mini nanowrimo, word count 171/150, first bit of this fic-They Wanna Crack Your Crossword Smile
So, when I was first getting back into writing and into Avengers movie fandom, I thought, "hey wouldn't it be awesome if a grown up Warren Peace from Sky High ended up in the Avengers 'verse?" Annnnnnd, yeah. So, I started writing it. A fic about Warren post-Sky High and how he ends up (or will eventually?) getting mixed up in the lives of one Clint Barton. And the rest of that guy's team. I have no idea if this will end up Warren/Steve Rogers or Warren/Darcy or Warren/no one on the team. IDEK. I'm sorry.
except I'm not, because there is no Sky High fic out there anywhere. I'm just trying to help, people.
pre-emptive warnings/apologies - unbeta'd, raw rawest of the raw edits.
Title: They Wanna Crack Your Crossword Smile
Fandom: Sky High (2005)/Avengers (2012)/ Thor (2011)/ Fantastic Four movie/ Marvel Movie Universe
Author: clumsygyrl/thegirlthatisclumsy
Pairings: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Warren Peace/OMC, Warren Peace/OFC, Warren Peace/ Johnny Storm, Steve Rogers/Darcy Lewis, Steve Rogers/Darcy Lewis/Warren Peace, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts, Jane Foster/Thor, Natasha Romanoff/Bruce Banner, Reed Richards/Sue Storm...and I have no idea who else yet?
Characters: Warren Peace, Clint Barton, Darcy Lewis, Phil Coulson, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Will Stronghold, Layla, Pepper Potts, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, various other folks from these movies and 'verses, idek.
Note: Title is from Letters to Cleo's Dangerous Type (what? I love the Craft soundtrack. Don't judge.)
Summary: High school two lifetimes, four trains, two broken ribs, and a half dozen broken promises ago. Warren Peace trying to find a way, grow up, and basically be a hero even if that means learning how to be a man, a good man, first. That is, what he's been told, is the most important part.
They Wanna Crack Your Crossword Smile
The kid was beat. Beat down, beat up, beat every which way but loose. Clint would have respected the guys beating the kid down more if they'd left him as soon as the kid went down, but bullies had no real sense of courtesy. Leastways, that had been Clint's experience.
“You fellas about done there or trying to spit shine your sneakers with his face?” Clint asked, slow and easy like the pull on a long draw. The tension humming softly between the vowels and consonants.
The biggest guy, always the big one with the most to prove and usually the one with the least to lose, straightened up from his kick swing, landing it in a sweet spot. Clint can almost hear the snap crack of a rib. “What's it to you, asshole? You want some too?” The question is loud; the threat is eager like a puppy.
Clint stepped from the shadows (and really Natasha would love the fucking noir shit out of this story later) and shook his head, arms loose at his sides, fingers curled open. The smile is easy and eager, but the look in his eyes he knows is anything but puppy. “Naw. Old guy like me messing with you riff raffin' hooligans on these mean streets?”
The gang of bodies, shadowed and looming forward ring around the body on the ground, leaning in toward the new prey.
Clint wanted to laugh. He knew he cut a less than intimidating figure in jeans and a wash worn hoodie, combat boots scuffed and just this side of out of style to be vintage. It would take him less than two minutes, on the outside of three possibly if it started to rain, to take down the hostiles. He would have enjoyed it; these days it seemed he was just spoiling for a fight. The boredom of peacetime in Avengers Land knew no boundaries. He would have loved the aches and pains from smashing fists into teeth and boot heels into kidneys.
He really would have.
Except the body on the ground started to laugh. Low and raspy, wet from blood, but it was still a laugh.
“Something funny, fag?” The ringleader asked, foot raised to kick down again.
Then suddenly it stopped.
Well, stopped was one word for it. The foot and leg of the kicker was currently being set on fire by the kickee.
“Huh,” Clint said with a raised eyebrow. He hit the button on his watch. Boredom roundly defeated now.
The answering response trill sounded. “S.H.I.E.L.D. Response team ETA 4 minutes, 7 seconds, Agent Barton.”
There was screaming and kicking and the sound of running feet from the other end of the alley. Clint smiled at the laughter. It sounded tired, but relieved. He knew that sound, had made it more than once in his life. He had made it more times than he'd wanted to count really. It said, 'Fuck you. I'm still here. I'm alive. I AM ALIVE.' Clint's smile grew and was answered by the kid's own. The kid's grin was smeared red, teeth standing out in stark white streaks, hair hanging in dark dirty tangles around his face, but his eyes sparkled with not joy, but ease. The fire crackled softly from the kid's fingertips, like Christmas wrapping paper in the hearth. Clint laughed now too; it wasn't as if it were the first time Clint had smelled burned flesh and hair.
He had a feeling it wasn't this kid's first time either.
+
The kid, Warren, Clint learned was just barely twenty one leastways that's what his driver's license stated. Warren sat on the upended bottom of a crate, hands loosely cuffed in front of him, hair still hanging down in front of his face. One of the junior agents brought by a ratty backpack, the big kind that college kids use for backpacking through countries that Clint has only seen through scopes and from the distinct angles of an op. Warren's voice, when he bothered to answer, was quiet but gravel rough. The answers were short and one or two words at most.
“What have you brought to our attention now, Agent Barton?” The voice, dry and bland, asked from behind him at Clint's back.
Clint didn't bother to turn, just leaned back a barely there step that let his back brush against the hand he knew would be there. “Foundling. Maybe one of Xavier's or maybe something a radioactive fire salamander bit.”
The chuckle is barely there, a puff of air against the back of Clint's neck and Clint kind of loved it more than he would any one else's full bellied laugh. “Fire salamander? Not a blast ended skrewt?”
“We gotta get you back on watching reality television, Coulson. Your obsession with those movies is disturbing. They're children,” Clint snarked and he did not yelp when evil pinching fingers pulled and twisted the small bit of flesh under his arm.
“The books, Agent Barton are far superior to the movies. They didn't even cover the house elves properly,” Coulson stepped away and his brows drew forward as he watched the junior agent interviewing Warren looked more and more frustrated.
Clint missed the warmth and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Always the champion for the underdog, sir.”
“Wouldn't have married you if I wasn't,” Coulson answered smoothly and stepped off the curb to cross into the alley to fix whatever his junior agent was messing up in the interview.
Clint smirked and counted himself one lucky son of a bitch. Underdog or not, he was one smug winning bastard and he knew it.
+
The air was a lot cooler here than Texas. Warren suppressed the shiver. He wasn't cold, but then again he never was. He hid the tiny ball of fire in his palm, cradling it and keeping it. The guy who kept asking him question was a douchenozzle. He had a headache. He was bleeding from the goddamn head and the guy wanted to know who he was working for and what business he had in the area.
“Told you. Just passing through, man. Went in for a drink and those assholes jumped me.” It was the most he had said in the twenty minutes he'd been sitting here. The metal of the cuffs against his wrists were cold, really cold. Not that he couldn't melt them off, but he was good at playing possum. “They jumped me in the alley when I was taking a piss. So, unless you're going to charge me with defacement or taking a leak on public property, I'm pretty sure I can go.”
“I like him.”
“You would.”
Two different voices, Warren noted. Over his head. The first was from the guy from earlier. The guy was a soldier or something. He carried himself like the asshole booted “agents.” The second voice was dry as sand and bland as toast, but it still made Warren swallow hard. He lifted his head and shifted his look from Agent Douchenozzle to the newcomers. “Didn't know they had principals for secret government agencies.”
He cursed himself for what he knew was a tremor. He clenched up and gritted his teeth. He had been so close to getting away. He'd taken care of the homophobe dicks and was just about to book it but then there were vans and the first guy stepping in his path with a, “Maybe you should sit down.”
He hadn't been this careless since Chicago.
Agent Bland as Toast gave him the eye and reminded him so much of Principal Powers that he had to look away. That just brought other memories that Warren quickly and ruthlessly pushed back into a box and locked it up tight. “Not a principal, but it often feels like I'm herding cats.”
“Hey,” Agent Wiseass interjected and stepped closer, his head blocked out the light from the alley and it helped with the headache, but what Warren really needed was a dark room and a fuckton of water. “I resemble that remark.”
“Your team resembles and assembles at that remark,” Agent Bland sighed and he waved at Agent Douchenozzle. “What've you got for me?”
“The hostile says he's just passing through. Has no affliation or claim to any group. I suspect he's a sleeper agent. Possibly in league with Magneto or possibly something new of Doom's. He refuses to let us examine his hands. Possibly uncatalogued mutant. We haven't got word back from upstate.”
“The hostile has a fucking name and is right here. You got questions, ask them yourself. Don't send your coffee boy,” Warren said and pressed the heel of his hand against his eye. It'd been at least a couple days since he'd had a decent night's sleep and at least twenty four hours since he'd had anything more than a couple of protein bars. It was what had made jumping him so easy. He wasn't fighting on all cylinders.
He had just wanted a goddamn drink on his birthday.
His eyes stung and he dropped his head forward and refused to let these jokers see him cry. He started whispering the words to himself. His Chinese was still good. His wài pó would be proud. The English streamed alongside the words he whispered under his breath.
When the sun rises, I go to work.
When the sun goes down, I take my rest.
I dig the well from which I drink.
I farm the soil which yields my food.
I share creation.
Kings can do no more.
The proverb had been carved into a placard just inside the kitchens where Warren had sat from as young as he could remember. He remembered it from the good and then the bad days.
“Chinese national?” Agent Bland asked. Warren shouldn't be surprised that he heard and he understood Chinese. Super secret agents of a shady government division probably had to learn three languages and know how to kill people with a stapler. Will would have loved the James Bond-ness of this shit. Warren winced and his hand fisted, crushing the ball of fire with a soft hiss.
“No, sir. Born on the West Coast. Simi Valley, California,” Warren wondered if he could make it to his pack and run. If he made a big enough distraction, it'd give him a few minutes. His stomach turned at the thought of killing any of the agents. Except maybe Douchenozzle. “Listen, I was assaulted and you guys showed up too late to do anything but harass me. I've got a migraine like you wouldn't believe and I'd really just like to go. You can put me on a bus and I'll disappear so you never have to see me again.”
Agent Douchenozzle looked frankly surprised that Warren knew enough words to string together the little monologue. The alley started to get darker and Warren touched the back of his head with his shackled hands and cursed, “Tzao gao,” he muttered when they came away sticky and wet and smelling like metal.
Agent Bland did not look happy. “Why wasn't he given medical attention before questioning?”
“The hostile-.”
“The kid's name is Warren,” Agent Wiseass said straightening and looking a lot more threatening than he had a second ago.
“The kid isn't a kid. Twenty one today. Happy birthday to me. Head trauma,” Warren said and smirked and the agents' faces kind of blurred. “Ta ma de,” dammit indeed. Warren smiled at Wiseass. “Gonna pass out now.”
He never felt himself hit the ground. Funnily enough he thought it kind of smelled like dryer sheets.
+
Coulson was going to kill and flay a junior agent. It was one of Clint's favorite spectator sports, but at the moment he had a twenty one year old maybe mutant passed out on him. “I'm going to get Warren to medical.”
“Take him back to HQ. If we're lucky he won't have contracted anything from this garbage,” Coulson said and eyed his agent. Clint had no idea if the agent knew that Coulson was comparing him to garbage or not.
He shrugged and hefted the kid in fireman carry, gently lifting and pushing his shoulder into the kid's stomach. “Got it, boss. Have fun with the raking over the coals, Agent Douche.”
“It's Agent Duche!”
+
College was everything and nothing like Warren had thought. There were parties and classes, but nothing like from where Warren grew up. Here no one, next to no one had powers and Warren was really damn grateful for that.
Texas was as far away his scholarship could take him from Sky High and distance and distraction held the most appeal for Warren.
“I don't know why you have to move so far?” Will had tossed him a cold can of soda before settling on his back. The stars are mostly hidden by the glare of all the house lights, but Warren appreciated the quiet. Mrs. Stronghold had left them out here to talk and the beginning of summer was just around the corner.
Warren shrugged and looked over to the bright lights of Layla's house. “Just have to, you know? My grandma would have wanted me to get a degree.”
“Your mom ever...”
“She hasn't called,” Warren said and set the can on his stomach. “Last I heard she was fighting guerillas down in Colombia. Can't hold back a warrior.”
Will doesn't say anything and but Warren can feel his shoulder against his own. “Your mom? I know you love her, but she kind of sucks, man.”
Warren can't deny it, but he won't say it out loud. “I'm leaving early. As soon as graduation is over. I'm heading out to Austin. My cousin's cousin is out there. He's going to let me crash there. Gotta find a job before school starts.” He closed his eyes and just breathed out slowly, the smell of laundry detergent and tomato sauce filled his head up.
“Hey Warren,” was all Will got out before Warren felt warm lips on his. Warren didn't have to think and just opened his mouth and turned to press Will back against the grass.
They laid there kissing till the houses grew dark around them.
“Warren,” Will said and looked up at Layla's house.
Warren shook his head and sat up, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. “I won't tell her.”
“Thanks,” Will whispered and he reached out to touch Warren's hand.
Warren looked down at the hand, smaller than his own but so much stronger. “I love you, you know?”
“I know,” Will said tightening his grip a little.
It hurt, but Warren just smiled. “It's not enough though, is it?”
“Fuck, Warren. I'm sorr-.”
“Bye, Will.” Warren stood up and shaking Will's hand off his wrist.
The quiet was comforting and Warren laughed when he realized he still had the can of soda in his hand.
+
So, Warren ran. He packed up and picked up and left a day after graduation. His cap and gown were probably still crumpled on his bedroom floor the sounds of the kitchen loud even through the floorboards of his room.
Austin was loud and colorful and so completely different than what he was used to that Warren felt comforted. Work was easy; bussing tables again and working his way up to being a server. He came home every night to sleep on his cousin's cousin's couch smelling like roasted meat and sticky sauce. He would find sawdust in the grooves of his boots and his hair just a little greasy from the pits. It was hard work, but when Warren fell asleep he didn't think about Will or Layla or anything beyond waking up to do it all over again.
School was the same. He went to classes, took notes, handed in papers and went out. He met people, made out with some and even fucked a few. Or was fucked by a handful. It didn't hurt that he was “rocking that whole bad boy mystique” as Magenta would put it. His first college boyfriend was Todd. Todd was a business econ major from Florida and had a wicked sense of humor and an even dirtier mouth. Warren learned how to fuck a boy in Todd's hard won single dorm room his first semester. They parted on good terms and Warren left with no regrets.
His first college girlfriend is a pretty cheerleader type from L.A. She smoked Marlboro Golds and liked to ride Warren while he sat in his desk chair. She had fantastic tits and a smile that was a little crooked. Everyone called her Mandi and Warren called her Amanda because that's what she asked him to call her. They broke up when Warren told her he liked cock just as much as he liked pussy. “Sorry, honey. I'm not looking to have to watch out for both sides to come take my place,” she kissed him slow and dirty and blew him with her knees wrinkling up his Art History notes. As far as apology break up sex went, Warren had no complaints.
Warren's second college boyfriend was a mutant. His name was Alexi and could lift him up against the wall and fuck him till the plaster creaked. They set the bed on fire and Warren regretted nothing.
Nothing until it was him and Alexi and a couple of dead bodies at their feet.
The bodies he regretted, but everything else with Alexi had been almost perfect.
+
The kid was still out and Clint was starting to get worried. The kid obviously didn't have super healing abilities. Frankly the kid looked like he could use about four or five good meals, a shower, and a hair cut. Clint thought the kid looked angry even when he was sleeping. And wasn't that just the saddest thing...
“Sit rep.”
“Kid is asleep, sir. Possibly in REM cycle. Wait and see for further action,” Clint replied and rolled his head back against the chair and looked up at Coulson upside down. “I doubt he's plotting world domination while staring at the back of his eyelids, sir.”
Phil smirked, or whatever was close to it in Coulson facial language, and sat on the edge of the window.
Clint twitched slightly. He knew that the glass was glazed with about every bullet deflective material, but an open window and the exposed vulnerable plane of Coulson's back did not make him happy. “He's knocked out, sir. They did a brain scan. Situation abnormal, because it's not fucked up. Little swelling and his ribs are a little bruised. His knuckles and knees had gravel alley crap in them. I hope you kicked Agent Douche down to paper wrangling and alien shit clean up.”
Phil just quirked an eyebrow and Clint settled back in his chair. “I have Mr. Peace's file.”
“Wait. Seriously, this kid's parents named him Warren and his last name is Peace? No wonder the kid is cranky,” Clint shook his head. “Were his parents Russian? Don't tell Nat I said that.”
Phil flipped through his tablet and handed it over to Clint. He just settled even further into the ledge and watched Clint read. “Babe, this shit...” Clint shook his head again. “Seriously? His mom is Mulan? And his dad is some super villain? What affliation or are we talking private sector bad guy?”
“His mother has adopted the persona of Fa Mulan. No confirmation if she is in fact the actual. If she is, it would lend to the theory that she is some kind of mutant with age resistant powers as the real Fa Mulan would be quite old. As for Baron Battle, he was a bit of a big name in the 80s but is quite the model prisoner now. He's at one of the off dimension holding facilities. He's serving three generation sentences for crimes against humanity,” Phil said rubbing the back of his neck. “His maternal grandmother has raised him since he was about four and attended Sky High.”
Clint looked up at that. “The magnate school for superheroes? I didn't know that was an actual thing. Is that where we're getting this random supers now? Like the ROTC for wannabe X-men?”
“I feel as though Professor Xavier would be a little annoyed with you as his own school is doing the same thing on this coast,” Phil said dryly.
“Yeah, but he actually teaches them shit. There's a danger room. From what I've heard this is superhero prep school. They have drills with dummies for saving citizens. They have feeder classes for superheroes and sidekicks. It's a fucking joke,” Clint said kicking his feet up into the opposite chair and shook his head. “There's no real world training there. It's like sending girl scouts into the 'Stan with just their cookies for ordinance.”
“I do a lot more damage than Thin Mints, asshole,” Warren said from the bed and frowned at the cuffs. “Really? Handcuffed to the bed? Goddamn, fuck my fucking life.”
“Glad to see you're awake, Sunshine,” Clint said sitting back in his chair. “Cuffs stay on till the agent in charge clears you from being a bad guy.”
“Let me guess, he's the one in charge,” Warren asked inclining his head toward Coulson.
“Got it in one,” Clint flicked to another screen. “College boy, huh?”
Warren tugged at the restraints to test the strength. “Not anymore. Dropped out.”
“Well, that was stupid,” Clint handed the tablet back to Phil.
Warren opened his eyes and glared at Clint, baring his teeth. “Was the best course of action at the time.”
Phil cleared his throat and Clint raised an eyebrow at him. “Something to add, Agent Coulson?”
“Mr. Peace is wanted in Texas for questioning in the murder of two university students,” Phil tapped the screen again and brought up the files. “He and a Mr. Sechenov were seen arguing with the individuals outside Mr. Peace's place of employment then the two students turned up dead the next day.”
Warren turned his head and glared at the white wall next to his bed. “You've already got the cuffs on me. And Alexi is gone, so I've what you got. Scape goat. God,” he just started to laugh.
Clint had to wince at the sound. The kid just sounded so tired and defeated. It hit something that Clint thought he'd buried almost a life time ago. He felt the brush of a hand against his elbow. “So, you did it?”
“All evidence points to yes. Circumstantial, but whatever,” Warren said tiredly. He looked at them both and sighed, then up blinking up at the lights. “Alexi and I... he was my boyfriend. He's a mutant. Really strong. But so damn gentle, well.” His smile turned a little wicked. “Well, not all the time, but most of the time when we weren't, ah, together. You know, in the bedroom.” He cleared his throat not really seeing either of them any more. “Those two redneck fuckers came in every day to hassle me. Called me a faggot every damn day while I had to clean up after them. I mean, it's Texas. So what the fuck ever. I could protect myself if I needed, but no one likes mutants let alone fag mutants. Or non super villains. We both had words with them. Thought it was done, but rednecks aren't too quick on the uptake. They were waiting for me. After work, taking out the fucking trash and I got them off me after they'd gotten in a few hits. I got them off me with no fireworks, but Alexi saw the blood and he was scared for me tried to pick me up.” He laughed, watery sounding and he coughed to glare at Clint and Phil “They stabbed him in the back. Fucking cowards. They stabbed him in the back with some broken bottles they found. And he just swung out, still trying to protect me. And, god,” Warren shook his head. “That was it. They hit the wall and it was so fucking quiet after. I dragged Alexi back to his place and, and,” Warren's voice is scratchy. He's never really found the ease in talking, in words spoken out loud. “He said he was okay. Fucker was a horrible liar. I couldn't take him to the hospital. They'd know what he was. He made me promise not to take him. His family, they... they got swept up in World War II. Fucking Nazis. Experimented on them. He grew up with the stories so he... never went to. Never wanted.”
Clint felt Phil's hand wrap around his closed fist. He wanted to tell the kid to stop. To just shut up.
Warren closed his eyes and Clint thinks that maybe the kid's heard him.
The laugh is sharp and sad and jagged. “So, the big fucker died in my arms like some fucking tragic bodice ripping romance novel. Stupid, stupid fucker.” He shook his head, tears flinging themselves from the corner of his eyes. “So, I burnt it down. Alexi was living in this in-law house so I just... control burned it. Then went back to the pit and burned those assholes too. Then I ran and kept running. But I musta been tagged or gotten myself red flagged somehow. Someone came after me almost caught me in Chicago,” his voice is softer now, sleepy almost. “Nazis, man. Wanted me to join up. Wanted me to use my gifts for a higher purpose. Stupid fucking Nazis. Burned them where they stood. Melted their guns and watched 'em burn.”
The words softened into a soft sad whine and Clint shot Phil a look. “He's not-.”
A soft hiss sounded from the machine beeping next to Warren and Clint eyed the camera in the corner at whoever was watching. The hiss meant that the sedative administered is a small kindness. He's thankful for it, for the kid.
“They burned so fast.” The words were whisper soft and sad, barely a breath to them. Warren's eyes were closed now, the worry line creasing his forehead still deep even in medicated sleep.
Clint's jaw ached, teeth ground tight. “He shouldn't be blamed.”
“I know,” Phil said and typed a few keys onto his tablet.
“Good. Just,” Clint swallowed and leaned against his husband's shoulder, unassuming but strong underneath the wool and silk. “Take care of it, please.”
We gotta take care of this kid.
“I will. Don't I always,” Phil said without stopping his typing.
Clint finally uncurled his fists and nodded. “Good.”
+
Warren dreamed of being small, tucked under one of the service tables. The sharp smell of garlic and chili seemed to sink into his skin. The voices mingled with the metal thwack of cleavers into meat and bone and the stacatto chatter of the ladies making dumplings. His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled thinking of sweetsalty pork nestled into the pillowy dough of the bao.
“He's your son.”
“No, he's not. He's more his than mine.”
“He carries the fire in him. He is your son.”
“No.”
The tile was cold under his cheek as he lay on the floor, watching the soft silent tread of his mother's booted feet walk out of the kitchens. The floor was cool; his tears were hot.
Like tracks of wet fire against his cheeks.
+
“Ma ma, Wǒ tīng bú dǒng... jiù mìng a!” Warren muttered under his breath. He was small and he wanted his mother. He didn't understand why she kept walking away from him. He didn't understand why she wouldn't help him.
Then suddenly he wasn't small anymore. He sat up and immediately cursed when pain lanced across his middle. His ribs were more than likely broken. The ache there meant that he was coming off the good drugs. He flexed his hands and rotated his wrists. He had to get out. He let his hair fall forward, hiding his eyes. There was a camera in the corner and the general quiet of the hall outside his room meant that it was probably empty. Mostly empty, Warren amended when he heard something farther down. Footsteps that squeaked against the floor. He tracked the sound and noted they were moving farther away.
He wanted to laugh. Mr. Stronghold had instituted a month long superhero survival camp when they were sophomores. Will ended up fighting a bear (gently) and Warren learned how to listen and track in the underbrush. The restraints were still on his wrists and he knew his window of escape was slim. The square of window to his left showed that it was still late enough that day hadn't broken yet. His side, middle, and head ache something fierce and he tried to shake off the pain meds and whatever sedative they'd had plugged into him. He never fell asleep that easily, especially not with people he didn't know. He wrote off his pack and took a deep breath. He didn't want to hurt anyone, but he wasn't going to jail.
He wasn't going to be put in some supervillain Alcatraz because of some dumb dead rednecks. He cupped his hands under, just above the sheets. He was glad he was still dressed in his own clothes, bare ass escape wasn't too high on his list of awesome plans. There was nothing in the room to use as a weapon. There was a faint murmur of voices and Warren felt the fire concentrate and start to eat through the thick leather. His head was still down and he hoped that whoever was manning the camera thought he was just having a Come to Jesus moment.
Fuck, no shoes. Socks, yes, but not shoes.
Warren grit his teeth as he felt the restraints give and he quickly shot a fireball at the camera. Eased open the door and peeked out. It was eerily empty and Warren's luck was never this good. He shook his head and made his way down the hall away from the earlier sounds and looked at the cross hallway. Metal struts and Warren winced at the grating. His feet were going to hate him. John McClane was right. Shoes were a priority.
He ducked into what he hoped was a supply closet. Not too much help. There weren't any other prisoners or patients near him. He grabbed some bottles and shoved them into his pockets. Flammables were always good. He was armed in a manner and that helped ease the tension in his gut a little. He was pretty sure he could melt through the metal of the walls, it would just take time. Time he didn't know if he had.
Time he definitely did not have. There was some alarm going off now and Warren was pretty sure it was not a fire drill. He hoped down was a better option than up. The window of his room hadn't showed him much. Plus, it wasn't as if he could fly. He spotted the fire doors and shoved at the door bar and looked up then down. Nothing yet.
He wasn't going to count on that for long.
Run, run, run, kept streaming through his head like a damn banner. He could maybe call Will from a phone; get some cash sent to him. He ran down the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could. There was still no one. Either they'd just forgotten about him - unlikely. Or there was something way worse going on and he was small time. He was really hoping for option 2. He just had to get out and away. He could figure out the rest as soon as he could hide. Regroup and come up with a plan.
Warren stopped when the stairs did and made for the big green G door. It clanged shut behind him and there was chaos. He'd walked into some kind of war zone. Option 2 was fucking horrific. There were fucking robots picking people up and throwing them or trying to rip them apart. He actively had to choke back sick when a robot ripped the arm off a guy and threw him right at Warren feet from across the wide cavern of the garage. “Shit, shit, shit, hold on,” Warren dragged the guy away from the chaos behind the crumpled hull of a van. “Pressure, gotta tie it with something,” he said to himself, voice frantic.
“Get to safety,” the guy said groaning, eyes unfocused blood darkening the front of his tac vest.
“Man, there are fucking robots here tearing people apart,” Warren said and he took his belt off and bound up the bleeding stump. “This is the safest either one of us can get right now. You need a medic and I am going to need fucking therapy. I need to get help. Just... just hold on, okay?”
“Comm,” the guy said his eyes closing.
“Fuck, no. No, stay awake. Shock,” Warren grabbed the mic from around the guy's throat. “Hey, Big Brother or whatever. You have a man down. I have no clue where we are, but probably the garage. Uh, north stairwell?” Warren noted the designation on the door. “Soldier guy with his arm ripped off by a pissed off Iron Giant. Shit, fuck,” he barely had a chance to roll away when a fucking metal claw dug a damn ditch into the ground where he'd just been crouching. “Please send help. A medic, lots of drugs for your guy. I...”
Warren saw the robot go for the agent and he didn't think. The fireball that he flung hit the red glowing center of the robot's chest and propelled it backward. He heard a cracking sound and the sound of metal groaning. The robot gave a sad little metallic whine and stopped moving. “Crap, I killed it. Okay, whoever is listening. I shot a fireball into it's chest.” Full TILT and extra flashing lights down.
He made his way back to the guy and he paled when the guy wasn't moving. The blood had stopped gushing out of the guy's arm and Warren's belt was holding, but he wasn't moving. He reached out shakily for the guy's neck and found a weak thump against his fingers. “Okay. So, your agent is by the north stairwell. He's not looking too good. His pulse is really weak.”
There was a faint crackle and squeak. Warren plucked the blue tooth looking thing from the guy's ear. There was yelling and demands about reports.
“Listen, I just. Okay, I have the guy's blue tooth ear thing. I don't know if you got what I said earlier, but the robot things. I shot it with a fireball to the red spot on it's chest. I killed it, but your guy is not doing good,” Warren said shakily. He could spot the smoking hole of the wall just beyond some trashed black SUVs really fucking close to him. He could smell the night air.
“Who is this?”
“No one,” Warren said and he looked at the outside and the guy bleeding out next to him. “Just, please come help him. I gotta go.”
“Stay where you are, citizen.”
Warren bit his lip and the guy next to him groaned. Just a little sound of pain and Warren rubbed his face against his hands, smearing blood into his hair. “Fine.”
He wanted to cry.
He looked over at the guy. “Can you at least tell me his name?”
There was a pause and the voice, female Warren absently noted, finally said, “William Fuerte, Special Agent William Fuerte.”
Warren slumped down against the wall, grabbed the bottle of liquid cleaner from his pockets and tossed them away and tipped his head back against the concrete. They were mostly hidden by battle debris and smoke. There was gunfire and yelling still around them, but Warren knew they were safe for now. “Figures,” he said.
“What's your name?”
Warren just laughed and then he did cry.
He sat there while the battle raged around him and kept his fingers against William's throat, counting the beats until they stopped coming.
+
“Kid,” Clint said crouching in front of Warren. “Wake up.”
Warren didn't move so much as just open his eyes and look at him through the fall of hair. It reminded Clint of one of the tigers from Carson's. Shiva had the same broken look in her eyes. Her eyes were the same dark almost black. Clint watched Warren's fingers flex against Agent Fuerte's throat. Poor bastard had bled out. Clint noted the clumsy looking tourniquet and the blood on Warren's face and hands. “Can you stand?”
Warren just eyed Clint and he darted a look at Fuerte before taking a deep breath. He pushed himself up, using the wall as support. The air smelled like burnt metal and the sharp stink of ozone from Thor's lightning. They'd gotten the tip from HQ about concentrated firepower at the big red circle on the robot's chests. Clint switched out his concussive arrows for the newest set of napalm C (Tony and Bruce's own mix of thermite and specialized ignition catalysts) leaded arrowheads. Small boom, but robot death. Doom was getting sadistic.
Twenty six injured agents, seven that were looking like they were going to be severely and permanently maimed, and four dead. Five, Clint noted with a grimace. Fuerte was number five.
“I tried...” Warren says then walks the two steps to a corner and threw up everything he had.
“Yeah, kid. You tried,” Clint whispered and rubbed a hand over his face.
+
The room was cold and Warren's wrists were cuffed to the table. The metal glowed blue around them and try as Warren might, he could not summon up a pinprick of an ember. He wasn't freaking out. Not quite yet at least.
“I have to piss. If anyone's interested, I've got to take a leak and I stopped peeing in my pants after I was two,” Warren said out loud.
There was no answer.
“This silent treatment thing is really cliched. I read a book about it and frankly you should have left me with a bottle of water or something. To drink and or piss in. It would have been polite,” Warren looked down at his hands and he wished he did have that bottle of water. He still had Fuerte's blood under his nails. He couldn't even burn them clean.
“It's your own fault,” Warren said before turning his head and puking. Second time that night. It was a record.
They could only really blame themselves.
+
Author's note- So, I hear that Mulan is a character on OUAT. And I kind of wrote that Warren's mom as Mulan bit... before OUAT came out. Apparently psychic for trends or something? But yes.
3130 / 4500
(69.56%)
except I'm not, because there is no Sky High fic out there anywhere. I'm just trying to help, people.
pre-emptive warnings/apologies - unbeta'd, raw rawest of the raw edits.
Title: They Wanna Crack Your Crossword Smile
Fandom: Sky High (2005)/Avengers (2012)/ Thor (2011)/ Fantastic Four movie/ Marvel Movie Universe
Author: clumsygyrl/thegirlthatisclumsy
Pairings: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Warren Peace/OMC, Warren Peace/OFC, Warren Peace/ Johnny Storm, Steve Rogers/Darcy Lewis, Steve Rogers/Darcy Lewis/Warren Peace, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts, Jane Foster/Thor, Natasha Romanoff/Bruce Banner, Reed Richards/Sue Storm...and I have no idea who else yet?
Characters: Warren Peace, Clint Barton, Darcy Lewis, Phil Coulson, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Will Stronghold, Layla, Pepper Potts, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, various other folks from these movies and 'verses, idek.
Note: Title is from Letters to Cleo's Dangerous Type (what? I love the Craft soundtrack. Don't judge.)
Summary: High school two lifetimes, four trains, two broken ribs, and a half dozen broken promises ago. Warren Peace trying to find a way, grow up, and basically be a hero even if that means learning how to be a man, a good man, first. That is, what he's been told, is the most important part.
They Wanna Crack Your Crossword Smile
The kid was beat. Beat down, beat up, beat every which way but loose. Clint would have respected the guys beating the kid down more if they'd left him as soon as the kid went down, but bullies had no real sense of courtesy. Leastways, that had been Clint's experience.
“You fellas about done there or trying to spit shine your sneakers with his face?” Clint asked, slow and easy like the pull on a long draw. The tension humming softly between the vowels and consonants.
The biggest guy, always the big one with the most to prove and usually the one with the least to lose, straightened up from his kick swing, landing it in a sweet spot. Clint can almost hear the snap crack of a rib. “What's it to you, asshole? You want some too?” The question is loud; the threat is eager like a puppy.
Clint stepped from the shadows (and really Natasha would love the fucking noir shit out of this story later) and shook his head, arms loose at his sides, fingers curled open. The smile is easy and eager, but the look in his eyes he knows is anything but puppy. “Naw. Old guy like me messing with you riff raffin' hooligans on these mean streets?”
The gang of bodies, shadowed and looming forward ring around the body on the ground, leaning in toward the new prey.
Clint wanted to laugh. He knew he cut a less than intimidating figure in jeans and a wash worn hoodie, combat boots scuffed and just this side of out of style to be vintage. It would take him less than two minutes, on the outside of three possibly if it started to rain, to take down the hostiles. He would have enjoyed it; these days it seemed he was just spoiling for a fight. The boredom of peacetime in Avengers Land knew no boundaries. He would have loved the aches and pains from smashing fists into teeth and boot heels into kidneys.
He really would have.
Except the body on the ground started to laugh. Low and raspy, wet from blood, but it was still a laugh.
“Something funny, fag?” The ringleader asked, foot raised to kick down again.
Then suddenly it stopped.
Well, stopped was one word for it. The foot and leg of the kicker was currently being set on fire by the kickee.
“Huh,” Clint said with a raised eyebrow. He hit the button on his watch. Boredom roundly defeated now.
The answering response trill sounded. “S.H.I.E.L.D. Response team ETA 4 minutes, 7 seconds, Agent Barton.”
There was screaming and kicking and the sound of running feet from the other end of the alley. Clint smiled at the laughter. It sounded tired, but relieved. He knew that sound, had made it more than once in his life. He had made it more times than he'd wanted to count really. It said, 'Fuck you. I'm still here. I'm alive. I AM ALIVE.' Clint's smile grew and was answered by the kid's own. The kid's grin was smeared red, teeth standing out in stark white streaks, hair hanging in dark dirty tangles around his face, but his eyes sparkled with not joy, but ease. The fire crackled softly from the kid's fingertips, like Christmas wrapping paper in the hearth. Clint laughed now too; it wasn't as if it were the first time Clint had smelled burned flesh and hair.
He had a feeling it wasn't this kid's first time either.
+
The kid, Warren, Clint learned was just barely twenty one leastways that's what his driver's license stated. Warren sat on the upended bottom of a crate, hands loosely cuffed in front of him, hair still hanging down in front of his face. One of the junior agents brought by a ratty backpack, the big kind that college kids use for backpacking through countries that Clint has only seen through scopes and from the distinct angles of an op. Warren's voice, when he bothered to answer, was quiet but gravel rough. The answers were short and one or two words at most.
“What have you brought to our attention now, Agent Barton?” The voice, dry and bland, asked from behind him at Clint's back.
Clint didn't bother to turn, just leaned back a barely there step that let his back brush against the hand he knew would be there. “Foundling. Maybe one of Xavier's or maybe something a radioactive fire salamander bit.”
The chuckle is barely there, a puff of air against the back of Clint's neck and Clint kind of loved it more than he would any one else's full bellied laugh. “Fire salamander? Not a blast ended skrewt?”
“We gotta get you back on watching reality television, Coulson. Your obsession with those movies is disturbing. They're children,” Clint snarked and he did not yelp when evil pinching fingers pulled and twisted the small bit of flesh under his arm.
“The books, Agent Barton are far superior to the movies. They didn't even cover the house elves properly,” Coulson stepped away and his brows drew forward as he watched the junior agent interviewing Warren looked more and more frustrated.
Clint missed the warmth and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Always the champion for the underdog, sir.”
“Wouldn't have married you if I wasn't,” Coulson answered smoothly and stepped off the curb to cross into the alley to fix whatever his junior agent was messing up in the interview.
Clint smirked and counted himself one lucky son of a bitch. Underdog or not, he was one smug winning bastard and he knew it.
+
The air was a lot cooler here than Texas. Warren suppressed the shiver. He wasn't cold, but then again he never was. He hid the tiny ball of fire in his palm, cradling it and keeping it. The guy who kept asking him question was a douchenozzle. He had a headache. He was bleeding from the goddamn head and the guy wanted to know who he was working for and what business he had in the area.
“Told you. Just passing through, man. Went in for a drink and those assholes jumped me.” It was the most he had said in the twenty minutes he'd been sitting here. The metal of the cuffs against his wrists were cold, really cold. Not that he couldn't melt them off, but he was good at playing possum. “They jumped me in the alley when I was taking a piss. So, unless you're going to charge me with defacement or taking a leak on public property, I'm pretty sure I can go.”
“I like him.”
“You would.”
Two different voices, Warren noted. Over his head. The first was from the guy from earlier. The guy was a soldier or something. He carried himself like the asshole booted “agents.” The second voice was dry as sand and bland as toast, but it still made Warren swallow hard. He lifted his head and shifted his look from Agent Douchenozzle to the newcomers. “Didn't know they had principals for secret government agencies.”
He cursed himself for what he knew was a tremor. He clenched up and gritted his teeth. He had been so close to getting away. He'd taken care of the homophobe dicks and was just about to book it but then there were vans and the first guy stepping in his path with a, “Maybe you should sit down.”
He hadn't been this careless since Chicago.
Agent Bland as Toast gave him the eye and reminded him so much of Principal Powers that he had to look away. That just brought other memories that Warren quickly and ruthlessly pushed back into a box and locked it up tight. “Not a principal, but it often feels like I'm herding cats.”
“Hey,” Agent Wiseass interjected and stepped closer, his head blocked out the light from the alley and it helped with the headache, but what Warren really needed was a dark room and a fuckton of water. “I resemble that remark.”
“Your team resembles and assembles at that remark,” Agent Bland sighed and he waved at Agent Douchenozzle. “What've you got for me?”
“The hostile says he's just passing through. Has no affliation or claim to any group. I suspect he's a sleeper agent. Possibly in league with Magneto or possibly something new of Doom's. He refuses to let us examine his hands. Possibly uncatalogued mutant. We haven't got word back from upstate.”
“The hostile has a fucking name and is right here. You got questions, ask them yourself. Don't send your coffee boy,” Warren said and pressed the heel of his hand against his eye. It'd been at least a couple days since he'd had a decent night's sleep and at least twenty four hours since he'd had anything more than a couple of protein bars. It was what had made jumping him so easy. He wasn't fighting on all cylinders.
He had just wanted a goddamn drink on his birthday.
His eyes stung and he dropped his head forward and refused to let these jokers see him cry. He started whispering the words to himself. His Chinese was still good. His wài pó would be proud. The English streamed alongside the words he whispered under his breath.
When the sun rises, I go to work.
When the sun goes down, I take my rest.
I dig the well from which I drink.
I farm the soil which yields my food.
I share creation.
Kings can do no more.
The proverb had been carved into a placard just inside the kitchens where Warren had sat from as young as he could remember. He remembered it from the good and then the bad days.
“Chinese national?” Agent Bland asked. Warren shouldn't be surprised that he heard and he understood Chinese. Super secret agents of a shady government division probably had to learn three languages and know how to kill people with a stapler. Will would have loved the James Bond-ness of this shit. Warren winced and his hand fisted, crushing the ball of fire with a soft hiss.
“No, sir. Born on the West Coast. Simi Valley, California,” Warren wondered if he could make it to his pack and run. If he made a big enough distraction, it'd give him a few minutes. His stomach turned at the thought of killing any of the agents. Except maybe Douchenozzle. “Listen, I was assaulted and you guys showed up too late to do anything but harass me. I've got a migraine like you wouldn't believe and I'd really just like to go. You can put me on a bus and I'll disappear so you never have to see me again.”
Agent Douchenozzle looked frankly surprised that Warren knew enough words to string together the little monologue. The alley started to get darker and Warren touched the back of his head with his shackled hands and cursed, “Tzao gao,” he muttered when they came away sticky and wet and smelling like metal.
Agent Bland did not look happy. “Why wasn't he given medical attention before questioning?”
“The hostile-.”
“The kid's name is Warren,” Agent Wiseass said straightening and looking a lot more threatening than he had a second ago.
“The kid isn't a kid. Twenty one today. Happy birthday to me. Head trauma,” Warren said and smirked and the agents' faces kind of blurred. “Ta ma de,” dammit indeed. Warren smiled at Wiseass. “Gonna pass out now.”
He never felt himself hit the ground. Funnily enough he thought it kind of smelled like dryer sheets.
+
Coulson was going to kill and flay a junior agent. It was one of Clint's favorite spectator sports, but at the moment he had a twenty one year old maybe mutant passed out on him. “I'm going to get Warren to medical.”
“Take him back to HQ. If we're lucky he won't have contracted anything from this garbage,” Coulson said and eyed his agent. Clint had no idea if the agent knew that Coulson was comparing him to garbage or not.
He shrugged and hefted the kid in fireman carry, gently lifting and pushing his shoulder into the kid's stomach. “Got it, boss. Have fun with the raking over the coals, Agent Douche.”
“It's Agent Duche!”
+
College was everything and nothing like Warren had thought. There were parties and classes, but nothing like from where Warren grew up. Here no one, next to no one had powers and Warren was really damn grateful for that.
Texas was as far away his scholarship could take him from Sky High and distance and distraction held the most appeal for Warren.
“I don't know why you have to move so far?” Will had tossed him a cold can of soda before settling on his back. The stars are mostly hidden by the glare of all the house lights, but Warren appreciated the quiet. Mrs. Stronghold had left them out here to talk and the beginning of summer was just around the corner.
Warren shrugged and looked over to the bright lights of Layla's house. “Just have to, you know? My grandma would have wanted me to get a degree.”
“Your mom ever...”
“She hasn't called,” Warren said and set the can on his stomach. “Last I heard she was fighting guerillas down in Colombia. Can't hold back a warrior.”
Will doesn't say anything and but Warren can feel his shoulder against his own. “Your mom? I know you love her, but she kind of sucks, man.”
Warren can't deny it, but he won't say it out loud. “I'm leaving early. As soon as graduation is over. I'm heading out to Austin. My cousin's cousin is out there. He's going to let me crash there. Gotta find a job before school starts.” He closed his eyes and just breathed out slowly, the smell of laundry detergent and tomato sauce filled his head up.
“Hey Warren,” was all Will got out before Warren felt warm lips on his. Warren didn't have to think and just opened his mouth and turned to press Will back against the grass.
They laid there kissing till the houses grew dark around them.
“Warren,” Will said and looked up at Layla's house.
Warren shook his head and sat up, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. “I won't tell her.”
“Thanks,” Will whispered and he reached out to touch Warren's hand.
Warren looked down at the hand, smaller than his own but so much stronger. “I love you, you know?”
“I know,” Will said tightening his grip a little.
It hurt, but Warren just smiled. “It's not enough though, is it?”
“Fuck, Warren. I'm sorr-.”
“Bye, Will.” Warren stood up and shaking Will's hand off his wrist.
The quiet was comforting and Warren laughed when he realized he still had the can of soda in his hand.
+
So, Warren ran. He packed up and picked up and left a day after graduation. His cap and gown were probably still crumpled on his bedroom floor the sounds of the kitchen loud even through the floorboards of his room.
Austin was loud and colorful and so completely different than what he was used to that Warren felt comforted. Work was easy; bussing tables again and working his way up to being a server. He came home every night to sleep on his cousin's cousin's couch smelling like roasted meat and sticky sauce. He would find sawdust in the grooves of his boots and his hair just a little greasy from the pits. It was hard work, but when Warren fell asleep he didn't think about Will or Layla or anything beyond waking up to do it all over again.
School was the same. He went to classes, took notes, handed in papers and went out. He met people, made out with some and even fucked a few. Or was fucked by a handful. It didn't hurt that he was “rocking that whole bad boy mystique” as Magenta would put it. His first college boyfriend was Todd. Todd was a business econ major from Florida and had a wicked sense of humor and an even dirtier mouth. Warren learned how to fuck a boy in Todd's hard won single dorm room his first semester. They parted on good terms and Warren left with no regrets.
His first college girlfriend is a pretty cheerleader type from L.A. She smoked Marlboro Golds and liked to ride Warren while he sat in his desk chair. She had fantastic tits and a smile that was a little crooked. Everyone called her Mandi and Warren called her Amanda because that's what she asked him to call her. They broke up when Warren told her he liked cock just as much as he liked pussy. “Sorry, honey. I'm not looking to have to watch out for both sides to come take my place,” she kissed him slow and dirty and blew him with her knees wrinkling up his Art History notes. As far as apology break up sex went, Warren had no complaints.
Warren's second college boyfriend was a mutant. His name was Alexi and could lift him up against the wall and fuck him till the plaster creaked. They set the bed on fire and Warren regretted nothing.
Nothing until it was him and Alexi and a couple of dead bodies at their feet.
The bodies he regretted, but everything else with Alexi had been almost perfect.
+
The kid was still out and Clint was starting to get worried. The kid obviously didn't have super healing abilities. Frankly the kid looked like he could use about four or five good meals, a shower, and a hair cut. Clint thought the kid looked angry even when he was sleeping. And wasn't that just the saddest thing...
“Sit rep.”
“Kid is asleep, sir. Possibly in REM cycle. Wait and see for further action,” Clint replied and rolled his head back against the chair and looked up at Coulson upside down. “I doubt he's plotting world domination while staring at the back of his eyelids, sir.”
Phil smirked, or whatever was close to it in Coulson facial language, and sat on the edge of the window.
Clint twitched slightly. He knew that the glass was glazed with about every bullet deflective material, but an open window and the exposed vulnerable plane of Coulson's back did not make him happy. “He's knocked out, sir. They did a brain scan. Situation abnormal, because it's not fucked up. Little swelling and his ribs are a little bruised. His knuckles and knees had gravel alley crap in them. I hope you kicked Agent Douche down to paper wrangling and alien shit clean up.”
Phil just quirked an eyebrow and Clint settled back in his chair. “I have Mr. Peace's file.”
“Wait. Seriously, this kid's parents named him Warren and his last name is Peace? No wonder the kid is cranky,” Clint shook his head. “Were his parents Russian? Don't tell Nat I said that.”
Phil flipped through his tablet and handed it over to Clint. He just settled even further into the ledge and watched Clint read. “Babe, this shit...” Clint shook his head again. “Seriously? His mom is Mulan? And his dad is some super villain? What affliation or are we talking private sector bad guy?”
“His mother has adopted the persona of Fa Mulan. No confirmation if she is in fact the actual. If she is, it would lend to the theory that she is some kind of mutant with age resistant powers as the real Fa Mulan would be quite old. As for Baron Battle, he was a bit of a big name in the 80s but is quite the model prisoner now. He's at one of the off dimension holding facilities. He's serving three generation sentences for crimes against humanity,” Phil said rubbing the back of his neck. “His maternal grandmother has raised him since he was about four and attended Sky High.”
Clint looked up at that. “The magnate school for superheroes? I didn't know that was an actual thing. Is that where we're getting this random supers now? Like the ROTC for wannabe X-men?”
“I feel as though Professor Xavier would be a little annoyed with you as his own school is doing the same thing on this coast,” Phil said dryly.
“Yeah, but he actually teaches them shit. There's a danger room. From what I've heard this is superhero prep school. They have drills with dummies for saving citizens. They have feeder classes for superheroes and sidekicks. It's a fucking joke,” Clint said kicking his feet up into the opposite chair and shook his head. “There's no real world training there. It's like sending girl scouts into the 'Stan with just their cookies for ordinance.”
“I do a lot more damage than Thin Mints, asshole,” Warren said from the bed and frowned at the cuffs. “Really? Handcuffed to the bed? Goddamn, fuck my fucking life.”
“Glad to see you're awake, Sunshine,” Clint said sitting back in his chair. “Cuffs stay on till the agent in charge clears you from being a bad guy.”
“Let me guess, he's the one in charge,” Warren asked inclining his head toward Coulson.
“Got it in one,” Clint flicked to another screen. “College boy, huh?”
Warren tugged at the restraints to test the strength. “Not anymore. Dropped out.”
“Well, that was stupid,” Clint handed the tablet back to Phil.
Warren opened his eyes and glared at Clint, baring his teeth. “Was the best course of action at the time.”
Phil cleared his throat and Clint raised an eyebrow at him. “Something to add, Agent Coulson?”
“Mr. Peace is wanted in Texas for questioning in the murder of two university students,” Phil tapped the screen again and brought up the files. “He and a Mr. Sechenov were seen arguing with the individuals outside Mr. Peace's place of employment then the two students turned up dead the next day.”
Warren turned his head and glared at the white wall next to his bed. “You've already got the cuffs on me. And Alexi is gone, so I've what you got. Scape goat. God,” he just started to laugh.
Clint had to wince at the sound. The kid just sounded so tired and defeated. It hit something that Clint thought he'd buried almost a life time ago. He felt the brush of a hand against his elbow. “So, you did it?”
“All evidence points to yes. Circumstantial, but whatever,” Warren said tiredly. He looked at them both and sighed, then up blinking up at the lights. “Alexi and I... he was my boyfriend. He's a mutant. Really strong. But so damn gentle, well.” His smile turned a little wicked. “Well, not all the time, but most of the time when we weren't, ah, together. You know, in the bedroom.” He cleared his throat not really seeing either of them any more. “Those two redneck fuckers came in every day to hassle me. Called me a faggot every damn day while I had to clean up after them. I mean, it's Texas. So what the fuck ever. I could protect myself if I needed, but no one likes mutants let alone fag mutants. Or non super villains. We both had words with them. Thought it was done, but rednecks aren't too quick on the uptake. They were waiting for me. After work, taking out the fucking trash and I got them off me after they'd gotten in a few hits. I got them off me with no fireworks, but Alexi saw the blood and he was scared for me tried to pick me up.” He laughed, watery sounding and he coughed to glare at Clint and Phil “They stabbed him in the back. Fucking cowards. They stabbed him in the back with some broken bottles they found. And he just swung out, still trying to protect me. And, god,” Warren shook his head. “That was it. They hit the wall and it was so fucking quiet after. I dragged Alexi back to his place and, and,” Warren's voice is scratchy. He's never really found the ease in talking, in words spoken out loud. “He said he was okay. Fucker was a horrible liar. I couldn't take him to the hospital. They'd know what he was. He made me promise not to take him. His family, they... they got swept up in World War II. Fucking Nazis. Experimented on them. He grew up with the stories so he... never went to. Never wanted.”
Clint felt Phil's hand wrap around his closed fist. He wanted to tell the kid to stop. To just shut up.
Warren closed his eyes and Clint thinks that maybe the kid's heard him.
The laugh is sharp and sad and jagged. “So, the big fucker died in my arms like some fucking tragic bodice ripping romance novel. Stupid, stupid fucker.” He shook his head, tears flinging themselves from the corner of his eyes. “So, I burnt it down. Alexi was living in this in-law house so I just... control burned it. Then went back to the pit and burned those assholes too. Then I ran and kept running. But I musta been tagged or gotten myself red flagged somehow. Someone came after me almost caught me in Chicago,” his voice is softer now, sleepy almost. “Nazis, man. Wanted me to join up. Wanted me to use my gifts for a higher purpose. Stupid fucking Nazis. Burned them where they stood. Melted their guns and watched 'em burn.”
The words softened into a soft sad whine and Clint shot Phil a look. “He's not-.”
A soft hiss sounded from the machine beeping next to Warren and Clint eyed the camera in the corner at whoever was watching. The hiss meant that the sedative administered is a small kindness. He's thankful for it, for the kid.
“They burned so fast.” The words were whisper soft and sad, barely a breath to them. Warren's eyes were closed now, the worry line creasing his forehead still deep even in medicated sleep.
Clint's jaw ached, teeth ground tight. “He shouldn't be blamed.”
“I know,” Phil said and typed a few keys onto his tablet.
“Good. Just,” Clint swallowed and leaned against his husband's shoulder, unassuming but strong underneath the wool and silk. “Take care of it, please.”
We gotta take care of this kid.
“I will. Don't I always,” Phil said without stopping his typing.
Clint finally uncurled his fists and nodded. “Good.”
+
Warren dreamed of being small, tucked under one of the service tables. The sharp smell of garlic and chili seemed to sink into his skin. The voices mingled with the metal thwack of cleavers into meat and bone and the stacatto chatter of the ladies making dumplings. His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled thinking of sweetsalty pork nestled into the pillowy dough of the bao.
“He's your son.”
“No, he's not. He's more his than mine.”
“He carries the fire in him. He is your son.”
“No.”
The tile was cold under his cheek as he lay on the floor, watching the soft silent tread of his mother's booted feet walk out of the kitchens. The floor was cool; his tears were hot.
Like tracks of wet fire against his cheeks.
+
“Ma ma, Wǒ tīng bú dǒng... jiù mìng a!” Warren muttered under his breath. He was small and he wanted his mother. He didn't understand why she kept walking away from him. He didn't understand why she wouldn't help him.
Then suddenly he wasn't small anymore. He sat up and immediately cursed when pain lanced across his middle. His ribs were more than likely broken. The ache there meant that he was coming off the good drugs. He flexed his hands and rotated his wrists. He had to get out. He let his hair fall forward, hiding his eyes. There was a camera in the corner and the general quiet of the hall outside his room meant that it was probably empty. Mostly empty, Warren amended when he heard something farther down. Footsteps that squeaked against the floor. He tracked the sound and noted they were moving farther away.
He wanted to laugh. Mr. Stronghold had instituted a month long superhero survival camp when they were sophomores. Will ended up fighting a bear (gently) and Warren learned how to listen and track in the underbrush. The restraints were still on his wrists and he knew his window of escape was slim. The square of window to his left showed that it was still late enough that day hadn't broken yet. His side, middle, and head ache something fierce and he tried to shake off the pain meds and whatever sedative they'd had plugged into him. He never fell asleep that easily, especially not with people he didn't know. He wrote off his pack and took a deep breath. He didn't want to hurt anyone, but he wasn't going to jail.
He wasn't going to be put in some supervillain Alcatraz because of some dumb dead rednecks. He cupped his hands under, just above the sheets. He was glad he was still dressed in his own clothes, bare ass escape wasn't too high on his list of awesome plans. There was nothing in the room to use as a weapon. There was a faint murmur of voices and Warren felt the fire concentrate and start to eat through the thick leather. His head was still down and he hoped that whoever was manning the camera thought he was just having a Come to Jesus moment.
Fuck, no shoes. Socks, yes, but not shoes.
Warren grit his teeth as he felt the restraints give and he quickly shot a fireball at the camera. Eased open the door and peeked out. It was eerily empty and Warren's luck was never this good. He shook his head and made his way down the hall away from the earlier sounds and looked at the cross hallway. Metal struts and Warren winced at the grating. His feet were going to hate him. John McClane was right. Shoes were a priority.
He ducked into what he hoped was a supply closet. Not too much help. There weren't any other prisoners or patients near him. He grabbed some bottles and shoved them into his pockets. Flammables were always good. He was armed in a manner and that helped ease the tension in his gut a little. He was pretty sure he could melt through the metal of the walls, it would just take time. Time he didn't know if he had.
Time he definitely did not have. There was some alarm going off now and Warren was pretty sure it was not a fire drill. He hoped down was a better option than up. The window of his room hadn't showed him much. Plus, it wasn't as if he could fly. He spotted the fire doors and shoved at the door bar and looked up then down. Nothing yet.
He wasn't going to count on that for long.
Run, run, run, kept streaming through his head like a damn banner. He could maybe call Will from a phone; get some cash sent to him. He ran down the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could. There was still no one. Either they'd just forgotten about him - unlikely. Or there was something way worse going on and he was small time. He was really hoping for option 2. He just had to get out and away. He could figure out the rest as soon as he could hide. Regroup and come up with a plan.
Warren stopped when the stairs did and made for the big green G door. It clanged shut behind him and there was chaos. He'd walked into some kind of war zone. Option 2 was fucking horrific. There were fucking robots picking people up and throwing them or trying to rip them apart. He actively had to choke back sick when a robot ripped the arm off a guy and threw him right at Warren feet from across the wide cavern of the garage. “Shit, shit, shit, hold on,” Warren dragged the guy away from the chaos behind the crumpled hull of a van. “Pressure, gotta tie it with something,” he said to himself, voice frantic.
“Get to safety,” the guy said groaning, eyes unfocused blood darkening the front of his tac vest.
“Man, there are fucking robots here tearing people apart,” Warren said and he took his belt off and bound up the bleeding stump. “This is the safest either one of us can get right now. You need a medic and I am going to need fucking therapy. I need to get help. Just... just hold on, okay?”
“Comm,” the guy said his eyes closing.
“Fuck, no. No, stay awake. Shock,” Warren grabbed the mic from around the guy's throat. “Hey, Big Brother or whatever. You have a man down. I have no clue where we are, but probably the garage. Uh, north stairwell?” Warren noted the designation on the door. “Soldier guy with his arm ripped off by a pissed off Iron Giant. Shit, fuck,” he barely had a chance to roll away when a fucking metal claw dug a damn ditch into the ground where he'd just been crouching. “Please send help. A medic, lots of drugs for your guy. I...”
Warren saw the robot go for the agent and he didn't think. The fireball that he flung hit the red glowing center of the robot's chest and propelled it backward. He heard a cracking sound and the sound of metal groaning. The robot gave a sad little metallic whine and stopped moving. “Crap, I killed it. Okay, whoever is listening. I shot a fireball into it's chest.” Full TILT and extra flashing lights down.
He made his way back to the guy and he paled when the guy wasn't moving. The blood had stopped gushing out of the guy's arm and Warren's belt was holding, but he wasn't moving. He reached out shakily for the guy's neck and found a weak thump against his fingers. “Okay. So, your agent is by the north stairwell. He's not looking too good. His pulse is really weak.”
There was a faint crackle and squeak. Warren plucked the blue tooth looking thing from the guy's ear. There was yelling and demands about reports.
“Listen, I just. Okay, I have the guy's blue tooth ear thing. I don't know if you got what I said earlier, but the robot things. I shot it with a fireball to the red spot on it's chest. I killed it, but your guy is not doing good,” Warren said shakily. He could spot the smoking hole of the wall just beyond some trashed black SUVs really fucking close to him. He could smell the night air.
“Who is this?”
“No one,” Warren said and he looked at the outside and the guy bleeding out next to him. “Just, please come help him. I gotta go.”
“Stay where you are, citizen.”
Warren bit his lip and the guy next to him groaned. Just a little sound of pain and Warren rubbed his face against his hands, smearing blood into his hair. “Fine.”
He wanted to cry.
He looked over at the guy. “Can you at least tell me his name?”
There was a pause and the voice, female Warren absently noted, finally said, “William Fuerte, Special Agent William Fuerte.”
Warren slumped down against the wall, grabbed the bottle of liquid cleaner from his pockets and tossed them away and tipped his head back against the concrete. They were mostly hidden by battle debris and smoke. There was gunfire and yelling still around them, but Warren knew they were safe for now. “Figures,” he said.
“What's your name?”
Warren just laughed and then he did cry.
He sat there while the battle raged around him and kept his fingers against William's throat, counting the beats until they stopped coming.
+
“Kid,” Clint said crouching in front of Warren. “Wake up.”
Warren didn't move so much as just open his eyes and look at him through the fall of hair. It reminded Clint of one of the tigers from Carson's. Shiva had the same broken look in her eyes. Her eyes were the same dark almost black. Clint watched Warren's fingers flex against Agent Fuerte's throat. Poor bastard had bled out. Clint noted the clumsy looking tourniquet and the blood on Warren's face and hands. “Can you stand?”
Warren just eyed Clint and he darted a look at Fuerte before taking a deep breath. He pushed himself up, using the wall as support. The air smelled like burnt metal and the sharp stink of ozone from Thor's lightning. They'd gotten the tip from HQ about concentrated firepower at the big red circle on the robot's chests. Clint switched out his concussive arrows for the newest set of napalm C (Tony and Bruce's own mix of thermite and specialized ignition catalysts) leaded arrowheads. Small boom, but robot death. Doom was getting sadistic.
Twenty six injured agents, seven that were looking like they were going to be severely and permanently maimed, and four dead. Five, Clint noted with a grimace. Fuerte was number five.
“I tried...” Warren says then walks the two steps to a corner and threw up everything he had.
“Yeah, kid. You tried,” Clint whispered and rubbed a hand over his face.
+
The room was cold and Warren's wrists were cuffed to the table. The metal glowed blue around them and try as Warren might, he could not summon up a pinprick of an ember. He wasn't freaking out. Not quite yet at least.
“I have to piss. If anyone's interested, I've got to take a leak and I stopped peeing in my pants after I was two,” Warren said out loud.
There was no answer.
“This silent treatment thing is really cliched. I read a book about it and frankly you should have left me with a bottle of water or something. To drink and or piss in. It would have been polite,” Warren looked down at his hands and he wished he did have that bottle of water. He still had Fuerte's blood under his nails. He couldn't even burn them clean.
“It's your own fault,” Warren said before turning his head and puking. Second time that night. It was a record.
They could only really blame themselves.
+
Author's note- So, I hear that Mulan is a character on OUAT. And I kind of wrote that Warren's mom as Mulan bit... before OUAT came out. Apparently psychic for trends or something? But yes.
3130 / 4500
(69.56%)