Warning: language

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CHAPTER ONE - Placing the Rats

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Ready to Comply - Bucky Barnes

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I watch the boss pace back and forth. His body language proud, agitated. But it's not stress, he's preening. A god-damn parade.

"Placing you has been difficult," he says with a pointed look in my direction, calming eyes behind studious glasses giving me an appraising look. "It's not easy to put away the Winter Soldier and embrace domestic work."

"With all due respect," I say tightly, "How would you define domestic work?"

"I should think this would be obvious."

Alexander Pierce sits at his desk, the throne of his tiny kingdom. The view from the top floor from the Triskelion spreads like a map behind him, a mild D.C. smog smudging the bright cerulean sky. Seems like a good place to die.

"Hydra isn't what it used to be, you know this, right?"

I've been overseas for the last several years. I nod, only knowing what I've been told.

"So we adapt. Our coat of arms quote about growing two more heads isn't just about Hydra's superiority to SHIELD in numbers and networking. It's about evolution. Lose one thing, and change to make the old self better. Did I lose you yet?" Pierce chuckles and tugs off his glasses, rubbing at his temples. "Your days of global trotting to incite Cold War fears are done, my friend. It's time to come home. To Shield, to Hydra. One and the same."

"Two sides of the same coin," I infer.

"That's right," Pierce gives me an intriguing look. "If we bring you back to life from the ice, put you back in Shield and given a hero's welcome, how long do you think it would take for Captain America to recruit you for the Avengers?"

I hesitate. "Not long, sir."

Alexander Pierce sits back in his chair, and for the first time, loses one small ounce of poise. "Good," he murmurs, looking out the windows at the view. He clicks a pen in his hand.

Clicks it out, in. Out, in. Out and in.

"Good."

"Shall we get started?" I ask. My voice even, professional, clipped. My heart gone. Each time we do this, it chips a little bit more away.

"Yes," he says, and he looks back at me. Sets the pen down on the desk.

Says the words.

In Russian.

"Longing, Rusted, Seventeen,

Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign,

Homecoming, One, Freight Car.

...Soldier?"

It hurts. Physically. It's hard to explain how mental pain becomes physical pain, but it does. Something like a heavy dizziness after a hard hit to the head. That fear that lingers post-impact, manifesting in heat, chill. Fevers and trembling muscles.

"Ready to comply," I respond.

My programming is different than it used to be. I've been practicing avoiding it for a long, long time. Trying to outwit or outdo the objectives given to me. Renewed, like a battery, by the trigger words in Russian and English. If I go for long enough without it, the weaker they become.

The more Bucky Barnes can come out of the shadows and try - even if it's just for a few minutes at a time - to speak, to feel, to retain any part of a soul that I might have left.

Pierce begins to casually outline my basic duties - going domestic, he calls it - in order to become a member of the Avengers. Become friendly, trusted, and then indispensable. While their focus is turning inward to crime, it makes Hydra's underground operations that much harder to hide.

"What I wouldn't give for a god-damn alien invasion right about now," Pierce jokes.

No aliens to keep the heroes from flying the skies and making last-second decisions and focusing on saving the world. Now, their attention is clinging hard and fast to Hydra's groundskeeping - petty criminals that consider themselves street gods, weapons manufacturing, technological minds siphoning new data to the black market.

I'll be there to try and keep the Avenger's focus elsewhere. Or at least confuse their aim.

When the meeting is over, it's all I can do to keep from slamming the door.

I almost miss the days when he would wipe my memory after each mission.

It made my conscious sins less painful. When I do something horrible, and what's left of my own mind retains the guilt of it, it's difficult to cling to why I bother living in the first place.

But I've been down that road and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm a protected investment with small print.

It won't be long before my presence is realized. After the haircut, the shower, and a solid four hours of sleep, and practically a new identity… someone will put it together.

Someone will notice.

I decide to leave D.C. as quickly as possible.

All I want to do is see Steve.

I borrow one of the many company vehicles kept in the Triskelion garage. A black SUV.

I have a new driver's license. James Buchanan Barnes, it says. My old name. My real birthdate, too. It looks stupid.

When I finally arrive in New York four hours after my meeting with the boss, I decide to test it out on a local pub.

I slide into the bar and flick a peanut from the polished, dark counter stained with rings.

"What'll you have?" asks the bartender. "Maybe it's your lucky day."

Name tag; Jo. Red hair, approximately forty-seven. Maybe forty or fifty pounds overweight. Recently divorced, wedding ring tan hasn't faded, kids are in college, snapshots of graduation gowns tucked behind the cash register.

The man is slow, doesn't exercise much, easiest form of subversion, arm around the neck from behind - suffocation, too thick to reach behind him to -

Stop, Buck.

Stop stop stop stop stop.

"The strongest vodka you have, please," I respond.

I spent a lot of time in Russia. You lose the ability to taste beer on tap after you spy in Russia.

"Got an ID?" asks Jo.

I give him a doubtful look.

"Look, I gotta ask," Jo says apologetically. "You don't look a day over thirty, kid, but you do look like a cop or something. Just lemme see the ID."

I slide the card across the counter. He flicks at the corner, have difficulty picking if off the counter with his thick fingers. Finally, he holds the card to his eyes, holds it out a little farther, and then brings it back in with a squint.

"Holy shit," he breathes.

"Yeah, I know," I say resignedly, plucking the card out of his hand.

"You're the guy who got frozen with Captain America! You're the other super-fella!" Jo exclaims, mouth wide with astonishment. "You fought - you fought Nazis!"

"So they tell me," I say. It's my cover for coming back to the grid. Frozen back in 1945 and experts unable to dig out my body until now. Because it is apparently more believable than getting captured and tortured and brainwashed by Hydra, who would very much like to be left out of the narrative.

"Well, uh," Jo struggles. "Welcome home, soldier."

I look up at him. "Thanks."

"So you like strong vodka, huh?"

"Whatever you got is fine."

"I've got some here that smells like cake but tastes like shit. It'll melt your skin right off like a lizard after a few shots of these."

A chameleon, I think, That's me.

The door clinks open with a small bell tone.

A man in an aviator's jacket with a feathered collar struts in, looking every year of the age young fifty five. He's gray, balding, trim, and wiry. Maybe even muscular under the brown leather, it's difficult to tell. His sharp features and perfectly clean teeth give him a tailored, but dangerous, look. The type of guy you want to be friends with, badly. But maybe he beats the shit out of you when he gets drunk.

"Hey, Jo," says the man. "The usual for me, please, and thank you."

Jo ducks around like a man with a gun pointed to his head, fetching a very old looking bottle from beneath the counter. He seems to be in a hurry.

Fear from the newcomer, I think.

I take my shot. It burns like hell. Doesn't burn anything like Russia's though.

"You're uh, Pierce's new guy, right?" the man puts some cash on the counter for Jo. He turns to me in a friendly, but predatory, way. Jo slides his drink to him.

I slowly turn and look him up and down. "Who wants to know?"

"Jesus, relax, I know you're Pierce's guy because I'm one of Pierce's guys," the man chuckles and pulls out a few more bills, putting them on the counter. He takes a gulp of his scotch. "Pierce is a client."

"Is that so?" I ask flatly.

"Sorry, how rude of me. Toomes. My name is Adrian Toomes." He reaches out a hand to shake mine.

I look at his hand, and back at him, holding my gaze. Steel, ice.

I don't appreciate men overcompensating in conversation to try and win the room and place themselves subtly higher on a chain of command.

"Nevermind," Toomes slaps my shoulder, overly friendly. "Listen, Barnes, when was the last time you had a decent meal?"

There are very few things that surprise me, but this does. "I don't think about it."

"You probably had, like, what, an egg? Some toast? Whatever shit breakfast the Triskelion cafeteria gave you before you left?"

I allow him a nod. "Something like that."

Toomes jerks his head past the bar. "Jo, why don't you get him a burger and fries?"

Jo hesitates. "The, uh, diner side is closed," he gestures to the other side of the restaurant behind a large pair of swinging saloon doors with a NO MINORS PERMITTED facing the other way. I'm in the pub side, the other side is decidedly more… family friendly.

Toomes gives him a look.

"I'm sure I can find something," Jo falters.

"Not just a burger and fries," Toomes continues, "Make him something that keeps easy to go. Something reheatable. Yeah, that chowder from this afternoon's lunch special. Pack some up for him." He turns and looks at me, smiling strangely as Jo scribbles the order on a scrap paper.

"Thanks for lunch," I say shortly. I know he's doing it to gain a reaction and read me.

"Pierce is a good guy," Toomes says, "But sometimes he doesn't pay too close attention to detail. Such as his prize pony wasting away before his eyes." He turns back to Jo. "That last bit is on my other tab."

He pats the wad of money on the counter again. Jo takes the money and then rushes the order to the kitchen in the back.

At my look, Toomes smiles to explain. "What? You didn't realize Jo was a bookie?"

I didn't come in here to spy, I think. I came in here to get drunk. Which I can't, because being enhanced means my tolerance is too high.

But still, I am embarrassed I missed the signs. Even now, I'm not looking for them, but I am sure they are there. A "do not disturb" sign on a back-curtained room instead of "employees only", the sports channels on the corner TVs even though this is not a sports bar or a sports themed diner.

Jo's opening line for god's sake is telling a new customer he might get lucky instead of asking him what he wants to drink.

Toomes is acting like he's King of New York and Jo is scared of him but he has an ongoing tab - which means Toomes is probably protecting the neighborhood. Or at least, claiming to protect the resources of the neighborhood, while the actual neighborhood suffers.

Of course Jo's a damn bookie.

"I may have picked up a detail or two," I say dryly.

"Jo is a loyal customer," Toomes boasts. "My business keeps his business safe."

"And it's none of my business," I turn back to my drink. Hoping he leaves me alone.

"Therein lies the paradox," Toomes rests his elbows on the counter, refusing to grant me the space I clearly desire. "It is now."

"Is it?"

"Pierce wants us to work together on this. I'm the guy you're going to be, ah, shuffling information with." He grins like a devil. "Caw, caw, motherfucker."

"You're the Vulture," I realize, turning and looking at him fully.

Code name, Vulture, one of the most dangerous and criminally insane weapons and arms dealer on the east coast. He thrives on a little competition from other sellers, but for the most part, if he is crossed too far by his customers or other criminals, he simply makes a call, and they're killed mysteriously. His work is, maybe, just a cover for his bloodthirst.

A serial murderer with clean hands. Dozens of associates holding the murder weapons.

"We were supposed to meet tomorrow," I say dismissively.

"I had a feeling you'd find your way down here."

"You mean you had me followed."

"Hey, can you blame a guy? These are my streets. And I keep them running for people like Pierce." He jabs a finger into my shoulder. "Your boss."

I catch his finger smoothly in mine and bend it backwards, nearly breaking it, ignoring his shock and gasp in pain. I turn in my seat and then release him, shoving him off.

"I am well aware of whom I work for," I say, standing up out of the bar stool. "And I'm well aware of who you are. I won't get in your way, and you won't get in mine."

Adrian Toomes just chuckles in response, nursing his over-extended finger and running his tongue over his white, white teeth. "I like you," he says.

He finishes his drink and slams the glass back on the bar. Jo returns from the kitchen, gives him a nervous nod, before scooping it up quickly to dispose of in the bus bin at the end of the counter.

"You don't take any shit, even from me," Toomes says. "That says a lot about you. That means I can trust you." He takes a step for the door. "You know there's a saying out there - you can be for Hydra, or you can be for Shield. There is no in-between."

I don't like that saying. There has to be room for forgiveness. Somewhere.

"What I think is," Toomes begins to open the door, "When you're facing a loaded gun - what's the difference?" He then smiles, knowingly, like he just let me in on a big secret.

I don't answer. It's not that exciting.

"Now Barnes - let me put it this way - I'd rather be the one holding the gun," Toomes continues. "I think you would too."

He waves over his shoulder absently at a trembling Jo, and shuts the door with a clatter behind him.

Silence follows. I sit down at the bar again.

"I'll have about six more of these," I say to Jo, pushing my empty glass towards him.

A bus boy, likely about sixteen years old, comes out of the back kitchen bearing a huge plate with a burger and fries, and a styrofoam cup with a plastic lid of yesterday's chowder. He sets them on the counter before me and gives me a shy smile.

"Thanks," I say picking up a french fry. I've said it more than once today. That's a strange new record for me.

...

Damage Control - Adrian Toomes

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I don't want to be a product of my environment.

I want my environment to become a product of me.

My business tanked the day the Avengers came together to save the world from aliens. God damn aliens in giant flying caterpillars, which sounds like I'm making shit up. Though they were not quite as villainous as the stuck up pricks that saved us from them.

Our so-called heroes.

Bestman Salvage was destroyed by Tony Stark's collaborative project with the federal government called Damage Control. They sold the contract out from under us to clean up the city, benching us while an already-billionaire cleaned up with a guilty conscience and added the feel-good badge to his daddy-made pedigree.

Pretentious mother fuckers.

Those of us left to pick up the pieces learned real fast that no one will give you anything - you have to take what you want. So I took. It's the American way, really. Step in when the pitcher is down. They only have themselves to blame for people like me.

My company had the brains and the brawn already. Even a couple of useless engineering and chemistry degrees who couldn't find a job doing science shit and found their way into descrontuction with me. I was able to put them to real use.

Combined with the repurposed alien technology in weapons dealings, we made connections we never would have thought possible. Before I even knew what a fucking treasure cove I had created, we were signing our first deal to sell high-level technology for the Hydra operatives in Germany, Argentina, China.

Then eventually, Wakanda.

It's a surprisingly lucrative third world country. We gained more material than ten Chitauri invasions; nothing like what we get digging through the New York sewers.

I built a kingdom. I will put a bullet in the brain of anyone who stands in my way.

I am the type of guy who could manufacture the type of bullet that could pierce the hide of the incredible Hulk himself when no others can. I could build a staff that absorbs the lightning strikes directly from the god of thunder. I have the capabilities and the means to make the world that I want.

I don't take kindly to judgment and interference.

Though, sometimes, I appreciate it when my buyers send in a little help as a token of their appreciation. I already have the firepower - sometimes I just need good spies.

...

Undercover Recruitment - Steve Rogers

...

The new recruit steps into the office, sharp brown eyes taking in the entire office with a single glance, hastily walking to the edge of my desk and throwing his arms behind his back.

He pays particular attention to me, and what I would consider respectful because of my background. He could have easily sat down right away, only extending a hand after the interview. But he doesn't. He's standing at attention like a young soldier.

He doesn't look a day over sixteen.

"You can sit," I say, trying to put him at ease. He hesitates only a moment before

dropping into the chair beside him.

"How old are you, son?" I ask. His age is on the application, but...

"Eighteen," he replies. His voice has a strange rasp to it - either puberty has not fully caught up, or he didn't get enough sleep last night. My money's on both. His eyes flick over to my… co-worker.

"Graduated with honors in everything, Mr. Parker?" I open his file and skim the numbers. "Took every possible available class with the Shield recruitment program."

"Just graduated!" he replies.

"But that wasn't enough for you."

"I'm not really a..." Peter Parker takes his time, thinking about his answer. "It was my dream to become an Avenger someday, Ca - Captain, sir."

"How much do you know about the daily grunt work for an Avenger?"

"Maybe… not from an insider's perspective," Peter answers. "But I know who you are." He tugs on his jacket sleeves as if to keep himself from interrupting further. "I mean - you're pretty… well-known."

"Do they still call him Captain Fucking America?" asks my partner, a roguish grin on his face. The man wields his horrifically scarred, rather shocking appearance like a weapon itself.

Misplaced lipstick applied to an asshole, though I'd never say so out loud.

Unlike some, I actually know how to speak in civilized society.

"It's a good thing you retired," he continues, "America's plenty fucked without you."

Peter's eyes widen slightly.

"This… colorful individual is, technically, my partner, Wade Wilson," I introduce with a sigh. "You'll have to ignore his - uh - commentary. For now."

"We're not really partners," Wade wags his finger between us. "We just work together. Sometimes he cooks for me."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Tony Stark was very obviously my first choice, and then Sam Wilson. As it turned out, Sam Wilson preferred overseeing ground operations, and Tony Stark secluded himself to the science and manufacturing division only.

When it came to someone having your back in battle, the strangely obvious choice was the mercenary who can't die. It's nice to have a partner that will throw himself in front of any bullet for you because he knows he can just bounce right back in a few minutes.

I slap the folder shut. "Tell me," I say to Peter, "When it comes to why you're in this office - and the age old question, what do you want to be when you grow up - how do those two align?"

"Um, that's a good question, Captain Rogers, sir," Peter hesitates.

Wade steps forward and sitting on the edge of the desk. "You will address him as Captain Fucking America!"

"You don't have to call me that," I interrupt quickly. "Just Captain will do."

"Yes, Captain," Peter sits up straighter in his chair. "To answer your question. When I was a kid I always admired heroes."

Wade blows a raspberry with his tongue, unimpressed.

"When I… when I changed, gained powers," Peter continues firmly, not allowing himself to be interrupted. "I knew I could actually become one. I wanted - want, to do that. Defend… the little guy."

Wade's eyes glint at the past tense. "Wanted, huh? Wanted to become an Avenger and just march your pansy ass down to this office and meet your god-damn heroes and join the club of spandex and iron-plating and just whoop-di-fucking archery? Is that what you wanted?"

"Maybe not the archery part," Peter replies with a smile.

Wade's eyes narrow. He's not used to anyone trying to have a sense of humor in his presence. "So you agree on having a pansy ass?"

"I'm afraid Wade Wilson has a style all his own," I give the kid a calming smile. "I'm afraid we all just have to deal with it."

"Look, Tiny Tim," Wade moves in front of my eyeline and sits on the front of my desk, leaning over the kid. "Let's talk business. Tell us about your Uncle Ben."

One could hear a pin drop.

I give Wade a tap on the arm to make him move. He scoots aside, though begrudgingly.

"Um… my Uncle Ben," Peter says confusedly, "He was a mechanic. Fixed cars; sometimes for nothing. He was… really good like that."

"Your Uncle Ben was a fucking Shield informant on small town criminals working their way up the ranks to get noticed by the bigger bads," Wade insists, frowning.

"A Shield informant?" Peter lets out a short laugh of surprise. "No - no he wasn't!"

"He was," I say.

Peter looks at me, his mouth falling open. "You're - you're joking."

"Here's an example. If disgruntled POCs were approached by Killmonger's agents, your Uncle Benny went crying to Shield operatives and boohooed the whole thing," Wade says. "Then they made a long-distance phone call, and his Royal Highness of the People's Hidden Paradise of Wakanda was able to swoop in and save their souls. Thanks to Uncle Benny's fat mouth."

Peter does not answer this, but he appears to bite back words of protest.

"I was sorry I was unable to attend the funeral at the time," I interrupt. Wade's no idiot, but he can be cruel when he doesn't stop and think first. "I didn't want to draw attention to your family and place you, or your aunt, in any kind of danger. But what your uncle did, between his own work, ended up becoming quite valuable to us too."

"In what way?" Peter asks. There's a flinch under his cheekbones, clenching teeth, or rapid swallowing, I can't tell. I think this is truly the first time he's ever been told about his Uncle's second job. Even had a hint of it.

"He was associated with criminals, befriended them," I explain. "Those free jobs? Those were for criminal syndicates. Mobs. Hydra. You name it, he helped."

"No, no, people in poverty who couldn't afford it, to be kind," Peter interjects, his voice rising slightly. "He was… was charitable."

"Yes, true," I say, holding up a hand. "AND he helped the men who didn't pay for the work because they'd rather put a bullet through someone's head than come by anything honestly. Your uncle knew them all. Cared for them. And then secretly funneled information to Shield and was never caught."

"Never?" Peter repeats.

I shake my head. "His murder did not tie to a single case that he ever informed on. It was a fluke. A coincidence."

"His reputation is as pure as Mother Theresa," Wade adds. "Even on her kinkiest days."

Peter sits back, taking in the new information. Chewing it over.

"Did you ever talk to anybody at Shield about your blender-brained uncle?" Wade asks.

Peter is the perfect picture of containing emotions. "No?" he says shortly.

"Ever pass along the sob story to friends of yours?"

"I would have to have friends, wouldn't I?"

"Your childhood friend, Ned Leeds," I say, checking the name in his file again. "You've remained close? All these years?"

"Yeah," Peter says. The mention of Ned's name brings a small spark of life to his eye. "But, uh, he's going to the California Institute of Technology right now. We don't get to talk as much."

"You on social media?" I ask.

"No. Just texting."

"Those Spider-Man YouTube accounts shut down?" Wade adds.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Wilson. Yes. I soon as I realized I couldn't hide my IP."

"You've come out of the superhero closet to how many people exactly?" Wade asks.

Peter counts on his fingers. "Um. My Aunt. Ned. Uh… you guys?"

I look down at his original letter that he sent to us. "So when you sent this letter initially, and offered up Spider-Man as a new member of the Avengers - this was the first time you had really told any stranger you were moonlighting as a masked hero?"

"I've been really good at keeping my secret, I think," Peter hesitates. "Never told anyone at Shield either."

"So no one at Shield knew?" Wade pushes. "Ever?"

"No, they don't."

"It all changes when one signs the Accords, doesn't it?" I ask quietly.

Peter nods, looking down at his hands. "Yeah."

"Going public is a huge step. Necessary as a legal adult."

"So the law says," Peter agrees, though maybe in words only.

"The UN says you belong to them," I say. "I say different."

His eyes widen. "Wait - what?"

"I say you don't sign yet. Not like you're supposed to when you join an operation like this. I say you're my guy instead."

Peter blinks in astonishment. "Not… sign? NOT sign the Accords? You're joking."

I shake my head.

"You're not joking," he realizes. "Um. Okay. So. Not - not sign. Uh. Isn't that illegal?"

"Not if we call it… an unaffordable delay. Instead of denying it completely. Maybe consider signing it later. After you're done here," I pick up a blue folder and hand it across to him. Peter takes it carefully, flipping it open and scanning over the first page. "I think you can do something… different. Something no other Avenger can do."

"It all depends on how fucked up you are," Wade adds. "Or how fucked you want to be?"

Peter looks up from the folder. "You want me to go undercover? Like… an Agent of Shield?"

"Not through SHIELD," I explain. "This would be… different. It would be for the Avengers and the Avengers alone."

"Only some of them, though, right?" Peter infers, looking back at the folder. "Half of them didn't support the Accords anyway. If I don't sign, I don't want Mr. Stark and the other loyalists to come chasing me down like a rogue when I'm trying to do a mission from you… "

"That's A-plus-plus-plus, Hermione, for your research," Wade congratulates. "You get a gold star on your fridge."

"The Avengers need someone to get involved with a local criminal syndicate who supplies to Hydra operatives," I tell him. "Someone who has not signed yet. Which means none of us qualify. Even the ones who hesitated signed eventually."

"Like you," Peter says.

"Yes, like me," I answer. "You haven't been unmasked. You took the schooling as Peter Parker, not Spider-Man. You haven't signed the Accords. On an ideal checklist, you hit every mark."

"You're a fucking ghost," Wade adds. "You could become literally anyone. Except a Kardashian. They'd see right through it."

"Let's talk about your family," I try to guide the conversation. "Your Aunt May. Still living here in New York?"

"Yes?" Peter says, looking worried by the question. "Of course she is!"

"Your parents were double agents and murdered by the Finisher, one of Red Skull's agents," I summarize. "May has a step-mom living in Sacramento, grandparents and cousins in Italy. You have no siblings and no other cousins. Your parent's families are long dead. Am I correct so far?"

"Um… yes…"

"You were kind of a player already, weren't you?" Wade bends down and analyzes Peter with uncomfortable closeness. "Going to that fancy-fuck Midtown High Science school, going home to Little Italy every night, and then advanced classes at the Triskelion to fulfill the wet dream of being Avenger-Boy?"

Peter does grit his teeth this time, visibly. "Maybe? I guess. So...?"

"You had different accents too, didn't you, like a snake!"

Peter shakes his head, fighting a smile. "Snakes don't talk in real life."

Smart ass, too. I like it. Maybe someone who will, eventually, remind Wade that he does not hold all the cards on having a sense of humor. "It's okay to answer the question," I say kindly. "He doesn't actually bite."

"Sort of?" Peter says. "I didn't do it on purpose. I just wanted to fit in - blend in."

"So you were speaking with a proper New England accent," Wade continues, "Then at home with Hot-Mama, you're the boy from Queens, tripling every 'YEAH' and leaving the Ls and the Rs out of 'all right?"

"Uhhh… so what's your point, exactly?" Peter asks. "Sorry, I don't see what… I wasn't being intentionally dishonest."

"So you're feeling AIGHT in Queens in some run-down apartment," Wade goes on, clearly enjoying himself, "...and then you start going to classes at the Triskelion down in D.C. and suddenly you're this shy nerd with - fuck! You wore GLASSES, didn't you? Playing the part up! I would bet a hundred dollars right now every freakin' Saturday you showed up for a three hour course to earn those extra credits, you slipped on a pair of Warby Parkers before getting off the bus. True?"

Peter gives in. "Okay, okay! Yes! I wore glasses in D.C. But I can't afford Warby Parkers. I used to get mine at the pharmacy. I'm sure there's security footage. I just don't see what the point of this is."

"You haven't needed glasses since you got your powers," I say. "Just wore the old pair because they were comfortable. More you. True?"

Peter nods.

"So you go marching into the Shield academy for homeschoolers like Clark Ding-Dong Kent with your glasses," continues Wade, "and a northeastern accent for the other nerds, and go through all the classes without making any friends, that's right?"

"I'm - I'm confused," Peter hesitates. "Are you a psychiatrist? Is this a test?"

"I'm going to be your best god-damn friend in the whole fucking world," Wade finishes, satisfied at last. "So why the fuck are you playing this game and trying on other people for size like some sort of emotional Ed Gein? Huh?"

Peter shakes his head. "I don't think I realized I was doing it. Not really. But I was anxious and freaked out by doing something new… which meant I had to do it any way."

"Really?" I ask. "Why's that?"

"I mean, I knew what I needed to do to get where I wanted to be, even though it was new and scary…" He turns slightly pink. "Because courage isn't the absence of fear, but triumph over it. My uncle used to quote that to me."

"Who said that?" I ask curiously.

"Nelson Mandela," Peter answers.

"What's the matter, smartass?" Wade asks. "Don't you know any fucking Shakespeare?"

"We have a question for you," I say with a tired sigh. "Do you want to be an Avenger and sign the Accords, or do you want to appear to be no one at all and just do some good in this world?"

Peter hesitates to answer. "Um…"

"It's an honest question," I add. "Some people just want to be heroes because of what they see on TV. Some are afraid of the work. Some actually want the work, but don't want the lack of anonymity. Glory comes with a name-tag now."

"Some people just like to fuck up and blame tragic backstory," Wade grins. "I've been known on occasion to partake."

"Oh, so that's what made you so charming..." Peter mutters.

"What the FUCK did you just say to me?" Wade stands and takes three long, powerful strides right up to his chair.

"I'm sorry, I didn't…" Peter gulps. "I was… joking… I'm sorry. It was mean. Sometimes my mouth moves faster than my brain. You make me nervous and when I'm nervous - my one liners are not great. They could be better. I should stop talking now. Sorry."

"Wilson," I say firmly. "Give me a moment, will you?"

Wade steps back, crossing his arms over his chest and pretending to pout.

"Go ahead," I say.

"To answer your question honestly," Peter says, "I would rather keep my anonymity. For as long as possible. If there was a way to be an Avenger anonymously, that's the choice I would pick, but I can't. Because of the Accords. So… for now… I guess I don't mind not signing the Accords… as long as I'm still helping."

"It would definitely help us," I assure.

"What exactly do you want me to do?" Peter uses both hands to grip the blue folder. I sense agreement from him, the careful consideration of the cost, the potential.

"We deal with deceptions here," I say carefully. "You will… essentially… disappear. You'll report to Wade Wilson and myself - no one else will ever know you ever sat in this chair and changed course under our direction. We hope you'll be able to get us intel on how deep Hydra's corruption is…"

He nods. He'd probably seen certain personalities in school, avoided them.

"Luckily you've already attended school with one of the most corrupt Shield locations of them all. The Triskelion is ripe for churning out Hydra graduates as fast as they do Shield agents. The Hydra kids go straight to Germany for a little brainwashing, usually. The ones who try the recruitment program and still feel the call of the straight and narrow move on to the Shield Academy. You did neither, which makes you easier to place. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

He nods, firmly now. "Yes."

"We're going to get you into some street crime. These guys make their money from Hydra clients," I say, "If we try to get you in directly with Hydra to work backwards and find their connections within Shield, they'll sense the infiltration all too easily," I raise my eyebrows at him. "Unfortunately there is one particular weapons manufacturing group that we need to take down. Honestly, without the Accords, we would be able to just fly into their lair and kill or arrest them all if we wanted to. Now there's red tape."

"So the law isn't letting you arrest criminals?"

"Oh, we can stop them from conducting illegal transactions. Rough them up a little. Capture their workers and deliver them to Shield or the CIA or something. But we can't make that call for arrest, imprisonment. They're owed due cause same as anyone else. Yet it always stops there."

"How?" Peter asks.

I shrug. "That's the question. Our work is constantly being undone by sanctions, and the most dangerous criminals in New York are allowed to walk time and time again. There's a hole somewhere that needs fixing. I hope you may be able to get us the information we need to do so."

"The weapons manufacturing," Peter asks. "It's not just ordinary stuff, is it?"

"The Vulture crime syndicate is the worst we've ever encountered. They salvage, buy, uncover and collect technology beyond human capability and use their tech smarts to upgrade man-made weapons with it. Pieces of Ultron, alien metals… you name it, they've found it, replicated it, upsaled it."

"They take human guns," Wade adds, "And make them sexier."

"May I ask how I… how I'm supposed to work this like a job when I'm pretending to be a criminal?" Peter asks shyly. "I don't have… a lot of money."

"You'll be given a cash income to support yourself. And when this case is closed, a heroes welcome when it's all done and a place among the Avengers."

Peter's chin rises. "So when do I start?"

Wade and I glance at each other.

"Today, if you can," I say. "You just graduated. Maybe you are… disgruntled with the world, a lost cause. Came here disappointed."

"Off your meds," Wade adds.

Peter blinks. "Yeah, okay. I could see that."

"You came to the tower today for a job interview and didn't get the job you want. There's an incident and after you've been subdued, you're arrested," I hesitate. "You'll plead guilty to three charges of assault and attempted murder here at the facility."

Peter takes a deep, painful breath.

"Is that Aunt going to be a problem?" Wade asks cattily.

Peter shakes his head swiftly. "I'll make it believable enough. Leave her out of this."

"There's not an easy way to make your cover real," I say kindly. "We'll move her upstate for her protection."

"I know of a castle upstate with a lot of empty rooms," Wade says. "And no budget to fill them!"

"You'll be incarcerated for about three weeks and released when another known criminal posts your bail," I continue. "The charges will be dropped by the prosecutor already in Hydra's pocket. Luckily no one but Wade and myself read your personal letter revealing your identity as Spider-Man."

He nods, eyes huge.

"Keeping your powers secret from our enemies will be crucial. You will need to look like a non-enhanced, disgruntled Shield wannabe with nothing to lose and all the training that makes Vulture want you. This will make you noticeable as someone worth noticing."

Peter is nodding more frequently. "I understand. How do I get in with Vulture after I'm released? When the bail is posted, would this other criminal be able to show me around? Show me where to 'accidentally' run into them and introduce myself?"

Wade is secretly pleased by his attention to detail.

"During the war," I say, "Churchill used river mines. He'd float them down the rivers into Germany. They'd either hit something, or not. That's what we'll use you for. I'll float you down the river. The rest will happen. Or it won't…"

Wade sighs. "What Father Time is trying to say, YES, your bailer will get you connected with local dealers to see what sticks."

"It has to happen organically," I add.

"Yessir," Peter's mind looks like it's racing a million thoughts a minute.

"Can you do it?" I ask.

"Don't let us down, sugarbear," Wade intones. "We need you."

Peter loses his frightened, graduate's-first-job-interview look. He straightens himself in his chair, clenches his teeth. His cheeks bulge slightly the way bigger, and more frightening men, often contain an anger problem just before beating the shit out of someone.

He levels his stare at the both of us. "So," he says cheerfully. Practicing the look of a criminal already, and succeeding. "Which one of you do I get to beat up to get arrested?"

Definitely the type of guy who smiles for his mugshot.

I like this kid.

"Nice try, popstar," Wade picks up a desktop phone to make a call. "We're going to send you in quietly, but not before dropping some gold nuggets to the press."

"You're going to be a hero, Peter Parker," I say, standing to shake his hand.

He clasps it firmly. "Thank you, Captain America, Sir."

"Hey, that's Captain FUCKING America," Wade reminds, suddenly realizing whomever is one the other line has answered maybe a half second too soon. "Oh, hello, yes," he says way too sweetly. "Daily Bugle? Hello, YES, this is the the Avengers Tower in downtown Manhattan, I have a press release that I'd like to give you privately before I tweet it." He winks at us, his voice affecting a feminine pitch. "We've had a terrible incident befall us today; luckily no one was killed."

Peter edges towards the door. "Where do I go from here?" he mouths in my direction.

I give him a sad smile and pop a button under my desk, the bookcase at the far corner sliding to the left to reveal an elevator door. "Nowhere pleasant, son," I grimace. "Are you ready?"

Peter straightens his shoulders. "I'm ready."

...

...

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Author's Note

This little book is truly a labor of love and a fevered frenzy of random fandom musings. I watched the Departed for the millionth time on Netflix and noticed Dignam's character (Mark Wahlberg) was like the Deadpool of the Boston cop world. And then I just couldn't shake the idea of Deadpool and Captain America interviewing Peter Parker together instead of Leo DiCaprio. And then I thought about how Bucky Barnes's Hydra ties reminds me of Matt Damon's character. And it all went downhill from there. I downloaded a PDF of the script online and began, line by line, translating the movie dialogue into scenes into the MCU. That's 153 pages of script, and over 330 pages (so far) of this book. It took on a life of it's own, and the third act definitely departs (ha, ha) from the ending of the movie. You may be happy to hear that it ends differently. Many people were upset with the ending of the movie originally ;)

The book is finished, (I am writing the epilogue currently) and will be posted/updated very regularly, probably every week, maybe twice a week. If you haven't seen the movie, it's definitely an amazing movie, but it is rated R so bear that in mind. If you think MY story has a lot of adult content, I definitely cut out a LOT of random crap. You will NOT find any prostitutes covered in cocaine in my book. If you haven't seen the movie, feel free to watch it first. But you don't have to see it first to enjoy this story. You can read this first, and then if you want, go back and watch the movie and have fun picking out the scenes or lines that were quoted directly. But just be prepared for that shocker ending, man. It's a big one.

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