That Radium Glow

Chapter 10

"Who's Barney?"

My brother's name dropped from Rogers' lips to punch me square in the gut. He did Sugar Ray proud. I felt the blood drain from my face. I didn't talk about Barney. I couldn't find the words; I'd never been able to find the words. The hole in my heart and the wounds in my body were still raw, even five years on.

"Why d'you ask?" I replied stiffly, even though I already knew the answer.

Rogers' eyes were wide. He looked like he was beginning to regret his question, but he couldn't stop himself. "You were, uh, calling for him."

My heart sank to somewhere around my ankles. It wasn't his business. God only knew what I'd said when I was out, but I didn't talk about Barney. I'd never ask Rogers about what happened to him during the war, not ever. Why the hell should he? Why the hell should I tell him?

I glanced away. Natasha's words still echoed in my ears, hanging in my thoughts like stale cigarette smoke. I bit back the urge to tell Rogers to butt out and mind his own goddamn business. She was right, as usual. He was my partner. Maybe I should start treating him like it.

Sore muscles twinged as I reached up for a wooden shadow-box, set face down on the top shelf of the single bookshelf in my bedroom. Barney's medals rattled against the wood as I wiped away dust with my palm. Bobbi had put it together right after I'd been discharged. I imagined I could still smell her perfume under the dust. I took a deep breath and handed the frame to Rogers.

I knew its appearance by heart even though I hardly ever looked at it. The back of the shadow-box was covered in soft black velvet. There was a photograph of me and Barney pinned to the center of the velvet, the night before we shipped out for Hawaii. Our uniforms were still whole and crisp, our idealistic faces still unweathered by salt and sun. Barney smiled; his arm draped affectionately over my shoulders. I was grinning like a loon. I wished I could remember why.

Barney's Bronze Star and his handful of Purple Hearts were pinned to the black velvet under the photograph. Bobbi had left space for my own medals, too, but I'd never used it. My medals were in a box at the very back of the bathroom cabinet, on the shelf I couldn't reach without standing on a chair.

"He was my brother," I said slowly. The words were thick and reluctant against my tongue. "Couple years older than me. I was still a kid when our parents died. He looked out for me growing up; I was always that pain-in-the-ass little brother getting in trouble, you know? He did the best he could. We enlisted together after Pearl Harbor. Figured why the hell not? It was a ticket out of Iowa, and we wanted to see the world. We had nothin' to lose."

I sat down on the edge of my bed and ran my hands through my greasy hair. Somehow the words began to flow a little freer. "The one good thing our dad ever did was teach us how to shoot. The Marines thought so, too. Me and Barney'd been hunting together since we were kids. I wouldn't have anyone else for a spotter, and besides, it kept us together."

The floorboards creaked a little as Rogers shifted in the doorway. I tensed; almost afraid he was going to sit beside me or make some other kind gesture. But he simply leaned against the wooden trim and crossed his arms over his chest, listening carefully.

"We were on Saipan when we got hit by a mortar while I was setting up a shot," I continued, forcing my voice to stay as dry and toneless as a situation report. If I stuck to the facts it didn't hurt as bad, and I didn't want to crack again in front of Rogers. Once was enough. "I don't know if they spotted us or if they just got lucky. Barney saw it coming, but there wasn't any cover. He jumped on me right before it hit. He died instantly."

Despite my best efforts, there was a lump in my throat and a weight in my heart. "They told me later that his body shielded me from the worst of the blast," I added. Rogers had seen my scars. He'd figure it out. "I'd have died too if Barney hadn't grabbed me. I nearly died as it was. But he saved his pain-in-the-ass little brother one last time."

I reached out and thumbed his Bronze Star; Barney's recompense for saving my life and losing his own. I'd never thought it was a particularly fair trade.

"I'm sorry," Rogers said quietly. I glanced up, startled a little by the sound of his voice. I'd almost forgotten he was in the room while lost in my memories. He looked sad and a little uncomfortable, but there wasn't anything else he could really say. It was all anyone could.

Sudden anger, at Rogers, at Barney, at the whole goddamn war, burned through me. "It's war," I snapped, more harshly than I'd intended. "It happens."

Rogers didn't say anything while I stalked around my bedroom, ripping open doors and drawers and slamming them shut with more than the necessary force while I collected fresh clothing for the day ahead. I brushed past him without a word, heading for my shower. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him replace the shadow-box on the shelf with careful reverence before I pulled the bathroom door shut behind me. Finally, I was alone.

I flipped on the water and waited for it to warm. The old ache gnawed through my ribs, radiating outward from the lonely void in my heart. A lump swelled into my throat and my scars tugged a little as I hugged my arms across my chest against the chilly air.

Christ, I missed Barney.

Whatever was in that damned pill had torn open the old wounds without mercy. I wasn't over it, I doubted I ever would be, but I couldn't face it now. I didn't want to face it now. There was a case to solve. I swallowed hard and slipped into the shower.

The water was hot enough to make me gasp. It scalded my chafed wrists and I swore loudly. I reached to turn it down a little and leaned my forehead against the tiled wall, letting the warm spray beat away at my grief. Somehow I'd pull myself together. I always did. A hot shower always had the power to make me feel like I wasn't doomed. Like everything was clean and fresh, and anything was possible. Even when it wasn't.

I was still no Shirley Temple by the time I'd finished cleaning up, but the hot water had eased both the ache in my chest and the knots in my shoulders. It made it that much easier to face Rogers when I emerged in my shirtsleeves, a tie draped half-heartedly over my shoulder. He was waiting at the table for me, a cup of coffee and a plate of toast and eggs laid out at the place across from him. I raised an eyebrow and he swallowed. "I, uh, thought you might be hungry," he said awkwardly.

He had that same expression he'd had at Banner's crime scene, the one that reminded me of an anxious puppy needing reassurance. It was clear he was trying to make up for asking me about Barney. He watched me uncertainly and I quickly became absorbed in trying to button my cuffs. There had been a subtle shift in our relationship and we could both sense it. He knew about Barney now. It changed things. Strangely, I felt relieved more than anything else. It was like I didn't have to hide anymore.

"I only really know how to do eggs," Rogers added, somewhat apologetically.

I felt the corner of my mouth quirk upward. Eggs were probably all I'd had in the icebox, and that was no fault of his. Suddenly, I was ravenous. "Thanks, Rogers," I replied, dropping into the seat and attacking the food with gusto.

Rogers watched me eat. He still looked uncertain and a little bit pensive. I didn't know why and I didn't want to deal with it. I rubbed my hand across my face and picked up the mug of coffee, casting around for a safe topic of conversation. Work was always good, even though we dealt with violent death on a regular basis. I frowned, trying to remember the details of where I'd last left Banner's case. Right, Samson's warrant. "So where do we stand with the warrant?"

He relaxed, clearly as relieved as I was to break the silence with a neutral topic. "Natasha identified Samson from his photograph," Rogers told me, looking pleased. A thrill twanged through my chest. "He was at the Black Widow with Banner the night he disappeared."

I stiffly leaned back in my chair. The muscles in my back still ached, but I was already beginning to feel a lot more human now that I had something in my stomach. "Well, we got him," I said, nursing my coffee. "But for what?"

"Obstruction, at the very least," Rogers observed. "He's got to know something. Otherwise why risk the lie?"

"I don't get it, though," I complained, absently reaching up to scratch my chin. "What would Samson want with Banner?"

"Somebody drugged him," Rogers agreed. He took a sip from his own mug. "The question is who?"

"And why," I added. "And how does Pym-"

The telephone rang, cutting me off midsentence. I raised an eyebrow at Rogers and got up to answer it. "Barton."

"Agent Barton!" Hank McCoy's cheerful bass boomed through the receiver. I winced and held it a little away from my ear. "You sound terrible. Are you all right?"

I guess I did sound pretty hoarse. "Just a cold," I replied, throwing in a fake cough for good measure. I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Rogers, "It's McCoy." He shot me a confused look and I added, "The medical examiner." I removed my hand and continued the conversation. "You got something for us, Hank?"

Hank hesitated. "Indeed I do," he said, carefully vague. "I've finished the autopsy on the girl; the head trauma."

"Really," I said, snapping my fingers to get Rogers' attention. He guessed what I was thinking and got up to stand beside me. I held out the receiver a little bit so he could listen.

"I'd rather not say over the telephone," Hank continued, still cautious. My heart beat a little faster and I saw Rogers' brow furrow. Was this the break we'd been waiting for? If it had been something simple, McCoy would have just spit it out. "You need to see this one, Clint."

"We'll head over right away," I said. "Thirty minutes or so."

We said our goodbyes and hung up. Rogers left the plates in the sink while I downed the remainder of my coffee and found my jacket. We pulled on our hats and overcoats on the way to my car.

The weather had improved a little while I'd been out. Gunmetal clouds hovered low over the city, teasing flashes of blue sky in a brisk wind off the lake like the promise of ruffled bloomers at a burlesque show. At least the rain had stopped. The only sound was the sticking sound of tires on damp concrete and the rumble of the engine as we headed south towards downtown.

Rogers was quiet and withdrawn; uncharacteristically pensive. Clearly he had something on his mind, and I had the suspicion he was trying to work up the nerve to spit it out. Sure enough, he waited until we were sitting at a traffic signal to drop the bomb.

"I couldn't do it anymore," he said suddenly. His hands opened and closed nervously on his trouser-covered legs. "Follow orders, I mean."

I shot him a confused glance. "What?"

"You asked me why I left the Army," Rogers elaborated. Oh, that. I had asked. It felt like a lifetime ago. He began to run the rim of his hat between his fingers, over and over, like he'd done in the closed ward at Cook County. "I lost someone. It…changes things."

I thought a moment, racking my brains for the fuzzy memories of newsreels I'd seen lying in a hospital bed. An enthusiastic baritone describing a daring raid deep into enemy territory, over images of snow-covered mountains and determined soldiers. Headlines proclaiming that the nation mourned with Captain America. At the time, still reeling from the loss of my brother, I'd simply been glad my grief wasn't on display in movie theaters across the country. "Barnes, wasn't it?" I said quietly.

He smiled faintly. "You have a good memory. No, not Bucky. Though that hurt, more than I could imagine. We grew up together, you know. He was more like my brother than anything else. They got that part right."

Rogers sighed and took the plunge. "According to the newsreels, we were mopping up pockets of SS resistance in the Austrian Alps. We were actually hunting Hydra, the Nazi's top-secret science division." He glanced up at me for emphasis. "They were nasty, Barton, even for Nazis. Human experimentation and such. Bucky was actually one of their subjects for a little while. He…wasn't the same after."

I studied him out of the corner of my eye. Rogers' cheeks were flushed with anger, a righteous anger that I understood better than I'd ever admit. The words seemed to pain him, but now that he'd started he couldn't seem to stop. They spilled awkwardly over each, falling and splashing the sentences together in a stream of story.

"We fought our way into one of their bases. We knew they'd been working on something big, but we had no idea. We found an experimental plane loaded down with enough gas to take out London and the rest of southern England, ready to take off. One of our operatives managed to get on board before Hydra caught up with us and we were pinned down. There was nothing we could do once it took off; it was too fast for us to shoot it down. She didn't have a choice. She crashed it in the Channel."

Rogers paused for a moment there, and when he spoke again there was a curious choke in his voice. I had a sudden sinking feeling about this operative. He took a deep breath and I could see the effort it took him to finish his tale. "Her name was Peggy Carter. She was my fiancée. I stayed on the radio with her until…it happened."

"Jesus," I muttered. I didn't know what else to say. I had a sudden horrible image of Bobbi behind the controls of a plane, grimly determined as she rushed towards slate-gray waves. I shuddered and ran a hand awkwardly through my hair. I was slowly realizing that there was a lot more to Steve Rogers than Captain America and his good looks. Maybe I shouldn't have been so much of a heel.

But Steve Rogers was made of stern stuff. He pulled himself together and continued. "Things changed after Peggy died," he said, looking at his hands. "Bucky, too. I just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't get up and smile for the cameras and pretend like everything was fine and good in the service of Uncle Sam. I was tired of watching the people I cared about sacrifice everything for that. So I finished out my tour and asked for a discharge."

"Can't say I blame you," I said aloud. I'd have done the same, but without the asking first.

Rogers snorted. "That's not what Colonel Phillips said." He rubbed his chin. "I still wanted to serve, though, somehow. I tried to join the Secret Service; what better way to serve than to protect the President? But they told me I was too famous. Director Fury suggested I apply to the Academy instead, and here I am."

"The Secret Service, really?" I said wryly, trying to lighten the mood. We'd dwelled enough for one day. "Well, their loss. Can't believe anyone would pass up that jawline of yours, Rogers."

He managed a watery smile, but his eyes remained distant. We fell into a slightly uncomfortable silence. I signaled and changed lanes, the gold dome of the Federal Building looming through the passenger side window. Rogers didn't seem to see it. Neither of us spoke for several moments. I forgot sometimes that I wasn't the only one who had lost, the only one with a void in my heart and an empty place at my table.

"I, uh, just thought you should know," Rogers explained awkwardly, breaking the silence. I glanced at him and suddenly I felt a little less lonely. Maybe he forgot sometimes, too. "You trusted me. Figured it was my turn."

I swallowed another smart-ass reply. Barney would have been proud of my restraint. "Well, thanks," I said soberly. It was now or never. After a beat I added: "Sorry I been such a heel."

Rogers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Didn't mean to drop it all on you like that."

"Hey, what are partners for?" I shrugged. It was the first time I'd used the word and actually meant it. Rogers looked up, so hopeful and relieved all at once that I chuckled. I held up a warning finger. "Just so long as you ain't expecting these little chats every day, Cap. A guy has a reputation to maintain."

"Fair enough," Rogers replied. He smiled hesitantly. "So long as you promise to stay out of the crazy-pills."

The same orderly was in the morgue's antechamber, leafing through the same dog-eared comic book. He waved me through without so much as a cursory glance. He did a double take when Steve Rogers passed, and he looked up gaping. I shot him my steely glare until he looked back at the comic book and rapped on the glass door with my knuckles. Dr. Hank McCoy appeared a moment later, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He smiled at me and gestured us in.

He shook my hand warmly. "You don't look at all well, Clint," he observed, peering at me through the absurdly tiny spectacles perched on the end of his thick nose. "Are you all right?"

"Didn't sleep very well," I replied. It wasn't exactly a lie. I'd been out for over a day and now that the coffee was wearing off, I could feel an exhausted ache creeping back into my bones.

"And this must be Agent Rogers!" McCoy said brightly. He shook Rogers' hand with enthusiasm. "I'm Hank McCoy, medical examiner. Wonderful to meet you at last."

Rogers brightened like he did any time anyone called him Agent instead of Captain. "Pleasure," he replied. "Barton says you've got something interesting for us, Doctor?"

"Hank, please," the big man said pleasantly. "If you'll follow me."

We followed him into the bowels of the basement. I could feel my heart pounding a little harder when we reached the autopsy theater. McCoy ran a tight ship, so the white tile and stainless steel gleamed brightly enough to make me see spots, but it still had that antiseptic hospital smell with an emphatic whiff of death below. There was something covered by a clean white sheet on one of the tables, with neat piles of documents beside it. A couple of x-rays were tacked to a light-cabinet nearby.

"Her name is Doreen Green," McCoy said, gesturing to the body under the white sheet. "Twenty-two years old, moved to Chicago from Gary a year ago. She worked as a cigarette girl at the Black Widow bar. Her flatmate reported her missing last Monday, after she failed to return home after her shift Sunday night. I identified her by her dental records, for obvious reasons."

Rogers and I glanced at each other. That lined up with when Banner had been at the bar. The timeline certainly fit. "Do you know how she died?" Rogers asked.

"That's why I called you down," McCoy said. He pulled back the sheet, exposing the now-clean hair of Doreen Green. I braced myself, but her neatly parted hair covered the worst of the damage to her skull. That was Hank McCoy. He always tried to give them some dignity, even on a metal slab. "Miss Green was not beaten to death."

"What?" I exclaimed. Rogers' brow furrowed skeptically.

McCoy indicated a small mark on the back of the girl's neck, between the knobs of bone near her hairline. Rogers bent slightly to get a closer view, and I had to squint a little to distinguish it from the scrapes and cuts caused by the pavement. I frowned questioningly up at McCoy.

"Notice the edges of this cut?" he said. "Very smooth. Not ragged, like you'd expect from a scrape. A sharp instrument made this cut. I've seen similar wounds on bodies brought in by Organized Crime."

A small wound to the back of the neck made by a sharp, probably pointed object, usually brought in by the- I blinked. "She was ice-picked?" I exclaimed again.

"Not exactly, but the general idea holds," McCoy continued. "Based on the size of the wound and the marks on the bone revealed by the x-rays, it was a somewhat larger instrument. But yes, she was killed by a single, expert thrust through the spine and into the brain. She died instantly, and thankfully, before the head trauma was inflicted."

Rogers looked sick. I felt my jaw drop. "But what about the blood we found at the scene?" I protested. "There was blood everywhere. Banner was covered in it!"

"It's not her blood," Hank said. "It's the correct type, yes, but there's simply too much of it. It did not all come from her body." Rogers and I looked at each other, dumbfounded. Hank gently covered the girl's body again and glanced up at us. "Someone went to great lengths to do this, Clint. And someone took great pains to try to hide her actual cause of death."

"It couldn't have been Banner," Rogers breathed, after a moment. We both knew why. "There's no way."

McCoy moved to wheel the girl back into the chilled room. "Hank, did you ever get anything on those pills I gave you?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain casual.

"Well, they're not iodine," McCoy replied over his shoulder.

Y'think? I mouthed at Rogers behind his back. He grinned for an instant before Hank turned around to pull the door shut and we had to put our serious lawman faces back on.

"It's quite an odd compound, Clint," McCoy continued, removing his gloves and throwing them away. He moved to the table to collect his paperwork and the x-rays, tapping them into neat stacks as he did so. "It appears inert until exposed to alcohol, specifically ethanol. The reaction produces something that resembles a synthetic hallucinogen that I've encountered before, but I'd need to do the crystallography to be certain."

I bit my lip. Well, that explained a lot. I'd been drinking that night. So had Banner, the night he disappeared. And-

"I gave Banner a drink from my flask," I muttered to Rogers in an undertone, while Hank shuffled into his office to put away his paperwork.

"What?"

"The day we found him," I whispered, resisting the urge to smack my forehead with the heel of my hand. "He must have convinced them to let him take one of the pills. I think it put him in the psych ward."

Rogers gaped at me. Talk about sheer dumb luck. If I hadn't given Banner that drink, who knew how this would have played out?

"Hank," I called, and Hank's head popped out of his office. "If someone taking these, uh, hallucinogen things, drank alcohol, what would happen?" McCoy shot me a knowing look over his glasses, and I squirmed under his accusing gaze. He didn't call me out, though, and I hastily added: "We think Bruce Banner might have been, uh, under their influence at the time of Miss Green's death."

"Well, I would expect several hours of intense hallucinations, at the very least. The substance in the pills is quite concentrated; I can't imagine it would be pleasant."

"About how long do you think the effects would last?" Rogers asked, following my thinking.

McCoy shrugged. "Without further testing, it's difficult to say. It depends on the concentration of the drug, duration of exposure, the metabolism of the person, acquired tolerance-"

"Okay, we get the picture," I interjected. "Ballpark figure, if you can."

He removed his glasses and polished the little lenses on a handkerchief from his pocket. "At least eight hours, possibly twelve, if the substance is as psychoactive as the other drugs I've encountered. However, if it's as powerful as I suspect, the effects could last well over a day."

"How capable would someone experiencing these hallucinations be?" Rogers asked. He already knew the answer to that question. I shifted uncomfortably.

Hank cocked a very hairy eyebrow at him. "You mean would he or she be able to kill Miss Green? I should think not. It was a very precise stroke that would have required a steady hand. An expert hand, even. Her post-mortem injuries could have been caused by someone under the drug's influence, but not the blow that killed her. It's simply too precise."

Rogers looked at me and I looked at him. We both knew Hank spoke the truth. A taut thrill vibrated through my stomach and the little hairs prickled on the back of my neck. My gut instinct had been right. Banner did not murder Doreen Green. He couldn't have.

"There's no doubt, then," I said aloud. "Bruce Banner was framed."

A/N: please review! :)