Chapter 3
Long Island University dropped Jackson from his fieldwork seminar. He missed the initial consultation with his first patient, so they were booting him from the class. JARVIS overheard the kid's phone conversation with his professor, Dr. Bullen, and once Stark found out, he called the professor himself. To his incredulity, the man had been impervious to his methods of persuasion, claiming that, "If Mr. Wang cannot make time for his patients, then he shouldn't have any to begin with," which Tony thought was a bit rude, yet fair. This is one of the many times the billionaire wishes Jackson's identity wasn't a secret. If he could just tell the damn teacher that the kid couldn't be there for that one patient because he was busy saving the lives of others, then his job as a mentor would be made so much easier.
But I'm not his mentor anymore; he has to remind himself. Certainly not after yesterday's events.
Agent Wang had almost fully recovered from his broken ribs when next, Tony mutilates his hand. Dr. Banner put a decent amount of stitches in there because, as it turns out, the Iron Man suit had gone all the way through the kid's palm, and they're lucky it didn't sever any tendons. Jacky's already pulled his stitches twice since they were sewed not twenty-four hours ago.
The other Avengers found out about the fieldwork situation shortly after Stark did. He reckons Clint or Natasha had something to do with that because he sure didn't tell anyone.
Agent Romanoff's bond with Jacky has always somewhat intrigued the billionaire. However, he's not sure when the extra feelings became part of their relationship. The kid met her and Clint through a SHIELD assignment back when he was nineteen. Jacky, Natasha, and Clint mention Budapest a lot, but not even Stark knows everything that happened there--just that it was a shit show. Even the files in SHIELD's database are vague.
According to his profile, Agent Coulson recruited Jackson into SHIELD after he caught the kid practically erupting in an alleyway in Mott Haven. He was eighteen then and far more volatile than he is now. Jack was an orphan who bounced around in the foster care system ever since his parents abandoned him when he was nine. The agent doesn't mention his childhood much, just in passing. That's another thing he does--adopting a casual and wisecracking tone to avoid more somber topics. Tony Stark often muses that he's like a mini-version of himself but angrier.
Three months after joining SHIELD, Jackson met Agent O'Connor--a bit of a recluse, from what Tony remembers. He was dedicated and strict, oftentimes scolding Jack for his more laid-back demeanor. Agent Coulson would usually have to step in before either of them got too heated--which, knowing Jacky, happens to be the kid's default setting.
Tony was always mildly jealous of Phil's relationship with the kid--not that he would ever admit it. But Jackson's trust in the senior agent has been unshakable. And Tony's fucked up a lot.
They all screwed the pooch when they accused Jackson of killing his former mentor in cold blood. Looking back at the interaction, Tony feels ashamed. For as long as he's known the kid, he's never once seen him find pleasure in ending anyone's life, not even the enemy's.
Barton's skepticism was too convincing, apparently--another thing that shocks the billionaire. Clint is perhaps the least trusting out of the team, which is saying a lot. Still, Stark never expected Legolas to lash out at the kid like that. Sure, they're both short-tempered (a bit of an understatement, really), but the two were blatantly itching to throw hands. Tony vaguely remembers his therapist mentioning something about pain being redirected into anger or something like that.
Romanoff, on the other hand, seemed reluctant when they were interrogating the younger agent. She hadn't said a word since the whole ordeal first surfaced and insisted on greeting him when he showed up. Tony's unsure what was discussed between the two agents, but she looked even more doubtful of Clint's suspicion when she reentered the lab. That probably should have been a clue to Tony that they were all completely wrong in their assumptions.
And Rogers, Tony sighs.
Jackson's first time meeting the soldier hadn't been pretty. Other than Clint and Natasha, the Avengers first saw him before the Battle of New York a little over a year ago. Nearly two years after Agent O'Connor's death, he was about twenty-four at the time and still grieving the loss--and as everyone just learned, betrayal--of what was pretty much a father figure.
Tony, Steve, Bruce, and Thor briefly met the kid in the lab of the SHIELD helicarrier. Then, Fury had sent Jackson down to interrogate Thor's psycho brother, and the agent came back with the news that Loki planned to exploit the Hulk while in mid-flight.
"You didn't agree to come here because Agent Romanoff batted her eyelashes at you," he had accused Banner. "What's your game here, Dr. Banner?"
And, of course, Steve immediately took offense. "I'm sorry, and who are you?" His disapproving frown was the first strike against him.
And when Stark and Rogers were in each other's faces, the kid unexpectedly took Tony's side, which probably marked the decline of the kid's relationship with the captain. Then, Barton came and blew a hole in the carrier.
Afterward, Jacky and Rogers were tasked with Stark to fix the engine, and thanks to Jackson's understanding of basic mechanics, Stark wasn't entirely on his own in restarting the coolant system.
Jack had once shared with Tony that seeing Captain America fight for the first time had been incredible. However, the young agent's enthusiasm dimmed considerably when he remembered how, if it weren't for the kid's quick reflexes, Rogers would have dumbly fallen off the carrier and been turned into a spangled pancake. Tony spit out his coffee from laughing so hard. Never let it be said that the young man isn't a conversationalist.
The captain had ordered Agent Wang to help him provide cover from Loki's men while Tony worked at restarting the engine. Now, like most young agents his age would do, Jack followed the soldier's orders with an eager, "Yes, sir." Then Rogers lost his footing and tumbled off the side of the helicarrier. Jackson was already making his way over to help him when Tony needed the lever pulled, and Steve, being the self-sacrificing Wonder Boy that he is, insisted Tony be saved first. Apparently, not even Jack's slight hero worship for Captain America was motivation enough to obey the man's increasingly frustrated orders because after Jack took out the last of Loki's mindless zombies, the agent hauled Rogers up, clapped him on the back, and then finally pulled the lever for Tony to escape the engine's rotors. But, of course, that didn't sit well with the soldier, for once the danger ceased, he rounded on the young man and berated him for disobeying a direct order.
"I ordered you to pull that lever! I could have climbed up on my own, but Stark was almost shredded to pieces in there. Your recklessness could cost lives, son."
Jacky disagreed. After all, the probability of Iron Man surviving a fall from that height versus a medically-enhanced soldier was pretty even. But, even Tony can admit, regardless of first impressions, he too would choose to save the man dressed up in a leotard rather than a metal suit.
Their disagreement almost turned into a fistfight that Tony was (and not-so-secretly still is) hoping would happen. He's put a lot of thought into what the match would be like.
Fury's announcement had shaken them all. But, Coulson's "death" obviously hit the kid the hardest. Tony isn't sure he'll ever forget the look on Jack's face when the man thought his mentor died.
However, when Rogers then asked, "Is this the first time you lost a soldier?" in that holier-than-thou tone of his, Jackson rightfully snapped. Not physically--whether Tony was relieved or disappointed, he's not sure--but the agent gave Steve a verbal strip-down that even had Tony Stark cringing.
Now they all know why; the answer was no.
Nearly as solemn as the news about Agent Coulson, but definitely not worse, was Barton's recovery from Loki's control. Agents Wang and Romanoff were with Barton when he woke up, and according to Jack, they didn't talk about anything too significant, but science isn't the only thing Tony good at.
The Battle of New York had been personal for all of them, but Jackson, in particular, was out for blood. So when the Chitauri rolled up, they all got to see the kid really fight. Tony admits he was even more impressed than when he got to see Hulk go off for the first time--the billionaire had an idea of what to expect from a green rage monster. That's when they all saw Jackson's fire for the first time, as well, and the agent's got spunk. Working alongside Hawkeye and Black Widow, the three were a force to be reckoned with.
At some point, it was just Wang and Rogers on the ground with no Natasha to act as a buffer. Then, Tony heard the captain task Jackson with taking care of a bomb in a bank full of trapped civilians. By the time Stark was able to swoop down and help, the agent had been scraping himself off of the pavement while Rogers escorted the survivors out. Jackson told Tony later on that he didn't care about taking credit and that as long as nobody else got hurt blah blah blah... But Tony wasn't going to be placated. The kid isn't cannon fodder, for Christ's sake.
"Stark, quit staring, or your face'll get stuck like that, and you'll be even uglier."
Tony jolts out of his thoughts, unaware he had been glaring at the pen in Jackson's hand for going on fifteen minutes.
He honestly believes the kid is a combination of all of them. He's got Romanoff's uncanny perceptiveness, Banner's turbulent emotions, Barton's dry sarcasm, Rogers' do-good altruism, Thor's charismatic naiveté, and Tony's nearly blind loyalty. What an unfortunate amalgamation of traits.
Tony flips him the bird.
"Can't be as bad as you, Prometheus," the genius smirks.
Lounging across the room, Clint snorts, "Like you were ever that good looking."
The billionaire sputters indignantly first at Barton, then at the youngest agent's (handsomely) smug little face.
Rolling his eyes, the kid turns back to his writing. "And you would know, old man," Jack immediately turns on the archer, the pen never stilling.
"Ha!"
Barton's betrayed expression is a second-hand victory for Tony.
It's truly astonishing how the kid can insult both of them in such a short amount of time--all while writing a research paper.
What a remarkable talent, Tony muses. Wonder where he got it from.
Jackson is handling the whole Rapunzel lockdown better than Stark could've expected. He's quieter than usual, which is somewhat concerning, but Tony thinks it has more to do with the kid's refusal to hold an actual conversation with any of them. He barely even talks to Agent Romanoff.
Returning his attention back down to the tablet in his hands, the billionaire distractedly adjusts one of the alignments displayed on the screen. Ever since the team got back from the battle on the Brooklyn Bridge, he's been designing a new suit for the fire coda, one that should be able to use his heat as propulsion. If Tony can transfer the kid's thermal energy into combustion, the detonations should generate enough thrust for him to at least have a controlled descent. So, theoretically speaking, Tony Stark's trying to give the Phoenix wings.
Reabsorbed into his project, the mechanic hardly glances up as Jackson walks past. So far, every schematic Stark's configured hasn't been able to account for the effect the blasts will have on the agent's body or the surrounding environment. It would be somewhat counterproductive if the controlled fall killed the kid because he self-destructed.
Tony presses his lips together and exhales in frustration.
Why do all of my prototypes look like rockets?
Jackson won't wear something that will hinder his movements. The agent relies on stealth and speed, not clanky metal combustion chambers strapped to his feet like cinder blocks. "What kind of fire coda employs stealth, anyway?" The mechanic grumbles under his breath. "That's, like, the exact opposite of fire." Yet again, blowing shit up is sort of Tony Stark's MO.
A little over a year ago, he didn't even know what a coda was. Back then, he only understood the basic definition of the word as a conclusion to something. But, then, shortly after meeting Jackson, the agent had sat the heroes down and explained it all to them: what a coda is, the different types, how people obtain them, the whole shebang.
There exist seven types of codas: water, fire, air, earth, metal, light, and darkness. More than one person can have the same kind of coda, and one person can have more than one type, though possessing only one is typical. Codas are sowed at birth, regardless of one's genetic makeup, but they develop over time.
Jackson said he only has the fire coda, but powers can sometimes take a while to manifest, and the kid's only twenty-five.
Tony thinks the younger agent might have the darkness coda as well, which is ironic. Jack told them that a reliable way to test a coda's powers is to get them riled up, play to their emotions. Codas are invariably linked to one's excitements, so any intense emotional response is bound to trigger those powers. And if Tony's learned anything about Jackson in the year that he's known him, it's that the kid is essentially a walking ball of profound emotions.
After one night, when Jack stayed over at the tower, the young agent informed Tony that Natasha's room had gotten dark even though the electricity was still on and no one had touched the switch. When Stark asked what the kid was doing in her bedroom, Jackson simply glared and walked away. Afterward, Tony scrubbed at his eyes until he saw stars, and they both never brought it back up. That unfortunate conversation is the only reason Tony even knows Jack and Natasha are... what, dating? An item? Beneficial friends?
He shudders just thinking about it.
Nonetheless, the mechanic has seen the agent amidst the throes of nightmares, which are intimate experiences for someone else to witness.
Jackson had been asleep on the sofa in Stark's lab after a long day of training in his new suit. Contrary to the kid's usual behavior, when he's asleep, he's actually relatively quiet. Tony could tell he was having a bad dream purely by his pinched brows and stuttering chest. The billionaire would never have even noticed had the couch not been in his direct line of sight. And he only looked up from his work after the lab had darkened to the point where he could hardly see his fingers. At the time, he had thought it was due to sleep deprivation.
However, when Jackson woke up, Tony's vision went startlingly black. He would have been convinced he blacked out if he didn't hear the sharp, panicky breaths coming from over by the couch. Stark banged a different body part on three appliances by the time he reached the kid. Fumbling around in the dark, the mechanic tentatively squeezed Jackson's shoulder with a softly-spoken reassurance. It took a little while, but the agent's breathing calmed down, the darkness disappearing with an influx of light. Tony's pupils had constricted, so he struggled to gauge Jack's expression, but worryingly, the kid showed no sign he was even aware of the light flaring up abruptly.
Ever since that moment, Stark's paid careful attention to the agent's mood swings and sleeping habits. He's come to notice that Jackson schedules time for sleep like the billionaire himself does--which is to say, he doesn't at all. For all of Jackson's talk about health and fitness, he almost overworks his body as much as Tony Stark, the insomnolent, coffee-addicted workaholic.
But Tony hasn't mentioned his suspicions about the kid to any of the other Avengers. He thinks it'd be better if Jack finds out on his own rather than someone else telling him, and he wonders if the kid already knows, or at least suspects.
Glancing up from his tablet, the mechanic finds the living room suddenly abandoned. Jackson and Clint must have left without him noticing. The younger agent's textbook sits closed on the coffee table; beside it, a Buzz Lightyear mug with tea dregs drying in a ring at the bottom. The kid could be a teenager for all the messes he leaves.
Hours later, Stark learns that Jack didn't only leave the room, but he snuck out of the tower altogether. To be fair, Tony did see this coming.
Jackson waits until dusk, watches as the sun's last sliver rolls off the edge of the horizon like a glass ball off a table. Fiery hues ignite the city air. Skyscrapers are beginning to twinkle to life like millions of lightning bugs rousing to give light to the world in the sun's absence. Most of his frat mates should either be out on the town or asleep by now. Usually, only the two oldest members, Mark and JB, are home at this hour--they're both painfully antisocial and keep to their rooms like hermits.
With any luck, no one else should be here to catch Jackson creeping up the steps of the front porch to quietly slip inside. His friends don't know that he works for SHIELD--no one does, really, except for his colleagues, and he plans on having it stay that way.
The living room is dark when he enters; the adjoined kitchen, deserted. The agent notes the wallet and the single house key resting on the dining table. He purses his lips and swiftly checks the ID.
"Fuck," he hisses.
Bambam's still here.
As if on cue, softened footfalls descend the stairs, and a tall, slim young man enters the living room, his youthful, doll-like face illuminated by the white glow of his cellphone. His turquoise sequined jacket reflects the light like a gaudy disco ball.
Jackson, who's pressed up into the shadows of a bookcase, goes unnoticed as Bambam shuffles past him, mere feet away, and into the kitchen. The agent shakes his head in fond exasperation. Hiding probably wasn't even necessary, he thinks.
Jackson slinks up the stairs and soundlessly slips into his bedroom. His brows knit together when he discovers somebody slumped over on his bed. Soft snores fill the room.
Upon closer inspection, he recognizes the body to be that of his roommate Mark. Jackson's told him to stop sleeping in his bed while he's away--which is often. Evidently, the older boy hadn't listened. Jackson's not quite sure why he does it. He knows his friend worries--even without the knowledge of Jackson being a fire coda who works alongside Earth's mightiest heroes. Jack tends to wear himself out between his occupational therapy track and his and Mark's dance practices. If Mark knew that Jackson had dangerous, physically-taxing SHIELD assignments and Avengers missions on top of his usual work, he most likely wouldn't let the younger man out of his sight.
As quietly and swiftly as he can, the agent unzips his backpack and starts gathering his course materials: textbooks, binders, notebooks, a charger, and he makes sure to snag his laptop. His bag is bursting at the seams by the time he's done.
Jackson flees the room, glances down the hall at the bottom of the stairs, and decides to leave out the back door. Bambam could still be moseying about.
He soundlessly locks the screen door behind him. The air is much stiffer now; a slight wind tousles his thick brunette hair peeking out the sides of his black baseball cap.
I'm overdue for a haircut, Jackson considers as he removes his hat and ruffles his bangs with his hand, shaking his head slightly in an attempt to fix his wayward fringe. His bangs reach just below his eyebrows. He irritably pushes them back and tugs his cap back on in one fluid movement.
Bambam's youthful voice rings through the air as he pleads with someone on the phone. "But I paid last time, bro," the boy whines.
Hugging the side of the house, Jackson gently thumps his head back against the wall in resignation. The agent can't help but smile. Bambam's like his little kid brother, lovable in his own annoying way. Jackson met the Thai student at a frat party during Bambam's freshman year at LIU, and they hit it off immediately. They're the most extroverted members in their fraternity--partners-in-crime, best friends, brothers.
Curious, a bit worried, and somewhat lonely, Jackson tails the boy.
The campus is surprisingly active for a Monday night, with students walking and biking and some obviously drinking pretty heavily already, even though it's not even seven-thirty yet. The bustle of the university grounds fades as Bambam leads him down a small side street. Jackson knows about this shortcut--he's taken it a few times, himself. For the majority of their walk, the Thai boy's attention has been thoroughly captivated by his social media. Jackson wishes his friend was more observant.
With his SHIELD training, he's learned to keep his guard up. So when the icy breeze from the East River abruptly stills, so too does he. The agent is about to blow his cover so he can protectively walk next to Bambam when a blurry form darts past him.
Faster than anything he's ever seen, the blur wraps itself around Bambam. The boy's eyes widen, and a gasp leaves his lips at the same time that a tattooed hand encircles his neck. His cellphone clatters onto the wet road, forgotten.
Jackson's pupils dilate as he locks eyes with his friend.
"Jack?" Bambam shivers.
"Bam, don't move, okay? You're going to be fine," he assures the younger boy.
Thin, white braids flag behind Bambam's shoulder, and gold, reflective eyes peer back at the agent like cat eyes refracting the beams of passing headlights. "Hi, Jack," she purrs. "It's so nice to finally meet you."
"Archangel," he acknowledges, thoughtlessly dropping his bag on the damp ground. "How long have you known?"
Her canines are sharp when she grins. A low chuckle floats through the air like an engine idling.
"I know all about you, Phoenix."
Bambam shakily exhales from beneath her clasping hand, "Jack, who is she? Who's Phoenix? What's going on?"
Jackson licks his chapped lips. "Let him go. It's me you want, not some random college kid."
"You're right. But, Bam here is far from random, and if I have him," the woman pokes her pointy nail against Bambam's chest, "then I have you."
Jackson feels the fire eating at his stomach. His temperature's building inside him. He clenches his stitched hand, and the sting grounds him. Dr. Banner warned him that he'd mess up the stitchwork if he used his powers with his injured hand, but Jackson couldn't care less.
Archangel catches the movement and half-smiles, a knowing glint in her shiny eyes.
"You want my fire? Why don't you just take it?" Jackson spits, frustrated.
"And where would be the fun in that?" the woman tuts, dark lips downturned.
Bambam squirms in her hold, "Fire? Jack, please tell me what's happening!" His voice cracks as he pleads with the agent.
Jackson frowns remorsefully at him. He can't attack her with Bambam between them. She's holding all the cards right now.
Unexpectedly, and with inhuman speed, Archangel throws Bambam to the side. Aided by the wind coda, the Thai boy hovers several feet off the ground as if he were filled with helium.
Jackson unleashes the heat seething inside him, aims it toward the woman who dares to threaten someone he considers family.
Archangel blows a huff of air from her lips. The flames explode back at him.
His skin absorbs them, but his clothes do not. The agent forgot his mask, but he did remember to wear his suit under his street clothes. Nudity does not need to be added to his list of concerns right now.
Suddenly, Bambam wails in pain.
Jackson whips his head to the side.
Orange tongues of fire lick up the boy's limbs. His levitating body starts thrashing and convulsing as his flesh melts and blackens from the immense heat.
"Bam!" Jackson lunges forward, hands reaching up to suck up the flames. The agent's fingertips barely skim the waxy rubber sole of a liquifying boot.
His flames persist.
"Stop!" Jackson screams, the cords in his neck standing out. "Please, let him down! I'll help you if you let me help him!"
Archangel snickers somewhere behind him. "You think you can help him? Look at what you've done already!"
Bambam's high-pitched shrieks reverberate deep in the young man's bones. He claps his palms over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, gasping. The sounds of his flames sizzling and crackling over Bambam's body crash around in his heart, ricochetting off its fragile walls. The smell of burning fle--
Jackson pauses, bewildered. He tentatively sniffs the air.
It smells like rain.
The night is brisk against his sweat-soaked temples.
The agent's head pounds as he tries to think over the agonized howls of his friend. He realizes, trying not to panic, that he can't read the street name on the green sign a short distance away. The letters blur and warp together, swirling like they're being blended beneath a paintbrush.
"I don't get it," Jackson trembles, hands falling to his sides and turning to face the wind coda. "How are you doing this?"
Archangel tilts her head. "Doing what? You're the fire coda."
Ignoring her, Jackson steps closer to Bambam's blazing silhouette. "It looks so real," he admits with a horrified wince.
Archangel's owlish gaze narrows in abrupt irritation.
Bambam's screaming stops. The fire that was consuming him vanishes before Jackson's eyes, and the real, unharmed Bambam blinks wide-eyed down at the agent.
All of the oxygen empties from Jackson's lungs.
He staggers to his knees. His hands frantically grasp at his chest and throat. His pale, quivering fingers tug at the collar of his black hoodie. Bambam fearfully calls out for him, but his voice is drowned out by Jackson's pulse thrumming in his skull.
Archangel strides forward to stand directly in front of him. She blows out her cheeks as she crouches down to his level, a falsely sympathetic smile gracing her countenance. "I'm not just a wind coda, Jacky," she runs a teasing fingertip along his jawline. Her sharp nail catches on his light stubble. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth.
Light coda, he infers. Was a hallucination, then. Has to be...
His fire coda desperately presses against him, chewing at his stomach lining; it hungers to be released, but his body won't let him expel it. Instead, it builds like a raging inferno inside him. He can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
Archangel swipes a sweat droplet away from his temple with her pointer finger. "Can't have a fire without oxygen, now can we?" She brings it up to her lips.
Jackson's diaphragm spasms as his lungs struggle to function. His throat burns from the lack of oxygen. He hangs his smarting head, shoulders slumping as black eats away at the corners of his vision. Something soft brushes over his clammy forehead, and numbness tingles the tips of his fingers and nose. His skin prickles as if his entire body fell asleep, and his heart palpitates rapidly behind his eyes like a muffled drum beating in his head. He squeezes his eyes shut as nausea overwhelms him.
I'm gonna pass out, he registers grimly.
He sways forward, nearly colliding with the ground when something frigid and unyielding envelops him. A fuzzy voice that sounds vaguely British is speaking to him. He can't concentrate, and the noise ceases.
Very abruptly, his lungs inflate with oxygen, and almost immediately, searing warmth rushes through him. His muscles seize as the heatwave devours his senses. Shadows shroud his consciousness like a smoky sky.
Jackson's coda overloads and discharges violently, setting the heavens aflame.