Title: Different Ant, Same Old Boot

Author: Jedi Buttercup

Rating: T

Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

Summary: "You know, Steve mentioned you after his visit here," Nick replied. "He said a lot of things about kindred spirits and different fronts of the same fight. He didn't mention you were such a smart-ass." 3000 words.

Spoilers: Early Season 2 for Sleepy Hollow; MCU post-"Captain America: Winter Soldier"

Notes: For GrayCardinal, who asked for: "Nick Fury passes through Sleepy Hollow while living off the grid post-Winter Soldier, and gets caught in the crossfire of an encounter between Ichabod Crane and the Horseman." Warning for Fury's use of language. :)

One of the many situations that Nick Fury had been too busy to personally investigate as Director of SHIELD, yet hadn't dared delegate to anyone he didn't fully trust, had been the problem that was Sleepy Hollow, New York.

Specifically, the question of what in the actual fuck was going on in the town. Most of the reports from the team who'd gone there to deny the villain of the week his weird artifact of choice had been very reserved and even dismissive about describing what they'd seen. Suspiciously so, considering that bizarre circumstances and enhanced foes were by no means an unusual job hazard for a SHIELD agent.

Or maybe not, considering that Sitwell had been along for the ride. Considering what Nick now knew about the man. Only a handful of agents had supported Barton's and Rogers' reports of the Headless Horseman and the other quote-unquote demons they'd encountered; Sitwell hadn't been one of them. And as for the rest... there'd been more than one veiled comment about Barton's possession-related PTSD and Rogers' adjustment issues after seventy years on ice. Nick wondered exactly what the record would show if he compared the names of the dissemblers against the list of SHIELD agents now known to've been HYDRA in sheep's clothing.

None of the reasons HYDRA might've had for discouraging SHIELD's interest could mean anything good for the rest of humanity. A review of the letters Rogers had been exchanging with one of the focal points of the disturbance had turned up mostly more things to be alarmed about, rather than fewer. And to tie it all up with a bow, there'd been strange energy disturbances picked up by the satellites over the area right around the same time HYDRA had been co-opting the Insight helicarriers. So now that Nick was officially dead and free to go wherever he wanted, he'd put Sleepy Hollow near the top of the list of things to get a handle on in person before making any further recommendations.

He really hoped he didn't have to flag the place for Coulson. Phil and his team had more important things to worry about at the moment. And Heaven help them all if Rogers found out from his penpal that the Avengers' first handler wasn't as dead as Fury had let them all believe. At least Rogers already knew about Nick.

He sighed, checking the GPS mounted on the dash again- he really missed his tricked out SUV sometimes; the commercially available shit was too damn limited- and took the next turn toward the abandoned church where everything had gone down. He had a file full of other addresses to check out afterward- most of them connected to the police lieutenant working with Rogers' friend, the supposed Oxford professor whose obviously faked records stank to high heaven- but he'd decided to start with the scene of the crime, as it were.

The old parish building had been partially recovered by the forest at some point, vines creeping up over white-painted woodwork and snaking into the bell-tower like some kind of oversized leafy octopus. Land records said there'd been a church there going back to colonial times, though it had burned down at least once in the past, and probably would again if left to rot much longer. The metal sign post out front had been knocked down, the sign itself long since stolen by some vandal or other. Nick parked the nondescript old truck he was driving just off the road and sat a moment in the driver's seat, just taking in the scenery.

It had been long enough since the incident that any sign of his people's presence was probably long gone; Nick didn't know exactly what he was expecting to find there. Hoofprints charred into the earth that smelled of sulfur, perhaps? He didn't think anything would surprise him, anymore.

Nick chuckled at the mental image of the look on Rogers' face if he hunted him down to fork back over that ten dollar bill, then got out of the truck, double-checking his holster and retrieving a flashlight from the glovebox. It wasn't quite dark yet, but there was no sense taunting fate any further than he was already.

Up close, the church still looked just as abandoned as it had from the truck, if in suspiciously good shape for a long-unused building. There were no obvious signs of recent disturbance; no strange scents, no strange noises. He circled around to the graveyard where the actual scuffle had taken place; nothing seemed out of place there either, just rank upon rank of grey stones, most so weathered that the names and dates were no longer legible. As anonymous as the Tomb of the Unknown in the cemetery where Nick's own empty grave now rested.

He shook his head at the thought, then circled back around to the front, frowning at the muted sound of another pair of feet crunching over gravel half-buried in leaf mould. He hadn't brought anyone along, and he hadn't heard any other vehicles arrive, so whoever'd followed him there probably wasn't a friend. But he hadn't heard any hoofbeats either, so whoever it was probably wasn't the so-called Horseman. Must be a local, then.

Nick drew his sidearm anyway, pairing it with the flashlight in the dim light of dusk, and sidled up to the building as he took a glance around the corner. He might be a skeptic, but he was fully aware of the universe's penchant for irony.

A quick visual sweep of the front of the church revealed a lone guy in a jacket even more dated than Nick's Salvation Army wear by at least a couple of centuries. Nick was no sartorial expert, but the lack of zipper, the dual rows of big round buttons marching up the front, and the ties on the shirt underneath were straight out of a history textbook. Either a lost cosplayer had just so happened to choose that exact moment to scope the windows of Nick's truck, or Nick had coincidentally managed to stumble across Rogers' friend on his first stop.

Taunting fate, right. Nick snorted, then reholstered his weapon and stepped out from the lengthening shadow of the church.

"Ichabod Crane?" he asked, announcing his presence.

Crane had already half-turned before Nick even spoke. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Nick, flickering over his jeans, hoodie, and jacket in quick order, then lingered on the flashlight in his hand and the holster at his hip before returning to his face.

"I am he," the man replied, tone crisply confident and a little wry. "And you are Nicholas Fury, former Director of SHIELD. I seem to be making a habit of encountering men who are known to have expired and yet remain among the living. Do you think it might be catching?"

Mind as sharp as his ears; the letters hadn't exaggerated. "You know, Steve mentioned you after his visit here," Nick replied in kind as he closed the distance between them. "He said a lot of things about kindred spirits and different fronts of the same fight. He didn't mention you were such a smart-ass."

Amusement kindled in Crane's expression. "Your generation was not the first to invent sarcasm, Director. Nor was Captain Rogers'. As I am certain you are well aware."

"You talk that way to that friend of yours in the Sheriff's department?" Nick parried.

"Lieutenant Mills would think me ailing should I ever blunt my tongue," Crane smirked, linking his hands behind his back as Nick stopped an arm's-length away. His posture was almost military, but his attitude anything but reacting to Nick as a senior officer. "Particularly in circumstances such as these. She has a theory about the aggregation of oddity; the second law of thermodynamics as applied to the metaphysical. I begin to believe she may have a point."

"Is that a hint that I should get around to stating mine?" Nick snorted. "Where is Lieutenant Mills, by the way? I was under the impression that the pair of you were more or less joined at the hip."

Crane's lips thinned, smirk fading under the weight of more bitter emotion. "Doing her job, as it happens. The new Sheriff is... somewhat less than convinced of the necessity of employing a 'history consultant' to assist with local policework. I decided to pass the time by exploring a few leads of my own. What is your purpose here, Director Fury?"

"To convince myself whether or not the situation here supports the story Captain Rogers brought back to SHIELD, as it happens," Nick inclined his head to the man. "You have to admit, it's a pretty tall tale."

"Taller still, I imagine, since one of our chief allies has been sidelined to a psychiatric hospital," Crane replied, gaze shrewd. "Though in all fairness, you must admit in return that I have reason to be less than forthcoming with my answers. The good Captain informed me that my own name, and that of the Lieutenant, were among those to be targeted by HYDRA's acquisition of advanced weaponry you yourself commissioned. What assurances do I have that confirming the truth to you now would not simply add to the threats at our door?"

"And what assurances do I have that you aren't pulling some kind of scam on Rogers?" Nick shook his head. "I don't much give a damn whether or not every detail of your story is correct, Crane, regardless of how curious I might be; what I care about is whether there's a threat here that needs to be dealt with."

"Touché," Crane acknowledged, grudgingly. He seemed hesitant to say any more, though, which seemed out of character from Rogers' reports of him. "And if the veracity of the threat were proved to your satisfaction?"

"I suppose that depends on just how outgunned you are here," Nick suggested carefully, watching Crane's reaction. "Might be as little as an eyes-only file for the next agent unlucky enough to visit Sleepy Hollow on business. Might be as much as calling up a certain apocalyptic response team. Might be better if you helped me get a gauge on the scale of said threat."

"The word 'apocalyptic' is not entirely out of place," Crane admitted, a wry twist to his mouth. "One might even characterize recent events as... Biblical in scale. Had we been less pressed for time when we were informed of the imminent arrival of the Horseman of War, believe me, the intervention of your 'response team' would have been very welcome. But as it was, we were able to delay Moloch's rise for a time... and circumstances have since become a great deal more complicated."

Of all the alarming hints buried in that statement, one in particular stood out. "The Horseman of War? There's two of them now?"

What were the odds that War's arrival just so happened to coincide with the emergence of HYDRA?

A sudden, echoing whinny sounded behind him, as if in answer to both questions... and Nick abruptly noticed that the shadows around them had deepened and merged as they spoke, night falling as the sun slipped below the horizon.

Crane tensed, gaze snapping immediately to the forest on the far side of the church as he drew a pistol that had been hidden beneath his jacket. "Yes, there are. I suggest you conceal yourself within the truck, Director. They may not yet be aware of your presence."

"Like hell I will," Nick replied. He was starting to wish he'd brought Phil's godkicker along, rather than a more ordinary sidearm. "These things susceptible to bullets, then?"

Crane threw him a dismissive glance. "I doubt they intend to kill me; their master has other plans for Miss Mills and I at present. But they have no reason to spare anyone else, and I have very little desire to find myself explaining to Captain Rogers how you ended up in Purgatory after a visit to my town."

Given a choice, Nick would just as soon fire an RPG at the fuckers; but he didn't happen to have one on him, and Crane did in fact have a point.

"You'd better not be bullshitting me. I have even less desire to explain to Captain America how I sat by and watched while his bestie got beheaded," he warned as he backed off and unlocked the truck. The window was one of the old-fashioned hand-cranked kind; he climbed inside, then quickly eased it down, slumping to where he could watch what was going on outside with gun in hand without exposing himself to view.

Despite his apparent bravado, Crane wasn't just standing there waiting; he'd retreated to the front of the church for whatever cover the ivy climbing the corner of the building might give him.

A moment later, a horse with glowing red eyes came thundering through the gloom, and Nick swore pungently under his breath. Its rider wore a uniform at least as old as Crane's outfit... and was, in fact, missing its head. Nick could see its spinal column shining dimly in the last reflected light of the sunset. But it was still moving, arms gripping the reins as it pulled up near Crane's position.

A literal Headless Horseman. What in the actual fuck.

...Well. He supposed that answered that question.

It didn't say anything. Naturally. Instead, it slipped a hand into a pocket and cast something in Crane's direction: a flutter of black cloth, edged with what looked like lace. It looked like something that might have been torn from Natasha's undercover wardrobe, after she'd kicked her heels off and gone to town.

Crane snarled, hand twitching as though he wanted to pick it up, but he held his ground, lifting his pistol to point at the Horseman. "She was never yours; and she never will be, no matter how long you hold her," he intoned, somehow giving the impression of staring down his opponent despite the fact that it didn't even have eyes.

It gave a contemptuous shrug of its shoulder in response as it wheeled its horse around; then it paused, turning back toward the truck. It hesitated just long enough to make Nick start to wonder if it realized he was there, then kicked its heels and rode off into the brush back in the direction from which it had come.

Silence reigned for a moment as Crane watched it go. Then he stooped to grab the discarded token, shaking with suppressed emotion.

"So," Nick said dryly, climbing out of the truck again. "You were saying. Complications?"

Crane took a deep, calming breath, then threw a glare in his direction. "One might say that."

"I gather that piece of frill doesn't belong to Lieutenant Mills."

"My wife, in fact." Crane unwrapped the knotted fabric with a degree of care belying the biting tone of his words. "The Horseman holds her captive."

Crane's dead wife? Nick stared, then decided he really, really didn't need to know. "That why you're not so keen on an intervention?"

The cloth fell away from something that looked a lot like a shackle, a little rusty but otherwise clean. A pretty unambiguous message, as such things went. Crane clearly realized as much; he looked nearly ready to boil over- but there was a distinct note of worry underneath the indignation. He stared at the thing a moment, then rewrapped it to shove into a pocket and turned back toward Nick.

"It is one part of my concerns, yes. But not the whole. The fact is, it is less than clear whether anyone but the prophesied Witnesses can defeat the Horsemen and their master; everyone else drawn into our fight has suffered for it, one way or another, no matter how well-prepared."

God save him from would-be heroes with a self-martyring complex. Nick narrowed his eyes. "And would you say the same thing to Rogers, if he were here?"

"I would," Crane assured him, lifting his chin.

"You think he'd listen?" Nick prodded further.

"I think that he has vital tasks of his own to complete, and would trust me to ask for help when I had need," Crane replied.

Nick snorted. "Unless you've only got half the story. I don't like this other Horseman showing up, never mind the complications, pretty much the same time HYDRA takes down SHIELD. Apocalypse generally means a world ending event, you realize, not just one little corner of New York."

"You believe the two are related?"

Different ant, same old boot. One day, people would learn to stop threatening his world with War. Until then, Nick was just going to have to keep making his point until it sank in.

"I think it would be a bigger coincidence if they weren't. Don't you?"

"Perhaps," Crane finally agreed. "Though... I think it might be best to wait to continue this conversation until we can involve Lieutenant Mills. She has had much to say on the subject of weaknesses, and the Horsemen's ability to target them, as well."

"And I think that might be the first actually intelligent thing I've heard you say," Nick shook his head. "Where to, then? If I recall correctly from the maps, it's a few miles either to Mills' place, or that cabin up by the lake her mentor owned."

Craine raised his eyebrows. "I think I begin to understand the mixed reports of you I have received. The cabin; Miss Mills will know where to find me once her work has concluded for the day."

"Going to spring me on her as a surprise?"

"As entertaining as that might be, I rather thought I would text her a warning en route." Crane produced a smartphone from his pocket, then... which somehow managed to be the most incongruous thing Nick had seen all day.

Nick bit off a laugh, then gestured to the truck.

"C'mon, then. I've got a GPS, but its directions are for shit."

-x-