Chapter Text
I hope you find a way to be yourself someday,
In weakness or in strength,
Change can be amazing.
So I pray for the best, I pray for the best for you.
Honest, The Neighbourhood
~
Alexander Pierce sighs as he steps out of the cold and is enveloped by the warm house. The house could hardly be called welcoming with its high ceilings and spotless coordinated furniture; in fact it could hardly be called a house at all, more like a small mansion plucked straight from the pages of a magazine. Although, Pierce notes as he slips off his shoes before hanging up his coat, maybe the style is beginning to become outdated. He’ll have to have a word with Angie, get her to find a decorator. After all he’s got to keep up appearances, especially if he hopes to become a senator.
A high pitched scream tears through the building, interrupting Pierce’s thoughts and causing him to pause halfway through removing one of his leather gloves. The scream is closely followed by a hurried pounding of feet on the stairs before a man appears at the bottom of the staircase and comes racing across the hall, skidding to a halt in front of Pierce.
“He’s a pig!” the man screams in Pierce’s face, eyes wide and panicked, before booking it from the house.
Pierce looks mildly affronted but unflustered by the outburst. He pauses for a moment, as if processing the situation, before calling out. “Natasha, we have another runner!”
Within seconds a flash of red races past him, following the man out of the door. Pierce finishes removing his gloves, tucking them neatly into the pockets of his coat, before moving further into the house to stand at the bottom of the ornate staircase.
“Steven!” he calls out as he raps his fingers against the mahogany banister. When there’s still no reply after a few seconds he calls again, his voice taking a sterner and more threatening tone.
“What?” a voice eventually shouts back.
“I’m not going to shout a conversation!” Pierce yells, making his irritation known. There’s a huff followed by muttering and heavy footsteps from overhead. A mop of blonde hair comes into view as Steve emerges onto the second floor landing.
“Yes?” he leans over the banister, seemingly unwilling to come down further, and rolls his eyes at the flinch his uncle fails to hide upon seeing his snout.
“For God’s sake, Steven, that’s the third one this week,” Pierce complains, running his hand through his hair in exasperation.
Steve scoffs at that, straightening up and crossing his thin arms over his chest. “What? All I did was show them my face. They’re the ones who keep running!”
“Yes, well of course they keep running when you spring that, that thing on them!” he gestures madly at Steve before dropping his hands and beginning to pace tensely across the polished floor.
“'That thing’? Oh you mean my snout? Go on, you can say it,” Steve clenches his fists as he shouts right back at the older man. It takes all his will power to stop himself from storming down the stairs and showing Pierce exactly what he thinks of him.
“Steven –”
“Anyway, what am I meant to do?” he interrupts. “Just hide my face until I’m married?”
Pierce is saved from having to respond by Natasha slinking back into the house, panting slightly as she approached Pierce. “Sorry, Mr Pierce,” she speaks calmly, her shortness of breath doing little to affect her speech. “I couldn’t catch him.”
At these words Pierce’s face, which had been growing steadily redder through his interaction with Steve, drains of all colour.
“Excuse me?” Pierce’s words are drawn out and calculated, making it clear to Natasha that she ought to be very careful of what she says next.
“By the time I got out of the house he was already in a car,” Natasha replies, meeting his threatening glare with a cool look of her own.
“But he signed the gag, right?” Pierce checks but receives only a solemn shake of the head from Natasha. “Well why the hell not?” Pierce explodes, his already thin patience giving out beneath the strain of this new information.
“We always make them sign the gag afterwards,” Natasha jumps slightly as Pierce slams his hand against the cream-coloured wall.
“Shit!” Pierce braces his weight against the wall as he takes deep steadying breaths and tries to formulate a solution to this disaster. “Okay,” he eventually manages to get out. “Okay, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. If any accusations are made we just deny everything. Just stick to the story that Steven is too ill to leave the house and soon this will all blow over,” Pierce reassures, more to himself than anyone else.
“Do you want me to try and approach the runner? Maybe let him know what will happen if word gets out?” Natasha suggests, absentmindedly cracking her knuckles.
“No, no, that’s Justin Hammer,” Pierce waves off her suggestion. “We can’t go threatening Senator Stern’s nephew,” he straightens up, putting on a tight-lipped smile. “No, we just wait this out. Anyway, even if he does talk, who’s going to believe the story of a boy with the face of a pig?”
“Yeah, who’d believe that?” Steve mutters before turning his back on Pierce, who’s already discussing a new security system with Natasha, and sloping back upstairs to his room.
He approaches the canvas he had been working on, before the whole fiasco with Justin, and picks up his abandoned paintbrush only to find his muse has upped and left. Great. Well since it looks like his inspiration won’t be coming back anytime soon, he washes his paintbrushes and boots up his computer.
He’s halfway through his fourth episode of Community before there’s a tentative knock at the door.
“It’s open,” he calls, already knowing it won’t be Pierce since he tends to forgo the knocking entirely and just barge right in.
There’s a delicate clicking of heels on the hardwood floor before a soft English voice calls out his name gingerly. Steve pauses the episode and turns round to see Peggy at the door of his living room.
“Angie made apple pie,” she said holding up a plate covered in plastic wrap.
“Thanks,” Steve smiles, uncurling his legs from underneath him and following Peggy into the kitchen. Angie must have overheard the argument since she knows her apple pie is one of the few things guaranteed to cheer Steve up. “Are you going to have some with me?” Steve asks, pulling a plate from the cupboard as Peggy uncovers the pie.
“I’d better not, I think I’ve already had more than my fair share of this in the kitchen,” Peggy smiles guiltily. “Wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea though.”
“Yeah well you can do that yourself then,” Steve says as Peggy cuts a large chunk of pie and slides it onto Steve’s plate. “Seeing as you always complain about how I make it.”
“You leave the teabag in!” Peggy objects. “It’s just wrong!”
Steve laughs, taking his pie into the living room where he curls up back into his previous position.
“Don’t even get me started on the fact that you microwave it,” Peggy shudders as she takes her place on the other end of the couch in what has been deemed ‘Peggy’s Spot’.
They sit in silence for a moment as Steve nibbles at his pie and Peggy waits for her tea to cool.
“Natasha told us about what happened today,” Peggy sips at her drink, examining Steve over the top of her Garfield mug. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Steve shrugs. There’s not really a lot to say. Men have been running from him on pretty much a weekly basis for three years, since his 18th birthday when Peggy was hired to be his matchmaker. The only thing different about today is that Justin had gotten away before Natasha was able to blackmail him into silence. And, even though it has happened more times than he can count, it still fucking hurts.
“It’s not you they’re running from,” Peggy brings her hand to rest on his ankle, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve got to know that, Steve.”
“Yeah, well it’s my face,” Steve huffs bitterly, avoiding eye contact and instead focusing on picking at the pie crust.
“Yes, but you are not your snout, Steve,” she implores, squeezing his ankle to gain his attention. “You are so much more than that and one day you will find a guy who sees you for what you are: a good man.”
“And then the curse will be broken, I know how the story goes, Peggy,” Steve snaps.
She withdraws her hand from his ankle, affronted by the sudden outburst.
“I’m sorry, Peg,” Steve apologises. “It’s just…”
“It’s okay, Steve. You don’t have to try and explain, I know how difficult this must be for you.”
“They just,” Steve starts, his voice wobbling dangerously. “They always run, always…” Steve breaks off as tears start to escape from behind his eyelids.
“Shh… It’s okay,” Peggy hushes, drawing him into her arms. “I know, I know,” she comforts, one hand stroking through his hair while the other rubs along his arm.
They stay entwined like that until Steve’s sobs have died down into shuddering breaths the occasional hiccup.
“Oh god, I’ve left wet patches all over your top,” Steve says apologetically when he eventually raises his head.
“It’s fine, Steve,” Peggy laughs. “What were you watching?” she nods towards to computer that has long since gone to sleep.
“Just Community,” he sniffles, rubbing his blotchy eyes with the back of his hand.
“You mind if I watch?” she leans over and moves the mouse around so the screen lights up.
“No, but I’m in the middle of an episode,” Steve points out. “It won’t make much sense.”
“That’s okay,” she shrugs, pressing play before settling back against the pillows. “I’ve seen this episode anyway.”
“Me too,” Steve agrees and snuggles back against Peggy, letting out a hum of content when she pulls the blanket from the back of the couch over them.
- - - - - - - - - -
Arnim Zola is just getting back from his lunch break when he hears the commotion.
“You’ve got to listen to me!” a man is screaming. “I’m not crazy!”
A moment later, the man appears at the end of the hallway being dragged away by security. Zola steps to the side in order to let them past and avoid the man’s flailing limbs.
He’s ready to shrug it off as just another crazy wanting them to publish some conspiracy theory when the man yells, “I’m telling you, he had the face of a pig! He had a piggy snout on his face and I’m not mental!"
“Hang on!” Zola runs to the end of the corridor where the man, flanked by two security guards, has just entered the elevator and puts his arm out to stop the doors from closing. “I do believe this gentleman is with me.”
“I am?” the man looks stunned and slightly unsure but steps out of the elevator anyway.
“Of course. That’ll be all, boys,” Zola calls over to the men in the elevator, one of whom mutters a ‘whatever’ before pressing the button for the ground floor. “Step into my office,” Zola ushers him into a room to their left with a smile that could only be describes as creepy.
He slips into a chair behind a desk scattered with junk food wrappers and pieces of paper covered in incoherent scribbles. Zola gestures for the man to take the seat opposite him before rummaging through the trash on his desk and producing a notebook and stubby pencil.
“What was this you were saying about a man with the face of a pig?” Zola prompts with a flash of his unpleasant smile.
“Well uh Mr Zola,” the man says reading Zola’s name from the plate on his desk.
“Oh please, call me Arnim,” Zola waves him off. “And you are?”
“I’m Justin Hammer,” he puffs himself up, clearly expecting some kind of reaction from the man opposite him. When there is none he deflates a little but continues with his story. “My uncle, Senator Stern,” he pauses again, watching for Zola’s response. Zola raises his eyebrows slightly in surprise but says nothing. Feeling marginally smug at having impressed the man, Justin continues. “Arranged for me to meet with Alexander Pierce’s nephew as a sort of blind date. Now of course no one knows what this guy looks like since he’s always kept inside because he’s ill or something. So I go to meet him, mainly out of curiosity, and I’m led into this library where there’s this kind of speaker system which this guy, Steve, speaks to me through. So we talk for a while and he mentions this curse. Of course I think it’s just a figure of speech. It’s not. Then after a bit I ask if I can see him then this door opens and out comes this thing.”
Justin looks up at Zola, his face a mix of fear and confusion at the memory. Zola nods for him to continue.
“He had a snout! I’m pretty sure I saw fangs too,” he bends his index fingers into hooks in front of his mouth to illustrate. “So I got out of there as fast as I could. I’m telling you, if I hadn’t got out of there when I did, he would have eaten me. I almost died.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?” Zola looks up from where he’s been scribbling notes on the pad.
“I did, they thought I was crazy too.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Zola digs in a drawer and pulls out two glasses and a bottle of cheap scotch. He pours the drinks and offers one to Justin who takes it with a trembling hand.
“You don’t?” he sips at the amber liquid in his glass.
“No, I don’t,” Zola leans back with a sigh. “A few years ago I decided to find out the real story behind why Pierce’s nephew has never been seen by anyone so I snuck into the house. I only caught a glimpse of the boy but what I saw definitely matches your description.” He takes of swig of his drink. “Of course, nobody believed me either.”
“So what do we do?”
“You’re going to have to go back and get a picture.”
“No way!” Justin stands abruptly. “You can’t send me back in there, I told you, he’s going to eat me!”
“Well we can’t run the story now, we don’t have enough evidence,” Zola argues.
“Then find someone else to go in there,” Justin bargains.
“I suppose we could offer a reward…”
“That’s not going to work,” Justin cuts him off. “They only see old money, bluebloods, something to do with the whole curse thing. I don’t think we’ll find any of them lining up to help us, it’s not like they need the money.”
Zola thinks for a second before searching through the pile of papers on his desk. “Yeah, but down-and-out bluebloods do and I think I might have just the guy,” he pulls out a newspaper and turns to an article before handing it to Justin.
“'Aristocrat’s son James Falsworth gambles away family fortune’,” Justin reads. He puts the paper down and shares a conspiratorial glance with Zola. “Sounds perfect.”
*
Zola enters the basement and struggles not to choke on the haze of smoke that hangs above eight round poker tables squeezed into the small space. Outside the sun is only just starting to set, but stepping into the dimly lit room it’s easy to lose all concept of time. There are no windows, the light only coming from flickering yellow lights that hang from the smoke-blackened ceiling, and a deliberate lack of clocks so the gamblers could never be sure if they’d been at the table for five minutes or five hours.
He approaches a man standing behind a booth wearing a red waistcoat that matches the bartender and the dealers.
“I’m looking for James Falsworth?” Zola interrupts the man who was casually flicking through a magazine.
“Falsworth, eh?” the man crosses his arms as if debating whether or not he should reveal that information to this slimy looking man. “He’s over there, table three,” he points to a table where a man with shoulder-length scraggly brown hair is rising from his seat and pulling on his coat.
“Thank you,” Zola nods his head in gratitude before approaching the man who’s pushing his way through the crowded tables.
“James!” Zola calls out, but the man pushes past him to the stairs. “James Falsworth,” Zola reaches out to stop James where he’s already started to ascend the stairs.
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” James shrugs him off carelessly and continues to climb the stairs.
“My name is Arnim Zola. I have a proposition for you, James,” Zola squeezes past James and moves to block his path. “I promise I can make it worth your while.”
That just earns him a derisive snort from James who brushes past him.
“Five thousand bucks worth your while?” At that James stops, turning to face the small man below him he raises an eyebrow.
“Five thousand dollars?”
“That’s right, half upfront,” Zola confirms, moving to the step above James so they’re on eyelevel.
James considers, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “What would I have to do?”
“Please, come with me to my office, we can discuss details there,” Zola shoots him a predatory smile that makes James have to supress a shudder. The guy probably wants to take some pervy photos, although who would pay $5000 for something they could find so easily online?
“Fine, lead the way,” James decides, he’s done a lot more for a lot less money in the past, and $5000 is not to be sniffed at.
Zola smiles his ominous smile again before leading James up and out onto the street.
“You work at Hydra?” James looks sceptical as Zola’s beat-up van pulls into the intimidating building’s parking lot. “Oh god, you’re a journalist,” James almost wishes this guy had been a pervert.
“Yes, I am.” Zola parks the van and shuts off the engine. He leads James round the back of the building to a rusty service door which he jimmies open.
They ride the elevator up to Zola’s office in silence. James tries not to feel too nervous. If something goes wrong he can take this guy easy, he’s got about a foot on him, plus a metal arm. When they get out of the elevator they’re greeted by a pitch black corridor, aside from a chink of light spilling from an ajar door to the left.
“Is this him?” James is greeted by a man probably a few years younger than with mousy hair and a strained expression. He can’t help thinking he’s seen the man before.
“Yes, it is. Justin, this is James Falsworth. James, this is Justin Hammer,” Zola introduces and Justin reluctantly holds out a hand.
“That’s it! I thought I recognised you!” James exclaimed, ignoring Justin’s outstretched hand. “Your father is the one trying to compete with Stark Industries,” he laughs. “Sorry to tell you this pal, but you’re fighting a losing battle there.”
“I would take a bit more care with how you talk to the man who’s paying you,” Justin drops his hand with an insulted huff.
“Paying me to do what exactly? You still haven’t told me what this is about.”
Justin and Zola exchange hesitant glances. “Well James, we need some photos taken,” Zola starts.
“Okay…”
“Of Steven Rogers.”
“Wait… Isn’t he Alexander Pierce’s son or something?” James confirms after a beat of silence.
“Or something, yes.”
“And how do you suppose I do that? You do know he never leaves the house, right?”
“Simple,” Zola shrugs. “Pierce is looking for Steve to get married so you go in as one of his suitors.”
“And why can’t he do it?” James gestures over to Justin who’s examining the framed articles on Zola’s wall.
“That’s irrelevant,” Zola says before Justin could respond. “Do you want the job or not?”
James deliberates for a second. “Fine, but give me the money now.”
“You’ll get half the money tomorrow when you go in there. Meet us here at 10am tomorrow,” Zola instructs handing James a scrap of paper with an address scribbled on it.
James takes the address and skims his eyes over it quickly before pocketing it. “We done here?” Zola nods and James leaves without a backwards glance.
“Wear a suit!” Justin calls after his retreating figure.