'Lucky' Emo

Grim was pretty confused. He was expecting some anger, he went outside the rules. They would be in the right to be angry.

And they were. They just weren’t that kinda of angry.

Stark kept squeezing his hand as if to reassure himself that he was still here, and he caught him telling to get back to Fury that ‘the kiddo was fine.’ 

He poked at his mashed potatoes, silently yearning for a microwave burrito (as cheap as possible for those nostalgia points) as he endured the stares off the Avengers. 

He sighed, and put down his fork. “Look, I’m fine. It isn’t even the first time someone’s gone gun-ho on me either, so why are you all freaking out?” He wished they’d be upfront. Yell, hit, break things. Something normal. 

The waiting for the shoe to drop was an eerie feeling, and it was wearing on his nerves.

“Grim.” He straightened under the serious look Ms. Widow gave him from across the fancy polished table. “We are angry. But not because you snuck out. We’re angry because you could have gotten hurt.”

Barton nodded. “Yeah! And say, what’s this about gun-related incidents, huh?” Grim glared at him at the obvious fish for info. Barton only held up a bag of his favorite barbecue chips (blatant bribery) with a forced grin.

Grim sighed again and made grabby motions, feeling vaguely like a moddly toddler being convinced to do something normal for once. The chips were handed over, and he popped one in before answering. 

“Yeah, well the police weren’t too smart with dealing with Mister and Missus Disaster, and I was a witness, so the guy- Jason, I think? tried to grab me along with her to make a break for it so I jumped the counter and ran and well, apparently one of the copper thought I looked a little too punk and a little too aisan to be innocent.”

A black officer, his tag reading Morales, had talked him down and confiscated the man’s gun. Even personally drove him to the station and gave him a comforting, if gruff, talk when they parked. 

Stark pulled out his tablet, and he could feel Jarvis scheming. 

Rogers grunted, sharing Grim’s view of things for once. “Oh yeah, I remember something like that with me and Buck. No one likes the Irish kid causin’ trouble.”

Grim nodded. Rogers brightened up visibly, possibly to help the mood in general.

“Did you see those friends of your while you were out?” Oh, yeah. Rogers badgered him into showing him how to use a cellphone (in return he told him how bananas tasted way back when and if movie theatres were weird now, because of the physical differences and the butter ratio) and saw his admittedly short contact list. 

Let’s say the names Death, War, Famine, Disease and Headless stuck out a little between Samson Politician- FP (1 ans 2 for organization’s sake and he’d know which kind of placating to be when picking up the phone) and Tony Stark.

He shook his head. “Nah.”

Stark looked curious, which was never a good thing. “Friends? I haven’t heard of any friends!” He sounded almost scandalized at the thought of Grim telling Rogers first instead of him.

Grim nodded and took a sip of water. (without ice, because his teeth always froze) “Yeah, but you can’t adopt them or anything. They’re like…” He thought for a solid minute of how to sum up the Horsemen without an in depth rant. Then it clicked. “They’re like street cats. With like, a dash of be gay, do crime, and some goth and punk vibes for good measure. I could probably herd them over for some medical stuff though, one of them has an eating disorder.” The Horsemen were remarkably similar to particularly friendly strays. They’d accept some food and water and other donations to the Me Fund, maybe some routine interaction if you’re lucky. But taking them home? Putting up borders, forcing them to follow rules?

Yeah, as if.

He swirled his glass in his hand, watching the whirlpool to avoid the chuckling mixed with another breed of concern around the table. “I don’t know their real names, they quit them. Call themselves the Horsemen of the Apocalypse after one of the center workers they were at yelled that they were demons. They rolled with it, and I mean, I basically did the same thing so what can I say? So uh, War, Disease, Death, Famine, and Headless. No, he didn’t get to pick. Yes, they know.” It had been a little more perfect actually; they all had mutant abilities, just like Grim. War could shapeshift, (to a reasonable degree- he only had so many calories in him and had to remain humanoid because they didn’t want to find out what would happen if he didn’t) Death could control shadows for suitably spooky vibes, Disease could see and manipulate diseases and viruses, (apparently each strand glowed a different hue, and he couldn’t comprehend a world not cloaked in deadly color)(neon goth vibes, I’m just saaaying) Famine could absorb calories from someone else on touch and pass them on to, with no off switch. (He wore gloves and all, but when he slept they’d touch him a bit to get something in his system) and Headless would lose and regrow limbs (including his head, don’t ask) like a lizard’s tail. 

Barton looked bemused. “Really? OH! Is it those pickpocket kids who intervened on that racist shop guy?” Grim nodded, because that is definitely something they would do. 

Barton cackled. Stark appeared to pull up a new tab on his tablet and ask Jarvis to call ‘Dr. Cho’ for him. Awkward silence reigned during the short phone call, before that familiar easy chatter started up again, just like his first dinner with them in the Tower.

Much better.

Sure, they’d glance over to check up on him, and Stark was more tick-y than usual- his hands fidgeted with anything he could find, he brushed his hair, adjusted his tie, his glasses. 

But that was okay. The alcohol was blown to kingdom come anyway, and he could keep an eye on him just fine. Maybe ask him to demonstrate the flamethrower he asked about…

Tony knew Grim could handle himself. Looking at just a piece of his records showed that! Survived several serial killers, nightmare abusive homes, kids-for-cash scenarios…

(his revenge would be swift and brutal)

(Legal was going to hate him for months) 

But he couldn’t help it! The kid had already been through so much! And now apparently police brutality! (the law department would be delighted to have a reason to start that particular social revolution) 

But it was nice to know he had friends. Even if they had an extensive criminal history, were probably kleptomaniacs, and refused any and all social rules. 

Also he was pretty sure Natasha either suspected him of being a spy for HYDRA or something equally ridiculous, or was considering taking him in as her own apprentice. And while that would be hilarious, it was not allowed. Also, Clint might get jealous. 

But the way his heart had stuttered for a beat when that gun came out… the feeling of not being able to help… of having to keep his cool even as he internally screamed for his newest kid (shut up Pepper) had been threatened right in front of him. 

He was upping security permanently. Happy wouldn’t exactly be thrilled, but he didn’t care. Nothing like that was ever happening again. Ever. 

Could he convince him to let him track his phone? Maybe put something in his clothes, shoes? What if he was kidnapped and they took stuff away from him, how would he contact him? Earings? They’d have to be unobtrusive, studs? That’d be easier to make in a hurry, even on the smaller scale than he was used to…

But would he think that was hovering? He remembered the times his mother would come off her pills, have a break between the partying and pampering with glitter and gauze and fear-soaked nights, where she would meld herself to him ‘to make up for lost time.’ After months or years or radio silence, it had been suffocating. 

But was he being too distant? Harley constantly called him, and he called back and knew his birthday and big events and all, sure, but what if he thought he was avoiding him because he didn’t pop over to Cornland for a visit. (wasn't his fault his mother was a terror)(and the entire town only reminded him of days riddled with anxiety and laced with explosions)

He groaned, and slumped onto the sofa. (the same sofa that had saved his kid, what if he hadn’t impulsively made everything bulletproof after Opie’s betrayal, what would have-) Clint watched him carefully from the other side of the U-shape, and Steve was there too. A glimpse showed he was finally shading his silhouette of the skyline to have some depth and less like a five-year-old’s outline. (though one with an impressively steady hand and long attention span) 

No, that wasn’t fair to Red White and Blue. He’s just… pent up.

He growled, and pulled at his hair. What was he going to do?

Even Fury was concerned. Said the kid had the same reaction he might see out of a seasoned agent. He slipped into some… fighting mode? His eyes switched from ice to steel, then when it was all over, maybe a slushie?

Okay, bad metaphor. No more of that, like, ever.

Clint scooted closer to him, plopping down near on top of him.

“Soooo, my man. How you doin?” Natasha conventiely slid out of the kitchen at that very moment with an armful of comfort foods (popcorn with freshly melted butter for Clint, cannolis for him, and homemade bread shaped into a bowl with soup, a carnival food they had shown and enchanted Steve on one of their Introducing Popsicle to This Century sessions) and sat primly to his left, leaving him with no exit from the intervention.

He sighed, and accepted the nearest cannoli. He recognized the wrapping; this was from his favorite bakery to boot. 

Grim was out with those friends of his for the first time since Steve and Clint dragged him back to the Tower. Had he been avoiding them for their sake?

Uh, this was giving him a headache. 

“I just… he’s supposed to be safe here.” That summed it up nicely, didn’t it? What he was feeling. Like he had failed. And damn near paid for it, bad. 

Natasha nodded, and put the plate in his lap. She popped a handful of popcorn into her mouth before handing over the treats to Clint and Steve, settling further into the cushioning.”I’ve cleared out all the bugs in the Tower.” She said evenly. 

Oh Boy. This was going to be a fun conversation, then.

Clint grinned more ferrally than he would have expected from the man. “You know it!”

Steve glanced back and forth between each one of them, lost, even as he enjoyed the ‘miracle’ food. “Right.”

He couldn’t help it, the snort that escaped him. But it was fine, no one even glanced at him.

Natasha continued, eyes of something he couldn’t identify. “What with the new information of the possible comprised state of the majority of SHEILD, I have personally decided that it is in our best interests to go rogue.”

Steve didn’t look happy, but nodded. Barton looked , until he realized about the farm, and Tony personally was celebrating at the thought of never having to deal with Emo Pirate ever again. 

“What about Clint’s farm?” He asked the unspoken question, and Natasha nodded sharply, eyes soft for her closest  companion a sharp contrast to the careful smirk that could cut a man.

“Well. They will be safe, but I can’t guarantee the land itself. That idyllic farm life might be a casualty, but they won’t.” Barton deflated, but only a little. 

Tony flopped an arm on his back. “We’ll keep them safe. We’ll keep them all safe.” 

When he got a text half an hour later proclaiming that Steve had betrayed the government and was going after his old wartime boyfriend, (he wasn’t about to ask questions, at least not right now) he was something a little like happy.

Then Jarvic alerted them that Grim was gone. Again. And panic reigned. 

Grim was done being dumb, at least for now. Hopefully. 

How was it that he realized how dumb his plan was after it got the weirdo goverment people involved, when that was part of the plan.

Whatever. The verdict on ‘telling Stark I’m a mutant’ was a solid ‘do later, Future Me problem’ and he was really just waiting for a good time now. Right now he needed to lay low, lay real damn low. 

Kala was watching this ‘Sheild’ weirdness from their homebase, some crazy officebuilding/fortress hybrid upstate. Pretty easy thing to so, spying, when you’re dead.

He kept getting texts worded in memes and spoken in code and silliness. AIs, nazis, child siolders, brainwashing, people not knowing the difference between and octopus and a hydra, a spy section of the government about to tear itself apart.

At least the people breathing down his necks had better things to do right now. Probably for the foreseeable future, at this rate.

Files on things (people) he may or may not need in the future. Doombot, Lizard, Rhino, Doc Oc. 

And a fascinating report on Loki.

Why was it no one questioned that maybe the man, holding the mind-controlling stick with unaturally blue eyes that were apparently normally green, might just be mind controlled himself?

Like, he bottle-nosed his forces. Through one tiny portal, one by one. Sure, the entire attack was a total d*ck move, but he hadn’t been a willing commander, at the very least.

 He’d have some serious questions for Thor, when he eventually showed face.

He juggled a deflated soccer ball clumsily he had found two blocks back in his wandering, periodically checking his phone and regularly cursing the people who apparently didn’t have brains in positions of power.

Alexander something-or-another, the Head of Sheild after Fury, was apparently one of the octopus-men, and was obsessed with someone stuck in a machine with a bunch of ice in it. The dude had a metal arm, and a curious nurse that had ducked in was in tears when she told him it connected directly to his spine.

He kicked the ball particularly forcefully, and watched it ricochet against a corner, hurtle into a dumpster, and decompress sadly into the concrete with a small hiss. He sighed and got some gum out to aggressively chew.

He popped three in his mouth in one go and continued on. 

Black Widow was on it, because she’s that awesome. She’s a one woman army, but even she might need some backup.

He wondered how she’d react to seemingly nothing tossing her new biggest problem through a window, with a blow not unlike that from a baseball bat. A pipe, if he was lucky.

Captain America was quitting, good to see. Apparently he was living his best greaser life, like a true 50’s gay rebel. He was off painting sunsets and committing treason, and Grim felt oddly proud.

The man had loved rules, for good reason. Rules kept you alive in war, if you lucked out enough. It you were important enough. But moral rules always won out for him.

Silly government. Should have done their political research.

He wondered if a civil war was on the horizon. He woulnd’t mind, just hoped they’d bring up stuff like police brutality and poverty and the housing crisis. The foster system went unspoken, he was pretty Stark was midway through rebuilding the entire thing from the ground up. 

He blew a bubble, and hoped Barton and Widow would be able to keep their ‘idiot chicks’ in line while he was gone. Apparently anything was possible on Avengers Movie Night. 

Tony could understand terrible coping mechanisms. H*ll, if he had dealt with his issues back in college by taking a hike and letting out some steam that way, Rhodes would have probably hugged him with some cheesy talk about being proud that was no less genuine despite it. 

But taking a long, long, three hour walk after nearly being shot, dropping some bomb about police brutality and his capacity for trauma and disapearing the next morning with only, apparently, half a jug of coffee from the machine and a smoothie from the fridge. The kid stored them in jars, for some weird reason, who does that? 

Not what he was focusing on right now.

“Jarv, any sight of him on public cameras?”

Jarvis let out a soft chime as he worked on it, then piped up with that familiar snark. “Last seen wandering the area of Hell’s Kitchen, before entering an area with broken cameras that have yet to be replaced, Sir.”

Tony chewed on his lip. Better than it could have been.

“Sir?”

“Yeah?” He typed frantically on the keyboard, searching for any reason why the kid any want to disappear. 

“Might I sudgest calling Mr. Grim?” 

And suddenly Tony felt spectacularly dumb. 

It was almost refreshing, when it wasn’t terrifying. 

He jammed his thumb onto the kid’s contact, and pressed the call button. It rang out three times (the kid always let it ring exactly three times) before picked up with slight static. The kid hadn’t let him replace that stupid burner phone yet.

“‘Ello?”

He nearly collpased.

“Grim!”

A soft snort. “That is ma name.” The words were slightly distrorted, half with bad connection, half with what sounded like chewing. 

“Kid, if you’re going to run on me, at least give me a notice when you do.” He slumped over his work station, boneless with relief, and mind slowly going back to whirling with plans of rebellion.

A chuckle. “Sure, but I’ll have like, a ten minute headstart. What’s up?” The true sense of cluelessness made his heart squeeze. He truly believed, on some deeper level, that the people around himt hat were supposed to protect him didn’t truly care. 

“I- Grim, you were nearly shot.”

There was a moment of silence, and he could hear the kid’s thought clear as day. ‘Didn’t we cover this last night?’

“My guy, I don’t even have a bruise. I don’t know what you’re all worked up about.” He started, and frantically speed-texted the rest of the Bradey Bunch that he had found the kid before Natasha and Clint went full super-spy. 

He doesn’t know how to communicate this feeling of care and concern to him. This abstract care he had for him, born of the hours of lost sleep staring into the depths of the kid’s foster file in horror and definitely not an ongoing habit of picking up stray smart children. 

He should check in on Harley. 

After. 

“I-” His voice cracked like a pubesecant boy, and he cleared his throat. “I know, kid. I know. But-” But that could have not been the case. But you could have died, and I couldn’t do anything. You don’t know how much of a favor you just did for people you haven’t met, and that’s kind of ridiculous.

What sounded like a gum bubble popping, then a hum. “Ok, worry wort. I’ll head back. And I’ll do my best not to be in a life-and-death situation this time, yeah?” And the call ended with a not unpleasant beep. 

He lowered the phone, and stared at the screen in mild shock. Maybe Emo Wonder wasn’t a fan of goodbyes, but-

But nothing. He set the phone down with a determined click against the metal table, forcing his brain to focus, throwing his worries and regrets into a box labelled ‘later.’ 

He had some disentangling himself from a spy agency to do.