Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mikha’el - Who is like God

Gavri’el - God is my strength

Rami’el - Thunder of God

Uri’el - God is my light

Y’hez’qel - God will strengthen

Razi’el - Secrets of God

There is a war coming.

God saw it.

God sees everything. He may have to turn a little to see it all—but He is God and so He sees this war from before the Fall and before the Flood and the beginning of Time itself.

Lucifer can see too.

Lucifer can see that humans, those fascinating, strange, free creatures on one tiny blue marble are neither angels nor demons, neither blindly obedient nor tormented into insanity. Humans can be good, or bad, or a thousand shades of gray in between the two polar opposites.

Lucifer can see that humans are also weak, lost, with no guiding force. They lost faith in God and turned to science long ago¹. They are without direction, without a leader; free, yet wandering.

Lucifer can see an open position, and he does not hesitate to leap at any opportunity.

Which is why God will be damned before he lets his humans fight this war on their own—a war which they will never see coming, a war which will overtake them like a tidal wave and drown them in darkness before they know it.

He is, after all, the Father, and they are His children, and he will not abandon them.

So He takes his six best, His most loyal and brightest servants, and He takes their essences, their very souls, and pours them out on the whole of Creation, letting them take shape and body as they will. Each angel chooses their vessel—the humans mostly unaware that another soul rests within them, and time passes as usual, the angels biding their time.

Until January the eleventh, in the year 2011 Anno Domini, at three o’ clock in the morning, when two things happened at once.

The first: Steven Rogers, budding artist and recent graduate from SVA, opened his eyes and asked for a drink. This would have been perfectly normal on any other occasion, but Steven Rogers had been comatose for the past four months in Kings County Hospital Center following a commercial plane crash into the North Atlantic.

The second: Maria Hill, currently unemployed and former policewoman, opened her eyes--and after several minutes where she tried to convince herself it was just another bad dream, she crawled out of bed and sat huddled in a chair, staring out the window until the sun came up over Brooklyn.

1- As if a few hundred repeated occurrences on one little planet for a few thousand years are actually laws of science. How ludicrous.

Chapter Text

Jan. 11th 2011 6:47 AM-
Writing down dream so I'll remember, though I don't think I'll have any trouble--this one was very vivid. It started out like a normal dream, just any dream. I think I was in a park somewhere and it was raining, but then it just switched, very suddenly to a completely different dream. When it switched I was suddenly in water, v. deep. I couldn't see a bottom to the water, like I was in an ocean. There was a big plane way under me, like a jet or something, and it was falling away very slowly. Right under me there was a man-young, good-looking. He had on a blue plaid shirt and brown pants. Big guy, v. muscular. He was looking at me and his eyes were open but I think he might have drowned. He had blue eyes. Then another man came in, a rescuer type guy. Scuba mask. Maybe Coast Guard? He grabbed the guy. Tried to pull him out. I sort of floated alongside as they dragged him out and put him on a gurney and tried to revive him. It seemed like it was wrong, the wrong thing to do, I just remember that the wrong-ness of it was v. strong. I was yelling for them to stop or they would wake him up. Why would I yell that? It doesn't make sense does it? Anyway I was yelling and then I woke up

Maria Hill put down her pencil and took a deep breath. It was just a dream. It wasn't supposed to make sense, was it? She shut her eyes and rubbed her temples, thinking about planes and crashes. Hadn't there been a plane crash a couple months ago? Right outside Hudson Bay?

Below her, the paperboy tossed the newspaper onto the step of her building. Maria was the only one in the complex who actually ordered a paper anymore. She liked reading newspaper, the feel of the paper, the smell of the ink.

Maria threw on a sweater over her pajamas and went down to the front stoop, opening the door and breathing in the dusty, sharp air of early morning New York City. She picked up the paper and slid the plastic sleeve off as she went back inside and up to her apartment.

She stepped through the door and unfolded the paper, her eyes falling on a line below the fold: Survivor of September Crash Wakes. Below it, there was a photo of a young man, blond, blue eyes, handsome features, smiling shyly up at Maria. She walked into her small kitchen and began to read the article.

One of the only four survivors of last September's commercial plane crash outside Hudson Bay, regained consciousness early this morning at King's County Hospital Center. Mr. Steven Rogers, 25, graduate of the School of Visual Arts, had been comatose for the past four months, and doctors did not think he would ever regain consciousness. "The nature of Mr. Rogers' injuries were such that we were expecting a 45% recovery rate, with a 78% chance of permanent brain injury in the event that he did recover," said Dr. Rita Gonzalez, a neurologist. "He was without oxygen for over ten minutes. His brain should have been permanently damaged, but he seems perfectly fine. He's experiencing a little amnesia, but we don't think that will last."

Maria stopped reading. Her eyes slid off the paper and out the window as her fingers began to shake. She must have seen the man's face back in September, back when they were running articles on the crash 24/7 and it was all anyone was talking about. That was it--she must have seen his face then and then it had stayed in her subconscious until last night, when she'd dreamed about him. It had to be a coincidence. She tossed the paper to the table and made coffee.

The nagging sensation that she was missing something would not go away, not even after two cups of coffee and a hot shower. Maria got dressed and decided she would go out. She didn't want to be in the house any longer. She put on her coat and locked the door behind her as she left the apartment.

~

It was a cold, dry morning. Maria's breath clouded around her face. She wished it would snow, but all New York City got in the way of snow was a few inches of dirty sludge on the ground. She walked aimlessly down the street, not really caring where she ended up--anything to get out of that apartment.

Something white caught her eye as she passed a street sign. It was a flyer, taped to the sign post. She read it. Are you lost and looking for directions? We can help. Underneath was an address not too far from where Maria stood. It was a parish. She considered, and then flagged down a cab and quoted the address to the cabbie.

As she sat in the backseat, trying to ignore the stains on the upholstery, she thought about church. She hadn't been in years, and all she remembered of church was embarrassing confirmation classes and hushed voices and incense smells and stained glass. She'd always thought of church as a rather useless fixture of society, a thing that made you feel bad for having fun.

The cab pulled up and stopped in front of a wrought-iron gate. She climbed out into the cold air, paid the cabbie, and stared at the complex inside the gates. There was a largish sanctuary off to the left and a small house to the right. A man was in the tiny garden outside, uncovering what looked like tomato plants.

"Hello? Father?" Maria called through the wrought iron.

He looked up. "Good morning," he called, and walked over. He was in his late forties, maybe, with thinning hair and a bland, genial face. "You're early for Mass." He smiled. There were smile lines around his eyes. Maria decided she liked him.

"I'm not here for Mass," she told him as he unlocked the gate.

"Oh? What are you here for then?" The priest stood aside and let her in.

She hesitated, not sure of how to explain her problem. "I... I had a bad dream," she said, then flushed to the roots of her hair, aware of how idiotic it sounded.

"And you go to priests for bad dreams?" he asked, walking away from her and back to his tomatoes. She followed.

"Not generally. I mean, I saw a flyer on the street, and it said if I was lost, then I should go here... I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing here." Maria rubbed her nose.

"Lots of lost people come through here and are found again," said the priest. "Come inside, and we'll talk where it's warm."

Maria followed him into the house's kitchen, where he took off his coat and fiddled with the stove. "Make yourself at home," he said. "I'm just making tea."

"You drink tea, Father...?" Maria sat down in the living room, curiously staring at a painting of Michael and Lucifer fighting. Michael was standing on Lucifer's head. Michael always stood on Lucifer's head in all those old paintings. Maria thought there must have been a pact with those old artists to always paint that battle in the same exact way.

"Coulson, Father Coulson. And yes, I do. It's better for me than coffee." He poked his head through the door to the living room, wearing a flowery apron and holding a steaming kettle. "Do you want some, Miss...?"

Maria stifled a smile at the sight of the priest in his apron and clerics. "Maria Hill. Uh, sure."

He disappeared, and soon she heard the kettle boiling. She amused herself by looking at his bookshelf. He had Lewis, Spurgeon, St. Augustine, and about eleven different translations of the Bible. He had books on every subject, from cooking to exorcism. It was like a tiny library.

"Here we go," he said, coming in and setting down two cups of tea. "Now, why don't you tell me about your dream?"

She began to talk. She told him of her dream, she told him about the paper, she told him about the feeling that she'd missed something. As she spoke, she noticed that his fingers, which had been drumming gently on the armrest of his chair, stopped their movement, and then his fingers began to tighten on the armrest, gripping so hard she thought his fingers might break. His knuckles turned white and she looked up at him in surprise.

His face had not changed from its expression of gentle interest. "Go on, Miss Hill," he said.

When she was completely done, he sat back in his chair and gave her a long look; such a long look, in fact, that she began to be worried. "Do you think I'm crazy?" she asked.

"No," he said immediately, and rather forcefully. "No, Miss Hill. I don't think you're crazy."

"Then what's wrong with me? Is anything wrong with me?" Maria tucked her foot under her knee. "Or is it all just a coincidence?"

Father Coulson smiled. "There's no such thing as coincidence," he said.

"But you believe in God," she said.

"I do. But one can believe in God and believe in coincidence too. They're not mutually exclusive concepts." Coulson sat back and steepled his fingers. "Do you want to know what I really think?"

"Yes," she said.

"I think you are a much more important person than you realize," he said carefully.

Maria stared at him. He thinks I'm crazy and he's playing along, she thought angrily. "Oh, really," she said blandly.

"Yes. In fact, just a moment before you appeared at my gate, I had a call from King's County. They want me to come over and talk to Steven Rogers. Coincidentally enough." The corner of Father Coulson's mouth quirked up.

Maria was suddenly very angry. "You think this is some joke?" she snapped. "I'm afraid to go to sleep! This has never happened to me before! What is it? Why am I dreaming these things?"

"You came here for guidance, didn't you?" Coulson leaned forward. "Miss Hill, if you go to a psychiatrist, they will assume your dreams are the product of your subconscious. Their treatment will not work and you may be the worse off for it."

"Can you help me or not?" Maria felt cheated. The Church--always getting in the way of science and progress--

"I can. Here's what you do. You said you wrote down last night's dream--write down every dream you have, as soon as you wake up." He looked very serious indeed. "And if anything bothers you, feel free to come over here and tell me about it."

"But--" She looked out the window. "I want them to go away, okay? I don't want to have them at all."

"You can't make them go away, Maria." His voice was gentle. "Think of your dreams as news instead of a nuisance, and it might go easier on you."

Maria shook her head as he stood and put on his coat. "Where are you going?"

"King's County. I'm the only family Steve's got. He's an orphan, you know."

"I didn't know," said Maria. The thought of going back to her apartment was unbearable. "Can I come too?"

"Might as well. Get your coat."

Chapter Text

The cab ride to King's County was short and a little awkward. Maria kept feeling as if Father Coulson was looking at her, but every time she looked at him, he was staring out the window. She was relieved when they pulled up to the hospital and climbed out. Father Coulson held the door for her, paid the cabbie, and walked inside into the warmth, Maria trailing in his wake.

It was odd, she thought as they walked into the reception area, she was six feet tall and Coulson couldn't be over five-nine, but she felt tiny walking behind him. While she mused that over, Coulson talked to the receptionist.

"I'm Father Philip Coulson? I'm here to see Steven Rogers."

She typed something into her computer. "We called you earlier, right?"

"Yes. I was under the impression Mr. Rogers was suffering from amnesia? I was told that a familiar face might help him remember things."

Maria wandered a little to the left and looked up aimlessly at a poster warning against smoking.

"Right, let me talk to the doctor." The receptionist picked up a phone and spoke into it quietly.

"Why am I here?" Maria whispered to Coulson. "What if someone asks questions?"

"I'll take care of it, just play along." He turned and smiled at the receptionist as she hung up.

"Doctor Gonzalez says he's worse. You might as well go up." She handed him a visitor's badge and arched an eyebrow at Maria. "And...your friend?"

"I-" Maria began.

"This is Sister Maria Hill, of the Sisters of Saint Joseph." Coulson gave Maria a fond smile. Maria had enough sense to smile serenely at the receptionist.

"Oh. Where's your habit, Sister?" The receptionist looked a little confused.

"I'm off duty," said Maria, trying to remember if nuns wore their habits off duty or not. "And it's laundry day," she added lamely.

"Right. Here you go." The receptionist handed her a badge. "Father, room 582."

Maria took it, pinned it on her peacoat, and strode off after Coulson. "What was that?" she hissed. "I didn't even finish catechism class, I can't pretend to be a nun!"

"You did fine," he said calmly.

"It's lying. That's a sin. You're a priest." Maria felt a little outraged.

"If someone broke into your home and asked if your children were home, would you tell them?" Coulson walked into an elevator and Maria followed.

"I--no, but that's different."

"We'll see," he said enigmatically, and she wondered, not for the last time how she'd gotten herself into this mess.

Room 582 was on the fifth floor in the left corridor. The door was open, but a curtain was drawn across it. As Coulson and Maria neared the barrier, they heard a female Spanish voice speaking.

"Mr. Rogers, can you understand what I am saying?" There was a long pause. "Mr. Rogers, what is the year?" Long pause. "Mr. Rogers, can you hear me?"

Coulson knocked on the doorframe. "Dr. Gonzalez?" he asked.

The curtain was pulled open. Maria blinked in the sudden wash of winter sunlight. "You're the priest? Father..." the doctor checked her clipboard, "Phil Coulson?"

"In the flesh. Rita, isn't it?" Phil shook her hand.

"Yeah. Your friend?" Dr. Gonzalez gave Maria an appraising look.

"Sister Maria Hill." Coulson looked around the doctor's shoulder. Maria couldn't see his face, but she saw the slump in his shoulders. "Oh, Steve," he said softly.

Rita stood aside. "He was talking and everything last night, and then he just shut down. Physically, he's perfectly healthy, but we don't know what's wrong with him." Maria took a careful step forward as Phil walked over and pulled a chair up to the bed against the wall.

In the bed lay a man, a blond, muscular, handsome man. The hospital gown he was wearing stretched tight across his chest and arms. His eyes were open and very blue, and he seemed to be in some kind of trance. He was absolutely, perfectly still and white as a sheet. He didn't even seem to be breathing.

Maria heard Rita's heels clicking to the door. "He does or says anything, let me know," she said, and the door shut.

"Is he alive?" asked Maria.

"Pull up a seat and we'll see," said Coulson, whose eyes remained fixed on the man in the bed. "Steve, do you know who I am?"

The man blinked, and it was so unexpected that Maria jumped. His eyes slid over to Coulson and he drew in a breath. "The holy man," he said, and the three words were loaded, heavy, deep and gold and shining. Maria had never heard such a voice before. He should have been a singer, not an artist. As she looked at Coulson, it was apparent that the voice was new to him too.

"Do you know my name?" asked Coulson, visibly unnerved.

"You are Phillippos." Steve blinked again, and shook his head. "No. Philip. I've slept too long."

Maria stared at him and then back at Coulson. "What the hell is he talking about?"

"Maria, please." Coulson gave her a thin-lipped look and turned back to Steve, but he was giving Maria a look of high disapproval.

"Who is this woman?" he asked. "She takes the name of a terrible place and changes it into something to be taken lightly. Who is this changer of words?"

"What?" asked Maria blankly. "Okay, I don't know what's going on here."

Coulson took Steve's hand. "Is your name Steven Rogers?"

The man stared at him blankly. "No, holy man. But Steven knows you well. You told him stories as a child, stories of God and great ancient wars."

"But you're not Steven," said Coulson.

"I--" The man drew a hand across his face and looked pained. "I do not know. He is me, but I am not him."

"What is your name?" asked Coulson gently. Maria was leaning as far away from the guy as she could. He was obviously totally nuts. Why had she come here?

"I am Michael. I command the host of heaven."

There was a long pause, and then Maria said, "Wait, what?"

Phil stood. "We'll be right back." He pulled Maria into the bathroom, the only place they could talk in privacy.

"Father, he's insane. We should tell somebody."

"Like you told me? Are you insane too? You dreamed of this, Maria. You told me when they tried to resuscitate him in your dream you were crying out for them to stop, that it wasn't the right time. The connection here is astounding." Phil looked manically excited.

"He's saying he's Michael the archangel!" hissed Maria. "You don't think he's serious?"

"Read Lewis sometime. When a person makes a claim like this, they're either lying, or insane, or telling the truth. Look at the man, Maria. He's obviously disoriented, has no idea where he is. He talks like he's been yanked out of third-century Rome. He speaks Greek, for heavens' sake--Steve Rogers can't speak anything but what he got out of two years of Spanish in public high school."

Maria was silent. Then, her voice sounding heavy, "You think he's telling the truth? You think he's an archangel?"

"I believe he thinks he's telling the truth. That isn't Steve Rogers, Maria. Trust me for five minutes--we'll go out and ask a few more questions and go back to the rectory, all right?"

Maria chewed on her lip. "Five minutes?" She could do this. She could believe in angels and archangels and visions for five minutes.

"Five minutes. I promise." Father Coulson's eyes were earnest.

"Okay," she said, and he opened the door and they went back to their seats.

"Michael" hadn't moved an inch. He was still lying there, blankly staring at the ceiling.

"So, can we call you Michael?" asked Coulson as he sat and smoothed his clerics.

"Yes, though it sounds strange on your lips," said Michael.

"Okay...Michael, why wouldn't you speak to the doctors?" asked Maria.

He gave her a mildly distasteful look, but he answered. "They had nothing I wanted. Why should I speak unto physicians? I am not ill."

"They think you are. Usually when someone tries to talk to you, you talk back. Like we're doing now," Maria said.

He seemed to muse this over. "I see. They mistook my silence for feeble-mindedness. Shall I speak to them?"

"Probably not. It would just be a cause for more confusion as to your mental state," said Coulson. "But Maria has a question for you. Go on," he said, looking at Maria.

Maria hesitated. Well, if he really was an angel, he might know what to do about her dreams. "I dreamed about you last night," she said. "I saw Steve Rogers sinking into the ocean and, and something was wrong. They tried to wake you up but it wasn't the right time." She was aware her words didn't make much sense. Michael was giving her a faintly amused look. "Do you know anything about that?"

"Seers' visions are their own business," he said offhandedly. "They are no study of mine."

"What? Whose visions--I'm not--visions? But--" Maria stammered and spluttered, and Michael's look of amusement was replaced by concern.

"You did not know you were a seer? What time and world is this?" He sat up and held a hand out to her. She gave Phil a worried look, but he nodded, so she took his hand. His skin was cool and dry, his hands large and gentle. "Little daughter, this is a gift. Were Ramiel here, he would teach you much more than I could."

"Who's Ramiel?" asked Coulson.

Michael ignored him. "Do not try to stop your vision. Misery will only befall you. Meditate and pray."

"Okay," said Maria, and he smiled and let go of her hand.

"Well, we'd better go." Phil stood. "Thank you for speaking to us, Michael. Please don't frighten the doctors."

Michael smiled, and his eyes crinkled into joyous little blue lines. "I will do my best, holy man."

"Call me Phil," said Coulson with an answering smile. "Come on, Maria. We have a cab to catch."

They went back down to the lobby and said goodbye to the receptionist, then out to the winter morning. Maria couldn't stop thinking about the man's hands. It had felt like he was strong enough to tear down King's County with his bare hands, but he'd held her hand like it was a kitten he might accidentally hurt.

A man who held her hand like that couldn't be crazy, she reasoned.

And if he wasn't crazy, and he wasn't lying, then he had to be telling the truth.

Maria got into their cab and sat staring out the window as everything she'd ever known about the world dissolved into tiny pieces and flew away.

Chapter Text

After they reached the rectory, Father Coulson extended an invitation to Maria to spend the night there if she wanted. The piercing look in his pale eyes told her he understood any unwillingness to be at her own place that night.

Maria politely declined, thanked him for his time, and left in the same cab, getting back to her apartment around 1 PM. She made herself a sandwich, put her hair up, and looked up job openings in law enforcement. Nothing was available, as usual. She got sidetracked anyway, and ended up on Wikipedia, where she read up on archangels.

Of course the Internet wasn't going to be that most reliable source for something like that, but she didn't have a library card and beggars couldn't be choosers. Michael the Archangel as he appeared at first in tradition was a healing, protecting angel, and then became a sort of heavenly general of God's forces. He was mentioned exactly once in the Qur'an, with Gabriel. In Roman Catholicism he had four roles: being the leader of God's army, carrying dead people's souls to Heaven, he weighed souls in a balance to decide if you got into Heaven or not, and he was the guardian of the Church.

No wonder Coulson had been so excited. Maria rubbed her temples. Having such an important figure in your religion so close by must be exhilarating. If he really was the actual Michael mentioned in the Bible and the Qur'an and old Jewish legends, anyway.

Maria felt as if she was balanced very perfectly on the edge of a knife, and if she decided definitely one way or the other, then something momentous would happen. Not good or bad, just--momentous. Important. Absolutely huge. She still wasn't quite ready to allow for the existence of archangels, or even God, really. But currently there seemed to be no other explanation for Steve Rogers' behavior.

She looked at the clock. It was almost eleven PM. She groaned, shut down her laptop, and threw herself across her bed, not bothering to undress or take off her socks. She could shower in the morning, and it wasn't like she had any pressing engagements tomorrow. "Good night," she said sleepily to nobody in particular.

~

"I'm just a holy fool, oh baby it's so cruel, but I'm still in love with Judas, baby"

Maria jerked awake with a shriek and threw her wailing phone across the room. Why the hell had the alarm been set for 7 AM? What was that? No, it wasn't the alarm, it was her ringtone, Jesus Christ, how long had it been since her phone had rung, nobody called her anymore, she didn't even like Lady Gaga anymore. She stumbled out of bed, forgot she was wearing socks, slipped on her ass, grabbed her phone, and answered it, hands shaking.

"H-hello?"

"Maria? It's Phil. Did I wake you?" He sounded a little alarmed.

"Uh-yeah, it's okay. How did you get my number?" Maria caught a glimpse of her face in her mirror. She looked awful. Her face was red and blotchy and her hair was a mess.

"We exchanged information in the cab ride? To the hospital?" He sounded as if he was rushing around doing a lot of things. "I'm so sorry--you must still be asleep."

"No, I'm up now, I remember. What's wrong?"

"Michael is gone--Steve is gone. Look outside, quick."

Maria crawled over to the window and looked out. The streets were wet, there were leaves and odd branches stuck everywhere--there must have been a thunderstorm last night. "Big storm?" she said.

"A storm concentrated directly over Brooklyn. Queens didn't get a drop of rain and Manhattan's as dry as a bone. Look at the storm sewers."

She looked. Water backed up to the street. Huge puddles. People were looking at the sky, at the ground, and shrugging. "I didn't hear a thing," she said. "I must have slept through it."

"Turn on your TV. They're saying it was a freak hurricane." Phil sounded out of breath. "I'm getting ready to go out. Can you go to the hospital and figure out what happened to him?"

"Who? Oh, Steve--Michael?" Maria felt fuzzy and utterly bewildered. "I--I guess."

"Good. I'll meet you at the rectory at, say, two? I'll call you."

"Text me. I hate my ringtone." Maria hung up before he could answer and ran to the shower. Halfway there, she stopped, felt a bit put out that this priest was using her as an errand-boy, and slowly made coffee. Then she dashed to the shower, because that taste in her mouth was seriously gross.

And she refused to think about her dream.

~

"The night nurse saw it all but she won't talk to anyone about it," said a plump, warm-looking black nurse who wore light purple scrubs and a name tag reading "Sheila". "She's in the lounge. Been here since six."

"Can I see her?" Maria adjusted her visitor badge that read (again) "Sister Maria Hill" and tried to look holy.

"You can try. All we know is she screamed and then came running out a few minutes later, crying and carrying on. The room was trashed. Look." Sheila pushed open the door to room 582 and Maria gasped.

The bed was overturned, the floor covered in broken glass--what had been the window. The entire window was gone, and the breeze moved the curtains where they hung from the ceiling. There was blood in the corner, a smear and a small puddle.

Sheila indicated the blood. "That's from Rosa--the night nurse. She had glass in her knees and her hands and we had to bandage her up. The police are asking her questions but she won't talk, like I said."

Maria went to the window and looked down. Glass sparkled on the wet sidewalk, five floors down. "Glass on the floor and in the room?" she asked. That didn't make sense. If the window had been broken from the inside, there wouldn't be glass inside. But if it had been broken from outside, there shouldn't be any on the sidewalk.

"I don't know, Sister. The police don't know either."

They walked back down to the lounge. "Was Steve saying anything yesterday at all after we visited?"

"No, he just laid there and smiled at everyone. Better than being a statue, I'd say." Sheila opened the door and nodded. "There's Rosa."

Maria stepped inside and saw an older Hispanic woman in blue scrubs, mascara tracked down her cheeks, eyes squeezed shut, rocking back and forth on a cheap plastic chair. "Rosa?" she asked, and walked over, pulling up a chair of her own.

The eyes opened, warm and brown and frightened, and Rosa shook her head, lips tight.

"Can you leave us for a minute?" asked Maria.

Sheila nodded. "Officers, the Sister would like to talk with Rosa. Scoot."

The two police officers gave Maria narrow looks and one of them asked Sheila a question, to which the nurse replied, "She's a friend of Steve's old priest."

"Rosa," said Maria as soon as the doors shut, "what did you see?"

The eyes opened again and Rosa said something so quiet that Maria couldn't hear her. Her hands were trembling, tears rolled down her cheeks, and one hand fiddled with a crucifix that hung from her neck.

"Por favor, Rosa. Dime lo que viste." Maria covered one of Rosa's hands with hers and thanked her stars she'd taken Spanish.

"N-no sé lo que vi." managed the nurse. "No había luz y la lluvia y el viento-no lo sé."

"How did you hurt your hands-uh, cómo-um-herirse las manos?" Maria tried from a different angle.

"When I fell," whispered Rosa. "Me caí."

"You said there was light and wind and rain. Did that make you fall?"

"No. No, I saw him and I fell." Rosa gestured with her hand. "So big. Across the window, y los relámpagos y las vi." Her eyes were wide with recollection.

"What do you mean, you saw them?" Maria looked intently into her face. "Was there someone else with Steven?"

"No! No, not another man, no." Rosa let out a hysterical giggle. "No, sister, las alas." She wiggled her hands. "So big. I could not see the lighting from outside."

"Did you tell the police this?" asked Maria.

"No, sister. They would think I am crazy. I would lose my job." Rosa looked up into Maria's face. "Do not tell them, please," she whispered. "I know what I saw, sister. I saw wings. The man is not a man. He is an angel of God." Rosa fingered her crucifix, her eyes shining. "You must believe me."

"Yes, I believe you," said Maria earnestly. Wings. Wings so big they blocked out light from the storm and reduced a nurse to tears and awe. "I will tell the priest. Thank you."

"No, thank you, sister." Rosa patted her hand, beaming. "Go and find the angel."

"I think that is what the priest is doing," said Maria worriedly, and gave Rosa a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying out the door and down the hall and back into the rain-washed streets of Brooklyn.

She didn't even have time to call a cab before her phone buzzed.

Found him. Meet me at hous. Gt frst aid kit undr ktchn snk

Chapter Text

Maria flipped open the large first-aid kit on the kitchen table of the parish house. She had no idea what shape Coulson would be bringing Steve/Michael home in, but she was prepared for anything. Her coat was thrown on the back of a chair and her sleeves were rolled up; she frantically sorted through bandages and alcohol swabs and scissors.

There was a shout from outside, and she threw the door open. "Oh, thank God," she breathed, eyes shutting in relief, because they both looked okay from here at least.

Father Coulson was supporting the younger man, an arm firmly grasped about his waist. "Maria. Get the door?" He sounded strained. Steve/Michael looked drained, white, and cold. He was drenched, shivering, and wearing nothing but a hospital gown.

She held the door wide as Coulson dragged Steve/Michael (she had to stop mentally referring to him as that, it was silly, he had to be one or the other) into the kitchen. "Is he okay? Is he hurt?"

"He's a little beat up, but he'll be fine." Coulson helped him into a seat. "Also, he's 'Steve' now. His mind is leveling out, getting used to the other presence-both sides, actually."

Maria laid her hand on Steve's cold shoulder. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"Not really. I'll get the kettle on, make some tea. Can you deal with that gash on his arm?" Phil stripped off his soaked coat and tossed it on a hook.

"Yeah. Where did you find him? How did you find him?" Maria peeled the hospital gown away from Steve's skin and laid it in his lap. The gash in his arm turned out to be several nasty glass cuts. She got out the alcohol swabs.

"He was east of King's County, about five miles. I found him lying in a storm drain, bleeding. Dredged him out, called a cab." Father Coulson set the teapot on the stove. "He's very disoriented."

"I noticed," Maria said dryly. "Steve, I'm going to disinfect your arm, okay? It's gonna hurt."

Steve looked up at her and nodded, clenching his jaw. She started rubbing out the gashes with an alcohol swipe, which rapidly turned crimson as Steve yelped in pain.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered, and finished as quickly as she could. "I don't see any glass in there, and I don't think you'll need stitches, so..." She stuck a thick sterile pad over the wound and pressed tight, wrapping his shoulder and bicep in gauze. "Is that okay? Too tight?"

Steve's eyes flickered up to hers. "It's fine," he forced out. He sounded like he'd been screaming for days on end. His voice was ragged, raw, hoarse-nothing like the warm golden voice she remembered from the man in the hospital bed-not Michael's voice.

"Good. Let's get you cleaned up." She helped him to his feet and he clutched the hospital gown to him in a wad of dotted fabric. "Bathroom, c'mon. Then you can go to sleep."

The little bathroom did not fit two people who were six feet tall and over. Maria had to scrunch down and wiggle around Steve, who sat quietly on the edge of the tub as she sponged dirt off his back and chest and arms. He was bruised and scraped on his back and elbows, and he kept flinching every time she touched him.

"You don't have to be afraid of me, Steve," she said. "I'm just trying to patch you up. You fell five stories?"

"Yeah, I guess I did," he said dully. "It hurt. And I didn't know where to go." He looked up at her, eyes wide and frightened, looking very much like a lost child. "He's in my head, and he always has been. And I woke up and everything was so different-and he was there."

"You mean...Michael?" Maria sat on the toilet. (He was taking up the bathtub edge.)

"Yeah." Steve sniffed and looked down. "He's part of me, he's always been there. I used to think I was just crazy. But last night..." he trailed off and looked at his hands, "...was bad," he finished lamely.

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Maria.

"No," he said forcefully, roughly; and wouldn't open his mouth again no matter how much she tried to talk to him.

~

Ten minutes later, Father Coulson and Maria had forced hot soup and tea and a sandwich down Steve's throat and he was curled up on the sofa in the living room, asleep.

"Explain this to me again, this time in plain English," Maria said, placing her hands on the kitchen table.

Father Coulson sat back. "From what I can tell, it seems Michael and Steven have always been a single entity, slightly split but still-ah, think of a vine climbing up a stick of wood. The vine isn't one with the wood, not the same thing, but they're part of each other, Try to tear the vine off and you leave mark or even break the wood."

"So...Michael is the vine and Steve is the plank here, right?" Maria sat down and drummed her nails on the table. "How did an archangel get stuck in a human's body?"

"That's what I want to know," said Phil. "This couldn't have been a singular event. Remember how Michael mentioned Ramiel? That's another angel. Not as well-known in Catholic circles, but another angel nonetheless. I did some research last night. Ramiel is the angel in charge of divine visions. That's why Michael mentioned him to you."

"When you say it couldn't have been a singular event..."

"I mean there have to be others like Steve. You don't just wind up as an archangel on Earth in a human body. There's got to be others."

"So why are they here?"

"I don't know. Maybe something important is about to happen. I forgot to ask, this morning was so hectic-did you dream anything last night?" Phil leaned back.

Maria sat there, blinking in the bright winter sun.. "I...I don't know."

His eyes narrowed. "Maria. Did you? You can tell me."

"No-I don't think I did," she stammered.

"Yet you slept through a Category Three hurricane right over your roof. How strange. You must be a heavy sleeper." Phil's cool eyes said he did not believe her, not one bit.

Maria snapped, "I don't want to talk about it!" and stomped into the living room, flopping down into a chair and staring at Steve.

Three days ago she hadn't believed in angels at all, and today, there was apparently one sleeping on a priest's couch. She felt insulted by the universe-it was being a total dick to her. It wasn't supposed to drop stuff like this on her, was it? You didn't grow up believing in Santa Claus and then find out later as an adult that he was real, did you? No, no you did not. And now the universe had to turn itself right around after stuffy sermons and catechism and severe nuns and college and realizing with crystal clarity that the whole concept of angels was a byproduct of society and religion and shout, By the way, there are actually such things as angels, and this art student is an angel, and not just that, he's also an archangel and oh, also you're a psychic or something. No, the universe wasn't supposed to do this. She felt cheated, and irrationally angry.

Steve snuffled and grunted in his sleep. "Oh, shut up," she growled, and hunched deeper into her chair, shutting her eyes and recalling her dream.

Chapter Text

January 12th, 3:00 AM EST

"Fuck!"

Tony Stark, billionaire and owner of Stark Industries, jerked his upper body upright and let out a horrible, desperate gasp for air, oxygen, anything that would make his brain start working and clean the nightmares out of his mind. His hands twisted in his silk sheets and he tried to bring his breathing down to a regular rhythm. Outside his window, thunder rolled.

"Tony?" His door slid open, and the slender silhouette of Virginia Potts was seen, one hand on the door frame. "Tony, are you okay? I heard you scream. Did the storm wake you up?"

"I'm fine," he panted. Pepper was the last person he wanted to talk to right now. He rolled sideways, planted his feet on the floor, and reveled in the sheer comfort of cold hard ground under his toes. "Give me a second, okay?"

The door closed. He rested his head in his hands and took in a shuddering breath. The dream had been so real. He'd been fighting, flying at screaming speeds through the sky-but not in his suit, not in the Iron Man suit. He'd been flying unprotected and the sheer velocity was enough to suffocate him and there was something so, so important he had to tell somebody but he couldn't remember what it was and he'd woken, gasping and covered in a sheen of cold sweat.

The dreams were getting more frequent. He didn't want to bother Pepper-she had enough on her plate already, what with being the CEO of a Fortune 500 company-but ever since Afghanistan, when he'd been lifted out of the desert covered in stained rags and blood and sand, he'd had nightmares.

Most nights he didn't sleep. Most nights he spent hours in his workshop, cleaning his cars and drinking stupendous amounts of coffee and tuning up DUM-E and fiddling with broken circuit boards and drawing up new designs for his suit.

Some nights, he went to Pepper's room and spent-oh, an hour, two hours-with her, and then afterwards, when she was asleep, he'd slip out of the resulting tangle of sticky, warm sheets and Pepper's arms and legs and threw on a shirt and some pants and crept outside onto the balcony that overlooked downtown Manhattan and sat there all night eating caffeine pills like candy until the sun came up.

But some nights he had to sleep; the pills and the coffee and the energy drinks weren't enough and he'd go as long as a week without really sleeping. Days and nights would blur into a long angry smear of hazy events, and he'd inevitably drop a soldering iron on the garage floor because his hands would be shaking so much. Then Pepper would scold and shove Ambien at him and march him upstairs into bed and he'd pass out, on the bed, fully clothed.

And he'd dream.

Tony rubbed his eyes and croaked, "JARVIS? What time is it?"

The smooth, automated voice of the integrated robotic system in Stark Tower said, "It's three oh three, sir. Shall I turn on the lights?"

"No." Tony stretched and winced, feeling the tendons in his shoulders pop. That irritating sense that he needed to tell someone something was still niggling at the edge of his mind, whining for attention. He tried to push it away, but couldn't. It felt like someone was almost inside his head, yelling at him to pay attention and listen because there was something so important, so damn important-

Listen to me, you stubborn fool!

Tony whipped his head up. That wasn't him. That wasn't his thoughts, in his head; who the hell was talking to him? "JARVIS," he gasped. "JARVIS, my vitals."

"Blood pressure increasing, sir. Respiration, rapid eye movements and delta waves also increasing."

"REM only happens when people sleep." Tony pinched himself. "Ow! Fuck!"

Stop using that word! Listen to me! It was his fucking voice, his own fucking voice inside his head, but not his voice somehow, and how the hell was this happening?

Tony choked out what might have been an oath, and fell out of bed. "Get out!" he hissed, hands over his ears. The arc reactor in his chest flashed rapidly. He'd never seen it do that-what the hell was going on?

Anthony. You have to stay calm. This should have been done years ago but you're so stubborn. The voice-if you could even call it a voice, it was too inorganic to be a real voice-was exasperated and annoyed with him.

"Dad?" Tony asked, his voice shaking. That was the only explanation he could think of. Dad's back from the dead, or I'm dead, and he's gonna yell at me for forgetting the fifty-seventh element and Jesus Christ can't he leave me alone even when he's dead? Or I'm dead?

I'm not your father. That is foolish. Stay calm. His arc reactor began to flicker steadily, like a strobe light, blue-white against the darkness, and then the worst pain Tony had ever felt began to burn its way into his brain, searing and melding and matching and oh, Christ-

"Pepper!" he screamed, and his outraged senses deserted him, leaving him convulsing and writhing on the floor.

Pepper raced in and stopped short at the sight of him. "Tony!"

Lighting flashed, rapidly, one-two-three. Pepper froze, eyes fixed not on Tony but at the spaces between his shoulders and the wall he'd fallen against.

Thunder crashed, loudly, and she jumped. "Jesus!"

He was trying to stand, reeling, bracing himself against the wall as the next lightning strike seared through the air and lit up the whole bedroom in a stark wash of bright, unforgiving light.

And Pepper saw them again in the split second before the thunder rolled.

The shadow of wings. Huge, feathered wings stretching at least twenty feet across and casting a black shadow on the white walls. Unmistakeably, blatantlythere, even though she couldn't actually see any tangible wings-just the shadow.

Pepper had seen some crazy things in her day-working for Tony Stark, hell, dealing with insanity was practically a job requirement-but where had this come from?

"Tony," she breathed, stepping forward.

He howled and stumbled forward, and she felt a massive breeze wash over her face, blowing her hair back from her face. The glow from his arc reactor revealed that he was sliding sideways and his shoulder was aimed toward her-the wing must have flapped air at her-but this was insane- "Are you okay?"

"He's-I'm-we're fine," said Tony, but the voice was clearer, deeper, more musical than Tony's voice had ever been. The reactor's glow was steady, illuminating his face from below, outlining the curves on his face in a bizarrely grotesque mask.

"JARVIS, hit the lights," said Pepper, voice shaking.

The lights flicked on, showing Tony, looking very small and alone on the floor on his hands and knees. "We're okay," he said again, his voice a little raspier. He coughed. Blood dribbled out of his mouth and into his beard. He wiped his mouth. "Don't be afraid," he said to Pepper.

"You're bleeding! Tony, what's going on? I saw-I saw wings, and you were having a seizure or something!" Pepper felt like she might be hysterical. "What's happening?"

"You wouldn't understand if I told you," he said, and stood, wavering a little. "Ah. Better. Being vertical suits me." He cracked a grin, and Pepper, unsure of the joke, smiled back. Maybe it was just a joke after all, some weird-

Tony Stark looked faintly surprised for a moment, said, "Oh," and crumpled to the floor unceremoniously in a heap.

Chapter Text

"Hey, Father, look at this." Maria waved Phil over from where he was washing the dishes from their late lunch. "Last night Tony Stark was taken to the hospital for 'sleep deprivation-related illness'."

Phil leaned over her, looking at his laptop screen. "That man works too hard. I'm not really surprised."

"Says a maid found him on the floor hallucinating and called 911. You'd think he'd have a personal doctor or something, being the millionaire he is." Maria twisted her fingers together.

"Billionaire, actually." Father Coulson threw the dishtowel over his shoulder. "You look a little nervous, Maria." He said it as matter-of-factly as if he was discussing the weather.

"I-it's nothing. You'll think I'm making it up." Maria felt her face get hot.

"You see why you should write down this stuff before it happens?" Phil looked mildly reproachful. "Tell me about your dream."

"I dreamed-I saw a woman come into a dark room and there was thunder and lightning and-she saw him up against the wall. Tony Stark, I mean. She saw him and she saw-I am doing a terrible job of this, aren't I?" Maria sat back and rubbed her temples. "Let me start over."

"Go ahead." Phil settled into the other seat. Beyond him, Steve was still passed out on the sofa. Maria took a second to gather all her senses. The clock in the kitchen was ticking and the sun was warm on her back. Steve was snoring gently. Coulson's face was calm. She took a deep breath and exhaled hard.

"I was asleep and I dreamed that I was seeing a dark bedroom. I didn't know where it was but there was a blue light, a round light in the room. I kind of-changed my perspective, like you do with an optical illusion, and realized it was a little circle of light in a man's chest-which was how I realized I was in Tony Stark's room. And I was kind of weirded out because, you know, I'm in someone's bedroom. But he woke up and was freaking out, he'd had a nightmare. He sat on the edge of the bed and a woman asked if he was okay. He said he was, but he wasn't. He asked someone named-Jarvis, I think-what time it was. A voice said it was 3:03 AM. Then he asked the same person for his vital signs. It said his REM was increasing or something. I don't remember exactly. Then Tony fell over and started yelling at someone, someone who wasn't there. Then he asked "Dad?" and I wanted to just reach out and hug him. He sounded like a lost kid. And then-" Maria took a breath.

"Then what?" asked Phil gently.

"Then the light, the round blue light, it started flashing and he fell over and rolled around and yelled for pepper. I don't know why he thought pepper would help. Wait-the woman came in then, the same one from before. Maybe that was her name. I just thought of that. Anyway, she stopped halfway into the room because lightning flashed just then and she saw-wings."

"Wings?"

"Yeah, wings. Just the shadow. Like Tony Stark had giant, invisible wings, and the lightning was casting a shadow. She saw them and her eyes got huge, so I knew she'd seen them and it wasn't just me. And-I was terrified, absolutely terrified, as if I was her and I was feeling everything she felt. It was bizarre."

"The CEO of Stark Industries is Ms. Virginia Potts," said Phil, turning and grabbing the laptop, typing frantically. "Let's see...yes, she was Mr. Stark's secretary for several years before being promoted last year. Her nickname is 'Pepper', so you were right, it was her name."

"But the article says a maid-"

"Papers lie. The news lies. And sometimes, so do CEO's." Phil snapped the laptop shut. "I think we've just found ourselves another angel."

"We?" asked Maria, crossing her arms and lifting an eyebrow.

He smiled. "Sorry. You, you did. I just took your information and did all the research."

Maria wrinkled her nose at him. "You want to go check it out?"

"This is Tony Stark, Maria, not an obscure art student. If you think a simple priest can get in to see him..." Phil shrugged.

"What do we do? You think it's Ram-what was his name?"

"Ramiel, and possibly. All we can do is wait."

"We can do more than that," said a warm voice from behind Phil. "We can bring him to us."

"What, summon an angel?" Maria looked up at Steve, who was standing in the doorway. "How?"

"It's complicated. We'll need sage, a wooden bowl, a match, and salt. And we'll need a marker." Steve went into the kitchen and started rummaging around.

Maria sat for a second, gave Phil a confused look, and joined him. "A marker?"

"Yeah. We need to draw his sigil. What angel are we summoning?" Steve pulled out a Sharpie from the drawer and looked at her expectantly.

"Uh. Ramiel, we think. Because you mentioned him- it might not be, I mean, it could be anyone." Maria looked out the window.

"We'll try for Ramiel, then. Father, could you clear off the table?" Steve turned to Phil, who was already sweeping off the small wooden table and carrying everything into the living room.

"How does this work?" Maria asked, her hands full of salt and sage.

"I draw the sigils around the bowl. You put-let's see-three shakes of salt and a sprinkle of basil leaves into the bowl and I summon Ramiel, then we light it up." As he talked, Steve was frantically scribbling weird symbols Maria had never seen all over the table. "Okay. Set the bowl here." He tapped the table. Maria obeyed, and then she measured out the sage and salt under Steve's watchful eye. All the while Father Coulson watched from the door.

"Now. Let's see." Steve shut his eyes a moment, and then opened them. When he spoke, it was the warm, golden voice Maria remembered from the hospital, the voice that gave her chills. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, clamavi Ramiel tonitrua Dei visione Angeli, spei et custodem defunctorum. Veni, veni, veni." And he lit a match and tossed it into the bowl on the table. A bright flame flared and went out.

Nothing happened, except that the kictchen smelled like burned sage. Maria wrinkled her nose. "So much for-"

The house trembled suddenly, as if the house was a living entity that was shivering, shaking off a chill. Phil took his hand off the wall and looked at Steve. "What was that?"

"He is coming," said Steve. Maria grabbed the sink for support as the house rumbled again.

Her ears popped, and then she was suddenly aware that there was a fourth man standing in the kitchen with them. He hadn't appeared, he was just there, as if he'd always been. At the same time, she let go of the sink, realizing the house had stopped shaking, and Phil said, "Oh, no."

The man seemed to take up all the room in the kitchen. He was easily six-four, blond, blue-eyed, wearing a red and gray plaid shirt and jeans and holding a very large sledgehammer.

He was most decidedly not Tony Stark.

"Well," said Steve after an awkward silence, during which the newcomer stared at them in blank confusion, "looks like we got the name wrong."

"Who are you?" asked Maria, feeling like she might scream. Another angel. This made-what, three now?

The man looked at her and shifted the grip on his hammer. "My name is Thor," he said, in the deepest voice Maria had ever heard. "Who are you people?"

Chapter Text

It was a very awkward, lengthy silence that the four people standing in Father Coulson's kitchen had to endure. Thor's blue eyes were narrowed, and his enormous hands gripped his hammer tight, as if he might bash in someone's head. Maria remained still, eyes flicking from person to person. Steve's eyes were fixed on Thor, hands out and palms up. He reminded Maria of a person approaching an angry dog. Phil just stood in the door.

"Where am I?" Thor said suddenly, and Maria flinched.

"You're in New York City." Steve's voice was reassuring. "Where were you before we-before you were here?"

"I-I was at my home. I was in the backyard, tearing down an old shed." He indicated the hammer he held. "Troms. I live in Troms."

"Norway?" asked Phil. Thor looked at him and nodded. "Northern Norway. Very northern."

"Near the border of Russia," said Thor. Then he seemed to switch tracks. "Wait, is this about my brother?"

"Your brother?" Maria sat on the edge of the table. "What are you talking about?"

"Uh, he went missing. Six months ago, we were hiking in the woods near the border and I heard him cry out. I turned and he was gone. I looked for days, but I could not find him." Thor looked distressed. "We called the police and they searched but never found him. My mother was frantic."

"We, uh, we didn't know about your brother. This is something much different," said Steve. "You-have you ever heard of anyone called Ramiel?"

Thor's reaction was intensely interesting. His eyes opened wide, then narrowed quickly, suspiciously. His grip on the hammer tightened, and his shoulders hunched. "I know nothing of anyone called Ramiel," he grumbled.

Maria and Phil exchanged glances. "Uh, are you sure?" asked Maria.

"Yes," he snapped, and she saw a slight, but unmistakeable tremor in his hands.

"Thor, you have to tell us. It's important." Maria reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Please?"

He looked at her, swallowed, and gave a quick, sharp nod. "I-it is the name of one of your Christian angels, isn't it?"

"Well, not our Christian angels, but an angel." Phil walked into the kitchen and pulled out a chair. "Angels aren't exactly Christian."

"Phil, not the time," said Maria impatiently. "Thor, what do you know about Ramiel?"

Thor looked very much like a small child, even though he was the size of a truck. "He lives within me," he said so quietly only Maria could hear. "He tells me things I do not wish to know. I want nothing to do with your angels."

"You're-you follow the old Norse gods, don't you?" asked Maria.

"Yes. Thor is my namesake, and I must honor him." Thor looked down. "I even come to you with a hammer in my hand." He chuckled.

"So-you understand what happened here, don't you?" Steve gestured to the table. "We were trying to call an angel dwelling within the body of another, but we got the wrong one, the wrong name. We called you instead."

"No, you got the right name. I have dreamed of this moment for weeks." Thor stood, towering over Steve. "I dreamed every night of being taken, of being thrown across space and called to this spot. A kitchen, and there were all of you, all standing here. A woman, a Christian priest, and a man like me." Thor pointed to each of them. "And you spoke in my language, which, I must admit, was a great comfort." He laughed. "Imagine me standing here speaking in the little English I know. A nightmare."

Maria, Phil, and Steve all looked at each other, slow wonder dawning on each of their faces. "But...we're not speaking Norwegian," said Maria slowly.

"No, of course you're not. You're speaking my dialect of North Norwegian. It's surprisingly good-where did you learn?" Thor's eyes were curious.

"You're speaking English," said Phil. "We can hear you, plain as day. You're speaking American English with a slight accent."

"I told you I can barely speak English," said Thor, looking confused. "You're speaking North Norwegian. Plain as day."

Maria turned to Phil. "Okay, what the hell is going on here?"

Steve jumped. "Wait! Stop! Thor, did you understand when Maria spoke to Father Coulson?"

"Yes. It was Norwegian." Thor's brow was furrowed.

"I'm going to do an experiment." Steve grabbed Maria and Phil by the wrists and pulled all four of the people in the room into a square. "Okay. Maria, say something to me."

Maria flapped her hands, at a loss. "What do you want me to say?"

"Perfect," said Steve. "Okay. Thor, did you understand her?"

"Yes, as I said before, she is speaking Norwegian." The big man looked intrigued.

"Right. Thor, say something to Maria."

"Your eyes are very blue," he said. Maria opened her mouth and shut it again.

"Good. Now, Phil, did you understand what he said?"

"Yes. He told her her eyes were blue. It was English."

"Will someone tell me what's going on?" snapped Maria.

"Can't you work it out on your own?" Steve's face was glowing, and Phil had evidently realized whatever Steve had, because he was looking like someone had told him Christmas was coming early.

"Share with the class, Steve," said Maria. Thor laughed.

"Tongues, Maria. We're speaking in tongues. We're hearing everything in our own native language." Steve grinned.

"I thought tongues was that crap on TV where Preacher Whatever starts yammering on in nonsense words." Maria crossed her arms.

"No, that's not the original meanings of what speaking in tongues is. Read Acts 2 sometime. In any case, though, this means we've got something important going on here."

"Two angels, a seer, and a priest." Coulson drummed his fingers on the table. "You think the two of you in the same room sort of kick-started it?"

"It's possible."

"What are we going to do about Thor?" asked Maria.

"What about me?" asked Thor.

"Well, we kind of summoned you out of Norway, I mean...do you want to go home?" She winced inwardly, and hoped he didn't take it as a we-don't-need-you-anyway-sorry kind of thing.

"No," he said. "I want to stay here., if that's all right. Something tells me I might find my brother if I stay." Thor leaned against the counter.

"I vote we let him stay, then," said Maria quickly.

"What, we're voting?" asked Phil with a slight smile.

"No vote needed. He stays." Steve held out his hand to Thor, eyes calm and steady. "So you're in?"

"I am," said Thor, and they shook hands. The handshake was interrupted by Thor yanking Steve in for a gigantic hug and a deep laugh. "My brother," he said warmly, and lifted Steve right off the ground. Steve made an understandably startled noise.

"I kind of like him," said Maria to Phil.

"I share your sentiment," said Phil. "How are we gonna feed him, though?"

"Take-out. Lots and lots of take-out." Maria stood, cleaned the angel-summoning apparatus off the table, and began to sweep and scold and clean and tidy-in short, a former police officer assumed the mother role in that instant for two archangels and a priest and nobody even gave it a second thought.

She'd pick up her stuff from her apartment later, she thought. She had a family now, a weird, unlikely family, but a family; and a home, not a cold, lonely apartment.

And she was going to take care of it.

Chapter Text

[ARCHIVE>AUDIO LOG>SERIAL NUMBER 1162-8465.3WD>CELL BLOCK 3>CELL 8D]

[LEVEL TWELVE CLEARANCE IS REQUIRED TO ACCESS AUDIO RECORD>PLEASE ENTER PASSWORD]

PASSWORD: ************

[THANK YOU>ACCESS GRANTED>BEGIN AUDIO PLAYBACK]

00.02.11
You don't know who you're dealing with. You will regret the day you locked me away. You swine. You filth. You petty little humans, pathetic. You think you can keep me in here forever. You can't. I'll get free. I always get free. Always. I was there in the beginning. I brought enlightenment to you worms and you repay me by throwing me in here? God himself once called me son. Bright morning star. Light-bearer. I brought you animals self-awareness and you don't even know who I am. [Laughing, sustained for approximately one minute] I don't even know who I am.

00.05.43
Oh gods. Loki. Loki. Loki. I'm Loki. I'm Loki. Loki. Oh gods. Oh gods. Help me. Someone help me. He's inside me and help me someone help me you have to help me get him out I need help please can anyone hear me I need help someone help me I can't fight him get him out [Loud banging noises, repeated for two minutes]

00.06.50
Where's my brother? Where's Thor? Is he out there? Is he coming for me? Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me? Get Thor, he [Speech interrupted by choking, then retching.] Ah, this body is so weak and full of petty hate. It will serve me well, I think. You're strong, but I'm stronger. I'll always be stronger.

00.10.23
[Grunting, pained sounds, lasting for approximately three minutes]

00.60.45
Shut up. Shut up. I hate you get out of my head leave me alone someone help me Thor Mother help me please I can't fight it forever he's going to destroy me

01.34.03
Trees. Trees. He took me in the woods. It was just a hike. Thor. Brother. I can't see you. [Sobbing, cont.] Where is my mother where is my family what have you done to them get out of my head for gods sake I fell and I couldn't see the trees

02.51.34
I couldn't see the trees. I can't see the trees. I couldn't see the trees. I can't see the trees. [Repeated for approximately one hour]

03.53.21
By the realms beneath, you are a strong one. I've never had such a strong-minded human as you. Don't fight my presence and it will go easier on you. [Smash, accompanied by a loud, pained noise]

03:53.59
[RECORDS INDICATE AT THIS TIME THE HOLDING CELL WAS ENTERED>SUBJECT HAD ATTEMPTED TO CUT HIS WRISTS WITH A BROKEN PIECE OF THE LIGHT BULB>SUBJECT WAS MOVED TO PADDED CELL 5A]

[END AUDIO LOG]

Chapter Text

Pepper Potts was just about done with this job of hers.

Pepper Potts-who was worth over a billion dollars, whose name appeared on six different Forbes lists-sat on a plastic bench sipping cold coffee out of a styrofoam cup and stared blankly at the white sterile wall of the hospital corridor, deflecting any and all questions put to her with the oft-heard refrain of those in large companies: "I don't want to make a statement at this time."

Pepper Potts was not a religious person at all. She'd thrown her belief in God out the door when she was six, along with her belief in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, and she'd been quite happy since then with the universe.

And then there'd been a stormy night over New York and her boss-her friend-her lover, even-had pitched up against the wall and lightning had flashed and she'd seen wings.

The only possible explanations were A) that she was going crazy or B) Tony was some kind of otherworldy being, or at least, not human.

The only problem with those explanations was that she was having a difficult time deciding which one was the most likely answer.

She crossed her legs (the right one was falling asleep) and tried to take a deep breath. Start from square one. She'd definitely seen the shadow of huge wings on the wall, there was no denying it. Okay. That was something solid to go off of. Wings. Birds?

Pepper realized this was nothing to go off of at all, and tried to stop her hands from shaking. Nobody would believe her. Tony was still exhibiting symptoms of either insanity or extreme sleep-deprivation, and nothing he said could be taken seriously. Probably.

Maybe he didn't know what was going on either, she thought abruptly. Maybe he was just as freaked out as she was.

"Ms. Potts?"

She turned, blinking wearily at the bespectacled, white-coated doctor who stood by Tony's room. "Yeah?"

"He wants to talk to you." The doctor indicated the room with his clipboard. She stood and entered, forgetting her coffee.

Tony was in bed, restrained at the wrists, the blue glow of his arc reactor illuminating his face. "Boss?" she said carefully, drawing a chair up. "You with me?"

"Pep," he managed, and looked up at her. "Gotta tell you." His eyes were glassy and his face was drawn.

"We tried to put him under. He's fighting it like crazy-we must have put enough in him to kill a horse," commented the doctor.

"What is it, Tony? What do you want to tell me?" Pepper leaned down.

"There's a man. A priest. He'll help you."

Pepper knew her face had reacted to his words, but she didn't care, she was too tired and nothing made sense anymore. "With what?" she asked.

"You saw them," he said simply, and winked. So very Tony. "C'mon, Pep. Go find him. Father...Coulson. Talk to him." He squeezed her fingers, his eyes drifting shut.

"Okay," she said hurriedly. "Okay, I will, now go to sleep." She hadn't even finished talking before his eyes closed and he was out.

"Everything okay?" asked the doctor.

"Yeah, it's fine," she lied, and numbly drifted out the door, down the hall, and out to somewhere with Wi-Fi.

She didn't even get to the street before she saw a flyer taped to a post and the word "parish" caught her eye. She stopped, gave it a second glance, looked at the phone number, and thought: Hell, after what's happened today, I might as well.

She wasn't even surprised when a pleasant-sounding man picked up on the third ring and said, "This is Father Coulson, how can I help you?"

~

"Shhh! Guys!" Phil motioned frantically at Steve and Thor, who were laughing in the kitchen over some joke or other.

Maria looked up from her laptop. "Who is it?"

"Yes, did you say Virginia Potts?" asked Phil into the house phone with a meaningful look at Maria. "Yes, I'm Father Coulson." He paused, looked concerned, and waited about a minute before saying, "And he told you this when?"

"Steve, get your jacket just in case," said Maria, throwing her coat on. "Thor, you stay here. The whole speaking in tongues thing might not work out there and then we'd have an awkward immigration situation on our hands."

Thor looked a little put out, but he perked up and listened as Phil talked into the receiver. "Okay. Yes, I-I understand you're frightened. Ms. Potts, you're not in danger." He gave Maria a look that made the skin on her neck prickle. "No, he's not dangerous as far as I know. You-what? Are you su-okay." He listened intently.

"Steve?" Maria looked at the man and noticed the tendons in his neck were standing out. "Steve, what is it?"

"I-I don't know. There's something...familiar." He squinted, looked pained, and gripped the table. "Ow."

"What, like a telepathic...thing?" Maria waved her hand.

"Gabriel," said Steve suddenly, and his voice was once again the voice of Michael-deep, gold, heavy, shining.

"The-the Archangel Gabriel." Maria gave him a long look. "Well, when you can just talk to each other in your heads-"

Her speech was interrupted by Phil rushing out the door in a mad dash for the street, the house phone flying from his hand and narrowly missing Thor's head. "Pack!" he shouted. "I'll send for you!"

"Where are you-?"

"Stark Tower!" he bellowed, a gleeful, boyish grin on his lined face-and then he was gone.

"Is he going to run the whole way there?" asked Thor, looking bemused.

"I hope not," said Maria dryly. "Steve, I think we can send for your stuff later, when we get settled. Thor...we'll buy you something. I'll pack." She tied her hair back and set about throwing her laptop and accessories into her bag.

~

"Ms. Potts, are you sure you saw wings?"

Pepper looked into the face of the priest who sat in the seat opposite her on the lobby of Stark Tower's first floor. "Yes," she said firmly. "I saw-shadows of wings. What's happening to me?"

"It's not you, it's Mr. Stark." Father Coulson leaned forward and looked at her earnestly.

"So what's wrong with Tony?" she almost snapped. She was tired, and her head ached, and the universe was refusing to make sense-

"He's an angel," said the priest simply.

Pepper laughed, once, a sharp sound that tore from her throat like paper. "Try again, Father. I'm delusional, is that it? I'm hallucinating-"

"No. You're not crazy, and I'm not pandering to your delusion. You're the second person this week to assume that, actually." Coulson sat back. "He really is an angel. Most likely Gabriel, but I won't know for sure until I talk to him."

"Prove it," said Pepper.

"I have two others at my parish house, along with a woman named Maria who is very important. With your permission, I'd like to bring them here."

"I-I can't have people just living here." Pepper looked a little scandalized.

"The top ten floors are living space," Phil pointed out. "Surely you've got room for three or four more."

Pepper hesitated. "You're really serious," she said. "Tony's an angel."

"Yeah. Think about this: he knew my name, despite never having gone to any church a day in his life." Phil spread his hands. "Think about that."

Pepper Potts thought, and thought, and finally decided that Tony had to have known what he'd known somehow, and a supernatural explanation was just about as good as any other. What was that quote from Clarke about science and magic being the same thing?

"Fine," she said. "I swear if this ends in a bad PR situation-"

"It won't," he said quickly, and smiled. "Thank you, Ms. Potts."

"Pepper," she said wearily, and went to go make a new pot of coffee.

Chapter Text

You know, thought Natasha Romanov as she pushed herself up off the grimy metal grate of the fire escape, there is not a whole lot I wouldn't do for a shower right about now.

Well, a shower and medical attention, that should probably be a little higher on the list.

Damn, I'm glad I'm an angel.

She pressed a burned hand to her side and grunted as she felt what might have been ground beef, but what actually a raw, open wound just below her ribcage. "Uriel," she rasped into her earbud. "Do you copy?"

An eternity seemed to pass before her mic crackled and the warm, rough voice of Clint Barton filtered into her ear. "Uriel here. I copy. You okay, Razzy?"

"Don't call me that," she growled, and leaned her head back against the cold concrete, relieved. "I've got an open wound and I think my left leg is burned."

"You think?"

"There's no sensation. Uh..." she reached down and made a face as she touched her leg and the nylons she'd been wearing with her black dress disintegrated, melted into her blackened, charred skin. "Yeah, okay, bad. You done up there?"

"How about you look up?"

She raised her head and peered through smeared mascara into the network of fire escapes above her. She saw a very small maroon-colored glint. "Get the hell down here, Uri," she said.

There was a flutter and a soft whoosh, and then Clint was standing right above her, looking down at her, expression unreadable through the maroon lenses of his night-vision glasses. "Jesus, Nat," he said, and she heard it twice, the same words bizarrely overlaid with static.

"Take that thing out if you're gonna call me that," she hissed. "Help me out here."

Clint ripped the earpiece out and crushed it under his boot. "Gimme yours."

There was a glow suddenly on the horizon, and Natasha whipped her head around, forgetting the earbud. "Clint! The hospital!"

"I thought you got the last explosives!"

"Dammit, Clint, I told you I was hurt!" Natasha felt tears welling in her eyes. "This was not a fucking hard mission! Get in, disable the explosives, get out! Fuck you, Clint!"

"Nat-Nat, I'm sorry." Clint knelt down and took out her earpiece, his hands gentle. "Nat, we got everyone out. They're okay. Fire alarm, remember?" He took off his goggles and let the things dangle around his neck.

"We don't know that," she said dully, and shut her eyes as Clint squeezed her hand, then laid his hands on her leg and exhaled hard. She didn't open her eyes to look at the white glow as pure energy flowed from Clint into her flesh and nature wrinkled and sped up, sending icy sensation down her skin. She'd seen it often enough before, been both victim and healer-experienced the aftereffects of angelic power flowing through a human body.

Clint let his hands rest on her side, where blood streamed freely down her body. "They got out."

"They were children," she whispered.

"Everyone's okay, Raziel," he said gently, and she shuddered as a cold sensation swept her torso.

"Someone probably died, Clint. Someone died and I-we were responsible for this." Natasha reached a burnt hand up and wiped the soot and tears off her cheeks. "One more thing to think about at night."

"You don't have to think about it at night," he said softly, in the deep tones he used only with her. "Gimme your hand."

Natasha let him fix her hands and the cut on her face and the black eye she'd forgotten she'd acquired, and when he was done, she stood and helped his drained frame upright. "I got you," she told him, and the two of them made their way down the fire escape.

"Let's get a room," he rasped.

"Yes," agreed Natasha. "Let's."

~

As soon as the door to the grimy hotel room shut, Natasha locked it and strode to the windows, drawing the curtains. "Lie down," she ordered. She could already hear the creak of the mattress as Clint sprawled out on his back.

"You got plans for me or somethin'?" Clint asked, eyes shut.

"Not tonight," she answered, and unzipped what remained of her dress. His eyes flew open at the sound of the zipper and found her.

"Nat," he rasped, and sat up. She let the dress fall to the floor-she'd borrow Clint's clothes as needed-and stepped out of it, barefoot and wearing only her stockings and plain black panties.

"I said, lie down," she reminded him, and he gave her a quick, appreciative look before lying down on his back again. She joined him on the bed, kneeling by his stomach and running her hands down his chest. "You're tired." It was meant to be a question, but a look at his drawn face told her it didn't need an answer.

"Yeah," he admitted. His voice cracked halfway through the syllable and she hid a smile. "I just-can you just-Nat-"

"I know," she said softly, and unzipped his vest. "I know, Clint. Shh."

Once his clothes were lying on the floor, she let her hand trail down the light brown fuzz below his navel, letting her finger curl under the elastic of his black boxer-briefs. "Natasha," he said, half-whispering, and his hand came up and found hers, pressing her palm to his-

Oh. Oh. He was already hard, really hard, actually. That was unusual. "How long have-"

"Since you got the key," he said, and let his hand drop back to where it had been. "Please, Nat, I just-I just need-"

"Yes," she murmured, and palmed him, pushing. His back arched and he let out a hiss. "Good?"

"Yeah, real good-" Natasha yanked the elastic band down to his knees, swung herself over his thighs, and planted her hands on his chest, running her short nails across his skin. He reached up and grabbed the headboard, biceps bulging, and let his eyes flutter half-shut. "Don't take too long," he breathed.

"Don't make me wait for you," she retorted with a grin, and planted a kiss just above his navel. Her right hand came down and curled around his cock, and he made a soft noise and canted his hips up toward her. "Down, boy," she purred. "I got you."

This wouldn't be overtly passionate, or even very sensual, Natasha thought as she pumped her hand up and down, twisting gently at the top and listening to Clint moan. The two of them had slept together before, but this was different. This was desire born out of some side effect to using what she termed "supernatural gifts" and what Clint called "angel crap". Without fail, every time one of them did anything...angel-y, they'd get 1) unbelievably exhausted, and 2) unbelievably horny.

What had been funny at first was when they'd met, in Budapest four years ago, both of them had known they were angels and neither of them had realized the side effects were universal. After Clint had walked in on Natasha in the bathroom with three fingers inside her (she'd just healed his broken arm) she'd nearly murdered him, but as soon as he'd been able to force words out between her fingers and the bathroom wall they'd understood what was going on and moved the discussion into the bedroom.

Natasha sensed Clint was close, and quickly finished him, pulling hard and fast on his cock. His back arched up and he let out a loud grunt, spilling milky come across his belly and shuddering into stillness. Natasha made sure he was completely done before getting up and retrieving a wet towel from the bathroom. "Good?" she asked, wiping his stomach off.

"Mmmm," he rumbled, and she smiled.

"Go to sleep. I'm gonna do the conference call, okay?"

"Mmmm, he said again, and rolled over, dragging the cover with him to cover his bare ass.

Natasha tossed the towel into the bathroom and walked to the center of the floor, exhaling and clearing her mind. As she had done every week for ten years, she sat down, cross-legged, and shut her eyes.

Her mind reached out, leaping across expanses of light and space and reaching into all the dark and secret places of the cosmos. She could sense Clint/Uriel, tasting of gunpowder and cold wind and clear air, bright and hot and close and light-

There was someone else.

Natasha grasped for the second psyche-no, sweet God, it was two people, so close they at first had seemed to be one singular bright point-one tasting of dust after rain and the tingle of electricity on her tongue and the second like pure gold and salt water and the tang of metal-and they heard her, saw her, smelled her.

did you feel that-I felt it-hear it-who?-listen-

Natasha hissed in pain as the combined psyches converged on her, trying to see her-like a child trying to pick apart a rose to see what makes it smell good-Stop! It hurts!

One pulled back, the electric one. The other relented but stayed, looking, and then she caught the other two, the two she'd missed, so absorbed was she with the first two, the salt and the electric. She touched on the one that seemed closer to the two who'd assaulted her mind, and caught a gleam of a mind that bit like iron and burned like steel, honed to a point, quick and brilliant as mercury and peeling apart all it touched with laser-like intensity. She cringed away from it and withdrew into her own mind-but the three still touched her, saw her and each other-

"Nat?" She whipped her head up and stared at Clint, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clenched in the covers, every tendon on his body standing out in sharp relief. "Jesus, Nat, what is that?" His eyes were huge with shock.

"They're others," she gasped, and then the fourth mind found her, not at all like the other three. It hesitantly touched on her, not the others, and asked,

Who are you?

It reeked of incense and chloroform and ozone and seemed to be larger somehow, gentle and quiet. Natasha latched on it-anything to get away from that sharp, burning mind-and answered,

Raziel. I am Raziel.

The next few seconds passed so quickly she could barely see it all. First, she felt a seventh mind flash and touch upon each of the bright points, staring with the sharp iron and dancing to the electric. Natasha recoiled and shut away her psyche on instinct, the mental equivalent of covering a webcam during a Skype call-she could still sense the others but her mind was hidden. She noticed there were only one, two, three, four minds still open to the seventh. The gentle one, the incense-smelling one, had also shut itself away. So-

"Clint!" she snapped. "Shut off!"

"Fuckin'-how?" Clint turned bleary eyes to her.

She didn't have time to explain the mental intricacies. Clint rarely participated in her weekly conference calls. He didn't have the mental abilities she did.

So Natasha stood and slapped him hard across the face.

It worked. Clint hissed, fell over on his back, and she felt his mental light, the bright gunpowdery point, go dark like a blown out candle, released from the others.

The seventh mind was still touching on the others, lingering on the burning-biting-iron mind. Raziel. I hear your name but I see not your mind.

Natasha went still.

Secret-Keeper of God, they called you once. Perhaps you still have many secrets you keep. The seventh mind was seeking her, she could feel it. Like a snake tasting the air for prey, she thought as she pressed a hand to her mouth. Won't you come and speak to me, Raziel? Or must I first take away the light of God for an incentive?

Light of-oh. Natasha looked up at Clint. "Uriel," she rasped.

"Shit," he said tersely. "I heard him."

"Who is it? It's not one of us-the light's the wrong...color." Natasha didn't have words to describe the sensation. It was like a white light as opposed to a fluorescent bulb, and it tasted of sulfur and unbearably sweet sugar and fresh pine. "What the hell is going on?"

We should speak together, you and I, Secret-Keeper. You may know much I need to know. Run if you like. I'll find you. I always find my prey.

The seventh mind flickered and winked away, and Natasha scrambled to her feet. "Clint, we gotta get out of here."

"Nat, who the hell was that?" Clint was already pulling on his pants.

"I don't know, and I'm not interested in finding out." Natasha peeled off her stockings and grabbed a T-shirt out of Clint's bag. "You got clean pants?"

"Yeah, bottom. Do you think he can find our location?"

"I don't know. I don't think so." Natasha threw the shirt on and grabbed a pair of pants. "Jesus. No, wait, he must be able to, because how else would he know we were close?"

"Close physically or emotionally?" asked Clint.

"I don't know, dammit."

"I'm not gonna take that chance, Nat. I'm going back to Berlin. You go back to London or something, get away. Just in case."

"Clint, he's gonna-do something to you, hold you hostage-"

"That's not the point, it's you he wants, not me. You're Raziel. You know things about the universe nobody should know, don't you?" Clint took her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "You're the commodity here. I'm the currency. You're more valuable to this guy than I am. Get out of here."

"Don't let him get you," she snapped, turning away to get on some shoes. "I swear to God-"

"I know," he said. "I'll text you, okay? Every hour. Promise."

"Sounds good." Natasha reached for her phone and abruptly snapped her head up, eyes wide. "Shit!"

"What?"

"It's-that big one, the one, ow!" Natasha winced and closed her eyes. What? Who are you?

I'm a doctor. I heard what he said, the seventh one. I'm in Calcutta. Can you come to me?

Natasha concentrated. Tell me where.

Just come. I can help, I think. The link faded and Natasha considered. She could teleport to Calcutta (it would be cheaper).

"Go to London and wait for me, okay?" She looked at Clint and picked up her bag. "I'll text you when I find this doctor."

"Got it." Clint slung his pack over his shoulder. "Be safe." He leaned down and gave her a kiss. She wished-but no, and then he was gone in a soft flutter of air.

Natasha set her shoulders, slid her hotel key under the door (management would be scratching their heads come morning) and forced reality to bend to her will, shaping time and space around her physical form to meet her needs.

After all, this was what being supernatural was all about. You told reality how it was going to work, and when reality told you, but I never do that, you smacked reality in the ass and told it to make you a sandwich because you didn't have time for this, goddammit.

Which was something Natasha Romanov was actually very good at. Which was why in less than a second she'd gone from standing in a dingy Spanish hotel room to standing on the side of the road in Calcutta with no more than a soft whoosh.

She'd just had enough time to get her bearings when a little girl who couldn't possibly have been over the age of seven ran up and asked her, wide-eyed, "Tuma parī kara rahē haiṁ?"

Natasha answered, "Kyā ḍŏkṭara bhēja sakatē haiṁ? Did the doctor send you?"

"Hāṁ," said the little girl, and took Natasha's hand, leading her down the crowded, loud streets to God knew where.

Chapter Text

"You all-you're all right?"

Coulson was speaking to Steve and Thor. Steve was sitting on the eight-thousand-dollar couch in the living area of their apartment in Stark Tower, fingers curled into the white material, back stiff, eyes wide, rigid. Thor was standing in the middle of the floor, eyes darting from person to person as if he wasn't quite sure where he was-and he was just as still as Steve.

Maria glanced at Coulson. "You think they need medical help?" she asked.

Steve let out a choked noise, and shuddered visibly, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the sofa. "That-who was that?" he choked. "Thor-"

"I felt it too," rumbled the big blond man. "Like a knife through my eyes. And Gabriel-"

"He was there. I felt it too. And the three others, you heard them?" Steve stood and walked unsteadily to the counter, where he wet his hands and splashed his face.

"I did. The one called Raziel was wiser than us-to shut away like that when an enemy listens in? He must have known what he was doing, more so than us. Experience, I think." There was a steely glint of resolve in Thor's eye. "What do we do now?"

"Can you two explain what's going on?" Coulson stepped forward, looking both concerned and confused. "You went into some kind of trance-we thought you were in pain!"

"No. We were called. Touched." Steve sighed and rubbed his eyes. "A presence touched our minds-like when we realized Tony Stark was Gabriel, like Maria said- we can talk to each other in our heads. But that was much different, much- I don't know how to describe it."

"It was like a mobile phone call as opposed to smoke signals," offered Thor. "When Gabriel touched upon the mind of Michael, it was crude, hesitant. I know, for I felt an echo of it. We must all be interconnected, in our minds."

"A psychic link," said Maria.

"Yes," said Steve. "When Gabriel spoke to me, it was muddled and strange. When Raziel found us, it was like a-like an arrow straight to the heart. Quick and precise and clear-and it hurt. And I could-I could sense you, Thor. I could sense Ramiel."

"I could sense Michael. Like the ocean and the sunrise," said Thor.

"We have to talk to Tony," said Maria. "What did the other angels say to you?"

"They-" Steve gave Phil a look, and Phil turned to Maria.

"Miss Hill, maybe you should go and finish unpacking in your room."

"Excuse me?"

"Maria, we can't have you hearing this. You're the seer. We don't want anything you might...see...to be influenced by what you've heard. You understand?"

Maria silently turned and stalked out of the room, seething. She knew he had a point but she was still furious. Fine. Let the stupid boys have their angel club, no girls allowed, whatever, she didn't care, not like she was even remotely interested in any-

There was a loud bang, and she whirled and gasped, because a man-an actual, real, living man-was pressed up against the glass of the window right next to her and he was wearing a hospital gown and what the hell they were on the fiftieth floor for Chrissake-

"Hold on!" shouted Maria, and ran for the window, frantically trying to find a latch, a seam, anything she could open and grab the guy. She realized there were no openings-and who would put open windows on the fiftieth floor anyway? "I can't get it open!" she mouthed.

He nodded, and mouthed, Three floors down. You let me in there.

She whirled and ran for the stairs, heart pounding.

She was about 97 percent sure that she'd just met Tony Stark.

~

Clint Barton blinked in the unexpected sunlight. Huh. So London was going to treat him well for a change. Nice.

He got his bearings, made sure no one had noticed him appear into thin air, and set off toward the nearest police station.

In his duffel he had what he called his "goody bag", which consisted of three changes of clothes: one suit, one casual wear, and one combat wear; his backup handguns, ammo, his beloved sunglasses, five thousand pounds, five thousand dollars, five different sets of ID, driver's licenses, and badges, and a nifty little device that contained top-level clearance codes to everything in the world.

So, he was packing light.

He walked in and demanded to be put in touch with Scotland Yard, telling them he was an agent from the British government, and putting on a very good accent to play the part. As expected, the local police gave him a ride to Whitehall. He pulled out his phone and tucked it under his cheek as he stopped in a public restroom to change.

"What do you want?"

"I'm outside. Actually down the street a bit. You in?"

"Yeah. What's going on?"

"Something weird's come up. Weirder then normal for me, which is pretty weird. Wondering if you had a moment or two?"

"What do you think I can do about something like that?"

"C'mon, you've got every record of every arrest made in Europe ever, and I'm looking for someone who might just show up on that list." Clint tied his shoe and stood, looking at himself in the mirror. Natasha had bought him this suit. He liked it. It was English cut, sleek, and the color of charcoal, with a wine-colored tie he'd dug out of somewhere. "Can you do it for me?"

A pause. Then, "Your name?"

"I'm Rhys Davies. Assistant inspector from the NPOIU." Clint let himself slip into a Welsh accent. "What d' you think?"

"Fine. You've got an hour." Click. Clint grinned, tucked his phone into his pocket, and stashed his duffel in the air vent above the sinks at the far end of the restroom. Then he walked out, down the street and up into 4 Whitehall.

~

The little, ragged girl had led Natasha into a busy part of the slums of Calcutta and then up a flight of uneven, dirty stairs and into a small room containing a table, a washstand, and not much else. Then she'd disappeared.

"Hello?" Natasha called, stepping toward the only other entrance to the room-a door by the washstand. "Is anyone there? Doctor?"

The door creaked open, and a man poked his head around the door. "Come. Quickly." His voice was low and urgent.

Natasha darted across and joined him on the other side of the door. "Are we being watched?"

"Possibly." He turned and locked the door, then faced her.

Her first impression was that of someone who wished to be unobtrusive, unseen, nervous and quiet. The man was only a little taller than her, and had dark wavy hair and stubble and a broad face. A pair of dirty glasses perched on his nose, and he wore a threadbare brown wool blazer that didn't match his pants.

"You're-what's your name?" If this was a trap she'd be ready. She shifted her weight and balanced carefully on the balls of her feet.

"The name I was born with, or the name that goes with the angel?" he asked, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

She shrugged. "Both, I guess."

"Bruce. Bruce Banner. Dr. Bruce Banner, actually, but you can just call me Bruce. The other is Ezekiel." Bruce crossed the room and peered out the window.

"And how long have you been aware you were an angel?" Natasha asked.

"About seven years. I haven't really...explored what I can do, but I've felt you reach out every week, like a funny little itch in the back of my mind. I thought I was imagining things, but when it kept happening...I thought I couldn't be crazy."

"You never answered." Natasha felt a little hurt.

"I didn't know how." He walked over to her, cautiously, hands clasped together and fiddling absently. "I'm a scientist, not a-an angel, by trade, and this was so foreign...you can understand my hesitancy."

Natasha gave him a long look and dug her phone out of her pocket. "Let me tell my friend you're here."

"The one with you, right? Uriel? The bright one. Smells like, ah, tastes, no, not the right word. Uh, he sort of has a flavor of...mountain air. Very pure. And smoke. Or maybe gunpowder?" Bruce gestured vaguely.

Natasha stared at him in surprise. She'd thought-huh, everyone could sense the differences between them. "Yes," she said. "Yes, that's right." She wondered-"Do I have a flavor?"

"Ah, yes. You're kind of like-you know how a book smells when it's very old, the smell of the paper? Like that, and smoke, and-and blood." Bruce looked as if he wasn't sure if he was offending her or not.

Natasha considered this, and texted Clint. Found dr. name Bruce/ezekiel. you?

"And how long have you known you were an angel?" asked Bruce as she put her phone in her pocket.

"Since I was six," she said. "Heard voices. Realized this thing was a part of me, managed to develop what I could on my own, and got the hell out of Russia."

"I didn't even ask-what is your name?"

"Natasha Romanov. Or Raziel. or Natalia Romanova, or a hundred other names. Mostly I go by Natasha." She looked around, and seeing that the bed on the floor was the only seating available, she sat on it, legs splayed out on the wooden floor.

He paced for a minute. "And...that other voice, the one that looked at us all. Do you have any idea who it might be?"

"No. But if he wants me, he's up to no good." Natasha leaned back and rested her head on the wall. Teleporting took a lot out of her. "Uh, a renegade angel, maybe?" Her phone buzzed, and she looked at it. At scot yrd. london. looking fr vc 7. "Clint's at Scotland Yard right now, probably looking through the special interest cases. We could go and join him."

Bruce visibly cringed. "I, ah, I don't know how to teleport. And-I have a condition."

"What, high blood pressure?" Natasha asked, looking over at him.

"No. Something a little more serious. I had an accident about seven years back, in a lab, dealing with gamma radiation-ah, it's not something I like to talk about." He looked a little ill.

"You okay?" she asked, leaning forward.

"If my heart rate gets too high, I-I change. You wouldn't want to be around me. I'm not me anymore. I'm-it's-bad," he finished. "You think I'm talking about mood swings-I'm not, this is serious."

"Is that why you're out here?"

He nodded, once, shortly. "The American government is very good at covering up their mistakes. Sent me out here with a not-so-veiled threat of constant surveillance."

"I doubt they're watching you," she said. "If they were, we'd have been apprehended by now."

"True," he allowed.

"Back to the teleporting thing: You don't have to know how. I can hold your arm and you can kind of ride shotgun. And it's not scary, really." She gave him her most reassuring look. "It's kind of a pop, and then you're just there. Sometimes your ears ring."

Bruce still looked a little iffy on the matter.

"C'mon. It'll be fun. We'll pop into London, grab a hotel room, get cleaned up, and pop on down to Scotland Yahd," she said in her worst British accent, which made him smile.

"All right. But if you see me start to turn green, get away as fast as you can," he warned, and grabbed a briefcase.

"Don't worry. Teleporting doesn't make you nauseous," she assured him, taking his arm and focusing on London, somewhere nice and empty just in case-

"Not that kind of green," he said grimly, and she thought what? and then reality was twisting around them, re-weaving and structuring and the laws of physics were screaming for mercy and the two of them blinked quietly into existence in a deserted rail yard in the heart of London.

Chapter Text

"You sure you're okay?"

It was the second time in ten minutes Phil Coulson was asking that question. He'd never thought finding archangels would be this fraught with peril. Then again, he'd also been under the impressions that archangels could actually take care of themselves.

"I'm fine. Pepper, can you get me some pants?"

Tony Stark sat on the floor, legs splayed awkwardly against smooth granite, dressed in nothing but a stupid-looking flowery hospital gown.

He'd had worse mornings, he thought as he rested his head on the sofa behind him.

Pepper came back into the living area and handed him a pair of jeans. "Here. Tony, how did you even get here? Did you fly?"

"Uh. Yeah. I have wings, apparently. Sometimes, I mean. Sometimes I don't." Tony zipped up his jeans, tossed the gown to the floor, and rubbed his nose. "It's hard to explain." Pepper stared at him blankly.

Phil was going to ask a question, but the door to the hall opened and Maria entered, followed by Thor and Steve¹. Steve stopped short and stared at Tony while Thor walked up, smiling, and extended a hand.

"You're Gabriel, yes?" he asked. "Tony Stark?"

Tony looked up and regarded the smiling Norseman with a cautious air, then shook his hand. "Uh, yeah. Gabriel. You must be-hold on, let me guess." He peered into the man's eyes as well as he could being a good foot shorter. "I felt you during the, uh, conference call of destiny. Ramiel, right?"

"Call me Thor."

"Which makes you-" Tony turned on his heel, arc reactor faint in the daylight, and pointed at Steve-"-Michael."

There was a gentle silence, during which Steve and Tony gave each other slightly suspicious looks and did not move. Phil carefully scooted to the edge of his seat, looking very like someone who has bet a lot of money on a prizewinner. Slowly, Steve stepped toward Tony.

"Gabriel," he said, and tilted his head up, looking down at the smaller man.

"Michael," said Tony. "Jeez, I hope the rest of us aren't built like the Jolly Green Giant. I'm going to look awful in family photos. You make me look short."

"You are short," said Pepper dryly.

"Shut up," said Tony. Then, back to Steve, "I want to know If I can call you Mike."

Steve's mouth quirked up at the corner. "If you want, I guess."

"Great, great. Mind if I just..." he made an indistinct hand motion "...peek into your head real quick and make sure you're the real McCoy?"

"You sure about that?" asked Steve, eyes narrowed. Thor looked from man to man, looking confused, and then realization broke over his face.

"Steven, you should look into his," he said. "He knows you are Michael-but you do not know if he is Gabriel."

"Hey-" Tony began to protest.

"He's right. You might just as well be the thing that was looking at all of us. The seventh one." Steve held his hands up. "Look. I promise I won't hurt you. But I need to be clear on this."

Tony opened and shut his mouth a few times, but finally shut it, He looked stung. "Fine. But no telling anyone what you find in my head-that crap's private, understand me?"

"Got it." Steve walked over, tilted his head as if looking for a certain spot on Tony's skin, and then held up his hand. "I'll be honest, I don't know how to do this."

"Well, just be gentle with me, and I'll let you know how you got on afterward," said Tony with a quick little smirk. Pepper rolled her eyes.

Steve gave him a reproachful look and then closed his eyes, concentrating. His hand suddenly sputtered and flared with bright white-blue light, and Maria gasped. "What the he-"

"Shh," said Steve, eyes still shut, and then proceeded to press the palm of his hand against Tony's forehead.

Tony's eyes went wide and he sucked in a raspy breath, twitching. His hands came up and gripped Steve's shoulders tight, shaking. "Nnnngh-nnggh-"

Steve grimaced, the light flickering, and concentrated hard-and his hand flipped sharply away from Tony's head, pushing past and into his hair and grabbing his shoulder and neck and he choked out something inarticulate, shaking where he stood. Tony still gripped Steve. He didn't look capable of standing on his own power.

Maria rushed over and peeled Steve off Tony. "Jesus Christ," she spat, "you're supposed to know what you're doing!" Behind her, Tony collapsed into an undignified pile of limbs. Pepper echoed Maria's interjection and scrambled to her boss.

Steve's eyes fluttered open. "Ow," he said. He sounded horrible. "Not seventh," he managed, shaking his head like a stunned bull. "Not seventh."

Pepper was already at Tony's side. "Tony, hey, Tony. You with us?"

His eyes opened and he drew in breath, then sat up and gave Steve a dark look. "Don't you ever do that to me again," he said, voice a little shaky, and Steve was almost sure he saw tears in the man's eyes-but then he drew his hand over his face and the unflappable Tony Stark was back in place. "Of course, that's not the first time I've said that to someone," he said, and winked at Pepper. She huffed.

"We're both happy, right?" asked Maria. "You're both not that seventh voice?"

"Right." Steve straightened, and Maria's hands dropped. "Which begs the question-where are the other three?"

"No idea. Do we know what we're looking for?" Tony asked.

"Uh. Raziel. No more information than that. You know, the one that smells like burned paper and that kind of metallic rusty flavor?" Steve crinkled his nose. "That one."

"It is a woman," said Thor calmly.

Maria looked at him. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but how would you know?"

Thor looked at her. "Because she was intelligent enough to shut herself out of sight when an unknown presence began to look at the six of us. And when Steven and myself-when we tried to look at her as she touched us, I felt her cry out. A man-most men-would not have cried in pain, but would have lashed out at an unexpected intrusion."

"That's a little bit...sexist," said Maria, feeling miffed.

"But you understand what I mean?" asked Thor anxiously.

"Yeah," said Maria.

"It could be literally anyone on Earth," said Phil. Everyone had almost forgotten about him. "We have no way to start looking, no way to find these people."

"How do we start something we can't?" asked Steve.

"We wait," said Coulson, and pushed himself off his seat. "We just wait."

"Just wait?" echoed Tony, incredulous. "If Number Seven is out there plotting doom, we need to do something about it!"

"You can't even read each others' minds right yet," said Maria. "You probably shouldn't go tracking this guy down unless you're actually ready."

"Nobody asked you," said Tony, turning on her. "Why are you here anyway?"

"I'm the seer, you dick," snapped Maria.

"Leave her alone, Stark," said Steve.

"I can fight my own battles-"

"All of you be silent!" yelled Thor. It was actually pretty loud, and everyone shut their mouths. "We cannot fight among ourselves. Maria is right. We must look within and learn from our-our angels. We are not prepared for this, not yet."

"First things first," said Pepper. "I am ordering breakfast for us all and we are going to sit down and eat like adults, all right?" When nobody argued, she walked off, sans Louboutins and looking very self-satisfied. "And put on a shirt!" she yelled over her shoulder at Tony, as an afterthought.

1- Upon letting Tony in, she'd run for Father Coulson, who had then explained to her very quickly about the Psychic Conference Call and raced off to floor forty-seven, tainted precognition be damned.

Chapter Text

"These are all the records in the past year you've got?" Clint leaned over and spread the stack of files apart into a beige fan.

"All special interest cases, yeah. I've also got 'em on the computer of you want to look at those as well." The speaker, a short, rather round man with graying hair and spectacles, came around the wall and set down two mugs of coffee. "Here."

"Thanks." Clint downed a gulp gratefully. "Okay, and these are, what, Wales, the UK-?"

"The British Isles, Germany, France, Luxembourg, Norway, and Denmark. That's all I've got access to."

"Great, thanks. I owe you one, Mark, I really do."

"Don't mention it." Mark pushed his glasses up. "Have a ball. You've got an hour before you've got to be gone, don't forget."

Clint ignored him, and focused on the paper. This was a neat little trick he'd developed on his missions with Nat-the ability to sense a word, a phrase, a person, and see it immediately, track it, and find it. He'd never admit it, but it was also a helpful asset in shooting. He pressed his fingers lightly to the paper, and breathed in, thinking of any characteristics that he'd gleaned from that seventh voice that had seen him-and threatened his life.

Inmate. Insane? Violent. Cold. Articulate. Angry.

Ding. His eyes flew open and he grabbed up twenty-three files, flipped the first one open, and began to read.

~

"You okay?"

Bruce groaned, and leaned forward.

Natasha got the case out of his hands and set it down on the ground. "Hey, you're okay. We're here, see?"

"Yeah, I just-give me a second," he managed. He sounded strained, like he couldn't quite breathe. "Stand...away. Just in case."

Natasha was reluctant to leave him there, but she stepped away.

And that was when she saw the green tint flush his skin.

"Bruce?" she asked, startled. "Bruce, are you okay?"

Bruce fell onto his knees and took a few raspy, deep breaths. Natasha did not know what to think. He'd said-what had he said? To get away as fast as she could if she saw him turn green?

"Bruce, do you need me to run?" she asked, trying to sound controlled and even.

He whipped his head up and toward her so fast that she jumped and stumbled over an old track and fell on her ass. "Yes!" he spat, and she sat frozen because his eyes-

-his eyes were bright, poisonous green.

She rolled, scrambled to her feet, and took off. She didn't want to teleport-what if he needed her later-what if he was dying-no he'd said he changed-changed how?

Behind her, she heard an inhuman, deep roar.

Natasha hauled ass into what looked like it might had once been a railroad shed, and took cover behind a decrepit old wall, crouched, poised on the balls of her feet. Jesus Christ. She could hear him roaring, getting closer, and since hiding wasn't going to help her much, she took a deep breath and stepped out, staring at the monster that was barreling toward her.

It was at least twelve feet tall, covered in rippling muscle, and green. And it was definitely not Bruce.

She sucked in a gasp and screamed, "Ezekiel!"

The thing ground to a halt, stared down at her, and sniffed. It looked confused.

Natasha held her hand up, palm out. "Calm down. You have to think. Ezekiel. You're gonna be okay. Look-look at me."

Green eyes found hers, and the huge head tilted sideways. It grunted.

"I-I need you to calm down. Breathe." Natasha wondered if the giant green thing could understand human speech, and took in a deep breath, holding it, and let it out. "Like that, okay?" Her voice cracked. "Your turn. Deep breath." She repeated her little inhalation exercise and the thing flared its nose, wide, and imitated her. She could have laughed. "Good!"

The thing grunted again, sat down, and yawned. Natasha inched forward and reached out, trembling, and touched its hand. Hot and green and rough like an elephant's skin, she thought. "Yeah, go to sleep."

It snorted, looked at her, and reached down, curiously wrapping its wide fingers around her waist and lifting her off her feet, to its eye level. Natasha tried desperately not to panic. "Put me down," she rasped, eyes huge, and then it stood and lumbered off with her, and she choked out a scream in spite of herself.

This was not part of their plan.

They left the railyard and ended up in a lot of woods somewhere, Natasha didn't know where. She wasn't familiar with the woods around London, though she had a feeling she was about to become intimately acquainted with them. Around late afternoon, it had begin to cloud over, and the thing that was not Bruce set her down clumsily (finally) in a hollow under a huge old oak tree and she just sat there, not wanting to move because her legs had fallen asleep anyway.

The thing yawned again and lumbered off, disappearing into the forest.

Natasha sat up, hair loose and in her face, and said flatly, "What."

Then, of course, it thundered and began to rain. She couldn't leave Bruce out here by himself, and she didn't even have their bags, and she didn't know where they were. She didn't know what to do.

Quickly, she dropped to her knees and reached out, closing her eyes and opening her mind, trying to focus on Clint, and nobody else. Uri, can you hear me? I'm lost.

Immediately, Clint answered, fast and quick and bright in her mind. She couldn't sense anyone else, which, she supposed, was a good thing. Where are you?

In the forest. Outside an old station. Ezekiel is-I can't explain it. What have you got?

His mind was cloudy for a second, preoccupied. Then his mind flashed back to hers, like a flashlight in a dark room beaming into her eyes. I see you. Go north, and you'll be in London. Get to St. Ermins. Room 384.

Got it. Natasha opened her eyes and sighed. Rain was running cold down her back and neck, and her clothes-Clint's clothes-were soaked already. Fantastic. And she was freezing, it was January, why hadn't she thought to bring a coat?

She set off in the general direction Not-Bruce had gone, and after a lot of messy falling and scrambling and scraping over wet roots and grumbling, she found Bruce. Not the monster, Bruce. He was sprawled out in a grassy (well, it had been grassy, now it was a mud hole) hollow, under the bare branches of a large tree. He was also naked, but that didn't bother Natasha.

"Bruce?" she said, and crouched down beside him, rolling him over. He was unconscious and shivering. She sighed, dragged him out of the mud, and teleported them both back to the railyard, where she grabbed their bags, awkwardly gripped Bruce, and concentrated hard on the hotel room. It would be difficult, especially considering she had someone else with her, but if she just...concentrated...hard enough...

With a thud, she collapsed to her knees, gasping. Ouch. Carpet. There was rain in her eyes, and she shook her head to clear her sight. She was in a hotel room, but there was no sign of Clint. Awesome. It had worked.

"There you go," she said, and dumped Bruce on the bed. She ran a hot shower and wrapped herself in half the towels in the bathroom, then came out and looked over Bruce. He should have been blue and near-hypothermic, but he seemed okay, just cold. She opened the closet and found a change of Clint's clothes, dry and clean. Gratefully, she changed into them.

"Never thought I'd say this, but I'd kill for a bra right about now," she remarked. She took a deep breath and leaned over Bruce, palm out, and concentrated. Her hand glowed with a pinkish light, and Bruce's eyes fluttered open.

"Ow," he said. "Where are we?"

"St. Ermins. Do you remember-what happened?" She hesitated for a second.

His warm dark eyes went bleak. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and sat up. "I'll just-I'll go shower."

"Yeah," she said.

He paused in the bathroom doorway, his skin wet and shining in the light, and turned his head. "Did I hurt you?" His voice was low, careful.

"No. Scared the hell out of me, and carried me a few miles into the woods, but I'm fine." She would have smiled if she'd thought he'd been actually looking at her.

He stood there silently for a second and then stepped forward, the door closing with a click.

Natasha sighed and flopped her head against the headboard. She should have just waited for him to wake up on his own, dammit, now she was horny and exhausted and Clint wasn't here and everything just really sucked-

The door to the room opened, and she was off the bed, nerves humming, poised for fight.

Of course, it was only Clint.

Natasha did not really think her already overworked body could take another adrenaline rush. "Clint-you scared me to death, damn you!" she spat.

"Hey, Nat, you okay? Everything okay?" He rushed forward-oh, and of course he was wearing that damn suit, the charcoal one, the one she'd bought him-and his hair was messy and wet from the rain and he looked ridiculously, stupidly fuckable.

"No," she said, and crossed the room in three steps, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. His hands found her waist and held her until she was quite done.

"Jesus, Natasha," he said hoarsely as she released his lips.

"I had to wake Bruce. Ezekiel. I had to-he's a thing. He turns into a green monster when his heart rate gets too high. Then he passes out-and he's fine. But he's in the shower. And he was passed out and I woke him up and I really shouldn't have."

Clint's eyes widened in realization. "Well, uh, I don't think I can really do anything about it while he's here, so uh, I'd recommend a shower."

Natasha sighed. "Right. Did you find anything on our creepy little stalker?"

"I found a few, actually. One that might be him-but the files are all at Scotland Yard. I'm gonna have to hack the database from here." He indicated his laptop, which was sitting on the table. "I've been working at it for a while. I was out grabbing dinner when you-uh-called. I'll order room service for you guys, though."

"Perfect. Also, I need to go shopping for myself and Bruce. Your clothes reek." She pretended to sniff the armpit of her shirt and made a face.

Clint snorted. "I'll have you know I wash my clothes once a month, thank you."

"Euugh!" She smacked him, and he laughed and dodged over to the phone.

Bruce poked his head out from the bathroom door. "You guys got any clothes?" he asked sheepishly.

"Working on it. Wear the towel. I don't think Clint's clothes will fit you," said Natasha.

"Right," he said, and looked at her for a second, some unreadable emotion in his eyes, then shut the door.

Clint was finishing. "Yeah, two pizzas and a-what? Yeah, large. Right, and don't forget the Coke. What? Tea? Uh-"

Natasha nodded fiercely at him. He mouthed, "Okay," and said, "Yeah, definitely, thank you. Thanks. Uh-huh." He hung up. "I hate tea," he said morosely.

"Well, I like it," she said. "I need to sleep, thank you."

"Sleep is for the weak," he said in a deep voice, puffing out his chest. "Also, this damn suit is suffocating me."

"I think it's very sexy," Natasha said offhandedly, leaning back on the bed.

"Isn't it weird that the more uncomfortable something is the better it looks on you?" Clint took off the sleek jacket and tossed it across a chair. "And the more comfy something is, the worse it looks."

"Like sweatpants," said Natasha. "Huh. You're right."

Bruce came out of the bathroom. "Hey," he said.

"Hey! Bruce, right?" Clint stood and shook his hand. "Ezekiel?"

"Right." Bruce cracked a tentative smile. "I, ah, I suppose you've heard of my little party trick." He looked at Natasha.

"I did," Clint looked as if he wasn't sure what to say. "Must make you hungry afterwards."

Bruce smiled. "It does, actually. Hungry and tired. And sore."

"Well, we got a pizza on the way up," said Clint, and loosened his tie. "You guys can chow down while I try to crack this firewall."

Natasha stretched out on the bed. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Maria Hill crossed her arms and leaned back against the sofa. "I swear to God if you keep pacing, I will throw something at you," she snapped at Tony.

Tony gave her a look. "You've really got that stick jammed up there, don't you, Oh Mighty Seer? Relax. Grab a beer. This wasn't gonna be a weekend thing."

"I'll tell you where you can put that beer-"

"Can the two of you give it a rest?" Steve turned around, looking irritated and tired. "Maria, why don't you just go to bed?"

"Look, if someone does some cool angel magic thing, I want to see it, okay?" Maria eyed the half-eaten breakfast burrito on the coffee table, and decided not to finish it.

Tony snorted. "Well, I'm gong to the lab. Where I can concentrate. In peace and quiet."

"Maria, maybe it would be better if you did get some rest," said Phil quietly.

"You just want me to sleep so I'll have a vision," she threw back at him.

"That's not a bad thing," said Thor. "Perhaps you will see the others. It may lead us to them."

Maria felt every eye in the room on her, and stared at the burrito as hard as she could. "Fine," she ground out between her teeth. "I'm going." And, feeling very much like a small child sent to bed early on Christmas, she shoved off the couch and stalked up to her room, where she curled up on her bed and stared at the wall and thought about nothing in particular until the line between consciousness and unconsciousness blurred and wavered and she was looking at a man, a man she did not know.

She heard Thor say, I looked for days, but I could not find him, and a man's face appeared, close to hers. A man with a creased face, a young man, with short light hair and an intent stare, who looked at her as if he wasn't sure she was real. She tried to say, "Who are you?" but no words came out. She heard a beeping sound, and a voice said, "Are we in?"

And then it changed, and she was looking at a dark room with a single bright spot in it, and in the bright spot, sitting under the light that pooled around him, was a different man, a man with unkempt long black hair that hid his face. And a voice, a voice like a dog caught in a trap said I can see you. I know you're there. Show yourself! and the head jerked hard to the right, and he said It must be the seer. The one I saw in his mind, his mind. Hell take this dark.

Maria felt a stab of pity, and wanted to reach out, but he jerked his head upright, staring right at her and his face-

His face was terrifying. Lips pulled back over white teeth, eyes ablaze with an insane fury, and he was screaming, straining toward her, screaming and spitting with rage-I'LL FLAY THE SKIN FROM YOUR BONES-I'LL KILL YOU-DO YOU HEAR ME SEER YOU WILL BEG FOR THE END-

Maria sat up, and found she was on the floor. She felt very cold, and she was shaking. The door opened and Steve came in. "You okay? We heard you scr-Maria!"

"What?" she panted, rolling over.

"You- you're on the floor-did you hurt yourself?" He hurried over and helped her up, concern in his blue eyes. She clung to him like a life raft, glad he was solid and real and alive.

"No-I-I saw someone. Two people. I saw-" She tried to compose herself, took a deep breath, and continued. "I saw a man, just this ordinary, nice looking guy, and he was looking at me funny, and then I saw a-a light, and this man, this other guy, was sitting under it and talking to himself about the dark and how he could see me, and then I-I felt bad for him and I think he heard me, or felt me, and he tried to kill me-"

"Okay. You're okay?" Steve put his hands on her shoulders. "You need to get a drink or something?"

"No, I'm fine. I just-it was, uh, kind of unsettling." Maria drew her hand across her eyes. "We should tell Father Coulson. Phil. We should."

"Yeah." Steve gave her a pat on the shoulder and headed for the door. She followed him. She did not want to be alone in that room.

~~

"You said the first man you saw was young? How old do you think he was?" Phil asked.

"I don't know. Thirties. Mid-thirties. He had a serious face but he was nice, I could tell. I don't know how to describe him." She laughed, a short little sound. "This is where a police sketch might come in handy."

"Steve, can you do that?" asked Phil.

"I can try." Steve stood up, grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen off the counter, and led Maria over to the big window, where they sat on the floor in the afternoon light.

"Father Coulson?" said a small voice.

Phil turned and saw Thor, standing in the doorway, looking very troubled. "Thor?"

"The second man that Maria saw. It-it sounds like my brother."

"Thor, the chances of that are close to impossible. That can't be your brother." Phil tried to sound reassuring.

Thor was having none of it. "Like the chances that we would all meet? Six out of six billion? No, Coulson, that is not-it is fate." Thor's hand clenched and he swallowed. "I-she did not say where he was?"

"No, she didn't. But he threatened her life-does that sound like your brother?"

"No," admitted Thor, and his shoulders seemed to relax. "No, it does not."

"See?" Phil gave him a warm smile.

"Your reason is sound, and it gives me hope. Thank you." Thor smiled.

Somewhere in the tower, there was a loud bang that sounded remarkably like an explosion. All the lights flickered and went dark, but since it was still daylight, it wasn't much of a cause for immediate concern. "Huh," said Phil blandly, looking at the ceiling.

"What was that?" asked Steve. "An attack?"

"Tony is coming. He is not worried," said Thor.

Not two minutes later, Tony walked in, eyes wide and looking jumpy. "Uh, Father? I think I just-did something, uh, you, Thor, come here?" He beckoned the the larger man, who looked a little confused but walked over to him. "Okay. Get on your guard. I'm gonna-I'm gonna attack, okay?"

Thor grinned and bent his knees, hands out, welcoming the spar. "If it is a battle of muscle it will go hard on you, Gabriel."

Tony grinned, and his eyes flashed with a wicked glint-nearly gold-and then he swung at Thor, and Thor naturally brought his hand up to stop the blow, and Tony's hand erupted in a blaze of golden light. There was a high-pitched whining noise as reality bent and twisted, and then the light went out, and Thor was kneeling, staring up in shock.

"That took me all day to figure out," said Tony, standing and looking at his hand with a smile. "You guys got anything?"

"Not yet," said Thor, standing a little slowly. "Gods, that was like being burned." He chuckled. "A lesser man than I would have been felled."

"I wasn't going full strength. I tried that in my lab and, uh, now there's glass everywhere-"

Pepper came storming in, face red, hair wild. "TONY! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE LAB?"

"I, uh, kind of broke it?" he said, backing away, hands out.

"Are you aware," hissed Pepper, advancing, "that whatever you did fried DUM-E and shut down every piece of computer technology in the tower?"

"Uh, I was getting to it. Is that why JARVIS isn't answering me? I thought he was just in a bad mood-"

"You know what? No. I'm-I'm done, I can't handle this-angel stuff, I'm sorry, but you can't-"

"Wait," said Thor, and stood up. "I think-"

"No, no, I'm sorry, all you people, just-" Pepper was on the verge of tears. "Please, leave."

Thor shut his eyes, and concentrated hard, his brow furrowing.

There was a distinct snap and everyone made varying sounds of distaste as their ears popped. "I think you'll find your systems to be back online," Thor said softly, and right on cue, the lights flickered back on.

"I-what?"

"Pep. Just check," said Tony.

She opened her phone with a loud sniff, and her eyes widened. "But that's-how?"

Thor shrugged. "May we stay?"

"I...jeez, yeah, I guess. But if you break anything else, please just fix it, okay? Quickly? Deal?"

"Deal," said Thor with a smile.

Chapter Text

[ARCHIVE>AUDIO LOG>SERIAL NUMBER 1162-8497.8EX>CELL BLOCK 4>CELL 5A]

[LEVEL FIFTEEN CLEARANCE IS REQUIRED TO ACCESS AUDIO RECORD>PLEASE ENTER PASSWORD]

PASSWORD: ********

[THANK YOU>ACCESS GRANTED>BEGIN AUDIO PLAYBACK]

00.04.18
[Silence. Sustained for approx. five minutes]

00.09.30
I can see you. I now you're there. Show yourself! [Scuffling sounds] It must be the seer. The one I saw in his mind, in his mind. Hell take this dark. [Sudden screaming] I'll flay the skin from your bones! I'll kill you! Do you [inarticulate sounds, cont. for two minutes. Sound abruptly stops.]

00.10.00
[RECORDS INDICATE THAT THE RECORDING SYSTEM IN CELL 5A MALFUNCTIONED>SUBJECT WAS SEDATED AND ALL SYSTEMS WERE REPLACED>SEE AUDIO LOG-SERIAL NUMBER 1163-8480.8EX]

[ARCHIVE>AUDIO LOG>SERIAL NUMBER 1163-8480.8EX>CELL BLOCK 4>CELL 5A]

{LEVEL FIFTEEN CLEARANCE IS REQURED TO ACESS AUDIO RECORD.PLEASE ENTER PASSWORD]

PASSWORD: *********

[THANK YOU>ACCESS GRANTED>BEGIN AUDIO PLAYBACK]

00.06.03
Can anyone. Can anyone hear me? Please. Please help me. Thor? Thor? Help me. Someone help me. I can't [Speech cut off. Deep breath.] Ah, so you're still back there, are you? Your brother is never coming for you. Your family has given up. They never loved you. [Silence, sustained for approx. six minutes]

00.12.18
You're lying. Thor is coming for me. He promised. He always would. You're lying. [Sobbing] Am I going mad? Am I going mad? It's so dark. So dark.

00.13.34
You are not mad. I have you. Consider yourself honored. You are my vessel. Madness is unbecoming in a vessel so useful. You are not mad. We are not mad. [Heavy gasping] Don't you dare say we. I want nothing to do with you. Leave me alone. Get out of my head. Thor. Gods help me. [Soft crying]

00.20.26
[Singing] Sol ute, sol inne. Sol i hjertet, sol i sinnet, sol, bare sol. [Repeated for approx. one hour, broken. Crying throughout.]

01.30.17
[Singing. Unidentifiable words. Language not recognized. Cont. for one hour.]

02.45.12
Your brother is not coming. We are not so different, you and I. I have a brother as well. Strong. Golden. Firstborn and loved. My father cast me out, and my brother did nothing while I suffered. You see?

02.47.34
My brother will come. I know he will. He always has. He must be looking for me. He must. He'll find me.

02.50.15
It's been months. He has not come. You are a fool to hope for salvation. Let me in. I can help you. I can get us out. I cannot get you out of this place if you do not let me. You must give yourself to me, do you understand? Will you let me help you?

[SILENCE>RECORDS INDICATE THAT THE RECORDING EQUIPMENT WAS EXAMINED BUT STILL FOUND TO BE FUNCTIONAL]

07.20.46
You'll help me find my brother? And my family? You swear? [Coughing] Yes, I swear. I swear by heaven above and hell beneath. I'll help you find your brother. We will deal with him. We will make him regret giving up on you.

07.25.46
Yes. Yes. Make him regret it. Make him [Unidentifiable noise. Screaming. Choking. Sustained for a minute.]

07.26.60
[Silence. There is no more audio.]

[END AUDIO LOG]

Chapter Text

"Got it. We're in." Clint leaned back and rubbed his eyes, dragging his palms over his face. "Took me long enough, Jesus. I didn't think this firewall would be so tough."

"What've we got?" Bruce looked over the younger man's shoulder interestedly, peering through his glasses. Natasha stirred from her nest of empty pizza boxes, half-eaten Chinese take-out, and stained paper towels.

"You got it?" she asked, sitting up. Clint snickered. There was a pepperoni stuck in her hair.

"Yeah, let me see what I can find." He started sorting through documents. There were thousands, some dated as far back as 1984. He closed his eyes, focused, and weeded out everything but his twenty-three possible matches. "I'm gonna put a search perimeter on these. Look for things only in Northern Europe."

Natasha stretched. "I'm going to brush my teeth," she said, and waked to the bathroom. Clint counted to three and grinned when heard her exasperated sigh as she found the pepperoni in her hair.

"Back to business." He flipped through, eliminated the documents from Luxembourg, and did a word-search for insane and mental illness and psychiatric.

Bruce sat down on the bed. "Try doing a search for anything within those parameters that took place in the past six months."

Clint did as he suggested, and six results showed. Three in Norway, one in Sweden, and two in Denmark. "All right," he said, "now which one is our mystery man?"

"Sweden is a fifty-year-old woman diagnosed with severe depression after several episodes of public nudity, I don't think that's our seventh voice." Bruce rubbed his stubbly chin. "Denmark…let me see. One of the cases is deceased as of three months ago and the other one is comatose. Which leaves Norway."

"We've got…hey, look at this, Doc." Clint tapped the screen. "Two young males and a teenage girl. We can eliminate the girl. Seven was definitely male."

"You gave him a nickname?" Bruce asked, amused.

"Why not? Guy's trying to kill me, might as well make a joke." He grinned and clicked on the documents for the two others. "Okay, let's see. The first one. Um. Young man aged about twenty-eight, found five months ago in the Reisa River. Highly disoriented, violent, and incoherent, no ID. Put in the University Hospital of North Norway."

"And the other one?"

"Slightly older man, age thirty-five. Tried to kill himself by jumping into traffic. They got him into a clinic, arrested him first. That's not our guy." Clint frowned. "So that leaves our violent, incoherent basket case."

"Great," said Bruce dryly. "Anything else on him?"

"Not very recent. Says here he was observed and diagnosed with DID, schizophrenia, and manic-depressive disorder. And he tried to kill himself multiple times." Clint felt a chill twist down his spine.

"What would you do if a foreign consciousness tried to force itself into your head?" asked Bruce. "And you knew it was up to no good?"

"Christ," said Clint. "Who is this guy?"

"I'm not gonna say it," said Bruce. "But I think we both know who might have a very long-standing grudge against angels and God."

Natasha walked out of the bathroom, breaking the silence. "You guys find anything?" she asked.

"Yeah. We're pretty sure we found our seventh voice." Clint whirled and started stuffing his clothes into a bag. "We're going to Norway."

"Bruce, can you handle teleporting again?" Natasha said cautiously. It was the first time anyone had said anything about his episode, and he clasped his hands together, twisting his fingers.

"Um. I probably shouldn't risk it." He looked so apologetic that Clint immediately jumped to his laptop and purchased two plane tickets to Tromso Airport, making sure to upgrade the tickets to first class.

"It's fine, Doc, it's fine. Natasha can go with you and I'll just apparate over and meet you there."

"Please tell me you just used a Harry Potter reference," said Bruce, a smile tugging at his mouth as he packed his new clothes into Clint's extra suitcase.

"Oh, God, don't get him started," said Natasha, pausing from packing to clap her hand to her forehead.

"What? I like the books, and besides, what else are we supposed to call it? Like, 'teleporting' is too Star-Trek-y, but 'apparating' is way cooler and sounds magical and, you know. Angel crap." Clint waved his hand.

Natasha rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath. Bruce chuckled. "Apparating. I like it."

"Not you too," groaned Natasha, and zipped her suitcase shut.

"You two get out of here. Flight leaves in an hour. See you in Norway. Tasha, how's your Norwegian?"

"Det er bra," she said, and threw on her shoes.

"What do we do when we get to Norway?" asked Bruce, tugging his new jacket over his shoulders

"We'll decide that on the plane." Natasha picked up her bag. "You have any background in psychology?"

"I'm…I'm not really that kind of doctor, I'm a radiologist." He looked a little lost.

"It's fine. We'll make do. Come on."
~

Maria tucked her feet under her and relaxed as Steve popped in a movie. Everyone had agreed that after the excitement of the day, a night in was much needed. Even Pepper was painting her nails on the coffee table, and Thor had made popcorn.

"Ah, family movie night," she said to Father Coulson, who sat to her left in a cushy chair.

"It's kind of nice, having a family," he said thoughtfully.

"It is," she agreed. "Even if they're a bunch of angels."

"I got the drinks!" announced Tony, coming in with grocery bags full of soda. "Who wants root beer?"

Eventually they all got settled and Gladiator started playing. There was something still bothering Maria, though, and she leaned over to Coulson, trying to be quiet.

"If angels are real," she whispered, "does that mean God is real?"

"Most likely. But not God as you would think of God. Not an old man sitting in the clouds with a white beard, no. God isn't like that."

"What's he like?"

"Terrible," said Steve, and everyone turned to look at him. His face was a little pale. "And distant," he added, after a heavy pause.

Thor paused the movie. "Speak your mind, Steven," he said gently.

"I'm—Michael. I am—was—the prince of heaven. And my Father forgot me." Steve looks away, tears glistening. "Do any of you feel like that? Like God forgot you? Just abandoned us here on Earth with nothing and no one?"

"You've got me," said Maria. "And Father Coulson."

"I get where you're coming from," said Tony. "Yeah, where is God? Did he leave? Is he on vacation?"

"Don't hold God to your standards," said Coulson. Maria could see the faint line in his jaw that indicated he was more than a little upset. "God isn't a person, or a glorified angel. God is dark matter and black holes and calculus and wavelengths and time and space all combined and expanded."

"But he made us," said Thor. "Your God made us angels and cast us down."

"You're all here for a purpose, we just don’t know it yet." Father Coulson gave him a look. "We just have to be patient."

"Right. Patient." Tony snorted. "I've had enough of absent fathers, thank you. I really didn't need another one."

"It's not about what you need—"

"Father Coulson's right, we should give it time—" Thor started to speak, but was cut off by Steve.

"God didn't give us time, why should we give him time?"

Maria was sitting very still, hands folded under her butt. There was a nagging sensation at the back of her mind, and then she heard, clear as day, her name. She thought it was Steve, but that didn't sound right, and then she thought it was her dad (who she hadn't seen in years) but that wasn't right either.

Maria.

"Huh?" she said, turning her head.

Nobody was paying attention to her. They were all arguing, and it was only a matter of time before Thor got riled up and broke something.

Maria. No, now that was unmistakable. She frowned and looked up.

"Maria?" said Coulson, and she jumped. "You all right?"

"I'm—I'm fine, I just—I thought I heard something," she said lamely.

Phil's eyes narrowed. "Everyone, be quiet," he snapped. "Don't say a word."

The room fell silent, and Maria stared at the wall, straining her ears for the voice.

Maria. And then again, Maria.

"Shit," she whispered. "I'm hearing a voice. Coulson, I am hearing voices."

"It's okay. Just listen."

"Just listen?! To voices in my head?!" Maria clapped her hands over her ears.

Unsurprisingly, that didn't help.

Maria.

"What?" she shrieked, fully aware she looked insane but too frightened to care. "What do you want?"

Maria, don't be afraid.

"Don’t—" She slid off the sofa, hands clamped to her head. "Seriously?!"

A tinge of amusement. Yes. Do not be afraid. This is urgent, Maria, and you must listen.

"Oh, my god," she spat, and clenched her hands together, thinking I've completely lost it, god dammit, I knew I should have gotten professional help instead of hanging around with a crazy priest—

Coulson is a good man, and holy. Do not mock the servant of the Almighty.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered.

Take off your shoes, for the place where you stand is made holy.

She toed off her sneakers and her socks for good measure and remained huddled against the couch with her arms clamped around her head. "What do you want from me?"

Maria.The others have gone to the north, to Norway; to find answers. The adversary is awake, and he will do them harm. You must tell them and warn them. Do you understand?

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I do."

All who stand in your way will fall. You, Maria Hill, you are the handmaid of God, and you sit at my right hand. The voice was deep, reassuring now, and tears gathered in Maria's eyes. You will help these fallen stars. One will fall, and the others will gather behind you. You will lead them.

"I can't," she whispered, shaking her head. "I can't lead angels."

You can. You are a leader, and a good woman. You are thinking of the boy you could not save, Maria. It was not your fault. He is at peace.

"Oh, my God," she wept. How could you know? Who are you?

I am the fury of the storm, and the still of the seas. I am who I am. Now go, Maria, and be at peace, for I will be with you, even to the end of the world.

And then the voice was gone, like the echo of a ghost.

Maria Hill broke down and sobbed like a child for a good half-hour. It took a very large, warm hug from Thor and a mug of hot chocolate to get her to quiet down.

She'd never told anyone about the kid. Or why she was out of a job, being a police officer. She hadn't been fired, she'd quit. Because getting a panicked call from a kid in Harlem whose drunk dad was holding a gun to his mom's head was a relatively ordinary occurrence and didn't usually end in a triple homicide, and so they hadn't really rushed.

And when they'd gotten there, the kid was dying from two shots at point-blank range, and the mom was dead, and the dad was dead.

Maria had held the kid's hand as he died. Then she'd let the ambulance take him, and they'd all gone back to the station and she'd resigned on the spot.

Nobody's ten-year-old should bleed out from a gunshot wound. Nobody. And the simple fact that they'd been just a little too late, that if they'd gotten there earlier they might have saved him, gnawed at Maria and kept her up nights and landed her a prescription for Vicodin and that was a whole other can of worms—but the point was, she was no leader.

She was just a police officer who was late, and let a boy die.

But when God himself tells you that you're going to lead angels, you listen, and you do it, because if anyone knows anything about you better than you do, it's an all-knowing being existing across space and time.

So Maria relayed her divine memo¹, and, after a little deliberation, Pepper bought six plane tickets to Oslo² and they all packed their bags.

(After finishing the movie, of course.)

1-Minus the personal details, of course. Maria Hill was not the kind of woman who bestowed her sad personal life on anyone willing to hear it. In her own words, "Keep that shit with you, where it belongs."
2-Thor was pretty excited about that, actually. It didn't take him much convincing to go back home.