Chapter Text
The Doctor was a man of faith.
He did not grow up that way. Even as a child, he had believed that religion was simply a placeholder for hope. When you wanted the good in life, you prayed to a god in the hope that they would take pity upon a mortal life and grant their blessings. Still, he was a child then. He has grown and evolved, as people do. He has learned to love the still, omnipresent being that whispered encouragement when needed in his pursuits.
His pursuits of science, of technology. Only He understood what The Doctor was trying to achieve, the price of evolution. His colleagues, if they could even be called that, think him a fanatic, that religion has no place in the world of science. But they were nowhere near his level for a reason.
They don't understand faith.
The restless taps of a pair of boots sounded behind him—the quiet rapping seeming near thunderous in the silent chamber. The Doctor had adapted to the smell by now. It permeated the room and clung to him like a coat on a cold winter night, offering both comfort and claustrophobia. He had a phonograph at some point, but it had broken, and no one bothered to replace it. So every night he sat in silence and worked for hours in vain and darkness. Even he could see how unhealthy a lifestyle it was. His body was slowly losing its color every day. He was near rail-thin, any cool breeze that snuck in through the vents made him shiver uncontrollably, and the shadows underneath his eyes weighed on him like dumbbells.
It did not help that the impatience reeking from the man behind him made his workspace all the more stifling. A few more minutes passed, and an annoyed huff joined the tapping boots.
"Your presence is not making this process go by any faster," The Doctor remarked.
The man stiffened. "We have a deadline."
"I understand."
"Do you?" The man asked irritably, "Feels like I'm taking the brunt of all o’ boss' frustrations, while you're down here making barely any progress-"
"I assure you, I am working as fast as I can."
"Well, it ain't fast enough," The man snapped back. "It's both our heads on the line 'ere, you know that."
The Doctor inclined his head, "There is a method, and I am particular. Yet you still come here almost every week expecting me to have suddenly solved all our problems."
He rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm the one covering up your shit, Doc."
"Yet your hands remain clean, because you are not the one conducting these experiments. You are not the one losing every subject time and time again because of your failure."
The man scowled, but remained silent. The Doctor removed his glasses and placed them on the table, frowning. The problem he was facing was a challenge unlike any he had received before. Superhuman serums have been well sought after, and very few have managed to replicate the original formula that was used on Steve Rogers. More than anything, The Doctor would have liked to meet Dr. Abraham Erskine; he is sure they would have done great things together if they had.
In the time they currently live, technology has made replication of such serums a far easier process than anyone could have anticipated, but it is never perfect. Every subject fails; the ones that survive can barely be called human anymore.
The Doctor sighed. Sometimes he wished he could be enlightened to the path he needed to take. But every direction he looked was met with a thick wilderness in which he could not cut through, and unfortunately, the restless man behind him was right. He was running out of time.
"Whatever you need, I can get it for you," The man finally said from behind him, "I just need a result. That's all I'm askin' for."
The Doctor stared at the piles of paper before him, piles of incomplete and incorrect equations. The result. He needed the missing variables, the proper subject.
A faint moan echoed from the corner of the room, barely a whisper in the darkness. The man looked to the origin of the sound in disgust. "He's still alive?" He asked.
"He won't be for long," The Doctor said absentmindedly. Another failed test, another failed result. The bodies were starting to add up, and it was getting harder to find fresh ones. The man frowned and unhooked the boy's body from where it hung, dragging him towards the exit. Whimpers of pain escaped his lips before he once again slouched into unconsciousness.
"You need another one?" The man asked, grunting as he pulled the weight of the boy towards the exit.
"No. No, not yet," The Doctor murmured, rubbing his chin. Time, he needed more time. He needed the variables.
Guide me. Help me see the way.
The man swore as he bumped into a table on the way out. The boy's limp arm crashed into the desk, sending an empty cup careening into a stack of papers left untouched for weeks. One of the papers escaped from the stash, sliding onto the floor next to The Doctor's foot. He picked up the paper in fascination and smiled.
"A source," The Doctor said in awe.
"What?"
"I need a source. My missing variable," He murmured, turning to the man, almost out of the room with the boy. "Along with the right subject."
"What source?"
The Doctor looked back down at the paper; the sign he needed was right in the room with him all along. "Project Sentry."
The man froze at the doorway. "That ain’t easy to get,” he said tightly.
"Whatever I need, right?"
"...right."
"Then I suppose you should get started," The Doctor said, smiling. "We are running out of time, after all."
__________
Caldwell was starting to get really sick of running around, being the errand boy. It made him feel unimportant. And used. There was nothing he hated more than feeling used. The Doctor wasn't making his job any easier either. Trying to find the right subjects ain't easy, and Caldwell knew he was doing a lot of the heavy work in getting them.
And now– now he wants Project Sentry of all things, as if it's as easy as picking up food at a drive-through. Honestly, what was he supposed to do? This whole thing was getting messier and way past his pay grade. Not like he was gettin’ overtime for everything he was doing–
A chortle and a whimpering groan sounded from behind him, inadvertently causing him to try and put some distance between the boy he dragged behind him in revulsion. It felt like they each came out worse every time they went in. He had no idea if it was helping, though. He had no idea if this thing was going to work at all.
Project Sentry. That's what The Doctor needed.
Sure, piece o’ cake, Caldwell thought sardonically.
The end of the hallway finally came into sight as he dragged the kid the last few steps, reaching the front of a locked metal door. The hallway was quiet; echoes of Caldwell's footsteps and the weakening moans of the boy behind him echoed off the steel walls, evoking every level of discomfort in the man as they finally came to a stop.
He quickly pushed the code to enter the room, taking long strides to reach the farthest corner as fast as possible and get out. As soon as Caldwell entered, the familiar smell of burning coal and skin permeated the room. It clung to every inch of his skin, making his gear and uniform far stuffier than they actually were.
The sweat rolled down his neck as he reached the ovens. "Sorry, kid," He muttered, even as he lifted the boy and sent him headfirst into the fire-breathing mouth of the furnace. He had found it was easier that way. A less prolonged death, for after all the experiments, even some of the weakest subjects found it in themselves to shriek one last time in agony of the flames.
No loose ends.
Even as Caldwell turned to the exit at a near sprint, even as he heard the echoing screams behind him and the back of his throat turned into sandpaper, he told himself it was what needed to be done. No loose ends. This was the job.
The door shut with a resounding thud, and he took a deep breath, inhaling in the metallic scent of the walls, and briskly walked away from the room that smelled of death and fire.
__________
The persistent thumping of water on glass put Bob at ease, at least for the time being. He never really liked the rain, but in New York, it was different. Sitting on his designated beanbag next to the window, he paused reading the novel in his hands to listen to the steady thrum of raindrops hitting the window for a few minutes.
Throughout all the places he’d visited, Bob realized, he never had the chance for respite like this. He also wasn’t in some battered-down, rat-infested motel, constantly having to look over a shoulder. So, that helped too.
The view from the New Avengers tower was… he didn’t have the right word for it. But the way the rain seemed to sparkle in the city lights of New York—a thousand fireflies of different hues and shades dancing across the glass pane—it was no wonder this spot was his favorite.
And so rainy days like this, on nights where the stars were blacked out by New York’s light pollution, made for a better mood and better sleep.
“You’re still awake?”
He whirled around to the source of the curious voice.
“Sorry,” Yelena said, putting her hands up, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, no. It’s okay. I’m just uh… I’m just reading,” Bob replied quickly.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Yelena grunted dramatically as she sat on the floor beside Bob, as if she wasn’t already in peak physical shape. “What book?”
Bob glanced down. “Remarkably Bright Creatures.”
Yelena laughed, to which Bob responded with an indignant look. “Sorry. I just thought Bucky would have put you up to Lord of the Rings already. He’s tried it with everyone.”
Bob chuckled. “Is that what Alexei was reading this morning?”
The ex-widow groaned. “Don’t even get me started. He’s started talking to me about elves and hobbits and all that garbage. I think he’s getting a little too into it.
“Hey, it’s a good series.”
“You’ve read it?”
Bob shifted in his seat. “Yeah, I mean, before I got so caught up in… y’know, everything. I used to read a lot.” He looked at the book in his hands again. “I’ve been trying to get back into it,” he explained.
Yelena didn’t look at him with disgust or even pity. It’s not like he had much shame left after what she saw in the rooms. The drugs, the abuse, the experiments in Malaysia, none of it was a secret. Still, a look of understanding filled her eyes, and it filled him with relief. This team actually cared about him. Not only that, they sometimes understood it too. It made his world feel a bit less lonely. Bob didn't know what he’d do without them.
The pair sat in comfortable silence for a while, fireflies dancing off the window and illuminating the otherwise dark room they sat in.
Minutes passed by, and Bob contemplated asking why Yelena was still awake– not that he desired a lack of company, but only because it was three in the morning and they had a media day tomorrow. Valentina hates it when they show up with eye bags. Yelena, however, beat him to it with a different question.
“Do you like this weather?”
Bob blinked and looked at her. “The rain? Yeah, it’s nice, I guess. Why?”
She shook her head, but didn’t meet his gaze. “It’s suffocating, in a way. And it always brings down my mood. Maybe it’s just me, but I get this… feeling when I see the rain.”
Bob turned his attention back to the window and the city beyond. “I like the rain here, in New York.”
Yelena finally turned to look at him, lips twitching upwards into a smile, before returning her thousand-yard stare to the city. “I’m glad one of us enjoys it, at least.”
A few more beats passed.
“What feeling?” Bob asked.
“Hm?”
“You said you get a feeling when you see the rain.”
Yelena’s expression turned thoughtful. Bob could practically see the gears working in her mind as she found a way to materialize her thoughts. “I suppose it’s… ominous. Something always follows the rain. Good or bad, usually bad.”
“So, you think something bad is going to happen?”
The assassin sighed. “God, I hope not. We have enough problems as it is.” With that, Yelena stood up with another exaggerated grunt. “You should sleep soon, Bob. It’s late.”
“It’s actually early.”
Yelena huffed a laugh. “Okay, smartass. Go to bed, or I’ll get Bucky down here instead."
Bob laughed quietly to himself as Yelena walked out of the room and to her own quarters, the door making no noise as it closed behind her. Maybe she was right, he was getting a bit tired. Might as well get the rest he needed if they were going to have a long day tomorrow.
For a few seconds, the rain seemed to intensify, banging against the glass with renowned passion. Yet despite his previous comfort in the noise, he couldn’t help thinking back to what Yelena had just told him.
Something always follows the rain.