We Wear The Mask
“Sergeant Barnes-“ May sounded impatient.
“I’ve gone a full month without any major episodes!” James pleaded. “I can handle it!”
“And when was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?” Longer than that. Which May knew full well since part of the provisions for his restricted clearance was that he be monitored even more closely by Jemma. He withered a bit, but wasn’t willing to back down yet. He knew he was pushing it, but talking back somehow came a lot easier when it wasn’t followed by beatings or electroshocks or the like, when the worst thing to come out the other end was exasperation. May sighed.
“It’s a small mission. We don’t need you on this one. Go get something for your headaches, try to get some actual sleep. The next mission will come before we know it.”
“But-“
“Don’t make me tell the Captain about this little arrangement.” That shut him up. They’d all decided, in true conspiratory spy fashion, that no one outside the remnants of SHIELD had to know, not yet anyway. He’d been surprised himself. Before Buenos Aires he’d been afraid that anything resembling a mission would make him either snap or break down, but he’d been more focused than ever before. And so, like a predator sniffing blood, he’d come running at the mere suggestion. It felt good to take back some small measure of control, no matter how illusory. But Agent May, he had learned, was a formidable sparring partner both physically and intellectually. Plus, she was getting that impatient slant to her eyebrow again which told him that she wasn’t going to indulge his need for arguing much longer. He relented with a small sigh.
“It’s just …this is all I know; it’s the only way I can try to make amends for…” his voice falters, his throat closing a moment, and he has to swallow thickly. May’s face softens just a fraction, understanding flickering across her dark eyes.
“The thing about guilt is that no amount of it can undo the past. You’ll get your chance, just not today.” She pauses a moment, squeezing his hand in a rare display of affection. He relishes in the contact.
“And you’re wrong – you are so much more than what they made you into.” May’s voice is so sincere that he can almost believe it. Nonetheless he can’t bring himself to make eye contact, just nodding mutely before trudging off in the direction of the archives. True, his head is just about killing him right now, and he can already tell that it’s going to be an unusually rough night even by his standards, and that no more than three hours from now he’ll succumb to sleep regardless of how much he might dread it. If he is being brutally honest with himself, he is in no shape to go on even the simplest of missions, but he can still be useful here until he crashes.
August was sweltering and you were glad it was the weekend and you had no obligations and were therefore free to just lie in bed, wearing as little clothing as possible, and try not to melt. Because of course your building’s air conditioning had chosen that exact weekend to break down. Even Becky cat was too far into a heat coma to mope about James’ absence. She’d even let you place her on a damp towel with minimal complaining. All was going comparatively well so far. You willed yourself not to think about how empty your bed felt and just in that very moment, the doorbell rang. You jumped and gave a rather undignified shriek, rolling off the mattress less than smoothly and hobbling to the front door after banging your ankle on the bedframe.
“Steve, this is really…” you ripped open the door only to freeze, “Not Steve.”
“Not Steve.” The short, red-headed woman concurred. The same who had dragged a whole committee of crusty old senators and whatnot not too long before, and on national television too. You were a fan. And currently more than a little bit star-struck. The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff herself, was standing in your doorway.
“May I come in?”
“What? Oh yes, of course, sorry.” You stepped aside, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that you were dressed in only skimpy shorts and a really old tank top that you’d outgrown so much it left most of your midriff revealed. Agent Romanoff was wearing a full proper outfit, casual, but definitely put together and consisting of far more layers than what you had on. Long pants, the kind of shoes that require socks, even a blazer for all things holy. Nevertheless there was not a hair out of place. Enviable. Supposedly she had no superpowers; you would beg to differ.
“Sorry, the AC broke down this morning. Drink?” you contemplated changing, but then again she’d already seen you in your undignified weekend lounging attire and it surely wasn’t getting any cooler anytime soon.
“So long as it’s chilled.”
You scoffed and dug into your fridge, pulling out some iced tea and pouring two cups which you then brought over. Natasha had already taken a seat on the couch and was currently in the process of being eyed curiously by Becky. Apparently the cat had a thing for Soviet spies. Or maybe superheroes in general.
“So, not that this isn’t exciting, but what exactly brings you here?”
Natasha (goodness, she hadn’t even introduced herself. You should probably call her Agent Romanoff or something like that, even in your head) sipped her tea gingerly before carefully setting it down on the coffee table. You couldn’t shake the feeling that she was assessing you. You squirmed a bit, tugging at the hem of your top uncomfortably.
“Am I making you nervous?”
“Yes. You didn’t answer my question.” At that, she smirked. The feeling of being assessed, being tested, persisted stubbornly.
“Steve isn’t answering my calls, which may be due to my having a new number, but I need to speak to him urgently and figured he’d probably answer you.”
Okay, that was straightforward enough. You figured she’d have been able to find out about your relationship with the good Captain easily, being a legendary super spy and all (and therefore a lot about you personally, which, yeah, not at all unnerving) – Becky meowed, jarring you from your thoughts, and carefully tip-toed closer, swishing a bushy tail against the Black Widow’s legs.
“Couldn’t you, like, text him your number or something like that? Or just meet up?” she just quirked an eyebrow for an answer, which somehow made you think you were onto something here. Which in turn led you to say the following words in your usual poorly inspired fashion.
“You don’t need me.” You declared tartly. “You’re here to assess me, personally, after already doing a very thorough background check I reckon.”
Becky laid down by Natasha’s feet and started purring.
“Traitor.” You muttered under your breath. Natasha smiled, not brightly but with a sense of triumph and a glint in her eye that you didn’t know how to interpret.
“Correct on all accounts.” She said simply, relaxing her previously prim and proper posture. “I didn’t mean to offend or intrude, but I just had to see for myself the person who managed to not only hide the Winter Soldier away from the whole world, but also hide the fact that she was hiding anything at all from no other than Maria Hill.”
“I have no idea who this Maria Hill is but if you put it like that it actually sounds impressive.”
Another sphinx-ish smile. The Mona Lisa has nothing on the Black Widow. You know you’re still being tested, but for now it seems like you’re passing, at least.
“Maria Hill did an assessment of all Stark Industries employees after the events in March. Tall, dark hair, enviable bone structure, kind of intimidating? I think she used a different name then.”
That did ring a bell. You remembered blue eyes that felt like they laid you bare and an overwhelming sense of nervousness at the thought of the nameless amnesiac you’d just brought home from the hospital days earlier.
“Uh-huh…” you hummed vaguely, recalling the unpleasant hour of being grilled about the random HYDRA goons falling in through your window. The interview had put any courtroom drama cross interrogation you’d ever seen to shame.
“I wouldn’t rub it in her face, if you ever meet again.”
“Wasn’t gonna-“ you mumbled, feeling entirely out of your depth here despite the fact that the event in question happened months ago. “So, is that all? You went through the trouble of tracking me down and trudging all the way over here for a talk?”
The Black Widow quirked an eyebrow, her full lips twitching with the ghost of a smirk. You were starting to find this whole spy façade very irritating.
“Look, I’m happy to help you if I can, but forgive me if my weekend plans did not entail this kind of monkey business. So, beside this little character study you’re currently conducting, is there anything else you want or not?”
“You’re sharp and gutsy, I like that. I understand what Pepper sees in you.”
“Enough with the name dropping. Be frank with me or leave.” The weather didn’t exactly help with your temper, and you did feel a little bad for snapping like that, though it didn’t seem to put the other woman off. You wondered whether anything fazed her or whether she was just that good at playing the part. She assessed you quietly for a moment longer before a mask fell and she leaned toward you slightly, pulling out her phone.
“I meant every word I said. Steve hasn’t been answering my calls or texts all day and neither has Sam.” She paused a moment to scroll through her phone and bring up the protocols to show you. “Steve isn’t home and if Sam is, he isn’t answering his door. I’ve tried everything but breaking in. It really is important that I reach them.”
You took a look at the endless list of calls and texts, thought of how the last time you spoke to James had been almost two weeks ago, and cursed men for their communicational failings before scrambling for your own phone. Natasha (she asked you to call her that while you were waiting for the line to connect) did look genuinely concerned now. You tried Steve three times without result. Sam didn’t pick up the first two times. Upon the third try the line connected only to disconnect promptly. It sounded like someone had slammed the receiver down immediately. You exchanged a look with Natasha.
“I’m getting dressed.” You declared, getting up. “I’ve always wanted to break in somewhere.”
“You didn’t even ask what was so important.” Natasha said some minutes later, steering her car towards Sam’s place. You shrugged.
“Figured it was above my clearance level or something like that.” You muttered, still trying to reach either Steve or Sam, but to no avail. “Figured you’d feed me lies or excuses, and I don’t have time for that.” There was no getting through. You were growing more worried with each ring. If it turned out that it was nothing and those two were just too inept to answer their phones you’d chew them out, you resolved grimly. With a noise of frustration, you looked back up, where Natasha was staring straight ahead at the road, her mouth pulled tight. The atmosphere in the car had shifted slightly, and a shiver ran down your spine.
“Sorry, I mean… well, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.” You deflated. First you snapped at her and now you were insinuating that she was duplicitous and untrustworthy, what a great start. Natasha released a breath, shaking her head slightly.
“No, no, the thing is that you’re right, even if the whole clearance level thing probably doesn’t apply anymore, technically.” She was silent for a moment while crossing a big intersection. “What the hell, you’re in this with the rest of us. You have every right to know. Rumlow has vanished from the hospital.”
Oh …okay. You’d be lying if you claimed you weren’t reeling a bit at this very moment. This sounded worrying, especially considering the intensity in Natasha’s eyes as she said it.
“I have no idea who this Rumlow person is.”
Natasha let out an involuntary burst of laughter. If nothing else it diffused the previous tension rather effectively. You were now rather close to Sam’s place, so Natasha pulled up at the curb around the corner and wiped at her eyes before sobering up again.
“Brock Rumlow was a SHIELD agent who worked closely with Steve and I, except he was also secretly HYDRA all along.”
It was difficult to read her, to say the least. Of course, this was to be expected of a woman who made a living out of this sort of thing, but it concerned and irritated you not being able to get a read on another person. Well, in any case you quickly developed an opinion on this Rumlow person.
“So he knew all along what was going on? He knew about Jam- Sergeant Barnes?”
“That seems likely.” Natasha shot you a sly look out of the corner of her eye, but it was gone as soon as it started. You decided not to dwell on it.
“Well, I already don’t like this Rumlow guy.” You declared archly and braced yourself for leaving the air conditioned sanctuary of the vehicle.
“Maybe we should try the doorbell first.” You suggested timidly a few moments later, and the Black Widow let her lock-picking tool slip back into her pocket with a faint pout.
“How civilian.” She complained, but waited patiently as you pressed the doorbell, gradually increasing the frequency up to maximum annoyance level. There was no reaction at first, and then the continuous ringing masked any sounds from within, so you jumped a few feet when the door was suddenly ripped open from within, revealing a Sam Wilson who looked like he’d spent the last few days clawing himself through hell.
“This is not a good time.” He grumbled, swaying a bit. You could only stare.
“We were worried. You didn’t answer your phone.”
Sam glared at Natasha, though it faltered quickly. He sighed, passing a hand over his face and stumbled back inside. You exchanged a glance with the red-headed spy before following him inside.
Asking whether he was okay seemed redundant at this point, so you settled for a helpless huff. Sam trudged into his living room, hastily clearing away a half-filled whisky glass and some cartons of take out. Apart from that the low table was cluttered with photos and the odd piece of junk, little knick-knacks of the sort one keeps only for their sentimental value.
“It’s Riley, isn’t it.” Natasha stated, her voice sympathetic. You had a feeling you should know who Riley was, but the name hadn’t come up so far. Sam eyed her a moment, then nodded and threw back the remaining drops of whisky with a grimace.
“Like I said, it’s a bad time. I’m useless around the 6th.” Sam set the glass down on his kitchen counter, spinning it slowly between his fingers for a moment while he contemplated filling it up again. He ultimately decided against it and looked at you two women with bloodshot eyes.
“What’s so important that it had you ladies come all the way out here?”
“Rumlow’s vanished from the hospital and Steve isn’t answering his phone either, and he’s nowhere to be found.” Natasha summarized. Sam looked at her a moment, several emotions flickering across his face.
“Son of a …”
James had actually fallen asleep on the files concerning ‘Nameless Soldier No. 17’, if one were to be generous. It was more of a passing out really, and he woke back up when his neck had gone so stiff that he could hear the bones popping back into place when he moved. It wasn’t pleasant, but then again, he’d been through so much worse. Nameless Soldier 17 had had some very severe injuries upon being found, and at first the only things James could make out in the file were the various exclamations wondering how the man had possibly survived, but with the help of a medical dictionary he had eventually been able to translate the full list of injuries. There was, for example, a severe head trauma, several broken bones, loss of a limb – the words were blurring in front of his eyes, the Cyrillic cursive not exactly given to make the words more legible. His eyes skimmed over the lines again, lingering on the signature without really reading it before moving on to the next report, which was dated a month later. Nameless Soldier 17 seemed to be recovering comparably well from his injuries, apart from the fact that he had neither memories nor the gift of speech, apparently. James was just about to call it a day when his gaze snagged on the signature of the doctor in charge – Losevsky. He went back to the first page with the initial admission to the field hospital, which had been signed by a Doctor Nikolai Novakov.
Novakov. Novakov never stopped searching …well liked wherever he went, easily inspiring loyalty… - it was a long shot, he knew.
Male, between 20 and 30, around 1,80 meters, brown hair, blue eyes. Severe trauma to the skull (open fracture) and brain (extent of trauma to be determined), shattered ribs, collar bones and shoulder blades, right arm broken in three places and shoulder joint dislocated, left arm amputated above elbow as result of trauma, hypothermic, delirious, dehydrated. Identity cannot be determined. – The file read. James’ stomach twisted uneasily. That was too much to be explained away by coincidence. He was reasonably sure that he was Nameless Soldier 17.
He needed to find a way to speak to this Doctor Novakov.
But more importantly he needed to share this discovery with the only person he trusted enough to talk it over with.