#no 18

It takes only a minute before the woman reenters with a stern look.

“She’s not available, her calendar says she on leave. I had a look and it says that you approved it two days ago.”

Thompson feels the frustration burn within him. Anger at being played and manipulated.

“Fine,” he growls.

“Where is Romanoff?”

The pa leaves for a moment, evidently looking at logs and emails, before returning to explain that she had left with Hill at Fury’s order.

“And where are they?”

He knows it’s unfair to be angry at Claudia, the 60 year old former Sargent, who had done nothing but be loyal to him, despite knowing his secrets.

He should do something to help her from the coming storm.

Claudia looks worried.

“It doesn’t say,” she replies, her voice small like a child about to get into trouble.

Thompson huffs.

“Go home,” he orders.

“No. Go on holiday, somewhere tropical. Don’t come back for a while.”

He knows she’s smart enough to read through the lines of his statement.

“There’s a storm coming,” he tells her.

“A big one.”

.

“We have to make contingencies,” the woman from the Oceania region demands.

“Are you going to take over once he is brought in?”

Fury nods.

“Who else?”

“There are a range of people,” the man from Europe advises.

“I know this region the best, I know my people the best, if this transfer of power is one that you want to go smoothly, then you must all see it.”

“Fine. We would like an update.”

The faceless voices take in the evidence, as Fury outlines what’s next.

“He won’t go easily,” he surmises.

The woman clenches her hands.

“Just get it done.”

.

Twenty men.

Four missions.

Five person teams.

Four targets.

Thompson feels like he’s fallen too far down the rabbit hole to ever redeem himself. He doesn’t care how treasonous it is to go after four former military personnel with medals ranging from a purple heart to a silver star.

They shouldn’t have forced his hand.

He fingers his gun, wondering if he should go with them, but when he hands the last orders down, he finds his courage fails him.

He should be the one to oversee everything. That’s what it was when you were the Major.

Alpha.

Bravo.

Charlie.

Delta.

The four strike teams had their orders, now he just had to wait.

.

Alpha Team.

Maria leaves Clint’s apartment, windows open and music on.

Blink-182 plays loudly and she smiles as “what’s my name again” plays through her speakers. She’d tried to explain music to Natasha but she could tell that it was falling on deaf ears.

Whether she didn’t care or her mind was on other things, she hadn’t known.

Turning left onto the freeway, she notices two black shield cars.

“Fuckers,” she thinks.

She knew those cars, those number plates and knew they were gunning for her.

Quickly making a plan, she turns off at the next exit, cutting off two cars and rightly receiving a blasting of horns.

One of the cars makes it off with her.

She assumes two or three man team in each car.

Annoyed, she speeds, making it to the closest Walmart and parking.

Cars are too dangerous and she knows they would prefer to just run her off the road.

People she knows.

People she’s trained.

She hates Hydra.

Twisted and corrupt.

Maria exits her car, watching the black car carefully.

It parks nearby.

Three man exit.

She has moments and the element of surprise.

Her gun loaded, she presses forward.

.

Bravo Team.

Coulson rubs his eyes.

Staying close to Clint was exhausting. Not because he was a hard patient, but because he was so worried that someone would come and finish the job.

The round the clock surveillance was exhausting.

The dog park outside Shield was just starting to heat up.

The golden retriever and the dachshund make him laugh with their antics as their owner chat, ignoring the dogs wrapping the leads around their legs.

Coulson leans back in the sunshine, and sips his coffee.

He almost misses the odd sound of boots on the ground.

He looks around to see a five man team closing in on him.

Standing, he heads for the middle of the park, the Rottweiler on his left taking notice of his pace and the urgency of his movements.

.

Charlie Team.

Gun on his lap, Fury shoots twice.

Once in the knee and the other in the head.

A shout of pain reverberates throughout his appartment.

Angrily, he throws a punch, and shoots again.

Two down.

He shuts off the lights, and drops the blinds.

The three that are left, enter in a V formation.

Fury almost laughs, as they seem blinded.

He knows the terrain on his apartment the best. They’re sure to miss the step.

He counts it down.

Holding his gun high, he aims the shot.

.

Delta Team.

Clint stares at Natasha’s face.

Maria had shrugged when he asked and told him to ask Natasha.

As if in a stand off, she hadn’t moved from his couch, just watched as he’d pottered around slowly.

He’d gathered some clothes, money, his gun, arrows and bow.

Now he was just tired.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

Natasha looks up.

He notices her hands, scabbed and sore.

She nods and stands to come and help.

“What happened?” he asks in almost a whisper.

Natasha swallows.

She’s sure her face is almost as bruised as his.

“They wouldn’t let me see you,” she whispers.

“What’s that?” she asks, the light above Clint’s head blinking rapidly.

“Shit.”

He coughs and winces.

“They’re coming.”

Natasha looks panicked.

“Who?”

Clint grabs his backpack and gun, and passes it to her, taking his bow and arrows and notching it.

“Carry that, and follow me.”

He hits a button, stairs coming down from the ceiling allowing Clint to ascend, Natasha on his heels as the entrance to his apartment is beaten in.

The rooftop is high, and Natasha doesn’t like it.

“We’ll be cornered,” she hisses.

Clint turns, and shoots a single arrow into the ledge.

To Natasha’s surprise, the lead and rope out of it attach securely, and Clint grabs it.

“We’re abseiling,” he tells her, sweat on his brow.

She thinks it’s from pain, or adrenaline.

Maybe both.

Her heart beats evenly.

“This would be a stupid way to die, Clint Barton,” she tells him.

He shoots another arrow, and she picks up the second rope.

“On three,” he tells her.

For as long as Victor could remember, he’d always had a fascination with cold. Maybe it started when his mother fell in a frozen lake when he was young, or maybe he just liked it because it was interesting. The drop in temperature coupled with the disappearance of the sun fascinated him. The anonymity cold weather provides is always a nice bonus. No one spares a second glance if you’re wearing several layers and your face is obscured by scarves and gaiters. 

The cold had a way of slowing things down. Nowadays people will jump at the chance to sit in a sub-zero chamber for health benefits. Ha! Victor would pay money to see Batman in line for one of those. Cold had a way of being debilitating, something Victor has grown fond of as he’s gotten older. No one wants to leave the house unless they have to, streets are cleared out all because of a little blizzard. He found that if he was really careful, he could break into wherever he wanted and no one would notice until the snow began to melt. Fresh snow would cover his footprints anyways, so why’s it matter? A big blizzard paired with a couple of well timed robberies, a regular scheme that remains mostly foolproof. Occasionally the Bat will come out, try to stop him, only to fail. The snow belongs to Victor Fries. 

Victor looked at the shivering boy in front of him and couldn’t help but laugh. “What’s wrong Boy Wonder? Cold?” 

Jason gritted his teeth and shook his head, “No one calls me that anymore.” 

“Oh, where are my manners, Red Hood.” Victor circles Jason menacingly, “Don’t be so surprised, of course I figured it out. You and Robin #2 share a lot of the same moves.” His cold hands brush Jason’s face, just under his domino mask, “I could just remove this…” His fingers grip the bottom, preparing to pull it, before he removes his hands and laughs. “No, won’t do that. Then the Bat will definitely not be happy.” 

“It’s not Batman you should be worried about.” Jason spits out through gritted teeth. Cold handcuffs bind his wrists to the arms of the metal chair he’s in. His jacket, socks and shoes, and utility belt sit discarded on the floor inches away from him, just out of reach. 

“I’m quaking in my boots.” Victor watches Jason try to suppress a shiver and fail before laughing again. “See, this is why Bats and I have an agreement. Keeps you stupid sidekicks from harms way.” His hands brush Jason’s cheek before grabbing his chin, “Guess you didn’t get the memo.” Jason yanks his head out of Victor’s grasp, growling slightly. 

“Keep your cold hands off me.” He barks out, trying to disguise the chill he feels. 

Victor backs away, “Fine. Seems like you could use some time to cool off anyhow.” He leaves, but not before pausing as he closes the door. “Let’s see if you’re still feeling this way in a couple hours, hm?” 

The door slams shut and Jason instantly drops his head so it rests on his chest. In. Out. He forces himself to take several deep breaths, ignoring the puffs of cold air that appear on his exhale. After he manages that, he works to take in his surroundings. Unfortunately, the room is pretty bare, if he had to guess he’d say it’s an extra lab space, or a really big supply closet. The room is mainly empty, save for a few empty shelving units along the walls. A quick wiggle tells him that his chair is bolted to the floor, which means tipping it over to try to grab his stuff isn’t going to work. Jason hears a fan turn on, and turns his head to see cold air start to blow out of a vent. 

“Fuck.” He whispers through chattering teeth. He pulls his shoulders in and tries his best to make himself smaller, in hopes that it’ll keep him from completely freezing. 

Hours later, the fan finally drones to a stop. Jason feels like his eyes are frozen over, icicles form on his eyelashes. He hears the door begin to creak open and looks up to see icicles forming above it from the condensation. Victor Fries struts in, still in that goddamn cryosuit, looking none-too-bothered by the sight of the vigilante before him. 

“Are you having fun yet?” He sneers, smiling at the way Jason has to crane his head up to look at him while keeping his shoulders hunched. 

“Puh-please.” Jason stutters out, his teeth chattering regardless. 

“Tt, now Red Hood, I don’t have time for stuttering or incomplete sentences. I thought you were supposed to be the most well read of your bunch.” 

“S’cold.” 

“That’s kind of my whole thing, in case you hadn’t noticed.” 

Jason hazily looks down at his hands, which are nearly blue. The skin has begun to split around his knuckles from being exposed to the cold. “What-what do you want from me?” 

“Are you suggesting I’ll give you warmth if you give me information?” Jason weakly nods, which brings a big smile to Victor’s face. “Then let’s start with this, you tell me your real name and I’ll do that.” 

“I- I can’t tell you that.” 

“Tch, then I guess you aren’t going to get any of that soup I just made.” 

Cold tears fall down Jason’s cheek, nearly freezing as they do so. “Please, it’-it’s so cold.” A shiver wracks his body, as if he needed help to prove his point. 

“It’s a very simple request, Red Hood.” When Jason still doesn’t reply, Victor turns to go. “Oh well, maybe you’ll be feeling a bit more chatty after a couple more hours.” 

“It’s Jason.” He answers, so faint it’s almost inaudible. “J-Jason Peter Todd.” His head falls down so it rests against his chest again. 

“Huh, guess you’re a better listener than I thought.” 

True to his word, Victor returns shortly with a hot bowl of chicken soup. Jason begs to hold it in his hands, in hopes that the warmth will somewhat transfer from the bowl to his cold hands, but Victor refuses. “Either I feed you or you don’t get it.” Is what he told Jason when he asked. After the soup is gone and Victor leaves, the warmth fills Jason’s chest for at least a little bit longer than he’d thought. 

Part of Jason hopes that Victor will return and ask him more questions, maybe he’ll even get a blanket for his efforts. The other part hopes Victor will stay away, better to not be tempted by those things. Jason wants to believe the team would understand if he gave away meaningless secrets, but he knows those aren’t the kind of questions Victor’s likely to ask. His name was an easy one, who cares about him right? But Jason knows that giving away Bruce’s identity, or anyone else, is a huge no go. He only wishes it wasn’t so damn cold. 

When the door reopens, Jason forces himself to bite back a sob. I’m not strong enough. He thinks to himself as shivers rack his body again. He’s gonna ask me for things I shouldn’t share and I’m not gonna be able to say no. I’m just so, so cold. 

Warm hands find their way around his arms, a jacket--or blanket-- appears around his shoulders. Jason wearily opens his eyes to see Batman- to see his Dad and brothers, standing in front of him. He sobs, falling forward into Bruce’s arms the minute his hands are free, allowing himself to be sucked into the warmth coming from Bruce’s suit. 

“Th-thank you for coming.” He sobs out, face still pressed into Bruce’s chest so his words come out slightly muffled. 

Finn forced his eyes open, the room spinning from the pain. Fao was there though, so he knew things were going to be fine. He tried telling Fao it hurts, that he stood on Apollo, but he can't quite figure out how to.

Not a dream, then. Fao had to force himself to breathe - this was real, and he had to focus to help his little brother.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here, yeah, it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be fine. Does it hurt?”

He managed to nod, tears starting to fall as he whimpered.

“It’s alright, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” It was partially for Fao’s benefit, as well as Finn’s. “Sheila! Fred!” He called, not entirely sure where either of his adoptive parents are.

"Hurts, Fao." Finn told him as he slipped unconscious. "Hurts."

Fao brushed some hair from Finn’s face. “It’s okay, I’m here. I’ve got you.” Fao said, ignoring the rising panic as Finn’s eyes rolled. “Finn? Can you hear me?”

"Boys? What's going on?" Fred called, finally rounding the corner. "Fuck. Finn? What happened, Fao?"

“H-he fell down the stairs, I think. Go get my phone, it’s on the sofa.” Fao muttered, focusing on finding a pulse. He had to be a doctor now, not a brother.

Fred nodded, standing to go get it. He returned moments later, already dialing for an ambulance.

"Is - is he still breathing? Did he say anything? Fuck."

“Right now he’s still breathing. Put it on speaker?” Fao said, teeth worrying his bottom lip.

Fred did as he was told, shouting through for Sheila again.

“I think he hit his head.”

"Is he cold? Does he need something - fuck - I don't know what I'm doing." Fred panicked, carefully taking Finn's hand in his.

“He needs an ambulance. I can’t do a lot for him.” Fao mumbled. “Especially not at home.” Finn’s pulse was weak and his breaths were slow but they were both still there. He was alive.

As the operator asked their questions, Fred answered, getting to the medical ones before looking helplessly at Fao.

Fao answered the best he could, trying to stay professional. Finn needed him as a doctor, not a brother. There’d be time for emotion later. He was halfway through answering a question when he lost Finn’s pulse and his breathing stopped. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Don’t do this Finn, please.”

He'd started CPR before the operator even explained it. He counted aloud, focusing on the compressions and the rhythm and not that it was his little brother.

One, two, three, four.

Fred can't breathe himself, taking hold of Finn's head and doing as Fao tells him. He can't look at Finn, can't bring himself to believe that it's his son on the floor in front of him.

Fao’s voice broke as he counted but he didn't stop. He couldn’t stop, even when he felt Finn’s ribs break under his hand. He had to keep going, had to try and get Finn back. He couldn’t lose him.

At some point, Sheila arrived, dropping to her knees with a strangled cry. She somehow remembered to tell Fao how good a job he was doing before breaking off into sobs.

His hair, in desperate need of a cut, fell in his face as he kept going, but he didn't stop to adjust it. He paused for a minute, trying to find a pulse.

For a split second, he found one, and his heart virtually skipped a beat. But just as quickly as he found it, it was gone. Nausea rose and he started again, praying the ambulance got there soon. He was tired, and the wine and adrenaline only served to make his head spin.

They were lucky, and the ambulance arrived within the minute, another crew quickly following them in.

"You're doing great, can you tell me what's going on?" The first paramedic asked, their name already forgotten in the panic.

Someone else moved Fred out of the way, connecting wires and leads on Finn's bare chest.

Fao looked up at the paramedic, eyes wide. “I-I think he fell down the stairs, hit his head. W-when I got to him he was saying it hurt, but seemed to be struggling, then he went unconscious. His breathing stopped and his pulse went so I-I started CPR. I got a pulse back for a second before it went again.”

"Okay, you did the right thing. We're gonna ask you to stop in a moment, just so we can check what's going on, okay? We're not stopping the treatment, don't worry." He sat back, nodding to his colleague. "Let's do a rhythm check, can you stop?"

Fao nodded - he knew they had to stop to see where things were. He took a deep breath, and stopped compressions, rocking back onto his heels.

The monitor beeped at them, and for a moment there was a pulse. Finn wasn't trying to breathe, no effort coming from him, and within a few seconds, his pulse slowed and then stopped.