three documents and a bag
—
Rhodey pokes the box with a careful pointer finger, almost radiating a sort of bemusement, with his face scrunched up in distaste nonetheless.
“Smells like shit,” Bucky says simply.
Tony and Pepper, while mustering all their strength, had managed to drag the metal case all the way back to the Emmaus cabin before the sun had the chance to fully rise. They were sticky and tired and they had jumped into their respective cabins’ showers as soon as possible.
Tony had held off his cabin as soon as their alarm rang to get ready for flag raising. Upon seeing the dripping metal case laying in the middle of the floor as well as Tony’s pained expression, Rhodey had immediately called for everyone to skip breakfast and stay for a meeting. Clint called Natasha, as well, so now she’s perched on top of the cabinet looking perplexed.
“Wait... so, let me get this straight,” Bruce says irritably, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You two snuck out in the middle of the night, went to the body lake, dived into the fucking water—“
“It was just Tony, actually,” Pepper says.
“And you—you found this?” he asks, hands pointed down at the... object... on the floor. “What even is it?”
“We think it might be some sort of clue. To, uh, whatever is going on around here.”
“Wait. You mean, like, the missing kids?” Clint asks.
“Possibly.”
Steve moves forward without an ounce of caution. He began fiddling with the lock, fingers grazing over the dials as the other teenagers sat a safe distance away, almost frightened. The blonde boy coughs. “Well, have you opened it?”
“No, that’s why we brought it here. We don’t know the right combination—the only way for us to open it is to use every possible combination, and there’s six digits, so...”
“You seriously want to just sit here and test out thousands of numbers?” Sam exclaims. “No way. Noooooo way.”
“There’s no other option.”
“Unless we find the code on our own,” Natasha mutters.
Bucky scoffs in an almost laughing matter. He doesn’t like Natasha very much, it seems, by the way he’s always putting off her opinions when she has something new to bring to the table. “How the hell would we do that?” he asks, “Pull one out of our asses? We don’t know whose case this is.”
“I’m just thinking out loud, douche. Maybe there’s a correlation somewhere, like... an address, or a date, or the numbers correlate to letters.”
“That makes sense,” Scott supplies, albeit a bit hesitantly. “Maybe building numbers? The petting zoo’s building number is, like... 102002. Try that.”
Pepper pulls the case towards the spot where she sits criss-crossed on the floor. After ten seconds (Tony counts. He finds himself counting seconds more and more with each passing day), she shakes her head.
Clint purses his lips. “Try... 123456.”
“That’s not gonna work, dipshit.”
“You never know! Maybe the murderer man is an idiot.”
“As much of an idiot as you?” Bucky says cheekily. Clint flips him off.
Making a face as if he’s surrounded by the biggest idiots in the world, Steve looks over at Tony with nothing but fatigue in his eyes. “Look, man, this is your call. You think we should take turns putting in the combinations, fine. Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”
“Noooo!” Sam whines. “Nooooooo!”
Bruce mumbles something under his breath. “Well, if we assume that the first number could, possibly, be a zero, and that numbers can repeat...”
“How many combinations are we talking about?” asks Rhodey.
“About, uh... Tony, wouldn’t it be one million? Have you done the math?”
Tony nods, and Sam, Scott, Clint, and Bucky simultaneously throw their hands into the air in disbelief.
“A million?!” Scott exclaims.
“It’s not that hard,” Tony says tartly. “If you took two seconds putting in each combination since you’d only be shifting the ‘ones’ dial, that would take... two million seconds. That’s only, like...”
“Tones, that would be over 23 days without breaks,” Bruce sighs.
“Then, uh... what about only one and a half seconds to put in each each combination?”
“17.”
“...Okay, well... well, we wouldn’t even need to do all combinations!” he rambles, semi-hysterically. “There has to be one six digit number that works, we—we just have to find it.”
“Tones,” Rhodey says stoically, almost resigning, as he places a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Tony, there... there’s no way.”
“But we have to try!” Steve retorts, pulling Tony’s other arm towards himself. “And if putting in each individual number is the only way to do it, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“Steve, you know it’s not—“
“I still say we go out and try to find it, though,” Natasha says coldly.
“I’ll go with her,” Clint announces.
“I will, too,” Sam offers, looking a little too desperate to get out of here.
Shrugging, Scott sits down next to Pepper on the floor. “Uh... I can stay and, like, help with the numbers. Keep track with them, or something.”
“Thank you, Scott,” Pepper says, a small smile formed by her lips. “But you don’t have to. It’s not a job for a team.” She turns to Tony. “I can start this. I’ll start from the nine-hundred ninety-nine thousands.”
“Okay,” Scott says, but he looks relieved. How thoughtful of him.
Pepper and Bruce stay inside, probably discussing theories or numbers or god knows what. All Tony knows is that the rest of the cabin splits away and into groups as soon as they’re out the door, trying to find any six digit numbers within reach.
—
“Okay, but consider this; what if, the code is a food?” Bucky points out, hand intertwined with Steve’s as they walk through the woods, following the path to the petting zoo. “What’s a six letter word... chicken. Shit, no, that’s seven.”
“How would we even put that in?” asks Steve. “I mean, based on their number order in the alphabet, N would be, like... well, above ten, so it’d be double digits.”
“Wait, really?”
“Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?”
“I didn’t eat breakfast, bubby.”
“...Oh, yeah. I need to eat later, or I’m gonna pass out.”
“Metabolism things.”
Tony rubs his temple. He could have split off with literally anyone. He could’ve gone with Rhodey, his other half and the most logical person in the group, who’d for sure get shit done. But no, him and his stupid feelings had to go with the couple that literally shares one brain cell (that Steve has, most of the time). Go figure.
Honestly, it’s not that bad. At least he gets to stare at them.
“Tony, so, like,” Bucky says, turning back to address the hoodie-clad boy behind them. “How’d you even get Jarvis to do a metal scan that wide? I mean, the ones in the airports are fuckin’ huge, but even they can’t cover as much of a range as you said Jarvis could.”
Tony can feel a dopey smile begin to spread across his face. He forces himself to drop it before it’s noticeable. He can’t help it; he loves it when people ask him science-related questions with genuine, unwarranted interest, instead of asking him something like ‘how much did your cologne cost?’ or some shit.
“An unused prototype from Howard’s lab,” he explains, shrugging. “I stole some code, it helped me figure out the hijinks—took me hours to figure out the right way to use the transmitter circuits that were small enough to fit in a watch but powerful enough to create a projection, of sorts, and the magnets were a pain in the ass.”
Bucky’s mouth droops, agape. “Wowwww. I don’t know what any of that means, but that’s cool. Super cool.”
Tony decides fuck all, and allows himself to smile. “Thanks.”
The leaves crunch underneath their feet as they shuffle their way down a hill. No one knows exactly where they’re going; just the objective. Find some numbers. Solve the mystery. Find Peter (maybe). Go home, forget everything ever happened and never talk to each other again.
Yeah. That sounds like a good plan.
And, well, Tony is sort of ‘meh’ about it. And sad. But maybe it’s just because of the prospect of the kid being alive—god, that would be so much less blood on Tony’s hands—that’s keeping him on his feet. Seriously, anyone could be next, if they’re not quick enough.
“Hey, Tones?” Steve asks. “You’re italian, right?”
Tony nods. “Yeah, uh... my mom was half Italian, one quarter french and one quarter Chinese. My dad is full Italian.”
Bucky sputters. “You’re Chinese?”
“Like, an eighth,” Tony defends.
“I never knew that, and I was, like, obsessed with Howard Stark when I was little. I never knew that his wife was anything but white.”
“Buck, you’re all white,” Steve points out.
“I’m, like, two percent Native American.”
“That’s exactly something a pasty white person would say—“
“My dad didn’t like to mention it much,” Tony cuts in, not caring much to listen to bickering, at the moment. “Dunno. He didn’t want people to look down on the family. Or the legacy. Still never really understood what’s so wrong with being asian, but my mom didn’t argue. Rich white men practically run the country. Howard probably wants for me to keep that title, even after he’s gone. Seems kids racist to me, but I never said anything.”
Steve purses his lips. “One this is all over... what do you think Howard will say?”
“What? About the incidents?”
“Yeah. What would his reaction be?”
“He’d probably laugh. Take a jab at me, saying I should’ve been one of them. The usual.”
Bucky and Steve exchange glances. They don’t look upset, just... bemused. “My mom would never do that.”
The three teens get to the petting zoo. It’s the same as before, with the stench of horse shit and hay practically invading Tony’s personal space, and the chickens that peck at his feet as he passes by only give him more of a reason to be grossed out. They go inside the building, but for what reason, Tony isn’t sure.
“My mom would be happy to see me,” Bucky adds, petting a goat named Charlotte, “But only because if I were dead, there’d be no one to help her with my sisters. She doesn’t care about me, much... she says I look too much like my dad.”
Tony flinches. “That sucks. Sorry.”
“You don’t get to be sorry. You’ve gone through more shit than me, man.”
Steve glares at his boyfriend, who doesn’t really care enough to notice. Tony does, though.
”So... no dad in the picture, I assume?” he asks, carefully.
“Uh,” the boy pauses. “He’s basically nonexistent. Works a lot. But when he’s around at home, he’s good to me, I guess—“
“Buck, he’s such a dick bag,” Steve cringes.
”He gives me money, though!”
“To compensate for neglecting you and Sabrina, and for making your mother miserable.”
“Well... on the bright side, they say that it you have daddy issues, you’re more likely to be gay as fuck.”
“I can vouch for that,” Tony says sourly, fidgeting with Jarvis.
Bucky grins, a bright and blinding display as always. Just as Tony expects for him to say something amusing or even a bit crude, the boy climbs on top of the gate of the goat enclosure, swinging his foot around.
“Buck, no,” Steve orders, before he can even turn around to see his partner being a fucking idiot. A sixth sense, of sorts, which Tony can only admire—it’s cute. He turns around. “No. You can’t ride the goat anymore, you’re not as small as last year.”
“You did!” Bucky exclaims, hugging the animal and getting fur all over himself.
“I’m a hundred pounds! You’re a fucking linebacker!”
“So you’re calling me fat,” Bucky gasps in offense.
Steve face palms. “Tony—Tony, get him off.”
“Oh, yes,” Bucky smirks. It’s obvious where his head is. “Get me off, Mr. Stark.”
“Mr. Stark was my dad,” he swerves, tugging Bucky off the poor goat and over the fence. For a moment, his hand grazes over the taller boy’s bicep—yes, muscular as always, which is impressive for someone who only turned 15 a few months ago. Oh, yeah, he forgot; Bucky was the JV linebacker at him and Steve’s school, someone had mentioned.
Tony has always sucked at football. Any sport, really, because his short stature isn’t what he’d call an advantage at anything athletic. He’s not a very fast runner, either. You’d think that a popular kid like him would be placed with the jock crowd, but... the debate team has always been more his style.
(Fuck! Snap out of it, you jackass, there are lives on the line! This isn’t about you!)
Oh. Well, that voice in his head is new. Perhaps it’s stress, or maybe he’s being possessed, or maybe a talking symbiotic parasite latched onto him in the lake. Or, maybe he really is losing his mind here.
Tony brushes his clothes off. His usual sweatshirt, which he refuses to wear anything other than, despite the heat. Everyone comments on it. He doesn’t care.
“Numbers,” Steve murmurs. “Numbers, numbers, numbers...”
“Six digits!” Bucky reminds, too cheerfully.
“Maybe... phone numbers... no, wait. I’m dumb.”
“You could be right about that corresponding letter thing,” Tony says, staring at the littered hay on the ground. “Why are we here?”
“It felt right,” Steve says.
“We should snoop in Rumlow’s cabin, I betcha he has some good shit—“
“What? Like clues?”
“Or weed,” Bucky says.
Tony had taken a mental note of several things; one, each building had a building number on their sides, etched into the wood almost sloppily, and each of these numbers had six digits. All of these buildings—the cafeteria, the nurse, the gaming room, the bathhouse—except for the camper cabins.
For at least an hour, a long, boring hour, the trio wanders around and texts Pepper these building numbers. Turns out that Scott and Sam had the same idea, and basically every sequence had already failed. Tony can’t shake the feeling that they’re being trapped, or something. It’s like the case is their way out, there’s no possible way to open it.
It gets to the point where they sit down on the grass in fatigue—backs towards the hill, peering against the main lake that sparkles in the sunlight. Normally, there would be hundred of kids splashing and canoeing and swimming in the water. It’s completely vacant now.
This isn’t the same place it was when Tony first moved in. This isn’t even a camp anymore. It’s simply a crime scene that’s holding a bunch of kids that have nowhere else to go; an empty husk with food, air conditioning, and water. Like one of those run down communities in The Walking Dead.
“I think,” Steve says quietly, fidgeting with a bundle of flowers he picked along the woods, “They’re closing down once the summer’s over.”
Tony scoffs. “No shit.”
“It’s been open since 1940,” Bucky supplies. “It’s probably time for it to, y’know, make its exit...”
“What a perfect way to go,” Tony says grimly. “Known as the child-killing summer camp. This place is good as gone.”
“Sad,” Steve says.
“Why?” Tony asks.
“People are gonna lose their jobs. Maria, Coulson, Fury... this camp has been their priority since they took it over in 2005. Like, they have their jobs all other months of the year, but it’s important to them. And kids are gonna lose their getaway during the summer. People call this place their second home.”
“And what are you two doing? Once you go home?”
Bucky looks at Steve pointedly. The blonde looks unimpressed. “Eh. Probably everything as usual—we’re going into our sophomore year, Bucky’s probably gonna be moved up to varsity football, I’m gonna take AP art, maybe see Natasha in the halls...”
“What high school do you guys go to?”
“Central. It’s not far from here... maybe twenty minutes North.”
“What about you, Tones?” Bucky asks.
Shrugging, Tony looks back to the water and slouches. “I was gonna go to Centennial High.”
“Wait! That’s our rival school!”
“Yeah,” Tony says, scoffing a bit. “They have a good robotics program... and a business academy. Well, I was gonna take either business or biotech. Howard wanted me to take business, but honestly, it’s nothing I wouldn’t be able to learn on my own. Biotech is already something I’m good at, but I want the certificate. To say I have it.”
“Why? You already have, like, everything you need for a successful future.”
“To have something of my own. That I earned, by myself.”
“I get that,” Bucky says. “But, I mean, why else do you want to go to Centennial? It doesn’t seem like your type of crowd, Tones.”
“What do you mean?” Tony asks. “If anything, Centennial has more of the spoiled rich kids and the tryhard assholes than your school does.”
“Exactly,” says Steve.
Tony scrunches his nose. What are they talking about? What do they mean ‘not his crowd’? Obviously, Tony would fit in with the prisses and pansies better than the ‘average’ kids. It’s his nature. It’s the problem with being a Stark.
“That’s not you at all,” Steve repeats, hand falling on top of his. “You’re nothing like them. You’re kind, and smart, and—“
“You have the biggest heart either of us have seen in a while,” Bucky adds, without much shyness, and goes the extra mile—lacing Tony’s fingers from his other hand in his own. “You’re beautiful.”
Yet, despite the butterflies in his stomach, he can’t bring himself to believe that the words they speak are true; how can someone such as himself be as amazing as they describe? They’re not ones to talk about other’s beauty—they’re the beautiful ones here. Steve has his heart. His eyes. His fire, blazing and spreading. Bucky has his courage, his icy charm, his strength, but not in the way Steve has. He’s headstrong and witty and gentle under it all. Tony doesn’t have anything to bring to the table.
But even under his insecurity, Tony can’t help but contemplate the real reason that he was put into this camp. He’s not exactly a firm believer in fate, but Maria had always told him that everything happens for a reason—her own pacifistic philosophy. Howard is the opposite. A realist, someone who sees facts, and only coincidences. Tony has rubbed off on both of them.
He’s putting on a fake facade of focus when Steve reaches for Tony’s face, pulling his gaze away from the hypnotic water.
Maybe fate brought him to this summer camp. Maybe he was destined to meet these boys.
(Yeah, right. Keep dreaming.)
Well, whatever. He’s glad he met them anyways, he thinks, and then Steve’s lips meet his. It snaps him out of the trance he didn’t know he was in.
Bucky kisses him, after that. Both of them kiss sweetly—softly and simply. Steve’s lips are soft and taken care of while Bucky’s are slightly chapped and more practiced than anything.
Tony pulls Bucky’s head a bit closer, leaning into it, but Steve gets annoyed and pulls Tony’s shoulders back towards him. Steve overestimates his own strength most of the time—instead of pulling Tony towards himself, he just pulls himself against the boy’s back, and then they all fall into a big heap, sprawled across the grass and grinning like idiots.
“Dummy,” Bucky scoffs, sitting up and leaning over Steve’s poor heaving body. “You might overexert yourself. Punk.”
Steve rolls his eyes, then wraps his legs around his boyfriend’s torso and flips him over. “Fuck you, you were hogging. Jerk.”
“Punk.”
“Jerk.”
“Punk.”
“Jer—“
“I’m still here,” Tony interrupts. “Also, they say that sharing is caring. So...”
The two stupid ass idiots glance at Tony, then at each other, then back at Tony, then they jump on top of him.
“Jesus—“ he yelps.
“He’s mine!”
“No, he’s mine!”
They wrestle for a few minutes. Steve littering kisses up and down Tony’s face, Bucky tucking his face into Tony’s neck and clinging on like a koala. The air is suddenly a lot less muggy but the grass is suddenly way more itchy.
It’s a pleasant itch. He’s never felt companionship like this before—never felt loved, never truly felt wanted. Johnny Hammer wasn’t a true friend. Christine didn’t really love him.
Tony feels happy for the first time in a while.
It goes on for a while, until they’re interrupted by a cough. A familiar cough.
“Guys,” the voice says carefully. The trio looks up in alarm to the unsettling sight of a shaken Sam Wilson peering down at them. His fists are clenched at his sides and his eyes are grim.
The mood drops, almost instantaneously, and Bucky jumps up and runs to comfort his friend.
“Dude,” Bucky says. “I’m sorry. What—What’s wrong?”
Tony realizes that it’s not the sight of three teenage boys rolling around on the grass making out that had put Sam into such a state of shock. Not even Sam would be grossed out by that. Instead of looking sheepish or concerned, however, Tony settles on brushing the green off of his jeans and helping pull Steve up to his feet.
Sam grabs onto Buck’s shoulders, almost as if he’s trying to find a sense of familiarity or grounding. He looks down, shaking his head. “Sam,” Bucky repeats. “Dude. Did you see something? Where’s Scott? You were with him.”
“He’s at the cabin,” Sam seethes.
Steve blinks.
“You found the code,” Tony says, less of a question and more of a statement.
Yet again, Sam looks down.
“You opened it, didn’t you?”
Sam finally looks up, gulping, adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy in the lake.
Tony barely has enough time to tie his shoe before they’re all sprinting away.
—
Everyone sits in a circle around Tony, anxiously. They already know what’s inside; already know the score of the game. He doesn’t understand why they won’t just tell him what’s inside—why they’re so upset.
“Tell me one thing,” Steve murmurs to Rhodey, “It’s not... a body part.”
“Of course not,” Rhodey whispers back.
Sparing a quick glance his jacket-encased wrists, Tony huffs. He’s more frustrated and tired than anything. “Anything I should know? Obviously this isn’t a treasure chest, right?”
Scott suddenly looks a lot younger. “You’ll see.”
He says ‘fuck it’ and caves—it only gets worse from here. It’s heavy, quite so, and his arms almost strain from lifting the cover. Pure titanium, most likely.
Clint braces himself, cringing. “My god...”
Straight away, Tony is relieved that there’s nothing too concerning from what he sees so far. On the top of the pile are three yellow files; the ones you would find in any average filing cabinet. Tony carefully grabs them, opening the first one slowly. Maybe it could be personal camper information, or business details, or rent bills... it could be anything.
Upon opening the only page of the first file, it’s like a punch to the gut.
Attached is a small, off-guard picture of a little boy with auburn hair—pale, freckled and big-eyed. Tony doesn’t recognize him at first, due to the fact that he never really saw him up close when he was still around. Upon looking to the information at the side of said photo, it’s only confirmation that the boy is the late Harley Keener.
Birth date, blah blah blah. Sometime in 2011. Young. Date admitted into camp, June 29th. Hair color, eye color, ethnicity, all basic information that doesn’t raise red flags.
But then, he sees it.
Status: Deceased.
A huge, huge blow that makes his stomach sink down to his feet. Bucky is sitting next to Tony, and upon reading the same two words, snatches the folder away to get a closer look. “Bucky,” Tony exclaims. “Give it back!”
“There’s no way,” Bucky says desperately, almost laughing to himself. “S-Status, deceased. Details...” He brings it closer to face and reads lower. “Handler; Brock... Brock Rumlow. Detained at 3:28 in the morning on July 9th. Cause of death... cause of... it...”
“Spit it out, Buck,” Steve commands, but it’s no use. Bucky is far past shaken; his eyes are swelling with redness already and his hands are trembling. Tony sighs and takes the folder out of his hands.
“Cause of death,” he continues, “Blunt force head trauma. In parentheses, crowbar.” He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to center. It fails to calm him down but he keeps going anyways. “Relationship with the target—what the hell is the target?—uh... none.”
“Open the next one,” Bruce says impatiently.
“Brock Rumlow,” Tony hisses. “Brock Rumlow has something to do with—with all of this.”
“Duh.”
“You’ve only scratched the surface.”
Tony swallows, putting Harley’s paper to the side and opening the next one. The difference between Harley’s file and this next file is that, while the first was only a page long and barely held much information, the one resting in Tony’s shaking hands is much thicker and much heavier. It’s intimidating; it’s terrifying.
The picture of Peter Parker should have been a given—it shouldn’t make the the bile rise up in Tony’s throat, but it does.
Upon first glance, the kid looks... he looks the same. Tony didn’t have any pictures of the kid from before he disappeared. He hasn’t seen his face since the night before, and he can’t lie and say it’s not a good feeling to see his chubby cheeks and doe eyes again.
But it’s not.
Harley’s picture was off-guard. He was still... just a kid, smiling and eating one of those cheap ice cream cones from the snack shack. The sunlight was golden and shined on his face. It was taken at the camp; it was taken like any ordinary picture.
Peter’s, however, is far from that.
His face—God, his face, it’s a ghostly white—Tony can’t tell if he’s pale in general or if it’s because of the obnoxiously bright artificial lighting. His nose is bloody, dried and staining his upper lip. He’s not sporting his signature smile, he’s just... there. He’s not frowning, but he’s not happy. His mouth is a straight line, emotionless and pained nonetheless. His hair is matted and dirty, a ratty nest that was once a fluffy cloud.
And his eyes? His eyes are a different story.
His eyes aren’t bright anymore. His eyes aren’t beautiful anymore. His eyes are fucking dull, half closed with the darkest circles under them as if he’s an old man in desperate need of sleep. He looks so much older. He looks so in pain.
Tony can’t help the gut wrenching sob he lets out, as embarrassing as it is—Rhodey grabs his shoulder in an effort to calm him down. “Tony—“
“Fuck off of me, Rhodes,” the brunette says, voice cracking. “I’m fine.”
”Is he alive?” Steve asks.
“Yes,” Pepper answers, before Tony even has the chance to read it. It’s a small omen, in the grand scheme of things, but it’s still good. The kid is alive. Relief. It washes over him, almost like the disgusting water from the lake last night.
“Yes, he’s alive, but... Tony, read the reports on the third page. Out loud.”
So he does. “R-Report. Was lured out of his cabin at 4:01 in the morning of July 15th under the pretense that... Stark was injured and needed help. Cries profusely. Fractured wrist that he won’t allow anyone to examine. Bruises on his back from being reprimanded by... by Rumlow.”
Shaking, wrenching with shallow breaths, Tony has no choice but to drop the file in his lap and hide his head in his hands. It was Rumlow. That—that fucking—that asshole is to blame—
“Day 2,” he continues after that, eyes burning as they read the worst thing they’ve ever had to, “Still cries profusely. Was given water but refused any. Constantly cries about Stark. More conditioning required.
“Day 3. Has become more quiet after his conditioning sessions. His arm has been treated, albeit not well enough to heal properly. His...”
Tony can’t help the pure numbness that washes over him when there’s no more text to read. He shuffles, looking through the other papers for a continuation of the third report, but there isn’t one. “It cuts off.”
“I think that’s when they stopped and put these at the bottom of the lake,” Clint says.
“But why would they stop?” Scott asks.
No one has an answer. Tony frowns, and then goes to the next file. What could be inside? There’s no other kids who have gone missing, yet, so if it’s some sort of data collection like the others, who would it be about?
Honestly, the name ‘Anthony Edward Stark’ written in bold at the top isn’t exactly a shock.
—
“They want to kill him!” Pepper exclaims, sobbing, clinging to the front of Rhodey’s shirt like a madwoman who just lost something very, very important to her.
Steve and Bucky stand there, almost awkwardly, along with the rest of Emmaus. Tony had left the room with Bruce—things had gotten too overwhelming for him to stand, and he had left the room before anyone could see even a single tear drop.
The third file was a fucking doozy, that’s for damn sure. Steve only caught a glimpse of a few paragraphs from over Tony’s shoulder—the boy had only muttered a few sentences aloud, too engulfed and focused to care much about making sure everyone else could hear. Even then, the details were clear; information on Stark Industries, the fight with Johnny Hammer at the beginning, and even some points about Nick Fury’s ‘relationship’ with Tony—Steve hadn’t even known there was a mutual trust thing going on between the camper and the director. It was a surprise to everyone, but especially to Tony. He had no idea how anyone knew about the arrangement, considering the fact that Rumlow had left the room beforehand.
But get this; it gets even weirder.
The file with Tony’s name was so filled with papers that it wasn’t able to close all the way. It was filled with daily reports, and trust him—when Steve says it was a lot, it’s an understatement. Even down to what Tony had eaten for each meal every single fucking day, who he interacted with at each activity, and more. It’s horrifying.
And that’s not even to mention the bag.
The bag. It was the only other thing inside of the case, and the contents were obvious as soon as Tony opened it and the stench of iron was released into the air. Pepper was the first to open the bag, but she only got a glimpse inside before freaking out and throwing it back down, according to Sam’s account.
Peter’s clothes. Splattered with dark, dried blood, reeking of iron and mold. Tony had stared at the blue t-shirt for a minute straight, red dots littered down the front, before shoving it back into the bag and hiding his head in his hands.
But it had only confirmed that Peter’s death was a hoax. Peter’s ‘body’ was lifted out of the lake and carried away, clothes and all. So, why are his clothes now completely dry and disposed of? The police department would’ve kept his clothes. They wouldn’t have hid them at the bottom of the same lake he was found dead in.
Pepper repeats herself. “They want to kill Tony. Why else—why else would—fuck! It just doesn’t make sense! Why else would he be in that file? Why else would his cabin name be the password?! Why else are they—whatever they are—stalking him?! They want him dead!”
“We don’t know that,” Rhodey says.
“Of fucking course we do,” Bucky screams. “Harley is dead. Wherever he is, Peter’s close to it. Tony has to be next!”
“We can’t jump to conclusions.”
“Barnes is right,” Natasha hisses. “Look. Ever since Stark came to this damn camp, everything has gone to complete and utter horse shit! If it weren’t for him, people would still be alive. Innocent kids would still be alive!”
“Don’t you fucking dare, Romanoff,” Bucky retorts. “This is not his fault.”
Scott whimpers from behind the chaos. “Uhm...”
“Oh, shut up, Barnes! You only think that because you wanna get in Stark’s pants!”
“Go suck off Clint and leave Tony alone,” he scoffs, “Fucking bitch.”
Before he can say much else, Clint shoves Bucky in the chest.
Something inside of Steve sparks with rage when it happens. It’s a sixth sense; knowing when his boyfriend is in danger and the instinct for him to be angry as well. He watches, heaving, as Bucky stumbles back a foot from the impact. It happens quickly. Bucky shoving Clint back, Clint pulling his arm back for a punch. “Fuck you, asshole!”
Rhodey immediately jumps in between them, thank god, because Steve knows that he sure as hell wouldn’t have been able to hold back Clint or Bucky’s wrath on their own; let alone both at the same time. “Hey, hey, hey, knock it the fuck off—“
“Stay out of this!”
“You’re both being idiots!” Scott exclaims. “All of you! S-Stop fighting!”
Clint throws himself into Rhodey’s side, forcefully pushing him out of the way, allowing himself easy access to the reckless force of Bucky Barnes. Clint is smaller, thinner, shorter—the only reason he’s able to knock the brunette off of his feet the way he does is because, while Clint is fueled with rage, Bucky is smart enough to know the consequences if he were to seriously hurt the boy. The wrath of Natasha Romanoff isn’t worth getting the satisfaction of knocking Clint on his ass. Even Steve knows that.
However, the difference between Steve and Bucky is that Steve doesn’t give a shit.
It isn’t until Bucky hits the floor that the smaller boy lunges at Clint, jumping on his back and kicking and thrashing, much like a monkey attacking a gazelle. Sam, who’s the type of person to always itch for a fight, joins in and fucking whoops. Clint screeches, Scott rambles and begs Steve to get down, and Natasha watches with poison as Bucky gets to his feet.
Rhodey pulls Sam away from the brawl, not able to do much else. No one notices as the door creaks open, the humidity of the outdoors seeping in, the wide eyes of two boys taking in the sight.
“Stop it!” Pepper screams. “Stop it, you two!!”
The cabin shakes as Clint walks backwards into the wall, slamming Steve’s body into the wood. He grunts.
“Fuck you!” Steve growls.
“Get the fuck off of me, Steve,” Clint shouts. When Steve doesn’t move, just remains perched on his back; legs wrapped around Clint’s stomach and arms practically choking his neck, he groans. “Dude! Get off! I can’t—you’re so annoying, I can’t breathe!”
“Don’t fucking touch my boyfriend!” Bucky screeches.
“Don’t fucking touch MY boyfriend!” Natasha screeches back.
Pepper, resigning herself to the side in a fit of exhaustion, watches as Bruce closes the door behind him and Tony with a concerned expression. Tony looks completely and utterly horrible, his nose red and sweatshirt soaked with tears, with a twisted frown to match.
“Bruce,” the boy murmurs, Pepper barely able to hear under the commotion. “Loud.”
It breaks her heart. She realizes what the past few days have done to this boy; what started as a spoiled asshole with a heightened ego and a superiority complex has been completely ripped to shreds and broken to the bone. When Pepper first met Tony Stark, she didn’t care—didn’t know him. She never thought she would. She never considered the possibility of what this boy could become.
And what has he become?
This is a damaged boy; run over by a truck full of emotional damage and dragged along for the ride. His eyes are older and his heart is younger. He’s not the same kid he was three weeks ago, that’s for damn sure—normal kids don’t feel responsible for the deaths of other kids that they didn’t even know a month ago.
“Okay,” Bruce says slowly, but his chest is heaving in anger. “Okay, Tones.”
He stomps his way through the fight, Pepper watching as Clint twirls with Steve on top of him, like a mechanical bull trying to throw a poorly coordinated cowboy off its’ back.
Grabbing a glass beer bottle (a few nights ago, Sam and Tony had stolen it from Maria Hill’s personal alcohol stash in the counselor cabin) from the dresser, Bruce doesn’t give as much as a warning before smashing the damn thing against the wall.
It shatters, no surprise there, leaving a loud and deafening cracking sound echoing across the room. Clint squeaks in fear, Steve’s eyes go as wide as saucers as he’s dropped to the floor, and Sam jumps to the ground with his hands covering his head. It’s almost inappropriate that Pepper has to hold back a laugh. Everyone else stands, frozen, staring at Bruce as he huffs. Glass litters the wood floor and Clint tiptoes around it to get out of Bruce’s terrifying watch.
“Fuck you guys,” Bruce growls, huffing and huffing as his face goes red. “People are fucking dying. Tony could be next. All of us could be next!”
“Don’t say that,” Pepper cracks out, quietly.
“We all fucking know that what I’m saying is true. Why else would the password be what it is?”
“Wait, what was the password?” Bucky asks.
“You don’t know what the fucking password was, Barnes?” Natasha scoffs. “It was ‘Emmaus.’ In number form—we referenced a phone keypad and plugged in the letters to get the corresponding numbers. The code was 366287.”
“I don’t think it was a coincidence that our cabin name was the password,” Clint adds sourly. “We’re being targeted.”
“And it’s my fault,” Tony says coldly.
“It’s not Tony’s fault,” Rhodey says. “It is not and will never be his fault that he’s a Stark. That must be why this is happening, they’re—whoever they are—they must want something from him. Maybe his money, or his name, but it’s not his fault.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that his life is in danger.”
“Well, that doesn’t change the fact that Peter is alive,” Bruce says. “Wherever he is, he’s alive, and we need to find him.”
“We don’t even know if he’s alive!” Argues Scott, for the first time. “Look, we all cared about the kid, but that doesn’t mean we should all risk our lives for the slim chance he’s out there somewhere. Rumlow has him going through it. Even if we did save him, what good would it be for?”
“You’re right, Scott,” Sam says. “Why should we die for some kid?”
“Fuck you,” Tony spits.
“You’re such a coward, Sam,” Pepper scoffs.
He flips the both of them off.
—
Jasper Sitwell is enraged.
“The box,” he says, probably for the millionth time in the conversation. “You—You stowed it at the bottom of the lake.”
“Correct,” Rumlow grumbles.
“And somehow,” Sitwell hisses, rising from his chair. His glasses are perched on his nose, his bald head glistens in the darkness of the office, and his snarl is apparent. Rumlow isn’t intimidated in the slightest. “This... f-fourteen year old boy and his little girlfriend managed to find out its location, dig it up, and slip out of your watch—in less than one night?!”
“You assume correctly.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. No, it seems as if you don’t understand this, Brock. The box with the—the information. The clothes. The important one. You lost it.”
“Oh, no, I understand you correctly. I lost it.”
“You lost the box.”
“Well, it wasn’t particularly my doing, Sitwell. Stark and that girl. Potts. They did it.”
“Two children.”
“Two children who, surprisingly, have a lot more courage than you would have had at their age. Besides, one of them is the smartest teenager in America with a damn watch that can do anything.”
“You lost the case to some rich brat and his girlfriend.”
“Not his girlfriend, actually,” Rumlow says. “I suspect he may be queer.”
“I don’t fucking care if the brat is queer!” Sitwell roars, bursting out of his chair like an erupting volcano as he slams his fists on the desk—he’s practically smoking in rage. “You know what this shows me? It gives me a taste of your incompetence. Howard Stark gave us clear instructions, you fucking moron, and if the Emmaus brats find out about Hydra, we’re screwed. No money. No deal with Howard Stark.”
“Howard Stark is the asshole paying us to do this to his own kid. I don’t think he’s a good example of what to follow.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that the Emmaus cabin being involved doesn’t change shit. If anything, we get rid of em’ and plant some more replica bodies in the lake. Just like Peter. Maybe frame Fury to be some sort of child trafficker, get him arrested, then the kid is ours.”
Sitwell grumbles something to himself. He sits back down, deeply sighing, glass of bourbon in hand.
“Okay,” Sitwell says, slowly, “What we need to do next is cut off one of Stark’s acquaintances.”
“You mean kill another kid?”
“Preferably a teenager, if you catch my drift,” he shoots back. “Can you handle that?”
Brock smiles.
“Done and done.”