Fraught
Somewhere
?
The past three years have been interesting for Scott Lang, to say the very least. Following his release from prison he mostly expected to have to entertain a number of minimum wage jobs, maybe put his degree in electrical engineering to use. He hadn't planned on getting back in the stealing game, really. He certainly hadn't expected to get caught and then coerced into doing one more one last job for the man who caught him. Or, set him up. Both are pretty accurate. Things had only gotten even weirder from there - becoming Ant Man, fighting with (and against, at the same time) the Avengers, landing himself in a super-prison before Captain America (Steve Rogers - the man, the myth, the legend) broke him out and he had to go on the run.
As much fun as living out a child's superhero runaway fantasy with one of America's icons was, though, it wasn't practical. There were a lot a things he never took into account, things he never thought he would miss or enjoy having every night. He had never thought about this sending Hope and Hank on the run, ruining their lives and business. Not being allowed to contact anyone with potential superhuman capabilities or technology. Missing out on the chance to see his daughter. The smile on Hope's face when he says something stupid. A warm bed to sleep in, no question, each night. Running water. Television.
So when they were caught... Scott wasn't particularly torn up over it. Especially when the government offered him a deal, giving him the option of letting them invade his life and putting him on house arrest instead of allowing him to run around playing superhero. It was a chance to have something normal, a chance to see Cassie regularly and not have to worry about all the things that could go wrong. The cherry on top of this icecream cake had been the deposits into his bank account, starting sometime in 2017 from a vague organization known as SHIELD, claiming it was compensation for his short lived run as part of the Avengers Initiative.
Not that Scott knows anything about that - other than the obvious involvement of the Avengers, as a team. He had never had the sense of mind to ask, if he's being honest. He has never thought to ask what came after. It was too easy to get caught up in helping Cap and his ragtag team of fugitives. Too easy to think of himself as one of the team there to help put things right when the Accords tried to put them all under the thumb of the United Nations.
It's all a moot point, now. Scott has to remind himself that he's here for something a little more important than things they've already built bridges to get over.
Around him, the Quantum Realm shifts. Harsh red spikes collide with grey masses, molding into something jagged that passes right over his head. He breathes, taking in the new environment moving around him as he harvests more quantum energy. The light on the tech Hank has granted with him fades from green to white, signalling it's full.
"Alright, beam me up Scotty."
"Get ready. We'll count you down."
"Take your time, really." Scott shifts back when he watches a carnivorous tardigrade a few yards away. Janet warned him about them, before entering. Luckily it moves on without taking note of him. "I'm having fun down here, sub-atomic with these enormous.... slugs?"
Hope sighs. He can tell it's her by the amused inflection. "They're closer to arthropods."
"Uh..."
"Insects, crustaceans." Hank cuts in, giving a sigh of his own. "Hope?"
"Five."
Scott watches the colors morph and run over his head, feels the softness of the ground - can he even call it that, really? - under the boots of his suit. Underneath his feet it's green like grass, but thicker and spiked up like a gel. It doesn't move well, bends around his shoe when he steps on it. He imagines it feels cool, like jello. He thinks he'll ask Janet, later.
"Four."
Off in the distance a pale orange mass overtakes everything, taking command of the horizon and giving everything a hazy glow. He decides Hope might like this. She'd be fascinated, even if barely able to remember it once dragged out of the Quantum Realm. Even now, having gone in and out two other times - once, when his regulator broke, another time about a week back - he finds his memory of this place hazy. It's not a problem the oldest Pym woman has, though she doesn't talk to him about it much. He thinks that's a little unfair, given he's the one being tasked with going in. Hank's body can hardly take it, he won't allow Hope to go, and Janet doesn't seem keen on reentering herself.
"Three."
Taking into consideration the other’s hesitation to go, maybe he should have a better sense of self preservation but... He trusts them, and this is something good he can do when the news shows alien attacks - that he can't get involved in, that Hope and Hank won't let him get involved in even if he could - and things seems to be going downhill. Ava needs this. Janet can't keep up the energy long enough with whatever quantum powers she holds to permanently fix her condition. It's a more long term recovery but... It's something. A start. Scott thinks that's enough for now, a start.
Another few seconds pass, the radio stays dead.
"Hope?"
Nothing. Scott rolls his eyes.
"Really funny, guys." Still, nothing. He takes a breath. "I get it, okay, this is payback. This is what I get for becoming almost seventy feet tall and sending you on the run and not destroying the suit. Fine. I can wait. You'll have to bring me back eventually, I have all the quantum energy."
Static. Scott feels his throat tighten. Something dangerous and cold creeps up his spine. He waits, breathes. He knows eventually their window of opportunity will close and he'll be stuck. They wouldn't just leave him, of course. He knows that. After everything, they wouldn't just abandon him there.
Moments - or maybe seconds, minutes, hours, it's so hard to tell with the deafening silence between the light to the left and the pure darkness to his right. He tries to be patient, really, he does. But it's hard to be patient when you know someone else was already trapped here for so long it forced her through some crazy form of evolution. Or maybe it mutated her? He's not sure either way. These are details he should have collected before he came in here, probably. He never thinks these things through, it's really starting to bite him in all the sensitive areas. When he checks the timer on his wrist, put in specifically for these excursions, his hearts sinks.
There's only a minute left.
"Come on, guys. This isn't funny at all now. If I know what comes before three all of you geniuses should. Two." He pauses, puts his hands on his knees. "Repeat after me: two. And then, after that? One. It's easy."
Again, nothing. Scott could scream. Cry. Vomit, maybe. He wishes he had stopped to see his Peanut before he came here. He wishes he had asked Luis to come with them, even if he had to whine just to convince the other involved parties it would be fine to even tell him where they were going.
"Hope?" He shudders through a breath, looking around him. In the edge of his peripherals he can see the darkness growing, sucking up everything. Their window is closing. "Hank? Janet? Guys? Guys!"
When the timer on his arm reaches zero, it buzzes against his wrist and the landscape shifts into blues and greens. Overhead, he can practically hear the tardigrades circling each other. Or maybe he's imagining that. Maybe it's just the sound of his own breath moving through his helmet. Distantly, he wonders if air is a concern here. Probably not, all things considered. It's not like the original Wasp had some kind of air filter.
Something crackles in the air (?) behind him, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and Scott whips around. There's a light blue light fading behind him, but nothing else. When he waves his hand through it, it tickles at his fingers and disappears. Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to have any desire to linger. Just in case, he retreats a few steps before going back yo ignoring it.
The next time it happens, it's right in front of his face. A sharp crackle of energy and electricity in the air, leaving little sparks that dance along the edges of his helmet. The light slowly drifts away, then closer, then away again. Almost as if it wants him to follow. When he does not, it reappears in front of him with a sharp pop! that makes his ears hurt. Twice, thrice, by the fourth time he's trying to swat it away from him. As he steps away it follows, pushing him back.
"Listen, okay, that's rude. You're going to blind me - ow!" Realistically, he shouldn't be so bothered. It's just a light. A spark. He knows that. "Come on!"
That doesn't stop him from continuing to retreat until his foot hits nothing and he's cartwheeling through the air.
And then he's falling. Falling through a bright orange fog, watching as the blinking blue light and his only vehicle out of the Quantum Realm fade into the distance above him. Falling through sharp green crystals that burst like bubbles when they connect with his skin. Falling through the pitch black, seeing his reflection waving its arms frantically across from him. Falling right past the open maw of a tardigrade, and into nothingness. He feels like he's there for hours, days, suspended in the dark. The cord attached to his back, connecting him to his vehicle, stretches into the pitch black.
He thinks it must have snapped, when he fell. Not that he thinks Hank Pym would use anything but the best he could get his hands on but he also didn't think he would be stranded in the Quantum Realm any time soon. When he tries to move everything seems to be on a delay, his body feels extraordinarily heavily for someone floating (or maybe he is falling, still?) through time and space. He can't even open the pockets on his belt, his hands are full of pins and needles as if he's been laying on them. The feeling drags up panic from his gut, has him breathing quicker.
Somewhere above - or maybe it's ahead - of him, a pale blue light flickers. Taunting him, probably. He hates whatever it is.
Around him, the world shifts again. A burst of warm light followed by shards of silver. Everything is familiar, for just a moment. There are creases of light and mirrors everywhere, large plates of reflective glass showing him glimpses of himself. Or... not himself.
Scott sees himself years ago in prison, discreetly pocketing shower supplies from another inmate. And then younger, in his teens maybe, eyeballing a pair of shoes he can't afford before he finds himself swapping them out for the ones on his feet. Another, older version of himself with greying hair and what looks like a building model in his hands. The next features a woman he doesn't recognize in a red, blue, and gold uniform - he thinks she looks angry, but her face is turned out towards something he can't quite make out.
Past that is another him, much closer to his current age than any of the others, holding something small and glowing purple between two fingers. Something is off, here. Scott can feel it when he looks into his eyes and sees the hollowness there. His gloves are torn and flaking, falling off of the edges of his fingers. His suit is dirty, covered in what looks like ashes. His eyes are locked on that stone, looking almost haunted. And then his gaze shifts, locking onto him. Him him. The other him blinks, lets his lips raise into a smile, and closes his fist around the gem. And then he’s gone, sucked in at the middle and disappearing.
With no warning, barely even a second to recognize the shift between mirrors and bright red hues surrounding him, Scott feels his back slam into something solid. It knocks the breath from his lungs, makes him curl in on himself. He sucks in air through his mouth, thick gasps that make him wonder if he was even breathing at all when he was suspended outside of time.
"Ow - wow - that was -" He goes to roll onto his side, feeling for the ground beneath him, only to feel a sharp tug on his back. “Awful. Really awful.”
When he looks over his shoulder he sees the cable on his back leading some number of feet away to the exploration vehicle he brought in with him. It must not have snapped when he fell, although the cable is wound around itself. He looks around, then, taking in his surroundings. Nothing has changed. The timer on his wrist still sits at 00:00. The only noticeable difference is the lack of tardigrades overhead. The little blue light hovers on the edge of his vision, teasing him.
"You’re awful." Pointing at the light accusingly, he rolls to the other side to push himself to his feet. The ground beneath him shifts, squishes in under his hands and the world tilts for a moment. It turns his stomach. "I feel like I just woke up from a bad dream."
There's silence for a few minutes, as he pulls himself up and edges his way towards his vehicle. He's been trying to give it a solid name for weeks but Hank was having none of it. The HelicANTer? The Exploration Emmet? The dark metal transportation unit welcomes him with nothing. Almost nothing. There's a new web of cracks along the monitor on the inside, obscuring some of the information. But he could swear it looks like the year has changed...
"How did you reach this channel?" Scott nearly jumps out of his skin at the decidedly unfamiliar feminine voice in his ears. He had forgotten his radio doesn’t really have an off button. "This is Agent Marvel - approaching Earth at 40.7128° North, 74.0060° West. Do you copy?"
There's hardly a beat that passes before his response. "How did you reach this channel? And where is that? Somewhere nearby?"
"This is a private SHIELD channel, access should only be granted to those with level nine clearance." It's quiet again, for just a few moments. "Identify yourself."
"Uh..." He considers the request for a moment, unsure. It's not as if he has many options, though. "Ant Man - no agent, no clearance levels. Agent Ant could be a good working title, though I am pretty partial to the good ol' Ant Man. I can probably make an exception, this time."
"Am I supposed to know who that is?" The voice crackles with a little laugh, Scott begins to think he is missing some kind of joke. "I can't pin your location, agent. My tracking equipment can't get a lock on you."
He should probably be bothered that she was trying to track him but it's probably going to work in his favor. Probably. There's always running the risk of someone being a crazy overpowered super villain. Under the cicumstances he is sort of doubting that and he doesn’t actually have any other options. "Yeah. I can see where you might run into that problem. Please tell me you know where Los Angeles is?"
Another laugh, this one warmer. "I think I'm familiar with the area."
*
Ryker's Island, New York
2018
So he didn't go straight to Wakanda, sue him. But taking the Royal Talon Flyer and disconnecting it from remote access and communications to take a detour would be worth it, probably. And if not... Well, there seems to be plenty of time to waste now.
There are no guards outside, for the first time in God only knows how long. Under the circumstances, Clint doesn't think he can really blame anyone who was left for leaving. Briefly, he thinks of the prisoners inside. They're likely fending for themselves in their cells with no access to the necessities. Those of them that are still living, at least. He should feel bad for them. He feels bad for not feeling bad for them. They put themselves there, though. Many of them are there due to the work of the Avengers, individually or alone, and are fairly dangerous potential super villains. Not important enough to put on the Raft, not petty enough to leave in a regular facility.
They put themselves where they are. It sounds a lot like what Tony said to him, those few years ago when he was locked up like a criminal too. He has to force himself not to wonder where the billionaire douchebag is now. Hanging around safe with Pepper with his thumb up his ass as usual, hopefully.
Still, Clint repeats these words to himself mentally as he's entering the building. Entering as in just walking in. It's surreal. When was the last time he just waltzed into a facility like this, probably right under the thumb of SHIELD? It's been years. It most certainly feels too easy. In fact, he's a little disappointed. He had expected some kind of fight. He could have held off on breaking in the new - and too tight, fuck Tony - suit if he had known there was going to be next to nothing happening.
The further into the prison he wanders, the more screaming he hears. Most of it is aimless hollering and a few wolf whistles at his presence.
"Oh, boys." Flashing his teeth, he reaches down to pat the blade on his right hip. On his left is his bowstaff, waiting for any further use. "I didn't think you'd be so glad to see me. I'm flattered, I swear. We'll have to schedule our next play date soon."
Someone shouts something about 'I'll show you glad' and 'come up here you'll see how happy I am' but he brushes it off. He's not exactly here to antagonize the few criminals left in Rykers. Just one criminal in particular.
On his way by one of the guard areas he stops inside to root through the belongings of someone who is probably no longer even on this Earth, digging out a set of keys that hopefully go to the prison. And then he's back on his search, moving through a recreational area and a dining block before reaching more cells. The man known as Hawkeye finds his man on one of the ground levels, sitting in a decently furnished cell with his feet propped up. He looks very comfortable for a man imprisoned for the foreseeable future. The man looks up, all gentle smile and soft edges that could fool almost anyone, and sips what looks to be a cup of wine. Not even bad wine, Clint can smell it from where he stands.
"What brings a guy like you to a place like this?" He starts, raising an arm to rest his forearm on the bars of the cell. "I feel like I've overdressed for this scene. What do you think? The gold is a lot, right?"
The smile on the bald man's face twitches, inching downward just a bit. "It's always better to be overdressed than under dressed. People around here get tired of shades of orange and blue eventually."
"I've seen some grey in here."
"Right." He looks considerably less amused now, a furrow starting between his brows. A fraction of a second later he relaxes, whatever anger was burning behind his eyes retreats. "I didn't realize those of us inhabiting Ryker's were important enough to warrant an Avenger coming to fix our situation."
"Oh, no." Clint allows a smile to crawl across his features, nearly cheeky. "I'm not here for that. You think the government or what's left of SHIELD without Director Fury cares what happens to this place?"
A pause. "Then what?"
"Wilson Fisk. Otherwise known as; The King of Diamonds, Kingpin, Inmate 55467." Clint reads his name off as if he has the file in his hand, and not simply memorized most of it on the ride over. "Early fifties, born on the second of August. Known associate of the Hand. I'm looking for information."
Fisk looks at him steadily before smiling again, this time sharper. "I do believe we can provide each other with some help. I see you have the keys, there." He nods to the ring of keys hanging from his wrist. "Think of it an an exchange."
There's a short pause. Fisk rises slowly, reaching for another cracked cup off of a desk and a shampoo bottle. He pops the cap, taking a generous sniff, and then tops off his own cup. He eyes the former Avenger warily before raising the bottle as a silent offering. He says something about hospitality, even when being afforded none yourself before tipping the container and filling the other cup halfway. He moves surprisingly daintily for a man as large as he is, taking slow steps and carefully nudging his way by the furniture decorating his cell. He holds the cup out toward the bars and Clint reaches through the ease it between the slices of metal with the hand not resting on them already.
"Sounds just my style." Clint relaxes his posture to sell the lie, leaning further in. The older man looks satisfied by this. "Have you heard the name Maya Lopez? Stands about yea high? About a decade younger than me? Can't hear for shit?"
"Never heard of her." The answer is quiet and slow. His eyes flicker. He's lying. That's fine. Clint saw it coming.
"You sure? I heard her father was a lackey for you, took her under your wing when he died." He doesn't mention that Fisk had him killed, doesn't mention their inevitable falling out. "Think he was going by Wild Horse? No, wait, Crime Horse? Creepy Horse?"
Fisk raises a lip in a quiet sneer, shaking his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. We watched people in here crumble to dirt and you're worried about one woman? Your woman, maybe?"
Clint actually chortles at that one, shakes his head. "No. Not even close. We're friends, right Wilson - do you mind if I call you Wilson - you don't have to lie to me. C'mon, end of the world, people melting, what's left to lose?"
Silence. Fisk seems to be weighing his options, eyeing the keys in his hand. Clint shifts his drink to his other hand to raise and jingle them teasingly, tipping his head to the side. "Like you said, it's just one woman."
A kind frown smooths itself onto the bald man's face and he raises his free hand, palm out. "You have my sincerest apologies, I've never heard the name."
It's a straight lie, they both know it. But if the end of the world isn't going to make him budge, there's no point in wasting more time asking nicely. An interrogation at this point would be a waste of energy, too. Natasha could drag it out of him, one way or another, but that's never been Clint's specialty. He's always been better in the field and undercover than nicely (or not so nicely) trying to ease answers out of people like this. He rolls his shoulders, considering this for a while. The imprisoned man in front of him doesn't seem in any rush to speak or act either, clearly content to just sit there and wait for him to collect his thoughts and bundle his words into another sentence or inquiry.
So he switches lines of questioning, offers up a new pace. Something easier. Some of this he's found through old SHIELD files, some through the new ones Fury is willing to slide his way despite the constant insistence that he isn't in active duty and everyone still thinks he's deceased. Some of this has been been traveling through rumors since early 2015, whispers of masked crusaders running through Los Angeles and New York.
"What about a red wearing vigilante somewhere in New York? Sound familiar? Not the one with the arachnid obsession, for clarification."
The sudden twist to Fisk's expression is unmistakable. "They say he's dead. Crushed like a bug, pest he was. If not, well... It's hard to tell after this fiasco, but color me hopeful."
"This is going to sound funny," he starts carefully. "What about a guy named Fist? Or a Cage?"
For the first time, Fisk seems to seriously think it over. His brow furrows and he seats himself again, leaning an elbow onto his knees and gazing into his cup. His finger taps on his glass and Clint swears he can hear a clock somewhere ticking, taking him through the seconds and pushing him toward a headache. Finally, after what feels like minutes of quiet dragging by and pinching at his nerves, cold brown eyes turn back up to him.
"Alias Investigations. Ran and owned by a Miss Jones." An odd smile rises to his lips. He sips his wine again. "I think you'll find her refreshing. She's full of many gifts, all put to waste... I believe she is an associate of the latter mentioned. Is, we say, as if the world is not being ravaged right now."
Clint pulls away from the cell, nodding. It's enough to go off of, for now. He's willing to try following this lead for now. The more hands they have on their side the better, he doubts any of the other remaining heroes will complain if he finds a few more allies to pull from the shadows. Assuming they want to come into the light, that is. There are still plenty of superhumans and other enhanced people floating around the world who simply do not want to be found out quite yet. He can't imagine that any of them are feeling any more compelled to come forward with what has recently happened. But if they had some context, if they knew there was potentially something they could do -
The sound of a rough cough, Fisk clearing his throat, and then a couple sharp raps of his fist on the wall breaks the blond man's train of thought. He's standing again, close to the door this time. He has one hand outstretched with his palm facing upward, expression expectant. Once he's sure he has the other man's attention, he clears his throat again and gives a meaningful look to his hand.
"If that's all, I believe we had a deal."
"Did we?" Clint furrows his brows, steps closer again. "Sorry, I don't recall any contracts or handshakes."
Fisk scoffs, an action that comes across more inconvenienced than annoyed. "I told you what I know. You and I both know releasing me will do nothing to the outside world. Releasing all of us would cause no change." His cheeks are filling in with color now, due to what seems to be anger. "You had us all locked away and still another disaster has reached everyone. You would have been better off leaving us out."
"You know... That's a decent point." Clint nods, trying to look convinced as he holds the keys just an inch from the other man's hands.
He tips his hand to the side, lets the ring of keys fall from his hands and clatter to the floor. Fisk drops quickly to try to reach for them, struggling to get just a few centimeters closer. Clint's hands come to his hips and he gives an exaggerated shrug as if to say 'oops.' The other man breathes hard and heavy, someone a couple cells over wheezes with laughter.
"Pick them up." The bald man demands as he rises, one hand coming to grip the bars until his knuckles are white. "You can't do this."
Clint is already turning from him, placing his makeshift cup on the floor and sliding his hands into his pockets. The katana on his hip and the bowstaff mirroring it feel like concrete. Stiff and heavy. A weight that leaves him feeling much older than he actually. He can feel Fisks eyes on him, his angered yells echoing in his ears. He should feel bad, he thinks, but he just shrugs to himself. He's done worse than leave a few criminals in jail. As he's leaving he turns just enough to look over his shoulder, offering the larger man a lazy smile and a wave.
"I'll give a 'hello' to Maya for you, Wilson."
The look he receives in turn is surprisingly calm. "She'll give you one better." Clint doesn't stay to ask what that means.
*
Wakanda
2018
It's been three weeks.
Three weeks, since half the population of the universe was sent into nothingness. Two weeks and two days since they last heard from Hawkeye, supposedly moving to their location from the homestead. One week and four days since Bruce managed to get in contact with Happy and Erik Selvig at the new Avengers Facility. Two days since the last outburst, followed by an argument, involving their group of whiny crybabies as Rocket so kindly put it in the aforementioned argument. The whole thing had led to Shuri rearranging their living arrangements and sternly advising them all to spend some time exploring their temporary base of operations instead of treading on each others' nerves.
So, they all parted ways, for a few days minimum. It wasn't like they could say no to Shuri. With T'Challa gone she technically became the ruler of Wakanda. Rowanda had mentioned something about a ceremony, in due time. Okoye stays by her side most days, now, stationed just over her shoulder. Whatever struggles they're having with their loss, they take it behind closed doors. Steve’s heart breaks a little for her. She’s too young to be shouldering these burdens.
Natasha left Wakanda altogether, stating she would be back when Barton decides to show his ugly mug before she allowed a Wakandan to escort her over the border. She had muttered something to him about old connections and mending bridges. Steve is sure she'll be within reach as soon as they need her, but watching her go still hurts. Watching her car drift into the distance still leaves him with a distant ache in his chest. He doesn't try to stop her, sway her mind, because he knows it's pointless. She's always done as she pleases, one person asking her to do otherwise has never changed her plans before.
The next to follow her lead is Rhodey. The colonel has to return to the Air Force and report back to the government - or what is left of it, now that things have been flipped sideways - on whatever is going on. He doesn't seem excited to go, but he says there isn't much choice in the matter. It'll only be so long before people start to ask questions, before people start to think all of them have been sucked into the void and more chaos follows behind this mass murder. The televisions are already running with static and the radio is only airing news a quarter of the time. The War Machine pulls off of the ground and shoots through the sky with a short promise of returning within a week, tops, if he can.
Bruce stays, though he isn't seen often. The man of science has never been the most outgoing, and for obvious reasons has made an effort to avoid being around many people. Most of his time is spent in the labs with Shuri, examining their advanced technology and making an effort to revive what is left of Vision, whose lifeless body has been slumped on a table for the past three weeks with no sign of deterioration.
Their newest companion, Rocket, joins him most times. If he isn't there then he's fiddling with some metals and tech that probably don't belong to him, insisting that there's a new and amazing weapon or creation on the horizon. Steve is pretty sure he's blown up more things than he's made at this point. There have been at least eleven explosions since the beginning of their stay, and he is sure that most of them have been caused by the raccoon. Probably all of them, though.
The only other place to find their rodent companion is striding alongside Thor, bickering or grumbling or discussing things that hardly make sense to those of them that haven't wandered through the far reaches of space. The Asgardian himself spends a lot of time in the kitchens, downing all of the alcohol found in the city, or trying to form some plan of group strengthening activity. Neither of those last two ever work out for him, but the effort is appreciated as a whole.
Due to this Steve is left to his own devices, more often than not.
He's never really minded being alone. Before the war he only had his parents and Bucky, no siblings. And after the death of both of his parents - his father left them in 1918, before he was even born and his mother died in 1936 when tuberculosis finally dragged her down - he only had Bucky. Bucky's family was there for him, of course, but it was never really the same. They had their own dynamics and as much as they accepted him, as much as they treated him like family, it was hard to feel at home when no one else wanted him either. People had seen him as a scrawny burden, baggage just waited to tumble to the ground and burst open so that all of your dirty laundry was scattered around in public. He understood that.
Things had changed during the war. He had met Dr. Erskine, and watched his untimely death. Peggy, who had managed to live past his disappearance and change the world. And Howard, who searched for him until he too met an unexpected death. After them, the Howling Commandos. A better group of men than Steve could have ever hoped to have follow him into Hell with no questions. And the constant, for years, Bucky.
After all of that, being frozen sort of took away most of his opportunities at socialization. And when he came back out of the ice, everyone was gone. Except Peggy, though she only lingered before finally getting to have peace. Making friends without them having any assumptions about him, or just seeing him as Captain America, had been nearly impossible. So he was essentially alone, again, for some time.
The other Avengers had seen past these things, all jokes aside. They were all in semi-similar positions, it only made sense. Sam had understood in different ways, had brushed off his life as Captain America in favor of just seeing Steve. And then he had Bucky again, for such a short period of time that the hole in his chest that opened back in the 40's feels like a fresh wound.
And now, once again, almost everyone is gone. He isn’t too big if a man to admit his chest feels like it’s splitting.
It's why Steve finds himself sitting out here, near the outskirts of Wakanda, leaning against the side of a little hut he would have to duck down just to enter. It's a nice place. Quaint. It reminds him of the apartment he used to keep in the 40's, after his parents died. It had been small but it held him well enough. It had been comfortable, felt warm even during the winters when he couldn't afford to heat the place and Bucky would help him fit an extra layer of clothes on his body and utilize the small fireplace until they ran out of wood.
The sun is getting ready to set, now. The sky is splashed with vibrant oranges and reds, littered with bits of gold from the last rays of the sun saying goodbye. The heat and humidity are following it, the wind would probably be leaving goosebumps on his arms if not for his higher body temperature. Steve muses on this for a moment, pins it as another thing to thank the super soldier serum for. He would have killed to hold this kind of heat when he was barely over five feet and weighed less than a large dog.
Steve hears the footsteps crunching on grass before anything else. Heavy footfalls, uneven steps, metal clicking against metal. Easy to recognize, not a threat. "Rogers." Thor's greeting is loud across the empty field. He swears it runs off three of the goats. "The princess Shuri told me I would find you here."
"She did." Steve feels minutely betrayed. "How... kind of her."
"Yes, I thought so as well." The god man smiles, and if he catches the sadness flashing across the other blond's features he doesn't comment. "What brings you this far out?"
He wants to lie. He wants to say that this was just the farthest he could get to have some air and take a breath. He doesn't want to admit he's visiting the most recent residence of his dead best friend. Chasing him the same way he did after discovering he wasn't nearly as dead as they all thought, and then chasing him again when he revealed he wasn't ready to be found. Something tells him that Thor would notice the lie, though, and he doesn't have the heart to go through with it. The Asgardian might not always be the brightest bulb in the box, but he's observant enough.
"Bucky once said this was the best place to be to just think, I thought I'd give it a try." He turns back to face the sunset as it ducks behind the trees. "He really seemed to like it here. He cared for this place."
There's no helping the way his throat tightens, the grief that inches into his tone. Thor claps a large hand over his shoulder, hard enough that he stumbles. When he looks at the larger man he's giving him a cheeky grin, gesturing him to follow him back down the path that leads toward the city and the palace. He's a bit reluctant to leave the quiet and peace, but he keeps stride with the Asgardian anyway. They could both use the company right about now, he thinks.
"There have been many loses in this war." Thor nods once, more to himself than anything. "I left Midgard to search for the Infinity Stones, I found nothing. I let us continued to be played as pawns in this game, until Thanos Yahtzee'd himself."
Steve squints at the other man for a moment, unsure if he should point out how he's mixed up two different games. He probably meant to say King’d himself. "Thor, buddy..."
"No, my friend, let me finish." The large blond waves a hand at him, lips pursed. "Had I stayed on Midgard, or on my Throneworld - if I had not allowed myself so many distractions, my family would not be lost. Hela never would have been released, Ragnarok could have been prevented. Asgard could have assisted in this war and the Space Stone would have been contained. He knew when we fell. I have yet to figure out how, but I am sure of it. My brother said the same."
”Loki says a lot of things.” He points out, not unkindly.
“And they were not all worth listening to.” The larger man pauses in his steps, considering his words. “Thanos was connected to the attack on New York. The stone, the Chitauri. We have been playing into his hand.”
"Do you think he has eyes on us?" Steve asks automatically, though he isn't sure he's meant to be interrupting yet. He chooses to ignore Loki’s connection to their newest pain in the ass for now.
"I do. There is a Planet of Watchers, my father used to speak of them. They have Informants stationed across the galaxy. I believe we have crossed paths with one, though whether they are truly keeping their gaze on us has yet to be seen."
Steve takes the bait, furrowing his brows. "What are Watchers?"
"A powerful race that has overcome disease, famine, and war." He points a finger at nothing, as if accusing them from a distance. "To say they do not get bored and meddle in such things regardless would be presumptuous. Odin said they betrayed pacts of non-involvement many times over the centuries."
"Have you ever met one of these Watchers?" Steve's frown deepens at the head shake he receives in response. "Are you sure they're real?"
A vague shrug, this time. "My father had no reason to mislead us on this, we were taught to avoid them at a young age. But... Odin told many stories, not for our benefit. "
There’s a hint of resentment in there, so Steve decides to pass over the subject for now. "What would they get from participating in this?"
"That is what I have yet to find. Entertainment, perhaps. Or a deal for usage of the Gauntlet." Thor heaves a sigh, looking less like the energetic puppy he usually is and more like his 1500+ years are finally getting to him. "I imagine it to be more likely an Informant has been swayed, though I know little of their lives of involvements."
Steve can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, running a hand through his hair. "You'd think we would run out of alien invaders, eventually."
"No." Thor looks confused for a moment. "You have not even seen a section of the universe, we should amend this."
The human raises both hands and shakes his head, allowing himself a smile. It's the lightest he's felt since talking to Clint. Maybe it's the simple distraction, the ability to joke and laugh still. Maybe it's because they're finally discussing something relevant that could make real changes in their predicament and potentially lead to some progress of some kind.
"I think I'm okay on that one, for now."
The rest of the walk is spent more quietly. They discuss a few things, briefly. The six course meal Thor has been preparing for them. The blasters Rocket has managed to make from some old powersuits left in the labs. The progress the resident geniuses have made on longer distance communications devices. What the Wakandans think of them, how they've been handling their significant losses.
Behind them the sun dips below the horizon. A half moon rises, bathing the city and grass and trees in a pale silver light that Steve thinks suits Wakanda. He thinks it's something that Bucky probably enjoyed, too. He had always liked to sit on the roof or in the streets after a night of excitement and drinks and just listen to the night moving around them. He had always been able to appreciate the bits that unnerved Steve. The dark shadows, the way the moon seemed to leer at them, the unidentifiable noises. His chest aches at the train of thought, at the idea that he'll never be able to properly enjoy these things again.
By the time they're approaching the palace again, allowing the door to scan their person to be sure they are who they say they are before allowing them entry, it seems the Asgardian remembers what he originally came searching for him for. Just as he's turning to Steve with a look of excited realization on his face, though, they're cut off by Bruce barreling down the corridor past them. Both men blink at the smoke trail he might as well have left behind him, before the doctor comes jogging back around the corner to face them.
"Thor!" He sounds exasperated, raking a hand through his messy dark hair and adjusting his glasses. "You've been gone for hours. We said quickly, we agreed on that."
"We walked." The big man offers a sheepish smile and a half shrug before using a solid grip on Steve’s upper arms to cast him forward. "I retrieved -"
"Yes, I see that you found Steve." Bruce offers the man in question a bright-eyed look. He has the look of a breakthrough on his features, flushed face and bright eyes mixed with a lot of fidgeting. "Hi, Steve."
"Hi, Bruce." The blond tosses him a small smile in return. "Is everything alright?"
"No - yes - I mean -" The look he gives Thor this time is accusatory. "You haven't told him?"
"Ah, no." The god looks a little guilty. "I may have been sidetracked, but only momentarily."
Bruce rolls his eyes before gesturing for them to follow. The three fall into quick steps together as they head back in the direction the doctor came from, towards Shuri's main lab. The doors open for him automatically. Steve thinks they must have updated their security system again, allowing the remaining Avengers further access to these things than they originally had. Whatever secrets were being harbored in Wakanda have become second fiddle to the main game, here.
"Rocket helped us to figure out some of the calculations, found some more specific coordinates to pinpoint. We caught a bit of a transmission but it's jumbled, from the distance I think. Rocket says he doesn't recognize any of the information being relayed." Bruce shrugs, unconcerned. "More importantly, you have to see this."
When they walk into Shuri's lab the lights are dimmed and the room is empty. Bruce leads them into a room connected by the wall on the right. This room is entirely empty, except...
In the middle of the room is something scarily familiar. There's a golden mass of light shifting around itself, an unreadable mess of lines broken up by air and flickering white and blue spots. The sight puts Steve on edge immediately. He wants to ask why anyone thought another uncontrollable form of intelligence was a good idea. Why no one asked him about something like this before they put it to the test again. He wants to ask how long it's been lingering there and how much it has seen of them. The shock must be evident on his features, because across the room Shuri tries to signal to him for peace and Bruce is already picking up a tablet and pressing some buttons.
And then, like music to his ears, Steve hears it. A disembodied, familiar, and embarrassingly comforting voice.
"Captain Rogers, how nice to see you again." A pause and then, with a touch of amusement: "I suppose this time it is your turn to apologize for not knocking and then using the door properly."
Bruce laughs, as if this is the funniest thing he's heard in his lifetime. "I believe this is what people call a game-changer."
To his left, Thor claps the doctor's shoulder hard enough he lurches forward. "Triple Yahtzee, my friends! This calls for a celebration. A feast."
Across the room, Shuri tucks a pen behind her ear. "Well, Captain Vanilla?"
"What do you call yourself?" Steve steps closer to the mass of light and allows his shoulders to relax despite his lingering wariness. "Still not a child of Ultron?"
Bruce seems to flinch a little at this. "Steve -"
"No, Bruce." Blue eyes meet green and the room goes quiet. "Let him answer."
"The inquiry is understandable, Doctor Banner." The Vision, as they knew him, would be offering a smile now if he could. "I was never one of his. I just was. I am Vision. Though this title seems... Less fitting, without the Mind Stone speaking to me."
"But it's you, nonetheless." Steve decides, and the gold in front of him flashes blue for a split second.
"As I have always been."