You can't always pick the dog you find
Maybe I wasn't what you had in mind
But I can love you a lot, yeah...
I'm here and I wonder if I'm lost
Cos I can't seem to understand the way I feel
I'm not here to be a creep
I'm just feeling incomplete
Take me home
Econoline Crush, "Home"
Notes
A long chapter, because I finally managed to get my pacing where I wanted it. This whole thing is a weighty 10,000 words, and I really should have broken it in two; there are a lot of good break points. However, since I have driven some of you to rage and despair and coping mechanisms, I'm not going to torture you any longer. Your chapter, folks. Enjoy!
Chapter Warnings - Mostly violence and the effects of mental manipulation. Identity crisis. Science. Adulting like a champ. Did I mention the violence? Shitloads of it, folks.
=o=o=o=o=o=
oOoOoOo
Stark Tower, New York
May 2, 2012
For once in her life, Toni decides to be fashionably early, arriving in the conference room with a fresh cup of coffee and her StarkPad at 9:20am, forty full minutes before Coulson's meeting is supposed to begin. She wants to get some more work done, but can't go to the workshop (because then she'll never make the meeting at all) and the resident assassins are still digging into their toyboxes in the communal area, paying little attention to anything that wasn't a method of messy death. She thinks it's kinda cute how giddy they get over the Starktech she designs for them, but she simply can't work with Clint squeeing every two seconds. There's a reason he's banned from her workshop when it's crunch time and she needs to focus.
She eases into the conference room and shuts the door behind her. Sets her tablet on the table and takes her coffee to the floor-to-ceiling windows to look out over the city while she savors the hot brew, right to the bottom of the cup.
"J," she says, resting a hand on the glass and taking one last, long look at the cityscape before she turns to put in a good twenty, thirty minutes on the Mark VIII, "pull up the latest armor specs and give me a holo, if you please?"
She turns to move back to the table, and an arm snags her around the waist, tugs her solidly into a chest. She may let out a high-pitched, undignified squeal, but she'll deny it to the end of her days. She also definitely does not flail or slap at the arm, shrieking like a banshee.
"You're feisty today," Bucky says, smiling wickedly down at her as he slides his other arm to link his hands behind the small of her back.
"Jesus fucking Christ, you gave me a heart attack!" She thuds her forehead into his chest, feeling silent laughter shake through his ribs. Her mouth curves up despite her racing pulse. "It's not funny, goddammit. I need to put a fucking bell on you."
"Won't do you any good," he says, nips at her neck. "You still wouldn't hear me coming."
"Probably not," she says, a little breathlessly, and moves her head to give him better access to her throat, which he seems more than happy to take advantage of by how quickly his lips kiss down to her pulse point. "Mmm… How come you're not down in the den, playing with your toys?"
She squeaks as he bends suddenly and hoists her up to sit on the edge of the table, nudges her knees apart and moves between them. "Rather play with you," he says, carefully threading his fingers into her hair and tilting her head back, eyes dark and warm. He kisses her, slow and languid, and she melts against him. "Missed you this week," he murmurs into her mouth, licks a slow line over her lips until they part with a little sigh. "Bed was empty without you."
"Sorry," she says softly, and slides her palms around his neck, thumbs drifting gently over his cheekbones. Opens her mouth to him and scoots forward an inch so she can hook her knees loosely around his thighs. "I'm a terrible girlfriend," she says, muffled in his mouth. Keeps kissing him in between every third or fourth word, lets her hands drift over his shoulders and arms. "I probably should have... warned you... about that before... you got involved with me."
He pulls back, flushed and breathing raggedly, cups her face in his hands before smoothing them over her back, ending with a sharp tug at her waist to pull her firmly against him. A soft whine resonates in the back of her throat. "Doesn't matter," he says, and she probably shouldn't find that possessive tone such a turn-on, but it never fails to set her trembling. He bends, pushes the hem of her yoga tank top down with his chin and presses a soft kiss to the soulmark. "You're mine. I'm yours. Everything else is negotiable."
"Jesus, Bucky." It's less a curse and more of a prayer as it leaves her mouth, and the bond between them wakes with deep, solid emotion. "We don't have time to do anything," she groans, but her hands are skimming under the hem of his shirt anyway, pressing firm and warm against his abdomen and hips, nails digging in until he's hissing and grinding into her, skating up to trace his mark under the cloth. Swallows his moan with her mouth. "Coulson's going to be here soon. We have a meeting."
"Fuck the meeting," he growls, wraps a hand around the back of her neck, and pulls her into a kiss full of heat and tongue, clutching hands and guttural noises. "Need you," he moans, pulling her off the table. "Jesus, I need you."
She hitches forward, wraps her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, trusting him bear her weight completely. "Fuck the meeting," she agrees, and sinks her teeth into his earlobe, thrilling when his breath stutters, bites down the side of his neck. Doesn't even care when he nearly loses his grip on her. "Bedroom, now. Go."
They make it half a dozen steps across the room when music suddenly blares, loud and strident. She shrieks in surprise, and Bucky twists and drops her. By reflex, she lands fist-down, the Iron Maiden classic three-point crouch, and muscle memory whips her hands up, palms out,in a firing stance. Somehow, despite dodging the other way from where he dropped her, Bucky's managed to get halfway in front of her, like a human shield, eyes wild, knife out, every muscle a tense coil of predatory instinct.
She recognizes the song when the brief spike of panic ebbs, and then it's just murder in her heart. "Seek & Destroy" is Rhodey's song.
"JARVIS, cut the music and hook into Rhodey's comm," she says through gritted teeth.
The noise cuts dead in the middle of Hetfield's growling lyrics. "Channel is open, ma'am," JARVIS says promptly.
"Rhodes, I am going to fucking end you."
Movement outside the window pulls her attention. Rhodey, in the Iron Patriot armor, slowly drifts downwards until he's fully visible in the window wall. His faceplate is up, and he's crying with laughter. A holo screen snaps to life over the table, and the comm lines engage. "Oh man, Tones. The look on your face." He mimes wiping a tear.
"Yeah, yeah. Funny for you, frustrating for me. What are you doing here, besides cockblocking the shit out of my sex life?" She struggles back to her feet, unlocking muscles the scare tightened into what feels like cement. Gently, slowly touches Bucky's back, presses a line up his spine, silently coaxing him to relax.
"Coulson called," Rhodey says, still chuckling. "Invited us to this gathering you seem to be having. Carol's a bit behind. She stopped for a snatch-and-grab, you know how she is. Told me to fly ahead while she took care of the thief."
Toni perks up a bit at the mention of Carol's name, because Carol can honestly be scarier than Natasha when she puts her mind to it. Carol will be on her side. "You're still an asshole," she says. "You couldn't just land like a normal fucking person and knock or something?"
"Nah," he says with a grin. "Less fun that way. Besides, I did you a favor. Meeting's in like, fifteen minutes. I saved you from being walked in on by a bunch of suits and assassins."
She growls wordlessly. "This is what you can do with your favors, Rhodey." And flips him the middle finger with both hands. "Get in here so I can kill you properly."
"Yeah?" Fond, familiar teasing. "You and what army, glowbug?" He closes the faceplate, tips her a salute, and soars off, she assumes towards the landing pad.
Bucky turns her around, sears her mouth with one final kiss, tips her head up with two fingers gently beneath her chin. "You don't need an army," he says softly, and his eyes are full of love and violence. "You got me. I'll kill him for you."
That shouldn't be as comforting or arousing as it is, should it? She touches his cheek, soft and gentle. "I love you too, Bucky."
-o-o-o-o-
"I'm sorry, Fury wants me to do what?" She's got the documentation in her hand, both the original files stamped all over the place with the SHIELD logo, and the drafted charter for the Avengers Initiative, the words are right there in front of her, but she still can't wrap her head around it. "I know he says one thing and means another like, all the time, but I somehow doubt that the words tell Stark to start up a superhero club ever fell out of either side of his mouth."
Coulson folds his arms and just watches her steadily. "Not in so many words, no," he says, "but he made it clear his office was bugged. He couldn't say so directly. But I understood what he meant."
She sets the folders down on the table and picks up the binder. She's already flipped through it once, but does so again now. "So he, what, wants me to be the benefactor until he can get his house in order? Cos I don't do that, Phil. I won't do that. If I do this, it's my way."
"He suggested I schedule an appointment and ask pretty please." Coulson looks amused, for some reason. "This is our appointment. Pretty please?"
Toni sighs, runs her hands through her hair. "You realize that once people become my people, I don't take kindly to other people taking them back," she says, side-eying him.
"I've gotten a hint or two of that, yes."
"Rhodey and Carol are military. Clint and Tash are SHIELD. They sign on, they're mine. No two-masters bullshit. No hypothetical situations where they have to choose between two loyalties. "
Coulson's smiling again, that fond, eye-crinkling smile. "I think they're already yours, Toni, but I'll take care of the official channels."
"I can't believe I'm even considering this," she mutters. "I'm a goddamn busy woman. I have companies to run, tech to invent, beaches to lay on eventually." She picks up the charter again, flips through it one more time. Sighs, because she knows she's going to do it. "Two conditions," she finally says.
"They are?"
"One: you are the only SHIELD liaison I will work with. They try to replace you, or you go mysteriously missing and a not-previously-cleared temp liaison shows up? All bets are off. You, or your officially hand-picked replacement, or we don't work with SHIELD at all."
Coulson's eyes soften a little more around the corners, and his smile grows a little bigger. "And the second?"
She blows out a breath. "This is probably the one they're going to fight me the most on," she says. "And that is all relevant Avengers-related merchandise or technology that we develop for the team or to fund the team is the property of Stark Industries, through the Avengers Initiative subsidiary, and any Avengers on payroll. SHIELD isn't going to make a profit off of us killing ourselves to save the world."
"It's already in the charter," Coulson says, and holds her out a pen. "Miss Potts insisted on it."
"Knew I hired that woman for a reason," she says, and bends to sign the charter, then shoves it over to him to witness. "Well, that's done. Let's go recruit us some goddamn superheroes."
oOoOoOo
Steve
193 Park Avenue, New York
It doesn't look like the lair of a villain, but Steve supposes he wouldn't know what that looks like anyway. Maybe all would-be world destroyers had skyscrapers in New York City. His team parks on the rooftop of the high rise across the street from Stark Tower, and sets up surveillance. He doesn't know all of their names, and that bothers him, a little. If this is his team, he should know them by name.
What bothers him more, deep down in the pit of his stomach where it's just churning rage and a frantic, desperate need to escape, is this: if Iron Man's a dangerous villain, if he's broken out of ten prisons, why is he in Stark Tower in the middle of the busiest city in the world?
No matter what way he turns it in his head, it doesn't make sense.
It's all wrong.
He wishes that voice, that tiny little voice in the back of his head, would shut up.
Near 9:30, a flying suit of armor circles the tower before hovering outside a window high off the ground. Steve tenses at the sight, thinking of the photos Fennhoff showed him, Peggy's face blasted into something unrecognizable, something that was meat and bone and not a person anymore, but doesn't order the attack. Even from this distance he can see that the coloration and side profile are wrong to be Iron Man.
"Note the Iron Patriot's arrival," he says. That shoulder-mounted cannon is distinctive, even if the paint job wouldn't have given it away.
"If Iron Patriot's on scene," Rumlow says, binoculars raised to his eyes, "Warbird won't be far behind. Those two are rarely far apart." Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, a second armor settles into Stark Tower, closer to the Iron Man profile, but the wrong colors. This mission is getting complicated, fast.
Thinks again of Peggy's ruined face. Thinks of Bucky, and everything Iron Man is probably doing to him, torture and experimentation, inside that tower.
He'll cut through a thousand flying suits of armor if he has to. Iron Man's going to pay for what he's done.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, pulses the knot in his stomach.
oOoOoOo
Stark Tower
"... so that's the deal. A superhero team. Officially put together and everything. Gear, training, a paycheck. Probably action figures and keychains and backpacks with your face on 'em." Toni shoves her hands into the rear pockets of her jeans and looks around the room. It's pretty easy to tell where everyone's thoughts are by the looks on their faces. Is suddenly sure, just like she knew she would do this, that they're all in too. Still, she has to give them the choice. "Floor's open for discussion, debate, dissent, whatever. You can say yes or no. No harm, no foul either way."
"Oh hell yeah, I'm in," says Carol immediately, and her eyes are pure excitement. "Where's the pen? I'll sign right now. Protection detail, investigation services, busting heads, whatever's needed."
"Well," Rhodey says casually. "If the missus is in, so'm I."
Toni smiles a crooked, fond smile. "I doubt the Air Force is going to just send you two on your merry without a whisper of protest. They don't like me, and they're not going to like this one little bit."
Carol pokes Rhodey until he digs a pen out of his pocket and hands it over. "Let them protest," she says, bending over the coffee table and scrawling her signature on the charter. "It'll give me a great opportunity to kick over the anthill and watch them all scramble."
Toni arches an eyebrow. "Is there something I'm missing?"
Rhodey runs a hand down his face. "More of the same, Tones. They want to take apart the suits, put them back together, keep us away from 'outside influence not contracted by the military'." He makes air quotes with his fingers. "I told them that, after the Hammer disaster, I'll let the suit fall to pieces around me before I let anyone but you fiddle with it." Toni feels a lump form in her throat. She knows all of this, trusts in all of it, has faith in Rhodey and Carol's friendship, but it's quite another thing to hear it in a room full of her friends.
"They tried to call our bluff," adds Carol, pushing the paper over to Rhodey. "They made some noise about finding new pilots if we wouldn't play ball, but Jim reminded them that the suits legally belong to us, not the Air Force, so they could look for all the pilots they wanted, but there wouldn't be a damn thing for them to fly. And I told them that if they didn't like it, I'd resign my commission right then so there wouldn't be any further problem for them."
Damn lump is practically choking her now. "Jesus, Carol," she says, thickly. "Why would you-"
"Do something career-ending like that?" Carol shrugs. "Why did you give me Warbird? Why did you give Jim Iron Patriot? Why do you do half the things you do? Because you're a sentimental sappy-ass romantic, and you have no concept of appropriate displays of affection. Well…" She looks around the room, sweeps her hand to indicate all of them. "We've all pretty much collectively decided that you've infected us, and now we are all sentimental sappy-ass romantics with no concept of appropriate displays of affection." She reaches out, ruffles Toni's hair. "So suck it, princess."
"Moron," Clint says, snagging the charter from Rhodey and scrawling his signature without hesitation. "I have the attention span of a hyperactive gerbil, and you've somehow managed to keep me around for thirteen years, more or less constantly entertained. No discussion, no debate. I'm in. Give me the damn pen, Rhodes."
Natasha doesn't say anything, just sends Toni a look that beautifully combines exasperation and fondness, signs beside Clint's messy scrawl. When she's done, Bucky lifts the charter, takes the pen, and turns Toni around and uses her back as a support to sign his name to the bottom. He tosses the pen back to Rhodey, drops the fully-signed charter in Coulson's lap, and slings his metal arm around Toni's shoulders. "So that's that," he says, and kisses her temple. "Guess we're a team now."
"Guess so," Toni says, grins madly. "God help the world."
-o-o-o-o-
There are celebratory beers on the balcony in the penthouse, and Carol is making noise about getting Clint to fire up the barbecue, even though it's barely eleven ("The man cannot cook worth a damn, Barnes," she tells Bucky once she learns he's not had Clint's barbecue yet, "but he can sear a damn fine steak."), and Toni just wants to kick back and relax, because there's still a lot of setup to do with paperwork and training schedules and health insurance and other bits of bureaucratic minutiae in her very near future, but apparently Coulson is determined to keep her just a little while longer.
"I'm making a couple of immediate additions to your staff," he says, as they walk back and take her private elevator down into the communal area. "I pulled two of SHIELD's best technicians out of the Triskelion and assigned them to your R&D team. You'll need the help."
"Present company aside, boss," she says, "SHIELD isn't exactly on my list of besties at the moment."
"I know," Coulson says agreeably, "but I can personally vouch for their trustworthiness. I think you'll like FitzSimmons. You have a lot in common."
Toni's eyebrows are up, and so is her wariness, but she trusts Coulson. Which is still something of a shock to her, but she can't argue with the empirical data gathered over the last week or so. "Alright. I'll entertain the notion. When do I get to meet them?"
The elevator doors at the far side slide open, and a youngish couple step out, a man and a woman who don't quite look legal to drink. They're dressed business casual, in jeans and neatly-pressed button-downs, and each has a messenger bag slung over their shoulders.
"-Dr. Stark, Jemma!" the man is saying, and he's excited enough that his Scottish accent is all but strangling his words. "Her papers are bloody brilliant. I never thought I'd have an opportunity to meet her." His expression goes worried. "What if she thinks I'm an idiot? What if she doesn't like me?"
"You're brilliant, Fitz," the woman says soothingly, crisp and British. "I'm sure she'll like you. And if she doesn't, then she's the idiot."
"FitzSimmons," Coulson says quietly, with a smile.
And Toni's smiling too. Because she can smell the baby genius on them from here. Knows without having to ask that they've both acquired at least one PhD before eighteen. Knows they're overachievers, driven to create and design, innovate and invent. It's a siren song, rare and beautiful. She knows her own when she sees them.
"Philip Coulson," she says, with deep emotion, "I may actually cry." She moves forward to greet them, briefly has a minor panic about how disastrous she looks, yoga tank and jeans and workboots, dishevelled sex hair from her earlier Rhodus Interruptus she never got around to brushing out, arc reactor glowing in the middle of her scarred chest. Remembers that they're geniuses too, and geniuses forgive silly things like clothing and personal appearance in the name of science. "Hi there!" she says brightly. "The boss said he had a surprise for me. I guess you two are it."
The man, Fitz, stops dead and goes pale. Toni's seen enough cases of hero worship - has suffered through one or two herself, has gone complete starry-eyed fangirl over Dr. Banner's work in particle physics a few times - to recognize it now. "Dr. Stark! The Dr. Stark!"
"That's what my driver's license says. Well, not the the part. For some reason, you're not allowed to call yourself The." She lifts a hand and holds it out, and he seizes it and shakes it happily. "Call me Toni. You are..?"
"Oh, uh. Fitz," he says, after a blink. "Leo Fitz. I've followed your career right from your time at MIT. I loved your paper on using synthetic stem cells to scaffold a connection between nano circuitry and nerve endings. Fascinating stuff, even if it's a bit fantastic until the technology improves." He fishes around behind him without turning, snags the wrist of his companion, and gently pulls her forward. "This is my lab partner, Jemma Simmons."
"Most people just refer to us as FitzSimmons," Simmons offers with a friendly smile. "We've been partners and best friends since the Academy."
"Finish each other's thoughts," Fitz adds.
"And sentences," Simmons says. "When most people hear 'FitzSimmons', they think we're one person."
"But we're pretty in tune with each other, so…" Fitz shrugs.
"It's not all that terribly different from being a single person." Simmons beams brightly.
Toni watches them, eyes flicking back and forth as they speak. She spins to look at Coulson and slings her arms around them, hugging each one possessively. "Phil, you can't have them back. They're adorable. I'm adopting them. They're mine now. I'm going to hug them and squeeze them and give them labs and write them blank checks."
Coulson opens his mouth, looking more than a little amused, but whatever he is going to say is abruptly pre-empted by a chime from JARVIS. And Toni freezes on the spot, because that sound never means good things.
"Ma'am, I have finished decrypting the final layer of SHIELD security-" And Toni's blood runs absolutely frigid because if JARVIS is saying that in front of Coulson and FitzSimmons when she gave him specific orders to never mention it in front of any eagle-toting agent not Clint or Natasha, it's infinitely worse than she could expect it to be. "-and there is a file I believe requires your immediate attention."
"Do it," she says. Sees Coulson eying her. Will deal with that later. A holo screen appears, frozen on the image of a blonde woman with a bun and terribly tacky black glasses.
"Bobbi Morse," Coulson says quietly, when Toni glances at him questioningly. "One of our best undercover operatives."
"Play the video, J," Toni says, and her shoulders tighten.
Agent Morse's image animates, her voice low and urgent. "Director Fury, I am breaking radio silence to report that Hydra has somehow managed to get their hands on Captain America. They are in the process of breaking his loyalty, using subliminal protocols and an unknown drug to manipulate his mental state and turn him to their side. My intelligence suggests that they will soon send Captain America after an asset they lost, which is being kept at Stark Industries. I recommend immediate recovery and extraction. My cover is intact. Co-ordinates to follow."
The world goes very, very quiet, except for a loud ringing in her ears, and a deep, abiding fury that builds and builds and builds in her chest until it feels like she's going to explode. That's when Bucky practically breaks the door down, stalking in and demanding to know why Toni's so upset he can feel it from three floors away.
Things get much, much louder following that.
-o-o-o-o-
Conference Room, Stark Tower
Toni sits with her fingers steepled, elbows on the table and tips of her index and middle fingers pressing into the curve where her nose meets her forehead, breathing evenly. Around her, chaos reigns as Clint and Natasha - mostly Clint - rage at Coulson for the content of Morse's message, while Bucky stalks like a caged lion. Rhodey and Carol are equally as strident, throwing out plan after plan of attack, everything from surgical strikes to all-out assault aided by SEAL teams because it's Captain Goddamn America and of course they should send in SEAL teams for that.
Coulson, bless him, never loses his calm because Coulson's just like that. Toni's fairly sure a nuclear warhead could fall out of the sky on top of his head and he wouldn't even blink. Toni isn't at all sure how he's even tracking all of the words flying at him right now, but he's bouncing back and forth between them all with hardly a pause for breath.
And then comes the point Rhodey turns and says, "C'mon, Tones, you know I'm right. We've got three suits, but nobody gets the job done like special forces."
"Two suits," she murmurs, and closes her eyes. "I'm not going." Clint stops yelling abruptly, and the room goes awkward and uncomfortable with quiet. She opens her eyes, sees them all looking at her. Surprisingly, Clint and Natasha and even Bucky are nodding slowly. Rhodey just looks confused, as does Carol, and Coulson? Well, she can't tell what he's thinking on the best of days.
"Why not?" Rhodey asks. "He's your soulmate."
"I could go," she says with a sigh, folding her arms across the table. "But I wouldn't come back. I'm hair-trigger right now, Rhodey. I'm okay today, but today? Is day one without incident. I just spent a week down the rabbit-hole. Before that? Awfully close to losing my shit and going supervillain. Like, really, teetering on the edge, about to slide down the abyss shouting whee! as I go."
She rubs her face with the palms of her hands. "God, I really want to go, you have no fucking idea how much I just want to blow that compound the fuck off the face of the earth. But I can't, because if I do, whoever comes home will look like me and talk like me and will probably even build shiny shit for my friends… but it won't be me. So I stay here."
A hand drops onto her shoulder, squeezes gently. She looks up into Natasha's face, and Natasha looks approving. She reaches up, covers Natasha's hand with her own, and smiles faintly.
"Bucky should go," Toni continues, turning back to the room at large. "Rhodey and Carol. You're the ones who can handle a supersoldier if he's really flipped his nut. Clint and Tash are the best at infiltration and intelligence-gathering. Coulson, you'll probably want to be on site in case things go tits-up which, let's face it, they usually do. So that leaves me here to hold down the fort. Which is fine. I have JARVIS and FitzSimmons to keep me company. Also distracted. I haven't had a good sciencing in awhile. It'll keep me busy. And I'll stay on comms in case you need another suit."
"Toni…" Rhodey's voice is very soft.
"I can't, Rhodey," she says, just as softly.
He pulls her out of her chair and gives her a very tight, very warm hug. "I was just going to say that all of that you said? Is probably a smart call. We got this for you."
It is a smart call, probably the smartest call she's made. But it still hurts something inside her, deep and sharp, to stand at the window ten minutes later, watch Rhodey and Carol shoot off in their armors, watch the quinjet carrying everyone else follow after.
"Bring him home, Bucky," she says quietly, even though she's not on the comm and he can't hear her. "Or you're sleeping on the fucking couch until doomsday."
oOoOoOo
193 Park Avenue, New York
One of the agents - he still doesn't know their names - acquired the building plans from the city archive, and he studies them now, looking for points of entry, weak places in what are no doubt prodigious defenses. Notes the locations of labs and workshops, can puzzle out the technical specs enough to determine which are Stark Industries' standard R&D and which are the most likely to deal directly with Iron Man and other weapons of world destruction.
Rumlow is still at the edge of the roof, watching the tower through his binocs. "They all just went inside, Captain," he says. "Whatever party they were having, it's over now."
"Keep me updated." Steve turns his attention back to the blueprints, and a plan of attack begins to come together in his head. He's always been a good tactician, it's where he really shines. He pulls open the Velcro flap on the side pocket of his combat pants - always jumps a little, even though he's sure he's heard the sound a thousand times before, because it feels like he never has - and fishes out a pad of paper and a pencil.
Has the sudden urge to sketch something. The curve of a woman's shoulder. The wicked smirk of a man's mouth. A pair of stars, one cradled within the other. A blue circle with a hollow white triangle inside.
Pauses. Blinks his eyes. Shakes the urge off, or tries to. His fingers want to draw, but that's never been one of his talents. He even fails at stick figures.
Wrong. That's wrong.
Shakes his head again. Ignores the voice and bends over the pad, making notes about who should hit what entry point, what tasks they should accomplish once inside. Fills pages with alternate tactics, if circumstances change. More people, less people. Speculates about interior defense systems, which Stark Industries would not list in the public domain documents. How to respond to them.
Checks his watch, because his head is really starting to hurt now. It's been almost four hours since his last dose. He should ask Rumlow to give him another now. He needs to be at the top of his game. Peggy deserves him at no less than the top of his game.
He opens his mouth to turn and ask.
Don't.
Closes his mouth again, confused at the strength and command in the urge to say nothing. Wrestles with himself, needing to be clear of pain, but deeply defiant of the needle. He still hasn't resolved the conflict when Rumlow lets a low, triumphant laugh. "Iron Patriot and Warbird just left. A quinjet followed them. We're probably not going to get a sweeter opportunity, Captain."
Decides not to ask for his dose after all, because he's Captain America. He's fought battles with worse than a headache.
"Alright, we are green," he says and bends to pick up the shield, slide it onto the harness on his back. He pushes doubts and dissenting inner voices ruthlessly away, becomes focused and clear. He has a mission to accomplish. "Let's get this done."
You'll be free soon, Bucky. You'll be avenged soon, Peggy.
oOoOoOo
Workshop Level, Stark Tower
Fitz is clearly over the moon when Toni tells them she's taking them to her workshop to science the shit out of things. Get them set up with access on some of her designs, get them started to see what they're capable of. She's not foolish enough to let them have access to the suit right away - Coulson might trust them, and she might have hardcore imprinted on them, but she's not so dazzled by having actual other baby geniuses around that she's going to toss them the keys to the kingdom on day one.
"I understand if you're not going to show us the technical specs right away," Fitz is chattering away as they walk down the hall towards her workshop, "but I wonder, would it be too much to ask if I could even see the Iron Maiden suit? It's a marvel of engineering, a bloody near-miracle, honestly, and it would just be amazing if I could just look at it."
Toni stops in the middle of the hall, just past the turn-off to where she built the forge, and eyes him speculatively. He's flushed and excited, all glittering eyes and hopeful smile. Which falters almost immediately at whatever he's seeing on her face. "Sorry," he mutters. "It is a bit much to ask."
"You, Fitz," she says solemnly, "are now my new little brother." And holds out her fist for him to bump.
Which is when an actual fist throwing an actual punch smacks into the side of his head, sends him reeling into Simmons, who yelps and goes down in a tangle of arms and legs. A thick-necked goon in black tactical gear steps out of the hallway, rubbing his hand. Looks at her and grins, as she's momentarily wide-eyed in shock. Steps behind her and grabs her around the chest, bear-hugging her from behind.
It doesn't amaze her anymore how many people think that plain old Toni Stark, no suit, no tech, no weapons, is an easy target. She's used to people underestimating her, keeps it as a variable in her threat calculations. She's no supersoldier. She isn't a highly trained operative. She isn't even a regular gun-toting government agent. Plain, old, civilian Toni Stark isn't a threat without her suit.
They tend to forget how many hours she logs hammering and hauling heavy machinery and components in her workshop. Tend to not consider that she lives full-time with three violent, world-class assassins beyond Olympic-class in speed and strength. Tend to forget how goddamn fucking smart she is, how fast her brain tracks physics and extrapolates responses.
Plain, old, civilian Toni Stark doesn't need a suit to be a threat.
Instead of screaming and fighting, which is probably what he expects her to do, she swings her legs up, feels her attacker's arms loosen briefly in surprise and slide up her chest as her weight drops her down. She drives an elbow back, sharp and fast, catches him in the side just under the edge of his tac-vest. He grunts with the blow and his arms loosen again, loose enough that she slips right out and hits the ground on her palms and ass as he staggers back a pace.
"I believe the Tower is under attack, ma'am," JARVIS says suddenly.
"Yeah, got that too, J," she grunts. She doesn't stop, rolls onto her shoulders, using the momentum to drive both feet into the pit of the goon's stomach. She scrambles upright as he doubles over, twists into a perfect, graceful spinning hook kick, briefly thanking whatever whim made her put her work boots on this morning instead of leaving her feet bare. The steel-reinforced sole connects with his jaw with a solid crunch. He staggers into the wall, rebounds and comes back towards her. She knocks aside a sloppy, telegraphed grab, steps inside his reach and drives the heel of her hand into his nose.
He drops to the floor with his nose spurting blood, moaning, until she shuts him up with a heel to the temple. She stands over him for another moment, catching her breath and trying to keep the adrenaline rush from shaking her apart. "J, what's going on?"
"Many of the cameras have been disabled, ma'am," JARVIS says calmly. "I am attempting to reroute power, but I believe our attackers are using scrambling technology, which is beyond my present capabilities to circumvent. I detect at least eight other unknowns in the upper levels, but the route to your workshop appears to be clear for the time being. Might I suggest you hasten that way?"
"Good idea. Keep me updated, J. And give me a goddamn House Party to boot. Clear these goddamn cockroaches out of my house."
"Understood, ma'am. Launching Marks II through VI now."
"You two alright?" she asks over her shoulder, and crouches to strip the agent's weapons. Combat knife, sidearm, spare clip, taser. Brass knuckles, really? Scoops them all up, and turns around.
Fitz looks a little dazed, blood trickling down his cheek from where the goon punched him, and Simmons is supporting him with her arm around his waist. "That was really…" He licks his lips, tries to focus. "That was really cool."
"All compliments of the world-renowned Black Widow Learn to Fight Before She Kills You training program," she says lightly, and holds out her bounty for them to pick. "Free membership comes with employment. Also membership in the Hawkeye School of Shooting Stuff Til It Stops Moving."
"Cheers," Fitz says with a loopy smile, and Simmons reaches out and takes the gun from Toni's hand.
oOoOoOo
Steve
Stark Tower, New York
This is too easy, he thinks, moving swiftly along empty corridors and checking the handles of doors as he goes. There was hardly any resistance to their entry, once they got through the shatterproof glass. Wasn't Iron Man supposed to have an army of minions? Lethal robots patrolling his base of operations?
Nothing about this makes sense.
The deeper he goes, the stronger his disquiet becomes. He thought the building, that Stark Industries, was a facade to cover Iron Man's villainous operations, that the floors would play host to a variety of illegal laboratories and hideous experiments. Stockpiles of weapons. Schematics for missiles and bombs. Torture rooms.
But it's just a business. The labs are dark and quiet. Some of the open rooms look like guest bedrooms, empty and depersonal and waiting for a tired body to fall onto the mattress. One large office, clearly an executive's office, he explores in expectation of finding evidence of wrongdoing, but only finds drawings for artificial limbs and clean energy reactors and cell phones and tablet computers, and framed certificates for the company's exceptional philanthropy on the wall.
There are potted plants in the corridors, for chrissake.
Nothing about this makes sense.
Steve is very close to agreeing with the inner voice, giving in, retreating to figure out exactly what is going on … and Iron Man steps around the corner of the hallway.
He's bulkier than the photos Steve's seen, but there's no mistaking the blue glow in the center of the chestpiece, or the bright red and gold. A cool voice with a British accent says, "I'm afraid you're not authorized to be here. Retreat is recommended, or force will be utilized. This is your only warning."
Bemused by the politeness, enraged by the sight, he lets his body uncoil in a fluid push forward, hauling the shield off his back and onto his arm in time to drive it into Iron Man's chest. The suit staggers back a pace, heavy feet digging grooves into the floor. Before he can recover, Steve launches another flurry of heavy strikes designed to tear the armor apart, slicing into joints and seams with the edge of the shield.
"Mark III engaging a hostile on Level D," Iron Man says, and there's a strange whine and a glow from the palms. And then Steve is flying backwards, bent double from the impact of light that crashed into his stomach. He twists and lands on his feet, a spread hand keeping him balanced. Another whine builds, and he covers himself with the shield, hearing the ray ring and slide off the vibranium.
He keeps cover behind the shield, deflecting the ray blasts away from him, and is taken completely by surprise when the armor shoots forward, flying down the hall to snag him around the chest and drive him back. The moment the armor touches him, Steve absolutely loses his head in a haze of red and fury, and goes away for a moment or two.
When his vision clears, he's crouching on the floor and the armor is in pieces around him. There's no sight of a human body, no blood to suggest there was a person who might have gotten away.
He stays there for a moment, catching his breath, recentering his mind to the calmness he needs in battle. "Mark III," he mutters, picking himself up out of the ruins of the suit and shaking his head to clear the dust from his hair. Iron Man has killer robots after all.
It won't save him.
oOoOoOo
Toni's Workshop
She may not need a suit to deal with threats, but it sure as fuck is a lot easier. Toni breathes a faint sigh of relief as the armor closes around her, powering up weapons and flight systems. "You two should stay here," she says. "JARVIS can lock the workshop down after I leave. You'll be safe here. It'd take a tank to get through those doors."
"Sounds perfect," Simmons says, hovering over Fitz as she cleans the cut above his eye. "What if they have a tank?"
Toni grins, reaches up and snaps the faceplate down. "I'm Toni Stark, world-class engineer," she says. "And you are FitzSimmons, world-class geniuses. If you can't find something to cobble together in my workshop that can stop a tank, we're going to need to rethink your claim to that title."
Simmons' shoulders firm up a little under that, and Toni's gotta say, she likes the fire in the woman's eyes. "Understood," she says.
"J," she says as she turns away and moves towards the door. "As soon as I'm out, lock it down. Seal everything. I don't care what it takes, you keep them safe. If it looks like they need it, let them access armory specs and prototypes."
"Understood, ma'am." A pause. "Should I put in a call to Agent Coulson?"
She tilts her head and considers. Behind her, the door hisses shut and clicks secure. "May as well," she says, and then has to throw herself forward, burning a second of jets to launch faster, as a black-clad goon steps out from around the corner and opens fire with an assault rifle. She sets her feet and skids to a stop, and snaps off a repulsor blast.
"Stark." Coulson's voice is tight. "We're in the middle of… I just heard your repulsors."
"Hi boss," she says, forcing cheer into her tone. "It seems that, with all of you away, I'm slightly under attack here at the tower. JARVIS counts eight invaders, at least. I've got him controlling the other suits. FitzSimmons are on lockdown in the workshop."
"Understood. We'll wrap up as soon as possible here, and head back to give you a hand."
"Take your time," she says, lining up a shot on a pair of goons, and blowing them both into walls in quick succession. "Finding Steve is imp-"
She screeches to a halt in midair in the middle of the corridor, staring in shock at the tall, broad-shouldered man walking down the hall towards her. Even if she didn't have his face seared into her brain forever by her father's obsessive search, the shield on his arm would have given it away. "Oh Jesus," she breathes. "Oh fuck."
"Stark? Stark!"
"He's here," she says. "Captain America is h-"
Faster than she could have believed possible, he whips his arm forward. She takes a vibranium shield to the face, and the comm drops out.
She reels backwards, crying out in shock as the faceplate dents inwards, cracking her uncomfortably in the teeth. The taste of blood floods her mouth, and she feels at her lip automatically with the tip of her tongue, finding a split.
"I don't care how many robots you throw at me, Iron Man!" Steve is shouting, coming down the hallway like the goddamn Terminator, intense and terrifying and relentless. "I'll tear through them all until you face me!"
Head in the game, Stark. Head in the game. It's any other villain. It's just like Bucky, right? You got Bucky out of fucking Siberia. You can take Steve in the middle of your own fucking home.
"Your information is a little spotty, Spangles," she says, sliding into the rhythm of snark to keep herself focused. "There's no one here by that name. Iron Man? Honestly, how fucking patriarchal can you possibly get?"
His face goes dark, changes, shifts. Darkness and unholy triumph flow across it. "It's you," he breathes. "Finally."
And holy shit he's fast, because he's on her practically before she can blink, bellowing in rage and smashing the shield into her dented faceplate, hard enough that it dents again, driving her back into a wall, down onto one knee, her head ringing and her vision blurry. "JARVIS," she says. "J, I might be in a bit of trouble here."
Steve's shadow falls over her, and she looks up to see him with his face twisted to something unrecognizable in its anger. The shield is over his head, edge gleaming above her, a two-handed strike that will probably decapitate her if it hits.
"JARVIS?" she whispers.
"You killed Peggy!" he screams. "Murderer!"
Desperately, she gets a hand up, fast and hard, deflecting the shield strike into the wall. The edge bites deep enough to hold him for a precious second. She capitalizes by slamming her other palm into his chest and firing her repulsors as hard as she dares against human flesh.
The air whuffs out of him, and he crashes backwards, away from her, through a reinforced wall, and disappears into the gloomy room in a flurry of drywall dust and disturbed papers.
Through the window of her laboratory, she sees Simmons' wide-eyed, stark-white face appear, and she hastily waves at her to go hide. Shit, she cannot do this here. She has to get somewhere safer, get the psychotic supersoldier far away from her baby geniuses.
She grabs the shield and yanks it out of the wall. "Catch me if you can!" she tosses through the hole in the wall, through which she can hear Steve picking himself up. Flicks the edge of the vibranium shield with her finger, just to make it ring, just to piss him off. "Ever play monkey in the middle?" His return, wordless roar sends her rocketing down the hall, carrying Steve's shield with her.
"This is undoubtedly the stupidest idea I've ever had, J." She's not thinking about how he's not responding. Not thinking about how much internal circuitry is damaged in her helmet. For all she knows, JARVIS might be responding, but her speakers are completely destroyed. Fuck it, she's been on her own before. She can do it again.
Her speed is limited in the tight corridors, but Steve's is not and he's catching up ungodly quick. She shoulders a set of reinforced double doors hard, barrels through them into the storage facility once used for Stark smartbombs, now used to house satellite assembly facilities, and pitches the shield as hard as she can into the distance.
Weight hits her back, driving her to her knees. She burns the jets, then abruptly slams the stabilizers, jerking her to a stop. The momentum carries Steve right over her shoulders and flings him off. He twists like a cat in the air, lands on his feet, perfectly set up for a double blast of repulsors. Two more smoking holes appear in his tactical vest, the skin red and raw and smoking beneath as he picks himself back up off the floor.
Deja vu washes over her, and she recalls a very similar scene in a very similar room two months prior. Only Bucky never looked at her with hatred, just emptiness. I am getting so goddamn sick of brainwashed soulmates, she thinks.
"Where's my shield?" His voice is low and dangerous.
"Technically," she says, "it's my shield. I paid the Wakandan government for it, fair market price with seventy years of interest. Seemed only fair, since it was pretty much stolen from them in the first place. It cost me a fuck of a lot of money, and you seem pretty intent on hitting me with it, so I'm not really inclined let you have it."
He stalks towards her, and she thinks the controlled rage might be just a bit more intimidating than the insane fury. "That's fine," he snarls. "I'll find it eventually. I don't need it to tear you apart. It would just be faster."
"Yeah, not super psyched about giving it back to you now, honeybunch." She keeps him in her field of vision, keeps her repulsors charged and ready to unload. "You mind telling me why your panties are all a-twist, princess? I haven't done anything to you. I'm pretty sure I'd remember if I had."
He growls, face a rictus of hate. "You killed my wife. You killed Peggy."
Jesus Christ, what? "Your wife?" she says incredulously. "Peggy? Peggy Carter? "
"So you admit it!"
He leaps towards her, and she blasts upwards by pure rabbit instinct. "Jesus fucking Christ, Steve," she says, her mouth still running, still on autopilot, because it's either a steady stream of verbal diarrhea, or endless screaming. "We need to work on your concept of understanding what the fuck I'm saying. Lay off the 'roids, dude. They're obviously damaging your brain. I don't care what they tell you or how pretty they smile. Hydra doctors are not your friends."
He stares ferociously up at her, prowling below like a goddamn predator. "I want to know why," he snarls. "Why did she have to die? Was it because of me? Was that the only reason?"
"Someone's been seriously fucking with your head, Rogers. As far as I know, Peggy Carter is alive and fucking well at the ripe old age of ninety-seven in a nursing home in Cambridge, England," she snaps. "No one's killed her. You were never married. She married some guy named Gabriel back in the fifties."
"Liar!"
Toni yelps as he suddenly jumps and has a hand on her boot, is climbing her hand after furious hand. She shoves her palm down at him, starts to blast him off, but his hand crunches around her gauntlet, squeezes, and then she's screaming for real as the bones of her hand, beneath the layers of titanium and gold and reinforced mesh, grind together.
She bucks violently, and he goes flying off, landing with a crash and a distinct sort of ringing that pierces the haze of fucking goddamn pain in her hand and the pit of her stomach drops out. "Aw fuck," she says, tears squeezing out of her eyes as she cradles her probably-broken hand inside the crushed gauntlet. "He's got his shield back."
Time to leave.
She dives for the open doors of the assembly bay, biting the inside of her cheek until it bleeds to keep her focused away from her hand. Recklessly slams on the speed, racking her brain for a plan, an escape route, anything, to save her ass.
Her best bet is to not get killed, wait for backup. Can she stay alive long enough for someone to get to her? How long would that be? Wonders how long it's been since her call to Coulson got dropped. Tries to do the math in her head. At least five minutes to retreat and extract, fifteen minutes tops to haul ass back here, another two or three to find her, maybe. It's been half that, she thinks, maybe a little less, since she talked to Coulson.
She hears a whimper, broken and hopeless. It comes out of her mouth. Twelve minutes is a long fucking time to stay alive with psycho-Superman and his Tonicidal intentions on her ass.
She can do it. She has to do it. Goddammit, it's gonna suck, though.
The shield smashes into the bottom of her boot, and the jet goes dead. She loses control, crashes into the wall, through the wall, smashes through furniture and then through another wall, sliding to a stop on her back in another hallway, coughing and dazed. She sends an unaimed shot through the holes she made, and they angle off the shine of his shield. His heel crunches down on her working repulsor, and then it's not working anymore.
The edge of the shield bites into her armor, and titanium isn't much of a deterrent to vibranium. Toni shrieks as Steve saws it back and forth, driving it down through the plates and circuits, uses it like a goddamn shovel to pry off the entire chestplate in ragged chunks of red and gold.
"Did she beg for her life?" he rages, and raises the shield again. "Did she plead for you to stop?"
If he hits her again, she's dead. Without the armor, she might die, but if she stays in it, she's definitely dead. She takes a chance while he's still lifting the shield, hits the emergency release, and yanks herself out of the suit, screaming as broken, jagged metal tears into her flesh but forcing herself rolling over her shoulder and onto her hands and knees. A second later, the shield slices down through the armor and scrapes the floor beneath it.
Panic hammers suddenly under Bucky's soulmark, and there's nothing but cold fury under the white star.
Whatever hope she had that he might stop, like Bucky'd done, when he sees her face dies the instant he lifts his head. Ice goes down her spine, because behind the rage, there's no one home that she ever wants to meet. "Iron Man is a woman," he says, and hesitates for a moment, confusion warring with something else in his eyes. But they go hard and cold again the next moment. "Doesn't matter. You killed Peggy. So I'm going to kill you."
It's not the first time Toni's been certain of her own death. If she doesn't get killed here, it's probably not going to be her last. But she's never been so afraid. Never had the urge to run quite as strongly. Never given into it, until now.
She bolts, pushing off the ground and into a dead run, panic hammering in her head. She's got just enough self awareness to try and keep things between her and Steve, out of the line of sight of that goddamn shield. If that hits her, if she falls, if he catches her, she's dead. Bucky's close. He has to be. She just needs to stay alive a little while longer.
Think, Toni. No armor, no tech, no weapons. You're still dangerous. What do you have?
She knows what she has. And it's a brilliant idea. And it's only one floor away.
He wants to know about Peggy? Well, she'll fucking give him all the answers he ever wanted, and hope that's enough to hold him until someone comes to save her ass.
He's thundering after her, and she knows that he's faster, even without the shield. He doesn't know the building like she does, though. There's an access door that leads to the crawlspace between floors down the next corridor. She just needs to get to it.
She forgets that the shield can bounce. She remembers when it rings off the wall to her left, and slams into her left shoulder. Something pops, white-hot pain screams through her body, and she hits the ground, hard.
She fights through the pain, gets back to her feet and keeps going. Twenty feet. Behind her, she hears the ring of vibranium on tile, figures he must have just picked up the shield. Ten feet. She slams her palm on the biometric scanner, and the maintenance door opens. She darts inside and slams it closed just as his shadow falls over her.
She drops to her knees, pulls up the access panel and drops into it, letting out an involuntary squeal at the sudden crash of the shield against the door. "I'm in a goddamn horror movie," she says, feeling the urge to laugh wildly and just barely restraining it. If she starts, she's not going to stop.
Her shoulder is pulsing and it feels like there's a red-hot coal set deep in the bone. Her vision keeps going blurry, threatening to black out, as she scoots along as best she can with only one working arm and a broken hand to boot. "You will not die in between the fucking floors of your own fucking building, Stark," she says through gritted teeth. "Get your shit together."
She drops out onto the next floor through an overhead vent. It's awkward and painful with only one hand available, and the blood slicking her hand makes her grip slip, sending her crashing down. She lands badly, wrenching her ankle. Keeps hobbling along. She's almost there; just another few dozen feet. Overhead and behind, she hears the crash of the security door giving way, knows he'll find the trap door she left deliberately open. Captain America's a smart man. He'll figure it out.
Knows he has when he starts punching through the ceiling behind her.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Her bloody hand is on the security keypad when she hears him hit the floor behind her. Footsteps thunder towards her. She wants to look, refuses to look. Punches 070420 with shaking, slick-red fingers. The lock clicks open, she yanks at the handle, and throws herself through the door just as he reaches her.
She jolts her shoulder as she crashes into the floor, skidding across the slick tile and leaving a wide smear of red behind, and everything goes white and staticky for a bit. This is it, she thinks, fading out. I'm not going to wake up. He's going to kill me now.
She wishes she could tell her people she loves them one last time.
oOoOoOo
Steve
Stark is sprawled on the floor, bleeding and unconscious and easy pickings, but Steve can't lift his arm. He can't move his feet. Can't look away from the display cases and the photos, the posters and the shining motorcycle behind the glass case. White and blue, stars and stripes, pictures of chorus girls and training camps. Pictures of a scrawny little kid in fatigues, jaw tipped defiantly towards the camera, pictures of that kid and a man with brown hair and wicked eyes, pictures of that kid and an elderly man with sad eyes and a kind smile. Pictures of Peggy and the kid.
The kid who he knows is him.
This is right. This is all right. This makes sense.
Names, dates, faces, memories of scent and sound rise with every photo he looks at. He steps past Stark, steps around her, vaguely hears the shield clatter and ring on the floor as he drops it. Sees himself in every photo, pre-serum, post-serum. Remembers every scene. Every battle. Every stage. Every time he punched Hitler in the mouth for the cheering crowds. Erskine, Peggy, Phillips, the Howling Commandos. Howard Stark. Bucky. Bucky.
Remembers putting the pencil to the pages carefully laid out on velvet under glass, remembers each and every sketch. Late at night, by candlelight, on the front, in hotel rooms on the bonds tour.
His whole life is here, exactly what Doctor Fennhoff told him was only a dream, a fantasy-world based on another man's life. He wanders between the displays for he doesn't know how long, lost in memories he thought were illusions.
They were never illusions.
This is the truth.
There never was a second Project Rebirth. He is not the second Captain America. He is the first and only Captain America. He was not married to Peggy. Peggy was not killed by Iron Man. He did crash a plane into the ice, and he slept in ice for over 70 years.
The scuff of a foot on the floor has him spinning, snarling, attacking the newcomer, a blurry figure crouching over Stark. The crack of something hard and strong into his mouth sends him reeling back, skidding onto his backside, spitting blood from suddenly-split lips.
A maddeningly familiar voice, leashed fury and pain and rage and grief: "You done, or am I gonna have to knock some more fucking sense into you?"
He's breathing hard, wild-eyed, off balance and reeling, scrambles to his feet. A dark-haired man crouches over Stark, brushing back her hair, gently caressing her cheek, cradling her head in his lap. A man with a metal arm and a sniper rifle slung over his back. A familiar man, he realizes, and the world crumbles as Bucky Barnes stares furiously at him, torn between absolute rage and utter joy. Steve's legs go out from under him and he's back on the floor, staring up at his soulmate, alive and well.
"Seventy years, Stevie," he says, and his voice cracks. "Seventy fuckin' years, and your dumb punk ass is still dragging me into the middle of fights you got no business picking."
