Same disclaimers as chapter 1.
AN: I hope everyone is having a happy holiday. I'm back home and I certainly am. Happy Thanksgiving, readers! :)
Though I'd been promoted in seniority and class, no one had ever spoken a word towards my being appointed as something like Coulson's new assistant. And yet, when something needed to be done, I was now called upon to do it. I suppose this was Maria's job once upon a time, but she was constantly busy with Fury. So instead of leaving Calcutta just one day later with my troop and Banner in tow, I had to leave that same night and a new jet was dispatched for Banner's pick-up. Banner was less than comfortable with my departure, but orders were orders. So I left immediately with half my troop and the promise to Banner that I'd be waiting on the landing platform the moment he arrived.
I was needed back on the Helicarrier to manage minor affairs while Coulson was away for a few days. I had no idea where, but I was told he'd return soon, so I spent most of my time in the bridge directing agents on errands and missions and every other free moment on a computer, working my way through SHIELD's archive of fuzzy clips and off-center cell phone videos of the events in New Mexico. The clips told me nothing I didn't already know, but watching them had become something of a compulsive habit. In one, I could have sworn I saw a familiar figure flitting across a rooftop before dropping off the screen, but no matter how many times I rewatched and stopped and zoomed in and sharpened the image, I could recognize nothing more than a dark shadow. I thought I recognized our SHIELD uniform, but other than that, it could be anyone.
On the third day of the same routine, an agent arrived to inform me that both Banner and Coulson were arriving. I rushed out onto the platform, salt air whipping my hair as I faced open water. We'd landed the carrier in the ocean for a several weeks for refueling and were only awaiting these crucial arrivals to get back in the air once more. Banner arrived first, but his jet was wheeled all the way to the far end of the carrier to clear the runway for Coulson's immediate arrival directly after. Coulson's plane stopped directly in front of me so I approached them first. I got around to the descending ramp on the back of the jet just as Coulson climbed out, closely followed by a handsome blonde stranger.
"Agent Romanoff," Coulson said with an air of barely repressed excitement. "Captain Rogers." I glanced at him quickly, a bit struck by him despite myself. He was tall and handsomely built, his hair combed neatly like a boy going to Sunday school. He wore a plaid shirt under a leather jacket, and nothing about him was even remotely unattractive. He fit the part of handsome American soldier perfectly.
"Ma'am," he said, nodding to me politely.
"Hi," I replied hurriedly before turning to Coulson. "They need you on the bridge. They're starting the face-trace."
"See you there," Coulson said, though something about the discreet grin on his face as he sped off told me I was more likely to find him fetching his trading cards than reporting to the bridge. Rogers was left staring about awkwardly while I gave him another appreciative look up and down.
"It was quite the buzz around here, finding you in the ice," I said, trying to ease his discomfort. I began walking towards Banner now that he had surely had enough time to deplane. Seeming to lack a better idea of where to go, Rogers followed. "Thought Coulson was gonna swoon," I smiled. His embarrassed smile in response told me he already knew what I was talking about. I could only imagine what the plane ride over here must have been like. The image of Phil sitting opposite him and staring with that blank, adoring smile came to mind. I raised an eyebrow. "Did he ask you to sign his Captain America trading cards yet?"
"Trading cards?" he repeated, obviously incredulous. I grinned.
"They're vintage. He's very proud," I replied as I finally found Banner. He was stumbling around the deck, very apparently lost. I scowled at the other half of my troop in the distance, already heading indoors. I knew they were uncomfortable with him, regarded him as the stupidest move SHIELD had done yet, but there was such a thing as professionalism. And they didn't have to go out of their way to make him feel so unwelcome. Then again, I couldn't change everyone just by leading by example. I'd received the exact same treatment not too long ago. And I didn't attract a following the way Clint did.
To my surprise, Rogers seemed to recognize him and stepped forward, hand extended. "Doctor Banner?" Banner turned, confused but obviously relieved at having been found by someone. He came forward and shook hands.
"Oh, yeah, hi…" he said, also giving the Captain an inquisitive look. "They told me you'd be coming."
"Word is you can find the cube," Rogers continued. Banner's eyes flitted around.
"Is that the… only word on me?" he asked, his tone seeming to suggest that he already knew it wasn't. I turned away as chatter through the earpiece—which now seemed as natural a part of my head as my ear itself—told me the carrier would be ascending soon. I turned back to the men, eager to get them inside.
"Only word I care about," Rogers replied, and I actually stopped and smiled for a moment, touched by his integrity. Not everyone who knew about Banner's condition took to him so well. My troop was testament to that. I decided then I liked Captain Rogers.
"Must be strange for you, all of this," Banner said after a moment.
"Well, this is actually kind of familiar," Rogers replied, somewhat nostalgically, looking at a nearby group of jogging agents with a far-away look in his blue eyes.
"Gentlemen," I finally interjected, "we might want to step inside in a minute. It's gonna get a little hard to breathe." As if on cue, a sudden loud rumbling erupted beneath us, sending deep vibrations through the soles of my boots. Both Banner and Rogers looked around with sudden alarm as PA recordings began playing, telling personnel to get indoors, and everywhere people scrambled to lock down everything on deck.
"Is this a submarine?" Rogers asked, seemingly of no one in particular, creeping curiously to the edge of the platform and glancing into the water below. Banner's jaw locked and something in his eyes seemed to sink.
"Really? They want me in a submerged, pressurized, metal container?" he laughed morbidly, following Rogers to the carrier's edge, seemingly despite himself. Water began splashing everywhere as the propellers slowly emerged from beneath the surface and began their rotations. There was a deep whirring sound as the propeller blades picked up speed, sending up thick mists of water. The mist was fresh on my face and I closed my eyes, letting the fine water caress my eyelids with its cooled touch. The ground still rumbled as it slowly rose beneath us. At the sudden realization of what he was seeing, Banner let out a nervous laugh, obviously borne of discomfort than mirth. "Oh no, this is much worse." Rogers turned, giving him a worried glance.
I would much rather stay out in the open than go back indoors, where the walls sometimes felt like a steel cage, but the agents in the watchtower were shouting their heads off in my earpiece that we needed to get inside. For safety, of course. I rolled my eyes but complied to get them to shut up. I stepped forward and tugged at Rogers and Banner's sleeves gently, making them withdraw from the edge. "If you'll follow me." I turned and began walking as fast as I dared across the slick deck, Rogers immediately following like a good schoolboy. Banner faltered a moment, looking over the edge again with apparent discomfort, before also falling into step behind me. I led them to the bridge, glancing behind me every so often to make sure I hadn't lost either of them, as they tended to stop often to stare at things. Banner was obviously amazed at much of the scientific equipment on board, but Rogers got sidetracked if he so much as saw an agent using an iPad.
The bridge was full and bustling as always, the glass front again showing rolling clouds as we ascended. Rogers and Banner wandered around the main gathering table, eyes wide. Banner couldn't seem to walk anywhere, however, without seeming increasingly out of place. Maria was directing agents while we settled in the sky and the ship entered cloaked mode. Surprisingly, Coulson had made it and, unsurprisingly, was shooting Rogers admiring glances about every seven seconds. Fury was again stationed at his small podium of screens. He turned at our arrival with the closest thing to pleasure I had ever seen on his face. Something like a satisfied calm. "Gentlemen," he said by way of welcome.
Without a word, Rogers handed Fury a ten dollar bill for no apparent reason before wandering farther into the atrium. Maria gave him the same sweeping look he seemed to garner from everybody, before shooting me a meaningful glance across the atrium. I smiled before turning back to my screen. The face trace had begun, which meant our computers were sweeping just about any image output in the world for faces that matched our targets. I was hovering behind an agent whose computer was tracking Clint. A small image of his face hovered on the corner of the screen, the blank-faced generic picture that had been on his ID and that still managed to make my chest wrench. I swiped across the screen with my finger, examining the stats, but no progress had yet been made. "It's still not gonna find them in time," I added into Coulson's explanation of the process to our new guests. I returned to dejectedly staring at the same computer feed of Clint for a while until Fury called my name, sending me to show Banner to his prepared lab. I tore my eyes away from the screen with a mixture of relief and aggravation.
"You're gonna love it, doc. We got all the toys," I said blankly, my head still seeing Clint's generic identification photo on the screen. I led him to the spacious lab ready for him and left him almost immediately to his work. Something about the sudden brightening in his eyes as he wandered around the clean laboratory, examining the equipment, told me he wouldn't miss me.
I went to go find food for myself after leaving him, more as a distraction than out of actual hunger. If I didn't do something else, anything else, I'd wind up in the bridge staring at that same screen all day. I had to tell myself that if something did happen, I'd know about it immediately. I didn't have to torture myself.
The cafeteria wasn't very crowded when I entered, thankfully. I wasn't in the mood for dealing with people. I never seemed to be these days. It was already noon, but I'd skipped breakfast, which I did more often than not, so I grabbed a bowl of oatmeal anyway. I nibbled at a few spoonfuls of it, but mostly I just sat and stirred it mindlessly until it was too cold to eat. I was just about to head out looking for a new distraction, or perhaps head to my room, when Maria entered, her eyes scanning around urgently, obviously looking for someone. She rushed over when she spotted me and I perked up immediately, thinking if she had been sent to fetch me, she must have some news. She slumped into a seat across from me, sighing. "He's something, isn't he?"
"I—what?" I asked, momentarily sidetracked.
"Captain Rogers. They don't make them like that anymore," Maria said dreamily.
"Maria, he's like a hundred…" I said, my eyebrows crinkling. Was she really talking about this at a time like this?
Maria shrugged, a coy grin pulling at her lips, her eyes far away. "You know what they say about older men."
I narrowed my eyes at her, because no, I didn't know what they said about older men, particularly scientifically altered, found in an ice cube, impossibly living older men. I mean, sure, I couldn't deny he was a sight for sore eyes, but neither could I forget that the last time he'd walked the earth, he'd been fighting Nazis.
I told Maria this but she brushed it off, quickly saying she needed to get back to the bridge, grabbing an apple and hurrying out. I stared after her, trying to explain to myself the irrational anger that was welling in my chest. I went back to my room after she left, finding solace in the comfort of routine. I again began my systematic research of all the case files of mission reports pertaining to New Mexico or the Tesseract research facility attack. I'd even begun slow work through the Asgardian mythology books. I told myself I did it to better educate myself on the enemy, which it did do, but mostly I was just looking for even the slightest mention or vaguest reference to freeing Clint. Which, of course, was so rare as to be nonexistent, it seemed. I dozed off at some point with a pile of books still on my lap, my head propped crookedly on the wall my tiny bunk was pushed next to. I dreamt of glowing cubes and unnamable monsters and Clint disappearing into smoke in my arms while his last laugh echoed in my head as if from a very long tunnel.
When I awoke, I was almost surprised at my own calm despite my pulse pounding like a drum in my ears. The nightmares were no less painful, certainly; if anything, I'd only gained a new tolerance for them. My hands reached up to my chest gingerly, touching the smooth skin that should have felt as if it had been ripped open if I was still who I'd been a few years back. Now only a dull ache within my ribcage responded to my touch. That string I'd felt tighten when Clint departed in the airport seemed to continue to jerk at my ribs, pulled painfully tight but insistent on snapping back to where it belonged. I had to tell myself there was no option but to find him to keep the string from tearing my ribcage apart and letting my heart spill out. Because if I considered any other option for even the remotest of seconds, I'd crumble apart like broken china.
Even the excitement of having a certified superhero on board didn't defer the uncomfortably quick settling of monotony over me. Others entertained themselves with crowding Rogers, asking him questions or begging for autographs. The more morbidly curious would even make circuits up and down the hallway outside Banner's lab, trying to catch a glimpse of the "man behind the monster." But for me, the routine quickly settled. Sleep. Research. Food. Nightmares. Repeat.
I'd get three hours of sleep on a good night, my condition not being helped much by the fact that coffee now made up my main food group. And my arms seemed permanently loaded with at least three books during my waking hours. When I got bored of my room, I'd take up guard at the end of the hall outside Banner's lab, keeping away the snoops.
"I realize what you're doing…" he said one day, making me look up from a particularly frustrating page on the intricate process of learning magic in Asgard. I didn't comprehend half the shit I was reading, but the attempt at least gave the impression of progress. The satisfaction wasn't entirely substantiated, but I would take a pick-me-up where I could get it.
"What?" I asked, hurriedly picking myself up from my spot on the floor, balancing my books precariously on my hip.
"Keeping people from looking at me like a circus side-show… thanks. But you don't have to," he replied in his slow, timid way of speaking, rubbing his hands nervously on his jacket. I bit my lip; I didn't know he'd been aware of my presence. I shrugged.
"Got nothing better to do these days," I said, not entirely succeeding in keeping the bitterness out of my voice. The anxiety of being without mission or goal I could directly work towards was starting to grind on my nerves. "And I know what it's like to be the center of attention you don't want."
He looked at me pointedly, his eyes betraying his obvious doubt. But I was no stranger to feeling like a zoo animal behind glass being constantly ogled. People had once regarded me as a monster in my own right, too. But he didn't know that, and probably never would.
Without a further word, Banner seemed to draw within himself and walked away, leaving me a bit confused. Though he was never hostile, I didn't hang out around his hall much after that. I didn't mean to make him think I was taking pity on him. I knew how infuriating that was.
Activity never stopped on the carrier, so my already deplorable sleeping habits became even more sparse. An hour of sleep here, a nap there, and a deep rooted fatigue that seemed to quickly seep into my bones. I became so used to only sleeping for one or two hours at a time that a longer period of sleep found me groggy and dazed when I awoke.
For the first time in a week, I'd managed six whole hours of dreamless sleep. Which was rare enough to be an event worthy of celebration. But when I awoke, I bumbled about, my mind still foggy. I dragged myself through my routine and immediately went in search of coffee. My nearest source was the small lounge at the end of the hall. I didn't exactly know what time of day (or night) it was, given there were no windows anywhere, but the lounge was quiet and empty. I yawned, rubbing at my eyes. The reflection on the side of the coffee brewer showed a mess of red tangles atop my head. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered that I should care about that, should probably fix it. But my limbs felt too heavy to exert energy on such trifles and nothing seemed as important as it used to before. I calmly fetched two mugs from the stack beside the coffee pot. Ceramic, beige and plain. I took a napkin and slowly cleaned both mugs while the coffee readied. Every movement seemed slow and deliberate. Even my blinks were paced, each one seeming to last a particularly long second, as if I couldn't decide whether to open them again or let them remain shut. Was it possible to be even more tired after so much sleep?
The coffee pot made a small popping noise and my hands readily reached for it, hungry for its contents. I poured it carefully into both mugs, right up to the brim. Into one I poured two vanilla flavored creamers, a poor substitute for my usual cappuccinos, but a substitute I needed nonetheless. The other I left perfectly black, but meticulously poured packet after packet of sugar into it. I counted them calmly, making sure to be precise. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Perfect. Not a single one more, not a single one less.
I carried both mugs to a nearby table, setting one in front of one seat and the other across. I sat at the small circular table, touching my mug delicately with the tips of my fingers, feeling the coffee's heat warm the mug's cold ceramic. I blinked slowly, taking a sip of my tonic and watching steam unfurl from the brim of the other untouched cup.
The caffeine had gone a long way to waking me up by the time I finished my cup. So when I finished my last sip and lowered my mug to see the other cup still sitting where I'd set it on the table, I knew what I was looking at, what I'd made, who I was waiting for. And of course, I'd remembered no one was coming to finish it. The steam had dissipated and the coffee had gone cold but I couldn't find it in myself to touch the cup again. I swallowed my last gulp of coffee with clenched eyes, trying to stifle both the burning in my throat and the burning behind my eyes. I set my cup down and burrowed the heels of my hands into my eyes until I saw stars pop against the darkness. I set my hands flat on the table and touched my forehead to them. I imagined the image one would see if they walked in on me now and let out a low, humorless chuckle. Despicable.
Despite my efforts, my cheeks were wet when I finally pulled myself up from the table.
"Do you want coffee, ma'am?"
I blinked, my eyes coming back into focus and swinging onto Steve Rogers. It was one of the rare times when my disjointed sleeping schedule happened to align with those of normal people, and I actually awoke in the morning with everyone else. I'd run into Rogers in the cafeteria, his eyes heavy and his hair mussed, again dressed in the shirt he'd worn on the day of his arrival.
"I told you not to call me 'ma'am,' Captain."
"I told you not to call me 'Captain,'" he retorted. I frowned. What was I supposed to call him? Steve?
"So, coffee?"
"No… thank you," I said, betraying more fatigue than I should have. I eyes Rogers' cup of dark liquid with distaste, wondering idly when I'd stop fearing normal everyday objects after my stupid episodes defiled them for me. Now I was suddenly avoiding coffee like it was a grenade trigger. I felt like a tightrope walker these days. I performed well under pressure when I had to, when I had a job to do, but it was a delicate balance and I was on a very thin rope. I could feel myself slipping and stumbling at times, teetering dangerously on the edge of total disaster. And sometimes it felt like the slightest push could shove my swaying body over, plummeting like a rock.
I felt a certain curiosity towards Steve Rogers, which was probably an acceptable reaction to a survivor of 70 years in ice, but he always seemed busy and again, he scurried off immediately, leaving me alone with my solitary breakfast bagel. I wondered why I wasn't as busy, but then I figured Coulson was probably using this time forcing Rogers into play dates with him.
I felt he'd barely left when he was suddenly back, touching my back tentatively. I reflexively jerked at the contact and he immediately withdrew his hand, his fair face rapidly coloring. He cleared his throat, evidently trying to smooth over the awkwardness, and I was immediately ashamed though I hadn't been able to help it. I wasn't used to personal contact very much anymore.
"Agent, we need you. We found him," he said, his eyes facing downwards as if he was informing the floor.
My heart jumped so high into my throat I was surprised I didn't suddenly spit it out. Him? I jumped to my feet. "Who? Who did we find?"
I instinctively began walking out, though I hadn't consciously thought of a destination, my feet seeming to carry me to the bridge of their own accord.
"Loki, of course."
I don't think Rogers noticed the slight falter in my step. Of course. Loki. He was the priority. I tried to stop the sinking feeling in my chest before it happened. I told myself this was good, too. If we found Loki, we found Clint.
Rogers explained the situation briefly before departing to get ready. Apparently, Loki had been found lurking around an art gala in Germany, and our face recognition had caught it. As of now, we didn't know why he was there or what he wanted, but we weren't intent on letting him have whatever it was.
I entered the bridge and the difference in activity was immediately obvious. The large atrium was loud and bustling, bodies moving in every direction in their struggle to deliver news and finish tasks. A cluster of agents were circled around Phil at the table, listening to a debriefing. Nothing I hadn't heard already. When he finished, his eyes sought mine and gave me a nod to come forward.
"Natasha, you'll be piloting the Captain. Pick a co-pilot. You're going to Stuttgart, Germany. Go suit up." He tossed a manila envelope to me and turned away, quickly moving to his next task. I took that as a cue I should move on to mine. I rushed to my room, my steps seeming stronger and surer now that my veins pumped with purpose. The same feeling I felt right before recruiting Banner. A tightrope walker about to go in front of a crowd. Showtime.
Around the carrier, I'd gotten used to wearing casual clothing over the past couple of weeks. The gun regularly strapped to my thigh seemed more severe contrasted with "normal" clothing that never really stopped feeling strange on me. But now I was slipping back into what I belonged in. I shed my clothing the moment I stepped in my quarters, finding my agent uniform hanging neatly in the back of my closet where I'd last left it. I slipped into it like a second skin, finding traces of home within the threads. Putting it on made me feel normal again. Normal for me, anyway.
When I walked back into the bridge again, I could have been a new person.
There were still a gathering of agents mulling around the table, surely waiting for me. I paused in the doorway, not wanting to waste time.
"Pressman," I called out, making everyone in the group turn their eyes expectantly toward me, though I was only addressing the burly young man in the midst of them. He had been in my troop in Calcutta. He was young, but his file showed good piloting skills. And he'd been the quietest. I could appreciate quiet people. "Meet me in hangar C. Ten minutes."
A low grumble of disappointment ran through the remaining group as he nodded and quietly withdrew from the room. "Kousser, Rivera, and…" the entire group seemed to inhale sharply. "Grush. You, too. Go." Two tall women and one more stocky man detached themselves from the group while more groaning ensued. I turned before any others could catch up and beg me to co-co-pilot or something. It was like the mission bids all over again. Everyone wanted to get in on the spectacle when it came to high profile missions.
In the armory, I outfitted myself with the familiar weight of weapons. When I arrived at the hangar I indicated, all four agents were standing at the ready behind one of our new state-of-the-art jets. "Prime the jet, I'll be there in a moment." All four scattered without further direction. I turned and pressed on my earpiece, adjusting it to the channel assigned for this mission. Phil was obviously online, relaying news in rapid-fire verbal shorthand to Maria. Fury was supposed to be online, but given how much he actually spoke, he could have been dead.
"Agent Romanoff, checking in. Will be ready to depart in five," I said into the chatter.
Phil paused his flowing verbiage to get a quick "Copy that, Agent Romanoff," in sideways.
" Are you ready, Captain?" I asked directly, hoping he was online. After a few seconds that made me think he probably wasn't, his voice came in, a bit timidly amongst the chaos.
"Ready, Agent. Proceeding to hangar now."
"Copy."
I climbed into the jet as the chatter in my earpiece slowly subsided into more organized direction. I notified my small group of the channel we were operating on, listened for them to check in, and then proceeded to the cockpit, calling Pressman to accompany me.
"I'm here, I'm here!" Rogers yelled, running in and strapping himself into a seat.
"Ready for departure," Pressman mumbled into his piece in his gravelly voice.
"Wing 17 is moving, please clear the runway… You're cleared for departure, Wing 17."
I clutched the controls firmly while we were raised onto the runway, the sky stretching endlessly in front of us. The steel beneath my feet vibrated as the engines came to life. I seemed to feel the same sensation running through my blood, a constant buzzing that reminded me I was going to find Clint. A part of me felt an irrepressible excitement just to lay eyes on him again. A larger part feared what it was my eyes would see. Coming face to face with a real nightmare. A Clint I didn't know.
I pushed the jet forward, rushing to the end of the runway and then pulling up with a swooping feeling into open sky. It was too late for fear. I'd made a promise and I owed him that and more. I circled the jet around the carrier to point it towards Stuttgart.
"Auf wiedersehen, Agents," Phil spoke into our ears as a final bid goodbye. I cloaked our radio signals, punched the engines into high gear, and we were off.
We flew quickly across time zones and soon we were in a Germany cloaked by nighttime. I groaned inwardly, knowing I would pay dearly for the jet lag later. As if my sleeping wasn't bad already.
"Romanoff, we have confirmed Loki is on site, I repeat, Loki is on site. And he is making a mess, you're going to have to land closer," Coulson relayed to me. I grimaced. Loki was in the middle of a fucking city. There weren't very many prime spots for landing a high-speed jet, no matter how "state-of-the-art" the maneuvering was supposed to be.
"Coulson," I began with forced calm, "the streets are tiny and—"
"Land the thing on the roof of the museum if you have to. Make it work, Agent."
I ground my teeth. "What do you want me to do, crash land the damn thing?" Pressman eyed me, a subtle mixture of shock and awe in his eyes. Behind me, I could have sworn I heard one of the girls snicker. Oh, shit, that's right. That's not how you were supposed to talk to your assistant director. So much for being a good example.
"Uh… ma'am—Agent, I mean. You could drop me without landing the jet," Rogers shot into the bickering now ensuing between Phil and myself. Everyone quieted. I passed the control to Pressman and turned in my seat to look at him, sitting in the cargo area in a refurbished version of the same ridiculous star-spangled outfit, his hands in his lap and his hair combed nicely. He turned his blue doe eyes on me.
"You know how to jump out of a moving plane?"
He nodded. I turned back in my seat. "You hear that, Coulson? The old dog still knows a few tricks. No offense, Captain."
He chuckled. "None taken."
"He's a genius, I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. What would we do without him?" Phil swooned, making my eyes roll. Right. Because us agents had been useless before. I could almost feel the blush in the Captain's face heating up the entire plane.
"We're nearing drop zone, Captain," I said after receiving coordinates. We were now flying low over the city and I sighed with relief when the city's blueprints showed there was a large open space in front of the museum, should worse come to worst. "Pressman, open the drop door."
A loud whooshing whipped around the open area as the air lock unsealed and the ramp lowered. "Nearly there, Captain, we just—what the hell is he doing?" I leaned forward, looking over the jet's nose to the scene below. A thick crowd was assembled outside the gates of the museum, figures glinting with gold standing around them like a perimeter. Rogers came into the cockpit and also craned over me, his hood now pulled up over his head. Behind him, I could hear the other three agents pressing in for a view, too. "Get us lower, Pressman. Captain, are you r—Captain?" I asked, stopping short when the agents behind us suddenly yelled out in surprise.
"What's going—?"
"He just jumped out of the plane without a parachute!" Rivera yelled.
"He what!?" I shrieked at precisely the same time that Coulson did over the earpiece. I whipped my head back to front and watching a blue blur plummet below us. He's going to die. I'm going to watch him die. I just let Captain America commit suicide.
I watched in horror as he landed in a heap in the middle of the crowd, a blue ball of energy happening to glance off his shield at precisely that moment. Four of the five glinting figures around the crowd disappeared as if in shock at the sudden body that had fallen from the sky. We hung suspended in the same place in the sky, everyone pressing as close to the glass as we could manage, watching in shock, while Phil screamed his head off senselessly on the radio. No one paid him attention.
Somehow, miraculously, Rogers got upright. We all seemed to press in closer, incredulous. But yes, he was definitely walking. I snapped back into action.
"Quick, quick, everyone back to their places. The Captain is up. Get us down there, Pressman. Now!" I yelled, breaking everyone from their shared reverie. The three agents scurried away while Pressman suddenly dipped the jet into the open square. Over the radio, it sounded like Coulson could have been crying with relief.
"You know, the last time I was in Germany and saw a man standing above everybody else, we ended up disagreeing," I heard Rogers say over the earpiece, his voice suddenly much stronger and resolute.
Our microphones were sensitive enough to pick up things happening around us, so we all heard when someone responded "The soldier…" in a slick, sneery voice.
I realized this was the first time actually hearing Loki's voice, and he seemed to suddenly become a real manifestation before me, not just a legend. Immediately, my chest burned with loathing and I had to grip the arms on my seat to stop from plummeting down there myself to claw his eyes out or happily die trying.
"The man out of time," he continued, and again, my stomach seemed to physically coil with revulsion.
"I'm not the one who's out of time," Rogers responded with much more confidence than I'm sure he felt at the statement. Pressman finally lowered us directly behind him. I opened the jet's gun chamber and turned on the PA.
"Loki, drop the weapon and stand down," I said into the speaker, my voice booming in the square. A sudden ball of blue light came pelting towards us in response. Pressman jerked the jet to the side, escaping without a scratch, and I suddenly decided I wouldn't make fun of the maneuvering anymore. There was movement below us as the crowd suddenly dispersed in every direction like wet ants. When the jet was again stable, we were met with the sight of Rogers and Loki fighting alone in the square. "Try to get him in our crosshairs, the Captain won't be able to fight him forever," I said, remembering the legends from the mythology books of the years and years Asgardians studied magic and battle. As it was, Rogers was already getting tossed around a fair bit, his blue shape getting easily thrown across the square. After watching him survive a 500-foot drop, I had no doubt Rogers knew how to take a hit, but I wasn't sure how well he'd hold up against Loki's scepter.
"The guy's all over the place," I muttered in frustration, my mind trying to work furiously to another solution. I was distracted by my interfaces suddenly flickering rapidly through various screens, switching on and off as if in protest. I stared in confusion as a familiar voice suddenly rang in my ear.
"Agent Romanoff," it said as my screens showed the PA system was being overwritten and AC-DC's 'Shoot to Thrill' suddenly blared in the square. "You miss me?"
Despite myself, a sly smile crawled onto my face. He always loved making an entrance, that damn Tony Stark. A ball of light scorched across the sky and landed in between Rogers and Loki, sending the latter flying back with a well-aimed blast. Stark's suit glinted in the muted light from the street lamps as he regained his feet.
"Make your move, Reindeer Games," we all heard Stark say, his arms aimed and ready. Incredibly, I actually heard Pressman chuckle beside me. I hadn't even been sure he'd been capable of a smile. Slowly, Loki's gold armor faded as if it had been a trick of the light all along and he was left sitting on the ground, his hands above his head. "Good move," Stark finished, his smugness obvious in his voice. I commanded Pressman to land the plane, still feeling increasingly anxious. That had felt just a little too easy.
I hung up my headset and ran off the already open ramp, not bothering to wait for my troop. Pressman could handle parking a plane. I approached Stark and Rogers, both crowded around Loki, more out of obligation than actual curiosity.
"Stark," I said, nodding at him by way of greeting. He turned, his gold plated mask pulling away to reveal his amused face underneath. He hadn't aged a day. If anything, he looked better than the last time I'd seen him, when a chemical he'd been inserting in his chest had been simultaneously killing him while keeping him alive.
"Agent Romanoff, long time no see. Have you given up your law career?" he asked with a crooked grin, obviously poking fun at the alias I'd taken as a lawyer and personal assistant when I was sent to watch him.
"Yeah, turns out I like more hands-on work. How's Pepper?"
"Fine. No, great. Fantastic. Of course. You know she's with me now?" he said proudly, as if being with him was reason enough for all her happiness.
"Poor soul," I snickered. Tony shot me a look, but I walked past before he said anything, slowly approaching Rogers and Loki. "You think you can handle this?" I asked, indicating Loki. "We're going to scour the area for anyone he might have brought with him."
"Don't waste your time, sweetheart," Loki replied quietly, looking up at me from the floor with a touch of amusement. "You won't find anyone here."
I glared at him, but the floor seemed to suddenly drop from under me at his words. "And I should take your word for it, right?" I asked coldly. I studied him through narrowed eyes. He didn't look anything like I'd expected, based on the stories. He was tall, but thin, and his long dark hair looked like he hadn't washed it in months. It was obvious he was trying to convey a sort of contemptuous indifference to his circumstance, but his eyes looked bloodshot and tired, dark shadows bruising the pale skin underneath them. For a "god," he was sort of pitiful.
He shrugged. "Have it your way. I'm only telling you. No one is here." He turned his eyes on me and slowly, deliberately, grinned. My stomach turned uneasily.
I turned away. "Captain, Stark—"
"Call me Tony."
"—No, thanks—get him on the jet please. My troop and I will try to be brief." Rogers nodded and immediately went to pick him up, Stark reluctantly following. I walked to meet my troop halfway across the square. "You all know the names of the agents he took. If you see them…" I paused, unsure of the orders to give. If we saw them—what? We had no idea of how to try to free them from Loki's control. We couldn't kill our agents. But what did we do when they tried to kill us?
"Just… try to subdue and arrest. Two of you scour the outside of the museum, someone come with me inside. If anything, give a shout on your earpiece. Meet back here when you're done."
My group nodded and split. I watched them go without any relief of the knot Loki seemed to have tied in my stomach. I entered the museum behind Rivera, my feet crunching on glass. The place had been wrecked by the people's panicked exit. All the decorations that had been advertising the occurring gala littered the floor, obviously trampled by thousands of feet. A broken cello lay gutted on the floor just in front of a plethora of other forgotten instruments, surely where the small orchestra must have been playing. An art canvas had fallen and ripped almost in half, popped entirely out of its large gilded frame which now lay in pieces. River split into the east wing of the hall, so I took the west, drawing my gun and holding it in front of me. But it was quiet. Much too quiet. My ears listened for the sounds of familiar footsteps, but they heard nothing at all. Not familiar footsteps, not unfamiliar ones, not a breath, not a sound. Nothing. If any of Loki's followers remained, they weren't in the west wing. I circled around to the middle of the hall just as Rivera emerged from the other side, her gun in her hand but her arms relaxed, telling me she hadn't been any luckier. She shook her head, her long braid swinging, confirming my supposition.
"Agent Romanoff, the outside is clear. More police and paramedics are arriving on scene," I heard Kousser's voice over the earpiece. I grimaced.
"Copy."
Rivera and I wandered into the main event hall and finally found people, but not any we'd been looking for. "Dios mío," Rivera gasped, rushing forward. A man's body was left hanging crookedly on a granite table shaped like a bull, one of his eye sockets ripped and bleeding profusely. Rivera pushed her fingers to his neck and waited a moment before letting her hand fall. She looked at me. "Dead." I edged around the table, averting my eyes from his shredded face. There was a large marble staircase winding up behind the table, two guards sprawled at the foot of it. Rivera went up to the one on her side while I approached the other. She did the same routine and again she looked at me and only shook her head. Another one gone. I gulped, looking at the guard and instantly feeling revulsion at the thought of pressing my fingers to his dead flesh. I leaned over and pressed them gingerly to his jugular. For a moment I felt nothing but then slowly, miraculously, I felt it. The small thumping of life.
"He's alive. Looks concussed, but he's alive," I straightened, climbing the stairs to the balcony running around the room. "Rivera, go outside and get one of those paramedics to get this guy out of here. I'll scope out the top, then we're out of here."
"Yes, Agent."
Under normal circumstances, I would have never advised anyone to search a building alone. But Loki's words rang in my head and I knew already what I wish I didn't. This place was empty. I didn't need Rivera's help to fight the only monsters left. Disappointment. Frustration. And grief. Insurmountable grief. I kicked a framed sign over the balcony's banister, its glass front shattering loudly on the floor below. I almost wished I could find somebody, anybody, just to be able to do something, fight something. "Where are you!?" I yelled suddenly, my words echoing back to me eerily in the ringing silence. I didn't know who I was calling out to really, whether it was unseen enemies or the one person I was seeking. I wasn't sure I cared at this point. "COME GET ME! I'M RIGHT HERE!" I kicked over a small podium, the vase atop it flying off and smashing against the wall. "WHERE ARE YOU?"
I ran down the stairs and threw over more of the event signs, their little metal holding easels clattering satisfyingly. "WHERE ARE YOU!?" I stood in the middle of the cavernous room, my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. The silence stared back at me.
I plopped down in the center of the stairs, my head in my knees. I rubbed impatiently at my stinging eyes. The words escaped me in a whisper, almost as an exhale, apart from my own volition: "Where are you, Clint?"
I stood up quickly and brushed myself off at the sound of people entering the gallery. A group of paramedics entered behind Rivera. I walked past them without a word. Rivera pointed them in the direction of the fallen guard before turning and following me.
"Agent Romanoff, there's cops outside with questions who—"
"There's nothing here, we're wasting our time. We're leaving."
"But what about the—"
I turned, making her stop short behind me. "We're leaving. Tell Coulson to issue them an official statement, I don't care. We are leaving. I want that greasy prick behind bars."
I proceeded back to the jet, leaving Rivera talking quickly into her earpiece behind me. Loki was strapped into a seat in the cargo area, both Rogers and Stark standing like guards before him. But he looked almost bored, his arms crossed in front of him like a disinterested child. I stomped past him to the cockpit, refusing to look at him. My agents crowded in behind me, taking their seats. Rivera was the last to rush in and take her place, looking flustered.
"Agent Romanoff, status please?" Coulson chimed in just as Pressman took his seat beside me.
"Loki is in custody, no team casualties, returning now," I answered promptly, if somewhat dryly.
"Good. Sending coordinates now," Coulson replied, obviously pleased, though I still wasn't able to shake the feeling that the entire mission was a failure. We had Loki, yes.
But what use was that to me?