Archive of Our Own

7:23 pm, Mountain Standard Time — Elk Springs, Colorado

Six Months after the Battle of New York

Sparks cascaded down, falling on the paper scattered across the floor; smoke began to rise then flames burst out. A body slumped against the overturned table, bloody white bubbles pouring down his chin, eyes rolled back in his head. Metal parts were strewn everywhere, machinery torn apart. Cinder block walls were pockmarked with bullet holes, the door hanging off the hinges. 

The Asset stood in the growing fire, eyes surveying the destruction. The crackle of the burning sounded loud in the silence of the now empty base. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for in the tangle of rooms full of filing cabinets and particle board desks. Hopefully the files he’d downloaded and stuffed in his pack would give him a clue.

He kept his mask on until he was two miles away, his bike chewing up the gravel of the country road. Two hours later, he’d changed before he pulled into a Waffle House next to a gas station. Neither the waitress nor the cook gave him a second glance; the three college age kids were too drunk to notice a single guy in a gray Henley and leather jacket. No one cared that he ordered two waffles, three orders of smothered hash browns, two of bacon, a ham steak, and drank four glasses of orange juice. 

James Barnes finished his food, left a nice tip, and swung by the pump to gas up before he hit the road again. 

9:51 pm, Pacific Standard Time — Seattle, Washington

“My father and I moved here when I was twelve; my sister and my mother had to stay behind in Guangzhou. He worked hard, saved everything he could to put me through school and to bring them over.” The woman shifted in her seat, brushing her long hair behind her ears. “But the paperwork and all the legal hoops kept pushing things off and then Dad got sick and …” 

Eliot watched as tears welled up in her eyes. 

“It’s okay,” Parker said. “Take your time.” 

“After he died, I kept saving and I started looking for groups that could help navigate the system. That’s how I found the Chens; they had a nice website and their office looked so normal. They said they’d take care of everything, all I had to do was pay the fee …” 

“It’s a standard scam; people like the Chens prey upon good people like you, promise you what you want, then disappear with the money,” Parker said. 

“It will take years to save up enough now.” She gave a quiet sob into her handkerchief. “My mom’s health isn’t great and I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.” 

Eliot understood Mei Ling’s fears; getting anyone out of China was always hit or miss and the fact her mother had worked for the military added another level of difficulty. The times he’d been in the country, he’d found it filled with good people, the culture amazing, the food some of the best he’d ever eaten. The government and army, on the other hand, were a different scenario. 

“We’ll get your money back for you,” Parker promised. “And we know some people who can help with the paperwork.” 

“Lou and Amy Chen.” Hardison had their photos on the board as Eliot came back into the room after seeing Mei Ling to her car, making sure she got off safely into the rainy night. “Call themselves the Immigration Fixers, have been operating in Seattle for the last two years. Facial recognition pinged on at least three other aliases …” He tossed the Driver’s Licenses onto one screen “... but all of those are small time compared to this.” 

Two Interpol posters popped up with the same faces but different names. 

“Charles and Miranda Wen, wanted in Europe on four charges of espionage, may be linked to a number of hacking and money laundering schemes for the Chinese government,” Hardison continued.

“They’ve worked with the Ministry of State Security,” Eliot said. When the others just looked at him, he explained. “The wife’s tattoo. It’s a very distinct style of ink.” 

“MSS.” Hardison shook his head. “That complicates things.” 

“Yes and no,” Parker said. “If we know going in, we can focus on the immigration scam but be prepared for the rest; it won’t be like the Pans in New York.” 

“We’ll need to be really careful,” Eliot insisted. 

“Yeah, about that.” Hardison changed the screen; a black and white grainy picture showed Charles Wen at a table with three younger men. “FBI task force took this three months ago in L.A.  Those are known members of the Mandarin’s Ten Rings.” 

“Damn it,” Eliot cursed. “They’re playing both sides against the middle.” 

“This might be too big for the three of us,” Parker admitted. 

“Let me make a call,” Eliot said. 

3:42 am, Eastern Standard Time — New York City

Clint dragged himself through the door, dropping his bag by the table and his keys in the bowl. It felt like every muscle in his body ached; going on seventy-two hours without more than a couple quick naps, he was running on fumes, his eyes gritty and heavy. From a mission to a straight up fight, too many non-stop flights in between, all he wanted was a hot shower, to hit the sheets and go unconscious for at least twelve hours.  

The apartment smelled stale, the air cold, a layer of dust across the bookshelves. He’d been avoiding the place for the last six months, staying at the Tower when he was in town — which honestly had only been a handful of nights. But this last job had struck a chord, stirred up memories of another mission, and he’d found himself standing on the street corner, the taxi pulling away, before he’d consciously realized where he was. 

And now he was too damn tired to go anywhere else. 

It was his home, after all, the one he and Phil had chosen. They’d updated it together, moved in together, negotiated whose and what furniture they needed together, bought sheets and towels and a new bed together. Theirs, not his or his. And Clint hadn’t been able to stomach being here alone so he’d left it to stand empty, just like the Phil sized hole in his heart. 

But after all the chaos in Denver, right near the hotel he and Phil had stayed at on the Terahoe mission, here he was. Wandering into the bathroom, flipping on the light, finding Phil’s shampoo still on the rack in the shower and the purple towels folded neatly in the closet. Bracing a hand on the tile wall as he let the hot water wash away weeks of dirt and grime and remembering how easily they both fit into the stall, how Phil would scrub his back. Pulling sheets out of the closet to make up the bed he hadn’t touched since they’d left for Pegasus. Opening drawers and putting on one of Phil’s t-shirts before he dropped onto the mattress, left his phone on the charger, and buried his face into the plump pillow. 

He knew he’d dream of Phil, that much was a given. 

But maybe, tonight, he’d remember the good times rather than the blue tinged nightmare that haunted him. 

9:23 am, Mountain Standard Time — Jackpot, Idaho

The TV was on in the diner, no volume, just flickering images that no one was paying attention to. James was methodically eating his second burger and fries and eyeing the pie selection in the glass case by the cash register. He’d driven aimlessly, switching back and changing directions to avoid any pursuit. They were out there, searching for him; his handlers certainly weren’t going to let him walk away, they’d proven that. 

“Hey, can you turn that up?” a guy at the counter asked a passing waitress. 

James glanced up at the screen; shaky cell phone footage showed some sort of winged creature -- a giant moth or dragonfly -- crashing into a car and knocking it over. Then a streak of red crossed the frame and a person in a blue suit with a white star on his chest was there, catching one wing and yanking the thing away from the door it was trying to rip open. 

Captain America. 

Steve. 

Burger forgotten, James leaned onto his elbows, attention captured by the video of the messy fight. When the waitress found the remote, they could hear a reporter breathlessly recapping the Avengers’ battle all day yesterday in Denver, Colorado. Shots of Iron Man, Hawkeye, and Thor were interspersed with more scenes of Steve, leading them, working with local police, directing the clean up, and James hung on every word. 

It had been a picture of Steve that had finally made him snap. He’d been sent out on a mission -- so many had been about creating chaos since the new handlers had taken over -- and couldn’t miss what happened in New York when the aliens had come through that glowing portal. Even in Laos, every network was 24/7 on the coverage, and he’d caught a glimpse of a familiar face, cowl pulled down, blonde hair shining in the sun. Memories had burst into his brain: a little guy in an alley with a bloody lip and black eye; a cold room, one blanket, snuggled together for heat; a big guy, towering over him, the same but not the same; and a hand reaching, a voice calling ‘Bucky!’. It shook him to his core and he went to ground, fighting through the lingering programming. 

Ever since the Red Room had sold him to HYDRA, who’d been loaning him out to anyone who could pay the outrageous price because they needed money, the wipes had been less and less effective. He’d overheard some of the techs talking about how no one really knew how the machinery operated much less how to fix anything; they’d lost institutional memory as the years had passed, unwilling to share their secrets with anyone else. 

So it wasn’t too difficult to walk away. He’d thought to go straight to Steve, but he only made it to Frankfurt before the first Strike team found him. He had no qualms about taking care of them with extreme prejudice; they were, to a man, abusive bullies who killed because they liked it, not because they’d been brainwashed and wiped like him. The second caught up with him at Gatwick; he left a mess in one of the hangers before catching the first flight out to Chicago. 

The third took longer, and they had someone with the words; James had shivered as they rolled down his spine, waited for the fade of emotion and loss of control, but, this time when he became The Asset, he was still aware and able to resist. When they walked him into a facility in Illinois, another download of memory swamped him, too much to make sense of all at once. He’d been there before and there had been the chair and cryotanks; he broke free, taking out as many of the bastards he could before he ran. He’d tried to search the records, but didn’t have much time. Still, he stumbled across one picture of a man in a lab coat with slicked back dark hair and wire-rim glasses that set off all the warning bells in his head as fragmented memories danced through his mind. Attached to the bottom was a piece of paper with neatly typed letters and numbers. 

 Dr. Klaus Gunter. Transferred to Elk Springs, Colorado in 1976.

“You want more coffee?” The waitress asked, pausing by his booth. 

“Yes please.” He held out his cup. “And I’d love a slice of apple pie.” 

“Sure thing, hun.” She smiled. “Cold or warm? With or without ice cream?”

“Warm and with. Two scoops.” 

10:04 am, Pacific Standard Time -- Seattle, Washington

“Man, you’re one lucky son-of-a-bitch.” Quinn reached around Eliot and grabbed the coffee cup on the counter. “If my flight hadn’t been canceled, I’d be across the country by now. You can thank the Avengers for that; everything going through Denver was grounded.” 

“That’s my …” Eliot huffed as Quinn sauntered away from the counter. A backpack slung over his shoulder, Quinn was in a pair of slim black pants, tailored jacket, and a blue striped button-up. It was Quinn’s thing, the suit and tie; Eliot preferred jeans and flannel.  “Get your own, dude.”

”But stolen fruit is much sweeter.” Quinn took a sip; his nose wrinkled and he made a face. “Pumpkin spice? And is that … raspberry?” 

Eliot snatched the cup back. “Cinnamon and raspberry with a sprinkle of nutmeg. Classic fall combination.” 

“Eliot Spencer is a fourteen-year-old white girl.” Quinn laughed, following Eliot out the front door. “I like my coffee black as sin and as bitter as my heart.” 

“Look, you wanna know about the job or not?” Eliot asked. 

Truth was, he liked Quinn; the younger hitter was a good man to have at his back, even if it was just walking down the street towards his car. They had a lot in common, despite the fact that, when they met, Quinn had been hired to take him out. They’d worked together a few times since then, more now that the team was just the three of them, and Quinn had more than proven himself reliable. He also had a good sense of humor and great taste in beer.  And he had a nice ass and a great smile.

“I’m here, aren’t I? You always have such … interesting … work.” He chuckled. “Do we get a Batcave this …” 

The pop was almost lost amid the rumble of a bus passing, but Eliot knew the sound, reacting immediately and ducking behind the back of the Charger. 

“Quinn, get …” 

The words died in his throat as he saw Quinn on the ground, blood blossoming from his chest. The shot had knocked him flat, and he was scrambling to roll over, holding his hand to the gaping wound.  Eliot didn’t hesitate; he darted out into the open and grabbed Quinn by the shoulders, dragging him across the pavement, leaving a red smudge behind. 

“Eliot,” Quinn wheezed.  “They got you …” 

“They didn’t …” He blinked as a wave of disorientation swept through him. He reached up a hand and touched metal. Pulling it out, he saw a small tranquilizer dart. “What the hell?” 

“Go.” Quinn coughed and red spittle dribbled out of the side of his mouth. “Get out of here while you can.” 

“I ain’t leaving you.” 

Eliot dug down into his pocket, hands already tingling from whatever was in his system. Searching through change and his keys, he found the familiar shape of his ear bud. With trembling fingers, he pushed it in his ear as the world started to slide sideways. 

“Hardison? Parker? Are you there?” Everything was spinning as the drug took effect. “Damn it, Hardison. Where are you?”

 He glanced over and saw Quinn’s eyes drift closed. 

“Stay with me, man.” The words slurred. “Come on. It’s not that bad.” Colors started to run. “You can … you can walk it … off …”

His last thought was of Quinn, bleeding out next to him. 

11:15 am, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park

He didn’t know where he was; the last thing he remembered was … was … 

The smell of blood. Flashes of green. Excruciating pain. 

He was in a bed, scratchy sheets; his feet were cold and his head was fuzzy. Lights were low, a monitor beeping at regular intervals. His fingers were numb, his eyes refusing to open fully. A thought hovered just out of reach, a fear that constricted his chest and made his breath catch. 

Something … no, someone … was in danger and needed his help. Someone important. Someone …

“Ah, ah, ah, it’s not time yet. Go back to sleep.” 

The cool rush of medication slipped into his veins. 

His last thought was of brilliant blue gray eyes. 

11:17 am, Mountain Standard Time — Sula, Montana

He rode until he almost ran into the median of the interstate and only stopped when he found an exit with multiple chain motels and fast food joints. He used one of the many credit cards he had — it was so easy to apply in any name and have it sent to a post office box — to rent a room on the ground floor facing away from the street, where he could drive around back and let himself in a side door with a key card. Even then, he took the time to brace the room’s door and set up traps on the window before he kicked off his boots and fell face first onto the mattress. 

Sleep, as always, was hard to come by, dreams a kaleidoscope of memories. Bucky’s were filled with sepia washed Brooklyn — a skinny kid, dance halls, a cold flat, newspaper in his shoes — juxtaposed against vividly violent war — scattered bodies, exploded heads, metal cages, being strapped to a table. James’ were a litany of the dead — faces, names, locations, missions — and how he killed them — a sniper’s rifle, a serrated knife, a metal hand around the throat. 

Tonight, The Asset was dreaming of cryotubes wet with condensation, halos dancing with electricity, and needles puncturing skin. He was in a room with a small cot and windows with bars. People, some in white lab coats and others in military uniforms, moving in and out of sight, down a long hallway and back to a lab he could just catch a glimpse of. Going under, coming back up. Endless testing and blood drawn and injections. The constant threat of being wiped. Other rooms, one with a doctor’s table, another with a strange rectangular clear box on a stand, and a break area with a refrigerator, microwave, and tables. 

He woke with a start, the fear that any noise would give him away so deeply ingrained even his breathing was almost silent. Mission parameters clashed in his mind until he remembered where he was and that he was free from his handlers. Flipping over, he stared at the ceiling, hanging on to the fading threads of the images. The polka dot blanket in the clear box and the mysterious Dr. Gunter leaning over the cryo tube.

Maybe the records from Elk Springs would shed some light on things. He just needed to find a safe place to go over them.

10:27 pm, Gulf Standard Time — Dubai, United Arab Emirates

“Hardison?” Nate Ford answered on the fourth ring. 

”Eliot’s gone.” Parker’s voice trembled. “Someone’s taken him.”

Nate sat straight up, the words sending a chill down his spine. Beside him, Sophie, who had been dozing on the couch, came awake. 

“Taken? How?” Nate’s mind was already running through a thousand scenarios. At Sophie’s look, he mouthed ‘Eliot’ and she paled, a hand flying to her mouth. 

“It’s my fault.” Parker sounded like she did that day the fake psychic had talked about her brother: unsure and close to crying. “Alec and I had gone out to get some groceries … we thought Eliot would be back to make dinner and he’d left a list … we hadn’t started the new job yet so we didn’t have our earbuds in … and he was just running out to pick up Quinn as backup … and he was …” 

“Parker.” Nate kept his tone soft and gentle; now was not the time for recriminations. Instead he put the call on speaker. “Tell me what happened.” 

Sophie rose and went to the closet in the hall, pulling out their suitcases. 

“Hey, man, it’s me.” Hardison took over the call. “It was a snatch and grab, professional from the getgo. Eliot met Quinn at a coffee shop not far from Sea-Tac; they were targeted as they walked to his car. Quinn went down; it looked pretty nasty. Chest shot, lots of blood. Eliot got them both behind cover, but he was hit with some kind of tranquilizer darts; knocked him out within a minute.” 

“They targeted Quinn first?” Nate asked. 

“Distract Eliot,” Sophie agreed with a nod. “He wouldn’t leave him in the line of fire.” 

“Then they pulled up in one of those panel vans, the kind UPS and every damn delivery service uses. Blocked the coffee shop’s camera and the one across the street, men dressed all in black with ski masks. Twenty-two seconds and when they drove away, Eliot and Quinn were gone.” Hardison rarely cursed. “Plates were smeared, not a single identifying mark on the damn thing.” 

“He had his earbud.” Nate was already pulling up airline schedules. 

“Yeah, he tried to call for help and we …” Hardison hesitated. “We’d agreed to not have them on all the time, that we needed time to ourselves, you know? We have one on us, but they’re not always active.” 

“That’s a good thing, Alec,” Sophie said. “Boundaries are healthy.” 

“Not if they get him killed!” Hardison exploded. 

“Twenty-two seconds; you couldn’t have gotten there in time.” Nate hoped that logic would help; everyone was going to need to keep their cool to get through this. “Best you can do now is use it to track him.” 

“Yeah.” Hardison took a deep breath. “I was able to ping it as far as Maple Valley before they found it and dumped it. I’m going through all the traffic cams and any other system I can get into to try and track them further, but it’s a lot of footage and there’s too many vans like that on the streets; it’s gonna take too long.” 

“So we steal you a faster computer.” Nate finalized plans A - D in his head. “Look, it’s going to take us 18-20 hours to get there, and we all know the first 24 hours is the most important in these kinds of situations.”

”You think it’s someone from his past?” Parker asked. She sounded much calmer. 

“Could be,” Nate agreed. Eliot had a lot of enemies. 

“I’ve checked already; Moreau is still in his cell,” Hardison added. 

“Good. Okay, I know a guy, worked with him a few times. Let me give him a call; he’s based in New York, so he’s much closer and he has all sorts of connections in Eliot’s world.” 

“He’s military?” Hardison asked. “Can we trust him?” 

“Ex-Rangers; now he runs a team,” Nate explained. “I trust him; he’s a good man.” 

“Okay,” Parker agreed. “As long as he helps us find Eliot.” 

1:52 pm, Eastern Standard Time — New York City

The ringing dragged Clint back to consciousness. He slapped his hand on the end table, trying to silence the alarm, but it kept going. Opening one bleary eye, he fumbled his phone until he saw the dark screen; it took another three rings before he woke up enough to realize it was coming from somewhere else. Sitting up, he needed a second to remember where he was and how he’d gotten there. A quick glimpse at the clock told him he’d been in bed for a little over eight hours. 

“Where the fuck is …” 

Phil’s special phone.

He pulled open the drawer, pushed everything forward, and took off the false back. The little flip phone was tucked into a wireless charger and came away easily in his hand. 

“Hello?”

”I’m calling for Phil Coulson,” an unfamiliar voice said. “Is this his phone?” 

Phil had explained that this was the number he gave to contacts, people he had history with, those he owed something to, and the ones who were indebted to him. 

“Yeah, it is.” Clint swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. “May I ask who’s calling?” 

“Is Phil there?” 

Right, the guy wasn’t going to be the trusting type. He was probably in the same business as Clint. 

“He’s … unavailable at the moment, but he gave me this phone so maybe I can help you.” 

There was a long pause and Clint heard a female voice murmur something in the background. 

“This is Nate Ford; Phil and I worked a couple of jobs together back in the day …” 

“Nate Ford? As in, the Nate Ford who used to work for IYS Insurance, left, created his own team, then retired a year or so ago?” Clint asked. “You worked with Phil on the Emerald of Caldeze mission in Madrid.” 

“It was in Sevilla, but, yes, that’s a frighteningly accurate description of me.” 

“Well, we sort of met. I was in Montreal when the Lichtenstein was stolen. I was the eyes in the sky.” Clint remembered that mission well; he and Phil had stayed in the sweetest little safe house in a modern high rise that had a two person hot tub on the porch. Some really important words were said in that hot tub.

“Oh, you’re the sniper.” Ford’s voice became much warmer as he chuckled. “The one Phil was lusting after.” 

“That’s me.” Clint smiled to himself. 

“I guess you having his phone means you got that unrequited pining thing worked out?” 

“Yeah, we did.” The thought couldn’t stop the cold reality from sinking in. “But Phil died six months ago, in the Battle of New York.” 

“Oh.” A beat of silence. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I shouldn’t be bothering you …” 

“No, you’re not …” Clint stumbled. “Look, whatever you need, ask. I’ll do what I can to help. Guy like you wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency.” 

“Yeah.” Ford sighed and the weariness was evident. “One of my team was taken off the street. The others are trying to track him, but there’s only two of them and they don’t have much to go on. I was hoping Phil could use some of his connections to get them access to satellite imagery, see if there’s any chatter about it. Eliot’s done some government work …” 

“Spencer? Eliot Spencer?” Clint was up and moving at the name. “That’s a long list of people he’s pissed off.” 

“Unfortunately,” Ford agreed. 

“Satellites are no problem. You got a hacker, right? I can get ‘em computing power. And I know a person who worked with Spencer in the past; she’ll know more about who might have enough of a death wish to go after him.” 

“I’ll send you the contact information of the rest of the team; they’ll be waiting to hear from you. I don’t have to tell you that the clock is ticking.” 

“No, you don’t.” Clint knew intimately how much damage could be done, the longer someone was held. “I’ll call them right now.” 

 2:42 PM, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park

Eliot’s head was throbbing; he tried to raise a hand to push the hair back that had fallen in his face, but metal rattled. His eyes were slow to open, the fluorescent light too bright, and he had to squint until the bands across his wrists came into focus. Then he became aware of his seat -- heavy wood, bolted into the floor. He jerked his arms again but the clamps held tight. 

“What the …” 

He raised his eyes and looked around; he was in a room, walls tiled halfway with green, the rest with white, a concrete floor beneath his feet. Old metal cabinets, both lower and upper, lined two walls, the countertop filled with canisters, tins, boxes, and all kinds of supplies. Rolling trays, IV stands, large lamps, equipment with displays and buttons and touchscreens were scattered around the large operating table in the center of the space. 

Quinn was lying on his back, one arm hanging off the side of that table, his face turned away from Eliot. Clad only in his pants, his skin was pale, almost ashen under the harsh light. Rivulets of dried blood marked his chest, running from under a large white bandage mottled with darker spots. His feet were bare, and it took Eliot far too long to be certain that Quinn was still breathing, the rise and fall so slight he almost missed it.

“Quinn.” He kept his voice quiet. “Hey, man, come on. Wake up.” 

There was an IV tap inserted in Quinn’s left arm; a bag attached was steadily dripping. Another line ran to a small pump. 

“Quinn.” He tried again. “I know it’ll take a lot more than one bullet to take you down. You’re too damn stubborn.” 

Whoever snatched them had stabilized Quinn, so they must not want him dead. Still the silence grated on Eliot. He clenched his fists, tightened his forearms, tried the clamps one more time, and felt the tiniest bit of give in the left one. A few flecks of rust fell onto his thigh. 

“Damn it, stop playing possum and help me out here,” he grumbled as he began shifting his weight, testing every angle for the right leverage. One of the screws began to rock and loosen. 

Just then, three beeps sounded and the pump whirred to life. For a second, nothing happened, then Quinn’s eyes flew open and he gasped. His back arched and he began to seize, body shaking and jerking. Eliot could see muscles contracting and releasing, could hear the guttural cries ripped from Quinn’s throat. 

“Fucking hell.” He strained even harder, the metal cutting into his skin.

As quickly as it started, it stopped. Quinn fell flat onto the table with a long groan. His head turned and brown eyes peered out from between thick lashes. 

“Eliot?” he asked with a thready voice. “I’m not … happy with … the accommodations.”

“It sure ain’t the Ritz,” Eliot answered and couldn’t help but grin. Quinn always gave him grief over cheap hotels; the man liked his luxury, preferably a place with an indoor pool and a spa. “Hold on. I’m going to get free and we’re going to get the hell out of here.” 

“Pinkie … swear?” A little half smile flitted across Quinn’s lips. “I don’t think I …” 

HIs eyes slipped closed and Eliot cursed under his breath. 

“I promise,” he muttered as he started working the loose screw again. “Right after I find whoever did this and kick his ass.” 

2:02 pm, Pacific Standard Time -- A Private Airstrip Outside of Seattle, Washington

“Parker.” Hardison’s eyes went wide as he saw the plane land. “That’s a quinjet.” 

“Yeah?” Parker held a hand over her eyes, watching it taxi towards them. “So?” 

“Quinjet,” Hardison repeated. “There’s only one top secret organization that uses quinjets, Parker!”

“Nate said this guy had connections,” Parker said. “Eliot’s worked for the government.” 

“Not the government.” He watched as it stopped and a ramp extended from the back. “I’m talking S.H.I.E.L.D., the prototype for the Men in Black.” 

“Oh.” She paused. “You think they know what’s in Area 52?” 

“Yeah, baby, I’m pretty sure they run it.” 

A man walked down the ramp; he was in all black from his sleeveless t-shirt to his combat boots. He slipped tactical shades over his eyes as he came out into the sunlight. His hair was short on the sides, a little longer on the top, and he headed right for them. Behind him, a woman stood just inside the jet; she was in black as well, a long sleeve jacket buckled around her slim waist and pants that covered the top of her boots. Her hair was long and black and hung neat as a pin down her back. The third person looked downright scruffy in comparison; he had soft brown messy curls and a wrinkled brown linen jacket over a shirt and chinos. 

“Hardison. Parker.” The first guy had reached them; he held out his hand and they each shook it in turn. “I’m Clint Barton; Nate Ford sent me.” He looked at the bags and boxes stacked at their feet. “This your stuff? Let’s get it on board.” 

A thousand questions ran through Hardison’s mind as Barton bent and picked up the biggest cases of equipment. Parker punched Hardison in the shoulder as Barton’s arms bulged. 

“Hitter,” she hissed. 

“Sniper, actually,” Barton replied easily. “But I can pinch hit with the best of them.” 

“So …” Hardison’s voice cracked a little and he swallowed hard. “A quinjet? With a j-dam satellite uplink and an evolving-algorithm cryptology program? Not that I know anything about those, I know they’re super-top secret …” 

“It’s actually a prototype on loan from a friend. Got all the bells and whistles and a few new things.” Barton carried the cases up the ramp. “I was promised it would be candyland to a hacker.”

They followed him up the ramp carrying the rest of their stuff. Hardison could barely contain his excitement as he bounced around the inside of the jet. The tech was beyond the most advanced on the market, and a couple things he could only guess at their purpose which, for him, meant they had to be completely experimental. 

“This is amazing!” He stopped at the tabletop computer. “Is this Starktech? I haven’t seen one with an inset flat holographic interface. Is it new?” 

“Will it help find Eliot?” Parker asked, and, just like that, Hardison sobered immediately. 

“We’ve uploaded all the information you sent and added some of our own from various satellites and other cameras.” Barton tapped the edge of the slick black top and a 3D rendering of the street in front of the coffee shop came up. Parker leaned in for a better look then Barton caught it and enlarged it with a fling of his hands. 

“Holy shit, that’s cool,” Hardison mumbled.

”The simulation tells us a lot,” Barton continued, ignoring the aside. “We can extrapolate sniper locations here,” he flipped the scene and pointed to the top of a roof, “and here.” He tapped another location. “Trajectories show the tranqs came from the first one and the bullets from the second.” 

With a flick of his fingers, he set the video in motion. The door to the shop opened and Eliot walked out, Quinn just a step behind him. There was no audio, but Hardison didn’t need it; he could tell by Eliot’s little half-grin that they were sniping at each other like they always did. There was some serious unresolved sexual tension going on between them; Hardison kind of enjoyed the way they were dancing around each other, neither seemingly aware of the other’s interest. He was a sucker for a good enemies-to-lovers trope.

“Here.” It was the dark haired woman who paused and enlarged the image until the bullet was visible, inches away from Quinn’s chest. Hardison marveled at the clarity of it; he could see what was etched into the back of the cap. “5.8×42mm cartridge with a longer streamlined bullet and a steel core. Designed for QBZ-95 assault rifles, but also used in QBU-88s, the Chinese marksman rifle.” 

“I don’t know you.” Parker narrowed her eyes and stared at the woman. 

“Melinda May. I’ve worked with Spencer before.” She nodded to both Hardison and Parker. “I cleaned up in D.C. after the aborted influenza attack. That was good work on your part.” 

“The Udall thing?” The brown haired man spoke for the first time. “That was you?” 

“We were in the area,” Hardison said, brushing it off. “Kinda got roped into it.” 

“Yeah, Vance is like that.” Clint nodded. 

“I’m Bruce.” The brown haired man introduced himself, holding out a hand. “Bruce Banner. Eliot saved my life once when I was working at a refugee camp on the Pakistani border. Got me and a passel of kids to safety.” 

“That sounds like Eliot.” Hardison remembered Eliot had spent a summer in that part of the world. 

“So Chinese rifles?” Parker asked. She’d been playing with the display, spinning it and looking at the scene from all angles. “MSS or the Ten Rings use them?” 

“Both, plus a whole lot more. They’re fairly easy to buy, unfortunately,” May replied. “It’s impossible to narrow it down.” 

Parker pouted; she’d clearly hoped the guns connected to their current case. 

“Yea, that’s a wash, but it’s not all bad news.” 

Clint backed it up and started the video. The two men strolled down the sidewalk in no hurry, chatting; Eliot actually smiled at something Quinn said. Then they both reacted at the same moment; Eliot, closest to his car, dropped and took cover behind the rear fender. Quinn turned as he started to do the same, but the bullet slammed into his chest before he could get out of the way. He fell to the concrete, red blooming on his shirt. 

“Oh.” Hardison paused the scene and enlarged it to get a better look at Quinn. Whatever this program was, the picture was beyond insane; he could see the spread of Quinn’s fingers over his chest and the wide eyed look he was sending towards Eliot. 

“It’s not as bad as it could have been,” Bruce assured them; he rewound and played it slower. “His reaction time is very fast, and that saved his life. Bullet caught him higher up and to the right than the original aim.” They watched as Eliot dragged Quinn out of the line of fire. “Bleeding suggests it missed major arteries.There’d be time to stabilize him, a five minute window or so.” 

Hardison wanted to ask if the man was a doctor, but, at this point, he didn’t really care who he was if he could help them get Eliot back. 

“If they’d wanted Quinn dead, all they had to do was leave him,” May added. “Odds are an ambulance wouldn’t get there in time with all the confusion.” 

“Okay, so they wanted Quinn too?” Parker shook her head. “Or just Eliot and Quinn was a bonus? I still don’t know how they even knew they were going to be at that shop; Eliot didn’t set the meeting place until that morning.” 

“No way they bugged our phones.” Hardison shook his head. “No one gets into my system, man. And Eliot’s completely paranoid about being followed. Had to come from Quinn’s side.” 

“Or …” Clint fastforwarded until the moment Eliot reached up to pull the tranquilizer dart out of his neck. “They had another way to track him.” 

He waved and the spectrum changed. A faint glow circled around Eliot’s body.

“What is that?” Parker asked.

“Radio isotope.” Hardison said at the same time. “Someone dosed Eliot.” 

“Gamma radiation to be precise,” Bruce answered. “A small amount will broadcast on a narrow frequency; all they had to do was stay within a mile radius. It’s relatively harmless, lasts about 12 hours. Best way to deliver it is to have the person ingest it.” 

“Mei Ling.” Parker’s expression hardened. “Our client. They all had drinks at the table and Eliot walked her to her car.” 

“I ran the background.” Hardison didn’t believe it. “All the way back to China, her father and mother … they all checked out. She was clean.” 

“Everyone has a price,” Clint assured him. “She might be exactly what she seemed, which is why whoever’s behind this picked her.” 

“So, how does this help?” Parker kept focused on the issue at hand. “We don’t know the frequency.”

“It’s a two part system,” Bruce explained. “The sedative mixes with the isotope to make an extremely effective drug, one that can be used on super soldiers and alien gods … among others.” 

“If you’re going to come after Eliot Spencer,” May added, “you want to ensure you can take him down fast.” 

“And that means using a formula that’s only made in a small handful of government and top-secret labs,” Clint said. “Well, supposed to be. Another colleague of ours has connections; turns out there’s two places you can buy the combo on the open market. The first is Madripoor.” 

“Too far away. The isotopes degrade pretty quickly once they are activated; they need to be injected into a person within eight hours.” Bruce shrugged when Hardison raised an eyebrow. “It’s still in development; we’re working on a more stable solution.” 

“Which leaves door number two.” Clint wiped away the street scene, pulled up a map, and pointed. “Streator, Illinois, south of Chicago. Intel on the ground is spotty, but there are rumors of someone operating a lab there with quite a variety of products for sale. Bargain basement prices, from what we’ve heard.” 

“We have to go in quiet, find some way inside,” May said. “This little operation isn’t sanctioned; we’re completely off the grid.” 

Hardison whipped out his laptop and opened it. 

“That, my friends, is what we do.” He grinned. “By the time this amazing bird lands, Parker and I will have a plan.” 

3:13 pm, Mountain Standard Time -- Moses Lake, Washington

The library was bustling with an after-school program, kids overflowing from the children’s section, some of the older ones checking out the young adult shelves. A group of older folks were inside a glassed off room, teaching some high schoolers how to knit; they were making scarves and toboggan caps in variegated colored yarn. Bucky was tucked in a small wooden carroll, using the computer to scroll through the data on the drive. The whole building was tucked into a green space and shared a parking lot with the police department. It was, surprisingly, the safest he’d felt in the last few days, surrounded by normal small town life; no one had given him a side-eye or even really noticed him at all. 

Most of what crossed his screen was spreadsheets and requisition forms; he’d figured out the file naming pretty quickly thanks to unimaginative titles like ‘payroll’ and ‘food.’ Employee files yielded a lot of bit players, janitors and secretaries and security, but he hit pay dirt almost immediately when he’d found Dr. Klaus Gunter. Nothing on his background, but his salary disbursements gave Bucky a set of dates when the good doctor was at the Elk Springs facility -- March 1976 through late November 1977.  Expense reports showed a steady expenditure for an off-site room, a food allowance, and some hefty travel outlays. The supply lists weren’t as helpful; they didn’t make note of who used what, so the names of drugs were jumbled along with needles and liquids and equipment. 

Multiple mentions were made of research notes, but the folders were all empty, probably long ago cleared out. Hints of experiments appeared as a series of numbers with dates and three letter acronyms.  1M1(010477), 2F1(011577), 3F2(013177) … nine different variations repeated throughout requisitions, expenses, and other information. It was only after he saw the addendum (EXP) for the fourth time that the cold pit developed in his stomach. M or F. 1, 2, 3. Dates. Expired. 

The nine experiments were people. 

He went back and searched carefully. One by one over the span of nine months in 1977, eight of the nine died. 

Of 2M3(042077), however, the last entry was designated UNK.

Dr. Gunter’s tenure ended abruptly only three days after 2M3(042077)’s designation was changed. But buried in a file labeled ‘housekeeping,’ Bucky found a shipping invoice for Gunter’s household items, complete with an address in a town called Concrete in Washington State. 

Bucky packed up his things, dropped a sizable donation into the box by the door, and headed to his bike.

3:45 PM, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park, Near Concrete, Washington

“Eliot Spencer.” The man who walked in was familiar; it took Eliot a moment to get past the white doctor’s coat and black-rimmed glasses, but he recognized Charles Wen, the immigration scam artist and Chinese operative. “For someone of your mythical status, you were surprisingly easy to find. One sob story and you walked right into our path.” 

Clenching his hands, Eliot didn’t respond. He’d spent the better part of an hour working on loosening the cuffs; every ten minutes the pump had gone off, and Quinn’s reactions had been getting more violent. 

“I have to say I’m more than pleased with the Ten Ring’s initiative. Usually hired muscle can barely walk and chew gum much less think for themselves.” Wen crossed to where Quinn lay unconscious and ran a possessive hand along his arm. “I get the best volunteers by accident, it seems. Oh, don’t worry, I paid a nice bonus for them bringing me a new test subject; It’s so hard to find ones with good muscle tone and stamina. The latest protocols are more rigorous and take such a toll on the body.” His fingers trailed along Quinn’s shoulder. “Your friend here is holding up quite well; I’m close to perfecting my father’s formula, I know it.” 

Eliot felt the give of the screw, the lifting of the pressure on his wrist. He just needed a few seconds of distraction and he could be free. 

“You’re bat shit crazy,” Eliot said. 

Wen laughed. “That’s what they say about forward thinkers until we change the world.”

“Look, buddy, I don’t even know who the hell you are or what you’re talking about,” Eliot drawled, “but you’ve got the evil scientist vibe going pretty strong.” 

“All these years, and you are still ignorant.” He circled around the table until he was behind the pump, his hand tracing the edge of the plastic. “You never wondered? All the broken bones, wounds that should have killed you? My father was right. Faster, stronger, more agile …”  

Wen’s finger hovered over the touch panel. 

“I’m going to make more just like you.” 

There was no warning: one second Quinn was limp and unconscious, the next he was surging up, grabbing Wen’s arm and yanking him forward. It gave Eliot the moment he needed; he was out of his bonds before Quinn had the man in a headlock. In three steps, Eliot was across the room and plowing his fist into Wen’s face, knocking him backwards. 

“I hate … monologues …” Quinn pushed himself up. “Fucking scientists.” 

“Always got to brag about their big plan,” Eliot agreed. “Let’s blow this pop stand.” 

“Amen.” Quinn winced as he swung off the table; fresh blood speckled the bandage on his chest. His brow was beaded with sweat and he wavered a little, but he was on his feet. “Then we stop for burgers … find a brewery, get a good IPA.”

”Yeah, we can …” 

A loud hiss came from the vent, a sudden breeze wafting the scent of cut grass into the room. 

“Damn it.” Eliot threw Quinn’s arm over his shoulder. “We’ve got to move.” 

“Who the hell … are these guys?” Quinn coughed. “That’s … industrial grade … where did they …” 

Eliot made it almost all the way to the door before he slipped under again. 

5:52 PM, Central Standard Time, Streator, Illinois

Clint had to admit that Hardison and Parker were damn good at their jobs. Even before May got them in the air, the two had gone to work. Hardison pulled out his laptop and, in minutes, had Stark’s tech dancing to his tune; using chat boards, police reports and aerial surveillance, he narrowed the possible sites in Streator to four in short order. With access to databases and satellites, there were really only two that fit the bill. Then the screens filled with deeds and corporate records, and Parker had started spinning plans of how to get inside a privately owned facility. By the time they landed in a field not far away from the closest possibility, Parker had assigned them all roles and was wearing a climbing harness under her shirt complete with a repelling line and a gorgeous set of lock tools that Clint had to ask about later because Natasha would love them. They were each clearly talented, but together they were a seamless team just like Clint, Natasha, and Phil used to be. 

Too bad it was all moot. The first place was nothing more than it seemed, a garage door company warehouse. A couple of the dock guys were using it to sell homegrown weed out the back, thus why it was on the police’s radar.  But the second … when they pulled up in their non-descript black SUV they’d borrowed from a car lot, there was no one there in the concrete block building. The front door was shattered and the parking lot empty. Hardison was able to access the part of the security system that was still online and the few working cameras showed trashed rooms, blackened walls, and overturned furniture. That’s when Clint stepped in; he organized the sweep, splitting into two teams. Parker wasn’t happy about Hardison going with Clint, insisting they use their comms instead of Clint’s. Bruce, as usual, stayed in the jet, on call if they needed him. 

“Wow, okay, this isn’t creepy or anything,” Hardison said as they moved through what had clearly been an operating room. “If my radio starts crackling, I’m outta here.” 

“Hey, at least it’s daylight outside,” Clint said as he checked the cabinets and drawers. “No flashlights to go dark.” 

“I mean, seriously, I feel like we should be watching for zombies or something, man. This palace screams evil scientist experimentation.” Hardison poked at a dead terminal. 

“Welcome to my world,” Clint mumbled, leading them out into another hallway. 

“Found signs of a firefight.” Melinda’s voice came over the comms. “No bodies, but, from the blood splatter, I’d say at least three dead, maybe four. And there’s a lot of smashed up equipment in here; metal pieces and parts strewn everywhere.” 

“Fire appears to have been contained in two rooms,” Clint reported. “Looks like they wiped the computers too; everything is dead on our end.” 

“Maybe not,” Hardison added. “Find me the central network hub and I’ll pull up the root menu. If they were connected to the ‘net, then nothing’s ever really gone.”

“Level 2, southwest corner,” Parker replied. “Should be just above you.” 

They made their way to the stairs, poking their heads into hospital-like rooms, two labs, and some offices before they headed up. The next floor was just as empty, their footsteps echoing as they found the door that opened into a space with servers and terminals. Hardison wove between the towers, finding a spot to connect his laptop, and started typing away.  Clint found a monitor that came on when he tapped the button and sat down at the keyboard. 

“Hey J?” He murmured. “Any help?” 

Green lettering showed on the screen, lines of words scrolling quickly as it booted up. 

“Gotcha!” Hardison called. “Yes, baby. You can’t hide from me, you and your crappy little surface wipe. Bet whoever did it was all brawn and no brains.” 

Clint’s screen flickered and then icons appeared as the home screen loaded  with a myriad of file folders with coded names. A log popped up as J.A.R.V.I.S. began copying files. 

“And there’s the security video, all nice and pillowy soft in the cloud,” Hardison said. “Let’s see …”

He left the data downloading and wandered back to peer over Hardison’s shoulder; the man had six feeds running at the same time, rewinding until he found activity.  

“Here we go.” 

He paused then started playback.People filled the building, coming and going. There were some in white lab coats, others in regular business wear. Guards were in all black, making rounds and stationed at specific doorways. Not a high number -- Clint guessed maybe 25 all total -- but the place was certainly hopping during regular office hours. As soon as the sun went down, however, that changed; the place cleared out except for a few white coats and the guards. 

A truck pulled up to the loading dock and more guards in tac gear and masks jumped out, dragging between them a  half-conscious prisoner. They disappeared from one camera and appeared on another as they took their prisoner down a hallway and into a room with a chair in the middle. Struggling, the guards tried to strap the person down, but he suddenly broke free. In a span of seconds, three guards were dead; the sole remaining one jerked off his mask and started speaking. 

“What the fuck?” Clint leaned closer. “Can you enlarge that?” 

“Sure.” Hardison did as asked then froze the image of the guard’s face in the center of the screen. “You know him?” 

“Motherfucker …” Clint tapped his com unit. “Mel, you heard anything about Strike Team Alpha in the last few days?” 

“They’re in D.C., assigned to Secretary Pierce,” she answered. “Why?” 

“Rumlow was here not long ago.” Clint spun his finger and Hardison started the tape again. The man in the hood stumbled and stopped as Rumlow kept talking. “With a prisoner. Was going to put him in some sort of chair before he …” 

On screen, the prisoner went for Rumlow, ignoring the jolt from a cattle prod. He grabbed the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent by his hair and dragged him, kicking and screaming, across the room, tossing him into the wall hard enough to knock Rumlow out. Then he attacked the chair, ripping it apart with his bare hands.  

“Oh shit,” Clint cursed. “Run that again, slower.” 

The flash of silver was more evident as the man wrapped metal fingers around the strange halo above the seat. 

“That’s the Winter Soldier.” 

6:02 PM, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park, Near Concrete, Washington

“I’d apologize for my brother, but he brought it on himself.” 

Eliot blinked his eyes open and tried to bring the room into focus. 

“He inherited all of our father’s hubris and none of mother’s common sense.” 

Metal bars swam before him, settling into the walls of a cage. Icy cold seeped into Eliot from the concrete floor and the fluorescent light above flickered and hummed. 

“But he has his uses, and he’s not wrong about perfecting the formula.” 

Miranda Wen was standing just beyond the bars, head cocked to one side, staring intently at him. In her navy pants and button up silk blouse, she looked like a high powered business executive, not someone who ran a torture chamber like this. 

“Let me guess.” Eliot pushed himself up and glared back at her. “You’re the brains of the operation.” 

“Oh, no, Charlie is a certifiable genius; he’s just not that bright when it comes to logistics and planning.” She shrugged and Eliot knew she was a total sociopath from the small movement and the lack of emotion in her eyes. “I told him to wait, to let the serum have time to work, but, as usual, he jumped the gun. Maybe the broken nose and cheek will teach him a lesson in patience, but I doubt it.” 

Once Eliot was on his feet, he touched the bars of his cage, half expecting an electrical jolt, but felt only cool metal. 

“Don’t bother, there’s no way out,” Miranda told him. “That box was designed for someone much stronger than you. We had it shipped all the way from Elk Springs; paid a pretty penny for it. It’s bolted to the floor and has a biomagnetic lock.” 

“Where’s Quinn?” he all but growled. 

“Oh, yes, your friend. He’s completing his treatments and then we’ll start phase two.” She smiled, if the cold slash of lips could be called that. “You’ll have a ring side seat. See?” 

She pointed through the open doorway and, across the hall, Eliot saw a large metal chair with cuffs on the arms and legs and a strange circular halo above. An image stirred, faded and forgotten, of colored light and dancing electricity along his skin. 

“What the fuck is that?” he asked. 

“That, Mr. Spencer, is why you don’t remember anything,” she crisply informed him. “The formula enhances the person, while the chair wipes them and leaves a blank slate. Unfortunately,  the early attempts weren’t successful; the serum wasn’t quite ready and the chair they used was a bastardized version. Back then, the only survivor managed to escape. But that won’t happen this time.” 

Needles and pain and cold. Metal tables and the chair. A doctor with glasses and a man in uniform. 

“Ah, it’s coming back to you. I had thought it might; trauma memories are such volatile things,” she said. “2001. Guangdong Province. Your team was infiltrating a weapons plant on the Vietnam border, but you were captured.” 

“General Zeng.” That name Eliot had never forgotten along with the other three men who hadn’t made it back. “Let me guess; your father was one of his scientists.”

“He was indeed,” she confirmed. “Quite ahead of his time; if he’d had today’s technology, his formula would have worked. As it is, we’ll soon have the only working serum, and we can name our price. Governments will be more than willing to look the other way if we can deliver a reliable means of making more.” 

“I hate to break it to you, lady, but I ain’t no super soldier,” Eliot told her. “Whatever they did, didn’t work.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” she said as she turned to leave. “And, for your friend’s sake, you should hope the new formula is the real thing; putting an unenhanced person in the chair is a brutal and horrible thing to behold.”

Eliot’s voice stopped her. “When I get free, I’m coming for you and your brother. That’s a promise.” 

She left the room without a reply. 

7:11 PM, Central Standard Time -- Streator, Illinois 

“Somebody’s onto us,” Hardison announced as he spun between various screens in the quinjet. “They’re going through the same data we are, both in the cloud and the stuff we pulled from the server.”

“You can shut them down, right?” Parker asked from where she was hanging upside down from a line she’d clipped to one of the hooks in the ceiling. “You’re the best.” 

“I’m trying but …” He typed command prompts and code as fast as he could. “Whatever this is, it’s damn fast, almost too fast to be human.” 

“It’s okay,” a voice said over the speakers. “I’m in his system and they check out. Pretty damn impressive work on the fire walls. Put those CalTech boys to shame.” 

“Who is that?” Parker asked, flipping upright. 

“In my system?” Hardison started checking his firewall. “Nobody gets by me.”

“Hold on there, De’wI’ the Magnificent,” the voice continued. “You’re using my tech, so it’s only fair. Besides, with all the info you’re shifting through, you’re going to need J.A.R.V.I.S. at full capabilities to speed things up. Jay, introduce yourself.” 

“Very good, sir.” A second voice, this one with a British accent, said. “Mr. Hardison, Ms. Parker, I am J.A.R.V.I.S., Mr. Stark’s A.I. I will be happy to assist you in your search for your colleague.” 

“Stark?” Hardison’s eyes widened. “You’re …” 

“The one and only,” Tony said. “No way I was sending Bird Boy out with my new toy and letting just any old hacker get his hands on her. But I’ve been reading up on you and your cohorts of not-crime-but-crime, and may I say I’m impressed? Verd Agra? Manticore? San Marco? I’m a big fan. Feel free to use what you need -- I’ve got to run to a meeting with the board. Jay, do your thing.” 

“Tony Stark.” Hardison could barely get his brain to function. “Is a fan.”

“If I may, I have already collated and indexed the information gathered; if you have some keywords parameters, I can begin searching,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said. 

“You’re real.” Hardison marveled. “I mean there are rumors, but … wow.” 

“Breathe,” Parker told him. “Find Eliot. Freak out later.”

“Right, right. Okay, let’s start with that tranquilizer sedative, any ideas of who might have bought it,” he said. 

“Any records on Rumlow and the Winter Soldier,” Clint added. 

“The Asset,” Parker added. “That’s what his handlers called him.” 

Everyone turned to stare at her. 

“What?” 

“Parker, do you know the Winter Soldier?” Hardison asked. 

“Well, yeah.” She shrugged. “Met him in Germany inside the Green Vaults. He helped me get out when the army surrounded the place. They were there for him, not me.” 

“What’s in the Green Vault?” Banner asked. 

“The Dresden Green, a 41 carat diamond,” May answered. “There was a break in a few years ago, but it wasn’t taken.” 

Neither Parker nor Hardison replied, just exchanged a glance.

“So you hung out with the Winter Soldier and didn’t tell me?” Hardison rubbed his brow, willing the headache building behind his eyes to go away. “The man’s a legend of mythic proportions, babe, and you knew he was real?” 

“Nobody asked.” She waved him off. “But I do know he didn’t like his handlers or the team they sent with him. Whatever they did to him, it wasn’t good; he couldn’t remember his name, just his mission. I bet those guys who brought him to that place were bad.” 

“Yeah, they were,” Clint said. “And we’re going to find out what they were up to.”

6:47 PM, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park, Near Concrete, Washington

He surfaced again to hear voices coming from the hallway. They drew nearer, the words becoming clearer and more distinct. 

“... not to push things. You misjudged them both,” a woman was saying. 

“He shouldn’t have been able to get free, damn it.” The man’s voice was a nasal whine. “He broke my nose!” 

“Stop complaining. I need you to get back to work on the spare. He’s responding to the treatment in some very unique ways. Increase the increments and move up the time table for the wipe. Spencer won’t stay caged for long and his friend is the one sure fire way to control him.” 

“And what about our other guest?”

The voices receded, footsteps growing fainter. 

“He’s our ace in the hole …” 

Medicated sleep dragged at him; he tried to stay awake, to open his eyes, but it was too strong a current and he slipped back under. 

 7:54 PM, Central Standard Time -- Streator, Illinois

“Your boy Rumlow was definitely up to something,” Hardison said. “From the video evidence, he was a frequent visitor.” 

The longer they crawled through the records, the more it was looking S.H.I.E.L.D. had a real problem. With J.A.R.V.I.S.’ help, Clint had identified seven strike team members who had not only been on site, but had participated in the illegal activities. Experiments, drug development, even weapon sales -- this place had done it all. It was too bad that, beyond the last few years, the bulk of the information was files identified only by a string of random numbers and letters.

“There’s quite a few customers,” Melinda said. They’d been focusing on the most recent video feeds, looking for any hints to who had taken Spencer. “It’s practically a fire sale; these guys needed money, that’s for sure.” 

A beeping sounded in the cabin.

”Bruce?” Clint turned. The man was staring at a black and white image. “Hey, big guy, you okay over there?” 

“Yeah, I’m good.” Bruce took two deep breaths and the beeping slowed. “It’s just … I recognize this guy.”

He enlarged it and Clint saw an older Asian man wearing a lab coat and round glasses in a grainy scanned photo. Behind him was a patient in a bed, hooked up to IVs and other equipment. 

“Wen Liang Chou. He was part of the Chinese effort to create a super soldier serum in the late ‘90s and early 2000’s,” Bruce explained. “Worked with a General named Zeng until the U.S. uncovered the operation.” 

“Zeng? The Chinese government disavowed him once the extent of his crimes came to light,” Melinda told them. ”But I’ve never heard of this Wen.” 

“That’s because the U. S. Army snapped him up. I met him, back when Betty and I were working together,” Bruce continued. “Ross sent him around, tried to use him to get a foothold into our lab. Wen was a real zealot, one of those types who truly believed enhanced individuals were the future of the modern military.” 

“Ross, as in General Thaddeaus Thunderbolt Ross?” Hardison asked. “Yeah, that guy’s been on our wish list for a few years. He’s a piece of work.”

“You have no idea,” Bruce agreed. “Ross was one of the driving forces behind the revamped Operation Paperclip; he sponsored some really questionable scientists including recruiting Hans Gunter, the Neo-Nazi eugenicist, back in the 70s and 80s. Everyone was vying for guys like Zola and Gunter and Wen -- the Russians, the Chinese, the U.K. It was like the arms race only to see who could twist a human being into a killing machine first.” 

A moment of silence fell after Bruce’s declaration. 

“Wen.” It was Parker who spoke first. “Our client was fleeced by the Wens.” 

“Liang Chou was in his fifties when I met him in 2005; I don’t know what happened to him after … well, I lost touch with a lot of people,” Bruce said. 

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Clint asked. “Can you track this guy down?” 

“Indeed, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied. “Wen LIang Chou was born in Guangzhou in 1948. He earned his Doctor of Medicine from Zhejiang University and a Ph.D. in Biochemistry from the University of Colorado in 1978. From 2002 through 2009, he was employed by the U. S. Army; personnel records show he was married and had two children, Chang Liang, born in 1984, and Ming Zhu, born in 1982. HIs death certificate is dated January 14, 2011, and the cause listed as natural causes.” 

“Chang and Ming.” Hardison’s fingers were flying over his keyboard. “Charles and Miranda.” 

Their Interpol pictures popped up next to one of the older Wen. 

“He’s their father.” To Clint’s eagle eyes, the resemblance was easy to see. “A Chinese scientist, two grifters, and Eliot Spencer? How do they connect?” 

“Spencer was in China in 2001,” Melinda said. “He was on the team that took down Zeng’s operation.” 

“Okay, one deep dive on Charles and Miranda Wen, aka Chang Liang and Ming Zhu, coming right up.” Hardison was already in action. “We’re gonna crawl so far up their asses they’ll think they've been rogered by an Omnibus.”  

“Alright, Baldrick.” Clint slapped Hardison on the back. “Let’s get to it.” 

7:48 PM, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park, Near Concrete, Washington

Eliot sat crossed-legged on the floor, eyes closed, muscles relaxed. Breathed in and out slowly, mind clear, and let his consciousness spin out. Expanded his hearing and focused on sounds from outside the room. Beeps of machinery. Creaks of the ventilation ducts. The hum of the fluorescent lights. 

Tried to let his frustrations go. 

Whatever this cage had been designed for, there was no way he was escaping without help. Every joint was reinforced, welded tight and even wound with filaments of different metals. There were no weak spots that he could detect and the lock was set into the frame tightly. If Parker was here, she’d have it open from the outside with something simple like a piece of tape and some hairspray, but the bars were so close around it that he couldn’t reach his hands through to even feel the front plate. So he was stuck, listening to Quinn’s shouts, his mind roiled with surfacing memories and Miranda Wen’s story about his past. 

“… too soon to … more time … chance of failure …” 

Eliot tugged on the low murmur of voices, focusing on the words. 

“ … some results … money dries up … Party bigwigs …” 

Somewhere a monitor beeped; a moan drowned out the conversation. Eliot wanted to get up, to rush the door, to stop Quinn’s pain, but brute force wasn’t going to do it. The tangle of emotions in his chest didn’t help either; it was easier to deny his attraction to Quinn when they were working side-by-side, exchanging quips. Listening to him be experimented on, knowing he’d never said anything, was its own kind of torture.

He needed to focus on what he could do, not what he couldn’t. Gathering as much info about the Wens as he could to get them out of this alive when the chance came. He’d already counted the footsteps of at least fourteen henchmen and had begun mapping the facility based upon the echoes.

” … other bidders … A.I.M., the Mandarin, Russia … up the price …” 

“ … HYDRA too broke to pay their bills … Dad bought their bullshit doesn’t mean …” 

HYDRA. Eliot knew that organization far too well. Moreau had done business with them and Eliot had crossed paths with a few of their tentacles on his own. Last he’d heard, they were spread too thin and had lost most of their upper management; sounded like what was left of the organization had welched on some contracts with the Wens, and now they were shopping around for another buyer. A.I.M. Eliot had only run across once, but it was enough to make him steer the team clear of anything involving Aldrich Killian. Russia would be in the running, of course; their wolf pack program had some successes back in the 70s & 80s, but they’d fallen out of the game. And The Mandarin? He wondered just how much rope the MSS and Chinese government was giving the Wens since they were dealing with the Ten Rings -- that was a lot of sides to juggle.  

Given the fact HYDRA had begun as an off-shoot of the Nazi eugenics program, if the Wens’ father really had been working with Zeng, he could see the connection. He rarely thought about his imprisonment in China; he’d still been young and idealistic back then, had just transferred over to black ops when they’d been taken. Mostly he remembered needles and IVs and body-racking pain, people in lab coats torturing him while men in uniforms asked question after question. That and how they’d come for each of them, one at a time, dragging them out and bringing them back until, one day, it was just Eliot left. If there’d been a chair like the one in the next room, he was only now starting to remember it as hazy flashes and nervous energy spiking through his veins. 

No matter what Miranda said, Eliot sure as hell wasn’t a super-soldier. He took punches but that was because he trained for it. He got back up because he was a stubborn cuss who never gave up. He healed just like every other hitter because he knew his body and how to hone it into a weapon. Yes, he was a bit faster, stronger, dexterous than others but only because he worked hard to be that way.

An alarm went off, a series of beeps that echoed in the hallway. Footsteps grew closer then Miranda passed by the open door, on her way somewhere else. He tracked her (seventeen steps, turn, sixteen more) and then the sound stopped. 

“ … am I? … in New York? … we win?” A new voice, a male, asked. 

“ … in a coma … extensive damage … S.H.I.E.L.D. facility … visit soon,” Miranda replied. “You need to … more time to heal …” 

“No, I don’t … are you? … Clint. Did we get Clint …” 

The man’s voice tapered off

They were holding someone else, someone from S.H.I.E.L.D., someone who had been here since the Battle of New York,. And they had Quinn, testing their formula on him and pressing forward so they could sell it to the worst of the worst. The Wens had their fingers in a lot of pies and it was time to put an end to it. Nate would have come up with six options and three more back ups by now; Eliot had always admired that about the man, how quickly his brain put things together. They’d all learned from him, the alcoholism and anger issues aside. Hell, Sophie would already be charming Charles Wen, getting him to tell her everything. He took a second to wonder if Hardison had called them in, but knew they were on the other side of the world. No, it would be Alec and Parker out there looking for him, and that was a comforting thought because the two of them were an army unto themselves. 

Miranda heels clicked on the floor; Eliot stayed calm and kept his eyes almost closed. He heard her chuckle echo against the concrete walls as she passed. 

HIs team was coming … and they were going to blow this place to hell. 

Then maybe he’d take Quinn out for a beer and have a chat. 

 8:14 PM, Central Standard Time -- Streator, Illinois

“Bingo!” Hardison threw up a series of images, enlarging them. “Who’s the man?” 

“You are.” Parker kissed him on the forehead then squinted her eyes as she looked at the forms. “What is it?” 

“Read ‘em and weep, folks.” Hardison flicked one form to the front. “See, the thing is, the U.S. government is the king of redundant paperwork. You can’t sneeze without having to fill out a form.” 

“Sounds familiar,” Clint groused.

“And the military is even worse.” Hardison continued. “This right here is a 42-9-07 Personal Benefits Disbursement form for one Wen Liang Chu, which tells us the named two beneficiaries.”  He highlighted the familiar names. 

“We already know that,” Parker said. 

“Ah, but,” Hardison grinned, “it gets us their official designation numbers once we pull up the corollary 42-9-07 F.  With that we can follow the trail to Wen’s coded personnel file, and, voila, J.A.R.V.I.S. presto, we can see all of Wen’s history with Ross’s Hulkbuster division.” 

Data scrolled across another screen. 

“You’re in Ross’s files?” Bruce leaned closer. “I thought those were off the grid.” 

“They are,” Hardison confirmed. “But, like I said, Ross is on our list, so last time we were in the Pentagon we made a little detour.” 

“They really should do something about the gaping holes in their security,” Parker agreed. 

“From there, it was a hop, skip. and jump to find a 716-B, section 24, relocation expense reimbursement. Looks like Wen had the check sent to a little town called Concrete, Washington.” A map popped up. “Population under a thousand, right on the edge of the Cascades National Park, used to be a big cement factory there.” 

“About a two hour drive from Seattle,” Melinda said. “In the mountains, fairly remote … yeah, that would be an ideal place to take Eliot and Quinn.” 

“The address leads to a house that’s been sold since then,” Hardison said. “Current owner is a park ranger and her family. No other properties come up under a search for the name of Wen in a fifty mile radius. However ….” Another picture showed a large concrete block building. “Guess who owns some industrial property a little ways up the road? Lou and Amy Chen. Quite a coincidence, eh?”

“Fire up the engines,” Clint said to Melinda. “We’re heading for Washington State.” 

7:48 PM, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park, Near Concrete, Washington

“I know what I’m doing,” Charles Wen was shouting down the hallway. “We need proof of concept or no one is going to give us a penny.” 

“And if he dies, we have nothing.” Miranda’s voice replied. “If you’re wrong …” 

“You’ve never believed in me,” Charles shot back. “Trust me, he’s ready, and this time it’s going to work.” 

“Fine, It’s on your head if things go south. Go to the control room and I’ll get things started here.” Miranda sighed as she walked into Eliot’s field of view and turned to face him. “Well, Spencer, you’re about to see how you were made. Aren’t you excited?” 

He unfolded himself and stood up, stepping to the bars that gave him the best view. 

“See, now here’s my question.” He ignored hers entirely. “You’ve had me for hours and you haven’t done a damn thing except lock me in this cage. If I’m really a product of a successful experiment, why haven’t you gone full Dracula, drawn blood, and used me as an example for your buyers?”

“It’s called protecting assets,” she said with a huff, her pinched forehead showing her frustration with Eliot. “If your friend dies, we still have you as our control group.” 

He heard them coming, the boots of the hired thugs and the sound of Quinn’s feet dragging along the concrete. 

“Nah, what I figure is that you know you can’t replicate what happened to me -- hell, I’m betting you’re fully aware that your brother’s formula isn’t up to snuff either -- and you’re planning on doing some fancy tap dancing to pass off whatever you have as fast as possible before anyone realizes it’s all a dud. You’re grifters, when it all comes down to it.” He grinned, the tight smile that made drug runners and other hitters cringe. “Just like you talked Mei Ling out of her life savings, you’re selling a pipe dream of super soldiers. Only problem is, the guys you’re taking for a ride are the worst of the worst who’ll probably kill you even if you turn over a real product. You’re out of your depth.” 

“I have everything under control,” she insisted. “As soon as we get the first influx of cash, we’re going to put you in the chair, tear you down for parts, and use you as a blueprint. Then you and your friend will do exactly what I say.” 

The first glimpse of Quinn sent Eliot’s blood pressure skyrocketing; hanging limply between two men his head lolled on his chest, hair loose and sweaty. Blood tracked down his chest, the bandage over his wound soiled and dirty. As the guards turned towards the chair, Eliot could see Quinn’s back was covered in mottled bruises. 

“You can stop this now.” Eliot’s voice was low and oh so calm. Anyone who knew him would be very, very scared. “Let us go and we won’t burn this place to the ground.” 

“Oh, men and their egos,” she said as she laughed. “Your boyfriend is about to be crispy-fried, and there’s nothing you can do except issue empty threats.” 

“Ain’t a threat, lady. It’s a promise.” He never took his eyes off of Quinn as they lowered him into the seat and began strapping him down.  “And if you’ve done any research on me, you know I keep my promises.”

They pushed a rubber guard into Quinn’s mouth and shoved him back, lowering the circular halo until it settled on his head. For a fraction of a second as they stepped away, Quinn’s gaze focused on Eliot, and he could read the regret in the glance, one unfiltered moment that expressed a lifetime of unspoken emotion. 

“Still your huckleberry,” Eliot said to Quinn. “And we’re damn well gonna finish this game.”  

There was just enough time for the beginning of a smile before electricity crackled through the machine and Quinn began to scream. 

8:01 PM, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park, Near Concrete, Washington

There were two men on the front door and another two by the loading dock; James recognized them as Ten Rings from their distinctive tattoos. Rather than confront them, he found a blind spot in the rather basic security layout and climbed up to the flat roof of the one story building. After checking for entry points,he hung over the edge and adjusted one of the bulky rectangular security cameras so he could drop down and crawl through a window. Inside was a messy office with a big desk covered in stacks of files.

Framed pictures hung on the wall, and he stopped to look at them. A young man and woman, with similar facial features, and a man who was clearly their father between them, standing outside a two story house. The young man in a cap and gown, diploma in his hand. The young woman in a black dress, a glass of champagne, smiling towards the camera. The father in a laboratory with a man in a Chinese military uniform. Another picture of the father, at a much younger age, decked out in fishing gear with a different man … Klaus Gunter. 

He was in the right place. 

Cracking the door open, James looked down the hallway then quickly ducked back inside as he heard voices echoing down the corridor.  

“You can stop this now. Let us go and we won’t burn this place to the ground.” 

A man speaking and the hard tone made the hairs on the back of James’ neck stand up.  

“Oh, men and their egos. Your boyfriend is about to be crispy-fried and there’s nothing you can do except issue empty threats.” 

The woman was all bluff and bluster, but underneath, worry echoed in each word. 

“Ain’t a threat, lady. It’s a promise. And if you’ve done any research on me, you know I keep my promises.”

Some memory sparked in James’ brain, the cadence of the vowels familiar. Texas twang covering hints of steely resolve. 

“Now, don’t you worry, darlin’,” the woman whispered to him. “I’m gonna take good care of him for ya’.” 

“Still your huckleberry, and we’re damn well gonna finish this game,” the man said and this time his voice was ladened with feeling. 

Then the lights flickered and James felt the charge in the air just before the first scream echoed down the hallway.  HIs stomach churned as the visceral memory slammed into him; he was moving before he even registered the motion, the tortured sounds setting his teeth on edge. 

The first guards were around the corner; he shot them with one bullet each and didn’t slow down. The next three came running from a different direction; they went down just as quickly. The second turn brought him to a lab where a man in a lab coat was cowering behind a table and two more men tried to attack him. One landed a kick and a punch but they didn’t stand a chance. The scientist he didn’t kill, just knocked unconscious to be interrogated later. 

Another bisecting hallway and he confronted three men blocking the way. They had guns, firing on him, but he bounced most of the bullets off his arm while the others hit his kevlar. One was a decent fighter -- the others folded under one punch -- and James had to pause long enough for three strikes to take him out of commission. Then he was in an open doorway and the static in the air made the hairs on the back of neck stand up while the crackle of electricity connecting to skin almost overwhelmed his senses. The chair was live, blue white halo dancing as a man writhed under the current. 

James hesitated, the phantom feel of a wipe freezing his brain. 

The Asset stepped in and reached for the wires, ripping them out of the wall and bringing a stop to the torture. Then he tore the halo off and flung it across the room. The man in the chair moaned, but managed to look up at him, his eyes widening. 

That’s when the Asset heard the woman’s voice; one by word, she enunciated each word in Chinese, the cadence echoing from the room across the hall. 

8:14 PM, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park, Near Concrete, Washington

The first gunshots made Eliot step back from the bars of his cage. Miranda’s head whipped around and she took a step out of the hallway; raising her phone, she called someone, her words tumbling out as she ordered men to investigate. Pacing back and forth, she switched her gaze between watching Quinn, peering down the hallway, and glaring at Eliot. This could be his chance; HYDRA, the Tussians, the Chinese secret service -- whoever was in the building, Miranda wouldn’t want to leave her prize possessions for them to find. 

“Hey,” he called. “Sounds like your men aren’t having the best day. I could take care of that for you.” 

She ducked into the room with Eliot as a third man joined the two who’d brought Quinn; they blocked access to the chair and got their guns ready. 

“Nice try,” she sneered. “But odds are I can talk to whoever it is …” 

Gunfire drowned out the sounds Quinn was making, the smell of cordite strong as the guards emptied their clips. In quick succession, two went down; the third only managed to land a couple of blows before he was out. That’s when they saw him, one man dressed in all black tac gear, long brown hair pulled back; he was bristling with weapons, knives and guns, stalking forward in his black combat boots. 

Eliot knew an apex predator when he saw one and this guy was definitely one. 

But he didn’t even glance their way; the man headed into the opposite room, pausing just inside. For a second, he seemed to freeze at the sight of the chair, but then he was reaching out, yanking cords and shutting the damn torture device down. The halo was next, and Eliot saw the glint of metal fingers as he crushed it in his hands. 

The Winter Soldier. 

Everyone in Eliot’s profession knew the myth of the assassin who seemed timeless, appeared and disappeared, could pull off any mission, no matter how dangerous. Most thought he was only that, a ghost story, but Eliot had crossed his trail twice before. Once he’d walked into the aftermath of one of the Soldier’s hits -- precision strikes and no survivors -- and another time he’d seen a glimpse on a rooftop of a man in black with a high-powered Russian rifle. Eliot had quietly walked away from the job. 

“Fuck.” Miranda’s eyes were frantic as she tapped at her phone screen. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

“Open the door,” he told her. “And I’ll get us out of here.” 

“I know you will,” she said. She held up the phone and began to read. 

“Rì chū. Zhōngchéng. Héchàng.”

Sunrise. Loyalty. Chorus.   

The Chinese words rolled over Eliot. 

“Chún zhǒng. Májiàng. ”

Thoroughbred. Mahjong. Capital .

Something moved behind his eyes as pin-pricks of pain traveled up his arms. Another voice echoed from the past, harsh pronunciation in an angry, clipped tone. 

“Ershí.  Jiàshǐ.”

Twenty. Drive.

He blinked and he was back in Zeng’s lab, standing, waiting for a command. 

“Méiguī .”

Roses. 

“Shǒudū.”

Capital.

He wavered, the trigger words sinking into his brain. Grabbing onto the bars he fought against them, looking anywhere but at Miranda Wen. His gaze fell on Quinn who was trying to sit upright; blood streaked down the side of his face, burns already starting to turn red. In pain and struggling, he was awake and aware. Their eyes met. 

“Eliot.” Quinn’s lips formed around his name. 

“Niúzǎi.”

Cowboy.

Standing straight, Eliot’s body went lax and his face turned stony. 

“Wǔshì?” Miranda asked. 

“My perfect warrior,” Zeng had said. 

“Zhǔnbèi zūnshǒu,” Eliot answered, the words rising in his throat. Ready to comply. 

“Oh, thank God.” She pressed her palm onto the lock and opened the door. “Get me the hell out of here.” 

As soon as Eliot stepped over the threshold, he punched her in the face and she fell to the floor, unconscious.  He turned to go to Quinn, but the Winter Soldier had moved into the room and was blocking the doorway. 

“Look, I’ve got no beef with you,” Eliot said, holding up his hands. “I just wanna go check on my friend and get him the hell out of that chair.” 

Piercing blue eyes looked him over from head to toe; they stopped at his face, and something flickered in the cool depths. Then the Soldier nodded and stepped aside. Eliot wasted no time getting to Quinn, opening the metal cuffs. Quinn slumped forward and Eliot caught him before he slid out of the seat. 

“Hey.” He cupped Quinn’s chin. “You still with me?” 

“Thought I’d … lost you … for a minute,” Quinn answered. 

“Could say the same for you,” he admitted. 

Before he could second guess himself, he leaned in and brushed a light kiss across Quinn’s lips. 

“Man, if I’d known … a little torture was all it would take … to get you to finally make a move, I’d have taken you with me … on that last trip to Montreal,” Quinn said. 

Before they could kiss again, The Winter Soldier interrupted. 

“We got incoming.” 

Reluctantly, Eliot pulled back. 

“We’ll talk about this later?” Quinn asked as Eliot helped him stand, looping an arm around his waist. 

“You and your talking.” Eliot smiled. “Only if we have beer and you let me make a pot of chili.” 

“I’d kill for your chili,” Quinn replied. “Now give me a gun and let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.” 

The Winter Soldier offered them each a pistol; Quinn took his and leaned against a cabinet with a line of sight into the hallway. Eliot shook his head. 

“Nah, man, I don’t use guns,” he explained. 

With a shrug, the Soldier tucked it into an empty holster. 

“Let me go first,” he said, then he walked through the door and right into a hail of gunfire. Throwing up his arm, he deflected most of the bullets; the ones that hit his armor didn’t even rate a flinch. 

“Damn,” Quinn whispered. “That’s almost as hot as watching you work.” 

“Really?” Eliot raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh yeah, that thing you do where you stalk out into a fight? Sexy as hell.” Quinn wiggled his eyebrows. 

“You mean this?” 

He strolled out into the fray as the smoke was clearing, rolled his shoulders and took a stance. The six men arrayed around them saw the Soldier and Eliot, all coiled muscles projecting controlled violence; a few of them glanced anxiously at each other, but then they launched their attack. The first hit grounded Eliot; this -- throwing punches, blocking kicks, knocking heads -- he knew. Super soldier serum and all that other scientific gobbledygook aside, Eliot was a hitter. He ducked blows, traded jabs, and eliminated threats until there was no one left standing. 

“Damn.” Quinn leaned against the door frame from where he’d picked off assailants with precise shots. “Do that hair toss again.” 

“Seriously?” Eliot walked over. “Is this how it’s gonna be?” 

“Oh, I’m just getting started.” Quinn took Eliot’s offered arm and let him take part of his weight. “But don’t worry, the pay off will definitely be worth it.” 

Eliot huffed a half-laugh as they started down the hallway. “Someone’s got an inflated sense of …” 

He tensed as a female figure turned the corner. Behind the woman appeared a man in a tactical suit, an arrow drawn on his high-tech bow; his fingers flexed around the fletching as he saw the Soldier.

“May?” Eliot asked once he got a good look at the woman dressed in all black. 

“Heard you might need a hand,” Melinda May replied. “But, of course, you’ve already rescued yourself.” 

8:17 PM, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park, Near Concrete, Washington

He surfaced to the sound of gunfire, pushing his way through the drugged sleep that tried to drag him back down. Years of training had his eyes snapping open, taking in his surroundings as he came to consciousness. Fluorescent lights. Older models from the 90s. Metal cabinets. Refurbished 60s style. I.V.. Two bags, one saline, the other medicine. Concrete block walls. Flaking paint, industrial pastel green. Cotton gown. Blue, not gray. 

He wasn’t in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, of that much he was certain. There was no hum of the helicarrier engines or number coded drawers. His file was clear about being drugged, and the heaviness in his limbs and fuzzy curtain in his mind meant he’d been under for awhile. 

More shots and the sounds of a fight echoed up the hallway. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the needle and pulled it out of his arm, bending his elbow to stanch the bleeding as drops welled up. With his other hand, he lifted the head of the bed, tried to ignore the way the room was spinning, and, with a heave of effort, swung his legs over the side. Standing was next, and it took almost all his energy to get upright, but he made it, his bare feet cold from the concrete and his ass chilled by the opening in the back. 

He almost sat back down but then he heard words and recognized the cadence of the woman’s voice, the one that had been haunting his dreams. So he grabbed onto the nearest counter and pulled himself towards the door, pausing only to rifle through a few drawers until he found a sealed I.V. pack with a long needle he could thread through the cotton of his gown. 

Chinese. That’s what she was speaking. It vibrated in his ears and caused ripples in his head; he kept going, inching slowly across the room and out into the empty hall. He was sweating by the time he passed the next room and leaned against the wall for a moment, but the sudden explosion of gunshots jump started him into action again. Step-by-step, he made his sluggish limbs obey. 

8:19 PM, Mountain Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park, Near Concrete, Washington

The plan had been to land a little ways out and survey the site, but satellite footage showed the arrival of the Winter Soldier on a motorcycle and a sudden burst of activity. Instead, they sat down on the wide flat roof, Clint emerging first, slinging his quiver on his back and shaking open his bow. Melinda was next with Parker not far behind. He’d argued for the thief to stay in the jet with the hacker and Bruce, but she’d ignored him as she'd looped rope over her shoulder. From the ramp, she headed straight for a ventilation panel, popping it open and disappearing inside just as three guys came up the access ladder. Arrows whizzed one after another, pinning them against the air conditioning units they were aiming to hide behind. 

“Holy shit,” Hardison said. “You’re Hawkeye! You’re a freakin’ Avenger!” 

Clint just grinned at Melinda’s arched eyebrow; Hardison and Parker were growing on him the more he was around them.  

A quick survey of the ground netted two more hostiles emerging from the loading deck; he literally caught them in one of Tony’s new safety net arrows. It wasn’t a far jump down to the ground; Clint rolled and came up with a bow as Melinda slipped over the more conventional way by hanging from the eave and cushioning her landing. 

They found the first bodies two doors down from the dock; the guards were all dead, but the scientist whose face was a bloody mess, was still alive. From there they only had to follow the trail of bullet casings and fallen men until they heard a barrage of gunfire and the distinctive thumps of fist meeting flesh and bodies hitting the floor. By the time they got to where the hallway split, the sounds had stopped and they could hear voices. 

“Damn. Do that hair toss again.” 

“Seriously? Is this how it’s gonna be?” 

“Oh, I’m just getting started. But don’t worry, the pay off will definitely be worth it.” 

Melinda gave him a sign and took the lead. 

“That’s Spencer,” she said. 

“Someone’s got an inflated sense of …” The man who was talking stopped as he laid eyes on Melinda. Broad across the chest, Eliot Spencer, was built like a prize fighter and carried himself like Special Ops. Brown hair brushed his shoulders, curling on the ends, and intelligent blue eyes looked Clint over from head to toe. He was holding up a blonde-haired man, Quinn, who was a little leaner, a bit taller, and, despite looking like he’d been through hell, had his gun raised and pointed at them without wavering.

But they weren’t the only ones there; the Winter Soldier was standing quietly, weapons lowered but still in his hands, piercing gaze missing nothing. 

“May?” Eliot Spencer asked. 

“Heard you might need a hand,” Melinda replied. “But, of course, you’ve already rescued yourself.” 

“How did you …” 

Just then Eliot heard a thump and a ventilation cover landed with a crash at his feet; Parker dropped down and threw her arms around him. 

“Eliot!” She threw her arms around him. “We were worried.”

“Parker, what have I said about reading the room?” Eliot said. 

“That I should do it more,” she parroted as she turned to Quinn, noticing the way Eliot’s arm wrapped around him. “Oh. He finally said something?” 

“Yeah.” Quinn was more than used to Parker’s quirks. “He finally did.”

“Oh, here.” Parker held out two earbuds; Eliot took one and Quinn the other. 

As soon as it was in his ear, he could hear Hardison’s voice, loud and clear. 

“ … what happens when you don’t listen to me. We’re getting subdermal trackers as soon as this is over, and that’s that,” he was saying. “I mean, I’m happy you two won’t be doing the unrequited pining thing anymore, but we could have lost you, man, and I ain’t letting that happen …” 

Eliot didn’t pay all that much attention to what he was saying because Parker had flounced over to the Winter Soldier. 

“Parker,” he tried to get the warning out but stopped when he realized she was offering the Soldier a comm device. 

The Soldier tilted his head and hesitated, looking her over.  “Dresden. The Vaults.” 

“Yep.” Parker smiled. “You look a lot better now.” 

“Thanks.” He seemed hesitant, but he took the earbud and slipped it in. “I’m getting there.”

“Good.” She turned and glared at Clint. “We’re all friends here.” 

“But that’s …”  Clint began

“Yes.” The Winter Soldier answered. “I’m just after information, that’s all.” 

“See?” Parker patted him on the shoulder. “The Asset is …” 

“James,” he corrected. “My name is James.” 

She beamed. “James is on our side.” 

Before Clint could form a response to that, his world was suddenly shifted upside down.

“Barton? Report.” 

That voice, so familiar, rang out from behind Eliot and Quinn. Leaning against the wall, a loose hospital gown draped around him, Phil Coulson stood, larger than life. 

“Phil?” Clint asked, incredulous.  

“Clint? Is that you? Loki had …” 

Phil started to take a step forward then collapsed; before he hit the floor, Clint was there, catching him in his arms. 

“Bruce! We need medical attention now!” 

1:27 AM, Pacific Standard Time -- Malibu, CA

”How is he?” 

Eliot looked up from the file he was reading, sitting in the chair beside the bed where Quinn was sleeping, the pain medicine keeping him in and out of consciousness. Sophie was standing in the doorway as beautiful as ever; how she managed to stay fresh after 22 hours in flight was still a mystery. 

“We don’t know,” Eliot admitted, putting aside the tablet and standing. “Whatever they gave him is still in his system; Dr. Banner is pouring over the Wens’ notes and all the past experiments from both locations, but it will take time.”

“He’s alive.” Sophie put a comforting hand on Eliot’s shoulder. “That’s the most important fact.” 

“Yeah,” Quinn’s voice was rough as his eyes opened. “Didn’t get my brain scrambled and I’m still me.” 

He lifted his hand and Eliot took it without hesitation, winding their fingers together and squeezing. 

“Don’t know about that.” Eliot couldn’t help but grin. “Your taste in men has certainly gotten worse.” 

“I think I’m trading up,” Quinn said. “Although I remember someone promising me beer and chili. Surely Stark has a chef’s kitchen in this place.” 

“Tomorrow,” Eliot promised. He looked at Sophie; she was smiling softly and it made Eliot feel warm in his chest. “Where’s Nate?” 

“He’s visiting with his friend and his husband,” she answered. “Who could have imagined that one phone call would end up with them reunited?” 

The appearance of a very much alive Phil Coulson had set off a chain reaction of quick decisions. First Bruce Banner had arrived; Eliot remembered the man who refused to leave children behind and the very tense escape over the mountains while he was carrying a baby strapped to his back and shepherding children between them. He also knew the man’s alter ego; twiced Banner had almost gone green before they got to safety. Then, he realized Melinda’s friend was Hawkeye, and Nate had called in a favor from the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. Eliot had had dealings with S.H.I.E.L.D. -- in the small world of elite mercenaries, it was hard not to  -- and discovering that the STRIKE teams were riddled with HYDRA and other bad operatives wasn’t surprising. He certainly wouldn’t turn his back on Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins; he’d crossed paths with them once or twice and even Damian Moreau had refused to work with them. 

With both Quinn and Coulson’s injuries, they split up, Banner, Eliot, and Clint to take them to a medical facility and the others remaining to search for information and clean-up. Going to S.H.I.E.L.D. was immediately ruled out; it was J.A.R.V.I.S. who suggested Tony Stark’s home in Malibu. By the time they arrived, rooms had been fitted out with all kinds of equipment, and two specialists were called in to examine the patients. 

Then the waiting had started. Eliot refused to leave Quinn’s side. He’d had enough of being locked up and kept apart. So he’d watched as they treated Quinn’s gunshot wound and the damage from the chair, ran him through a barrage of tests, and drew what seemed to be a gallon of blood. Bruce had been great, keeping them updated on what was happening, but it was going to take time to know what, if any, changes had been wrought by the serum they’d pumped into Quinn. 

And then there was Eliot’s situation. He’d allowed them to take samples after Bruce had assured him that Stark’s servers were protected and virtually fireproof. If he was ever going to get answers, Banner was the best chance. Sitting for hours gave him time to probe his memories and all the files that Hardison kept sending him didn’t help either. He’d poured over the ones that J.A.R.V.I.S. downloaded to the Stark tablet he’d found waiting for him in the room, and it wasn’t helping. That he’d been in a chair like that at one point, he no longer doubted, but whether he was enhanced, well, what if he was? How would that change things?

“It doesn’t make a difference, you know.” Somehow Sophie always knew when dark thoughts began circling in Eliot’s brain. “You’re still Eliot Spencer.” 

“I used to know what that meant; not sure anymore,” he told her. 

“I read an article that said the reason the serum worked on Steve Rogers was because he was a good man. That it amplifies what’s already there,” Sophie said. “You have always been a good man, Eliot. You fought for your country, saved children, lived by a moral code. Even when you were with Moreau, you drew lines and then walked away. Look how many people you’ve helped since the Nigerian job. That’s all you. No drugs or formulas or mental conditioning gave you that.” 

“She’s right.” Quinn squeezed his hand. “You were already a badass; if they did anything to you, it just made you an even hotter version of yourself.” 

“Pot, kettle.You gonna accept it if you’re …” He couldn’t bring himself to say it; how could he when what happened was his fault? 

“Damn straight, I am. Gonna get me a special outfit and suit up with the big boys; I’m thinking silvery gray and a pop of blue. I bet I can charm Stark into letting me have some of that breathable kevlar next gen stuff.” Quinn grinned at him. “Got to come up with a superhero name, though. Something with gravitas, that screams competent and hard nosed.” 

“Huckleberry Hound,” Eliot said just to watch Quinn’s nose scrunch up. 

“Oh, Huckleberry is a lovely color,” Sophie added. “It would bring out your eyes.” 

“Eliot’s suit would probably be flannel and plaid,” Quinn came back with. “And he’d be something like The Hitter.”

“Flannel works for me,” Eliot replied. “And I ain’t changing my name.” 

“Yeah,” Quinn agreed. “The name Eliot Spencer already strikes fear in the heart of the bad guys.” 

If Sophie was slightly teary-eyed, Eliot pretended not to notice. 

1:31 AM, Pacific Standard Time -- Malibu, CA

Clint lifted his head as the door to the room opened and scooted away from the edge of the bed. A middle-aged man with dark curly hair, just beginning to turn silver at the temples, stepped inside. 

“You must be Clint,” he said. “I’m Nate. Nate Ford. I wanted to check in, see how Phil was doing.” 

“Ah.” Clint shook the proffered hand. “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to thank you in person; I’m in your debt. If you hadn’t called, I wouldn’t have …”  

He waved at the bed where Phil was sleeping. 

“A coincidence, that’s for sure,” Nate said. “How is he?” 

“Alive.” Clint was still trying to wrap his head around that fact. “They’ve been keeping him sedated with some pretty strong drugs; we won’t know what the long term effects are for a while.” 

“These Wens; from what Hardison has dug up, they were running illegal experiments,” Nate continued. “Playing both ends against the other with HYDRA, A.I.M., and the Chinese government. That’s a dangerous enough game, much less kidnapping a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent. I mean, why take the risk? I could see Nick keeping Phil dead if it gave him leverage against the Council, sure, but what was the Wens’ endgame?”

”Nick?” Clint asked. 

Ford shrugged. “We’ve got some history; Fury might be a hard ass about some things, but he’d never let anyone like the Wens near his friend.”

“I can’t figure out how they got him,” Clint found himself saying. “I watched the video, saw him go down. It was the kind of wound you don’t walk away from. The medics called it.” 

“Hmmmm.” Ford tilted his head and Clint could practically see the gears turning. “Was he declared dead on site or did they take him somewhere else first?” 

“He was in medical when he coded.” Clint hadn’t been thinking straight during those days after the battle; so much was muddled and unclear. He’d intended to go over it all again, but he just hadn’t had the heart to face the files yet.

“Did you see the body?” Nate asked softly. 

“No.” Clint shook his head. “S.H.I.E.L.D. rules dictated he be cremated immediately. Part of the decontamination and containment protocol for alien contact.” 

“Ah.” Ford ran a hand through his hair. 

It clicked in Clint’s head at that moment. “How would you have done it? Your team, I mean? That’s the kind of job you guys would pull off, right? Break into a highly secure facility to steal something.” 

“We may have done that a few times,” Ford admitted. “There’s a lot of moving parts of a con like that; it would need lots of planning for an outside crew to pull off. You’d need someone on the inside who can gain access, someone to watch the facility to learn the comings and goings, someone to hack their system, someone to walk in and convince everyone they belonged there. I’d probably go with The Pomeranian Hoedown, or maybe The Queen’s Doll, but both are pretty risky, depending on where Phil was at the time. That helicarrier I saw on the news would make things tricky. But, yeah, given time and information, we could do it. ” 

“But they didn’t have time; it happened in the chaos before the Chitauri showed up, when everything was a mess. It had to be a crime of opportunity; they saw the chance and took it … so they were already inside.” 

“Well then a simple Missouri Shuffle would do. The doctor calls it, stabilizes Phil, later switches him for one of the other dead and initiates the cremation process. There’d have to be a nurse or two to watch over the patient and some others to move him to the new facility …” Ford trailed off. “Sounds like Nick’s got himself an infestation of some sort; there’s a long list of possible subjects.”

“Still doesn’t answer why they took Phil specifically.” That one Clint couldn’t understand. 

“That sounds like something you’ll need to ask the Wens,” Ford replied. “If they’ll talk to you.” 

“Oh, they’ll talk,” Clint assured him. “I’ve got a friend who’s very, very good at asking questions.”

2:17 am, Pacific Standard Time -- Somewhere in the North Cascades National Park, Near Concrete, Washington

They landed the quinjet in the empty field by the building; a petite woman came down the ramp first, her red hair short and curly, framing her face. The man had broad shoulders and long legs; his blonde hair reflected the lights of the loading dock as they walked across the parking lot to where Hardison and The Winter Soldier waited for them. Clint had called them before he left, more ‘friends’ who could help them deal with the fall out. This rabbit hole, as he and Parker were discovering, was very, very deep. 

“Steve,” the Winter Soldier … no, James … practically breathed out the name. 

The other man caught sight of him, froze, eyes going wide. “Bucky?” 

“Yeah.” James lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his head, pulling stray hairs out of the already messy bun. “Look, Steve, I …”

Before he could finish the sentence, Steve closed the distance and wrapped his arms around James, hugging him tightly. 

“I thought you were dead,” Steve whispered. “Is it really you?” 

“It’s me, Stevie,” James assured him. 

“How?” Steve pulled back and looked James in the eye. “I saw you fall.” 

“It’s a long story,” James answered. “Short version is Zola, the Russians, mind wipes, and being on ice for long periods of time.” 

Right at that moment, the two men turned and Hardison caught a full-on glimpse of the blonde’s face. 

“You’re Captain America.” The words popped out of his mouth. “Oh my God. And if you’re Steve Roger’s then that makes you …” 

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, at your service,” James said. “But my friends call me Bucky.” 

“That’s not what I remember,” the red head said. She too was on alert, her hands loose but hanging very close to the gun she had tucked in a holster on her thigh. “They called you the Asset.” 

“Natalia.” Bucky nodded at her. “I thought I’d made you up. Little girls in tutus don’t quite fit with the rest of what I remember.” 

“Natasha,” she corrected, then tilted her head as she sized him up. “You slipped their leash. How long ago?” 

“I saw Steve on the TV after the Battle of New York; it all started coming back to me then.”

Hardison’s attention jumped between the three of them; Steve stepped to Bucky’s side, still holding onto his friend. Natasha maintained her distance and a taut silence ensued. After only a few seconds, Hardison couldn’t take it anymore. 

“So Barton says you guys will know what to do with all this,” he said, jumping right in. “There’s years of data and files and all kinds of hinky shit. We got super soldier serum and chairs that fry people’s brains and notes on so many illegal experiments it ain’t funny. Plus connections to all sorts of criminal masterminds and downright scary groups.” 

“Clint said you’d stumbled upon a trove of documents.” Natasha kept one eye on Bucky as she spoke. “But he was too distracted by finding Coulson, so you’ll need to bring us up to speed.”

“Right, yeah, so um, there’s this brother and sister duo -- the Wens -- who were trying to finish their dearly departed daddy’s formula; Dad worked with the Chinese back in the early 2000s and a dude named General Zeng. From the files I’ve seen, the kids started back up about four years ago, got some funding from HYDRA, and have been running illegal experiments since then,” Hardison explained. “They were going to sell to the highest bidder like the Mandarin, A.I.M., and a bunch of other unsavories.”

“HYDRA?” Steve’s face clouded. “They’re gone. We finished them off in the war.” 

“We didn’t,” James said. “The U.S. government took in Zola and a bunch of other German scientists; the Russians shielded some HYDRA higher ups. Wen got recruited by Thunderbolt Ross. They just went underground until they were spread far enough to start to regrow. Had me for a lot of years after the Russians sold me off.” 

“Ross.” Natasha’s nose wrinkled. “That man would sell his soul to get the Hulk.” 

“He’s not the only one; they’re inside S.H.I.E.L.D.” Melinda was in the doorway. “Rumlow and Rollins and other STRIKE team members are part of it. Parker just found another safe; it’s filled with files of people they had on the inside.” 

“Damn it.” Natasha cursed. “Of course they are; those guys define toxic masculinity. The question is just how far this all goes.”

“I’ve got the Wens in separate rooms,” Melinda went on to say. “Let’s find out.” 

She turned and, after one last glance at Bucky, Natasha followed Melinda into the building. For a moment, it was only Hardison and the two men.

“Hardison? Can you do a search for me?” Bucky asked quietly. 

“Sure, man.” Hardison glanced over at Steve Rogers who wasn’t letting go, his arm firmly around James’ waist. The look in Steve’s eyes was a familiar one; it was exactly how Alec looked at Parker when she came back from a dangerous job. Suddenly, all those stories about ‘lifelong pals’ took on a different tint. “Whatever you need.” 

“A doctor named Klaus Gunter. He did some experiments in 1977 and he worked with Wen. A German eugenicist.”

”You want what I can find on him?” 

“Yeah,” James nodded. “Specifically anything about a test subject 2M3-042077 from Elk Springs, Colorado.”

“You got it.” 

7:04 AM, Pacific Standard Time -- Malibu, CA

The second quinjet landed on the grass in front of Stark’s house; Eliot watched them all disembark through the big glass windows of the living room. Parker bounced down the ramp, talking a mile a minute to a redhead. A blonde man was next, followed closely by The Winter Soldier. Eliot was surprised; he’d expected James to disappear as soon as things settled. Even so, the Soldier was clearly on high alert, casing the area and checking vantage points. Last, and completely expected, was Hardison who cast longing glances back to the jet. 

“Eliot!” Parker immediately jumped at him and, used to her greetings, he caught her so she could flip over his head and land behind him. “Guess who I found? She’s the one who beat me to Rasputin’s teardrop diamond.” 

The hairs on the back of Eliot’s neck stood straight up when he got a good look at the red head’s face. 

“Romanova.” He inclined his head in a show of respect to the Black Widow. 

“Spencer.” She returned the favor. “Melinda told me about Bolivia; that was quite an impossible save you pulled off.” 

“The targets were nuns,” Eliot said. “The buyer forgot to mention that fact.” 

 “And I’m sure he regretted it,” Natasha said with a smile. “Clint said you got yourself out of a pretty nasty situation. I’d expect no less from a man of your reputation.” 

“Wannabe mad scientists,” he scoffed. “Their hubris always brings them down.” 

“It does, doesn’t it?” she agreed. 

Sophie stepped up beside him. “Parker, introduce me to your new friends.” 

“Right! So, this is the Black Widow, and that’s Captain America, and the guy in black is The Winter Soldier.” Parker waved in their general direction. “Hardison says they’re the Revengers or something like that.” 

“Avengers, Parker. Ah-vengers,” Hardison corrected. 

“Steve Rogers, ma’am,” Rogers said. “And that’s Bucky Barnes.” 

Sophie was good; only the slightest widening of her eyes gave away her surprise. On Eliot’s part, he’d figured it out when he’d seen the two men enter the room together; his father had been a fan of Captain America and had some framed pictures of Cap and Bucky on his study wall. 

“Sophie Devereau. I work with Eliot.” 

“Here I thought you were Lady Charlotte Prentiss,” the Black Widow interjected before she held out her hand. “Natasha Romanova.”

“And you’re not Norma Roman.” Sophie shook it. “It is so easy to get confused.” 

“Indeed it is.” Natasha smiled. “Phil told stories about Nathan Ford and his team; it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Hey man!” Hardison slapped Eliot on the back. “Tell me that apron you’ve got on means you’re cooking. I’ve done a long night’s work hacking systems and crunching data; I am hangry.” 

“I’ve just put the chuck roast in to make some chili for later, but there’s ancho and chorizo frittata for breakfast,” Eliot said. “Come on back.”  

It should have been awkward, leading the odd collection of super soldiers, spies, thieves, and grifters through the mega-million dollar mansion and into the chef’s wet dream of a kitchen, but Eliot was getting used to this strange new life that included the CEO of one of the world’s largest tech companies sitting on a stool wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, eating his cooking. Pepper Potts had arrived sometime last night and had been beyond a gracious host to the motley crew. Although, from the cool look she sent Natasha, she wasn’t entirely thrilled with the Black Widow’s presence. 

“I’ll take a couple plates to go,” Natasha said after a quick greeting. “I want to check in on Coulson and I’m sure Clint hasn’t eaten.” 

“He hasn’t left Phil’s side,” Pepper assured her. “I’ll get you a carafe for more coffee; he’s probably finished the pot I sent down earlier.”  

After Natasha departed, Pepper slid off the stool and put her empty plate in the sink. “I’m going into the office,” she announced. “Feel free to ask J.A.R.V.I.S. for anything you need. Tony should be here by mid-afternoon.” 

After Hardison and Parker got their plates, Sophie ushered them over to the table, leaving Steve and Bucky to sit at the counter while Eliot whipped up another pan full. He used a whole dozen eggs and added extra protein and vegetables to double the serving size. 

“How’s your friend?” Rogers asked, allaying any doubt he knew exactly what had happened as Eliot cut the frittata into sections. 

“In a lot of pain,” he answered, filling one plate and then the other. “They’re giving him the good stuff to take the edge off, so he’s sleeping.” 

“Medication doesn’t work for long though,” Rogers said as Eliot garnished the plate with some cilantro, sour cream, and diced chilis. “Faster metabolisms burn right through it.” 

Eliot slid the plates over to the men then reached for two glasses to fill with the fresh mango guava juice Stark had in his fridge. “We don’t know if there’s gonna be any long term changes …” 

“He wouldn’t have survived the chair without some base modifications.” James took the first glass and sat it in front of Rogers before he picked up his own. “From what I saw in the files, the Wens’ formula was focused on stamina and healing. They wanted men who would survive anything.” 

“Yeah, that’s what Banner said,” Eliot said. “If Rogers here got the top-of-the-line, everything included version, Quinn got a smaller upgrade package. I guess that’s one bright side of this whole mess; we don’t have to worry about another Hulk situation.” 

“Oh wow.” Rogers had forked up a bite and popped it in his mouth, chewing with his eyes closed. “This is delicious. Buck, you’ve got to try it.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” James followed suit and he actually smiled after the first swallow. “Man, you’re good.” 

“Cooking relaxes me,” Eliot told them. “It’s all about measurements and control but creative at the same time. Helps me get out of my head.” 

“I understand. For me, it’s drawing.” Rogers steadily worked his way through the food. “Reminds me that I’m more than just the suit.” 

They ate for a few minutes while Eliot cleaned up, putting the dirty dishes in the industrial dishwasher. Everything was top of the line, the kitchen better equipped than ones he’d seen at Michelin star restaurants. The fridge was not only well-stocked, but it had a computer screen with a scrolling list of what was in stock and what could be ordered. He’d added the makings of chili in the middle of the night and they had been waiting for him when he came down to get coffee. 

“So, what about you?” Rogers put his fork down. “How are you handling it?” 

Eliot put down the rag he was using to wipe down the counter.  “Look, I know what that woman said, but I’m not … “

“You knew what to say when the woman used the trigger words,” James pushed. “Zhǔnbèi zūnshǒu. Ready to comply.” 

He could have pretended he didn’t know what James was talking about, but he didn’t see the point. James had seen the whole thing.

“I didn’t remember any of it. Not until I saw the chair. Then when she started with the sequence I … Zeng would sometimes drag one of us in the room to watch what he did to the others. There was a sergeant, older than the rest of us young ‘uns; they tried to wipe him first. Zeng kept repeating the words then asking him to comply; he resisted and they put him back in the chair. After a few rounds, he just sat and stared and repeated ‘ready to comply’ until one day he just stopped.” Eliot paused, glanced over at the table where his team was listening. “The words … they brought it all back. Made my brain itch for a bit, but whatever she was trying to trigger was too faint, too distant. All I had to do was see what she was doing to Quinn to shake it off. I needed to get out of that cage, so I let her believe it worked.” 

“The conditioning didn’t take.” James set his fork down on his empty plate. “If it had, you wouldn’t have had a chance. It’s like sinking into the deepest water; you can’t move or think or even contemplate fighting.” 

“Buck.” Steve laid a hand on James’ metal one, squeezing lightly. “Jesus, they did that to you?” 

“After every mission. Wipe me, put me on ice, wake me for the next one. Anytime I started coming back to myself, they used the words like a kill switch,” he said. “That’s how I knew I was finally free, when the Strike team tried them and they were nothing more than an itch in my brain.” 

“We’re going to find them,” Steve promised, his face hardening with determination. “Every single person who hurt you and used you. HYDRA, A.I.M., the Russians, all of them. Find them and put an end to them.”

“I got a list started,” Hardison tossed out. “There’s enough in the files we gathered to keep us busy the next few years tracking ‘em down. Figured it would make a nice get well gift for Quinn.” 

“He’ll want us to wait until he can join us,” Eliot said. “He won’t want to miss out.” 

“And we should give you two some time to be all lovey-dovey,” Parker added. “Then we go after the companies that are in the market for super soldiers.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Steve agreed, his fingers intermingled with James’ metal ones.

  7:18 AM, Pacific Standard Time -- Malibu, CA

“Here.” Natasha handed Clint the plate and sat the coffee carafe on the dresser. “You need to eat something.” 

“Nice to see you too, Nat.” Clint sniffed at the food.

“Spencer made it,” Natasha told him as she settled into a chair and took a bite of her own. “Turns out he’s a chef too.” 

“Huh.” He forked some up and chewed. Spice burst on his tongue. “This is good.” 

They ate in silence for a few minutes, not needing to talk. Clint knew that she was just as worried about Phil as he was from how her eyes darted to the sleeping man in the bed. 

“What did you get from the Wens?” he finally asked after draining his first cup of coffee and pouring the next. 

“That Charles was a mama’s boy; he folded under a few glares of disapproval from Melinda. The sister thought she was tough, but when she got the idea the Mandarin was on his way personally, she started talking,” Natasha said. “They admitted their connection with HYDRA and they’re singing about their Dad’s work with Ross; we might finally have some concrete proof he’s dealing under the table. They were still spilling their secrets when Nick showed up; between him, Melinda, and Maria, they’re keeping it quiet.” 

“What about Phil?” That was all Clint really cared about at the moment; he was glad they’d found Spencer and his friend, but his husband was his primary concern. 

“Their ace-in-the-hole,” she answered. “They used an experimental healing serum and regeneration formula on him. Stark will probably be able to turn them into marketable drugs that will save lives if we can stop the military from getting hold of them and using them for their own agenda.” 

“It was an inside job, wasn’t it?” Clint asked. 

“HYDRA was looking for a high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Natasha replied, “and had a doctor on duty that day. Miranda wasn’t sure how they pulled it off; they were hired by HYDRA to keep Phil alive and see if they could program him.” 

“Brainwash him then have us find him, bring him back.” Clint could see exactly how that would have worked. “If they hadn’t taken Spencer, we wouldn’t have known about the chair or the mind wipes or the super soldier serum.” 

“I might still be compromised.” Phil blinked his eyes open and reached out a hand to Clint. “I don’t remember much.”

Clint rose, left his plate on the table, and went to Phil’s side. “Fortunately, we have their data, so we can undo anything they did. And we have an expert to ask -- the Winter Soldier.” 

“I missed you, Phil.” Natasha moved to the other side of the bed; she took Phil’s hand in her own. “And I get to be the one to tell you the news. Turns out, the Asset’s been around a lot longer than even I thought. Steve recognized him; he’s James Buchanan Barnes.” 

“Bucky?” Phil’s eyes widened. “He’s alive?” 

“He’s been on ice most of the time, but, yes,” Natasha said. “And, you’ll be happy to know, your theory about the two of them isn’t a theory anymore.” 

“They’re together?” Phil asked. 

“They can’t keep their hands off each other,” Clint told him, leaning over to kiss Phil’s forehead. 

“Sounds just like the two of you.” Natasha smiled at them fondly. 

  4:27 PM, Pacific Standard Time -- Malibu, CA

James stood at the wall of windows and stared out at the Pacific ocean, watching the waves form and crash into the sandy shore below. From his vantage point, he could see Steve out by the pool, doing the same. The bedroom was quiet, further away from the constant movement of the living room and kitchen. Truth was, there were too many people in the sprawling house, too many voices, too many conversations, too many looks shared for him. What he needed was some time alone; the last forty-eight hours had been filled with new information and new faces; he hadn’t had time to really process it all. 

The part of him that was Bucky Barnes was fixated on Steve. Finding him again, hearing him say his name, feeling the safety of Steve’s arms around him. Having Steve in his corner -- he hadn’t even hesitated, had just slotted back into Bucky’s life as if he’d never left -- meant more than he could say. The dangers of staying close were outweighed by the love and acceptance a thousand fold. But the Asset always lurked in the back of his consciousness, the knowledge that the triggers were still out there and, no matter that he’d shaken the words off before, there could be other ways to control him. An unknown kill switch. Another set of words. More chairs and cryotubes to take away his free will. The best option might be to steal one of those shiny bikes in Stark’s garage and take off until he knew for sure his head was on straight. 

But he’d been on his own for so long;  the thought of having Steve at his back, letting Parker hug him, getting to know Spencer and eating more of his cooking was very enticing. Even Tony Stark had invited him to stay, albeit with the ulterior motive of getting a look at his arm; James certainly wouldn’t mind getting rid of the heavy prosthetic that shorted and sometimes quit working since he’d yanked the vials of poison and sedatives out. Stark hadn’t tried to hide his interest in the Soviet era engineering; he was like his father in that way. Howard never could resist a mechanical challenge. James was more than glad when he remembered that one of the missions he’d failed had been to take out Howard and his wife. A.I.M. had beaten HYDRA to the serum in the back of Howard’s car only to find he’d left a vital component of the formula out, one that he took with him to his grave. 

“Sergeant Barnes.” J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice interrupted James’ reverie. 

“Yes?” James had always loved science fiction, but getting used to a sentient A.I. was a difficult thing. 

“I have information about the file you were looking for.”

“What I asked Hardison to look into?” 

“Yes. Mr. Hardison tasked me with continuing the search; Parker finally convinced him to get some sleep.” 

That made sense; it had been a long few days for the hacker and his team as well. 

“What have you found?” James asked. 

“The designator 2M3-042077 appears in a number of files from the mid-80s through the late 90s. Most are reports of failed searches to locate the missing person; Dr. Gunter and Dr. Wen both initiated numerous ones. After the sixth, 2M3-042077 was declared dead and no further attempts were made,” J.A.R.V.I.S. informed him. 

“So they never located him?” 

“They did not. However, based upon the information in the files, I was able to extrapolate a few basic facts. 2M3-042077 was a baby born in 1977 at the Elk Springs laboratory and disappeared three months later on a night when the facility was destroyed in a fire. A number of personnel perished. No official birth certificate exists nor do any of the files list a mother or father. But Dr. Gunter published extensively on the use of genetic breeding during in vitro fertilization.”

A baby. Images filtered through James’ mind, slotting into place as they began to make sense. The glass case, an incubator, with a baby wrapped in a blanket. The cage he was kept in, the trigger words used to make him compliant as they took what they needed. Lashing out at the men who came to get him, bodies thrown against the wall with sickening thuds. Flames leaping up, catching and spreading. 

The woman in a nurse’s uniform, promising to take care of the child. 

“Oh, God.” James raised a hand, the sharp stab of realization making his head ache. 

“Are you well, Sergeant Barnes? Should I contact Captain Rogers?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asked. “Your heart rate is elevated and your blood pressure is rising.” 

“No.” James bit off the word sharply. “I’m fine.” 

IVF. Genetic breeding. Babies created in a test tube to be super soldiers. His children. And one of them might still be alive. His chest was tight, and he struggled to take a breath. 

“If I may, Sir. You may or may not be aware that I have access to all of Mr. Stark’s ongoing projects.” 

The unexpected change in topic broke through the burgeoning panic. “Um, makes sense, I guess.” 

“And as such, I would be able to cross-reference between disparate information like genetic mapping of yourself by HYDRA doctors seven years ago and current DNA panels under observation,” J.A.R.V.I.S. continued. 

“Wait. What?” James played that back in his head, parsing through the A.I.’s factual statements. “So you can compare my genetic make up with … it’s someone here. In the house. Not Coulson, he’s too old, but …”  

Blue eyes, dark hair, stubbornly refusing to listen to the trigger words, determined to get to his friend. 

“Spencer? Eliot Spencer is my son?” 

“Per privacy protocols, I am not able to confirm that hypothesis,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied. “I can, however, run comprehensive DNA testing to determine allele match within a .02 error of margin if requested.” 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” James closed his eyes, the implications washing over him. “So he was already enhanced before Zeng and Wen got hold of him.” 

“Dr. Banner has theorized that the original formula Dr. Wen used in 2001 should have killed all the test subjects,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said. 

“So you’re saying he survived because of me?” 

“Hypothetically, assuming Dr. Banner’s conclusions are correct, only someone with enhanced genetics would have lived,” J.A.R.V.I.S. answered. 

He let that sink in for a moment; just the thought that he had a son was overwhelming. Add in the torture and experimentation and James didn’t know what to feel. Then there was the fact that Eliot was in the same house, just down the hallway -- he could go talk to him right now, ask him to do an official DNA test, see where this led. Of course, Spencer might want nothing to do with him; the Asset whispered in his brain that he was nothing but a killer, a weapon to be used. Bucky, however, wanted to take the chance; he remembered having family, his sisters and mother and Steve. 

Steve. They’d just found each other again and there was so much to work out between them. James wasn’t sure how Steve would react when he found out what the Asset had done all those years. It was easy to say it didn’t matter until faced with the reality of his bloody history. Would Steve be able to deal with a sudden son as well? Could James even ask him to? 

“Sargeant?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asked after a few moments of quiet. “Shall I contact Mr. Spencer for you?” 

“No,” James shook his head. “I need some time to think about this. Have you told anyone else?” 

“I have only shared the data of your search with you,” the A.I. replied. 

“Good. Let’s keep this between us until I decide what to do.” 

“Indeed, Sir. If I can be of any further service, don’t hesitate to ask.” 

Silence fell again and James stood staring out the window for a long time. 

4:57 PM, Pacific Standard Time -- Malibu, CA

Quinn let out a little moan as he licked the spoon clean of the last traces of the chili. 

“You’ve outdone yourself,” he said. “This is the best batch yet.” 

“Yeah, well, just keep it down, will ya?” Eliot said, glancing at the doorway. “The doctors didn’t exactly give the okay for you to have it.” 

“Nah, man, I’ve got a cast iron stomach. Remember Jakarta? That skewer I bought off a street vendor? Hardison puked for days and I was perfectly fine.” Quinn passed the empty bowl back to Eliot. “Honestly, I feel good. I’m ready to hit that hot tub that looks like it could seat twenty people.” 

Eliot didn’t miss the wince when Quinn tried to reach back to rearrange his pillows. 

“Un-huh. Let’s see what the docs say before you go making any plans.” He fluffed them up and put them back behind Quinn. “You need to take it easy.” 

“I am in Tony Stark’s mansion!” Quinn complained. “I bet his liquor cabinet is amazing and I’m stuck in this bed, staring at the wall.” 

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.” Eliot dug the remote out of the bedside drawer; when he clicked it, part of the wall slid back and a giant screen appeared. 

Quinn swiped it out of his hands and started clicking through the channels, pausing on one that showed a soccer stadium. “Is that live?” 

“No such thing as pay per view here. From what I can tell, Stark’s got all the channels.” 

 “Hey, you should find us some fancy ass craft beer and we’ll watch the game together.” Quinn patted the spot next to him. “There’s plenty of room.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Eliot told him. “But first, I’m gonna take some chili down to Bruce; I don’t think he’s left the lab since we got back. Want to get him a bowl before the ravenous horde descends for dinner.” 

Quinn caught a handful of Eliot’s t-shirt and pulled him down for a long, slow kiss. 

“You’re a good man, Eliot Spencer,” he drawled. “Just how good I hope to find out soon.” 

There were a few more kisses before Eliot slipped out of the room and headed to the kitchen, dropping off the dirty bowls in the sink and dishing up a serving onto a tray he’d found in the pantry. Down the stairs, he came to the glass doorway of the sprawling lab where Bruce was working; looking up, Banner waved him inside. 

“Brought you an early taste, doc,” Eliot said, sliding it onto a nearby table. 

“Is that what’s been cooking all afternoon?” Bruce leaned over and sniffed. “Smells delicious.” 

“I noticed you missed breakfast and lunch,” Eliot said. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Thanks.” Banner pushed his stool back. “Actually, if you don’t mind, as long as you’re here, can I ask you a few questions?” 

“Sure,” Eliot said. Anything to help them figure out what was going to happen to Quinn. 

“Did your father serve in the military?” 

“No.” That seemed like an odd segue. “He was only eligible the last few years of Vietnam and his number never came up; he took over his dad’s hardware store in our hometown. Wanted me to follow in his footsteps; he wasn’t happy when I joined up.” 

“And your mom?” 

“She was a nurse, worked in the pediatric ward.” Eliot cocked his head. “Why?” 

Banner sighed then pulled up some of those holographic images everyone was so fond of. 

“Super soldier serums are targeted to specific parts of the RNA strand; which alleles depend upon what attribute they want to enhance. This one is Erskine’s.” 

A long line of tiny colored squares were superimposed with a rising and falling black curve that peaked at ten different spots. 

“It’s pretty much the Cadillac of the various formulas; elegant and very complex. Explains a lot about Steve. Most of the others barely managed two or three foci.” 

He pointed to one with three spikes. 

“This is the one they used on Quinn; much simpler and designed for stamina and faster healing.” 

A third had four but they were much smaller. 

“This is what General Zeng gave you back in 2001; it’s a complete mess. Liang Chou didn’t take into account ambient radiation or chromosomal drift.” Bruce’s anger seeped into his voice. “It was nowhere near ready for any kind of testing, much less on humans. Honestly, no one should have survived being injected with it.” 

“But I did.” Eliot remembered the burn of it going into his veins, the aching fever and chills that came after. 

“This is your genetic profile; it doesn’t match Wen’s formula at all.” The chart Bruce enlarged looked nothing like the others; a completely different set of alleles were highlighted. “My first thought was that your father might have been involved in some testing program; there were a number of experimental programs during the Vietnam War.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree with my dad; my parents couldn’t have kids, so I’m adopted,” Eliot said. “My biological mother was a teenager mom met at the hospital. She never named the father; mom believed he’d forced her.”  

“Ah.” Bruce sat back on his stool. “So you could be born enhanced. If we could match your genetics with one of the known serums …” 

Eliot lost the thread of Banner’s explanation as the man began to scroll through more charts.  Born enhanced? He knew there had been other super soldiers after Cap, to varying levels of success; he’d read about the injustice done to Isaiah Bradley, and the drug addict who’d unwittingly injected himself. He’d even worked with that asshole Walker once before the whole trial balloon of U.S. Agent had gone bust. 

“J.A.R.V.I.S.? What is this?” Banner’s question drew his attention. “I’ve never seen this information before.” 

“It was in the data recovered from the HYDRA base in Illinois,” the A.I. replied. “Corollary files on this subject suggest a link to Arnim Zola’s work that began in the 1940s and was continued by  Howard Stark in the 80s and 90s.”  

Two new images appeared in the air; there was no denying the similarities between the serums. With a flick of his fingers, Bruce overlaid them with Eliot’s; they were almost a perfect match. Eliot’s stomach knotted as he looked at the visuals that were turning his whole world upside down. 

“Do we know who it is?” Eliot asked. Part of him might not want to know the answer, but the realist in him did. 

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said. “AKA the Winter Soldier.” 

5:01 PM, Pacific Standard Time -- Malibu, CA

“All those years,” Steve said. “Me in the ice, him in that cryo tube. I’ve been reading the files and what they did to him … “

Clint leaned against the balcony railing, the ocean breeze rifling through his hair. He’d had a long nap and woke up to the most amazing feeling of holding his husband in his arms again.There were a lot of unanswered questions, but none of them mattered to Clint; Phil was alive and that was enough. 

“It’s not your fault.” Clint could see where this was going; he knew all too well that road of self-doubt. “A smart man recently told me not to blame myself for things beyond my control.” 

“Ah.” Steve looked so young when he smiled;. “Tossing my words back at me, Barton? Really?” 

“If it’s good for the goose,” Clint said with a shrug. “I can understand both sides, the ‘I should have known he was alive’ and ‘I did bad things while brainwashed’.” 

“Yeah, I guess you do.” He turned and looked back at the house. “So what do I do to help him? Stark wants to work on his arm and Bruce says he needs a therapist and Natasha thinks he needs to be locked up until we can defuse any triggers. They’ve all got a point, but I don’t think Buck’s ready for any of that.” 

“You asked him what he wants?” 

“He wants to go after HYDRA, burn it to the ground,” Steve said. “Can’t say I’ve got a problem with that; I’m so angry that they’re still around and that the government and the military protected Zola and the others.”

I get that,” Clint agreed. His anger was simmering; Phil needed him to be calm right now, but once Phil was better, all bets were off. “I’ll be happy to help.” 

“I can’t ask you to do that. Nat’s not wrong about the danger; we don’t know what might set Bucky off.” 

“Same could be said about Phil,” Clint countered. “They had him for six months. No way Fury’s going to let him just walk back into his old job. But I know him; he’s not going to sit around being poked and prodded and dissected by doctors and psychiatrists. I don’t imagine Barnes will go quietly either; I’m surprised he’s stuck around this long.” 

“I asked him to stay,” Steve admitted. “But when he goes …” 

“You will too.” Clint laughed at Steve’s surprise. “Come on, Cap, the two of you haven’t been out of line-of-sight since you got here. He’s standing in the bedroom window second on the left, watching us right now. Of course you’ll stay with him, just like I’ll follow Phil wherever he decides to go. Odds are Phil’s going to decide you need a handler -- he’s the best, by the way -- and Barnes can’t be a sniper and a tank, so I’ll be your eyes on high.  And if Phil and I go, then Tasha will come along whether we invite her or not; Strike Team Delta always watches each other’s back, and she’ll want to keep an eye on Barnes herself because she knows what it’s like, having to remake yourself. She’s probably the only person who truly understands what the Russians and HYDRA did to him. Oh, and she has her own ledger full of red to wipe out. Stark will stick his nose in it too -- the man can’t help himself -- and he’ll throw money at the problem and use J.A.R.V.I.S. to track HYDRA bases and show up occasionally to blow shit up because we’ve already found Stark designs in HYDRA files and he takes that personally. Bruce, well, he’s trying to gather info on all the super soldier serums and make sure another Hulk situation never happens, so he’ll want access to all the data we find and the Hulk loves smashing, so …” 

“The Avengers can’t run off and start destroying things.” Steve shook his head. “Fighting an alien invasion is one thing, but this will be different. It’ll be down and dirty and messy and people will die.” 

“Which is why we get Hardison’s team to control the narrative.  They’re good at managing people and changing the public perception. By the time they’re done, we’ll be international heroes for taking out terrorists and bad guys,” Clint told him. 

“You’ve really thought this through.” Steve tilted his head and really looked at Clint. “You’re like Bucky; there’s a lot more to you than just your aim.” 

“Me? I’m just a carnie hick from Bumfuck, Iowa.” Clint winked at him. “Anything else would be classified; if I told you, I’d have to kill you.” 

This time it was Steve who laughed. “Jesus, you and Buck are going to be best friends.” 

5:38 PM, Pacific Standard Time -- Malibu, CA

“Going somewhere?” Eliot asked. 

James froze, metal fingers on the handlebar of one of Stark’s motorcycles; he’d just been thinking of starting it up and disappearing down the road. Now, here was the man he’d been trying to avoid, standing just behind him. 

“A Combat Motors Wraith,” James answered. “In fire engine red with gold accents. Stark must have paid extra to get it in Iron Man colors.” 

“He’s got quite a collection.” Spencer stepped up next to him. “That’s an Arch S1, a Ducati Superleggera V4, and an Indian Challenger King of the Baggers. All of them souped up and customized.” 

Maybe it was the casual way Spencer held himself, but it was clear that he knew. James had to admire how calm the man was and the amount of balls it took to come find him. 

“How fast do you think I could get to Mexico on one of these?” He patted the leather seat then stepped back. “The correct answer to that is not fast enough that J.A.R.V.I.S. couldn’t find me.” 

“Hardison too. He’d set all the traffic lights to turn red and follow you on traffic cams. I mean, he found me in the middle of nowhere with nothing to go on.” Eliot’s lips turned up in a half-smile. “Can be annoying as hell, having techie friends.” 

“Friends in general slow you down,” James agreed. “Or family.” 

“About that.” Eliot faced him. “Look, I’ve already got a ton of daddy issues -- we just recently started talking again -- and I sure as hell don’t need a new one. But I kind of owe you for saving Quinn and making it possible for me to walk away from Zeng’s insanity, so maybe we could, I don’t know, at least talk about it before you blow this popsicle stand?” 

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea.  I’ve got a lot of very nasty people hunting me; anybody close to me is going to be in the line of fire,” James said. 

“Welcome to my world,” Eliot came back with. “I’ve got a list three miles long that includes everyone from the Butcher of Baghdad to Victor Dubenivich. Just as likely to be me they come looking for.” 

“You don’t understand.” James shook his head. “I’ve done some terrible things …” 

“Damien Moreau.” Eliot spoke the name with loathing. 

James blinked. He knew who that was.  

“I was his chief enforcer, his right hand man,” Eliot explained. “So I do understand.” 

“You got out?” 

“I did, but I stayed in the game. If it hadn’t been for Nate Ford, I’d still be a hitter for hire.” 

“But I …” 

“It ain’t a competition, man,” Eliot groused. “And I can damn well take care of myself if it comes to a fight. What I’m trying to say is that, if you want to, I’d be willing to grab a beer and watch a game or something. Compare notes on the best techniques. Share some stories.”  

The Asset didn’t like the idea, and James tended to agree. Opening himself up to others could lead to heartache. But Bucky Barnes had a different answer. 

“I’d like that.”

6:49 PM, Pacific Standard Time -- Malibu, CA

“Alright as long as we’re all together.” Tony Stark stood up from his seat around the large dining room table where everyone was busy demolishing the three pots of Spencer’s chili. “I know I’m late to this little party, but since I’m hosting the impromptu crossover event, I’m going to kick things off.” 

Hardison slipped out his phone and began tapping at his screen. He’d expected Stark to do something like this and he was ready for his part in what came next. Beside him, Parker smiled and squeezed his wrist in support. 

“It seems that every time I shut down one way my designs are being used and abused, another pops up. I am not happy to find that A.I.M., HYDRA, and a bunch of other acronyms have their grubby hands on my stuff. So, now that Jason Bourne and the Ocean’s Eleven team have shown up, I vote we combine forces and kick some Nazi and terrorist ass. I’ll supply the computing power and some explosions.” 

“There’s too many scientists out there trying to create a super soldier serum,” Banner, on his third bowl, said. “We need to find them and put a stop to it.” 

“Agreed.” Coulson was still in his bed, joining the rest of them via a teleconference feed. “But there are all sorts of logistics and politics to deal with. We’ll need to do it smart and with lots of planning.” 

“I’m in.” Clint was sitting beside his husband. “And I’m all for chasing down the assholes in S.H.I.E.L.D. who took Phil.” 

“We’ll do the heavy lifting,” Steve added. “Storming Nazi bases is old hat for me and Bucky.” 

“Yeah, but full frontal assaults are not their thing.” James nodded to Hardison and the others. “This might be out of their field of expertise.” 

Nate raised his eyebrow, as good as giving Hardison his blessing. 

“You’re right, we’re more behind the scenes.” He projected his screen, hijacking the wifi to toss it up. 

“Hey!” Stark complained. “Be nice. I let you into the system, I can cut you out.” 

Hardison ignored him.  He could try but Alec had an understanding with J.A.R.V.I.S. now. 

“But this?” He scrolled through a list of names and corporations. “Those who do business with HYDRA? The companies that fund the research under the table? The politicians who funnel money their way? That’s exactly who Leverage was created to take down. You close out their operations while we remove their backers. Without them, they can’t rebuild.” 

“And we make sure the whole world knows how bad they’ve been,” Parker added. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Quinn said from the screen where he was sitting next to Eliot. “Let’s start with anyone who has one of those damn chairs and the assholes who paid for them.” 

“We’ve already done the groundwork on a con for General Ross; I vote he goes high on the list,” Eliot added. 

“Well, then, Operation Bad Karma is a go.” Stark pushed away from the table. “Let me get another bowl of this ambrosia and we’ll get down to brass tacks.” 

“Back Alley,” James corrected; he looked at Steve and smiled. “Operation Back Alley.” 

Steve grinned. 

“Let’s go beat up some bullies.”