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Chapter Text

Jackson's foot taps anxiously against the floor while the numbers skyrocket. His ankle throbs in protest, but he pays it no mind.

After what feels like an eternity, a high-pitched ding fills the small space, and the elevator doors pull open to reveal the penthouse suite of Avengers Tower. He steps out, eyes lingering on the little vacant spot on the couch where an equally-little Squirtle plushie usually resides.

Then, Black Widow materializes out of thin air beside him, and he almost shrieks in alarm. She very generously doesn't comment on it. Instead, she just stares intensely, expression inscrutable.

"You hungry?"

The man blinks.

"Gee, hi, Tasha. How am I? Oh, I'm great, only barely surviving the daily heart attacks. You know how it is--just another Thursday. Thanks for asking, anyway. Truthfully, I appreciate your concern for my well-being. You're such a good friend."

He averts his gaze, flustered by her unamused countenance. "Anyway, how are you?"

She continues to deadpan, "You didn't answer the question."

Jackson sighs, the ball of anxiety in his gut from before rearing its ugly head once again. "I'm not hungry. Is Tony here? He wanted to talk to me."

His tone is nonchalant, but when it comes to Natasha, his worries might as well be on full display.

He can feel her eyes boring into the side of his face. "Tony hasn't left his lab all day." She pivots and strides into the adjoined kitchen, leaving him awkwardly standing beside the bare couch, too intimidated to follow.

"Where's Clinton?" he wonders. "And Brucie? Matter of fact, where is anyone?" Spinning in place, he only now realizes how quiet it is. After getting no response from the kitchen, he sighs and descends the hall.

The lights are off in all of the rooms. The agent's gut knots with a different kind of anxiety now. Something doesn't feel right. Jackson clenches his teeth and cautiously continues toward Stark's lab. The distinct lack of blaring rock music alerts him that something's wrong instantly.

Upon opening the door, relief floods through the man at seeing the five heroes gathered around a worktable. Also, he's confused.

He can't discern the object of their attention as their bodies block his view, but he can see their stiffened backs and white knuckles. Rogers' jaw looks like it's about to crack from the force with which he's clenching it. Banner is looking a tinge green, and Thor seems close to tears. What's even more startling are the palpable fury scrawled across Clint's face and Tony's steely expression.

Jackson's considering turning around and leaving the decidedly hostile scene when Steve glances in his direction, his heated gaze firmly fixed on the agent's frozen figure. The man swallows as the captain straightens from his hunched-over position.

"Come here, son," Steve nods toward their huddle. Four heads snap up to look.

Ordinarily, the younger agent would have called the supersoldier out on the whole "son" thing, but now it didn't seem appropriate.

Jackson, electing on leaving instead, takes a half-step backward until a steady grip seizes his shoulder. He turns to see Natasha glaring back at him and realizes there's no way out. Not without someone getting hurt.

Heartbeat thundering in his chest, the agent reluctantly approaches the table, eyes downcast but chin up. Jackson isn't sure what he's done to so royally piss them all off.

"Why didn't you tell us?" someone asks.

Jackson looks up apprehensively. "Tell you what?"

Bruce forcefully exhales. "About Kyiv."

All at once, the air becomes too thick and the walls too close. With his heart now lodged in his throat, Jackson can do nothing but gape up at them, completely floored. His mind is racing, and his stomach churns.

His moment of emotional turmoil must take too long, for the next thing he knows, Rogers has him shoved against the wall. His big, meaty hand fists the collar of his tactical shirt. Jackson grunts as his spine makes contact with the edge of an electrical outlet box.

"When were you going to tell us that you murdered your field partner in cold blood?" the captain all but spits in the younger's face.

Thor places a heavy hand on Steve's shoulder, eyebrows knitted together. The betrayed look in the demigod's eyes adds another cut to the agent's already flayed heart. Jackson feels like he can't breathe anymore.

Rogers eventually lets go of the man's shirt with a little shove. Jackson stays quiet as the plastic box cracks behind his back. The noise causes him to flinch slightly, the muscles in his jaw briefly tightening. His eyes take on a distant gleam before he blinks back into focus.

Steve doesn't scare him. What does scare him is the silence coming from the other side of the table, where Nat, Tony, and Clint stand motionless.

Clint's eyes are hard, trained down at the metal surface beneath his splayed fingers. His lips are pursed like he has something to say but is holding himself back--an interrogation tactic or self-preservation, Jackson can't tell.

Natasha's gaze is cold, so cold Jackson shudders beneath its weight. Someone who he usually turns to for comfort now brings the opposite. Her red lips are downturned slightly as she supports her hip on the table's edge. She used to lean against him like that.

When his gaze flicks over to Tony, his breath catches. Already looking at the agent, the older man's walls had erected back into place, pushing Jackson out to where he had been when they first met. Once trusting, the billionaire now regards him warily. His folded arms, like a cage, shield himself from the agent.

The backs of Jackson's eyes burn, yet they remain dry. The ceiling lights flicker above them. White noise is booming in his ears, too indistinguishable from the ringing of concussions and distant gunfire--something's burning.

Round eyes dart along the perimeter of the lab. There's no smoke, but his nostrils sting from the heat.

"You're not getting out of this," Rogers steps into his line of sight.

Jackson doesn't have the heart to roll his eyes.

"We deserved to know who we were working with," Bruce chimes in.

Deserved. It's as Jackson thought, then. They're removing him from the team.

Knees suddenly weak, the agent leans back against the outlet box, pinpricks of pain shooting down his hip. He doesn't know what to say or how to say it. It's as if his lungs have frozen up, and the oxygen ripped away from him. He feels like he's drowning.

"Why'd you do it, Jackson?"

His name leaving Tony's mouth startles him into sucking in air. Stark never calls him by his name. Usually, it's Jacky or kid. Jack, if he's serious.

"Why did you kill Agent O'Connor?"

Jackson hardly suppresses a shudder when hearing his former mentor's name. He gestures to the manila folder open on the worktable in the center of the room, its contents strewed for everyone to see. He thinks he glimpses a photograph of Randall O'Connor's body before wrenching his gaze away.

"Don't you already know?" He speaks around the lump in his throat, "Isn't that why you called me in here? I can see the debrief transcript; it's right there."

This time, it's Nat who addresses him, her tone sharp as she steps forward. "Why did you really do it?"

Jackson couldn't retreat if he wanted to. Her eyes scrutinize his every move, every expression as if she knows he lied in his debriefing.

"Like I told Coulson, it was an accident."

Disappointment settles heavily across her brow.

"Maybe. But, the rest of your story doesn't add up," Dr. Banner squints at him from over Natasha's shoulder. "How did HYDRA know you were there? I've seen you on stealth missions, and Randall was no amateur. There had to have been a leak.

"You claimed you met up with Agent O'Connor in the bio lab, but he should have been on the other side of the compound. Forensics confirmed the bullet that took his life came from his sidearm, which either means you took his gun or you forced his hand. I mean, it's doubtful he shot himself. It's also noted that you refused medical care, and you didn't disclose any injuries in your debriefing. There are a lot of holes in your story, Jackson."

Jackson licks his lips. "I refused medical and didn't report any injuries because I wasn't injured. How is that a hole?"

"Because I saw the stab wound on your shoulder."

Jackson's head swivels, scrambled thoughts shrieking to a halt. Clint lifts his face and locks his eyes onto Jackson's for the first time. Natasha is stock-still between the two, poised.

"What are you trying to say, Clinton?"

Jackson realizes he has no right to feel angry with them, but it's better than the hurt viciously puncturing his ribs. He also understands first-hand Clint's longing for a fight. The two agents were always more alike than they came across. Jackson feels a tiny flare of accomplishment as Barton's eyes flash with rage. The archer is just too easy to provoke.

It was only inevitable that a brawl breaks out between them--they're two hotheads with trust issues and a tendency toward violence. It's a miracle they've made it this long.

Jackson is ready when Clint launches himself over the worktable, all graceful limbs and polished movements. His backside once again makes painful contact with the electrical outlet box, jagged shards of plastic digging into his skin. He's lucky he hasn't been electrocuted yet. Barton's fist connects solidly with the wall where the younger's head just was.

Jackson slams his knee into the other agent's thigh. He feels something drip down his back and seep into his waistband. Pure instinct has Jackson dodging the elbow aimed at the side of his head.

Clint's arm glances off his jaw. Jackson ducks and wraps his arms around the archer's midsection.

There's movement around them as they crash to the floor. A fist finds Jackson's temple.

Hands suddenly slot themselves under his biceps, effortlessly hauling him off of a writhing Clint. He struggles as his soles leave the ground.

When he's set back down, Thor's face hovers in front of his own. Clint curses furiously behind the demigod as Rogers and Bruce work at restraining him.

"Just tell us why you killed him!" Tony shouts, enraged. "Tell me why you betrayed your mentor and lied to me about it!"

"He betrayed me!" Jackson finally snaps.

The arguing voices of the others stop all at once, silence dawning in the room. Thor's solid grip on Jackson's shoulders is the only thing holding him up now. His panting breaths sound loud in the stillness of the moment.

"I killed him out of self-defense. He wanted the flash drive so he could take down SHIELD from the inside. He told me Fury was responsible for the deaths of his family members. His goal was revenge, and I stood in his way. So I shot him in the chest and left with the files."

Jackson tilts his head back and breathes out slow and long, years of torment playing on a loop in his mind's eye. Randall's bared bloody teeth flash behind his retinas, and he feels nauseous. The young man chances a hesitant glance down to see their wide eyes and shocked faces. He avoids looking at Tony and Natasha. Barton's face hides behind the captain's broad back.

"I lied because Fury and Coulson didn't want anybody to know, especially any of you. No one hears about this." Feeling lightheaded, Jackson shrugs off Thor's grip and turns to leave, "I'll have my stuff packed up and out of here by the weekend."

To say things are awkward would be putting it mildly. Jackson hasn't been avoiding the Avengers. He's just been busy. Nighttime is his only chance to sneak away to the tower.

Friday night, after his pediatrics course, he finds himself exactly where he was yesterday. His foot taps the floor as the elevator ascends. The number '93' lights up, and the doors open to reveal the Avengers' suite.

Bruce sits alone on the couch, a book perched at the end of his nose. He lowers it as Jackson enters, back stiff.

"Jackson," he removes his glasses and sets them on the glass coffee table along with his now-closed book. "I was starting to think you were never going to come back."

"Don't worry, I won't be here long. I only came to get my stuff, and then I'll be out of your hair." Jackson doesn't stick around to hear his response as he strides down the hall and opens his--no, the--bedroom door.

His Squirtle plushie smiles up at him from the bed. He pauses, takes his backpack off, and sets it leaning against the bedpost. There's a sheet of paper centered on the desk, and he frowns, wondering when the room got so organized. He honestly couldn't remember what the surface of that desk looked like. Now, looking at its black sheen, he recalls--marble. He told Tony not to get him one at all, but the man never listens to him anyway.

Ignoring the solitary paper, he swivels the drawers around and pulls the top one open. His fingertips ghost along the Glock resting inside. Randall gave it to him after their first mission together, said it was his father's.

Jackson slams the drawer shut.

Sighing, his eyes wander over to the paper. It's a letter addressed to him. He can already tell by the neat penmanship who wrote it. Swiping it off the desktop, the agent sits on the edge of the bed and reads.

Jack,

 

First off, I know I owe you an apology. I never should have accused you of betraying someone you knew better than I did. I should have trusted you had your own reasons for your actions and not telling the team about it. I was selfish and stupid, and I would like to tell you it won't happen again, but I think we both know that that's not something I can guarantee. I am gonna try and work on that. I can, however, promise you that from now on, I'm here. For whatever you need.

 

I'm gonna be honest, I was angry. At Coulson for making you feel like you couldn't tell anyone. At Fury for what happened to Agent O'Connor's family--I did some more "research" on SHIELD's confidential archives (because Nick Fury is a shady bastard, and no amount of security can keep me from digging up his dirt). But most of all, I'm angry at myself for failing you. I know I have issues when it comes to trusting others, but I like to think that when someone finally earns that trust, they earn all of it. I'm sorry I never gave you all, Jackson. As far as mentors go (if I can even call myself one), you've been dealt a really shitty hand, kid.

 

That being said, I'm also disappointed. I tend to react badly when I find out people close to me are deliberately hiding things. But, I totally understand why you didn't tell us about Kyiv. It's none of our business, after all. I'm disappointed you felt like you had to deal with this on your own. But you've got me now, and as much as it pains me to admit this, I'd love to hear about your emotions and shit.

 

Once you're done reading this, kindly burn it. It was hard enough writing this; I don't need everyone to incessantly remind me about it.

 

Take care, Jacky.

-T

 

P.S.- I put your Squirtle on your bed. He was in the wash, and I thought you might want to take him with you. It's okay, if not. He'll always have a home here.

A falling droplet lands on the letter, soaking into the thick parchment. Sniffling, Jackson hurriedly shoves the paper in the desk drawer as the bedroom door opens with a knock.

Bruce hovers nervously on the threshold. "Hi," he clears his throat.

Jackson ignores him and continues placing his possessions in his bag, leaving the plushie on the bed behind him. All that's left are the gun and the letter, which he's not too sure he wants to keep. Reading it once was painful enough, but a second time? Jackson's no masochist.

"This probably won't mean much to you, but I am sorry. I should have trusted you. And I know you. You have the strongest moral compass out of all of us, and I wrongly judged you regardless. The law is supposed to practice 'innocent until proven guilty,' and the same goes for the Avengers. I can't speak for the others, but I know they're just as apologetic as I am. We're all sorry we failed you, Jack."

Jackson frowns up at the doctor, but Bruce continues to avoid his searching eyes.

"And we understand if you feel like you have to leave because of it. We don't want you to, but whatever you think is best for you, we won't stand in your way."

The younger agent shakes his head as he stands. "Brucie," he whispers. "I get your distrust in me. I haven't exactly been the most honest."

Jackson finally catches Banner's eyes when the doctor looks up. Brow furrowing in concern, he parts his lips to speak, but Jackson doesn't give him a chance.

"I forgive you," the agent places a hand on his shoulder. "And the others."

There are tears in the doctor's eyes. They shine behind the lenses of his glasses.

"But I'm not sure if I can just forget what happened," Jackson continues, voice hushed. "I see his face everywhere I go. I hear his voice in all of yours. I don't know who I can trust anymore, and I'm so tired all the time."

He wants to cry, but he has nothing left. His tear ducts have run dry, the last drop staining Tony's letter. He's still recovering from Randall's murder--death, he reminds himself. It never quite sticks.

"You have no reason to trust us after how we treated you," Banner observes him cautiously. "But we are here for you. I'm here for you, Jackson."

The agent nods distantly and turns his back to him, chest constricting and thoughts whirring. He doesn't know what to believe. He thought he could trust Randall, too.

Bruce leaves the room silently, and he's just thankful the older man doesn't have to see him crumble. Jackson trembles like a leaf in the wind with nothing but a delicate stem to keep him attached. His tree is dying, and he's barely holding on.

He hurriedly crosses the room and wrenches open the windows at the foot of the bed. Crisp autumn air gushes in his face, soothing his flushed neck and cheeks. He closes his eyes, breathing in the sounds of nighttime Manhattan. The city lights glisten below like a sea of stars, burning hot in the hours of darkness. It reminds the agent of his childhood. He grimaces and closes the window.

Jackson mindlessly reopens the desk drawer, grabs the pistol and the letter, and shoves them both in his bag, quickly zipping it up and flinging it over his shoulder. He tugs the bedroom door open and nearly smacks his forehead into Natasha's chin in his haste to escape. Her closed fist hovers uncertainly between them, a rare and honest expression of diffidence on her face.

"Sorry," she lowers her arm.

Jackson sighs, already drained as his heartbeat gradually returns to normal. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why she's here. He knows how hard it is for her to apologize. He patiently waits while she tentatively scans his face--for what, he has no clue.

Nat softly clears her throat. "I shouldn't have judged you without listening first. I was wrong."

Jackson says nothing, even when she starts to fidget under his gaze. He's never seen her so discomposed. Her collected demeanor has always drawn him in, like a pet bird tied to a string. He could only go so far before being yanked back.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

Despite the uncomfortable body language and fleeting glances down the hall, her feet face him, and her eyes glimmer with sincerity. She looks faintly nauseous.

Concerned, the man places his hand on her shoulder. He can feel her stiffen briefly before relaxing under his touch. They've always been better with actions than with words. Still, he speaks.

"I forgive you."

In the tender quiet of the dim corridor, Jackson gingerly brushes his knuckles against the edge of her jaw. He tries not to laugh as her eyes dart down the expanse of the hall. If anyone else were to try this, they'd end up bloody. He cups her crimsoned cheek in his palm. Nat leans into his touch, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly against her creamy cheekbones.

"I do trust you," she whispers fondly. "I'm just hurt that you couldn't trust me."

His hand reluctantly drops to his side, and he nods remorsefully. "I know."

Natasha comfortingly hooks her fingers in his belt loops. He thinks she's too good for him.

"At the time, I thought you were against me," he murmurs in the dark. "I know I haven't known you all as long, and I kind of am the new guy, but..."

Nat tugs softly, bringing their bodies closer. Inches away, he can see the fierce resolve in her smoldering green orbs.

"You may be new, but you're no stranger," she insists. "Not to me."

Jackson shakes his head, heart throbbing even as he tells her, "You were just trying to protect your team, I get it. If I was in your place, I'd have done the sa--"

Natasha's lips clash with his. Exhaling, Jackson frames her face in his large hands, thumbs tracing the delicate apples of her cheeks, fingers sinking into the mess of scarlet waves behind her ears. His mind goes still, worries all but forgotten. He licks the line of her pillowy lips, parting them easily as the kiss progresses.

Finally, reluctantly, they break away from each other--hot breaths fill the space between them.

"You are my team," she breathes, lips brushing his. "And I forgive you, too, idiot."

All at once, the fight leaves his body, and he sags against her. Chest hitching, he's embraced in her arms. His own wind their way around her waist, further crushing their bodies together. Jackson can feel her slender fingers card through his hair, and tears he didn't think he had left in him wet her shoulder.

"I can't get him out of my head," he rasps.

Jackson doesn't protest as Nat wordlessly opens the door behind him and shuffles them inside, closing and locking it behind her. The corners of Natasha's mouth lift slightly at the sight of the Squirtle plushie nestled between the pillows. They fall back down when she feels Jackson quiver minutely beneath her hands. With an aching heart, Romanoff helps him settle onto the bed with her head pillowed on his chest. She doesn't say anything, just lets him hold her tightly.

His chest is broad and warm under her palms, but it quakes now and then as he tries to reign in his cries. His hands leave trails of heat up and down her spine. Nat tilts her head and presses her lips against the apple of his throat. She's always loved the scent of him--he smells of aftershave, pine, and mint. She thinks he must have taken a shower before leaving for his night class.

"I can't keep staying here, Tash," he says into her hair. She hadn't even noticed he stopped crying. "My friends are getting suspicious every time I come home, injured at four in the morning."

"You know you're always welcome to stay here, not just as the Phoenix."

"I know, but it's gonna take me some time," Jackson mumbles. "Besides, you'll still get to see me at the mission meetings. Phil thinks I'm gonna be sticking with you guys for a while, even after this assignment."

Nat hums thoughtfully against his collarbone, her fingers drawing absentminded shapes on his chest. Jackson's skin buzzes with energy from where their bodies connect, even through the fabrics of their clothes. It took him a long time to figure out that it wasn't his powers causing it. It's alarming how alive she makes him feel.

"Do you want that?"

Jackson pauses, considering. "I think so." A smirk crawls up his lips, "I don't think your captain likes me very much, though."

His observation startles a laugh out of the redhead. Eyes shut and cheek smooshed, Nat grins. "No, I don't think he does, either."

Chapter Text

This time, when the elevator doors glide open, Jackson heads straight into the kitchen without a glance at the seven pairs of eyes following him. He finds his mug in the cupboard left of the fridge and sets about brewing a fresh batch of coffee when he hears someone enter behind him. He rubs absentmindedly at the bruises staining his knuckles.

"Can we do this later, Thor?" He leans his hip wearily against the counter, arms crossed gingerly over his chest. His ribs twinge in response. The skin around his eyes feels swollen from exhaustion. He hears nothing for a moment, just the other man's steady breathing. Ultimately, Thor sighs dejectedly and walks back out. Tension bleeds from the agent's frame as his coffee finishes brewing.

Fury side-eyes him when he exits the kitchen. "Is that all, or do you want someone to make you breakfast, too?"

"Are you offering, Nick?" he smirks, no longer as tired.

Agent Coulson deliberately steps between them and swipes across Stark's holographic screen, projecting multiple planes of holograms around them. "News reports show someone breaking into the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Warsaw. The soldier's body under the central part of the Saxon Palace was exhumed, and the five eternal flames were, to quote one of the honor guards, 'stolen.' They said whoever did it was a dark-skinned female with white hair and 'tattoos' all over her body."

"Archangel," Rogers points out the obvious.

Jackson's eyes narrow, "Wait, you said she 'stole' the flames? So she can control fire?"

Fury points to one of the holograms--a surveillance video aimed at the tomb. "Take a look for yourself, Agent Wang."

A white colonnade occupies the screen, stone tablets spaced under the arcades. For a moment, there's nothing but a guard standing motionless in the night, five fires illuminating his steely expression. The soldier's face abruptly scrunches, and he bends over at the waist, desperately clutching at his throat. There's no sound, but if there was, Jackson bets they'd all bear witness to the gasps of a dying man.

A short and slim woman strolls into view, white hair dangling in dozens of tiny braids down her back. Chalky tribal markings adorn her darker skin like tattoos, running down her bare arms, stomach, and legs--some even dotting her face. In her hands, she holds a staff, gold runes glowing in its light-colored wood. She pauses by the guard, staring down with what Jackson imagines to be mild disinterest. Eventually, the woman approaches one of the sconces and raises her hand over the orange flame. Jackson leans in close, eyes narrowed in concentration as the fire seems to suck up into her palm.

He steps forward. "Zoom in, Jar."

JARVIS silently complies, and the footage magnifies until the woman's hand swallows the frame. He can feel the stares of the others as he tracks the flames in the video. "She's not a fire coda," he confirms.

"And how could you possibly know that from watching a single video?" Rogers scowls at him.

Jackson can't help but roll his eyes slightly, already annoyed by the upcoming conversation. "Because I'm not called the Phoenix for nothing. And the flames don't go into her hand. Look closer, Captain, and you'll see the fire die out before it actually touches her."

Steve clenches his jaw at the agent's disrespectful tone but peers back at the paused video.

Fury nods. "He's right. Agent Coulson and I believe she used the oxygen in the air to manipulate the fire."

"An air coda," Jackson breathes.

Agent Romanoff observes him from her position by the hologram. None of them have ever encountered an air coda before.

"So then why'd she put out the fires?" Barton asks.

"We think her motives are religious," Agent Coulson says. "Fire is seen as a manifestation of God in the Christian faith. It symbolizes God's wrath and the judgment and destruction that are often extensions of that wrath.

"Take lightning, for example," he turns to Thor. "Literal fire from heaven."

Thor furrows his brow, a bewildered scowl pulling at his lips. "What a strange thing to believe. Lightning is not fire; it is lightning."

"Fire can also represent rebirth," Barton gestures to Jackson.

Tony suddenly shoves a tablet in Agent Coulson's face. "Look familiar?"

Standing beside Fury, Jackson can clearly see the screen--a complex geometric symbol of parallel lines and stars--and Tony's raised brow. Jackson presses his lips together and glances back toward the paused footage. Etched on the back of the woman's hand is the very same marking.

"The symbol of Ogun, Yoruba god of war, hunting, and ironworking. According to religious scholars, Yoruba is an African indigenous religion with 'high regard for metal as a combination of earth, wind, and fire,' which sounds fucking pretentious to me."

Dr. Banner raises his hand to interject. "If she can control the wind, then, theoretically, that just leaves two elements that she needs to make metal, right?"

"But she put the fires out," Natasha points out.

Jackson stays quiet, mind racing to catch up.

What reason would she have to --

Then he remembers.

His spine straightens. "Phil, you said the Unknown Soldier's body was dug up but was it missing?"

Agent Coulson shakes his head. "No, reports show only--"

He freezes.

Jackson watches as realization dawns.

"Holy shit."

"What?" Clint barks.

Agent Coulson's wide eyes tell Jackson his theory was right. "You and your damn intuitive leaps," the older man mutters, amazed.

Turning to the others, Coulson pulls up another tab on the hologram, this time an image of the burial site. "The only thing missing from the tomb was the urn containing soil from the battleground at Lviv, where the soldier presumably died."

Tony Stark regards Jackson with something akin to pride. The agent smooths a palm over his stomach, uncomfortable.

Agent Romanoff finally says what's been on her mind since Tony showed everyone that symbol. "She could be planning to go after the Phoenix next."

"To get her fire," Steve finishes needlessly.

"We should look at locations with high heat signatures just to be sure," Bruce suggests. "Breaks in the mantle, volcanic zones, and lighting hot spots, to name a few."

"Good idea." Director Fury collapses the holograms. "Until we know exactly where it is she's headed next, Agent Wang, you're under strict order not to leave this tower."

Jackson nearly spit-takes his coffee. "Nick, I'm not sure you've noticed, but I have a life outside of work. I have fieldwork courses that expect my time. I'm almost finished with my degree, and I can't afford to dick around doing nothing because I'm on house arrest. No one even knows who the Phoenix is."

"Have Stark contact your school and get them to send the classwork online--it's really not my problem. We can't take any chances. You're not leaving the tower, and that's final, agent."

"I can't--" Jackson bites his tongue and spins on his heel, walking out onto the roof.

Who the fuck does Fury think he is?

Jackson's aware he's being stubborn and irrational, but he doesn't care. He's pissed. This coursework is crucial for his future. There's too much riding on this for him not to show up. Not to mention his frat mates will wonder where he is after days of not seeing him. He already spent the weekend "helping his parents pack." He hasn't seen his parents since he was nine, but his friends think they're moving to Montana. It's not like he could just tell them that he's staying in Montana for a while longer, especially since he left all of his crap in the frat house.

At least I have my phone, he sulks, frustrated.

Jackson pulls the device from his pants' pocket; missed calls and notifications bury his lock screen. Tapping one of the numerous voicemails, he sighs and brings it to his ear just as a familiar voice filters through.

"Hi Jackson, this is Dr. Bullen calling about a possible meeting time for your first patient. As you've probably figured out by now, graduates enrolled in this course are expected to be able to help their patients recover, improve, and maintain the skills..." Dr. Bullen's droning fades away as the agent slowly lowers the phone. Jackson breathes harshly through his nose and tries to swallow around the bitter taste in his mouth.

They're gonna drop me from the class.

He can see the Avengers sitting in the living room, Fury and Coulson long gone. Their serious conversation from earlier seems to have turned into one more jovial as Thor throws his head back in a laugh Jackson can practically hear from outside. Rogers sits next to him, amicably brushing shoulders as Bruce sputters, red-faced at the other end of the sofa. Nat's disgusted posture and Tony's smug grin tell Jackson enough about the scene. The young agent's brow furrows when he can't locate the archer among them.

The rooftop door opens to his left, and Agent Barton steps out, short hair ruffling in the breeze. He stops beside the younger man, wordlessly glancing down at the lit-up cellphone in his hand. Jackson pockets it and returns to watching the five heroes through the glass walls.

"Thor wanted to be the first to apologize, you know," Clint mutters.

Jackson hums noncommittally. They both stifle a chuckle when Nat cuffs Stark on the back of his head. The billionaire turns with a scowl until he sees her murderous expression.

Barton awkwardly clears his throat. "What's the real reason why you didn't tell us?"

Jackson inhales the humid city air. The time on his phone said it was nearing four in the morning. He thinks if he pretends he didn't hear him, then the older agent might leave him alone. He's never been known to have good luck, though.

"I know you don't give a shit about what Fury thinks, and I also know Coulson wouldn't subject you to blackmail--you're like a son to him. It's kinda gross, honestly."

"Stop," he grits.

"Stop what?!" The archer throws his hands up, aggravated. "Trying to understand you? Is that what this is about? You're afraid of being predictable? Well, I have news for ya: no one ever knows what you'll do next. Apparently, neither did Ran--"

Jackson throws his shoulder into the blonde, cutting his rant short with a grunt. They stumble back, falling against the rooftop in a tangle of writhing limbs. The two agents roll for a few seconds, and Barton lands on top, fist already cocked behind him. It falls hard on Jackson's jaw. The younger agent flips them. Clint blocks the blow aimed at his face. Misses the one at his ribs.

Jackson's mouth tastes like iron. "Don't you fucking  dare  bring him into this!" He elbows Barton in the forehead.

A quick series of jabs find Jackson's sternum, and they roll. The archer starts landing punches while Jackson gasps for air. Chest heaving, the younger agent struggles to draw in a steady breath. His knuckles connect forcefully with Clint's temple, sending the shorter man tipping to his left. He bucks his hips to throw him off. The blonde rears up for another attack when he notices Jackson's face. A deep line of pain cuts between his brows as he spits a glob of blood onto the gravel rooftop. His breaths come in wheezes, and his already swollen left hand pushes forcibly against his sternum.

"Jack?" Clint exhales.

"Jack?!"

Hurried footfalls grow closer. Tony slides to his knees beside the young agent, hands hovering over the curve of his straining back. He can hear Rogers berating Clint in the background--his Captain's Voice is typically stern.

"Jack, let me see," Nat places her smaller hand over his straining fingers that are burrowing into the gravel. He lets her and Tony maneuver him until he's on his back with his shirt hitched under his armpits. Someone gasps.

"This is from your last assignment?" Natasha bites.

"Wait, did he just get off a mission?" Clint asks, incredulous.

"Yes, you moron. He was over in Nova Scotia literally not even twelve hours ago." 

"Why didn't anyone ever tell me?!"

"You shouldn't need to be told!"

"The real question is: why didn't you visit medical, son?" Steve leans over him.

Jackson coughs. "Don't call me son."

He groans when one of Natasha's fingers prods too roughly. He thinks she did that on purpose. It's difficult to tell just by looking at her, though.

"They're broken, but nothing's punctured. Let's go get you taped up."

Tony exhales next to him, hand tightly gripping his shoulder. "Jeez, kid," he shakes his head. "You really know how to give a guy gray hairs, don't ya?"

A thoughtful expression crosses the billionaire's face. "I'm gonna start wrapping you in bubble wrap."

"Please don't."

Reluctantly, with the team's assistance, Jackson ambles back inside. They carefully sit on the couch. Thor appears with an armful of ice packs. He dumps them on the couch next to the injured agent.

Jackson laughs, then winces. "I'm fine, guys. Really."

"Tell that to the giant stormcloud rolling across your entire torso," Tony snarks.

"I see no clouds," Thor frowns, freeing a hand to tug at the agent's shirt.

Jackson slaps the offending limb away and looks at them all--really looks. Their worried faces watch him back.

"Can someone get my Squirtle?"

House arrest isn't terrible, per se; it's just that Jackson is a highly active human being. Randall joked that he had ADHD, said he was like a hyperactive puppy. In hindsight, he realizes that wasn't necessarily a compliment.

Fortunately, remaining in the tower doesn't apply to missions. Jackson had to fight for that privilege.

He's currently locked in battle with a warrior made of metal. The Avengers are occupied with their own Mercury Men, as they've taken to calling them. A platinum blonde woman, dressed in gunmetal-gray and blood-red armor, stands vigil over the battlefield that the Brooklyn Bridge has become. Eyes half-shut in boredom, she watches them fight while twirling ribbons of liquid metal in the air around her fingers. A traffic camera picked up imaging of Archangel in communication with a woman named Irene Silva, but she calls herself Mercury. Law enforcement dumped the metal coda in a maximum-security correctional facility in Bedford Hills four years ago. What she's now doing in Brooklyn, they have an idea.

"I've already told you, I don't work for Archangel," Silva sighs dramatically in exasperation.

Captain America and Black Widow take turns dodging and attacking a surrounding crowd of metalloid creatures. Thor's lightning catapults a group of Mercury Men off the bridge next to Jackson, who melts the leg of another just as it rises up to strike at the demigod's back.

"We know Archangel helped you escape Bedford Hills. What's in it for her?" Iron Man shoots two missiles at Irene. A pair of Mercury Men shield her. The projectiles detonate safely in the other direction.

An ominous groaning sound rumbles through the asphalt.

The beams stretching over Jackson's head are decomposing.

The agent lunges to the right.

The shaft barely misses him as it clangs to the ground. A deafening explosion of sound makes him recoil, elbows scraping against the cracked road. Hands out for balance, Jackson manages to stand on unsteady legs. He works his jaw in an attempt to dissipate the incessant ringing in his ears.

Mercury hikes her trim eyebrows up in entertainment. "Quick reflexes you have there, pretty bird. Continue to woo me and I might just tell you my secret." Her teeth gleam in the sunlight.

Growling under his breath, Jackson shoves a wall of flames at her. Irene skillfully evades. The two exchange blasts of metal and fire; girders and grates and sparks soar through the air around them.

"What rhythm you have. You must be a dancer," Irene declares eagerly. She drags her gaze downward, pink tongue peeking out to wet her lips.

Crouching low, the young agent can see Hawkeye perched atop one of the bridge's arches. He takes aim at the metal coda's back, an explosive arrow notched and drawn. Jackson doesn't hesitate. He thrusts his hand out, sending another plume of fire at Silva. His intention isn't to strike but to distract.

Both of her arms rise, one wrist flicking up, the other forward. It's the only warning Jackson gets.

A shield materializes out from her vambrace. Its gray surface flushes under the splay of brilliant orange. Over her shoulder, Hawkeye's metal-tipped arrow skips in the air. It sails straight at the crouched agent. Jackson springs into motion.

The arrow lands feet away in an eruption of heat. The detonation launches Agent Wang into the side of an abandoned minivan. Its metal frame dents from the impact. Glass shards shower around him as his head brutally smacks the pavement.

The young man sluggishly shakes his head. The clamor of battle is muffled by the blood rushing in his ears. He suspects he has a concussion.

"You alright, Phoenix?" Agent Barton shouts through his earpiece. The hero's voice knifes through his brain. Nausea claws at the man's stomach.

The agent whimpers softly, fingertips leaving his balaclava-covered ear tainted in blood. Definitely a ruptured eardrum. "'M fine," he slurs, tongue leaden. His vision swims. The heated pavement soothes his aching muscles. Suddenly, the sun's warmth disappears.

Mercury casts her shadow over Jackson's kneeling form. "And you were doing so well," she tuts, lips pouted in false sympathy. "Look at those gorgeous eyes peering up all disoriented." Irene reaches down to cup his cheek, but he jerks away. His stomach lurches painfully and the world tilts. Her icy fingertips caress the mask over his slightly parted lips instead.

"Want to hear my secret?" She bats her eyelashes.

"Jack, get outta there," Agent Romanoff bosses into his in-ear.

"Nothing would make me happier," he mutters sardonically against the pads of her fingers. Hopefully, this 'secret' has everything to do with Archangel.

Irene beams, eyes twinkling in delight. Her fingers drop from his face to trail one down his chest. "She wanted a metal staff instead of wood," she purrs in his ear. "Something firmer," she winks, "with more vigor."

Jackson resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Get that, Tony?"

"Too loud and too clear, unfortunately."

Mercury's lips curl, eyes freezing. "You little--"

Thor abruptly cuts her off as he slams into her from the side like a train.

Jackson staggers to his feet.

Only a few Mercury Men are still left standing. Silva is fending off attacks from both sides--Thor and Black Widow now flank her. He can hardly see Iron Man over the arch of the bridge's suspension tower; the billionaire was instructed to keep his distance from the woman who can mentally bend metal.

Jackson fears he's still too close. Imagining the man's iron suit crumpling in like a paper ball terrifies him.

Fortunately, Thor's hammer isn't affected, but the captain had to leave his shield back at base. They all made sure to remove any jewelry before they left.

A fallen girder leans up against the tower adjacent to the fight. Seizing the opportunity, Jackson sets about climbing the beam. He's careful not to draw Silva's attention.

Looking down makes him nauseous. Instead, the agent focuses on the end of the shaft, where it reclines against the tower. The metal sizzles beneath his palms. He's almost directly above Mercury now. He tightly grips the weather-worn arch. A sigh of relief falls past his lips. One hundred feet off the ground, the girder drops from beneath him.

Gravity takes hold. His breath lurches out of him.

His hands scrabble futilely down the limestone tower. He desperately grasps at its gritty surface. His blunt nails chip against the wall. Exposed brick snags under his fingers. His arm lurches, muscles pulling taut with tension. He grunts as all of his body weight pulls on his shoulder.

"Where were you going, kid?" Iron Man hovers next to him. "Grab on. I'll fly ya down."

He extends his hand toward the younger man.

All Jackson can focus on is Tony, in his metal suit, floating directly above Silva. The agent shakes his head. "You're too close, Tony!"

If Jackson were to look down--which he absolutely won't--he would see the fight for the diversion that it is.

"You've gotta trust us, Phoenix!" Stark shouts.

"If she sees you, she'll crush you, Tony!" Agent Wang's arm trembles imperceptibly. "I can get down on my own!"

To prove his point, Jackson finds a foothold a little way down and reaches for it.

"Goddamn it, Jack, just trust us! We're holding her off down here, but soon she'll realize you're up there!" Romanoff barks discreetly into her mic.

The youngest agent squeezes his eyes shut. He rests his forehead against the oven-like stone wall. The back of his skull throbs. A fat bead of sweat trickles down his spine.

Tony offers his hand once more, tone low and promising. "I won't let you go, Jacky."

Jackson glimpses at him over his straining shoulder. A split-second flicker of genuine terror glints in his amber eyes. The kid didn't outwardly show fear. If anything, he always came across as vaguely excited, charged with adrenaline and youthful energy. This display of honest emotion has Tony retracting his faceplate, unveiling what he hopes is an expression of trust and encouragement.

Jackson claps his hand in that of the Iron Man suit.

The metal beneath his palm contorts and slices at their hands. They both let go with a cry. "No!" Tony bellows.

Mercury grins manically up at the billionaire, daring Iron Man to swoop down and catch the agent's plummeting form.

"I've got him, Stark!" Thor swivels his hammer in a tight circle.

Tony reluctantly backs off, his gut twisting in guilt. Jackson's horrified expression flashes before his eyes. His muscles tense as Thor meets Jackson's dropping body, plucking him from the air a moment before impact.

The demigod sets the agent on his feet, eyes tight with worry. "Are you injured, Son of Jack?"

"I'm okay. Thanks, big guy," Jackson pats his back reassuringly. Sparkly dots momentarily dance across his vision. He blinks heavily, and they scatter.

Tony's shoulders sag in relief next to Hawkeye. He brings his hand up. The armor of his suit is warped, and crimson, knife-life protrusions stick out away from him. Blood drips along the edges, and bile burns at the back of his throat. He turns to the fight at the same time Hulk backhands the metal coda off of the bridge with his gargantuan hand.

Agent Wang watches as she reaches toward them. A glistening silver branch reaches out to catch her. Without hesitating, the young agent unholsters his Glock, cocks the hammer, and empties his clip at her in one fluid motion. The slight recoil of the weapon in his hand is familiar and comforting.

The sprouting metal limb lulls as Mercury gestures to flick all of the bullets away. Her body plunges into the East River.

The Avengers scan the water for any hint of platinum blonde. Nothing surfaces the tumultuous waves. After a few minutes, Jackson feels a hand slot with his. Natasha brings his bloody palm up for inspection.

Tony touches down hard on his other side and steps out of his suit. Big, guilt-ridden brown eyes zero in on his mangled hand.

"Good thing you're ambidextrous, huh kid?" Tony smiles weakly, the joke falling flat.

Natasha removes her jacket to use as a makeshift bandage. "He's lucky it didn't take his hand," she glares at them both.

Chapter Text

Long Island University dropped Jackson from his fieldwork seminar. He missed the initial consultation with his first patient, so they were booting him from the class. JARVIS overheard the kid's phone conversation with his professor, Dr. Bullen, and once Stark found out, he called the professor himself. To his incredulity, the man had been impervious to his methods of persuasion, claiming that, "If Mr. Wang cannot make time for his patients, then he shouldn't have any to begin with," which Tony thought was a bit rude, yet fair. This is one of the many times the billionaire wishes Jackson's identity wasn't a secret. If he could just tell the damn teacher that the kid couldn't be there for that one patient because he was busy saving the lives of others, then his job as a mentor would be made so much easier.

But I'm not his mentor anymore; he has to remind himself. Certainly not after yesterday's events.

Agent Wang had almost fully recovered from his broken ribs when next, Tony mutilates his hand. Dr. Banner put a decent amount of stitches in there because, as it turns out, the Iron Man suit had gone all the way through the kid's palm, and they're lucky it didn't sever any tendons. Jacky's already pulled his stitches twice since they were sewed not twenty-four hours ago.

The other Avengers found out about the fieldwork situation shortly after Stark did. He reckons Clint or Natasha had something to do with that because he sure didn't tell anyone.

Agent Romanoff's bond with Jacky has always somewhat intrigued the billionaire. However, he's not sure when the extra feelings became part of their relationship. The kid met her and Clint through a SHIELD assignment back when he was nineteen. Jacky, Natasha, and Clint mention Budapest a lot, but not even Stark knows everything that happened there--just that it was a shit show. Even the files in SHIELD's database are vague.

According to his profile, Agent Coulson recruited Jackson into SHIELD after he caught the kid practically erupting in an alleyway in Mott Haven. He was eighteen then and far more volatile than he is now. Jack was an orphan who bounced around in the foster care system ever since his parents abandoned him when he was nine. The agent doesn't mention his childhood much, just in passing. That's another thing he does--adopting a casual and wisecracking tone to avoid more somber topics. Tony Stark often muses that he's like a mini-version of himself but angrier.

Three months after joining SHIELD, Jackson met Agent O'Connor--a bit of a recluse, from what Tony remembers. He was dedicated and strict, oftentimes scolding Jack for his more laid-back demeanor. Agent Coulson would usually have to step in before either of them got too heated--which, knowing Jacky, happens to be the kid's default setting.

Tony was always mildly jealous of Phil's relationship with the kid--not that he would ever admit it. But Jackson's trust in the senior agent has been unshakable. And Tony's fucked up a lot.

They all screwed the pooch when they accused Jackson of killing his former mentor in cold blood. Looking back at the interaction, Tony feels ashamed. For as long as he's known the kid, he's never once seen him find pleasure in ending anyone's life, not even the enemy's.

Barton's skepticism was too convincing, apparently--another thing that shocks the billionaire. Clint is perhaps the least trusting out of the team, which is saying a lot. Still, Stark never expected Legolas to lash out at the kid like that. Sure, they're both short-tempered (a bit of an understatement, really), but the two were blatantly itching to throw hands. Tony vaguely remembers his therapist mentioning something about pain being redirected into anger or something like that.

Romanoff, on the other hand, seemed reluctant when they were interrogating the younger agent. She hadn't said a word since the whole ordeal first surfaced and insisted on greeting him when he showed up. Tony's unsure what was discussed between the two agents, but she looked even more doubtful of Clint's suspicion when she reentered the lab. That probably should have been a clue to Tony that they were all completely wrong in their assumptions.

And Rogers, Tony sighs.

Jackson's first time meeting the soldier hadn't been pretty. Other than Clint and Natasha, the Avengers first saw him before the Battle of New York a little over a year ago. Nearly two years after Agent O'Connor's death, he was about twenty-four at the time and still grieving the loss--and as everyone just learned, betrayal--of what was pretty much a father figure.

Tony, Steve, Bruce, and Thor briefly met the kid in the lab of the SHIELD helicarrier. Then, Fury had sent Jackson down to interrogate Thor's psycho brother, and the agent came back with the news that Loki planned to exploit the Hulk while in mid-flight.

"You didn't agree to come here because Agent Romanoff batted her eyelashes at you," he had accused Banner. "What's your game here, Dr. Banner?"

And, of course, Steve immediately took offense. "I'm sorry, and who are you?" His disapproving frown was the first strike against him.

And when Stark and Rogers were in each other's faces, the kid unexpectedly took Tony's side, which probably marked the decline of the kid's relationship with the captain. Then, Barton came and blew a hole in the carrier.

Afterward, Jacky and Rogers were tasked with Stark to fix the engine, and thanks to Jackson's understanding of basic mechanics, Stark wasn't entirely on his own in restarting the coolant system.

Jack had once shared with Tony that seeing Captain America fight for the first time had been incredible. However, the young agent's enthusiasm dimmed considerably when he remembered how, if it weren't for the kid's quick reflexes, Rogers would have dumbly fallen off the carrier and been turned into a spangled pancake. Tony spit out his coffee from laughing so hard. Never let it be said that the young man isn't a conversationalist.

The captain had ordered Agent Wang to help him provide cover from Loki's men while Tony worked at restarting the engine. Now, like most young agents his age would do, Jack followed the soldier's orders with an eager, "Yes, sir." Then Rogers lost his footing and tumbled off the side of the helicarrier. Jackson was already making his way over to help him when Tony needed the lever pulled, and Steve, being the self-sacrificing Wonder Boy that he is, insisted Tony be saved first. Apparently, not even Jack's slight hero worship for Captain America was motivation enough to obey the man's increasingly frustrated orders because after Jack took out the last of Loki's mindless zombies, the agent hauled Rogers up, clapped him on the back, and then finally pulled the lever for Tony to escape the engine's rotors. But, of course, that didn't sit well with the soldier, for once the danger ceased, he rounded on the young man and berated him for disobeying a direct order.

"I ordered you to pull that lever! I could have climbed up on my own, but Stark was almost shredded to pieces in there. Your recklessness could cost lives, son."

Jacky disagreed. After all, the probability of Iron Man surviving a fall from that height versus a medically-enhanced soldier was pretty even. But, even Tony can admit, regardless of first impressions, he too would choose to save the man dressed up in a leotard rather than a metal suit.

Their disagreement almost turned into a fistfight that Tony was (and not-so-secretly still is) hoping would happen. He's put a lot of thought into what the match would be like.

Fury's announcement had shaken them all. But, Coulson's "death" obviously hit the kid the hardest. Tony isn't sure he'll ever forget the look on Jack's face when the man thought his mentor died.

However, when Rogers then asked, "Is this the first time you lost a soldier?" in that holier-than-thou tone of his, Jackson rightfully snapped. Not physically--whether Tony was relieved or disappointed, he's not sure--but the agent gave Steve a verbal strip-down that even had Tony Stark cringing.

Now they all know why; the answer was no.

Nearly as solemn as the news about Agent Coulson, but definitely not worse, was Barton's recovery from Loki's control. Agents Wang and Romanoff were with Barton when he woke up, and according to Jack, they didn't talk about anything too significant, but science isn't the only thing Tony good at.

The Battle of New York had been personal for all of them, but Jackson, in particular, was out for blood. So when the Chitauri rolled up, they all got to see the kid really fight. Tony admits he was even more impressed than when he got to see Hulk go off for the first time--the billionaire had an idea of what to expect from a green rage monster. That's when they all saw Jackson's fire for the first time, as well, and the agent's got spunk. Working alongside Hawkeye and Black Widow, the three were a force to be reckoned with.

At some point, it was just Wang and Rogers on the ground with no Natasha to act as a buffer. Then, Tony heard the captain task Jackson with taking care of a bomb in a bank full of trapped civilians. By the time Stark was able to swoop down and help, the agent had been scraping himself off of the pavement while Rogers escorted the survivors out. Jackson told Tony later on that he didn't care about taking credit and that as long as nobody else got hurt blah blah blah... But Tony wasn't going to be placated. The kid isn't cannon fodder, for Christ's sake.

"Stark, quit staring, or your face'll get stuck like that, and you'll be even uglier."

Tony jolts out of his thoughts, unaware he had been glaring at the pen in Jackson's hand for going on fifteen minutes.

He honestly believes the kid is a combination of all of them. He's got Romanoff's uncanny perceptiveness, Banner's turbulent emotions, Barton's dry sarcasm, Rogers' do-good altruism, Thor's charismatic naiveté, and Tony's nearly blind loyalty. What an unfortunate amalgamation of traits.

Tony flips him the bird.

"Can't be as bad as you, Prometheus," the genius smirks.

Lounging across the room, Clint snorts, "Like you were ever that good looking."

The billionaire sputters indignantly first at Barton, then at the youngest agent's (handsomely) smug little face.

Rolling his eyes, the kid turns back to his writing. "And you would know, old man," Jack immediately turns on the archer, the pen never stilling.

"Ha!"

Barton's betrayed expression is a second-hand victory for Tony.

It's truly astonishing how the kid can insult both of them in such a short amount of time--all while writing a research paper.

What a remarkable talent, Tony muses. Wonder where he got it from.

Jackson is handling the whole Rapunzel lockdown better than Stark could've expected. He's quieter than usual, which is somewhat concerning, but Tony thinks it has more to do with the kid's refusal to hold an actual conversation with any of them. He barely even talks to Agent Romanoff.

Returning his attention back down to the tablet in his hands, the billionaire distractedly adjusts one of the alignments displayed on the screen. Ever since the team got back from the battle on the Brooklyn Bridge, he's been designing a new suit for the fire coda, one that should be able to use his heat as propulsion. If Tony can transfer the kid's thermal energy into combustion, the detonations should generate enough thrust for him to at least have a controlled descent. So, theoretically speaking, Tony Stark's trying to give the Phoenix wings.

Reabsorbed into his project, the mechanic hardly glances up as Jackson walks past. So far, every schematic Stark's configured hasn't been able to account for the effect the blasts will have on the agent's body or the surrounding environment. It would be somewhat counterproductive if the controlled fall killed the kid because he self-destructed.

Tony presses his lips together and exhales in frustration.

Why do all of my prototypes look like rockets?

Jackson won't wear something that will hinder his movements. The agent relies on stealth and speed, not clanky metal combustion chambers strapped to his feet like cinder blocks. "What kind of fire coda employs stealth, anyway?" The mechanic grumbles under his breath. "That's, like, the exact opposite of fire." Yet again, blowing shit up is sort of Tony Stark's MO.

A little over a year ago, he didn't even know what a coda was. Back then, he only understood the basic definition of the word as a conclusion to something. But, then, shortly after meeting Jackson, the agent had sat the heroes down and explained it all to them: what a coda is, the different types, how people obtain them, the whole shebang.

There exist seven types of codas: water, fire, air, earth, metal, light, and darkness. More than one person can have the same kind of coda, and one person can have more than one type, though possessing only one is typical. Codas are sowed at birth, regardless of one's genetic makeup, but they develop over time.

Jackson said he only has the fire coda, but powers can sometimes take a while to manifest, and the kid's only twenty-five.

Tony thinks the younger agent might have the darkness coda as well, which is ironic. Jack told them that a reliable way to test a coda's powers is to get them riled up, play to their emotions. Codas are invariably linked to one's excitements, so any intense emotional response is bound to trigger those powers. And if Tony's learned anything about Jackson in the year that he's known him, it's that the kid is essentially a walking ball of profound emotions.

After one night, when Jack stayed over at the tower, the young agent informed Tony that Natasha's room had gotten dark even though the electricity was still on and no one had touched the switch. When Stark asked what the kid was doing in her bedroom, Jackson simply glared and walked away. Afterward, Tony scrubbed at his eyes until he saw stars, and they both never brought it back up. That unfortunate conversation is the only reason Tony even knows Jack and Natasha are... what, dating? An item? Beneficial friends?

He shudders just thinking about it.

Nonetheless, the mechanic has seen the agent amidst the throes of nightmares, which are intimate experiences for someone else to witness.

Jackson had been asleep on the sofa in Stark's lab after a long day of training in his new suit. Contrary to the kid's usual behavior, when he's asleep, he's actually relatively quiet. Tony could tell he was having a bad dream purely by his pinched brows and stuttering chest. The billionaire would never have even noticed had the couch not been in his direct line of sight. And he only looked up from his work after the lab had darkened to the point where he could hardly see his fingers. At the time, he had thought it was due to sleep deprivation.

However, when Jackson woke up, Tony's vision went startlingly black. He would have been convinced he blacked out if he didn't hear the sharp, panicky breaths coming from over by the couch. Stark banged a different body part on three appliances by the time he reached the kid. Fumbling around in the dark, the mechanic tentatively squeezed Jackson's shoulder with a softly-spoken reassurance. It took a little while, but the agent's breathing calmed down, the darkness disappearing with an influx of light. Tony's pupils had constricted, so he struggled to gauge Jack's expression, but worryingly, the kid showed no sign he was even aware of the light flaring up abruptly.

Ever since that moment, Stark's paid careful attention to the agent's mood swings and sleeping habits. He's come to notice that Jackson schedules time for sleep like the billionaire himself does--which is to say, he doesn't at all. For all of Jackson's talk about health and fitness, he almost overworks his body as much as Tony Stark, the insomnolent, coffee-addicted workaholic.

But Tony hasn't mentioned his suspicions about the kid to any of the other Avengers. He thinks it'd be better if Jack finds out on his own rather than someone else telling him, and he wonders if the kid already knows, or at least suspects.

Glancing up from his tablet, the mechanic finds the living room suddenly abandoned. Jackson and Clint must have left without him noticing. The younger agent's textbook sits closed on the coffee table; beside it, a Buzz Lightyear mug with tea dregs drying in a ring at the bottom. The kid could be a teenager for all the messes he leaves.

Hours later, Stark learns that Jack didn't only leave the room, but he snuck out of the tower altogether. To be fair, Tony did see this coming.

Jackson waits until dusk, watches as the sun's last sliver rolls off the edge of the horizon like a glass ball off a table. Fiery hues ignite the city air. Skyscrapers are beginning to twinkle to life like millions of lightning bugs rousing to give light to the world in the sun's absence. Most of his frat mates should either be out on the town or asleep by now. Usually, only the two oldest members, Mark and JB, are home at this hour--they're both painfully antisocial and keep to their rooms like hermits.

With any luck, no one else should be here to catch Jackson creeping up the steps of the front porch to quietly slip inside. His friends don't know that he works for SHIELD--no one does, really, except for his colleagues, and he plans on having it stay that way.

The living room is dark when he enters; the adjoined kitchen, deserted. The agent notes the wallet and the single house key resting on the dining table. He purses his lips and swiftly checks the ID.

"Fuck," he hisses.

Bambam's still here.

As if on cue, softened footfalls descend the stairs, and a tall, slim young man enters the living room, his youthful, doll-like face illuminated by the white glow of his cellphone. His turquoise sequined jacket reflects the light like a gaudy disco ball.

Jackson, who's pressed up into the shadows of a bookcase, goes unnoticed as Bambam shuffles past him, mere feet away, and into the kitchen. The agent shakes his head in fond exasperation. Hiding probably wasn't even necessary, he thinks.

Jackson slinks up the stairs and soundlessly slips into his bedroom. His brows knit together when he discovers somebody slumped over on his bed. Soft snores fill the room.

Upon closer inspection, he recognizes the body to be that of his roommate Mark. Jackson's told him to stop sleeping in his bed while he's away--which is often. Evidently, the older boy hadn't listened. Jackson's not quite sure why he does it. He knows his friend worries--even without the knowledge of Jackson being a fire coda who works alongside Earth's mightiest heroes. Jack tends to wear himself out between his occupational therapy track and his and Mark's dance practices. If Mark knew that Jackson had dangerous, physically-taxing SHIELD assignments and Avengers missions on top of his usual work, he most likely wouldn't let the younger man out of his sight.

As quietly and swiftly as he can, the agent unzips his backpack and starts gathering his course materials: textbooks, binders, notebooks, a charger, and he makes sure to snag his laptop. His bag is bursting at the seams by the time he's done.

Jackson flees the room, glances down the hall at the bottom of the stairs, and decides to leave out the back door. Bambam could still be moseying about.

He soundlessly locks the screen door behind him. The air is much stiffer now; a slight wind tousles his thick brunette hair peeking out the sides of his black baseball cap.

I'm overdue for a haircut, Jackson considers as he removes his hat and ruffles his bangs with his hand, shaking his head slightly in an attempt to fix his wayward fringe. His bangs reach just below his eyebrows. He irritably pushes them back and tugs his cap back on in one fluid movement.

Bambam's youthful voice rings through the air as he pleads with someone on the phone. "But I paid last time, bro," the boy whines.

Hugging the side of the house, Jackson gently thumps his head back against the wall in resignation. The agent can't help but smile. Bambam's like his little kid brother, lovable in his own annoying way. Jackson met the Thai student at a frat party during Bambam's freshman year at LIU, and they hit it off immediately. They're the most extroverted members in their fraternity--partners-in-crime, best friends, brothers.

Curious, a bit worried, and somewhat lonely, Jackson tails the boy.

The campus is surprisingly active for a Monday night, with students walking and biking and some obviously drinking pretty heavily already, even though it's not even seven-thirty yet. The bustle of the university grounds fades as Bambam leads him down a small side street. Jackson knows about this shortcut--he's taken it a few times, himself. For the majority of their walk, the Thai boy's attention has been thoroughly captivated by his social media. Jackson wishes his friend was more observant.

With his SHIELD training, he's learned to keep his guard up. So when the icy breeze from the East River abruptly stills, so too does he. The agent is about to blow his cover so he can protectively walk next to Bambam when a blurry form darts past him.

Faster than anything he's ever seen, the blur wraps itself around Bambam. The boy's eyes widen, and a gasp leaves his lips at the same time that a tattooed hand encircles his neck. His cellphone clatters onto the wet road, forgotten.

Jackson's pupils dilate as he locks eyes with his friend.

"Jack?" Bambam shivers.

"Bam, don't move, okay? You're going to be fine," he assures the younger boy.

Thin, white braids flag behind Bambam's shoulder, and gold, reflective eyes peer back at the agent like cat eyes refracting the beams of passing headlights. "Hi, Jack," she purrs. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"Archangel," he acknowledges, thoughtlessly dropping his bag on the damp ground. "How long have you known?"

Her canines are sharp when she grins. A low chuckle floats through the air like an engine idling.

"I know all about you, Phoenix."

Bambam shakily exhales from beneath her clasping hand, "Jack, who is she? Who's Phoenix? What's going on?"

Jackson licks his chapped lips. "Let him go. It's me you want, not some random college kid."

"You're right. But, Bam here is far from random, and if I have him," the woman pokes her pointy nail against Bambam's chest, "then I have you."

Jackson feels the fire eating at his stomach. His temperature's building inside him. He clenches his stitched hand, and the sting grounds him. Dr. Banner warned him that he'd mess up the stitchwork if he used his powers with his injured hand, but Jackson couldn't care less.

Archangel catches the movement and half-smiles, a knowing glint in her shiny eyes.

"You want my fire? Why don't you just take it?" Jackson spits, frustrated.

"And where would be the fun in that?" the woman tuts, dark lips downturned.

Bambam squirms in her hold, "Fire? Jack, please tell me what's happening!" His voice cracks as he pleads with the agent.

Jackson frowns remorsefully at him. He can't attack her with Bambam between them. She's holding all the cards right now.

Unexpectedly, and with inhuman speed, Archangel throws Bambam to the side. Aided by the wind coda, the Thai boy hovers several feet off the ground as if he were filled with helium.

Jackson unleashes the heat seething inside him, aims it toward the woman who dares to threaten someone he considers family.

Archangel blows a huff of air from her lips. The flames explode back at him.

His skin absorbs them, but his clothes do not. The agent forgot his mask, but he did remember to wear his suit under his street clothes. Nudity does not need to be added to his list of concerns right now.

Suddenly, Bambam wails in pain.

Jackson whips his head to the side.

Orange tongues of fire lick up the boy's limbs. His levitating body starts thrashing and convulsing as his flesh melts and blackens from the immense heat.

"Bam!" Jackson lunges forward, hands reaching up to suck up the flames. The agent's fingertips barely skim the waxy rubber sole of a liquifying boot.

His flames persist.

"Stop!" Jackson screams, the cords in his neck standing out. "Please, let him down! I'll help you if you let me help him!"

Archangel snickers somewhere behind him. "You think you can help him? Look at what you've done already!"

Bambam's high-pitched shrieks reverberate deep in the young man's bones. He claps his palms over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, gasping. The sounds of his flames sizzling and crackling over Bambam's body crash around in his heart, ricochetting off its fragile walls. The smell of burning fle--

Jackson pauses, bewildered. He tentatively sniffs the air.

It smells like rain.

The night is brisk against his sweat-soaked temples.

The agent's head pounds as he tries to think over the agonized howls of his friend. He realizes, trying not to panic, that he can't read the street name on the green sign a short distance away. The letters blur and warp together, swirling like they're being blended beneath a paintbrush.

"I don't get it," Jackson trembles, hands falling to his sides and turning to face the wind coda. "How are you doing this?"

Archangel tilts her head. "Doing what? You're the fire coda."

Ignoring her, Jackson steps closer to Bambam's blazing silhouette. "It looks so real," he admits with a horrified wince.

Archangel's owlish gaze narrows in abrupt irritation.

Bambam's screaming stops. The fire that was consuming him vanishes before Jackson's eyes, and the real, unharmed Bambam blinks wide-eyed down at the agent.

All of the oxygen empties from Jackson's lungs.

He staggers to his knees. His hands frantically grasp at his chest and throat. His pale, quivering fingers tug at the collar of his black hoodie. Bambam fearfully calls out for him, but his voice is drowned out by Jackson's pulse thrumming in his skull.

Archangel strides forward to stand directly in front of him. She blows out her cheeks as she crouches down to his level, a falsely sympathetic smile gracing her countenance. "I'm not just a wind coda, Jacky," she runs a teasing fingertip along his jawline. Her sharp nail catches on his light stubble. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth.

Light coda, he infers. Was a hallucination, then. Has to be...

His fire coda desperately presses against him, chewing at his stomach lining; it hungers to be released, but his body won't let him expel it. Instead, it builds like a raging inferno inside him. He can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

Archangel swipes a sweat droplet away from his temple with her pointer finger. "Can't have a fire without oxygen, now can we?" She brings it up to her lips.

Jackson's diaphragm spasms as his lungs struggle to function. His throat burns from the lack of oxygen. He hangs his smarting head, shoulders slumping as black eats away at the corners of his vision. Something soft brushes over his clammy forehead, and numbness tingles the tips of his fingers and nose. His skin prickles as if his entire body fell asleep, and his heart palpitates rapidly behind his eyes like a muffled drum beating in his head. He squeezes his eyes shut as nausea overwhelms him.

I'm gonna pass out, he registers grimly.

He sways forward, nearly colliding with the ground when something frigid and unyielding envelops him. A fuzzy voice that sounds vaguely British is speaking to him. He can't concentrate, and the noise ceases.

Very abruptly, his lungs inflate with oxygen, and almost immediately, searing warmth rushes through him. His muscles seize as the heatwave devours his senses. Shadows shroud his consciousness like a smoky sky.

Jackson's coda overloads and discharges violently, setting the heavens aflame.