Reading Time: 133 Minutes

Title: Web of the Wyrd
Author: MykkiTno
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe,X-Men
Genre: Dimension Travel, Hurt/Comfort, Paranormal/Supernatural, Pre-Relationship, Science Fiction, Time Travel, Urban Fantasy
Relationship(s): Tony Stark/James Barnes, Clint/Laura, Logan/Storm, Carol/Rhodes
Content Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Hate Crimes, Hate Speech, Major Character Death, Slavery, Torture, Violence-Graphic, Violence-Domestic. Dub/Non-con experimentation, body modification, death, emotional and psychological abuse, mental illness, discrimination, racism, sexism, child abuse, animal abuse, murder, minor character death. Internalized homophobia, homophobia, DADT mentioned, historical/mythological inaccuracies, alcoholism, addiction, hand-wavy science, and possible inaccurate representation of the mafia. Language and slurs, explicit sexual content. Character Bashing – Howard Stark, Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff, S.H.I.E.L.D, Hydra, Odin, and to a lesser degree, Peggy Carter.
Word Count: 114,614
Summary: During the time heist in 2012, though Loki escaped with the tesseract, this isn’t his story. He’s the catalyst. The Norns take him, offering him a choice, in which he unintentionally creates an alternate universe. This is about the Wyrd, and the ramifications of Choose and Consequence. It’s about an unknown descendant, seventy years of torture, an oath and a promise. It’s a story about two men – one an assassin, one a genius, who in an alternate universe never got a chance to choose; they only dealt with the consequences… Here, Loki bound James Barnes and Tony Stark together before either was born. That changes everything.
Artist: Lalaith Quetzalli

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Chapter Four

August 2014

Adjusting to life with Laura and the kids in the tower felt strange after so much time alone. Tony hadn’t expected to be included as much as he was; yet the small family always invited him to meals, movie nights, and trips.

He hadn’t really expected it to continue, especially since he was so ‘different’ from other people. Forgetting meetings and appointments was common. He blew up the lab at least once a month and often passed out for two days after working and drinking himself into exhaustion. Sleep became fitful when it came at all; most nights, he lay awake, blinking at the dark ceiling, replaying his failures until guilt stuck to his skin like sweat. Some days, his hands shook so badly he had to clench them until the tremors passed just to open a container or hold a mug. Still, Laura never lectured him, not even after his week-long bender. That episode came after he read about what his father had done, besides sending Logan to Japan. Sometimes, when he least expected, ugly flashes spilled into waking moments: a memory of his father’s voice, sharp as glass, or the sight of a vulnerable subject on a gurney, faceless but pleading. The files had spelled it out in cold detail: Howard’s experiments hadn’t ended with weapons or remote assignments, but included authorizing invasive enhancement procedures on unwilling subjects. Howard had orchestrated a series of secret programs, using his position to greenlight experiments that permanently altered or damaged people against their will, sometimes targeting those who had no way to resist. He had ordered trusted agents to spy on and manipulate supposed allies, and forced some into dangerous or dehumanizing missions, sacrificing their safety to protect his ambitions and reputation. Sometimes late at night, Tony would be seized by the sensation that he was still breathing the recycled air of his father’s old office, the smell of whiskey and machine oil lingering in his nose, and feel his chest tighten with blame and shame. Howard’s actions left a legacy of pain and mistrust, leading Tony to question not only his family’s name but also his beliefs about loyalty and responsibility. It wasn’t just the revelation of betrayal by his own blood that shook Tony, but the way Howard orchestrated it all so cleanly, leaving others to suffer so he could keep his hands clean. When it all hit, the horror and disappointment surged so strongly that Tony felt crushed beneath it, his heart thudding so violently he thought it would crack his ribs. His father’s legacy had destroyed innocent lives. Guilt churned in his gut, bubbling with every flashback and phantom pain, until he numbed everything with whiskey, pushing away that tidal wave of grief, even as his hands trembled around the bottle.

Instead, Laura worked her magic. Tony suspected it was some mutant or maternal instinct. She’d just raise an eyebrow, hand him his new schedule (taking on the role of PA while raising two kids), offer coffee, and slide over a plate of food. It was the routine that kept the anxiety from building up. Sometimes, she lingered in the kitchen a moment longer, watching him with an expression that was more understanding than he felt he deserved. Tony knew she’d lost people before, seen friends break themselves trying to live up to impossible expectations. Maybe she saw a familiar struggle in him—something that made her protective yet patient, letting him stumble without judgment. He ate, not out of fear (well, maybe a little), but because he was scared his messes would drive them away, Clint or not.

By June, Tony realized they liked him for who he was, not for what he brought. That realization struck when the kids invited him to their end-of-year assembly. To say he had been speechless at their inclusion in ‘Family Day’ wouldn’t have been accurate; in truth, the rush of being wanted hit him so hard he almost cried. The suddenness of this joy caught him off guard, stripping away his usual hesitance. He felt wanted—an unfamiliar but welcome feeling—and noticed how quickly his own defences faded before a swell of belonging.

They pulled him along. Laura stayed close, bodyguard and PA, never interfering. When the kids started calling him Uncle Tony, he was surprised by how much it meant to him. He picked up their schedule: breakfast, daily check-ins, meetings, and outings to Xavier’s. Summer’s flexibility helped. Tony began eating, drinking less, and working after rest. He still ran his department but began to sleep six hours each night.

Rhodey was happy for him.

Pepper said she was proud, though there was a look in her eyes—maybe the same question Tony had. Why couldn’t he do this for her? He had no answer that wouldn’t hurt her more.

As for the Avengers, he hadn’t spoken to them since before the DC disaster—he only knew their whereabouts from Jarvis and Friday.

After a day at the park, with school starting soon, the small family decided to make individual pizzas. While Tony set about making dough from scratch, and silently thanked Jarivs for the mouse repellent installed into the tower, as he watched Lila shred enough cheese for an army, which spilled onto the floor. Cooper and Laura brought their A-game as they competed to slice the pepperoni, but knew Laura was holding back. He knew that from firsthand experience, she’d been training with Tony for two weeks after all, despite his protests, remembering his dissociative state even as he defended them.

That blankness felt worse than drunkenness. It was as if part of him just switched off, leaving him to move and react on autopilot. He’d sometimes find burns on his hands from the lab or half-eaten food on the counter, unable to recall how he got there. Over the years, he chased highs to slow his thoughts, but emptiness always returned. Meeting Xavier was a fluke. Laura reached out to her contacts at the mansion after noticing Tony’s episodes. At first, Tony distrusted authority. Xavier’s patience and directness let Tony open up about his dissociation, which he learned was a survival reflex. During the farm attack, he remembered his hands setting traps, his mind numb. Laura’s simple gestures—pressing a mug into his hands, her fingers lingering, or Lila’s hugs and Cooper’s offered popcorn—helped Tony re-anchor. Laura and the kids felt like a ‘pack.’ Xavier had explained this as animal instinct, like wolves going blank to survive trauma. Tony didn’t ask for further details.

Tony went to the gym. Laura waited, smug and silent. She tested his limits and built a plan. After a week, exhaustion became energy. Training increased his productivity: reports were finished on time, he slept 6 hours, and he had fewer nightmares. Laura’s style fit his.

So it should have been no surprise that, on an unremarkable and random day in the middle of August, his new world came crashing down when Jarvis cleared his throat: “Sir, Mr.Barton just entered the lobby and the elevator, estimated arrival is three minutes.”

The kids squealed and ran to the elevator. Clint arrived rough, longhaired, with his leg in a splint and boot.

Clint and the kids ignored the injuries. They collapsed on the floor together, hugging, lost in tears and smiles.

Heart pounding, Tony watched Laura join her family. Clint pulled Lila close and offered Laura an arm, who knelt and hugged them all. Brushing away tears, Tony struggled with a wave of longing mixed with jealousy as he watched Laura rejoin her family. The familiar ache of isolation sharpened, and for a moment, his happiness for them was tinged with pain over his own loneliness.

Turning back to dinner, Tony tried to steady himself. He clung to his recent sense of belonging even as the feeling began to slip away, unsure where he now stood. He made one large pizza, put it in the oven, cleaned up, and stayed, half-listening to the living room reunion while wrestling with the hurt and envy that churned inside him.

Watching the family reunion felt intrusive, making Tony’s jealousy flare into shame. The shame quickly overwhelmed him, and he grew restless; unable to bear the feelings, he wiped the counter and escaped to his workshop. There, desperate for relief, he broke the seal on a bottle of Winston Supreme Canadian whiskey and drank straight from it, fighting tears that now surged stronger in his solitude.

The whiskey burned—an apt punishment. He wished it hurt more, resenting how much he wanted things to stay the same, knowing isolation would return soon.

“Sir?” Jarvis’s voice cut in. Tony realized the AI had been trying to get his attention.

“Awake, J.” Tony pulled the whiskey closer and brought up the videos.

“Mr.Barton is requesting entrance, Sir.”

Tony didn’t look up. “Noted, J. Bring up Barnes’s files.”

In the last four months, Tony hadn’t done much with the information Jarvis had compiled for him. After his week-long bender, he only managed to take a cursory look before confirming that the Ops and surviving agents had been seen to.

Tonight, drained of jealousy, he felt small and confused—a feeling tied to childhood. Earlier emotions gave way to an emptiness that felt achingly familiar. Avoiding thoughts of his parents, he turned to James Buchanan Barnes, the idol of his youth, resenting everything Captain America stood for.

Tony had not opened the files since the aftermath of the bender, when the initial shock of his father’s secrets left him gutted. Now, in the quiet, with the weight of Clint’s return and the surge of old grief raw beneath the surface, he found himself returning to them. He needed to know what had happened, and, with Laura and Clint home, the risk of more revelations felt achingly immediate. These files, assembled over months, held answers he dreaded, but the recent family reunion, the reminder of everything he stood to lose or protect, drove him to examine the details again.

With a fortifying swallow, Tony dove into the files, flipping through them at random. The deeper he went, the more a cold, crawling dread gripped his stomach. He noticed that the information on Sergeant Barnes was not extensive, or at least it hadn’t been until he found the semi-buried medical reports after Azzano. As he read, his pulse kicked up, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. He felt a little sick at what he read. The “experts”—medical and scientific, including his father—knew James Barnes had been experimented on. They forced him to continue serving, not even knowing the type of experiments.

For a second, Tony’s vision swam in red. That was horrifying. During their “assessments,” they suspected that modifications had been made but hadn’t told him about them. That fact sent a spike of something hot and bitter curling through Tony’s chest. They decided that pulling a litre of blood and “surveilling” him was the only course of action. What made it worse, somehow, beyond the sheer clinical detachment which pressed against his temples, was that Steven Rogers had been the number-one go-to, ordering him to spy on and report on friends. That was stomach-churning, especially when Tony found the reports Steve had turned in. He closed his eyes for a moment, jaw clenched, forcing himself to keep reading even as a hundred angry, stunned questions roared through his mind.

“Evidence of enhanced reflexes and strength. Ie. caught and crushed a stone that flew from the explosion. Suspicion of an enhanced sense of smell. Ie. Overheard conversation, Bucky complained about the smell of blood.”

“Suspicion of enhanced hearing: Bucky reported a conversation he claims to have overheard at a local bar. According to other sources, no one was in the tavern at the time of the conversation.”

“Confirmed enhanced hearing and eyesight – on guard duty, Bucky woke us at around 300 hours, claiming he heard approx. Seven men moving through the woods. Ten minutes later, Bucky and Jimmy fired off seven rounds, even though no one else reported seeing or hearing anything. The men came back, reporting that the threat had been neutralized. Bucky and Jimmy led us directly, and we found the seven men twenty minutes later, all dead with a headshot.”

Tony blinked at the last one. The dawning implications of what Steve had reported—and everyone appeared to have missed—sat heavily in his stomach. It had nothing to do with the enhancements, or at least not directly, though they obviously had a hand in it. It was impressive as hell that between the two of them, they had gotten headshots, but what stood out to Tony was the apparent distance based on the length of time to reach them. Even if they were directly led, it still took twenty minutes through the woods in the dark. The implications of that… Tony swallowed. Assuming they walked at a brisk pace, the shots had been fired from 2,053 yards away, yet he knew his history. The longest distance sniper shot in World War II was credited to a German soldier who hit at a distance of 1100 metres.

Had anyone realized what Steve had reported? Or had they brushed it off and buried it, considering it a false report, due to the nighttime conditions, and the accuracy and reliability of weapons at the time, even if they were Howards, believing that shouldn’t have been possible.

“The video’s fake, Tony.”

Tony jumped, heart pounding. “Warn a guy next time, Clint.”

Clint lifted an unimpressed brow, “Jarvis asked if I could come in.”

Tony blinked at the bottle, monitors, and then a camera. “You did, J?”

“I did, Sir.” Jarvis agreed with a sigh, “and you agreed.”

“Okay,” Tony said, tossing back whiskey. “What’s up, Legolas?”

Clint folded his arms. “Why’d you bolt before I could thank you?”

Tony reached for the bottle, gaping when Clint grabbed it first. “I didn’t do it for thanks.”

“I know that, Tony, but you still deserve to be, you didn’t even know of my family – hell, you didn’t fully know what you were walking into, but you still went, and then offered them sanctuary.” Clint said helplessly, tears filling his eyes, “Do you know how rare that type of selflessness is?”

Dropping his eyes, Tony fiddled with the cuffs of his bracers and shrugged, “I couldn’t, not go, you- you sounded pretty fucking desperate.”

“Because I was, Tony,” Clint admitted, sliding into the chair beside him, running a hand through his hair, “Fuck. I had no clue what was happening. Still don’t really, but Phil had helped me create a program that constantly checked keywords on the internet. Yet there I was, halfway around the world, when I was notified that my entire life was on the internet. I didn’t care about myself, but knew there was nothing I could do for my family.” He shrugged, a ghost of a smile twitching his lips, “Then you called, like this hidden guardian angel, and I just… I can’t say I gave up, because I’m here, but knowing that my family had a chance, Tony, that meant everything.”

Dropping his eyes to the ground, Tony swallowed hard, forcing it past the lump in his throat, “I-I didn’t do it to be thanked, it was the right thing to do.”

“But I’m still thanking you anyway. So why did you disappear?” Clint said softly.

“You and your family deserved privacy for your reunion,” Tony replied with a shrug, “I wasn’t going to interfere in that.”

“The kids call you Uncle Tony,” Clint stated flatly, folding his arms again, “pretty sure that means you’re family too.”

“Until everyone leaves again,” Tony muttered, then clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified at himself for what he said, “sorry, that- don’t mind the drunk person-”

“You’re not drunk, Tony.” The calmness in Clint’s tone was eerie

Tony darted a look at the archer before averting his gaze again, hating the understanding he saw in his eyes.

Clint nodded, “You’re scared of being alone. Fuck, you think I don’t get that?”

“You’d think I’d be used to it,” Tony said self-deprecatively, shrinking in on himself with a shrug, “It’s not your responsibility to make me feel better.”

“Maybe not,” It was a soft, heartfelt reply, and then a warmth enveloped Tony’s face, forcing him to tip his head back up, “but you are my friend. My kids love you, my wife thinks of you as a brother.” Clint smiled softly. “She already told me we aren’t leaving, Tony, even if her contract allows it, and I agreed.” He paused, glancing toward the hall as if measuring the words. “Laura’s contract is with Stark Industries. She was officially hired to handle security consulting and logistics, which meant she and the kids could move on once her work was up, or if things got unsafe. But she never treated it like just a job. Now, after everything, she told me she wants this place to be home, contract or not.” His expression softened. “I might need some recovery time, but once I’m cleared, Laura and I will split her duties.”

“But-” Tony started to protest, but Clint shook his head.

“No, this is something we agreed to, Tony. We’re not going to abandon you; we owe you too much.” Clint said, dropping his hand to squeeze Tony’s.

Feeling raw and overwhelmed, Tony glanced away, eyes burning as they caught on the video of the dirt road again. “If you want to split the duties, that’s fine, I won’t dictate how you work that, but you’ll get your own contract, because you will be paid separately.”

It was weird how Tony could feel Clint relax beside him, but it still made him wipe his eyes, then grimace when the Archer handed him a rag.

Clint tilted his head to one side. “Good enough, so catch me up, why are you watching videos of Cap getting his ass handed to him by the Winter Soldier, and what is with the fake video of him killing your parents?”

“Fake?” Tony asked with a frown, realizing Clint had said that before, then shook his head, looking at the archer, “Even being out of touch, being wherever you were, you know more than I expected.”

“I’m a spy, Tony.” Clint replied flatly, but still rubbed a hand through his hair, “I might not have the full details, but I got updates and information during my recovery before we managed to find a flight out.” He gestured to the video screen, “Plus, the Winter Soldier is a ghost story that’s haunted S.H.I.E.L.D. for over seventy years. There might not be pictures of him, but his arm is whispered about.”

“But why say the video is fake?” Tony asked, looking between Clint and the looping video, “’Cause that definitely looks like him.”

“A number of reasons,” Clint began, but held up his hand, “Which we can discuss as you eat. You missed supper, and Laura said you had to be hungry.”

Tony frowned, realizing that Clint was right, he was starving, and sighed, “Fine, but we don’t have to do this tonight. In fact, I think I’d rather wait until tomorrow. It’s waited this long, another day, won’t hurt anything, plus, you haven’t even been home twelve hours, and you definitely haven’t been cleared-”

“For active duty,” Clint responded with a scoff, “Doesn’t stop me from doing other shit, I rock desk duty.”

An involuntary smile graced Tony’s face even as he sighed, “Pizza?”

Clint grinned and stood up, “I could go for more pizza.”

“Of course you can,” Tony agreed, rising to his feet, following Clint from the room, “But I meant it, we can talk about all this tomorrow. I think we need to just chill, eat some pizza, and maybe I’ll even let you pick the movie.”

“Jurassic World!” Clint said instantly, laughing at the look Tony offered him, “Come on, I’ve been dying to see it since the trailers came out.”

“Fine, fine, we can watch Jurassic World, but you’ll have to suffer through my complaints about the science of it all,” Tony muttered, stepping into the elevator when the doors slid open.

Still laughing, Clint slid an arm over Tony’s shoulder and drew him into a sideways hug, then turned, making it a complete one, burying his face into Tony’s neck, with a whispered, “Thank you for giving me something to believe in, and for saving my family, Tony.”

Swallowing the rush of emotion, Tony nodded and returned the embrace. “Thanks for letting me keep my place in your family.”

“One thing you’re going to learn and have to accept is, once Laura decides something, it’s just easier to go with it, cause you’re never going to win,” Clint said with another squeeze and then stepped back, “Her scent is all over you, so she’s claimed you as one of us, Tony. You’re stuck with us, whether you want it or not.”

Heart fluttering, Tony shifted uncomfortably, but felt compelled to admit the truth, “I want it, Clint. As horrible as it’s been, not knowing, the last four months have probably been some of the best of my life. It’s like being offered a gift I never expected, and I honestly wouldn’t change it.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Clint admitted, stepping off the elevator and leading the way into the kitchen, “It’s how I felt when I first met Laura, though I never expected to get this far, but now… it’s- with everything I’ve ever been through? It’s worth it to have her and the kids, to have a family.”

The expected jealousy didn’t come, but a sort of melancholy did, though Tony pushed past it, raising a beer he’d pulled from the fridge, sliding another to Clint, “To Laura and the kids.”

“To our family,” Clint returned, offering the neck to tap against, brow raised challengingly, and Tony gave in, a genuine smile appearing on his face.

“To our family.”

***

The shutter of a photo being taken sounded in the room, mingling with the kids’ giggles and Laura’s amused laughter, and Tony opened a blurry eye to find the three of them peering at them from the back of the couch. It was disorienting and confusing, and it took a few minutes to realize that he and Clint were wrapped around each other, in the oddest configuration Tony had experienced that wasn’t sexual, cuddling each other’s legs as they were, and he was embarrassed to admit. He’d somehow slid down until his head was on Clint’s thigh, Clint’s hand still curled in his hair.

“It’s not what it looks like?” Tony whispered, voice hoarse, as he attempted to disentangle himself from the archer, who clung to his leg like it was a teddy bear.

“Oh, I know,” Laura replied suggestively, laughter barely suppressed and amusement dancing in her eyes, “though it makes great blackmail material.”

“If that hits the internet, I’m going to post that video of you after you got dosed with Anise.” Clint rumbled, voice vibrating Tony’s head.

“You would not!” Laura gasped, narrowing her eyes.

Clint curled his fingers in Tony’s hair, then gently disentangled their limbs, and rubbed his eyes, “Wanna bet?”

Laura followed her arms, expression contemplative, as if she was debating if it would be worth it, before sighing, and throwing up her hands, “Fine, no internet, but I reserve the right to use it at birthday parties, or his future wedding.”

“I wanna see this video.” Tony muttered, then squawked, sitting up in a rush as what she said penetrated, “Wedding? I’m not even dating anyone.”

“No video, you promised, Clint.” Laura said, sniffing, ushering the kids into the kitchen, and called back, “Breakfast in thirty, then Happy’s picking up the kids, you and Clint have the morning to debrief.”

“This is so unfair,” Tony complained, tossing the blanket onto the back of the couch, “why am I the one being threatened with future embarrassment, over one photo?”

Laura spinning in a circle, grinning as she walked backwards, “Who says it’s only one photo I have?”

“Jarvis!” Tony cried, looking at the camera in betrayal.

“Studies suggest, Sir, that this is acceptable behaviour among siblings, I believe it’s referred to as ‘teasing’.” Jarvis replied dryly and then cleared his throat, “Twenty-five minutes left, Sir.”

Growling, Tony turned and stomped from the room, only turning once he was in the hall, and yelled back, “I’ll get you for this!”

Clint caught up to him easily, lowering his voice, “I’ll show you the video later.”

“Clint!” Laura shouted warningly.

But Clint just grinned and wiggled his eyebrows, mouthing the word. “Promise.”

Grinning back, Tony continued down the hall to his room, his fears from last night of being left alone no longer at the forefront of his mind.

It was after breakfast, with the kids getting ready, that Clint broached the topic of their briefing, fingers twitching on the coffee mug. “I know we have to do the debrief, but may I request something?”

Glancing up from the tablet, Laura had slid across the table before leaving the room. Tony tilted his head curiously, “If you wanna delay-”

Clint shook his head, “No, nothing like that, it’s better while it’s fresh.” He shrugged and glanced at the window, “It’s just, could we do it up here? The sunlight is grounding after spending three months in solitary confinement.”

Nodding in sympathy, Tony nodded, “Of course, we can easily pull holograms here if needed.”

Clint glanced at him sharply, regarding him with an intensity that Tony couldn’t ever remember being on the receiving end of from the archer, but he did receive a small, almost indecipherable nod before Clint returned his attention to his coffee, before the kids rushed back in.

It was strange being included in the flurry of goodbyes with Clint there, even though Tony had been included for months at this point. It felt real, and touched a part of himself that had still doubted the words spoken last night, or the teasing this morning, and the slightly scolding look bestowed upon him by Laura who had run her fingers through his hair, after kissing the top of his head, told him she saw it, and offered him a soft reassurance, “It’s a process, Tony.”

“I know,” He shrugged helplessly, “but forty years of trauma aren’t cured overnight.”

Softening, Laura smiled and scented him again—a habit of hers ever since her mutant abilities had sharpened her senses to near-animal levels, and she picked up and shared familiar scents as reassurance or comfort. “You guys need me to call- actually, Jarvis, I trust you to call if you determine they need assistance, because they’d probably neglect to call even if dismemberment was on the table.”

“It was one time,” Clint protested with a laugh, and held up his hands, “and no dismemberment happened, thank you very much.”

“I will ensure you’re apprised of the morning’s events, Ms.Laura,” Jarvis replied, pausing. “Though I would hope they can behave until you get home, it would be horrible forcing them into a time-out.”

Tony sputtered with Clint, looking betrayed at the camera that housed Jarvis, while Laura grinned and blew a kiss as the kids left the room, giggling at the idea of their father being put in time out, and even after hearing the elevator close, it didn’t ruin the atmosphere.

In a way, Tony wasn’t sure he understood. The levity the kids offered helped keep everything calm, and he enjoyed it, tapping the table, “You good to start?”

“Let’s get a refill on coffee and some snack food, first?” Clint asked like they hadn’t just finished breakfast, and rose to his, grabbing Tony’s mug with his own. Shrugging, Tony grabbed the box of muffins from the fridge and the pint of blueberries, setting both down on the table, accepting the mug Clint brought back over.

A hologram appeared in the middle of the table. Tony manipulated for a few minutes, taking a sip of his coffee, “Should I start?”

Clint frowned, “Actually, I’m curious where Natasha and Steve are?”

“DC, I believe,” Tony responded carelessly, “I haven’t seen them since before the clusterfuck that started all this, not sure I care to either.”

“What do you mean?” Clint asked.

“They’re the cause of all this, or at least the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the exposures of Hydra. They’re responsible for the data drop.” Tony explained, carefully, watching Clint’s eyes harden at the information.

“They just dropped everything?” Clint asked, shook his head, and demanded harshly, “Why didn’t they call you?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Tony shrugged, “but I figured they were following a plan created by Hydra to cause the maximum damage they could, right?”

“What?” Clint asked slowly.

“Project Insight,” Tony clarified, “was a Hydra project designed to remove over a hundred people, including me, the president and his Joint Chiefs, and ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents. With Jarvis’s help, we were able to confirm that not a single Hydra agent was on an op, unless it was in direct correlation with the Project.”

Clint just stared at him in a sort of horrified silence, then shook his head, “Okay, let’s start over, or we’re going to jump from point to point. What’s happened since the Battle of New York for you?”

“You mean Avengers stuff?” Tony clarified, pulling the pint of blueberries closer, “For me, nothing. I’ve maybe done some work on gear and whatnot, but I haven’t been called out for a mission at all.” He popped a couple of blueberries in his mouth, “Not that I ever expected to be, though, my psych evaluation literally says, Iron Man: yes, Tony Stark: not recommended. Basically, I’m listed as a consultant, so either way, if it were S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra, I figured they wouldn’t want me close to see the patterns or infiltration.”

Clint’s frown didn’t ease, and he glared into his mug, “Didn’t you have a fight back in December or January?”

“Oh, that, yeah, Aldrich Killian and the Mandarin thought they could take me on without the suits.” He wiggled his eyebrows mockingly, “They found out wrong.”

“It was evident you could fight without the suits, Tony.” Clint said, raising a brow at Tony’s dumbfounded expression, “What?”

“How do you know that?” Tony demanded.

Smirking, Clint leaned his elbows on the table, “Unlike others, I research marks and targets independent of the dossier compiled by others.”

Tony frowned, “Not sure I like the idea of being referred to as a mark or target.”

Shrugging, Clint sipped his coffee, “I get that, but it’s what I had at the time. I didn’t like the way Fury or Natasha profiled you, so I did my own.”

Baffled, Tony shook his head, “There aren’t many people who know I can fight.”

“No,” Clint agreed, shifting in his seat, mumbling slightly, “Honestly, even if we were both kids, you were kind of my idol growing up.”

At Tony’s blank look of astonishment, Clint grinned and shrugged, “It was well known that Peggy Carter was your godmother, and I vividly remember the news reports of your escapes after kidnapping attempts as a kid. It stood to reason, she taught you shit.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t Howard, or my mom,” Huffing a bitter laugh, Tony conceded that, and admitted, “Jarvis and Ana helped, and a few of the Howling Commandos.”

“Figures,” Clint nodded, and admitted, “I may have grown up dirt poor and joined a fucking circus, but I could read, even if it was tabloids. Howard often failed the expectation for Father of the Year award.”

Tony grimaced and nodded but continued his tale, “Not much to add, shit happened, lost a house, beat the baddie, Pepper, and I tried but ultimately decided to split, had some health issues, and then Jarvis alerted me to the data drop at the same time as the fight on the Helicarrier.”

“In which you called me?” Clint asked, confirming what he already knew.

“Uh… kind of, I ran a bunch of facial recognition, set up rescue units, and whatnot, but yeah, once the immediate things were taken care of, J and I turned our attention to Black Ops and active Agents, we sent in covert rescue and extraction, then he found yours,” Tony admitted, pulling up the file on the hologram, letting Clint browse it for a few minutes before continuing.

“I got confirmation from Maria Hill that Cap made the call to drop the files, which Natasha complied with. But by then I was talking to you, trying to decipher your code, which J helped with, and I was off to help Laura and the kids.”

Nodding to show he heard, Clint’s eyes narrowed as he browsed the files, “J, give me an overview of everything dropped, please.”

“Are you looking for something specific, Mr.Barton?” Jarvis asked even as he did as asked.

“Call me, Clint,” The archer muttered, manipulating the hologram so it lay flat on the table, like a giant tablet, “and I’m looking to see if there’s anything about Phill Couslon, Nick Fury, or Natasha Romanoff.”

“A moment,” Jarivs intoned, files glowing briefly, shifting to the side, separating into two folders, “The folder on the left has those agents referred to, in reference to other missions reports, the second, is the dossier on the three, of which two is admittedly short and obviously doctored, considering there is no ‘real’ information regarding Nick Fury or Natasha Romanov. As for Phill Couslon, that file is somewhat disturbing, and while I wouldn’t normally interfere, it would be better to complete your independent tales before diving into the folders, Clint.”

“Just- tell me, is Phil recorded as still living?” Clint asked, eyes closed as if expecting the answer.

Jarvis paused for a minute, “According to the information in the files, yes, Phil Coulsen is still alive.”

Jaw clamping shut, Clint nodded, opening Natasha’s file, eyes skimming the dossier, “Alright, put a bug out to search for the man, please?”

“Of course,” Jarvis agreed, falling silent, and Tony shifted, not sure if he wanted to know, suspecting, given everything else he’d glimpsed in the files, it wouldn’t be pleasant.

“Do you need-”

“No, tell me about the farm?” Clint cut in, voice probably not as firm as he wanted, but Tony let it go and continued his tale.

“I arrived just as over a dozen SUVs started crawling up the road toward the house. Laura was already on alert. She was the one who caught the sound first, sharp as ever, and had already gotten the kids out of sight and into the safe zone they’d had set up in the barn. Lila had grabbed her little bow and a quiver of those sticky old delayed explosive arrows—she actually managed to hide by that old tree, aiming for the undercarriages and wheel wells of the first vehicles to get close. Meanwhile, I landed out back in the suit, trying not to draw attention, but as ridiculous as it sounds, the armour wouldn’t fit through the side door. Seriously, I had no idea doors could be that narrow, but Laura later explained it was intentional, some defence thing to slow down intruders or force them to split up.

While Laura moved to the front of the house, covering the main entrance and keeping an eye on the driveway, I made do in the kitchen, lining up anything that could be used as a weapon—knives, pots, even the chef’s block, whatever I could find. I could see through the window as the SUVs fanned out and the attackers started surrounding us. The first real shock came when Lila triggered her explosives, disabling four or five of the vehicles and forcing the rest to scatter.

That was when it all kind of broke apart in my head. I remember holding a knife, bracing for someone to bust through the back door, and then suddenly it felt like I was drifting somewhere far away. I was acting—throwing whatever I had, blocking doors, even setting off a pan fire as a distraction—but I wasn’t exactly there. I could see my own hands move, but everything felt foggy and hollow, like watching through a pane of glass. Laura’s shouts reached my ears in waves, and I only snapped out of it when she physically shook me afterward.

Logan and Xavier called it a feral dissociative episode. They told me later that the rush of adrenaline and fear overloaded whatever fragile sense of normal I had at the time, and I just defaulted to instinct. It took months before I was willing to even go near a training mat with Laura again.” Clint had opened his eyes to look at him during the recitation, a look on his face that Tony couldn’t decipher at all, but for all that, it wasn’t as uncomfortable as he expected, so he just waited, almost seeing the thoughts pass behind Archer’s eyes.

“What about files on the rest of the Avengers?” After a few minutes, Clint asked, directing his attention overhead, “Could you add those to the pile?”

“You refer to Thor, Bruce, and Steve?” Jarvis clarified curiously. “Yeah, include Carol Danvers, and Loki too, actually.” Clint muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, before lowering his finger to the table, and wrote out a word, “That word too, and any reference to mutants or enhanced, any known Hydra bases that have been hit, including Viper, please.”

“Clint?” Tony asked, feeling his stomach drop as he saw the word, but Clint shook his head, waiting for Jarvis, who responded after a minute, the piles in the two separate folders telling their own tale.

“Do you have a Black Out mode here?” Clint finally asked after a few seconds of staring at the files, expression blank, though there was a fire burning in his eyes.

“Which Black Out Mode-”

“Level ten containment, full building, and send out the email, Jarvis,” Tony ordered, tone bored, though he couldn’t help but watch Clint in concern, though Clint looked at him curiously.

“What does a level-” Clint cut him as the entire building hummed as an electrical current had run through it, and he blinked rapidly before a huge grin broke across his face, “localized EMP?”

“Yep!” Tony agreed, popping the P, “Or well, kind of? It’s complicated in that it only targets devices that don’t contain a chip from Stark Industries. Employees are not required to use our products, but if they want to continue using external technology, they must have a chip we made to help localize and target unapproved items. It’s a contingency already in the contracts employees have.”

“You let spy devices stay in the building?” Clint asked, confusion and curiosity lacing his tone.

“Eh?” Tony wobbled his hand back and forth, “Kind of, I know ‘Tasha planted some before she left, I just left them in place, not really wanting to deal with it. As for the others, none stay active in my lab or office, and if a department head suspects espionage, they can request a localized blast. SI will, of course, compensate any product damaged in an EMP per their contract, less it is proven to be a method of fraud, spying, or theft.”

A breathless laugh escaped Clint, and he shook his head, “You’ve been letting Tasha spy on you, because you don’t want to deal with them?”

Tony nodded in agreement, “They just don’t realize I’ve been doing my own spying back, not that I’ve looked at any of the information they’ve collected. J and Friday are still keeping tabs.”

“So what are they doing?” Clint asked curiously, shifting the files around, in an order only he seemed to understand.

“Looking for Barnes,” Tony answered readily, “Cap’s so invested in finding his WW2 buddy, he’s resorted to lying and using my tech and resources to find him.”

Clint frowned at Tony’s bitter tone and asked gently, “You know that video isn’t real, it’s fake, right?’

Tony frowned, “You said that, I just don’t understand why you think that, it was definitely Barnes in that video.”

“Sure, it might have been Barnes,” Clint agreed, quickly pulling up the video, twisting it so it took up the table, then held up a hand, expression pleading for patience, “Just- watch please, then let me explain, alright?”

Jaw clenched, Tony nodded, wordlessly watching the video, hating how it twisted his gut, even though, at a base level, he knew technically Barnes wasn’t culpable, given he was brainwashed. When it was over, Clint leaned forward, rubbing his wrist, and tapped the video, pulling up a file he’d had left there. “Okay, was J able to do a positive ID on the victim?”

“No, Clint, it was only a 67% physical match to the records and profile on Howard Stark,” Jarvis answered immediately.

“Okay, do a comparison with the person in that file,” Clint ordered, and turned back to the video, “While we wait for Jarvis, I’m going to walk you through how I know this video is faked, okay?”

Tony frowned, but nodded, “I’m listening.”

“Issue number one, according to national records, New York had a serious snowfall of approximately 25 cm of snow on the 6th, yet in the video, there isn’t even a skiff of snow available, in addition to the leaves visible on the trees.” Clint began, bringing up the corresponding reports, “Secondly, if the video is accurate in saying it’s 7 pm, why is there so much light coverage, that would give an indication there is a full moon when it should only be a quarter, and before you say a street light, let me point out that this road, while paved is still on the outskirts of the city, probably done with the illusion it was close to the manor you grew up in. The only problem with that is where the building came from. In ‘91, the only things along that road were manor houses, and zero street lights, unless they’re at the end of an individual house. There also wouldn’t be security feeds attached. If there were, even if it was to give your father additional protection, do you really think an amateur, never mind an expert assassin, wouldn’t think to check for video surveillance? The Winter Soldier is a ghost story, Tony. There has never been a photograph taken of the guy in over seventy years.” Clint stated softly, then pointed at the car, “The other issue, and while it’s going to sound stupid, it’s what caught my eye immediately, but I know your mother wasn’t in that car, and if I’m wrong in any of this, she would have already been dead, Tony, and it’s because the car is, in fact, a Ford.”

Tony blinked through the barrage of information, jaw clenching and unclenching before he jerked at the last sentence, eyes widening in shock as they snapped to the video, and he leaned forward, seeming to caress the shape of the car, whispering softly, “It’s a Ford.”

Clint didn’t say anything, just watched him process, and Tony couldn’t help but be grateful as he gave a breathless little laugh, relaxing against the chair, “It’s a Ford.”

“While I agree with Clint’s assessment, and I have made a note to update future data processing, why is there a state of relief over the fact that the vehicle is a Ford, sir? What’s the significance?”

Tony cleared his throat, suddenly blinking rapidly, at the rush of emotion as he tried to explain, “my mom- ah, she had a lot of issues, I loved her of course, or as well as much as a kid could, when their parent spent more time drunk or stoned, then in dealing with the realities of having Howard as a husband, but one thing about her, in any state, was her refusal to be driven anywhere in anything unless it was a Cadillac, even the decoy vehicle dad had, was a Cadi.”

Jarvis was silent for a minute before admitting a note of confusion in his tone, “It seems to be a simple explanation, Sir, but I’ll reserve a bit of time to process it, with the addition of Clint’s analysis.” He cleared his throat, “I finished the facial recognition on the profile provided, and I have to confirm there is a 87% match, Sir, though records found in the data drop indicate that the victim went AWOL and was found two years after this video was added to the server. No official cause of death was ever recorded.”

“There wouldn’t be,” Clint muttered bitterly, “If S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra, whoever arranged the Op, determined an agent was meant to die, they’d be listed as an unintentional casualty, and the family paid off.”

Not sure how to address that, Tony glanced at the video, “So why make a video making it look like he killed my parents?”

Clint shrugged, “Who knows? Maybe they hoped that if he went feral, you’d see it and go hunting?”

“Maybe…but it doesn’t feel right.” Tony agreed slowly.

“Probably isn’t, but you can’t deny you know where he is, right?”Clint asked, raising an eyebrow, making Tony flush.

“No, but I’m not actively watching him, that’s Friday,” Tony said, leaning over the table, trying to understand the pattern Clint continued making of the files.

“Friday?” Clint questioned, tilting his head.

“Yeah, I needed help with the data drop, so I created a couple of more AIs: Friday, Veronica, and Jocasta.” Tony offered, his tone casual, as if creating sentient programs was just another afternoon project. “Friday and J have split the Hydra files. Friday’s got a bit of a dry sense of humour, and she keeps me in line, though she’s also apt at keeping secrets. For instance, earlier: Friday, tell Clint what you said when Barnes pinged your firewall.”

“‘He may be good at hiding, Boss, but he still needs to learn basic etiquette. Next time, I expect flowers.’” Friday replied crisply, the Irish lilt in her voice making Clint huff a laugh.

Tony grinned, then tipped his head. “Veronica is more by the book, all business—she’s keeping watch on Bruce, Laura, and the kids, at her own instance, and honestly can out-plan most world leaders if she’s bored enough. She’s the one who schedules my meetings. Veronica, status check?”

“Current status: all residents are accounted for. You have a meeting with Dr. McCoy in forty minutes. Please finish your coffee,” Veronica intoned, her tone precise and no-nonsense.

Tony gave Clint an apologetic shrug. “See? Veronica is relentless.” He grinned and added, “Jocasta handles security in the building; he’s strict, but polite, and takes a little too much satisfaction in tracking down rogue SI products and joyously destroying them if they’re in questionable hands.”

Clint choked on a laugh and shook his head, “So where’s Barnes?”

“Mr.Barnes was last confirmed to be in Italy, with Mr.Rogers on route.” Friday replied, Irish lilt making Clint glance up in surprise, “Given the analysis of the video, and Mr. Barnes’ obvious efforts to avoid Mr.Rogers, I took the liberty of alerting him of their arrival, and he vacated the compound, though he rigged it to blow. Should I alert Mr.Rogers of that fact?”

Tony tilted his head, “Maybe, probably, depends, how long until it blows?”

“It is set to denote five minutes before they land.” Friday responded, shifting files seamlessly into the piles already on the table, “Courtesy of Mr.Barnes.”

“Fri?” Tony asked hesitantly.

“It’s better to beg for forgiveness than to request permission, Boss,” Friday replied instantly.

“Does he know?” Tony asked, glancing over the files, though nothing really jumped out at him, given that they were just a sequence of numbers and letters, he hadn’t expected them to.

“He knows my name is Friday, the parameters of my programming, but neither of us has explicitly stated your name, though I believe he knows.” Friday admitted, sounding somewhat sheepish when she continued, “He’s not what I thought, though I admittedly didn’t know what to expect; he doesn’t refer to himself as Mr.Barnes, or even Sergerent.”

“He wouldn’t because right now he’s not him,” Clint responded, and swallowed when Tony looked at him.

“Right now he’s Laoch,” Tony said simply.

Clint nodded, “Yeah, so this isn’t common knowledge, but the underground of spy work has heard of Laoch on and off for years. Even when he disappears off the radar and reemerges years later, they remember him, but how did you hear of him?”

Tony shrugged when Clint raised an eyebrow and admitted, “I met Volya.”

Clint froze briefly and then nodded, “I see, and what is Laoch to Volya that she would know that?”

Tony raised his eyebrow, “His daughter.”

“Fuck me,” Clint whispered and closed his eyes.

“Should I inform him of this information?” Friday asked, hesitantly.

Tony looked at Clint, who shrugged, looking as helpless as he felt, “I’m not sure if I’m glad I didn’t know that, or wish I had so I could tell him.”

“What do you mean?” Tony asked without looking up.

“Laoch is how I escaped, Viper’s Base, Tony.” Clint admitted and shrugged helplessly when Tony’s head snapped up to him, “After the explosion took out the complex I was in, they tossed me in a cell with about twenty other agents, or at least they did until they realized who I was. They had torture orders out for me, but gave up pretty quickly and tossed me in solitary. I didn’t know how long I’d been there, and only found out afterwards that it had been close to three months. Laoch got me out, while the surviving agents escaped, it took about two weeks for me to heal up enough and to arrange transport.” Clint tapped the edge of the table, curling his fingers around his mug, “As for Laoch, I wasn’t even sure if I hadn’t hallucinated the rescue, I just knew he was not-Logan, which-” He shrugged and gaze a barely there laugh, “I could barely see, and they’d taken my hearing aids, so everything was communicated via morse code, but he smelled familiar, like Logan, so I knew he was safe. We took a dip in the harbour, which I don’t ever recommend, cause that was disgusting. He did something to my head – not sure what, but it cleared up a fog that’s been there since Loki, and I no longer have the epic hate boner for the guy. He then ordered me to come back here and help my wife keep you safe.”

Tony groaned, scrubbing his face, “Volya said he’s been protecting me since I was born, I just don’t know why. As far as I know, I’ve never met him, in any persona, be that as the Winter Soldier, James Barnes or Laoch.”

“Would he even come in if he knew?” Clint asked finally.

Shrugging, Tony toyed with the box of muffins, “according to Logan, no, Volya said he needed to hunt- well, it was a bit more vivid description, but the point stands, he’s convinced himself he’s searching for his daughter, but some of it, I think, is ensuring they don’t have information regarding her. Right now, it’s vengeance and retribution. He’ll come in when he’s ready.” He lifted his head. “The only thing I can do is protect him the best I can.”

Tony hesitated, gaze dropping to his hands. The truth was, he thought about James more than he wanted to admit, quickly getting used to calling him James in his head instead of Bucky, as the history books referred to him. Sometimes, when the tower was quiet, he caught himself hoping that when Laoch finally showed up, he wouldn’t just be another ghost passing through Tony’s life. The idea of James coming in from the cold felt impossibly important—like it might make up for all the people Tony couldn’t save, or all the ways he’d failed to be enough. Beneath it all simmered the fear that if he failed to help Laoch, he’d just repeat his father’s cycle, letting someone slip through his fingers out of pride or mistakes. And yet, there was a flicker of hope, small and persistent, that somehow, if James could find peace or forgiveness, Tony might find a new start himself. If he could protect Laoch, maybe it meant he was finally capable of something good.

Friday chimed wordlessly, letting him know she heard, and Clint dropped his eyes to the table again, “You said you’ve never met him?”

Tony shook his head and cracked a smirk. “Even if I’d been drunk or stoned out of my mind, I would have remembered a beefed-up, walking wet dream of my teenage years standing in front of me.” The joke came easily, but underneath it, Tony felt the ache of something deeper. It wasn’t just an attraction; it was what James —or Laoch—represented. Someone who survived horrors and still managed to hold on to his own code, even if nobody else could see it. Someone who walked away, but didn’t vanish, who fought for people without ever needing thanks. Maybe that was why Tony couldn’t let go: somewhere, he hoped that finding James might let him believe he could reclaim the pieces of himself that his own father had tried to crush. Someone like James proved the past didn’t have to chain you forever. Even if it hurt, even if guilt lingered, today there was a spark of something stubborn and persistent inside Tony—a quiet hope that things could change, that healing was possible, and that maybe, at long last, he wasn’t as alone as he’d once believed.

Clint grinned and shook his head, “You would find that hot.”

Tony sputtered, wordlessly pulling up the still of the Winter Soldier in full regalia to stand on the table, “even dressed like that, and knowing what he can do, he’s premium material, fuck, he’s definitely hotter and prettier than Capscile.” Tony paused and tilted his head before adding, “Also, honestly, he looks more fucking approachable for a dip in the alley than Cap ever could dressed to the nines.”

“You’re crazy.” Clint told him, laughing, then kicked his foot, “Stop imagining him holding you against a wall.”

“But it’s such a nice image.” Tony protested, then squawked when Clint grabbed his mug, sliding the file he’d been toying with across the table, face grave.

“You said you might not have met him, but I think your aunt might have Tony.” Clint said evenly, “There was a hidden folder, named Laoch, which has a file with your name on it.”

Confusion flickered across Tony’s face, his complexion turning white, as he stared at the oddly named file, “That’s not my name.”

“Technically no,” Clint agreed with a nod, “but do you think there is anyone else that could possibly claim those two names, having known Margaret Carter all his life?”

Tony slowly shook his head, burying his head in his hands.

“I can read it for you.” Clint offered, squeezing his shoulder, but Tony shook his head.

“No. I just need a minute.” Tony whispered, breathing in deeply and only releasing it when Clint let go. When he heard the movement at the coffee pot, Tony drew in another deep breath and clicked the file labelled “Antonio Carbonell”.

***

Chapter Five

The defences were activated, yet the base was deserted, and Laoch moved through it easily. Cold fluorescent lights flickered along the ceiling, casting jagged shadows that crawled across the metal floors. Each step echoed, the clang of his boots ricocheting down hallways stripped of even the faintest evidence of life. Instead of relief, the ease brought a painful ache, considering his years as their prisoner; each empty control room and steel door pressed the memory of manacles against his wrists. The recycled air tasted stale, thick with a faint chemical tang that clung to the back of his throat, making him swallow hard. The smell of antiseptic battled with something older—machine oil, scorched wiring, and the ghost of gunpowder, hints of violence now faded but still clinging to the base’s bones. Grief over what was stolen mingled with guilt for his actions and failures, tightening his chest as he ran his fingers along cold walls, remembering days spent trapped in rooms without windows. Each empty corridor deepened his hollowness, the silence pressing against his eardrums, broken only by the distant creak of ventilation or the thrum of power running through abandoned cables overhead. He found no sign of her, only silence that taunted him, amplifying the scratch of his own breath as he searched. It was as if the whole place had been scrubbed clean of any trace she’d ever existed—no scattered papers, no stray belongings, not even a fingerprint on the screens. The discomfort hampered both his returning memories and his search; even the smooth, glassy surfaces of the consoles gave away nothing. Nothing pointed to his daughter’s whereabouts, yet he clung to the faint hope that Hydra’s habit of deception meant she could still be alive, hidden, just beyond his reach. Maybe a file overlooked, maybe a coded message buried in servers, maybe even a rumour he hadn’t uncovered. Frustration built, driven by hope—every locked door or piece of data might lead to her. That hope propelled him as despair lingered, pricking at the back of his neck like a chill draft. He didn’t understand how Hydra endured for years, hidden in another organization; their incompetence was only countered by controlling him as the Asset. Too many caveats had kept him chained, and his frustration grew.

Even back then, he sensed he had already become what they wanted to perfect. Now, that difference made him both dangerous and determined. As a soldier and assassin, he was respected even outside his background. Being accepted by the Familia mattered to him and fueled his search for answers.

A ping snapped his focus. “Ms?” He eyed the tablet—more than it looked, though he couldn’t say why. He’d scavenged it from another base and only later realized it was unique. The AI’s voice tried to intimidate, but Laoch suspected she wasn’t meant to talk to him. No name yet; probably Stark’s. That made his skin itch.

A part of him knew he needed to protect Stark, doing so since Stark’s birth. But the conflict between being the Asset or Laoch meant he often failed, not by choice but by a directive overriding his programming. Maybe that was why every briefing included a ‘do not engage’ order. Stark was a level Nine threat—Hydra feared him as much as possible, more so when the Asset was uncontrolled. Yet the need to destroy Hydra and find his daughter outweighed the duty to someone he’d never met, so Laoch sent others in his place, trusting them by scent alone. The competing responsibilities churned as he waited for Friday’s response.

“A shuttle is inbound. Rogers, Romanov, Wilson. ETA: forty-five minutes.”

Laoch grimaced. “ETA?” he prompted, uninterested.

“Forty-five minutes. Want me to trigger self-destruct?”

That was different. Laoch considered it. Hydra usually had contingency plans to destroy their bases, so it was odd they hadn’t done so after deserting, which was typical. Their refusal to destroy felt calculated, not careless.

“Have the files been transferred and secured?” Laoch asked, pulling up the map of the facility on the screen in front of him.

“Yes, Sir. I flagged all relevant files—especially on children’s facilities and experiments.”

Laoch paused, glancing at the tablet, “thank-you, Ms…”

She huffed, voice level. “Friday. You may call me Friday, Sir.”

“Laoch,” he said, collecting his things. “Is there a timer on the self-destruct?”

“Yes. Time enough. I’ll help you hide,” she said slyly.

“Why are you helping me?” Laoch asked slowly, eyeing the tablet warily.

“I’m young, but I’m curious. I’ve read everything this has to do with Captain Rogers, and with who you used to be, and I want to know how history got it all wrong?” Friday said simply.

Laoch stiffened at the implication of her knowing, but suppressed an outright reaction, “I get being curious about Rogers. But why are you?”

“People call him a paragon. Lately? He ignores collateral damage and the little people, whom he’s reported to stand up for. It just proves history isn’t gospel, yet people spout it like fact.”

The sensation of falling hit him fast and furious, making him grab the edge of the console as a wave of dizziness washed over him. Without warning, the sterile silence of the base dissolved into the vivid intensity of another time and place—a sudden memory overtook him, pulling him away from the now. He was somewhere else. Words jumbled in his head, his heart stuttering as they became recognizable: “What do you mean Jimmy left?”

“They were orders, Buck.” The blond stared at him cooly, “You’re on point to infiltrate the train with me-”

“What?” Came a cry of shock, “I’m a sniper, Stevie, not a close combatant.”

“You can fight, Buck,” Steve snapped back, closing the file he hadn’t bothered to share, “so get over yourself, you’re going.”

Buck stared at Steve blankly, eyes unfocusing as his body stilled, “What did you do?”

Steve seemed to pause, eyes flicking away for only the briefest of pauses, before slamming back into Buck when the other man whispered, “Jimmy wouldn’t have just left without saying goodbye, Stevie, so what the fuck did you do?”

“What was necessary.” Steve bit out. “Two hours. Get ready.”

Laoch recalled Steve’s glare, the crack of his fist splitting the table. Anger, confusion, and betrayal crashed through his mind.

Abruptly, the memory ended, yanking him back to the silent control room. Jolted by the shift, Laoch closed his eyes, drew in a harsh breath, and shook his head, trying to steady himself and focus through the shattered memories. Determined to regain control, he pushed away the emotional aftermath and shifted his attention back to the present, grounding himself in the here and now. “What’s the shortest time allowed for self-destruction?”

“Five minutes,” Friday answered immediately.

“Good, give me a ten-minute warning before they land?” Laoch asked, swinging the bag over his shoulder, sliding the tablet into his vest. He made a mental note to seek earpieces, knowing he could connect them for private communication.

“Of course. Where to?” Friday’s voice stayed flat.

“They have a storage container on sub-level three,” Laoch replied, picking up the rifle. “Based on the files and the fact that this facility hasn’t been destroyed, I want to confirm the contents and ensure they’re destroyed.”

“Why check the container if you self-destruct?”

“The storage container is designed to resist self-destructs,” Laoch said simply. “If destruction is triggered, they can retrieve the samples later. I need to set the self-destruct on the containment storage myself, but I want pictures first. If there’s a computer, I want the files—they’re separate from the main server.”

“Tablet records and shoots. Place it on the computer. I’ll extract files.”

“Will you get in trouble for helping me?” Laoch asked, instead of answering.

“I’m adaptive. Better to beg forgiveness than request permission. I doubt there’ll be consequences.”

“Very well, if you are able to assist, it will make this much easier,” Laoch admitted, approaching the door. He punched the code into the security panel. The door swung open, and he entered. He headed directly for the computer in the corner that emitted a faint hum. Knocking the mouse awake, Laoch placed the tablet on it. He looked around the room, noting that the refrigeration units were still active.

“Turn the tablet. I’ll record. If it’s disposal, I can cut power or… cook the samples.”

“Sure. Can you multitask?” Laoch asked, pulling the tablet out.

“Of course. Set me on the computer. Anything specific I’m searching for?”

Laoch nodded, chewing his lip. “Yeah, serial number 32557038.”

Friday didn’t respond right away, and the pause felt uncomfortable. It was the serial number used for James Barnes in the US Army; over the years, it had been repurposed as a code during his time as the Winter Soldier. For Laoch, that number was inseparable from the trauma and the years spent as a weapon under Hydra’s control. The first time he heard it barked at him in Russian, he’d just woken on a freezing metal table, vision blurry, manacles biting into his wrists, the numbers stencilled on a file thrown at his feet—a name stripped away, a life reduced to a line of digits. Later, he remembered it burned into his skin on cold dog tags, his handler forcing him to recite it again and again until it replaced everything else. Saying it now made sweat break out on the back of his neck, the memory heavy and laced with pain and loss. It was more than just a string of digits; each time he saw or spoke it, it felt like a chain around his throat, dragging old wounds to the surface. The weight of all he had survived pressed against him, hollowing out his trust and warping even the simplest connections to others. That number shaped everything: it haunted his attempts at normalcy and made him hesitate to reach out, convinced that anyone close might only see the weapon, never the man. His voice cracked as he whispered, “Please don’t—I know what it means. I just can’t.”

“Should I check that number elsewhere?”

“Sure. You can also share what you’ve found,” he said, glancing at the tablet.

“Are you sure? I’m loyal to my creator, but he lets me help.”

“Does he know about me?” Laoch asked, staring at the floor.

“He’s a genius, Laoch,” Friday replied, amused. “He probably knows more than anyone expects—and forgets more than he realizes.” Friday’s tone softened. “Boss has watched out for you since you appeared. He won’t capture or detain you. He knows you need this. He says come in when you’re ready—you’ll get your reunion then.”

The implication of permission was overwhelming. Friday had said her creator had been watching him since he appeared, so was it encouragement to do what he was already doing? Did it mean his daughter was safe? Weight lifted, Laoch bowed his head, eyes stinging, and released a slow breath. “Let’s blow this place, Friday, and maybe you can help me plan a false trail for Captain America?”

“Of course. I suggest food and rest. I can plan your route, with plenty of confusion—maybe I’ll send Rogers to Lebanon, Kansas.”

“Why there?” Laoch stood from the chair, only stopping from touching the tablet when Friday spoke again.

“It’s the middle of the country. And it amuses me.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Laoch chuckled and shook his head before agreeing without addressing her question, “Sure, yeah, sleep would be good.”

“Before we leave, and to give you peace of mind, according to the files on record, there were fifteen sperm samples listed under the serial number you provided, all of which are accounted for in the refrigerator.”

It was the best news Laoch had ever received, and twenty-five minutes later, he had a congratulatory smoke from a nearby hiding spot, watching Captain America have a temper tantrum by punching a cement wall, the crack of which could be heard from where Laoch stood. Unsympathetic, he stared at the blond, the memories unravelling and knitting together, making him question if Steve Rogers had ever been his friend at all. Had their friendship, if it could be called that, only ever been a means to an end for Steve—a convenient alliance wrapped in illusion? He vividly remembered telling Howard that he had no use for Stevie, but when had that happened? Was it before the train? Before his life became the nightmare it was? There was a raw ache inside Laoch, a sharp uncertainty about all those years: had he ever truly mattered to the man, or had he only been a weapon, a comrade to be used and discarded? That question lingered heavier than the smoke curling from his fingers, leaving Laoch with a bitterness that no victory could cleanse.

***

July 23, 2012

Antonio Carbonell,

“Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do.” Mark Twain said that, and I never understood, but as I sit here and write you a stupid bloody letter, trying to justify my actions, or inactions regarding you in every avenue, I feel each of those words like lashes upon my back.

Antonio, you’re probably reading this and asking yourself why I’ve done all this. Why I spent so many years working in shadows, keeping secrets from you, and why I am finally telling you the truth now. That is what this letter is. It’s for you, Tony, and it is as much a confession as it is an explanation. I have agonized over writing these words, wondering if you will understand or even forgive me for all the choices I made in the name of your safety. The answer to your question is neither simple nor truly answerable, and even if I offer it, I don’t know how believable it will seem. It feels like a tale of myth, and I’ve lived it. I have lost sleep over the years, rehearsing justifications, and I admit now, I am afraid—afraid that when you know everything, I will lose you for good. Yet I will do my best, though I doubt it will be good. I was charged with a duty to protect you when you were four, after your first kidnapping, and I’ve carried it out to the best of my ability, surrounded by spies and assassins, and hidden sleeper cells that should have met their demise at the end of the war. For years, I wanted to tell you everything, but every path seemed blocked: surveillance, threats against your life, unspeakable risks to those around you, and a Hydra presence I could never fully eliminate. Sometimes, the weight of this burden pressed so hard on my chest that it physically hurt. One wrong word, even in supposed safety, and everything could unravel. Sometimes the silence became its own prison. There were so many nights when I doubted myself, questioning if the lies were truly worth the protection they bought. Yet here we are, surrounded by conspiracy and lies, and I have no defence left. I hope, however small, that there can be understanding after all of this.

That quote I mentioned: this letter is one of those lashes, and the least you deserve. But alas, it’s all I have left, as my time has run out, and approaching me now will net you nothing. For my sins and knowing too much, I know they’ve poisoned me, as they can’t afford to kill me outright for fear of it drawing too much attention. No, they need it to be natural and consistent with old age, so no questions are left behind. The three-headed snake, for once, was efficient and smarter than I gave them credit for, even knowing they survived within S.H.I.E.L.D. under your father’s protection.

I never found out, either for fear of discovery or of confirming a truth I didn’t want to know. Whether he’d worked with them willingly or had been as blind as I. I hope the latter, though with repeated Ghost visits and threats to my life, in exchange for your protection. I hold out little hope; Howard wasn’t at least aware, and as Howard died at the Ghost’s hands, I think I have my answers. (There are audio files confirming that, even if they aren’t understandable, it is clear what happens.)

I have spent decades circling the wagons and doing my best to ensure your protection, all without anyone being aware, and my methods haven’t been ethical or legal, which says nothing for morals. I am the one who created the illusion that your parents died in a car crash, unsure how to explain any of it to you. Your father was found in an interrogation cell on December 10, 1991, with a broken neck, and your mother was found deceased from an overdose at the manor, with a time of death estimated two days before Howard was found, which coincided with his last login at HQ, which was December 8, at 10 pm. I will admit it took me a long time to even consider checking the audio logs, but by then it was too late.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was doomed before it started. The concept and idea behind S.H.I.E.L.D. were, at the time, an ideal and a belief that we were doing right by humanity—the devastation left behind by the war, a horror that haunts those who served. But the thing is, S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t what it was meant to be. It started with good intentions, but the powers that be grew greedy and complacent, believing they were just and right, hoarding knowledge and scientific advancements, which created a breeding ground for other fanatics, or maybe the same, just under a different name.

How can you point at one fanatic versus another and say which is worse? You can’t.

It should have worked. Yet … it took years of realization to understand that we model it after those whom we should have despised, three figureheads indeed. The three of us: Howard, Chester and I, all fight on the same side, we had the same drive to succeed, yet for all of that, the power imbalance was massive. During the construction and building of S.H.I.E.L.D., the misogyny and sexism held against me were overt, even though I had proved myself on a battlefield, I still wasn’t allowed a say that wasn’t second-guessed. Chester had the military’s regard and backing, and Howard… Well, he was the financial backer of the entire idea. S.H.I.E.L.D. was never a government organization, even if we had that designation.

It is, and always has been, a private operation, owned first by Howard, then by Carbonell Inc. Something I know has been lost or hidden, and I just never bothered to question it. Just like I never bothered questioning research grants and secret ops, believing that we all stood for the same thing. I was too blind to see what was in front of my face. Something that I knew I sensed, but was almost too horrified to accept. I spent a good portion afterwards in denial, until I was forced to face it head-on, staring down the barrel of a gun and knife at my throat, staring into the eyes of a man who was declared dead thirty years prior. He knew my name, yet there was no recognition in his eyes, nor did he recognize his own. He knew who you were, though, and he charged me to protect you.

I never found answers to how James Barnes survived a fall from a train in the Alps, nor exactly what had happened to him, beyond a basic overview. I told myself at the time that it was probably better; he didn’t seem to remember another life or identity, but today I can admit it was selfishness. I didn’t want to know. Not with everything else I had already done, but also, a part of me knew it was due to sorrow; the other, to guilt. I would never have been able to save him, and I didn’t deserve to, having failed the duty he charged me with years before.

This folder contains everything I have acquired in the ensuing years. All data points on both of his identities, top generals and base locations, and abstract plans, including the formula of the drug they injected me with. It also contains the information that will make you hate me and curse my name, and if I weren’t already living on borrowed time, I would expect my ghost to show up, because he never wanted this for you, but it was all I could do in my last lucid moments.

With regret, I congratulate you on your promotion to the New Director and Owner of S.H.I.E.L.D Do what you will with it; legally, everything belongs to you, but ensure you strip it of everything before you let it burn to the ground, and raise a glass as you do, because Fuck Howard to hell for doing this to us both.

Love forever,

Peggy Carter

***

Two days had passed since Tony had first read the letter, and even finding a printer and printing it on paper hadn’t changed the outcome, though why he was determined to believe the words would change, he couldn’t say. It felt like the letter was a nightmare he couldn’t wake from, yet he knew it wasn’t. It might not have been Aunt Peggy’s writing, but it was the way she spoke, the semi-formal form of speaking easily translated to words on paper.

Rubbing his eyes, he glanced at Laura, who sat at the other end of the dining table, manipulating the hologram with a little furrow on her brow, and it took a few minutes to realize she’d been trying to talk to him, probably going over the schedule for the day. Tony felt himself flush, and he dropped his gaze, realizing he’d just been staring like a creep. He muttered softly, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, I should have realized you weren’t really listening,” Laura chided gently, tapping the table and minimizing the hologram before she looked at him, “So talk to me, what’s going through your mind?”

“I don’t even know.” Tony muttered, groaning as he buried his head in his hands, curling his fingers into his hair, “I feel like my entire life has been a lie.”

It said a lot that all Laura did was hum noncommittally, and it relaxed him, when before he would have tensed, expecting the worst. Yet it was enough for him to continue speaking, “I had J do a dive into everything, looking for anything with the Carbonell name, and he found out that legally, I have dual citizenship with Italy under the name Antonio Carbonell and have had it since I was five years old.”

Laura tilted her head, hesitating briefly before asking, “How does that translate to your life being a lie?”

Tony lifted his head to stare at her, who returned his gaze evenly, even having the audacity to shrug. “I’m serious, Tony, what have you actually lost with this information?”

“Maybe my very identity?” Tony snapped, “Am I even Tony anymore?”

“Of course you are,” Laura replied, her expression softening as she met his gaze. There was a flicker of understanding in her eyes, and she let out a gentle breath, clearly taking a moment before continuing. “Tony, I can only imagine how much this must shake you. Anyone would feel the ground move beneath them after learning something like this. I get it—even for someone who grew up with secrets and lies, it’s a lot to process. But you’re still you. Peggy made impossibly difficult choices because she was trapped, trying to protect what mattered most, never certain who she could trust. I know what it’s like to be defined by something other than your name. For nine years, I was just a number, not even a person to them. They called me Subject X-23 like I didn’t have a past or a face—just a barcode and a test on a clipboard. Having two names… It might feel overwhelming right now, but maybe, in time, you’ll see it for what it is: another part of you, not a replacement. Everything you’ve experienced, all you’ve done, that’s still yours, Tony. No revelation can take that away.”

Laura reached across the table, placing a steady hand over Tony’s, letting the silence settle. “And you don’t have to carry all of this alone, you know. We’re here. You might have gotten blindsided with secrets, but you have people who see you—all of you—and we’re not going anywhere. Clint, me, and even your AIs. We’re your family, Tony, whether you like it or not.”

Clint nodded from his seat across the table, voice quiet but unwavering. “Yeah, it’s not just your name that matters, but the life you’ve built with us. We’ve got your back.”

Feeling like a heel, Tony dropped his eyes to the table time, eyes skimming the file names, still unable to read any of them, never mind listening to the audio recordings, though he knew the two humans and AIs had. “So what do you suggest I do?”

“Do you want an honest answer?” Laura asked curiously.

“Of course I do,” Tony answered, lifting his head, running his hands through his hair. Shrugging a little uncomfortably, he blew out a breath, “I might be a certified genius, but I’m honestly feeling out of my depth. I can’t bother Rhodey with this, not while he’s stationed overseas, and well…” He shrugged again, “You know the whole Pepper sob story, so besides my AIs, who else am I going to trust, Laura?” Feeling his eyes burn at his honesty, he forced himself to swallow, “I’ve been alone for what feels like my entire life, I don’t have friends except you guys.”

“Tony…” Laura started, but Tony shook his head and spoke over her, voice tight with emotion.

“I never had an interest in knowing Howard’s business dealings with S.H.I.E.L.D., and while I’m grateful for Aunt Peggy’s…” He trailed off, losing focus as he wasn’t sure if he was grateful or not, the guilt at that raising its head, “never mind that, I just, I never wanted to be involved. I wasn’t a spy, and didn’t want to be; all I ever wanted was to invent and build things. Now I find out that everything I thought I knew growing up and beyond was built around this concept that a man believed to be dead has been maneuvering some of the most powerful people around on a chessboard, all while under an evil organization’s control, and that my dad had a hand in keeping him there, just to protect me? It seems too unbelievable to be true.”

“What do you think of the concept of Soulmates?” Laura asked curiously, and smiled at the blank look on Tony’s face, nodding encouragingly, “Humour me.”

“I feel like you’re expecting me to scoff, just because I’m more scientifically inclined,” Tony muttered, dropping his eyes to the table top, “but the romantic in me would like to believe it was possible, though I’d be more inclined to accept a love chosen together, than destiny saying we’re meant to be.”

“As would most, and for humans that is often the case, though speculation for that reasoning isn’t really important, but for mutants, it’s unfortunately somewhat different.” Laura paused for a moment, as if weighing how much to share. “The mechanics of soulmates aren’t the same for everyone. Most humans might never meet a soulmate, or they might find someone compatible and choose love together. For us, for mutants, it’s… different. The bond is a constant underlying thread. Our souls find each other in nearly every generation, regardless of distance or circumstance, sometimes even oblivious to conscious choice. There are records of pairs reuniting life after life; sometimes it works out, sometimes it’s a tragedy. Given how few of us there are compared to humans, the odds seem impossible, yet somehow, soulmates find their way together more often than not. Some believe the X-gene pulls us toward each other, a kind of resonance, as if our powers and our souls are tangled up in the same frequency. There are even a few who think it’s a biological imperative, something that helps our kind survive trauma—finding each other makes us stronger, more likely to endure what the world throws at us. Let me give you an example: in the community, we talk about Ada and Mateo. She was a hydrokinetic healer from the early 1800s; he, a telepath, living in hiding. Despite being born continents apart, both were drawn to a small city on the edge of war and found each other by sheer coincidence through shared dreams. The story goes that when Ada died protecting Mateo from discovery, she recognized his soul instantly when she met his next incarnation fifty years later, in a hospital where she worked under a new name. Even though neither had memories at first, they were drawn together by instinct. There are legends like that among us—some written in private diaries, others only whispered between those who believe. And for every story of reunion, there’s one where soulmates miss each other by minutes, or fail to recognize the bond until it’s too late. Even if our history has proven that some souls would be better if they didn’t.”

Laura leaned in slightly, her gaze steady. “For people like you and James, if you are soulmates, it means your connection would go deeper than just chance or even choice. It would explain how both of you keep circling back to the same questions, how you feel the echoes of each other’s pain and hope. The existence of a soulmate bond could be the thread that keeps pulling your lives together, no matter what Hydra or anyone else tries to do. It isn’t about destiny making things easy—it means the scars run deeper, the pull is stronger, and that even after everything, there’s a chance to build trust and healing from something that started lifetimes ago. Whatever it looks like for you both, it matters.”

Laura admitted softly, then tapped the table, pulling up a picture of James Barnes and enlarging it to hang in front of Tony. “James Barnes wasn’t enhanced before he went to war, Tony, but Charles agrees with me, the effects of the Super Serum altered his DNA, either activating or giving him the X-gene, or something like it. If that’s the case, he may recognize in you what his soul already knows.”

Tony snorted, glancing at the picture, before swiping it away, unable to contemplate the idea of it, “You think James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is my soulmate?”

“I think the possibility is there, because the only other explanation is magical, Tony.” Laura said firmly, glaring at him when he opened his mouth to argue, “No, just listen, Volya was very insistent that James knew, that he made a deal before he shipped off to war, though she won’t explain who he made a deal with, it still stands to reason he knew – somehow – of the possibility.”

“Even if I believed that any of this could be true, if he knew beforehand, then why did he fall off the train? Why did Hydra capture him? Why has it taken over forty years to meet? Why has he let himself be tortured for over seventy years?” Tony demanded rapid fire and only realized he was crying when he wiped his face as Laura’s face blurred before his eyes. Laura reached across the table, squeezing his hand gently, thumb pressing reassurance into his skin. Her touch was steady and grounding, silent understanding offered without judgment, the kind of support that needed no words between them.

A bittersweet smile appeared on Laura’s face. She reached across the table, grabbing his hand, “It’s true, if he knew, he could have potentially changed any number of things, but for the sake of argument, what if he knew the only way he’d get to meet you was by letting it play out as destiny intended? Isn’t that a choice he made to prove he wants this?” When Tony didn’t respond, Laura pushed a little, adding, surprisingly gently, “The man’s been protecting you for over forty years, Tony, that tells me something about his beliefs, and I think you know that too.”

“While I conceded that he’s apparently been protecting me, he isn’t my soulmate.” Feeling tears burn his throat, Tony swallowed, “I wouldn’t be worth such a gift-”

“Volya secretly calls you papa, Tony.” Laura’s voice was blunt and unyielding as she lifted her head to meet his eyes, a fire burning in her gaze as if daring Tony to argue with her, “Dad said she knew who you were and called you papa before they landed at the farm.”

“You’re gonna scare him away, before I even get my future, stop it.”

Tony blinked in surprise, remembering the whisper of Volya’s voice echoing in his head as she reprimanded Logan when the older man had scented him. The memory made him swallow, and he averted his gaze, trying to hide the visceral ache of joy that flooded him at the idea she wanted to be his daughter, and he wanted nothing more than to run to the mansion and bring her home. The idea scared the shit out of him. Why was he even entertaining this line of thinking? What did he know of raising a child? What right did he have to think that James Barnes would even accept him raising his daughter? It was unthinkable that any of this was real. Tony just didn’t get the things he wanted; he didn’t deserve them, not with the blood on his hands.

“Tony?” Clint spoke hesitantly, having moved to stand behind Laura.

The genius blinked, eyes focusing on the room, and he flushed at the look they gave him, telling him without words he’d gotten lost inside his head. Clearing his throat, Tony tried to remove the knot in his throat. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“I do.” Laura said, like it was simple, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, “We finish up here, and you join us at the mansion and have a talk with a little girl.”

“I- no, I can’t do that,” Tony protested, vehemently shaking his head. “I have no right-”

“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr.Roger’s is calling.” Jarvis interrupted.

Heaving a sigh, Tony groaned, “Of course he is.” He glanced at the couple across from him; both of them shrugged, leaving it up to him. Sighing again, he twirled his fingers in the air, “audio only, J.”

It took a second for the call to connect, Steve’s voice rough and tight, exhaustion bleeding through the air, “Tony?”

“What’s up?” Tony replied, shifting in the chair and reaching for the bag of homemade trail mix and swung his legs up onto the table, dropping a handful into his mouth.

“Oh, not much, been busy,” Steve replied, the soft rustle coming through the call indicating he was waving someone off. “You? Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Living the life,” Tony replied dryly, speaking around a mouthful, “saving lives, cleaning up messes, not that you’d know what that is.”

The silence was deafening, and Tony couldn’t help but take sadistic pleasure out of it, easily envisioning the twisted expression on Steve’s face.

“I’m helping people.” Steve protested, voice tight with anger.

“Huh?” Tony muttered and tilted his head even though Steve couldn’t see it, “Doesn’t look like it from here, you know, where I’ve been waiting for a call to assist.”

“That’s why I’m calling,” Steve pounced on the opening, like Tony knew he would, “We-Sam, Tasha, and I are hitting up Hydra cells, cleaning them out, but recently ran into an issue.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tony said flatly, not even pretending to fake it, “Not much I can do about it after the fact, Stevo. Maybe if you’d called before hitting them…”

“Tony,” Steve ground out, the exasperated edge to his tone pulling a smile from Tony, “I’m calling you now.”

“Alright…” Tony drew the word out. “Where are we going, and how long do I have to get ready? I’ll have to rearrange meetings and whatnot.”

The silence again was amusing, and he glanced at Clint, who was grinning wildly, pressing a kiss to Laura’s head as he moved into the kitchen and pulled out a mug, and then turned, glancing at Tony, raising a questioning eyebrow. Tony nodded, swinging his legs to the ground, as Clint brought his mug to the island and set it down just as Steve spoke, with a slight bewilderment in his tone.

“We’re a- not going anywhere right now, we just got back, and I was hoping you could help,” Steve muffled the phone, the thump of something coming through before Steve’s voice came back, “I need to talk to Clint, and was hoping you had his number.”

Tony glanced at Clint, who grimaced and shook his head. “I would love to help,” Tony replied cheerfully, “but I haven’t seen Clint since before your data-dump.”

“That’s a lie.” Steve snapped, voice cold and angry, “I thought you said you wanted to help.”

“Why do you think it’s a lie?” Tony asked curiously, nodding his thanks when Clint filled the mug.

“Because I know he arrived at the tower two days ago,” Steve growled, “I watched him enter the elevator.”

“Did you?” Tony drawled silkily, hearing the desperate movement from the other side of the call, “Funny, I didn’t know you were there, and J knows to alert me of anyone suspicious entering my building.”

“What- I’m not suspicious, and I didn’t enter, I just watched it.” Steve sputtered, offended at the accusation.

Feeling a self-satisfied smile slide across his face, Tony twirled his fingers, “Give’er ‘Costa, and grab the files they already have too.”

“What are you talking about, Tony? I just called for help, assistance… I was hoping you could provide the information you’re gathering from the hit Hydra bases.”

Tony frowned, “I’m not hitting any Hydra bases, Steve.”

“You have to be!” Steve protests, half-desperate, half-angry, “There isn’t anyone else that would have a reason, and I need that information.”

“Sorry,” Tony said, sounding not the least bit sorry. “But if you just watched Clint’s arrival, then you also know I haven’t left the tower to do anything but my very public job in months.”

“You’re lying!” Steve growled, voice getting abrasive, “You’re hoarding-”

There was a sound of something opening in the background, followed by a muffled, “No! No! Stop! What’s going on? Steve!” The phone fell to the floor, the voice coming through clearly, and Tony relaxed against the island, satisfaction rolling off his frame as Natasha’s voice suddenly overlapped Sam’s. “No, I don’t- Fuck! fuck! What did you say?! I lost it- the recording, Clint was just asking Jarvis for S.H.I.E.L.D. files on all of us, and then the computer glitched! It’s dead.”

“Well, get it back!” Steve demanded harshly, “Or pull it up on Sam’s, we need to know what’ they’re talking about.”

A breathless laugh echoed from the phone, “Steve, my laptop’s dead too.”

“I thought you said Stark’s products wouldn’t just die!” Steve growled, a sound so heavy and unnatural it was loud. “It’s why we’re using them, better security and all that?”

“They don’t, so what did you say to Tony?” Natasha demanded again, then fell silent, but not the silence of the call dropping, and a second later, Natasha’s voice spoke into the phone. “What did you do, Tony?”

“What makes you think I did anything, Natalia?” Tony replied playfully, amusement dancing in his tone at the hitch in her voice. “Wouldn’t it be a better question to ask what Steve said?”

Natasha sighed tiredly, “I needed that information, Tony.”

“Did you?” Tony asked mockingly, “That’s a shame.”

The slight inhale was the only sign that Natasha gave out before she covered the phone and snapped, “Go for a fucking walk, Steve. Why would you do that, Tony?” Natasha asked after the door slammed, its echo loud through the call.

“Oh, I don’t know. Why did you think it was acceptable to spy on me in my home, Natalia?” Tony responded, bitterly, “You know, considering we’re supposed to be teammates and all that bullshit.” Tony let out a harsh laugh, “Oh, but we’re not, are we? You saw to that, Iron Man, yes, Tony Stark, not recommended. Isn’t that right?”

Natasha stayed silent for a long moment, and Tony shook his head, biting back bitterness welling inside him, and sighed, not sure why he expected something different. “I’m trying to help Steve find his friend, Tony. We need the information we gathered from the Hydra bases.”

Tony sputtered, “his friend? His friends are gone, or nearly.”

“No, Steve’s convinced the guy he fought is Bucky,” Natasha protested, “He thinks they did something to him, and we found information in the files that supported that idea.”

“Well, if it’s his friend, Bucky, then where is he?” Tony asked curiously, “You’d think if it were the Bucky Barnes, he’d be all about a reunion with his bestest buddy?”

Nastasha exhaled harshly, the sound of a body hitting leather muffled. “We don’t know. I had leads pointing to several locations, but they turned out to be duds, so we decided to hit Hydra bases, hoping for another direction.”

Tony tilted his head, considering ideas before narrowing his eyes, “I’ll have a laptop delivered sometime tomorrow.”

“Thank-you, Tony.” Natasha breathed, then ruined it by asking, “Will you share the files?”

“Guess you’re going to have to wait and find out, aren’t you?” Tony said, shrugging unconcerned.

“Okay,” She whispered, injecting regret into her tone, “If you can, I would really appreciate it. I want to do this for Steve.”

“Nat?” Tony asked, voice turning hard.

“Yes.”

“Don’t fucking spy on me again, you’ll like my response even less next time,” Tony ordered and gestured at J’s camera, who cut the call. He hung his head, breathing in for a minute, “Get a laptop set up and sent over J, add random files – none of James’ time as the Winter Soldier, I don’t want them knowing I have them, but you can drop base locations, especially if he’s already hit them.”

“Of course, Sir,” Jarvis replied, adding with a touch of amusement, “I have a couple of ideas, if you have no objections to me being a bit of a troll.”

“Obviously, I don’t, troll away, buddy.” Tony agreed, laughing at the camera, “But make sure to go through the files you grabbed from them, I wanna know exactly what they hid.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Clint asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Nope!” Tony chirped, knocking the coffee back like the heat didn’t bother him, but met Clint’s eyes dead on, “But I’m going with it, J, start an investigation into the hospice home, Aunt Peggy’s in, and lets rope in Bruce and Doctor Cho to see if they can break down the formula of the drug and figure out if it’s reversible.”

“I’ve already done that, Sir,” Jarvis stated simply, “I’ve also made arrangements to have Ms.Carter moved, given you are her primary Power of Attorney, Medical Proxy and next of kin.” There was a pause. “I am still looking into the reason you’ve not been contacted concerning her care.”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and speculate that’s Fury’s doing,” Tony muttered peevishly, and rubbed a hand down his face, “Think he knows I actually own, S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“Considering he has access to Ms.Carter’s will, which states it clearly, yes,” Jarvis offered freely, “It was classified for obvious reasons, but he had a copy of it, though it doesn’t appear he attempted to modify it.”

“Get everything we have to…” He trails off with a frown, muttering under his breath, “I’m going to need a different set of lawyers separate from SI, fuck. Alright, okay, get me everything you can on corporate, military, and federal law, then put out feelers for who might be the best to clear Barnes when he comes in, someone that specializes in POW, brainwashing scenarios ideally.”

Clint choked on a cough and just stared at Tony, “You’re…” and shook his head in confusion, “I don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“Me either,” Tony snorted with a shrug, “But apparently it involves getting a crash course in all types of law. Enough to write the bar exam three times over, and hopefully I can weed out the good lawyers S.H.I.E.L.D had and rehire them.”

“But why?” Laura asked, face matching her husband’s confusion.

Tony drew in a breath and rolled his shoulders before flicking his eyes between the two of them, “A whole bunch of reasons that make no logical sense, because I know I should just salt the earth now. But there’s this voice, like the one I heard after learning about Obie, that is demanding to know why I didn’t catch this? Why didn’t I know? But honestly, mostly because I’m pissed at Aunt Peggy for not doing more, and I know that’s irrational and unfair. I’m pissed that my dad had a hand in creating this. I’m infuriated that Fury hid this from me and tried to blackmail me into working as a consultant – a free one, by the way. He wasn’t even interested in pretending they would pay me.” Tony shoved off the island and started pacing, pulling angrily at his hair. “Fury knew I was fucking dying, and still held a cure for Pallidum over my head for months, then acted like he was doing me a favour by ‘finding’ dear old dad’s stuff in storage. It couldn’t have been the only thing he found, and he had to have known a fraction of what we found; he was director for a decade. You can’t convince me he didn’t know about Barnes, and he left him there, under Hydra’s control. A war hero, and apparently the longest-running POW, and Fury did NOTHING!”

He stopped pacing for a moment, his gaze sharpening. “But that ends now. I’m not going to just stand here cursing the past. Jarvis, start pulling up everything we have on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s legal structure and known associates. I want a list of every asset, every program still running. I’m going to start cleaning house. If someone wants this legacy, they’re going to have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands.” Tony squared his shoulders and looked at Laura and Clint with a newfound resolve flickering behind his exhaustion. “They want a Stark to take the blame? Fine. But I’ll be the one to fix it.” Tony stopped, and a hard light entered his gaze. “Sitting here being angry isn’t enough. I can’t let S.H.I.E.L.D. keep rotting from within. Someone has to take control and clean it out properly this time. Whether that means shutting it down entirely or rebuilding it from the ground up. I’m not going to let anyone keep using it for their own secrets and power plays. And Barnes—” he hesitated, determination sharpening his tone “—Barnes gets a chance at a life, no more running or hiding. If that means tracking down every last file and making sure nothing Hydra touched survives in that organization, then that’s what I’m going to do. I owe it to him, and to everyone else they used. I won’t just inherit the mess—I’ll fix it, even if it means making enemies out of everyone who let it fester in the first place.”

The tirade left Tony feeling raw and exposed, the weight of all he’d said pressing in on him until the anger drained away, leaving only exhaustion. He stopped pacing, suddenly aware of how tight his chest felt and how badly his hands were shaking. Swallowing hard, he pressed his palms to the countertop, head bowed, as the burning in his eyes threatened to spill over. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing through it all, too tired to pretend any of it didn’t hurt him. Tony drew a somewhat calming breath and continued with less bite.

“He had to know about the double dealings and about the setup that made it appear as if the Winter Soldier had killed my parents. If he didn’t, he had to have questioned why agents went missing, only to have their deaths written off a year later with no investigation. I’m angry that something that should have been right and good was infected, and no one did anything about it. I hate that Cap blew it open without discussing it, that none of them considered the consequences, and that they put people that I, apparently and unknowingly, am responsible for at risk. Agents and innocents who died because they hid this. Do you know how easy it would have been to find this years ago, if they’d told me? How different would it have been if I’d been in the know? Hell, if they’d approached it, honestly, I might have been willing to be the unnamed benefactor.” He shrugged and blew out a breath, “But mostly, because my father touched it, tainted it, attaching my name to more blood and horror than is right, and I have to fix it. I have to fix it, make it better than it was, because it’s mine.” Finally, he ground out, “it’s mine, and I should have been told.”

Arms enveloped him from both sides, and he sank into the care they offered, uncaring that he was crying. Wiping his eyes, Tony drew in a shaky breath, “I owe it to all those who died without a thought by those in power, who did nothing to protect them. We’re supposed to be better than those who came before us…” Tony trailed off and swallowed, “There’s a quote by Robin Sharma, ‘Stop being a prisoner of your past. Become the architect of your future.’ I’ve been trying to do that since I first got shrapnel in my chest from one of my bombs, yet something always happens, and I’m confronted with the fact that I’m still a prisoner of my past.”

“So what’s the answer?” Clint asked softly, pressing his head against Tony’s.

“I break the lock,” Tony whispered, “and set myself free.”

“How do you do that?” Laura prompted, as if she already knew, and she probably did, having reviewed everything they’d already found.

Sighing, Tony pulled away, scrubbing at his face, “Arrange a meeting with Maria Hill, and Phil Coulson, they want a job and access to S.H.I.E.L.D. resources, they’re working for me.”

Laura regarded him critically and silently for a minute, before bending over her tablet, a smirk playing on her lips, as Clint drew in a deep breath, the simmering anger at Phil’s name indicating words would be had in the future, but that was alright, Tony tuned them out when they started talking quietly between themselves, already prompting Jarvis to start the file with his mind, thankful when neither called him on it. That was still one thing that had to be addressed, though he suspected Laura had informed Clint about Extremis, because the Archer would have to be aware of how lost Tony could get if he got trapped inside technology now.

It was eerie how he knew the audio file had started, yet there was no sound, until a door slammed open, and the heavy thud of boots, and the rustling of a chain filled the kitchen, and Tony sank into a chair, losing himself to the recording.

***

Chapter Six

The Asset was led into a windowless room, lit by a single overhead lamp. The harsh bulb buzzed above, casting long shadows across concrete and filling the space with an incessant hum. The door thudded shut behind him with a metallic clang. The heavy chain scraped and rattled around his wrists, the cold metal biting his skin. He didn’t resist, instead scanning the room, absorbing muffled footsteps on linoleum, a guard’s distant cough, the sharp chemical tang of disinfectant, and the musty undertone of sweat and old paper. His gaze moved from soldier to handler to scientist—eight soldiers, two handlers, four scientists—before settling on a newcomer with a familiar sharp scent beneath the sterile air. He kept his breathing steady, focusing on the rhythmic pen click behind him and someone adjusting a clipboard. He knew anything different meant danger.

As the man sat, the Asset felt a jolt of recognition but kept his face impassive, waiting for more information. Letting his captors think he was controlled usually proved effective. The man’s cruel smirk as he asked, “No hello for an old friend?” did not move him.

“The Asset does not have friends.” The Asset, or something else, replied, keeping his voice monotone.

“Hmmm…” the man hummed, leaning forward and propping his head in his hands. He asked, “Are you sure about that?”

That made the Asset pause, eyes flickering with confusion, before he nodded, “Da.”

“Do you know why you’re here?” the man asked, taking a folder from the scientist. When the Asset didn’t reply, the man frowned. “I pride myself on creating the best. You weren’t my typical project, but you’re one of my better weapons. I don’t like malfunctions.”

“The Asset is in working condition.” The Asset replied, keeping his attention dead ahead, even as he felt the tension rise in the room.

“No, you’re not. Something’s wrong, and I’ve been called in since recalibration failed.” The man flipped open the folder and slammed it on the table, startling several people. “These are failed mission reports. I want to know why.”

“The Asset does not fail.” The words came out colder and sharper. Eyes trained on the reflection of a guard pacing behind him, the guard turned, putting his back to the Asset each time. Double-knife combo strapped to his thigh.

“But you did,” the man growled, reading from a list in the folder.

“June 17, 1975 – Objective: infiltrate and remove target to secure location.

October 13, 1977 – Objective: remove the target to a secondary location, then to a third, and send a ransom notice. Physical harm to the target is acceptable.

November 29, 1980 – Objective: obtain the target. Physical harm to the target is acceptable. No witnesses.

May 5, 1981 – Objective: eliminate both targets – no witnesses.

March 13, 1983 – Objective: eliminate target, no witnesses, no mess.

August 31, 1987 – Objective: Mass Bombing, primary target Science Center MIT, non-targets acceptable losses.”

June 11, 1988 – Objective: infiltrate and eliminate target – no witnesses.

February 13, 1990 – Objective: infiltrate/secure target, incapacitate, then eliminate target – no witnesses.

Dec 13, 1991 – Objective: assassinate target, no witnesses, remove case from trunk.”

Both the Asset and the ‘other’ pulled back, tilting their head in confusion. “The Asset did not fail. It is not possible to claim failure when dates do not coincide with reality.”

The man blinked rapidly, as if trying to process, his mouth opening and closing in confusion. “What?”

“It is impossible to claim failure for an assignment I was not sent on, because it is currently December 8th, 1991.” The Asset replied evenly.

The man slammed his fist onto the table, then pointed at him. “So, that is your mission objective: Eliminate Anthony Edward Stark – no witnesses.”

“Anthony Stark – Level Nine threat Assessment – Do Not Engage,” The Asset replied, “Unable to comply.”

The man sputtered and spun in the chair, gesturing to the handler, who shrugged, “Your son has not been given a Threat Assessment, Howard, but do you now understand why you’ve been called in?”

Howard glared, then recoiled, face gone pale, as if something in the air shifted. Instantly, the Asset’s posture relaxed, shoulders uncoiling as a strange, almost feral composure settled over him. Something sharp broke through the haze inside—a surge of clarity flooding the mind once submerged and chained. It was not new, but ancient, rooted deeper than Hydra’s programming. Cold logic and obedience slipped away, replaced by an older presence, forged in war and survival long before memory wipes. Brief flashes shot through: summer grass under boots, no, that was paws, laughter around a winter fire, a warm weight pressed against his side, before it shifted in a voice familiar, “Fen, please, none of them will listen to me,” morphed into a brother’s voice, tight with fatigue and pain—“Buck, get up, we have to keep moving.” This voice lived deeper than pain, below commands burned in his mind. This wasn’t just the Asset’s mask falling, but the self shaped by memory and will. A long-locked door swung open, revealing a pulse of identity untouched by programming—fierce, stubborn, and his own. Triggered by Howard’s words, the threat to Stark, and the edge in the room, that person stepped forward. A flicker passed behind his eyes, colder and more focused, as a knowing grin pulled at his mouth. Bitter adrenaline and defiance mixed with memory as the part who called himself Laoch surfaced. Something unmistakable sparked in the room. The others exchanged uneasy glances; the Asset was gone. Laoch commanded the space, his presence looser but sharper than before.

“Who are you?” Howard asked, his hand pressed to his chest.

Laoch offered a cold smile, hearing the increased heart rate, and said, “No one you need be concerned with.”

“I do if you’re inside my experiment.” Howard snapped angrily.

“I’ll talk to you, and you alone.” Amused, Laoch lifted an eyebrow, shifting his weight, “Got a cigarette? It’s been a few years since my last one.”

It was fascinating to watch the thought process cross Howard’s face, and he saw twenty seconds before he opened his mouth that Howard took the bait and snapped his fingers at the handler, “Get him a fucking cigarette, and then everyone can leave.”

“From an unopened pack,” Laoch ordered. He shrugged at the looks he received. “You’re keeping me captive. How do I know you haven’t poisoned one?”

“You shouldn’t be alone with him,” the handler protested.

“You want an answer, or not?” Howard demanded, “Get us coffee too.”

Glowering, the Handler pointed to a soldier, “Get him a pack and a coffee.”

“No coffee needed. Just get Twiddledee to hand over the pack in his right pocket, next to the vodka he sipped in the last twenty-five minutes,” Laoch said dryly. The man flushed, tossed the pack on the table, and left. Another, fuming, followed. The rest trickled out, leaving only the handler and the double-knife guy.

Grinning, Laoch took the pack, unwrapped the plastic, and pulled out a cigarette. He glared at the chain restraining his hands. With a sharp jerk, he broke it, freeing himself from the table, and pointed at the double-knife soldier, “Give me a lighter.”

The double-knife guy complied, eyes wide as he stared at him dumbly, but Laoch ignored him. Lighting the smoke and inhaling deeply, he settled more comfortably in the chair.

“That was vibranium chains,” Howard whispered, staring at him aghast.

The Handler cleared his throat. “Stark?”

“Get out,” Howard demanded, waiting until the door snapped shut, pointing at the chain. “How did you do that?”

“The bolts are titanium,” Laoch replied flatly. He waved his still-chained hands. “Technically, I’m still restrained.”

“How much can you actually lift?” The mutter was soft, but Howard wasn’t even paying attention, bending over the file as if searching for the information, “I know you were tested when we injected you with the serum, but I don’t know if they did any after that.”

Chuckling, Laoch shook his head, “Why would I tell you that?”

“Because you have to, Asset.” Howard snapped, lifting his head to glare at him, “When the trigger words are spoken…”

“But I’m not the Asset, Howie, am I?” Howard grimaced at the nickname, making Laoch grin and blow out a puff of smoke. “Didn’t you just demand to know who I am?”

“Then who are you?” Howard gritted out, hand gripping the file and crinkling it.

“What you made,” Laoch replied. “You should have buried me in the Alps instead of creating your own personal ghost story. I’ve been haunting you this entire time.” His gaze stayed fixed and cold, and after a moment, the silence thickened. “Did you ever wonder what it cost to refashion a dying soldier into something not quite man, not quite myth? Frostbitten and broken, lost beneath snow, and when they dragged me out, they stitched me back together with stolen science and darker intent. I remember the pain, the stolen pieces, the men who whispered that I could be anything they wanted.” He leaned in slightly, a sharp glint in his eye. “You didn’t just build a weapon, Howard. You finished what monsters started.”

“There is no way you remember that.” The denial was instant and immediate. The sweat dotted Howard’s forehead, and his heart rate increased. “The memory suppression would have burnt all that out.”

“Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t,” Laoch replied, shrugging his shoulders. He finished his cigarette and put it out on the table. “But I definitely know I didn’t voluntarily offer to work with Nazis. That’s all you, a traitor to your country.”

“You’re the one killing them.” Howard snapped hatefully.

“Am I?” Laoch asked curiously, “Or am I just the gun being pointed to shoot?”

Howard glared at him, but didn’t respond. Laoch calmly knocked out another smoke and lit it, taking a much slower drag. “Aren’t you proud of your creation? It’s what you wanted Stevie to be, isn’t it?”

“NO! Steve was perfect! He was beautiful and loyal, the ideal and vision. Steve was ten times the man you ever were, faggot.” Howard hissed, spit flying.

“Is that because you wanted him to bend you over your station?” A feral grin crossed Laoch’s face. He blew another puff of smoke out. “Or did you repress that memory of your fumbling and jealousy when he kept flirtin’ with that dame?”

“HOW DO YOU REMEMBER THIS?” The question was roared, the scent of fear permeating the air, “This isn’t possible.”

“Why isn’t it possible?” Laoch asked curiously, “It was a hypothesis, and I was your only test subject that survived.”

“Because James Barnes is dead!” Howard snapped, “And you were created in his place, a tool and nothing more.”

“Barnes never really existed,” Laoch said, amused, “It’s just the name I was born with, I’ve been Laoch longer than I’ve been anyone else, even with the mindwipes.”

Howard frowned, shaking his head in confusion, “That’s not possible.”

A dark, humour-filled chuckle left Laoch as he put out his cigarette, forming a neat pile of butts. He toyed with the pack, fingers tapping. “Considering I’m sitting here, talking with all my faculties intact, it is possible,” he said. “In fact, I was already a tool chosen for a purpose before you. You simply finished the process. The Asset is skilled, yes, but do you know what I am, Howie?”

Howard jerked his head, hands tightening into fists on the table, voice cracking as he spoke, “No…”

“Perfection.” Laoch breathed, whipping the knife he’d stolen, slashing out and slicing across Howard’s chest, rising from the chair, hands free from the chains, flinging the other knife into the metal of the door, jamming it shut. A self-satisfied smirk crossed his face as a thin line of blood welled up through the ruined fabric of Howard’s shirt, and he leaned a hip against the table, “Now, answer me this, Howie, if you’re so invested in killing your son, why not do it yourself?”

Gasping, Howard gripped his chest, eyes wide with disbelief, “What?”

“If I wanted you dead, you would be,” Snorting, Laoch knocked a cigarette free and lit it, blowing out a ring of smoke, “It was a flesh wound, get over yourself.”

“But why?” The bewilderment in Howard’s tone made Laoch pause his inhale and tilt his head.

“Why what?” Laoch prodded, “Why didn’t I kill? Why would I want to? Why do I exist?”

Howard licked his lips, eyes darting around the room, finally seeming aware that he was alone with him. A full-body shiver ran over him as his eyes landed on the knife, wedged to the hilt at an angle that made it impossible to force the door open. “If you’ve existed all this time, why now, why wait?”

“For reasons you could never understand, and I don’t care to explain,” Laoch shrugged, exhaling the smoke, “I’ve waited almost sixty years; I can wait a bit more. I know your son’s not ready yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you continuously try and hurt him.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped Howard, and he shook his head, “You’re doing this for Anthony?”

“Of course,” Laoch agreed, and settled fully on the table, pushing the pile of cigarettes to the side, “You see, I’ve known of Antonińska for decades, he was a possibility promised to me, in exchange for his protection,” He waved a hand around the room and shrugged, blowing out a puff of smoke, “I knew when Stevie ordered me on the train mission what would happen, it’s why I agreed to allow this all to happen.”

A choking noise escaped Howard, face twisting into something like jealousy and disbelief, “You’re saying he’s your soulmate.”

“No, he’s my choice. Destiny may have intertwined our souls, but it remains to be seen if he’ll choose me back,” Laoch explained, flicking ash off the cigarette, “I’d never force him to do anything.”

Breathless laughter, cold and disbelieving, shook Howard’s body as he glared at Laoch, “Even if you were free, the little welp doesn’t deserve-”

The concussion on his flesh hand hitting Howard’s face was every bit as satisfying as Laoch expected. He grinned savagely when the older man spat out a mouthful of blood, fear bleeding out of his eyes and onto his face, “You-you can’t kill me, Ant-anthony won’t thank you for it. You have to let me go.”

“That is my risk to take,” Laoch agreed easily, “But I think that by the time we do meet, he’ll have learnt all your secrets, Howie. Can you imagine how proud he’ll be to know you’re Frankenstein? A creator of monsters, nightmares, and ghost stories that haunt the halls of S.H.I.E.L.D. The Agency, you helped create but don’t even own… I’ve been working for decades to bring you down, and now that it’s here within my grasp, knowing I have no hope that you’ll truly pay for your crimes if you survive. Do you really think I’d let you go?”

“They’ll kill you!” Howard protested, trying to scuttle the chair bolted to the floor, and ended up tumbling out of it. He scrambled across the floor till his back was pressed to the wall.

“They could try,” Laoch agreed, flashing a feral grin, “But the thing they’ve kept from you is they’ve tried, and they fail every single time, so they stick me in storage, and thaw me out when they need the impossible accomplished.”

“What are you, some kind of mutant freak?” Howard demanded, or attempted, though his fear permeated the air, indicating he was trying to rationalize a reason for what was happening.

“I’m so much more,” Laoch allowed, tossing the still-lit cigarette towards Howard, smirking as the older man flinched like it was a bomb being tossed at him. “Laoch is Gaelic, meaning warrior, hero, and champion, and when I was given this opportunity, my benefactor offered me selective gifts, ones I can only touch as Laoch.”

He paused, something dark and secret flickering in his eyes. “And before you ask, why did my benefactor pick me?” Laoch shrugged, “If I knew, I don’t remember, so maybe it was a kind of experiment, or maybe they saw a piece of themselves in a man already broken into fragments.” He let out a low chuckle, voice rough with memory. “They said I could carry what others would not, that I wasn’t chosen for purity, but for endurance and defiance. In the end, maybe I was just the only one left who could hold the burden and not shatter.”

He slid off the table, stalking towards the man cowering on the floor. “You should have figured that out when no one busted in here,” he went on, waving a hand around the room. “Because, right now, we’re trapped in a minor pocket of space and time where reality folds in on itself. No sound escapes, no one will remember we were ever here, and the rules of the outside world simply pause. Nothing and no one can break in until I choose. There is no one here to rescue you, or save you, no one will listen to the audio files because they’ve already forgotten it exists.”

He regarded Howard for a lingering moment, a faint amusement sparking in his eyes. “My benefactor, Mr.Sataer, isn’t your run-of-the-mill magician. His magic and abilities are beyond your understanding. Just know that they shared it with me. I haven’t just bent reality; it catalogues it, stores moments away, locking them out of the timeline’s reach. But don’t get too hopeful. Even Mr.Saeter’s power has its limits—time can be folded, yes, but never truly erased, and every closed room like this comes at a cost.”

“So what? You’re going to torture me to death?” Howard sneered, spitting another mouthful of blood from his mouth, missing his boot.

“And become you?” Laoch asked, amused, before shaking his head, kneeling lazily in front of Howard, elbows on his knees, “Wolves don’t play with their food, Howard, so it’ll be quick and painless, which is less than you deserve, but justice will be done.”

“NO! I don’t, I don’t.” Howard kicked out, but Laoch calmly grabbed the leg, immobilizing it without damaging him, and grabbed his chin, forcing eye contact.

“You spent decades devising ways to torture me, ripping memories, feelings and emotions from my mind and body, because you’re a jealous repressed prick who couldn’t accept that the person he was in love with was not only male, but thought himself in love with me, even after he thought I was dead.” Laoch growled low, “I got news for you, Howie. Steve was a means to an end. I could barely stand the self-righteous pretentious shit as a kid, never mind as an adult, so he was all yours, Howie. I wouldn’t have touched Stevie with another man’s dick.” He leaned forward, a cruel twist forming on his lips, “Though, here’s another thought to plague you in hell: He never knew how I felt, so how do you think Stevie will react when he finds out what you did to his best friend? Just envision it, the horror, disgust and loathing, spreading across his face. Isn’t it pretty? Calming? Doesn’t he look happy?”

Howard swallowed hard, a whimper catching in his throat, his eyes slamming shut as he shook against the wall, “Stop, please…”

“Sure, sure, I said I wouldn’t torture you after all, so one last thought before it’s goodbye,” Laoch assured gently, evening offering a gentle smile, as he reached out and placed a hand on Howard’s neck, forcing eye contact when Howard’s eyes snapped open in dawning comprehension. “I look forward to telling Stevie face to face two decades from now, how much of a fucker you actually are.” A sharp and vicious grin spread across Laoch’s face, “and I’ll have all the video evidence to back me up instead of your false flash, and I’ve looked forward to that just as much as meeting your son.”

“What?” The shocked gasp made Howard choke, and he coughed roughly, “He’s…”

“Alive?” Laoch supplied dryly, “More’s the pity, he’s just taken a long nap, while the world turns around him. I’m hoping the forced nap time will do much for his disposition, but I’m not holding my breath.”

“Someone-someone could listen to this, then they’ll know what you did, what you said,” Howard whispered harshly, head tipping back to rest against the wall, eyes wide and desperate.

“I’d say I’m disappointed, but I can see why your son is the genius in your family, Howard,” Laoch crooned softly, “even if they somehow how got past the magic of this conversation, they’d never understand anyway, because we’ve both been speaking a dead language since the door clicked shut.”

Howard opened his mouth, either to protest or argue, but Laoch just shook his head, “Say goodbye, Howard.”

“Please, don’t, I don’t want to die,” Howard whispered, tears rapidly appearing and falling down his cheeks, mingling with the blood dried around his mouth.

“And I didn’t want to spend fifty years as a murder doll for Hydra, but here we are,” Laoch replied evenly. “Our choices brought us here, and while I’m learning to deal with the guilt of it all, I wouldn’t change a thing, Howard. That’s what it means to love something beyond yourself, and if given the opportunity, I’m going to love your son for the rest of his life, because if anyone deserves a champion, it’s him.” He paused, some long-withheld ache flickering across his eyes. For a moment, Laoch felt the weight of every crime pressed deep inside his chest—a lifetime’s worth of orders followed without question, innocence crushed, lines crossed that no apology could erase. The guilt gnawed at him, especially in the quiet moments when there was nothing left to fight but himself. Yet, alongside the ache, hope had found its way in, small and stubborn.

There was a night years ago, long before Howard had called for his son’s execution, when Laoch had stood above a sleeping Tony in a dimly lit cell, ordered not to harm him but to confirm he was alive after a botched kidnapping. The child had clutched a broken watch in his palm, lips moving in muffled dreams, whispering words of reassurance to no one but himself. Laoch had seen countless prisoners before, but something in that moment had stilled his hand. Instead of reporting the boy’s pulse and closing the door, Laoch lingered, watching Tony’s brow furrow as he gathered the courage to soothe the small child huddled in the dark that turned to him, instinctively, like he was a safe harbour, and not the killer he believed he was. In that fractured hour, it wasn’t resilience that caught Laoch’s interest, but stubborn kindness. Even in captivity, Tony had reached out, whispering comfort, promising that help would come, refusing to yield to fear. For the first time in years, Laoch had felt the frozen corner of his own heart begin to thaw.

Each memory of Tony was like a light struggling through a crack, reminding him that the monster he’d become did not have to be the only thing he was. Every day, he wanted to believe that making a different choice, even now, could matter. “Tony is proof in a world that tried to break me that hope can exist without illusion. He reminds me that I can still choose to protect rather than just obey. With him, I believe there might be something clean left in me to give. Maybe he’s the reason I survived at all.”

Laoch reached, and with a quick jerk, he snapped Howard’s neck, dropping him with a sigh and a murmured prayer, long forgotten and rose. Lighting a smoke, and inhaled shakily, he stared at the rapidly cooling body, before pulling his shirt over his head.

Grabbing the knife in his metal hand, he braced his right on the table and sliced up the bicep. Blood oozed along the blade before he dropped it to the table and pushed his fingers inside the wound, fishing around for the tracker in his arm. It always felt so primitive having to fish for it in his flesh, yet he was thankful for it at the same time. For if they’d managed to get it to stay active in the metal arm, he’d never be able to escape them. Feeling the little vibration against his metal fingers, he hooked the tracker and pulled it out. dropping it on the table with a look of disdain. Wiping the knife on his jeans, he pulled his shirt back on and slid the knife into his sleeve.

Moving to Howard’s body, he quickly checked his pockets, grabbed the roll of bills, and slipped off the Rolex, stuffing both into his pocket. He paused, staring at the man’s slack face, searching for any feeling of remorse and finding, to his surprise, an odd mix instead. The absence of regret came with a sharp edge, not triumph or vengeance, but the hollow ache of a wound finally closed over. For all the ways he’d learned to survive, killing Howard felt like breaking the last shackle—freeing, but not clean. There was guilt at how easily it came, that he could feel relief after all he’d endured, and a sliver of hope that maybe some things, even the most broken, could be mended. He felt the weight of every life he’d taken settle differently on his shoulders tonight, burdened less by Howard and more by what this act might mean for the future.

With a resigned sigh, he glanced around the room before uttering softly, “Out of everyone I’ve killed, I don’t regret his death at all, and I know I should say sorry, but it would be a lie.” The words felt heavy with memory, aching with all the apologies he could never give. In a softer tone, he spoke as if Anthony could hear him, the confession unsteady and raw: “It would be selfless to say I did it for you when, truthfully, I mostly did it for me. He helped create this thing I’ve become, even if I willingly signed up for it, I just hope you can forgive me for it when we meet.” For a beat, he let relief settle inside his chest, trying to believe that maybe, by ending a cycle of cruelty, he could offer Tony a chance at something better—and maybe even himself, too.

Glancing once more around the room, he snagged the chain and slipped it into his pocket, then left through the door, back straight as he strolled through the halls, nodding congenially to other agents as he passed them by. At the director’s door, he paused, then slipped inside, leaving a note on the desk, hoping it would be enough to prompt them to search the facility and rescue the children there before leaving the building behind. He had another stop to make, and even if it was from a distance, he wanted just one look before leading Hydra on a chase around the world. He had more recruitment to do before they caught him and put him back in cryo.

***

Tony still didn’t understand how he ended up in the back of the limo, being driven with the Barton family to the X-Men manor. He should have felt some sort of panic because there was just too much to do, but Laura’s argument that they all needed a break sounded enticing, so here he was, because that was his life. Laura literally controlled every aspect of it. Which was strange, yet he wondered at the same time.

It had felt constricting and annoying when others tried it. Now it just felt natural and normal in a way that probably should have caused another panic attack. It definitely shouldn’t have been as relaxed and as easy-going as it was. But the kids shouldered the majority of the conversation as they discussed what they would do with the three days they had at the manor before school started.

It was nice, and simply numbed his overactive brain to the point that Tony kind of just settled against the seat, tablet in his lap, as he listened to Lila engage with Clint, discussing tricks, wind speed and direction, and trajectory, which was more fascinating than he wanted to admit. It also gave him ideas, and well, that might be the perfect thing to distract him, because if he thought about why Laura insisted on his presence accompanying them to the manor, Tony would have to think about the conversation where she thought James ‘Bucky’ Barnes was Tony’s soulmate, and that just…

Fuck! He repressed a shudder of want at the idea, not entirely sure he’d succeeded, for Laura’s eyes flicked to his, half hidden by the cards in her hand as she taught Cooper how to play Poker, specifically Texas Hold’em. If Tony had to guess, he hadn’t really been paying attention.

Dropping his head against the seat, he closed his eyes. He tried to keep his breathing even as he avoided thinking about the possibility of soulmates, and failed miserably. A tide of confusion rippled through him, caught between guilt and yearning. He’d always thought his fascination with Bucky Barnes had been in the stories and comics where he’d been Captain America’s best friend and protector. As a child, especially after the second kidnapping attempt, the idea that someone might care enough to save him—might even be fated to protect him—had been as alluring as any gadget he could invent. Now, learning as an adult that, inexplicably, Bucky Barnes, in his persona as Laoch, had been responsible for rescuing him each time, even when they had never met, left him reeling. Shock and disbelief wrestled with a strange relief in his chest. It was a little too much to contemplate or process that there had been nine specific instances where Bucky Barnes had been sent in to either retrieve him from a kidnapping and dispose of him, or just eliminate him, which had been heartbreaking, wounding Tony in a place he rarely let himself feel.

He let himself try, for just a moment, to put those feelings into words—not out loud, but quietly, inside the jumble of his mind. What do I even want from him? The answer circled back on itself, impossible and simple all at once: I want to know why you chose me. I want to ask you: have you ever wished it were different? I want to ask if, after everything, you could still want me, still see something in me that matters.

He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to say these things aloud, but the hope that maybe, if he tried, it wouldn’t all come out wrong made his chest twist. For so long, he’d been certain he was unworthy, convinced that the best love could offer was rescuing and leaving him behind. But now, with James—no, Laoch—choosing him, no matter how impossible it seemed, Tony felt something new and terrifying grow beneath his ribs: the hope that someone might actually stay. The grief over what could have been—the dream of rescue turned nightmare, the protector forced to play executioner—sat heavily with him now. He’d known, of course, that Howard hadn’t liked him; that fact had shaped much of his early life with confusion and longing for approval. But he just hadn’t realized it had been a strong enough hatred to want him dead. That realization turned the old ache of rejection into a deeper grief, mingling with anger that made Obie’s betrayal almost seem like a kindness. At least Obie’s had been born of greed; what had been Howard’s excuse? Tony still didn’t know, just as he’d never had a real answer for why he was never enough, and like the story of his life, Howard hadn’t admitted why he wanted his son dead before dying himself. Loss, longing, and something fragile—hope for someone like James to choose him—folded together inside Tony, reshaping the empty spaces Howard had left behind.

Had Tony been upset to learn that Aunt Peggy had been correct in her assumption that the Winter Soldier had, in fact, killed Howard?

Only to the extent that James, Laoch, whatever he called himself, hadn’t made it hurt more. Although he understood the conviction of not lowering himself to Howard’s standard, Tony still believed Laoch should have maybe skinned Howard alive for his betrayal. Because learning that Howard had been responsible for the creation of the brain-altering substance that created the Winter Soldier, because he’d been jealous, and homophobic, and probably every other negative connotation surrounding self-hatred?

It was sickening, and Tony still didn’t understand how Laoch could possibly still want him. Had in fact chosen him decades before his birth, even knowing what would happen. Laura had made it clear that soulmate bonds did not always begin at birth or with a single meeting. Soulmate bonds could form in several ways: sometimes through mutual recognition at a touch or glance, and, more rarely, through intent and choice that resonate over time. A person could, upon sensing a possibility, consciously choose someone as their soulmate, setting that bond in motion even before they’d ever meet. The universe seemed to react to these determined decisions, solidifying invisible threads between souls and shaping events to bring them together. These connections were felt on a deep, instinctual level, but could also be activated or deepened by acts of protection, sacrifice, or hope.

Laura had told Tony another story of Viktor and Soren, two men who had known each other only in passing for years before Viktor made a quiet vow to protect Soren during a siege. Though Soren never learned the truth, that single, wrenching promise—made in a silent moment with blood on Viktor’s hands—had set their souls on an inevitable path, pulling them back together again and again through war and exile until at last Soren recognized the connection in a single, wordless glance years later. It was proof, Laura said, that intent alone could forge something unbreakable. Even now, Tony sometimes felt the echo of that story in his chest, as if the universe were nudging him toward understanding.

For Laoch, it meant seeing the threads of possibility and choosing Tony long before they had met, tying his own survival and defiance to the idea of giving someone like Tony a future. Maybe it was a flicker on the edge of vision, or an inexplicable pull whenever he heard Tony’s name uttered among whispers, but Laoch had recognized the possibility—and from that moment, each act of silent protection, each refusal to let Hydra harm the boy, strengthened the bond in ways neither could put into words. It wasn’t magic, not exactly, but a looping of intentions, two lives set on a collision course because one of them willed it so, and held to that promise across the years.

It was also humbling, which was probably why he hadn’t fought against Laura’s conviction that he was joining them, even if he was petrified to see Volya again, and wondered if he felt a fraction of what Laoch had felt decades ago, entering a train, and knowing that the next fifty-plus years of your life would be a living nightmare.

Tony was ashamed to admit that he had hesitated, even if he hadn’t verbally argued against getting in the limo, because while this was nothing like the mission James had been ordered on, it still felt like a pivotal moment in time. It meant that Tony Stark knew he’d chosen his soulmate without even meeting him. He didn’t care about the complications or consequences, the lack of conversation, or even the reason James Barnes had picked him years ago; Tony still wanted it, even if that meant becoming an instant papa overnight. He had vague memories of Laura’s rambling this morning, even if he couldn’t admit them out loud.

His stomach was swirling with nerves as he felt the limo slow down and turn off the highway. He swallowed reflexively, and he gripped the hand that reached out and curled around his, thumb tapping against his silently. It should not be this nerve-racking. He’d spent time at the manor, and with Volya periodically on and off for the last three months, and sure, it was somewhat disconcerting having a conversation with her sometimes; he also enjoyed it because she was brilliant and intelligent, even in her naivety about how the world actually worked. The fact that she loved to learn and often chose him to answer her questions when she didn’t understand something meant everything to him. She didn’t care if he went off topic or that he worked at something else when they talked; she just took it all in stride, cuddling against his side, still clutching the stuffed white wolf.

Tony blinked to awareness as the limo turned onto a dirt driveway, the sprawling lawns of the manor visible through the window, and, on the steps, an assortment of people clustered around the limo as it pulled to a stop. The Barton family was enveloped in greetings and hugs of welcome. It took a second and a third breath before Tony could force himself to leave the safety of the vehicle, and another to scan the faces, imprinting them in his mind again. Silently, he made a mental note to get the names of those he didn’t recognize immediately.

There was a brief flash of fear and anger he couldn’t explain when he didn’t see Volya anywhere, but then someone, he thought was Kitty, moved; he found her, sitting on the bottom step, tucked against the railing out of the way, eyes on the ground, hugging the wolf to her chest.

Later, Tony couldn’t tell you what had happened because he knew he hadn’t moved or made a sound; his heart broke at the expression of desolation that no kid should ever have, or even the facial muscles to express. Yet, even with time standing still, something like a cosmic jolt, or maybe it was something as simple as the wind, caused Volya’s head to snap up, expression blanking in an eerily familiar defence mechanism, though it cycled through to disbelief, confusion, and then a sort of cautious hope he felt to his soul as she stood up.

There was the briefest of hesitation, her lips moving soundlessly before she was moving, dodging through the bodies that didn’t even seem aware of the importance of the moment, though he couldn’t say he minded that much.

For his entire life, it felt like all his ‘moments’, both great and small, had been food for public consumption. So even though there was an overt audience to this moment, none of them called attention to it as he dropped to his knees, catching the girl to his chest, pressing his head against hers as she burst into tears, whispering, “Papa,” over and over again. Tony knew even through the sting of tears, he’d never regret this choice he’d made, because he finally understood why Barnes had chosen him decades ago. In the last five minutes, Tony knew what it meant wanting to protect something bigger than yourself, and he’d never regret it or change it, even if it meant burning the world down to do so. As he held Volya tightly and let her tears soak into his shoulder, a quiet resolve settled in his chest. The past was still sharp with old wounds, but for the first time, Tony could see a different kind of future opening ahead of him—a future shaped by hope, not by loss.

There was something else growing there, too, a small surge of anticipation he didn’t fully understand. It was as if, in holding Volya, he was holding the start of something much larger than himself—something that could change everything for both him and Laoch. There had always been a sense that Volya’s arrival was more than a coincidence, that fate had spun her into their lives for a reason neither of them could yet see. Maybe one day she would be the bridge between them, or the key to healing wounds that ran deeper than blood. The future felt fragile but full of possibility, and Tony couldn’t shake the feeling that Volya was somehow at the heart of it.

He realized that he could finally step forward not just to survive, but to build something worth holding onto. There was clarity now, a resolve that went deeper than all the old doubts. Whatever came next, he would meet it head-on, not just for Volya, but for himself. In this moment, Tony allowed himself to believe that hope was not foolish, but a choice, and he was ready to fight for it.

***

Chapter Seven

“Hello.” A silky voice drawled from the shadows. James tensed as the owner stepped into the light, eyeing the body. “Your friend is gone. Stevens Rogers wasn’t smart enough to handle him.”

“He does what he thinks is right,” James said, an edge of fierce loyalty cutting his voice, even as a knot of fear and doubt twisted inside him.

“He’ll get you killed,” the man warned. James flinched, the words slicing deeper than he’d admit. “Heard that one before?”

“So what? What’s it to you?” James snapped, bristling at the intrusion. As he turned to check the body, it groaned and rolled over. A gunshot rang out. James jerked his head back to the alley. The man gurgled, then went silent. “Why’d you do that?” James demanded, shifting defensively.

The man shrugged. “He deserved worse, but he’s not my concern, James.”

James stiffened at the use of his name. He sized up the stranger: rich clothes, solid build, green eyes, long black hair. “Mr.Sataer,” he said.

The man smiled, both friendly and dangerous. “I’m surprised you remember. Been a while.”

“What do you want?” James eyed him, hand twitching near his hidden knife.

“Just conversation. I’ll buy a meal if you give me an hour.”

“If this is about a job, skip the meal. Otherwise, fine—but the body could be a problem.”

“Please, stop,” Mr.Sataer whispered. “No jobs. Just a meal and conversation.”

James hesitated, recalling the man’s old kindness. “Fine. Conversation and a meal.”

Mr.Sataer offered a tight-lipped smile and gestured to the end of the alley. “I have rooms booked at the St. George; we can converse there privately.”

James glanced down, then at Mr.Sataer. “Will they even let me in?”

You’ll have no trouble, I assure you.” The reply did nothing to reassure James. Even as the words echoed in the wet hush of the alley, he remained uneasy, frowning as he stepped forward. The city around him felt both familiar and threatening, its midnight streets lined with trash cans and shuttered shops, neon signs flickering above grimy stoops where men huddled for warmth. The distant rattle of an elevated train sounded over the muffled strains of a jazz tune drifting from a nearby smoky bar, blending with the soft patter of rain on cobblestones. It was the heart of Brooklyn in the depths of the Depression—tenements stacked with tired families, charity soup lines stretching down intersections, and newspapers soaked with each new disappointment.

He moved through the night, a storm of emotions churning beneath his practiced facade. Relief from the stranger’s confidence clashed with guilt—each feeling sharp, each one heavy. Visceral fear, cold as ice, knifed through him. What would happen now? Desperation coated his mouth. At home, there was nothing left: just a crust of bread and a meagre half cup of milk. His sisters were already hungry. Steve still needed medicine that James couldn’t buy. The rent remained overdue. Honest jobs were closed to boys like him. Signs in every window whispered rejection—No Irish, No Italians, No Jobs. Over the past year, doors had shut one by one, until even stealing from the dead felt less like a decision than a final grasp at survival.

Suddenly, he stopped. Bending down, he checked the body’s pockets—hands trembling as he tugged out cash and cigarettes. He left the gun behind. His fingers lingered, dread coiling up his arms. Shame pooled at his core; this was not the boy his mother raised. Was there another way? The dead man’s warmth still clung to his fingertips, chilling him with its intimacy. Shame or necessity—what drove him onward? Perhaps both. He tried to convince himself that the dead no longer needed their money, that his actions fed his family. But the words rang hollow. Each lie is smothering. Was this all he had left? Guilt stuck in his chest. The city’s cold crept deeper, wind pulling in coal smoke, sour beer, and rain-heavy brick.

Lighting a smoke with shaking, desperate hands, James hurried after the man he’d once admired, fighting dread that threatened to consume him.

They arrived at the hotel quickly. As they walked through the doors, James glanced around uneasily, noticing no one seemed to react to their entering. Even inside the elevator, he watched the operator, who continued to gaze forward and ignored them entirely—heightening James’s discomfort.

Inside the suite, James shifted from foot to foot, glancing around awkwardly since he wasn’t sure where to go or sit. He was a little surprised when Mr.Sataer sighed and asked, “Would you feel more comfortable if you cleaned up a little?”

“I guess,” James said, gesturing to the grime. “Honestly, letting me clean up feels like you want more than a conversation.”

Mr.Sataer sighed. “Conversation and a meal, that is it, I promise.”

Still skeptical, James followed his directions to the bath, uneasy about the display of wealth. He hesitated with the cloth when a knock sounded. Mr. Sataer called out, “Leaving clothes and a bag for your things outside.”

James gripped the counter, steadying himself as footsteps faded. He opened the door, breath hitching at the package—new clothes, a concrete reminder of need. Handling them with care, he felt both gratitude and humiliation. Jeans, button-up—he couldn’t shake his suspicion, but relief bit through the pride he tried to hide.

He washed and dried, staring at the new underwear and socks until emotion threatened to choke him. Something tender and wounded bloomed at the luxury of soft, safe fabric—his cheeks stung with the unfamiliar ache of hope. He closed his eyes, just to savour fleeting humanity, pride flickering beneath longing, all of it so painfully rare.

Satisfied, James brought the bag and boots into the living room and set them neatly by the door. He walked over to the dining table and hesitated for a moment before approaching Mr.Sataer, who was seated with a feast spread before him. Mr.Sataer gestured to the food and explained, “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I chose things that keep well if there are leftovers.”

“Thanks,” James whispered. “For that thought, and the clothing.”

Mr.Sataer inclined his head and gestured to the chair opposite him, waiting until he sat before speaking, “How old are you now?”

“Eighteen, why?” James answered, sipping from the glass.

The man frowned and tilted his head before shrugging. “Curiosity, do you still do minor runs?”

Uncomfortable, James nodded, “I try not to, but the money’s good.”

“Does your friend know?” Mr.Sataer asked, picking up a dish and spooning whatever it was onto his plate. Even with the distance between them, it smelled heavenly, and James accepted it with a grin, answering with a shake of his head.

“Stevie would shit himself.” James admitted, “He’s got some weird beliefs that would never allow him to understand.”

“Then how do you hide it?” Mr.Sataer asked, frowning as James only dished out a spoonful. “I sincerely hope you plan on eating more than that.”

Blushing at both the question and reprimand, James spooned out more, realizing it was stew. “I—uh, I took a leaf out of your book.”

Completely bewildered, Mr.Sataer shook his head, “What?”

Snorting, James took a bite, eyes widening as flavour burst on his tongue. He moaned around the mouthful of stew, almost having forgotten what beef tasted like since the depression started. “I remembered your lessons from when I was a kid.”

“You’re still a kid,” Mr.Sataer muttered, expression seeming fond if muted, like he hadn’t expected to admit that aloud.

“Maybe to you,” James said. “As for hiding it, Stevie doesn’t know because the Lieutenants call me Laoch. Nobody uses James.”

Green eyes widened in surprise, “And you got the idea from me?”

“Not exactly—the word is from my Nonna. The idea of another name came from you.” Seeing Mr.Sataer’s confusion, James added, “I know your name isn’t Mr.Sataer. Why hide?”

Mr.Sataer’s jaw tensed just slightly, a flicker of something unspoken surfacing in his green eyes—a brief, raw flash of ancient pain and guardedness—before he forced it away. For a fleeting instant, the green of his eyes seemed to deepen, a glimmer of pale light simmering beneath the surface like phosphorescence in deep water. The pupils caught the light in a way that made James’s heart jump, a subtle emptiness behind their brightness, as though something other lurked beneath the surface. A faint whiff of ozone drifted between them, sharp and unexpected, as if the air around Mr.Sataer had briefly shifted. For the briefest moment, a thin ripple seemed to pass across Mr.Sataer’s features, so quick that James could almost convince himself he imagined it: the lamplight cast subtle patterns on his skin that refused to settle, and the air around him held a chill that gnawed at James’s nerves. The city noise behind them quieted, muffled as though thick glass had descended between them and the world. Prickling apprehension ran across James’s skin, the air charged with secrets and an old ache he didn’t understand. He wondered, suddenly, if there were rules at play he couldn’t grasp—whether these odd sensations and impossible shifts were cracks in the ordinary, hints at laws of nature that only some knew how to bend. In the back of his mind, the thought returned again: some things want to stay hidden, but sometimes the strangeness in the air is a warning. Mr.Sataer looked aside, mouth tightening, and for a heartbeat, regret tugged at his lips, as if he wished to confess—only for the moment of vulnerability to vanish, replaced by a practiced smile that rang hollow.

“Most people wouldn’t be able to accept what I was named, never mind what it meant,” Mr.Sataer said softly, meeting James’s eyes that flickered in surprise. “But you’re not surprised by that.”

“Not really, no.” James shrugged, nodding at the rest of the food. “May I have more?”

“Of course,” Mr.Sataer said. “I’m not sure exactly what everything is, but I asked the staff what would be hardy, filling fare, and this is what they supplied.”

“It’s good.” James assured, “I haven’t had beef since the depression began.”

“Would you like to know what the word means?” Mr.Sataer asked after James had filled his plate with a thick-cut piece of pork chop. Then, feeling completely indulgent, James added potatoes and carrots, smothering them all in a layer of gravy.

It was the first thing Mr.Sataer said that truly rattled James. His pulse thumped in his throat as the words echoed in the space between them, nerves coiling tight in his chest. “Sure, I guess—though it feels weird,” he admitted, voice unsteady, the admission nearly a plea for steady ground.

“Weird?” Mr.Sataer prompted, matching his movements as he took another sip of his water.

“Yeah, the idea of knowing what it might mean.” James shrugged. “I tried calling myself that when I was really little, but Stevie, he ah, hated it, called it fake, and said it wasn’t a real word cause it wasn’t English.”

The storm of incredulous rage that flickered through Mr.Sataer’s eyes should have scared James, but instead, it struck a buried spark of defiance—one he’d packed away since Stevie first spat those words. The force of it made him straighten, heart pounding as old injustice surfaced.

“Doesn’t seem like much of a friend.” Mr.Sataer spoke evenly, though the anger simmered.

“He was what I needed at the time,” James managed, chest constricting with complicated truth. He’d never really liked him, but he was bigger than Stevie—still is, to be honest—and a stranger when James most needed an ally. Stevie, the teacher’s pet, had the power to make anyone invisible or worse. With him, playing along had meant survival. It hurt, even now, remembering how he’d swallowed his pride, knowing any protest would have made him the villain.

“Finish eating.” Mr.Sataer ordered, after a minute of silence, waiting until James complied before doing the same. He didn’t speak again until James had finished another plate of stew after finishing the pork chop. “Would you like a coffee or tea?”

James’s nose wrinkled. “Coffee would be nice.”

Mr.Sataer nodded, rising to his feet and moving to the little kitchenette, where he made coffee, bringing back a huge mug and a plate of flat circles. “They’re called cookies.”

Nodding, James took one and bit into it, eyes widening in surprise. “Oh, these are good.”

“I’m glad you like them.” Mr.Sataer said simply, sitting back in his chair. Moving the plates to the side, his hand curled around the mug in front of him.

“You said you’d tell me what Laoch meant,” James said after finishing a second cookie. “I did,” The older man agreed, a look of resignation flashing across his face before it was gone, “It’s as you already know, Gaelic, but it translates to Warrior, Hero, and Champion.”

A flush of embarrassment coloured James’s cheeks as he forced himself to swallow the mouthful, “I’m not any of those things.”

“You could be.” Mr.Sataer said, then closed his eyes. “I kind of need you to be, though it’s going to be a lifetime commitment. Being a hero or champion is not about glory or dramatic victories. For you, it will mean stepping into danger to protect others, making hard choices for people who have no one else, and carrying burdens most would run from. It will require loyalty, sacrifice, and becoming someone others can count on—sometimes at the cost of what you want for yourself. I need someone who will not just fight, but help hold the line for those who can’t defend themselves. It will ask everything of you, for as long as you live.”

“But I’m not. I’m just some poor boy from the streets of Brooklyn who runs for the fucking mafia. I know the docks, alleyways and sewers, along with the rooftops, better than I do my numbers; I’ve been running them for almost 20 years. What could that possibly be useful for?”

“You’re loyal and know the meaning of secrets, James.” Mr.Sataer replied, answer at the ready.

“But-”

Mr.Sataer shook his head, “Why have you kept your secret from your friend? And not the pretty answer you offered.”

The question was uncomfortable to answer, yet something was telling James there was no point in lying, so he answered honestly, “he’s heard of Laoch, it’s impossible not to in our community and quite frankly, he hates him. Or at least the concept of him, he thinks it’s morally and ethically repugnant that they’re allowed to get away with illegal acts, especially with the community backing. He lives in a black-and-white world, where there is no room for acceptance of gray.”

“Why do you think that is?” The question was curious, and James shrugged.

“Never asked.”

“Do you think he’d turn you in?”

James felt his hand tighten, and he swallowed, “I don’t know. Laoch is the only thing keeping food on the table and giving him a sense of protection. People know he’s under my protection, so they don’t mess with him, and normally get me if he causes shit.”

The regard in the green eyes was serious and intent, not that it bothered James; he’d been looked at similarly by other bosses, and not even knowing the man or his name, he knew the man before him was just – if not more – as dangerous as him. Yet it didn’t stop him from asking, “I don’t understand what that has to do with my name, and what you think you need me for?”

“I have a job that needs doing.”

“You said that, but didn’t explain.” James snapped, then shook his head, pushing the plate away, “Look, I appreciate the meal and all, but I- I’m not a hero or warrior. I’m not, and I’m not interested in being one.” James whispered, hearing the longing in his tone even as he spoke.

“I’d say you’re more like me than you’d expect, but you already suspected that, didn’t you?” The response was glib and knowing, and James couldn’t help but want to grin, though it felt weak.

“What would I need to do?” James asked, not acknowledging the statement or question.

A smile spread across the man’s face. “We’re going for a walk, and you’re going to observe, I will test you, and go from there.”

Feeling a wrinkle cross his face at that, James nodded slowly, “Alright, you gonna share your real name?”

“Not today,” The man replied, standing up, and reaching for a jacket that was also new, along with a fedora and passing them over, glancing between the table and James before narrowing his eyes and snapping his fingers, the food disappearing only to reappear in neatly labelled containers, “Well, come back for the leftovers, alright?”

Dumbly, James nodded with a swallow and pulled on the boots, wordlessly following Mr.Sataer from the room, not even able to ask himself why he didn’t feel fear, too fascinated by what he’d seen. Maybe there was something to this Hero idea, after all?

***

Eyes snapping open, Laoch sat up in a rush, his heart pounding as the persistent chill of a nightmare clung to his skin. For a moment, he couldn’t place himself in time. Disoriented, he grappled for the present, while the vivid images of his past life as James still echoed in his mind. The room around him was unfamiliar in its modern hush, so unlike the dark, ragged alleys of Brooklyn. For a disoriented heartbeat, he could not quite remember when or even who he was, caught between the spectre of Brooklyn’s alleys and the present safety of this place. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his mind to track the difference: Here and now, not then; this house, this name, Laoch. The realization hit—he was far removed from the city streets and the desperate choices of his past. It took several grounding seconds before the reality of the darkened room returned: the faint glow of Friday’s interface pulsing nearby, the subtle hum of the old house’s refrigerator. He touched the sheets, focusing on the present, telling himself, “This is now.” Drawing a shaky breath, he mentally repeated the chain that tethered him to now: not Brooklyn, not that alley, no longer only James. The memories seethed below the surface, reminders that he was Laoch, awake in his present, shaped but not defined by what he had been. For a moment, he struggled to distinguish the past from now, breath hitching as memories and reality collided, as if the nightmare had pulled him violently from one time to the other. The shift was always abrupt—the past surging forward in his sleep, only to snap him back into his current self when he awoke. He realized he must have cried out, because Friday began to speak, but he just shook his head and croaked, “Give me a second.”

Thankfully, Friday listened, and Laoch buried his head in his hands, drawing in a shuddering breath. The belief that he’d never remember, conflicting with the idea that he wanted to, turned to absolute dread as more and more memories flooded his brain.

***

“Again.” The word was as cold as the sweat coating James’s skin, and just as impersonal as the blank mask that adorned Mr.Sataer’s face, who looked as refreshed as if he’d just stepped out for a night of revelry.

Blowing out a breath, James rolled to his feet, gripping the matching daggers in his hands, before forcing his body to relax and fell into the pattern he’d been taught, listening as Mr.Sataer spoke, voice cascading with a sort of rhythm that matched what they did.

“Repetition is a step towards excellence. Do it often, repeatedly, until it becomes a habit. Once it becomes a habit, turn it into the cornerstone of instinct, and it will always come naturally.”

“Yeah, and how long have you been doing this so that it’s become instinct?” James growled, his breath puffing out, as exhaustion seeped into his frame.

A serene smile crossed Mr.Sataer’s face as he dodged the swipe, “Longer than you’d believe, but it will allow you to do this every time.”

James wasn’t expecting it, and even blinked a few seconds later. It still took a few minutes of silence to understand exactly what he had done, as he watched Mr.Sataer groan and slowly roll to his feet. A real, genuine smile crossed his face, “That was wonderful, James, absolutely flawless.”

Laoch could still feel the flutter of pride at the praise and the ones that followed, even when most bouts ended in a draw. He missed the daggers too, there had been nothing like them, perfectly balanced, always sharp, with a matted black finish that never rusted or got dirty and…. He blinked at the sudden weight in his hands and dropped the daggers reflexively, shock spreading across his face at their appearance.

Then grinned wickedly as he reached for them, turning them over and over in his hands, wondering what had happened to Mr.Sataer. He rubbed at his chest with his hand, remembering their last meeting, and closed his eyes, drawing up the memory.

***

Sitting on the couch, lap full of hair paraphernalia, a little girl sitting on the floor in front of him, with another sitting to his side, Tony studied the video playing on the tablet with an intense form of concentration, “this-this seems like a highly convoluted method of braiding hair.” As laughter bubbled around him and small, patient hands waited for his next move, Tony felt, for a fleeting moment, the ordinary weight of connection—a warmth not unlike the comforting rituals and unspoken promises that tie families across generations. The quiet light in the room seemed to blur the old wounds and larger struggles lurking outside these walls. Somewhere in the repetition of these simple acts was a reminder that even the smallest gestures, like braiding hair, could echo with the deeper magic of legacy, protection, and the hope of building a future stitched from moments like this. For Tony, these gentle rituals echoed the promise that life could be shaped differently, no matter what shadows might linger in the past. And somewhere, perhaps far away in another story, someone else—someone like James—might have longed for this same simple belonging, caught between old scars and the hope of finding his own place in the pattern of family.

Twin giggles were his only response, and Tony raised his head, looking at the girls in betrayal. “You’re laughing at me?”

“Uncle Tony!” Lila protested with another laugh, “It’s funny.” She gestured at the tablet and the collection of hair ties, “You said it would be simple after watching a video.”

“It should be.” Tony defended himself, “I’m an engineer, a genius in fact. Braiding hair shouldn’t be as complicated as they’re showing.”

“You’ve watched eleven videos, Uncle Tony.” Lila pointed out, picking up the brush in his lap, “Now, watch.”

Lila slipped between him and Volya, still seated on the floor, hugging a pillow. Tipping her head back, she gazed up at Tony’s eyes, dancing with mischief. “You’ll learn, Papa, and you can do it next time.”

“Papa?” The shocked voice drew attention to the man who froze in the doorway, eyes widening as he looked around the living room.

“Rhodey!” Tony started to move, only remembering his lap was full before he settled back and offered a wave, “Come on in, let me introduce you.”

Rhodey took a breath, eyeing everything again, before pushing his reservation aside and crossing the living room. Settling into a chair, he watched the two girls, curious, though he darted a side-eye look towards Tony, who was watching Lila intensely.

Lila made quick work of Volya’s hair, movements fluid and smooth as she carefully parted the hair. She made sure Tony was paying attention as she slowly braided Volya’s hair, smirking as he handed over the elastic, and raised her eyebrow, “Now you, Uncle Tony.”

Aghast at the ‘betrayal’, Tony huffed dramatically, “See if I buy you more ice cream.”

“I can buy my own,” Lila sassed back with a grin, “Or I can ask J to order me some.”

“You’re too much like your mother.” Tony muttered, but gamely gathered Volya’s hair again, glancing at Rhodey with a sheepish grin, “Sorry, Rhodey, so uh, short story, this is Volya Stark, my daughter, Volya, this is James Rhodes, my best friend and an uncle for you if you want.”

“James?” Volya whispered, eyes widening, “like daddy?” “Yeah, sweetheart, but I’ve called him Rhodey for years now,” Tony said softly, leaning over and

pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “Besides Clint and Laura, he’s another point of contact in case of an emergency, Jor already has his number programmed, alright?”

Shyly, Volya nodded, “Does he know?”

Tony winced, shooting his best friend an apologetic smile. “Not yet, but he’s been busy, and giving him news like this over the phone wasn’t safe for him. I’ll explain everything after you’re in bed asleep.” He paused, glancing at his best friend, “as long as he’s here for me, and not another hidden agenda.”

Rodeny raised an eyebrow before shifting and moving to sit beside them in an unspoken gesture of support. “If we’re waiting for Tony to braid your hair, we’re gonna be waiting till the cows come home.” He leaned over Tony, helping him divide the hair more evenly, before walking him through the steps and even guiding his hands a couple of times. Yet in the end, Tony got his first braid completed, and though it looked wonky, the joy on Volya’s face was worth it, and he vowed he’d learn to do them perfectly.

Curious, he watched as Rhodey held up an elastic towards Lila in silent invitation, the girl grinning rapidly as she settled in front of the bigger man, tipping her head back eagerly asking curiously, “How’d you know how to braid, Uncle Rhodey?”

“I have a younger sister,” Rhodey explained, and then grinned, “and believe it or not, but in my teens I had long hair too, at least until I graduated and joined the military, then got to MIT and met this guy.” He elbowed Tony gently, “I shaved my head the day I got my acceptance letter, and never looked back.”

A little surprised at the information, Tony glanced at his best friend, trying to envision him with long hair and shook his head, “I think I’m gonna need to see pictures as proof.”

Rhodey just laughed and shook his head, tying off the end of Lila’s braid. “Not happening.”

“You’re in the army, like daddy was?” Volya asked wide-eyed.

Rhodey darted a glance at Tony, who winced but let the little girl crawl into his lap. He answered, aware of his best friend’s incredulous expression. “Rhodey is in the Air Force, and we won’t hold it against him. Your Daddy was a Sergeant in the Army before he joined an elite unit called the Howling Commandos.” Tony sent his best friend a pleading look to not ask questions and offered Volya a smile, pressing a kiss to her hair, “Now, while the Howling Commandos may not exist anymore, Rhodey-bear, here is his own special unit, because he flies the War Machine, which I made to keep him safe.”

“Keeping safe is important.” Volya stated seriously, and then ruined it by yawning, “He needs to meet Daddy. I think they’d be great friends; they want the same thing.”

“Do they?” Tony questioned curiously, laying his head against hers.

“Of course, they want to keep you safe, too, Papa.” The ‘duh’ was audible, as well as adorable, and Tony snorted a laugh.

“Right, well, Rhodey’s been keeping me safe for a very long time.” Tony assured the little girl, “Now, go brush your teeth, and then I’ll be in to tuck you in, alright?”

“We’re still going swimming tomorrow?” Volya asked as she crawled off his lap.

“And to the park in the morning, and maybe Uncle Rhodey will come with us, if he’s still here.” Tony agreed, handing over the stuffed wolf.

Volya grinned shyly, glancing over at the large man, “Will you be here, Uncle Rhodey?”

“I’ll be here,” Rhodey nodded, smiling back, “I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with me for at least two weeks, if not longer. We should have time to do a movie night without your papa.”

Tony was somewhat surprised, but grateful Rhodey kept his questions to himself until the kids were in bed, though he kept shooting odd looks at Tony as he did so, reading the information they’d compiled while sitting at the dining room table. The undeclared pow-wow room, they’d been using for meetings and such since Clint got back.

It was only when Clint and Laura entered with coffee for everyone that Rhodey set the tablet down, rubbing his face with both hands. “Got anything stronger?”

Tony offered a sympathetic smile, “Sorry, Rhodey-bear, penthouse is now a dry zone.”

“Really?” Rhodey asked in disbelief, “Since when?”Officially?” Tony questioned, “Since August 13th,” he shrugged, “unofficially, my last drink was June 21st.”

Rhodey stared at him intently before offering a quick smile, “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.” Tony muttered quietly, accepting the mug Laura offered, “It’s been worth it, though, even if it’s only been a month.”

Nodding in understanding, Rhodey offered a soft thanks as Clint slid the mug across to him, “How positive are you on the Soldier’s identity?”

Tony leaned forward, elbows on the table, shrugging halfheartedly, “without a DNA test, and just based on physical imperial evidence, which includes audio confessions, retinal imaging, and Caps boner, 99%?”

“An audio file only you can understand.” Clint muttered, engaging the holographic display built into the table, “J, blackout mode.”

Rhodey startled, but Tony just shook his head with a wry grin, “Once a spy, always a spy.”

“We had a bug problem a few months ago,” Clint defended, “and while I know they haven’t been back, we still have cleaning staff come in.”

“Wasn’t complaining, Clint.” Tony assured him, “But if I don’t inject humour into this, I’ll go mad.”

“Thought we established you already were.” Laura teased with a grin.

“It’s about to get worse,” Tony muttered. A sharp pang of longing and want shot through his heart as he stared at the hologram of James Buchanan Barnes in his guise as the Winter Soldier.

Clint paused and looked up, “How?”

Tony drew in a deep breath, “It always does, doesn’t it? You get one good thing, going and shit hits the fan.”

“Maybe, but this time we have a tentative heads up, with eyes on one of the key players.” Clint offered, and shrugged synthetically, though he frowned, “Why haven’t you tried talking to him through Friday?”

“Friday?” Rhodey interrupted curiously.

“Another AI,” Tony waved him off, taking a sip of coffee, “as for reaching out to start a conversation, would it sound stupid to say neither of us is ready?”

“Sounds hinky, but sure, you’re not ready.” Clint agreed, lightly kicking his foot, “It’s more than that, though.”

Inclining his head, Tony nodded, “Volya thought he was searching for her, and while I agree at the beginning that was likely, since he’s been reassured by Friday that I know of him, and have given him freedom to do what he needs, no pressure, he’s been systematically destroying Hydra bases, searching for something, while passing along intel.”

“What’s he searching for?” Laura asked with a wrinkle. She held up a hand, “I’m not disagreeing. I just know Xavier has used everything at his disposal to try and get a glimpse of what he’s doing and finding nothing. He can’t even find him with Cerebus.”

“I have nothing,” Clint added, amusement dancing in his eyes as his wife rolled hers, though it made Tony grin.

“He’s been hidden, and by more than just his personal skill, or my tech, which leaves…?” Tony trailed off, expression twisting uncomfortably.

“Magic.” Rhodey finished for him and sighed, “Because my life couldn’t possibly be crazier.”

“At least you’ll be comfortable in the mad house with us, Sour Patch,” Tony smirked, offering a silent cheer by raising his mug. He broke into a real grin when Rhodey cheered him back.

***

Twisting the paper in his hand, James ducked out of the building and into the alley, heart pounding, and fear twisting his stomach, he tried to bite back the surge of anger, even expecting it. He half-hoped, half-prayed his name would be missed, even if it had been something arranged on the sly, but it was better than the alternative, wasn’t it?

Prison, or the Army, no lasting record, free and clear if he survives. He wasn’t sure it would be worth it. Glancing down at the paperwork showing his enlistment acceptance, he felt another coil of rage, but strangely enough, it was not against his circumstances. It was petty and mean, but it was directed towards Stevie again. The stupid little punk was obsessed with joining, often starting and instigating fights after being laughed out of the office, because the idiot couldn’t accept his 4-F, insisting he could do better than all of them combined.

James huffed out a bitter laugh. The guy couldn’t even yell half the time, not without causing an asthma attack; he’d kill himself just trying to lift the rucksack when it was empty. Rubbing a rough hand over his face, James leaned back against the building, running a hand through his hair, glancing at the reporting date with a wary sigh. Three days. He had three days to get his affairs in order, tell his sisters, make arrangements for rent coverage, and deal with Steve’s overexuberance, which would take everything James had not to knock the punk out for.

“I’m sorry, Laoch.” The silkened voice sounded from the darkness, and James looked up to see Mr.Sataer, the mysterious benefactor slash teacher, step out of the shadows.

“You haven’t called me that in years,” James replied dully.

“You haven’t needed the reminder, James, though I’m sorry it’s necessary.” The man replied sincerely.

“Some hero,” James laughed bitterly, head thumping against the brick wall, “Kind of expected, though, isn’t it?” James continued softly, fingers smoothing out the creases, “We both know what I did to get here, not much of a choice in the matter.”

“Maybe, but I still am sorry all the same.” The man replied, offering a compassionate expression that looked right on the man’s face. Slowly, it was replaced with a seriousness that sent a shudder down James’s spine. “I won’t be able to help you from here on out, so I offer a gift for you, if you’re willing to take it.”

“What’s the catch?” James asked dryly, knowing the other man’s sense of humour.

There will come a time when you won’t remember yourself. Your childhood, parents, siblings, maybe even Steve—and I can’t stop that from happening. Everything you know will become what you’re told. You will be trained and perfected, sculpted and moulded, until you forget who you were. Imagine your memories like a book, sealed and locked away, with all the pages turned blank as life writes over them. But, unlike most, you will always have a key hidden deep inside—a breath of freedom—where you’ll remember Laoch with the burden and understanding of remembering everything that happened to you. This gift won’t prevent forgetting, but it will let you recover the truth when you most need it, even if it comes at a cost. There is always a price for remembering. Regaining your past may be painful, bringing everything back—the mistakes, the losses, the guilt, and the grief. It may set you apart from others and weigh you down when you need strength most. Choosing to unlock your memories could cost you peace, trust, or the illusion of belonging. But sometimes, the truth is the only thing that can free you.” The man said softly, almost sadly, regret and resignation bleeding into his tone. “In exchange, you’ll offer protection to one who hasn’t been born yet.”

James swallowed the precipice he felt like he was standing on, suddenly giving way underfoot, though he didn’t move, trapped by the eerie glow in green eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“I know,” The man huffed in agreement, “but I-” he cut himself off and shook himself, “Have you heard of the word, Wyrd?”

James frowned and shook his head, “Not really, nonna might have said it, but wouldn’t have been able to explain what it was, and ma might have told the girls, but I was busy earning money.”

“It’s old, but it’s the concept of fate, destiny, and what has been. It’s a powerful, impersonal force governing gods, humans, and the cosmos, personified by the Norns named Urðr, Verðandi, Skuld, who weave the threads of past, present, and future.” The man knelt and picked up a stick from the ground, its brittle surface crackling softly in his grip. As he spoke, he pushed aside a thin crust of frost, his breath rising in faint clouds, and began to draw nine interconnecting lines into the dirt. The motion carved through cold earth and scattered pebbles, the fresh lines standing out dark against the pale, rough surface, the scent of damp soil curling upward. As he finished each stroke, the symbol seemed to shimmer at its edges, as if the moonlight itself had sunk into the strokes, flickering and glittering for an instant. Between the lines, a faint vibration settled in the air, and James could almost hear a distant thread of sound—like whispered voices weaving together in a language just beyond memory. The resulting pattern reminded him of a boxed quilt stitch, but as the man paused, the air felt charged, the world narrowing to that drawn sigil. “It’s not just what happens, but the underlying causal web of existence, connecting all things and determining events, even influencing the gods themselves.”

James felt a semi-hysterical laugh wanting to escape, though his eyes burned instead. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision to stare at the symbol on the ground. “You’re saying I have a fate or destiny you’ve seen?”

“More great and horrifying than you can envision, considering the passage of time until you’re truly called. I unfortunately don’t make the rules, you named yourself Laoch, so it means you become the hero, warrior and champion that is needed.” The man agreed.

James glanced up, meeting the green eyes, before lowering his again, gazing at the Wyrd symbol, “Was the gift remembering?”

“Partly. But the true gift is different, but it won’t be something you can use fully until you remember.” It was a cryptic answer, and should have been annoying, but it was expected at the same time.

James shoved the paper into his pocket and pulled out his smokes, lighting one as he finally raised his head to meet his benefactors, “Will you make sure my sisters are taken care of?”

“Of course, and I’ve also ensured the rent on your apartment has been arranged; your stupid little friend won’t be left in the cold.” Came the prompt response.

James narrowed his eyes a bit. “You really don’t like Stevie, do you?”

The man huffed, “Not particular, but he exists here and elsewhere, so I deal.”

“Will you finally tell me why?” James’ voice filled with resignation, already expecting the denial. He wasn’t surprised when Mr.Sataer shook his head.

“As much as it pains me, when you finally do remember, you’ll understand my dislike.” Mr.Sataer paused, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear, “He, Steve that is, tries to be a good person, but at his core, he’s selfish.”

James fought a smile, not denying the statement, somehow understanding the words, and glanced down at the symbol, feeling drawn to it in a way he couldn’t articulate. “You’re trapped in its webbing too, aren’t you?”

“A version of me is,” The man agreed, shrugging slightly, “I’m doing what I can to fix my mistakes, of which there are many, and oftentimes, of a much more dire consequence, but you’re one of my last remaining descendants in this realm, and I’d like to see you survive, as a version of yourself you can accept without guilt.”

“Even though I must suffer first?” James asked rhetorically, then shook his head, “Sorry, that was unfair. I’m a little rattled and taking it out on you.”

“James, given the circumstances, I don’t blame you.” The man disagreed, opening his mouth before visibly hesitating, and licked his lips, “In fact, I feel I should thank you. You’ve always been calm and strangely accepting of me; it’s not been the fight I half expected.”

Frowning, James took a drag of his smoke and then tossed the butt, stomping on it with his foot, “You’ve always reminded me of myself, like an echo of familiarity?” He shrugged, “I don’t know how to explain it, but you said we’re family, so I guess that could be it, though it would have been cool to inherit some of your powers.”

“You’re very accepting of that family claim.” The man muttered, frowning, then paused, looking at him, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What?”

James laughed and gestured around them, “I certainly didn’t stop the snow from hitting the ground.”

Startled them man jerked his head, and a flush climbed his cheeks, and his eyes brightened, the snow resuming its gentle descent to the ground, before turning to settle on him, a sort of undisguised pride glowing on his face, “One last gift, though it might break the rules; there will be someone waiting for you when you remember, they’ll be able to help you, and they’ll want too, though you’ll often find that impeded by outside sources.”

“Will I know when I see them?” James asked softly.

The man looked down at the ground, finger twirling in the air, and the symbol on the ground rose from the earth, seeming to pass through James’s clothing. Inhaling sharply, he pressed a hand to his chest, feeling it heat under his palm, and closed his eyes, a tear sliding down his cheek as a sense of belonging washed over him, deep inside. For the briefest instant, a flicker of an image burned beneath his eyelids: a child’s laughter echoing in an empty room, the faint scent of oil and metal, and the impression of eyes—ancient, yet bright with hope—watching from the shadows. A gentle finger brushed the tear away, and he fluttered open his eyes to meet green eyes inches from his own. “You won’t see it for years, but you’ll always have the feeling, hold it, cherish it, and know that the one waiting will have a matching one. He’s who you need to protect, he’s chosen above all, and I can do nothing but influence those around him.”

“Like a soulmate?” James whispered, a sense of longing surging through him.

The man shrugged and pressed a barely felt kiss to his forehead, “Everyone has free will, but your souls are intertwined, so it’s what you make it to be.”

James inhaled sharply, feeling something slide through his veins, almost like ice, before flaring like a burst of heat, before settling in his core. A sudden burst of energy flooded him, making him pull back in surprise. “Was that…”

“The gift?” The man nodded, patting his chest as he stepped back, “Yes, he’s a part of you now.”

“He?” James questioned, blinking at the disorienting double-disorientation of looking both up and down at Mr.Sataer.

“The soul of my son.” Mr.Sataer admitted sorrowfully, then shook his head at the horrified expression that appeared on James face, “he offered, James, he’s been held captive and bound for centuries.”

“But-but isn’t there just another sort of bondage?” James asked, rubbing at his chest, drawing comfort from the symbol he couldn’t see. A tremor ran through him, twisting his thoughts. He hadn’t wanted anything like this—hadn’t imagined sharing his soul with a stranger, much less a captive. It was one thing to be forced into choices by circumstance, another to carry someone else within himself. For a moment, he almost recoiled from the idea, anger and fear warring with the sense of obligation pulsing under his skin. Was he truly agreeing, or just swept along by powers beyond him? Even as the comfort from the mark lingered, his mind circled the possibility that his will was being overwritten. Wonder flickered, sharp and scared, at the boundary between choice and necessity. A voice inside asked what it would take to ever feel truly free again—not just free from others’ control, or from poverty, but from the invisible threads weaving him into some fate not his own. The deepest part of him ached for agency: the chance to step outside all scripts, to say yes or no and have it matter—to feel, for once, that he had chosen his own life, rather than having it pressed upon him by the world, by magic, by the desperate need of others.

He drew a shaky breath, forcing himself to consider what consent meant now. Did he really have a say, or was he only here to receive a new burden, one that could never be put down? The weight of that reality pressed in, and James felt the urge to rebel—but the alternative, leaving an innocent trapped forever, felt even worse. In the end, resentment yielded to a grudging acceptance: if there was any choice left to him, it was to carry this responsibility his own way. Still, the question gnawed at him, his sense of agency battered but not broken.

“It’s more of a merger than bondage,” Mr.Sataer replied evenly, eyes watching him cautiously, “he’s tired, James, but he wants to help, it’s all he’s ever really wanted, but he’s viewed as a monster and worse.”

Not sure how to respond to that, James licked his lips, his heart doing a little double thump of rising anxiety. “Will I remember you?”

The man slowly shook his head and shrugged, “I don’t know, the Norns weren’t exactly clear on their instructions. I was offered a chance to change our future, and I took it.”

James swallowed the threat of tears that burned his eyes and nodded. “It feels inadequate, but thank you for giving me this chance.”

A fleeting smile crossed the man’s face, “You’re welcome, though I’m expecting a punch to the face the next time we meet, I just request that it’s the right hand, and not the left, please?”

Automatically, James clenched his left hand and felt a ghost of sensation run down the arm that didn’t hurt but felt foreign enough to be noticeable. “Will I finally learn your name then?”

“I’m pretty sure you’ll figure it out, just remember we’re all trapped in the Web of the Wyrd, James.” The man said, turning and strolling away, walking back into the building’s shadows, releasing the world around him; the noise of the city startled James enough to realize it hadn’t just been the snow. The man had stopped time, too.

For a heartbeat, James stood frozen, the sudden flood of city noise crashing over him like a wave, car horns, distant laughter, the rumble of a train, all colliding with the rush of blood in his ears. The enormity of what had just happened pressed down on him. Awe prickled under his skin, sending goosebumps rippling up his arms. His breath trembled. For a moment, he felt impossibly small in the face of whatever power had been revealed, yet not entirely afraid. A flicker of hope cut through the fear, wild and fragile, threaded with wonder and a sharp ache of longing. As he pressed his hand to his chest, where the symbol still burned, his breath caught at the faint shimmer he thought he saw for an instant in the edge of his vision—the pattern that Mr.Sataer had drawn, the nine interwoven lines, seemed to hover ghostlike above the concrete at his feet before vanishing. Somewhere high above, a stray gust curled the falling snow into a spiral, swirling in a shape strangely reminiscent of a weaving knot, caught in the yellow light of a streetlamp. A chill swept down his spine, but it felt not just cold, but laden with old things and distant touch. Eyes searching the spot where the man had vanished, James strained for meaning as the noise of the city pressed in. A formless image lingered on the periphery of his thoughts: invisible threads looping from his heart outward, connecting him to a tapestry he could not see, but which he suddenly sensed pulsing beneath the skin of the world. For the first time in years, he found himself wishing—hungry for the promise that maybe, somehow, he could become something more than what the world had shaped him to be. The city pressed in around him, its lights harsh and indifferent, but now every shadow seemed to hold a question. Whom did he truly need to protect? What was the real nature of this gift, and how would he find the one who was waiting for him? The need to act tugged at him, sharper than before. Somewhere in the night, answers waited, and James knew that standing still was no longer possible.

A question echoed in his mind, sharp and persistent: Where do I go from here? The city called to him with new shadows, every alley suddenly transformed by the knowledge he now carried. There were answers to chase, a future to uncover, and the promise of a destiny he did not yet understand. James took a steadying breath, eyes turning toward the uncertain horizon, and stepped out of the alley, determination warring with doubt. He was no longer running only from the past, but toward the mystery that awaited him.

***

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