A/N: So I lied about the action. I'm sorry. I changed my plans. Next chapter, I promise.
Many thanks to Darth Becky 726, katiebug0410 and to the Guest who took the time to leave a review. Also thanks to the followers and favouriters.
Read, enjoy, and review review review! Who do you think the target is?
Thanks!
"There are two single rooms and two double rooms," the agent in charge tells them boredly. "Pick your own. An agent will bring supplies once a week - that's groceries, toiletries, mail, and anything within reason that you request. Keep the kitchen and bathrooms clean because you could be here a while."
He leaves. As far as welcomes go, this is not the best Steve has ever experienced, especially since he is in a wheelchair (a fact that their supervisor failed to acknowledge). The rule is no physical activity for at least a week, including walking. After that week, he is on bed rest but may get up in order to eat and use the bathroom. In a month he can slowly build up his exercise regime again, but only slowly, or he'll make his condition worse.
The original disorientation and brief moment of panic he felt when he woke up was followed by a crushing sensation of relief to see the face of Bruce Banner in the chair next to his bed. Since his injury isn't particularly dangerous (apart from the infection he developed), Steve's doctors and the gorvernment agents in charge of his safety think it best that he be moved sooner rather than later; if the bomb wasn't targeted at him, which he thinks is certainly the most unlikely option, the killer may still intend to cover up loose ends and cover their tracks by killing them all. Somehow all of the information was leaked to the press, no doubt for copious amounts of money - but the location of the safe house is still, well, safe.
Steve can't imagine why anyone would bother coming out here to kill six people, anyway. The house is drab and bleak against a drab, bleak backdrop. Even in summer it is almost subzero - but not quite: the grass has a somewhat greyish quality without snow and the only scenery for miles around is an icy black lake. It does not get dark but the light has a cold, watery quality to it. The house itself is painted white, but age has turned it slightly yellow. Its roof is dark and forbidding. The windows are framed by black wood.
Fortunately, outward appearances are often misleading, and the interior of the house is far better. The entire group stand in the hallway, which has a radiator on each wall, a carpet, and a carpeted staircase leading to the upper floor. Doorways line it, leading to a living room with several couches, a television, a sizeable bookcase and a roaring fire, a large bathroom (tiled but with underfloor heating, according to Clint, who read the house's plans) and an open kitchen/dining room with enough features to satisfy a fairly experienced chef.
"I'll take one of the single bedrooms," Natasha says, heading up the staircase with her small duffel bag of belongings. "Wouldn't want to get period blood on you guys or anything."
The men all stare at each other in uneasy silence, waiting for someone to make the first move. Then, all at once, they all start shouting the reasons why they should have the other single room. "Guys," Bruce says. "It should probably be Steve. He needs the space for ... everything."
"Nah, Steve needs constant supervision," Clint snorts. "Don't want to leave him alone if he needs the toilet."
They turn to look at Steve. "Um," he says, "I guess I can share with Bruce. If," he adds quickly. "If that's okay with you."
Bruce nods at him and looks slightly relieved. "That's fine."
"I don't really mind sharing," says Thor, who is reddening slightly. "If I'm not paying for accommodation better than what I had, an extra person is a small price."
Clint turns to Tony, who is no longer there. "Hey, where's - "
A door slams, followed by a loud and triumphant "HA!"
"Guess I'm with you, big guy," Clint sighs, patting Thor on the arm. "Hey, Steve, how are you getting upstairs? Also, Thor, aren't you meant to be on crutches?"
Thor looks down at his leg and starts walking - not limping at all - towards Steve. "I didn't really want extra stuff to carry."
"Dude, you're meant to use them to walk."
To Steve's immense surprise, Thor grabs his wheelchair and starts up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "I heal fast," he grunts, and places the chair at the top.
Bruce pushes Steve into their room. Despite the two beds, it is spacious, with a desk, a window above each bed and a small table between them, which is perfect for all Steve's medications. The beds themselves are both singles but plush, with crisp white sheets covered in quilts, and numerous pillows. "Nice," he says appreciatively.
When he is next to the bed on the right, Steve stands up. He's been trying not to use too many painkillers because they mess with his head, but before he left the doctors pumped him full of them and he's still feeling their effects. His stomach barely hurts at all. He is, however, rather weaker than he imagined, and only manages a step before he half-collapses onto the bed, suppressing the gasp of pain primed to slip from his lips. Bruce is rushing over to him. Before he can help him in any way, Steve clambers up onto the rest of the bed, crawls under the covers and flips onto his back.
"You shouldn't have done that," Bruce frowns, and Steve is panting too hard to reply.
His fingers curl into fists to stop his hands from shaking.
The footage is terrible.
She's seen explosions before - God knows, she's seen enough - but not like this. The bank was ancient, and Natasha watches in horror as its three storeys crumble in on each other, people nearby leaping away as fast as their legs can take them, but not fast enough; dust, ash and an avalanche of rocks engulfed them one by one. There was no time to scream. Next comes the trickle of survivors, stumbling blindly away. Many barely make it ten metres before collapsing, the roots of dust hiding them from view. The camera angle changes and she sees the rubble, the bodies ... there are too many bodies to count. She shudders.
There were six survivors.
Two others got to the hospital but died in the secondary attack.
She looks at the stats. One hundred and twenty-seven dead in the bank. Seventy-three dead in the hospital.
Natasha wonders what it is like, to wake up one day and go to the bank and die. To be dead. Does it hurt? Do you know you're dying?
Shit, she types, because she can't think of anything else to say.
Yeah. Coulson's reply is almost instantaneous.
Any update on the target?
We still think Stark's the most likely. Anything on your end?
Still looking.
Stay safe.
She closes her laptop with a snap. The others barely look up. "Monopoly!" Tony shouts gleefully.
"No," say Clint and Bruce in unison.
"Cluedo?"
"Natasha always takes it too seriously," Clint complains.
"That was one time. And I was on drugs."
He snorts quietly. "How about Scrabble?"
There are noises of general agreement (but for the silence from Thor's corner; apparently, he is not familiar with the rules or, in fact, the game itself) and they settle around the coffee table.
An hour later, Natasha, Clint and Thor have given up, and are sat back watching Bruce and Tony battle it out. Somehow, Tony has managed to create edaphology, and Bruce appears unsure of the next move. "You can tell a lot about a person from their Scrabble words," Clint mutters.
"Bruce is choosing anything," Natasha whispered. "He just wants to win. But Stark is choosing the scientific words. Look at him. He could have made rabbit, but he passed instead."
"He's trying to impress us."
This is indeed an interesting fact - Tony Stark, a billionaire scientist and businessman, is trying to impress a small group of people who barely know him and don't care in the slightest how smart he is. Psychologically, he must be trying, at least a little, to impress himself, to make himself feel good, to inspire awe in these people who he doesn't need to.
"Hmm." More loudly, she offers everyone coffee.
As her proposal is met with sleepy nods and yeses, she stands and goes into the kitchen. They're all trying to impress each other, to be sociable and stay up late. Things will settle down in a few days.
She makes coffee for Steve as well, and goes upstairs when she has given the rest of the group theirs. He is dozing when she enters his room, but sits up and accepts the cup gratefully. She sits on Bruce's bed. "So what do I call you?" he asks. "Natasha? Natalie? Nat?"
"Any," she says. "But preferably not Natalie. I get confused."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, not really," she admits. "But whatever. It's easiest to call me Nat, I guess."
"Sure."
She lasts seven and a half seconds. "So what's the deal? With your memories?"
Steve is quiet for a while, and before he has the chance to speak she tells him he doesn't have to answer. He does anyway. "I was a soldier. A captain, apparently. I've got some medals and stuff. I only remember flashes, though."
"You get flashbacks a lot? That stuff back in the vault, right?"
"Yeah. Anyway, what they told me is there was this bomb, and it was a dud. It landed smack bang in the middle of our camp, and didn't explode. We were the only people for miles, so some of us went to look at it, try to defuse it, you know ... it exploded. I got pretty banged up, but I was the only survivor."
"And you woke up in hospital with no memories?"
"Yeah. Gave the doctors quite a scare - burns, cuts and broken bones everywhere and I was stumbling around the wards, shouting and screaming." He smiles humourlessly. "I've had therapy, hypnotism ... I just can't remember the last ten years. It's like - like something really bad happened in those ten years, and my mind doesn't want me to go there."
"Do you want to go there?"
"Yes, but no." He does not elaborate and she does not push any further.
"You think you made enemies?"
"I was a soldier, Nat. I made my living shooting people. Of course I made enemies."
Silence.
"I see what you're doing," he says slowly. "Trying to find out which of us was the target."
"No," she lies, but even the best trained liar in the world couldn't get out of this one.
"I get it. Government agent. You can't just snap out of it. You probably have controllers breathing down your neck. I'd - I'd just appreciate it if - "
"If what?"
"If I felt like I could trust you."
"You can trust me."
"You'd say that even if I couldn't."
She shrugs. "It's still true."
He looks as though he might fall asleep right there and then, so she gets up and leaves.
"I think it's Rogers," she tells Coulson, once she is safely in her room (poky and about the size of a storage closet, with a single bed, a tiny window, a desk crammed at one end and a wardrobe built into the wall). "Think about it. He lost his memories because of a bomb, a bomb that killed everyone but him ... what if someone wanted to finish the job? Finish it with another bomb?"
"I don't know, Natasha ...our money's still on Stark."
"It's not Stark," she says with some confidence.
"Oh?"
"We'd know if there was someone else following him. Trust me."
"Keep looking," Coulson says. "And remember that it could still you one of you two. I'll call if we find anything new."
He hangs up and she stares at the phone in her hand. It has to be Rogers. It can't be Bruce; he's too nice. She can't see anyone wanting to kill Thor. Anyone wanting to kill her or Clint would do it with more style, and she's sure it isn't Stark. She would see another follower, no problem. She's been trained for this.
But there is a niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach. Did she make a mistake? Did she and Clint both? Could they have prevented both the attacks?
Natasha isn't used to self-doubt, and she doesn't like it. Ever since childhood she has had purpose, confidence. She was taught to always know exactly where to go, what to do and how to do it. But joining the SHIELD program has led to work more difficult than she's ever had. There is no right and wrong - hell, there's barely even left and right. Nothing is black and white. It's an explosion of colour. Reds, purples, greens ... mostly reds, admittedly.
Her door swings open and slams shut. Clint lies on the bed next to her, jamming her awkwardly against the wall. "Why'd you leave?"
"I talked to Rogers."
"And?" He doesn't sound particularly interested.
"I think he's the target."
"Seriously? I was pretty sure it was ... oh, never mind."
"Who?"
"It doesn't matter. Hey, this room's tiny. How do you get dressed and stuff?"
"I don't know. I generally change when I'm alone."
If he hears the hint, he does not care, because he doesn't so much as twitch. "No kidding. Last time I walked in on you ... shit. That was nasty."
He didn't actually see anything too bad - she was wearing underwear - but she still broke his nose so that his eyes were swollen shut for a couple of days. It isn't that she cares, particularly, about him seeing her naked (there have been a couple of unfortunate situations, however, such as the torturer in Alabama they failed to kill, and that time in Amsterdam ... but they don't talk about that one. She isn't even sure Clint remembers, he was so drugged up). It's more the idea of their friendship being broken. Clint and Natasha have a fantastic relationship. They're partners.
She knows what romantic involvement can do to a person.
So if there was anything sexual about their relationship, she'd have to break it off, and she doesn't want to do that. Clint is too good a friend to do that.
"That was your fault," she says cheerfully. "Don't walk in on naked women."
"You weren't even naked!" he protests.
"I was naked enough. You're married."
She feels bad for Laura. It must be awful knowing that your husband is in hiding from a terrorist. She's a great woman. Natasha first met her after a mission gone wrong when she had a stab wound in her thigh and Clint didn't know where else to go. Laura put down her newborn daughter, got out a first aid kit and stitched her up without so much as blinking.
Have Cooper and Lila even been told that their father might never come home?
"Doesn't feel like I'm married," says Clint grimly. "It's been four months."
"Seriously?"
"That's how long we've been on the Stark case."
"Have you been calling them?"
"Every night, but we're not allowed cell phones out here. Laura told them I'm going deep undercover. They still think their Dad's awesome, so I guess I'm safe for a while."
"But you're worried that one day it won't be cool any more."
"I'm worried that soon they'll be needing a dad."
Frown lines still etched on his brow, he gets up and leaves Natasha in peace.