While Nick Fury had an almost unlimited budget to work with, he still had a budget and aside from what it cost to operate the Helicarrier, the Avengers were the biggest draw on his accounts. Some of that was cleaning up the messes they left behind, but by and large, the single biggest blot was the jet that took them to missions.
If the jet hadn't been destroyed (and it had on two different occasions), it had been severely damaged, and once it had been stolen. Or, Barton, their only actual pilot, had gotten injured due to his own stupidity. All of which had necessitated sending out another pilot or even a brand new jet. While Romanov could manage if need be and Rogers was coming along nicely, what they really needed was a dedicated pilot. Someone who could stay behind with the jet or fly air support. Of course, such a person would have to be as unique as the Avengers themselves, but after a long search, Fury had settled on the perfect candidate.
Phil Coulson raised an eyebrow as he opened the file. "Sir, while I agree that on paper this is probably the best choice, may I ask why Colonel Rhodes was not detached from the Air Force?"
"Rhodes may be qualified, but he's primarily an engineer, not a pilot," Fury replied. "More to the point, his friendship with Stark could be inconvenient if Stark ever goes rogue." Which, according to the Shield betting pool that Fury wasn't supposed to know about (and he'd put down a hundred bucks on), was due sometime next August at the absolute latest.
"And the Air Force said no." Coulson paged through the file. Fury doubted he'd find any surprises since Coulson himself had written just about everything in there, but nonetheless, Coulson was Coulson and he would review the file anyway.
"And the Air Force said no," Fury confirmed. "As for your next two suggestions, I don't want Quartermain or Danvers anywhere near Rogers or Stark. Especially Stark."
"Very wise, Sir." Coulson looked down at the folder again, this time a smile at the corners of his mouth. "Barton's going to be pissed."
"So?"
The world turned on.
Despite the fact that aliens had invaded, that the world now had irrefutable proof that we were not alone, the bulk of people continued on in their daily lives. New York, in its utter inability to stay knocked down, continued to rebuild.
Wars were fought.
In the alleys, a man with hands of death waged it on any and all who would dare prey on the weak and defenseless. On the rooftops, a man in red sought out his own prey, seeking the one ultimately responsible for his father's death. In the Bronx, a dive bar was destroyed by a man in black armor. He was not waging a war, but simply sending a message. It also made for some great stress relief and he needed that badly.
People fell in and out of love.
On a plane headed east, a blonde woman sat in her seat, tablet computer in her lap, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest. She was blond and sleek in build, with dark blue eyes that reflected her frustration that she was not at the controls of the plane. Not that the plane needed her skills, but that the pilot's seat was the only place she was truly comfortable. She looked down at the tablet, calling up the file again and then she smiled. Clint was going to be pissed, but that was fine. He was cute when he was mad.
People laughed.
The man in the private recovery room was not laughing. He had just completed a series of grueling operations that would make him far, far more than a man. Once he had recovered, he would begin his final preparations and when they were complete, he would kill Tony Stark.
Out in space, an asteroid headed for earth. It would arrive in just under three months. In five months, it would cost Mary Jane Watson her life.
"You can't throw money at this, Tony," Bruce pointed out as the elevator's doors closed, "You can't change Public Opinion no matter how rich you are." Tony gave him a look and Bruce held up his hand in acknowledgement. "That's different. Presumably, you at least give things a once over before you leap. However, when it comes to kids, people tend to get insane, even more when it comes to other people's kids, and quadruple that when it comes to celebrities."
"That's you, Stark," Barton supplied. "You're a celebrity."
"Shut up, Barton," Tony replied. "So what do I do?"
"You're screwed no matter what," Bruce replied with a shrug and a smile. "Boarding schools will give them a good education, but then you'll be accused of adopting them as a publicity stunt and then sending them off. And when it comes out that Doreen is mutant, well then you're the devil for being embarrassed by her and sending her away. A private school here in the city, well then, why aren't you sending them off somewhere to get some culture? You have money, why aren't you spending it on their education? And if you send them to public school . . . well . . ."
"I went to public school," Steve supplied from behind them, "Nothing wrong with it. I turned out okay."
"I did too," Bruce nodded. "Well, except for the okay part."
"Grew up in a carnival," Barton shrugged. "What school?"
"State Education," Natasha said. "At their age, I was learning about war."
"As was I," Thor agreed.
"Grew up on a Marine Base," Coulson told them. "In Germany."
"None of that helps, guys," Tony pointed out as the elevator dinged and the doors opened on the hanger deck. "That's new."
It was difficult to tell what Tony referring to. The sleek jet in the middle of the hanger or the blond woman in the Shield uniform and brown leather jacket leaning against it. Neither one the Avengers had seen before.
"Bobbi?" Clint exclaimed. "What the hell?"
"Fire it up, Morse," Coulson called out, "We're going to Africa by way of the North Pole." The woman waved a hand in acknowledgement and headed inside.
"What? Who?" Tony asked.
"That is the Quinjet, a custom built transport craft designed exclusively for the Avengers and anything you might run into. The who is the number three pilot in all of Shield now permanently assigned to the Avengers as your primary pilot and, if you believe everyone whose ever flown with her, as well as her ex-husband, a functioning lunatic. And coming from Clint, that's saying a lot." Coulson patted Tony on the shoulder. "Say hello to Barbara 'Bobbi' Morse, code name Mockingbird."
"Yeah," Bruce muttered sarcastically," this will end well."
Despite Coulson's words, Agent Morse seemed to be perfectly sane, which disappointed Tony greatly. On the other hand, she had sass to spare and she'd spent the first three hours of the flight fielding Tony's comments and needling with consummate skill and deflecting his questions about her marriage with Barton. Natasha, who was in the co-pilot's seat, pointedly ignored them both. However, Morse's responses had become almost rote, and as Tony watched, she switched the screen to some sort of log, then flipped it back to radar.
"Something wrong?" Tony asked.
Morse turned her chair. "Barton, you fucking idiot! I told you to fix that circuit in the topside turret!"
"I did fix it, Psychobitch!" Barton yelled back.
"Fuck you! If you fixed it, why am I getting a log error?"
"Fuck you! How should I know?"
"Just get the fuck up there and fix it!"
"Have Stark do it! He's the goddamn engineer!"
"You know, I'd be happy to-" Tony began and then broke off as Morse clearly gave him a look that told him to shut the fuck up.
"Did I say for Stark to fix it?" Morse demanded, "no, I said for you to fix it! So get off your ass and fix it! This is worse than when you took me to that five o' clock chili place on our honeymoon."
"It's 'Five Alarm' chili," Barton replied, rising. "'Five Alarm'. Stupid bitch."
"Fucking asshole."
Natasha gave Morse a look and then left her seat, retrieving a tool chest from the closet and standing under the ladder to the topside turret. Still swearing, Barton snatched a probe from Natasha's hand and climbed up.
Coulson slid into the seat Natasha had left. "Talk to me, Morse," he said quietly.
"I've been getting intermittent blips on radar since we left Canadian airspace," Morse replied, equally quietly, all traces of her anger gone. "At first I thought it was just the weather, but they're too consistent, too regular." She tapped keys. "Coulson, did Fury clear us with the Russians?"
"No."
"Fuck."
'Fuck." Coulson agreed.
"Uh, 'scuse me, feeling just a bit lost, here," Tony told them and then side stepped as Barton joined them, showed Morse three fingers and then shoved her shoulder, and stalked off to the back of the plane.
"Fuck," Morse said again.
"Can you take them?" Coulson asked.
"If it's Hydra or the locals, sure," Morse replied, "but if one of A.I.M.'s freaks is back there, we might have a problem."
"Still lost," Tony growled.
"Someone explain. Now." Steve added.
Coulson sighed. "After Schmitt died, Hydra's remaining leaders started bickering among themselves, and Hydra broke apart into three groups. One, Hydra itself, currently headed by one Baron Wolfgang von Strucker. Two, Advanced Idea Mechanics, or A.I.M., founded by Zola and some Hydra scientists and engineers who were less than committed to Schmitt. They're mercenaries for the most part, designing weapons for whoever has the money to pay them. But they're also well known for fusing humans to machines and using them as weapons."
"Including planes," Morse growled, "Hence, freaks."
"Faction three, The Secret Empire, made of Hydra sleeper cells throughout the western hemisphere. Their boss is Helmut Zemo, who was basically running things in South America during the war. Zemo and Strucker hate each other, especially since it was Zemo who originally picked up the reins of Hydra before Strucker forced him out. Locally, Russia is big. Even with modern technology, Moscow's grip on things is less than they'd like and a lot of their authority comes from ex-Soviet generals and governors who pay lip service to the Kremlin and then continue as they were. East of the Urals, Russia is pockmarked with labs, secret military bases, and God knows what else. Hydra, A.I.M, and an outfit called Ten Rings are all battling it out for control of territory and those labs and bases. Meanwhile, the Yakuza, Triad and Tong are slowly coming west under a group known as the Hand. Not to mention that at the end of the day, everyone is in bed with Hotel Moscow."
"Who?" Steve asked.
"Russian Mob," Natasha explained as she and Thor joined them.
"And the whole time, those ex-Soviets are filling up their bank accounts with money from all of 'em, right?" Tony guessed.
"It's a damn powderkeg out here," Coulson agreed. "However, as we passed into Russian airspace, we should have been challenged, regardless of our cover."
"Which means that someone is very interested in us and doesn't want Moscow to know, right?" Tony asked. "And since I'm being all smart and stuff, your little act was because at least one of those groups is clever enough to see and hear through the skin of other aircraft and you needed Clint to do a visual check without tipping them off. And since I can be even smarter, whatever our cover is, Morse turned off all the things that would tip our hand including that which would protect us against the aforementioned cleverness which is why we're all talking quietly so the engines drown out those listening devices. What is our cover anyway?"
"U.N. Transport. Gold star for Stark," Morse told him.
"Bronze," Natasha said firmly as she and Coulson traded seats again. "Starks' head is big enough."
"Point is," Morse said, tapping the screen. "We have three new friends out there and we only know about it because someone's ECM isn't working quite right. We can fight, flight, or ignore. Call it, Coulson."
"Fight," Coulson said. "If you're sure."
"Get Banner tucked away and then strap in," Morse replied. "Have Clint prep the tubes."
Tony looked back at her. "Tubes?"
Pepper looked up as a cup of coffee and a folder of papers was set next to her elbow. Standing next to her desk was a young man in a rumpled suit. "Chris, isn't it?" she asked. The intern nodded.
"Yes, Ma'am. Two sugars, three spoonfuls of milk. And I correlated the reports from Arc two in Philly." he gestured at the folder.
Pepper glanced down at the folder, eyebrows rising in surprise. Then she looked back at Chris, taking in his rumpled suit and the slightly bloodshot eyes. "Have you been here all night?"
"Mr. Stark said I'm your minion at the conference yesterday and I figured that still applied." He shrugged. "I . . . I had nothing else to do, both my roommates are out of town, and I think the mold on the pudding cup in my fridge is on the verge of sentience." He shuddered. "That or the fridge is haunted."
"Hm." Pepper sipped the coffee and smiled as she opened the folder. The reports were organized by day and then categorized by usage. He'd also included a summary with notations about improving usage in key areas. "This is impressive, Chris."
"Thanks."
Pepper crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, coffee in hand, studying the young man. He was slightly taller than average, with a lean build and short brown hair. The cut of his suit clearly said he'd bought it off the rack and she recognized his tie for the cheap polyester it was. "Sit." He sat. "You're with the internship program, right?"
"Yes ma'am. A.S. Information Technology from New York City College and then straight into the internship. I.T. was full so they sent me into A.V. conference. Normally I schedule conference rooms, but they needed an extra hand, so I got tapped." He looked down at the floor. "And honestly, this is a lot more interesting."
"Compiling data on the output of an Arc Reactor is interesting to you?" Pepper asked incredulously.
"Not that specifically, just . . . information in general. I like finding it and sorting it and stuff. I'm good at it. There's a bunch of numbers in there, and I have no idea what they mean, but I know where they go and with what."
Pepper gave the folder a long, level look and then looked back at Chris. "Chris, I'm terminating your internship." His eyes widened. "So I can put you on the payroll as a full time employee." Chris' mouth fell open. "This report, it shows initiative and an eye for detail plus dedication." She smiled. "Also avoiding near sentient slime molds and possibly haunted refrigerators shows good sense. We need that around here."
"Yes, Ma'am, thank you Ma'am!"
"Don't thank me yet. I'm adding you to Darcy Lewis' group. Among other things, she handles the Avengers PR and they need a good data guy."
As though on cue, Darcy walked in. She was a brunette with black rimmed glasses and a fondness for cherry red lipstick. "We got either got a problem or something hilarious, Boss," she said, holding up a letter.
"Possibly both." She gave Chris a glance. "Who's the kid?"
"Your new data guy," Pepper replied, holding out her hand for the letter. "Effective immediately."
Chris held out his hand. "I'm Chris. Chris Pow-"
"Don't care," Darcy shrugged, which did interesting things to her blouse that distracted Pepper and completely arrested Chris's attention. "You need to read this, Boss." She slapped the letter into Pepper's hand and looked at Chris. "You." Chris' head came up. "Art's Coffee, two blocks west. Cinnamon bagel, nonfat espresso latte with whipped cream, and raspberry cream cheese. My office is room 114, leave it on my desk then find Judy Springer in 115 and tell her to find you a desk and the welsh feeds. I want those on my desk and making sense by four thirty. Go." Chris went. "Nice butt," she noted.
Pepper looked at the letter. "Shit," she muttered.
"That's what I said," Darcy pointed out.
"Jarvis, get me Tony."
"Pepper, darling, love of all my lives, just so you know, I'm thirty-five thousand feet over Russia, currently crammed into a metal tube and about to be used as a human missile and I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. Also, my ankle itches."
"Tony, shut up and listen," Pepper snapped.
"Listening."
"You've been canonized by the Church of Thor."
"No, I'm in a cannon, about to be used as a missile by Barton's supposedly crazy ex-wife. Thor's in the other one, by the way."
"Explain, Potts," Coulson broke in.
"The Church sent you a formal letter. You've been named Saint Anthony of Iron."
"Oh well that was nice of them."
"Tony, this is serious. The last thing the Avengers need is to be made as part of a religion and one that's gaining ground."
"Pepper, I don't think having formal stationary qualifies as gaining ground."
"Fear not, Pepper Potts," Thor intoned. "Upon our return, I shall seek out this church and reason with them."
"Not that simple. Thor," Darcy said. "Reason isn't really a part of religion and even if you aren't a god, you were worshipped as one. That's enough for most people."
"There's more, Potts," Coulson said. "Let's have the rest."
Pepper sighed. "There's a lot of flowery language, and I'm still reading it, but they want you to do certain things or else be cast from your tower." There was the sound of paper rustling. "Step down as Avengers leader so that Thor may take his rightful place. Lead the Avengers and the Church on a crusade to bring the Earth to the way of Thor and . . ." Pepper was silent for a moment. "I'll kill them." she snarled.
"Pepper?" Tony asked.
"Slowly. With nail files."
"Pepper? You worry me when you start talking about murder." It was also kind of hot, but Tony wasn't about to say that over the com. Wait, was he talking out loud again? No, didn't look like it. Good.
"Feed them their own eyes."
"Pepper!"
There was the sound of papers rustling again and Pepper's cursing faded into the background. "Son of a bitch," Darcy breathed. "I didn't see this part." She cleared her throat. "Try not to freak, Boss Man, but there's some seriously anti-mutant stuff in here and they specifically talk about your duty to cast out the agent of Ratatoskr who resides in your house."
"Who?"
Darcy was clearly wincing. "In norse mythology, at the bottom of Yggdrasil dwells the wyrm Nidhoggr and at the top is a great eagle. Between them, running up and down the tree is Ratatoskr, who whispers slanderous gossip to rile them up and set them against each other."
"So?"
"So . . . Ratatoskr is . . . is a . . . a squirrel."
"Pepper, sweetie, let me make you some diamond tipped titanium nail files to carve out their eyes, okay?"
"She's busy drinking scotch from the bottle," Darcy informed him, "but I'll let her know." A pause. "Why nail files? Couldn't you whip up some mini chainsaws or something?"
"I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty, Lewis," Coulson noted.
"Bigotry does that to me," Darcy responded.
"Normally, I'm all for a game of 'lynch the bigot', " Morse said, "but we have to go fight for our lives now. Mind if we continue this later? Thanks."
The com clicked off as Morse suddenly killed the engines and put the Quinjet into a barrel roll to the left and down. "Son of a bitch, Bobbi!" Clint yelled. Righting the Quinjet, Morse hit the thrusters full power and Tony heard himself grunt as inertia did it's work. "Bobbi, Fury threatened to set you on fire if you did that again. On fire, Bobbi. Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiire!"
"That was in Lisbon, it doesn't count."
"He also said it after New Mexico!"
"It was our honeymoon, I had a hangover, and that dipshit in the fancy howling helicopter was pissing me off."
"What about Tokyo?"
"The Ambassador lived, didn't he?"
"Not the point!"
"Stark, your target is in your HUD as 'Ice cream cone', Thor, you have the the one in the middle. I got 'Butterscotch'." Morse replied. "Priority is their engines. Launch."
The front end of the tubes opened and air pressure sucked out Tony and Thor, Tony's HUD immediately picking out his target.
As it had in the cave, as it had whenever he swung into action, Tony's heart seemed to go cold, and his focus became almost laserlike, hard and focused.
Cold, like ice.
Like iron.
This was Iron Man.
These were the only times he ever felt truly alive.
Birds were singing.
It seemed a strange thing to take notice of, but Bruce had learned to pay attention to his surroundings before he ever opened his eyes.
He was laying on grass and he could feel the sun's warmth. Indirect. Leaves rustling in the wind overhead.
Smells. Grass.
People talking nearby.
Shit.
Bruce's eyes snapped open.
"Hey," said Tony from his left.
"What happened? Where are we?"
"Morse really is crazy - she's going to be loads of fun - Thor and I kicked some ass over Russia, then we all went on to Africa, shut down that would be warlord with the sonic gun, and then the Hulk took off. Morse, Barton and I followed. Cap and Natasha are mopping up, Coulson is explaining to the Egyptian Government why a large green rage monster paid their country a visit, and here we are."
"We're in Egypt?"
"Nah, Rome. Hulk apparently decided the Piazza di Spagna was a good place for a nap. So I joined you. You know, two bros hanging out in the sun."
Bruce raised himself up on his elbows. "Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"Where are your pants?"
"Solidarity, my friend. Solidarity."
"Of course." Bruce sat up. "Why are there several large men in suits talking to Agent Morse? Is that the Quinjet? You landed the Quinjet in the middle of Rome?"
"Swiss Guard, yes, and I didn't land it, Morse did."
"The Swiss Guard?"
"Hulk took a shortcut."
"A shortcut . . .?"
"The Pope would like to have a nice long talk with you, by the way."
"A shortcut?"
"Not a big deal, the Vatican was overdue for renovations."
"The Hulk tore up the Vatican?"
"Just the south and east wing."
"And you call that a shortcut?"
"Hulk really wanted that nap, I guess."
"Oh. Lovely." Bruce sank back onto the grass. "Hey, Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"Do I want to know why Clint is naked?"
"One-upmanship."
"One-upmanship. Of course." Bruce closed his eyes again. "That makes perfect sense."
George Stacey had provided Tony and Pepper with three key rules for raising kids:
1. Always tell the truth
2. Always knock, even if the door is open.
3. Chores are a must.
Chores had been the easiest one. Doreen and Peter had been so used to doing chores that they'd simply fallen into their old habits. Doreen in particular had taken over the kitchen, having apparently inherited what Markie had referred to as the "feed instinct" and the need to keep baked goods in the house. For metabolic furnaces like Thor, Steve, and Bruce after a transformation, it was a godsend. Pepper might have worried about calories and waistlines, but Doreen's cherry cheesecake cobbler was to die for.
Pepper walked down the hall, Happy behind her pulling the large crate on a cart and knocked on Peter's door. It was half open, but rule number 2 was key. Pepper could not expect them to follow rules if she and Tony didn't.
"Come in!" Peter called.
Pepper opened the door and stopped dead. In the middle of the room, Peter hung upside down from a single strand of webbing attached to the ceiling that was wrapped around his foot. His other leg was crossed over his ankle and his head had to be at least six or eight feet from the floor, one arm was behind his head and he was reading a book. There was the beep of a timer, and almost lazily, Peter spun a new strand of webbing right before the old one crumbled to dust. With a flurry of beeps, a roomba shot out from under the bed, sucked up the dust particles and then darted off.
"Peter . . ." Pepper managed to get out. She knew, intellectually, that Peter wasn't in danger of falling, and that he wasn't dizzy, but seeing someone reading upside down bothered her in some fashion she couldn't name. "Peter, you . . . I'm sorry, could you . . ." Peter glanced up from his book and seeing the look on her face, removed his foot from the webbing and dropped to the floor, twisting in mid-air to land on his feet. "Thank you," Pepper said. "It's just . . ."
"Nah, I get it, it's weird," Peter shrugged. "What's in the crate?"
Pepper stepped aside and let Happy push the cart in. "The last of your things from the house."
"What have you got in here, kid?" Happy puffed. He started trying to push the crate off, but Peter merely tossed his book onto the bed and then picked the crate up without any sign of effort. and set it on the floor. "Jeez. Never gonna get used to that," Happy muttered and then pulled out a pry bar.
Doreen, drawn by the sounds of voices, tapped on the doorframe and entered, Monkey Joe on her shoulder.
"Cool!" Peter exclaimed, peering inside the crate. Reaching in, he lifted out a rectangular leather case. "My gear!" Unzipping the case, he produced a camera. It was old, heavy and made of metal, but exceedingly well cared for. Grinning, he whipped the camera up and snapped off a shot of Pepper, Doreen and Happy.
"You like photography, Peter?" Pepper asked.
"Yeah, I mean, my Dad and . . . and Uncle Ben . . ." Peter trailed off and shook himself. "When they were kids they made pocket money in the summer snapping photos of tourists over at Coney. It's how he met Aunt May. Uncle Ben taught me how to do photo developing and we even built a darkroom in the basement a few years ago. It was our thing." He set the camera aside and rummaged inside the crate again, coming up with other tools and equipment before emitting a satisfied sigh and held up another camera case, this one made of nylon. "This was my birthday present last year. Which was great because the school decided I could hurt myself and didn't want me developing my own photos anymore and one hour photo places are kind of out of business.." He pulled out a digital camera and began fiddling with the controls. "Anyways, I do most of the photo stuff for the school paper and . . ." his face fell. "And I suppose where I'm going they probably don't have school papers." He sank down on the bed. "Pepper, where are we going? I mean, some fancy boarding school, right? That's where wealthy folks send kids."
Pepper looked from Doreen and Peter and then took a deep breath. Honesty. Always. "We haven't decided." She sat on the bed next to Peter. "We were discussing it this morning when the Avengers got called away on a mission and hadn't really gotten anywhere." She managed a small smile. "Trying to get Tony settled down for a serious discussion can be like trying to get a cat to walk on a leash. We've received multiple offers, but Tony and I have been trying to keep you away from the press and wherever we send you has to be someplace that can protect you. Tony has enemies and Doreen, there are people who will hate you just for who you are, much less being Tony's daughter." She paused for a moment and then made a decision and pulled the Church of Thor's letter from her pocket. "Here. This came today for Tony." Doreen read it, her eyes widening.
Peter peering over her shoulder, winced. "That's a reach on the Norse myth," he noted. Joe chittered something that sounded like it might be a question. "You're asking who Rataosker is, right?" Joe nodded. "He spreads discord and strife," Peter explained. "They're basically accusing Doreen of misleading Thor and causing discord among the Avengers."
Joe screeched again, and chittered noisily. "Joey want to know where this church is so he can go give them a piece of his mind," Doreen translated. "He says that its an unfair bias against squirrels." She looked down at the letter again and her mouth thinned to a line before she looked back up at Pepper. "I'm not hidin'," she said firmly. "Daddy said I should never be ashamed o' who I am, and I ain't. I got this tail for a reason, and it weren't to be sitting around worrying about those who can't mind their own business."
"'Those who matter don't mind and those who mind don't matter'," Peter quoted.
Pepper nodded in agreement. "But that brings us back to the original point. Where are you two going to school."
"Don't it also have to be somewhere reputable?" Doreen asked. "I mean, don't kids of rich people go to places with names like 'Academy' and 'wood' in 'em?"
"Yup," Peter agreed. "Before he came to M3, Harry went to private schools," Pepper noted the plural with curiosity, "and from what he says, they're horrible. Regimented right down to how to think. And the bullies . . ." He shuddered. "I'd rather go five rounds with Flash Thompson without my powers over any of that." Doreen reached over and patted Peter's shoulder, and Pepper realized that Doreen had probably had taken on her own share of bullying. "But I guess we don't have a choice, do we, being Tony Stark's kids?"
Pepper opened her mouth to reply when her phone beeped. "Speaking of which," she murmured and glanced at it and her mouth thinned to a line; In Rome. Won a drinking contest with the Pope. Barton shaves everywhere and Bruce's exorcism failed. Might be home late, am about to be arrested. Love, Tony.
"Sorry, guys," Pepper said, "I have to go. Tony's in jail."
"Fer what?" Doreen asked.
Pepper looked at her phone again. "I'm not sure. Either for beating the Pope in a drinking contest, or for Bruce failing an exorcism or for seeing Barton naked. Knowing Tony, possibly all three."
Pepper got up and went to the door, then paused and looked back. "M3?"
"Yeah," Peter replied, pulling more things from the crate, clearly already distracted. "Midtown Manhattan Magnet. Public school, but you gotta show some affinity for the arts or sciences to get in."
"I see."
Darcy raised an eyebrow at the papers that dropped onto her desk and then looked up at Judy. "What's this?"
"The Welsh feeds," Judy replied with a humorless smile. "Two hours early and complete."
"You're fucking with me," Darcy replied, pulling the stack of paper to her and leafing through it. "It's Welsh. No one understands Welsh except the Welsh and even then that's debatable."
Judy, who happened to be of Welsh descent on her mother's side let out a snort of laughter. "I was watching him closely, boss. Except for googling a phrase here and there, he pretty much did it off the cuff."
"But it's fucking Welsh," Darcy protested then launched herself from her chair and stormed out into the hallway. Judy followed. Technically, the Welsh feeds were irrelevant. They were a test to see how newbies to the Avengers PR division handled a challenge and were in fact, intended to be failed. How they handled that failure determined whether or not they stayed in the division. "You!" Darcy bellowed as she marched into 114. "You! Newbie. Pauling. Whatever your name is."
Chris looked up. "It's Pow-"
"Do I look like I care?" Darcy demanded. "You finished the Welsh feeds. No one finishes the Welsh feeds. Explain."
"I sort of speak Welsh."
"'Sort of'?"
"There was this girl in high school. Exchange student. I thought if I spoke Welsh it would impress her. So I taught myself it." He lifted his hands. "Language is just sharing information and I'm good at sorting out information, sooo . . ." he gave them a sheepish smile. "Ta da?"
"Great." Darcy rolled her eyes. "Just great. Someone beats my personal Kobayashi Maru because of a high school crush. Are there any other languages you 'sort of' speak?"
"Um . . . well . . . there's Greek, Russian, Italian, Spanish, Mandarin, though that's 'cause I paid for college by working at this Chinese place, and then there's French and I'm actually fluent in German. My . . ." something too horrible to be called rage showed in his eyes and then he blinked and it was gone. "Speaking another language was mandatory growing up."
"I see," Darcy replied and then she gave an annoyed sounding huff. "Fine." She stormed out.
"I don't suppose I secretly impressed her?" Chris asked.
"Nope. She's pretty pissed off." Judy reached over and patted his hand. "I would't worry about it, Chris. You'll only be the office bitch until someone else pisses her off more than you just did."
"So I'm screwed for life?"
Judy nodded. "'Fraid so."
Chris leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. "Great."
"Birds." Tony repeated as he and Steve got up from their chairs. "He's afraid of birds."
"Not afraid. Just that he feels like they're watching him." Steve pointed out.
"Oh. So much better," Tony scoffed. "Look, the tower is a nice tall place. Birds like nice tall places. That's all there is to it."
"I dunno, Tony," Steve admitted, "Now that I think about it, a lot of birds seem interested in what they can see through the windows."
"Because they're birds." Tony reached over and pulled the latch for the Quinjet's doors. "Birds. They have brains the size of a pea. Probably even smaller than that. Besides, if they were watching us, I'd know. You can't so much as look sideways at-"
"ANTHONY EDWARD STARK!" came the yell.
"Oh crap! Pepper!" Tony flinched.
"Dude, you are in so much trouble," Barton gloated.
"Barton! Get your ass out here!" Fury bellowed.
"Fuck."
"I think I'll just stay here and help Morse finish up," Bruce decided.
"It's okay, Bruce," Steve said, "no one holds you responsible for what the Hulk does."
"I do."
Steve nodded. There was nothing he could say without sounding patronizing, so he simply smiled and gave Bruce's shoulder a gentle squeeze. Bruce nodded his thanks and turned away to help.
Steve walked down the ramp to find Natasha, Coulson, and Thor standing at the end sharing a bag of popcorn. On the other side of the hanger, Pepper was yelling at Tony, while Fury was verbally berating Barton. Coulson held out the bag and Steve took a small handful and then passed the bag to Bruce and Morse when they came down.
"You know, it seems kind of mean to stand there watching them like this," Bruce noted.
"Aye," Thor agreed. "'Tis not noble at all."
"We should at least leave the hanger," Steve pointed out.
"Probably," observed Coulson.
Everyone took a fresh handful of popcorn.
"We're not going anywhere, are we?" Bruce asked.
"Nope."
"Not a chance."
"Nay."
"Didn't think so."
Pain.
Macendale.
They were the only things he knew anymore. One of those was his name, but which was which was unclear.
Another jolt snapped through him and he screamed once more, voice hoarse and raw.
It stopped and he felt soothing waves wash over him. Some part of him whispered to be wary, because it knew what was coming. It had happened before.
"You are mine. You belong to me."
"No."
Pain, fresh and raw snapped through him.
"You are mine. You belong to me."
"No.
Again the pain, then the soothing waves.
"You are mine. You belong to me."
"Yes." The word slipped from his lips and while part of him howled in protest, he no longer cared. To say yes meant no pain and so he turned away from the howl, let it fade from his awareness.
"I am your friend, Jason."
Jason. Yes, that was his name. He was Jason and he had a friend.
"Jason is not your name anymore. I will give you a new name as a gift." A hand rested on his brow. "You are now the Hobgoblin."
"Yes."
His friend leaned over him, smiling. "I need you to do something for me, Hobgoblin. The warehouse. The boy who beat you. He had great power."
"Yes."
"I want to meet him. Find him and bring him to me. Will you do that for me, Hobgoblin?"
"Yes."