HISTORY, steve rogers

001. MOROS

SIX YEARS AGO —

AMON THROWS his most entitled grin at the Iron Ass who's attempting to intimidate

“Trust me, Stark,” he shouts over the sounds of the rest of the Avengers taking down the Hydra facility behind him. “If I was a part of this organization, you idiots wouldn't be taking it apart.”

Iron Man motions to Amon's hands. “Okay, sure thing, asshole, but what've you got there?”

Amon looks down at the flash drive, at the yellow packet. He looks back at Iron Man.

“Something that doesn't concern you. Anyways, I've got a hot date with my hand tonight, so I'll catch ya later — ”

“You're not fit for this world, Moros,” Iron Man tells him, repulsor hitting an incoming Hydra agent without his helmet moving. “You're not a villain, yeah, but you sure as hell aren't a hero either. You have no morals.”

Moros' jaw clenches. He sends the other man a vicious grin. “I don't have to have morals. I just have to have myself.”

He disappears before Iron Man can say anything else.

« - • - »

PRESENT —

AMON THROWS a steady combination of jabs at the bag in front of him. He counts his breathing, counts his steps as they hit the ground, counts the beats of his heart.

Always the same.

“Logan!” He hears from outside of his cave. “We need to talk!”

Amon tilts his head.

“Don't call me that,” he says easily to the man in front of him, as he pulls himself out of his bunker.

Scott Lang jumps a good two feet into the air before clumsily putting himself together. He gives Amon a rather friendly look. “Why?”

“That was a fake name, Lang,” he sighs. “Everyone knew that at that hell hole besides you, apparently. Now, what do you want?”

”Can't a couple of old prison buddies catch up?” Lang asks.

Amon gives him a withering look. “We talked for approximately five seconds, only because a rapist asshole stole your dinner, and I responded by beating his ass up, only to steal your food, myself.”

Lang huffs. “Oh, come on, we talked plenty of more times than that!”

“I broke out of that prison twenty-five minutes after that lone encounter,” Amon retorts wryly.

Lang keeps the same grin on. “Hated to see you go, pal!”

Amon turns on his feet. Picks up a nearby stick. Turns it into a steel spear. Lang immediately backs away, cursing.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't tack you into the ground,” Amon sings, spear pointing threateningly despite his light tone. “You know where I live, I've been compromised, and I should get rid of the problem. I also know you're supposed to be under house arrest for the long foreseeable future, so I'll repeat one last time: What do you want?”

“You won't kill me, though,” Lang says, smiling anxiously, eyes strained. “Because you don't have to. Because you and I both know that it was just luck that I ran into this safehouse of yours, and that if I actually found your home, I'd already be dead.”