Everybody Knows
Sam had left a while ago. Clint left soon after with Lucky, spewing some excuse about this being the last chance he had to see daylight. Bucky had taken a spot on one of the couches, Matt would catch the occasional scratch of a pencil between the rustle of pages turning. Matt had taken up a spot on the floor. The sofas, with their lax springs and near-constant creaking, were too much. The floor was uncomfortable enough to stop himself from drifting, which is all he needed, to remain present. To really think about this situation. How long was Stark planning on keeping him here? After years of searching scraps of trails and dead-end leads, would they really keep him here until they’d put it all to an end?
The elevator door opened. A set of footsteps, heavy-set, long stride. Like Bucky, but not quite, these seemed… more even.
“Hey Stevie,” Bucky said, slapping closed what Matt now knew to be a book - the smell of old paper and taste of graphite, like magnets. Bucky rose from his spot on the sofa and moved to the kitchen. Bucky’s steps stopped abruptly. Skin on skin as they practically tackled each other. “Where’s Sam?”
“Still training,” Steve replied, sighing as he settled against a counter. “Don't look at me like that, I’ve been telling him to ease up. He just-”
Steve falters. His heartbeat quickens and heat begins to wisp from where he stands. Strange. Matt cocked his head, confused. Something had changed. He listened, reaching out through his senses to try and build a better picture of what just happened. He couldn’t get much else before heavy steps receded back to the elevator.
“What-?” Bucky followed Steve. The elevator doors closed, and the drum-like hearts faded into the abyss of the building. There were remnants of something in the air. Matt stood up, taking a few cautious steps toward where the two had been. He could taste salt. Had one of them been injured? No, he would have tasted the blood.
He barely heard Natasha get up from her spot across the room. The sound of her book gave her away, discarded on a side table, pages splayed open on the flat surface. Natasha was practically invisible to him and it aggravated Matt immensely. If he was keyed in enough, he could place her by her heartbeat. He was almost impressed at its steady rhythm. He didn't have to pick apart her stance, soap scent, or last meal. He remembers the times before, how even in the most intense situations the beat never wavered or skipped. Her heart alone was enough to identify her.
He followed the sound as it approached him, feather-light footsteps, a practiced silence.
“Follow me,” She said, her voice almost a whisper. He felt the air compressed as she slid past, moving towards where the others had left just moments before. Intrigued, he followed her to the elevator, half holding his breath as it descended at speed. He truly hated elevators, especially as a means of descent. The unfilled void beneath a thin sheet of metal. A single plate between him and nothing, and they all moved at such speed, it felt as though he was falling. One perk of them moving so fast was that the trips were short-lived, the elevator slows to a stop in a matter of seconds. A voice sounded from the ceiling, but Matt was too dizzy to make out the words. That wasn’t a good sign, he thought. Hopefully, it wasn’t anything important.
“Your living quarters are this way,” She says.
Matt followed Natasha from the elevator, down a corridor. He trailed a hand along the sleek wall, in hopes of mapping the space. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to do so. Perhaps it was how the walls and floors seemed to dampen sound, his own footsteps hardly bouncing back up towards him. Perhaps it was that he was being led to an unknown location by one of the most dangerous people he could have the misfortune to encounter. Despite her certain place among the Avengers, he didn’t trust Romanoff’s motives. After the stunt Stark had pulled earlier that day, ordering a robot to keep him confined to the tower, Matt wasn’t too hot on placing his trust in the world’s mightiest heroes.
Trust wasn’t something that came easily to Matt. After the shitstorm of his younger years, people came and went like they were walking through an overworked turnstile, trust wasn’t something Matt made himself familiar with. Foggy had been an exception. Though, of course, that relationship had seen its fair share of rocky patches. The memory of Karen as an intermediary between the two of them left a sick taste in Matt’s mouth.
He turned his attention back to the superspy ahead of him.
“You’re on the same floor as Clint, he’s right across the hall.” She paused, steady heart unwavering. “Five paces from your door. If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask.” She kept moving, and he followed. “Sam and the other Super boys are upstairs, I would advise you to keep your distance from them, for now. ” Matt drummed his fingers on the wall as they went, a simple pattern, repeating itself across the wall like a ripple in water. He listened as the vibrations worked their way to the ceiling. He stopped in his tracks, tapped harder, watching as the wall took on a reddish glow. The ceilings were so high. The vibrations barely made it to where it joined with the walls, it loomed above him, an unknown emptiness. He hoped wherever he was staying wouldn’t be as big.
A few steps further and Natasha stopped.
“Here you are,” she said, pressing a hand to the wall. Matt tapped his knuckles against it, watching as the glow spread to the door’s edges. Jutting to his left, the rattle of a handle. He reaches for it, the cold shocking his fingers. He tried turning it. Nothing. A hand covered his, positioning his thumb to catch over the handle's end. Something clicked and the door opened. A fingerprint scanner? He knew everything would be over the top when it came to Stark tech.
The door opened. Electricity seemed to hum all throughout the room. That would get annoying, fast. The sound dripped from the rim of the ceiling, as though it were mist from a waterfall. The hum spewed out thousands of particles, minuscule flecks in the air. They fell across the floor, much like snow - a blanket of fire mapping the entire room. Maybe the noise wasn’t so bad, he thought. As he listened to the sound of the room, he noted the two couches cornering a coffee table. A small dining table, four chairs. A kitchenette, an oven, sink, fridge, freezer, microwave, and small breakfast counter. He stepped into the open plan room. The floor rose behind the couches, leading to a small corridor. He could smell the bleach behind the first door, a bathroom. As he approached the second door he noticed the hum quieting. He pressed a hand against the door, pushing it open. Nothing. He took a cautious step to be met with an absurdly soft shag carpet. Bedroom?
He contemplated if it was worth ripping the carpet out. Wondered, with a hard floor and white-noise machine, if it’d be worth learning the room. He turns back to the living space. Romanoff is still standing in the doorway.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, turning to leave.
“Wait,” Matt says. What the fuck was he doing? The spy turned back. It’s just a question.
“The - the carpet… it’s too thick.” Natasha stays silent for a moment.
“I’ll ask Pepper about taking it out,” she replies. The reassurance does nothing to settle Matt’s newfound nerves. He suppresses a shiver, the open-plan space does little to accommodate warmth. He turns to face Romanoff’s direction, offering a flat smile. She turns to leave, stopping before she closes the door.
“Don’t mind Tony or Steve. They’ll ease up. You know how tense they can get about these things.”
Indeed he did. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that Tony Stark and Steve Rogers shared short fuses. Stark would stress, lashing out with shouts and threats. Rogers was quieter. Bottling his anger and frustration, trying his best to contain it until he could find time to work through it. Before, there hadn’t been room for breath. The both of them seemed to collide with each other over everything and nothing. Both were as bad as each other, amping the other up until there was no other resolve but to snap at whoever was nearest. It was a nightmare.
Romanoff shut the door, leaving Matt to take in the new space. Despite being able to hear where everything was, he walked around, tracing the shapes of the table, counters, and couches. He repeated the process a few times until he felt familiar enough with the layout. He took a seat on the couch. To his relief, it was much firmer than the ones on the communal floor, springs so new they barely made a sound as they were compressed. He pushed at different parts of the couch, testing for the sound. Each time returned a muted squeal, as though they were rubber coated.
Matt’s interest began to wane. He had been right, the hum was too much after a while. He buried his head into the sofa, trying hard to dim the glowing room’s attack on his senses. He should call Foggy. Tell him where he is. Ask if he could bring those headphones he kept in his bedside drawer. A change of clothes would be nice too. To do that, though, he’d have to tell Foggy where he was, and would have to reveal someone he knew to the Avengers, which he wasn’t thrilled about.
He began to think about how he’d even begin to explain the whole situation. The richest man in the country had put him under house arrest alongside the most adept fighters in the world, and he couldn’t leave until he could explain why the blood of a possibly enhanced individual was being carried around downtown Manhattan. How it likely meant there were many more Hydra cells than initially thought, and that they now had to dismantle every last one of them until Stark had found what he was looking for.
Foggy would have questions. Matt would have to explain how they’d been down this road a few years before, stopped only by an ambush attack none of them had predicted. Why couldn’t Stark just admit that the kid was a lost cause? It had been years since he disappeared, supposedly kidnapped by Hydra. There were signs they had taken him, but no indication he was still alive. It was known, after the Winter Soldier’s deprogramming, that Hydra wasn’t new to the asset-style disposable agent. The CIA had been known to do the same, though their scheme had been dismantled since the acquisition of Red Room agents. The whole useless war was waged with the same tactics, which led both sides down the same road. They’d been headbutting each other since the 1950s in hopes that the other side would eventually tire. It was all so utterly useless.
Though, deep down, Matt hoped. He hoped that the blood, and wherever it may lead, may finally force Hydra’s hand. He hoped that the Avengers, with their copious allies, would be able to defeat what remained of a seventy-year-old war. He hoped he wouldn’t have to remain confined to the tower for much longer.
He took out his phone and dialed Foggy’s number.