(This is not my chapter and the credit of the characters goes to their respective authors)
This mission, Steve decided, was not going to be put on his top ten list.
It was a cold night, his breathe frosting in the air and the ground crunching beneath his feet. The dull roar of the nearby water was a backdrop to his team. They moved quietly, expertly surrounding the warehouse with as little movement possible. The night was dark around them and the only light came from the moon and its reflections off the water and the cold, metal walls around them.
Crouching near the door that was to be his point of entry, he eyed the eerily silent warehouse. It was supposedly the holding site for some weapon smugglers who were planning on supplying terrorists around America. So it was, of course, SHIELD's job to fix it up before any of it could bother the public eye.
But, as all super heroes were wont to have, Steve had a gut feeling - a 'spidey-sense' - and it was telling him this place had some bad jujus.
Giving the hand signal to move forward, he jumped the stack of oil drums that served as cover and sprinted at the warehouse alongside his comrades. With one well-placed shoulder, the door slammed open, just about coming off its hinges. Steve moved quickly, spreading out and sweeping the room. With his shield at the ready and his team with their guns, they were ready for anything that might leap out at them.
But nothing leaped.
Instead, something ticked.
A cautious agent toed at a tarp lying in the middle of the ground; the blue plastic slid to the side and revealed a small pile of wires and a clock with ominous red numbers. It wasn't hard to guess what it was, because they'd all seen something like it a dozen times.
"Bomb!" Roared Steve. "Get out, get out!"
And they did turn and run but it did no good; they were barely at the doors before there was a loud beep and the ticking stopped. Then everything turned into flames and a shockwave slammed into Steve with the force of a missile and sent him flying. He tumbled across the hard cement docks, just skimmed a pile of oil drums and plunged into the waters below.
As he sunk, stunned by the explosion and weighed by his shield and heavy muscle, he stared at the murky depths around him. The only thing he could think was, frigid water feels an awful lot like ice.
And then he thought no more.
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What ever happened next was nothing more than a blur and glimpses of moments to Steve. He remembered darkness and freezing liquid, then a pair of startling warm hands closing around his arms. He didn't know how long he had been floating before those hands grabbed him, but he was alive, so it hadn't been that long. There was a rush of movement and suddenly the shock of air, wondrous air on his face. He was thrown down and something smashed on his chest, causing him to convulse. The water in his lungs seemed to coil and move around on its own and it was suddenly exploding out of his mouth and spilling across the concrete beneath him. Gasping for breath, he tried to open his eyes and only managed a weak flutter. "My team..." he managed to wheeze. He didn't know who it was that had saved him, but couldn't they get his men?
There was a hot touch on his shoulder, a blanket thrown over him and a voice saying, "I'll get them. Sleep."
The only glimpse Steve managed to get of his savior were of green, green eyes.
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Steve woke slowly, and it took him several moments to gather his senses. It didn't feel like he was in the cold waters, about to drown or freeze to death, but that's where his brain told him he'd be. What had...?
Then he remembered. Green eyes, warm hands and a breath of fresh air.
Someone had saved him. But who? Why?
Cracking open sore eyes - and man did he feel gross, his face all crusty and his skin tight - he found himself in a tasteful brick room, with dark wood accents and a roaring fire nearby. He was laid out in a comfortable nest of blankets on the floor. The rug was warm and scratchy on his skin when he sat up, and it felt surprisingly good. The heat of the fire licking at his skin, he looked around the room and was pleased to find he wasn't the only person there. Seven other men were curled up around the room, arranged in cozy nests like he was. He took it as a good sign - there had been nine other men in his team, and if only two were missing than that was more than he had been (morbidly) expecting. An explosion like that did not do well for the casualty numbers.
"Captain?" Asked a quiet voice. Looking over, Steve saw it was one of the higher ranking men in his unit that had woken next to him, Andrews.
"Andrews," he said. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah. Just a bit bruised and burnt, I think."
"That you are." An unfamiliar voice made them both jump and spin around. A man stood in the doorway, watching them with amused eyes. He had a roll of blankets under one arm and a large plate stuffed with food in the other hand. Both Steve and Andrews shifted uncomfortably, not sure how they felt about the fact that the man had appeared without them noticing.
The man approached slowly, hands where they could see them, and settled the plate on the bar counter nearby. He dropped the blankets on an armchair and collapsed into its neighbor. Propping his chin on his fist, he eyed them and smiled easily. "It's good to see you up," he said.
Andrews narrowed his eyes at him. "Who are you? What are we doing here?"
The man rolled eyes that were a familiar shade of green, and Steve realized who he was a moment before he answered. "My name is Percy Jackson, and you're here because I fished your unconscious bodies from the waters late last night; you've been unconscious for around nine hours. Before you ask any more questions, I was out on a walk when I saw the explosion. I found as many of you as I can. I don't know if there're more of your team out there; sorry if there are." He said, eyes meeting Steve's and shining with a light of understanding.
Whoever this Percy Jackson was, he most definitely knew what it was like to lose a team. Maybe he was ex-military? Or secret services? He had the movements of a warrior, and scars marred his hands and arms...
He was jerked from his musings when something was placed before him. He stared down at the plate of warm, gooey, blue cookies before him, then up at Percy, who just smiled and took one for himself. Biting into it, he made a soft sound of satisfaction, then nudged the plate further towards Steve and Andrews.
Both took the hint, and despite their training screaming at them not to eat it because it could be poisoned, they took one each. A bite later and the taste of the sweat treat erupted in their mouths. Steve swallowed his and abashedly reached for another, then turned to stare at their savior.
"So," he said, "where are we? And how are my men?"
Percy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You're in my bar, The Golden Fleece, right now. It's on Bourbon Street. The men should be mostly alright; the worst is some nerve damage from a particularly nasty burn on that one's arm," he nodded to the man besides Andrews, who was sleeping peacefully. "But he should be able to use it just fine; a little stiff and achy, that's all. The others have bruising, minor burns, a few concussions that you should get checked out properly, and some risks for pneumonia, what with you lot almost drowning."
Something about the diagnosis made Steve twitch, but Andrews figured it out before he did. "How did you deal with the wounds?" Andrews asked, face stiff. "You don't seem like a doctor, and these," he gestured to his own burns and those of his injured neighbor, "aren't your typical scratches or little burns. These are battle wounds."
And then Percy smiled; a flat expression with grim eyes and a hard lips. "Oh, we all get them - battle wounds, that is," he said without much emotion.
The air was heavy for a moment, before Percy sighed and looked away. He stood and crossed to the cabinets behind the bar counter, pulling out a cell phone. He tossed it and it landed neatly on Steve's nest of blankets. "You probably want to call your superiors; you government types get awfully anxious, and I don't want my apartment being raided in the middle of the night."
Andrews bit back something that sounded like a snort, and Steve rolled his eyes as he got to his feet. Wincing at the minor twinges coming from sore muscle and tender burns, he crossed to the other side of the room where Percy was less likely to hear and made his call. It only took a minute - SHIELD was always efficient - and soon they had some transport coming their way.
Steve tried to give Percy back the phone but he refused ("They'll just steal it away later tonight, cause it has your headquarters on the call history.) and they sat around the bar in a semi-awkward silence. Percy seemed perfectly at ease, wiping down extra cups and the previously-full cookie plate and humming cheerfully. Steve and Andrews sat where they were, fidgeting awkwardly and occasionally checking on their still sleeping comrades. It was ten minutes later when Percy calmly put down the glass he was cleaning, crossed the room and opened the heavy wood front door just as a black vehicle rolled to a stop. Recognizing it as yet another cliché spy car, Steve and Andrews got to their feet. Several men in suits leapt from the car and quickly made their way into the building, Percy moving aside without complaint. Steve and Andrews lifted one of their unresponsive teammates each, the other agents doing the same, and shuffled out the front door. After safely depositing his subordinate in the van, Steve turned to where Percy stood by the door.
He stuck his hand out for the green-eyed man to shake. "Thank you for all your help," he said. "I really don't know what would have happened without your presence."
Percy just shrugged and made a shooing motion towards the car. "It's no problem - this kind of stuff happens all the time."
Steve really doubted that, but nodded and turned to leave. As he stepped from the door, he noticed another agent come up beside Percy. "I trust you'll be keeping quiet about this, Mr. Jackson?" The agent said.
He heard Percy snort. "Don't I always? I just can't believe this kind of stuff had to happen to me on my late night swim. It'd be nice for the gods to give me a break."
The agent muffled something suspiciously like a laugh, then said, "Well, the director sends his greetings, as always. How do you two know each other again?"
"That's confidential, I'm afraid."
"Hmm. Well, the crew and I will be stopping by this Thursday for drinks as usual. Hope you have some of the good stuff on tap."
"I will. You better get going, Agent. Bring some of your friends next time you come 'round, hey? You spy types are surprisingly good for business."
Steve bit his lip as he climbed into the van. Well. It wasn't every day that he met a bartender like that. A bartender who took midnight swims, saved drowning agents, went towards explosions, and took eight men in suspicious black clothes to his bar to heal without questions. Who knew what kind of history he had, and he didn't even want to think about how he'd gotten mixed up with SHIELD, enough to know Director Fury.
You know, maybe he should stop by for a drink sometime. Thursday sounded nice...
And that was the beginning of a beautiful (and insane) friendship.