One Month Later

Michaela would like to say that things wind down after the absolute clusterfuck that was Cato and Mordo going full Mortal Kombat in the middle of Hell's Kitchen. She'd like to say that the worst thing any of them has to face is Peter's ever-growing list of homework assignments, which Michaela insists on helping him with despite the fact that she's netting mostly C's herself (Matt is, obviously, a much more effective tutor, and so is Jessica when she's in the mood to contribute something other than snarky commentary on the state of America's shitty school system; she's an English major at heart, Michaela would stake her nonexistent fortune on it). She'd like to say that her biggest disappoint these days is the fact that she one hundred percent did lose her job at Cody's, which – let's be real, that was a long time coming, and more than anything she's grateful Cody kept her on as long as he did.

And she can say that. For about a month.

It was a good month, at least. That's gotta count for something in these trying times.

_______________________________

"Why am I taking this class again?"

"Because it's a graduation requirement and you're hoping to graduate in the near future," Matt says without even lifting his head. He's on the couch, curled up against the armrest and scanning through the files Foggy dropped off a few hours ago, and Michaela's on the verge of demanding they switch tasks for like, twenty minutes, except she can't fucking read braille and Matt's said before that he's no longer offering his services when it comes to college-level algebra.

It's valid not only because algebra might as well be actual literal hell in numerical form, but also because Michaela is a bitch of a student when it comes to things she doesn't like, and nothing tops that list like math.

She huffs out a breath, frustrated with herself and her piss-poor decision making skills (she could've taken critical thinking instead of this, it would've fulfilled the requirement just fine, but Past Michaela apparently saw thinking and assumed her incredibly busy schedule wouldn't be able to accommodate the extra brain power). Her pencil taps against the countertop, quick and arhythmic, taptaptaptaptap. The numbers on her laptop screen make about as much sense now as they did an hour ago when she sat down to get this done. For fuck's sake, why is the vigilante aspect of her life somehow not the most stressful thing she has going on right now?

Speaking of that, though, her phone buzzes where it's tucked away in her hoodie pocket, and she'd ignore it, usually, but that's – that's the buzz. The Bad New Buzz, which is a term Peter coined when they were on patrol together a while back that Michaela loves. About as much as she hates the cold knot of dread that twists around her guts just from hearing it. Feeling it, fuck, whichever makes the most sense.

Michaela doesn't have to look over her shoulder to know Matt's put aside his case files, that he's sitting up and grabbing his phone from where he tossed it onto the coffee table. He'd let the text-to-voice function play it for him, but since Michaela's here he only pockets it and gets up to stand at her shoulder while she clicks into the news site that's pretty much a permanent fixture in her tabs.

She – god, she really has stopped going into things with expectations, they're a hindrance she doesn't need, but somehow, somehow, what she sees when the Emergency News Alert starts playing defies quite literally any expectation that could have ever occurred to her.

"Is that—" She can't finish the question. This isn't real, this is some alternate realty she's dropped into without explanation or memory of it having happened. Right? Michaela blinks, then blinks again, slumping back until she's leaning into Matt. His hands smooth over her shoulders, gripping lightly, grounding her in the moment. "He's not—he's not that—okay, it's Stark and he's been certifiable since like the early 2000s but this is—"

"Insane," Matt finishes for her, and yeah. Yeah, okay, there really isn't a better word for what she's seeing.

Scrolling across the bottom of the screen is the headline IRON MAN AND CAPTAIN AMERICA SEEN FIGHTING IN DOWNTOWN BROOKLYN; REASONS UNKNOWN.

And right above the text, live and streaming to several thousand viewers according to the counter in the upper right-hand corner, is Tony Stark, kitted out in his Iron Man suit, repulsar-blasting Steve Rogers and his ubiquitous shield while the man zigs and zags in nothing but his running shorts and a partially-ripped t-shirt.

The news anchor – Camille something-or-other, Michaela usually doesn't spare her or her co-workers much thought, too engrossed in whatever fantastical crime is currently taking place in her neighborhood to consider names or faces – is clearly out of her depth with this. There must be no teleprompter for her to read from because she's stuttering over her recap of the events that apparently led up to his unprecedented brawl. Witnesses reported seeing Tony Stark exiting a car outside of a Brooklyn townhouse (and it's Stark, so even something as mundane as visiting a friend would catch people's attention, especially if tourists are milling around). Rogers answered the door and Stark, despite Rogers' apparent protests, barreled his way inside, and then—

And then this.

Someone caught Rogers getting blasted through his own front door and Stark zooming out after him, now in full Iron Man regalia, and the onslaught's continued from there, Rogers doing his best to talk Stark down (judging by how fast his mouth is moving in these shaky videos, though Michaela supposes that could be put down to the quality) and Stark giving not one iota of a damn, just. Fucking going to town on Rogers.

"What the fuck." It comes out in a whisper, barely audible to her own ears; Matt's hands press down a little harder on her shoulders, fingers digging in, the only sign he's listening to both her and the frazzled reporter. "What the fuck. Are we—should we be... doing something about this? This isn't our schtick, but—"

Michaela's cut off by—fuck, is that Smash Mouth? Why would—ah, right. Peter set All Star as his ringtone when Michaela (stupidly) let him mess with her phone, god, what feels like a lifetime ago but in reality was maybe two months back. Still, the music startles her, and it's only thanks to Matt's stunning reflexes that her phone doesn't smash to pieces against the fridge. He hands it back to her, making sure her fingers are closed around it before he drops a kiss to the top of her head and slides the laptop to the other end of the counter. Giving her space.

Michaela breathes out slowly, counts out the requisite beats, and frankly it's not helping much but she wasn't really expecting it to. So she swallows down her budding panic and puts the phone to her ear.

"Michaela!"

"I'm seeing it, kid. I don't have any answers for you but I'm seeing it."

"Mr. Stark is—he's—to Captain America! I thought they were friends!"

Well, they disagree there a little. Michaela was never sure how friendly the Avengers were with one another, whether they actually got along outside of battle. They work together seamlessly, sure, and that speaks to them have some sort of chemistry, but that doesn't necessarily translate to being best buddies on their off days. After meeting a few of them, though, she'd started to reevaluate – Thor was affable enough that she couldn't see him not getting along with everyone, and there was clear affection in how Natasha Romanoff protected the others. The good captain was harder to read; clearly he liked the others, he wouldn't have put up with their meddling and other various defects (of which she's sure there are many) otherwise.

Probably. She's like, seventy-percent sure on that one. Who knows, though? Cap might just be saving face by putting time in at the Tower and the compound and whatever functions he's expected to attend. She met the guy once and admittedly she was only half paying attention to him, curious as she was about James' – everything.

Peter keeps sputtering down the line, confused and deeply upset by whatever the fuck is happening, and Michaela's letting him talk because it's all she can do, as pathetic as that sounds. Matt's listening intently to the reporter, still, brows furrowed, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. Michaela shuffles around to join him just as they're switching to a different video, one from another angle that looks like the person shooting is – was? – across the street from Rogers' townhouse.

Oh, fuck.

"James?" Michaela breathes.

"Who?" Peter shouts, while Matt raises a brow at her, baffled – until it must click for him, both brows high up on his forehead and his mouth dropping open a little.

"That's – James," Michaela repeats, shrilly, gesturing at the screen as if that's going to make a difference to either Peter or Matt. And it is, it's fucking James, leaping out of the ruined doorway and, and he's fucking grabbing Stark by the leg – mid-fucking-air – and yanking him out of the sky. That's. Wild. "It's James! Rogers' not-a-friend! The one he went all moony over! Oh my fucking god!"

Peter must finally be watching the same video. He's quiet for approximately three seconds before he bursts out with, "Michaela you fucking dumbass, that's Bucky Barnes!"

Michaela shrieks, and it's not a word, it's not a question, it's just pure noise, which. Okay, she regrets it immediately, Matt is still right next to her and he can't check the wince her idiocy elicits. But she can't breathe, Peter's right, he's right, that's – that's Bucky fucking Barnes, with a metal fucking arm, going toe-to-toe with Iron Man and pitching the shield between him and Rogers like they've been practicing since they came out of the fucking womb.

"Bucky Barnes. What the fuck, what the actual, literal fuck. That's Bucky Barnes. How did I not notice this before?"

"He's supposed to be dead," Matt says, faintly, and Michaela realizes abruptly how shocked Matt must be that even his composure's been rocked. "You wouldn't – no one would assume it was him if they saw him. We've all grown up with that story. Barnes was the only Howling Commando to give his life during the war."

"Except that he very much didn't," Michaela cuts in, and, god, now is not the time to hyperventilate, she needs to breathe.

"Has he—Has Captain Rogers been hiding him this whole time?"

"Why would he be hiding him?"

"He has a metal arm?" Matt asks, and Michaela double-takes, straining to hear what the reporter's saying. "Michaela. A metal arm. Who does that remind you of?"

Michaela frowns, glancing back at Matt. "I don't—" Except she does know. Her stomach practically folds in on itself when it hits her. "Bucky Barnes is the Winter Soldier?" And now that she's said it out loud, she can see it. Those videos of Rogers on the bridge in DC were grainy and amateur at best, but they were enough to see the kind of build the Winter Soldier had. The long brown hair. The metal arm. Three descriptors that match Barnes – match James – to a fucking T. "Jesus Christ, I met the Winter Soldier. I introduced Bucky Barnes to the Rappin' with Cap videos. Oh my god I'm gonna be sick."

"Michaela, don't puke!"

"Too late!" Michaela groans, hunched over the sink now, with Matt rubbing comforting circles into her back. Her forehead thunks against the counter's edge and the sharp pain cuts through the fog enough for her another fun realization to surface. "Matt, Matty, I wore the suit. I had the suit on when I met the Winter Solider. He saw the mask. Oh, fuck, fucking—he probably laughed at me when I left! I bet he and Rogers were laughing their asses off about it that night!"

"That is, honestly, the least of our problems right now," Matt says, though not unkindly.

That gets her upright. She's unsteady, has to spread her feet to keep from face-planting right back into the sink, but she stays up and manages to shuffle over to the laptop, because Matt's right. Her hysteria needs to take a backseat, they have way bigger fish to fry as of ten minutes ago, and really, Bucky Barnes hiding out in his best friend from the 40s Brooklyn townhouse really isn't the crux of the issue. It's that Iron Man put out a hit on Rogers and plans to execute it himself.

Peter's babbling again, partly about her mental-slash-physical state, partly about the ongoing fight. But when she gets a good look at the feed again, she blinks. Stark is grounded, his metal boots sparking uselessly as he spins to counter a shield strike from Barnes, only to drop to the asphalt when Rogers hits him from behind with – the bumper of a car. Okay then. The bumper, dented in the unmistakable shape of a body, gets tossed aside as Stark rounds on Rogers, but before he can raise his hand and fire off another blast Barnes is back and he's wrenching the faceplate from Stark's helmet. The shot goes haywire, landing somewhere off screen, but the screaming in the background crescendos because of it, and Rogers.

Rogers turns towards it instantly, gives his back to Stark without a second thought, his expression open and angry and – above all else – hurt. He doesn't have the shield, that's with Barnes still, and he takes his eyes off Stark a second too long—

"Rogers!" Michaela screams, vaguely aware of Peter doing the same, as the next shot catches Rogers' back, low, and he – drops.

The camera dips and Michaela is screaming again, look up, look up you fucking asshole, and when it finally, finally pans back up it doesn't go to Rogers, but to Barnes, who looks absolutely murderous as he swings the shield into Stark's chest, sending him flying off screen. There's one last glimpse of Barnes stalking towards where Rogers fell, then it goes black.

Michaela throws up again. Twice.

_______________________________

Two weeks later, the same day Captain America and Bucky Barnes officially become fugitives of the state, the World Security Council declares the Sokovian Accords are to be adopted by over one hundred countries effective immediately.

The world wants restrictions on enhanced individuals. They saw the sort of destruction they could cause over personal squabbles, and they want protection against that. Assurance that the Avengers aren't going to go off the rails again. The Accords are supposed to provide that assurance.

Matt's not so sure he agrees, and Michaela trusts him a helluva lot more than she does the United States government, so that's pretty much her stance, too.

Following the Accords, there's no trial for Tony Stark, despite the fact that he instigated the Brooklyn fight. Instead, he "elects" to retire the Iron Man suits and step down from the Avengers. Apparently, since the Winter Soldier is a known threat and Stark won't expressly say why he decided to attack Rogers in his own fucking home, in broad daylight, risking civilian lives in the process, the government's saying he went there to contain said threat. Which makes Rogers the bad guy for harboring a Hydra weapon. Not a person, a weapon.

So Rogers – and he's alive, thank fuck, though Michaela sincerely doubts he's anywhere near the realm of okay – and Barnes disappeared, and the Maximoff twins went with them. Romanoff and Sam Wilson signed the Accords, so did Colonel Rhodes and the Vision. Hawkeye retired, too, or so he says. He's been sighted in Bed-Stuy since the announcement but nowhere else, so the public's going along with it for now.

The Avengers are divided, and the world is scrambling to figure out what that means for everyone else.

Meanwhile, Michaela and the rest of the vigilante buddies have been quietly freaking out over what the Accords mean for them.

Their blow-out fight with Cato didn't go unnoticed, though the aftermath didn't look nearly as bad once the Ancient One worked her magic (ha) on the scene. People were still hurt, buildings were still leveled, but it wasn't on par with an Avengers-level battle anymore. The papers printed the same shit they always did – vigilantes were the bane of the city, they weren't protectors, they were egotistical madmen looking for their fifteen minutes of fame. It stung, still, to have people look at her and see that, but it was normal. Expected. Michaela could have dealt with it if that's all that came of it.

But that's obviously not all that came of it.

There's a whole section of the Accords dedicated to vigilantes. How to identify them, how to categorize them. What laws they're breaking by simply existing. They were breaking laws before, yeah, and that hasn't changed, but it wasn't on this scale. Now they don't just have the police sniffing around for them, there are government agents patrolling through the territories of known vigilantes. Not just in New York, either, Michaela's seen reports of governments cracking down on their local vigilantes all over the world. They're getting rounded up and – and that's just it. Matt's gone over the Accords, both in braille and with Michaela reading them out loud to him, at least three times, and he keeps hitting the same snag.

When enhanced individuals break the Accords and get arrested, they – go somewhere. A secure government facility that isn't specifically named in the documents.

It's fucking terrifying, like something out the dystopian novels Michaela's friends kept pushing on her in high school that she probably should've read, if for no other reason than because they definitely pertain to her life right this fucking moment.

For Jessica and Luke, the decision is pretty simple. They go to ground, keep themselves out of the spotlight for a while. There's no way Harlem is going to let Luke go without a fight, so he's probably pretty safe where he is, and Jessica is more than adept at finding herself a hidey-hole and hunkering down for the foreseeable future. Their faces and names are out there and it puts them at more risk than anyone else, but they have plans.

For the rest of them... well. None of them like it, but they've agreed to hang up their suits for the time being. Settle back into so-called regular life and wait for the hype to die down, then see where that leaves them, figure out if there are any loopholes, they can exploit so they can get back to ass-kicking and dishing out justice.

And, really, that might've worked for a while. Might've kept them all out of trouble and convinced the government to back off.

But Michaela fucking called it way back when.

Spider-Man was always going to be the one who got arrested.