. However, it was roughly about a half hour later before Steve called up to her, letting her know it was all ready.
There was real, home-cooked chicken set out on the table, part of a casserole brimming with pasta, broccoli, and even some bacon bits thrown into the mix. (Hastily, he thumbed off the tablet, the recipe he had followed disappearing from the screen as he set it down on the island.) On the surface, it seemed as though Steve had gone for simplicity, but as she made her way to the table, she caught sight of the sink. Or rather, the ring of cookware surrounding the sink. It had seemed that Steve had emptied the cabinets of every piece they owned and used them. Which would not have been an issue, if the person who had not done the cooking for the night was not responsible for washing up, as was their deal. Inhaling sharply, she stared at him as she sat down, silently allowing him to fill her plate and let him have his little passive-aggressive victory. She was very hungry, and frankly, she wouldn't allow him to get under her skin at that moment. There was little conversation to be had, his stormy blue eyes focused on the food before him while her brown gaze ricocheted around the room. The pair sat across from one another and veritably marinated in all that was said earlier, annoyance and frustration melting into a sort of morose thoughtfulness.
Later, when she'd eaten her fill, Holly made her displeasure known.
"Seriously, all these dishes," she groaned when she stepped up to the sink, irritation lacing her features. Lifting up a couple, she checked the undersides for their labels, letting out another huff. Over her shoulder, she shot him a glare. "And you used none of the dishwasher-safe ones."
"Almost none," he retorted, meeting her heated gaze with a bland expression. For emphasis, he tapped the plate and fork still in front of him. Taking the last bite himself, he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, coming forward with his dishes and handing them off to her. Balling up the napkin, he aimed for the trashcan, tossing it with alacrity and sinking the shot. A small peck was planted in her hair, and he murmured, "For that part, I'm very sorry."
He pivoted on his heel as her jaw dropped open, and she narrowed her eyes as he walked away.
"Yeah. Let's see what kind of amends you'll make for it," she crowed, shoving the dishes down the counter to start filling the basins. With her back to him, she did not notice him pausing in his flight. Hovering in the archway, the bland look seemed to give way something that resembled contrition, and he seemed to be on the verge of speaking again. However, Steve just cleared his throat, walking out of the room and leaving her to the chore.
Upon closer examination, some of the bowls and pots that had been removed from the cupboard did not actually contain any remnants of food or spices. They had been placed for effect. Groaning again, she just set those off to the side, working to scrub at the truly dirty dishes for several long minutes. By the time she had released the strainers and let the water drained, her anger had cooled slightly. A couple of the dishes were set upon the rack to dry, while a few were hand-dried and stored right away. Giving her hands another wash, she braced herself upon the counter's edge and took in a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly to counts of ten. She had pushed, and he pushed back. It was not the end of the world, just a lot of harsh truth passing in the space of a few minutes. It would be fine.
It was about that moment when she registered the music floating in from the living room. The record player was running, a slower song grinding out of the speakers. Unconsciously, she started swaying to the music, and she caught the dotted flicker of flames through the arch. Curiosity now piqued, she wandered away from the sink, stepping into the archway. A match flared as Steve struck it against the side of the box, tilting the last candle towards himself and lighting it carefully. As the wick sputtered and caught, he set the candle in place, blowing out the match before he could burn his fingers. The previously emptied glass on the coffee table (which had been pushed to the far corner of the room) had been filled from one of the bathroom sinks, a couple of matches already floating in the water. Dropping in the last one, Steve looked back towards the arch, wiping his hands along the sides of his trousers. The glow of candlelight somehow made the larger space more intimate, and she couldn't help but be drawn in. Still, her eyebrows inclined, pointed glances around the room making him incline his head and smile ruefully.
"Does this work?" he asked, holding out a hand to her. Closing the gap between them, she allowed him to place one of her palms upon his shoulder, the other hand having his fingers wrap around hers. In a slow circle, they turned, stepping in time to the beat as he rested his hand on the small of her back. His phone had been hooked up to the portable speakers, the set-up stationed atop the record player, her previous supposition incorrect. The playlist, one of slower songs, churned out another piece, soothing tones calming them both further.
"It's a start," she conceded, unable to deny the romantic gesture's effect upon her. Looking up at him, she raised her hand, trailing her finger along his jawline. Leaning in a little closer, she waited until he had followed suit, eyelids drooping and lips only inches from hers. Steadily, she quietly demanded, "Tell me I'm right."
Steve's eyes widened, and he viewed the seriousness in hers. Inhaling deeply, he worked for a moment to loosen his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
"You're...not entirely wrong."
At once, she stopped moving with him, her palms out and taking a step away.
"Nope. Close, but no cigar," she announced, and within a trice, she twisted out of his grasp. Stunned at her movement, he gaped for a second or two, his brain catching up swiftly.
"Hey, now. Wait!" he cried, turning as she went to the staircase. Huffing under his breath, Steve vaulted over the sofa and jogged the short distance towards the steps. Reaching over the banister and snatching her wrist in time to pause her ascent, he stalled. Inclining his head, he breathed out crisply, meeting her dark gaze. "You're right, okay? It's just...it's not easy. None of it is."
The vulnerability in his irises, in his voice were impossible to miss. Though it had only been about two months, it had been a difficult time, for them all. And solutions would not be easy to conjecture. Her heart clenched at it, and her feet moved on their own accord, bringing her back down to the main floor. He had let her go as she came back down the stairs, let her make the choice to return to him.
"No, it's not," Holly agreed. Palms slid up his chest, crooking around his neck and bringing him closer to her. Arms wrapped around her waist, and his forehead rested against hers. Pads fluttered over the skin, along the edge of his hair, and she sighed in tandem with him. "But it'll get figured out. Right?"
Not right that second, or even in the next few days. But it was getting to be time to stop shutting it out or shutting it down. That was the whole point. She wouldn't force him into doing anything, but she did want him to at least consider his options as far as Tony was concerned. Deep down, she knew he understood that, too. His arms tightened, and even despite the doubt that flashed over his face, he nodded.
"One way or another."
A kiss was brushed on the tip of his nose, and then another was planted at the corner of his mouth.
"Okay then," she said, reaching behind to take his hand in hers, leading him back to the impromptu dance floor of their living room.
xXxXxXx
Early morning on February 2nd dawned cold and barren, at least on the maximum security prison outside Berlin. It was early, nearly too early for anyone to be functioning, let alone visiting the stark building, the concrete exterior cutting a dark swatch against the landscape. It was necessary, though, for him to be there, to get in and out before anyone was able to look closely at the matter.
Adjusting his wire frame spectacles, the man slid his fingers over his dull brown hair, combing it into place as he waited for the access doors to unlock and let him through. Sharp, assessing eyes bounced from the guards on patrol to the cameras stationed every few feet as he walked, a joking salute tipped to one of them as he went. His illicitly obtained visitor's badge was waved as he passed through the security points, the file folders he carried with him not even given a cursory glance. He appeared harmless, and it was assumed that only people of note, or people of impeccable reputation (not to mention ones who passed the interminable background checks) would be allowed access to such a facility. Or the ones with big, fat pocketbooks could get wherever they chose. If there was one thing he did have left to him, it was money, no matter how bad a taste it left in his mouth.
Escorted to the private interrogation rooms on the third floor, he was instructed to wait there. The prisoner he had come to see would be brought in shortly. The space was simple: boring beige walls, matted carpeting, with a table in the center. The chairs did not match, one being bolted to the floor with chain adjustments on the legs and arms, while the other was a simple desk chair. Setting his folders on the table before him, he sat back in the desk chair, the minutes ticking by as his watch clicked in the silence of the room. When nearly ten rotations of the minute hand had gone around, the security locks on the door behind him sprang loose, and he turned in time to watch the prisoner being conducted into the room.
Prisoner #2014786, or as her given name proclaimed her, Johanna Jensen. Doctor Johanna Jensen, weapons developer and recruiter for Strucker's private army in Africa nearly a year ago. She had been detained and arrested swiftly by the Avengers, her manufactured wares and goods stolen from her as she was processed and turned over for sentencing. Upon her request, the judge had granted her permission to serve out her sentence in Germany, the original country of her cause.
However, it did not appear that she was much given to the cause at the moment, the loose fit of her red uniform and the obvious jut of her jaw and cheekbones bespeaking her lack of care. She did not eat enough, that was clear, nor did she care to make herself presentable. Her unkempt, shaggy hair was growing out of its cropped cut, the ends flopping over the tops of her ears (it did looked washed, though, and for that he was thankful). Indeed, it did not seem that she had much hope of anything. Loss laced her person, and while he was of the opinion that she did not know what true loss was, it had not stopped it from chipping away at her.
Still, her dark gaze was sharp, meeting his fully as she was seated across the table from him. She continued her staring as the chains about her legs were secured to the bolted chair, her hands freed next and balling in her lap. A swift glance was darted to the guards as they left her with the strange man, and once the door was shut and sealed behind them, she raised an eyebrow.
"Doctor Jensen, I am Doctor Leonard Cohen," he introduced himself, presenting the false name with a slightly nasal accent. His form was nearly folded in on itself as he addressed her, non-threatening and deceptively calm. "I am here to perform your psychological evaluation, per a recent court order. An appeal is being built on your behalf, and a new assessment on your mental state is needed to proceed."
Suspiciously, she gazed at him. He controlled the tick of his mouth, keeping it in a firm line as she sized him up. There was no appeal in the works for her; her case was cut and dry from the beginning. No appeal could be attempted so soon after her arrest, and there was no possibility of parole, either. All this she knew. Her body shifted, the uniform moving with her as she set her folded hands upon the table's top.
"Very well," she replied, her tone informing him that she was willing to play along, though she did not trust him. Inclining his head, he let his eyes flicker over to the camera in the far corner. Three beats of the heart, and the red light above it shut off. The stand of the camera pivoted away from the center of the room, facing the wall to the left instead. Spine straightening, he sat up fully, his form filling out and suddenly making him all the more imposing. Turning, she witnessed the camera's shut-down, and a small jump of fear made her throat quirk as she noted his change in posture. He restrained himself from chuckling aloud; no doubt she was wondering what was going on. All in due time, he mused privately.
"We have ten minutes before the rotation changes over," he announced quietly, accent dropped as he turned over one of the folders and flipped through the pages swiftly. "The guards assured me this would be adequate for both of us."
Her eyes went wide, a gormless cast overtaking her features. "Excuse me?"
Glancing up, he rolled his eyes at her, flapping his free hand in the air.
"Come now. I did not pay good bribe money to have you sit slack-jawed and looking dull."
The reprimand brought a flush of red to her cheeks, and a fire began to burn low in her gaze. Lifting a shoulder, he did not apologize for his words, instead continuing with his task until he found what he was looking for. Humming in delight, he removed the blue sheets of papers from the pile, all folded and crammed in between other papers as a disguise. Obtaining them had been no sinecure; one of Rumlow's contacts had nearly been killed simply for pulling them from the secured filing of the U.N. confiscation rooms. They were absolutely essential, though, for them to continuing making any sort of progress. That explanation did not mollify Crossbones in the least, but it did make him shut up about the matter, for a day or two.
"I have these incomplete blueprints of your previous work," he stated, unfolding a few of the sheets and scattering them over the table before her. Her designs to harness the power of Loki's scepter and build new weaponry out of them was nothing short of genius, even if she was relegated to smaller tasks. List and Strucker never really knew what they had; it was a shame they did not utilize her for the main projects. "I realize that the majority of these are missing the required components, but I had hoped that you would be able to enlighten me on some...potential compatible materials." Off her inquisitive glance, he shrugged, unwilling to go into detail then. "We tried for a particular one, but we were unable to actually obtain it, so I am hoping you can help us find alternates."
Hesitantly, she reached out, trailing a finger along the outline of one of the modified handguns she had constructed, a form of pride and heartache in her gaze.
"My work...I had thought it had all been confiscated, or destroyed." Swallowing hard, she tore her eyes away from the pages, narrowing in on him "Who are you?"
A bitter, warped grin came to the man's lips. "An arbiter of revenge. You may call me Z. I'm here to make you an offer, Johanna. You accept, I will get you out of here, and back to work. Back to destroying the Avengers. You refuse..."
Pointedly, he trailed off, a dismissive hand cupping the air before dropping into his lap.
"Well, then. I'm sure the next forty years of your sentence will just roll on. Much like the rest of the world." Her jaw twitched, and he leaned forward, pressing his advantage. "You will remain the footnote to the text in the history books, forgotten and unimportant in comparison to List, Zola, the baron, and many, many others."
Jensen glared, and then snarled, "Why should I agree to anything? If you recall, my former promises to a major organization were not repaid. Strucker dragged me here, and HYDRA will not get me out, if they still exist at all."
Ah, there it was, exactly what he was looking for: the disenchantment, the disillusion with her chosen cause. He could see it in the broken line of her shoulders, the sharp cut of her jaw, and in the frustrated, furious glaze in her irises. It was exactly what he needed to get what he wanted, what they all wanted.
"In actuality, the Avengers dragged you here," he pointed out, looking as though he'd sampled something sour. She mirrored his expression, and acknowledged the truth of the matter with a dip of her chin. "And HYDRA may not get you out...but I will. You still have work to do, doctor. We could use someone like you. Someone with your ingenuity."
If they ever wanted to proceed past the small jobs and the petty larceny, if there ever was to be a reckoning for those self-righteous bastards who called themselves 'Earth's mightiest heroes,' he needed more. Patience had gotten him far, but there was also a need to act. Rumlow provided the brawn, he had the vision, and Jensen would be able to use her intelligence and engineering know-how in a more productive manner. For that to happen, though, they needed her out of the enemy's reach. They needed her consent. He watched as she chewed her lip, considering his offer for a minute or so.
"I could refuse, and then report your visit," she commented lightly. His brow furrowed at her pronouncement; was she being clever with him? Had to be, as her eyebrows arched up and a snappish grin graced her mouth. "But I'm not foolish enough to believe I could get away with something like that."
The smile he gave her was chilling, the ice in his eyes freezing her as he stared at her.
"My partner is a mercenary, Johanna. You would be foolish indeed if you entertained that notion," he told her, the calm in his voice suddenly bearing a hard, unyielding edge. Her only response was to blink rapidly, her arms crossing over her chest as she shrunk back into her seat. It was undeniable; the man before her was intelligent, and not to be underestimated. He dropped his gaze then, scanning over the watch upon his wrist and tutting. The lighter tone from before colored his words as he spoke again. "Two minutes. I'm afraid I shall need an answer."
Eyes fastened on the blueprints, and before too many ticks of the watch clicked, she exhaled sharply out of her nose.
"...Do you have a pen?" she asked, holding out her left hand. The smirk on his face spoke volumes as he dug out the writing implement, handing it over to her. Quickly, she scratched a few notes dropping the pen in the blueprints and sliding all back to his side of the table. "Here are a couple of compatible materials to get you started. You want the rest, I suggest you get me out quickly."
So she knew her own value, knew that if she gave the whole game away, he would have no reason to let her loose. Jensen would be a fine addition to his organization. At the very least, she would would likely be a better investment than Klaue ever was. A few different options started to run through his head, some rejected outright simply because he knew Rumlow would flat-out refuse to follow through with them. Oh, well. To her, he merely tipped his head in farewell, unreadable neutrality his expression as he rose from the table, the plans secreted into his file folders.
"Will do, Doctor Jensen," he murmured, eyes darting to the camera in the corner. Approximately seven seconds passed before the blinking red light turned on, and the lens pivoted from the corner back to the center of the room. Clearing his throat, he let his shoulders slump, making his form at once diminutive and unremarkable. Raising his voice for the benefit of whoever was listening, he coughed, "I will forward my report to the evaluation committee in due time. Have a good day."
A whir and a clunk sounded, the door opening behind him and the guard from earlier gesturing for him to leave at once. Nodding to her, the man called Z stumbled out of the room, and Johanna Jensen breathed out a sigh. Mutely, she allowed the other guard to unlock the cuffs at her ankles, her lip almost bitten to shreds to keep the gleeful smile from her face as she was marched back to her cell.
The arbiter of revenge, he had called himself. She could only hope he would follow through in his promises, spoken and silent.
A/N:...This chapter kinda kicked my butt, but hey, I figured it out, finally! Also, shorter chapter this week. Remember when my chapters used to be around four thousand words, max? Ah, the past...:-P
Yeah, Holly's trying to kick Steve back into play in regards to making amends with Tony. Which he's kinda been dragging his feet on, because of...well, self-blame and the uncertainty of the whole situation. Blame Sarah for her gumption; she's a bad influence. ;) Again, things won't be resolved by the next week (this ain't a sit-com) but he can at least be actively looking for a way to start really apologizing for his part in the whole debacle. And yeah, Steve has a petty moment; remember, he's a good man, but not a perfect one!
And remember Doctor Jensen from the last story? Oh, yeah, she's going to be making a comeback. Had to get in a little villain time as well.
I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture reference made in the text (The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, All Quiet on the Western Front, Marvel comics, etc).
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!