Chapter ManagementDelete Chapter Chapter 18: The Long and Winding Road
Summary: Whew. Okay, sorry guys. I really did mean to post another chapter during vacation, but you know how it is: things pile up. So here I am, now, apologizing, and ready with the next chapter, with a serious promise that, if you guys really like this one (it's a little shorter again) I'll post another this weekend yet. So let me know how you like it! I love hearing from you! This chapter is a little heavier on plot development, so there's a little less action. Also, please, just go with me, you gotta trust me. You'll know what I'm talking about when you get there. I actually did a little research on the direction I'm going here, technology speaking. There is stuff like this in development in the tech field, so I'm just stretching it a little bit here, which, considering we're dealing with AIM and HYDRA, I don't think is so far-fetched. Please let me know what you think.
I love you all! Enjoy. PS-I don't own MARVEL, and I don't own any of the music referenced here. Those belong to Pink Floyd, Queen, Derek and the Dominoes, etc. Also, the chapter title is taken from the song of the same name by Paul McCartney (technically The Beatles) off the Let It Be album.
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A knock at the door snapped both Darcy and Bucky from deep sleep.
She jerked, her palm pressing against his sternum, and shifted, her head coming up under his chin.
But he was already moving, sliding into a tight pair of jeans in record time, his SIG loose in his right hand before she could blink. "Jamie—"
"Sshhh…" he hushed. "Stay there. Don't move."
Her heart stammering in her chest, she pulled the sheet up tighter around her bare skin and huddled there, her naked back pressed against the headboard.
With a new hotel room some six hours away, it was only logical they'd somehow been followed—again—and not even mind-blowing sex, some snuggling, and a good glimpse of her husband's great ass could distract her from the adrenaline pumping fresh through her veins. "Where's your Beretta?" she murmured, looking around and trying not to panic.
"Don't worry about it," he assured her. "Just be ready." He edged across the room, silent as a cat on the thick carpeting, the moonlight painting his defined upper body pale blue.
She tightened her grip on the sheet, cursing inwardly at her clothes—across the room, thrown over the little dinette chair. After their discussion and that tense drive, he'd been all amped up, and when a super soldier was amped up, it was best—and enjoyable—to just let him do what he needed to do to blow off the steam.
She'd be horribly sore in the morning—she already was, not that he'd ever find out—but she had a new appreciation for the little dinette table, and the cute little floral pattern on it that she'd memorized, not three feet from her face.
He'd never done that before, just totally let go. He was truly stressed if he was falling back on her insistence in the bedroom from just a few days ago.
He'd been right. It had hurt. Just a little. Nothing she hadn't expected, chagrined as she'd been with his hands working his magic.
But she'd been right too. It was a good ache, made even sweeter by the fact that it would be her dirty little secret, because if she ever let it slip to him, he'd never do it again. And she had every intention of getting him to do that again.
He was delicious when he was rough.
Gun up, he slid off the chain, then flicked the deadbolt as quietly as possible. He turned and gave her a long look heavy with feeling.
She nodded.
He whipped the door open, gun level, shoulder locked—
To reveal Natasha Romanoff on the little front stoop.
She leaned casually on the door jamb, arms folded, posture relaxed, no gun in sight, her fiery hair in a long curtain over one shoulder. "Yasha," she greeted.
Darcy gasped, jerking as she stared, open-mouthed.
Bucky, always thinking three steps ahead, ducked his head out, looked one way, then the other, grabbed her by one shoulder, and yanked her, none-too-gently, inside. "Ty dumayesh', ty uzhasno smeshnoy," he snarled, his Russian harsh and sharp as he slipped the door shut again, flipping the locks in a tangle of temper.
Natasha smirked. "I know."
"Tasha?"
The spy brushed her hair back over her shoulder and tested her shoulder around, frowning a little. "Lewis."
"What the fuck, Natasha?" Bucky growled, setting his gun down on the table by the door again.
But she didn't seem particularly moved by his anger. "Your Russian is immaculate. Seriously—did one of those bastards teach you or did they just stick it up in your head and it's tangled in there somewhere?"
He looked murderous, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his pupils totally blown. "What do you think?"
Darcy sighed. "What's. Going. On?"
Bucky sighed heavily, pulling a hand through his hair. "Natalia, here, thinks she's real funny, knocking on our goddamn door at two in the fucking morning." He gestured.
"God, what did you do to my shoulder?" she asked, but her tone belied more curiosity than actual annoyance.
"Less than I would've done if I'd thought you were a merc," he barked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Goddamn, Tasha. You were a split second from getting your face blown off at point blank."
But she smirked again. "I know what a SIG Elite is capable of, don't worry. And no, I wasn't. You have better control than that, Barnes. Anyone who knows you well knows that."
He sighed again, telegraphing his displeasure with utter succinctness.
"Come sit, Jamie. Everything's fine," Darcy hushed, sliding a section of the covers back. Her adrenaline had left a trembling in its wake and she had to try twice before she managed to get a good enough grip on the white linens.
He retrieved her t-shirt from across the room first, and handed it to her as he finally rejoined her in the bed, propping up against the headboard with a scowl.
"Sorry," Natasha finally murmured, perching at the foot. "Cover of darkness and all that."
Bucky's hand found Darcy's knee through the blankets.
Natasha's eyes zeroed in on the motion and something in her face pinched. "Cuddling, I presume?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Bucky sighed, pulling a hand down his face. "Since it's such a rarity, nowadays."
She nodded, looking away.
"How long you been tailing us?" he asked, helping Darcy into the t-shirt behind the covers.
She shrugged. "Three days, give or take. Wanted to make sure we were clear before I approached."
He nodded. "And Steve?"
"Knows I'm with you.
They talked for over an hour about everything that had happened since they'd split up, and Natasha speculated about her serum, though she had no experience with Killian and Extremis prior to their predicament.
Yawning, she finally called a break and Bucky insisted she take the other half of the bed.
After a round of stubborn arguing, she finally did, sliding in next to Darcy, where she surprised the personal assistant by taking up her hand before falling sound asleep.
Bucky quietly reclined in the chair by the window, and spent the rest of the night on lookout, his back tense as he studied the Midwestern landscape through the lacy drapes.
Darcy spent the rest of the night wide awake, watching him.
Natasha slept like the dead.
Like, literally.
She didn't manage to hold onto Darcy's hand for very long, she was so exhausted, and after letting it slip from her grasp, she didn't move an inch the rest of the night.
In fact, Darcy took to watching her for long minutes just to make sure she was breathing, and she could feel Bucky doing the same, his eyes burning holes in her back.
She didn't think she fooled him in the slightest that she was awake, but she didn't acknowledge her sleeplessness either, and he didn't needle her.
It was a long few hours, considering it had been nearly two when she'd arrived and almost three when she finally begged sleep, but those few pre-dawn hours felt like they lasted forever, and Darcy was almost ashamed to admit to herself it was likely because Bucky felt like he was a world away, rather than just a few feet across the room.
It was remarkable what a little turmoil could do.
They'd always had a tight bond, but under such duress, the urge to cling was suffocating and it was all she could do to ignore his still form sitting at the window, arms folded, gaze dark and sharp on the surrounding scenery.
And, like a typical spy outfitted for field work, Natasha sat up abruptly at 7am sharp, making even Bucky jump, spooked.
She stretched, sighed, smiled sleepily, greeted their wide-eyed looks and promptly disappeared into the bathroom with a small pack that neither of them had noticed upon her arrival the previous night.
Darcy hauled herself up, rubbing her eyes.
Bucky was silent, but he rose from the table, slid onto the edge of the bed next to her, and took her in his arms, as though he'd been wanting to do it all night.
She melted against his chest.
His embrace tightened and he tucked her beneath his chin.
She pressed her face into the juncture between his shoulder and neck, feeling her heart rate slow automatically, and just like that, she was finally sleepy.
But just as she sighed, he pulled away, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Natasha rejoined them, looking refreshed, her hair perfect, her eyes bright, and her clothes straightened and neat.
Grumbling, Darcy slid into her pajama bottoms and took her turn in the bathroom , exhaustedly brushing her teeth, washing her face, pulling on fresh clothes and forcing on a light layer of makeup to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes.
She opened the bathroom door and was greeted with Natasha's Starkphone, shoved under her nose. She blinked. "What…what's this for?"
Natasha gave her what amounted to a sympathetic look for one such as her, and smirked. "Call Stark before he has a stroke. If Steve's not exaggerating, he's hanging on by a thread."
She hesitated only a moment, glancing at Bucky.
He shrugged. "We're already surrounded. You might as well. We'll get going as soon as you're done—when they get here, our trail should be cold."
Swallowing, she nodded.
They passed each other as they crossed the room, and Bucky squeezed her hand on his way to the bathroom, clothes thrown over his shoulder.
She slid out the door and glanced around. Confident that she was alone, she dialed Tony's lab and waited, listening to the dial tone and nervously picking at the loose hem of her t-shirt.
It rang and rang.
She frowned. It was unlike him not to be somewhere near his phone, if not in his lab, circumstances notwithstanding.
There was a soft click, then JARVIS spoke, surprising her. Forwarding call, he announced, and the dial tone continued.
"Romanoff, I feel like I need to answer every call from you with an Iggy Azalea lyric, but I dunno—would be that be too on-the-nose?" Tony asked, sounding a little tinny, like he was speaking through his helmet.
Her breath caught in her throat at the sound of his voice. "Hey, Boss Man," she finally said, and her voice cracked.
There was a pause. "Short Stack?"
"Yeah," she murmured, unable to push her voice louder no matter how she tried, moisture gathering in her eyes unexpectedly. "It's me."
"Darcy…" was all he said. "You've got no idea how good it feels to hear your voice, kid."
She sat down on the doorstep, the cement cold through her jean shorts. "I missed you, too."
"Hang on. Let me reroute."
There was a beep, and then dead air. She rolled her eyes affectionately. Always so cutting edge tech. Another beep, and this time the line was perfectly clear. "Tony?"
"Sorry. I was on my way somewhere, had the top down."
She smirked, cocking an eyebrow. "Oh, you did, did you?" She'd believe that in a hot second. "Where you flying, Boss Man?"
"Got a lead. Don't worry your pretty head about it. I'll letcha know when something pans out."
She sighed. "'When'?"
"Yep. 'When'. Widow find you?"
"Scared the shit outta Jamie last night."
He chuckled. "Yeah, she's good at that."
They talked over everything that had happened, starting with their flight, Natasha's disappearance from base, Steve's confession, Maria's attitude, and everything that had followed.
She told him about her imaginings during her time spent getting closely acquainted with Tony's dining room chair and all that had followed, including her run-ins with Killian since then, his STRIKE style baton, and her physical changes.
He was silent the entire time she talked—which told her just how angry he was. "So, wait—you flipped this thing off the road and it spontaneously combusted?"
She shrugged, watching the sun come up behind the meadow across the highway. "Sort of."
"What did Bucky say?"
"Not much. Nothing seems to faze him."
"I don't think much really should faze him anymore. How's he been?"
She pulled a hand down her face again, heaving a deep breath. "…Okay. I guess. He's pulled into himself a little. I think something happened to him while I was in there with Killian."
Tony snorted. "You bet your ass, Short Stack. His wife was being held hosta—"
"No, I mean…other than that."
He paused. "What do you mean?"
She glanced back through the window to their room, and found the man in question talking quietly with Natasha, who was frowning in concentration. Lord knew what they were speculating about. "Like the equipment they used to keep him out…did something to him."
He was quiet for a long, long minute. "…Like?"
A car passed on the highway, a yellow VW Beetle. "Like something was knocked loose."
He sighed. "What, precisely, are we talking about here, Short Stack?"
She hunched lower against her legs. "Like he's remembering more. Things he couldn't get to before. Like they shook things out of their hiding places."
"Good things?"
She hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. "I dunno. He hasn't said much, but I've learned all his tells now, and though they're few and far between, he's displayed them all."
Tony chuckled. "Someone who can read the Winter Soldier. Imagine that."
She smirked despite herself. "If you're paying close enough attention, he's nearly as transparent as everyone else, Tony."
"Yeah, I heard the word 'nearly' in there, so I'm just gonna ignore everything else you said," he quipped. "Is he…acting normal?"
She sighed again, already exhausted. "Yeah. I mean…it's bothering him. That's about all I can tell. But he's…"
"Still Jamie?" he offered, his voice softening.
She glanced back through the window again. "Yeah." Now he was flat on his back on what had been her side of the bed the night before. He looked to be asleep—finally. Darcy knew that he could turn on and off like the flipping of a switch and so she figured he likely wasn't as asleep as he could be—as he should be. "He's still him. It's bothering me, though."
"Why's that?"
She shrugged, though she knew he couldn't see her. "I dunno. He's acting a little like he used to. Heavy. Detached."
"So he's processing. That's how he processes—we all know that."
She took a deep breath. "I know. I know…"
"How is he with you? That's the question."
"Oh, fine. You know, surprisingly affectionate for…someone like him. Just quieter than usual."
"Then I wouldn't worry about it too much, Short Stack. He'll come around—that's what you always say."
She swallowed, nodding pointlessly. "Yeah."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment.
"Not really the trip you'd envisioned, hm?" he offered.
She snorted. "No. To say the least. I miss the lab."
"And the lab misses you. It's too quiet without you around to complain about my Black Sabbath."
She pulled a face. "I hate Black Sabbath."
"I know. But that doesn't mean I'm tired of hearing you bitch and moan about it. It's just me and Brucie, going over equations. The other day I had to dress down Foster just to keep things interesting."
She blinked. "Wait. What?"
Tony sighed. "She keeps sticking her foot in her mouth, you're astrophysicist. Shrugged you off. Even Bruce took issue with her."
She took a deep breath. "Go back to the beginning, Tony. Start over."
So he told her the entire story, including Bruce's input and Jane's storming out like some stereotypical belle.
Darcy listened incredulously, then sighed, and blinked, feeling a little sentimental and misty-eyed. "Well. Um," she commented, intelligently.
But Tony heard what she really meant, and his rueful smirk was clear in his tone. "You're welcome, Short Stack. This whole thing is getting stupid."
The door opened softly behind her.
She jumped.
Jamie was framed in the doorway, in a fresh t-shirt and cargo shorts, looking just this side of sad. "We should really get going, solnishka," he offered, his voice softening.
She nodded.
"That Buck?"
"Yeah."
"Hand the phone over, eh?"
She started chewing on her lip again. "'Kay. And Tony…" And she stopped, unsure what to say, the words sticking painfully in her throat, all the emotions she'd been shoving down and around since this all had started welling up. She wanted him there so badly in that moment, it was all she could do not to start crying like a little girl.
"I know, kid. I'll see ya when I see ya."
Swallowing thickly, she handed the phone over. Surprisingly, Bucky shut the door and sat down next to her on the stoop, outlining her leg with his own and settling his metal hand on her knee.
"Stark."
"You two okay? Darce seems…" Tony's voice was clear in Darcy's new ears.
"We're fine," the former assassin answered, surveying the landscape around them, eyes moving one way, then the other, always on the alert.
"Just make sure…" His voice faded and Darcy couldn't hear what the inventor said anymore.
Frowning, she twisted to look at him. The phone was to his opposite ear, so she couldn't see his hand where he held it up, but she was willing to bet he'd hit the volume key on the back so she wouldn't be able to spy on their conversation—about her.
He met her gaze evenly, no shame.
She glared at him.
He squeezed her knee and offered a look that didn't ask forgiveness.
She huffed, then winced, miffed at herself for her pettiness. Of course he'd turn the volume down. She rolled her eyes and settled for looking around while she leaned into his side.
"Mm-hm…Yeah, I know. Don't worry, Tony, you know I've got it in hand. I know. Yeah, I know." A long pause. "…I'm fine. I will. And what's that…?"
She sighed, studying the other cars in the lot: A Chevy Tahoe, its silver paint shimmering in the light of the just-risen sun. A retro, eighties black T-Top, its shadow flickering in the heat coming off the blacktop. It was already hot enough to make you sweat just sitting there in the shade.
"Well. Might be nothing. Probably empty by the time you get there. Right. Coolers. Yeah, coolers. Check for those. Romanoff fill you in on the rest? Mm-hm…"
Tired, she set her head down on her knees and let her eyes slide shut, willing herself to sleep.
His hand slid off her knee—"Mm-hm. And Stevie? Yep"—and up her back, running a long, slow line up along her spine, and then back down, then back up, then back down.
She drifted, only half hearing their conversation. If she relaxed enough, her body melting under his touch, she could almost swear she could feel the various foreign substances drifting in her veins, laced with God-knew-what, working furiously to make her…God-knew-what.
"Yeah, that's what it did, alright. I dunno, it was like a…yeah. Like that. Compressed air. Sort of. And they've got a weapon similar to the—yeah. The STRIKE Team, yeah. I dunno, I hated all those guys. Oh, yeah, just didn't realize I did. I dunno, that sort of stuff was just a vague flickering in the back of my head." He snorted. "Yeah, we'll call up that guy. I'll bet he'd have fun poking around up there. What's his name again? Got that weird place on the East End? Strange, right?"
She only half listened.
"A Lambo, huh? Three-hundred grand out the window. You two would get along real well, I'm sure. Oops, was that offensive? Yeah?"
She frowned, listening to their banter.
"We'll be fine. We're long past Springfield, Stark, we're almost to Cleveland. You just be careful—and I wanna know what you find, if you find anything, alright? Okay. Later."
He hung up.
The door opened. "We should really get going. We're gonna be cutting it a little close, don't you think?" Natasha said.
Bucky handed the phone to her over his shoulder. "You read my mind, Romanoff. Gimme a sec, okay?"
The door clicked softly shut.
"Hey," he murmured, leaning into her and setting his chin on the back of her head. "You gonna be okay?"
She sighed. "We should go." She gently extricated herself—
But he grabbed her face in his too-strong-to-escape grip and forced her to look him levelly in the face. "Darcy."
"What?"
"We're almost there. Okay? I need you to hang on just a little longer. Can you do that for me?"
His eyes were bright in the sunlight washing against their motel room door.
"Think so."
He pressed a kiss to her temple and stood, dragging her up with him. "Okay."
((()))
He was right; they were to Cleveland by lunch, and spent the afternoon following a surprisingly scenic coastline that reminded Darcy of home. Growing up not far from the Jersey Shore, she'd spent a lot of her childhood biking around and meeting small groups of friends on the boardwalk.
They whiled away the hours playing ridiculous traveling games, with license plates and road signs. Bucky proved to be infuriatingly good at it, merely shrugging and saying that back in the twenties and thirties, cars were slow, had no radio, and even though they weren't capable of going the distance like modern ones, they still didn't offer much in the way of entertainment. He had a mind for it all and trounced Natasha and Darcy not once, but three times. I, Spy was particularly obnoxious with him and he just grinned smugly when they snarled their losses and Darcy resisted the urge to smack him in the back of the head.
Darcy took charge of the radio, flipping channels until something good was tripped over. It struck Bucky as unsurprising both that she was a huge fan of The Beatles ("I want you! I want you so baaaad! C'mon! Carpool Karaoke!") or that Natasha was a fan of Pink Floyd ("Turn this up."). She and Darcy argued the merits of 'Hey You' versus 'Another Brick in the Wall', then moved on to Queen's top tracks. "Totally 'Bohemian Rhapsody', no argument." "No. Wait. I think there's support for 'The Show Must Go On'!" Darcy had no qualms about belting it all loudly—and, enjoyably, totally in tune—out the window and he even caught a dialed-down Natasha swaying slightly in the backseat during the outro of 'Layla'.
By the time the sun was going down on the horizon, he felt like he'd learned more than a little about each of them just that afternoon alone, and just by something as mundane as listening to the radio.
They swiped a slightly beat up pick-up truck in the evening, and Natasha stretched out across the front bench seat while Bucky and Darcy took the truck bed. She muttered something in Russian that made Bucky roll his eyes and when Darcy asked him for a translation, she had to laugh. "She told us not to get—and I quote—'frisky' back here," he said, "As if this whole adventure is real romantic."
Darcy just chuckled.
They returned to their conversation from what felt like ages ago, on the beach house's deck, and Bucky pointed out the constellations until she fell asleep, her head against his shoulder.
((()))
By the time Tony got to Killian's place, it was near dark. He did two flyovers in order for JARVIS to do a thorough scan of the place, then chose to land on the extravagant helipad.
The view of the mountains really was quite breathtaking, but Tony was exceedingly preoccupied. Somebody had slapped around his little girl, and that wasn't gonna fly, thank-you-very-much.
He hit the button on his suit and it clanked and slid around him, pieces folding and disappearing into each other, the armor growing smaller and smaller, until it was just a little suitcase at his feet. Sighing, he hefted it up, tucked it out of sight between the concrete barrier and the stairwell entry, straightened his Foreigner T-shirt, glanced around, and peered through the small window on the stairwell door. Thanks to his superior range, the digital butler could continue to assist him even locked away in the case on the roof.
"No heat signatures within the immediate structure, Sir," JARVIS supplied into his earpiece, his only tether to the case. "I can commence a full scan in approximately forty-five meters."
"Thanks, J," Tony muttered, trying the doorknob.
It was conveniently unlocked.
He smiled as he went in. Within was a normal, totally unsuspicious steel staircase leading down to another door.
That one was unlocked too.
"Something strange is afoot, my man," he said.
"That depends on one's definition of the word 'strange', wouldn't you say, Sir?" JARVIS piped up. "In the most recent edition of Webster's Dictionary—"
"Shut up, JARVIS." Tony rolled his eyes. "No one's looking at philosophy right now."
The program fell silent, but a little purple light went on at the tip of the ear piece as he went through the second door, and began to blink, letting him know his scan had started.
The floor he'd emerged onto was not unlike any random one in The Tower—full of monochrome and steel, metal ornamentation and frosted glass. He narrowed his eyes and slowly moved down the wide hallway before him. Matte black floor tiling took him all the way down, where there were two glass doors set into either side of the wall. "Eenie, Meenie…" he muttered, and at the last moment, took the one on the right, pushing it carefully open.
Inside was a lab. Obviously, it was a lab, or it used to be. Now it was totally stripped, complete with dust outlines where equipment used to sit on the long, dark tables. It stretched the entire length back down the hallway, and as he moved back through the room, skirting table edges and ducking to look on low shelves, he determined that not only was the place entirely empty—no clues to be found—but also that it was a stupid place for a lab. "Can you pull up the schematics of this place, J?"
"Certainly, Sir."
There was a pause as JARVIS searched his database.
"Approximately twelve floors, Sir. Quite low, really. The only reason it appears to have been allowed a helipad by the Building Inspection Code of the State of California is its architectural placement in the hills. A bit odd, don't you think, Sir?"
"Mm," Tony agreed, frowning as he stopped to look around. "You know what else is odd?"
"Any number of things, surely, Sir."
"Labs are usually situated on lower levels…"
"In order to contain and properly seal off the potential for any number of lab accidents, Sir, precisely," JARVIS finished for him.
He narrowed his eyes.
Then he went across the hall to search that room. Another lab. Also empty.
"Scooby Doo would be getting frustrated by now…" he murmured as he decided to bypass the elevator and, instead, took the stairs. More steel and glass.
The next eleven floors after that were more nothing.
Some offices.
A small cafeteria with a pretty upscale looking barista bar.
Some shut down food trolleys.
Nothing.
Just nothing.
Scowling, he stared out the front doors to the back road, where it was likely the employees came and went.
He couldn't help but think it seemed like a lot of building for what had to be just a few employees allowed onto an estate like this.
Unless…
"Might I suggest this may be any of a number of potential bases for the AIM organization, Sir?" JARVIS finally offered.
Tony nodded, backing up and going back through the main lobby. "You read my mind, J." Reminding himself that curiosity often did, in fact, kill the metaphorical cat, he hit the button on the elevator and got in, holding the door open with one foot to avoid a potential Panic Room sort of scenario. Whoever had come up with the moronic rejoinder of, '…and satisfaction brought it back' had clearly never been in a superhero scenario. After all, early on in his studies, he'd have countered with two words that any scientist would back up: Schrödinger's. Cat. That cat made way more sense to him.
There was a fingerprint security pad for a control panel.
He rolled his eyes. "Amateur." Leaning down, he exhaled over the glass, covering the screen with the fog of his breath and revealing the last marks to grace it.
A beep sounded overhead. "Welcome, Mr. Killian," said a warm, female, computerized voice. "Proceeding to lab."
He jerked his foot out of the doorway, allowing them to finally slide shut. "Goes out of his way to apply high-tech security, but totally forgets the geniuses that might wanna break in," he scoffed, shaking his head.
The elevator went into a graceful, barely-perceptible swoop, and Tony watched the numbers descend, past ten, past five, then past one altogether, until he figured they were about four-hundred feet below the surface—cut directly into the mountain face. There, the lift drifted to a gentle stop and the doors slid open.
"This floor appears to be abandoned as well, Sir, and though I've adjusted the schematics, I can detect no other hidden floors."
"So this is it, then," Tony confirmed as he stepped out into the dark room, this one more black matte and less shiny glass and flashy steel.
"It would appear so, Sir."
There was only the one room—another lab, this one clearly more involved. This one was where the real action went down. It was just as stripped, but there was, in fact, a computer built into the unit along the back wall. After he confirmed there was absolutely nothing else left to search in the room, he sat down on a steel lab stool in front of the computer and pulled the piece out of his ear. "Run diagnostic," he told JARVIS, and hit a button on the signal emitter, causing a tiny green light to start flashing, on-off, on-off. This all was entirely too black and white, and he was starting to suspect something…
"Running diagnostic."
He frowned as he watched files and images blink and flash, winking in and out of sight on the monitor as his program ran its hack. "This is too easy. Why is this too easy?" he wondered aloud. "This whole thing was designed by a genius—for a genius. So what was he waiting for me find? What little present did you leave for me, Aldrich?"
As if in answer, a file appeared on the screen. "I've uploaded all available files, Sir, and though the majority appear, at first glance, to be corrupted beyond defragmentation, this one appears in its entirety—and, I might add, it seems to be the most interesting," JARVIS finally said.
It was a Word doc.
Just a plain Word doc and a few lines of text.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
Tag. You're it. Race you to Avengers Tower.
Tony frowned, but a chill went up his back regardless. This was clearly some sort of bait to get him to go rushing back—but for what purpose? "What the fuck—am I supposed to be Humpty Dumpty, and we're all about to crash down? This is a stupid allusion."
JARVIS had two cents to add. "Might I suggest, Sir, that Mr. Killian is implying your demise at your own hands?"
Tony sighed, reaching up to rub at his tired eyes. "Yeah, thanks, J, I got that. Anything else?"
"There's this as well, Sir."
Another file popped up, this one more official looking, with lines and lines of tiny print.
Tony squinted at it. "Looks like some sort of design schematic…" It was a print of a detailed sketch, with arrows and identifiers.
"It appears to be some sort of explosive device, Sir. Might I direct your attention to the second illustration? The measurements would allow such a device to easily flow through a hypodermic needle, Sir."
His gaze followed to the bottom edge, where there was another small device, very tiny. "Some sort of transmitter, or…signal emitter?" Something prickled at the back of his neck—something resembling horror.
"I've uploaded it, Sir. It appears to be similar to an implantable tracking device—"
"Used for signaling some sort of…" He was already up and running, shoving the ear piece back in as hastily as he could as he dove back into the elevator. "Natasha!" he practically shouted, blowing on the security pad in the elevator again and frantically waving the doors shut. "Call Romanoff! I need to know exactly where those three are—before something blows up!"
((()))
A gentle buzzing against her thigh brought Natasha out of her Captain America daydream, staring out the rear window of the tiny truck cab. Assuming it was the man in question, she put it to her ear, listening hard over the strains of 'Carry On, Wayward Son' currently booming out of the speakers behind her—not that she was complaining overmuch. "Hello?"
"Don't make it obvious that you're talking to me," Tony Stark muttered urgently over the line.
She was silent, a low hum of panic starting at the base of her spine.
And Stark got the message. "Perfect. Listen, we might have a problem, and I need to rely on your occasionally duplicitous nature and ask you to absolutely, under no circumstances, whatsoever, let on what I am about to tell you to the two lovebirds." He sounded tense and extremely ill-at-ease.
She remained silent.
"You're awesome, Romanoff. I just finished searching an AIM base. Found a couple things that are alarming, but you seriously can't tell Short Stack—or Jon Snow over there. I don't know exactly what he would do. I trust the kid, but he's still a little unpredictable and if he ever fits into any pre-determined categories in his entire life, I'll be, frankly, shocked."
She'd almost forgotten how much Stark could ramble when he was nervous. But she was too tense, now, to find any humor in it.
"JARVIS did some hacking and caught a file that shows designs for schematics, one for what might be some sort of bomb, and the other a signal emitting device that has the capability of being injected with a needle." He paused here.
The words were heavy down the phone line, and for a moment, the weight of them didn't quite project.
The panic in her spine crawled its way up to the back of her neck in an icy jolt of horror as she put the pieces together.
"Obviously Killian set up some sort of contingency plan, and I'm trying not to feel guilty right now that said contingency appears to be using Darcy to take revenge on me."
Natasha stared ahead at the front seat, Darcy with her feet up on the dash, Bucky driving one-handed, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror and studying the traffic around them. She took stock as well, and as he changed lanes, her gaze caught on a particular black Ford F150 that casually followed suit.
The Winter Soldier's eyes flashed in the mirror, but he gave no other indication that he'd noticed.
She narrowed her eyes. It was true: he was a bit of an unknown, no matter how well anyone would ever know him. HYDRA had made him the perfect soldier, similar to herself: unpredictable, and, therefore, twice as dangerous. Although, that was seriously where their commonalities ended—serum or not, Natasha had no doubt, given their shared history, that James Barnes could bash her head in if he wanted to.
She was very, very grateful that this version of him had won. She had zero desire to be flung around by metal arms. Doing it once was more than enough. It was funny, really, the contrast of him. He was a walking oxymoron: designed to be capable of brutal violence but with no desire to use it. He was one of the gentlest guys she'd ever met—and the number she'd met in her violent past was two. She was married to one. And the other woman in the car with her—the closest thing a woman like her could have to a best friend—was married to the other. Funny, she thought, how things work out.
"Just call me when you can get away, let me know how close you are to Manhattan. I'm calling a strategic retreat until we can classify exactly what they did to my girl. I'm locking the place down as soon as I get back. I've had my fill of collateral damage. 10-4?" He was practically snarling, but it did little to hide the icy tone of fear in his voice from Natasha.
She took the opportunity to softly clear her throat.
Evidently taking that as confirmation, Tony ended the call.
Hands shaking slightly, she lowered the phone and slid it back into her pocket.
"Who was that?" Bucky asked from the front, leaning over to turn the volume down.
She was proud that she resisted the urge to jump.
Damn him, noticing everything. They were a good match, she and him—nearly even in terms of strategy. She swallowed. "Steve," she murmured, lying.
He held her gaze in the rearview mirror, and she had to force herself not to blink.
Finally, he looked away, back toward the road, making it clear without saying a word that he knew she was giving him a load of crap.
But she wasn't about to offer the truth. Tony was right—this had to sit on the back burner until they were back in Manhattan.
Darcy's head lolled gently against the headrest up front, and she shifted in her sleep. Natasha watched her restless frown in the side mirror and wondered if she was dreaming unpleasant dreams.
Bucky glanced over at her and subtly set his hand on her knee.
A moment later, she settled back into quiet sleep, the frown between her brows smoothing out.
A strange, warm, bittersweet tug plucked at Natasha's heart, but she looked away, back out the window, trying to ignore her horror at the way this was setting up for a shakedown. If Tony's suspicions were correct—and she'd never known him to be particularly wrong before—this could be catastrophic for their team.
And just when she'd started to feel at home…
