Danse Macabre

The SHIELD headquarters was bustling with activity, crowds of agents formed around a pathway, through the hallways straight from the front doors. Paraded around in the limelight, in high-specs restraints on his hands, feet and neck—was the object of their hectic search, boxed in on all sides by agents with guns propped and full body-gears. Leading them was their respected Captain, face grim and shield strapped to his arm in case anything were to happen. 

Some would probably think this was an overkill, but those who knew their target was sure that these measures—though extreme in normal circumstances—was in fact still worryingly insufficient. 

Even in the bustle, no sudden movements nor sound was made. Everyone was eerily silent and kept their emotions and facial expressions on check—lips pressed thin, eyes warry and alert. Everyone was on edge, fear and tension lined every joint in their bones. 

The only one relaxed in the midst of all of this was their target. He moved with fluidity and a calm expression, his shoulders slumped and his gait normal. Everyone who’d seen him thought that he was walking into his own mansion, like he owned everything in his presence. 

But they didn’t see his eyes. Because if they had seen the cold steel and silent fury behind it, they’d never have said a word. 

***

When the announcement broke in the SHIELD comms frequency—which Tony monitors rigorously and constantly—it was safe to say that his lunch went down the wrong pipe, and quite violently. After barely avoiding an embarrassing choking death, Tony scrambled for his monitors and double-checked. 

All his double checking only proved to support the fact that his new partner-in-crime, the elusive fugitive Stiles Stilinski, has in-fact been apprehended. 

What. 

The.

Fuck. 

Tony’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t move, or talk or even laugh because this was the guy who so proudly claimed that SHIELD would never catch him and refused, to all ends, to wear a better disguise and hide because in his words ‘they wouldn’t catch him in public places’. This is the same guy who got caught not even a day after uttering those ridiculous words. 

If this wasn’t so problematic, Tony would die laughing on the floor at the sheer fucking irony. 

But he didn’t—because he had good sense not to. And because he was too busy panicking to do so. His records and search placed Stiles’ tracker at an alleyway, before shortly coming in proximity to Steve’s tracker—yes, he has a tracker on almost all important SHIELD personnel, even his friends. After all he’s been through, the man deserves his paranoid tendencies.

The benefits that come from it, is purely coincidental. 

Let it be known that Tony Stark is an extremely thorough man—and he does not have an inch of respect for privacy or personal space.

In a battle between Captain America and the infamous agent, most people would place their bets safely with the decorated supersoldier. But Tony wasn’t so sure about that bet. After his own encounter with the younger man, he deduced a few things about him:

First, he was surprisingly strong. In terms of physical strength, one would not strictly think that he had a lot of it based on his appearance. The man wasn’t packed with bulging muscle like Cap or himself—but he was lithe and lean. All his muscle mass was deceptively hidden with the guise of a light bone structure. The young man may not look it, but he has a considerable amount of strength. 

Still, it wasn’t comparable to Steve’s. But as all skilled combatants know, strength isn’t everything. It isn’t even half of it. 

Second, what he lacked in pure strength, he made up for in leaps and bounds through intelligence. There was not a doubt in his mind that Stiles Stilinski was one of the most intelligent agents he’s ever met. He has to be for someone of his caliber and status, especially if they sent Captain America, nation’s hero, after him. He fell victim to that exact intelligence a few days ago—and Tony had a lot of respect for that. 

In that aspect, Stiles won over Steve by a landslide. As formidable a soldier Steve Rogers is, he was painfully predictable in his combat. Most of his victories were won over by his superhuman strength and resilience. But Steve’s never had to fight someone with the kind of intelligence Stiles has—the ability to predict moves, the rapid thinking and deadly calm in distress, path out his way to victory in the slightest openings he finds, that man is the equivalent of a trojan horse virus in a guarded server. 

If not for the help of his iron suit and mechanics, Tony was sure that he’d lose to Stiles in combat. But that’s exactly the point isn’t it? In a fair fight, Stiles would win over most of the Avengers assembly, except maybe Natasha. But this wasn’t a fair fight. Steve Rogers was biologically enhanced and that advantage wasn’t something that could be taken away like Tony’s suit. 

So it would make sense that Stiles would lose to Steve eventually in that fight. But his third deduction about the man was the determining factor:

Stiles Stilinski always had a plan. Even his failures were planned. Any and all scenarios that could possibly happen within reasonable doubt—he’d thought of. He’d thought of his failure the moment he saw the briefcase he’d retrieved in the mission that wrecked his life, and within a split second, he made a plan to steal it and run. In this sense, he’s the same as Tony and Fury. 

They were all masterminds, a thousand different strategic chess games playing out in their mindspace. But Stiles was also a master manipulator and assassin. 

So with all of those things combined, Tony could not see how Steve was able to apprehend Stiles in the 5 minutes that their tracker both stopped in that alleyway. 

However, that didn’t matter as much as what comes next—which is still up in the air. Tony had no idea what he was meant to do now. Breaking into SHIELD and rescuing Stiles was the first thing that came to mind—but he’d rather not expose their alliance until further down the line, especially when his inside access to SHIELD was a great advantage to investigate them. 

More importantly, Stiles had told him that if anything had happened to him, Tony should stay put and protect the cursed mystery cube with his life and make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. The man looked at the object in question, sitting precariously intimidating in the center of his workstation. 

Tony sighed. This was going to be a long day. 

***

Their target was finally strapped into his seat, in a standard interrogation room. Multiple cameras were pointed straight at him, all in different angles. A polygraph winded up his chest—although that was useless seeing that their target learned how to beat one when he first started out in the agency. 

The agents who were subduing him in his seat all felt off from the very beginning. The whole situation was bizarre, as if they couldn’t believe this was happening especially with how their target was acting.

He didn’t glare at them, didn’t even speak. Just stared at the two-way mirror black glass opposite of him. 

Once he was all set up, the crowd filtered away and only one agent remained.

Stiles spared him any recognition or greeting, simply choosing to sit solemnly. 

The agent disregarded his lack of interest and took his place on the seat opposite Stiles, his casefile a thick binder that was slammed down on the steel table separating them. 

“Agent Stiles Stilinski, level 7 clearance, leader of the STRIKE Delta Team, accused on multiple accounts of threatening national security, terrorism, treason, mass murder and theft.” The man opened up a nondescript file, with all the records pertaining to the case, right at the table with a loud smack. “How do you answer?”

Silence. 

“You stole something of great importance after you eliminated everyone on scene.” He continued without a hitch. “Where is that object now?”

Again, silence. All Stiles gave him was silence for the following questions that the man asked. After half an hour of constant questions with no response, Agent Sarkov finally changed his gears. 

“Agent Stilinski, I have all day to do this and I am very good at my job.” Sarkov closed the file, knowing full well that this method won’t work on the man in front of him. “I’m very impatient and right now, my very thin line of patience is the one thing helping you. Well, you know the drill.”

This got a response from the target, but not one that he’d expected. The first words he uttered was:

“Name.” 

The agent blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s basic manners to introduce yourself to someone before you start degrading them, don’t you think?” 

There was a twitch in the agent’s eyebrow, before it slowly relaxed. “Sarkov. Level 5, specialist ops.”

“It’s odd, don’t you think?”

His voice had a mystical sort of lilt to it, something dangerously mischievous. As if he were God and he was playing with his creations, a spoilt master who always got what he wanted because he knew how to. 

“That they’d send some random level-5 agent to interrogate the most high-profile target SHIELD has—it’s very strange.” The man disregarded everything he said, and instead asked questions of his own, “Do you know why you’re here, Agent Sarkov?”

Agent Illya Sarkov did not respond to Stiles’ questions, mainly because he was trained not to. From what he’s read, this man was an extremely skilled manipulator—so he came in here with an ironfist and a deaf doubting ear for whatever this fugitive in front of him has to say. 

“No?” Stilinski tilted his head just slightly to the right. “Then, do you know why we’re here? In this simple barren room, instead of downstairs with the chair?”

He instantly knew what the man was talking about. Being an intelligence agency requires a lot of assets, both human and technical. One of their biggest tech assets is their state-of-the-art next-gen lie detector, all conveniently compact in a high-spec chair. With retinal eye-movement scanner, functional brain-imaging, and monitors for blood pressure, respiration, pulse and temperature, all measured in record real time down to the millisecond. Director Fury wanted a lie-detector that Natasha Romanov couldn’t beat. 

To this day, she remains to be the only person to beat it. Not even Director Fury himself could do that. 

That led him to thinking, exactly why aren’t they downstairs strapping him into that chair? 

“Because your superiors know that it wouldn’t make a difference.”

Agent Sarkov blinked out of his train of thoughts, unnerved by the fact that this criminal could read him so well. Frightened by the fact that he was sat in front of someone who wielded such power to command such sentences without an inch of doubt. 

Gathering himself, he straightened his back and tried to take control of the conversation, “Just answer the questions, Agent Stilinski. You do not get to ask questions, this is not your turf.”

“If it isn’t mine, it certainly isn’t yours either.” Stiles cut in right at the end of his syllables. He leaned his entire body forward, his sternum barely touching the edge of the desk, his expression akin to one used on children. “Seems like you’re confused about something, so let me set the record straight.”

The light behind Stiles’ eyes changed, bringing the whole air around them straight down to cold and uninviting. Goosebumps lined the skin of the interrogator, even though his criminal had not said a word. 

 “As agents, we’ve received the same training but don’t go thinking that we’re all the same—because ultimately we’re not.” Stiles clicked his tongue several times, looking the agent up and down. “You think you can get answers from me? What are you going to do, really? Torture me?”

He let a laugh rip out from his lungs, short and harsh, before his expression turned dead serious. “I’ve been held in enemy territory more times than I can count, I rip my fingernails to stay awake under captivity, there’s nothing you can do that will break me. So again why are you here?”

Agent Sarkov’s eyes flitted to the door, every inch of his nerves setting an alarm in his body, to get out of this place—there was a predator in front of him. But through sheer willpower he sat still in his place and forced a response. “I’m not here to torture you, Agent Stilinski.” 

“No, you’re not. You can’t. But that’s not the answer I’m looking for and we both know that.” He narrowed his eyes on him. “There’s a reason why you’re in that chair, and I’m in this one—and it’s not because of the restraints.” 

Leaning back against his chair, Stiles let up on the pressure he was displaying. “We both know who has the upper-hand here, so let me ask you one more time, Agent Sarkov.”

Sarkov swallowed. 

“Why are you here?”

The second Stilinski’s eyes shifted to look at the black one-way glass mirror behind him, he knew that this man’s attention would never be on him again. And the moment he realized that, the answer to the man’s question finally sunk in. 

Why was he here?

It really didn’t matter what answers he conjured up, because that question was never meant to be answered with a right or wrong response. That question wasn’t even a question, really, it was a demand. 

A demand for him to know his place. 

Because he had no place here. He had no part to play here. He was utterly and completely insignificant here. Stiles Stilinski wanted him to realize that on his own that he was nobody. And therefore, he shouldn’t be the one sitting opposite of the man who needed no introduction. 

So he left. 

***

Steve Rogers finally had a moment of silence and solitude to himself once he closed the doors of the Avengers’ assigned locker room. He didn’t move for seconds before he locked the doors and moved towards his section of the room. 

As soon as he got there, his posture loosened up and his face finally crumbled under the pain. Steve used to think that he was invincible in hand-to-hand combat, or at the very least, not susceptible towards the hits. Granted, he’s been roughed up by aliens, gods and other enhanced beings, but he was nearly immune to human combat. Natasha was the only human exception, maybe Clint was too. 

Taking off his gear one by one, he couldn’t stop the ache in his muscle to flinch at his movements. Finally, he grabbed the hem of his combat uniform to tug it off in one smooth motion with an audible hiss. Standing in front of the mirror, he could see the blooming sickening purple bruises that covered his sides. Steve carefully ran his fingers against the damaged skin. 

He’d never thought there would be another human capable of hurting him. Especially not so drastically. 

Stiles Stilinski was dangerous—that was what he concluded through his fight with him. His punches were brutal and his kicks were lethal, as shown by his bruised torso. The young man was light on his feet, agile and calculated. And although it was a fight that he had won, it had been a hard-fought battle to win. 

If he was being completely honest, in the midst of the fight, Steve wasn’t sure if he was even going to win. He was confident before he’d engaged the enemy, but that confidence quickly crumbled in the overwhelming strength and talent the young man packed in his punches.

He won, though. He’d brought Stiles Stilinski in, handcuffed and secured. 

So why does it still feel like he’s fighting? 

A knock erupted from the door, shaking him loose from his thoughts. That knock gave him about five seconds before those locked doors would be unlocked. Locks were useless in the Avengers’ locker room because every single one of them could bypass it, through different methods. 

So, he grabbed his casual blue t-shirt out his locker and wore it in an instant, just in time for the doors to open to its bypasser. 

“I heard.” Natasha walked into the room before leaning against one of the lockers as Steve stuffed his gear into his. 

Steve turned to look at the woman behind him, “Yeah, word travels fast.” 

The female assassin raised her eyebrows at him, “How’d it go?” 

“Well, you would have known that if you’d actually come with me like you were supposed to,” the captain raised his eyebrows back at her.

Natasha crossed her hands over her chest, “What can I say, they needed me elsewhere.” 

“How convenient.” Steve played along with Natasha’s obvious bluff, but he returned it with a similar amount of amusement.

“It’s not my fault the new agents SHIELD trained are all useless defects. Fury’s gone soft over the years.” Natasha shrugged with a sense of nonchalance in her words. 

“Give him a break, he’s had a stressful year—and decade.”

Natasha hummed, “That, or he’s getting old.”

“Without the grey hairs we can’t tell, now can we?” The captain’s voice was muffled for a second as he ran a fresh damp towel over his face. “Must be why he shaves.”

“Unless it all fell off in his first year of directorship.” 

Both shared a look before promptly sharing a short bout of laughter in the cold locker room. Steve shook his head fondly, grabbing his weapons to do the routine maintenance on it as he sat down on the bench lining the middle of the locker room. 

Natasha followed his actions and took a seat next to him, albeit she was facing the opposite direction. Both of them didn’t say a word for another second or two, the captain cleaning out his gun and the assassin staring at the lockers in front of her. 

“Did you really subdue him?”

Steve’s hands stopped as he was cleaning out the barrel, his head tilting towards Natasha on his right side but his eyes were still trained on the gun. “Seeing that he’s here, I’d say yes I did.”

The female assassin kept her silence as she kept staring intently at the lockers, her eyes tracing the slits of the vent-like cuts on it. The mechanical sound of Steve’s actions filled up the room—the almost comforting click of the parts as it was disassembled and assembled back together. Routine. Predictable. 

And it was exactly that predictability that Natasha found odd about the situation. 

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” she spoke up.

Now, Steve fully stopped his ministrations, her words catching his attention quite raptly. He properly looked at her after she spoke, and noticed the calculating glaze over her eyes as she stared at a seemingly boring object. 

“Stiles is a prodigy.” Natasha sounded almost fond, and in a sense, she is. “His mind is so layered, you couldn’t possibly know what he’s planning. He’s a strategist, the best one I’ve ever known. He was never one for drawing inside the lines, he’s on a field of his own. He can get out of any situation, no matter how tight, and gain the upper hand. He’s the single most resourceful person, let alone agent—” She finally switched her gaze to face Steve, “—and that’s why you’re wrong about something.” 

There was something unsettling in the way Natasha was so sure about this, and how completely unbothered she seemed after saying such words. Somewhere in the back of Steve’s mind, he thought that this was expected—that Natasha would be partial towards her successor as Clint was.

“You didn’t catch him, Steve, he let you catch him.”

But the most prominent thought in his mind right now was that she was describing their enemy with such respect in her voice. It just goes to show how frightening he really is.

“If he’s here, it’s because he wants to be here—he wants to be caught.” 

Steve froze, his muscles clenched in retaliation from a chill down his spine. Natasha paid no mind to this as she stood up from her seat, walking away as if she didn’t just drop a bomb in their conversation. 

She stopped at the door, looking back at him with his gun in his lap and a stunned expression on his face. 

“The only question is, why?”

***

“Hey, Cap told me to take over this post, go find something else to do.” 

The guard standing post at the door to one of their most elusive captives startled upon hearing the sudden command. He looked towards the voice and recognized him immediately. 

“But, sir, I received strict orders—”

“Leave,” Clint’s voice left no room for arguments, and so the guard went off silently, a confused look following his trail. 

Clint checked around his perimeter to make sure no one was monitoring him—he’s put the surveillance systems on hold for now so he’s in the clear. Without further contemplation, he unlocked the door to the interrogation cell and slipped inside.

Over the past few—deceptively short—days, he’d wondered what he would say to Stiles if and when he saw him again. All the questions he wanted to ask—Are you okay? What happened? Where have you been? Why didn’t you contact me?—circling his mind like a drain. But all of them fell through at this moment and all he could do was stand there in silence. 

The fugitive in restraints didn’t even try to acknowledge his presence, both silently breathing in the fortified room.

“Stiles.” Clint spoke first.

Predictably, Stiles didn’t answer. 

“Are you not going to speak to me now?”

No response. 

“You won’t even look at me, huh?” 

As if to somehow rebel, Stiles looked straight up and into the man’s eyes with a blank expression—he was always good at that, Clint noted in the back of his mind, faking and hiding himself. Upon first impression at his face, Stiles seemed to be eerily calm and composed. 

Maybe he is or maybe he isn’t, at this point, Clint no longer knew how to differentiate between the two. 

He moved closer to the man on the seat and kneeled down next to him, “What happened, Stiles?” 

To his defense, Stiles was slightly shocked that Clint would lower himself both physically and figuratively. The man who was his mentor, one of the few he most respected, was down on his knees, almost begging for answers. 

“Look, you can trust me.” He whispered, hands holding Stiles’ with as much warmth as he could muster. “I don’t believe a word they’re saying, I know you. I know how much they mean to you—you would never do anything to hurt them, I know that.”

Just as he was about to give up, the man gave in.

“Clint.”

The archer raised his head to meet the empty gaze with hopeful shock in his name. 

“I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Clint had been in this world long enough to know that there’s always a catch, “But?”

“But I need you to do something for me.”

Sighing, the older man kept his silence in rapid thought for a minute before agreeing to his conditions.

“What do you need me to do?” 

The man stopped talking immediately, waiting for an answer trailing his questions.

“Take me to them.”

He instantly knew what his successor meant, and he felt the deepest sorrow for the young man in front of him—

“Please.”

—knowing full well, he could not deny him of his request.

***

For a room that Stiles had been in so many times over his time in service, this was the first time he’d ever hated it. As morbid as it may sound, he used to love being in the morgue. It was a place where time stood still—where nothing could go wrong, as the worst had already happened. It was cathartic and therapeutic at the same time, picking up the pieces of destruction and despair to fix it back up into one entity, a lifeless one. 

This room was filled with people’s biggest mistakes, either intentional or unintentional. This room was filled with people that he had either put there himself or brought back for someone else. 

This time, it was both. 

He had both put them here, in this unforgiving coldness, with his actions and brought them back for his sake. 

In the harsh, almost stale, light of the morgue, the two men stood still. 

“Where are their bodies going to go?” Stiles broke the heavy silence in the cold room.

Clint could not answer him for a second, then tried again. “I’ve requested for them to be buried together, and for their names to be carved into the memorial wall.”

“Don’t.” The eerily calm voice of the heartbroken man, who shed no tears, rang out suddenly. Clint blinked at him. “Don’t, Lydia—she, they all wouldn’t want it, ever since Saipan.”

The reminder had the archer reeling back in guilt. He’s heard of the incident on one of their missions in Saipan, Japan, that went horribly wrong for one of their members to have almost died being buried alive. 

“Cremate them, and put them all in one place.” He continued. “We’d promise to be with each other even in the end.”

Stiles hasn’t moved since he entered the room, and hasn't asked to see their bodies. They stood there, staring at the wall of 3 by 3 mortuary fridges. Each box door had names on them, initials and surnames. It was staring right back at him. A. Argent, S. McCall, L. Martin. Locked away behind the steel doors, sleeping away into eternity. 

The silence was so loud, it was painful. 

“Stiles, I really am sorry that this happened. I  know how much you loved them.” Clint tried his best, but he knew nothing he said would help the man. “And Argent—it’s hard to even think about it.”

The man in question reacted to Clint singling out Allison’s name. He turned his head to look at the archer with an inquiring look. Why did he mention Allison specifically? Something in his gut turned and tumbled.

Clint saw his look and immediately, his face fell. “Oh Jesus, you don’t know do you?”

Stiles’ mind was racing, going back through every detail he could remember about Allison—her face, her schedule, her body, her conversations—and that’s when he remembered.

The way Scott jokingly mocked him and Derek for their skinship, ‘We don’t need another sibling.’

The memory flashing by vividly, their voices sounding as if they were circling around him.

‘As much as I’d love a little brother, you have to wait, Stiles.’ The playful and teasing tone in Allison’s voice. 

Louder and louder, by the second.

Their exuberant giggle as they looked at each other, like lovers sharing a secret. 

Because it was a secret. 

A secret that died the minute Scott did, the minute Allison had that guttural scream ripped out of her as she saw him fall with a bullet in his chest. Because the minute Scott died, Stiles knew that Allison did too.

“She was pregnant.” 

It was as if everything fell into place so perfectly. Perfectly horribly. Just as he thought things couldn't get worse, it did. As if they hadn’t suffered enough, as if they hadn’t lost everything to this sick joke of events, as if he wasn’t on his last string—as if it was a divine punishment. 

But there was no such thing as divine punishment. He’s never had much faith, and he’s seen too much of humanity to know that every bad thing was a direct cause of their actions. 

Stiles bit down on his cheeks hard, so hard that he could taste the blood filling his mouth. 

“Stiles, I know you didn’t do this.” Clint gently started, knowing very well that this could be the last straw that breaks the camel’s back.  “We both know that. And I know that you can’t say anything because you were set up, all the evidence is against you.” He stepped forward, in front of Stiles so that the man would focus on him instead of the dead bodies lying behind him, “But you need to tell me what happened, so I can help you.”

He could see the young man’s eyes wavering, coated with a film of the most horrible feelings: guilt, sorrow, grief, pain, anger. 

“Please, Stiles. With the CIA out for your blood and Fury siccing Cap to hunt you down, there’s not much I can do unless you help me.”

Stiles swallowed his breath, “Where’s Derek?" 

Clint paused. His hand that was on its path of comfort, dropped. This was the one thing he did not want Stiles to see. But in spite of his emotions, Stiles was still sharp as a hawk. He noticed the hesitation in the archer and pressed on. 

“Derek. Where is he?”

There was no way he could stop Stiles, so he pleaded, “Stiles, don’t.”

Normally, Stiles would never think of hurting Clint—he would never do such a thing. But that was a version of himself he no longer had the right to be. People kept getting in his way—why do people keep getting in his fucking way.

His anger reached a high and his arms shot before he could even think or Clint could even dodge. Clint was pushed back by the impact of the blow to his sternum, hitting the doors of the fridges. Stiles grabbed him by his collars and held him against the metal surface, hard. 

“Where is he?!” The voice that ripped out of his throat sounded guttural, desperate. It sounded nothing like him, to the point where it was scary.

Clint was shell shocked, he couldn’t move, gasping, “Stiles, stop—”

“Please!” Stiles shouted at him. “Clint, please.”

The archer stopped in his resistance, blinking wide eyed at the stubborn, confident and independent man who had never had the need to sound to broken.

“I need to see him.” Stiles could feel his voice stuttering, his eyes watering, but he didn’t care. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

He felt for him, Clint really did. 

“I didn’t get to say I lo—” It was as if the pain was too great for his lungs to bear even saying those words, “—please. I couldn’t even say sorry.”

Knowing he was going to regret it, Clint caved in. He’s never won against Stiles, not when it mattered anyways. So with a gentle hand enclosing the young man’s trembling fists, he spoke. “Autopsy room 3.”

Stiles ran straight to the door when he spotted it, and opened it with a bang. Clint did not make a move to follow him, more accurately, he did not want to. The reason was apparent to Stiles once he saw it—why Clint did not want him to go here. 

He felt his knees buckle under him, and the next thing he knew, he was on the floor. The next second, there was something wet dripping down the side of his face, pooling at the point of his chin. Without knowing, his hand reached out in front of him pathetically, uselessly calling out, “Derek.”

Clint dug his nails into his palm, fisting them up so much his knuckles turned white. 

“No.” Stiles choked as he inched closer to the table where his lover lay bare, his knees crawling with creaking weight. “No, not like this.”

Clint shut his eyes, as if that would help. As if the darkness could burn away the image he has printed in his head of Derek’s body—of Stiles falling down to his knees, reaching out for him. For a body that laid on a metal table, covered modestly with a thin white drape.

That body wasn’t Derek. 

That body didn’t hold even an inch of Derek’s charisma, or his gentle warmth, or his chiseled handsomeness. That body wasn’t Derek. It was barely even recognizable. 

With how Derek died, falling off a high-speed bike, straight into rough road pavements, bleeding with bullet wounds in his torso, it wouldn’t be shocking the damage his body endured. His skin was lacerated in rough strokes, from the gravel that must’ve raked through his skin with all the friction. His head busted open, with the force he landed on the ground with—so loud, Stiles remembered, that he could hear the skull breaking from his bike as he sped away. 

This body was not Derek. 

Stiles finally trekked close enough to the table so that he could hold his lover's hand, grasping it with as much warmth as he could muster—desperately trying to inject some of it into the icy cold flesh. 

Then he cried. Stiles broke his dam, and let the waters run. He sobbed and sobbed, until his throat ran dry and his lungs hurt. Crying his name, crying all their names, with so much pain in his voice that Clint trembled in his stance, trying hard to resist the urge to cover his ears. 

“Right, that’s enough.” 

A woman’s voice broke through the despairing sonata. Clint opened his eyes and saw her making her way to Stiles, her boots clicking on the ground like some sort of judgment call. 

“Tasha.”

Natasha ignored Clint’s call for her, and he felt the impact of her silence. He knew she was disappointed in him, for taking Stiles here—and he couldn’t help but feel it too. Because right now, looking at Stiles crumpled on the ground clutching onto Derek’s lifeless hands, he felt as if it was his fault. Watching the woman try to coax the grieving young man into her arms, it felt inhumane.

He should have never taken him here—to see this. He shouldn’t have. 

***

“What were you thinking?!” 

Clint winced at the volume Natasha was shouting at. They’d just escorted Stiles back into his interrogation room, strapping him in and replacing the front guard, before Natasha dragged Clint into an empty conference room and pushed him into one of the seats. 

“Bringing him there? Are you serious?” The woman berated him to no end. “That’s no different than torture—you realize that don’t you?”

Knowing full well he was in the wrong, he sighed. “He asked, Tasha.” 

“I don’t care if he asked, you knew better.”

Clint really did know better, but he’s always had a skewed judgment when it comes to Stiles. He brought his hands to rake back his hair before slumping his face into his palms entirely. He could still see the look of utter desolation in the young man’s face, that last light of love disappearing from his eyes. 

Despite the absolute moronic decision he’s been making, Natasha knew how hardly this affected Clint. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, patting him in a slow rhythm. “I know you’re just trying to help. I know that.” Looking up at a blank wall, she let her guard down too. “He knows that.”

“I can’t help him, Nat.” He groaned into his hands, rubbing his face from exhaustion. “He won’t let me.”

“Well, we taught him to be a one-man powerhouse.” She tried to jest, lighten the mood up wherever she can. “Bit too late to complain about it now.”

Clint slipped a little smile for her. “Learned a little too well.” He looked at his hands, as if it held some kind of answer. “He’s always been too smart for his own good.”

Natasha smiled back at him. “Our little duckling.” 

“He didn’t do this, Nat.” Clint looked dead straight into her eyes, piercing her. “You know it.”

Natasha and Clint had a special bond. A bond where words weren't necessary to understand each other. So, Clint knew in his heart that Natasha didn’t believe in any of this either. They just had different approaches to it. 

“Then why won’t he tell us?” The woman whispered. 

Clint blinked, not knowing why she was whispering. But for whatever reason, he felt the need to keep as quiet as he could too. 

“I don’t know.”

***

The door banged against the wall hard, the shock of the impact reverberated through the metallic-paneled walls of the interrogation room. Stiles didn't even get a second to lift his head to greet his visitor before the side of his head was violently pushed against the table.

“Where the fuck is it?”

Of course, it’s him. Stiles took a moment to reign himself in, his mask placed back on. 

“Why hello to you too.” Despite being manhandled, the man didn’t even flinch, his tone as smooth as the calm seas. 

Grant Ward tightened his grip at the back of Stiles’ neck, “Stop fucking around, Stilinski, where is it?”

“Where is what, exactly?” Two can play this game. 

Ward scoffed. “You’ve got no moves left, Stilinski, just tell me where it is and I might make your death less painful than it has to be.”

“How kind of you.” Stiles smiled cheekily. “But I truly have no clue what you’re on about.” He tilted his head as far back as he could with the resistance to look at Ward. “Isn’t that the story you’re trying to sell?”

Grant pushed his head right back to the table, increasing the force. “You’re pathetic.” He spat at his head. “Agent Stiles fucking Stilisnki, thinking you’re smarter, better, higher than everyone else—and oh how the mighty have fallen. Look where you are now. No team, no friends and no glory.” His hand finally let go of the death grip it had on Stiles’ head. “You think you can still act like this? Look where you are now—it’s over.”

The man walked around the table to face Stiles, his hands gripping the chair opposite him. Stiles sat there in complete silence, watching him like a hawk, knowing that it would spur the agent even more. 

“This is going to end with bullet through your thick ass head, so just give me the damn location of where you stashed the item—which we both know you stole because I don’t fucking have it.” Ward sighed, taking a more tentative approach since  “And I’ll make sure your beloved team gets a glorious memorial service, how about that?”

Stiles took a moment to look at Ward before he raised a brow in thought, tilting his head one way to the next. His face seemed relaxed, showing no sign of annoyance, still high and mighty in his lofty attitude. It grated on Ward’s nerve like no other. 

Then, he finally bent.

All the fake smiles and snark fell off from his face in an instant, replaced with a slate. It brought just the slightest tick of smile on Ward’s face, seeing this man who was so out of his reach bend down like a leaf in a storm. Finally, Stiles Stilinski lost to him. Finally, the look of defeat he’s dreamt of was painted on his enemy’s face. 

“Fine.” 

The smile finally broke Ward’s face the minute he heard Stiles’ answer.

“On one condition.”

Ward raised his eyebrow.

“Why?” Stiles looked Ward right in the eyes, unblinking. “At least tell me why.”

“What difference does it make?”

“You killed everyone I loved. You ruined my life, my reputation, my career. I want to know why.”

“Oh poor little Stiles, everything’s horrible for Stiles.” Ward put on an act, overexaggerating his voice, before he shrugged. “There’s no reason why, Stiles. You were just the easiest target.”

Stiles knew point blank that that was an outright lie. Tony had reasoned it out pretty well beforehand, Stiles wasn’t the easiest target—he was the riskiest, especially for something so off-book and secretive. Throwing Stiles under the bus was akin to shining a 1000-watt spotlight on the problem. 

“I know you’re working for someone else.” Stiles challenged him further. “You’re not half as smart to pull this off alone, and I’m not in the mood to stroke your fragile ego, so tell me what I want to know or I’m not giving you the location and we’re both screwed.” 

Ward scoffed. “You really think you can threaten me right now? In your position?” 

“The reason why you’re here begging me for an answer is because you know you can’t find it no matter how hard you look for it.” 

They both knew he was right. As much as it would kill him to admit it, Stiles was indeed a mastermind, if he wanted something hidden, no one would be able to find it. 

Stiles repeated his question, “Who do you work for?”

Grant Ward gnashed his teeth together, even when he had the man in the palm of his hands, it still felt like Stiles had the upper hand. It was infuriating. But he’s still got one card up his sleeve. So he smirked, slowly, all his agitation faded away.

Watching the change in his stance and expression, Stiles felt the slightest bit wary. 

“Are you really sure you want to know?” 

Ward’s question caught him off guard. Of all the things Stiles thought he would say, this wasn’t it. Something was off. 

“I was trying to be the bigger man, spare you from knowing, but if you really insist, Stiles,” Ward tapped along the back of the chair he was holding, his eyes glimmering with glee, “I’ll tell you.”

Stiles watched him carefully, this man wasn’t lying. He was too relaxed. Anything this man says next will be the truth, as true as Ward believed it to be. 

“Who do you think put you up to this?”

That feeling gnawing on the back of his mind came rushing at full force.

Maybe he didn’t want to know, after all.

“Fury did.”

All trains of thought stopped in his head, his nerves all going still. No.

“That’s right, Nick Fury personally chose you for the role of scapegoat, congratulations.” Ward took a look at his face and broke into a huge smile. “Oh come on, now, what’s with that look? You’re telling me it didn’t even cross your mind?”

Stiles intensified his glare. No, he wouldn’t do this. Not to him. He wanted to say those words out loud, deny these allegations, but he was tongue-tied. 

“The man you trusted most.” Ward laughed deprecatingly. “Isn’t that ironic?” 

With a calm but stern voice, the younger man finally broke his silence, “You’re bluffing.”

“What, you think a guy like that doesn’t have a few dirty secrets? Really?” Ward taunted him, bending lower. 

Stiles stayed strong on his seat. “He wouldn’t be where he is if he didn’t have at least a closet-full of them, but that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Oh, but Stiles, I’ve known you for quite some time now—I can see the gears in your head turning.” Stiles nearly sneered at Ward, but he knew it would only make him more smug. “He must’ve been shifty, you must’ve seen, heard or felt something wrong when he gave you this mission.” Ward was trained to be a liar, one of the best—as douchebaggery as he may be—and that’s how he saw the tiniest microexpression that gave Stiles away. “There it is. That’s the look I wanted to see. You found it, his guilt in his actions. You know I’m right.”

Stiles sat there, boiling in his seat. “No.”

His small, weak and airy denial brought a burst of joyous laughter in the man’s throat. Stiles Stilinski, finally, a broken man. “

The sadistic glee was blooming in Ward’s face, like he was a child getting candy for the first time. And wi

He took a deep breath, in, two three four, out, two three four. Each one deeper than the last, each one heavier than he could bear. 

His left hand gripped his right, massaging the flesh with whatever comfort it could bring. Ward watched the action, cooing mockingly, “Now this is just pathetic, Stiles.”

Stiles shut his eyes, and bent his head down further, so that Ward couldn’t see his expression--it made lean down further to follow the motion, wanting to savor the defeat on his face. 

It’s time. Stiles gritted his teeth. His massaging hand stopped on the thumb joint of his right hand, pressing down hard. A resounding crack echoed through the room, before Ward could even register what had broken, Stiles’ hand shot right up--free from the shackle--and jabbed Ward in the eyes.

“Fuck!” The agent doubled back in pain, his hand coming up to his eyes, blinded momentarily by the sheer impact. 

Because he was a high profile target, extra measures were taken to detain him. Instead of just the one handcuff--they used two to restrain each of his hands to the table. Stiles got out of one by dislocating his thumb on his right hand to slip out of the cuff--but his left hand was still bound to the table. 

It was a handicap, but he didn’t need both his hands to beat the living shit out of this ever surviving cockroach.

Before Ward could even gather himself, Stiles kicked back his chair straight into his abdomen. Ward groaned but instantly retaliated--he went straight in for a punch at Stiles’ head.

The hit never landed, with the younger man dodging the strike and grabbing the man’s incoming forearm with his free hand and pulling it straight next to his head. He leaned back against the table and brought his legs up over Ward’s shoulders in one swift move to put him in a chokehold. 

“Did you really think for a second that you’ve won?” Stiles took pleasure in seeing the man writhe and trash around for air. “Did you really think you caught me?”

With his chained left hand, he reached into Ward’s holster under his arm and grabbed his gun. Once he got it, he let the tight leg grip on Ward go, before kicking him to the side. Ward met the wall with a strong impact, hands immediately coming up to catch his breath.

Stiles shot the chain connecting his cuff to the table with his newfound gun, freeing himself. 

“I’m exactly where I want to be. And you’ve given me everything I wanted to know.”

Ward barely got up before Stiles swept a kick under his legs, landing him on the ground once more, and then roundhouse kicked his head in one spinning consecutive motion.

Stiles cruelly looked down on him before grabbing him by the collar, and dragged him up, only to punch him hard in the stomach. The man could feel blood rushing up his throat, before throwing it up on the floor as he went down kneeling. Then a hand grabbed his hair and forced him to look up.

Heaving, Ward gave a strangled laugh, choking on blood, “You can kill me, but you’ll never win.”

“Death is too easy, I’m not going to kill you, Ward.” With a tight grip on the back of Ward’s head, he gave one last look of contempt before smashing it down hard at the table—knocking the living daylight out of his brain before he fell limp on the floor with a bloodied forehead. 

He bent down to Ward’s ear level, knowing full well he was still half conscious because Ward’s a weaselly resilient cockroach like that, and whispered, “You haven’t got the slightest clue what I’m going to do to you, so try not to die till then, okay?”

Slapping his cheeks mockingly, he got up.  Without even a grimace, he popped his right thumb back in place and shook his hand to get the muscles working again. He grabbed Ward’s lanyard ID access card before leaving the room. 

It was his plan all along to get captured. It was simple, really, there were no clues left. Something this meticulously planned and large-scale handled, it was obvious that they would cover their tracks neatly. They assassinated all other smoking guns, killed off any intel from the outside, and thus the only option left was attacking them at their homebase, from the inside. 

Captain America was the one hitch in the plan—he didn’t think the nation's hero would be out to get him. And the only one with authority to order Captain America to do such a thing is Fury himself. The one thing he doesn’t know is why.

Why? 

He needed answers, his mind was racing to come up with possibilities, both good and bad. All the traps of what if’s and maybe’s, circling down the drain into a black void of uncertainty. 

Not Fury. Not him. It can’t be him. 

Can it?

Stiles would be lying if the thought didn’t cross his mind—but it was as fleeting as catching smoke with your bare hands. He dismissed it before he could even grasp it. That’s how unbelievable the proposition was. 

Not that it was impossible. He ‘s certainly capable of it. 

There was a reason why Nick Fury had kept his position as director of the biggest espionage and intelligence agency in the world. Which is precisely why he should have expected that when he barged into his office, it would be empty. 

And that when he rooted through all his files and documents, nothing would be left. 

Fury was gone. 

Stiles stood there, in the havoc he turned Fury’s office into, with papers and cabinets turned all around him. His chest was heaving, his mind was drowning. How? Why? The anger and the betrayal built in him like a sick disease, the hatred filled his entire body to the point where his ears were boiling red. 

Fury knew him too well. He knew all the things Stiles would do, where he would look, what his next actions could be. So if he wanted to hide something from him, he could. And Stiles would never have suspected anything. He would be blind. 

That was when it hit him—he needed to stop doing things he would do, stop looking at places he would look at, and instead do what Fury would. 

So he left Fury’s office, and ran straight to the one place he would normally never look in. After a few hallways, turns and stairs, he arrived at a door he was intimately familiar with. 

On the plate of the door, written in embossed plating, was a name: S. Stilinski. His office. 

He opened the door and went in. It was rummaged through and through—as can be expected, numerous agents would have scrapped this place top to bottom to find any clues on his treacherous plans and serve it up as evidence. Who knew if they had actually found anything—he wouldn’t put it past someone to plant evidence in his office, especially as he had no clue who in SHIELD was the enemy. 

But he knew that if Fury had hidden anything in here--which he would swear upon his life he did—then nobody would be able to find it.

Nobody but him. 

Fury knew him well, yes, that much is true. But a string goes both ways. Which means Stiles knew Fury just as well as the man knew him. He had studied profusely under the man, a majority of tricks in his book he learned from the eye-patched motherfucker. He knew the cogs and kinks working inside the most elusive brain he’s ever encountered, and that makes him exceptionally knowledgeable about Director Fury. 

It would be some place that he wouldn’t recognize, some place he wouldn’t often interact with. So he went around his office looking at everything—all the tiles, all the indents under the carpet, all his usual hiding spots. But nothing came up. 

He came back to the center of his office and took a third perspective. His chair, his cabinets, his drawers, his table—

His table. Obviously, the first place anyone would look for something hidden is the table. It’s the one thing you interact with the most and spend most time in. 

But you would normally only interact with one side of it, and not the other. Stiles stopped and stared at his table, and a memory rang in his head like a glimpse of a ghost.

“What have you got for us today, old man?” Stiles sat on the chair, kicking his feet up to rest on the desk. 

He walked closer to the guest-end of his table and reached a hand out. 

Fury knocked his foot off his pristine desktop with a file folder. 

His fingers brush against the desktop surface and he gives it a little knock—hollow. He reached under the desk and found an indentation. 

“How many more times do I have to remind you not to sully my desk with your foot before I cut it off completely.” 

Pushing it in, something clicked and an object dropped right into his hands.

A USB. Bingo. 

Stiles didn’t waste a second, because he knew he was pressed for time and got to work immediately. Even though his office was ransacked, there was no way they could’ve found all the things he hid in there. As a case in point, when he pulled apart the compartment underneath his desk chair, his laptop was still there. 

He booted it up and quickly put up firewalls, disconnected any internet or bluetooth from the building and turned on a VPN. Then he plugged in the USB. Stiles only had to wait for a minute before all the data popped up. 

Files upon files, upon folders of folders, all with some level of encryption which he knew would take him ages. Tony could handle it with no fuss. He couldn’t access any of it right now—but that didn’t mean he learned nothing. 

The dates on these files goes back ages, to before Howard Stark worked in SHIELD, to before Captain America and the howling commandos, right to the start of SHIELD, back in world war 2 when it was still called Strategic Scientific Reserve, the SSR.

There were code names that he recognized from previous research of his own: Red Skull, von Strucker, Pierce. But one name had a file that was three times smaller in bytes than the rest—which meant either of two things: they weren’t an important enough figure to warrant a huge file, or they were a figure so elusive and hidden that there was barely anything on them.

And in his line of work, and given his luck, it was almost always the latter. 

The Commissioner. Stiles had heard of the name before in passing, but he never knew it was true. From his knowledge, the Red Skull had someone to do his work—all the things he couldn’t do himself given his identity, and that was the Commissioner. Notoriously invisible, to the point where he was referred to as a ghost. Nothing real was ever found on the name—a legend, a whisper, the man behind the curtain.

And that was all he knew. So he tried to decrypt what he could in the amount of time he had, but he could only redact the last known information that was added to the file. 

The date the Commissioner was last placed at, and the people who were present. 

He recognized only one of the names.

It couldn’t have been a worse name for him to find. 

He thought it over in his head—planned it out and risk assessed it all in an instant—and then he took the USB to put in his pocket before shutting the laptop off and destroying it. 

Stiles got what he came here for, he’s got everything he needs—more answers and hundreds more answers, but he’s got a lead and that’s what mattered most. He could leave right now, and regroup with Tony. Get him up to speed. 

But his heart felt as if it was about to explode. His emotions were raging, and his calm exterior would not allow him to leave without letting his instincts run free. 

So he did. 

He destroyed everything he could think of. He set a trojan virus free in the main systems network, liquidated SHIELD’s assets he could get his hands on and leaked private sensitive information. It was petty—he wouldn’t deny that. But the sound of alarms going off, the red-light flickering in all hallways, and all the error windows popping up on all the screens he could see—it was euphoric. 

Compared to what they did to him, this was nothing. He hasn’t even started anything yet. 

Before he left, he broke into one of the comms rooms, knocked out the agents in there and hijacked the broadcasting speakers. 

“Sorry to interrupt your daily news, but this just in: a message for you.”

He didn’t need to introduce himself, everybody knew his voice. That was the power he still held. 

“You know who you are. Are you listening? This is my declaration of war. I’m going to destroy you. You can come at me with everything you have, in fact I dare you to. I’m going to let you feel every inch of fury that you’ve lit in me. And I promise you, you haven’t yet seen the slaughter I’m capable of. So sleep with both eyes open if you can, and watch your back.” 

He was well aware of the absolute carnage he was leaving behind. He was also aware of the chaos that was trailing behind him, trying to catch up to him as he had revealed his position to a building full of people hunting him. But Stiles didn’t care, he felt no fear or danger. They couldn’t catch him even if they tried. 

Because in his heart he knew. Everyone else knew it too. In this game of hunt, he wasn’t the prey. 

“Because you can bet that if karma doesn’t kill you—”

He was the biggest predator in that building. 

“—I will.” 

***

What he’s about to do may end up blowing up in his face, or make the situation about a hundred times worse. But you know what they say about desperate times. Calling this a desperate measure would be the understatement of the century but he doesn’t fucking care anymore. 

This ran deeper than even he thought it did. And he’s way too deep in rage to have a clear conscience right now so fuck that too. 

He’s pulling out all the stops, he’s done with being safe—he’s done with precautions and playing it safe. They’re playing with fire, so why shouldn’t he?

So he set out on his target. Finding the target was easy if you know where to look—well, hard for most people but he wasn’t most people. He had resources from the most prominent intelligence and law enforcement agency before he was shunned from it—and he’s got a hell of a lot of ways to find it himself. 

He remembered running across the name several times in the SHIELD files, and his tendency to poke and prod was deep in his bones that he did extensive research on it before he was roped into this catastrophic shitshow. 

So he knew everything he needed to know. 

It was just a very delightful coincidence that the target also happens to be a trump card for this game, and he needs it in his set of decks. And he knows just how to get the target to bend to his will. 

If any of his former teammates were here, they’d try and talk him out of it due to the sheer ridiculousness of the idea—but they’re not here are they and that’s the whole fucking point. 

He slips into the nondescript apartment in the suburbs of downtown Brooklyn, a small place just up from a chinese takeaway store and a dingy bar. 

The minute he steps over the window ledge through the fire escape, he feels the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the right side of his temple. 

From his peripheral view, he could see the outline of his target hiding in the shadows of the unlit apartment. The darkness that shrouded them was foretelling the dark and turbulent future that these two would face. But right now, that feeling was subdued by a much larger feeling of oppression and danger.

If it wasn’t for the much present threat that overloaded their senses, they would know to stay away from each other that first day. Stiles wouldn’t have seeked him out no matter how desperate he was for a trump card, and the other—well, he’s learned his lesson about a hundred times over to never let anyone near him again. 

But that wasn’t the case here. No. 

This was fate, ill-fated as it may be. But fate nonetheless. 

“I’m not here to hurt you, I need your help.” Stiles broke their silence, his voice unwavering. 

His target seemed all the more happy to press the gun barrel further into his temples, although Stiles didn’t even blink at the motion. Then offered up no other response to Stiles’ words, so he continued.

“Before you decide to pull the trigger, I should tell you that I know about the Commissioner.” 

At that, his target paused for a moment before finally stepping out of the shadows, his eyes slanted in a cold glare and his mouth grim across the line. Stiles finally got a good look at him as he turned his head around slightly, not enough to shrug the weapon pressed against his head. 

He’s every bit as intimidating as the reports said he was. 

“According to the files, you were there that night the Commissioner disappeared,” Stiles narrowed his eyes at the man, “and the only one still alive that’s connected to it.” At this, the man knew what Stiles broke into his apartment for, and did not like it one bit judging by the furrow in his brows. “You’re going to help me find them.”

 “And why would I do that?”

Stiles smirked, knowing he’s got his attention. 

“Because you only have one thing left in this life you’re willing to die to protect. And right now he’s chasing me to the edge of the earth.” His words elicited a reaction from his target, “You know that if he follows me down this road, he’s going to be caught up in all of this--with his righteous attitude and boner for justice--it’s bound to happen.”

Feeling daring, Stiles turned his body the whole way round to face his target fully. Judging by the fact that his brain matter wasn’t splattered all over the wall, he’s making good progress on his negotiations. 

“I could just catch you and send you to him, problem solved.” His target challenged, the gun now pointed straight at him. “He won’t follow you if you can’t run.”

Stiles took a minute to take in his arm--he thought the man would cover it more, but it was perfectly out there in the open without any covering. As if he wasn’t hiding it. For some reason, that fact struck him, to what extent--he’s yet to know.

“Why don’t you take a second and figure out how I’m here?” Stiles raised his eyebrow at him, testing. “Do you really think just anyone can run from Captain America if they want to? Doesn’t that say a thing or two about me? You’ve got enough clues to guess now.” He sounds cocky, he’s well aware, but he’s got the skills to back it up. “It’s because he can’t catch me that I’m here in front of you.”

The moonlight shone through the window slowly, lighting up the place in a slanted spotlight that went up slowly. Illuminating both men in the tense situation, allowing each other to finally get a proper clear assessment. James Buchanan Barnes stood there with his arm outstretched. At the end of the barrel, a reckless man risking it all. Younger than he had previously thought, too young, even. 

“You know he’ll never give up following me. And I won’t stop chasing them.” The young man had a fire in his eyes that Bucky knew he couldn’t argue with. He’s made his case clear, and now the ball was in his court.

Bucky thought it through on his own. After what he’s been through, he’s gained some sort of gut feeling for these things. And right now it’s telling him that this young thing in front of him, who looks barely old enough to hold a gun, is bad news. He’s nothing but danger, it hugs him like a second skin. 

His mind tells him to stay away from this man, no matter the cost. 

But his heart—something in that silent organ he’s not used in ages—it’s daring him to go along with this. It’s probably his luck that he doesn’t really have a choice. 

“What I’m offering you is simple really: If you don’t want him involved you’re going to help me take them down. So.” 

Stiles looked up at him through his lashes, as if he wasn’t staring down the barrel of a gun, a dangerous feral look in his eyes. Captain Steve Rogers may never forgive him for involving his treasured and tortured comrade into this mess. 

“Help me help you protect the ones you love.” 

The shred of morality hiding inside of him is also telling him not to. He knows full well the personal hell that Bucky has gone through, knows why he’s on the run, why he’s such a danger. But—

“Or I’ll lead him down to hell with me.”

—he never said he didn’t know how to play dirty.

“Your move.”