Post by DiscipleofBob on Feb 2, 2016 0:00:44 GMT -5
Agents of SHIELD #13:
12 Days of SHIELD
12 Days of SHIELD
After about a week of negotiating, planning, and red-tape-cutting bureaucracy that still existed even within the departments of SHIELD, Camp Lehigh was ready for Steve Rogers to use as his new base of operations. All that was left was to move his team and their supplies, again, to the new location. This time, however, they'd have the resources and room they needed, as well as even more room to expand if needed.
When Rogers arrived back at the safehouse, he found it surprisingly empty, with plenty of room for his motorcycle in the usually tightly packed garage. Most of the SHIELD support staff were gone, with only a few essential personnel remaining. One of which was waiting with a tablet and a garishly colored, mismatched sweater, decorated with assorted blinking LED lights and frills.
"Welcome back, Captain Rogers," Coulson greeted him.
"Thanks," Rogers said cautiously as he looked around the garage for any other startling differences. "Is everything all right here?"
"Perfectly fine. Most of the support staff have gone home for the holidays, though I think the fact that we're here crowding up the joint is more of a factor."
"They just... went home?"
"Yeah, most of the staff here aren't major full-time-and-then-some SHIELD agents like our team or most of the Helicarrier staff. They're the 'weekend warriors' of SHIELD. Not to undersell their importance, but it does mean they're not needed as much of the time as some of the higher ranking agents. Don't worry, most of our team is still on standby, though a few have taken leave. Fury wants everyone to use their vacation time now. He expects a string of major ops in the near future."
Rogers nodded. That part at least made sense, especially since they were moving again. No point in getting used to these cramped quarters. "And what's with that ridiculous thing?"
"My Ugly Holiday Sweater?" Coulson beamed with pride over the mismatched rag. "It's allowed for the holidays. There's a running contest for it. I win nearly every year."
"Right, and how many people actually participate in this 'contest'?" Rogers asked.
Coulson hesitated before quickly changing the subject. "You'll be happy to know I managed to make you legal again. Mostly." Rogers stared at him in confusion. "Well, you've been declared dead for nearly 70 years. And in that time, there's been a lot of changes. Social security. Credit history. Taxes. I managed to get most of it covered for you. The current system doesn't really have anything built in for people who come back from the dead. In this day and age, you'd think they would account for that. Oh well." He handed a large stack of papers to Rogers. "Just put that somewhere safe and secure for now."
"What's this?" Rogers pulled out one particular sheet with a very large dollar amount on it.
"That would be a bank account I opened in your name to deposit your military backpay. It wasn't easy to get it all pushed through, but thankfully SHIELD has a lot of pull," Coulson explained. "Congratulations! You have money! Granted with inflation over 70 years that's not nearly as astronomical as it would be in 1945, but that's still a lot of digits."
Rogers tried to wrap his head around just how much money this little piece of paper said he had. "What am I supposed to with all of this?"
"Well, I doubt you were looking to retire anytime soon, so... a hobby maybe? I personally collect old trading cards. Mint edition, if you're interested."
Nick Fury sat in the director's chair. Each active SHIELD base had a quiet room for the director designed to block out any unwanted forms of communication. The room was built to make it impossible for a potential spy to hide, even someone invisible or intangible with sensors to detect any deviation in the atmosphere. No technology could breach its dampening fields. SHIELD's few experts in supernatural forces had warded these rooms against what Fury refused to acknowledge as magic. They'd even found ways to completely block telepathic interference, tested and approved by several on staff.
The only communication in or out was a secure hard line. Only a director like Fury or Coulson could access this end. But the other end could be anywhere in the world, used for agents in hiding or in deep cover to give reports, so additional layers of security were still needed.
A hologram of the SHIELD logo briefly flickered on, displaying the message 'incoming call.' There was no ringtone. That would have made unnecessary noise. Fury pressed the glowing button on his table, one giant tablet that only displayed what was needed at the time. The hologram transformed into the image of a young, blonde woman wearing yellow shades in a leather jacket, jeans, and otherwise normal street clothes.
On her end, all she got was audio, but Fury could see her surroundings in the hologram, in case she was captured and her captors were forcing her to make the call and pretend everything was okay.
"You've reached the Baptist Gospel Hotline. How may we spread the good iword for you today?" Fury said in a very uncharacteristically cheerful tone.
"A little bird told me you're having choir audtions. Is that true?" the blonde woman responded. First password checked out. Identity confirmed.
"We're not holding any formal auditions, but if you'd like to come to one of our services and sing as mass, you're always welcome."
"Thanks, I'll think about it and give you a ring sometime." Second password confirmed. It was safe to speak plainly.
"Agent Mockingbird, good to hear you're still singing," Fury said in his normal voice. "Report."
"So far so good. No one suspects I'm a SHIELD agent, and I've been working my way up the Maggia ranks. Count Nefaria trusts me to run some of his operations in his absence now, partially because the people he has to answer to have him running scared."
"HYDRA's making a move with the Maggia?"
"Not yet, but soon. I don't have the full details yet, but HYDRA doesn't want to invest in a gang war between the families. They want everything under control quick. They're definitely backing Nefaria."
"The only thing keeping the Maggia in balance is the fact that the families are at each other's throats. We need to know what HYDRA and Nefaria's plays are before they happen."
"I'm on it, but I can't rush things. Count Nefaria's been a little more paranoid than usual lately, so I have to walk on eggshells. If I press for too much info, he'll suspect something's wrong."
Fury sighed. "Well, just don't be afraid to make the call if it gets too hot. One word and I'll send in the brass to take care of things."
"Like I said, I have things under control. We can't pull out now or we'll risk losing out on a huge opportunity. Just relax for a bit, Director. Pour yourself a glass of something to calm your nerves. Everything's proceeding as planned."
The third password. Fury hesitated. "Very well. It's your show, Mockingbird. Keep me apprised of the situation. Fury out." He terminated the call. It would take time to set up, but he'd found the next likely target for Rogers's team.
Although the director's office couldn't be breached when whoever was in the chair was on a call, that didn't stop someone persistent enough from waiting outside the office, someone like Clint Barton. The SHIELD archer tapped his foot impatiently, but refused to leave until he could get in a word with Fury.
Eventually, the lights came back on and the hermetically sealed door slid open. If Fury was surprised to see Clint standing there, he didn't show it. "Can I help you, Barton?"
"You most certainly can, Saint Nick."
Fury sighed. "If you're just here to crack jokes, I'm leaving."
"Bobbi." Clint cut straight to the point of the matter. "I haven't spoken to my wife in six months."
"You know she's in deep cover, Barton. You know I can't talk about details."
"I don't want details. I want my wife back! No op can be worth losing an agent for this long. I know you're receiving regular reports from her. The least you can do is give me five minutes in the cone of silence with her so I can at least talk to her."
"Look, Clint, I empathize with you, I really do. But we wouldn't be having an agent undercover this long if it wasn't vitally important to our operations."
"That's a load of crap!" Barton exclaimed. "You think I don't know what sort of mission Bobbi's on? Come on, Nick, we're secret agents. Gathering info is what we do for a living!"
"Mission details and findings are top secret, Clint. That's how SHIELD works. That's how we survive."
"Shall I start naming names? Maybe put a few extra slips in the SHIELD secret santa basket?" Clint dared. "How about Count Nef-"
"Okay, you've made your point!"
"I don't think I have. There's no way Bobbi doesn't have enough dirt for us to move on their whole operations. You're getting greedy for the bigger fish! What, do you think the HYDRA leadership is just going to show up at their base for teambuilding exercises? How do you think HYDRA agents are at trust falls anyway?"
"That's enough!" Fury shouted, having to look down the corridors to see if anyone else was in earshot. "Look, things are going down right now. I don't have all the information to make a call one way or the other. Next time I get a call from Bobbi, I'll let you sit in. If the line is secure and her position isn't compromised, I'll give you two some alone time. That is the absolute MOST I can give."
Barton stared Fury down. He was already pushing his luck. As usual, he was torn between his sense of self-preservation and his natural instinct to contradict authority at every turn, and he could never be sure of what exactly Fury was keeping to himself. "You're hiding something."
"Yeah, no shit, Hawkeye. I'm Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD. Hiding things is what I do. Now you can either take my offer or I can stick you in a SHIELD drunk tank for next few days."
Barton hesitated, but resolved that this was as much as he was going to get. "Fine. If that's what it takes."
"Glad we reached an understanding, Barton. Now get the hell out of my face!"
"All right, geez, Happy Holidays to you too, Scrooge," Barton replied with a sudden flippancy as he waved off Fury and went on his way.
"Phil, there's something else I needed to talk to you about," Rogers said seriously, though Coulson couldn't help but beam with pride at being on a first name basis with Captain America. "While I was away. I ran into someone who claimed he was part of SHIELD's 'night shift.'"
Coulson's eyes went wide with surprise. "Really? I was starting to think they were a myth. Fury always threatens to put agents on the night shift as punishment. What was the agent like?"
"He was biker with a flaming skull for a head," Rogers said briefly. He could go into more detail, but his point was made just fine.
"I, uh... Huh," Coulson tried to respond, but the words just wouldn't come. "Got to admit, that's a new one."
"What exactly is the Night Shift? What exactly is SHIELD involved with here?" Rogers asked, almost accusatory.
Coulson sighed. "Okay, look. I don't know everything there is to know about SHIELD. The entire structure of SHIELD isn't on any hard drive or any file. It's all in Commander Fury's head. That's how SHIELD operates. Every department is mostly independent except from Fury himself. That way, if one agent is compromised, either by interrogation or defection, any damage can be contained. The Night Shift is just another department in SHIELD. Technically, we're not even supposed to know about it."
"But people keep talking about it like it's a ghost story," Rogers objected.
"Because it largely is. Rumors still circulate in SHIELD, just like any organization. Information that's supposed to remain buried occasionally gets leaked at a water cooler somewhere. Okay, not THAT easily, but leaks do happen."
Coulson continued, "Look, SHIELD handles any sort of threat you can possibly think of, and more that you can't. I don't know all the names, only rumors. There's a separate division for mutants." Coulson stopped his train of thought as he suddenly realize. "Ah, right, mutants weren't a major public thing in 1945. Basically people who get powers because of genetics and evolution and usually nothing else. They're kind of a hot button political issue in the world right now. If Fury had mutants serving publicly in SHIELD, there are actually probably quite a few otherwise good agents working here who would protest."
Just the brief description was enough to remind Rogers of some of the more thick-headed men in the army who didn't want to serve alongside people of color, a factor Rogers had never once thought to determine a man's worth. Was the world still just as hateful, only picking a new victim to bully, or was there more to it?
"Let's see, supposedly there's a separate division to handle alien threats, one to handle beings from alternate or parallel dimensions, one for time travel, though I think that's still just for a hypothetical encounter at this point, obviously there's an internal affairs department, your team developed specifically to go after HYDRA, a few other regional departments, some R&D, and the Night Shift, which basically handles anything else filed under 'miscellaneous.' Vampires, werewolves, monsters, anything that goes bump in the night. Also anything that basically qualifies as 'magical', though Fury hates that term. You probably encountered HYDRA dealing with the occult back in your day."
Rogers nodded. SHIELD was much bigger than he could even realize, and if all of these organizations within SHIELD were supposed to be secret to all except Fury, then that meant there were enough skeletons in Fury's closet to make it a mausoleum. "And these departments never work together?"
"There are circumstances where jurisdictions overlap, but in large, no. When it does happen, Fury makes sure everyone involved keeps everything classified. We probably shouldn't even be talking about this."
"Or maybe we really should," Captain America said quietly.
Mia was one of many patients at the New York branch of St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. One of many terrified kids hoping against all odds for some kind of miracle or at least some kind of return to normalcy. The bravest ones tried to remain optimistic, but despite being young, they were all well aware of their mutual impending fates.
Despite the cold, hard facts she was reminded of every day, Mia's smile shone brightly when a large, burly soldier walked through the door carrying a large military pack. "Dad, you're back!" she cried as she practically leapt from the bed into his arms.
Frank Payne couldn't help but smile back. "Hey, come on, kiddo. I didn't walk all the way down here so you could hurt yourself getting out of bed," he chided, though neither of them could hold any sort of resentment toward the other.
"Psh, they wish they could keep me in bed all day," Mia laughed. "I can break out of this cell anytime I want to."
"It's not a prison cell, it's a hospital bed. And you need to stay here so you can get better, remember? And none of that prison breakout talk, you know it upsets your mother and then I have to hear about being a bad influence..."
"Don't care. I have the coolest dad ever! He's a secret agent and everything!" Mia beamed with pride as the two hugged. "So what'd you bring me?" she asked excitedly.
"Straight to the presents, huh? All right, let me see what I got here." Another parent might have chided their kid for being greedy, but Mia loved to listen to the stories of her father's travel, and he may very well have been her only contact with the outside world. One by one, Frank pulled a few boxes out of his pack. "First, we've got some Pocky from Tokyo..." He handed the box of Japanese confections to the excited girl, who eagerly opened it and started munching. "And this is from Korea..." Next was a box covered in green wrapping paper and a gold ribbon.
Mia eagerly ripped through the packaging like it was Christmas morning. Inside the box were a pair of long, hand-knitted wool green-striped socks, each with googly eyes and a red felt hissing tongue attached to the feet. "I love them! They're perfect!"
"Figured you needed something to keep your feet warm this winter," Frank smiled. "You wouldn't believe what I had to go through to get those."
"Ooh, tell me!" Mia said excitedly as she rushed to put on the warm socks.
"Well..." Frank started as he checked for eavesdroppers. Not that he was actually expecting anything, but it helped to tell the stories of his adventures that Mia loved so much. "There I was, in Seoul, when suddenly, NINJAS!"
Mia hung off his every word, even when he was clearly embellishing. Frank Payne's missions were that of a SHIELD mercenary and one-man army, but his stories were that of a superhero that was part James Bond, part Mission Impossible, part Captain America. Not only did it make storytime with Mia that much more fun, but if he ever got chastised for leaking sensitive information, everything he said included in too many childish exaggerations to determine what's real.
After a good half hour being immersed in his adventures, Mia finally interrupted him. "You know, Dad, I appreciate the stories, I really do. But I'm a big girl now. I don't need fairy tales and stories."
"Huh? What're you talking about?" Frank was stunned. It was the first time Mia had ever objected to one of his stories.
"I love you, but some of your stories are starting to get pretty unbelievable, even for a SHIELD Agent." Maybe taking down the six assassins in a Hong Kong restaurant with a set of chopsticks had been a bit much. Granted, the true story had six, but there was a submachine gun and a grenade that went uncredited, though he did finish off the last attacker with the chopsticks.
"Hey, kiddo, look. I'm telling you the honest truth here! I ain't lying!"
"Come on. You fought with Captain America? I'm not that gullible."
Frank couldn't believe that was the part she was questioning. "Hey, I ain't talking about the Tooth Fairy here! Captain America's 100% real."
"Back in World War II, yeah, but he's been dead for 70 years. If you're going to include time travel you should go ahead and talk about your dinosaur-ranching days too."
"Captain America didn't die. He just... fell asleep." Frank was having trouble explaining the whole thing himself, as it was admittedly pretty unbelievable.
"What, was he under hospice care at the North Pole under Santa Claus?" Mia replied with a touch of sarcasm. "Look, Dad, I don't need you to be some kind of super secret spy to be my hero. I get that most jobs at SHIELD are probably some kind of pencil pusher desk jobs. Heck, even if you were just a janitor, it'd still be awesome."
He tried to not let it show, but Frank was mortified. Anyone else that suggested he was just a janitor for SHIELD would have gotten thrown across the room and that would be that, but for his own daughter to think that of him... "Who said I was a janitor? Is that something your mother put in your head?"
"I... No, I didn't mean..." Mia tried to backpedal, but she couldn't look her father in the eye. That told him everything he needed.
A few years ago, Frank would have been furious at this. His ex-wife would do anything to sabotage his relationship with his daughter. He would have marched right over to her address in a rage and given her a piece of his mind, damn the restraining order. Now, he was just heartbroken. The only reason he'd joined SHIELD was to give his little girl something to be proud of.
Frank gently grabbed Mia's hand, assuring her that he wasn't going to go on a rampage. "Look, when I say that Captain America is alive, awake, and well, that I got to shake his hand, and last week we fought side-by-side, I ain't making any sort of fib. I promise." Mia didn't appear to be convinced. "How about this. When I go back to work, I'll get Cap to take a picture of us together and autograph it out to Mia Payne."
"Dad, even I know how to use Photoshop."
"Then I'll get him to pay you a visit. In costume. With the shield and everything. It might have to be on the DL if you get me." Frank's mouth ran faster than his brain. He was making promises faster than he could figure out if he could keep them. But he was completely genuine when he said he could bring Captain America to meet his daughter, and Mia picked up on it.
She hesitated before slowly smiling again. "Really?"
"Cross my heart, kiddo!"
Once again, she was completely ecstatic and hanging off her father's every word. "So what's Captain America like in real life?"
"Well, you know how tall he looks in the old movies? He's even bigger in person," Frank explained as he had an all new source of stories with which to entertain his daughter.
"Welcome back, Captain."
Rogers had barely finished his debriefing with Coulson when he was approached by another member of his team, this one was much more attractive than the middle-aged Coulson.
"Steve. Sorry," Romanoff corrected herself. "I'm not used to having actual leave hours."
"You and me both. Between getting the strike team together and Fury trying to stuff 70 years in a few hours of orientation, I can't even remember if I've slept."
"There's a cot if you're tired."
"That's the problem. I'm not. Too wired from everything," Rogers replied. "I tried figuring out what I could do while everyone else is resting and recovering and spending time with their loved ones. There was a little Italian place on Church and Bedford I used to go to before the war. Now it serves something called 'shwarma.' Not sure what to make of it."
"I'm not sure you're ready for that sort of thing yet," Romanoff replied.
"What about you? Have you got anywhere to go in the off-season? Any loved ones to spend the holidays with?"
Romanoff shook her head. "I'm afraid not. I'm more of a... modern career woman. Most of my holidays are spent on mission. A girl like me doesn't get friends or family."
"Sorry to hear that," Rogers offered in sympathy. "So, what does a modern career woman do over the holidays when the rest of the office is at home?"
"Can't say. Fury asked me to keep you company if you needed it. Make sure you didn't get too startled by all those horseless carriages we have driving around New York now," Romanoff said with a smile.
"You know we had cars even in the ancient era of 1940," Rogers quipped back.
"My mistake," Romanoff replied with a smile. "You know, as important as it is to catch up on rest, it's probably even more so to get yourself acclimated to modern life. Maybe it'd be good for you to hang up the shield for a while and get out while you still have a chance."
"Did you have something in mind?"
"As a matter of fact," Romanoff smiled. "But first, let's go get you some modern civvies. It's probably about time you took a few steps to blend in with the rest of the 21st century."
Leave was a precious commodity in the military, SHIELD, or any similar organization. The fact that Carol had gotten any at all was something similar to a Christmas miracle. The fact that she was spending the majority of the romantic evening with her husband in the bathroom? Less so.
There was a small knock at the bathroom door. "Carol? You okay, sweetie?" Walter must have heard some of the commotion. Carol took a deep breath and focused, trying to control her throat. She cursed her luck.
"Damn repair engineer's kid passed on their stomach flu." She managed to say, taking the spare moment to talk instead of vomit. "I thought I had dodged this one."
"You missed the last three. It’s still a good record. I'll grab flu survival supplies and we can Netflix and chill, minus the chill part. Chewie, go help your mom feel better." She saw the door open as her fiancé gathered his things to make the run and the orange tabby walked inside and rubbed against her leg as she knelt at the toilet. Another session started. It had to be some time but she began to feel that there wasn't anything left and it got a little better. The tabby did his part by cracking her up as she went, openly complaining as she got sick. He did not approve.
"I don't like it either buddy," she heard Walter say outside. "Kids get people sick. It's just what they do. Got the supplies, babe. I guess we're skipping Star Wars tonight. How about... Love Actually. It won't be as jerky for you."
"I don't get motion sickness. This is just a bug. Still I guess it can't be helped," she said, pulling her hair back. By her calculation the hall bathroom was just over three seconds from the living room sofa, so as long as she was careful she could make it. She flushed the toilet and moved to begin to stand up. "You know you're the greatest man in the world right now, right?"
"It bodes well for me that you think that, considering who you work with." Walter helped her up and handed her some toilet paper to clean up. He also held up a small bucket in case she couldn't reach the toilet next time.
"There goes our night." There was no way that shivering on a sofa and puking into a bright yellow bucket could be even slightly romantic. "I was really looking forward to the movie too."
"It's our night. Take the win." He made a point to help her to the sofa, his worry showing as he half carried her. "If you're very good I'll pour your Pediasure over ice and put a blanket in the dryer for you so it's extra toasty."
"Pediasure and dryer blankets, oh baby," she smiled, but still felt the need to grouse. "It's crazy how we live."
"Wouldn't change a thing."
Down in Midtown Manhattan, the New York Rockefeller Center was crowded with couples and families skating casually along the ice under the glow of the city lights. This was an annual tradition for the city's inhabitants, a familiar site for public displays of affection. Visiting relatives, young couples in love, children enjoying precious time with their parents.
For the first time since he woke up on the Helicarrier, Steve Rogers was dressed in normal, casual, civilian clothes. With his recent windfall, he'd just grabbed the first outfit Natasha recommended, resulting in him balking at modern prices. Denim jeans, a leather jacket, and a plain collared shirt were about as simple as they came at American Apparel, and were as far as Rogers cared to go without experimenting with modern fashion trends.
At some point, Romanoff had changed into her own civilian clothes. When they finally hit the rink, she had to change out her skinny jeans and heeled boots for a trendy black and red tracksuit and leggings she could skate in. She suggested Rogers do the same, but he insisted he would be fine as he was, not wanting to spend more time going through unfamiliar department stores.
Both were naturals on the ice, but while Rogers was merely proficient, Romanoff glided across the ice with speed and grace, weaving between other skaters with the mastery of an Olympic athlete before returning to Rogers's side. "Not your first time I take it," Rogers complimented. "I thought you said you didn't get a lot of free time. When was the last time you went out on the ice like this?"
Romanoff thought for a moment. "Two years ago I had to escape a Russian gulag and outrun a squad of snowmobiles."
"Not exactly what I meant."
"As I said, I don't really get free time. I don't even know if I've been ice-skating for the fun of it," Romanoff shrugged.
"Not even when you were a kid?" Rogers asked.
"I was never a kid," Romanoff replied solemnly. "I don't even remember a time when I wasn't being trained to do, well, what they were training me to do."
Rogers thought back to the file he'd read on Romanoff before deciding on recruiting her. It was heavily redacted of course, and even if it hadn't been there was a lot of information about Romanoff's past that simply was never made available. The signs were there though, all pointing to the background of a child soldier, or in Romanoff's case, a child assassin.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up anything painful," Rogers apologized.
"It's okay. I'm not going to pretend that part of my life was pleasant, but at least it's over," Romanoff said as she quietly skated backwards in tiny figure eights. "At the time, it didn't seem like that's what we were. We all believed we were just training for the ballet. Some of us probably were, until someone else decided which girls were going to be dancers and which girls were going to be killers."
"That's awful," Rogers tried to sympathize.
Romanoff shrugged. "Most children cannot grasp the severity of the conditions in which they live without some sort of comparison or context. We were isolated growing up, so we had no reason to believe our childhoods were anything but normal. I'm sure growing up in the Depression seemed relatively normal to you."
"Boy, we sure do make the most cheerful couple, don't we?" Rogers laughed. Romanoff blushed slightly at being referred to as a couple, but passed it off as the cold.
"Thank you for this, Stephen. Skating here was something I always had a childish daydream about. I always wondered what it would be like to live the life of a normal, boring, teenage, American girl, and take some equally normal, boring, teenage, American boy to skate here."
"Well, gee, I hope I'm not that boring," Rogers joked.
"Boring can be nice once in a while," Romanoff said as she skated back to him. "Thank you for indulging me tonight. We still have the rest of the night at least if you can think of anything else you'd like to do." Her arm wrapped around Rogers's waist. She didn't need the support, but Rogers gave it anyway.
Rogers thought for a minute, "Actually, now that you mention it, there is something I have been meaning to do."
When the order came to move base from the safehouse to Camp Lehigh, Fitz and Simmons were both grateful to have the space for a real lab, but dreading the prospect of having to move the lab equipment all over again. Sure there were lower-ranking personnel for that, but both scientists had lost equipment before due to negligence with sensitive materials.
Both young scientists adorned dark goggles as Fitz pointed the futuristic-looking ray gun at their advanced spectroscope. With a bright flash, the large cabinet-sized piece of furniture was gone and in its place was a tiny figurine version. Technically it didn't function in this state, but it did make packing easier. "One spectroscope, check."
"And I think that's the last of it," Simmons smiled as she clicked a box on her holographic tablet. "Really, I don't know why we just don't do all of our packing this way."
"Cause honestly, I'm not supposed to have this," Fitz admitted as he fiddled the ray gun. "Dr. Henry Pym's pretty stingy when it comes to his Particles and who's handling them and how. I mean true in the wrong hands this could be very dangerous stuff."
"How did you get permission for this then?"
"I didn't," Fitz smirked. "But what Dr. Henry Pym doesn't know won't hurt him. Probably. Besides, we are professional SHIELD personnel. We are the picture of perfect responsibility and handling sensitive equipment with care."
"You left the safety off," Simmons pointed out.
Fitz had to take a second glance at the ray gun, the design of which looked more like a Flash Gordon prop than an actual working device. "So I did. Fancy that," he said sheepishly as he flipped the correct switch on the device.
"It's absolute bollocks that we're the only ones who are busy working over the winter holiday though," Simmons complained. "I would have loved to actually visit the family. The last few years we've been stuck out on one SHIELD assignment after another."
"True, but they've been pretty spectacular assignments, yeah? I mean, come on, we discovered Captain America." Not to mention the assignments were a convenient excuse for spending more time with Simmons, but that was something better left unsaid. "Before we finish packing everything, there is something I need to take care of." Silently reminded of his big plans for the holidays, Fitz pulled out a small box, the size of a ring case.
Simmons saw the ring box and partially froze. Something like a piece of jewelry would be far too intimate a gift even for close friends, and her friendship with Fitz was of the absolute most importance to her. "Fitz, you didn't get me anything, did you? I thought we agreed no presents this year." Of course it was something they agreed on every year, and even on years when they were stuck on remote assignment Fitz would find ways to break that agreement.
"Go ahead, open it," Fitz offered with a giddy smile. Simmons, with the polite reluctance she always displayed when receiving a gift, approached the box and was about to pick it up when it started to glow and shake. Her hand shot back in surprise as the small package started opening itself up from the inside. Something cut through the wrapping paper in neat organized strips before unfolding into small hummingbird-like wings and taking to the air.
Flitting about in the air was a small spherical robot with rapidly flapping wings, its circuitry glowing bright yellow and giving the whole piece of technology the appearance of a will o' wisp. "Jemma, meet your brand new Tinkerbell," Fitz presented proudly. "Or whatever you decide to name it. That's up to you. I used some of Pym particles to shrink some components down and fit as many options in as I could. She has just about as much scanning equipment as our lab here, along with data storage and a handy nightlight. Plus a few other options, and she's fully customizable."
"Oh Fitz, I love it!" Simmons threw her arms around Fitz in a great big hug. Fitz immediately stopped talking on contact. When she broke off the hug he was a few shades redder in the face. "Okay, my turn."
Having already anticipated something like this, Simmons giddily hurried behind a desk and pulled out a small wrapped box of her own. "And this is for you."
"Aw, Jemma, you didn't have to- Give it here," Fitz said, putting a lot less effort into the feigned reluctance as he tore into the paper to find a small standard issue SHIELD case, the kind used for hazardous materials.
"You can go ahead and open it to take a look. Don't worry, everything's safe and stable for now," said Simmons, making Fitz only more curious.
Carefully, he opened the box to see various multicolored vials, glowing bright enough that he had to put the safety goggles back on.
"I took some of the Isotope-8 that was recovered in the last operation, and after stabilizing the contents, I sent it over to SHIELD's technical department to see if we can put any of it to better use," Simmons explained. "Of course in this context, you are our technical department so this is all for you to play with."
Fitz's mind raced with possible applications. This stuff raw could give superpowers to ordinary people, or even amplify or alter existing powers. If any of its potential could be harnessed in a device... "This is amazing, Jemma! Thank you so much!" He enthusiastically returned the hug, both basking in the moment that would be their mutual Christmas.
Fitz's eye caught Simmons' tablet on the nearby desk. If it weren't for his hyper attention to detail he might not have caught the words displayed on the holographic screen, provoking his natural curiosity. "Project Snowman?" he read out loud. "And here I thought I knew all the secret SHIELD projects. What's this?"
"That's..." Simmons hesitated. "Sorry, that's confidential. You know how SHIELD is and all."
"Of course. Wouldn't want to get anyone in trouble. I understand," Fitz said, but if he was being honest with himself he wouldn't. It was the first time he could think of where either of the pair had hidden their work from the other.
After a long day of herding cats at SHIELD, and several nights without sleep getting things in order, even Phil Coulson had to admit he needed to take some time off. There was someone who needed him, someone he'd been neglecting for a while.
He entered room containing a small wrapped box that he hoped would make up for how much time his new assignments kept them apart. "Hey. How've you been?" She deserved an apology, regardless of whether the whole situation was in his hands or not.
"I know. Things have been crazy lately. Hopefully things will be much less hectic soon. Once we're established in our own base, we won't need to spend every waking moment moving every piece of equipment from one location to the next. I'll make sure to set aside more quality time."
After kicking off his shoes, Coulson removed his tie and jacket, and started to unbutton his shirt. "I want you to know that I could never have gotten this far without you. My success is your success, and I'm going to spend every day making sure you get the appreciation you deserve."
Coulson dressed out of his SHIELD uniform and into jeans and a vintage Captain America T-shirt, though he hesitated before putting it on. "Got to wonder if this is even appropriate anymore with my current employment situation. I'm not sure if Captain Rogers would be amused or creeped out. Oh well, I can always get another T-shirt," he said as he grabbed a hose and bucket, starting to fill it up with soapy water.
"Anyway, I got you a Christmas present. Here," Coulson said as he opened up the small wrapped present. "SHIELD protection wax, the good stuff, not the modern stuff they churn out for the Quinjets. Trust me, I know how that leaves scuff marks on the classics. Rumor has it this is derived from the stuff they used to shine Captain America's shield."
With the preparations complete, Coulson grabbed a sponge and set to work hand-washing the 1962 Chevrolet Corvette. "Merry Christmas, Lola."
Steve Rogers entered the small office building. Though the hours on the sign indicated it was open, other than the lights being on there was almost no indication otherwise. The walls were plain and tan, with no sign that they'd been updated in decades along with the heavy wooden door. Rogers felt right at home.
Compounding the nostalgia were several old glass cases depicting antiques: disused rifles, out of date uniforms, and badges of honor. Along the wall were old black and white photos from every decade since Rogers's era, and along those were a long series of portraits of men in officer attire, almost all old, and almost all deceased based on the names and dates under the portraits.
At the counter was a disheveled middle-aged woman with thick glasses, weary of the worlds' problems and eager for closing time. Rogers's presence didn't elicit a smile so much as a rehearsed attention.
"This is Veterans' Affairs, right?" Rogers asked.
That’s what the sign on the door says, was what the clerk wanted to say, but instead said politely, "Yes, sir. How can I help you?"
"I'd like to make a donation. Anonymous, if that's okay."
The clerk perked up a little bit. Personal donations were rare, but not unheard of this time of year. After long days of having to disappoint desperate veterans with mandated bureaucracy and severe underfunding, someone looking to contribute was a welcome change of pace. "I can absolutely help with that, sir. I just need you to fill out a few forms for our records and tax purposes."
"Of course," Rogers smiled as he took the nearby pen, chained to the counter, and filled out the forms. The clerk was used to some of the personal information being difficult to remember, but the man at her counter seemed to struggle with a lot of the information. She was more than happy to help someone who wasn't screaming in her face, even if it took longer than usual. "Okay, I think that's everything. And here's the check, if that's all right."
"That's perfectly fine," the clerk said as she picked up the check, only now just noticing the sheer number of digits on this. Her eyes went so wide they nearly popped out of her skull.
Rogers gave a soft smile. "I came into some money recently. I just hope it helps."
"This is... this is more than our budget!" the clerk exclaimed, failing completely to contain her excitement. "Are you sure you want this to be anonymous? The board's going to flip at a donation like this. You could get your very own wing named after you here."
"No thanks, one monument is more than enough," Rogers said as he walked past a bronze statue of Captain America, slightly taller than himself, and left just as the clerk finally bothered to read the name on the check. She glanced between the papers in her hand, the check with the impossible amount of money, and the statuesque man who casually left the office before she could even process what just happened.
Natasha was waiting just outside, smiling back at him. "Not exactly what I figured you had in mind."
"It was something I needed to do while I still had the chance," Steve replied. "I don't need that kind of money, but there are people who do."
"Just tell me you didn't give everything away. I'm not covering dinner for you forever, Captain," she joked.
"I have more than enough squirreled away for a while. Hungry?" Steve said as he offered his arm to hold onto as they left.
"Famished. What did you have in mind?" Natasha graciously accepted the old-fashioned gesture.
"Well, there's this shwarma place on Church and Bedford I've been meaning to try."
"Bold choice," Natasha commented.
"Tonight I think I'm willing to try just about anything," Steve said as they walked out into the brisk winter air.
When first coming to America, the Khans had struggled with the idea of celebrating Christmas, but eventually when Kamala was born they settled into the idea of celebrating just the commercial aspects and getting their children some presents, if only so they wouldn't envy the other kids at school. But after a large brunch and opening a few presents, they didn't have much in the way of family traditions for the day.
So with the small almost lie of needing to study, Kamala excused herself and walked down to her high school. Even with supposed added security, getting in was just a matter of swiping her student ID at the library entrance. Technically she wasn't supposed to be here, but it wouldn't be the first time her teachers had overlooked a willingness to study on the off-hours. And just to make sure she wasn't completely lying, Kamala picked a few books to read and study... for about five minutes.
Once she was sure she wouldn't be disturbed, she exited the library and headed down the hall to the gym, one of the other facilities kept open during student off-hours. Kamala questioned the wisdom of keeping these parts of the school open when there was practically no one else around, but today she was going to use it to her advantage. The school's security records would show her entering and exiting via the library, and nothing else.
Inside the gym she went over to one of the punching bags. Having never so much as hurt a fly, Kamala threw one weak punch at the bag. It didn't even move and her knuckle hurt as if it punched her back. Part of her brain, the old part of her, told her that this was a sign. That she should quit now. That this was wrong. This was the same part ingrained in her being by religious parents who preached absolute pacifism. But the other part of her, the new her, told herself that this was how they all got started. Captain America. Spider-Man. Captain Marvel. All the heroes in the world had to take that first step, that first means of control. Captain America was in boot camp long before he had the super soldier serum or the shield. Spider-Man probably had to jump off a building at some point and hope that he didn't go splat on the ground. Agents of SHIELD had to train at some point. And if she was ever going to live up to someone like Captain Marvel, so did she.
Kamala shook her hand and ignored the pain, forming a ball in her fist. Concentrating on something she didn't know how to concentrate on, her fist grew and her arm suddenly bulked up as she reared back for another punch. This time swinging with all her might, the little girl who'd never hurt a fly in her life and knocked the punching bag off its hook and near across the gym. Surprised and a little scared at her own strength, Kamala took a good long look at her enlarged hand.
Usually at this point, her mutant power would start going out of control and her body would distort and change in ways she couldn't predict, but now none of that was happening. Her arm and fist remained enlarged until she took a few deep breaths, and again concentrating on something she didn't know how to concentrate on, it shrunk back down to normal size.
First step done. Now to try that again...
To be continued...