Works No Longer In Progress, 2013 2/2

[sam_storyteller]

Title: Works No Longer In Progress, 2013
Rating: G through PG-13
Warnings: There's one instance of dubcon due to sex pollen, and some descriptions of injuries.
Notes: Every year I do a post of all the bits of fic I couldn't find a place for. Some stand alone pretty well; most are just starts I don't have the interest or energy to finish.

Part One

Ian Rogers And Anthony Stark

In the comics, for a while, Steve had a son in another dimension named Ian. In Ultimates, Tony had a young carbon copy named Anthony. Both died (Ian actually survived but was left behind in a hell dimension). I thought they deserved better.

Ian Rogers was familiar with pain. As much as his father had tried to protect him, Z was a dangerous place to live, and even after the Phrox took them in, supplies could be scarce. He knew hunger-pain, and blister-pain; he'd once been gored (only a little!) by a hornbeast during a hunt, and his father's face had taken on that pinched, miserable look it always got when Ian was hurt. He'd been grazed by stray spears during hunts too, and there were the usual bumps and bruises of childhood play with the children of the Phrox.

So it wasn't the pain of the gunshot that made him slow to react, that tamped down his instincts; it was the sheer surprise of it. All his senses had been focused on his father, his whole being caught up in the struggle for identity -- Ian or Leopold? -- and he hadn't noticed the woman on the catwalk, or the gun in her hand. The bullet had hit him across the join of neck and shoulder, searing pain from nowhere, and when he tried to get up he lost his balance, tumbling, tumbling --

He heard his father scream as he fell, and what little part of him wasn't still taken up with I am Ian, I am Ian, I am Ian was taken up with regret that his father would be hurt, sadness that Ian was the one to hurt him. The pain was lancing up his jaw and down his arm, but soon it would be over. He would not survive the plunge, he knew that.

Then the vertigo ended, and the roiling liquid below him turned hard and cold. He slammed down onto a sheet of metal from out of nowhere, and the pain ceased abruptly, replaced by the throb of impact injuries on his hands and knees.

He rolled over, instinctively ready to spring, and saw a figure standing above him, hands upraised.

"Easy!" the figure said, backing away. "Easy, I won't hurt you, promise."

"Who are you?" Ian demanded, one hand going to his throat. The skin was undamaged, smooth and warm, no wound to be felt. "Where did you take me?"

It wasn't even a man, he thought, as the figure stepped into the light. It was a little boy, a human boy. Younger than Ian, too.

The boy offered his hand carefully, and Ian took it just as carefully and pulled himself to his feet. The boy wasn't even wearing armor, just short pants and a loose red jerkin. He had floppy dark hair and blue eyes. "You're Ian, huh?"

"How'd you know?" Ian demanded, looming over him. The boy put up his hands again.

"It's okay! I saved you!" he said.

Ian looked around. They were in a cave of some kind, filled with the sort of stuff that he'd seen in Zolandia, metal boxes with levers and lights. The mouth of the cave was glassed over, but Ian could see stars through it.

"Where am I?" he asked, blinking.

"It's kinda complicated," the other boy said.

"Uncomplicate it," Ian ordered.

The boy laughed. "Man, you sure are like your dad."

"You know my dad?"

"A version of him," the boy said, which made no sense. He gestured for Ian to sit in one of the chairs near the mouth of the cave. "Go ahead. Sit down."

The boy threw himself into one of the chairs, and Ian settled carefully on the edge of another.

"My name's Anthony," the boy said. "I'm nine. You're Ian and you're twelve. Your dad is Steve Rogers."

"How do you know so much?" Ian asked, leaning over to look through the glass. Space stretched out endlessly below him and he jerked back. Not a cave, then.

"It's kind of what I do," Anthony said. "Look, it's okay, you're safe here. My dad is Tony Stark. Our dads are friends."

"Dad didn't say Tony Stark had a son," Ian said suspiciously. Anthony sighed and rubbed his face.

"He didn't. I told you it's complicated," he said. "You know how you grew up in Dimension Z?"

"Yeah..." Ian said, giving him a suspicious look.

"And...like, your dad, he grew up on Earth, and he wanted to go back."

"He talked about it sometimes," Ian agreed. He looked wistfully out at the stars. "Am I dead?"

"Jeez, no. Look. There are a lot of dimensions, okay? And some of 'em are sort of alike. Well, I come from a dimension like Earth but not the same Earth, right? You get it?"

Ian stared at him.

"Okay, the point is, there was this really bad guy coming to get me, so I had to get out of there fast," Anthony continued. "Really fast. He killed Tony," he added sadly. "So I said, get me OUT of here, okay? But it took so much energy that I had some left over -- like, you can't just say, energy go away. I was gonna blow up if I didn't do something with it! And I looked around and there you were, about to die."

Ian touched his throat.

"Right! So I used up all that extra energy on you, and I saved you!" Anthony said, spreading his arms and smiling. "And now we're both safe. For now, anyway."

"For now?"

"Well, we can't just float around out here forever. I mean technically we could, but it'd get boring. Do you know how to play chess?" Anthony asked.

"I played checkers with my dad."

"Tony was going to teach me to play," Anthony mused. "Anyway. I put us in a spaceship. See that down there?" he added, pointing through the glass. Ian realized they were in a flying ship like Zola's, only wayyyyy higher up. He followed Anthony's gesture and saw a tiny blue dot far away.

"That's Earth," Anthony said.

"Really?" Ian asked. "It's kinda small."

"We're kinda far away," Anthony replied, sounding amused. "But the problem is it's not the right Earth. See, we have to find the right one, and there are like, trillions of them. So many I'd have to use a formula to express it all."

Ian gave him a mystified look. "You're a funny kid, you know that?"

"Yeah," Anthony said, unruffled. "We have to find the right one, where your dad is now. I'm pretty sure the one with your dad has a Tony Stark too."

"It does! Dad talked about him. They were best friends."

"He won't know who I am," Anthony said sadly. "But I figure, if I get you back to your dad, and you say we're friends..."

"Ohhh," Ian said, nodding. "Yeah. One time, I got lost in the forest near our cave and one of the Phrox came and found me, and when he brought me home Dad gave him three hornbeast hides in gratitude."

"I'd rather have cash, but point taken," Anthony said.

"But if there are so many Earths, how do we find the right one?" Ian asked.

"It'll take a while. But as long as we're up here I got plenty of food and stuff to do," Anthony replied. "You ever play video games?"

"Play what?"

Anthony grinned.

***

Time didn't pass the same way on the spaceship as it did in Dimension Z. No suns or moons ever rose or set, and it never rained. Anthony taught him to tell time based on a big grid of numbers and a smaller panel that showed constantly moving ones. Each day, Ian carefully marked off a space on the grid, and then he and Anthony would eat and spend the day looking for his dad.

It was tiresome work. Anthony made the little blue Earth jump around beneath them, a different Earth every time, and then he'd open a little window in his computer and they'd look in on Ian's dad. Sometimes Ian would say no; there were some he could just tell weren't his dad. Sometimes Anthony would check something and then he'd say no, without an explanation, but Ian trusted him.

They could look at plenty in an hour, but they got bored often and then Anthony would show him video games, or cartoons, or they'd play tag or hide and seek in the space ship.

"Where'd you get this space ship thing, anyway?" Ian asked one night, as they lay in their bunk beds in the little room off the main control room. The blankets were soft, and the bouncy thing he slept on took some getting used to, but he liked it, more or less. Anthony popped his head down from the top bunk.

"I made it, from designs Tony had in his head," he said. "I used to live in Tony's head."

"My dad had a person living in his chest," Ian said.

"Not quite like that. Also I wasn't super-evil like Zola."

"Oh." Ian thought about it. "How'd you get out?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Okay. How much longer do you think it'll be before we find my dad? It's been twelve days already."

"Shouldn't be much longer. I used your biosignature to find a small subset of Earths that are probably right."

"English, please," Ian singsonged.

"I uh. Looked at you and looked for Earths that would have people like your dad."

"But you know he's not my real dad."

"Of course he is."

"Not like blood dad though."

Anthony blew air through his lips. "Who cares about that stuff? He took care of you, didn't he?"

"Yeah..."

"Then he's your real dad and Zola can go blow himself."

Ian giggled. "Where'd you learn language like that?"

"Tony."

"Is he nice?"

"Course he is," Anthony said, and then added, "Was," softly.

"You think this other Tony will be?"

"I hope so. I think he must be nice in pretty much every dimension. Well, most of them." Anthony settled on the top bunk again. "The ones worth visiting. We'll find the right one soon, I'm sure of it."

"Good. I like you and all, Anthony, but I'm gettin' bored with video games."

***

They found it on day fourteen, though they almost cruised right past it.

"Nope, not that one," Ian said confidently, looking at an Earth where his father was a teeny tiny man with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. "Not that one neither," he said, looking at another where Dad was wearing spiky armor.

"Can't be this one," Anthony said, and was about to flick onward when Ian grabbed his arm.

"Stop!" he said. Anthony looked up at him. "Why can't it be that one?"

"The numbers don't match your biosignature," he said.

"But look!" Ian pointed at his father. So clearly his father! His beard was gone and his hair was washed and smoothed down more than usual, but he could tell -- he just knew. His heart clenched. "That's my dad!"

"Can't be," Anthony argued. "The numbers aren't right."

"Look again," Ian commanded. "What's wrong with the numbers?"

"The signature's close, but it's not..." Anthony trailed off. "Wait, lemme check something."

He did something complicated with the screen they were looking at, then sat back and blinked.

"Well, hell," he said, in his high nine-year-old voice. "That's the one."

"That's my dad! I knew it!" Ian yelled, wrapping his arms around Anthony's neck. He watched, entranced, as his father sipped from a fancy white cup of some kind. He was sitting at a table, jaw resting on his fist, watching other people talk -- there was Beast, Ian recognized him from the paintings, and a blond man he thought might be Hawkeye, and a man in a red suit that was undoubtedly Falcon. Dad had always said Falcon was his brother the same way the Phrox children were Ian's brothers and sisters -- not by birth but because there wasn't any other word for how close people could be.

Dad looked sad. Ian didn't think anyone else noticed, or maybe they were just being nice.

"How do we get there?" Ian asked.

Anthony closed the window and Ian almost yelped in disappointment.

"We're gonna fly down in the spaceship," he said cheerfully. There was a vibration under Ian's feet, and then a roar, and the whole ship tilted on its end but he didn't fall over, even though the stars were wheeling through the glass. They were pointing straight at the little blue Earth now, and even as Ian watched it got bigger and bigger until the blue and white swirls filled their vision.

"Don't distract me," Anthony said, even as Ian was opening his mouth to point out that this was getting kind of scary. With a thump, the little control room burst free of the rest of the ship, leaving it behind, and Ian just held on and watched as blue turned to green turned to grey turned red briefly and then --

Then they were under a blue sky, just like Dad had said it would be, and they were soaring over a city that would put even the best of Zolandia to shame.

"What IS this?" Ian asked.

Anthony glanced at him and laughed. "Manhattan, stupid."

"Look at all the -- how are we going to find Dad in all this?"

Anthony pointed straight ahead. "He's in there."

Ian stared hard at the little building amid the much taller ones, trying not to even blink as Anthony brought them down low. There was a thud as the ship touched ground. Anthony grabbed his hand and pulled him along, down a hallway Ian hadn't been through before and --

White sunlight scattered over green grass through a hole in the ship, and Ian caught his breath. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Behind them, the ship shimmered and vanished.

"Come on, they don't know we're here yet, I blocked their sensors," Anthony said, dragging him through the warmth of an Earth day cycle. Ian stared at everything, from the neatly built house before them to the white clouds in the blue sky. A little grey animal ran past them as they headed for the house. There was game here too, then; good.

Anthony led him confidently up a flight of stairs and pushed open a big door. Ian figured Anthony somehow knew where he was going -- he usually seemed to, even in video games -- and followed until Anthony drew up short, and voices could be heard from nearby.

" -- know what she's going to do with him when he gets older, but I guess he does live at a school," a female voice said.

"Is he a mutant?" someone else asked. Ian padded up silently behind Anthony and they both stood in the doorway, peering in.

"I don't think so, but that hardly matters, a school's a school."

"It's a school for mutants, I think it might matter a little."

"She should make sure he's legally protected," another voice said, and that was Dad, standing at a high counter, pouring liquid out of the fancy cup. "Get the adoption sorted out."

"Might be a problem, people get snakey about mutants adopting kids," someone said, joining Dad at the counter. Ian's breath caught, and he could feel Anthony tense. That was clearly Tony Stark, down to the neat little goatee. They watched as he bumped his shoulder against Dad's, giving him a look.

"All the more reason to talk to Jubilee now and make sure Shogo -- " his Dad said, but he was turning, and his eye caught both of them in the doorway.

Before Ian could speak, the cup had slipped out of Dad's hand and crashed to the floor. Tony Stark looked up, and Ian could see other people around the table looking too.

"What in the f -- " Tony Stark started to say, but Dad interrupted him with a soft, "Ian?"

"Dad," Ian said, but he couldn't move, he was suddenly terrified of all these people and Dad looked so pale --

"Oh my god," Dad said, and Ian leapt for him just as Dad slid forward onto his knees, arms going around Ian's shoulders so tight he might smother. Ian just buried his face in Dad's neck and trembled.

"My boy, oh my god," Dad was saying into his hair, and Dad was shaking too, Ian could feel it. "Ian, I'm so sorry -- "

"It's okay," Ian said, because he thought Dad might be crying and Dad never cried. He heard someone clear their throat, and Dad released him, only to grab him again by the arms, eyes scanning his face, searching for something.

"It's you," Dad said.

"Yeah," Ian answered, and grinned.

"Uh, someone want to clue me in?" a voice said in the background. Ian looked up; it was the blond man, Hawkeye. "Strange children in the mansion, Steve having nervous breakdown, I'm not comfortable with this."

"Steve," Tony Stark said. "Who's the kid?"

Dad rubbed a thumb over Ian's face, smiling. "This is Ian," he said. "He's my son."

There was a second crash; Ian saw that Falcon had knocked his cup over. Everyone was staring.

"I brought a friend!" Ian said, remembering his manners and that this was going to be something of a delicate negotiation. He squirmed out of Dad's grip and went to the doorway. Anthony was peering around the edge, watching everything with curious eyes but still mostly hidden. "Come on," Ian said, pulling on his arm. Anthony was suddenly shy.

"Who's this?" Dad asked.

"This is Anthony, he saved me," Ian said, dragging Anthony into the room. "He's from another Earth, there are a lot of them it turns out."

"You don't say," said Beast, who was a lot bigger and furrier and scarier in person. Ian casually edged between Anthony and him as he stood up from the table.

"It's all right," Dad said, holding out a hand. "C'mere, Anthony, I'm Steve."

"Steve Rogers, Captain America," Anthony said with a jerky nod. "And you're Hawkeye and Falcon and I don't know you, sir," he added to Beast. "And you're Tony Stark," he finished, gazing at Tony, who was looking dismayed.

"How did you come to be here, young man?" Beast asked. "If you're from another Earth."

"It's -- "

"Complicated," Ian finished for Anthony, grinning at him.

"I can...it might be easier if I just..." Anthony looked back at Tony, eyes narrowing in concentration.

Ian was about to ask if maybe they could sit down, but suddenly Tony bellowed in pain and dropped like a sack of bones. Ian stared in horror as the man curled up, clutching his head, but he only had a second before Dad was on his feet and had whipped Ian behind him.

"I got the kid!" someone yelled, and Ian saw Hawkeye diving for Anthony, while Falcon knelt over Tony.

"Don't you touch him!" Ian shouted, squirming away from Dad to leap for Hawkeye, but before he could sink his teeth into any vulnerable flesh, Hawkeye had grabbed Anthony. Anthony screamed and yellow light burst everywhere for a minute.

Ian rubbed his eyes and found Anthony curled up in the corner of the room, Hawkeye lying under a pile of dust in another, and Beast and Falcon both blocking Tony with their bodies.

"What'd you do that for?" he yelled, running to Anthony, heedless of his father's grab for his jerkin. He dropped down next to his friend and pulled him into his arms, glaring at everyone else in the room. "He's littler than you, leave him alone!"

"Ian, come here," Dad ordered, and Ian snarled. In the background, people were yelling at each other, and Anthony was hiding against his arm, and Beast was getting up, teeth bared --

"EVERYONE SETTLE THE GOD DAMN HELL DOWN," a new voice yelled, and silence descended on the room. Ian saw a short man built like a broad stone well step into the kitchen, sharp blades emerging from his knuckles.

Wolverine, he thought, awed. That was Wolverine, from the painting, much smaller than most of the others, but -- but you could feel the danger in him, the coiled violence waiting to spring out, like Dad on a hunt. Wolverine, Dad's soldier-friend, the fiercest of all of them.

"Hank," Dad snapped, not looking away from Ian.

"He's fine," Beast said, helping Tony up to sitting. "Tony?"

"He tried to activate Extremis," Tony said, eyes slowly focusing on Ian and Anthony. "Took me by surprise, that's all."

"Hawkeye?"

"Aw, wall," Hawkeye groaned, rolling to his knees.

"What kind of circus are we running today?" Wolverine asked. "Who're the kids?"

"I'll cut you if you come near him," Ian warned. Wolverine gave him a toothy grin.

"I like this one," he said. "What's your name, gutsy?"

"Ian Rogers," Ian snapped.

Wolverine turned to Dad. "Didn't know you had it in you, Cap."

"Long story," Dad said. "Ian, come here right now."

"No," Ian said.

"It's okay, I'm fine," Tony said in the background, getting to his feet. "Cap, stand down."

"You, get him out of here," Wolverine said, pointing to Beast and then to Hawkeye. "Falcon, go with them. Give the kids some breathing room."

"Cap?" Falcon asked. Dad looked really angry.

"Go," he said. "We'll sort this out."

Ian watched the others hold some kind of conference without talking. Tony had his hand on Dad's arm, looked like half to restrain him and half to hold himself up. After a minute, Wolverine looked away from them and back at Ian.

"Nobody's gonna hurt you or your pal," Wolverine said. "My name's -- "

"Wolverine, I know," Ian replied. The man glanced at Dad, eyebrow raising, and then turned back to them.

"Well, I was gonna say Logan, but whatever," he said. "I'm a teacher at a school for mutants. Your friend there, he a mutant?"

"No," Ian said, though maybe he was, it wasn't like Ian knew.

"Can I come over there? Look, claws in," Logan said, and sheathed the claws back into his arms. It was pretty cool, Ian had to admit. "Just to talk a little, all right?"

Ian looked to Dad, who nodded.

"Okay," he said, letting go of Anthony's shoulders. Anthony maintained a death grip on his arm. "This is Anthony."

Logan crouched in front of them, which Ian appreciated, since it got them nearly on eye level.

"Sometimes when kids get scared they throw a punch or two they don't mean to," he said, keeping his eyes on Anthony, who was staring up at him silently. Ian could see now, under the surface -- under the violence -- a certain kindness. Like a man who knew how to talk to wild animals because he knew about being one. "You get grabbed by some stranger, it's natural to kick a little, right?"

Anthony nodded.

"Why'd Hawkeye grab you, kid?"

"I didn't mean to," Anthony whispered. "I thought -- I thought we could talk that way."

"He tried to access Extremis," Tony said. "I might have had a moment."

"I'm sorry," Anthony mumbled.

"It's okay, kid, nobody blames you," Logan said. "How'd you know how to get into Stark's head?"

"We used to," Anthony said.

"We?"

"My Tony and me. We used to talk like that."

"He's from an alternate Earth," Tony said.

"So you're Ian Rogers," Logan said. Ian nodded. "And you're...Anthony Stark Junior?"

Anthony shook his head. "Just Anthony," he said.

"You're not his kid? Because I gotta tell you, you have a look," Logan said, and Anthony smiled.

"I came from Antonio Stark," he said. "Iron Man, from my world. But he's not my dad. More like..." his mouth twisted. "S'hard to explain without sounding like a creep."

Logan nodded. "Well, we got a few creeps around here, I wouldn't worry. You two hungry?"

Anthony nodded. Ian glanced at him and then nodded too. Logan stood up.

"C'mon over to the table. We gotta have some sandwiches or something around here."

***

Steve knew that basically everyone who had ever met Logan had been either skeptical or deeply amused when they found out he was the headmaster of a school, in charge of molding young mutant minds. Steve had been one of the very few non-mutants to approve of it, but then Steve had known Logan a lot longer than most people, and he'd seen him in war. He'd seen Logan carrying kids out of death camps during the war, and he knew the man would be a good teacher. He'd been smug about how right he was when the Jean Grey School was a success.

Now, watching Logan coax his son and this strange boy Anthony to the table, he was reminded of the war. Not that he didn't want to surge forward, snatch Ian up, and carry him somewhere safe, but where was safer than here?

When Ian sat down at the table, Steve pulled his chair around and sat next to him, close enough to sling one arm around Ian's shoulders. Ian pulled Anthony to sit on his other side, and Steve smiled a little at how warily Tony circled the table to sit across from them. Logan went to the doorway, had a quick conference with Hank, and then stood aside so Jarvis could enter.

"Ah," Jarvis said, taking in the scene calmly. "I'll make cocoa."

"And sandwiches," Anthony said, so imperiously that Jarvis smiled.

"Of course, young sir. Peanut butter, ham, or cheese?"

"Yes," Anthony agreed. Steve noticed Ian was holding his hand under the table.

"Now," Logan said, settling in at the head of the table, "I got here late. What's the story with the two'a you?"

"I think it probably starts with me," Steve said. "Ian's my son."

"Yeah, I guessed that," Logan drawled.

"Remember when I went off-grid a few weeks ago?" Steve asked. Logan nodded. "I ended up in an alternate dimension."

Tony's hands thunked to the table. "Excuse me?"

"It was only two weeks, here," Steve continued, determined to get through this, because he had frankly been dreading telling Tony about it. "About thirteen years, over there. It's some pocket place Zola set up. The whole thing was a trap. Look, long story short, I ended up in one of his godforsaken labs. There was a baby there."

Tony sighed. "You took the kid."

"You make it sound like you wouldn't have," Steve retorted. Tony held up his hands defensively. "Yes, I took Ian and I got the heck out of there. I raised Ian -- "

"Tell 'em about the Phrox," Ian whispered.

"I'm trying to be brief," Steve whispered back. "I will, later, okay?"

"Okay," Ian said, looking stubborn. Steve reflected that perhaps if he had wanted a more obedient son, he shouldn't have raised Ian to be just like himself.

"There was a battle," Steve said, eliding the details -- the struggle with Zola, Jet, Ian's terrible brainwashing. "Ian and I were on a catwalk. Sharon finally made it through and she didn't understand what was going on -- "

His throat closed up. The last few weeks had been the hardest of his life, even harder than waking up from the ice. Ian was gone, and the dark, howling hole where his son had been was slowly crushing him; Sharon was gone too, and he wasn't even sure if he could have...she had shot his son...

"She shot me," Ian said calmly. Steve looked down at him. "I fell off the catwalk."

"I thought you'd died," Steve said softly.

"It's okay though, I didn't," Ian replied, like it wasn't the moment when Steve's heart had been ripped from his chest.

He caught Logan's expression in the second before the man schooled it. Logan had a son, he remembered. Akihiro, who had died at Logan's hands. He wondered how the man lived with the pain.

"So how is it, not that I'm not happy to meetcha, kid, but how is it you're sitting here now?" Logan asked, as Jarvis put sandwiches down in front of the two boys. Anthony picked up a ham sandwich and tore into it gleefully. Ian inspected his, glanced at Anthony, and then carefully nibbled the corner of a cheese sandwich. They'd had cheese, in the caves, or something like it, but they hadn't had the right kind of grains to make good bread, despite Steve's attempts.

"Anthony saved me," Ian said. "It had to do with energy and stuff."

Logan looked at Anthony. "Guess it's your turn."

Anthony swallowed his food and took a big sip of the cocoa Jarvis had just set down (Steve saw Ian eyeball his, do likewise, and then gulp it like it might run away).

"I'm not really a little kid," he said quietly. Tony leaned forward, tilting his head, and Steve glanced at him with a quick shake -- whatever you're about to say, don't. Anthony continued, apparently oblivious. "I mean. When Tony met me, he made me look this way. It was how he could visualize me, so we could talk. But really I'm a...a thing, I'm not a person."

"Are so," Ian said. Anthony looked discontented.

"There's a really bad man," he continued. "He attacked my...my Tony and killed him to try and get to me. But I ran..."

He sat up straighter and looked dead on at Tony and said, "I utilized an extreme percentage of dark cosmic energy to temporarily breach meta-space and manifest matter long enough to escape."

Tony nodded. "Not that creepy, I've seen it happen."

Steve gave Tony a confused look. Logan was looking pretty baffled as well. Tony waved it off.

"I'm following him, you don't have to," he said. "Those are some extremely fine calculations, Anthony. How'd you get them precise enough?"

"I didn't. There was a surplus when I reached null-plateau."

"Jesus, kid, you could have swiss-cheesed the multiverse."

"I know that," Anthony said, sounding offended. "I didn't have much time!"

"So how'd you level off the formula?"

Anthony jerked a thumb at Ian. "I looked for the first loose string."

Steve tugged Ian closer, hand tight on his thin shoulder.

"He had just about the right amount of meta-space reach and...I mean, you know. He's a kid too," Anthony said. "So I grabbed him and brought him to me. Besides, I knew if I saved him someone would be grateful and it's not easy being an anthropomorphic nine year old on the other end of null-plateau."

"I am grateful," Steve said, over Ian's head. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"It's okay," Anthony replied, and took another huge bite of a sandwich. "Ian's cool anyhow."

"The coolest," Steve said, and Ian rolled his eyes. So did Tony. "We'll make sure you're looked after, Anthony."

"Told you," Anthony said to Ian, who grinned. "I can do lots of stuff, too, I'm useful. I'm good with computers and really great with math."

"I'm getting that," Tony said. "For now I think the grownups need to talk."

Anthony looked supremely unimpressed.

"Come on, kid, you're both worn out," Steve said, pushing his chair back. "We'll find you rooms in the mansion, you can get some shuteye."

"I'm not tired," Ian answered, but he had that Yes I am tired tone to his voice. Steve wanted to hug him and never, ever let him out of his sight.

"Well, then you'll get a few minutes of quiet," he said firmly. "Come on. Anthony, you too."

"Can Anthony stay with me?" Ian asked, looking up at Steve.

"Sure," Steve said, though he was one hundred percent worried about just what Anthony was capable of. "Let's go now, we'll get you two set up."

As they left, he heard Tony mutter "This is super-weird," to Logan.

The mansion had plenty of guest rooms for Avengers who had their own places but sometimes needed a bed for the night; he'd done it often enough himself, and was staying there now while he...while he pulled himself together, while he recovered from his losses. The room next to his was empty, and it had a bed big enough for an underfed twelve-year-old and a nine-year-old of uncertain origin. There wasn't much he could do about pyjamas at this stage, but Anthony crawled under the blankets without even taking his shirt off, and Ian's clothes were...not what he'd been wearing the last time they'd seen each other.

"Anthony gave me this jerkin," Ian said, noticing Steve's look. "He really is okay, you know."

"I saw you die three weeks ago, Ian," Steve replied. "I'm just a little edgy."

"It's fine, Dad. We're on Earth, like you said we would be," Ian said. "Tomorrow can you show me everything? I want to meet everyone."

"Tomorrow," Steve said firmly. Ian climbed into bed; Anthony looked like he was already asleep, bunched in a ball and hogging the blankets. Typical Stark, Steve thought, amused. Ian curled up with his back against Anthony, and Steve sat down by the side of the bed, leaning on it with his arms.

"When you fell, I was so sad," he said quietly, stroking Ian's hair. "I thought I'd never get to see you again. Since then I've been lost. I've never been so lost. And now you're here, and it makes me so happy it hurts. You are absolutely the best thing that ever happened to me, son."

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too. More than you will ever know," Steve said, and kissed him on the forehead. "Sleep. I'll be nearby."

He only left once he was sure Ian was asleep, and then he lingered in the doorway a long time, watching. It wasn't until Jarvis appeared in the hallway that he closed the door and turned away.

"Headmaster Logan explained the situation. Anticipating the young masters may be here some time, I took the liberty of ordering clothing," Jarvis said. "It should arrive tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," Steve said. "Can we see about getting 'em some beds?"

"Of course. May I say, Captain," Jarvis added, looking awkward -- he always did when things were personal. "We have all been aware, that is to say it was difficult not to notice, that you have been troubled recently."

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "Guess it wasn't hard to tell."

"I am sure once all the details are known, we will all be terribly glad to welcome Master Ian to his new home," Jarvis continued. "Master Anthony too, of course. If they have any needs, please don't hesitate to tell me."

"I'll make sure they know," Steve said. "Ian's not used to surplus. If he's hungry, make sure he eats as much as he can. He needs to understand he's not taking resources from someone else if he eats his fill."

"My pleasure."

"I thought it might be," Steve said with a grin. "Can you point me to Tony? I'm guessing he's having fits."

"Mr. Stark is in the solarium. He has reassured the others that there will be no repeat of the incident with Agent Barton."

"Okay. Thank you, Jarvis."

"A pleasure to serve, Captain," Jarvis said, and continued on his way. Steve went to the solarium, to find the others and explain what had happened.

***

When Ian woke, the room was dark. There were cloth shades drawn over the window nearby, but when he climbed out of bed (careful not to wake Anthony) and pushed them aside the world outside was dark too. Nighttime. Tomorrow hadn't come yet.

He was thirsty, and he wanted to relieve himself. Anthony had instructed him in the mysteries of the Bathroom, which was much nicer than the latrine pits they'd had in Z, but he wasn't sure where they'd be in a fancy place like this. Still, even in the caverns the water springs were usually easy to find, and the outdoors was never far away.

He slipped through the door of the room and into the dim hallway. The first door he passed was half-open, and when he peered inside he could see his father sleeping.

He wound his way back to the first room they'd been in, the one with the food in it, and worked out how to make the water come from the tap without much effort. He filled one of the fancy cups with water, drained it, and then set it carefully next to the basin.

There was a tall door made completely of glass nearby, and it opened to the outside. Ian took a chance, slipped through, and emptied his bladder on a tree.

He was usually pretty good with directions, but there were so many hallways and they all looked alike. He got a little lost, but he was nearly sure he'd found the right hall again when he stumbled into a big room full of fancy chairs and the artificial lights that were everywhere around here.

There was a man sitting in one of the chairs, reading. Logan, the Wolverine, the soldier. Ian studied him. Small to be a soldier, but he did have those blades in his hands.

"Might as well come in, kid," the man called, and Ian startled. "No use gawping in doorways."

"Sorry, sir," Ian said, coming forward. "I got lost."

"Not hard to do. This place is huge. Lookin' for your dad?"

"No, I saw him, he's sleeping." Ian stood next to the wide chair. Logan took up only part of it.

"Take a load off," the man said, pointing to the cushion next to him. Ian sat, drawing his legs up and crossing them, facing Logan. "Tired?"

"No, sir."

Logan gave him a toothy grin. "You can drop the sir."

Ian nodded, wide-eyed. "Is it true you were a soldier with my dad?" he blurted.

"Yep. Finest man I ever fought with. Long time ago now. He tell you about all of us, huh?"

"Yeah. He did pictures of you too, on the cave walls. Thor and Spider-man and Beast and Rogue and Director Nicholas Fury and Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, and Dane the Black Knight and Professor Xavier, Reed Richards and Sue and Johnny Storm and Ben Grimm and Jarvis too. But you were in the best painting," he added.

"The best one?"

"Yep. You and Sam Wilson, Carol Danvers, Tony Stark, Janet van Dyne, T'Challa, and my dad."

That earned him another smile. "Exalted company."

"That's what Dad said!"

"Yeah, I know him pretty well." Logan seemed to be considering Ian. "Heck of a change for you, kid, ain't it?"

"Guess so. I don't care though. Dad always said we'd get to Earth. And I got Anthony to look after."

"He seems pretty good at looking after himself."

"Maybe. But he's little and nobody trusts him."

"I know the feeling."

Ian laughed. Logan set his book aside, leaning forward.

"This world's pretty nice," he said. "But it ain't perfect, Ian. 'Specially for someone ain't used to it. Your pa's great, but he ain't the easiest man in the world to talk to either."

Ian nodded. It was fair enough.

"You get confused, you feel like you can't talk to your pa, you come see me, okay? There's nothin' I haven't heard a hundred times, believe me."

"Dad said you were a teacher for children."

"Do my best to be."

"Are there lots of other human children on this world?"

Logan let out a chuckle. "More than you'd believe, probably."

"Can I meet them?"

"Maybe in a bit, if your dad says yes. Meantime, if you want to talk to me, ask Jarvis to call me up, right?"

"Yes, s -- Logan," Ian said.

"Let's get you back to bed before your dad wakes up and rouses the whole house looking for you," Logan said.

"I'm not sleepy."

"Can you read?" Logan asked. Ian blew air through his lips derisively.

"Dad taught me."

"Here you go, then. Put on a light and tackle this," Logan said, taking a book down from the shelf. So many books! Back in Z, Dad had made a few -- hand bound with rough paper, written in with charcoal -- but these had smooth paper and amazingly even handwriting.

"What's it about?" he asked. The cover had an drawing of a map on it and two words: The Hobbit.

"It's about a little hairy guy who's a hero," Logan said.

***

Steve had put out the call for a general Avengers assembly the next morning, but it was hardly necessary. The superhero gossip network was efficient, and word of Ian Rogers and Anthony, the boy who looked like Tony, had already spread coast-to-coast. Heroes who weren't even on the Avengers were calling to say they'd be there, and Natasha had told him she'd been asked to represent SHIELD at the meeting.

It wasn't what Steve would have wanted, but he had to make sure the story got out properly and anyway, Ian and Anthony were solid kids. They'd weather the assembly fine, he was sure.

He'd walked into their bedroom early that morning to find Anthony still curled up in the same spot. Ian was asleep sitting up, back against the headboard, a light on next to the bed and a book discarded nearby. Apparently he'd gone exploring at some point in the night, which made Steve's chest clench uncomfortably. He'd need to tell him soon about safety in the mansion and outside of it. The second the bad guys got wind of Steve's new Achilles heel, Ian would be a target.

The boys inhaled breakfast, watched over by himself, Jarvis, and Hank McCoy. It took Ian a while to warm up to Hank, but Anthony had chattered fearlessly with him about math well above Steve's head. Hank was good with kids -- the precocious ones at least. Ian, meanwhile, had sat silently at Steve's elbow and eaten his body weight in bacon once he was assured they weren't going to run out of it.

Tony had made himself scarce. Steve wasn't surprised. His sole contribution to the question of Anthony had been "What the hell do we do with him?" which had been...well, typical Tony, but less confrontational than fearful. It was one thing to grab a kid from a supervillain and get years to practice getting fatherhood right. It was another to be suddenly confronted with a nine-year-old son. Steve assumed he was surrogate dad until Tony got his head together. It wasn't as though he minded; two kids weren't that much more trouble than one.

The assembly room of the mansion hardly held everyone who was coming, and Steve felt the usual swell of pride (chased with a hint of anxiety) when he looked them all over. Hard to be a leader of so many; never a job he'd particularly put himself up for, but one people always assumed was his. Even the ones who'd been bitterly against him during the recent Phoenix unpleasantness looked to him in times like these. Some of the newer heroes he'd barely known when he went into Dimension Z. He was still struggling to remember their names, which made him feel like a heel.

Still, chin up, face forward. It was what he'd always done.

Anthony and Ian followed him into the assembly room, and the noise of casual conversation died down quickly. Steve glanced down to check on the boys and saw Anthony putting on a brave face. Ian was eagerly looking around, obviously pairing up the real people in the room with the bedtime stories he'd heard about them. Anthony's gaze drifted to the ceiling, where Jessica and Peter were casually sitting upside-down.

"Folks," Steve said, as the silence stretched out. "Guess you all know why you're here. We have some guests at the mansion, and it's time I introduced you to them. Boys," he added, quieter, and Ian stepped in front of him, leading Anthony along by the hand. "This is Ian Rogers," he said, resting a hand on his son's shoulder. "It's a long story, and it'll be filed with SHIELD in a few days, so those of you with access can read it there, and those of you without, well, find a buddy," he said, and there was quiet laughter around the room. "Ian is my son. He was raised in a separate dimension -- I know," he said, as murmurs rose up. "Now you all should be used to this kind of thing by now, there's nobody in this room who doesn't know someone from another dimension. He's new to Earth and a lot of Earth customs, so we'd both appreciate it if you went easy on us during this transition. And this is Anthony," he continued, resting his other hand on Anthony's messy dark hair. "As near as we can work out, Anthony is a genetic copy of our Tony Stark, from an alternate universe rather than a separate dimension."

Heads turned, seeking Tony out; Tony was leaning against one of the windows, arms crossed, but he lifted his head and gave them all a sardonic little wave. Steve saw Anthony gazing at him, face blank.

"Hank and Tony know more about the physics of all this, so if you're curious about the distinction between dimension and universe, have a word with them. Anthony may know some of you, and he may know different versions of some of you, so think carefully before you ask about that."

Some of the more scientifically-minded heroes were already leaning towards Hank, who made shushing gestures at them, clearly annoyed by their rudeness.

"Natasha," Steve said, and Natasha nodded. "They'll need paperwork. Can you arrange it?"

"Of course," she said, even as Anthony tugged on Steve's sleeve. He leaned down.

"Can you trust her?" Anthony whispered.

"I promise, we can," Steve replied. He straightened. "I'd like to keep this news from getting out, but I know that's not going to last forever. Try to be as discreet as possible."

He saw nods around the room. Hopefully nobody was about to run off to Hydra or AIM or god knew who and report on them.

"Boys, go ahead and sit down," Steve said to them quietly. Ian dragged Anthony over to where Logan was sitting, and Logan stood up, freeing his chair for them. Steve nodded his appreciation.

"Ian and Anthony both have some adjusting to do. This is going to mean a leave of absence for me, one I'm pleased to take in this case. It'll be at least six months, possibly up to a year, though of course I'll be on call if we have an all-hands summons. I'll be speaking to the current Avengers roster about handing off duties, and possibly to one or two of you about filling the uniform in my absence."

Heads turned towards Bucky. Bucky was openly staring at the kids; it took him a second to notice the change in focus.

"Aw, hell no," he said. "I'm not getting suckered into that gig again."

Steve grinned. "Don't worry, Buck, you didn't make the shortlist this time," he said. Bucky looked relieved. "All right, I think that covers everything. Current Avengers, we'll discuss my leave at the usual weekly meeting. Thank you all for your understanding."

As people began to file out, heading for the kitchen where Jarvis had doughnuts and coffee waiting, Scott Lang sidled up to Steve.

"Hey," he said. "You got some smart-looking kids there."

Steve grinned. "Recruiting already?"

"Just offering. There's always room at the Foundation for the kids of Avengers."

"I saw 'em first," Logan said from behind them.

"And I'm sure the Jean Grey School would be a fine place for them, but -- "

"But nothin'."

"They aren't mutants, Logan." Scott turned to Steve. "Are they?"

"Maybe I'm branching out," Logan said.

"As flattering as it is to have Ant Man and Wolverine in a slapfight over my boy, he won't be registering anywhere for a while," Steve said. "Anthony's going to be a special case anyway. When they're ready to start formal schooling, I'm sure we'll sit down with some pamphlets or whatever you two do these days and decide what's best for them."

He saw Tony lingering near the door, and did his best to convey if you leave this room I will find you and shout at you. Tony rolled his eyes and nodded.

"Why don't you two go get some doughnuts and argue about who spends more time traumatizing the youth of tomorrow?" he suggested. "I got two kids to settle."

"I'll send you some material," Scott said, but at least he and Logan left, bickering as they went. Steve started to turn towards Tony, then stopped when he saw Clint approaching.

"Hey," Clint said, leaning against the table next to Anthony. Anthony's eyes narrowed. "No hard feelings, kid, right?"

Ian nudged Anthony.

"No hard feelings," Anthony said grudgingly. Clint put out his hand, and Steve smiled as they shook on it. "Sorry I pushed you into a wall."

"Wasn't the first time. Won't be the last. Seeya round," Clint said, and gave Steve a salute as he left. Tony brushed past him, heading for Steve, and leaned in.

"What the hell do we do now?" he asked in a whisper, in Steve's ear. His back was to the boys, who were thumb-wrestling.

"I have a plan," Steve answered.

"I usually hate your plans," Tony said.

"That's because you refuse to acknowledge my superiority as a tactician," Steve said.

"I don't know why we're even friends," Tony replied, but when Steve gave him a gentle shove he turned and put on a smile.

"So," Steve said, joining the boys at the table. "That went pretty well."

"You know a lot of people in funny costumes," Ian said, still trying to out-thumb Anthony. "Even more than I thought."

He pinned Anthony's thumb and made a triumphant noise, but Anthony had gone still, looking up at Tony.

"Hiya," Tony said awkwardly.

"Hi," Anthony replied.

"Tony's going to give us a tour of the mansion," Steve said. "Both of you need to learn you way around, and I think Anthony might like to see the labs. We'll pick you out some bedrooms and this afternoon we'll go out and see the city a little, if you like."

"We want to share a room," Ian said. Anthony nodded sharply. "We had bunk beds before."

"We have plenty of rooms," Tony said.

"Before?" Steve asked.

"But we want to share," Ian insisted, ignoring him. "We want the room we had, only with bunk beds."

"That's fine," Steve said. "I'm sure Jarvis can set that up."

"Yeah, easy," Tony said. "I'll go let him know."

Steve grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. "After the tour."

"Right. The tour," Tony repeated. "Uh. You want to start at the top and work our way down?"

***

The roof of Avengers Mansion had once been the launching pad for the quinjets, but those were at Stark Tower now; the mansion wasn't really HQ as much as it was a barracks, which Steve felt at least made it safer for the kids. The jet bay had been refitted as a swimming pool, complete with a spread of grass nearby and a couple of trees, part of Tony's green initiative. Anthony immediately went to the edge of the roof and stared out at the city. Ian regarded the pool with wonder.

"Just for swimming in?" he asked Tony.

"Yeah, don't drink the water," Tony said.

"You don't even keep fish in it?"

"There's a fish pond on the grounds."

"Not for fishing in," Steve added. "If you want to eat fish, all you have to do is ask Jarvis."

"In my universe we lost the Empire State Building," Anthony said, rejoining them at the pool's edge. "It's nice it's back."

"Lost it?" Tony asked.

"There was a flood," Anthony said, shrugging.

"Let's go look at the gym downstairs," Steve said.

The practice rooms with the real, dangerous equipment were all below ground, but there was a pretty standard gym on the fourth floor -- basketball court, weights, workout equipment, and a pervasive smell of honest sweat from the locker rooms. Anthony and Ian immediately got into a one-on-one soccer match with a random ball that had been lying around.

"Look, no insult to your kid, but these two are messed up," Tony said, watching them play.

"They'll rebound. Kids are flexible," Steve replied. "All the more reason they need to be here under our eye for a while."

"Under your eye."

"Tony, you can't just walk away from him. Can't you see how he's watching you?"

"Kids aren't my thing, you know that."

"You're fine with kids. It's just this kid who's scaring you."

"I'm not scared of a nine year old."

"Really? I'd be terrified of nine-year-old Tony Stark."

Tony snorted. "Yeah you would. I was an asshole."

"Was?"

"Low blow, Captain Dad." Tony crossed his arms. "My point is, he's better off with you. You got a handle on this."

"I don't know exactly what Anthony's story is," Steve said. "But he clearly had a very close relationship with his Tony. You're equipped to talk with him on his level, which is way above Ian's, and probably above mine. You can't run out on this just because you didn't expect it."

"You mean you're not going to let me."

"More or less. Come on, Tony, you risk your life to save the planet, you can't put aside a few hours a day for one kid?"

"Resilient -- "

"You sold Resilient."

"Which means I need to start -- "

"Tony," Steve said. "What you need to do is prevent Anthony from thinking he came across a universe, rescued my son, and brought him home to me and his reward is his father avoiding and ignoring him."

"F-word."

"You really want to be his gene donor, would that be better?"

"It's more accurate," Tony pointed out.

"Genius or not, he's nine," Steve said, and played his ace while Anthony dodged around Ian and kicked the soccer ball against the wall for a goal. "Ducking out of this, that's the kind of thing your father would do."

Tony stiffened. "You fucker."

"Tell me I'm lying."

"You motherfucker, you don't get to call Howard on me."

"Then don't act like him," Steve said, turning to face him. "I knew your father. He was a good man but I know he screwed it up with you. It's a testament to your character that you overcame that. You're a good man too, and you can make a different call." He turned back to the boys. "I did."

"Steve, nobody in this universe is going to realistically hold me up to you as a measure."

"I do." Steve stepped forward. "Come on, guys. Second floor is the labs and the library. If you're lucky, Hank'll be there and he'll let you blow something up."

"Awesome!" Anthony yelled.

***

The library, which Steve had high hopes for, was something of a bust. Ian looked around, clearly impressed, but pointed out that he already had a book Logan had given him. Steve made a mental note to find out when and how that had happened. Anthony scoffed and said he could find whatever he needed on wikipedia. Tony did look somewhat delighted by that, which was progress.

The labs on the rest of the floor were shut down and locked -- most of the Avengers, if they were so inclined, had better labs elsewhere, and these were just for emergency work.

The little kitchenette at the end of the hall had some people in it. Hank Pym, Hank McCoy, and Bruce Banner were clustered around a table -- Tony'd had whiteboards put on the countertops a long time ago, the third or fourth time he'd come in to find the tables covered in magic marker or lipstick. They were scribbling equations on the surface now, rubbing them out and occasionally writing over each other. They were so engrossed in their discussion they didn't notice Anthony until he popped his head over the edge of the table and announced, "Your math is wrong."

"Just the lad we wanted," McCoy said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "We were working out your energy expenditure. Which one of us is incorrect?"

"All of you," Anthony replied confidently. Banner and Pym exchanged looks. "The basic premise of your formula is flawed."

Steve watched as Tony leaned over the boy, studying the calculation in the center of the table. "There's room for error," he agreed.

"Why don't you give us a start," Pym said encouragingly. Anthony gave him a mistrustful look. "What's with the eyebrows?"

"Sorry. You're not a very nice guy on my world," Anthony replied.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised," Pym answered. "Tony'll vouch for me in this one, right?"

"He's weird, but he's not evil," Tony agreed, as McCoy pressed a whiteboard marker into Anthony's hand.

Steve steered Ian around the table and towards the little fridge, rummaging inside for a bottle of juice. He handed it to him and led him to another table under the windows. Ian opened the juice, took a long sip, and then turned to press his nose to the glass, staring out at the grounds and, beyond them, at Manhattan.

"How many people are on this world?" he asked, over the distant chatter of the scientists, dominated by Anthony's high, young voice.

"Six billion, give or take," Steve said.

"How many thousand is that?"

There had been three thousand Phrox, counting all the tribes; only two hundred-odd in their tribe, the one Steve had led. The biggest had over five hundred, but there'd never been a need to count above a thousand, and Ian had never learned higher numbers. Steve had always felt reading and writing was more important than 'rithmetic.

"It's six million thousands," Steve said. "Um. Six thousand thousand thousands."

"That's so many," Ian said softly. "How do they all stay fed?"

"Some don't," Steve said. "We're lucky. America is a wealthy tribe."

"How many people in our tribe?"

"In all of the country? About three hundred million. Three thousand thousands. In Manhattan, where we are now, there are a thousand thousands."

"Who leads the tribe?"

"We have a lot of leaders. We have leaders, and leaders of our leaders."

"Are you a leader?"

"Not like I was in Dimension Z," Steve said. "It's very complicated."

"I guess so, with that many people," Ian agreed. "Who is the leader of all the leaders?"

"In our country, the president. Barack Obama."

"Do you know him?"

"I've met him."

"Is he a good leader?"

"Lots of people argue about that," Steve said. "I think he is. Better than some. You know how hard it was for me just leading the Phrox."

He was aware that silence had fallen at the other table, and looked over to see Anthony capping his pen. Both Hanks and Bruce were staring down at the table in shock.

"Everything all right over there?" Steve called.

"I think I broke them," Anthony replied.

"Were you this smart when you were his age?" Pym asked Tony.

"I wasn't really into physics, back then, it was mostly robotics," Tony answered. "Uh. Anthony, if you're finished, I think we'd better leave these brains to wrestle with what you've just written."

"If you need me to explain it, I can," Anthony offered.

"No, no, I think they understand it," Tony replied. "I'm not sure they're comfortable with it."

"Oh. Well, if it's any consolation, given the randomness of the universe and the fact that molecules are unevenly dispersed, it's a mercy we got this far," Anthony said. Bruce put his face in his hands, and McCoy smiled lightly.

"A small philosopher. We'll speak more later, young Anthony," he said. Anthony waved and looked at Steve, a silent question. What next?

Steve led them towards the back stairway, down to the first floor -- the "show and tell" floor, Tony had called it, the first time he'd shown Steve around. Steve, overawed by the grandeur of the mansion, thought Tony was house-proud, and with good reason. The first floor had the assembly room, the kitchen and living room and most of the quarters, but it also had the grand reception hall and the giant ballroom for rare Avengers formal functions.

He was just starting down the stairs towards the landing when he heard Anthony whimper, and saw him grab sharply for Tony's hand. It was an instinctive movement, and the fear flickering over Anthony's face said he hadn't meant to do it.

"All right, Anthony?" he asked. Ian, on the landing, turned to look up at them.

"I don't want to take the stairs," Anthony said. "Can we take the elevator? I saw one."

"To go down?" Steve asked, brow furrowing.

"Or the other stairs," Anthony said, tugging Tony away from the stairwell. He was backing away, as if something on the stairs had scared him, but when Steve followed his line of sight all he saw was the portrait that had hung back there forever.

It was a joke, really. Tony had commissioned a bunch of portraits of superheroes over the years, singly and in groups; Steve knew a dreadful one of himself, full-length, unspeakably bold and heroic, hung in the grand ballroom, facing one of Tony, flanked by Hank McCoy and Carol Danvers. Tony had ordered one of the Fantastic Four, for political reasons, but he'd hung it in the dark back-stairway as a fond snub. Anthony was staring at the portrait as if he was afraid it would come to life and bite him.

"Ian, come up," Steve said.

"Sure," Ian replied, looking as confused as Steve felt. "It's fine, Anthony, just a little dim."

"I don't want to go that way," Anthony insisted.

Tony hitched his pants to crouch, following Anthony's look. "What's wrong with the painting? That's just the Fantastic Four. That's Sue Storm, Reed Richards -- "

"I know who they are," Anthony said sharply.

"Whoa," Steve said, as Ian joined them at the top of the stairs. "Anthony. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just want to take the other stairs!" Anthony said, his voice rising a little. Tony looked to Steve, haplessness written all over his face.

"Okay, that's fine," Steve said. "We'll backtrack a little, nothing to worry about."

Tony straightened. Anthony grabbed his hand again, already turning, moving away from the stairwell.

"I'll find out what happened," Ian whispered to Steve.

"How about you let us take care of Anthony," Steve said. "You just be his friend, okay?"

"But -- "

"Tony and I won't let any harm come to either of you. Don't worry about it."

"Okay, Dad."

Up ahead, Steve heard Anthony say, "Where are they, anyhow?"

"Who, the Fantastic Four? We're not sure," Tony replied. "They took a trip with the Richards kids. They were supposed to be back by now, but they've gone missing. Best minds in the country are trying to figure out how."

"So they aren't here?" Anthony asked, sounding relieved.

"Not right now, no."

"Oh."

"This is actually good," Tony continued. "We can bypass the first floor this way, hit the basement straight-up."

"What's in the basement?" Ian asked.

"The workshops and the Avengers supercomputer mainframe. All the cool stuff," Tony replied.

***

They almost had to bodily pry Anthony out of the workshop, once he got over whatever his problem was with the painting in the stairwell. Even once they'd lured him upstairs for lunch, he talked endlessly about the workshop and the mainframe, all the interesting things he could do or wanted to do. Ian, who'd been almost immediately bored by all the gadgets, looked perpetually amused by his suddenly talkative friend.

"Man," Tony said in the kitchen, as Steve fixed Ian a second bowl of soup and Anthony kept trying to talk around huge bites of buttered bread. "I'm beginning to see why my dad drank."

Steve shot him a look. "Do you need to call Matt?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "It was rhetorical exaggeration."

"I know this isn't easy -- "

"Steve. It's fine. I'm on top of things. Going to meetings, doing the day at a time," Tony said, reaching into his pocket and flicking something at Steve. He caught it out of the air; a little gold-colored plastic disc, cheaply stamped with a 1 on the front. "Just got my year chip."

Steve grinned and tossed it back. "Congratulations, Tony."

"Thanks. No, my point was, that kid is exactly the noisy, nonstop little shit I was at his age. Makes me all nostalgic. And kind of twitchy."

"You want me to take them solo this afternoon?"

Tony leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "I'd like nothing better, but he's also a needy, terrified little shit, you weren't wrong. What was up with the painting?"

"I don't know. I'll talk to him."

"You think maybe he knows something we don't?"

"I think he knows a lot we don't," Steve said. He carried the bowl back to the table and set it in front of Ian. "Anthony, you want some more?"

"No, I'm okay," Anthony said. "Are we going out?"

"Soon as Ian finishes," Steve said. "Unless you guys are tired."

"I'll eat fast," Ian said.

"You'll chew your food," Steve replied.

"Yes dad."

"Can we go to the Stark Store?" Anthony asked.

Tony blinked at him. "Why?"

"I want a Starkpad."

"Pretty sure I can hook you up with a pre-retail model," Tony said.

"Cool! Can I reprogram it?"

"You probably can, yeah," Tony sighed.

***

Tony, as with most of the crucial moments in his life, was mainly hoping Steve knew what he was doing when they left the gates of the mansion and ventured out into the city.

The problem was, he really didn't think Steve did.

It had been hard, watching Steve withdraw the last few weeks. Everyone had noticed. Tony had privately wondered if Steve was having some kind of actual depressive episode. Now he was lit up like every day was Christmas, and when he looked at Ian -- at his son, and how bizarre was that? -- his smile was brighter than Tony had seen in weeks, if not months.

Stranger still was the quiet, dark-haired little boy who clung equally to Tony and Ian. A little Stark, a little Tony Stark, all Tony's DNA (he'd swabbed Anthony's mug from the night before). Terrifying and gratifying in equal parts. The kid was a tiny arrogant genius, and Tony had experienced a horrible moment where he actually thought, What a chip off the old block.

He was going to fuck this up. It was pretty much his MO. But until he did, he was...kind of enjoying it. Beneath the fear, beneath the how-is-this-now-my-life sensation, he liked that Anthony trusted him unconditionally, that he was the one the boy reached for when he was unsettled.

Tony was entirely uncertain it was wise for Iron Man and Captain America to take two pre-teen boys out into Manhattan. He had his usual incognito look -- sunglasses, ball cap, shapeless sweater -- and Steve was in his glass-lens coke bottle glasses and jeans, which somehow nobody ever expected Captain America to wear. Still, tempting fate.

Both boys stared out the window unceasingly as the chauffeur drove them into downtown. Jarvis, sitting next to him, looked pleased.

"Pleasant to see children in the house again," he said to Tony, as Ian asked Steve his millionth question about what they were seeing. "I remember how lovely it was to have young Miss Luna, and -- and Miss Cassie."

"Funny, I remember you mostly bickering with Luna's nanny," Tony replied. He didn't like to talk about Cassie. She might not have been his kid, but he'd been Uncle Tony, and that wound was still a little fresh.

"Differences of opinion are to be expected," Jarvis answered properly. "They seem like fine young boys, at any rate."

"Yeah," Tony answered uncertainly. Jarvis gave him a reassuring look.

"I remember when you were growing up in the mansion," he said. "Never was a more charming little gentleman than yourself, sir."

"Your memory is very selective."

"A light hand is best, I've always felt. And you turned out well, so I have no concerns about Master Anthony."

"That makes one of us."

"I'm sure Captain Rogers will take up any slack," Jarvis said. "Driver, here please. All right, young masters, here we are. Master Ian, don't wander too far from the Captain, if you please. Master Anthony, remember your manners."

"What manners?" Anthony asked cheerily, as they all piled out.

"Jarvis, where did you..." Steve asked, and Tony watched, amused, as he looked around. "I thought we'd go to Central Park or something. Where are we..."

He finally made the full turn and looked up at the sign. FAO SCHWARTZ.

"Really?" he asked, glancing at Tony.

"Hey, you got years to learn all this nurturing stuff. What I know how to do is spend," Tony replied sunnily. Anthony was already leading Ian into the store.

***

Steve had to admit he was pleased with his secret but probably kind of obvious plan to ease Tony into parenting. True, buying the boys armloads of toys wasn't perhaps the most paternal move in the world, but clearly Tony had put some thought into what he should do, and what he could do, and come up with a typically Tony Stark solution.

Inside, Tony caught up with Anthony and followed him off through lego sets and lunchboxes and dollhouses; Ian had stopped in front of a huge wall of stuffed animals, and Steve hovered quietly nearby. Ian studied them for a long time, not touching anything.

"They're not for eating, are they?" Ian said. "There's no meat in them? And they're not trophies."

"No. They're stuffed. They're for kids to...play with, I guess," Steve said. "Remember your Raggedy Andy?"

It hadn't really resembled the Raggedy Andy of Steve's youth; it hadn't resembled a doll at all, much, just a tied-together bundle of rags with vague arms and legs, and a face drawn on with crude pigment. Ian had loved the little doll, though, and even after he got too old for dolls he'd kept it in their room in the caves, high on a ledge in a place of honor. God knew where it was now; back in whatever remained of Dimension Z, Steve supposed.

"I remember," Ian said.

"Well, they're like that. They're all Earth animals. Bears, tigers, zebras, lions. That's a porpoise," Steve said. "That's a cow."

"Which is fiercest?"

"Probably the lion. Do you want one?"

"No," Ian said. "Dollies are for babies."

"If you want one, you can have one."

"I don't -- " Ian said, and cut off on a sharp inhale. Steve looked over his head and saw he'd found the stuffed superhero dolls.

He knew Tony had licensed their likenesses years ago -- sales of Steve's, at least, went to childrens' charities -- and he'd long ago gotten used to kids asking him to sign their Captain America dolls. They were hot sellers; only Thor sold more, and Steve privately thought that was only because Thor came with a soft hammer kids could whap each other with.

Ian reached out and touched one of the Captain Americas reverently.

"They make dolls of you?" he asked.

"Yeah," Steve said, not sure quite how to explain that. Ian took it down and studied it, from the red felt boots to the removable cowl with yellow yarn hair underneath.

"IAAAAAN!" Anthony yelled across the store, and Ian's head whipped around.

"YEAH, COMING!" he yelled back, and took off, Captain America still clutched in one hand, Steve trailing behind.

Anthony had discovered the action figures, and was playing with a store display model, making Iron Man's palms light up. Tony was looking unbearably smug.

"Nice doll," he told Steve, nodding at the toy, forgotten in Ian's hand. "Nothing as cool as my action figure, though."

"Are you going to make the twelve-inch Iron Man joke?" Steve asked.

"I am never not going to make the twelve-inch Iron Man joke," Tony replied solemnly.

"Captain America!" Anthony said, and it took Steve a second to realize he wasn't actually being addressed. "The evil Hydra soldiers are attacking!"

"Avengers Assemble!" Ian answered, shaking a Captain America action figure. "Where's Wolverine?"

"I dunno if they have one," Anthony said, looking around. "Wait, grab that one, that's Thor."

"No, I found him," Ian said triumphantly. "You go fly and attack them! We'll hit 'em low!"

"Is this what kids do with us?" Tony asked, as the two of them slammed all the action figures together. "My God."

"Welcome to parenthood," Steve said drily. "Back in Z, Ian and the Phrox kids would run around hitting each other with sticks. I figured whatever kept them out of trouble."

"GIANT LIZARD!" Anthony said, bringing a Godzilla doll into play. Tony covered his eyes.

"Can I help you gentlemen with anything?" a store attendant asked, approaching them from the side.

"Are you okay with the kids destroying your merch?" Tony asked.

"It happens," he answered with a smile. "I see they're into superheroes. The twelve-inch Iron Man is one of our best sellers."

Steve shot Tony a warning look. "What do you recommend for twelve-year-olds? Very energetic twelve-year-olds."

"Does he enjoy skateboarding?" the sales assistant asked. Steve had visions of Ian on a skateboard.

"Maybe something less...perilous," he said.

"Roller skates," Tony suggested. Steve glared. "What? Kids love roller skates."

"You love roller skates."

"Because I had them when I was a kid!"

The man smiled. "We do sell a full range of protective gear, as well as roller skates."

Ten minutes later, Ian was test-driving a pair of rollerblades and Steve was watching his life flash before his eyes. Anthony, behind him, was gliding along with enviable ease on a pair of traditional skates.

"You must be very proud of them," the attendant said. Steve sensed he was anticipating a very large commission. "Can I interest you in some educational toys for the boys?"

"Ah, I think we've got that covered," Steve said. "Anthony's above his grade level and Ian's not really an educational-toy kind of kid."

"Your partner's great with the little one," the attendant observed, as Tony grabbed Anthony right before he could body-slam Ian.

"He's got good reflexes," Steve said, before the term sunk in. "Oh, uh, we're...IAN!" he yelped, as Ian jumped a train set spread out on the floor and skidded to a stop against a display. "Mary mother of God, you are going to kill me," he said, steadying Ian with one hand.

"These are the best!" Ian said, beaming at him. "Now all I need is a spear!"

"All right, no more skating indoors," Steve said. He turned to the sales attendant. "Protective gear. Please."

Tony seemed to think they'd gotten off lightly, by the time they hauled it all up to the register: the pads and helmets and skates, the action figures and Captain America doll and a cheap plastic sword Anthony took a shine to. Tony paid, waving Steve off when he reached for his wallet.

"It's on me," he said. "My idea."

"Fine, when Ian breaks an arm I'll charge that to you, too," Steve said, just as Jarvis appeared like magic to take the bags, leading them out of the store. "Can you think of anything else we need?" he asked Tony, putting a little emphasis on need.

"I've taken the liberty of ordering the requested bunk-beds for delivery," Jarvis said. "As well as sheets and blankets. We have sufficient toiletries at the mansion already. Young Masters, is there anything else you require?" he asked, stuffing the toys into the trunk.

Ian and Anthony held a brief whispered conference.

"Thank you, we like what we have," Ian said finally. "Anthony wants to watch Looney Tunes."

"With ice cream," Anthony added.

***

By bedtime that night, Jarvis had badgered Jen into moving the bed out of the boys' room, and managed to convince the Hanks that between them they ought to be able to assemble a simple bunk bed set. When Steve took the boys into the bathroom, the beds were set up with Avengers logo blankets.

"I worry we are branding the children," Steve said to Jarvis, passing him in the hallway on a mission to get a glass of water for Anthony.

"Nonsense. Providing a sense of identity," Jarvis replied, shaking out a pair of Incredible Hulk towels for the bathroom.

"I get the feeling you're on Tony's side."

"As ever, Captain, I'm on the side of those who need it most," Jarvis said with a smile. "The children."

Steve sighed and continued on his way, grabbing a bottle of water -- spills less likely -- from the nearest fridge. He was just coming back from the kitchen when he heard the boys talking, and he paused outside the room.

" -- want the top bunk?" Anthony asked.

"Nah. I like the bottom," Ian said. "This way if someone attacks us, I'll have feet on the ground."

Steve felt his heart break a little.

"But nobody will, right?" Anthony asked.

"Well, I don't know," Ian said reasonably. "I mean I assume they won't. Dad would tell me if it were dangerous. Who would attack us here?"

It was a casual question, easily put, and Steve sighed inwardly. I told you to let me handle it, kid.

"Tony says the Fantastic Four are gone," Anthony said after a moment.

"But they're good guys."

"So they say," Anthony said darkly.

"What've you got against them, anyway?"

"Nothing. Forget I said anything."

Ian was silent, and Steve was about to come in when he heard Ian say, "I can't protect you if I don't know what's wrong." Another pause, and then, "You want my Captain America? I was going to just put him on the shelf but you can have him up there if you want."

"No, it's fine," Anthony answered. He drew a breath. "It's a secret. You can't tell your dad."

"I don't tell him everything."

News to Steve. Still, it made sense. He'd never told his mother everything either. Kids had their secrets. Most of them were harmless.

"Promise," Anthony insisted.

"Okay, I promise, jeez."

There was a soft, unsteady breath. "Reed Richards killed Tony. In my world. I had to watch."

Steve rested a hand against the wall, bowing his head. So that was Anthony's secret; the bad guy who'd killed his -- for all intents and purposes, his father -- was Reed Richards.

It wasn't hard to imagine. Reed was a decent guy, but he'd danced along the edge before.

"Dad says he's okay though," Ian said. "In this world. He'd say if he weren't."

"The others might be. I don't trust Richards."

"Okay. Well if he comes back and tries to get you, I'll clobber him for you," Ian said, finality in his tone. Problem solved. "I'll hit him with my rollerskates."

There was a giggle. "With your rollerskates?"

"Uh huh. Dad says a weapon is anything you can bonk someone on the head with."

"He stretches. I don't think that'd hurt him."

"Bet it'd stun him long enough for us to yell for Dad, though."

"You'd do that?" Anthony asked.

"You saved me, didn't you? Besides," Ian continued, "Dad says anyone who's bigger has to look out for anyone who's smaller."

There was a rustle, and then a curious noise.

"What are you doing?" Anthony asked.

"Sayin' prayers," Ian said. Steve smiled and waited a beat, then knocked on the half-open door. "Hey Dad!"

"Hi, kid," Steve answered, as Ian climbed into bed. He offered the bottle of water to Anthony, who took a sip and then handed it back. "You two all settled?"

"Yep," Ian said. Anthony nodded, blankets pulled up around his chin, almost lost in the sea of bedding.

"Is Tony coming?" he asked.

"I think Tony's passed out in the living room. He's not used to the two of you. I can get him, if you -- "

"No, s'okay," Anthony said hurriedly. Steve was about to say it wouldn't be a problem, but there was a shadow in the doorway, yawning. Steve nodded at Tony, then bent to kiss Ian's forehead.

"Sleep safe," he murmured. "Nobody can hurt you here."

Tony elbowed him aside, propping his chin on the rail of Anthony's bed. "You gonna fall out, rambler?" he asked.

"No," Anthony replied.

"Sure?"

"He's fine," Ian interrupted.

"I'll be next door if you need anything," Steve said. "Don't stay up late talking."

Tony had stretched one arm out on the upper bunk, hand resting uneasily on the blankets like he wasn't sure what to do. Anthony untangled an arm and reached out, touching Tony's fingers.

"G'night," Anthony said sleepily.

"Goodnight," Tony replied. He pulled back almost reluctantly, and Steve followed him out, shutting the door gently behind him. "Do they need a nightlight or...?"

"Jarvis installed one. Come on, debrief," Steve said, leading him towards the living room. Tony dropped into one of the more comfortable chairs like he'd suddenly forgotten how to stand.

"Christ, what time is it, nearly nine o'clock? Somewhere, the twenty-two-year-old me is looking at me and shaking his head," Tony said, rubbing his face. "I'm exhausted."

"They take it out of you."

"How the hell did you deal? I mean, you had the kid since he was an infant, right? How did you do the whole feeding and diapers thing?"

"Probably ineptly. Neither of us remembers it terribly well, which is probably a mercy. I don't think I slept for about a year."

"What made you do it?" Tony asked quietly.

"He was a baby. I couldn't leave him with Zola." Steve sat forward. "We have something more important to talk about."

"Oh?"

"Anthony's reaction to the portrait. It was Reed."

"Well, he's kind of creepy, but -- "

"In his world, Reed's a bad guy. In his world, Reed killed you and he had to watch."

Tony went still. After a moment, he scrubbed a hand through his hair.

"Shit," he groaned.

"I don't think you can enroll him at the Future Foundation."

Tony looked at Steve through his fingers. "That's where you went with that?"

Steve cocked his head.

"The kid watched his -- for all intents and purposes -- dad get murdered by a guy I sometimes share lab space with. And it's not like I don't know Reed has some deep fucking dark in him. We all do. But mostly...I mean, my parents weren't the greatest and they died a relatively terrible death, but I didn't have to watch them die in front of me." He ran his hand back up through his hair. "What the hell do we do? He probably needs therapy or something, right?"

"Both of them are going to need time and help," Steve said. "But Anthony seems thrilled just to be here, Tony. What I meant about the Future Foundation was a subtle hint."

"That I can't give him to someone else and expect him to be okay."

"More or less."

"Even if I could, the Jean Grey School's too far away," Tony groaned. "And...I mean, shit. Shit."

"What?"

"I got my GED when I was fourteen, went off to MIT the next year. You've seen how he is with math. He has a jump start on me, even, because they didn't have Wikipedia when I was nine. So either I send him to college before his voice breaks, or I hire a shitload of tutors and undersocialize him, or I teach him myself. Which doesn't solve the social problem."

"He has Ian."

"Who isn't exactly going to just sit still for eight hours a day in a classroom either, is he?"

"No, but I knew that. For now I just want him to have a few weeks to get adjusted. Tony..." Steve spread his hands. "I've had his whole life to work this out. You've had a day and a half. Don't judge your options based on mine."

"What if I took him back to Seattle with me? I've still got a place out there. I could, I don't know, take a leave of absence like you are."

"Would you let us come too, if you did?" Steve asked. "I don't think we should separate him from Ian. And Ian..."

"What?"

"In Z, I was the leader of our Phrox clan. Ian takes the idea of protecting people very seriously."

"Can't imagine why a kid raised by you would feel that way," Tony drawled.

"You see how he is with Anthony. He needs someone to take care of. He defined himself -- both of us -- by our duties to the clan. Ian wasn't the leader of the children but he made sure the bigger kids didn't bully the little ones. Looking after Anthony is good for him, and learning how to play from Anthony is good for him too." Steve sighed. "I'm sorry, Tony, I don't mean to pour all this in your lap, but we can't change the fact that Anthony needs you, and Ian needs Anthony right now."

"We need a plan," Tony said.

"Spoken like an engineer."

"I'll make a plan," Tony continued, more or less ignoring him. "If we have a plan, everything will be fine."

"I think you may find kids don't tend to adhere to plans," Steve said.

"That's okay, I'll factor for variables."

"Tony," Steve said, as Tony stood up. He reached out and caught his arm. "Plan tomorrow. Get some rest tonight. They're here and they're safe; that's more than I thought I'd have, two days ago."

Tony nodded. "I'll be in the lab sleep suite. Wake me for breakfast."

 

***

Waking came a little sooner than either of them anticipated.

Steve, with a practiced ear, heard the shriek through his dreams and came groggily awake, aware something was wrong but not sure what. He rolled out of bed, confident things would make sense by the time he made it to his feet, and then hurried into the hallway and through the door to the boys' room. The nightlight threw yellow light over Ian's empty bed, blankets rumpled, and two huddled figures in Anthony's.

"Ian?" Steve asked, flicking the lights on. Ian, nearest the edge of the top bunk, flinched at the sudden light; he had Anthony pulled under one arm, the smaller boy's face pressed to his chest. "Anthony, are you all right?"

There was a soft sob. Steve leaned carefully against the railing of the bunk and touched Anthony's shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

"He screamed," Ian said grimly.

"I heard. Was it a nightmare?" Steve asked. Ian rarely had nightmares; their lives had never been easy, but it had been all Ian had known, and aside from infancy and the first year they'd spent with the Phrox, he'd been a deep sleeper.

"He killed him," Anthony whispered. "It was awful, he put his fingers in his brain and -- "

"Okay, it's okay," Steve said. "It's fine, you're safe here."

"But he killed Tony," Anthony sobbed, breathing hard and fast.

"Ian, look after him," Steve said, and Ian nodded. "I'll be back soon."

He ran down the hall and up the back stairwell to the lab level, where Tony was sleeping in the room normally reserved for scientists waiting on lab results to clear. Steve supposed it was comforting. Tony came awake quickly when Steve called his name.

"Nrrrr Assembly call?" Tony managed, sitting up in the bed and rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. "Motherfucking supervillains, middle of the fucking night -- "

"It's Anthony," Steve said. Tony's head jerked up. "He needs you."

"Why?" Tony asked, bewildered but already climbing out of bed.

"He dreamed about you dying," Steve told him, as they hurried towards the stairs.

"Oh, fuck's sake, I'm not equipped for this," Tony mumbled.

"You don't have to do anything, just be there and don't be dead," Steve snapped.

"Fine, I'm coming, Jesus," Tony replied. He went through the door ahead of Steve, stepping up on the bottom rung of the bunk-ladder. "Hey, rugrats," he said, and Anthony lifted a blotchy, teary face.

Tony was opening his mouth to say something else, probably something inappropriate if his I can't deal expression was anything to go by, but Anthony pre-empted him, throwing himself across Ian to wrap his arms around Tony's neck. Tony's arms came up on autopilot and he pulled Anthony off the bed, taking the blanket with him and settling on the edge of Ian's bunk.

"I know you're not him," Anthony was saying, voice muffled against Tony's t-shirt. "I know you're not him, I'm sorry -- "

"It's fine, kiddo," Tony said, as Ian descended the ladder.

"I was scared and I didn't know what to do."

"Well, you did okay," Tony told him.

"You got here," Steve added from the doorway. "You brought Ian here too. You're safe here, Anthony."

"He killed you and I didn't know what to do," Anthony repeated.

"And yet, here you are," Tony said, which sounded cruel until Steve remembered that Anthony was Tony, smaller but no less smart. Logic held a pivotal place in their world. "You didn't know what to do but you got yourself out of there and found somewhere safe. That proves you can handle anything anyone throws at you." He paused, and an odd expression crossed his face. "But you don't have to anymore."

"I don't have to," Anthony echoed.

"Right."

"But if you die -- "

"Then Steve's here," Tony said. "And if neither of us are here, there's about fifty other people who'd step in. Avengers look after their own."

"Scott and Logan are already fighting over who gets to teach you guys," Steve added.

"Logan," Ian whispered. "He's cool."

"Time enough for that later," Steve said firmly. "Anthony, you think you can sleep?"

Anthony nodded, scrubbing his face with his hands. Tony tucked up the edge of his shirt and wiped Anthony's nose with it, then looked faintly appalled at himself. He tossed the blanket back up on the top bunk, and boosted Anthony up the ladder.

"Should I stay?" Tony whispered, as Ian settled himself back into the lower bunk.

"You might want to find somewhere closer than the lab," Steve answered, flicking out the lights. "All right, guys, good-night take two."

"Night," Ian said. Anthony sniffled a response.

"I think the room on the other side is empty," Steve said, gesturing down the hall once they were outside. "Or you can bunk with me. Wouldn't be the first time."

"This is messed up," Tony said, not going one way or the other. "This is really messed up, Steve."

"You did great," Steve said.

"I am becoming my father, this is -- "

"Tony," Steve said, dragging him away from the door, towards his own room. "You were fantastic. What's the problem?"

"Literally word for word what my dad said when I was a freaked out little kid," Tony replied. "You can handle anything, don't be a coward, if you can't handle it you didn't try hard enough -- "

"Hey, whoa," Steve said, blinking at him. "That is not what you just told him."

"I almost did."

"You told him he did well and that he was safe. You said someone was always going to look out for him. You didn't say anything about being a coward or a failure or any of that bull, and you know it's bull," Steve said intently.

"Sorry, sorry, I..." Tony rubbed his forehead. "Haha, both Starks freaking out within ten minutes of each other, this really is just like my childhood. Maybe I need therapy."

"Tony," Steve said, shaking him a little. "It's the middle of the night, you just worked Anthony through a nightmare, you did fine. Take a deep breath. Figure out what you need right now and let's get back to sleep, okay?"

Tony nodded, visibly pulling himself together. "I think I need to bunk with you, if that's fine."

"Sure." Steve tilted his head at the bed, large enough to fit them both. They'd shared quarters in the field before, and one memorable time in a prison; Tony generally slept on his left side, something about the way the first RT had been positioned in his chest, and Steve put his back to Tony's, the way he'd shared a tent with Bucky during the war.

He could feel tension radiating off Tony in waves, but after a while his shoulders settled, and his breathing slowed. Steve lay awake for much of the night, listening for another cry from Anthony, but he eventually dozed off around dawn.

***

Logan was used to screaming children. It wasn't as bad as it sounded; running the school, he'd learned to differentiate screams of glee from screams that indicated a fistfight amongst the students from genuine screams of terror. He judged that the screams slowly nearing his position in the mansion kitchen were the screams of a child who was afraid for his life and loving every minute.

A few seconds later, Ian careened past the kitchen on a pair of rollerblades. Anthony was right behind him yelling "Slide and brake! Slide and brake!"

Logan sipped his coffee. In the distance, there was a crash. He didn't fret; anything valuable had long since been removed from the mansion after the third or fourth time it was attacked, and kids' bones knit faster than adults.

---

Darcy Lewis, Agent Of SHIELD

This is an old and now very, very jossed Darcy/Coulson I never finished.

After Thor came to Earth -- after Thor left -- they spent the rest of the summer rebuilding Jane's equipment and integrating SHIELD's satellite system into it, and then kicking science's ass up and down the desert.

The day after Thor left, when Jane still thought he might come back again, a transport rolled through town carrying her equipment. Darcy made herself scarce. A platoon of SHIELD thugs were turned over to Jane, and by nightfall everything was back in place, if not entirely reconnected. Darcy watched from the roof, and she saw a man on another roof watching her.

She only came down when SHIELD was gone, after the man in the suit had shaken Jane's hand and taken Erik aside to speak to him. When Jane saw her, she flipped her hair out of her face and smiled.

"We'll turn everything on tomorrow and see what they broke," she said, easily accepting Darcy's recent absence. "Back to business as usual."

Every night until the end of summer, Jane sat outside and waited. Darcy felt uncomfortable watching it, but she didn't say anything. It was sad, seeing hope diminish. And after all, if an actual alien prince had promised her he'd return, she might wait too.

***

They drove back to Massachusetts together, her and Jane and Erik. They left Erik in New York -- apparently he had a research grant that was going to take him away from the school for a while -- and continued on to Cambridge. Jane left her in front of her apartment, and headed for MIT.

Darcy went back to Harvard with a deep New Mexico tan and a secret she couldn't share. Nobody had made her sign a confidentiality agreement or anything, but if she did try to tell someone, a) they'd think she was crazy, and b) she might get assassinated. She wasn't ruling it out.

The week that classes started, she was accosted on her doorstep.

"Ms. Lewis," someone said, and Darcy turned, hand going for her purse where her Tazer was holstered.

When she saw who it was, she rolled her eyes.

"Agent Jackboots," she replied, and the man standing at the bottom of the steps smiled faintly. "Come to give me my iPod back? 'Cause I stole Jane's and her taste in music is crap."

He held up an envelope, offering it to her. She descended the steps carefully, took it from him and examined it. It was thin, light, and stiff.

"Doesn't feel like an iPod," she said.

"Come walk with me," he invited.

"Uh, no?" she replied.

"I'm not here to kill you, Ms. Lewis. We can stick to well-lit streets if you're concerned."

Darcy narrowed his eyes. "Then why are you here?"

"To make you an offer," he said.

"Not interested, thanks," she said, but before she could turn, he started talking.

"Darcy Lewis. Native of Ohio. Senior at Harvard undergraduate, majoring in Political Science. Not quite sure what she wants to be when she grows up."

"Excuse me -- "

"Came to Harvard on a split academic-athletic scholarship and patched the rest up with student loans. I didn't know they gave scholarships for fencing," he added.

"They do when you're as good as I am," she replied, stung.

"Apparently so. Your GPA is twelfth in your graduating year. You were a Resident Assistant your sophomore and junior years. You have a mother who's very proud of you, a father who died when you were young, and no siblings."

"Okay, can we not do this on the street -- "

"You have no parking tickets, no speeding tickets, and one misdemeanor arrest for underage intoxication. No history of seditious activity or ties to any known criminal or terrorist groups or individuals. Although I should warn you, your history professor was an ecoterrorist in the sixties. Still, nobody's perfect. You have a Facebook and Twitter account in your own name, but you also have a second email address through gmail that is linked with several pop culture fansites. As far as we've been able to ascertain your taste in pornography is extremely mild and -- "

"Okay, I actually will taze you if you don't shut up," she said, and got that same faint smile in return. "What do you want?"

"Walk with me," he repeated, and gestured at the street. Darcy sighed, stuffed the envelope in her bag, and followed him as he set off at a leisurely pace towards the main road.

"Dr. Foster's work with SHIELD this summer was exemplary," he said, which was a random tangent after he'd just been airing her pornography preferences on the street. "Both she and Erik Selvig spoke highly of you, and your work with Dr. Foster spoke for itself. What's happened to you, Ms. Lewis, is that you've been put on the map. It's not your fault, but word does get around. Young, resourceful, Harvard-educated. You'll find in the coming months that a lot of people are interested in you. I'm here to get the jump on them."

"People," Darcy repeated.

"FBI. CIA, they're always looking to snap up analysts. A couple of political research think-tanks. What were you thinking of doing, after you graduate?"

Darcy shrugged. "I'm keeping my options open."

"Good. I'd like you to consider SHIELD as one of them. All the information you'll need is in that envelope," he added, nodding at her purse.

"What makes you think for a second I'd join your fascist little gang?" she asked.

"Not so little. And not so fascist. SHIELD is an opportunity to serve your country -- "

"Yeah, I saw a lot of that in New Mexico."

"Did you enjoy your misadventure in the desert?" he asked mildly.

Darcy scowled, but finally admitted, "It didn't suck."

"You could be doing that for a living. It's not all confiscating equipment and suppressing evidence. SHIELD is a national defense organization."

Darcy snorted.

"I'm entirely serious," he said, stopping to turn to her. "There are threats coming, Ms. Lewis, threats that SHIELD is preparing for where no other organization on the planet even has a clue. Thor was just the start."

"Threats like what?"

"Join up and find out," he said. "Send in your application any time. When you're accepted, SHIELD will pay a starting salary for your training once you graduate. If you finish a four-month training course and agree to a five-year contract, SHIELD will pay off your student loans."

"That a standard offer?" Darcy asked, skeptical.

"No. That's your offer."

"And why does SHIELD want me so badly?"

"Well," he said, reaching into his pocket and producing her battered, much-loved iPod. "For one thing, you have exceptional taste in music."

Darcy reached for it, but he drew it back.

"Seriously?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"SHIELD wants your brain. We want to give you aim and direction and expertise. Consider us," he said. "Give it serious thought. SHIELD is the best of the best. I think that's where you'd like to be."

He held out the iPod again, and she took it from his hand.

"Get bent," she told him.

"We hope to hear from you soon," he replied politely, and walked away.

***

Darcy spent the entire semester ignoring the envelope -- it went from her purse to her school backpack to the bookshelf over her desk, and there it stayed.

She'd never really bought into the idea of civil service. She didn't think anyone did. But she watched her classmates get recruited, one by one: business school and law school, Fortune 500 companies, science labs, and yes, the FBI. They came to her too, gave her a slick brochure and a business card.

Besides, she'd spent eighteen years in rural Ohio and four at Harvard; five years anywhere, in return for student loan relief, started to sound better and better.

She spent winter vacation in Cambridge, funds being a little tight, and on New Year's Eve she was rocking the empty apartment with the music on louder than strictly necessary when she spotted the envelope and took it down. She'd never even opened it.

She slit it down one side and shook out the paperwork, intending to toss it in the trash, but it wasn't a brochure or a pitch. It was a psychological assessment of her. Certain words had been highlighted.

Nonconformist. Oppositional. Seeking direction. Requires structure.

Resourceful. Intelligent. Team Player.

A business card fluttered out of the folds and she picked that up, too.

Special Agent Phil Coulson
Supervisor, New Initiatives
Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division

The phone number was one digit short.

Frowning, she picked up her phone and entered the number, then hit send.

"Ms. Lewis," a voice answered, sounding unsurprised.

"Agent Jackboots," she said. "Working on New Year's Eve?"

"Curse of cellular technology. My work goes with me. What can I do for you?"

"You didn't give me an application," she said, feeling a little gleeful. "You gave me my top-secret psychological assessment by mistake."

"Well, know thyself," Agent Coulson replied, unflapped.

"You meant to give this to me?"

"Do you really think we wanted an application from you? We've done your background check. We're just waiting for you to say yes. That was a nudge."

"Yeah, your nudges are a little irritating."

"It doesn't seem that excessive to me. Have you considered SHIELD's offer?"

"Not especially."

"Do you have any questions I can answer?"

"Are you for real with all this defending your country crap?"

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

"Do you think it isn't worth defending?" he asked curiously.

"I don't think most people go into it for altruistic reasons," she replied. "I think they do it for a paycheck."

"I'm not averse to you doing it for a paycheck. The patriotism can come later."

Darcy couldn't help it. She laughed.

"Did you get into it for patriotism?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Wow. An old-fashioned idealist, huh?"

"I'll show you my Captain America trading cards sometime."

"Was that a line, Agent Second Amendment?"

"No. They're in a display case on my desk, I'm very proud of them."

"So how do you want me to apply if you didn't give me an application?"

"Call me. Or text. Tell me you're in. You'll receive your briefing packet and an open one-way ticket to New York. Training starts in early July."

"I'm not applying right now."

"I know," he said calmly. "I'm just telling you what will happen when you do."

"If I do."

"Ms. Lewis, I hope you have a lovely New Year's. I'll be awaiting your call."

He hung up on her. Darcy set the phone down and looked out the window at the white-blanketed street.

***

"Who was on the phone?" Fury asked, as Coulson emerged from the little storage cubby where he'd taken the call. "Your cellist?"

"She's performing this evening. No, that was one of the recruits."

"He onboard?"

"She is not, but she will be," Coulson replied, stripping off his holster, adding it to the wallet, keys, and watch sitting in his locker. He locked it, took a parka off the hook, and began pulling it on. "Transport ready?"

"Ten minutes. Keep your pants on."

"Wouldn't take them off out there. What's the weather report?"

"Sixty-five below. It's the arctic, not Miami."

"This is," Coulson said, zipping up the parka and following Fury out of the locker room, "the best Christmas present you have ever given me, Director."

"Man, I gave you a weaponized necktie last year."

"Which was very nice, but it doesn't compare," Coulson replied.

"Not how I thought I'd spend my New Year's," Fury grumbled, as they walked into the garage where the transport was gearing up for the trek out to the crash site. "I had an invitation to the Stark New York Gala."

"Stark trying to buy his way into your affections again?"

"He ain't subtle," Fury agreed, swinging up and into the back of the transport. "You ready to go chip Captain America out of the ice, Agent Coulson?"

"I think I am, Director Fury," Coulson replied with a wide grin.

***

It was late spring when the Chitauri invaded, and Darcy watched it on television, huddled in a classroom with her professors and fellow students, terror palpable in the air.

But she saw the Avengers -- not that she knew that at the time -- take the aliens down, and the destruction it wrought on New York. She saw SHIELD ground crews sweeping in with Emergency Services and police and fire, and she saw the footage of the giant airborne aircraft carrier soaring over the city.

She thought about her grandfather, who'd enlisted in the Army on December eighth.

When the battle of New York was over, she found Agent Coulson's business card and thought about calling, but he was probably busy. She felt guilty even texting, but not as guilty as she would have felt for not being there when she could be.

She sent a quick text -- Darcy Lewis. I'm in. -- and then called her mom to let her know she loved her.

She never got a reply from Agent Coulson, but four days later her briefing materials arrived by courier.

***

Darcy reported to the SHIELD ground headquarters in Manhattan in July. It was surrounded by wreckage but at least by then the streets were clear. The city was rebuilding already, and she was just as glad SHIELD was going to be housing her, since it was really impossible to find an apartment in New York now.

She presented herself at the front desk of HQ and said, "I'm here for new trainee orientation."

The tired-looking man nodded and handed her a badge. "Through that door and to your left, the auditorium."

"Thanks," she said. "Hey, I was wondering. The guy who recruited me, Agent Coulson. Is he around?"

The man frowned at her. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Agent Coulson died during the Chitauri incident."

"He died?" Darcy demanded.

"Yeah. Incident's classified but you'll be briefed eventually."

"Like, dead died?"

The man gave her a drawn look. "We lost thirty-eight operatives. It happens. Welcome to SHIELD."

***

Because of the losses they'd taken and because SHIELD was now, so their trainer informed them, center-stage in the United States federal security arena, their training was compressed. They crammed four months of training into two and a half, and it was grueling. Painful. Mentally and physically -- she'd never run so many fucking laps in her life, and she sure as hell never fired a gun before SHIELD.

But it was fun, too, and it felt worthwhile, and she began to understand what Agent Coulson had meant when he said the patriotism came later.

She was in with ex-soldiers who were in operative training, geeks and researchers who were going to be analysts (lucky fucks didn't have to do nearly as much PT) and quiet, sharp-witted trainees who were going to be specialists, whatever that meant. Darcy wasn't anything, not yet. There were a couple others like her, so she didn't worry.

After a week of training, they took a day's worth of tests, and Darcy got her orders: report to Specialist training. Then they gave the Specialists more PT, the fuckers.

One night, six weeks in, she was sitting in the trainee barracks on the Helicarrier (holy shit a flying aircraft carrier and she was ON IT) when she asked the girl the next bunk over, Shelly, who recruited her.

"Nobody," Shelly said, groaning as she lay back with a heat pack on her ribs. "I applied. Lucky to get in, too, I had to get a senatorial letter of recommendation. Why, were you recruited?"

"Yeah. A guy came to my apartment and basically told me I was a loser if I didn't sign on."

Shelly laughed. "He was right, huh?"

"I guess so."

"Who was it? One of the trainers?"

Darcy shook her head, toying with her iPod. "Agent Coulson."

"No shit? The great and powerful martyr?"

"He wasn't like that. He was just a guy. I wasn't even that impressed," Darcy said, thinking of seeing Coulson pack all of Jane's precious equipment into a SHIELD van.

"Still. Agent Coulson. That's some social bank around here."

"Guess so," Darcy replied. "Kinda feel like I'm replacing him. Not literally. But. You know."

Shelly nodded. "Sure. Like, there's a legacy. I felt like that in the Marines."

"Yeah," Darcy said. "Legacy."

***

Eight weeks in, the Analysts were separated from the rest of the class and packed off to do their final training. Darcy, in the middle of hand-to-hand, watched enviously as they strolled past the gym carrying their bags.

At lunch that day Shelly and Tom, one of the Operative trainees, sat down at Darcy's table.

"So did you hear?" Tom asked, popping the top on his disgusting energy drink.

"Bout what?" Darcy asked.

"Someone came in hot this morning," Shelly said. "One of the senior agents practically crashed a chopper on the landing deck. He's got some kind of intel. Director Fury's been in meetings all day."

"Things are shaking up," Tom added.

"Where do you get your information?" Darcy asked.

"Shit, Lewis, it's an intelligence agency. Nothing stays secret for long, on the inside," Tom replied. "Word is, Fury sent someone undercover to investigate the World Security Council, and he just got back."

Darcy stared at him. "Nobody investigates the WSC. Nobody knows who they are. That's the point."

"I guess after they tried to fucking nuke New York, Fury gave it a shot," Shelly said. "Do you think he's going to bring down the Council?"

"Guess he'd like to try," Tom replied. "Or at any rate, if I were him I'd try a bloodless coup. Ditch the worst of them and replace them with friendlies. I bet Stark's up for membership."

"Yeah, like that'd happen," Shelly replied.

"Why not? He's rich and politically connected enough to get on, and he might be a dick but he's more or less aligned with SHIELD's philosophy."

"Stark's an Avenger. No way they'd let an Avenger on the World Security Council. Besides, talk about having dirt..."

"But his is all out in the open," Darcy said. "Everyone knows Stark's got no secrets. What would you blackmail him with? You try and tell him to do as you say or word gets out that he, I don't know, used to have a hookers and cocktails habit, he'd brag about it himself."

"He wouldn't have to pay me," Shelly sighed.

"Oooh, someone wants a sugar daddy," Darcy teased.

"That sugar daddy? Hell yes."

They'd seen Tony Stark a few times, over the course of training. At one time or another they'd seen all the Avengers, though mostly the trainees learned not to stare. Agent Barton sometimes watched them do small arms training, and Agent Romanoff actually did a seminar on undercover work for the Specialists. Darcy once saw Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers arguing in the hallway, and everyone had seen Mr. Stark berating the engineers working on the Helicarrier repairs.

"What happens if the WSC does get a shakedown? Or crashes and burns?" Shelly asked.

"Sooner or later we'll find out," Tom said.

That afternoon was when the murmurings began. Darcy watched the rumor jump from group to group, studying how it spread, and she traced it back to the actual duty agents but as a trainee couldn't follow the thread any further to its source. The rumor was that the agent who'd come in hot that morning was in Medical, under heavy guard; the rumor was that it was Agent Coulson, who hadn't really been dead at all. And, well, if anyone was going to pull it off...

So she wasn't as surprised as she could have been when she came to the doorway of the firing range after practice and saw the Avengers passing en masse, escorted by SHIELD agents and more-or-less surrounding Agent Phil Coulson, in a nice suit, not a hair out of place but with a dark tan.

"Hey Jackboots," she called, and the Avengers didn't stop, but Coulson did, and then the rest slowed down and turned. Coulson looked to the side, eyebrows raising when he saw her.

"You stalk me, never answer my texts, and then fake your own death," she said, crossing her arms. "Ruin my life, why don't you."

"Trainee," Coulson said neutrally. "Yes, you seem to be in an absolute shambles."

"I'm crying on the inside. What the fuck, you fascist?"

"I see you got your blacks," Coulson said. "In mourning?"

Darcy looked down at her black Specialist's uniform. "Stop staring at my tits, oppressor."

"You will address me as Agent Coulson, or Sir."

She snapped a salute. "Sir, yes sir."

"As you were, Trainee Specialist Lewis," he said, and turned to walk away. The Avengers followed, Agent Romanoff casting a suspicious, warning glance her way.

She heard Mr. Stark say, "Ex-girlfriend, Agent?"

"Do you ever say anything that's not offensive, Tony?" Captain Rogers asked.

"Not if I can avoid it," Mr. Stark replied.

"Guess the rumors were true," another trainee said from behind Darcy. "Coulson's back. Heads is gonna roll."

"Not ours," Darcy replied.

***

The shakedown did come, not long after that. It registered among the trainees as a series of memos regarding policy changes at SHIELD, all minor in themselves but significant when taken in full. The position of the World Security Council in SHIELD affairs was strangled at the entry point: they could no longer command any SHIELD asset independent of Director Fury's approval, and any orders to drastic action (like, say, nuking Manhattan) had to be given direct vocal approval by Fury or one of his command staff. If no vocal approval was forthcoming, SHIELD agents were at liberty to disobey the request on their own recognizance.

Darcy wondered who had been pulled from the Council, or who was being blackmailed, to give SHIELD that leverage.

Still, the trainees had other concerns. They were now almost completely separated from the Operatives; she only saw Tom and the others every now and then on drills. The Specialists were fracturing too. Trainees were pulled out, and she'd see them around but they never came back to class or to the barracks. Some were sent to late-stage Operative training. One went to the Analysts. Shelly was put on some detail she couldn't talk about, and a few others simply quit, with only a few weeks to go left in training. They came in looking haggard, packed up their bags, and went back to their lives.

"Assassin squad washouts," Shelly said one night in the barracks. The room was slowly growing emptier.

"Seriously?" Darcy asked.

"Well, it's what I think."

"Because I was kind of thinking you might be on one," Darcy said, and Shelly laughed.

"Me? Fuck no. I'm not a killa. Not like that, anyway, and they know it."

And the next morning, an agent came for Darcy.

She was pulled out of Geopolitics, which for her was basically a refresher course anyway, and escorted to one of the meeting rooms. There were a handful of other trainees already there -- two blackshirts like her plus Tom in his olive-drab Operative uniform, looking uncomfortable and nervous.

They all stood when Agent Coulson walked in, but Darcy mouthed Jackboots at him. He ignored her.

"As you were," he said, and they settled into chairs around a large u-shaped table. Coulson took up a position in the middle and handed out StarkPads. "Congratulations. You are now in the final stage of Specialist training for your cohort."

Darcy glanced at Tom, who was staring at Coulson, somewhat aghast.

"Am I in the right room, sir?" he asked.

"Thomas Fawcett?" Coulson asked. Tom nodded. "Yes, Trainee Fawcett."

"Just checking, sir."

"Understandable." Coulson swept the room, and his eyes lingered a little on Darcy before he cleared his throat. "The four of you are being trained with a very specific intent in mind. SHIELD's goals are necessarily shifting after the incursion in New York. Who can tell me how?"

One of the other Specialist trainees held his hand up. "Global defense, sir. Planetary defense."

"Against, Trainee Smith?"

"Aliens."

"Among other things," Coulson said, looking faintly amused.

"Intraplanetary defense as well," Tom offered. Everyone looked at him. "Well. We haven't had a full briefing but from what I've put together, whatever it was that caused the incursion originated in SHIELD. Stands to reason it originated on Earth. It's the cold war all over again, isn't it, Agent Coulson?"

"Except this time it's not us versus them," Smith said. "It's everyone versus everyone."

"And SHIELD versus the world," Darcy added without thinking.

"Dangerous idea, Trainee Lewis," Coulson remarked.

"Well," Darcy said, embarrassed. "What I mean is -- those memos that went out. About the World Security Council. That wasn't exactly cool, was it? Now there's no paper trail if the Director approves an order they give. And if he doesn't approve it, and an agent still follows orders, the agent gets the blame if things go badly." She paused, but Coulson was silent, so she continued. "Makes for cautious thinking. Sir. And easy scapegoats."

"SHIELD doesn't put our people up to twist if we can avoid it, but it's a risk agents at the Specialist level face," Coulson said. "Risking your reputation for your country. It's one of those patriotism things," he added, and Darcy grinned.

Moriz, who hadn't spoken yet, leaned forward. He was slim and dangerous-looking, and he'd always been quiet in class. Darcy wondered why he hadn't been put in for the theoretical assassination squad. "So what's this got to do with us, Agent Coulson?"

"Intraplanetary threats are a significant risk."

"We're our own worst enemy," Darcy said.

"Which is where you come in. The four of you are being tasked with intelligence gathering and occasional action on that intelligence within the developed world. Primarily North America."

"Great. We're the thug squad," Darcy said, sitting back in her seat. Tom looked at her, horrified.

"You have an objection, Trainee Lewis?"

"We're you," Darcy said. Coulson raised an eyebrow. "We're the American hit team. Shit goes down in-country, we're the ones who go out and hush it up. Like New Mexico, right?"

"New Mexico?" Smith asked.

"Above your clearance level," Coulson replied.

"How come she knows about it?"

"How do you think I was recruited?" Darcy asked. She turned back to Coulson. "But I'm not wrong, am I?"

"Not entirely, no, though I'd hesitate to call the four of you a hit squad. We have other...more sociopathic agents for that sort of detail," Coulson said.

"That's totally reassuring," Darcy replied.

"I'm not here to reassure you," Coulson answered. "If you need it, you're in the wrong place. You've been in training with analyst-class trainees. You'll be the ones providing intelligence the analysts will work with. At times you'll be requested, on their recommendation, to take action. At the start, you'll be in training with mentors and older agents -- "

He was launching into a prepared speech, like a first-day-of-class syllabus, and Darcy wasn't quite ready yet for a change of subject.

"But we are you, aren't we?" she asked.

Coulson rubbed his forehead. "Traditionally, yes, Specialists in your position eventually join the command staff of SHIELD. You'll be working under command staff supervision, and your intelligence will often pass through important hands. In this case, it's not unlikely at least two of you will be closely connected to the Avengers Initiative. Now, if I can continue..."

Coulson slipped back into the prepared speech, and Darcy risked another look at Tom. He was looking back, and it was just like in school when the teacher told you to pair up. I pick you. Be my partner.

They had to sign more paperwork -- another nondisclosure agreement, an updated medical proxy form -- and from there training got really weird.

They were given lessons in things like fashion and table manners. They were sent down to New York to sit in on MBA finance classes. A funny, charming man was brought in to teach them how to pick pockets and count cards. They spent two days with a Stark Industries programmer who showed them basic hacking techniques. On the second day, Tony Stark took them to lunch at the fanciest place any of them had ever eaten, and spent the whole meal pointing out every social faux pas they made.

"Where do you people come from?" he asked, correcting the fork Tom was about to use on his dessert.

"Ohio," Darcy said, poker-faced.

"You," Stark said, turning to her, "are -- for a start, a stunning woman, and I don't say that as a pass, but because you are going to get a lot more leeway than the stormtroopers you're running with. Get used to that: men in power will forgive a woman almost anything if they look like you. I'm not saying I like it but I'm saying I've done it so I know. You three," and he took in the other agents, all male, "are either going to have to up your game or get very good at pretending to be dumb but pretty, which I have less experience with. Forks!" he ordered, and everyone held up their dessert forks. "You may now eat your pie."

So, fork-drill lunch with Tony Stark was a thing that happened to Darcy now.

***

Two days before they were scheduled to attend their official graduation, Darcy came back to her new tiny cubicle of a living space on the Helicarrier after lunch to find a black cocktail dress laid out on her bed. When she put her head into the hallway, Smith was leaning out of his room next to her.

"There's a tuxedo on my bed," he said.

"Trade you," Darcy replied, holding up the dress.

"Naw, man, I don't have the boobs for it," Smith said. "Fawcett, you got a tux?"

Tom peered into his room, then sighed. "Bowties, how do they work?" he asked.

"Mmm, engraved and everything," Moriz said, emerging from his room. He tossed a thick paper card at Darcy, then skimmed two more along the hall to the others. "We're going to a party."

"The Maria Stark Foundation City Fund Gala," Darcy read. Smith was working on his phone.

"Ten grand a plate," he announced.

"Graduation present?" Tom asked.

"Not exactly," someone said, and they all snapped to attention as Agent Sitwell came down the hallway. He'd handed out a few of their lessons lately; nice guy, for an agent. "You're being given your first mission."

"All right!" Smith said. Darcy held up her dress again, eyebrows raised.

"Skirt slit too high?" Sitwell asked her.

"Where am I supposed to keep my sidearm?"

"You're imaginative, I'm sure you'll work it out," he answered. "The gala tonight is a major social event. The Avengers will be in attendance. So will some of the wealthiest people in the city, as well as international diplomats and politicians. It's a high-threat target."

"You think someone's going to attack it?" Tom asked.

"We've had intelligence that there's a planned bombing," Sitwell replied. "External security's taking care of possible car bombs, and internal security should catch it before it comes in. You four are the backup plan."

"Aw," Smith said, looking disappointed. Moriz just smiled.

"Tonight, you are young executives with Stark Industries," Sitwell continued, handing out fake identification.

"And again, where do I put this?" Darcy asked. Sitwell tossed her a purse. "Is this real Prada?"

"It's real close," he replied. "Officially you're sleepers. Your primary mission is to wait for activation. If you receive notice that the guests and the bomb are both inside, your job is to find the bomb or bomber and neutralize it. If you fail in this primary mission, your secondary mission is to ensure the safe evacuation of the guests should the bomb be detonated. And should you survive, of course," he added. "No pressure."

"Cannon fodder," Tom murmured.

"Very smart cannon fodder in whom we have invested a great deal of time and energy," Sitwell corrected. "You'll be taken to a hotel landside to prepare. A car will pick you up outside the hotel at seven forty-five. Have your ear comms in and checked. You'll have passes to get around security, but once you leave the hotel room, be in character. You are no longer SHIELD agents until you return to it."

"What if security gets the bomb?" Darcy asked.

"Then you enjoy a very expensive meal and some nice music, and get to spend the night in a fancy hotel suite," Sitwell replied. "Your chopper departs in an hour. Research has provided you with the names and dossiers of potential bombers who are attending tonight; I suggest you spend the time between now and the gala studying them."

"Well," Darcy announced, when he was gone. "I feel like a princess."

To be honest, when they got to the hotel and she found a thigh holster with a .22 in it waiting for her, she did, a little.

***

The Stark Gala was certainly evidence of what they'd been training for. Darcy relied on a lot of recently-acquired knowledge to make small talk about investments with one of the other attendees at the table, and managed not to embarrass herself when ordering wine. She saw Agent Barton, with Agent Romanoff on his arm, doing the circuit; Stark wasn't there yet, which wasn't surprising, but it was hard to miss Captain Rogers, half a head taller than nearly anyone else and even hotter in a tux than in his uniform, if such a thing was possible.

"Stop drooling," Tom whispered to her, amused.

"I'll stop drooling when you stop whispering into my cleavage," she replied. "I know it's fantastic but a girl likes to be loved for her mind, Tommy."

"Oh, man, look who just walked in," Tom said, but he did lift his head a little. Darcy glanced at the doorway, affecting boredom, but it was a hard face to keep up. Agent Hill had just walked in, wearing a blue dress that Darcy instantly envied (it was cut wider at the hips than hers; Hill could fit a .45 under that thing and not worry she looked like she was packing). Coulson was behind her, helping her off with her coat, and wearing the requisite tux with a breathtaking level of arrogant grace.

"You think they're the backup of the backup?" Tom asked. "You know. If we fuck it up, they ride in to save the day?"

"Coulson's tight with the Avengers. Stark probably asked him," Darcy said. She watched, eyes narrowed, as Smith walked up to them and exchanged a few words with Coulson -- over their earpieces they heard him assuring Coulson they were all in place and ready to move on the bomber.

Then Stark appeared at the front table, tapping the mic for attention, and she looked away.

Halfway through Stark's speech, they got the word. Everyone's in. Beta team, it's all yours, there's nothing more we can do here.

"Shit, we're not even to the wandering around after dinner part," Tom said.

I've been watching body language, Moriz said in their ears. She glanced across the room and saw him pretending to speak quietly to Smith. I'm reasonably confident it's not a suicide bombing. Nobody seems out of place here and anyone important enough to get in isn't going to die for their cause.

Waitstaff are clear, Smith said. I got into the kitchen for long enough to check.

"Which means nobody's planting the bomb until the walking-around part," Tom agreed.

"Everyone look sharp and eat your dinners," Darcy said.

Stark finished his speech, and people stood to applaud; she glanced over and saw Coulson lean in to say something to Hill, who smiled and waved him off. He stepped around his chair and started strolling casually towards the exit.

"Shit," she said. "Moriz."

What's up?

"Go say hi to Hill," she said. "Keep her at the table."

Is the bomber there?

"Don't tell Hill anything," Darcy replied, standing and bending to kiss Tom on the cheek. "Just going to the bathroom, dear, be right back."

Lewis, what the eff's going on? Smith asked, just as Hill set her purse on the table and excused herself.

"Abort contact with Hill," Tom said tersely, as Darcy began walking towards the exit, hurrying a little to catch up with Coulson. "Get her purse. Don't open it."

Fuck, it's Hill? Moriz asked. Darcy ducked behind a column and got eyeballed by a waiter as she hiked up her skirt a little. She considered matters, stepped out of her shoes, and ran the rest of the way to the door, reaching Coulson just as he took down a long jacket and pulled it on.

"Sir, we're going to take a walk," she said, and he paused when he felt the .22 against the small of his back.

"Trainee, are you assaulting a senior agent?" he asked.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Moriz said in her ear. The purse is rigged.

Get it out of there. I'm on the move, Tom replied. Heading to notify security.

I'm on Hill, Smith added, and they all heard him say, Agent Hill, would you come with me please?

"Your date just tried to assassinate half of high society," Darcy said. "You want to step outside, Agent Coulson?"

Coulson held his hands out at his sides, peaceably, and let her walk him through the front door of the ballroom and out into the cold. The boys were talking in her ear, but she ignored them; she opened her purse, took out a pair of zipties, and cuffed him before seating him on the steps. Smith joined her with Hill a moment later.

"Ohhh, this is fucked up," Tom said, jogging out of the entrance. "Bomb squad's meeting Moriz on the north side of the building."

Feeling a little exposed, guys, Moriz said. There are a lot of people on this street.

"Deep breaths, Moriz," Smith said, leading Hill out onto the steps. She was already ziptied.

Come get this bomb from me and then talk about deep breaths. Where's my bomb squad?

"Nice night for a walk," a new voice said, and everyone looked up as a tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged from the doorway.

"Hold you position, Moriz," Tom murmured.

Holding, Moriz said, sounding strained.

"Agent..." the man prompted.

"Smith, sir," Smith said, looking awed.

"Of course," Captain America replied. "May I have your earpiece?"

Smith took his earpiece out and passed it over, while Darcy and Tom stared. Darcy startled back to watching their prisoners when Hill shifted her weight slightly.

"Agent Moriz, yes?" Rogers said, fitting the earpiece in. "This is Captain Steve Rogers. Your team will confirm."

"Confirmed, Moriz, Captain Rogers is on Smith's comm," Darcy said.

With all due respect, what the god damn is going on? Moriz asked.

Captain Rogers opened his mouth to answer, but Tom beat him to it.

"This was a test, wasn't it?" he asked. "This was our final exam."

"Very good, Agent Fawcett," Coulson said quietly.

"There are no explosives in the purse, Agent," Captain Rogers continued. "The detonator's not hooked up to anything. Come around to the south entrance."

Thank god, Moriz said, and they heard his breathing pick up as he ran.

Captain Rogers bent down and pulled a knife out of his dress boots, which was both creepy and super-hot. He cut Hill free, then crouched to cut Coulson loose as well. Darcy dropped her hand down to her side, uncertain how to reholster it with any dignity.

"Much obliged, Captain," Coulson said.

"My pleasure. Got me out of the shindig for a minute," Captain Rogers said, handing the earpiece back to Smith. "You need anything else from me?"

"No, we're fine here," Coulson said, as Moriz turned the corner, still carrying the unopened purse.

"In that case I'd better get back in. Agents," Captain Rogers said with a nod, and disappeared back into the party.

"Well," Coulson said, rubbing his wrists. "Congratulations. Nobody died. Fawcett and Moriz with Hill, Smith and Lewis, come with me. We'll debrief at the hotel. Usual procedures apply; please don't speak to each other until after we've taken your reports."

It was a long, silent car ride back to the hotel.

***

They weren't taken back to their suite when they arrived. Instead, Darcy was put in a conference room with a laptop and told to write up her after-action. She saw Tom and Moriz being ushered into other rooms; the last she saw of Smith was Coulson leading him down the hallway.

She recounted the evening as accurately as she could, though she stumbled a little over how to describe Captain America showing up to cut her prisoners loose. She hesitated, also, before mentioning that Trainee Smith had engaged Agent Coulson prior to the incident. It wasn't okay to just give up a guy like that, but on the other hand Coulson knew it had happened, and they all knew he was a stickler for accuracy. Eventually she included it, with a footnote offering a character reference for Smith. She didn't think it was going well for him.

She was just saving her work when the door opened, and Coulson walked in.

"Finish if you need to," he said. "Hill's handling Fawcett and Moriz; you're my last responsibility of the night."

"I'm done."

"Excellent. Save it; I'll review it later."

She looked up at him. "How'd we do?"

"Better than some; not as well as others. You scored a few extra points for being the one to spot the bomb."

"You were listening on our comms."

"Yes, I was. Moriz did well too. It takes a special kind of mind to grab a bag full of explosives and worry about what happens if you take it out on the street. And your friend Fawcett was the first to work out what was really going on."

Darcy sat back. "And Smith?"

Coulson sighed. "We don't give points for effort."

"He did a good job."

He sat down in the chair to her right, turning to study her. "You were told that as soon as you left the hotel, you were no longer SHIELD agents to the outside world. That includes your superiors. He broke protocol, and he gave sensitive information to someone who wasn't involved in the operation. He threatened the lives of a few hundred people. And all to score the attention of the boss." He shook his head. "It's a small infraction, but it's enough. We can't have that kind of error from our Specialists. I understand the urge to defend your cohort, and in time that will be an admirable trait, but you have to be careful who you defend in the meantime."

"Is he out of SHIELD?"

"No. He'll be sent down to Operative level. In time he may be promoted again. As of tonight, however, he's no longer your concern."

"Harsh."

"Necessary." He closed the laptop with one hand. "You passed. He didn't."

Darcy nodded. "Now what?"

"Now you have a day off before your graduation. Officially, I suggest you get some rest. Unofficially, it's traditional to celebrate. Don't break into the minibar," he added. "SHIELD isn't made of money."

"I'm sure we can scavenge something," she replied drily.

"Then I'll leave you to it. Report to HQ tomorrow evening," he said, standing and gathering up the laptop.

"Should I get the dress dry-cleaned, or...?" she asked. He hesitated for a moment, and then an amused smile broke over his face.

"Just turn it in to the quartermaster."

She gave him a salute and he made his way to the door; on the threshold, he turned -- almost as if he shouldn't but couldn't resist. "Specialist Lewis."

"Yes, sir?"

"How's that patriotism coming?"

Darcy looked down at her hands. "Figured you'd know that already."

"Contrary to the carefully constructed illusion, I don't know everything."

"When I saw the fight -- where you -- "

"Yes."

"I thought I should be there. That's...needed. And then when I found out you'd died I thought, well. Someone has to step up when the last guy to step up took it in the throat."

He was silent.

"I don't like some of what we do. But it beats anything else I could have done," she said.

He nodded. "Goodnight, Darcy."

"G'night, Jackboots," she replied, and heard a low hah from him as he left.

When she got back to the suite, Tom and Moriz were waiting for her.

"Oh my god," Moriz moaned, laid out on the couch. "We got to meet Captain America."

"He's having a moment," Tom said.

"Captain AMERICA!"

"That was pretty cool," Darcy said, going to her bedroom to undress. "You guys hear about Smith?"

"Suck," Tom pronounced. "But he did kind of blow our entire op."

"How was Hill in the debrief?"

"Fast," Moriz replied. "No bullshit. How was Coulson?"

"About the same. He did suggest unofficially that it's now party time," Darcy added. "And said no drinking from the minibar."

"Well, let's go rip up the town," Tom said, as Darcy unbuckled her thigh holster.

"I know a club near here," Moriz said.

"Done," Darcy agreed, emerging. "But I have to warn you if either of you hits on me tonight I will personally break your fingers."

"Aw man," Moriz said. "I was angling for a victory threesome."

"You are going to angle a long damn time," Tom replied, offering Darcy his arm as Moriz rolled off the couch and went to get his wallet. "Shall we?"

***

When Darcy reported to HQ the following evening, still just a little hungover, she went straight to the quartermaster to drop off the dress.

"Oh, and this too," she added, offering him the holster with the .22 in it. She might buy one for herself, she thought, and then wondered when she stopped thinking that leather bracelets and hoop earrings were the accessories she wanted.

"We don't have it on the returns list," the man said.

"It was checked out yesterday? Should be under Darcy Lewis, maybe Agent Sitwell."

"Oh, right," the man said, and grinned at her. "We were told you might ask about that. It's yours."

"Who said?"

"Agent Coulson said to tell you it's for you."

Darcy looked down at the holster. Tucked in between gun and nylon was a slip of paper that hadn't been there last night when she reholstered her gun.

Happy Graduation.

She couldn't decide if it was creepy or sweet, but she took it with her anyway, back to her quarters on the Helicarrier. She put the gun in her rack, with her standard sidearm and her fencing equipment, and went to bed.

***

After graduation, she got to go home for a week; back to small-town Ohio, where Mom bragged that Darcy was working for federal law enforcement. The local farmers' kids she'd grown up with took her out to the bar in the next town over, asking questions about New York and SHIELD. She couldn't answer a lot of them.

"But you've totally met Captain America, right?" one of her friends asked. "I mean. Swoon. Is he nice?"

"I met him once, for five minutes, during my final exam," Darcy said.

"But did you swoon?"

Darcy held up her thumb and forefinger. "Maybe a little."

"Everyone swoons for Captain America," one of the guys said, and the others snickered. "No, I mean it. Don't tell me you aren't impressed, and I know at least one of you has the tatt to prove it."

"Oh my god, who got Captain America ink?" Darcy demanded, as another pitcher of beer was put on the table. "Come on, show it off!"

It was fun. It was good. But they didn't really have any idea of what she did, and she was glad to get back to SHIELD in the end.

"That's how it is," Tom said, when she brought it up. "Why do you think we're all such lonely losers? Nobody on the outside gets it. Or if they do, they don't like putting up with it. Secrecy and stuff."

"So what, my friendship pool is restricted to nerd-grunts like you?"

"I got news for you, your dating pool is too," Tom replied.

"Not dating you," she sang out.

"Wasn't a pass, Lewis," he replied with a grin. "Come on. First briefings today. Little birds being shoved out of the nest for real."

***

Looking back on it, Darcy could have joked that she saw more action during her final exam than she did in the first six months of her actual job. Sometimes she was sent out with Tom and Moriz, but more often she went alone, with a series of handlers that weren't much more senior than she was. It was interesting work, gathering intelligence, occasionally stalking bad guys, but she could tell it was newbie stuff.

Six months in, Thor came back.

It must have been classified because the first she knew about it was when she saw him striding down a hallway on the Helicarrier. She shouldn't have stopped and stared, but she couldn't help it; half of her just wanted to give the big guy a hug but the other half, the SHIELD half, was wondering what was going down that Thor was back on Earth.

He cast a glance her way, calm and regal, swept past her, and then stopped and turned.

"Darcy?" he asked. "Darcy Lewis?"

"Hey, big guy," she said with a hesitant smile, and then found herself swept up into a bear hug that lifted her off her feet and threatened to bruise a few ribs.

"It is fine to see a friendly face!" he crowed, setting her down and resting his hands on her shoulders. "Why are you -- oh!" his eyes took in the SHIELD badge on her Specialist blacks, and he looked stunned. "You have become a warrior!"

"Specialist," she answered shyly.

"But this is magnificent. Why was I not told?"

"You were kinda in Asgard," she said, and then noticed Director Fury standing a few feet away, looking equal parts amused and impatient.

"Indeed I have been too long away from this realm. First I return to find the Son of Coul resurrected, and now this. Are you to be an Avenger, then, like your arms-sister Natasha?"

"Specialist Lewis is a little young for Avenging," Fury said, and Darcy gave him a guilty look. "Thor, we got work to do."

"My apologies; this is no time to delay," Thor said, releasing Darcy's shoulders. "We will speak again," he whispered to her.

"Lewis!" Fury called, turning to walk backwards as they went on.

"Sir?"

"Pull the beekeeper file. You're briefing at fifteen hundred."

"Yes sir," she said, wondering a) how Fury even knew her name and b) where he'd heard about the beekeeper file.

The first was easy to answer with a few minutes of thought; she was an involved party in the New Mexico incident. Coulson was the supervising agent. And Coulson belonged to Fury.

The beekeeper file was harder to parse. It wasn't even a major deal; Research had looked at it and then thrown it back. She and Tom had been in North Dakota, having a look at a restless homegrown militia that had made it onto SHIELD's radar, and she'd seen a man in a bulky yellow suit, like a beekeeper's, leaving the compound, a hood over his head.

"You think they like local honey? I hear that shit's awesome for allergies," Tom had said.

"Do they keep bees in North Dakota?"

"Hell if I know."

"Did that look at all like a radiation suit to you?" she'd asked.

"Shit, you think they're buying plutonium or something?"

"Nothing in the file on it."

Tom had held up a fist over his outstretched palm; she held hers up as well. "One, two, three..."

Tom came up rock; Darcy came up scissors.

"You go after the beekeeper," he said.

"Great. If I get irradiated and turn into a godzilla monster, promise me you'll kill me quickly," she replied, and crept out of the blind they were hiding in, heading for the road.

The beekeeper had led her to an office building a couple of miles away; she hadn't been able to get inside, but she'd scanned it as well as she could.

Frankly, bees were low on SHIELD's watchlist. The office building belonged to some tiny biotech firm, Agriculture In Motion, and the beekeeper probably really was a beekeeper, and maybe just had a pal at the compound or his car broke down or something.

But since then, there had been two beekeeper sightings: one in North Dakota, the other in Montana. Still not enough for SHIELD to get suspicious but enough for Darcy to keep a file without worrying the agency would get pissy about it. And now apparently Director Fury not only knew about the beekeeper file (he did have access to all private servers) but wanted to hear about it.

She was starting to get nervous, sitting in the little office she shared with Tom and Moriz and assembling all the documents for a presentation, when there was a rap on the open door. Coulson leaned in.

"Agent Lewis," he said. "Director Fury said he spoke to you about a briefing at three."

"Yeah, but it's not on my calendar yet," she said, clearing her screen and pointing to her schedule. "I don't know where I'm supposed to go."

"That's fine. I'll escort you there."

"Taking this one seriously, Jackboots?" she asked, raising her eyebrows as she pulled on the grey dress jacket SHIELD issued its Specialists for when they were supposed to look snappy.

"Darcy," he said, and the tone of his voice made her stop and turn to look at him. "You'll be briefing the Avengers."

"What?"

"Director Fury will be there. I need to know that you can be professional for this."

"Because I called you Jackboots? I always call you that."

"Not today," he said seriously.

"So you'll be there?"

"Yes. And so will Thor, and we are both on your side. But so will two members of the World Security Council. And Tony Stark, who is unprofessional enough for everyone in the room. Stark and Captain Rogers are also in a continuing if by now largely ceremonial pissing match with each other -- "

"Those two should fuck and get it over with," Darcy said.

"I need to know that there is at least one other person in the room who is going to behave like an adult," Coulson said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You brief the Avengers all the time."

"Yes, I'm their handler," he said.

"So why is it so important you have another professional in the room this time?"

"The WSC's impression of us -- "

"Come on, like SHIELD doesn't have the WSC in its pocket right now."

"Where did you hear that?" he asked. She saw a sharpness in his eyes that was almost unsettling.

"It's true, isn't it?"

"I didn't say it wasn't, I asked where you heard it."

"I did some math," she replied. "You disappear for months, you come in hot and rumor goes around you have WSC intel, and then we start getting policy memos. I'm not the only one out there who figured it out."

"The problem with hiring the best and brightest," Coulson sighed, "is that they're bright. Fine. Yes, the WSC is currently very...amenable to SHIELD."

"So? Why am I there? Anyone could take my file and brief them. And why do I have to behave so well?" she asked. "Am I being reviewed on my performance today?"

He took a while answering. "Yes."

"What for?"

"That's above your current clearance level."

"Is someone unsatisfied with my work? My behavior?"

"No. Your work, as I told you and Specialists Fawcett and Moriz it would, has been integral to Avengers activity. The three of you have come to their attention."

A little lightbulb went on.

"This is an audition," she said. "For what?"

He smiled. "That's also above your current clearance level. Come along; we should get there a few minutes ahead of time."

She picked up her StarkPad and followed him out, down the hallway towards the bridge and the briefing room above it. When they arrived, Thor was there, as were Agents Romanoff and Barton; Captain Rogers was leaning against a wall, and Tony Stark was fidgeting in a chair, fussing with a StarkPad.

Thor bounded over to her.

"My friends!" he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "This is she of whom I spoke! Darcy Lewis of the tazer, falsifier of identification, great friend of Jane Foster."

"Yeah, we met like, years ago, keep up," Stark said, barely looking up from the screen he was working on. "Watching your forks, Lewis?"

"Yes, Mr. Stark."

"You're D. Lewis?" Captain Rogers asked, pushing away from the wall.

"Yes, Captain," she replied.

"I read your reports -- I thought you were a man," Captain Rogers blurted, and then looked embarrassed. "Sorry, that's rude."

"In this sausagefest, I'm not shocked," Agent Romanoff said. "Specialist."

"Agent Romanoff," Darcy replied. Agent Barton just gave her a brief nod. Thor hugged her against him sideways.

"Yes, the puppy is cute, now let go of her," Fury said, sweeping into the room. There was a nerdy-looking guy following him; Darcy peered at him for a second before identifying him as Dr. Banner, whom she'd never encountered in person before. He didn't come on the Helicarrier much. Thor loosened his grip on Darcy's shoulders, and she stepped aside, back into the shadows at the edge of the room.

"Waitin' on you, Fury," Stark said, leaning back.

"For once in your life," Coulson said drily.

"You know, near death is only going to get you so much leeway -- "

Fury snapped his fingers. Even Stark shut up. A screen nearby flickered on, showing the darkened silhouettes of two World Security Council members.

"As you're aware, Thor returned to Earth last night," he said, walking to the front of the room and sweeping his hand across the presentation podium, lighting up the screen behind him. "He has some concerns about some unauthorized transdimensional activity."

"Not it," Dr. Banner murmured. Stark grinned at him.

"Asgard has experienced several minor disturbances. What you would call earthquakes," Thor said. "Rifts appearing in reality. Brief and not dangerous, so far, but my father is concerned. They have been growing stronger."

"And this," Fury said, tapping the screen, "is what they're seeing on the other side."

An image came up behind him, a beautifully drawn illumination, almost medieval. A tall man operating some kind of delicate device...

...wearing a bulky, bright yellow suit.

"Ah," Darcy said softly.

"Is that true to life?" Captain Rogers asked, turning to Thor.

"I have not seen these creatures myself," Thor said. "But those who have say they were speaking English to each other. English is a Midgardian language. Thus..." he gestured at the table. "I am here."

"SHIELD has been tracking a group who fits this description," Fury said, which Darcy thought was a little...inflated. "Agent Lewis."

"Sir," Darcy said, and everyone looked at her with renewed interest. Fury gestured to the podium. Darcy had to walk past two of the greatest minds of their generation, plus Captain America and the head of SHIELD, to get there. She felt about twelve years old.

Once she reached the podium and fired up her presentation, though, she forgot to be nervous. She'd been carefully building this casefile for months, and she hadn't ever expected it to be particularly relevant -- but Captain Rogers was taking notes, and Mr. Stark was at least half-paying-attention, and Agent Romanoff was studying each image and report carefully.

"In summary," she said, darkening the display screen, "we really don't know very much. Until now, Agriculture In Motion has been fairly low-priority compared to other threats in the area, let alone the country. I have some leads we can start on, if we want to raise the threat level on this file, but that's not something I have the seniority to authorize."

"Fortunately, I do," Fury said. He glanced at the WSC councilmembers. One of them nodded; the other gestured for him to continue. "First order of business is to figure out where these rifts are coming from and shut them down."

"Uhhhh," Mr. Stark said, and everyone looked at him. He was looking at his screen thoughtfully. "Stark Holdings has investments in Agriculture In Motion. One of the green initiative things Pep was so hot for."

"Pep, right," Dr. Banner murmured.

"Well, so, I could be funding transdimensional terrorists, sorry about that, I swear I read the prospectus," Stark said. "But this could also be a foot in the door. If I say I want a tour of their site -- "

"Yeah, that's not going to look suspicious," Fury said. "An Avenger taking a sudden interest in them right after they fire their Rip A Hole In The Universe Machine."

"So we can ask Pepper -- wait, no, I promised her I'd keep it to two life-threatening events per year."

"You're over quota," Captain Rogers said.

"Oh, for her, not me. I'm allowed to risk my life as much as I like provided I don't die."

"Just out of curiosity, what happens if you do die?" Agent Barton asked.

"Pepper gets custody of you guys."

"If we could return to the point," Fury said. "I'm not sending an untrained civilian in to cover the fact that Stark can't keep a goddamn secret identity."

"We're not cleared for undercover anymore," Agent Barton said. "And Thor doesn't have the chops -- sorry, big guy."

Thor waved it off.

"Well, that leaves me," Bruce said, "with no visible interest in agriculture. Or Steve."

Captain Rogers shrugged. "Might be nice to go on a mission where I'm not throwing someone through a wall." There was a moment of hesitation, and then he said, "Does this mean I get a disguise?"

Even Darcy paused.

"Director Fury, I think we have all we need to know," said one of the WSC councilmembers. "Keep us appraised of the situation."

"Of course," Fury said, and the screens winked out. "Coulson -- "

"I'll coordinate Dr. Banner and Captain Rogers for infiltration of the Agriculture In Motion primary site. Everyone else, please remain on standby; Thor, I'll want to speak to you about how long you're staying on Earth."

"Of course, Son of Coul," Thor said. "Darcy may debrief me, if you prefer."

"Good. Agent Lewis, report to me when you're done with Thor."

"And that's dismissed," Stark announced. "And I am late for a management meeting, well done. Rogers, you want to hitch a ride topside?"

Captain Rogers nodded, following Stark out.

"How exactly does he go undercover?" Darcy murmured to Coulson. "He's a super soldier. I bet he smells like apple pie."

"Watch and learn," Coulson replied. "But right now, talk to Thor."

"Did I pass my audition? Will there be callbacks?"

"Still above your clearance level. See me when you're done with Thor. Go feed him. The grunts could use some entertainment and Thor in the canteen is always good for a laugh."

***

Darcy figured she'd probably passed her mystery audition when, two days after the briefing, she was summoned to the identification office on landside HQ to have a new badge issued. This one listed her as a level four, when before she'd been a level two.

"Security clearance, bitches!" she announced to Tom and Moriz, when she returned to the Helicarrier with her new badge. She slapped it on the table and they grinned at her.

"So you're the one we have to thank," Moriz said.

"For what?"

"Tom's just been put in command of a twenty-man operations unit deploying on a classified mission day after tomorrow," Moriz said. "I'm head of operational security for the mission. Neither of us know what the fuck."

"Who's the handler?"

Tom leaned in, lowering his voice. "Agent Coulson."

Darcy sat back. "Yeah. I think I probably am the one you have to thank. I do accept cash, also chocolate."

"Our guardian angel," Tom said. "Hitchin' my wagon to your star, Lewis."

"Follow me, baby, and you'll go places," Darcy replied, just as Tom and Moriz jumped to their feet. She turned and rose, seeing Coulson approaching the table.

"Well, this is convenient," he said, tone clear he knew it wasn't exactly a surprise.

"Guess I got the role," Darcy told him, picking up her badge.

"You'll need that," he agreed. "The three of you are to report to the hangar bay at 0900 tomorrow. Fawcett, bring your troop. Moriz, make the arrangements. We'll brief on the way. You'll be escorting Dr. Banner and Captain Rogers, so try to pretend you're professionals. Agent Lewis, you'll be on surveillance with me. Check out two passive earwigs and the appropriate equipment."

"Sir," Darcy said, so sincerely that he narrowed his eyes at her before nodding.

"See you at 0900," he said, and left. Tom exhaled.

"This is so awesome," Moriz breathed.

"Try not to get too starry-eyed," Darcy said.

"Do not ask him for his autograph," Tom added.

"I hear Coulson did," Moriz sulked.

"And when you have a level seven clearance, my little level two, you can ask Captain Rogers to do inappropriate things," Darcy replied.

"She's awfully proud for someone who's been a level four for ten minutes," Moriz said to Tom.

---

Clint Barton Joins SHIELD

For her birthday this year, I said I would write Arsenic a story specifically to her tastes. This was my first attempt, which failed; my second attempt became the fic "If I Don't Wake Up Dead". Warnings for descriptions of torture and PTSD.

Contrary to popular belief and the myth Clint liked to propagate in his spare time, he wasn't brought into SHIELD by Phil Coulson. It was just that by the time he was notorious enough at SHIELD to be noticed, Coulson had laid a firm claim to him, so people assumed Phil had recruited him.

Phil did nothing to counteract the assumption; it helped him shield a fellow agent from attention and it made his claim to Clint very clear, so he (for once) encouraged Clint's dramatic flair for the mysterious. Clint tended to tell people Coulson had found him using a ouija board and a complicated computer matching program.

The truth went more like this.

Clint was ziptied wrist and ankle, with chains running from his joined wrists to a nearby (fortunately cold) radiator, when the door at the other end of the room opened and a man in a black uniform was thrown inside. Of everything that could have happened when the door opened, this was probably the best option.

The other man landed hard on one shoulder and lay on his side panting for what Clint counted was about five minutes before he moved, curling in on himself and groaning. He didn't have his hands or legs bound, which seemed unfair.

Clint watched and waited. You never knew what might be a trap. Slowly, the man pulled himself up to sitting.

"Hey," he said. The man startled and turned to him sharply. "Easy. I'm not one of them."

The man was Asian, or Asian-American. A bad thing to be in the makeshift prison of a white supremacist militia.

"So," Clint said, drawing his legs up to give the guy more room to shift around. "You trying to rob them too, or did they just pick you up for some fun?"

The man spat and cleared his throat.

"You speak English?" Clint asked.

The man rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I speak English," he said. He sounded like he might be from New York.

"Hey, sorry, just checking. Clint Barton," Clint added. "I'd offer to shake..."

"Jimmy Woo," the man replied. "Do I even want to know what you were trying to steal from these punks?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Clint said.

"Mine's bigger," Woo replied.

"You ain't seen mine."

Woo laughed hoarsely. "Great, they put me in with a comedian."

Which was when the head of the militia threw the door open again. Woo curled into a ball with his spine to Clint, which was pretty smart. Clint made a split-second decision and dislocated his thumbs to shed the cuffs, which hurt like a motherfucker and gave him just enough of an adrenalin rush to dive for the asshole in the paramilitary fatigues.

He wasn't looking to escape, though that would have been nice. He was just looking to distract.

Clint was a liar, a thief, a "violent individual" according to police reports, and an asshole. He knew he only had one redeeming quality, but it was a big one: he was hardwired to protect the innocent. He couldn't control it any more than he could his eye color. Six years with his father and four in the orphanage, eight in the circus and five on his own should have taught him the opposite, but there was no accounting for human nature. He saw a white supremacist, and a guy named Woo in one room, and he did what he usually did in situations like this.

He got the shit kicked out of him.

The guy in fatigues punched Clint in the stomach, which he'd been expecting. Clint doubled over and latched onto his forearm with his teeth. There was a scream of rage and someone else grabbed him; he got another punch, this one slightly less expected, and then foul breath in his face.

"You want to see what we do to thieves?" someone asked him.

Mercifully, that was the last he remembered for a while.

***

When he woke up, he was back in the room again, with an eye swollen shut and no shirt. He was bound again to the radiator, this time with a thick chain around his neck. He could tell he was bleeding in a couple of places. His hands felt all right, and his arms -- his wrists weren't bound. And his dick was still there, so all in all, could be worse.

He cracked his good eye open and found Woo kneeling in front of him, nudging a bowl of water forward with one knee.

"You're up," Woo said.

"Regrettably," Clint mumbled.

"Good, you can decide," Woo indicated the bowl of water with a nod. "I can try and clean you up with this or we can drink it."

Clint lolled his head down to look at the water. It looked...impure, at best.

"External infection or internal?" Woo asked with a slight smile.

"Ain't that thirsty yet," Clint said.

Woo nodded. He tore off a strip of his shirt and soaked it in the water, touching it to Clint's head before cleaning the blood off his ribs and shoulders.

"So are you bughouse crazy or just stupid?" he asked, as he worked.

"They're Nazis," Clint replied.

"I'm aware."

"You're not white."

"A fact which has been repeatedly driven home to me over my life," Woo said with a dry look.

Clint held his gaze. "They wouldn't hit a white man as hard."

"Well, thanks, great pale face, for saving this poor unworthy Chinaman," Woo drawled.

"They just picked you up to have some fun with you, right? Wouldn't be the first time. Better me than you."

Woo leaned in close under cover of dabbing blood out from behind Clint's ear.

"I'm a government agent," he said. "Don't do me any favors. I'm not the civilian here."

Clint turned his head slightly. "You FBI?"

"SHIELD."

"The fuck's that?"

"Tell you later." Woo leaned back, wringing out the bloody rag and dipping it in the water again. He pressed it over Clint's wounded eye, and even the lukewarm wetness was a relief. "What are they going to do with us?"

"Dunno."

"What were you stealing?"

Clint set his jaw.

"Hey, white man, I showed you mine."

"You're right," Clint said. "Yours is bigger."

"So?"

Clint groaned and tried to sit up straighter, prevented by the chain. "Neo-nazis don't trust banks."

"Ironic, when you think about it."

"They got cash. Easy to carry, easy to clean."

"Holding up a bank might have been smarter."

"Not nearly as satisfying," Clint replied.

"So what, you run around the country robbing militias?"

"It's not the worst career in the world."

"It's not a career at all. It's a TV movie."

"Always wanted to be in pictures."

Woo shook his head. "Well, you have balls. You get a good look at where they're holding us?"

Clint raised a hand and tapped the uninjured half of his head. "Blueprints. More or less."

"If I break us out, can you lead me clear? They picked me up when I was still outside the compound."

"Caught you spying?"

"My snitch sold me out."

Clint let his hand fall to rattle the chain around his neck. "Get me out of this and I can get you out of here."

"It'll take time," Woo said.

"I haven't got anywhere to be."

"Well, a hospital might not go amiss."

"Hospitals are for losers."

Woo raised an eyebrow, but set the cloth aside and looked down at the bowl of dirty water.

"Bottoms up," Clint said. "It's all yours, Woo."

"Call me Jimmy. It's Clint, right?"

"Sure," Clint said, and passed out.

***

They spent three days in the compound, at least by Clint's reckoning. The second day, they took Jimmy, and Clint let them; it wasn't like he could dislocate his head to get out of the chain, and if Jimmy Woo was a federale of some kind, he could take it. Clint didn't like it, but he didn't really have a choice.

He was expecting not to see Jimmy again. When he did, he was surprised to find him mostly whole, and carrying a second bowl of water. Clint didn't notice the blood dripping down his fingers until Jimmy had given him half the water in sips.

"The fuck?" he asked, pulling his head away, trying to duck it to see his hands. Jimmy carefully put the bowl down. Every fingernail was gone.

"I'm told they grow back," he said calmly, but his face said he was in more pain than he was letting on.

Clint picked up the bowl and let Jimmy drink the rest, holding it carefully. When he was done, he settled against the radiator, next to Clint. It looked like a couple of his fingers were broken, too.

"Hope you used your time wisely," Jimmy said.

"Oh, you know. Did some laundry, called my mom."

"You got any ideas for getting us out of here?"

"Is the chain padlocked?" Clint asked.

"Yep. Back of your neck."

"Thought it felt heavy. You any good with locks?"

"Nothing to pick it with."

Clint looked around. The room they were in was bare cement, smooth and well-poured. The walls, he knew, were cinderblock covered in plaster. A hole in the plaster would be noticed. Neither of them had their belts.

The roof was just tarpaper, and he thought he could probably lift Jimmy out even if he couldn't get out himself, but the chain prevented him from getting enough height. He'd have to stand on the radiator anyway, and he might have done his share of acrobatics but Jimmy probably couldn't maintain footing on his shoulders if Clint was climbing.

"Next time, I go," he said. Jimmy looked at him.

"I don't think we get to pick," he replied.

"Play dead. Let 'em kick you a few times. A conscious target's more fun," Clint advised.

"How often exactly do you do this?" Jimmy asked.

"Not that often, but I been around the block."

"Which block is that?"

"The block that led to my glamorous life of crime," Clint retorted.

"You sure you can get something while they're kicking your ass?"

"Reasonably. Done it before."

"You know odds are they'll kill you."

"They haven't yet."

"Yeah, and I wonder why that is," Jimmy said thoughtfully.

***

Clint suspected their captors were sadists, and they were keeping them alive as long as possible just to see how long they could. If they didn't feed either man, sooner or later they might turn on each other. He'd seen men do it with dogs before -- put two hungry dogs in a cage together and wait to see which one came out. Rather, he'd seen them try it with dogs; after robbing them blind he'd fed the dogs and taken them to a shelter, leaving the owners tied together in a warehouse where someone would probably find them before they starved. (Probably.)

Clint liked dogs. You know where you stood with a dog. Someday he'd like to have one. Maybe a couple. Someday.

He thought about dogs during the sound asskicking that took place on the third day. Maybe he'd get a little wiener dog. He'd heard they were stubborn and went after prey twice their size. A little wiener dog and a corgi, corgis were like half a foot tall and herded sheep. And maybe a great dane. Great danes were beautiful and big enough nobody messed with them. Clint harbored a secret, probably false belief that only truly elegant people owned great danes. He could be elegant if he wanted, he was shit-full of elegance.

He was considering what he would name a great dane, if he got one, while they were holding him up by his hair and promising him just a few more kicks. One minute he was struggling to stand, to get the weight of his body off his scalp, and then there was a boom like the wrath of a god Clint didn't believe in, and the pain was gone. There was a second boom and people started yelling.

Clint shook off the lethargy of the beating and looked around; men were running towards a doorway at the far end, where he could see the yellow flashes of gunfire. He staggered into the shadows and then back the way he'd come, glad they hadn't bound him once they'd really gone to town. He could find the door by counting his paces. It was barred from the outside, but he hauled the bar up and slid back a pair of bolts.

On the other side, Jimmy was already standing, dusting himself down.

"Our ride's here," he said.

"Who do you work for again?" Clint asked.

"Come on," Jimmy ordered, hauling one of Clint's arms over his shoulder. "We're getting out of here, peckerwood."

"Imma make you pay for that one," Clint replied, but he went obediently where Jimmy steered him.

World War Three had broken out somewhere nearby, and there were already casualties. They tripped over a body and Jimmy made a pleased noise, patting the man down. He came up with two .38s and a .45.

"You know how to shoot?" he asked. Clint nodded and took one of the .38s. "You leave anything important behind?"

"Just my bow," Clint said. "I can get another one."

"Bow?"

"Recurve."

"Well, that's quaint."

"I like bows," Clint said, aware he was babbling from shock. "Silent. Elegant."

"Old," Jimmy replied. Clint twisted away from him, and Jimmy protested until he saw Clint whip the .38 up and knock down a pair of Nazis with two shots. He sighted three more on a catwalk above, shot them in the balls of their feet, and grinned at Jimmy.

"Gimme the other one, this one's tapped," he said.

They didn't actually run into any other enemies on the way out, and when they got outside there were a pair of helicopters and a lot of men in tac vests.

Clint made another split-second decision and mocked a stumble. Jimmy caught him, then eased him down.

"Stay here," he said. "I'll get medical to get you."

"Sure," Clint replied.

Jimmy ran off, towards the helicopters. After a count of ten, Clint got up silently, barely limping, and slipped away into the shadows.

***

Two days later, Clint Barton admitted to himself that he might have a problem.

He was, at least, clean and well-fed, holed up in a hotel room he'd rented with the cash he'd managed to carry out of the compound before Jimmy's shadowy government agency blew the place up. He'd gotten out with his life, his bow, and a hundred thousand in cash, so he called it a win.

On the other hand, he was starting to run a low fever, and one of the cuts on his ribcage was festering. He kept dosing it with hydrogen peroxide, hoping it would clean out, but he knew the signs of a bad infection. He needed antibiotics.

Jimmy's people were good. They'd decimated the militia without a peep; when Clint turned on the TV after some basic self-doctoring and eighteen hours of sleep there wasn't a single word about the battle. He'd been expecting nonstop news coverage.

They'd be looking for him, and they'd have hospitals and clinics staked out. Clint hated doctors anyway; they always eyeballed you like they knew you'd been up to something, and they never warned you how much anything was going to cost.

It was a miracle the hotel staff hadn't ratted him out already. He'd have to move on soon. The hundred grand would set him up enough to consider some really serious jobs, maybe even go into mercenary work, but he'd still have to be sparing.

He considered his options. He could boost a car and drive out of state, down into Chicago, and disappear into the city. He could run for Canada, but he still had some pretty spectacular bruises on his face. He could move to a new hotel and sit tight, but that would drain his finances. He tried to think if he had any connections in Chicago, but no names came up. He had a couple of buddies in New York, but he wasn't ready to put up with Mozzie's crazy again. He could try and rob a pharmacy.

He could sleep some more, since the room was unkindly spinning....

***

The next time, he woke himself coughing. Someone was leaning over him and he struck out immediately, but they dodged.

"Easy, cowboy," a familiar voice said. Something plastic was pressed to his lips. "Drink."

Clint had no choice; he opened his mouth to talk, and water flowed in instead. He sputtered and then swallowed, and the cold water did feel good.

"Jimmy," he said, when the cup eased away. In the dark hotel room, Jimmy was leaning over him, holding up his head with one hand. "How'd you find me?"

"Ve haff vays," Jimmy said, in a terrible German accent. "By the way, this is going to sting."

"What -- you motherfu -- " Clint said as the needle went in, and then the lights went out.

***

When he woke up again, he knew where he was. Nowhere else smells like a hospital.

He slitted his eyes, but the room was dark and he couldn't see much anyway. While he waited patiently to pick out details, he heard the beep of a heart monitor, and felt an IV in his wrist. Slowly he became aware that nobody else was in the room; that he was, in fact, in a private hospital room.

Well, there when his hundred fucking grand.

He shifted and sat up, and the lights went on.

"Jesus crumpled Christ," he yelped, covering his eyes with the hand that didn't have a needle in it. He could hear his accent revert, as it always did when he was startled, to the cheap country twang of his youth. "Fuckin' do that for?"

"Told you he was slippery," Jimmy said, and Clint lowered his hand, blinking in the light. "Good morning, Clint."

Jimmy was in a business suit, a really nice one, probably tailored.

"Nice tie," Clint said.

"Thanks," Jimmy said calmly. There was another guy next to him, in an equally nice suit, studying a file.

"I was talking to him," Clint said. The man's eyes flicked up to him, and he gave him a small smile. Clint noted that he was not, in fact, handcuffed to anything anywhere, which was at least something.

"Versaci," the man said.

"Bless you."

"Yes, he does," the man agreed. Clint blinked at him owlishly. The man went back to his file. "Clinton Francis Barton. Born in Waverly, Iowa. Trailer park, orphanage, eight or nine missing years, and then the arrest warrants start. What an interesting life you've led, Clinton."

"Well, it was this or interpretive dance," Clint replied.

"I'm sure you left your leotard behind in the compound. You're wanted in, let's see, five states for robbery, two more for assault, though reading between the lines -- "

"He started it," Clint said.

"Jimmy says you're a pretty good shot."

"I wouldn't trust him, he's a narc," Clint replied.

"Nevertheless, your bow is very well cared-for."

Clint sat up a little straighter. His bow-case was in a corner of the room, along with the duffle bag containing all his earthly belongings and the paper sack in which he was toting the hundred grand.

The man took a book out of his pocket, Clint's battered and much-thumbed book. "Julius Caesar. Odd reading for a man like you."

"I keep it around to impress the ladies."

That earned him a knowing smile. "Mmhm."

"You wanna tell me what all this is about, or am I free to go?" Clint asked, shifting to sit on the side of the bed. He was in a hospital gown, but he'd done more with less.

"Well, that depends," Jimmy told him.

"On what?" Clint asked.

"There are a couple of state troopers outside," Jimmy said. "They're very interested in your history. As is my friend here."

"More of a boss, really," the other man said modestly.

"Aw, we're friends, aren't we?" Jimmy asked.

"You owe me ten dollars," the man replied. "Pay up and then we're friends."

"Yeah, the Laurel and Hardy act is getting old," Clint replied, hissing as his feet touched the cold hospital floor. He decided to try walking to his duffel bag, and neither of them stopped him. "Spit it out or send me up."

"The men outside your door could arrest you," Jimmy said. "Or they could escort all three of us out to a car and wave goodbye as we sweep you off to a life of unrestrained violence and interesting adventure."

"I ain't really that much on violence, my report card sayin' otherwise," Clint said.

"What Jimmy means to say is that he's impressed with your aim and your resourcefulness, and the spark of human kindness he suspects lurks beneath your arrest warrants," the other man said. "We'd like to offer you a job."

Clint, bent over his bag, covered a grunt of pain with a laugh. "For what, that fed agency you work for? I don't pass background checks."

"You don't have a college degree either, but fortunately we're not like the three-letter boys," the man said. "The Stragetic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division would like to pay you to raise a little hell on our behalf. As you're freelancing in hellraising at the moment, you could see this as an exceptional career move."

Clint shrugged out of the hospital gown and pulled on a pair of reasonably clean underwear. "As opposed to prison?"

"Something like that."

"What makes you think I don't have an escape plan?" Clint asked. He tried to put his pants on, and pain lanced up his side.

"That," the man said, pointing to his bandaged wounds.

"Some thanks, Jimmy Woo, for helping save your life," Clint snapped.

"I figure the hundred grand covered that," Jimmy replied.

Clint straightened carefully, deciding not to even try pulling a shirt over his head. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," Jimmy said.

"I am authorized to sweeten the deal," the other man said. "You give us six months, and your arrest warrants go away. Clean slate. Call it a probationary period."

"I don't need your probation," Clint retorted.

"Oh, not for you," the man said. "For us. Try us out for six months. You don't like it, you can walk away."

"Bum deal for you."

"Well, we're betting big on you not walking away," Jimmy said.

Clint turned to face them, hands on his hips. "What if I don't make it six months with you?"

"Interesting wording," the man said.

"We cut you loose," Jimmy replied. "You don't get a clean slate, but we'll let you go. That said, when some other law enforcement agency catches up with you, and you know they will, nobody's coming to save you."

"Nobody's ever coming to save me," Clint said, rolling his eyes.

"I did," Jimmy replied quietly.

Clint paused at that. Because yeah, he might have drugged and kidnapped him, but he put him in a hospital and didn't steal his money or his bow.

"Six months," he said suspiciously.

"Free and clear," the man replied. "Starting now, if you'd like to get out of here."

Clint nodded. "Can't be any worse than prison."

"You know, I might have fingernails again by the time probation ends," Jimmy said to the other man, who handed him the folder with Clint's life in it.

"He's all yours, Woo. Don't fuck him up," the man told him, and left.

"I don't think I caught his name," Clint said, as Jimmy picked up the duffel bag and bow, politely leaving Clint to carry the cash.

"Oh, don't worry," Jimmy replied. "You'll learn it eventually. Get your shoes on, in two hours I'm gonna blow your mind."

***

Two hours later, the tiny, sleek jet they were riding in landed on a flying aircraft carrier.

"Yeah, okay," Clint said, as they landed. "Mind officially blown."

***

Jimmy found him a small room in the barracks level of the Helicarrier, complete with a secure locker for his money ("You know the paymaster can -- " "Kiss my ass is what the paymaster can do."), a computer just sitting there on the desk like they didn't expect him to steal it, and a temporary ID that gave him access to the mess and, eventually, the firing range. It was cute they thought he'd need an ID.

"You're on mandatory medical leave for the week," Jimmy said, as Clint fiddled with the ID and wondered how much a meal in the mess cost. "There's a rules and regs book in your dresser. Learn it. Basic starts as soon as you're steady on your feet. You can check out firearms at the range, but you won't be issued one yet. See the quartermaster for a uniform, anything else you need. You have any allergies, special medications...?"

"Nah," Clint said, holding up the bottle of antibiotics Jimmy had given him.

"Mess opens at four in the morning, stays open till eight at night. Coffee's available 24/7. Oh," Jimmy added, handing Clint a phone. "Your cellphone. Keep it on you, in case someone needs to reach you. My number's pre-programmed."

It wasn't that impressive, compared to the smartphones that would be emerging into the market in a few years, but Clint held it carefully, aware he was cradling a couple hundred dollars' worth of technology.

"You're basically on a long leash," Jimmy continued. "Learn your way around. Make some friends. When you're ready to start training, call me."

"That's it?" Clint asked.

"We don't hand-hold at SHIELD. Besides, we're at twenty thousand feet. Where are you gonna go?"

"Yeah, point," Clint said, still staring at the phone.

"Hey," Jimmy said, and Clint looked up. "It doesn't seem like it right now, but trust me. This is the thanks you get for saving my life. I don't take that kind of thing lightly. None of us do."

Clint nodded.

"Seeya round, Barton," Jimmy said, and left Clint alone in his new home.

He spent a while unpacking, not that there was much to unpack. He might have rescued his bow, but his quiver had been a lost cause, the arrows inside it snapped by the time he got to it. His clothes, of course -- he'd have to figure out where you did laundry on this thing -- and the framed photo of him and Barney, two hollow-cheeked, sandy-haired kids with mischief in their eyes. They'd clearly gone through his stuff but they hadn't taken his burglary kit or his good knives. Even his copy of Julius Caesar was back in the bag where it belonged. His false IDs were missing, but he couldn't really begrudge 'em that. They were shitty work anyway.

When he couldn't stall any longer, he shoved a couple of twenties from his cash stash into his pocket and went looking for the mess. It wasn't hard to find -- he followed the smell of boiled water, industrial-grade cooking, and garlic until he found a large, open room full of people in identical black uniforms.

He got a tray and loaded up -- couple of apples, some granola bars, stuff he could stash in his room if need be. A big bowl of stroganoff, bread rolls, some butter, a little single-serving jug of milk and a paper cup of coffee...

He looked around, in vain, for a cashier.

"Whatcha lookin' for?" someone asked at his elbow. He turned to see a small, muscular woman nearby, watching him.

"Where do I pay?" he asked, embarrassed. She frowned.

"Are you new?"

"Yeah, sorry, I just..."

"Food's free," she said.

"Free?"

"Sure. Comes with the shitty salary and dangerous workload."

"Oh," he said, looking down at his tray. "All of it?"

"Yeah, all of it," she said with a grin.

"Even the coffee?"

"If they made us pay for coffee there'd be a mutiny," she said. "Eat up, handsome. It's on the house," and she was off, weaving through the tables, headed for a group of friends who were clearly waiting for her.

Clint very carefully carried his food to a corner, where he could put his back to the wall and watch the room. He didn't really believe it wasn't some kind of trick until he'd inhaled the entire bowl of stroganoff and sopped up the remaining gravy with his bread.

Nobody had mentioned the free food.

***

It turned out just about everything on the Helicarrier was free. You didn't need coins for your laundry and you could get anything you wanted from the quartermaster. There was a little store that sold smokes and alcohol and DVDs and stuff, but if you needed soap or shampoo or razors you just said "Hey, I need some of that" to the quartermaster and signed the register and boom, free stuff.

"Is this what it's like in the army?" Clint asked Jimmy, a few days later. They were sitting together in the mess, Jimmy watching him put away his third slice of pie with something approaching awe. "Everything's free 'cause you get shot at? I shoulda joined up. I mean, I got shot at anyway."

"So glad to see you coming out of your shell," Jimmy said.

"Who pays for all of it?"

"Your tax dollars. Well, probably not your tax dollars, but theoretical tax dollars you would have paid if you'd ever had gainful legal employment. Where the hell are you putting all the food you just ate? You're like a stray cat. The food will still be there tomorrow, Clint."

"Touch this pie and I will stab you," Clint said calmly.

"You're sounding well on the way to good health," Jimmy observed.

"Yeah, I was thinking, what's Basic like? Because I have my GED, you know, and I'm pretty good at tests. I was thinking maybe we just cut to the chase."

Jimmy gave him a look. "You want to test out of basic training."

"Can I do that?"

"Anywhere else, no. Here, maybe. I'll ask around." Jimmy frowned slightly. "Clint, I feel like I should tell you this."

"What?" Clint asked.

"You know that along with skills assessment we have to do a psychiatric evaluation."

Clint tilted his head.

"You should be aware I'm going to be the one to write it," Jimmy continued.

"Yeah? Are you a shrink?"

"My BA was in psychology. There are probably more qualified people on the Helicarrier, but I think I know you better than they do," Jimmy said.

"Okay, so? What's the big deal?"

"Most people find psych evals a little...personal. Part of the goal is to make sure your eventual supervising agent is aware of your flaws."

"Well, introduce me, they'll figure it out."

"It's not quite that simple. You play your cards pretty close," Jimmy said. "One of the agents mentioned you thought you had to pay for your food."

"Snitch."

Jimmy rubbed his face. "See, this is what I mean. We look after each other here. I know you've been in a group home, so you've been in a dynamic like this before, but we're different. She was concerned first about who you were, and second that nobody had properly explained to you how we work. Which was my fault -- I made some assumptions. We are a large institution, yes, but we're not competing for resources. We're cooperating. Now, someone who doesn't know you wouldn't know that you..." he gestured to the empty pie plate, "...you have some issues with food."

"It's not the food, it's the free," Clint told him.

"Look, the point is, she didn't tattle on you to the boss. You're not going to be punished for eating as much as you want. She was protecting her people from some stranger on the Helicarrier, and she had a secondary interest in protecting you, because if you didn't know that, what else might you not know?"

"That's not really the point," Clint said. Jimmy frowned.

"What do you think the point is?"

"I dunno. You tell me. What's the point of you telling me you're going to tell someone all my flaws?"

"Ah. The point of that is simply to be honest with you."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to trust me."

"I gotta say, that in itself makes me somewhat suspicious."

"Yes, that I expected," Jimmy said, looking a little amused. "Clint, you have a very knifelike way of getting down to the basics."

"Got no time for anything else," Clint said.

"Well, anyway. I'm going to speak to a few people about giving you some skills assessments and we'll go from there. I'd like you to report here," Jimmy said, passing him a slip of paper, "At 0600 tomorrow. Have you got your uniforms from the quartermaster yet?"

"Sure."

"Be in uniform, and bring your bow."

"Haven't got any arrows for it right now."

"That'll be taken care of. See you tomorrow morning," Jimmy said, standing. "Exciting times, Clint."

"Sure. You know how I crave excitement."

***

Clint, like many people undergoing a major life upheaval, didn't remember a lot of his training with SHIELD afterwards. It seemed like there was a clear delineation: Before SHIELD and After SHIELD, and not much recalled in the way of transition. He was an ex-carnie thief, and then a blur, and then he was an agent. Well, you couldn't test out of everything.

He did remember, vividly, the first day Jimmy put him on the firing range. He remembered the increasing look of confusion and concern on the range master's face as he fired perfect rounds with small arms, large arms, and then a sniper rifle set at the furthest distance the range would allow. He remembered Jimmy giving him some really high-quality, top-of-the-line arrows, by which point a small crowd had gathered at the observation glass to watch him shoot. He did one of his favorite tricks, because he'd seen Robin Hood do it in a Disney flick as a little kid -- he fired wide, then drew and fired a second shot to correct it. The first arrow hit dead-center; the second one hit the wall just above the observation glass.

"Let's try the obstacle course," Jimmy said over the loudspeaker.

"You have an obstacle course?" Clint asked, trying to hide his excitement.

The obstacle course was the best thing he'd ever had: running, jumping, climbing, hiding, and shooting, all at once. He ran it with his bow -- Jimmy gave him the option -- and only had to stop once, briefly, when a tear gas mine went off. He got out of range fast enough that he only snotted up for a minute. It was like the circus and stealing combined. He felt he'd never get tired of it and, in later years, that proved to be the case.

He came out of the course in an adrenalin rush, and found that people had been watching him on a big television monitor in the exit room. Money was exchanging hands. Jimmy clapped him on the back and gave him a washcloth to clean his face off with.

"Hey, Barton, where the hell'd you learn to shoot like that?" someone called.

Clint was opening his mouth to answer when he realized everyone had gone silent. A door had opened and the man from before, in the hospital, had walked inside and cleared his throat.

"Everyone out," he said, not angrily though, at least not as far as Clint could tell. The other agents filed out in good order. "Barton, you stay."

"Did I do something wrong?" Clint asked in a whisper.

"Not yet," Jimmy said, grinning.

"Agent Woo, I'll take it from here," the man said, and Jimmy passed him Clint's jacket (that's what they called the folder full of his stuff, he was getting used to the lingo) and left.

"Did he do something wrong?" Clint asked.

"No. Agent Woo was training you. I'll be handling your training from now on. Come with me."

Clint followed him out into the narrow corridor, walking a half-step behind.

"Do I get to learn your name now?" he asked, as they walked.

"I am ASAIC Phil Coulson," the man said. Clint ran through the acronyms (many) in his training guide.

"Assistant Special Agent in Charge," he said.

"Very good. You can call me Agent Coulson."

"That is less of a mouthful."

Coulson led him up a flight of steps, on an indirect path towards what Clint thought was the bulkhead. "I have to admit I thought Woo was exaggerating when he described your abilities," Coulson said, as they walked. "I see that's not the case."

"He doesn't strike me as someone who exaggerates."

"No, I suppose not. Relatedly, it's interesting that you've chosen, while in training, not to fill in that eight year gap in your records."

"Didn't see how a sixteen year old's life was all that relevant."

"Oh, I think you did," Coulson said, keying himself in through a door with his ID and leading the way inside. Good; Clint hated when people held doors for him. Made him itchy between his shoulder blades. "But it's no matter. This morning we filled that gap for you."

"Oh," Clint said. His heart sank. He was getting to like it here; people didn't treat him like a freak for shooting well, and there was the free food. "Am I fired?"

"No," Coulson replied, leading him down another rather more well-lit hallway.

"But you know I was a carnie."

"I prefer to think of it as unorthodox vocational training," Coulson said, opening another door. Clint stepped inside and found himself in a small office.

There was a workstation filling almost half of one side, and a couch crammed against the wall of the other; on the wall between them was a large posterboard covered in paperwork. Next to it was a framed vintage poster, a bond sales ad from WWII with a cheerfully saluting Captain America. A shelf above the couch held a folded flag in a wooden case, like you got after military funerals (at least, so the television had informed him) and a photograph of a group of soldiers clustered around a plaque reading RANGER CORPS CLASS 266. Clint studied it.

"That's you," he said, pointing to one of the faces in the photo.

"Yes," Coulson said, sounding amused. On his desk were more photos: one of him and a tall African-American man, both in fatigues, and one of a young woman holding a baby.

"Family?" he asked, pointing at the woman. "Sister, right?"

"Why do you say that?"

"You don't wear a ring, and the kid doesn't look like you. The lady does."

"You don't miss much, do you?"

"Kinda in the job description."

"In your former career," Coulson said.

"Yep."

"Please, sit."

Clint sat at the chair on the near side of the desk; Coulson sat in the far one.

"I have your psychiatric evaluation from Woo," Coulson said. "Would you like to read it?"

"Why?" Clint asked.

"Curiosity. A chance at self improvement."

"I like me just fine."

"As you like," Coulson said, and set it aside. He offered Clint one of the handbills from his old circus act. "This is you."

"Yeah."

"Nice tights."

"My Versaci was in the wash."

He'd scored a point with that, he could tell. He'd used his computer to look up Versaci, though it took him a while to get the spelling right.

"Have you ever tested the limits of your remarkable aim?" Coulson asked.

Clint shrugged. "I can get a proton torpedo down a ventilator shaft."

Coulson looked up from the file carefully. "As amusing as Star Wars jokes are, I'm asking a serious question."

"I can hit what you want me to hit," Clint said. "If I'm not close enough to hit it, I can get close enough. Never had a problem."

"So you don't know your outer range."

"Not precisely. I can eyeball it and tell you whether I'm in range."

Coulson nodded. "The Helicarrier is making seafall tomorrow morning. We'll be docking off the coast of South Carolina. I'd like to take you off the ship and see if we can't get some measurements on your abilities."

"Why?" Clint asked, curious.

"So that we understand how to put you to use. What did you think your job would be here, Barton?"

Clint shrugged. "What Jimmy does. Spying on folks. Shooting the place up when it's called for. Y'all didn't ever really give me a read on that," he added, and then consciously stifled the accent that was emerging. The idea of someone studying him shoot that way made him nervous. There was a lot you could cover with flashy costumes and circus tricks that you couldn't in a black uniform with a guy like Coulson watching.

"Did you consider we might use you as a sniper?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Figure you got guys for that already. I'm nothing special," Clint said.

"I doubt that. But, we'll soon find out. Pack an overnight bag," Coulson says. Then, thoughtfully, "Are you allergic to dogs?"

***

Of course Phil Coulson had a great dane.

Clint had answered his question without really wondering anything else about it, and he'd taken his orders to report to the jet bay the next morning. When he got there, Coulson was standing by the jet, and a large, beautiful blue point dane was sitting next to him, watching him adoringly. The dog shifted its weight slightly on its haunches when Clint came into the bay.

"New agent?" Clint asked, nodding at the dog.

"This is Senator," Coulson said. "He's friendly. Let him smell you."

"Sure. If I'd known I would have brought treats," Clint said, crouching to be at eye-level and offering his closed fist. The dog nosed at it, huffed, and scented the air. "You keep him on the carrier?"

"He's a registered service dog."

"Ah," Clint said, a little disappointed. "Not yours, then."

"No, he's mine."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "K-9 unit?"

Coulson smiled gently and said, "Senator, board," and the dog turned around, trotting calmly into the jet. "He's my service dog," he continued, following Senator in. Clint followed a few steps behind. "Technically he's a therapy dog. Gives me permit to keep him with me regardless of where I go."

Clint eyeballed him, wondering if Coulson was more unstable than he was letting on.

"It's a paperwork issue," Coulson said smoothly, which didn't exactly answer the question.

"Where's he pee?" Clint asked, because he was curious about where exactly you walked a dog in a place like this.

"That's very personal," Coulson said, but his smile widened a fraction. "The carrier has a hydroponics garden for water recycling and air scrubbing. It's quite a nice park if you know where to look. I try to keep him out of the other common areas. Doesn't do to show off the perks of the job."

"Huh," Clint said, sitting on a bench across from him. Senator sat next to Coulson's leg and leaned up against it, resting his head on his knee. Coulson kept up a steady, gentle scratching behind his ears as the jet took off.

"I found him on my last tour in the middle east," Coulson continued, looking down at Senator, who looked up with big dark eyes. "We went out on a tip about a possible weapons depot. Big oil mansion. Very elegant. Pretty much everyone had cleared out, but they left a bitch and two pups behind. She was dead of dehydration -- already drank the toilets dry -- but the pups were all right. Senator couldn't even see yet, but he got up and growled when I came in the room, trying to protect the others. He and his sister rode out in my pack when we left."

"What happened to her?"

"Used her as a bribe to get him on a transport back to the US with me, few months later," Coulson said calmly. "Some customs agent's kid has a really great dog."

"Not above bending the rules, huh?"

"Not for him," Coulson agreed, ruffling Senator's ears. There was a fondness in his face that was almost alien to Clint; he'd seen it rarely before SHIELD. "Mind you, he has his uses. I say the right word and he'll take your face off."

"Don't tell me what word," Clint said.

"I wouldn't worry. It's in Dutch."

"You speak Dutch?"

"I speak enough," Coulson answered. "Let's discuss today's exercise."

***

Clint honestly wasn't sure how well he'd done, at the end of the day. Coulson was a stone-face, no question; he'd run across a few, usually in law enforcement and very briefly.

They'd spent the day with bow, handgun, and rifle, plus a big ol' M40 bolt-action, sixteen pounds of officially sanctioned US sniper gear. The M40 took some getting used to; he didn't like how heavy it was, and he didn't like using it.

"I can get closer," he said, when Coulson set him up with a long shot only the M40 could carry off.

"Why?" Coulson asked.

"Don't like this thing," Clint said.

He expected to be told to shut up and fire; there'd been some of that in training. Instead, Coulson called Senator to him and sat him while he considered it.

"Prove you can get closer unspotted," he said. "How long do you need?"

"Unspotted from where?" Clint asked in reply.

That earned him a slight smile. "Anywhere."

Clint nodded. "Need about ten minutes."

"Take it," Coulson said, bending to pluck a few burrs out of Senator's fur.

He had to admit he was surprised, but he took off through the field, sometimes running, sometimes crawling, and when the shot rang out from the ordinary rifle he'd brought with him, he had the distinct pleasure of looking back and seeing mild surprise on Coulson's face.

They were quiet on the jet back to the Helicarrier that evening -- Clint tired, Coulson contemplative. Clint ate a protein bar and bound up a few blisters and one or two scrapes while Coulson fed Senator. He looked up in time to see Coulson toss a square of dog-treat jerky across the jet to him, and saw Senator track it with his eyes. He held it out to the dog, who got up and came to him, tail wagging.

"Aren't you the most beautiful thing on four legs," Clint murmured, as Senator tugged the jerky delicately out of his hands, settling on his haunches to chew it. "He must be purebred."

"I've never bothered with papers," Coulson replied. "Use is much more interesting to me than breeding."

"His use as a guard dog?"

"He has many uses," Coulson said, and Clint suspected they were having two separate conversations. "Not all of them immediately evident. He still surprises me sometimes."

"Do I surprise you, sir?" Clint asked.

"I suspect you will," Coulson replied.

***

Clint's first mission as a fully-fledged SHIELD agent was a cake walk; he was covering a team of agents who were doing all the hard work, busting down doors on an arms depot on the Texas coast. It could have gone south, but it didn't, and Clint spent ten hours in a sniper blind without firing a single shot. He preferred it that way, honestly. The way people looked at him in the halls of the carrier now, he knew what they were thinking. He'd been graduated straight from trainee to Specialist, and while he didn't have much experience as a professional sniper he knew that 90% of the job was waiting and the other ten percent was pretty much flat out killin' folk. Coulson was in charge of the op, efficient and brutal, and Clint took a liking to his managerial style, such as it was.

His second and third missions were likewise uneventful, and Clint was beginning to worry they weren't going to pay him for sitting on his ass watching other people do the heavy lifting. Then the fourth mission came along, and when he walked into the briefing room it was just him, Coulson, and the guy Clint recognized from the photo in Coulson's office, the tall African-American man -- older, and with an eyepatch, but undoubtedly the same guy. Coulson didn't introduce him, so Clint didn't ask.

"No team?" he said, settling into a chair.

"Not this time," Coulson said. He tapped a button on the desk, and the screen behind him filled with a mug shot of an extremely cranky lookin' guy. "Abraham Vucik. Your target."

"My target," Clint repeated.

"Yes. He's in-country. In New York, actually. This is an assassination," Coulson said, bringing up a map of New York. "He lives in a penthouse apartment with bulletproof glass, so you may need to get creative. Fortunately he has been on our list for a long time and isn't going anywhere, so you have time to work out an approach."

"You want me to kill someone in the middle of Manhattan?" Clint asked.

"Without drawing undue attention, yes," Coulson replied.

"What'd he do?"

"That's classified above your level."

Clint sat forward. "Nuh-uh. I've seen this movie."

Coulson raised an eyebrow. The other man in the room crossed his arms.

"This isn't an option, Barton. This is your mission," Coulson said.

"I don't kill people when I don't know what they did to deserve it," Clint replied stubbornly. "I get it, SHIELD is shadow-government and you -- "

"We," Coulson corrected.

"Whatever, we do what other agencies can't. I have no problem shooting someone to defend my team. But I don't go around shooting people I don't know did anything wrong. I don't know what SHIELD's charter is -- come on, not the official one," he said, as Coulson opened his mouth. "Whatever we get up to, maybe you know the endgame, but I don't. So you can tell me why I should shoot him or I can walk."

The other man in the room finally spoke. "Your six months are up, Agent Barton. You could walk."

Clint blinked at him, rapidly doing the math. He hadn't realized it had been that long -- he'd forgotten about the probation period entirely.

"Then I walk, because this shit is too deep for me, and I don't even know who the hell you are, so I don't take orders from you," he said, standing. "Nice knowin' ya."

He could see the two of them exchanging glances, a silent communication as he left. When he reached the door, Coulson said, "Barton."

Clint stopped and turned, which was probably a mistake; they knew he wanted to stay.

"This is Director Fury," Coulson said.

Clint swallowed hard. Director Fury. Director of SHIELD. As in, his boss's boss's boss.

"Don't make any difference," he said. "Unless Director Fury wants to give me a reason to stay."

Fury smiled slightly. "Sit your ass down, Barton. You're not getting off this ship without one of us giving the say-so, so stop bluffing."

"All due respect, Director Fury, go fuck yaself," Clint replied.

"Gentlemen," Coulson said quietly. "Clint. Sit down."

Clint sat, well aware that he looked like a sullen kid.

"Abraham Vucik is a foreign national operating criminal enterprises in the US," Coulson said. "I will brief you fully on his jacket, but not until he's dead."

"Why?" Clint asked. "What becomes so much less classified once I kill him?"

Coulson and Fury exchanged another look.

"Do you trust that I will brief you?" Coulson asked.

"Got no reason not to, but Coulson -- "

"And you trust that I'll tell you the truth?"

Clint gave him a look. "The truth ain't at issue."

"Then what is?"

"Whether what you tell me will have been worth it."

And that's the Works No Longer In Progress for this year! I hope you've enjoyed.

Comments

[onyxtwilight]

Sam, Sam, Sam. Even your cast-off fragments are better than most peoples' carefully plotted masterpieces. :-)

[cantarina]

Agh, the Darcy fic, so good, even unfinished. Totally worth reading even without an ending :D

[(Anonymous)]

I love the snippet of Clint starting out in SHIELD. It would be interesting to see any of these elements folded into future stories -- but even this bit is satisfying and awesome.