Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
The bar was dim and grimy, a thick layer of dust turning the light a sickly amber color. He sat at the end of the bar, gloved hands wrapped around the glass he stared into blankly. A girl who looked too young to be drinking herself washed glasses behind the counter, another man sitting across from her and watching. Above them a grainy tv buzzed slightly as a news anchor sat at his desk and smiled toothily into the camera.
“And the banquet also received some superpowered guests. Avengers Tony Stark and Thor arrived in style as always, bringing along Stark Industries CEO Virginia Potts and Nobel-prize winning astrophysicist Jane Foster. Steve Rodgers and Sam Wilson, better known as Captain America and Falcon, also attended. The two caused quite a stir when they first publicly came out, shortly after the SHIELD disaster in Washington, and have both been very vocally active in the LGTB community since. Rodgers had a rare comment about his relationship last night.”
“He's just- he's one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I was so lost, in this brand new world, and Sam was one of the first people to make it feel like home. Like it was real. Not just some strange place I'd been visiting for a few years.”
“Faggots,” the man next to him muttered. A voice echoed around the gloved man's head – hey. Why don't you show a little respect?
“You say something?” he growled instead.
The man down the bar rolled his eyes and leaned over the bar, grinning predatorily at the girl. “So, sweetheart,” he drawled. “What time you get off tonight?”
The girl looked up. The man at the end of the bar recognized her expression, even from where he sat staring into his drink. It was the look a wild animal has when it first realizes it has been trapped.
“I gotta lock the place up,” she said.
“After that.”
“It takes a while.”
“I can wait.” His hand reached out across the table to catch her wrist.
It never made it.
The man with the gloves on his hands had snapped the glass in his hands down the bar so that it smashed on the other man's wrist. Glass and liquor rained down with a strange clattering sound to the counter. He was standing, slowing pulling off his gloves.
“What the fuck?” the other man spat, clutching his wrist.
“She's not interested,” he said, calmly. He tossed his gloves down on the counter, flexing silver fingers against normal before balling them into fists.
The other man staggered upright, limping the few steps forward till they were face to face. They stood for a moment, staring each other down, sizing each other up. The man with the bleeding wrist threw the first punch. The man with the silver fist let it break across his face without flinching, nothing changing in his big dark eyes. Then he flashed three quick hits – gut gut face- and the other man was down.
“I don't like you,”the silver-fisted man hissed, crouched over the man who whimpered and bled on the floor. “Even if you weren't able to pick up on basic body language, you still just seem like a shitty person.” He leaning in closer, considering, wiped some of the blood off the other man's face with cold silver fingers. “Maybe it's your face.”
He sat back, feet planted on the man's wrists. He felt one of them give way under his thick soled boot and the man screamed in pain.
“I'm going to get up now,” he said. “I suggest you find yourself a new bar.”
He stood, taking care to roll his feet across the man's fingers as he did. The other man pushed himself backwards frantically, scrambling away from the dark haired man with the silver fist and the empty eyes, pulling on his gloves in front of the bar.
“Who the fuck are you?” he spat, terror in his eyes.
The dark haired man sighed, dropping a few bills on the bar from his wallet. “You know,” he said. “I've been asking myself the same question.”
The early morning sunlight streamed just over where Bruce lay pressed up against the window to land lightly on Natasha, turning the bare skin of her shoulders and face to a pale gold and setting her hair aflame. He sat up on one elbow, watching her steady breathing, the peace on her sleeping face.
“You're staring,” she murmured, not opening her eyes.
He smiled, reaching to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “You're beautiful.”
She blinked open her eyes, a soft smile spreading across her face. “Good morning,” she said, stretching forward to kiss him.
“How long have you been awake?” he said quietly.
She shrugged, shifting closer to him so that her shoulder pressed up against his bare chest. “Not long.”
He kissed her again, feeling her lips curling up into a grin under his. “I could get used to waking up like this,” he said breathlessly. She laughed, curling up into his chest and tucking the top of her head under his chin. His hand came up to stroke her hair.
“We should get up,” he said finally.
She pushed back, a slightly impish look on her face. “Not yet,” she said, rolling across the bed to fumble over the side. She found what she was looking for and rolled back, tossing a magazine onto his chest. “Here,” she said. “Read this. I'll go make us breakfast.”
She slid out from under the covers, scooping up her worn robe from the floor and slipping it on. Bruce watched her appreciatively.
“Sit,” she said. “Read the magazine. I'll be right back.”
Steve heard the sounds of breakfast crackling down the hall and turned to head for the kitchen, towelling off his hair as he went. He stopped just inside the doorway, surprised to see Natasha standing at the stove in a gray robe and bare feet, humming softly to herself.
“I didn't know you cooked.”
She didn't start or turn, just shrugged, as though his remark had been a continuation of a previous conversation.
“Only on special occasions,” she said with a grin. “Sit. I'll make you some.”
Steve did. He could already feel his muscles relaxing, only minutes after a twenty mile run, but there was enough of a twinge that he appreciated the relaxation of sitting. He remembered with a wince the days when he would collapse, muscles aching, after any heavy exertion. “Christ, Stevie,” Bucky had said. “Why do you do it if you know you won't be able to move after?”
“What's the special occasion?” Steve said, opening up the paper. “Oh, Tony made the front page again, he'll be proud.”
He flipped to the styles section and began ripping out the pictures he found interesting to tuck away in his studio later on. It was a lazy Monday morning. Upstairs he could hear the occasional shriek as the Barton clan prepared itself for school.
Footsteps gently padded down the stairs and a sleepy-looking Clint appeared, baby Nate chewing on one shoulder.
“Morning,” he said, shuffling over towards the fridge. “Mind if we borrow some milk? We're all out upst-”
He stopped dead, staring at Natasha, who was distinctly avoiding his gaze. A wide, shit-eating grin crawled up his face.
“You had sex last night!”
Steve's eyebrows shot up his forehead. Natasha said nothing, lips pursed like she was trying to fight a smile.
“You did!” Clint crowed. “You got well and truly fucked last night.”
“For gods sakes, Clint, you're holding your child in your arms,” Steve said.
Clint shrugged. “He can't understand me.” He turned to the baby on his hip. “Guess who got laid last night, buddy?”
Steve got up and plucked the child from Clint's arms, which only freed him to start dancing around Natasha like a lunatic.
“I can kill you with this spatula,” she deadpanned.
“I have known this woman for over a decade,” Clint said to Steve triumphantly, pushing up to sit on the counter, “and the only times I have ever seen her cook is after a particularly good-”
“No need to elaborate,” Steve said hurriedly. “I can guess.”
Shuffling feet could be heard in the hall and Pietro, bed-headed and sleepy eyed, meandered through the kitchen. He paused, blinking hard at the stove.
“Why is Romanoff cooking?”
“Because she got laid last night,” Clint said smugly.
Such a similar grin to the one Clint had sported earlier crept across Pietro's face that Steve wondered for a moment whether they could actually be related.
“Congratulations,” Pietro drawled.
“Tell me everything,” Clint said. “Size, stamina-”
“Color,” Pietro interjected.
Natasha leveled them with a glare that had made terrorists cry. “I don't kiss and tell.”
“That's boring,” Clint said. “Tell me tellmetellme.”
“Isn't your wife waiting for you upstairs?” Natasha said, smacking Clint with the spatula.
“I am flighty and irresponsible and she knows this,” he said.
“I've always wondered about Banner,” Pietro said musingly. “How much of the other guy makes an appearance in the bedroom?” Natasha chucked an egg at his head without turning. Pietro's hand flashed up to pluck it out of the air.
Natasha slid a plate of eggs across the table to Steve, still bouncing baby Nate on his knee.
“Where's mine?” Pietro said.
“You don't get any,” she said coolly.
Steve smirked at Pietro and dug in. The eggs were delicious, light and airy.
“You even think about nabbing a piece of my bacon and I'll have you running drills till you collapse,” Steve warned. Pietro pouted.
“Don't worry, kid, Laura made you a stack of pancakes,” Clint said, hopping off the counter. “Alright. I got to take some milk up to my wife and then track down a demigod.”
“Bruce and I are taking a sick day,” Natasha said airily, scooping up the remaining plates and sashaying out of the room. Barton oohed and Natasha flipped him off gracefully before disappearing into Bruce's suite.
“Have fun,” Steve called after her. Pietro pulled Nate onto his own lap, making puppy dog eyes at Steve.
“Can I take a sick day too?”
“We need to talk.”
Thor whirled around with a curse. Clint stood in the shadows, glaring at the demigod. Thor sighed.
“Barton. I am off to meet Jane at the moment, can it-”
“No, it can't wait. You've been avoiding me for weeks now.”
Thor nodded slightly, looking around. The day was in full swing, and most of the base's other occupants were running around in either the training rooms or labs. Voices could be heard down the hall. “Can we take this outside?”
It was a gorgeous day, blue sky, sunshine, and mild enough that neither Clint in full Kevlar or Thor in jeans and a tee-shirt was uncomfortable.
“Alright,” Thor said. “Out with it.”
“You need to tell people about your brother,” Clint said bluntly.
Thor looked stonefaced.
“Look, you asked me not to say anything and I didn't,” Clint said. “I figured you were right, you know? We had enough to deal with, what with Bruce coming back and Pietro readjusting to, well, life, but its been months. If your brother is out there, we need to figure out how to deal with that. Because we will have to deal with it. Soon.”
“I just – I need to know. If it's true.”
“The queen of Hell told you herself!” Clint snapped. “Let's just assume that she knows what she's talking about.”
“He hasn't done anything,” Thor said.
“Yet,” Clint said grimly. “Look. I'll give you a week or I'm telling Tony and Steve myself. You may have forgotten how dangerous he is, but-” Clint's hand drifted almost unconsciously over his heart- “I sure haven't.”
“I know,” Thor murmured. “You're right.”
“One week,” Clint said, turning to head back to the base. “Tell Jane I said hi.”
“Again,” Steve called, arms crossed over his chest.
Wanda sighed heavily, repositioning herself across from Vision and Pietro.
“Go,” Steve said.
Her brother came at her first, zipping into invisibility until she threw out an ankle high red blast which caused him to stumble and fall. She didn't have time to finish him off before Vision came soaring down from above and she had to shield herself with another burst of red energy that sent the android soaring backwards.
“Guard your back,” Steve called, and she whirled around to see her brother blurring towards the target she was supposed to be guarding. She sent a wave of energy to lift it into the air – and felt Vision crash into her back, sending her tumbling to the ground.
They landed softly, Vision hovering inches above her, thoroughly distracting Wanda from the exercise.
“You need to look behind you,” Vision murmured. Wanda reached up to stroke his cheek.
“I can't really say I mind the end result,” she said.
An irritated cough sounded above them. They looked up to see Pietro and Steve glaring down at them.
“You lost,” Pietro said grouchily.
Wanda let Vision help her to her feet, sticking her tongue out at her brother. Mature, he thought at her. She mentally flipped him off.
“You're too focused on one thing,” Steve said. “You need to learn to trust your powers to see things for you. I've seen you do it before, just trusting the magic.” He shrugged. “Maybe I should blindfold you.”
“What's going on in here?”
Steve's face lit up, his whole energy changing into something lighter as he turned to beam at Sam making his way across the floor. Wanda smiled for a moment at the feel of it.
“Hey,” Steve said.
“Hey yourself,” Sam said, reaching Steve and kissing him lightly. “What are we doing?”
“Steve wants me to fight blind,” Wanda said sullenly.
Sam nodded. “That's probably not a bad idea.”
Wanda huffed.
“No, think about it,” Sam said. “You spend so much time trying to keep all that extraneous info your powers give you out, to focus on just one thing. But in a fight, that constant awareness gives you your edge.”
“Blindfolding you might force you to use that sixth sense more,” Steve finished.
“Or she might wind up randomly blasting the walls,” Pietro said dryly. Wanda glared at him.
“We can try it later,” Steve said. “We've been at this all day. You're all slipping. Pietro, your sister should never have been able to trip you up like that.”
Ha, Wanda thought victoriously.
I still won, her brother replied irritably. To Steve, he merely nodded.
Let's go, Wanda thought to Vision. I'm hungry.
She pulled him off towards the exit and kitchens, leaving Steve, Sam, and Pietro alone in the training room.
“I'm going out,” Pietro declared.
“Where?” Steve said.
“I want a drink. I have my comm.” And with that, he was gone.
“I missed you this morning,” Sam said, wrapping his arms around Steve's waist. Steve pressed a kiss to his temple.
“I figured you could use the sleep.”
“You know I didn't mind.”
Steve nodded. “Still.”
It had been a horrifying screaming nightmare, the kind Steve hadn't had since before the Hydra fiasco, and he'd woken up in a cold sweat, feeling nothing but terror and a certainty that his lungs were freezing in his chest. He couldn't remember how he'd survived them before he had Sam's warm arms to bring him back to himself. Even with Sam holding him, he had spent two hours shivering with ice in his veins and Peggy's voice in his ear.
Sam yawned. “Well, now I could use some coffee. You wanna go out? There's that cute little shop not far from here, we could steal one of Tony's cars and go for a ride.”
Steve just beamed at him, happiness swelling in his chest, and the phrase that had been waiting on the tip of his tongue for the past month finally slipped out. “I love you.”
Sam stared for a moment, just long enough for Steve to question and regret every single decision he'd ever made in his actually exceptionally long life that had lead him to this moment, and then he smiled. “Did you just say you loved me?” he said finally.
A hot flush was pounding under Steve's cheeks. Sam laughed, cupping his face with his hands. “You love me,” he said again.
“Not a problem, is it?” Steve said. Sam just smiled.
“Problem? I highly doubt anyone would call it that.” He kissed him softly. “I love you too.”
Steve laughed, relaxing. “That's a relief.”
“Mm-hmm. I imagine it is.”
They didn't say anything else for a while after that.
The music was loud and giving Camilla a headache. So, for that matter, was her friend, who had disappeared into the crush of bodies what felt like an hour ago and hadn't been seen since.
Camilla decided to give up searching for her and pushed her way out of the bodies and off the dancefloor into the much quieter bar.
“I'll take whatever you have on tap,” she told the bartender, collapsing onto a stool. The man next to her tilted clear blue eyes at her questioningly.
“Not thrilled with the dancing, I see?”
His voice was thick with an accent, too heavy to be a play. It was a nice accent, a nice voice, quiet in a way that made her want to listen. She shrugged.
“Not thrilled with all the sweaty strangers dancing puts you in physical contact with.”
He smirked, nodded. “I like dancing,” he said. “But then, I just like to move. My sister, she says she's never actually seen me sit still. Says I'm always moving something.”
It was true – his right hand was busily spinning a coin between his fingers impossibly fast.
“I like sitting still,” Camilla said.
He shrugged. He was dressed simply but well – a white tee-shirt under a black sports coat, all obviously high end without being flashy, bleached hair shaggy without being messy.
“So where are you from?” she said, well and truly intrigued at this point.
“Upstate,” he said with another smirk. It was a terribly attractive smirk.
“Where before upstate?”
“Sokovia,” he said.
“The flying country?”
“We're also the number one producer of berry preserves in the world. No one ever mentions that,” he said.
“Was that why you moved? The flying, not the berries.”
He shrugged. “Sort of. Mostly for work.”
“Where do you work?”
He smiled mysteriously. “It doesn't really matter.”
Camilla raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like something a mafia hitman would say.”
He laughed. “Do I seem like a mafia hitman?”
“No, you seem like a Russian equivalent of the mafia hitman.”
“I'm not a hit man,” he said, eyes sparkling.
“Very convincing,” she said.
The bartender slid her drink across the counter.
“So,” the man next to her said. “You don't like dancing, you don't like strangers. Why are you here?”
“My friend brought me,” she said.
“Ahh,” he said.
“Tale as old as time, right?” Camilla laughed. “And now, typically, she's completely disappeared.”
“That doesn't seem right,” he said. Camilla shrugged.
“I can't really say I mind right now.”
The man smiled, lips parting enchantingly as he did, and Camilla felt herself leaning closer -
A loud, urgent alarm sounded from his pocket.
“Fuck,” he moaned, pulling back and taking out his phone. “Really, Captain? Now?”
“What is going on?” she said.
“Fuck,” he said again. “Listen, I have to go.”
“Really,” she drawled coldly. He huffed, bit his lip. She felt very irritated by how very endearing it was.
“Trust me,” he said. “It's life and death.”
“You really are a hitman, aren't you?” she said.
“Quite the opposite, actually,” he said. “Look, I really liked talking to you, and – do you know the Stark tower?”
“Everyone knows the Stark tower.”
“Go to the lobby and drop off your phone number for Mr Stark if you want me to have it,” he said. “I'll tell him to watch out for it.”
“You know Tony Stark?” she said, dumbstruck.
He smirked again. “You've heard of the Avengers?”
“Everyone has,” she said.
He grinned, suddenly inches away from her, having moved faster than the eye could see. “I'm Quicksilver.”
And with that, he was gone.
“This better be a real fucking scary monster,” Pietro growled into his comm. “I just had to leave a very pretty girl all alone at a dance club.”
“I'm sure she was heartbroken,” his sister drawled back.
“Okay, kids, cut the chatter,” Steve said as the quinjet touched down just outside the tower and the doors opened wide. “Pietro, how long till you-”
Pietro appeared at his shoulder. “Never mind. Stark, what do we got?”
“Another asshole is attacking my tower,” Tony said. “Seriously, I'm done. If I knew having a tower would be this much trouble, I never would have done it.”
Rhodey and Tony were already in the air, swapping lasers with robots who rolled swarmed the streets. They were tall and humanoid, all a little eerily similar to the Iron Man suits, but with none of Tony's flash and polish, and, apparently, no one inside.
Wanda groaned. “I hate robots.”
“What?” Vision said, concerned.
There were no civilians on the street, but the Avengers were disconcertingly outnumbered. Steve looked over at Bruce.
Bruce sighed. “Code green?”
“Looks that way,” Steve said.
Bruce nodded and stepped out of the quinjet before shrugging slightly and exploding into his alter ego.
“I liked that shirt,” Natasha said regretfully, following him out.
Within a minute they were in the heat of battle, lights flashing and smoke slowly filling the square. The Hulk ripped apart machine after machine as Clint and Natasha stabbed them with EMPs.
“Is this Hammer?” Steve yelled, catching the brunt of a robot's arm on his shield.
“Yes,” Tony yelled back. “Can I prove it? No. Is it him? Yes.” He blasted another robot out of the sky, taking great pleasure in melting down its face with his repulsors.
Above them, Vision was tearing robots off the walls of the tower with an ease and grace that seemed almost bored.
A robot turned away from the battle, lurching off down towards where Steve knew civilians were huddled, and he flung his shield like a frisbee, watching it catch the machine at its waist-
“Steve!” Sam screamed.
A metal arm was swinging down towards him. Steve pulled back, falling, knowing it was too late, that the arm was going to connect -
And it was stopped with a loud metal twang.
A dark haired man in a sweatshirt and filthy jeans was standing over him, one metal fist wrapped around the robots arm. He twisted savagely and the arm came off. He tossed it aside carelessly and then punched clean through the robot's chest. It fell with a sad, run down whine, and the man turned, slowly.
“Bucky?” Steve panted.
The man's brown eyes met his steadily.
“Steve.”