Chapter 85:
[Steve Rogers POV]
[New York City]
Walking through the streets of New York City always has a way of grounding me. The noise, the people, the energy—it's a constant reminder of why I do what I do. The day is clear, the sun casting long shadows on the towering buildings across the sidewalks, and for a few moments, I allow myself the luxury of enjoying the simple act of walking. No missions, no battles, no urgent crises to avert. Just the city and its rhythm. Then the comlink buzzes in my ear. I instinctively tense, knowing peace never lasts long in my line of work. But when I glance at the name flashing on the small display, my breath catches in my chest for a split second—Elizabeth Braddock. Psylocke. Of all the people to call. I hesitate, my hand hovering over the comlink, fingers twitching in indecision. It's not that I have a problem with Elizabeth, far from it. But our past—a brief, unexpected fling that neither of us really planned—complicates things. At the time, I had no idea she was part of the X-Men. We connected, shared something for a moment, and then drifted apart once we realized just how entangled our worlds already were. I'd be lying if I said things hadn't felt awkward the last time we crossed paths.
"Get it together, Rogers," I mutter under my breath, shaking off the distraction. I can't afford to be stuck in the past, not with everything going on. I tap the comlink. "Steve here." There's no warm greeting, no awkward small talk—just Elizabeth's voice, sharp and direct, like the warrior she is, "Steve, I need your help. It's urgent." I straighten my stance, feeling the shift in her tone. "What's going on?" "It's the FOH. They've taken a metahuman kid. We have to move fast," Elizabeth presses. The FOH. Friends of Humanity. Every time their name comes up, my gut tightens. They are anything but friends. Extremists, hate mongers, people who see metahumans as something less than human, as threats to their twisted vision of purity. I've tangled with them before. They leave chaos and suffering in their wake, always targeting the vulnerable and always pushing their agenda of fear and division. "Do you have a location?" I ask, already scanning the area for the quickest route to Avengers HQ. This isn't something I can ignore. It never is when the FOH is involved. Elizabeth doesn't waste time, "Yes, but I can't do this alone. They're heavily armed, and we're dealing with more than just a few fanatics. Their operation's grown. It's more organized than before." I nod, though she can't see it. "I'm on it. Send me the details."
As I quicken my pace, weaving through the crowds of New Yorkers who are blissfully unaware of the darkness brewing just beneath the surface of their city, I can't help but think back to that brief time with Elizabeth. We always understood each other on some level—two soldiers in different wars. But now, as she calls for my help, it's clear our personal history doesn't matter. This is about saving a life. About standing against the hate the FOH embodies. Whatever awkwardness lingers from the past has no place here. There's work to be done, and I'll be damned if I let another innocent fall into the hands of monsters.
[Warehouse, New York City]
[Rooftop.] Going by the intel Elizabeth provided, I make my way to the rooftop where she said we'd link up. The city's lights begin to flicker on as dusk settles, casting a mosaic of shadows across the concrete expanse. The air is crisp, carrying the distant sounds of honking horns and murmured conversations from the streets below. I adjust the shield on my back, feeling its familiar weight—a constant reminder of the responsibility I carry. I scan the surrounding buildings, ever vigilant. The rooftop is deserted, save for a few stray pigeons that flutter away as I approach. The hum of the city feels oddly distant up here, almost like a different world. I take a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs, and try to push aside any lingering thoughts about Elizabeth—Psylocke. Now isn't the time for personal distractions. Minutes pass, each one ticking by slower than the last. Just as I begin to wonder if plans have changed, a low, almost imperceptible rumble reaches my ears. I look up to see the sleek silhouette of the Blackbird emerging from the clouds, its engines humming softly as it descends. The advanced stealth jet lands gracefully on the rooftop, the hatch opening with a smooth hiss.
Psylocke steps out first, her gaze meeting mine with a brief nod—professional, focused. Behind her, Gambit emerges, twirling a kinetically charged card between his gloved fingers, a sly grin on his face. Rogue follows, her eyes reflecting a mix of determination and concern. Then comes Wolverine, his rugged frame unmistakable as he strides down the ramp. "Well, look who decided to join the party," Logan says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He walks up to me and extends a sturdy hand. I grasp it firmly, the handshake turning into a brief clasp of camaraderie. "Logan," I reply, a genuine smile breaking through, "It's been a while since we've been in the trenches together." "Too long," he nods, his eyes reflecting a shared history of battles fought and victories hard-won, "Guess the old-timer still got some fight left in 'em, huh?" "Wouldn't have it any other way," I chuckle.
The others gather around us. Gambit gives a playful salute. "Cap," he says, his Cajun accent adding a lilting tone, "Heard you might be taggin' along. Thought we'd need to roll out the red carpet." Rogue smiles warmly, "Good to be working with ya, Captain." I nod to each of them. Psylocke steps forward, her expression all business, "The FOH has fortified their position since our last intel. They've got the kid held in a facility not far from here. Time is of the essence." I meet her gaze, any personal history set aside for the mission, "Then we'd better move fast. What's the plan?" As we huddle together to strategize, I can't help but feel a sense of unity. Despite our different paths and pasts, we're here with a common purpose. The weight of what's at stake presses upon us, but so does the strength of our combined resolve. The FOH won't know what hit them.
[Inside.] The warehouse looms ahead, a hulking mass of steel and brick that blends into the industrial sprawl surrounding it. It's quiet—too quiet. The intel Psylocke provided confirms this is the place, the heart of the Friends of Humanity's latest operation. Somewhere inside, they're holding a young metahuman kid hostage, and every second we waste could mean the difference between life and death. We're crouched in the shadows just outside the perimeter, hidden from the patrolling guards. I glance at each of my teammates, our faces illuminated by the faint glow of the distant streetlights. Wolverine's nostrils flare as he takes in the scents around us, his claws already partially extended. Rogue hovers slightly off the ground, her eyes scanning the rooftop for any signs of trouble. Gambit fidgets with a deck of cards in his hands, always itching for action. And Psylocke—Elizabeth—stays unnervingly still, her psychic energy rippling in the air around her, ready to strike. "Fifteen of them. All armed," she whispers, her voice cutting through the tense air. I nod, processing the information. The FOH has always been a hate group, but lately, they've become more organized and more dangerous. Their hatred for metahumans has evolved into something far more sinister. I grip my shield a little tighter, feeling the weight of the mission settle in my bones.
"Alright," I say, my voice low but firm, "We do this quietly. We take them out one by one, no alarms, no mistakes. Rogue, take the high ground, and secure the roof. Gambit, you're with me. Psylocke, you and Wolverine enter from the east side. We converge at the central storage room. That's where they'll be keeping the kid." Rogue nods and takes off silently into the night, her flight effortless and soundless as she rises toward the rooftop. Gambit gives me a quick grin, the corner of his mouth twitching in that familiar mischievous way. We move swiftly, staying low, using the shadows as cover. The warehouse is heavily fortified, but their patrols are predictable and almost lazy. These men think they're untouchable, hiding behind their tech and their hatred. I'm about to show them how wrong they are. I signal to Gambit, and we take our positions at the side entrance. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a card, charging it with his kinetic energy. I catch his eye and nod. With a flick of his wrist, the card flies through the air, embedding itself in the door's electronic lock. The soft click of the explosion is barely audible, but it's enough to disable the security without raising any alarms.
We slip inside, and immediately, the tension thickens. The warehouse is dimly lit, rows of crates and metal shelving casting long shadows across the floor. I can hear the distant murmur of voices and the occasional shuffle of boots on concrete. Two guards round the corner, their weapons slung lazily over their shoulders. They don't even see us coming. Gambit moves first, his bo staff flashing out in a blur of motion. He sweeps the legs out from under the nearest guard, who hits the ground hard, his head cracking against the concrete with a dull thud. The second guard barely has time to react before I'm on him, my shield smashing into his chest, sending him sprawling into a stack of crates. I crouch over the unconscious guard, checking to make sure he's out cold. No lethal force. These men may be misguided and hateful, but we're not here to kill. We're here to send a message. I signal to Gambit, and we move deeper into the warehouse.
In the distance, I hear the telltale snikt of Wolverine's claws. Somewhere on the east side, he and Psylocke are making their move. We stick to the shadows, taking down two more guards as we make our way toward the central storage room. One of them doesn't even have time to raise his weapon before Gambit takes him down with a charged playing card, the explosion contained and precise. The other guard turns, raising his rifle, but I'm faster. I slam into him with my shield, the force of the blow knocking him into a wall. He crumples, unconscious before he even hits the ground. "Three down," I murmur to Gambit, who flashes a grin. "Only twelve more t' go, mon ami," Gambit says in return. We press on, the sounds of Rogue's flight barely registering as she takes out two guards on the rooftop with quiet efficiency. Over the comlink, her voice crackles softly, "Roof's secure. Moving to your position." I glance at Gambit, and we exchange a silent nod before continuing forward. The closer we get to the central storage room, the more the tension rises. These aren't just run-of-the-mill thugs. They're armed and organized, and from what I can see of their equipment, someone's been supplying them with high-tech weaponry. Advanced rifles, armor, and gear that's far beyond what we've encountered before from the FOH.
We round a corner, and there's a trio of guards standing near the central room's entrance. They're talking, laughing, completely unaware that we're there. Gambit twirls a card between his fingers, but I place a hand on his arm, signaling for silence. This time, we'll need to be quiet. I move in first, slipping behind the closest guard. A quick tap to the back of his head with the edge of my shield, and he's down before he even knows what hit him. Gambit takes out the second guard with a swift strike from his bo staff, and the third guard—now wide-eyed and scrambling for his weapon—gets a charged card to the chest. The explosion knocks him back into the wall, his weapon clattering uselessly to the floor. That's five down. Ten to go. The comlink crackles again, and this time it's Wolverine's voice, "We've got eyes on the kid. He's in a cage, center of the room. They've got him sedated, but he's alive." "Good. Hold your position. Rogue, Gambit, and I are almost there," I say. We make our way to the entrance of the storage room, where Wolverine and Psylocke are already waiting. Wolverine's claws gleam in the dim light, and Psylocke's psychic energy crackles faintly around her, ready to strike.
[Central Storage Room.] Inside, the room is large, filled with crates and makeshift barricades. There are five guards, heavily armed and patrolling around a metal cage in the center of the room. Inside the cage, I see the kid—a young boy, no more than twelve, unconscious and slumped against the bars. My jaw tightens. The sight of a child being held like this treated like an animal simply because of what he is, sends a wave of anger through me. But I push it down, focusing on the task at hand. "Wolverine, Psylocke, take the guards on the right. Gambit, Rogue, with me on the left. We move fast, take them down quietly, and get the kid out." Everyone nods, and we move in. Wolverine is a blur of motion, his claws slicing through the air with deadly precision. He takes out two guards in seconds, his movements quick and efficient. Psylocke follows, her psychic blade flashing as she disables the third guard, leaving him unconscious before he even hits the ground. On the left side, Gambit and I move in tandem. He charges a small stack of crates with his energy, sending them toppling over onto one guard, pinning him to the ground. The last guard whirls around, his weapon raised, but I throw my shield, knocking the rifle out of his hands before slamming into him with a solid punch to the jaw. He goes down, out cold.
In the center of the room, Rogue hovers above the cage, her strength effortlessly ripping the bars apart. She reaches inside and gently lifts the boy out, cradling him in her arms as she descends to the ground. "We got him," she says softly, her Southern drawl tinged with relief. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Fifteen guards down, no alarms, no injuries. We've won this round. But as I scan the room, something catches my eye. One of the guards had dropped his weapon—a sleek, high-tech rifle, far more advanced than anything the FOH should have access to. I kneel down, pick it up, and examine it closely. "This isn't standard FOH equipment," I mutter, my brow furrowing. Psylocke steps up beside me, her eyes narrowing as she looks at the weapon. "Someone's been arming them. This tech... it's military-grade, maybe even beyond that." I nod, a sinking feeling settling in my gut, "This is bigger than we thought."
The Blackbird slices through the night sky, the hum of its engines a steady background to the quiet in the cabin. We're en route to the X-Mansion, where we'll debrief on the mission and dig deeper into the tech the FOH was packing. My mind is still racing from the fight, from the look of that weapon, from the knowledge that someone is backing the FOH with military-grade gear. That's a problem we can't ignore. Wolverine is across from me, his arms crossed, his head tilted back as if he's trying to catch some sleep. But I know Logan. His mind's always working, always scanning for threats, never truly resting. Gambit leans back in his seat, shuffling his deck of cards absentmindedly, his usual nonchalance masking the sharpness in his eyes. Rogue sits near the cockpit, watching the landscape blur beneath us, her brow furrowed in thought. Psylocke is at the controls, piloting the jet with practiced ease. I catch her glancing at me occasionally, but neither of us says much. The mission still lingers between us—professional, sure, but there's an undercurrent of something else. Our history, brief as it was, hangs in the air, though we're both too focused on the present to dig it up.
[X-Mansion, New York City]
The Blackbird touches down softly on the grounds of the X-Mansion, and as the ramp lowers, I take in the sight of the place. I haven't been here in a while. The sprawling estate looks just as I remember—peaceful, even idyllic, despite the weight of what the X-Men carry. A sanctuary for those who need it. We step off the jet in silence, moving toward the mansion's main building. The cool night air bites at my skin, but it's a welcome sensation after the adrenaline rush of the mission. I glance at Wolverine, who catches my eye and gives a grunt. "Always feels strange coming back here," he mutters, "Like the world's goin' to hell outside, but here it's just... quiet." I nod in agreement, knowing exactly what he means. There's a strange contrast to this place—an oasis of calm surrounded by a world that's anything but. It reminds me of what I've tried to protect all these years, what we all fight for, even when the odds seem impossible.
Inside the mansion, the warmth of the wood-paneled halls and soft lighting offer a stark contrast to the cold steel of the warehouse we just left. Psylocke leads the way toward the briefing room, her steps brisk and purposeful. Rogue falls in beside me, her expression still troubled. "Y' think we'll find out who's behind all this?" she asks, her Southern accent tinged with concern. I glance at her, my mind still processing everything. "We'll figure it out. Whoever's supplying the FOH with weapons like that isn't doing it out of the kindness of their heart. There's a bigger play here, and we're going to get to the bottom of it."
[Briefing Room.] We enter the briefing room, where monitors line the walls, displaying intel feeds and mission data. Xavier isn't here—he's likely dealing with other matters—but Hank McCoy, the Beast, is waiting for us, already typing away at a console. His blue fur looks even more vivid under the harsh lighting, and he turns, his glasses reflecting the screens behind him. "You've returned," Beast says, standing to greet us, "I trust the mission was successful?" I place the high-tech rifle we recovered on the table. "It was, but we've got a bigger issue. The FOH is packing gear far beyond what they should have access to. This rifle is military-grade, maybe even more advanced. Someone's supplying them." Beast's brow furrows as he picks up the rifle, examining it closely. "Interesting... This design is unlike anything I've seen before, at least not in human hands. It's possible we're dealing with an arms dealer operating beyond the normal scope of our intelligence." "Or worse," Wolverine growls, stepping up beside him, "We got someone with deep pockets and a real hate for metahumans pulling the strings."
I cross my arms, the pieces of the puzzle slowly starting to come together in my mind, "The FOH has always been about their ideology, but this... this feels organized. Someone's turning them into more than just a hate group. They're being weaponized, and we need to know who's behind it." Psylocke steps forward, her voice calm but with an edge of urgency, "The FOH is growing bolder. If they're being armed, they'll only escalate their attacks. More metahumans are going to suffer if we don't stop them." Beast nods in agreement, his fingers already flying over the keys as he begins running scans on the rifle, "I'll analyze this and see what I can uncover. If there's any trace of where it came from, I'll find it." Gambit leans back in his chair, tossing a card casually into the air and catching it, "So what's next, Cap? We track down whoever's supplying them and shut it down?" I look around the room at each of them—Wolverine, Rogue, Gambit, Psylocke, and Beast. This mission may have started with rescuing a single kid, but it's become clear that the stakes are much higher. The FOH is gearing up for something big, and we're running out of time to stop it.
"We follow the weapons," I say firmly, "We find out who's supplying the FOH, and we shut them down." Wolverine's claws extend with a soft snikt, his expression dark, "Sounds like a plan. Let's make sure whoever's behind this gets the message—mess with metahumans, and you answer to us." Psylocke shoots me an approving smile. I nod, feeling the weight of what's ahead but also the strength of the team around me. This isn't just about one mission or one group of extremists. It's about stopping the hatred that's been brewing for years before it consumes everything we've fought for. "Alright," I say, my voice steady, "We hit the ground running. We're not letting this get any worse. We're taking them down, and we're doing it together."
"So are you suggesting we form a task force? Avengers and X-Men?" Psylocke's voice cuts through the quiet hum of the X-Mansion's briefing room, her tone direct but with an underlying note of curiosity. Her eyes lock onto mine, sharp and calculating, as if she's already running through the possibilities in her mind, weighing the pros and cons of what I'm about to say. For a second, I hesitate. The idea of joining forces with the X-Men isn't something I take lightly. I know the kind of power they bring to the table—the raw force, the skill, the experience. They're soldiers in their own right, much like the Avengers. But they're different. Their battles are more personal, their scars deeper. They've fought wars that the public doesn't even know about, wars for survival, for the right to exist. That's not something I can ever truly understand, not in the way they do. But what's happening now, the escalation we're seeing with the FOH, it's not something we can handle in our usual way. It's bigger. And it's targeting people—kids, for God's sake—who can't defend themselves. We need them, just like they need us.
I take a breath, my mind flashing back to the mission we just finished, to the sight of that boy, barely twelve years old, caged like an animal because he was born with a gift he didn't ask for. My jaw clenches at the memory, and the weight of the decision I'm about to make feels even heavier. "Yeah," I finally say, my voice steady but firm, "That's exactly what I'm suggesting." I let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching as they sink in, not just for Psylocke but for the rest of the team gathered around the table. Logan leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowing like he's waiting for me to elaborate. Gambit is still twirling a card between his fingers, though now his gaze is fixed on me, the casual playfulness replaced by a more thoughtful expression. Rogue, seated next to him, folds her hands in her lap, her eyes reflecting the same question that Psylocke just asked out loud. Beast taps at the console in front of him, his blue-furred hands pausing momentarily as he shifts his focus from the screen to me, curious and perhaps a little surprised.
I continue, my voice growing firmer as I speak, "We can't keep fighting these battles on separate fronts anymore. The FOH has escalated their operations. They're not just a hate group anymore; they're organized, armed with tech that shouldn't be in their hands. Whoever is supplying them, whoever is pulling their strings, has resources and influence that we haven't seen before. We're dealing with something bigger, something coordinated. And if we don't work together—Avengers and X-Men—we're going to be reacting to their attacks instead of stopping them before they happen." Logan grunts, his brow furrowing, "We're good at reacting, Rogers. But I ain't gonna lie, this ain't your average hate group anymore. They've got backers. Someone with serious money." His eyes flick to the high-tech rifle we recovered from the mission, still sitting on the table between us, "Whoever's behind this? They're gearing up for something big. I smell it. And I don't like it."
Psylocke nods thoughtfully, her hand resting on the hilt of her psychic blade as she considers the implications, "A task force would mean coordination, strategy. We'd be combining our resources, our intel. It's a smart move." Her gaze flickers to me, but there's something else there too, a wariness, as though she's not entirely sure how this will play out. And honestly, I can't blame her. The Avengers and X-Men have teamed up before, but it's never been easy. Our methods don't always align. We're heroes, sure, but we're different kinds of heroes. And that difference has led to tension in the past. But I know we can't afford to let that stop us. "Look," I say, leaning forward, my hands resting on the table as I address the room, "I know there's history between us. I know we've had our differences. But this isn't about the Avengers or the X-Men. This is about something bigger. This is about protecting people who can't protect themselves. We can't let the FOH or whoever's backing them continue to operate like this. We've got to hit them where it hurts, cut off their resources, and stop them before they escalate any further."
Rogue speaks up, her Southern drawl is soft but resolute, "Ah don't like the idea of them takin' more kids. We need to put a stop to this, and fast. If workin' together's the way to do it, then I'm in." She glances around the room, her words seeming to resonate with the rest of the group. Gambit tosses his card into the air and catches it effortlessly. "Looks like we gonna be havin' ourselves a little family reunion, then," he says with a smirk, "You know I'm always down for a good fight, especially if it means takin' out scum like the FOH." Logan's expression darkens, his claws sliding out just enough to glint in the light, "If we're doin' this, we're doin' it right. We find out who's behind all this and make 'em regret messin' with us." Psylocke turns back to me, her eyes searching mine for a moment before she speaks again, "If we're going to do this, we'll need to trust each other. Completely. No holding back, no secrets. The FOH isn't just targeting metahumans anymore. They're going after anyone they see as a threat. And that includes your team, Steve."
She's right. I know she is. The FOH's hatred runs deep, and it's spreading like wildfire. They won't stop at metahumans. It's only a matter of time before they start targeting anyone who stands in their way. We're all on the same hit list now. I meet her gaze, the weight of the moment settling over us both. "I know. That's why it's better together as a team." There's a pause, a heavy silence as everyone in the room absorbs the gravity of what's happening, of what we're about to face. But then, one by one, I see the resolve in their faces. This is what we do. We stand together when the odds are against us. We fight, even when it seems impossible. Psylocke nods, her hand gripping the hilt of her blade a little tighter. "Then it's settled." Logan growls, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, "Let's get to work." And just like that, the wheels are in motion.
As the others begin to file out of the briefing room, their murmured conversations fading into the distance, I can feel the air shift. Rogue gives me a small nod before following Gambit out, and Logan is the last to leave, his claws retracting with a familiar snikt as he grumbles something under his breath about getting a drink. The door slides shut behind him, leaving Psylocke and me alone in the quiet, wood-paneled room. The only sounds left are the faint hum of the overhead lights and the soft whirring of the mansion's tech running in the background. I stand there for a moment, the weight of the conversation still settling over me, trying to focus on the mission ahead, but I can feel her presence. I know something's coming. That unspoken tension, lingering ever since we reconnected on this mission, thickens in the silence. I glance toward Psylocke. She's still standing by the table, her arms crossed, her posture calm, but there's something in the way she's holding herself, something just beneath the surface. Her eyes aren't on me—they're focused on the floor, on some invisible point, as if she's trying to decide whether to say what's been on her mind. Then, after what feels like an eternity, she clears her throat, a soft sound that cuts through the quiet and draws my attention fully to her.
I turn to face her, feeling the shift, the undercurrent of something personal that's been left unsaid for too long. "Elizabeth," I say, my voice low but steady, unsure of where this conversation is about to go but knowing it's one we can't avoid any longer. She lifts her gaze to meet mine, and for the first time in a while, I don't just see Psylocke, the warrior, the strategist. I see Elizabeth—the woman I once shared something with, however brief and unexpected it was. There's a flicker of hesitation in her violet eyes like she's struggling to find the right words to break through the professional barrier we've both kept up since our paths crossed again. Her expression softens, but there's still a guarded edge to it. "Steve," she starts, and there's a small, almost imperceptible sigh in her voice, "Before we dive into all of this… before we let the mission take over, I need to clear the air between us."
I don't say anything right away. I just nod, giving her the space to say what she needs to say. Part of me already knows where this is going, but I also know this isn't easy for her. Elizabeth has always been strong—fiercely so—but in moments like these, I remember that beneath that strength, there's a depth of emotion she doesn't always show. She takes a step closer, her arms uncrossing as she lets out a breath, "Back then… when we, well, when we had that brief thing between us, I didn't handle it right. I didn't handle you right." Her voice is softer now, more vulnerable than I've ever heard her, "I ghosted you, and that wasn't fair. I should've said something. I should've explained why I pulled away, why I distanced myself. You didn't deserve to be left in the dark like that." I let her words sink in. I can tell this isn't easy for her, admitting to something she's been carrying for a while. Truth be told, back then, I didn't fully understand why she had cut things off so abruptly. There was no fallout, no argument. Just… silence. One minute, we were on the same page, and the next, she was gone. Part of me had chalked it up to the nature of our lives—being a hero doesn't leave much room for personal relationships, especially when those relationships come with baggage as heavy as ours. But hearing her now, I realize there's more to it than I had thought.
"It wasn't just you," she continues, her voice steadying as she gets it all out, "It was everything. The X-Men, the missions, the constant weight of trying to balance two worlds. I didn't think I could let anyone in, not when I wasn't even sure who I was outside of Psylocke, outside of the warrior." She pauses, searching my face, maybe for understanding, maybe for something more, "I wasn't ready to let myself… care. Not then. I wasn't ready to complicate things with feelings, not when everything around me felt so uncertain." She swallows, her eyes flickering with something—regret, maybe? "But that doesn't mean I didn't care, Steve. It doesn't mean you didn't matter," Elizabeth adds. There's a silence that stretches between us, and I can feel the weight of her words hanging in the air. For a long time, I had put that chapter behind me and focused on the bigger picture, on the missions that never seemed to stop coming. But hearing her now, it all starts to make sense. It wasn't about me. It was about her—about the walls she had built, the struggles she was dealing with, struggles I hadn't seen because I was too caught up in my own world to ask the right questions.
I exhale slowly, crossing my arms as I look at her, really look at her. "Elizabeth, you don't owe me an apology," I say quietly but firmly, "We've all been through things, things that make it hard to let people in. I get that. And back then, I wasn't exactly making it easy either. I was focused on the job, on keeping my distance because… well, because it's what I've always done." I offer her a small, almost rueful smile, "I guess we're both guilty of running from things when they get complicated." She lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, a small, tentative smile breaking through the tension. "Yeah," she murmurs, "I guess we are."
For a moment, we stand there, the tension between us easing as the unspoken things we've carried finally come to light. There's no anger, no blame. Just a mutual understanding, a sense of closure that's long overdue. I step closer, my eyes meeting hers. "Look, we don't have to figure all of this out right now," I say, my voice gentle but resolute, "But I want you to know that I'm here. We're a team, and we're in this together, no matter what happened in the past. That doesn't change what we're doing now." She nods, the weight of the past seeming to lift from her shoulders. "Thanks, Steve," she says, her voice softer, more genuine than before. "I appreciate that. I just… I didn't want this hanging over us, especially with everything we're about to face." I give Elizabeth a reassuring smile, the kind that says everything's going to be okay, even when the world outside is anything but. "We've got each other's backs," I tell her, my voice firm, "Always." For the first time in a while, I see her relax, the tension melting from her posture as she nods in agreement. "Always," she echoes, and with that, the air between us feels lighter, the weight of the unspoken finally lifted. As we stand there in the quiet room, the mission ahead looms large, but at least now, we're moving forward without the ghosts of the past hanging between us.
[Avengers HQ, New York City]
The streets of New York blur past me as I make my way back to Avengers HQ, the usual hum of the city fading into background noise. I've always found something grounding about this city, the way its energy pulses through every street and alley. It's easy to lose yourself in the rhythm of it all, to drown out the noise in your head by focusing on the constant motion. But today, despite the hustle around me, my thoughts drift elsewhere—specifically, to Natasha. I don't know why she's on my mind now; maybe it's the quiet moments between missions that bring these things to the surface. As much as I try to stay focused on the task at hand, there's always that undercurrent of personal thoughts I can't shake. And Natasha... Well, that's complicated. We've been through a lot together—missions, battles, shared secrets that most people will never understand. She's always been there, a constant presence in my life since I came out of the ice. And we've had... moments. Moments that blur the lines between friendship and something more. We've gone out on dates if you can call them that. More like quiet dinners in places where we won't be recognized, trying to act normal in a world where normal doesn't really exist for people like us. We've spent nights together, too, finding solace in each other when the weight of everything we carry gets too heavy.
But the truth is, I don't know if I can call it a relationship. Not in the way most people would. There's no grand declaration of love, no defining moment where we decided we were more than just friends. It's more... casual. Comfortable. Two people who understand each other on a level few others can, but not necessarily because of romantic feelings. And maybe that's the thing. Maybe that's what's been gnawing at me lately. I care about Natasha. Deeply. I value her friendship more than I can put into words. She's one of the few people who gets me, who understands the weight of the shield I carry, both literally and metaphorically. But when I think about what we have—or what we don't have—I can't shake the feeling that it's more about convenience than anything else. We're both warriors, both soldiers fighting battles on too many fronts. It's easy to find comfort in someone who's fighting alongside you, who knows what it's like to live with one foot in the world and the other in the shadows. But is that enough? I let out a slow breath as I cross the street, the familiar towering silhouette of Avengers HQ coming into view. The closer I get to home base, the more I try to sort through these tangled thoughts. Maybe it's that I can't see anything between Natasha and me beyond a platonic friendship. Sure, we've had our moments of intimacy, but they've always felt... fleeting. Temporary. Like two people who need to feel connected to something, someone, even if only for a little while. But is that real? Is it something you build a relationship on?
I don't think so. There's a kind of clarity in admitting that to myself, even if it's uncomfortable. The truth is, I don't know if I'm capable of more than that right now. Not with everything going on. Not with the weight of leading the Avengers, of constantly being pulled into battles that leave me wondering if we'll make it through to the other side. Romance and relationships—those things require something I'm not sure I have to give right now. And Natasha... she's no different. She's a spy, a fighter. Her life is as compartmentalized as mine, maybe even more so. She's always been good at keeping people at arm's length, even when it seems like she's letting them in. I don't blame her for that. It's how she survives. It's how we both survive. But I can't ignore the fact that we're more comfortable in that space between friendship and something more because it's safe. It doesn't demand too much from either of us.
I shake my head slightly as I step through the entrance to HQ, the security systems scanning me automatically as I walk through the glass doors. Inside, the familiar sterile lighting and sleek, modern decor greet me, but my thoughts are still far from this place. They're with Natasha. If I'm being honest with myself, I think part of the reason we haven't taken any serious leaps is because I don't want to. Not really. I don't want to risk what we already have—the friendship, the trust—by trying to force something that isn't there. I'm not blind to her beauty to her strength, but I also know that whatever we have, it's not the kind of relationship that can grow into something deeper. At least, not for me. And maybe that's okay.
Maybe it's enough that we're there for each other when we need to be. Maybe it's enough that we share this strange, unspoken understanding. Because in a world as unpredictable as ours, where the next battle could be our last, maybe all we really need is someone who can stand beside us in the fight and know exactly what we're going through without saying a word. I let out another breath as I head toward the briefing room, the mission details already waiting for me on the screen. There's work to be done, as always. But in the back of my mind, I know this conversation with Natasha is something I'll have to confront eventually. Maybe not today, but at some point, we'll have to figure out where we stand.
[Elizabeth Braddock POV]
[X-Mansion, New York City]
I've just finished debriefing Scott Summers, better known to the world as Cyclops, on everything that went down during the mission. From start to finish, I give him the full rundown—the FOH's stronghold, the advanced tech they're packing that's far beyond what they should have access to, and the team we assembled to take them down. But what catches Scott's attention the most isn't the details of the mission itself. It's the fact that we teamed up with Captain America. Scott stands there for a moment, his expression carefully neutral as he processes what I've just said. He has that look about him, the one that says his mind is always working, always calculating. It's part of what makes him such an effective leader, but it also means you never quite know what he's thinking until he decides to share. He adjusts his visor slightly, the ruby-red glow reflecting off the sterile walls of the briefing room as he considers the implications. I can tell he's a little surprised, though not in a way that suggests disapproval. Just... intrigued, maybe. "Captain America, huh?" Scott finally says, his voice even, but I can see the slight raise of his brow, "That's not a partnership we've leaned on much in the past."
I nod, leaning back in my chair, trying to gauge his reaction. Scott's never been one to object to the X-Men working with other heroes, especially when the stakes are as high as they are now. But this is different. This is Steve Rogers—the living legend, the face of the Avengers. Not exactly someone we rub shoulders with often. "We needed backup," I reply, keeping my tone steady, "The FOH has gotten more dangerous, more organized. It wasn't something we could handle alone, and I asked for his help." Scott doesn't respond immediately. His jaw tightens just a fraction as he absorbs the information. He's always pragmatic, someone who values results over sentiment. If teaming up with Captain America means getting the job done, then I know he won't object. But there's always been an unspoken tension between the X-Men and the Avengers, a kind of unacknowledged rivalry that runs deeper than just the missions we've handled separately.
The Avengers represent the ideal. They're the heroes the world looks up to, the shining symbols of justice that people trust to save the day. They're the ones who get the credit, the ones the media celebrates. Meanwhile, the X-Men are often seen as the outcasts, the ones who fight in the shadows, never quite accepted by the world we're trying to protect. It's not that Scott has anything personal against Steve Rogers or the Avengers—it's just that working with them often highlights the different paths we've had to take. And that difference always sits heavily on Scott's shoulders. "How did it go?" he finally asks, his tone shifting from surprise to something more analytical, "Teaming up with Rogers, I mean. Did he follow our lead, or did we have to fall in line with his plan?" There it is—that subtle hint of skepticism, the suggestion that maybe Captain America isn't the type to take orders from anyone outside of his own team. It's a fair question. I can't blame Scott for asking, considering the kind of presence Steve has. He's larger than life in many ways, and his reputation alone is enough to make anyone question who's really in charge when he's involved.
I let out a small breath, leaning forward as I consider my response. "He respected the plan," I say, keeping my tone level, "We coordinated, and he didn't try to take over. We worked as equals, Scott." I watch as Scott absorbs that, the tension in his posture easing slightly. He gives a small nod, but I can see he's still mulling over the idea of one of the world's most iconic heroes teaming up with us. "I know the Avengers have their way of doing things," I continue, my voice softening a little, "But this wasn't about stepping on each other's toes. We had a common goal, and Steve made it clear he was there to help, not to take charge. We both knew what was at stake." I pause, gauging Scott's reaction before continuing. "We were there to stop the FOH and save that kid. That was the only thing that mattered to him." Scott's expression softens, if only slightly. He's still processing, still weighing the implications of what this alliance could mean going forward. I know Scott better than most. He'd never outright question my decision to work with Steve, not when the mission was successful, but I can see the gears turning in his mind. Cyclops is always thinking two steps ahead, always considering how today's choices ripple into tomorrow's outcomes. That's part of what makes him a great leader. But it also means he carries more weight than he should, constantly second-guessing whether we're making the right moves—not just for ourselves but for the future of all metahumans.
"You think this partnership is going to continue?" Scott asks, his tone now more curious than skeptical, "Or was this just a one-time thing?" I think about that for a moment, my mind drifting back to how Steve handled himself during the mission. How we worked side by side, seamlessly. There was no ego, no need for him to prove he was the superior soldier or the greater hero. He respected our methods and trusted our judgment. That's rare in our line of work, especially from someone like Steve, whose reputation could easily lead others to follow without question. "I think it might," I say after a beat. Scott nods slowly, his expression thoughtful, "If he's willing to help, then we'll take it. But we keep our guard up, Elizabeth. The Avengers aren't us. They don't fight our battles, not in the way we do. We might have the same enemies now, but that doesn't mean we're on the same path." I meet his gaze, understanding what he isn't saying outright. Scott has always been protective of the X-Men, of our mission. And with good reason. We've spent years fighting to prove ourselves, to show the world that metahumans aren't the threat they're made out to be. Teaming up with the Avengers might help us in the long run, but we're still navigating uncharted waters.
Scott might not like the idea of relying on the Avengers, but he isn't going to pass up the opportunity to better metahuman and human relations. "Alright," he says finally, his voice calm but firm, "Let's keep an eye on this. If the FOH is gearing up for something bigger, we need to be ready. If Rogers and his team are in this with us, great." I smile faintly, a small hint of amusement tugging at the corners of my lips. Scott turns to leave while I remain standing in the briefing room, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air. There's no doubt in my mind that the road ahead will be full of challenges, but for the first time in a while, I feel a strange sense of optimism. The X-Men and the Avengers working together—it's not something I would have predicted, but it's a nice change of pace. And if there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that the most unlikely alliances are often the ones that change everything.