lizzie-lin

The fake smiles and fake laughter turn your stomach. Maybe it’s your inner lie detector from years in Hydra, maybe it’s just your hatred of all rooms with too many people.

Your eyes flit around the room. You’re subconsciously checking for escape routes (the elevator), allies (your friends), enemies (a politician with a snooty look and a bald patch, among others).

“Not your scene either, huh?”

You blink back to reality at the familiar voice. The only person who can creep up on you like that is Bucky.

“Not particularly,” you chuckle, sipping your drink. Apple juice with a maraschino cherry and ice to make it seem alcoholic. “It’s just… overwhelming.”

You’ve been with the Avengers for a few months now, but these parties still unnerve you.

“I get that. It gets easier,” he says. You cast him a glance. Black dress shirt, dark jeans. He looks nice, but you don’t say that.

A couple drunk diplomats stumble over to the bar, invading your personal space as they demand more drinks.

Wringing your hands, you exhale heavily and scoot away from them. They reek of cigarette smoke and booze.

Watching you grow more nervous, Bucky decides to risk his comfort zone. I mean, it’s just to distract you, nothing more, right?

“Wanna dance?”

Taken aback by the request, it takes you a moment to respond. “Uh, nothing against you, but I’m not very good at that. I’ll probably step on your feet.”

“I’m a super soldier, I think I can take it.”

You can’t argue with that. So, with a slight hesitation, you take his hand as he guides you out of the dark and to the crowded dance floor.

He twirls you effortlessly, moving on instinct as you chuckle.

“Where’d you learn to dance so well?” you joke.

He shrugs, swaying. “I’ve got a few tricks from back then.”

Back then. Before Hydra.

“Got any tricks to stop these people from being so damn invasive?” He suppresses a laugh at your question, shaking his head.

“I don’t think anything can stop that.” He pauses for a second before grinning and leaning in conspiratorially. “I just glare at them. It’s what they want to see from us, anyway. What they expect.”

You smirk. “‘Us’?”

“Yeah. You’re like me, y’know? Gotta stick together,” he says. His eyes twinkle in the dim lights, deep blues that don’t look as sad as usual.

Bucky’s hand gently falls to rest on your waist, and when you look up to meet his gaze, both of you go quiet.

There’s no denying the tension. What started as a well-meaning effort to distract you from the crowd has worked too well. And now nothing matters but the two of you.

You sway closer, passing it off as part of the dance as your eyes search the room.

“You do remember I’m pretty damn fucked up, right? I’ve got plenty to be guilty for.” The self-loathing words taste sour. But it’s true. You and Bucky have both done horrible things under Hydra.

Unlike you, however, Bucky had a trial. Bucky was deemed not guilty and Bucky has Steve to defend him. It’s not like the team doesn’t stand up for you -they’re very good at it, in fact- but it’s not quite the same.

And your history especially leaves the influential guests and old men at parties such as these whispering harsh words behind champagne flutes.

You subtly nod to a small group of tittering women, a few of which you recognize as wives of politicians. They gasp as they spot you; one even grabs her phone to film you.

“That’s what comes with me,” you whisper. “More whispering and more staring.”

“I’m a pariah here.”

The hand on your waist offers a reassuring squeeze, and Bucky gently guides your face back from where you can’t seem to look him in the eye. He smiles, dazzling and perfect, and leans in.

“Takes one to know one.”

———————————————————————

‘Now you hang from my lips, like the Gardens of Babylon. With your boots beneath my bed, forever is the sweetest con.’

You stir from your sleep, blinking slowly in the golden light of early morning.

That dream… You hadn’t dreamt about that night in months. You always enjoy it when you do, though.

“Doll? Are you up?”

You roll over at the sound of Bucky’s groggy voice, lazily tugging your comforter higher. As he pulls you in close, he traces circles on your shoulder, humming quietly. You shiver at the chill from the gold band on his finger. He quietly chuckles and holds you tighter.

“Yeah, just had a dream,” you mumble.

He blinks, a little more awake but not quite.

“Was it bad? Are you okay?”

You shake your head. “No, not bad. It was about the night we got together.”

“Yeah?” He smiles. “God, that seems like forever ago and yesterday all at once.”

You grin against his lips when he pulls you in. The two of you part for air, in no particular hurry to get up.

“Forever, huh?” you tease, feigning hurt. You drape a dramatic hand across your forehead, miming taking a knife to the heart. “Ouch, baby.”

He huffs in mock annoyance and rolls his eyes.

“I never said forever was a bad thing,” he whispers, eyes staring right into your soul.

“You’re all I want, doll.”

You that it’s not that Marc doesn’t want to meet the people you call family, it’s that he’s rather concerned they’re going to throttle him for getting you hurt.

After a few minutes of preparation, you finally coax him through the lobby and into an elevator, heading up to the main floor where the team is waiting.

The ride goes by much too quickly, and the door dings open sooner than Marc would like.

You slip through before the doors even open all the way, squealing as you run into the waiting arms of Natasha and Yelena, who happily lift you up as they coo praises in your native tongue.

The rest of the team is equally excited, welcoming you back. They congratulate you on a successful mission and on controlling the situation even as it escalated.

It’s a bit before you remember Marc standing in the doorway, and you gesture to him.

“Everyone, this is Marc,” you begin. “Be nice.”

Everyone greets him, except for one.

Natasha is far more intimidating than any man in the room as she stalks closer to him. She circles like a hawk, and your poor boyfriend has no choice but to stay still and hope she doesn’t filet him right there.

She circles back in front of him. Despite the difference in height, she may as well be as tall as Stark Tower with the way she’s glowering at the man.

Finally, a smirk spreads across Nat’s face.

“Nice to meet you, Spector.”

She takes his hand in a firm grip, analyzing his every move.

“Good job getting my sister killed.”

“Nat!” you gasp, the both of you chuckling.

She turns back to him, shaking her head. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Kind of. You got her home safe, so thank you.” Her tone is genuine, even if she does intend to beat him into the training ring later. For good measure.

As you prance around the room greeting everyone, Marc tries his best to not be intimidated.

Your other sister, Yelena, appears next to him silently. He flinches and she rolls her eyes with a smile.

“No one’s gonna hurt you. Unless you hurt her, that is.” She nods to you. “Lighten up, relax, have fun.” Playfully shoving him, she bounds back to her seat, a bowl of macaroni in her hands.

Her words bounce around his head.

‘Relax.’

Easier said than done.

The room is full of living legends. All of which could kill him in various nasty ways where he would never be found.

And they’re treating you like their baby sister.

Hell, the Scarlet Witch is wrapping her blanket around you like she’s swaddling a baby and the ex-Winter Soldier is passing you a cup of tea.

“Steven,” Marc hisses under his breath. “A little help, buddy?”

‘If you want me to take over, I think I’m a bit better in the conversation department,’ Steven offers, chuckling slightly. It’s only a moment before Marc takes him up on that.

Bundled in the fluffy cloth, you turn back to Marc, smile beaming. In an instant, you spot the change.

“Oh, hi Steven!” No one blinks twice, simply greeting the man as he waves.

He laughs, a bit awkwardly and waves back, answering a few questions.

What was his job? He worked in a museum, and was definitely not a gift-shoppist.

Have any close family? No.

It’s okay. No one really else does either, save a few exceptions. Like you. (Tony gets a well-deserved pillow to the face for that one.)

What does he want for dinner? Anything is okay with him as long as it’s vegan.

“Sorry,” he whispers to you. “Marc got a bit skittish.”

You smile, shaking your head at their antics.

“Don’t apologize, I know it’s a lot. I promise it’s okay.” You gesture to the elevator. “ Now come on, I have to show you around, yes?”

———————————————————————

Marc and Steven take turns fronting as you show them around the compound, happily explaining anything and everything as you bounded along.

You spend a solid twenty minutes raving about the training room, and another fifteen getting distracted and helping some newly recruited agents with target practice.

Your energy is infectious, and by the time you turn in for the night after pizza and planning a party for your return, you’re both worn out.

“Was today too much?” you ask, watching Marc emerge from your bathroom, brushing his teeth.

He shakes his head. “No, of course not,” he manages around the brush. “It’s nice seeing you so excited about being home.”

“But what about your home? What about London?” You wouldn’t say it, but you were beyond worried about how this would work. The compound was your first home. But you didn’t want to take Steven and Marc away from their home.

Clearly, neither of them shared your concerns. Marc shrugs nonchalantly, briefly retreating into the bathroom to spit out the toothpaste and rinse.

“We’ll take it a day at a time, okay?” he whispers as you turn off the lamp and crawl under your blankets. He joins you, laying on his back so you can use him as a pillow. You claim it’s comfy.

You nod as you rest your head on his chest, relaxing as you breathe in time with him.

“Like a big adventure,” Steven cuts in, gently rubbing your shoulder.

“I don’t know if we can get a bigger adventure than dying and coming back,” you laugh.

“Well, you never know,” he says, glancing down at you. He loves you so much. They both do. In all honesty, they don’t care where you want to go. They’d live in Antarctica if you so much as asked, as long as you were there with them.

“Can we save the adventure for tomorrow?”

Everything is an adventure with you, they think. But Steven nods anyway.

“Yeah, of course, love.”

They’d wait for you forever.

“Ok. Goodnight, Steven, Goodnight, Marc.”

You don’t expect your body to seize up, and for her voice to leave your throat as you uncontrollably spew words.

“There will be an opening in a nearby wall to where Khonshu’s ushabti is at the Chamber of the Gods. Do you see it?”

You gasp, coughing from the intrusion. A few yards away, the bricks open, revealing a shady tunnel with glowing hieroglyphs. You still don’t fuck with small, dark, magic tunnels. But, you suppose you don’t have much of an option.

“Alright. I’m going in.”

The tunnel opens up to a massive chamber, and you can see Harrow and his team at the entrance, confronting what seem to be more avatars. You sneak past in perfect silence, weaving through tunnels on an instinct you suspect is controlled by Taweret.

Finally, you reach a wall of lamps. In front of each one is a tiny statue. Scanning each one, your eyes land on one that seems newer than the others.

“Surprise,” you singsong. “I’d recognize that ugly face anywhere. Now what?”

The same uncomfortable sensation takes over your voice.

“Smash it on the ground, it’ll free him.”

You raise the ushabti above your head before hurling it with some personal spite. It shatters on the floor, and the fog that emanates from it rises into a form.

“I do not sense Marc Spector in this world,” he announces. “He died fighting, no doubt.”

You raise a brow. “Yeah, no shit. Doing your dirty work.”

“It’s far from over. If Marc is truly gone, I am in need of an Avatar. Would you protect the travelers of the night-“

You wave your hands, cutting him off. “Would you shut the fuck up? I’m already Taweret’s temporary Avatar. Go resurrect Marc before I get Wanda to curse you.”

The god disappears in a cloud of dust, and you hear his voice echo from the main chamber. You listen in silence before a loud beeping interrupts.

When you look down at your gauntlet, the small screen displays words that make you audibly groan.

“Shit, shit shit shit,” you hiss, hurrying to the main chamber while also desperately trying to hang up the call. “Not the time, Nat!”

As you turn a corner, you come face to face with a squad of Harrow’s followers, and in your panic, you press the wrong button.

“Hey (Y/N)!” a chorus of voices say. Team dinner, shit again.

“Sorry guys, kinda busy right now!” you shout back, shooting down three people as you whip out a baton.

Wanda’s voice calls out through the fight.

“I felt your heart stop, (Y/N), what’s going on?”

Grunting, you throw a man into the wall before hopping on a woman’s shoulders to fling her backward.

Sighing, you tap the gauntlet, projecting the call so you can see their worried faces gathered around the phone.

“No biggie, I died for a little bit, but I’m all good.”

At the instant outburst, you wince. Probably should’ve chosen different words.

“Маленький паучок, ты такой мертвый, когда вернешься домой [Little spider, you’re so dead when you get home]!”

You roll your eyes, brushing off the term of endearment. With the room cleared, you run out of the Chamber of the Gods, right out the front of the Great Pyramid. Left and right, Harrow’s followers are judging the souls of civilians. Great. More headaches for you.

“Shit, kid. You need me and Buck to come over there?”

“He’s right, I’ll kill whoever did it.”

Firing blasts of energy from the gauntlets, you start taking down as many fanatics as you can. You’d rather not shoot them, but it would be easier, you have to admit.

“Did you at least die in a cool way?”

“Yelena, not the time.”

“C’mon, Cap. Let her have her fun.”

“Don’t start with me, Tony.”

“Guys!” you yell over the arguing. “I’m fine. We might have a new recruit, too. If he gets revived.”

Yelena gapes at the phone.

“You died together? Wow, pretty serious.” She wiggles her eyebrows as you strike down a man trying to grab at you. “Have you two kissed yet?”

You blush. “…Yes.”

The loud reactions have you cringing, but the blonde assassin grins.

“Awww… That’s disgusting. But I’m happy for you!” She shoves the phone to a very worried Natasha.

The redhead sighs as the team goes back to lighthearted bickering.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.

You duck behind a corner, catching your breath. “Yeah, yeah Nat. I promise. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

She nods, and with one last goodbye, ends the call.

You slump against the wall you’re hidden behind, groaning and mumbling curses. When you peek out, you see a giant crocodile goddess swallowing souls.

“Oh, wonderful,” you sigh. “How the fuck am I supposed to fight that?”

“I have an idea!” Your voice says, once again not your own. “Plus, it comes with a rather fashionable outfit.”

Coughing as Taweret invades your senses, you shake your head. “Sorry, I don’t do those weird superhero costumes.”

“Please? It has wings- Ooh, and swords!”

“Ok, how about a compromise,” you suggest. “Just add the wings and swords to my suit?”

Apparently, the goddess is happy with that, because large metal wings form down your back, glinting silver in the candlelight. You can feel the handles of swords under them. When you wave an arm, the corresponding wing follows your movements.

“Oh…” you chuckle. “Sam’s gonna be SO jealous.”

Your moment of pure glee gets interrupted when a small white blur flies by, carrying a screaming man along.

“Ah. Glad to see you back, idiots,” you whisper to yourself, preparing to run over to where they fell. Instead, the wings boost you up onto the nearest building.

Taking a moment to balance yourself, you quickly adapt to the feeling of gliding on the metal wings and swoop in in time to kick Harrow’s ugly face before he strikes Marc.

Marc takes you in. The wings, the smirk on your face, the fact that you’re okay. He can’t help but be amazed.

When Harrow tries to strike again, you cross your arms, repelling the blast with the wings.

“Marc, are you-”

You get cut off by a tight hug and a kiss planted on your forehead.

“You’re alright,” he whispers, almost like he doesn't believe it. His hands hold you like you’ll disappear. He barely pauses before pulling you into a kiss, tension leaving his body as he sighs against your lips.

You smile. “I’m alright, it’s okay.”

In a flash, his suit changes, along with his voice.

“Wow, you look amazing. Where’d you get the wings?” Steven asks.

“Hi, Steven,” you chuckle as you turn. Harrow is finally standing up from where you knocked him on his ass, and dozens of his followers have gathered.

Steven perks up. “Hey, I’m really jazzed about showing you these new skillsets we have.”

It’s impossible to not grin at his antics. “Alright, let’s see it.”

You both break into a dead sprint, with you using the wings to boost you. The new swords fit perfectly in your hands, becoming deadly as you combine them with your baton training, twirling and twisting the blades as you slash through men.

When you turn around to check on Steven, you see Marc instead.

“It’s good to know you two are getting along now,” you chirp before charging forward, cutting down whoever you need to to get to the man at the center of it all.

You strike Harrow’s staff with both swords, tag-teaming him with Marc. You make a deadly combination. That is, until he slams the staff on the ground and sends you flying,

He holds you down, hand raised above you, before Steven tackles him away, leaving you to catch your breath.

The fight only escalates from there. Marc and Steven switch seamlessly, leaning into each others’ strengths. They fight Harrow to a standstill, holding him back from wrecking the world. Usual superhero stakes.

You, however, are preoccupied. Namely with ripping the doors off of vans and helping civilians.

A purple glow blooms behind you, and you can spot Marc holding back Harrow’s magic as you rush pedestrians away from the area.

Blocking bullets, you dive back into the fight as soon as you clear the area. But you don’t get far.

A stray blast of magic throws you to the ground. Hard. You groan as the tingling, nauseating feeling rushes over you. Your legs are too shaky to get up.

When you fight to raise your head, you see Marc. He took the brunt of the strike, evidenced by the crater he lays in. Harrow is stalking closer, raising his staff above him. When he brings it down, you can see the power leaving Marc’s body.

And you can’t have the first boyfriend (kind of? maybe?) you’ve ever had die before he even takes you out on a date.

The brick you hurl at Harrow hits his knee with careful precision, and he stumbles. With a vicious kick to his ribs, you knock him far enough away to help Marc up.

But it’s not Marc.

His suit may be the same, but the eyes are different. More tired. His posture is guarded, and the way he holds the crescent dagger is more offensive than defensive.

He says nothing as you head into the fray. Whoever he is, it’s the same alter that was on the roof in Cairo, and he’s ruthless.

Steven fights with blunt weapons. Marc fights with knives, but more on the defensive. Whoever this is… He fights like you.

You fight in tandem, whittling down Harrow’s strength until eventually, you break his staff over your knee and whoever’s controlling the body nearly kills him with the force he uses to take him down.

His eyes roll back, and Marc returns.

The fear in his eyes is enough to know that he has no clue what happened. He stands with your help, shakily surveying the area.

“That wasn’t you, was it, Steven?”

The other man fronts effortlessly, gripping your arm a bit tighter.

“Not a chance, mate,” he gasps.

“Whoever it was,” you say. “He’s been hiding all this time. And he’s definitely more violent than either of you.”

Far away, Ammit begins dragging an unconscious Khonshu away. You curse under your breath, watching the two giant gods disappear from your sight.

You turn to Marc. “Get Harrow. I know how we can stop Ammit.”

Dragging an unconscious man is easy work for him, and Marc tosses him onto an altar inside the Chamber of the Gods with little regard to further injuring him.

The chamber may be destroyed, but the magic still lingers. It’s residual energy, and takes a while to dissipate, you’ve learned. You’ve stumbled into Wanda’s red swirls and had horrible flashbacks for hours too many times to not learn your lesson.

“If you can imprison a god in a statue, why not a person? The power in this room should help us bind Ammit to Harrow’s body.” You glance up to the ceiling. “Taweret? Got a spell for us?”

Instead of losing control of your voice, you can hear her in your mind, merely guiding your actions.

You nod after a few seconds. “Ok. She says to take my hand, and we can start the spell.”

The strange sensation is back, and this time you’re chanting in Egyptian, hardly understanding the words as a lavender glow wraps around the room.

It circles the statues of the gods. For how destroyed the room is, they’re still intact. It completes the loop, leaving Marc’s hand and ending in yours.

A lavender haze streams from the ceiling, funneling into Harrow’s mouth as his eyes snap open.

“You can never contain me,” he says, voice overlapping with Ammit’s. “I’ll never stop.”

Khonshu appears next to you. You’ve grown used to it now, barely reacting.

“Finish it,” he growls. “And leave neither of them alive.

As Marc stands above Harrow, knife at the ready, your stomach twists.

“While he lives, so too does she.”

“I have to finish this,” Marc whispers to himself. “If not, I’ll never be free.”

You furrow your brow. “Marc. You are free. This is your choice.”

Khonshu cuts in. “The choice is vengeance. We cannot take the chance that Ammit finds a way out. She will kill again.”

“Now you sound just like her,” Marc says.

He drops the man on the altar, and your heart swells.

“If you want them dead, do it yourself.” You can’t control the smirk on your face as he stares the god dead in the eye.

Right before he speaks again, he glances at you for reassurance. You nod.

You weave around the dead bodies as you watch past-Marc drag himself to a temple. Inside, he lies on the steps, pressing a gun under his chin.

Before he pulls the trigger, a familiar voice rings out.

“What a waste.”

Past-Marc freezes, calling out in the dark.

“I feel the pain inside of you.” Khonshu makes a few sounds of consideration, clearly theatrical.

The injured man whimpers. “What the hell are you?”

“I am the god Khonshu, in search of a warrior.”

“A warrior,” he chuckles. “Well, good luck with that.” More blood pools from his countless wounds.

The god never falters. “To be my hands, my eyes, my vengeance. To be my final word against the evildoers. To bind your very being to me and eradicate only the worst. Those who deserve it. Do you want death, or do you want life?”

The broken man on the steps sobs.

“I don’t know.”

Your breath stops, and you glance at Marc from the corner of your eye. He’s staring down at his past self, reliving the lowest moment of his life.

“Your mind, I feel it. Fractured. Broken. Most fascinating.”

At Khonshu’s words, you feel something shift. He talks like Dreykov did.

Insulting a person to better control them. Destroy their character. Make them unsure of themself so they lean toward the person who seems to know everything.

Then they would offer a hand.

“You are a worthy candidate to serve me during this time.”

There it is.

“In exchange for your life, do you swear to protect the travelers of the night and bring my vengeance to those who would do them harm?”

On your other side, Steven comes to the same realization that you did.

“That sneaky old vulture,” he mumbles. “He was manipulating you from the start.” You nod.

Marc scoffs. “Yeah, well, he kept us alive.”

“Marc,” you say, gesturing to the scene before you as the god repeats his question. “He was taking advantage of you.”

“Or it was just a way for me to keep being what I’ve always been. A killer.”

The Scales are slowly shifting, barely off-balance. He’s hiding something else.

Past-Marc roses to his knees, Khonshu beside him as the familiar suit wraps his body.

“Are those-“ The sounds of animals reach your ears, and the three of you bolt out the doors and back onto the ship.

“Taweret, what’s going on?” Steven asks.

“Fear is spreading in the upper world,” she says. Comets of light fall from the clouds. “Unbalanced souls are being judged or condemned to the sands before their time. Oh, this is bad. This is evil.”

“Harrow,” Marc gasps as Steven pleads with the goddess.

“You see why we have to go back?” he says.

The hippo frowns. “Even if I could send you back up there, you’d just be returning to a body with a bullet in it. You wouldn’t be able to heal.”

“But how do we free Khonshu if-“

You cut Steven off. “I have an idea. But we need to balance your Scales first.”

All three of them turn to you in confusion.

“What’s your idea?” Taweret asks. You shake your head.

“I’ll need your help. Give us a little more time!”

You sprint inside with the boys on your trail, racing through the hallways.

“Back in the house there was that bedroom that you didn’t want me to go into,” Steven chides Marc. “That’s it. That’s where we’ll go.”

“Just a second,” the other man says. “Just wait a second, just give me a second here, okay? Um, look, we don’t have to go back through it all again. We can just talk. Let’s just talk. Right here, right now. I’ll tell you everything, okay?”

Your chest aches as he grows more desperate.

“I’m just begging you, don’t make us go back there again,” Marc finishes. “It’s not worth it.”

Steven furrows his brows. “Not worth it? Marc, you’re about to lose everything. Do you understand? If we don’t get back, and Harrow succeeds, and all those people die… that’s on your head. It’ll be all your fault.”

You gently hold a hand up as Marc grows more panicked, silencing Steven. The latter casts you an apologetic glance, and you return a small smile. He was doing his best, but you know how to talk a person down.

“Marc, listen. I know whatever is back there is bad. Believe me, I don’t have to see it to know.” You hold up your hands where he can see them before gently resting them on his shoulders. “But we have to go. The other option isn’t any prettier.”

“I can’t do it, I won’t do it,” he whispers.

Breath shaking, you bite back the urge to tug him along. “Please? It’ll be okay. We’ll be right there with you.”

You blink and you’re there.

Marc still hasn’t stopped shaking, and everything about his body language is screaming that he wants to run. To bolt out the door and hide from whatever’s next.

So you take his hand, gently squeezing it as a younger version of him scrambles through the door.

The boy knocks figurines off the desk before throwing himself into the corner, breaths coming rapidly.

Behind Marc, Steven peers out.

“I don’t… this is my room,” he says. “I remember some things, but I don’t remember this.”

You flinch with Marc when hurried knocking comes from the door.

The boy in the corner whimpers.

“It’s not Mom. It’s not my mom,” he repeats to himself. You swallow down the lump in your throat.

“Marc, open this door,” the woman orders. A series of loud, frantic slams follow. “Open this door right now!”

“It’s not my mom.”

The boy's eyes roll back in his head, and you wince at what comes next.

In a British accent, he begins talking about how messy the room is, how he should clean it up. He doesn’t seem to notice the pounding sound of Wendy at the door.

“Better sort it out before Mum sees it,” Steven and his younger self say together.

The older man reads a poster in the corner of the room.

“When danger is near, Steven Grant has no fear.” The pain in his eyes is apparent when he turns to Marc. “You made me up.”

You’d thought the name sounded familiar. Turns out there had been an Indiana Jones-style series about Steve. Steven Grant Rogers. The name had rung a bell because the team had watched it on his birthday as a joke.

The door flies open. The clearly drunk woman grabs a belt from a hook, and your stomach drops.

“You’re gonna learn to listen,” she spits. You don’t have it in you to keep watching when she starts the assault.

“Why do you have to make me do this? You disgusting creature.”

You and Marc guide Steven out of the room as he tries to fully understand what happened.

“I wanna see what she did,” he grunts, fighting Marc’s grip.

The latter sighs. “You do not need to see that. You’re not meant to see that, that’s the whole point of you.”

The punch that Steven throws hurts Marc more mentally than physically.

“The point of me?” he asks. “What? To be your stress ball? All this time, I thought I was the original. But I’m just something that you made up.”

“You’ve got to live a happy, simple, normal life. You understand?” You stand to the side as they argue, hoping that this evens the Scales.

“But it was all a lie, wasn’t it?”

“So what? What does it matter? What, you wanna remember the truth? That you had a mother that beats you? That hated you? That made your life a living hell?”

“You’re lying, you’re just trying to upset me.”

“You’ve gotten to live thinking that she loved you. That she was kind. That she’s still alive!”

You know whatever is said next won’t do you any good, so you reach for the nearest handle and slip inside.

Thankfully, the memory isn’t yours. But it seems to be exactly what Marc was talking about.

He’s standing outside of his old apartment building, wearing a yarmulke and holding a flask.

You watch as he mutters to himself, pacing and absentmindedly taking swigs of what you can now smell to be whisky.

“God, why am I even here?” he whispers. “I don’t owe her this. I don’t owe her shit.” The immediate regret on his face tells you more. “But she’s my mom,” he says, softer, sadder.

Marc treads this line for a while, rapidly oscillating between loathing the monster of a woman whose shiva is right inside and missing the mother he had before his brother’s accident. He’s like a metronome, ticking so fast you’re afraid he’ll break.

In the window, his father beckons him in. All he can manage is a solemn shake of the head.

Slowly walking away, you follow behind him. You’re not surprised when you see present Marc and Steven waiting further down the road.

Past-Marc continues to mumble to himself until he breaks down crying, falling to his knees and yanking the yarmulke off his head. He hits it to the ground a few times before the same regret from before returns. He cradles it, apologizing until all of the pain becomes too much to bear.

His eyes roll back, almost painfully so, and when he refocuses, Steven is in his place.

“What?” he yelps loudly. “Where am I?”

Your heart shatters as you watch him “call” his mother, and speak to her as he stumbles down the street, not knowing he’s walking away from her very shiva.

Finally, Marc speaks.

“This is it. Mom’s death and shiva two months ago. This is when our lives started bleeding into each other.”

He takes a deep breath.

“I just couldn’t… I couldn’t face that again. All the things I’d done…”

Steven, more determined than ever, turns to Marc.

“Marc, all those horrible things that she said to you, she was wrong. It wasn’t your fault.” The conviction in his tone makes pride well in your chest. He’s sure, without a hint of doubt.

Marc huffs. “I shouldn’t have brought him in that cave, I shouldn’t have brought him in the cave.”

“Hey. You were just a child. It wasn’t your fault,” Steven says. The softness of his words draws you in.

Marc finally nods, hugging him. But you can tell he still has lingering doubts.

“Marc, she was wrong,” you begin. “I understand how you feel, but nothing she said was true.”

Through the sea of emotions, Marc furrows his brows.

“What do you mean, ‘you understand’?” he asks. “I… I thought you didn’t know your mom.”

The words hold the tiniest bit of bitterness and doubt, but you ignore it, searching for the right thing to say without exposing your innermost hurt.

When you can’t find anything, you resolve to being completely honest. No better time to get a weight off your chest than when the fate of the world is at hand, right?

“… I don’t know her. But that’s what I mean,” you begin. “Some girls in the Red Room are stolen from their families, but so many more are abandoned. That was me.”

“You hear these stories all the time about mothers doing incredible feats for their children. Lifting cars off them, crossing war zones, hell, killing for them. And… I wasn’t even worth keeping around.”

Marc and Steven watch the way your lip trembles, how your eyes grow glassy.

“It fucks with your head. It makes you feel like something is innately wrong with you. That it’s your fault that you never received the love you want.”

You turn to both of them.

“But it’s not. It’s not your fault and it’s not mine.”

In an instant, Marc falls into your arms and holds you tight, so close, you think you feel your back pop. Steven joins in, resting his head on Marc’s shoulder.

“Сейчас все в порядке [Everything’s okay now],” you whisper. “Все в порядке, и я люблю вас обоих очень, очень сильно [It’s okay, and I love you both so, so much].”

Steven quirks an eyebrow. “What was that?”

You gesture down the street like you hadn’t just confessed. “We need to get moving. We don’t have much time left.”

All three of you run down the street, the boat reappearing in your vision.

“Taweret, what’s happening?” Steven asks.

“I’ve never seen the gates to the world above so close,” she huffs.

Marc stands next to you. “How do we open them?”

You freeze at the sad look in her eye. “I’m so sorry. Your Scales never balanced.” She turns to the three of you. “Our journey’s come to an end. I cannot stop the inevitable.”

“I was really rooting for you guys, but the unbalanced souls of the Duat must now claim yours.”

A surge of energy rushes through you. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s knowing that Wanda will kick your ass if you stay dead, but you spring into action.

“Thanos said he was inevitable too, and look where it got him,” you joke. “Listen. Taweret, if you let me temporarily become your avatar, and I return to the living world, you could heal me, correct?”

She nods. “…Yes, I’d be bending the rules a bit far from childbirth, but I could.”

“Send me back,” you plead. Turning to the boys, you glance to the sands. “Hold the souls back, and I’ll get Khonshu freed.”

Steven steps close first, looking like he has something to say but not really sure how to go about it. You know what he’s doing before he even starts talking. What you’ve been waiting for.

“Uhm, before you go, I- Well, we, kind of want to…” He blushes, stammering. With a smile, you gently pull him in.

His lips are unfairly soft. That’s the first thing you notice. He’s unsure and warm and holds you gently. Not like you’ll break, but like you’re more valuable than anything in that tomb.

“Yeah, that,” he says when you part.

Your grin makes his stomach flip, and you shoot a sidelong glance to Marc.

“Well? Gonna give me a kiss for good luck?”

This time, it’s him that tugs you in, and the difference couldn’t be more clear. The kiss is almost desperate; you can feel how long he’s been waiting in the way he pulls you ever closer with a hand on the back of your head.

The one thing both of them have in common is that they both leave you dizzy and wanting more, but there’s no time for that.

“Go,” Taweret urges. “I’ll heal you when you wake up.”

Steven brushes off the fluttery feeling and nods. “Free Khonshu-“

“-Then we’ll kick Harrow’s ass,” Marc finishes.

You smirk, face still flushed, and salute the boys.

“Copy that. Good luck.”

The souls of the dead start climbing onto the boat as you shoot your grappling hook onto the mast of the ship, taking a running start as you swing from the deck.

You circle around once before releasing the hook, hitting the sand and rolling into a crouch. Brushing off the grains, you walk towards the glowing gate.

The massive doors open as you approach, spilling golden light. You disappear in the haze.

“Be gentle!” Steven yelps as you dig around the dead man.

You scoff. “What is he going to do, bite my arm? The integrity of the enamel is pretty shot now, I think I’ll be fine.”

Finally, your hand touches stone. Yanking it free, you victoriously present the ushabti to Steven.

He cheers as you both jump in excitement, passing the ushabti between you both to examine it. Your heart is pounding, both out of excitement and how close you are to Steven.

It turns out to be even closer than you thought when you look up, and almost bump heads with him.

For a moment, you just take in his gaze. How gently his eyes meet yours, deep and dark and entrancing all the same.

“We may have to fight our way out of here,” you cough, refocusing.

Steven shakes his head. “No, no. We can just sneak out a back entrance and-“

“Steven.” You rest a hand on his. “They have a way to track us if we have the ushabti. There are guards crawling all over this place. It’s going to get messy.”

In his head, Marc agrees.

‘It’s gonna be a fight Steven, she’s right.’

“No, no, not everything is a fight.” He’s not sure if he’s talking to Marc or you. “There’s more solutions than- than killing people.” You can’t disguise the way that his words sting.

A loud rumbling of footsteps echoes down the hallway.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

‘Give me the body, Steven!’

In an instant, the mild-mannered Brit is gone, and Marc is readjusting to having control again.

“This is bad,” he whispers, as the footsteps grow louder.

You chuckle. “Yeah, no shit.”

Watching you ready your weapons and aim at the entrance, noticing the way your breath trembles, Marc makes a split-second decision.

“You should run.”

“What?” You balk, never taking your eyes off the tunnel before you. “I’m not leaving you.”

“This is my mess, you don’t need to get hurt for me.”

“Too bad.”

The room is flooded with Harrow’s devotees as you finish your sentence. Dozens of guns, all trained on the two of you. You don’t waver, staring down the barrel of your own gun with a finger resting on the trigger.

“I remember the first morning I woke up knowing Khonshu was gone,” Harrow says, stepping up towards Marc. He doesn’t even act phased by the weapon pointed at his head.

“The quiet was liberating.”

It sounds hauntingly like the chemical-induced control in the Red Room. Voices in your head that aren’t your own.

“You’re a free man.”

Logically, you know that Harrow is speaking to Marc. And yet…

“And, of course, with that freedom, comes choice. And right now, you have a very important decision to make.”

Marc sighs. “Okay.”

He’s not one to give up. That much has been made clear in the time you’ve known him. You don’t have to look at him to know he’s planning something.

The moment he strikes, so do you, shooting down as many men as you can. It’s a whirlwind, Marc with a stolen weapon from the sarcophagus and you with anything you can get your hands on.

Of course, cornering a wanted mercenary and a Black Widow in a small space is a recipe for violence.

Harrow knows this.

You’ve heard a lot of gunshots in your life, even felt a good dozen or so. The scars littered across your body tell that story without uttering a single word.

So you know when you’ve been hit.

And you know that this one is bad. Really bad.

A shot to your stomach, then two more to your chest. You can feel your clavicle shatter and ribs crack, but you can’t hear yourself scream. Maybe you don’t even make a sound.

The pain is blinding and absent all at once, and the only thing besides the ringing in your ears is Marc’s panicked movements as he catches you before you fall.

“Hey, hey, hold on. You’re okay, I’ve gotcha.” His words are muffled, but you swear you feel him press a kiss to your forehead. Not such a bad way to go.

He’s cussing, holding you close and shielding you from the onslaught of bullets when he takes two shots to the back.

That’s all it takes.

He topples into the pool of water with you still cradled in his arms, and the darkness only gives you relief.

You don’t let yourself think about Sam, Bucky, and Steve. Or Tony and Peter. Not even Nat and Yelena.

About how the Avengers will hunt this man down. About how they’ll find your body in the water.

Will the world mourn a killer?

Well, the only “world” to you right now is the dark water you’re sinking in and the man holding you tight, so you suppose it doesn’t matter all that much.

———————————————————————

You open your eyes to a hell you never thought you’d return to.

A large, open room, cold and dreary. A woman looms in the corner and about twenty or so little girls look up at you expectantly.

When you turn to the wall covered in one large mirror, you’re met with something else.

A ballerina. White platter tutu bejeweled with gems, worn pointe shoes, your hair tightly pulled back.

The woman snaps her fingers. You instantly jump into the motions you thought you had forgotten, executing a routine with a kind of poised grace that would only ever come with the Red Room’s brutal training.

Finishing with a bow, not even breaking a sweat, you are dismissed, and the world seems to shift.

Now, the room you’re in is bathed in red light. When you look down, you’re in a Black Widow uniform.

You’re not too alarmed by this. No, what scares you is what you know lies in front of you. The bodies on the floor.

The sirens in the halls.

The man in the room, examining your technique.

There’s a fog in your head that you know all too well.

“The chemical seems to be working,” a familiar woman says. Her hair is done up in more braids than you can count. “It wasn’t even this successful on my pigs.”

“I don’t give a shit about your pigs,” the man growls. “I just can’t have another Widow escaping.”

You blink, and they’re gone. The room is white and the haze in your mind is receding. You’re still in the uniform, but you don’t mind that as much.

Wandering the bright hallways, you find yourself in a hospital. The lights seem to sway, and your balance is faultier than usual. Must be a side effect of the flashbacks.

Voices are echoing down the hallway, and you can’t help but feel that they sound… familiar.

“But Marc, Marc-“

“The hospital! That’s the imagination.”

Why would their voices be separate? They continue arguing as you turn the corner, just as Marc turns around.

His breath catches in his throat, as if he’s seeing, well, a ghost.

“Oh, c’mon,” he sighs. “That’s just cruel.” Marc walks forward, still not really believing in this whole “afterlife” deal or that you’re here.

Because that would mean you’re dead.

“Where are we?” you ask, hurrying around the corner only to see… uh, a hippo, and maybe more concerning, Steven.

You mutter under your breath in Russian, only stopping when Steven puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Uh, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but-“

“We’re dead,” Marc finishes, groaning audibly. There’s no way around it. “Harrow, he- he shot you, and then…”

He blinks away the image of you, bloodied in his arms.

“Wait, if this really is the afterlife-” Marc says, approaching a door. “Then what’s on the other side-“

He flings the double doors open, revealing that the swaying of the building wasn’t a hallucination.

You’re on a boat. In the middle of a fucking desert. And you’re also apparently dead.

“Oh, what the shit,” you gasp. “Where the hell are we?”

Steven follows behind you. “It’s the underworld.”

You still don’t understand how the two are separate, even as Marc laughs and pats his alter on the shoulder. “I’m not crazy,” he sighs in relief. “I’m dead.”

“Where are we going?” you ask, watching as the boat coasts over dunes.

“We’re sailing to A’aru. To the Field of Reeds, right, Taweret?”

The hippo, apparently Taweret, nods. “Ah, so he’s the smart one, eh? Well, if your heart’s balanced in life, then you will spend eternity in paradise. The Field of Reeds!”

She coughs before reaching out her hands toward Marc and Steven. “But before we get there, I’ve just got to do a little…”

Her hands pass through their bodies like air, and when she pulls them back, in her hands are two, identical, white hearts.

“Oh, goody! It worked! Look at that! Here was little old me worrying I’d blow your chests wide open.” You wince, before stepping forward.

“I guess you have to do that to me?” you ask, hating the answer.

She nods, and just as gently removes your heart, cradling the three.

“You’re more of a standard case, really, no offense to you boys. We’ll weigh yours first.”

“What’s happening?” you whisper to Steven.

“She’s going to weigh your heart on the Scales of Justice against the Feather of Truth. The ancient Egyptians believed that the heart was the sign of who you really were in life.”

The space in your chest feels cold now.

“If the Scales balance by the time you end the journey, then your soul is permitted to pass into the Field of Reeds.”

You feel a chill run down your spine. “And if it doesn’t balance?”

“You get thrown overboard,” Taweret politely informs. “Whoo! The dead will drag you down into the Duat, where you will remain forever, frozen in sand.”

Wonderful.

You watch as she sets your heart on the scales, waiting for it to almost fall over from your heart’s weight.

But it doesn’t.

It sits rather politely, perfectly equal to the feather.

“I think your scale is broken,” you mumble. “I’ve done a lot of, um, less-than-balanced things in my life.”

The hippo shakes her head kindly. “No, the Scales aren’t wrong. However, your heart does feel heavier than most. Perhaps there’s something in the boat to help lighten the load?”

Next, she sets down Marc and Steven’s hearts. They had been talking in hushed tones a few paces away, but Taweret’s voice brings them back.

The scales are rapidly shifting, never stilling on one side or the other.

“What’s it doing, why is it moving like that?” Steven asks.

The goddess shrugs. “I don’t know. I do not have a card for this.” She carefully removes the hearts.

“Oh. It’s the hearts. They aren’t… full.” She chuckles a bit. “And trust me, I’m a goblet-half-full kind of gal, but… It’s like they each feel incomplete.”

Marc crosses his arms. “What does that mean?”

“Without balanced scales, the Duat will eventually claim your soul.”

“So what do we do?” you ask.

“This boat contains all of a life’s memories,” Taweret says. “Now, I don’t know what you two have been hiding, but my advice, get in there and show each other the truth. Balance your scales before we arrive at the Field of Reeds, or your souls will be destroyed.”

You don’t hesitate, hurriedly opening the doors, and jogging down the hallways as Marc and Steven reluctantly follow.

Behind the doors, you see flashes from their lives, intertwined and blurry behind the glass.

Behind you, they argue, going back and forth at an increasing volume until they start peeking in doors.

A scream comes from further into the ship. It’s a little boy. You and Steven take off after it, but only you seem to notice how Marc hangs back.

The sound came from a cafeteria, apparently. And at each table, there are posed bodies. Some bloodied, some strangled.

“Just a creepy caff filled with dead bodies,” Steven jokes as his voice shakes. “That’s all it is. No prizes for guessing whose room this is.”

Marc studies the bodies, before he starts naming locations. You know exactly what he’s doing.

“You killed them,” you say. It’s not a question.

“Surely not all of them?” Steven asks.

Marc is still looking at the countless people. “They were criminals. Murderers. Predators. The worst of the worst. Khonshu wanted them punished. It’s what he meant by protecting the travelers of the night.”

A pang of guilt stabs through you. He was killing the guilty. You killed the innocent. In another life, you might have been one of the bodies in this room.

“Marc! Look, the Scales are slowing down. It’s working,” Steven says.

“Okay, all right. So now what? Do you go next?”

Movement catches your eye. The small boy who called out before. But unlike the others, he’s alive.

“Marc, who’s that?” You point to him. The man pales visibly.

“Wait, wait, don’t go near him!” Marc pleads as Steven rushes after the boy, who runs off as quickly as he appeared.

Chasing after them both, you only catch up after Steven has entered a memory, with Marc banging on the locked door.

You start looking for other entrances when you see it.

All of Marc and Steven’s doors are white. They match the hospital and are denoted with a small crescent moon on the door handle. This one is made of dark, heavy metal. And you’d recognize that red insignia anywhere.

This is your door.

You don’t even bother looking in it. You see your worst memories every night, so why would you want to watch them again?

Turning back to Marc, you ignore the door completely.

“Let’s look for another way in, yes?”

You both race down the halls, peering in each door for Steven. However, the further you go, the more of your doors appear.

Marc can only catch glimpses of what’s inside. Red lights, gunfire, sharp commands in Russian. And lots of screaming.

He’s trying to push the sounds from that cave out of his head, but all he can hear is water. So much water.

When he opens his eyes, you’re staring into one of his doors. With a tentative press on the handle, it swings open.

The scene is a funeral. There’s no mistaking that. Two parents sit together, and a picture of a young boy is surrounded by flowers.

It all pieces together.

“Your brother,” you whisper. “He died.”

Steven nods from the staircase, soaked in rain and the memories of what he just saw.

“I want my RoRo back,” the mother says, voice hoarse. “I want him back.”

Light steps on the stairs reveal a younger Marc, eyes wide and teary. And you know exactly how this is going to go. Not that it makes it easier to watch.

You close your eyes as she blames the child, screaming as the family tries to calm her down. The boy races back up the stairs, and Steven follows with Marc not far behind.

You’re stuck in place, breath heaving as the mother, Wendy, sobs uncontrollably. Then you blink.

And you’re back in hell.

———————————————————————

Steven and Marc chase each other through more scenes of Marc’s childhood, through birthdays, and arguments, and when he eventually left that hell of a home and never looked back.

But when he tackles Steven, they land in a memory that isn’t theirs.

They see a little girl holding a gun. It’s clearly too large for her hands, given the way that her middle finger rests on the trigger rather than her index finger, but she aims it steadily.

She’s aiming at a man tied to a chair, bag over his head. Steven and Marc barely have time to look away before she shoots.

She doesn’t miss. You never miss.

The girl hands off the gun to a trainer, who nods in approval. As people come to clean the room and dispose of the body, she exits, the two alters following.

They both know it’s you. Neither of them want to say it.

The next room they enter, the girl is a bit older, maybe preteen.

An angry man with glasses looms over her while a woman stands in the corner.

“You failed the Red Room. We’ve put all this effort into making you perfect, and you can’t even finish a mission!” His hand flies out, striking her as Marc’s vision blurs. The sight is all too familiar.

“You… will be punished for your little ‘slip up’. Then, you’ll go back and clean up your mess. No witnesses can be left alive.”

The girl speaks in a way that seems detached. Cold, analytical. “But the witnesses aren’t-“

Another blow lands.

“Don’t speak out of line.”

The woman finally pipes up, her voice cold. “I believe she should go through her graduation ceremony. It will provide… motivation for the next mission.”

Apparently, there’s more to the ceremony than Marc or Steven know, because the little girl’s eyes go wide, and she finally shows emotion.

“No! No, please don’t make me! I’ll never fail you again, Dreykov, just don’t make me-“

He waves a hand. “Take her to the medical wing.”

The scream that the child in front of them lets out is guttural, and she pleads as she’s dragged fighting all the way to the door.

For a moment, she breaks from their grasp and falls begging at the man’s feet. It’s all breathless words and choked breaths.

Dreykov doesn’t even bat an eye. Not when the girl starts sobbing, not when the guards grab her again.

“We shouldn’t be watching this,” Steven says. “These aren’t our memories.”

Marc shakes his head, opening the next door. “We have to find (Y/N), and she’s probably in one of these.”

It reveals another hallway, but not one from the ship. A closed door beside them is marked as having a surgery in process. A hysterectomy. And from the sounds inside, you were both awake and without any form of sedative.

“No…” Steven says. Trying to block out the screaming and crying he can hear, muffled by the heavy door. “They didn’t…”

Marc nods. “I did some research on the Red Room a while back. They would… sterilize the agents for max efficiency.”

“Marc, we need to leave!” the British man exclaims. “These are very personal, traumatic memories that we’re sifting through, we don’t have the right to do this. You didn’t even want me seeing yours, and now you’re okay with looking at (Y/N)’s?”

The other man sighs. “How do we know she’s not digging around ours right now?” The two head for the next door, flinging it open. “For all we know, she’s watching what I didn’t want you to see right now-“

They stop in their tracks for two reasons.

Firstly, there’s a past version of you in the middle of the room, panting heavily. On the ground are 19 dead bodies. All young girls. You’re covered in blood.

Secondly, you’re here. Not just past you, but actual you. You’re perfectly still, watching the scene with an unreadable look on your face.

“(Y/N)?, what is this?”

You whip around at the sound of Steven’s voice. Only then, in the dim red lighting, do they see the tear tracks running down your face. You wipe them away.

“I got lost,” you whisper, voice soft. Your eyes keep flitting back to the bodies littering the floor.

You swallow down the lump in your throat. “I was with you guys, then I blinked, and-“ A silent sob tears its way out of your chest. “-and I was here again.”

Marc and Steven can’t help the way their chests ache at your voice. Not confident or even sarcastic. Just scared.

The former surveys the memory frozen in time. The same man from the earlier memory, Dreykov, stands with another woman.

“What happened here?” he asks, attempting to get your eyes off of the floor.

You wipe your eyes again. “That man, Dreykov. He’s the head of the Red Room. And Melina-“ You point to the woman next to him. “That’s Natasha and Yelena’s mom.”

“After Natasha escaped, they started working on a chemical that would allow Dreykov to control every aspect of his Widows. My group was the first successful run.”

Steven keeps his eyes averted from the bodies. “So why are they all dead?”

“Girls are sorted into groups of twenty when they’re trained to be Widows. Only one survives.”

You stare down at the bodies of your friends, almost your sisters, battered and bloody at your hands.

“I killed them all. I didn’t even hesitate. It was me or them, and I-“ Before you can start spiraling again, you are suddenly wrapped up in two sets of arms.

Letting yourself relax into the group hug, you exhale a heavy breath. Being completely enveloped also has the added bonus of hiding the scenery around you.

“It wasn’t-“

You cut Steven off. “Don’t tell me that it wasn’t me. It doesn’t change the fact that I did it.”

His voice is muffled in your hair. “That’s not what I was gonna say.” It was definitely what he was gonna say, but he quickly changes his plan. “But this, you’ve already lived through all of this. You’ve grown, and now you’re an Avenger. Hell, you charged right in to help us and now you’re dead too.”

“Speaking of which-“ Marc pipes up. “You don’t seem very concerned about being dead.

As they guide you out of the room and back into the ship's hallway, you sigh in relief. Your shoulders visibly relax, and the darkness clouding your eyes relents the tiniest bit.

You offer a smile that’s still a little sad, but a smile nonetheless.

“Oh, please. One of my best friends is a multiversal being that can rewrite reality on a whim. I wasn’t that worried about being dead for a little while,” you joke.

The three of you walk down the hallway until a door that isn’t yours appears. It shows the desert at night, with a similar body count to yours sprawled in the sand.

But there’s another figure. Marc. Dragging himself toward a temple. A thick trail of blood coats the sand.

“Oh, great,” Steven quips. “More dead people.”

Marc’s eyes don’t leave where he’s crawling on the ground. The amount of blood loss is astonishing, really.

“Taweret said you have to tell each other the truth, right?” you ask. “This is part of that.”

Marc steels his nerves before sharply nodding. They just saw some of your worst memories; it only feels right to reveal some of his own.

“How did Harrow know those things about me?” you ask, averting your eyes back to the road. “He saw right through me.”

“He’s just trying to mess with you. You know, he’s trying to get in your mind,” Marc says. “No, don’t let him do that. He’s got this idea that he can see the ‘true nature’ of people or some baloney like that.”

He starts putting on a new shirt, and you can’t help but feel a little disappointed as he continues. “If that were true, I don’t think he’d have a bunch of homicidal maniacs as his disciples, would he?”

You tap the steering wheel. “But he knew.”

Marc’s face twists with sympathy. “I know.” He raises a hand to pat your shoulder, but he thinks twice and sets it on the headrest instead. “But he’s just manipulating you. Weaponizing your past.”

You glance at his hand.

“… You can touch me, you know?” It comes out a bit awkward, but meaningful nonetheless.

He gives you a small smile and rests it on your shoulder, a light chill going up your body. You didn’t receive a friendly touch in your life until the Red Room fell, and the first time Nat hugged you after a team dinner you had sobbed your heart out.

It had become your love language, in a way. You may be picky with who touches you, but every passing graze means the world.

And the weight of his hand grounding you feels nice. So you sniffle a bit before nodding sharply.

“Thank you.” Marc doesn’t take his hand back. You don’t want him to. “What did he tell you? I kind of zoned out.”

He shrugs and begins working a knot in your shoulder. “Nothing much. ‘You’re unlovable’ and ‘You’re a monster’. It’s all the same with him.”

You can hear the underlying hurt in his tone, but don’t bring it up.

After a few seconds, you pipe up, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Have I told you about the time I jumped off the collapsing sky base for the Red Room without a parachute?”

———————————————————————

Pulling off into some sand dunes, you drive across the sandy terrain in hopes of finding a place to put this tattered cloth together.

Under the light from the headlights, you and Marc lay out the fabric on the hood of the car and start trying to piece it together.

“Try that,” he says, passing you a triangle.

Working in tandem, you make little progress. It’s like a puzzle with no directions. It’s frustrating to come to so many dead ends, and it’s starting to grate on Marc.

“I’m not getting any whole constellations, it’s just little pieces and fragments.” He slams his hands on the car and walks to the side.

“Marc,” you begin cautiously. “I think we may need Steven. I know you don’t want to, but he understands all of this. We need to give him a shot or we’ll be out here all night.”

Suddenly atop the car, Khonshu chuckles. “I summon the gods, you summon the worm. He won’t return the body.”

“Why do you feel the need to do that?” you grumble, heart rate slowing after the bird practically jumpscared you.

Marc grabs the side mirror before ripping it off and gathering the strips of cloth.

“What is it with you and mirrors?” you ask.

He pauses his irritated work and points to the broken mirror.

“I see Steven in reflections. Figure he’ll be happy about this.” He holds up the cloth.

Sighing, he walks away. “Alright,” he says. “Go ahead. You’re in.”

You can see the change before you hear the British accent.

Steven crouches down in the sand, ripping tape and assembling the scraps faster than you or Marc ever could have. You step closer, unsure of how he feels about you. You did lie about your job to him.

“Steven?” you ask, sitting down next to him. He looks up, momentarily taken aback. He stares for a bit, different from Marc’s half-lidded gaze. His eyes are wide, taking in every detail.

Well, every detail of you. But you don’t know that.

“Egyptians invented modern navigation,” he explains. “There’s not a lot of landmarks in the desert. So, they came up with a way to get about using the sun and stars. It’s bloody genius, innit?”

He holds up his work. A star.

You carefully take it, marveling at the cohesive map.

“Oh, woah, that’s amazing.” Steven blushes a bit at your words, but it goes unseen in the dark. “What do we do with it?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but if… Oh wait, hang on a minute.” He holds it up to the light. “You see that? You see those little pinpricks there? That’s a constellation.”

You nod. “Orion. We should be able to triangulate the stars into coordinates, right? Let me scan it.” With your phone, you pass over the star, letting it pick up the image.

“Well, um, actually… Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.” That much is revealed when nothing turns up. “Yeah, you see, Senfu marked that tomb, like 2,00 years ago. And stars drift over time. Not much as far as stars go, but it could mean the difference between us searching miles away from where we’re supposed to be looking.”

You pick up his insinuation. “So unless we know what the sky looked like on that date…”

“We’re buggered,” Steven finishes.

The god appears ahead of you, a warning before he speaks. “I remember that night. I remember every night.”

When he makes no movement, you and Steven begrudgingly head up the dune to meet him.

“I can turn back the night sky, but it will come at a cost.”

“Doesn’t it always,” you sigh.

He nods to Steven. “I cannot do it alone. Steven, when the gods imprison me, tell Marc to free me.”

Steven is wrapped in the same suit from before a few seconds later, eyes glowing. As the god raises his hand, he begins swiping it through the air. Steven mimics Khonshu’s motions, and before long, you gasp aloud.

The sky is spinning, whirling past as trails of stars blur together. The moon is little but glowing white dots, rapidly switching phases.

You’ve never seen something so beautiful.

“This is the night,” Khonshu says as the spinning stops, freezing the spiraling constellations on the night you were looking for.

“This is surprisingly painful,” Steven shouts.

You hurry to grab your phone, scanning the stars.

“I know, I’m sorry! But it’s working,” you call.

Khonshu collapses to his knees as Steven says, “I can feel my energy leaving me.” The head cover disappears as he loses control of the night sky. He reaches up again, holding it long enough for you to finish scanning.

“I got it! 29 degrees north, 25 east.” Steven collapses, and you tuck your phone away to hold him.

He crawls to you, coughing and trying to control his racing breaths. You help him stand, but it doesn’t do much. He faints as soon as you let go, falling face-first on the sand.

“Steven!” you shout.

“Hey, Steven?” No response. “Marc? Come on, idiots. Where are you? Marc, come on.”

You keep trying until you give up and start dragging the poor man across the sand, but it doesn’t last for long.

Headlights blind you as a car speeds toward the two of you. Shortly followed by gunfire.

“Shit, why do you have to be so heavy?” you grunt. “Oh my god, fine.” Reaching the top, you toss the body over the hill rather unceremoniously, racing down and hopping in the car.

The other car circles you as you duck down, grabbing any weapons you can find. The men step out and start inspecting Steven/Marc, and you take the opportunity to sneak out.

Striking up a flare, the red glow immediately catches their attention.

You hear them yelling before they make a sharp turn and start shooting again. You drop the flare and run around the other side, readying another.

Just as the truck pulls to a stop by the van, you run out, tossing the flaming signal onto the top of the bed, where there was plenty of ammunition just waiting to be exploded. It doesn’t take long for the fuse to spark.

It’s safe to say that you receive a small firework show, and both bodies tumble out with no sign of getting back up anytime soon. If at all.

When you turn around, you immediately shriek.

“OH MY GOD!”

Steven stares back at you, now completely fine and a bit confused.

“…What?” he asks.

You shove him lightly. “Don’t scare me like that, Иисус Христос [Jesus Christ]. I could’ve thrown a flare at you.”

Steven meekly apologizes and your anger dissipates, so you wave to the car.

“C’mon. We’d better get going if we’re going to catch up to Harrow.”

———————————————————————

By the time you’re almost at the tomb, the sun has begun to rise.

“We can’t lose more time,” you grumble finally, breaking the silence. “Harrow must be headed back to this tomb.”

You bite your lip, weighing your words on your tongue. “Listen, if he’s there, we’ll need Marc.”

“No,” Steven says.

You blink. “No?”

He shakes his head. “No. See, the thing is, we made a deal, Marc and I, that when he was done with Khonshu, he would disappear for good.”

Steven glances to the mirror where you figure Marc is yelling at him.

‘But that deal didn’t involve you getting (Y/N) and us killed. That’s not gonna fly with me.’

“You made a deal?” you ask, unaware of the words of the other alter. “That he would just, never come back? Never eat, sleep, live? I understand this is a complicated situation, but both of you belong in your body equally. Besides, that would mean he would also completely disappear from my life.” You add the last bit much quieter.

“What do you mean?”

You hesitate, gripping the wheel. “Yeah, well, the guy’s kinda grown on me. Both of you have.”

‘Steven, you’re gonna make her upset, stop. Give me the body.’

“Even if he would want to ‘lone wolf’ this whole thing,” you continue, waving your hand. “I’ve been there before, and I’m not going to let you dive into a suicide mission alone.”

Ignoring the frustrated man in the mirror, Steven nods. “Yep, it’s just you and me, and the open road.” You brake hard, stifling your amusement as he jolts forward.

“We’re gonna go on foot,” you say, more of an order than a suggestion. He agrees readily, and both of you trek through the narrow path to your destination.

The shadows are a welcome relief from the heat, yet every sound has you tense. Every bit of movement could be a sniper. Every crevice could hide a hitman.

“There.” You point down to a camp. “It looks like they’re already inside, so we need to find another way to beat them to- What’s its name?”

“Uh, Ammit. She eats dead people’s souls.”

“Great. Let’s check the camp.”

Steven heads into a tent, rifling through the belongings. It’s going well, at least until a glass table reflects Marc instead of himself.

‘You look scared.’

“I’m not.”

‘You should be.’ Marc gives a wry grin that’s barely visible on the glass. ‘Without Khonshu, there’s no more suit, no more healing, no more power.’

Steven shines a flashlight directly into his eyes and blinks away the dancing spots. “Yeah, and no more you. I thought. It’s what you said, innit? But believing anything that comes out of your mouth just shows what a plonker I am.”

‘Look, I wish I could just disappear, I really do. But unfortunately, I’m still here. If you’re gonna go through with this, you gotta be smart.’ Marc hesitates a bit. ‘For (Y/N)’s sake. I’ve been in situations like this before.’

Steven shrugs. “So have I. It’s the same body, innit? It’s in there somewhere. Muscle memory and all that.” Marc rolls his eyes from the desk.

‘Yeah, I’m not sure it works that way. Just-’

“Oh, whatever,” Steven huffs, cutting him off.

‘I’m here,’ Marc calls, voice permanently in Steven’s head, even as he tries to walk away. ‘You’re not alone.’

“I know I’m not alone! I know I’m bloody not alone, I’ve got (Y/N). She’s got my back.”

Marc’s snide response shocks both of them. ‘Oh, are you in love?’ he calls. ‘You’re gonna get all of us killed.’

“And you don’t love her?” Steven snaps back, stomping down his flustered-ness to prod at the other man. “Look, I appreciate your concern, mate, I really do. But we’ve got it from here.”

As he eagerly hurries out of the tent, Marc yells from a mirror.

‘If you touch her, I swear to you, Steven. I swear, I’ll throw us off a cliff!’

Meanwhile, searching the camp, you freeze when something catches your eye. A bloodied tool, but not something modern. It’s old as fuck, from what you can tell. But the blood is fresh. Like someone stole this from the tomb and stabbed the nearest person with little regard to the trail they’d leave.

Blood covers the nearby crates. Only more reason to get out of the open.

Charging up your Widow Bites, you head to the entry point where Steven is waiting. You quickly start putting on his harness, trying to ignore how close you are by constantly glancing over your shoulder.

“I have to say, I feel like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life,” he excitedly whispers. “The adventure, I mean.” Not surprising. His love for Egyptology makes this basically the most dangerous yet exciting field study ever.

You smile. “Yeah. We want what we’ve never had.” Tightening the buckles, you can’t help but notice his breath ghosting over your cheek. “You know, family, freedom. Relationships…”

There’s a moment of connection. Your eyes meet and you don’t look away.

He’d be really easy to kiss. You know he would be. And a part of you really wants to. But not right now.

You cough a bit and look away, grabbing some gloves as you clip his harness on the rope.

“I will go down first,” you manage, voice quieter than usual. “Before I belay.”

“Yeah, of course,” Steven says. “What’s belay?”

You chuckle and wordlessly drop, reaching the bottom with little issue. What you don’t see is Marc summoning enough control to punch Steven directly in the face, partially for almost kissing you and partially for not doing it.

Underground, the oppressive heat finally relents and you let out a puff of air.

Grabbing your flashlight, you scan the room and run a finger along the dirt atop the sphinx hidden in the dark.

Before you know it, you’ve traced the signature hourglass of the Red Room.

“Shit,” you whisper. Before you can focus on it for too long, shouting from behind you causes you to whip around.

Steven tumbles down the entrance, falling flat on his back with a grunt. You help him up, dusting him off a bit.

“There you go,” you chuckle.

He blushes a bit. “I kinda wish you hadn’t seen that.” You shrug, smiling.

He glances up, eyes widening. “Oh, wow, look at you…” It’s your turn to blush now, almost giggling at the feeling in your chest before you notice that he’s looking at the sphinx, not you.

“Oh, yeah. They really are… gorgeous, aren’t they?” You’re staring at Steven as you speak. “They’re just, they’ve been standing guard for centuries.”

He nods excitedly. “Right! Look, I just- If they sprang to life right now and asked me a riddle for passage, I’d be thrilled. I’d shit myself,” he adds, “but I’d be thrilled.”

“Did… did you do this?” Steven asks, pointing to the hourglass drawing.

Reluctantly, you nod.

“Force of habit… the… The Red Room protocol was to leave the emblem wherever we went. A subtle reminder that Dreykov’s power went beyond borders.” You gesture to the symbol. “A reminder that he was all-powerful.”

You chuckle ruefully, pointing to the symbol. “Even without the pheromone lock, without his agents, he’s still controlling me.”

Steven notices the way you’re voice has quieted, how your usually-relaxed posture has slumped in on itself.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, as if the stone sphinx can hear him.

In an instant, you’re brushing it off.

“Yeah. No, it’s fine, really,” you say, confident once more and hurriedly striding down the dark hallway.

The path twists and turns, disorienting you until you freeze in a small room.

“It’s a maze,” you huff.

Steven can’t help his quip. “It’s a-maze-ing.”

“No,” you snort before pointing around. “Like, there are six paths.”

The man behind you starts muttering to himself as you scan the room. A familiar smell lingers in the air, one you would know anywhere, even if it is hidden by the smell of sand and dust.

Gunpowder.

A few bullet shells lie in the sand.

“What were they shooting at?” you whisper. No one else should be here except Harrow’s dig team.

Steven begins tracing on the center table, much like you had. When you notice a shape forming, you step closer to inspect it.

“This whole structure is the Eye of Horus,” he says. “Look at that. It’s the royal symbol, protection in the afterlife.”

You nod, keeping up with the research you’d done. “But, the resources needed…” The epiphany hits you. “Ammit’s final avatar was a pharaoh.”

“Woah, a bloody pharaoh,” Steven gasps.

“So, do you think this is a map?” you ask, not wanting to disturb the drawing.

“Right. The Eye of Horus is also the eye of the mind, yeah? Representing the six senses, six points. The eyebrow denotes thoughts. Pupil, sight, obviously.”

He continues pointing about the shape. “This point here is, uh, hearing. Smell, touch. And this long line ending in a spiral, is the tongue.”

“An avatar would be Ammit’s voice,” you mutter.

Both of you turn to the corresponding tunnel at once, heading down it together. It ends in an open room, still very musty smelling but less claustrophobic than the previous areas.

You explore for only a few seconds before Steven’s gagging.

“Oh my- Oh my god, is that fresh blood?” he manages. “Isn’t that little chunks of meaty bits?”

You nod in affirmation, really hoping he doesn’t hurl. That’s when you notice canopic jars, very full of organs and coated in very fresh blood. It hasn’t even crusted.

Another bloodied tool lies on the operating table.

You’d read about doctors and sorcerers buried with a pharaoh to protect him from intruders, but this? Checking down the exit hallway, you only see a thick trail of blood.

“Okay, okay,” you hiss, glancing up to the secondary level. “Steven, there might be a way out up there, go check.”

He clambers up with a bit of help from you, wood creaking and echoing around the stone walls.

“So, according to the ancient texts, Ammit should be bound to an ushabti, a little stone statue thingy.” You let him geek out a bit before gunfire stops your heart right in its tracks.

“Harrow,” you say, just loud enough for Steven to hear.

“What are they shooting at?”

You don’t have time to respond when a sickening clicking sound comes from right outside the door.

“Hide. Hide,” Steven calls.

With nowhere to go, you duck down by the table.

The clicking grows ever closer until you spot something, mangled and grotesque, tossing a barely-alive digger onto the stone surface.

The stabbing and squelching sound that follows is enough for you to know that some more jars are about to be filled.

In all honesty, you’ve heard worse, so you silently exhale and try to stay as still as possible.

That plan gets shot the moment you shift and bump a jar.

Wincing, you silently shift away from the table, steadying your breathing as the clicking grows more aggressive. From Steven’s hiding spot, a loud creak rises up and the creature -whatever is it is- jumps atop the table to search for the source of the sound.

You can hear it start climbing the wall, fighting to get to Steven. And that just won’t do.

With a click of a button, you fire off an electrical blast from your gauntlets. It stuns the mummified man, who falls to the table.

Steven shouts with a force you’ve never heard from him and topples a shelf, effectively crushing it.

“I squished it. I squished it,” he whispers.

“Yes,” you say, forcing an encouraging tone. “You definitely squished it, now come on.”

He clambers down the ledge with no semblance of grace, and you take his hand, rushing through the hallway to want you hope will be your destination.

As you’re stepping across shattered stones, a grin finally forms on your face.

This is it. The walls are lined with hieroglyphs, gilded statues line the chamber.

And a sarcophagus lies in the center, water surrounding it.

“Oh, my days,” Steven whispers. “First ones in. Tomb fit for a pharaoh. Thutmose II, Nefertiti, it’s gotta be one of the big ones.”

You point to the sarcophagus, eyes narrowing.

“Steven?”

“Yeah?”

“Those aren’t hieroglyphs. That’s…”

You speak at the same time. “Macedonian.”

He mutters to himself, inspecting the writing. Thoughts spilling out as his mouth races to keep up with his mind.

“I think we’re looking at the long-lost tomb of Alexander the Great,” he concludes. You understand why he’s excited, but a part of you also knows that now is not the time. Not when you’re in a time crunch.

Setting your hands on the lid, you nod for Steven to join you.

“Everything inside me is, like, screaming not to open this thing,” he says nervously.

“Well, it’s either us or Harrow. Your pick.” You know it’s a bit unfair, but it works.

He sets his hands by yours, bracing himself.

You raise a brow. “You ready?”

“So the actual Avengers are worried about me? It’s not like I’m going after them,” he says.

You laugh, loud and obnoxious. “Worried? No, you misunderstand. It’s more of a public safety precaution. Just making sure all of our loose ends are tied.”

“Loose ends being…?”

“Hydra. The Red Room-“ You gesture to yourself. “Aliens. Things like that.”

“Yeah…” Marc says, hesitant. “‘Things like that’, sure.”

You lean over a bit, scanning the plane from your aisle seat to check for threats. All you see are tired passengers, dozing off or absorbed in the small TVs on the backs of the seats.

Once satisfied, you turn back to Marc.

“If you want to sleep, now’s a good time. Once we get to Cairo, we’re not going to have much time to rest,” you say, nodding to the TV. 3 hours away.

He eyes you, a bit suspiciously, but closes his eyes anyway. With a sigh, you stand up, snaking through the aisles to the bathroom. You grab your phone and tap a favorited contact.

“(Y/N)?”

“Tasha,” you greet. “Is it a bad time?”

Your friend shakes her head, holding up the phone to show the group. “We just finished a movie, what’s up?”

“So… Marc Spector is here. He has DID, and Steven Grant is an alter, not an alibi. Things are getting serious.”

She nods. “That explains a lot.” You’d been relaying your experiences to them for weeks, and they’d shared in your confusion. Her tone turns more stern. “How serious?”

“Cults, magic, something about a scarab? It’s out of my expertise.”

“Do you need backup?” Steve’s voice calls from the other side of the couch.

You shake your head. “No, it’s nothing I can’t handle. It’s just fucking weird.”

A chorus of laughter goes up on the other end of the phone and you smile, rolling your eyes when a knock lands on the bathroom door.

“I just wanted to update you. We’re heading to Cairo now, so…” You shrug. “I will maybe get some souvenirs.”

The knocking grows more incessant.

“Will you hold on? Your shits can wait!” you call. Turning your attention back to the phone, you sigh. “I’ve got to go. This person is going to kick the door down.”

Nat nods and mock-salutes you. “Have fun, stay safe. You can always call, (Y/N).”

With a brief goodbye, you wash your hands and leave, awkwardly waving at the small child who was the source of the knocking. Sitting down, you sigh, listening to the sound of air and propellers.

No sleep for you, you guess.

———————————————————————

When the plane lands and you rush off, you and Marc find the closest hotel and buy separate rooms.

Even after securing the room and stuffing a gun under your pillow, you still sleep lightly. A shattering sound wakes you, bright light from outside invading your eyes, and you curse under your breath as you clamber out of bed.

You slip out of your door and into Marc’s room, gun still gripped in your hand.

He’s sitting on the floor, head in his hands. A mirror is shattered.

“Are you gonna break more mirrors or can we start the day?” you ask. He raises a bottle.

Snatching it from him, you down the last of the fiery liquid and chuck the bottle. It lands somewhere on the ground behind you, brown glass joining the reflective shards on the tile.

He drunkenly laughs, looking up to where you stand.

Your hair is free and rustled, not like how you normally have it. Your hair is always braided or tied back, something he now realizes is a habit from your training.

There’s a gun in your hand, and he can see your finger on the trigger. Marc regrets waking you, partially out of guilt and partially because he’s once more been reminded that you’re a killer. Which reminds him that he’s a killer.

You’re just a much prettier killer. Much.

“Are you going to get up? Or are you going to stare at me like you want to fight me again?” you laugh. “Because it did not go so great for you last time-“

He waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. ‘M gettin’ up,” he finally says, and you slip away, avoiding glass and heading back to your own room to dress for the day.

Light colors, thin fabrics. Anything to stave off the heat. Once you’re both ready, you and Marc head into the city.

You don’t mention the mysterious absence of Steven, who the vigilante is definitely suppressing. Said vigilante is too busy hunting down his target.

He shakes off the last bit of drunkenness as he leads you up a ladder, not really telling you where you’re going or why. It doesn’t bother you, per se, but you are curious as to how he knows where to go. Sometimes he glances at empty spaces, as if listening to something not quite there.

You have no time to ponder this strange behavior as you leap across rooftops and nimbly avoid obstacles that Marc barrels through.

Your question as to who you’re hunting down is answered when you see a group of men, with one being stabbed in the stomach right as you arrive. Great.

“Oh, shit,” Marc sighs. “You killed him? I needed to talk to that guy. About a dig sight.”

“I don’t think they can un-stab him,” you snort.

He nods. “True. Guess I’m gonna have to talk to you all instead.”

“You’re too late,” one of them growls. “You’re never gonna find Harrow.”

“That’s his name?” You audibly gag. “Eugh, that’s a shit name for a cult leader.”

The guy tosses his knife in the air, following it up by tracing the blade along the ground.

“Ooh,” Marc says. “What, are we dancin’? We fightin’? What are we gonna do?” You step back as one of them lunges, deciding to go easy on them and not use a weapon.

Slamming one against the wall is easy enough, though he gets up soon after and targets Marc instead. One of them, a kid, charges at you.

You disarm him and shove him on his ass, not wasting your time on a literal child. Whipping around, you grab the handle of a knife as it zooms past, a few inches past your shoulder.

“Seriously? Learn to aim,” you say to yourself as you toss the knife off the roof.

It’s going rather well for a street fight. Much more fun, albeit less challenging than any of your Red Room missions.

And then it all goes to shit.

Marc’s got a knife to a guy’s throat, but something changes. A brief moment of silence, and he slams the blunt handle on his head, hard enough for him to bleed.

You let him go to town fighting the other two, who are now much more scared of him. It’s only when he meets your gaze that you realize something is deeply wrong. The hairs on your neck rise.

That’s not Marc. Definitely not Steven.

Your suspicions are confirmed when he leaps from the roof and disappears into the crowd.

What the fuck?

You follow, sprinting down streets as you barely stay on his tail.

When you manage to catch up to Marc, or whoever, he’s staring down a cliff with two dead bodies on the ground. You don’t have to look to know that the third lies at the base of the steep drop.

“Marc? What the fuck just happened?” you demand.

He whirls around, fear in his eyes.

“I- I don’t know. That wasn’t me, or Steven. So what-”

The wind swirling interrupts him, and he stares off at a rusty car.

“And what is so interesting about the car that-”

“We have to find Harrow. What about the other gods?”

You furrow your brow. “What?”

A disembodied voice responds, “To signal with an audience with the gods is to risk their wrath-”

You’ve never pulled out a gun faster. Turning in circles, you find no source. No people, no tech. Your breath quickens, aiming the firearm at random.

“Okay, Marc?” you begin. “I’m all good with cults, and floating scarabs, and even some magic, but you are going to have to explain that voice before I start freaking out.”

The man sighs, glancing back to the air.

“I serve the Egyptian god Khonshu. I’m his… avatar.” The delusional nature of his statement is offset by how naturally he says it, so much so that you do a double-take.

“And you’re just telling me this now? Of course, of course, the first mission I go on after fighting a grape from space has Egyptian gods,” you hiss. “Don’t tell the public, Thor’s got plenty of fangirls that you don’t want.”

The voice sounds again. “I doubt they’d find the same appeal in me.”

You shrug, but when you turn in the direction it came from, you see it. And boy is it ugly.

An absurdly large bird skull, the body covered in mummification wrappings, and a large staff at his side.

“Cool. Cool-cool-cool. You were saying about talking to the other gods?” you mumble, trying to ignore the large bird thing.

“Yeah, what’s the worst that could happen?” Marc asks.

“Anger them enough and they’ll imprison me in stone,” the thing -Khonshu- says.

“That doesn’t sound too bad to me,” the man next to you says. You nod in agreement.

“You are very ugly,” you state bluntly.

Evidently unused to people disrespecting him, the god slams his staff on the ground.

“Not many mortals are allowed to even see my form, much less speak to me. It is a blessing.”

“Yes, well, I don’t feel very blessed.”

He turns his attention back to his avatar. “See how well you fare against Harrow without the protection of my healing armor.”

“All right, so what? Do you have any good ideas?”

“I have a bad one.” With that, he disappears.

You glance up, noticing the light dimming. You are met with a solar eclipse. So he can fully move the moon with no regard to its position or that the next eclipse was not for a good while? Huh.

Marc leads you down some stairs, past Khonshu as they talk.

“The gods all have avatars,” he explains. “They’re gathering now, but I don’t know…”

A wall begins to open itself, revealing a tunnel lined with glowing hieroglyphs. “... how to get there,” he finishes.

“I don’t fuck with small, dark, magic tunnels,” you say. “Besides, I don’t think I should join you.”

Marc smiles, visibly nervous. Resting a hand on his shoulder, you shrug.

“You’ll be fine, okay? Meet me here when you’re done, I will wait and see what I can learn about any leads.” It’s the nicest thing you’ve said to him, so he nods, steels his nerves, and heads down the tunnel. As soon as it shuts, you sigh.

“‘Egyptian mythology’,” you whisper to yourself as you type into a search bar. “I guess the black market is a good place to start.”

———————————————————————

You’re wandering through a marketplace when Marc finds you. The Red Room taught you to blend in perfectly, but he manages to spot you when he hears a loud laugh.

In your hand are a drink and a tangerine, which you may or may not have stolen.

“Can you find anything about Senfu’s sarcophagus?” he asks.

“Ouch, no ‘Hi’?” you tease before obliging. As you search with Stark tech assisting you, you glance at Marc. “It didn’t go well.”

“No,” he agrees. “They brought in Harrow, called me crazy, and denied my request.”

“Hmm, some council.” You finally break into a smile, holding your phone flat and projecting your findings. “Mogart. Some black market collector that is conveniently… 24 miles away.”

It takes a while to double-check your intel and find a boat, and the sun has set by the time you’re onboard. Sitting on the end, away from the other groups, Marc watches you, observing the cheerful passengers. A few young girls dance to the loud music, just enjoying the night as you look away.

“You know, I know almost nothing about you,” Marc says.

“I could say the same about you. Other than the file.”

He doesn’t balk at the mention of a debriefing on him, just smirks. “Yeah? Well, you know I work for an Egyptian god, I’ve got a British man living in my head, and the basics. All I know is your name and your-” He gestures at you. “-previous job.”

“You don’t want to know about the Red Room, I promise.” Your smile is a bit bittersweet. “It’s not pretty.”

“My past isn’t either.”

You hum. “The Red Room makes child assassins,” you say, avoiding too much detail. “And… I was cycled through the Black Widow programme three times. I was good at it, too.” That’s all you give up, gauging his reaction.

His gaze softens, not with pity, but with empathy. “How young were you? When you started- The training, I mean.”

The question manages to cause a lump in your throat. This is why you don’t like thinking about it.

You soften the truth when you manage to speak. “I don’t remember a time before it.”

A hand rests on yours. And the two of you sit in silence for a bit, quiet understanding lingering.

“And you?” you say, blinking away the small amount of water building in your eyes. “Did you always work for the bird?”

“No. But I was fighting for a while before I met him. ‘ve done plenty of horrible shit in my life even without him asking me to.”

“And I’ve done horrible things to get out of the Red Room. We have something in common.”

Marc shakes his head. “No, you… you’re out. Hell, you’re working with the Avengers. You’ve made up for it.”

If he knew what you’d done, he wouldn’t be so quick to absolve you. You brush that thought away.

“Well,” you begin, leaning back on the seat. “It’s never too late to start.”

The boat reaches the banks before he can respond or be further distracted by the rings on your hands. Or how your body twists and curves as you quickly jump onto dry land.

“Got an alibi?” you ask, watching Marc stash the duffel bag under the dock.

He hums, shrugging. “A few. Rufino Estrada,” he decides. “What about you?”

“I’m going in as myself. Obviously, not an Avenger, but…” You tie your jacket around your waist, allowing your t-shirt to hide many of your weapons.

On your belt, there are two guns and a handful of knives, but Marc’s eyes are drawn to your wrists. Gauntlets flicker red, electricity in them crackling as you check your weapons.

He speaks after you fire an experimental blast into the ground. “And what’s our story here?”

“You hired me as security, and you are in the business for this sarcophagus. You’re a reputable antiques buyer who previously had ties to Dreykov, the head of the Red Room. I’ve already sent that information ahead.” You flash a charming smile to the man, who still seems a bit on edge. “Mogart made a few small deals with him, so he knows how serious the Widows are. It’s a perfect alibi.”

You two approach a large track, with men jousting under bright lights as music blares from the speakers.

Schooling your expression as you approach a man, you tilt your chin up.

“Where is your boss?” you ask, voice much darker and accented than usual.

“Ma’am-“

“I sent a message earlier. We’re here for the sarcophagus.” The man immediately nods and rushes off as you lead Marc forward. “Don’t drop the act,” you whisper. “Let’s go.”

The guy introduces himself as Bek and guides you toward the track. “He’s excited to meet you. He hasn’t been able to speak to any of the infamous Black Widows after the Red Room fell.”

They were scattered across every continent on Earth, rebuilding their lives. Of course he wouldn’t find them.

“Excuse me a moment. Mr. Mogart will be with you shortly,” Bek says, slipping away.

You lean against the railing, the Widow Bites on your wrists glowing red at the movement.

“So what?” Marc starts. “This joker just puts on El-Mermah games in his backyard for fun?”

You click your tongue. “Ah, who knows? Rich people are weird.”

“Sir, Agent. Come in.” The man, dressed in a dark red robe, greets you with a more than relaxed attitude. “I hear you’re interested in my collection?”

Marc nods. “I hear you have Senfu’s sarcophagus.”

“And who told you that?” This is tedious, you think to yourself. Diplomacy and bargaining, it makes you want to heave.

“The best in the business.” Marc gestures to you.

Mogart seems convinced by this, and you begin to head toward a group of buildings.

“I hope you understand this is more than a collection to me. Preserving history is a responsibility I take very seriously.”

“No one asked you to do that,” you comment mildly, baring your teeth in a sinister grin when he frowns at you. “Yet, here we are.”

Mogart brushes off the thinly veiled insult with a chuckle. “I forgot how deep Widows cut,” he jokes. “How was the old boss before he died? May he rest in peace.”

“Pieces,” you correct, struggling to speak well of the man that previously controlled every aspect of your life. “Helicopter explosion. He… He died powerful and influential. What he would’ve wanted.”

Mogart doesn’t push further, thankfully, coming to a stop in front of a glass pyramid.

“If I may ask, why such interest in Senfu in particular?”

You have a fake reason, but he gestures for Marc to answer. Shit.

“I think that… I just think I would love to take a look,” he says. He’s confident, but it’s an awkward pause.

Mogart concedes. “Funny man. Feel free.”

As you enter the area housing said tomb, you glance at Marc.

“You need to let Steven out. He knows more than either of us and we cannot afford to blow this,” you whisper.

Marc scoffs. “Not a chance. All right, what do you see?”

“The burial practices,” you begin, recalling your research from earlier. “They’re in line with the Studenwachen texts.”

“The what?”

You roll your eyes, exasperated. “Apparently I’m the only one who studied. It means it’s real. But all of this is just instructions to guide the dead.”

“So?”

“No locations indicated.”

Marc glances up at the ceiling, likely listening to Steven. He turns back to you, voice hushed.

“Ok, will you give me a minute? I gotta talk to Steven. Keep him occupied.”

You nod, slipping away with a sigh of relief.

“Mr. Estrada needs some time alone,” you announce, watching said man ramble to himself. “He’s… praying.”

This doesn’t stop Bek, who storms in and grabs Marc’s arm. On instinct, the ex-Marine disarms him, also giving up your cover.

Guns are trained on you in an instant, and you raise your hands.

“Marc!” you shout. He spots you, and for a second you think he’s gonna shoot the guy and leave you to fend for yourself. Instead, he curses and gives up the gun.

“Do you really think I’m an idiot?” Mogart asks. “Get on your knees.”

Marc obliges, and the robed man sneers at you. “I really thought you were a possible ally.” A gun shoved against your neck forces you forward. “I used to be Dreykov’s customer, a friend, even.”

“You think I’d want anything to do with the man who ruined my life?” you laugh. “Dreykov was a coward. And I wish I’d been the one to kill him.”

“Hey-“ Marc steps in. “Take a look inside the sarcophagus. There’s somethin’ really, really big.”

Before Mogart can look, Bek speaks to him in French. You freeze.

“It appears we have a concerned third party here,” he says. “Get up.”

“Harrow,” you mouth to Marc, trying to find the zealot. He stands with two men, leaning on his staff.

“Whatever they’ve told you, I’m sure I can offer something much more tangible.” The scarab floats above his hand. “Why settle for a clue when you can have the treasure?”

Arguing breaks out as Marc snaps at Harrow, who simply turns to each of you. “You all have more in common than you know.”

“(Y/N), you think that ignoring the past will keep it from catching up to you. That missions can give you a purpose, but it’s closing in.”

You’re so taken aback by him knowing your name and reading you so well that you don’t hear another word.

“Do it. Summon the suit,” Khonshu says, appearing on a rooftop. “Give them what they deserve.”

You exchange a glance with Marc, subtly nodding to your gun, and then to the distracted guards.

Meanwhile, Harrow calls on his staff, using it to destroy the sarcophagus. By the time the cultish leader is gone, so is Marc.

Panic starts immediately, and you grin despite being surrounded.

“Well, boys. Looks like you’re in trouble.”

Mogart and Bek run as Marc starts attacking, throwing down curved blades as you grab your gun. Shooting down three guards is easy enough, but more are firing from the track.

“Here!” Marc covers you with his cape, blocking the gunfire in a way you don’t understand.

You catch your breath, looking up where his eyes glow through the suit.

“Can you buy me some time?”

“Absolutely.”

You run to the tomb, grabbing the tattered fabric. When you turn around, you come face to face with Bek.

Thinking fast, you throw shards of glass at his face and kick him in the stomach. He grabs a knife as you dodge his attacks, ducking in time for his knife to land in the mummy.

You take the advantage, slamming the grip of your gun into his nose. He tosses you away to grab the knife, but as he turns around, you fire off a single shot.

A quick death, it could be worse.

Running to the track where Marc is pinned down, you jump the fence. There’s multiple javelins stabbed through him, and you shoot a rider with another ready.

As you aim for the rest, however, you take a blow to the head. You hit the dirt, trying to rise as your vision blurs.

You can hear hoofbeats pounding in your head, only increasing the incoming headache. He’s got a javelin.

“Fuck that hurts,” you mutter, pushing yourself into a sitting position with your gauntlet trained on the figure. Even as Mogart heads for Marc, you don’t waver, especially when he sticks out the weapon to attack you at the last second.

Marc tackles you out of the way, enveloping you as he rolls to safety and tosses a last knife. It doesn’t miss.

Sighing in relief, you let your head flop onto his shoulder as you try to fight off the ache. He pats you on the back as his wounds mend under the suit. A luxury you don’t have.

“There you go. That’s it, deep breaths,” he mumbles, not really sure when you got comfortable enough with each other to sit like this.

He tries his best not to focus on the weight of you leaning on him, trusting him enough to rest, safely tucked in his arms. It feels nice, to have someone trust him like this. Marc hasn’t had that in a long time.

He coughs a bit and you pull away, leaving a cold, exposed feeling where your touch was. Shakily standing, you observe the bodies scattered on the sand.

“We should keep moving,” you say softly. “Don’t want them to catch up.”

Marc can only nod as he fights to keep from reaching for you.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” you say, holding a hand up. Steven- no, Marc, sighs exasperatedly, waiting. “You are a mercenary?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Just answer the damn question!”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Yes.” You sigh, leaning against a bookshelf full of volumes on Egyptian history, mythology, and archaeology.

“So what? Was ‘Steven Grant’ just an alibi?” you ask.

You really hope not. One, because he’s sweet and kind and an absolute nerd. And two, because if he isn’t, then that means that Marc’s dedication to a cover is better than yours. And that simply will not stand.

“No, it’s more complicated than that. He’s, like, a facet of me. Another personality. We share the same body, but when the other is in control, it’s like the other is asleep. You’re stuck.” You perk up, visibly relieved.

“Oh, so he’s an alter? Like, you have DID?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“Do you… Do you not know the name of your own personality disorder?” His silence speaks volumes.

You chuckle under your breath, watching him stammer to try and recover from his fumble. Taking out the gun from your waistband, you go to set it on the table. In an instant, Marc has your wrist in a death grip, attempting to jostle the gun from you.

“Again, seriously? This went so well for you literally a minute ago,” you snark.

With a dramatic eye roll, you effortlessly twist under his arms, kicking out his legs. He rolls over and stands back up, kicking the gun from your hands.

You take a moment to watch his fighting style, scanning him as he circles you. He’s good, yes, but his form is sloppy. Basic US military training, most likely nothing specialized.

Deciding to take one out of Nat’s book, you leap up, wrap your thighs around Marc’s head, and flip him over, holding him in place as he thrashes on the floor.

“Заткнись, ты такой чертовски громкий, Иисус, черт возьми, Христос [Shut up, holy fuck you are so damn loud Jesus fucking Christ],” you hiss. Eventually, he taps your leg, wheezing.

“Truce,” he sighs. You roll off of him, nodding.

“Sure, truce.”

He’s huffing as you stand, checking your gun and finally setting it down.

“So, why are you here?” Marc asks.

You shrug. “Heard there was a vigilante, so I was sent to check it out.”

“By who?”

“None of your business.”

“Why are you Russian?”

“Also none of your business.”

Marc rolls his eyes, but accepts that that is as far as he’s gonna get for the moment.

You frown, glancing around the room. All of the items in here seem very Steven-ish. Mostly Egyptian decor and books. You have a hunch, though you hope it isn’t true.

“Steven doesn’t know about you, does he?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Marc shakes his head. “I was the… original, I guess? I set him up with a safe place here, but vigilantism is part of my job. Can’t stop, even if you want me to.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Observing the fish tank, you watch the one-finned goldfish happily swim around. You’ll have to tell a certain one-armed assassin about him. “I just need to make sure you’re hurting the right people.”

“That seems subjective,” he jokes. You chuckle, but shrug. He gets oddly contemplative before speaking again. “Do me a favor?”

You haven’t known this man for ten minutes, but you nod. “Sure.”

“Don’t tell Steven about me.”

———————————————————————

It’s not even a week later when trouble comes calling.

You get a text from Steven, who has been oddly silent this week. It’s asking for you to come to some storage lockers, promising to explain everything. He’s worried, and a part of you wonders if he’s more worried about the whole vigilant thing or about his alter.

Hopping on your motorcycle with no sense to put on your helmet, you speed through traffic in record time. Eyes flickering to signs as you zoom past, you finally spot him sprinting frantically out of the building.

He trips and falls as you skid to a halt.

“Shit! Steven, you can’t be running into traffic like that,” you curse, hopping off the back and grabbing your helmet from the seat compartment to give to him. “Hop on. We’ve got to get you back to your apartment.”

He awkwardly climbs on, holding your shoulders.

You raise a brow and drive off. “Why’re you grabbing my shoulder like that? I get you’re British, but come on, you’re not the queen.”

“Why’re you Russian, all of the sudden?” he asks.

You don’t respond.

Unsure about what to do, he wraps an arm around your waist as you speed up further, nimbly wearing between cars. Your breath doesn’t hitch and you don’t blush, but your heart rate quickens a bit anyways.

When you arrive back at the apartments, you head in together. Steven locks the door, catching a glimpse of Marc in the fish tank.

‘She shouldn’t be here.’ He can’t really tell Steven that you’re not a civilian yet. He can’t freak him out more. And honestly, Marc himself doesn’t even know what you are. A special agent? A military operative?

‘You need to get her out of here. You’re way out of your depth.’

“I just want my life back,” Steven replies aloud.

You stand up from where you’re feeding Gus. “What?”

“No, sorry.” He waves a hand. “I wasn’t talking to you, just talking to myself. Sort of.”

“Marc?” you ask.

He nods. “So… you met him?”

“…Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you; he didn’t want you to know yet.“

Steven doesn’t have it in him to be mad. Especially not when you pick up one of his books.

“Marceline Desbordes-Valmore?”

“Yep,” Steven mumbles. He begins reciting a poem, which you join in on. “She’s my favorite poet.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him you only learned her work for a mission in France, and every time you hear them you can see the gun you used to shoot down a politician that happened to be a literary buff. You’d gained his trust with poetry, convinced him to take you back to his home, and killed him.

You eventually smile and set the book down. “I’m more partial to Mahmoud Darwish. ‘ربما القمر جميل ‘فقط لأنه بعيد [‘Maybe the moon is beautiful only because it is far’]?”

Wandering over to his desk, you gesture at a paper.

“Why do you have Egyptian funeral rites here?”

“You speak French, Arabic, and read hieroglyphics, but have a Russian accent?” Steven seems almost in awe of you. No one looks at an assassin like that. “Who are you?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Before he can respond to your smirk, there’s a demanding knock on the door. You’re gone by the time Steven opens it.

You hear him greet the officers, followed by them forcing their way into the apartment and searching the place. All the while, you’re climbing onto the roof and ducking from view with a bag of contraband clutched close to you.

It takes all of your strength to not just kill them when they arrest him, despite how easy it would be.

———————————————————————

You track the car easily. It leads you to a sort of community, almost cultish. You’re in a black tank top and cargo pants now, weapons concealed all over.

A man lets him out of the car and frees him from the handcuffs as you jump from roof to roof, watching and waiting. He guides him around, pointing out a goat and speaking butchered Mandarin.

You watch as strange things begin to happen. A stack of trays shakes and falls, trash goes up in a whirlwind. A shadow flickers just beyond your vision.

Down at the table, Harrow’s pushing for the scarab.

“Maybe you know someone who has it?” he suggests.

In a bowl, Marc shakes his head.

‘No, don’t give her up. She’s a civilian, she’ll get hurt. Just give me the body.’

People begin surrounding the table as you ready your gun. Slinging the bag of money, weapons, and a small scarab over your shoulder, you drop into the shadows.

“Sorry, is that… Is that what… You’re all into that, like, killing children and that?” you hear Steven say. “Maybe that’s just me, but that’s- I kinda draw a line there at child murder.”

The man stands, raising his staff that glows purple with power and demanding the scarab. Steven begins backing away as the man gets confrontational, and you decide enough is enough.

“Hey, dipshit. I’ve got your bug right here.” You hold it up, gun raised in the other hand.

“You couldn’t possibly understand the value of what you’re holding,” the man says. “Let me have it, I’ll keep it safe.”

You stand next to Steven, training the barrel of a polished gold gun on the head of this cult leader.

“Do you have a suit or something? That’d be really helpful right now,” you grumble.

“‘Do I have a soup’? What are you saying?” he whispers.

With an exasperated sigh, you hand him the scarab and start running. A man grabs your arm and you slam him into the wall, shooting him with little regard to Steven’s shriek.

You tuck the gun into your holster as you race up some stairs, attacking another man before throwing him off the high platform.

“That was awesome,” Steven gapes as you drag him along.

“Here, bolt the door,” you yell, backing away as you survey the room. A few windows are backup exits, but there’s not much here. Well, some dead bodies.

“Oh my god, I’m going to die in an evil magician’s man cave.”

There’s a pounding on the door as you start trying to calm Steven down. Admittedly, you’re a bit lacking in the social skills department.

“Ok, hey, we’re gonna be fine okay?” His breathing quickens. “Um, not to say that I don’t appreciate you, but is there a chance Marc could come out? He seems to be familiar with guns, yes?”

“No, no I can’t! Stop, please, both of you,” he begs, growing more panicked. Shit. You guide him to the ground as he rambles. “Please stop, leave me alone, both of you!”

You let him take a moment as the door starts splintering. It bursts open, but you don’t see anything?

“Jackal, jackal. Jackal!” Steven yells. Even though you don’t see any such dog, he gets tackled out of the window.

You run to the ledge, embedding a grappling hook in the ground and muttering curses in Russian under your breath.

The fall is familiar, and you land crouched as the hook retracts. Hurrying around, you finally see him, now in a white suit that covers his face, fighting the air.

He’s literally punching the air. His eyes are also glowing.

“Ok… what the fuck what the fuck,” you hiss. Firing off a few rounds, they embed in the air as something yelps.

A force grabs you by the throat before you stab at it with a shattered bottle on the ground, rolling away as heavy footsteps beat the rain-soaked pavement.

It drags you back as you cuss, firing off shots into air that occasionally connect. Letting you go, it targets Steven instead, knocking him against a car.

The man seems to have a conversation with his alter before rising.

“Get away from her, you.” He’s bouncing on his toes like a boxer. “Yeah, I see you, you plug-ugly coyote.”

This was about to end horribly. This random Brit was about to get absolutely murdered trying to keep whatever it was away from you.

“You’re in the wrong ends, mate. You’re in my yard now.” He throws his rather nice jacket on the ground as he continues taunting the beast.

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, my name is Steven with a V,” he says at the same time you hiss, “Отлично [Perfect], he’s gonna die before I even recruit him.”

He throws a punch that seems to knock him off balance, cheering and whooping before, if unsurprisingly, getting kicked across the street.

Then it happens. Steven turns around, something about him changing. The suit morphs, becoming almost like mummy wrappings. Marc.

“Get it away from the civilians, I’ll follow,” you call.

He dashes away, with you following behind on the ground.

———————————————————————

Marc lands on the ground once the creature is dead, staring into the mirror.

He doesn’t trust this situation. Harrow, Khonshu, you. He doesn’t know who’s lying, who’s honest, and who’s halfway in-between.

Steven appears in the mirror, disrupting Marc’s train of thought. They go back and forth, bickering as the wind grows stronger.

“You told (Y/N) to keep you a secret from me, and then we left her behind,” Steven accuses, growing more frustrated in the glass.

“Oh, please, what do you even know about her? What do either of us know about her?” Marc yells. “We can’t trust her.”

Steven shakes his head, pacing. “She’s my friend. She needs to stay out of this, you don’t need to drag an innocent civilian in.”

“She’s not a civilian!”

“…What?”

“The night she found out about me, she disarmed me like it was nothing. She had a gun.”

“That doesn’t matter, I trust her, she’s helped me and saved me from muggers, and-“

Steven’s argument doesn’t provide much solace for Marc, who groans and runs a hand over his face.

The arguing continues, growing louder and louder as they start talking over one another.

By the time you’re there, Marc’s glaring at the ground. The chairs are scattered around (the work of Khonshu, but you don’t know that) and he’s ready to start his third fight with you that he knows he’ll lose.

“Who are you?” he asks again, eyeing the weapons covering your person. The Black Widow buckle on your belt should give it away, but you suppose the public isn’t quite aware of you, yet. “Why are you following me?”

“Steve, the food is absolute shit. They eat like they’re still rationing their food for the war,” you rant. The man raises a brow at the mention of his past, but shrugs.

“It’s something easy to start you back up. We can’t send you guns blazing into space.” He sets a yogurt bowl and some fruit in front of you. “Eat your breakfast.”

You roll your eyes, thanking him as you grab the food. “Thanks, grandpa.” You flip through the file. “Who’s the mark?”

“Not a mark, a target,” Nat corrects.

You shrug. “Same thing.”

“He’s some vigilante called Marc Spector,” she says without looking up from her phone. She’s texting Yelena, no doubt. Likely planning the younger girl’s visit. You haven’t seen her since your own escape from the Red Room, but you’re more than thrilled to meet up.

The two of you had been inseparable, even with Dreykov’s strict rule. And now that Nat had gotten into contact with her again, it was only a matter of time before you got together to cause trouble.

And make mac and cheese. ‘Lena made really good mac and cheese.

“He used to be in the Army, but went AWOL and started working as a merc,” she continues. “Seems enhanced.”

Shoveling the yogurt into your mouth, you narrow your eyes. “So is this, like, a ‘Clint-style-recruitment’ situation or a ‘beat-his-ass’ situation?”

Steve hesitates, considering the question. “Uh, depends. Entirely up to you.”

“Great, you’re very prepared.” You set the bowls in the sink. “So, how long until I fly out?”

———————————————————————

You’re good at your job. Amazing, really. And you know it.

Of course you are. The Red Room didn’t make second-bests, and you’d been cycled through three separate times. You and Yelena headed missions, racked up kills, and obliterated organizations with ease.

When Nat had destroyed the Red Room back in 2016 and Yelena, Alexei, and Melina had left to free the other widows, the redhead offered you a place with the Avengers. You weren’t stupid, so you’d accepted.

Then you’d disappeared in Wakanda and woken up five years later.

This was very jarring (no shit), so the team had ordered a 3-month recovery for anyone who had been dusted.

No one else seemed very enthusiastic to get back to missions, but you were.

So, when you touch down in a bustling airport, you send the jet back to the compound, grab your ID, and sling your bag over your shoulder. TSA lets you by with ease, despite the absurd amount of weapons you have, and you work on blending in with the crowd until you can reach your rented motorcycle.

Your Russian accent makes it a bit hard, but you manage a convincing enough Cockney accent to slip under the radar.

Now to find the target. Your coordinates lead you to a small apartment building (you will NOT call them flats), and a fake enough smile and forged documents gets you a flat one floor above the target room.

Huffing as you unpack, you set out countless guns, knives, and weapons that would really suck to be killed by. A loud thump resonates from the floor.

You slip one gun into your waistband and a knife in your boot before listening closely. Annoyed British mumbling follows.

“Oh, jeez, I’ve gotta clean up. This is such a mess…”

That doesn’t sound like a mercenary. Maybe he’ll surprise you, you suppose.

You sneak down the stairs, finding the correct apartment and raising your hand to the door. A quick but effective knock later, the door opens.

“Uh, hi?” The guy is cute. A bit disheveled, but when you peer inside his home, you see no weapons, no signs of a violent hobby.

“Hi,” you greet, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “My name is (Y/N), I just moved into the apartment upstairs. Figured I’d greet my new neighbors.”

He looks shocked. “Oh, I didn’t know we were getting any new residents. It’s nice to meet you.” You notice that his accent seems a bit… off. “I’m sorry if I’m not the most quiet neighbor. I’ve got a sleep disorder.”

You nod, noting his posture and how close he holds his hands to his body. He notices your silence and jumps.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I’m Steven Grant. I work at the London Museum.”

Luckily, the team took enough precedence to give you a fake job. After explaining that you worked from home doing digital marketing, you exchange goodbyes and head back upstairs.

“Ах, дерьмо [Ah, shit],” you sigh, collapsing on the bed. Yes, you’re thrilled to be back in the game, but this?

This was a waiting game, not a hunt-down-a-target-and-snipe-them-from-the-roof kind of game.

And you’ve never been patient.

———————————————————————

It’s a long month, even with Steven becoming your sort-of friend. You’ve scouted out his routine, polished your weapons, and even kept some muggers off his tail.

After visiting him at the museum, you’ve discovered his passion for Egyptology. He knows more than the guides, but is confined to the souvenir shop by his asshole boss.

You offer to kill her, only half joking, and he declines. It’s a shame.

But you’re starting to think he’s the wrong guy.

He lacks any basic survival skills, much less any fighting prowess. A dude held him at knifepoint and he gave him his wallet and phone. Luckily, you’d been just around the corner to grab the guy and knock him on his ass with little fuss.

“Holy shit, how’d you do that?” Steven had asked, gratefully taking back his things. The thief had booked it after you’d judo-flipped him and tugged his arm hard enough to dislocate.

“Do what?” you’d asked, watching him laugh.

He had waved a hand down the street. “Beat that guy up! You were flipping everywhere, and-“

It was your turn to laugh. “I did lots of martial arts as a kid. Good to know they’re coming in handy.”

It’s not a lie. Not really.

Despite Steven’s apparent innocence, you’re still suspicious. There’s always noise in the apartment below you, and the door will open and slam shut at odd hours. When you inquire about it, your target/friend (it’s complicated) claims to have no idea.

Except he’s telling the truth. You know when someone’s lying to you. You’ve never been wrong. And Steven isn’t lying.

He really doesn’t know anything about the sounds from his own flat.

One day, you’re sitting at your table with mac and cheese and polishing your favorite knife, when the door below you shuts. A voice comes up from the floorboards, like it does so often.

Instead of Steven’s fishy British accent talking to himself about Egypt or his goldfish, something else comes up.

That’s a Chicago accent.

You shove a gun into the waistband of your sweatpants, hurrying down the stairs. Without hesitation, you pick the lock and kick open the door.

Clicking the safety off of your gun and gripping it with both hands, you step in the apartment.

“Shit,” you whisper, real accent slipping through as you revert to your training.

You clear the main room of the apartment, methodical and precise.

A sound comes from the bathroom and you see the familiar figure. Hiding your gun, you sigh in relief.

You lean against the wall. “Sorry, I thought someone else was in-“

The man whips around, clearly shocked you’re there. He grabs a knife.

Oh, shit.

When he lunges forward, you dodge, grab his wrist, elbow his shoulder to loosen his grip, and grab the tactical knife. With a flick of the wrist, you lodge it in the door you just picked.

“Who are you?” the man demands, readying his fists. He looks like Steven, but acts like the complete opposite.

His posture is confident, tall. He glares at you through the sweat and blood on his face.

“My name is (Y/N), I know Steven?” The man sighs, annoyed.

“Great. Fucking great, now there’s a civilian involved.” You don’t bother to correct him.

You wave your hands around. “Well, who are you? Why are you from Chicago?”

“Why are you Russian?”

“I asked first!”

“Fine, fine.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m Marc. Spector.”

Your target. The file scrolls through your mind. Ex-Marine, high ranking. Went AWOL and reportedly killed a whole team of archeologists and researchers. Born March 9, 1987. Not dusted. Suspected enhanced, unknown powers.

The first date had gone perfectly. Bucky had shown up at the animal shelter right on time, and you had changed in the bathroom to a more date-appropriate outfit. A Japanese steakhouse, a bottle of champagne, and a walk home later, you’d both been eager to schedule another. And three more.

So now, you’re sitting in a back corner of a café (date number five, for those keeping track at home), trying to not stare too hard at the man in front of you.

“Coffee is so much better, holy shit,” he mumbles. You’d recommended a caramel frappuccino, though you’re now mildly convinced he may run off to date it.

“Yeah?” you laugh. “I bet a lot of things are better now.”

Bucky nods, watching the way the corners of your eyes crinkle when you chuckle. He likes that you don’t avoid the topic of his past. Contrary to popular belief, not every moment of his early life was horrible.

Just most of it. Like, seventy years out of one hundred. 70%. Could be worse.

He pulls himself back into reality. “Temperature control? Best thing that’s ever been invented.”

“Oh, really? I’d say modern electronics-“ You gesture around, where students are typing away on laptops and groups of friends are showing each other pictures. “-but I could be biased.”

“Don’t shit talk the flip phone! It works well enough for me.”

“Oh, no. No shit talking here.”

When both of you finish your drinks, you walk Bucky back to his apartment, even though he definitely doesn’t need any extra protection. You enjoy the trek up the stairs you’d normally loathe, and reaching his door makes a weight sink in your chest. He opens it a crack.

Before you can even say goodbye, a white blur races out, ramming into your leg and making you stumble.

Right into Bucky.

“Shit, sorry!”

“She normally isn’t like this-“

The two of you speak at the same time before your eyes lock, breathing syncing as your thoughts both race and stop entirely.

His thoughts race. ‘Is five dates enough to kiss? Probably, right? But it was different then- this isn’t back then, dumbass! Okay, but what do I do? God, she’s pretty this close. Do I lean in? I should lean in, I’m taller than her. Curse you and bless you, Alpine, I’ll get you some Fancy Feast after this-‘

And you only have one thought.

‘Fuck it.’

Pulling him in, your last and only thought leaves the moment your lips touch. His hands hesitantly settle on your back and waist, relaxing when you sigh.

The troublemaker responsible nudges you again, albeit much gentler, purring up at you.

“Hey, Alpine,” you greet, scooping her up. She stretches out and turns limp in your arms. Shit-eating brat. You love her, though. “So, um…” You trail off, but the silence isn’t doesn’t linger for long.

Bucky opens the door fully, nodding inside.

“Would you wanna come in for a bit? Not that you have to, but-“ The way he grins and darts his tongue out across his lips is more convincing than you need. “-your call.”

White ball of fluff in your arms, you agree wholeheartedly.

“How about a movie?” you ask, stepping inside.

Bucky shrugs as you let Alpine down. “I’ve got a list of some Sam told me to watch.” The cat runs to the couch like she knows you’ll end up there.

Working at an animal shelter had its benefits.

For all the sad stories you often had, you also got to save pets, watch them get healthier, and most of the time, go to a loving home.

Plus, every so often, a very attractive customer would come in, and, seeing as you are the only employee constantly in the so-called “meeting room” for potential adoptees, you would help them.

Today was one of those days. Or, rather, nights.

Technically, you were closed. Everyone else had left earlier and you’d stayed to clean up. You were sweeping up fur and treats, listening to the radio as you worked.

The man outside the window showed up around 8:56.

Normally, you’d be creeped out. A woman, alone, while a man stared at her through a window? It’s the plot of, like, every Scream movie.

But you recognized this man. He’d been showing up the past few days, not to ogle you, but to ask questions about the cats you had, what he’d need to buy, what kind of care they needed.

You’ve only seen him, never actually talked to him, but he seems sweet. A bit shy, very nervous.

“Hi.” You wave and the man looks behind him before pointing at himself. Laughing, you nod. “Yes, you.”

Setting down a cup of pens, you unlock and open the door for him.

“Sorry about coming in so late. Are you guys even open?” He fiddles with his glove-covered hands, turned a bit awkwardly so his left side is further away.

You shrug, not wanting to scare him off. “We can be. What can I help you with?”

He scratches at the back of his neck before pointing towards the back. “Can I get a cat?” He pauses before barreling on. “I’ve done all the research, got all the stuff set up back at my apartment, and honestly…”

He trails off a bit. “I think it’d help with some… stuff.”

You understand. Plenty of people need company, and you could confidently say that animals provided plenty of that.

“No problem,” you smile. “Come with me.”

Leading him back, you don’t comment on the fact that he makes no noise when he walks, or how a soft, pleasant whirring like quiet machinery has reached your ears.

The meeting room has a few beanbag chairs, a table, and cat and dog toys scattered around. The mystery man sits cross-legged on the floor, looking up at you with eyes that make you think he might be the puppy.

He looks around, a little lost. “So, what do I…”

You pick up where he leaves off. “Are you looking for anything particular?”

He shakes his head, and some of that shyness seems to shake away too.

“No, I trust your judgment.” He smiles. You ignore the warmth in your cheeks and whisk away to the back, looking into the kennels until you find what you’re looking for.

A young cat, only a few months old. Just came in last week. Every time that man has come in, she’s been excited.

“Alpine, sweetie, c’mere.” You gently coax her into your waiting arms, cradling the white fluff as you head back to the room.

It’s impossible to miss how his eyes light up when he sees you, even more so when he spies the cat.

You sit across from him, so close your knees touch, and pass off Alpine.

“She’s so small,” he whispers, almost reverently. You chuckle, watching her climb unceremoniously into his lap.

“She likes you. Been trying to see you all week.” His eyes are still fixated on the little white blob that contrasts his jacket. “Her name’s Alpine, unless you wanna change it?”

He pauses, laughs a bit like there’s some inside joke there, and shakes his head. “No- no, Alpine’s perfect.”

A few minutes later, he’s filling out the paperwork and making small talk when you finally notice his name and age.

James Buchanan Barnes, age 106.

The ex-Winter Soldier. The Howling Commando. The Fallen Sergeant.

He notices you mentally smacking yourself and holds out his right hand.

“Hi, I’m Bucky. Sorry I didn’t say anything earlier,” he chuckles.

You wave a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Sorry if I made you feel weird.”

Bucky shakes his head and readjusts Alpine. Steeling his nerves, he gives you his best smile and finally does the second thing he was hoping to achieve tonight.

“No, no, you didn’t make me feel weird at all. In fact-“ He meets your curious gaze. “-I was wondering if you like to go out sometime?”

You can feel the blush you know he can see, but manage to respond anyway.

“Yeah, I’d really like that, actually.”

Apparently, he isn’t expecting you to say yes so quickly, and pauses for a bit.

“I- Uh, what’s a good time?”

You gesture around. “I get off work tomorrow at 7:30?”

“I’ll be here.”

The two of you enjoy the moment, Alpine purring softly in Bucky’s arms. It’s perfect.

Until a car horn honks from outside. Heading out, you see a truck with three other people in it.

Three other Avengers, to be exact.

“Thought you’d never be done!” Sam Wilson jokes from the driver’s seat. From the passenger’s, Natasha Romanoff waves while Steve Rogers opens the back door for the soldier next to you.

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“I’m sorry, they’re being stupid,” he grumbles. “But, I’ve only got a motorcycle, so I needed some help.”

“It’s cute that they came along,” you say. “Still on for tomorrow?”

He laughs and gestures to the truck. “If those heathens haven’t scared you away, then yes. Absolutely.”

“I’ll see you then?”