birch trees loom

In his defence, he only lets them punch him because it is part of the mission. 

Regulus guesses he has to thank the Red Room, after all; if this is what those losers call an interrogation—well, he’s had way worse. Regular pain is nothing, and what most would consider an eight from a scale of one to ten is a tingling for him: in the Red Room they don’t only teach how to inflict pain, but how to withstand it as well; it’s a simple process. Don’t focus on the pain; think of something else; control your breathing; allow yourself to internally swear; close your eyes and remember something beautiful. And so every time he hurts, Regulus remembers. Remembers how he is in a better place now; remembers he is in control; remembers there are people counting on him, the same people he reluctantly relies on.

The hell he grew up in is like the world in the way it is brutal; in the way you can’t afford to get close to anyone; in the way you listen for footsteps behind locked doors and learn to recognise whose gait they match, whose gait to fear. The Red Room raises little killers and unleashes them to the world, little dolls who tilt their head and smile before shooting you in the chest. It takes innocence and twists it into something gruesomely beautiful and irresistible, something deadly and silent. A hunter; a ghost. A spider; a Black Widow. And Regulus himself is no exception, no matter who’s side he is on; good reasons behind bad actions don’t justify the actions themselves, and every word is red in his ledger. All is red in his ledger and there are moments he wonders whether the blood will overwhelm him. Regulus Black, he will think, then; killed by his own sins.

It does piss him off, for several reasons, how they instantly underestimate him because he looks feminine; his features are delicate and sharp, his movements cat-like, his body lithe. But that doesn’t bother him; not every trans man has to conform to the norms. What annoys the shit out of Regulus is the way they expect him to tremble at their harsh words, to flinch at their tone, to cower. Because it means they have seen this before, it means they expect this behaviour. It means someone, somewhere, has been diminished and belittled and treated awfully. Every time he starts questioning why he defected to S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place, Regulus thinks of this: of every small girl or boy or just kid who should have never been through this. And when he thinks of that, he sets his jaw, nods, lets his face go smooth and agreeable. No more, he will think. No more. And then he will agree to do the unimaginable again. 

So he grits his teeth and grunts when another blow lands on his jaw; at least they don’t try to go easy on him, even though this is truly nothing compared to the terrors kids face in the Red Room. The training unmakes you, removes your sense of self, which will allow you to assume any identity you need—every person they want you to be. Because you don’t get to decide who your target is, who your mission is, who you are going to be to accomplish that mission. Other agents he has talked to think the most traumatising parts of the Red Room are the ordeals a kid is submitted to; they are wrong, though he never corrects them. Losing yourself is a different kind of little death, a small devastation of identity. It is a tragedy of its own: kids wasted away, fading wraiths. 

Right now, though, he gives the Red Room credit for this: Regulus can speak almost any language he sets his mind on, even though admittedly African ones give him trouble. It's in Russian he speaks with Luchkov, tied up on a chair, his hands restrained behind his back. The chair is balanced precariously off the edge of an open floor; the building was still under construction when abandoned because it would be unaffordable to continue. It would have been a factory: grey walls and small windows, cracked paint peeling off, shards of glass from beer bottles littering the floor, rust and decay all around them. If he twists his neck, he will get a view of a collection of graffiti, no doubt courtesy of the teens and young adults exploring the place—he just hopes they will stay out of the building today. 

In the air travels the smell of piss, mould and Russian-cold weather; Regulus tastes blood in his mouth and knows for a fact that more crimson is running from his nose. He tests the plastic bonds around his wrists and suppresses a wince, internally groaning; that kind of rope takes a long time to get out of. Outside, blue is slowly changing into orange-white, the stars flickering. They are in the outskirts of a forgotten town, near a railroad, and every time a train passes, its hinges screech against the metal, and the wind howls with force, and a door slams shut, or bangs against the wall. A clatter echoes through the corridors and is followed by a wave of incoherent swear words, a cat hissing. 

Regulus raises an eyebrow. "Anything wrong?"

"You don't ask the questions here," Luchkov rasps, also in Russian. He is an old man: wrinkled skin, small eyes, in a military uniform. 

"Don't get your knickers in a twist."

"I'd like to know why they sent you to carry out a carrier, a stamp of Alexander Hamilton, and a black queen pawn—items completely irrelevant to each other."

"I couldn't possibly be a collector on personal vacation? Or a fan of the musical? Or a chess player?"

"The famous Black Widow. Nothing but a pretty face that spits smart words." 

Regulus smiles sweetly. "You really think I'm pretty?" 

Luchkov ignores his remark, walks over a table with metal tools glinting under a dim light, and picks up a pair of pliers—which is supposed to scare him and, to be completely honest (which he rarely is), does, just a little. But then one of the thugs' phone rings; startled, the thug answers.

"Hello?" 

Incoherent words follow; the thug's face twists into confusion and then hesitation. Regulus follows his gaze to Luchkov and wonders.

"It's for you, boss," says the thug in English; he has a thick, Russian accent: his os clipped, his rs rolled—comically similar to Hollywood villains. 

"Who the hell is this?" Luchkov asks in English; he speaks far more fluently.

"You're at 114 Solenski Plaza, 3rd floor," Mad-Eye Moody's voice echoes in the otherwise silent room, "and we have an F22 exactly 8 miles out. Put the man on the phone or I will blow up the block before you can spell 'vigilance'."

Luchkov swallows, presses the phone against Regulus’ ear, and Regulus cocks his head to hold the device in place, while Luchkov backs off to observe.

“We need you to come in,” Moody says; he doesn’t sound too pleased, and Regulus isn’t, either. 

“You’re kidding? I’m working here.”

“It’s important.”

“It’ll have to wait; this idiot is telling me everything.”

Luchkov frowns. “I’m not telling everything.”

Regulus gives him a look, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t pull me out right now is what I’m saying.”

A beat passes; Moody inhales. That man needs a break. Then— “Regulus. Meadowes has been compromised.”

Oh. 

Oh shit. 

Well. Those words are enough to knock the air out of his lungs, leave him gasping and breathless—or they would have, in some other world, where his first instincts, his primal instincts to protect the people he cares about overcome his common sense. But this isn’t this world, and so Regulus remains externally calm. Questions already arise: who could make Dorcas Meadowes (his last KGB target, his first friend after Sirius, something of a mentor who would show him around S.H.I.E.L.D.) vulnerable, how did it happen, who do I have to kill. The last thought fills him with shame, but not enough shame that he doesn’t want to go on a killing spree and murder every person within eyesight. If anything happens to Dorcas, he knows he will go mad—meaning unreliable, meaning S.H.I.E.L.D. could pull him off the fiend. Meaning, meaning, meaning. 

Damn. When he next sees Dorcas, he’s going to kill them. If they aren’t already dead. 

“Let me put you on hold,” Regulus says. 

He nods at Luchkov, who approaches to take the phone off him. Then he kicks him on the groin—and damn, if that wasn't bloody satisfying—headbutts him, then goes for the rest of the thugs. Only two of them, he can’t help but notice—again, they have underestimated him. He stands and attacks thug number one, avoids his punch, and kicks him with the chair still tied on his wrists. Thug number one face-plants on the floor, groaning. Kick, punch, avoid, kick, punch, avoid: it’s elegant and brutal like dancing. Like ballet. He stays down for good, and Regulus doesn’t stop to check whether he’s dead. 

His jump crashes the chair; it smashes into hundreds of splinters that dig into his skin. He grunts, but is released by the weight of the chair holding him back. Thug number two gets up and Regulus runs at him, drop-kicking him on the stomach, then falls down, flips right back up. He wraps his legs around the thug’s neck and brings him down; as he fall he groans, but stays out of the way for good. Calmly, he grabs Luchkov, wraps a hanging chain around his ankle and drops him down the open floor, dangling. He screams, but Regulus doesn’t particularly care. If this scares him, the man should try being hanged by the neck, see how that feels. 

He picks up the phone off the floor, then his boots, and leaves. His bare feet make no sound against the cold cement. 

“Any idea where Meadowes is right now?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Do we know if they're alive?” 

“We think so. I’ll brief you on everything when you return. But before you get to base, we need you to talk to the big guy.”

“How big are we talking about, exactly? Genius-billionaire-Marlene-McKinnon big? You know she has hated my guts ever since she learnt I was spying on her.”

“Not that one—that’s for Meadowes when we get them back.” Regulus appreciates the ‘when’, even though he tries not to be optimistic. If someone managed to get to Meadowes, he doubts Dorcas is still alive. “McKinnon may be arrogant as they go, but she’ll listen to her lover. You get the big guy.” 

“The kind of I-turn-green-and-murderous big?” he asks, although by now he knows. 

“The one and only. Stay in contact, Black. Constant vigilance.” The line goes dead. 

“Merde,” he whispers in the dark. 

The moment James enters the little girl’s shack, she disappears through the window; James is left standing in the middle of the room like an idiot. He looks around, eyes tracking the place because he needs a distraction, because his pulse is sky-rocketing, because his breathing is uneven from trailing after the little girl—calm down you fucker, calm down or we’re both fuckinggoners—who isn’t a little girl at all because it’s obviously a trap. And he’s obviously a dead man walking, so he may as well enjoy it at least, right?

Brown dominates over all the other colours; the door is covered with curtains, their thin, almost transparent fabric ripped at the edges. In a corner, there is a wooden table, a couple of chairs; one has a broken leg. A baby's bed lies on the corner and he gives it a swing, watches as it moves above the ground. Whoever lives here is extremely poor. He sniffs but smells nothing: not the rotting skin of the dead, or the sweat of the dying indicating a burning fever. No moaning either, nor the nonsense mumbling of someone in pain or asleep, or someone in an in-between state; probably no one is in mortal danger—besides James, and he curses himself for his stupidity. For all his talk of being intelligent, this is not how he imagined his evening going.

The curtains ruffle softly like the wind, and again, the big guy stirs. A figure appears—the most beautiful man he has ever seen in his life. Pale skin, orb-like grey eyes glittering in the dark. His face is a collection of sharp lines, dark curls framing his forehead. He is dressed in a way that wouldn’t distinguish him in a crowd: a dark blue t-shirt that looks almost black, a pair of baggy yellow-brown jeans, a necklace hanging from his neck. His movements are lithe and elegant, his steps cat-like; while his presence aggravates the big guy, James feels calmer already. Which is stupid, but the man’s cool expression has a way of making you want to listen to every word that comes out of his mouth. 

He swallows; it’s not the time to lose his shit over a spy. Because he has to be a spy, or a military officer at least; he has to be someone who wants him dead, or was sent from those who do so. He has to focus; there is the window from where the girl escaped, but James is too tall to fit through that; there is the door, but the whole shack is most likely surrounded. And—is it paranoia, or he can hear a helicopter? He shakes his head, realising: if he wants to get out of this, he will have to beat this man without Hulking out. James has the advantage of being taller and broader, but he knows that appearances deceive. He won’t make the mistake of underestimating this man. 

So, the last resort: talking. 

“Dr. Potter,” says the man quietly. “Of all the places, this is the last I would have expected to find you; the stress levels must be quite high.” 

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Avoiding stress isn’t the only key to keeping the other guy away.”

The man smiles. Raises a brow. “And what do you suggest? Meditation? Perhaps jogging?”

"You brought me to the edge of the city—smart. I uh... assume the whole place is surrounded?"

"Just you and me." 

And in another life, in some different occasion, he thinks he would have liked to hear that. Just you and me. But here it's not the case, because whole worlds lie between them. He doesn't even begin to assume he knows this man, and what he wants. And this man, he doesn't even look twenty five, is probably younger than him—James himself is twenty one and on the run, away from his family and friends and everyone he had once held dear. He's twenty one and there's a green monstrous creature that shares this body of theirs. He suddenly thinks, I'm too young. He thinks, you're too young. But it doesn't matter.

"Your little friend, what was her name—she's a spy, right? Do they all start that young?" James asks. Too young, too young.

We're too young. But that doesn't mean anything, either.

He both smiles and doesn't, gives something of a shrug. "I did." 

"And you are?" 

"Regulus Black. Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Is that fake?" 

"Why would I tell you if it was, Doc?"

He's got a point. "So it is." 

Regulus Black sighs. "No. It's probably the most real thing about me." 

"Are you here to kill me, Agent Black?" James asks, and the Hulk growls in anger. "Because I think neither the other guy nor me are agreeable to that—we're both overly fond of life." 

Which is both a true statement and not. He has tried to live, but he has tried dying as well. Didn't work out for James; the other guy spit the bullet right back out of his mouth. It had been like a slap to the face, a punch to the gut; he was doomed, chained with a monster for eternity. He had wanted an end, but even death had refused him, had spit him right back, let him live another terrible day. But that was months ago, and now James has something to live for, a purpose. Or, had, anyway. He doesn't know how his life will proceed from here, but he'd be a fool to assume they'd let him go on.

"Don't be stupid," Black says as he wanders around the room, eyes tracking his surroundings. "You're far more valuable to S.H.I.E.L.D. alive." 

"Locked up in a lab? I don't think so. I get claustrophobic." 

"You owe us, Doc. You're probably not even aware of it, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has been keeping an eye on you for a long time," says Regulus. 

"How reassuring," James huffs. "For my safety or the others'?" 

"Can't it be both?" 

"Why would you do it?" 

"Because Albus Dumbledore seems to trust you—as far as he can trust anyone," says Regulus. "And now he needs you. We all do." 

"And if I disagree?" 

"I can be persuasive." 

He looks at Black dead in the eye. "And if the big guy disagrees? Will you persuade him, too?" 

Black laughs; it's a beautiful sound. He sits down, crosses his legs. "I'm a man of many virtues, Doc. But you've been doing well; why would you relapse?" 

"It's not always a choice." 

"But I don't see the problem. Can I be honest with you for a change? We're facing an international, extraterrestrial threat, so nobody gets a choice in the matter, not really." 

An international threat. And—James' eyes widen. "Did you say extraterrestrial?" 

Black takes out a phone, slides it towards him on the table, leans back on his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. James puts on his glasses to see a picture of a sharp, blue cube; it emits an eerie light that wants to draw him closer. Black's expression is serious again. "This is the Tesseract. It has the potential energy to wipe out the planet. And this is where people like you and me get involved."

"Monsters, you mean?" James asks, lifting an eyebrow; he leaves the phone back on the table. "Freaks? Abominations?" 

Something flickers in Black's eyes: an opening for a door that would lead somewhere darker—there and gone again. This man saw darkness, and when he got back to the light, he kept some of it within his soul. "We weren't born monsters, you and I, Doctor. Maybe we don't have to be ones—or maybe that's exactly what the world needs."

James runs a hand through his hair. "And what does Albus Dumbledore want me to do with the thing? Because I definitely can't eat it."

"I'm sure you have other talents than eating. Find it, for starters; it's been taken. The Cube emits a gamma signature that's too weak for us to trace. You know gamma radiation better than anyone; otherwise, trust me, I wouldn't be sitting here and you would have continued doing whatever relaxing thing you were doing before."

"You're telling me Dumbledore doesn't want the other guy?" James asks, doubtfully. He needs to push this man to the limits; he needs to know how far he can go—how far they can go. And childishly, he wonders whether this man can snap. He wonders whether he can be the one to make him snap.

"He hasn't said anything about him," Black answers. 

"And he trusts you, does he?" 

"I'd like to think he does."

"He'd be a fool to."

"You're going to be fine, Doctor, I can—" 

"STOP LYING TO ME," James yells, slamming both his hands on the table, which complains with a thud, then observes as Black draws a gun seemingly out of thin air, the move so quick it's imperceivable, and points it directly at him. His hands aren't shaking, but his eyes are afraid, focused on a target, not James. He feels a pang of guilt, and a pang of fear, too. Because this man holds the power of death in his hands with comfortability, has been there, done this before. It's a moment of realisation (more so than when he discovered he was led into a trap by the little girl) that he could actually die today, that those could be his last minutes, that this might be the last face he ever sees. A tragically beautiful mask of fear. And he would be to blame.

He's had close calls with death before, of course. He's been on that side of the gun again, has been held at knife-point, has been threatened and shot and stabbed. His body is a collection of scars, white lines that circle his skin like veins, most of which he doesn't remember getting. When James Hulks out, the other guy's memories are a blur of noises and flashes, violent changes; it's difficult to discern what's happening. The Hulk is hypersensitive, like a small child, reacts to every little thing. Point is, James isn't a stranger to pain or fear for his life; he stares back at the end of a black gun he knows might be the last thing to see, and he follows its black, polished handle to the elegant hands holding it, knuckles whitened.

And then he follows the hands to their owner, and locks eyes with Regulus Black, and hazel meets silver, fear meets fear, because they're both terrified for their lives. It's strange, he thinks, how two people can hold the power over life and death at the same time, and yet be completely scared. It's strange how time seems to stretch out between them, even though it's seconds that pass. He hears himself inhale, exhale; looks out for Regulus' breath, can't hear it. It's strange, he thinks again, that a boy had to learn how to breathe silently, talk quietly, smile faintly, laugh rarely. 

Do they start that young? 

I did.

"I'm sorry," James half-raises his hands, "I'm sorry; that was harsh. I just wanted to see what you'd do. Let's do this the easy way, where you don't use that thing, the other guy doesn't make a guest-starring appearance, and everybody gets to live—how about that? Regulus…" 

And for a moment, Regulus doesn't lower the gun, and James waits for the use of his name to take effect, but then he does lower it, and then he speaks into his earpiece, and he's still breathing a bit heavily, still wary, which depresses James. Scaring people is one of the million things he hates about the other guy and himself, too. He hadn't meant to scare Black, he thinks—should he call the man Regulus? Are they there yet? Point is, he just wanted to get a violent reaction out of him. Just wanted to check whether they were being monitored—

"Stand down, we're good here."

—which, well, they are. 

James looks at him; smiles, a bit sadly. "Just you and me, uh? Though I suppose I deserved that."

"You did."

"There aren't many who could sneak up on me," Quirell says; he smiles. "But I was expecting someone's arrival, sooner or later." 

Regulus stares at him intently, bows in a mocking manner—though with Quirell being so self-centred, he doubts the man will notice. "I live to serve." 

"Is that so? You do have talent, Black, talent my master could use." 

"What did you do to Meadowes?" 

Quirell laughs. "Well, that was straightforward. You won't ask about my master?" 

Regulus comes closer to the cell; Quirell is a tall man, probably bald, with a purple turban hiding the back of his head. He stands calm even in chains, a smug smile on his face as he stares down at Regulus.

"I don't care about your master," Regulus says bluntly. It's stupid, a blatant lie, though the man might not recognise it; of course he cares to know more about Quirell's boss and his agenda, but he knows that Quirell won't supply him with the kind of information Regulus needs. He'll only try to sugarcoat reality, attempt to recruit Regulus, get under his nerves, and fail spectacularly nonetheless.

"But you care about Meadowes." 

Regulus says nothing. Lets silence speak.

"You do," Quirell says, almost in awe; he blinks, as if trying to clear his vision. "You, a man with an endless body count, of course would come to care for someone as twisted as your friend." 

"Meadowes is nothing like me." 

"Is this caring, Agent Black?" 

Regulus pulls up a chair, crosses his arms. "Let's say I owe them."

"Tell me about it." 

His first urge is to laugh, because. That's what his therapist used to say, essentially. Do you want to tell me more about it? 'It' being Regulus, Regulus' past, Regulus' fears, Regulus' feelings, Regulus' family, Regulus' brother. Regulus, Regulus, Regulus—all they ever talked about was himself and how he was doing, how he was coping, did he still have nightmares, was he working on establishing healthy relationships and lifestyle? When he'd complained to Kingsley, he'd looked at him funnily and said that was what therapy was about. It was fixing relationships he didn’t have, sharing memories he wished he could bury (or forget, a part of him would always shamefully think), effectively making positive changes in his life. Improving himself, improving his life. Always striving towards perfection—so how was that any different than before?

Regulus didn't want to discuss the Red Room, his parents, his brother; he certainly didn't want to talk about Regulus. When he'd mentioned this to his therapist, once, they'd just scribbled something down; it always made him edgy, the scrutiny. Like he was being judged—which, he was. If he ever wanted to get back to the field after his defection to S.H.I.E.L.D., he would have to be evaluated, deemed reliable, stable. 

Sometimes, when that seemed impossible, he'd wish he'd never left the KGB. He didn't fool himself into thinking that working for the Americans was any better, but at least S.H.IE.L.D. didn't abuse children. As far as he knew, because the doubt was always there. At night, he'd stare at the ceiling, contemplating his choices, examining his moves, evaluating his decisions. A habit he could never quite escape; perfectionism was engraved on his skin, a tattoo to remind him of his past. And Regulus couldn't find it in himself to trust Dumbledore; he was a man whose motives he'd never been able to figure out. Men like that—powerful men, moving strings from the shadows—always left him shaken. Being in Dumbledore's presence had the same effect.

He sighs. "A few years prior, I worked for the wrong people, for the wrong reasons, doing all sorts of the wrong things. And I got a reputation." He leans back on the chair. "See, I had a specific skill-set that didn't endear me to other powerful people. Agent Meadowes was supposed to kill me—but instead, they saw a boy who had no idea what he was doing. They saw a side of me I didn't know existed."

It's always a risk, giving your enemy that kind of information—information that makes you vulnerable, that can be used against you—but in this line of work, Regulus has learnt he can't afford playing it safe. Not if he wants to succeed. Exchanging information that seemed of importance distracted others from your real purpose. Again, ironically, he thinks of his therapist, and of the bits and crumbles of his issues he'd give them—to keep them satisfied.

"Well," says Quirell, "this makes a good story. Your whole world at risk and yet you would bargain for one person."

Regulus shrugs. "I tend not to care too much about regimes; they're not exactly reliable." 

A liability, they'd called him at first, when he was introduced to S.H.I.E.L.D. by a hopeful but confident nonetheless Dorcas Meadowes. A wild card. But while Regulus had kept his gaze away, Dorcas had argued for his case: that he was young, only seventeen, he didn't know any better, he was brainwashed, tortured, conditioned. And, they had added, maybe we need a loose cannon; maybe Regulus Black is someone we need, and he had reluctantly raised his head, because in his whole life, no one had needed him. Not his parents, not his brother, not his previous colleagues and the kids at the Red Room. He’d been an asset, a useful tool, a soldier and a spy, an agent, a traitor, and now, a defector. Could he be an agent again? Being back in the field would mean a semblance to normalcy, and he craved consistency like a drug he was addicted to. Fighting and lying—those Regulus knew how to do. 

Dumbledore had asked them some time to decide, and then he, Moody and McGonagall had conferred for hours, arguing about his case behind locked doors. Regulus knew McGonagall didn't like him, and he knew that Moody was intrigued by him; the man hadn’t tried to hide it. Even his uncovered eye conveyed his interest in Regulus’ case, something he could work on; he could build a parody of trust between them, just like he’d done with his previous handlers. (Of course, he wouldn’t know until much later that Moody, despite his faults, was a good man, in his core.) But Regulus couldn't understand Dumbledore's stance; those blue eyes would always unnerve him. Just like Quirell's do, now.

"And neither are you. So what does the Black Widow want from me?" asks Quirell. He folds his arms on the chest and waits. 

"It's not that complicated," Regulus says, irritation creeping into his tone. "I've got red in my ledger; I'd like to wipe it out."

Quirell leans forward, a sad look on his face. "But can you, at the end of the day? Bones' daughter, Paris, the bomb attack… and the list goes on, you know it does because you were there. A dozen crimes, a dozen sins, and you think you can repent by saving someone who's no more innocent than you? That isn’t atonement, it’s pathetic." 

Regulus swallows; he can't lose his shit, but it's gonna be a close call.

"And yet you think yourself above others, and think all's forgiven—well, let me tell you something, boy: Bones remembers his daughter, and the French remember Paris, and I know, and everybody in S.H.I.E.L.D. knows who you are, what you are, so why pretend otherwise? You are a freak-show, you and your friends, so don't kid yourself that you're any less guilty of your crimes now." Quirell slams his hand against the cell, and it vibrates. Regulus flinches hard, backs off, his heart beating fast.

"But no," Quirell shakes his head, "I won't hurt your friend. Not until I make them hunt you down like a rat, and kill you in all the ways you have killed others. You think you know what it's like to suffer? They will make you beg for the Red Room's tortures. And then, when you're almost dead, Meadowes will wake up just in time to see you choking on your own blood, unable to scream. That's my bargain. Those are my conditions." 

A flash of a memory, half-burnt like a yellowish photograph, and he is fourteen again and there is blood in his mouth; he can taste it with his tongue, and bile rises up to his throat but Regulus doesn’t vomit, can’t—instead, he’s drowning, coughing up red, red, red. It’s a testament to his humanity, that his blood isn’t black or murky; Iam real, he will think, I made it, I can go on. 

(But you don’t haveto.)

Regulus turns around, breathing heavily; he can't bear to look at Quirell; his words hit too close at home. He wants, like so many times, to disappear, to vanish from the shame that haunts his most intimate nightmares; he wants to rip this man apart so that his body becomes mangled and unrecognisable, pieces of flesh and bone. But he can't; the act isn't over yet; they haven't reached the endgame. He has one card. And now he knows how to play it.

The world is like the Red Room in the way it is like a game of chess, and moving pawns—but it’s also not, because chess only has black and white soldiers, and the real world has every side of grey.

"You're sick," he whispers, letting the horror he feels sneak into his voice and make it small and weak. Letting the fear and the pain of all those years crack his tone. The first lesson the Red Room offers: the best liars always mix truth in their work; it's a standard recipe for catastrophe. And that, he can control. Then, it's time for the key word: "You're a monster."

"Ah, but, Agent Black," says Quirell, and Regulus holds his breath, waits, "you brought the monster."

He allows himself a small quirk of the lips, for his win against Quirell, then turns around and cocks his head to the side. "So it is James… that's your angle."

Quirell blinks. "What."

Regulus reaches for the earpiece on his ear. "Quirell means to unleash the Hulk. Keep Potter in that lab; I'm on my way." Then he turns at Quirell, bows in ballet-style. "Thank you for your cooperation." 

James' face wrinkles under the dim light as he tries to suppress his anger, and he watches Regulus twist his body, dressed in full black gear, trying to get away from the piece of equipment that has trapped him down. It's too heavy that Regulus grunts and stops to rest for a second, his cheek pressed on the cold floor. James wants to help but the big guy wants to smash, so he has to stay away and watch as Regulus struggles and struggles, and has to watch him give up.

"You listen to me, Doc," Regulus says, his voice painted; he tries to turn his head to make eye contact but can't, and all James sees is black curls like a halo. "Listen to my voice. James. We'll get through this, okay? I got you in, I'll get you out, you hear me? I promise."

James, leaning on a wall, laughs bitterly, though at this point it's more of a growl. "We haven't known each other for a week, and this is the third time you have lied to me, Agent. I see a pattern here." 

A groan makes its way out of Regulus, as he tries again to lift off the rubble, but fails again miserably, panting. "I'm sorry my methods don't agree with you, Doc, but really, it's not the time nor—" 

He doesn't get to finish that sentence, which is a pity, because the carrier rocks violently when another explosion makes the floor underneath their feet vibrate. They lock eyes, and then the lights go out. This is when the big guy takes charge. He won't remember until much later, but Regulus' terrified expression as the Hulk chases him will haunt James' nightmares for months.

The floor is spinning, the room changing colours rapidly: green and red and yellow, as if they've been staring at the sun for way too long. Dorcas squints their eyes, trying to discern their surroundings; they are currently strapped down on a bed, in the medical section of the Helicarrier, and everything is too white. They shake their head when they see three Regulus Blacks stare back at them from a chair next to the bed, but then the three morph into one. 

Their head aches, their ears pulse, their heartbeat sky-rocketing as they struggle to breathe. Is this dying? Is this drowning? It feels like it; there is no breath in their lungs, and Dorcas is choking on air. They gasp, trying to shake away the bonds holding them down by the wrists and ankles.

"It's going to be alright, Cas, listen to me."

Dorcas drops their head on a pillow and groans, feeling oxygen fill their lungs, then half-heartedly tests the restraints again. Their ears are ringing. "You sure about that? How sure? He's in my thoughts laughing—god, it's like my mind's been in a fucking blender—"

"Dorcas," says Regulus calmly, and how Dorcas hates his ability to keep his cool façade—something they've always admired and envied, just a little. But now they're angry, not at Regulus, but that's who is there, so that will have to do. It's unfair, but right now the thought doesn't even cross their mind. 

"Don't tell me to chill out," they say through gritted teeth, "Quirell took my control and shoved it up my ass, so don't you tell me to chill the fuck down if you don't know how it feels." 

But Regulus doesn't get angry; he just turns away to pour them a glass of water, then helps them swallow it. "You know better than anyone that I do," he says instead, in that quiet tone of his, briefly meeting Dorcas' eyes, and they want him to scream so that Dorcas can scream back, so that they can release all the fear and pain and oh my god this is how it feels not being in control of your own body and mind, but they know he won't. People don't give Regulus enough credit for being stoic and solid, reliable; they just assume he is a cold person by nature. But Regulus has supported Dorcas in the most difficult situations, and they would be a fool to deny it.

To this day, they don’t know what they saw in that seventeen-year-old that made them pause behind that bow. The Regulus of back then and the Regulus of now are different people—but sometimes Dorcas sees the similarities, too. That Regulus hadn’t wanted to be saved, he hadn’t wanted help; he was a self-assured boy who sneered at their offer, wrinkled his nose, shook his head, and Dorcas had thought, Your pride will get you killed. Still believed that, to be honest. But that Regulus had been scared, too, a terrified seventeen-year-old out of his league, or maybe way too deep. Because Dorcas had seen how he could make himself fit everywhere—still did. Like a chameleon, Regulus shed his skin, shifted personalities the way others changed clothes. 

Instead of killing him on the spot, Dorcas had watched him make his way through an event a teenager had no place being in; watched how no one had thought of Regulus’ presence as anything amiss; watched him smile and laugh and pretend to drink; watched older men and women watch him, step too close into his personal space; watched Regulus grin at them. They had felt disgusted by those people, ready to jump at the opportunity of having this kid. And, the strangest, perhaps the most gruesome detail of all, was how Regulus didn’t seem to mind. Or so Dorcas had concluded. Until Regulus had excused himself, claiming he needed fresh air, and Dorcas had followed him out in the balcony, and watched the city’s lights in the distance, and they hadn’t said anything to him, but when Regulus had turned to go back into the room, ready to throw himself to the jaws of sharks, they’d glimpsed a flicker of something in his expression—or the lack of it. Regulus Black had grey eyes, Dorcas had noticed; beautiful, grey eyes. Dead, grey eyes. 

So when Regulus says, You know better than anyone that I do, Dorcas wishes they could just vanish; wishes they could take him out of here, somewhere far away; wishes for impossible things. Because it's something that has always been true about their friend and field partner: he's strong, but whether it's because he'd been broken before and knew how to stitch himself back together every time or because that was who he was always going to be, Dorcas doesn't know. But if Regulus can be reasonable about this, they can at least try. For him, if not anything else. And for their dearest Marlene. 

"So how'd you get him out of my head?" Dorcas asks, breathing through their nose. 

"I used an ancient French ritual," Regulus deadpans, not batting an eye. He comes to sit on the bed, unfastens the restraints, and Dorcas wants to stop him, because what if Quirell is still there? What if he is still lurking in some corner of their thoughts? It's an idea that has been bothering them ever since they came out of it, disoriented and confused. 

"Really?"

"No. I just hit you really hard in the head."

"Ouch. That must have hurt a lot."

Regulus looks at him, face unreadable. "You don't remember?" 

"Only a bit," Dorcas admits. They close their eyes, recall the snippets of what has been written on their memory. Quirell; an over-enthusiastic, creepy scientist; being underground, trapped like rats in a labyrinth with no exits. And then, they remember the bodies. Blood. A lot of bodies. A lot of blood. "How many?" they ask, resigned.

Regulus shakes his head. "Don't torture yourself; it wasn't you. It was Quirell. We aren't trained for this stuff." 

"I know. But I still did it. What happened to him ?" 

"Got away. We have to stop him." 

Dorcas cracks an eye open. "Who's we, Regulus?" 

"I don't know," Regulus says, as he stands up. He shrugs. "You, me—Marlene, if you manage to convince her—anyone. Sirius." 

They sit up at the mention of Regulus' brother's name. Sirius. Regulus rarely ever mentions him—one would think he's dead—and it's a subject Dorcas knows not to push. "You are serious about this, then. Why? We’re spies, Regulus; this is out of our league. What did he tell you?" 

But Regulus shakes his head, eyes downcast. "It's nothing." 

"Is it?" 

"It's just… I've got red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."

And Dorcas gets the feeling, so they don't press. Sometimes, it's better to leave things unsaid.

Their reunion isn’t a typical one—then again, his relationship with Sirius isn’t a typical one. Regulus is half-sure that siblings aren’t supposed to either fight that much, or ignore each other for years. His stomach does a strange thing when he walks into Sirius’ flat; it clenches, and he swallows, only hesitating at the door. Then he gets his shit together and picks the lock because he can. And because he doesn’t know whether his brother will welcome him at his doorstep, so why even try? If he wants to get his point across, well—it’s necessary. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. 

Regulus pushes the door ajar, then silently walks the narrow corridor that obviously leads into the main room. Sirius’ laundry is scattered on various places throughout the house; clothes hang on chairs or door handles, and, on a rare occasion, his eye catches a sweater on the bathroom floor. Nose flaring in disgust, he shoves away an abandoned box of pizza and continues, checking every room. Sirius’ flat is surprisingly big, and he has to remind himself that it’s because his brother leads a life that has nothing to do with spies and governments anymore. It’s not that he has been keeping tags on him, it’s what Sirius has told him through the phone, on the rare occasions they call each other but don’t fight. Sirius tells him the bare minimum of what’s going on in his life, but Regulus doesn’t complain; he does the same. 

The living room is the most spacy, with windows that let the sun into the house, showering the place with golden light. A layer of dust covers the furniture; it’s strange, he thinks, that while they share experiences from the Red Room, Regulus turned out to be obsessed with perfection, and Sirius with untidiness. He spots a table, sketches scattered on it, a couple of chairs—more clothes and shopping bags on them—and a TV left on playing a series; if he has to guess, Friends. The carpet is wrinkled, his brother’s black boots lying in a corner alongside his collection of converses, and on the brown couch, dozing off, is Sirius himself. 

His brother's mouth is half-open, a silver of drool connecting it with the floor; Regulus rolls his eyes. His hand is stretched out in front of him, hanging in the air, and, close to his chest Sirius is hugging a pillow. He has wrinkles on his forehead; he always frowned when he was asleep, and that at least seems to have stayed the same. 

For a moment, Regulus contemplates pouring a bucket of water on him, but just as quickly, Sirius is on his feet, in a fighting stance, still disoriented. Sirius shoves him and Regulus grunts, as his back connects with the wall. He ducks when Sirius attempts to punch him, and his brother hits the wall instead, swears loudly; Regulus falls on his knees and slides down the floor, coming up behind Sirius. For a few moments, they fight, taking and deflecting hits: Regulus with ease, Sirius obviously out of habit. It stings that Sirius has had the opportunity to live ordinarily, even while Regulus knows if he had it too, he wouldn’t take it. He is not built for a normal life. And he doesn't deserve it, either.

A dozen crimes, a dozen sins, and you think you can repent by saving someone who's no more innocent than you? That isn’t atonement, it’s pathetic. 

Losing his patience, Regulus summons his strength and kicks Sirius on the stomach; Sirius blinks, confused, and Regulus kicks his legs too. Sirius lands on his back with a thud and a groan, swearing loudly in various languages, as Regulus holds him down. They both try to catch up their breaths, and for a while silence stretches out between them. 

"Are you done trying to kill me?" Regulus asks. 

"You broke into my flat, dumbass," Sirius says dryly. "Get off."

"How do I know you won't throw another tantrum?" 

"I could say the same. And I repeat: you broke into my flat. You know. Like a thief." 

Regulus rolls his eyes as he gets up. "If I wanted you dead I'd have used my knives." 

"Well," Sirius says, wincing when his back pops. "I'd have used my gun."

"So, now that we've figured that out, can we talk business?" 

"Nice to see you, too, Regulus. How're things?" 

He sighs, props himself up on the counter. "Everything's fine, Sirius." He eyes the kitchen around him. Marble-white walls, the sink facing a window. White curtains. Dirty dishes, unwashed mugs lined up like soldiers. A picture on the humming fridge: two kids—Regulus looks away. "You've got a nice place here." 

"Thanks." Then, softly: "You could visit more often." 

He ignores this. "Do you have any spare t-shirts? Mine's got ripped off." 

"I won't apologise for being startled," his brother says as he heads to his bedroom to grab one. He throws it at Regulus' face. 

"Wow, real mature."

"Like you breaking into my flat?" 

"Please stop repeating yourself, I didn't know you were in."

"It's considered polite to knock, Regulus," Sirius tells him.

And what if you didn't answer? he doesn't say. Whatif you didn't let me inside?

Regulus shrugs, kicking his feet in the air. He gets up, turns around, taking his own shirt off, adjusting his binder; he puts Sirius' on. It's a white one, with the slogan: whatever itis, Jefferson started it. He raises an eyebrow.

"Still obsessed with Hamilton?" he asks. Later, he will stick the stamp of Alexander Hamilton on Sirius' fridge and say nothing.

"Always." Sirius is giving him a strange look. Where'd you get those?" 

He looks down at his still half-exposed stomach; there's nothing. Looks up with a questioning gaze. 

"The bruises. On your shoulders and back."

"Oh, those. It's nothing," says Regulus, dismissively.

"Did I make it worse?" 

"It's fine, Sirius," he insists. 

"I did, didn't I?" His brother looks horrified.

"In my line of work—"

"About that…"

Regulus shoots him a look. "No. I've told you again and again, I'm not changing professions." He wanders around. "I can't believe the one time I visit you wanna talk about that."

Sirius follows him like a helpless puppy. "It's not unreasonable; you keep getting hurt, and it's not right."

"Just drop it. I'm a mature adult, able to make his own decisions." 

"I will, when you decide to talk about it." 

"It's none of your business—" 

Sirius grabs his wrist. "What you're doing, it's killing you." Regulus withdraws his hand with force, accidentally hitting his elbow on the wall and exhaling sharply at the jab of pain. "Look at you. Is this what you want?"

"What I'm doing is keeping me alive," Regulus hisses as he walks towards the door. "I shouldn't even have come here, it's a waste of time; you won't listen—"

"Wait," Sirius scrambles behind him, "don't leave. I'll drop it—don't leave." There is a desperate tone in his voice; Regulus stops. 

"Fine."

"So—what brings you here?"

He almost hesitates. Almost. "I want you to come in."

"What."

"This is just like Budapest all over again!" shouts Regulus as one of his knives is buried in a green alien. They are hiding behind an abandoned car in the middle of the street, and around them is chaos: fires and people screaming, aliens screeching, cops swearing. This day will go down in history.

"You and I remember Budapest very differently," Meadowes groans as they keep hitting every target they set their eyes to with their bow and arrows. They grin, though, a brief smile that shows white teeth in contrast to dark skin.

Regulus allows himself a small smile.

Evan studies his reflection on the glass, trying not to think of all the things that are going so wrong, that will go wrong from now on; his blue eyes stare back at him. He meets McGonagall’s gaze on the glass and quickly glances away. She is far more vulnerable, has worked with Dumbledore for more years than he can count, and, although no one is aware of the full extent of their partnership, losing a colleague is always difficult. Losing Moody had hit Regulus and Dorcas more than anyone, and he dreads to think how McGonagall may react to Dumbledore’s death. In silence, they watch the doctors operate on Dumbledore, and he thinks he already knows this is a lost cause. 

The machines hum and beep; he can only marvel at the progress of the technology over the years. How strange it seems now, to have woken up decades in the future—and yet, how similar his life is to then: finish the mission, recover, banter with friends, sleep, eat, follow orders, orders, orders. Even though nothing has changed and nothing is the same, he sometimes feels he’s living in stasis, still frozen through the years, a man out of time. Which is essentially true; no one has survived from his time; the fact that Evan is alive is a miracle. And yet he can’t find it in himself to be grateful; his life has been stolen from his hands, like sand or water slipping through your fingers on a summer night. The future is a sad thing, and that he can bear witness to it all alone is perhaps the saddest of all. 

With a pang, Evan thinks of how Pandora would have loved this brave new world; she had always been fascinated with technology, had been the one to drag him to Marlene McKinnon’s (the Senior one, of course, since Marlene McKinnon Junior is very much alive and kicking) presentation of the future. A flying car, she had promised with a huge smile on her face, but now, when Evan looks around, he sees iphones and helicarriers, and guns and ships, huge planes and more weapons, more death. This is nothing and everything like the world he left behind when he crashed that plane in the ocean. As to the reason he didn't jump, a question Dumbledore himself had asked him… why jump? Why bother? To save himself when the better half of him was gone was to suffer for eternity. And Evan hadn’t wanted to suffer, he’d just wanted to sleep forever. 

Of course, he didn’t die, and now he (pays the price) has to give his new life a chance, as Regulus always reminds him. Evan would call him a hypocrite, but he knows Regulus has been struggling for years and hasn’t given up yet, so he doesn’t, either. It’s just… he wishes ‘giving life a chance’ didn’t include Regulus attempting (and failing spectacularly) to set him up on a date. It’s the last thing he needs, right now, with everything going on. Then again, everything will be always going on, so his point isn’t actually valid, Regulus will argue. Then Evan will glare at him and his not-quite-friend-yet will thankfully drop it, because if there is one thing he loves about Regulus it is this: he doesn’t push. 

The hospital is nothing like the hospitals of old times; Evan sees women doctors and men nurses, and although the image is strange, he finds himself smiling. Perhaps there are good changes in this world as well. White walls; the smell of bleaches and cleaning products; a man mumbling in his sleep about his wife; a family asleep in the waiting room. Sterile environment, full of sanitised surfaces that gleam under the white lights in the halls; the silence in some wards he passed out of when running to get here; the silence in this room, as they watch Dumbledore fight for his life without even being aware of it. McGonagall’s stony expression, impassive, her face severe. There is something intimate about watching someone so private grieve in their own way, which means: pretend everything is fine, be strong, be brave. 

Footsteps echo in the corridor; the door opens then slams shut, and Regulus joins them. For a person so collected, he almost looks dishevelled, like he has been running to get here. His expression is unreadable as his eyes track the operating doctors, his eyes icy, his breathing controlled. 

“Is he going to make it?” he asks casually, as if conversing about the weather. McGonagall swallows, the first sign of her façade cracking. 

“We don’t know,” says Evan. 

“The shooter—did you see them?”

“A super-soldier, no doubt. Had a metal arm.”

“Ballistics?”

“Three slugs, no rifling,” McGonagall speaks up; her voice is carefully steady. “We can’t trace it.”

“Soviet-made,” says Regulus. It’s not a question. 

Dumbledore’s state deteriorates; they watch the nurses and doctors fuss over him, their voices coming out breathless, responses quick as they fight for this man’s life. This man who is responsible for the running of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Project Insight and the Avengers Initiative. This man who brought monsters together and made them into heroes. The staff dances around him like actors on a stage, their movements organised and precise, practised. Machines hum and beep, and then they stop and there’s a ringing, momentary silence. There is no beat, no music, no melody, and Dumbledore is flatlining, and they’re charging him with electricity, and he hears McGonagall swear under her breath. 

Fuck, he thinks, too. Albus Dumbledore is dead. 

The scenery outside the car keeps shifting, stretching over for miles as they drive to New Jersey. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” says Regulus, staring off the road the car swallows. “Where’d you, Evan Rosier, America’s favourite boy, learn how to steal a car?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same question.”

“ ‘I grew up buck-wild.’ It’s a Hamilton reference, you know the musical—”

“Yeah, I know, I saw it.” He sighs. “Nazi Germany. What’s your story then?” 

Regulus leans his head on the front passenger seat. His eyes settle on the car's ceiling. “The Red Room. I don’t recommend the place, terrible for the nerves.”

“You should get your feet off the dash, we’re borrowing.”

“You’re boring, Evan. And—I have to ask—was that your first kiss since 1945?” 

He almost stops the car; Regulus is thrown off his seat, face-planting on the dash, and Evan can't help it; he snickers. “No, it’s actually not.”

“Anyone special?” 

“It’s not like I can relate to anyone from your generation.”

“Technically, you’re twenty-one, like me.”

“And somehow still more mature. But, no, there’s no one special.”

“Too bad,” says Regulus. “You don’t have to be completely honest about yourself to one-night-stands, you know, just make something up. Like I do,” he adds, like an afterthought.

Evan clenches his fists around the wheel. “How do you rely on someone when you don’t know who they are, Regulus?”

Regulus shrugs, not looking at him. “I didn’t ask for your trust. And who do you want me to be anyway?” 

“How about yourself?" 

"Nice one, Rosier."

He studies himself in the mirror: blue eyes, dirty blond hair, broad shoulders. For the second time in two days, he looks at his reflection and catches someone else’s gaze. This time it’s Regulus’, and Evan frowns as he observes him drying his hair with a towel, sitting on the bed. Regulus' expression is blank and empty, and a chill runs through him, before he hesitantly approaches him. 

“Everything alright there?” Evan sits on the bed next to Regulus, the mattress sinking around them.

Regulus watches him for a bit. “Have you ever considered wearing a t-shirt that actually fits you?”

“In my defence, I didn’t know I might need another one.”

Regulus gives him a look, adjusting his binder; he’s wearing a thin, sleeveless shirt, and Evan can see the outline of his binder. He quickly averts his eyes, not wanting to be rude. “That’s a shitty excuse, Rosier.” But his voice is, dare he say it, weak.

“What’s on your mind?” Evan asks. 

A bit, again. “I don’t like feeling beholden to anyone.”

“What are you on about?”

“You saved me. I owe you.” 

Evan shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you think I would have saved you, back there?” Regulus asks, eyes intense. “Would you trust me to do that?”

He doesn’t hesitate: “Yes, I would. Now.”

Evan squints his eyes— “Pandora?”

Same startlingly blue eyes; dirty blond hair framing her forehead; lean but broader than the last time he'd seen her. The time he'd watched her die.

Everything burning around them. 

“Who the hell is Pandora?” she says, and then the whole world is falling apart in front of his eyes because his best friend is alive and she doesn't remember.

"James, hey." Regulus crouches down on the snow, cold and unforgiving under his boots, and tries to keep his voice under control. He has learnt that, when it comes to facing the Hulk, it's better not to give him any reason to mistrust you. He needs to look unsuspecting and innocent, harmless and small. He needs to be stable and calm and he needs to slow his heartbeat and ease his breathing. And he learnt that lesson in the Red Room, where it was control yourself or suffer the consequences—even though in the end it didn't matter. They still took his will away and placed something twisted and wrong there; he never had a choice in the matter. He'd just fooled himself into thinking he had.

Dealing with the big guy doesn't quite equate to dealing with his targets, manipulating them into giving up their secrets. Then, it was made clear that he had no room for mistakes; whatever it took, he had to give, whether it was his body or his soul. Now, it's been made clear by McGonagall (who never fails to remind him how much she doesn't like him) that Regulus will never have to do that again if he doesn't want to. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't approve of these methods, and they won't stand for their Agents being abused and mistreated. It is why dealing with the big guy has nothing to do with his time in the KGB. Because if Regus fails, he knows there is someone who will back him up and will take over for him. Here are people he, maybe naively, has tentatively come to trust. Who will help him even if he doesn't ask for it. Who will know he needs their assistance. 

It gets overwhelming, sometimes, how many people are invested in his life nowdays. In his Red Room days, surviving had been between Sirius and him against the world, and, eventually, just him against an ocean of dark. Sirius—who had been his lighthouse in a storm, the reason he'd always try to swim his way back to the shore—Sirius had left. He'd left Regulus with nothing but bitterness, and something much, much worse: numbness. Without his brother to cling to, he'd become immune to cruelty. He'd become desensitised to others' pain; inflicting suffering had been something to look forward to. Sirius leaving had been the best thing to happen in his Red Room career, his handlers had said. The two of them might have worked best together, but an abandoned Regulus was ruthless and uncaring.

Dealing with the big guy is nothing like playing with his missions the way a cat would toy with its prey. Regulus knows those damaged people around him will lend him a helping hand—even cold McKinnon, and suspicious McGonagall. But he wishes it weren't them behind the rope they'd throw him to climb up the cliff he's constantly falling down. Wishes whenever he makes his way up—elbows scratched, palms bleeding, still alive alive alive—to find a pair of silver eyes looking back at him. Is it strange, rude, ungrateful, selfish, that he wants his brother back? Is he immature, petty, childish, foolish for wishing to fight side by side with Sirius again? Is it why during the New York Invasion he sought Sirius, an instinct he'd never shake himself out of? 

It doesn't matter. Sirius didn't come with him to fight against Quirell and his band of aliens. Sirius wasn't there when Regulus' fighting partner got hurt. Sirius didn't make it to his trial when S.H.I.E.L.D. was exposed to the world to actually be HYDRA, and when Regulus made public all their records—and his own, by default. An impulsive decision, but he doesn't regret it, not really. The world needed (deserved?) to know who their heroes were; they deserved that kind of closure, deserved to know what was going on behind closed doors. Or so he thought; maybe it hadn't been his place to make that decision, but Regulus was done waiting for orders that would never come. 

Evan could be proud of being American, but Regulus had no ethnicity, no country, no religion. He could speak so many languages fluently so that not one of them truly belonged to him. What did belong to him? Could he point out this and say: this, this is mine? The right to own property—did he have that? Did he have that freedom? How could he; he was no country's citizen. So did he fight for it? He didn't fight for honour, acknowledgement, fame, validation; he didn't fight for the greater good, or for others. In the end, perhaps he fought for himself, like he'd always done. For himself, for his redemption, to make things right, or erase the guilt—were those the same things? Did it matter? Did he want it to matter? Perhaps to be selfish was the greatest thing of all.

He approaches James with careful moves, puts out his hand, lets the big guy study it. He gives him the power to reject it, to control the situation; he doesn't force the interaction. James blinks and scowls, and he acts like a bit of a child, and Regulus smiles faintly. Then James offers his massive hand, and Regulus places his own palm in his. He meets the big guy's yellow eyes; James could crush his hand into pieces, smash every bone, mangle the skin, scar him unrecognisable. But he never does. Regulus does not understand why, and will always wonder as long as he's alive, because James refuses to talk about it. He has an inkling though. He thinks, maybe.

"It's alright, James," he murmurs, even though it's plain the big guy despises being called James, by the way his eye twitches. But Regulus needs James Potter right now, and the big guy seems to understand enough to let him come back. He stumbles away and morphs into a half-naked James Potter, missing his glasses, blinking, hair dishevelled and blown around by the wind. James groans and lies right there. Regulus rolls his eyes and offers him a blanket, then turns to find Dorcas down, bleeding on the snow. He sighs, then heads over them. 

"I got shot," Dorcas rasps, holding their thigh, their body spasming.

His eyebrows almost touch his hairline. "I noticed."

"Nah, you don't get it. I got shot by fucking Flash."

"I always thought you shouldn't watch DC," says Regulus, shaking his head. He eyes his partner's wound and the blood they've lost; maybe they're delusional. "Don't worry, madam Pomfrey will fix you up." 

"Of course she will, she's the best." 

Now, Regulus can't argue with that. 

Hours later, when they've reached The Avengers' Tower and headed over to James' lab, he tells Dorcas, "You have a tendency of getting hurt, you know."

"Is that your way of showing you care?" 

He snorts. "No, it's just that your girlfriend always blames me. It's not a secret McKinnon hates me."

"That's true," says McKinnon who enters the room and leans against the wall, folding her arms in front of her chest. "You're supposed to have each other's backs, Black." 

"I can't be everywhere at once." 

"He's right, dear," Dorcas points out. 

McKinnon heads over the table beside the bed and starts playing with the medical tools, not looking at any of them. She has a nonchalant tone but by the way she holds her body tense, Regulus knows she's putting up a front. She's lashing out to the first person she found, and that person also happens to be Regulus. Fortunately, madam Pomfrey also enters the room, preventing a sure-to-be fight from happening. She approaches Dorcas with a fonder on her hands and starts asking questions. Meanwhile, McKinnon keeps glaring at Regulus. 

He sighs. Ever since he gave his evaluation of McKinnon she's held it against him. He was doing his job; he wishes she could see it that way. Dorcas has tried to reconcile them; it went… badly is not quite the word he'd use. It was an uncomfortable experience. And the thing is, he likes Marlene. She's arrogant and impulsive and unreliable—and yet so is he, in a vastly different way, but still. Marlene is always holding back herself. And speaking of holding back…

"James, hi." 

James is hovering outside the room, fidgeting with his hands. Regulus salutes Dorcas and walks out to meet him, offering a small smile. James averts his eyes, pulling at the hem of his shirt's blue sleeve. 

"Hi. Regulus."

"I'll see you tonight, right?" he asks him as they walk the corridor together, James a step behind. "You shouldn't miss it." 

"I…" he can't see James' face, but he can imagine: the way he will wince and swallow and hesitate, the way he will want to answer but will hold himself back. Regulus can wait, but he can't wait forever; he hopes James understands this. He turns to look at him while they proceed down the stairs. Muffled voices echo, the chatter of conversation from the upper floor. A chair scraping against the floor; the air bounding off the windows; machines humming. The corridor is empty but the two of them. Alone, things seem much more dangerous between them; it's a different kind of danger than being around the other guy, though. Regulus can't quite name it.

"I'll be there, James," he says and watches his expression for any reaction. 

"I guess I can catch up with the others as well," says James, his eyes focused somewhere above Regulus' shoulder. 

He purses his lips, "Alright. See you," and walks away. He thinks he hears James' faint "oh fuck" but doesn't stop to look back. 

As James watches Regulus' retreating back, his stomach twists. He shouldn't have done that. But he wishes Regulus could understand: that James is a monster, an abnormality, undeserving of the love of someone who's as kind as Regulus. That he likes Regulus too, but can't give him what he wants. They would never lead a quiet life. He would never hold Regulus at night and make love to him. He would never let himself touch Regulus; it was a promise he'd made himself the very first time he realised his feelings. How could he, how can he, when Regulus has so much to live for? A brother James hasn't had the pleasure of meeting; a great fighting partner; his best friend. How can he expect him to give up this huge part of his life to live with an outcast? 

And isn't this the question of the century? He can never; it's too dangerous. To steal a normal man's life, to rob Regulus of a chance at happiness? How could he ever look at Regulus' brother and explain why he would never satisfy his younger brother? And so he does nothing; he holds back and prays his feelings fade away with time. Because if nothing, he has time—time Regulus will never have. The other guy may not be immortal, but he can go on to live an unpredictable number of years. How can Regulus expect him to live without him? How can anyone? How can James? 

A door creaks open, and Evan emerges; James gets a flash of a crowded room, men and women in suits around a long table, muffled chattering, before the door closes with a soft click behind him. Evan’s hand lingers on the door-handle; he looks troubled, staring at his feet. James coughs, politely; he looks up, hesitantly gives him a nod. Evan comes to stand beside him, arms folded, tracking Regulus’ turned back as he is talking with McGonagall in the yard outside. From what he can see, they're talking animatedly; somehow, the two of them never got along. He has always thought it’s because they are too similar: they’d both do whatever it takes for the people they care about, and they’d both never admit it. 

"So," says Evan. He nudges James with his elbow. 

"Hey. Watch it." 

"It's nice," says Evan nonchalantly, hands buried in his pockets, "to see the two of you together. Regulus seems to like you."

"There's nothing but mutual respect between us." 

"Is staring longingly from the corner of a room part of ‘mutual respect’ then? At least tell me you asked him out. For tonight's thing."

"No." 

Evan groans. “I like you, James, you're a nice fellow,” he says, “but sometimes you're a big fucking idiot. You've invented a new kind of stupid, honestly.”

James looks at him incredulously. “And what would you have me say to his brother, his family? 'Hey, I occasionally turn into a green beast, but no worries, I won't hurt Regulus'? How do you think that'll go? ‘Cause I sure wouldn’t be chill about it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you? Not even fucking yet and you’re overthinking about meeting the parents?” Evan sighs, dragging his palm up his face. Now that he’s looking closer, it becomes painfully obvious how prominent the circles under his eyes are; he gets the urge to place a firm hand on his shoulder, ask ‘Are you alright?’ but doesn’t, because that is a universally stupid question. “Look. I don't know about the family situation, but Regulus wouldn't give a shit, okay? He's a cold one, and with you he's at ease. Take your chance before he stops waiting."

But they both know he won't.

The world hates them and Ultron is out of control, and Regulus is shaken because he can take a lot, but this caught him out of guard. Not Ultron—the witch, Lily. She messed with his mind. Now he sees the Red Room everywhere: the ballerinas spinning on their tiptoes; a small boy snapping an old man's neck; Sirius holding him for the last time; sees a younger Regulus who's ruthless and efficient and doesn't care for the bodies he leaves on his trail. With every blink of the eyes he sees. And yes, he's shaken; yes, his hands are trembling; yes, his breath has been knocked out of him. 

It's in those cases he almost misses Sirius. His brother's presence used to be a calming rock to which he'd cling to. It's ridiculous; nowadays, every time they meet they fight. They shout at each other. They sit in silence (it settles over them like a heavy blanket and he hates how something he'd always loved has been turned against him) and let it speak for them, the air charged with electricity, a storm brewing, the eye of the hurricane. Cowards, they are. Regulus doesn't want to be afraid anymore. He's terrified of standing still. He's scared. He's so scared.

"What are you doing?" James asks. He is scared, too. Regulus sees it every day. How strange, a man who could beat anyone in a fight—the same man who's afraid of winning. Is he afraid of being happy, too? Or he'll let Regulus be a part of his story? Will this be enough?

"I'm taking a chance," says Regulus; they're almost face to face they could kiss. They could just—they could just lean, bring their bodies together, and then they could have eternity and minutes. How easy it would be, to be held in James' arms, to wrap his arms around his torso and just let go? But James doesn't know how to hold him, and Regulus doesn't know how to be held. Is it like falling asleep, knowing someone will be there when you wake up? Is it the knowledge that you will never be alone again? And yet, the prospect of being seen, the ordeal of wearing no armour in front of another, terrifies him. For all he said he didn't want to be scared, he'd never get rid of the feeling. "Even if you won't take a chance with me." 

"Regulus, wait—"

"I'm done waiting, James. I like you. You like me. And you'd never hurt me." And he believes it, naively. After all they've been through, he trusts this man who can turn into a huge, green guy, who could snap his neck like a tree branch. Could make every fibre of his bones shatter like glass. And he wants to know, naively. He wants to know what is this feeling in his chest that chants Imiss I miss I miss like a prayer to gods he has never believed in. Is it love? Is he stupid to believe he could ever deserve it? After everything he's been through, after every different kind of hell he's dragged himself out of all alone, because that's just what he does (survive survive survive) he shouldn't settle for any less. 

His life has been lived in the same ways for years now. What kept him in the darkest hours was the only source of light he used to have—Sirius. But then Sirius left what kept him alive was spite and pain and his one and only mantra: survive. And survive he had, at any cost. It didn't matter that people had to die for him to live; it didn't matter he didn't want to live; it didn't matter that the only times he'd care about not dying was when a gun was pulled to his face. That's how he'd kept living—only it wasn't a life he was leading; it was waking up and marching on a battlefield of politicians and criminals (the distinction between them small), waging a war against the world. He'd burn them all down. He had. 

Anger was easy; it was familiar. Anger he could handle, because anger could be used, fueled. It could become ugly and muddy and dark. Anger they could manipulate—and he'd gladly let them. He’ll be damned if he allows this to happen to James, though, who is shaking his head; he looks frantic, wet hair splashing water on the soft, red carpet. His eyes are dark blown moons in the night sky. 

"Are you sure about that? I can't control the other guy, Regulus. I can't control who I am." 

Regulus walks around the room. "I never asked you to, why don't you get it?" 

"I could never have what Dorcas and Marlene have, okay?" James continues, gesturing around the bedroom: to the children's toys scattered on the floor, the clothes hanging on the door-handle, the mild conversation going on downstairs, a burst of laughing after something someone said. This house is a home; is it so selfish to want to build a home with James, too? "I can't have sex with you, I can't make a family, I can't even have children—”

He scoffs, sarcastically, but his eyes sting. He hasn't cried in… he doesn't remember. Doesn't want to remember: crying was something the Red Room had kicked out of him, and here he is, years later, weeping because of the Red Room and everything else in between. The world has turned upside down in a few disastrous moments, and yet crying is a sign of his humanity, a humanity he had renounced long ago when he was shaken awake and told Your brother’s gone; it had equaled to You’re on your own now. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but the betrayal still burns—not as fiercely as it used to. It was a melted candle, a fading light. 

"So you say you can't have children. So you say you're a monster. What does that make me? Where does that leave me?" 

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

Regulus whirls around. He knows there are tears in his eyes, but he doesn't blink them away. He'll see the Red Room again; he doesn't know if he can take it right now. "I can't have children either." 

"Oh. Regulus… I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Oh. So much emotion conveyed in an exclamation. Spoken softly; an admission.

"Know?” He scoffs. “Of course you didn't, no one does—well, except for Sirius, but he hardly counts, uh? Well, in the Red Room, they have this graduation ceremony, I guess." He shrugs, lets his voice hitch, shake. He doesn't care to hide what he's feeling. Not now; he's tired. He's so tired he could sleep forever. "They sterilise you. It comes handy, so in a way I'm grateful. Everything's easier this way." He pauses, lips quivering. "If you're a monster, so am I. And for longer than you've been, because I was a monster long before you even thought of turning into one."

James' expression is one of pity: a sad twist of the corner of his mouth; furrowed brows; big, sad eyes—dark moons, he thought again. But Regulus doesn't want his pity, his understanding, his comfort—they are empty, worthless words, mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. He wants James to… what does he want? To lean on him, not because he's weak, but because he can; to reach out and take his hand; to curl up and fall asleep beside him on a rainy night. He craves simplicity—but not Sirius' normality. To sit with James beside a fire and read; he would be enough. To fight and rest together; they would be enough. To just be; that would be enough.

How easy it would be to reach out and be seen. They are centimetres away, and there's an ocean between them. The distance feels like miles. He cannot cross it. He cannot reach out. To reach out will mean to drown with James. And he loves James with all his heart, but he will not go down with him. Regulus can save himself; he won't waste his time fixing someone else. There are a hundred things he needs James to say. A hundred things he doesn’t say. A hundred missed opportunities, unspoken words, the unsaid, the things meant. 

It's a lost cause even before he attempts to fight for it, because fear is a strong motivator, and James is scared—but not the kind of scared of missing his chance, throwing away his shot; instead, he's terrified of trying, because deep in his heart is terror of losing, failing, not being enough. How he wished he could change James' mind, even though it was not his place to. Sometimes, most of the time, the urge to make James see himself the way Regulus sees him is so great he has to swallow down the tightening knot around his neck. 

James is such a fool for not seeing his greatest gift: his kindness. Kindness is his greatest weapon, too. His soothing tone, gentle temperament, they all lead to people underestimating him. Regulus should have instructed him to use it to his advantage—would have, before he ever got the chance to grow attached. But now he lacks the strength, and perhaps that makes him the greatest fool of all. Because he can't see James as a weapon—hasn't been able to for a long time, now; it has destroyed him. It might have been better, might have spared himself the pain and embarrassment of James' rejection, because it always leads back to this. He should have hardened himself against love a long time ago, but he hadn't, and now pays the price for his naiveté. And yet, it cannot be helped, because no matter the anger and disappointment freezing his insides, Regulus isn't as sorry as he should be.

"I am very aware of your flaws," he tries one last time, signalling quotations with his hands at the last word. "I'm not an idiot, I know what I want. How'd you like it if I started counting my own defects? Is this what you want? I bet I'd win the competition." 

"You're so brutal to yourself—"

"And you aren't?"

"—always finding something to blame yourself for—"

"And you don't?"

"This," James tells him, slowly, refusing to meet his eyes, and please look at me when you say you don't want this, "can't work." 

"So you won't even bother to try?" he asks, feeling as if the fight in him has left him drained and weary.

"I guess I won't."

"And I guess I have my answer." Regulus leaves the room with his heart a little more cracked. But he knows he can take this. He has survived heartbreak, and he knows how to; it doesn’t get easier, but most things don’t.

Everything has gone to shit, the Avengers are divided, Pandora is still MIA ever since she dragged Evan out of the river after attempting to punch him to death ("I don't know you, I don't know you, I don't") and he's attending the funeral of Mary McDonald, his only remaining friend from back then—excluding Pandora who doesn't even remember him. Or, was attending; the service is over, everyone has gone, and Evan is left standing in the middle of a silent cathedral, like an idiot. Memories pass in front of his eyes like flashes of half-burnt photographs: the war, Mary; more war; Pandora; drunken nights and mistakes that turned out not to be mistakes; "I'm a queer" and "Oh darling, join the club". 

The present is a vastly different place from the one he left behind when he crashed that plane in the middle of a frozen ocean. Women, black, queer people—all treated as human beings rather than a) trophies, b) inferior, c) abnormal. No, he's not naïve to think discrimination is a thing of the past—if anything, the growing acceptance of what are considered to be different groups seems to push others into even more hateful stances. And yet, you wouldn't see two men hold hands while crossing the street in 1943. It brings out a bittersweet feeling of both contentment and anger. Contentment because he's glad it's much easier to express yourself nowadays. Anger because the past would have been easier if he didn't have to struggle coming into terms with what he was.

Now that he can date a man and not feel like a freak for it, he finds himself unable to. Having been deprived of that intimacy for so long makes him uncertain of how to proceed. And it's not that he isn’t interested, despite what he told Regulus in that borrowed car when they were running from S.H.I.E.L.D. for their lives. Barty—an agent spying on him from across the hall—has very-not-subtly made his way into his thoughts. In a very distracting way. And the thing is, he wants to talk about Barty. He wants to share this feeling with someone, he wants to be teased about it, be given shitty advice. A task Regulus would gladly provide. 

Evan doesn't want to talk about Barty to Regulus, though. His interactions with Regulus always are—not cold; cordial, teasing, fun; he's really grateful he has Regulus—and yet… It's not the same as it was with Pandora and Mary. Regulus is naturally closed off and withdrawn—not that he doesn't care for you, but in the way he doesn't let you take care of him. He only allows so much before he retreats behind impenetrable walls he's built around himself over the years. Pandora and Mary never bothered to hide; they were open as they went and carefree and so relaxed he had envied them. The freedom of their movements, Evan had never had that. 

Oh, comparing his most close friend with a dead and a MIA person isn't fair, but he can't help it. Whenever Evan is hanging out with Regulus he'll think: this is not what Mary would have said; Pandora would never laugh like that; Mary didn't raise her eyebrows so perfectly; Pandora would this; Mary did that. Thises and thats are all they've left him with, and not hating them for it is a very difficult trial. But Evan can't allow himself to go down that path, or else he'll drown in bitter vitriol and resentment no one deserves, least of all the remaining bits of his past. Hatred is easy. 

The cathedral is beautiful, amidst every ugly and sinful thought his mind has conjured the last minutes. Beautifully decorated pillars with carved endings, bow-like arches over his head, rows of seats for the faithful, the isle between. The ceiling seems endless. The light, dim, creeps in through the long windows, coming out coloured: purple and green and yellow; in the air floats golden dust. On the floor, a pattern of black and white marble in a chess-like manner, reflects his shadow. Churches inspire grandeur, a feeling of reverence. The church in Brooklyn where he attended Mass as a kid would leave him with a feeling of the diminishment of oneself. Evan hadn’t been particularly religious, what with having to come to terms with his homosexuality. 

As he takes a seat in the last row of chairs, his ears unconsciously search for the sound of an ecclesiastical organ, and its deep, heavy, darker tone. Instead, his thoughts are interrupted by the sharp echoing of steps. Evan tenses; the steps cease at the entrance of the cathedral, then proceed; a shadow on the floor, then the man himself appears. Regulus scans him as if looking for physical injuries; he shakes his head, sits down next to him, in silence. Evan lets his eyes wander back to the transept of the church as countless possibilities go through his head. Regulus rarely does something without a purpose; he might be employed by S.H.I.E.L.D. but little does that stop him from pursuing his agenda. So what is he doing here?

A simple guess is he’s attempting to change Evan’s mind about the Sokovia Accords—but that would be the straightforward thing to do, and his friend is nothing of the sort. No one can divert Evan from doing what’s right; decades might go away, but that will persist. What’s his angle then? A compromise, a diplomatic approach—that sounds like Regulus, but it’s just too obvious, and Regulus isn’t a person whose actions you can easily predict. 

“You religious?” asks Evan, fidgeting with his hands on his lap. A snippet of a buried memory he didn’t know existed: Ms Brown frowning at him, expression severe and not so unlike McGonagall’s, but lacking the hidden warmth; a “Be still, for once in your life”; a ruler connecting with his knuckles; a jab of pain and embarrassment. Involuntarily, his fingers graze the back of his right hand. 

Regulus snorts. “Wouldn’t say so.”

"My ma used to make me attend every Mass. Grew up being told I had to go to church. Guess old habits die hard." He stares ahead. 

"Well. Do you want to go anymore?" 

A shrug. "I dunno. It feels wrong not to—which is ridiculous, since my presence here would've been considered a sin, if people knew I'm gay."

Regulus, to his credit, doesn't try to offer comfort; Evan doesn't want to hear it. Instead, he stretches his legs as much as the seat in front of them will allow, and crosses them at the ankles. Sighs, rubbing his eyes. 

"I wasn't really planning on surviving that plane crash, you know."

"I know," Regulus says quietly. 

"Pandora was gone—my closest friend, my only friend," he stumbles at his own words, at a loss, doesn't have a clue where he's getting at, not really, "and I had Mary, of course, but it wasn't enough. Not to keep me alive, in any case. I'd known her for a couple of months—but I'd known Pan for my entire life."

It's silent outside. The world seems to have dimmed around them, everything on a pause, the words coming out of his mouth with difficulty, even though they're the same thoughts he's had ever since he came out of the ice. They should be practiced, the easiest part of this, and yet he struggles to put a single sentence together.  

He knew pain. He'd known it ever since he was a child: sickly and always coughing on his sleeve, sniffing, nose running, bones creaking and aching. It'd seemed as if the world was against him; his body certainly was. His own heart couldn't function properly; the doctors would glance up at his mother with a look of helplessness, shake their heads. No, he wouldn't survive long enough to see adulthood. No, she wouldn't get to see him marry a beautiful dame, settle down in a pretty house, have amazing children and go to church with them on Saturday. He'd never become an artist like he'd always wanted. So he'd known pain, because it was familiar every time he breathed. 

What was unimaginable had been loss. He hadn't known grief, this tremendous feeling of uselessness, helplessness, hopelessness, that would later overwhelm him like a storm and tear his world apart—essentially, that was mourning: your everything crumbling to the ground like a palace of badly-placed cards that had taken effort to put up. His life had been a battle between staying alive and dying of fever to ever give a thought to someone close to him passing away. Until it had happened, of course. He'd learnt what it meant to lose soon enough, in the hard way.

And yet, even after his mother's death, (his father being out of the picture for his whole life, so his absence didn't actually count) Pandora had been there, her presence grounding like a life jacket; sometimes it was easier to sink down and let himself drown, but she'd been there, helping him swim back to the shore, even if the task had seemed too strenuous to even try. It hadn't been easy; he'd argue and fight and plead, beg and cry. He had sobbed on his knees for unspeakable, impossible things, and—to his shame—when that hadn't worked, he'd insulted her, called her words he'd never repeat out loud. But they would stay in his head for the rest of his days, ringing. It was punishment enough, his guilt, she'd said.

And then the war had broken Europe and people were dying, and he'd wanted to enlist too, and when offered the chance—a one of a kind opportunity, young man and he'd bit back I might die—he had taken it. And should have known Pandora would find a way to follow him even in the army. They'd met Mary and nothing had changed other than the fact Pandora was in love, and he couldn't even be jealous because she was happy. In the middle of a world war, she'd made something precious. Of course she had; if anyone could, it would have been her. 

Evan sighs. "After I woke up, I thought everyone from back then was dead. And then I learnt Mary wasn't."

"It must have been hell for you," Regulus says. Still is, hanging in the air.

A half-shrug; his body feels slug, heavy, his heart a dark, withering thing, his stomach a knot. Evan swallows. "I was just really lucky to have her around for that long."

"She had your back, I'm sure." 

He smiles, if it can be called a smile, the corners of his lips upturning. "I used to trail behind Mary and Pandora, you know, like a lost puppy. Everyone in the army mocked me about it, but I didn't give a damn." 

Those were strange times. Death around them, blood and gore, bombs and landmines exploding from nowhere and everywhere. Hunger and terror as they ran across a battlefield, screaming their throats raw. But in the midst of it, beams of happiness: sitting around the fire and exchanging stories, muddy faces grinning at each other, clasping backs and saying We made it like it was a miracle they were still alive. And it was—how could it not be? 

He draws out a breath. "Who else signed?" 

"McKinnon, Evans, James," Regulus lists off. "Dorcas and Barty won't."

"And you?"

"I signed it. Retirement wouldn't suit me." 

Of course it wouldn't, he thinks. Frankly, he doesn't know what Regulus would do without his job. Sometimes it feels like it's the only thing holding his life together, giving him a good enough purpose to go on. To throw himself into a new mission, a new role, a new person—and Evan can't help but wonder how he does it, how it doesn't consume him from the inside out. But maybe that's part of the job description. Maybe that's all it takes to make the perfect spy.

There are times something will flicker, shutter behind Regulus' eyes, and his expression will grow smooth and blank and it's fucking horrifying, but Evan will see the traces of the Red Room all over his manners. The way his voice will adopt a cool and confident tone, bordering in cruelty, something lurking underneath like a monster patiently waiting to be unleashed. Regulus won't burn with fury; he won't be reduced to ashes, but a freezing hell can burn as much as a fire, Evan has come to learn. All it takes is a switch-off in Regulus before detachment becomes his new reality: a reality where he might not hesitate to leave the whole world behind just to achieve what he has to achieve, what he was ordered to achieve. 

It is a fascinatingly terrifying thing to witness. How the gears in his mind turn before he makes a life-or-death decision. And how, when he comes to a final, irreversible conclusion, a person goes from human to target in a matter of minutes. How a man goes from man to something else in a period of milliseconds. A dangerous, lethal assassin. Evan wonders if Regulus even notices the ruthless streak the Red Room has left him with. He is well aware how much guilt nests in his soul, hissing accusations at night, but guilt never stops anyone from doing something their mind is telling them to do. 

This said, Evan realises he never wants to be on the other side of a fight with Regulus. Maybe it's because he doesn't want to know whether his friend will spare him; maybe it's because he doesn't want Regulus to kill him without reluctance or doubt because at the moment that's what is set in his mind, because he likes to think he knows Regulus (the parts Regulus is willing to offer) and he knows Regulus will hate himself, once he comes to terms with what he's done. Because when Regulus has a mission, he physically cannot stop himself from completing it. Even if it breaks him into a thousand shards of glass scattered and covered in crimson red colours.

Mercy has always had a price Regulus isn't willing to pay. But there is a price in ruthlessness to others, too; even if it is a fundamental truth that ruthlessness is mercy upon oneself. 

"We need to stay together, Evan," says Regulus, voice unwavering, but there is something in his tone that Evan doesn't want to dwell on: a desperation. And there's something to be said about desperate people: they're dangerous. "We're stronger if we stick with each other. This isn't giving up, it's a compromise. You know that." 

He shakes his head. "What I know is that if I sign those Accords I'm betraying myself. I can't, I'm sorry."

A huff. "I know."

"What are you doing here?"

A hand on his shoulder, a firm but gentle grip, a presence that will never quite be enough but has to be. "Keeping company to a friend."

Evan half-smiles and tries not to think of the next time he will come face to face with Regulus.

"Barty," he says, uncertainty written to his voice, before Barty closes the door; Barty lingers on the doorstep. 

"Yeah?' he asks, half-smiling; everyone would logically think that Evan Rosier, America's golden boy, Cap, Avenger, war vet, would be more confident and less awkward in his own body. But no, Evan carries himself carefully, as if expecting his body to fail him somehow; Barty finds it endearing; wonders whether anyone else notices. Years of having a shit immune system could to that to a person, and Evan hasn't been out of the ice that long, after all. Definitely not long enough to manage his life. 

Evan shuffles his feet, rubs his elbows, arms folded. He's not looking at him. "When you were not minding your job from across the hall—"

He stifles a laugh. "When I was doing my job, you mean?"

"Yeah, that." Evan offers him a sheepish, crooked smile, leans on the wall. "Did Mary know?" 

A pause. "I didn't want to have her keep that from you. Mary's life was full of secrecy. I couldn't do that to her. Or to you."

"Thanks. I'll leave now."

"Okay."

Evan blinks owlishly, shakes himself. "I'm… leaving. Yeah." He turns around, walks away, then stops. Barty watches bemused, as he mutters something to himself. He comes back, rubbing the back of his neck. "Would you like to grab coffee sometime or…" 

It's official; Evan Rosier does not know how to talk to boys. Barty flashes him a grin, says, "Or you could come inside?" and pushes his door further open. 

"Um… sure, why not."

That's the moment Barty's TV automatically opens on a channel showing a burning building, panicked faces, screaming, ambulances and police cars wailing and they both do a double take, as if to confirm what they're seeing. He thinks he listens to Evan whisper under his breath something along the lines of what the fuck and in every other occasion it would have been hilarious, because Captain America does not swear, but now he can only stare at the television dumb-founded, until professionalism takes over. He shakes his head, and his phone starts ringing. He picks it up, has a hasty conversation with the person on the other line, Evan watching the exchange and frowning.

Barty turns to him. "They're saying Pandora Lovegood, the Winter Soldier, has been identified as the one setting the bomb. I have to get to work."

"Do you know me?" Evan asks in an apartment somewhere in Bucharest. Pandora stares at him, but it's not encouraging; her expression is carefully blank, so unlike the open person he used to know. 

"Evan Rosier," she says in the end. "I read about you, in the Smithsonian. I don't know you."

He ignores Barty's frantic warnings on his earpiece—they're entering the building; they're on the roof; I'm compromised—and focuses his attention on Pandora instead. "People think you bombed the UN in Vienna."

Pandora shakes her head, face still inscrutable. "I didn't. I'm not the Soldier anymore. I didn't kill those people. I didn't."

"Then—then don't let this end up in a fight, Pan. Please." 

A flicker of something, at the use of the nickname, Pandora adjusts the metal arm, then— "I won't get a choice anyway" and—

Someone's kicking down the door—

A bang, shouting, heavy footsteps against the floor—

She slings a backpack over her shoulder and whatever is inside makes a clattering, dingling noise—

Evan moves—

Pandora runs. 

An apprehended Pandora and several cups of coffee later, Evan ends up in front of Marlene McKinnon, sitting, chatting like they're friends. 

"How's Dorcas?" he asks, politely, shifting on his chair. 

Marlene sighs. "We're kind of sort of not talking."

"They're angry you signed?" 

"Of course. And they won't talk to Regulus either. I can't believe I've agreed on something with Black though."

Oh, right. Regulus signed, too. Elbows sliding on the table, Evan buries his face in his hands, his head pounding. The light is too strong, the room is moving, the floor spinning; in short, everything is wrong. He wants to hit something. He wants someone to hit him. 

"I'm sorry," he says, sincerely. He doesn't know either of them well, Regulus is closer to Dorcas, but he means it. Everything's messed up.

"Well, couples fight, they split, they make up. Happens to everyone. My parents were assholes but they somehow made it work. I don't know how they managed to. It's unnerving."

"Your parents were good people. Just…"

"Arrogant?" Marlene raises an eyebrow. "Obsessive?" 

Evan makes a vague gesture with his hands, helplessly. "They were good people," he repeats, even though it feels stupid to repeat that without evidence backing it up. "They were kind to me."

Marlene laughs, a rough sound. "Oh, they fucking adored you. Not like they didn't say Evanthis or Evanthat half of the day." She imitates her father's voice. "Evan was a great man who gave his life for this country. I despised you before I could hack into the Pentagon for the first time."

"I wasn't great. I just did what I thought was right." 

"And that contained crashing an airplane into the ocean but not jumping before doing that? You'd have been a great service to this fucking world alive, Cap. Cut the crap." 

Evan breathes in, out, trying not to let his temper overcome him. "It had felt right," he repeats instead. 

"You know what else feels right?" Marlene asks, in a mockingly conspiratorial tone, leaning her chair on its back legs. "Signing the fucking Accords that will get us under control, Evan. Preventing another floating city. Avoiding freak accidents. Less dead."

He's almost convinced into putting his damn signature on that paper, when Marlene mentions offhandedly Lily and confinement and she's alright, I swear, living her best life in a 100 acres with a lap pool and getting a break and Evan groans and puts the pen down, leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

They end up fighting in an airport in Berlin. The aftermath isn't pretty.

"Must be really hard not to play double agent every time, uh?" Marlene sneers. "You let them go, you let Rosier and fucking Lovegood and Crouch go, Black. What have I gotten wrong? I thought we agreed on something, but no, you have to double-cross someone in the end, don't you? Do you even know what loyalty is?" 

Regulus balls his fists, grits his teeth. "Don't talk about loyalty, McKinnon—you let them put Dorcas in fucking prison! Your partner! We crossed a line, but damn, I'm done here, okay? I'm done."

"They're coming for you, Agent; I thought you should know. Let's see how long it will take you to go crazy without this fucking job." 

He feels his face pale, a rage shaking his core. "Then I guess when I go crazy and kill people, I can just blame S.H.I.E.L.D. for firing me, uh? I own up to my mistakes, you don't." 

Years later, Voldemort, who's been the villain all along, smiles and disappears, and the world will never be the same. Barty blinks and blinks and blinks, as if he wants to wake up from a bad dream. 

"Where the fuck is he?" he says. "WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?" 

Shaking his head, disoriented, Evan looks around: to Regulus lying down, bloodied and somehow still miraculously alive; to Lily, who's wailing silently beside Petunia's body, making choked noises he didn't know were humanly possible; to James, still in his huge suit; to Dorcas, who's looking around; to Pandora—

"Evan," she says, her voice strange and fearful, "Evan, I think—"

She doesn't even get to finish that sentence.

Their eyes meet at exactly the moment her metal arm starts turning into ash: her intelligent eyes wide as plates, the drawing of her last shock still imprinted in her face when her body slowly and methodically just—vanishes. There and gone again, only floating dust left behind. Evan frowns, cocks his head, waits, waits, waits—

Lily blinks beside her fallen sister, inhales as if she's trying to hold her breath for as long as she can, and then she's gone, too, like she'd never existed—

Barty raises his hand middle air, hisses when it disintegrates in front of his own eyes and—

("NO!" He thinks he shouts, but everything is too quiet and too loud and he can't tell whether it was a new scream or he had started screaming after Pan disappeared and never stopped. Nothing ever stops, nothing fucking stops, make it all stop. But he keeps whispering, mumbling to himself, "No, no, no, no," like it's a chant, a prayer, a song, like it can do anything at all, like it can cure, like it can change; he's weak, he's useless, he's done nothing, everything was for nothing and he died for a world that was doomed, and he rocks himself back and forth, trying to find warmth in a body that has been always cold, always running a fever, always surrounded by ice ice ice ice ice)

—Sirius Black—who'd finally come to his brother's aid, after years of Regulus asking for his help—Sirius Black is dragging his feet towards Regulus, who manages to sit on his elbows, wheezing, and Sirius stumbles, and falls, and Regulus catches him the moment his legs turn to ash, and—

"Shh, I've got you, I've got you," says Sirius soothingly, as if he's not the one dying, disintegrating in thin air, but Regulus is staring at him with eyes wide open and young and afraid, mouthing words that make no sound, "it's okay, it's okay," he says, promises, lies, his hand coming to rest on Regulus' forehead, and then nothing, there is nothing but ash between his arms, and it floats; Regulus tries to catch it, but he can't, he can't, he—

At first, Evan thinks he's imagined it, because Regulus doesn't cry. He doesn't weep; no tears fall from his eyes. But then he's screaming, honest to god screaming like someone cut off his limbs, like someone took out his heart and tore it into pieces, like he's being tortured and god, it hurts to hear his voice break, it hurts to hear the pain, the loss, and Evan wants it to stop, everything stop, Regulus stop, but he screams his voice raw like he's nothing left to give; but then he keeps going at it, a scream tearing through his throat and then another, and then another, until his friend doesn't seem able to breathe, until he physically can't go on, his voice closed, and he just makes small noises of a wounded animal—

And then Evan realises it, dazed and dizzy as if he's drunk on their loss: Voldemort won.

The next months (years) come in flashes. Marlene is among the lost, and Dorcas breaks, disappears from the world, reappears every now and then as a suspect behind murder cases. Regulus tries to lead whatever's left of them but he's not coping well, either; he's a ghost of himself, eyes bloodshot and skin sick and pale, dark circles under his eyes, moving around their base at night. He rarely sleeps, eats, or takes care of himself anymore. It is as if with Sirius' death, a part of him had died with his brother. And Evan… he's not doing well, either. 

They try to fix the world anyway—what's left of it. They fail, of course; how can they stitch up this broken earth when they can't save themselves?

Yes, Evan is not doing fine, either. 

He walks down the stairs. Crosses the corridor. Stops, frowns. A ragged but otherwise quiet noise behind a locked door—Regulus' office. Regulus never used to cry before. Nowadays it's always like that. Evan regards the door, listens to a hitching breath—a wounded animal, he thinks again—and goes on. There were times he might have stopped, knocked the door, sat down next to Regulus, offered words of comfort, consolation, anything. But he has nothing more to give, drained and empty as he feels, a shell of himself because, no, he's not handling this any better.

The corridor is quiet but for Regulus' room. It's always quiet now: no more chattering, bursts of laughter, shouting voices arguing. He'd never liked the quiet before, but now he despises it. What he'd do to listen to Marlene's jabs and jokes; what he'd exchange for Barty's wit and smile; he'd have loved to get to know Sirius. He misses James' stoic presence, his awkward shuffling, even if he isn't dead, just—not here. Misses Lily's and Petunia's arguing from downstairs, or how, no matter what, Dumbledore always seemed to have the answers, orders for them to follow; McGonagall and her severe looks that promised them hell if they misbehaved, like a bunch of teenagers. 

Gosh, when they'd all started with S.H.I.E.L.D. they'd been fresh out of adolescence, hadn't they? Full of hope and dreams and regrets, but they'd all had a purpose: redemption, making things right, changing the world, protecting it. But maybe the world hadn't needed protection, or at least not the kind of protection they had to offer. Maybe the world was better off without them anyway; maybe it had needed to be shielded from them. He'd never thought like that before, but now it's more obvious what Marlene had tried to do with Ultron. Even if it was disastrous. Even if it ended up with a floating city falling from the sky and more dead. 

Everything came back to death. People who surrounded themselves with Evan's kind were doomed. He often felt like a ticking bomb, wanted to keep everyone at an arm's length, afraid he'd somehow hurt them, fail them—the way he'd failed his friends, the way he'd failed his country, what was left of it, and the world. His attempts at seeing, recognising the bright side of life did nothing; they were just that, attempts. Futile, useless, like everything he'd fought for, given his life for. Stupid ideals, meaningless words. 

What did it matter that the prices were lower now? The shops didn't have customers anymore. Who cared if education had finally become free, when the schools were glooming, silent buildings, missing the laughter and banter of a hundred students? There was no point in it. Even Evan—ever-the-optimist-Evan, America's-golden-boy-Evan, useless Evan, worth nothing more than the flag of his country: nothing—couldn't find anything positive in the demise of half the universe's population. He was dry and weary. He had nothing left. No ideas, no thoughts, no hopes, no dreams, nothing.

Had they really thought they'd change the world? Who were those versions of themselves, hopeful and optimistic and (dare he say it) happy? Strangers, they seemed to him, passing shadows, lingering in the corners of his mind, along with every once cheerful memory, now tainted and stained with blood. Even then, unknowingly, they had been wasting time, missing opportunities they'd never get again. There were a million things he didn't get to say, wished to express but never had the courage to. Idly, he wonders if it's the same for Regulus. Wonders whether James regrets letting Regulus go. There's no point in them getting together now; Regulus is in no state for it. 

There's no point in a lot of things now, Evan thinks. They lost, and that's it. No coming back from that, no recovering. There were times they might have tried, if they were united—but they aren't, because half of them are gone, and the other half are slowly killing themselves. He doesn't wonder under which category he falls; he already knows. Gosh, had they been so arrogant to think they'd known everything? He'd thought he understood the intricacies of grief after he watched Pandora fall, after Mary's funeral. Young people always thought they knew everything—he's not even thirty, but he feels old beyond his years. Maybe he'd always been old, after all. Seventy years in the ice finally showing.

A laugh shakes him, and Evan wipes away tears with a trembling hand. Momentarily, he's mesmerised by his own palms, as if it's his reminder he's not transparent; he is actually alive. But nowadays that doesn't mean a lot. Nothing means a lot. The secret behind existence is that: there is no hidden meaning behind it. It just is. Whether someone decides to make something out of it, that's their own accord. Life has no purpose unless you give it one, and he can't find himself the will to. 

Evan walks away.

(Regulus' sobs ringing in his ears. The sobs he ignores.)

They have nothing, no chances, until they have. You can't change the present, but maybe you can go back, instead, James explains, excited, and Regulus traces the wooden table with his hands while he listens. The words hold no meaning to his ears; he's numb, and so they sound far away, muffled, as if he's underwater. He's drowning in the now and there is no escape.

Unless there is, James says to him, hopeful. Unless there is an escape. Unless they can change what happened.

A frown. Regulus looks up. He's not sure James understands. It doesn't matter, because nothing does. Everything is dark around them, can't they see?

He listens anyway.

He does everything they say. Exercises, gets back in shape, recruits Dorcas. 

It's freezing, the rain clattering against the windows of the glooming dark buildings around them. The air smells of piss and mold and rot, like something crawled in a ditch and died. It's not that unlikely. Blood assaults his nostrils and Regulus holds his breath, once, twice, until he starts seeing stars behind his eyes. He exhales, resolves to breathe through the mouth. Drops of water are falling heavily on his umbrella and sliding down around him, and idly, he takes notice of a small pool of muddy brown water mixed with crimson red.

Dark looks over the sky, the city's lights flickering faintly. With the Blip, the world has stopped caring about evolving, and everything has gone to shit: even technology. Or maybe it's because most of the great scientists are dead. The wind slaps him in the face and a tremor passes through his body; but he's always cold, so it doesn't matter. The ground against his boots feels rough as Regulus turns around a corner, heading for a small alley to his left. The stink of blood is more prominent here and the reason becomes obvious soon enough. 

It's a massacre. Not that he hasn't seen worse, but still. It's unnerving. Bile rises to his throat, but he swallows the urge to throw up; it's stupid, he hasn't eaten almost anything all day. James has been pestering him about it ever since he showed up claiming he could achieve time travel; you need to get back to battle shape, he'd said. It had reminded him of the Red Room instructors and handlers, but he hadn't made the comparison out loud, didn't think James would appreciate it. 

Drip, drip, drip. Was it blood or water? he wondered.

The bodies are scattered on the ground like clothes littering a child's bedroom, amongst dirt and mud. They've all died via the same way: stabbed or pierced by an arrow. His throat makes a strange little noise like it can't quite manage a breath; Regulus closes his eyes, overcome by memories he doesn't want to recall. Blood floods his senses until he can taste it in the back of his throat, and he spits, coughs, yet tastes nothing but his own saliva. Counts the bodies until he can feel a resemblance of calm and tranquility engulf him, until his breaths come out even and controlled. 

Bruises and open wounds covered the bodies; the first were a nasty shade of purple, the bodies laying down on their own blood. Wide-open eyes staring at nothing, relaxed and splintered fists. One of them is still alive, he realises with a start. Regulus feels no need to help the man; he's leaned his back on the wall, sitting down, clutching at his side, blood coming out in huge amounts from a gash; his breath is shuttering, halting, breaking off now and then, sweat above his brows. He's dying. With a sense of finality, Regulus sinks on his ankles next to him, placing the umbrella on the ground. 

"Help… me," the man tries to say in Japanese. Despair and pain is written all over his body language, in how his shoulders sag and his eyelids twitch, his lips moving almost soundlessly. "Pl-please, help." 

He ignores the man's pleas, locks their gazes, looks at him steadily. "Who did this?" 

"I'm, I'm begging you, please, please—"

Another Regulus might have helped. Another Regulus might have tried to show mercy, just to get this man brought to justice, just to see him in prison where he undoubtedly belongs. But mercy has a price he's unwilling to pay anymore. He never used to think of himself as merciful until the Blip happened and then morals flew out of the window. Until his brother slipped through his hands like sand, disintegrating into dust and ash. 

"Was it Meadowes?" he asks instead. 

"I—yes, it was Meadowes, they slaughtered us, please, my good man, help me—"

A laugh escapes him. Good man. Everything beautiful and kind died with Sirius. Sirius, whose worth he'd forgotten, had forgotten how trivial, essential to his survival was. Not just his survival: the continuation of his humanity. They'd fought every time, but god, if he could bring him back just to fight again, he would. There is not much he wouldn't do at this point. 

"Thank you for your cooperation," says Regulus, then swings his blade and stabs the man on the side of his forehead, putting him out of his misery. It's a kind of mercy itself: death.

Now that the man's faint breathing is gone, he's left with silence and rain. His eyes wander around in the shadows, ears ringing. Regulus puts the blade back into its sleeve-holster. His heartbeat is relaxed now, under control, as if it had taken killing a man to ease this unnerving feeling in his gut. This is what he has become. Sirius would hate it—but then again, Sirius disapproved of a lot of things Regulus did even back then. They used to quarrel all the time, spit venomous words, strike each other at their weak spots with carefully placed sentences. He misses even that. Sometimes he thinks he stays alive to remember.

The hairs on the back of his head rise, and with them the familiar sensation of being watched arrives. Regulus shifts easily on the balls of his feet, then stands up, turns around. He arches an eyebrow. 

Dorcas has clearly seen better days. Their eyes look tired and blank, heavy bags under them in a shade of purple; a scar on the side of their jaw that wasn't there before; their black skin sickly and sweaty; their hair disarrayed, hanging around their head in wild, untamed curls. They have this look that reminds him of survivors of disasters, numb to reality, uncaring of the world. Regulus wonders how he looks into their eyes; what does Dorcas see? Do they hate it as much as he does? How could they not? 

"Hey, Cas," he says, smiling weakly. It's the one best he can muster the courage to offer. The rain keeps pouring and he's glad, because it hides the tears. He's always crying nowadays.

Their disbelieving eyes dart around, searching, scanning, and it stings; then their gaze lands on him, heavily. "Regulus. What're you doing here?" Their voice is faint and raspy, the echo of what it once was. 

Regulus picks his umbrella up, presses its handle on his shoulder, the feeling grounding as his knuckles grip it tightly. "I could ask you the same question. What the fuck, Cas?" 

"I'm doing what no one has the guts to do."

"You used to bring people in alive rather than dead."

"I'm also an assassin." 

"So am I," he says, "but I've not gone berserk and killed a bunch of people. Yet."

Dorcas makes a raspy sound that at first Regulus thinks is a sob, but then they're laughing, hands on their knees as they cackle. "You're saying you haven't felt it, uh? You didn't want to go on a killing spree when Sirius died?" 

"Don't talk about Sirius."

"Don't judge me by my murderous tendencies."

A huff escapes him, and the tension loosens. "Come home," Regulus says quietly. "Stop this madness. We need you back."

They sigh, eyes misty. "Always the manipulator, uh?"

"Is it working?"

Dorcas shakes their head, pink water splashing around everywhere. They pause for a moment, a troubled expression on their face. "I don't know. What's there to do there that I can't do from here?"

"There is a way to bring them back, Cas. I swear to you, it's true." 

Their knees buckling, Dorcas crumbles to the ground on their ankles, a hand covering their mouth. Sobs rack their body as their shoulders shake. Regulus feels his tears slide down, but he doesn't sink down next to them; he has no warmth to give, no words to comfort; all of him is silence; he is scared that if he goes down, he'll stay down. 

A flash of a memory; Sirius putting on Hamilton to Regulus for the first time, crying at that song: It's Quiet Uptown. He doesn't know why it hits him so hard, suddenly; it's a punch to the gut that twists his stomach into a dozen knots. Sirius had loved Hamilton, obsessed over the musical, the songs, the lyrics, the casting. Lin-Manuel Miranda had been his role model. It would be a lie to say Regulus didn't put it on Spotify at least twice a day. He'd thought it would give him some insight into his brother.

The moments when you're in so deep

It feels easier to just swim down

He closes his eyes as the lyrics ring through in his ears. There was no universe in which he wouldn't trade his life for his brother's. Sirius would hate him for it, but a world without Sirius is a world without happiness, without the only person that brightens Regulus' life. A world without Sirius has no meaning. It's a world he'd thought he'd never live in; Regulus was born last, and would die first, until he didn't and now nothing makes sense.

Regulus smiles at them. "See you in a minute." 

Later, Evan will think back to those words and wonder.

Dorcas leans their forehead against Regulus'; their eyes meet, and they smile. Then—

Regulus elbows them on the gut, starts running towards the edge—

"Don't you dare, motherfucker," Dorcas growls as they tackle him to the ground. "Tell my Marlene—that I'm sorry, and not to blame you."

He rolls on his back, jaw set, and headbuts them, then makes a run for it—

Dorcas follows—

Regulus stops at the edge, turns around, mouths something Dorcas can't make up, falls—

—falls—

—falls—

They think they scream.

"Where's Regulus?" James asks, voice scared and small.

When Evan returns the Stones, minutes later, he hesitantly looks over the edge. Down below, a black orchid blooms in the rough ground. He wonders if it hurt; there's blood splattered around Regulus' head, like a crimson red halo, marking him reverent, a saint. His hand is outstretched beside his torso, as if reaching out to something. Evan stares and stares like his frail form can reveal some unnameable thing he doesn't know he was looking for in the first place. There's something to be said about the strange clarities that could be found in grief, he thinks numbly. 

He's walking hesitantly, as if unsure his legs won't fail him, don't buckle under the weight of his loss. It's understandable, of course. Looking around, he scans his surroundings, a gesture so achingly familiar, one he'd always associated with Regulus. Evan has to suck in a trembling breath. Still, he doesn't approach Sirius; he's paid his respects, and is doing him a favour by driving him here. He doesn't know anything about the older Black brother and right now, even being within his presence is painful. Evan just wonders what it feels like to wake up and see a carbon copy of your brother in the mirror. 

The wind blows Sirius' hair away, obscuring his face from view, giving him some semblance of privacy to mourn. The grass hisses, the trees' leaves ruffling against each other, the sun setting somewhere behind a hill. Regulus' gravestone—a plain one, grey; engraved on the cold stone a name, and two dates—is under a birch tree, which is somehow symbolic. If Regulus were here, he'd explain the meaning behind the tree; Sirius had said it was his wish to be buried under it, but Evan hadn't had the courage to ask him to clarify.

Time passes and maybe it doesn't, but when Sirius comes back to him—red-eyed but calmer than he's seen him for days—and Evan offers him a tight but not insincere smile, he thinks they might make it.

The birch trees loom ahead like a brotherhood of ghosts.

Lisa Ann Sandell