Chapter Thirty-Three: House of Cards (Part One)
The digital clock on the microwave blinked 3:47 AM when
Steve shuffled into the compound's kitchen. He was wearing faded sweatpants and
an old Under Armour t-shirt that had seen better days. The smell of fresh
coffee hit him as he rounded the corner.
Tony was already there, beside the kitchen island,
his hair sticking up in all directions. He clutched a steaming mug of coffee
like a lifeline, his MIT hoodie wrinkled from having fallen asleep in his workshop
again.
"Morning," he mumbled, barely stifling a
yawn.
Before Steve could answer, Natasha slipped in,
silent as a shadow in her black yoga pants and oversized sweatshirt. She, too, made
a beeline for the coffeemaker.
The lift dinged, and out stepped Fury, looking oddly
casual in black sweatpants and a black hoodie with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo. But even
at this ungodly hour, he managed to look put together.
"Alright, let's cut to the chase," he
started, helping himself to coffee. "I want to table this feud between the
Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents for a second and address Barnes’ suspension.
Unfortunately, his actions have left us with no choice.”
"This is ridiculous," Steve muttered, arms
crossed in front of his chest. "McCleary’s death was–"
"An unfortunate casualty?" Tony
interjected. "Come on, Cap. Even you can't spin this one."
Sharon met Steve’s eye line from across the kitchen.
"Steve, please. We need to approach this rationally."
"Oh, look at that," Tony quipped, a
sardonic smile playing on his lips. "Our very own double agent, keeping
the peace. What’s the 411, Mrs Rogers? Anything to report back or are we already
keeping secrets from hubby?"
"Stark, I swear to God–"
Nat, who had zero patience for not-so-playful bickering at 4 AM,
interrupted. "What about the intel Barnes gathered? Are we just going to
ignore that because of one mistake?"
"Mistake?" Clint scoffed. "A man is
dead, Nat. One of us,” he gestured between the two of them. “That's not
something we can just sweep under the rug."
The room erupted into heated arguments, voices
overlapping as tensions flared. Nat's hushed, intense whispers clashed with
Sam's exasperated sighs. Steve's fist pounded the countertop, rattling the
nearby coffee mugs, while Tony's sarcastic quips cut through the air like throwing
stars.
"Enough!" Fury's commanding voice silenced
the room, the sudden quiet almost deafening. "This isn't a schoolyard
squabble. We have a serious situation on our hands."
In the tense silence that followed, Sharon shifted
her weight from one foot to the other. She cleared her throat softly, drawing
all eyes to her. "From what I've heard, Barnes' suspension only raised
more questions. No one really knows he's involved in McCleary's death. Except,
you know... the usual. May, Ward, etc.”
The team exchanged glances, a flicker of hope
passing between them. But it was fleeting, extinguished as quickly as it had
appeared.
Tony cautiously spoke the words on everyone’s minds.
“You know, if there's even a chance of incarceration, Barnes may well
flee..."
"…And let's not kid ourselves," Nat added
matter-of-factly. "If history’s taught us anything, Steve won't be far
behind."
The words had barely left her lips when Sharon's
head snapped up. In three quick strides, she crossed the kitchen, her bare feet
silent on the cold tile. She came to a stop directly in front of Steve, close
enough to smell he’d used the new shower gel she’d bought him.
"Wait," she said, voice tight as she
searched Steve's face, "you're not actually considering that, are
you?"
Steve's gaze met hers, his blue eyes conflicted. But
his silence spoke volumes, confirming Sharon's fears without a single word.
Her hands shot out, gripping Steve's biceps.
"Promise me you won't do something so stupendously idiotic!"
Tony's eyebrows shot up, his coffee mug frozen
halfway to his lips. Natasha and Clint exchanged quick, meaningful glances.
Even Fury seemed taken aback, his one good eye widening slightly.
For a heartbeat, it was as if something shifted
between Steve and Sharon. The well-rehearsed tango of their S.H.I.E.L.D.-arranged
marriage faltered, giving way to unexpected authenticity.
Steve stared back at Sharon, stunned by the raw
emotion in her voice. When had their act started feeling less like an
act? This wasn't the calm, collected agent he'd grown accustomed to sharing a living
space with. The woman before him now radiated a genuine concern that
transcended their platonic boundaries. This was a wife caring for her husband.
Steve's posture suddenly stiffened, his shoulders
squaring as if preparing for said flight. The vulnerable moment with Sharon
evaporated, replaced by the resolute determination of Captain America. His jaw
clenched, blue eyes hardening as they swept across the room, meeting each team
member's gaze.
"If push comes to shove, and they do come after
him," Steve's voice rang out, clear and unwavering, "I think you all
know, no matter what, I'll be by his side."
The words landed like a gauntlet thrown down.
Sharon's eyes flashed as she backed away from him.
"No, not on my watch. I won't stand for that, Steve.”
The kitchen fell into an awkward silence, broken
only by Nat's voice, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Run a tight ship at
home, huh, Rogers?"
Steve whipped his head towards her, a ghost of a
smirk playing on his lips despite the gravity of the situation. "You know
what? That's enough out of you, Romanoff," he retorted.
Fury's authoritative voice cut through the tension.
"Okay, no one's leaving, and no one's running off like a fugitive,"
he stated, his eye darting between Natasha and Sharon. "We can, and will,
find a way out of this. We just need to prove McCleary's... guilty
somehow."
Sharon's gaze locked onto Steve, her voice unashamedly
raw. "Look, I care about Barnes too, but not nearly enough to sacrifice
Steve."
Steve clenched his jaw as he stared daggers at his
wife from across the kitchen. The rest of the team shifted uncomfortably,
suddenly finding great interest in their coffee mugs or the patterns on the
tiled floor.
Tony cleared his throat awkwardly, breaking the
tense silence. "Well, this is fun. Nothing like a marital spat at dawn to
really get the blood pumping. Am I right?"
The soft drone of the Bus’ engines filled the cabin
as Coulson, May, and Ward gathered around the touchscreen table.
Coulson leaned forward, eager for Ward’s findings.
"What you got?"
Ward's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up
file after file. "McCleary's hard drive was a goldmine. Mission reports,
personnel files, operational details..."
May's eyes narrowed, her voice sharp. "So he
had intel on the Avengers' missions. So what? He was cleared for that level,
wasn’t he?"
"Uh… Firstly, no. He manned the tip line, for
crying out loud. And secondly, it's not just the Avengers. McCleary had intel
on people we don't even know. Look at this… detailed dossiers on individuals
with no apparent connection to S.H.I.E.L.D."
Coulson's brow furrowed as he scanned the
information.
"Now, why would a desk jockey have access to
this kind of data?” Ward continued. “I'll tell you why. John McCleary had to
have been the mole we've been searching for."
May leaned back, her arms crossed, thoroughly
unimpressed. "That's a big accusation with no solid proof."
"Think about it… The unauthorised access, the
diverse range of intel, the connection to operations he shouldn't have known
about. It all fits."
Coulson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Okay, so let’s
play this out… The cop, Chandler, finds out about something or other, McCleary
attacks, and… what? Barnes comes to her rescue? Right place, right time? When
has an investigation ever been that simple?”
The trio exchanged grave glances at Coulson’s
question. On the one hand, justice for one of their own was imperative. But on
the other, if the agent turned out to be dirty, they could be sitting on the
precipice of clearing an Avenger's name.
Ward broke the silence, eyeing Coulson warily.
"So, what's our next move?"
"We verify the information. If you're right,
this changes everything. Not just for Barnes, but for S.H.I.E.L.D. as a whole.
Find me a link between McCleary and the cop... And then we take it straight to
Fury. End this once and for all.”
Bucky set down his empty beer bottle with a clink
against the weathered deck of Sam's boat. For the past week, this had been his
routine. Helping Sam with his boat, trying to keep his mind off the
investigation. The salt air and the gentle rocking of the boat had become a
temporary respite from the weight of suspicion hanging over him and the team.
Each day, he'd arrive at the ass-crack of dawn, and work alongside Sam until
dusk, their banter filling the hours. But today, something was different. There
was a restless energy about him, a subtle shift in his demeanour that hadn’t
escaped Sam's notice.
“Alright, I gotta go.”
Sam looked up from the fishing net he'd been
mending, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Go? Go where? You’re
suspended."
“Uh… Midtown. Tying up some loose ends while I have
the time.”
"Ah, I see," Sam nodded, seeing right
through Bucky’s poor attempt at nonchalance. Bucky may have fooled Sam about
Sarah once upon a time, but now he was wiser. "And I suppose these loose ends
involve a certain brunette down at the 125th precinct?"
"Yeah, I don't know what you're talking
about."
Sam chuckled, tossing the net aside. "Oh,
please. You've got that look. The same one you have right before you jump out
the plane without a parachute."
"That was one time," Bucky grumbled, rolling
his eyes.
"Face it, man. When it comes to women, you've
got about as much subtlety as Thor in a porcelain store."
Bucky paused mid-step, his shoulders tensing
slightly before he turned back to face Sam.
"Fine… I want to check in on her. That okay
with you?”
“Oh, so we’re checking in now, are we? That’s a big
step.”
“Since the subway incident, we've been... talking. Just
talking." His Vibranium hand absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck, a
telltale sign of his discomfort at being so transparent.
Sam chuckled incredulously, leaning against the
boat's railing. "Fool me once, Buck. Earlier, I swear I heard you humming.
You're calm and collected, unbothered by the suspension..." He gestured
broadly at Bucky, his voice filled with mock bewilderment. "Who even are
you anymore?"
The question hung in the air for only a moment
before Bucky burst into laughter. A genuine, boisterous sound that echoed
across the marina.
"Yeah, okay," Bucky managed between
chuckles. "I am enjoying the suspension a little more than I should, I
guess. I admit that."
"Hey, does that mean I can ask Sarah out?"
Bucky's laughter stopped abruptly. “Hard no.”
"Aw, come on, man. I thought we were sharing,"
Sam grinned, spreading his arms wide in mock innocence.
"Yeah, keep dreaming, bird boy.”
Sam chuckled, making a shooing motion with his
hands. "Alright, alright. Get outta here, Casanova," he said
playfully. "Go chase your brunette before I change my mind and beat you to
it."
Bucky rolled his eyes but failed to suppress a
smile. He took a step back, his boots creaking on the weathered planks of the
dock. "Yeah, as if you could.”
The hotel room door creaked open, letting in a
sliver of fluorescent hallway light. Mack's broad frame filled the doorway, his
arms laden with brown paper bags emanating the rich aroma of Korean takeout.
"Alright, I've got our..." Mack's voice
trailed off as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room. The curtains were
drawn, save for a small gap where a sliver of fading daylight peeked through.
In that shaft of light sat Coulson, perched on the edge of a chair, still as a
statue.
Mack's gaze swept across the room. The queen-sized
bed was a jumble of rumpled coats and empty takeout containers. A large
corkboard dominated one wall, its surface a maze of photos, sticky notes, and
red strings crisscrossing in a complex web. The McCleary/Barnes investigation
stared back at him in fragmented pieces. And in the centre was Catherine
Chandler.
"You've got to be kidding me," Mack
muttered, shaking his head. He kicked the door closed behind him with his foot
and made his way to the small desk, navigating around discarded water bottles
and crumpled napkins.
The rustling of the paper bags filled the silence as
Mack set down their meal. He turned back to Coulson, who hadn't so much as
twitched. The binoculars remained glued to his face, pointed at the small gap
in the curtains.
"Coulson," Mack said, his voice tinged
with exasperation. "Please tell me you've moved since I left. Blinked, at
least? Used the bathroom?"
The only reply was the quiet whirr of the air
conditioner and the distant honk of a car horn from the street below.
“She might not even come today. Ever think of that?”
“She’ll be here,” Coulson finally responded. “She
jogs after work on Tuesdays. Today’s Tuesday.”
Mack sighed, running a hand over his face. He
reached for one of the takeout containers, the smell of Kimchi wafting through
the stale air. "Well, I hope you find something interesting," he
said, settling onto the bed and displacing a few folders. "'Cause your
food's gonna get cold, and I'm not above eating your share."
As if on cue, Coulson's body suddenly tensed. His
fingers tightened around the binoculars. "That’s her," he breathed,
his gaze fixed on the park below.
Mack set down his container with a soft thud,
crossing the room in two long strides. He leaned over Coulson's shoulder,
squinting as he peered through the narrow gap in the curtains. Amidst the
scattered figures enjoying the waning day, a lone jogger caught his eye.
From this distance, Detective Chandler looked young…
too young. Her ponytail bounced with each stride, her petite frame moving with
the effortless grace of youth. If Mack hadn't known better, he'd have pegged
her for a high school track star, not a seasoned detective.
Mack straightened, confusion etching lines across
his forehead. "Mind telling me why we're following what appears to be a
teenage girl?"
Coulson finally lowered the binoculars, blinking
rapidly as his eyes adjusted. He swivelled in his chair to face Mack, a glint
of excitement in his eyes.
"Oh, that's no teenager, Mack… That's our key
to cracking this whole case wide open."
Steve meandered into his old office, the familiar
space now feeling almost foreign after months of disuse. Stacks of manila
folders towered precariously on a desk in the corner, each one stamped with
bold red letters: "CLASSIFIED". Steve frowned as he leafed through
the pages. But what he was searching for, he had no idea.
On the screen, a news feed scrolled endlessly, its
cheerful chatter almost annoying compared to the grim reports spread before
him. His eyes flicked occasionally to the monitor, barely registering the
parade of celebrity faces and banal headlines, but his focus remained fixed on a
particular stack of documents… the McCleary/Barnes files that Sharon had
"borrowed" from work.
He came across Bucky’s grainy surveillance shot. Why
was Bucky being so tight-lipped about the attack? Right place at the right
time? Bull. There had to be more to it than that.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the passing
of hours he'd spent poring over every detail, searching for something to
exonerate his friend.
As he reached for another folder, a flash of
movement on the computer screen caught his peripheral vision. Steve's hand
paused mid-air, his attention drawn reluctantly away from the files. The
Entertainment News banner, usually nothing more than visual static, suddenly
demanded his full attention.
"Sarah Carter Hospitalised!"
Without conscious thought, Steve’s hand moved, mouse
clicking frantically on the TMZ icon.
The video loaded and two familiar faces appeared on
screen—the usual TMZ presenters. But their typical jovial demeanour was absent,
replaced by expressions of genuine concern. The man on the left spoke first,
the gravity of the situation evident in his tone.
"Alright, so this just in… some seriously upsetting
news… Like, I am not okay," he started, pausing dramatically.
Steve clenched his jaw, bracing himself for the
news.
"Sarah Carter rushed to the ER mere days
before the premiere of her new psychological thriller, 'Retribution's Edge',
suffering acute repetitive seizures. Sources say she'd spent a month locked up
in her hotel room, maintaining a diary in preparation for this intense new
role. Check this out..."
Steve's body went rigid, his breath catching in his
throat. In over a decade of friendship, he'd never known Sarah to have a single
seizure, let alone multiple, severe enough to warrant hospitalisation. An icy dread
settled in the pit of his stomach, his earlier anger giving way to
unadulterated fear.
Questions flooded his mind… How long had this been
going on? Was it related to her intense preparation for the role, or was there
something else at play? And why, in all this time, had he not known?
Suddenly, the screen flashed, transitioning to a
rapid-fire montage of scenes. Sarah's face filled the monitor, her eyes wild
with an intensity Steve had never seen before. Dark, atmospheric shots
flickered by… Sarah running down a shadowy alleyway, her blood-soaked hands
shaking as she held a gun, her face contorted in anguish as she screamed,
falling to her knees.
Steve barely blinked, drinking in every detail of
Sarah's intense performance. As the clip ended and the presenters reappeared, he
slumped back in his chair. His hand moved to his face, rubbing his eyes as if
to clear away the images of Sarah in such an unsettling role.
"I've said it once and I'll say it again…
Directors should not be encouraging their artists to practice method acting.
Especially when the artist in question is known to have… well, issues with her
mental health."
New images of Sarah flickered across the monitor as
the presenter continued, each one a shock to Steve's system. Her familiar
golden locks were gone, replaced by a choppy, uneven bob that looked more like
a hack job than a deliberate style. Her face, usually radiant and full of life,
appeared gaunt and haunted. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, which seemed to
stare right through the camera.
"I mean, she's been pretty open about it over
the years, right? How far is too far when it comes to sacrificing for the
craft? Should director Brett Blackwell answer for this?"
Steve's hand shot out, grabbing the mouse. He
clicked furiously, opening a new tab and typing "Brett Blackwell"
into the search bar.
"We've reached out to her managing team for
comment, but they've yet to respond,” said the second presenter.
"'Cause they're just as guilty as Blackwell! Where're
the Carters in all this? That's what I would like to know. Where's Bucky
Barnes? Her friends, her support system?"
Steve shut off the monitor, plunging the office into
sudden silence. His fists rested on the desk, trembling with anger.
Method acting. The term echoed in his mind, bringing
with it a vague understanding and growing dread. He'd heard about it, snippets
of conversations at parties, passing remarks in interviews. Actors immersing
themselves in their roles, living as their characters.
Steve's ears pricked at the familiar sound of
Bucky's voice drifting up from the common room, mingling with the chatter of
Nat, Tony, and Sam. His chair screeched against the floor as he pushed back
abruptly, and with a swift motion, he was on his feet. His footsteps echoed
through the hallway as he strode toward the stairs, his friends’ light-hearted
banter only fuelling his anger.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he paused
for a moment, taking in the scene before him. Through the open doorway, he
could see Bucky lounging on the couch, an easy smile on his face as he traded
quips with Tony… And Nat perched cross-legged on a nearby chair, her eyebrow
raised in amusement at whatever Sam was gesturing about animatedly.
The normalcy of the scene… juxtaposed against the
images of Sarah's haunted face… it did nothing but piss him off. He’d never
felt such undeniable rage for someone he considered family before.
Without warning, Steve surged forward. “When were
you planning on telling me about her?”
The laughter died abruptly as four pairs of eyes
turned to him, registering the storm brewing in his expression.
Bucky's smile faded, confusion flickering across his
face as he met Steve's intense gaze. "You're gonna have to be a lot more specific,
pal."
Steve, now sitting rigidly across from him, clenched
his jaw. "Sarah, Buck! She's in the hospital! You'd better have a damn
good reason for not telling me!"
Tony, hearing the tremor in Steve's voice, crossed
the room. "Whoa, whoa, what? When did this happen?"
"It's all over the internet! They're saying she’s
had multiple seizures."
Bucky, now frantically scrolling through his phone,
barely glanced up at the news.
The room fell into a deathly silence, all eyes boring
into Bucky, awaiting an explanation that could somehow reconcile his earlier
cheerfulness with the shocking news of Sarah's hospitalisation. His thumb
hovered over his phone screen, trembling slightly as he grappled with the truth
he'd been carefully guarding.
Unbeknownst to most in the room, Bucky still carried
a secret that now threatened to spill out in the worst possible way. Their break-up.
He’d been waiting for her to make some sort of announcement on her socials before
he breathed a word of it to anyone. It was her career, her public image at
stake, and he'd respected her wish for privacy.
His eyes flicked briefly to Sam, the only one who
knew snippets of the complicated mess that was his love life. Much like when
Bucky confessed his involvement in the McCleary attack, Sam's expression was one
of sympathy, silently urging Bucky to come clean.
As the seconds ticked by, the pressure mounted, forcing
Bucky to confront not only the shocking news about Sarah but also the
consequences of his silence… And the absolute last thing he wanted was for his
friendship with Cat to be exposed.
“Well…?” Steve urged, demanding an answer.
Thank you so much for reading! 🙏 Your support means the world to me, so if you enjoyed this chapter, please show some love by liking the video and leaving a comment with your thoughts… It really helps the story reach more people! 🎥💖
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