A Sense of Control
So you feel entitled to a sense of control and make decisions that you think are your own. You are a stranger here. Why have you come?
It’s been a lot longer than an hour by the time he’s excused to leave the lab, and he’s feeling more than exhausted by the time he returns to what everybody is referring to as “Steve and Bucky’s” floor.
He shambles into the kitchen and finds Bucky leaning over the central counter with a steaming mug of coffee, eyes already tracking him. Stiles is too tired to deal with this.
“Morning.” Stiles greets uncomfortably, moving to the Keurig he spots on the counter. “Is there food left?”
Bucky gives him a nod and moves to extract a plate from the oven.
“Steve put some away when JARVIS said you were in the lab with Tony.” Bucky sets the plate on the counter next to Stiles and gets him a mug from the cupboard above them and a fork from the dishwasher. “The Keurig cups are underneath.”
Stiles finds the cups in a shallow drawer and extracts one, digging into the eggs and pancakes immediately after setting the coffee to drip.
“Ugh, thank you so much. And Steve, too. I thought I was going to die of hunger and caffeine deprivation down there.”
“Devastating news.” Bucky deadpans, causing Stiles to laugh around the bite in his mouth.
“You’re telling me.” Stiles replies, finally taking a sip of the hot brew from the machine. “Ah, that’s nice.”
Bucky leans back, into the countertop in the center of the room, facing Stiles and still drinking from his cup. Stiles matches his posture and leans against the countertop with the Keurig on it, still sipping from his own hot mug.
“So?” Stiles asks, pretty sure there’s a reason Bucky’s there with him in the kitchen still.
Bucky takes another slow drink from his cup before answering.
“Steve’s got a mission.” He punctuates with another swallow. “He’ll be gone about a week, so it’ll be just us here.”
“A mission?” Stiles asks, lost.
Bucky gives him a small smirk. “He’s Captain America.”
As if that would explain anything. Well, it does explain why Tony called Steve ‘Cap’. But beyond that? Nothing.
“I don’t know if you remember, but I’m not from around here. This world. So. I mean? Captain America, okay, explains the red, white, and blue stuff. But that’s like me telling you Scott’s going to be awfully hairy when he finds out I’m gone. See? No context. You get it but you don’t get it. And I don’t get it.”
“Okay.” Bucky allows. “We work under SHIELD. They are the good guys, mostly. It’s government, but we also, or the Avengers really, work together to save the world from enemies. Steve is out fighting the good fight, like he always has.”
“The Avengers?” Stiles questions.
“You’ve met most of them. Steve, Natasha, Tony, Bruce. The rest aren't here: Clint, Thor, Sam.”
“Not you?”
Bucky grits his teeth. “Not yet.”
Stiles is smart enough to know when to drop a subject, especially with someone who’s already threatened him, good intentions or no.
“Got it. No further questions.” He says, and looks to his empty plate. “Wait, actually, further questions. What’s the deal around here? Do we all just stay on our floors? Do we eat dinner together? Are there computers somewhere? And what’s the wifi password?”
“Ask Stark.” At Stiles’ blank look, he re-iterates. “Tony.”
“Okay. Tony Stark. Stark, Tony. Got it. JARVIS, where’s Tony?” Stiles asks.
“Mr. Stark has gone to his workshop and has asked to not be disturbed.” JARVIS answers.
“That’s…” Stiles trails off. “Okay, then, I guess. Nevermind.”
Stiles brings his plate to the sink to wash and sets another coffee to brew. He sees Bucky preparing to leave the kitchen.
“Hey, where ya going? Got plans today?” Stiles questions, not sure how he’s going to spend his time at Tony’s tower.
“Gym.” Is Bucky’s terse reply.
“Oh, okay. See ya then.” Stiles offers. Bucky leaves without a glance back.
After washing his plate and fork, and drinking 4 more cups of coffee, Stiles is walking back and forth in the large living space on his floor. He hasn’t found a single computer or phone or tablet, which is pretty weird for such a high-tech-fancy-schmancy place like this. He resolves to leave the floor and check out the common floor he was in last night, after another cup of coffee.
He enters the elevator and gets out to the common floor easily enough, but it’s as deserted as his own floor was. He sighs and drops his head to the wall with a thud. He’s bored. More than that, he’s b o r e d.
“JARVIS?” He tries, lifting his head towards the ceiling.
“Mr. Stark is still otherwise occupied, Mr. Stilinski.”
He thumps his head on the wall again. “Okay, thanks.”
“Careful with that. Unless you're trying to hurt yourself.” Someone teases.
Stiles whirls around to face the stranger, who’s leaning against the wall across from the elevator grinning in good humor.
“Who are you?” Stiles demands, only a little embarrassed at being so straight-forward and out of his element.
“Clint.” The guy nods at him and walks closer to him. “And you’re Stiles. Nat asked me to come over to the tower, since Cap’s gone off on a mission.”
“Extra security, yeah, I got it. You a ‘super soldier’ too?” Stiles asks.
“Nah.” Clint winks. “I’m a Super Spy.”
“Sure, okay, why not.” Stiles says.
Clint leans his back on the wall near Stiles and crosses a leg over the other, looking every bit comfortable and relaxed.
“So you got plans today?” Clint asks, turning his head to regard Stiles.
“Besides dying of boredom?” Stiles deadpans. “Literally nothing. Absolutely nada. Waiting for Tony to get done with whatever he’s doing so I can get on the internet. Hopefully before I do end up dying of boredom. Who knows.”
“Come to the gym with me.” Clint offers. “I need a sparring partner.”
That sounds like a bad idea, the voice in Stiles’ head intrudes. Probably not as bad an idea as his more recent decisions, like rooming with a possibly homicidal ‘super soldier’, or throwing a lamp over the head of the guy who took down two badasses like Lydia and Malia, but still a bad idea.
“I’m still injured.” Stiles says.
“Stitches in your arm, right? Did Tony spray his stuff on it?” Clint asks.
“Yeah… and yeah.” Stiles confirms.
“Then it’s all good. That stuff’s like magic, really. Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll do something else after, keep the boredom at bay.” Clint says.
Stiles is dubious, still, but there's not much else to do, after all. He’s the king of bad decisions, making sure he doesn’t break his streak.
“I don’t have anything else to wear until later.” He warns.
“Eh, you can borrow some more of my stuff if you get smelly and gross.” Clint shrugs.
“Sure, then.” Stiles offers a reluctant smile. “Why not?”
Clint grins at him, and for the second time that day, he’s herded into the elevator.
“Wow. Nice place.” Stiles compliments upon seeing the gym in it's full glory, taking in the high ceiling and variety of equipment on the floor. The entire space is open, mirrors on the far wall, with all variety of weight and cardio machines.
Stiles shrugs off the black cardigan and drapes it over a coat hook by the door. Clint starts by stretching, so Stiles does the same. He doesn’t really spar much, mostly because sparring with his were-friends is a losing battle on a good day. He and Lydia did for awhile, but after she started using her Banshee-Voice as a weapon, she began practicing with Parrish, and the other wolves, leaving Stiles to his own devices most of the time.
He wasn’t bitter about it, because she deserved to get practice in, but it still kind of stung a bit. Who else was there for him to practice with, after all?
Clint hops on to a treadmill and gestures for him to hop on the one next to him, but Stiles declines.
“Warm up.” Clint explains.
“My leg sucks right now, so running is a no-go.” Stiles tells him.
“Nat didn’t say.” Clint says, working up to a slow jog on the machine.
“She didn’t know.” Stiles guesses. “It’s all bruised up. It should be fine in a few days, though.”
Stiles sits on the floor and goes through a few extra stretches while Clint continues his warm up.
Clint hops off the treadmill, wipes down the display, and then offers Stiles a hand up.
“Alright, you ready?” Clint asks, walking closer to the center of the room, where a large impact mat takes up the majority of the floor.
Stiles feels his stomach hit the floor for a long second in anxiety before he shakes himself and nods.
“Okay then.” Clint takes a few steps away from Stiles to face him. “So what have you done before?”
A red flag goes off in Stiles’ head at the question, but he answers anyway.
“Self-defense, mostly. My friend did the thing with all the flips, but that was mostly her slamming me into the floor, so I don’t know if it counts. Uh,” he runs through his mind for answers, “I guess that’s it. But I’ve been in some fights, too, and that’s most of it.”
“Okay, cool.” Clint says, moving immediately to throw a punch at Stiles. Stiles manages to block it, but his ass hits the mat before he realizes Clint was swiping his feet out from under him, using the punch as a distraction.
“Shit.” Stiles groans, taking the hand up Clint offers. “Not fair.”
“It’s fighting.” Clint shrugs in explanation. Which, fair enough, Stiles thinks. “Again?”
This time, when Clint punches, Stiles blocks and moves to land his own punch on Clint’s torso. Two seconds later, he’s flat on his ass again.
Stiles gets up to his feet and Clint starts the routine from the beginning. Clint punches, Stiles blocks and evades, lands his own punch, and then evades again, only for Clint to launch him over his back and back onto the floor.
“Motherfucker.” Stiles groans and takes a deep breath in, telling himself fighting Clint is no different from fighting a regular big-bad. Except, he has no back up. So, he’ll have to be a little ruthless. He’ll have to be a little, and he refuses to ever acknowledge what Theo called him consciously, but he’d have to be a little Void - He'd have to stop being so cautious and controlled.
And it isn’t like a switch flipped, Stiles or Void, Human or Monster. No, it was like letting go, a little bit. Like actually inhaling oxygen down to the bottom of his lungs, for a change. He takes Clint’s proffered hand, but instead of using it to stand and take a step back, he uses it to reel Clint in towards his knee.
Stiles rams the limb into Clint’s torso and uses one of Lydia’s moves (thanks Lydia, he thinks) to vault over Clint and flip Clint’s weight over him, so that this time Clint is the one on the mat.
Clint is standing in record time, assessing Stiles. Stiles raises an eyebrow to mock him, and Clint surges forward to land a punch. Stiles doesn’t know if the punch is a feint or not, considering Clint has used an near-equal amount of feints and true punches so far, so Stiles decides to use a feint of his own, pretending he intends to block the incoming blow.
Instead, he adjusts to the side, grabbing and bracing Clint’s arm, straightened for the punch, and twists himself so Clint has to follow a spin outward from his body. Stiles tries to kick Clint’s feet out from under him, but the man maneuvers away from Stiles, after loosening his grip with a well-aimed kick. Clint lands in a roll and blocks Stiles’ next attack, and, surprise, flips Stiles so he lands on the floor on his back. Again.
“Okay, okay. I give.” Stiles says, helping himself up. His leg is throbbing something painfully, and after hitting the floor so many times, he’s not eager to do it again. “That was fun.” Sweat’s dripping down his back and front from around the collar of the shirt, but he’s not that winded.
Clint tosses him a water bottle and joins him to sit on the bench by the door.
“So, you’re not all that bad.” Clint compliments.
“Yeah, and you’re not bad… at all.” Stiles counters.
Clint laughs. “Well, I’ve had years of training in this kind of stuff, so it wouldn’t make sense if I couldn’t take you down. You put up a good fight though.”
“When it’s live or possibly-be-maimed-to-death, you learn to put up a good fight.” Stiles gives a wry laugh. “Obviously, I still need practice, though.”
“Nah, don’t be too hard on yourself. Plenty of trained men can’t take me down either. You're injured, and I’m a super spy, after all.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Stiles, and it lightens the mood considerably.
“Alright, fair enough. Now, I need a change of clothes and a shower.” Stiles says, retrieving the cardigan and draping it over his arm.
“Of course! JARVIS! My abode!”
The elevator door opens and JARVIS mutters an ‘of course, Mr. Barton’ and takes them swiftly to Clint’s floor.
“So.” Stiles starts, freshly showered and fully dressed, again, in one of Clint’s ensembles. “Purple.”
“Yeah, duh. It’s a great color. Takes me to new heights.” Clint explains.
Stiles is about to open his mouth to ask, what exactly that could mean, when Natasha enters the apartment.
“Oh, heights like a purple mountain majesty, maybe?” She offers.
“That joke is better suited to Cap.” Clint confesses.
“You don’t think?” Stiles replies sardonically. “JARVIS, buddy, Tony still busy?”
“No sir, however he and Bruce do require you in the lab.”
“I’ll take you down.” Natasha says before Stiles can say anything. Her tone doesn’t leave room for argument. “I’m headed out, anyway. Just came to say goodbye.”
“Does this have anything to do with?” Clint makes a face that Natasha, apparently, understands completely.
“No. This is something else. I don’t anticipate being gone longer than 3 days.”
“Kick some ass, Tash.” Clint pulls his face into a rough grin.
“Is there any other way?” She replies, teasing. “Come on, Stiles. The boys are waiting."
“So Bucky says you guys do missions.” Stiles hedges as they make their way to Bruce’s lab. “This one of them?”
“This one is self-directed.” She answers without preamble. “And for Bucky.”
Not knowing what to say to that, Stiles just nods in understanding.
“Clint’s a good fighter.” Stiles says. “He sparred with me.”
“Did he?” Natasha asks. Stiles is well-versed enough in what she’s not saying, thanks to having a father on the police force. What she’s asking isn’t ‘did that happen?’ She’s prompting him into giving more information, the kind she wouldn’t know to ask for explicitly.
“He said you called him here to take Steve’s place in watching me. And now he knows he can knock me over in less than 15 seconds. So, yeah. He did.”
She’s quiet for a moment, contemplating. “Good.” She decides.
“Good for you, maybe. I think I’m bruised enough as it is.” Stiles jokes.
She gives him a wry smile and leaves him at the opening doors to Bruce’s lab. As she turns away, Stiles calls out.
“Have fun, Natasha!” He grins at her red hair and receding figure.
“Always do.” She responds, not turning back.
“So what’s crackalackin?” Stiles asks as he enters the lab.
Bruce stands swiftly, knocking his chair over backwards. He flinches at the noise before bending down to right it.
“Mr. Stilinski.” He greets, hand outreached.
“Just Stiles is okay.” He grasps the hand to shake.
“Okay, Stiles then.” Bruce loosely sets his free hand to the small of Stiles’ back, leading him to a low, cushioned sofa. “We need to talk.”
Stiles sits alongside Bruce, heart-thumping too loudly in his chest.
“Sounds ominous, Doc.” Stiles teases.
Bruce gives him a too-kind smile, the kind someone gives right before they tell you ‘Your mother’s not going to make it, Stiles, there is no cure’, or ‘There's a good chance he’ll survive the surgery’, or even worse, ‘He was dead on impact, Stiles. There was nothing we could have done.’ Stiles clenches his hands into fists on his thighs, willing himself to take deeper breaths.
“So far there’s nothing in your biology I can really say is different from the rest of us. Tony flew back to California and took some samples and scans, and the data is still being compiled now, but it doesn’t seem like anything is out of the ordinary.” Bruce pulls a tablet out from behind him and sets the screen so Stiles can see it.
“These,” he points to the left side of the screen, “Are samples from when you first dropped through the portal last night. And these,” he gestures to the right side, “Are samples from a few hours ago.”
Stiles can’t tell exactly what is being measured, only that the results are strikingly similar, only off by a small margin in every column.
“Yikes.” Stiles hears himself say.
“Yeah.” Bruce confirms. “We’re going to check the data every few days, but excluding when the actual portal appeared, there are no changes to anything we’ve found. By all verifiable data, you’re just the same as the rest of us.”
Stiles nods, but Bruce continues.
“Well, the same as the rest of human-us, anyway.”
Bruce continues on, not affected by this news the same as Stiles is.
“My initial thought is, except for waiting for a portal to reappear, there’s not much else we can do right now. We still have the program running, and JARVIS is always watching it, so we won’t miss anything.”
Bruce takes a deep breath and then lets one of his hands rest over one of Stiles’, bringing him back to the present moment. Stiles unclenches his hand and feels where his nails have broken the skin of his palm.
“Yeah, alright, Doc. Thanks.” His voice comes out flat and Bruce pulls away.
“Tony’s caught up in something right now, but he said you’re due for a re-bandaging? If you want, I can take care of that for you.” Bruce offers.
Stiles shrugs, stands, and deposits his (Clint’s) shirt over the back of the small couch, waiting for Bruce to get the medical kit. When Bruce turns to the sofa, his eyes track over Stiles, starting from the bandage on his arm, roving over the few scars on his chest, and landing finally on the large, thick, scar running horizontally through his lower belly.
He sees multiple thoughts running through Bruce’s head before the man decides not to ask, instead approaching Stiles and guiding him to sit so he can work.
There’s a second spray that renders Tony’s “magic” cast to be worked off in chunks. Bruce pokes at the closed stitches and cleans them up, putting what's probably anti-bacterial goop over it, and then re-gauzing and re-applying Tony’s “magic” cast.
“Thanks.” Stiles says, putting the shirt back on.
Bruce steadies himself with re-packing the kit, telling himself he’s not going to ask, but his curiosity wins out over his caution.
“So what happened?” He asks, looking pointedly at the spot covered by Clint’s shirt. “It looks like-”
“Yeah. I know what it looks like.” Stiles interrupts evenly. “But it’s not. I mean, it wasn’t me. I didn’t-”
“Right. Sorry if I overstepped, it’s just I don’t often see ritual suicide wounds on people walking around, still alive, anyway.” Bruce steps away from the couch and puts his med kit away wherever it came from, studiously avoiding looking at Stiles.
Stiles wants to revel in it, a little bit, as a ‘fuck you’ to Bruce for even asking. But Bruce seems like a really kind guy, so he’s feeling mixed emotions about being an asshole to the guy just for making him uncomfortable.
“It’s fine, I guess.” Stiles mollifies. “I mean, I don’t talk about it, so you caught me off my game. It’s pretty easy to forget it’s there, most of the time. So, you know, not your fault for wondering. I’d be curious, too.”
“Does anyone else know about it?” Bruce asks, eyes still away, facing a computer screen.
“Everybody back home.”
“Alright. I can keep it to myself, here, if you want me to.” Bruce offers.
“It’s not-” Stiles starts. “It’s not a big secret or anything. I just don’t like to talk about it.”
“I get that.” Bruce informs him. “More than you know.”
“Right so we’re done here?” Stiles asks, standing.
“Yeah, unless there’s something else you need?”
“Actually.” Stiles says. “Internet access would be good.”