A Familiar Face

Peter knows the tension is high and that he should inject love instead of anger - give an olive branch instead of enmity - but sometimes it just isn't that easy.

And right now, he wants nothing more than to see the militia warlord suffer.

"No... please... no..." the abomination breathes, and Peter almost let escape the smallest of scoffs.

The warlord was violently shaking. He watched Spider-Man feverishly, who was clenching his fist far fist too hard, gritted teeth and a hateful glare visible from even under the mask - his hunched form exuding an animosity like acid; burning, slicing, potent.

"I don't... understand you people," Spider-Man speaks very, very, very slowly - each syllable grinding against the warlord's ears like shrapnel. "...Thugs. Killers. Murderers. I just... don't understand how someone could take a life, and continue to live guilt free. But, no matter the crime, I would ensure even people like you were placed fairly in custody with a chance to be judged in the court of law for your wrongdoings. That's how I've been." He knelt down steadily, imposing, both arms resting on his knees as he came face to face with the whimpering, pathetic man.

Spider-Man continues. "That's how I've always been. People make mistakes. I understand that. Trust me, I know. But... I've never - not once in my life - ever met anyone as sick as you." His temper was a slow burning fuse. There was no problem for the warlord while there was still more fuse to burn, but the inevitable explosion would catch and destroy anyone in the crossfire. "You. Killer of children. No... you're worse. You've stripped them of everything that makes them children - everything that makes them alive and human. And for what!?"

It was a direct question, yet the other man simply continued to whimper, hiding his face. Spider-Man's hand appeared from nowhere and tightened on the warlord's wrist, white knuckled, strong, while the other hand clasped around his neck. "Why. Did. You. Do. It."

No answer. This was no time to play games.

So Spider-Man punched the warlord, directly in the face. He asked again. Still no answer.

Another punch.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Blood was slowly oozing out of numerous wounds in the face and arm, a relentless flow of crimson, but the costumed hero dared not stop.

"YOU KILLED THEM! WHY!"

He raised another clenched fist, fully intending to continue his relentless onslaught.

"Spider-Man."

Turning, Peter saw Steve. The veteran stood in the doorway, shield in hand, wide-eyed.

He walked up to the bloody mess on the floor. The warlord was grotesque. Already his eyes were swollen over and bloody spit drooled from his slack jaws. He was now as revolting as he should be, finally the outside reflecting the man within. This cockroach of the law who ripped apart countless families. And yet Steve was disgusted. "Stand down, Spider-Man."

Peter stood to his feet, still rigid and furious. "He needs to answer for what he did."

"And he will. In prison. Where he'll be stuck with his own thoughts and nothing else for years-"

"What the hell is that gonna do?! Do you know how many idiots I've knocked down, chucked in jail, only for the exact same idiots to be released and go back to the exact same shit they were doing?! They don't learn, Steve. And - and this guy? He - he - he deserves everything he's getting."

"Maybe. Maybe he has gone too far. But what makes you the judge, jury and executioner? Who are you to decide whether somebody lives or dies? When he goes on trial, he'll be locked up for life and never be presented the opportunity to hurt anyone again."

"That's nowhere near enough. That - that's child's play compared to what they've done to the village. Look up, Steve! Look right up at the roof and tell me the militia don't deserve some kind of real punishment!"

"You're acting hysterical, soldier. This was the mission. This is the reason we were dispatched - to capture the biggest offender. I know it's hard to accept, but we don't get to decide the objective - we're just following orders. Now get back to the vertiberd."

"I'm not-"

"That's an order, soldier."

Sparks within Peter began to sizzle and there was very little time to duck and cover. He knew he should just stay quiet and wait for the storm to abate, but he's given enough forgiveness to last several lifetimes.

"Steve... I can't accept him..." Peter slowly points to the bloodied warlord. "... I can't accept what he's done. The - the pain of losing your family... it's just... too much."

Steve stands taller. Peter already knows the Captain's fingers are clasped tightly around the handle of his shield.

Steve is on a hair trigger.

"...Please, son." He whispers.

And suddenly Peter slouches.

His anger dissipates. He notices how sore his body has become due to constant strain, his muscles aching. His joints scream.

"...I'm sorry."

xxx

The vertiberd nears their base of operations.

"Medics tended to the warlord, but his injuries were extreme. The severity of the wounds caused him to slip into some sort of catatonic coma," the head nurse informs Steve, who nods in understanding.

"Thank you for your work. Your team did all they could. I'm very thankful."

The nurse continues, "It's unclear if waking up will be an option. He may come around eventually, but with those injuries, internal bleeding may catch up first."

Steve simply nods again in understanding. "That... that's unfortunate. I should've stopped him."

He slumps backwards onto the rigid vertiberd seat. Dejected, weary, and carrying the smell of burning wood between his armour plates.

The nurse speaks up, still standing within the doorway. "If I may, Captain?"

Steve was taken aback by the directness of the question, cutting off his sentence completely, though the captain lends his ear.

"You shouldn't blame yourself for Spider-Man's actions. Anyone in the same situation would've done exactly what he did."

"I - I know... you're probably right. But as the leader of the group, I should be nurturing that young man... not leading him down a path of violence he might not come back from. Maybe these operations are just too much for him... I -"

"... I had a son." The nurse interjects, with confidence and a hint of heaviness to her tone. "It was quite a while ago. I was young, and stupid, and the decisions I made were poor. Even at the time I knew my life was crumbling. A father who abandoned us years prior, a family who turned their back to the plight of a daughter in need. I was so lost and devoid of purpose that I didn't care about setting myself straight, or fighting for something better. But all that self-deprecation and pity washed away when my little boy came into the world. Suddenly, I had purpose. For once, I finally felt happy... fulfilled..."

"That... that is a very touching story. But..." Steve was confused, puzzled at the suddenly open demeanour of a nurse he had hardly noticed throughout his involvement with S.T.R.I.K.E. And more importantly, confused at the her story, struggling to understand why such a personal narrative was being openly provided in the first place. When suddenly, he realized-

"Yes. He died. Murdered. I had never been so angry - so full of hatred - than at that time in my life. The hopelessness I had all but forgotten years prior came back. The light I was used to basking in was suddenly cold, and unfamiliar. When authorities identified the man, I was filled with every intention to track him down and murder him too."

"...But you didn't, did you?"

"No. I - I could never bring myself to cross that line. But each time I found myself slipping... my son found his way back to my heart, and my memories, and I realized that taking the life of a killer would simply mean I became the thing I hated most. The point... is that losing family will hurt you beyond belief." She looks up, a determination in her eyes which Steve recognises only as the love and care of a mother. "I think Spider-Man knows this pain. I believe he's felt it before. He understood that somewhere, out there, fathers and mothers were grieving the thing they loved most. And still, he was able to refrain from killing the murderer of children... You don't need to nurture him, Captain. He's already stronger than most."

xxx

Natasha eyes the time on her wristwatch.

Midnight had just passed.

She found herself enveloped by a sudden loneliness within the empty training room. Gathering her batons and placing them to her hips, Natasha resets the automated training protocols and logs off the AR computer systems.

It's late, and she's tired, and the prospect of a decent book accompanied by complete silence sounding especially pleasing.

"-training him to do that!"

The silence was shattered, and what followed were the intense, temper-filled accusations of Tony Stark coming from a training room several doors down.

Blinking wearily, confused, Natasha walks quietly, stifling a yawn as she moves closer to better understand what could be so anger-inducing at 1am in the morning.

"That's not what I expected to happen, Tony..."

An argument.

Natasha sighs. Their scuffles were nothing out the ordinary - merely a commodity at this point - though she did wish they would begin to wrap the feud sometime soon. It clashed against the dynamic of the team, and with recent events forcing an incredibly heated spotlight on Tony and his actions, it was unlikely the peaceful cooperation of old would return within the coming weeks.

To be fair, was there ever really a time when the group cooperated seamlessly? Natasha smiles to herself.

No. It had always been this way. Petty arguments. Accusatory tantrums. Ego-battles that Tony would certainly almost always win, likely due to the fact that his body practically oozes conceited amour propre.

Natasha smiles to herself. While rough at this moment, she knows the team will eventually forgive Tony. Eventually.

"IT HAPPENED! Steve... it happened! I - I knew it'd be rough out there, but this?!"

"Tony, please just-"

"No, no! You have no right - no right - to put the kid in that situation!"

"It was not in my control. Things went sideways, in the worst possible way. We... weren't prepared for what we found, and as the leader I should've been there for him, I know that-"

"But you weren't, were you? Huh?! Nah - you just sat back and watched as a kid put someone in a coma. A kid! He's still a child, no matter how much time he's been an Avenger, no matter how much training you've funnelled him through, and no matter how much trauma has been smacked over that thick head of his. He's a child."

"...You're wrong, Tony."

"Excuse me?!"

"He's not a kid. You're not giving him enough credit. With the amount of stuff he's had to endure throughout his life, he's just as mature as we were - maybe even more-so. Yes, he

"I don't two shits about your apology because I'm not the one you need to be apologising to. Don't let it happen again or I swear to God-"

"Goodnight, Tony."

Natasha sees Steve walk swiftly out the room, his body language clearly conveying annoyance and stress. He doesn't notice her presence and continues down the hallway.

Natasha pokes her head the room where Tony resides, noticing how dejected and worn he looks. "It's been a long day. Sleep. And stop picking fights, please," she essentially whispers. Tony looks up, obviously ready to continue pouring his anger out, though the understanding look in Natasha's eyes is enough to stifle those flames. She nods to him, waving a goodnight, and walks after Steve.

It's almost half a minute later before she finally catches up, inwardly cursing his long legs and her own inability to make such effortless strides.

"You know he only wants what's best for the kid."

"Please, not now, Natasha," Steve practically yawns. He taps the elevator button, watching as the numbers indicate its ascension toward the training level. "I've been hearing about the mission nonstop all week, both from him and STRIKE. Guess I'm getting more easily agitated in my old age."

"Speaking of, you never actually told me about the aftermath of the mission."

"Still too lazy to read the report logs?"

"Only yours, Steve. You always make them so boring."

The elevator dings, and both teammates enter.

Steve hits the button for the garage, composing himself for a moment before continuing. She suspects he came to understand that nothing would stop her prodding, so he just obliged her inquisitions.

"Well, we apprehended the remaining militia in the village. Their leader was essentially a bloodied mess, so morale dropped fast. Once the area was secure, we tended to the children, but - it wasn't good at all. They were just husks. I - I think they were trying to perfect some type of serum. I just -" he stops, sighing. Natasha had noticed the bags under his eyes upon first starting the conversation, but now they were much more prominent. He was slouching, too - a rare occurrence.

"Want to come for a drive?" she speaks softly. It's a genuine offer, one which she hopes he will take up. Steve needs some fun.

The elevator ride continues in silence for several moments longer. Steve shakes his head, smiling. "In that death-trap you call a vehicle? Yeah, why not."

Softly splashing water droplets hit the car windows as they drive onwards, toward the downtown area. The pitch-black skies are overhung with a blanket of grey, so much so that Natasha can barely tell the difference between the sky and clouds. Despite car rides typically feeling tedious, the rain commonly calms her - she watches raindrops race down to the windows. The hum-drum of everyday life and S.T.R.I.K.E. missions fall to the wayside. She is enjoying herself.

"I've never told you this, but I have a sister."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. But, uh - technically, it isn't biological. She's an orphan, like me."

"What's her name?"

"Yelena. She's beautiful. In appearence and soul. She was with me during my time-" she clears her throat, suddenly feeling constricted. Her past has been an avoided topic for decades. To forget such a childhood would be a beautiful miracle, but unfortunately, her memories remain sound.

Natasha continues, "...during my time in Department X. I - we were taken to the Red Room facility... filled with female orphans... and trained to be killers. Brainwashed, technically. Forced into combat and espionage. Each Black Widow is deployed with... false memories to help ensure their loyalty. I found this out... eventually... and I knew I had to get out." She attempts to conceal a small, pitiful laugh, though it escapes her lips anyway. "I found out I was never even a ballerina. Even after so many experiences... so many hours of training... the enjoyment I felt while dancing... it was all just a lie. A fake, implanted memory. Huh... wild, isn't it?"

Steve finally looks at her, sad but resolute. His slumped figure suddenly becomes much more pronounced.

Determination permeates throughout his body once more. There is no time to feel sorry for himself. A team is relying on him - a broken team which needs to cooperate. A team which needs to regain the strength it had lost. A team needing their leader.

He opens his mouth to speak, though an explosion cuts the sentence short.

xxx

The car had flipped so many times that Natasha had become disorientated before she even sustained the concussion that had her drifting in and out of consciousness. She was fleetingly aware of the bloody taste in her mouth but she couldn't figure out what it was. Through her blurry, screeching vision she could identify her legs, being dragged across the pavement.

"- Tash?! - Natasha!"

She nurses her head. The whirring of gunfire slowly seeps its way into screeching eardrums, and the pain flowing through her body is unbearable.

"You okay?!"

It's Steve, yelling in her ear. An extremely common occurrence, though usually not under life and death circumstances. Usually.

Still, Nat realises the severity of the situation. With her vision slowly returning, she sees fire and smoke billow into the skyline, with the metal of her once immaculate car melting away.

"I... haven't paid insurance..."

"We'll worry about that later. You alright? You're bleeding-"

Bullets continue to ravage their makeshift cover, and it becomes evident they need to act now or be gunned down. She steals a glance out from behind the dumpster, realising Steve's shield is lying near the car wreck nearly twenty feet away.

"I'll cover you!"

Nat pulls two pistols from her belt and immediately opens fire. Some bullets miss, though the ones which land on the enemy are blocked by a metal arm.

"What the hell..."

Steve leaps out from behind the dumpster, ducking and weaving to avoid stray shots.

The masked figure swiftly turns his attention to the Captain, hell-bent on murder, though Nat continues to shoot directly for the head. The bullets are once again blocked, but his balance falters and Steve is presented enough time to close the gap.

It wasn't clear who threw the first punch, but suddenly Steve's fist was slamming into the enemy's face while the metal arm sunk into Steve's stomach. Blood pooled in the assassin's mouth as Steve gagged, caught entirely off-guard. They stumbled apart for a brief second, agitated and in pain, before diving back at each other, eyes narrowed in determination.

Steve dodged the metal fist and directed an uppercut of his own; for a brief instant, the assassin's bloodshot eyes widened before he managed to tilt his head backward, ever so slightly, and suddenly slamming it into Steve's nose. Stars burst in his vision, his balance crumbled, and he threw a blind, sloppy kick in an attempt to put some distance between them. The assassin easily evaded, ducking swiftly to land a horrific elbow directly into Steve's jaw.

The Captain fell to floor, in audible pain, and the assassin wasted no time in pulling a pistol from his belt.

There was no opportunity to fire a shot, however, as Nat intervened with ferocity and malice. Her electric batons whirred as she attempted to land a clean hit, though the enemy was evading with a level of finesse she had hardly ever witnessed.

Nothing was connecting. She was growing agitated. The gurgling of Steve's bloodied mouth could be heard in the background as he attempted to return to his feet.

The assassin, having noticed Steve's movements, immediately turned to Nat and went on the offensive. He dodged a final baton attack, closing the gap between him and Widow effortlessly before clasping his metal arm over the entirety of his face. It whirred loudly, mechanisms churning as the arm began to slightly throttle.

There was no time to react as her head was slammed forcefully onto the concrete ground below. Blood spewed from her temple as consciousness immediately escaped from the body.

"NOOOOOOO!"

Steve rushes forward, shield in hand. The fire billowing towards the night sky was accentuating the assassin's figure, making him appear larger - more demonic. His metal arm reloads the clip of his pistol. But-

"S-Steve... help... pl-"

The assassin falters, using the metal arm to reach for his eye goggles. He lifts them, revealing bloodshot eyes and freely-flowing tears. Steve stops dead in his tracks.

"It's m-" the assassin cries softly, struggling. "...B-Bucky..."