Chapter Text
Chapter Fifty-Six
You Should See Me in a Crown
Natalia/Natasha
The quinjet cut through the city’s night like a blade—clean, quiet, carving its path with clinical purpose. Beneath them, Manhattan glowed in fractured panels of neon and shadow, a grid of movement that could hide a thousand sins if one knew where to look.
Yuri Brevlov wasn’t quite talented enough to disappear from her. Not tonight.
“Maria’s two stops behind him,” Friday reported, her voice crisp in Natalia’s ear. “Mr. LeBeau is on the same car. Brevlov is seated. He has made no attempt to lose followers. His posture is relaxed.”
Relaxed. That tugged something low in her gut. Either he felt safe or he thought he was in control. Either option could be problematic. Brevlov, however, had always been an arrogant ass. It was why he’d failed to hide his activities previously.
Tony glanced at the layout of the subways that Friday had illuminated, including marking the line Brevlov traveled. “Define relaxed,” he said lightly. “We talking meditation app relaxed or ‘I’ve hidden a bomb’ relaxed?”
“Closer to the latter, Boss,” Friday replied, the Irish lilt in her voice held just a hint of bite. The shifts in her intonations were absolutely fascinating.
“That’s not funny,” Steve said.
“I was not attempting to make a joke, Captain Rogers. Based on SHIELD profiles and Nat’s prior reports, Brevlov has been termed a ‘wild card asset,’ and as such we require more data points to extrapolate his plans.” In fairness to Friday, her humor tended to be of a much dryer variety. Though, Natalia found the way she had begun to salt some elements of sarcasm into her responses delightful.
“That’s one word for him,” Clint muttered. “He’s arrogant enough to walk into a situation with a live grenade in his hand and act like it’s all part of a master plan.”
Natalia did not disagree.
“What is he after?” Steve shifted his attention to her and she lifted one shoulder. That was one answer she didn’t have. A lot of pieces had been allowed to slip through their fingers over the past few months. Shifting priorities and impossible to predict emergencies had cost them all time, energy—
“Do we have a goal?” Peter asked. “If we don’t know what he’s after, do we know what he’s done? And what we want to know?” He looked so fierce and at the same time so utterly, inexplicably, young. It twisted Natalia’s heart every single time.
Mary’s son.
Malyshka’s baby boy. Now Natalia’s Petya. The loss of her and the gift of him would never not leave deep gouges in her soul. A brush of a finger against hers, the barest stroke.
James.
She shifted her attention to him for a moment. Her soldat. He stood there, his pale blue eyes knowing and when she gave him the lightest bump of her hip to his, the corners of his mouth curved. The contact grounded and soothed her in equal measures.
That pain was never going away. It might dull. It might ease. But it was as a part of her. A part of him. James made it better just by being there. All these years and he was with her again.
“Answers,” Steve was saying, redirecting her focus though she hadn’t missed their studying looks on the track route. So far, Brevlov was still on the subway and showing no signs of getting off.
“At this rate, he’s going to be on there until Coney Island,” James muttered.
“You like Coney Island,” Natalia murmured. “Maybe you can win me a prize.”
His snort made her smile.
“Give us an inside look, Baby Girl,” Tony said, his arms folded and his jaw set. Having all of them out here to pick up Brevlov was overkill, but Natalia didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust why he kept showing up and what his endgame was. It wasn’t innocent or coincidence. Better for them to stop him now, and avert whatever it was. That much she knew for damn sure.
Friday zoomed the live subway feed in again, the image crisping into focus. Brevlov sat stiff-backed on the blue plastic seat, a folded newspaper raised just high enough to be theatrical about it. Not subtle—never subtle.
He turned a page with exaggerated precision. He knew tradecraft, but seemed to be ignoring it in favor of performance. Who was he performing for?
Tony made a face. “Is he seriously doing the newspaper spy bit? In twenty twenty-five? What is he, a Bond villain cosplayer?”
“Wrong franchise,” Clint said. “Bond villains have style.”
“He has arrogance,” Natalia murmured. “He thinks it reads the same.”
But it was the sight across the aisle that made her breath catch—not from concern, but from the sheer ridiculousness of it.
Remy LeBeau lounged in his seat like a man with absolutely no job to do. Long legs stretched out, jacket open, head tipped back against the rattling wall as though the entire MTA system had been built solely for his comfort.
Between his fingers, a silver coin flicked and danced with lazy, impossible grace. Up the knuckles… down the knuckles… vanish—pop—back again. Sleight of hand that would impress a stage magician and irritate a spy.
A kid standing near the doors stared openly.
A businesswoman tried—and failed—not to watch.
A teenager with earbuds paused his music so he could lean nearer, whispering, “Dude… how?”
Remy winked at him.
The coin flipped, twirling high.
The train lurched with the rhythmic violence only a New York subway could muster. The coin—by all laws of physics—should have gone skittering across grimy tile.
Instead it landed neatly on the boy’s hoodie sleeve.
The teen lit up. “No way!”
Brevlov’s newspaper twitched downward an inch. Natalia could practically feel the offense radiating from him—hybrid of confusion and insult that Remy was getting more attention than whatever theatrics he thought he was pulling.
Peter choked on a laugh. “Is— is he trying to out-spy Remy on a public train?”
“He’s failing,” Wanda said, amused warmth in her tone.
“Oh, he failed two stops ago,” Clint added. “He’s just committed to the bit now.”
Tony smirked. “Ten bucks says he starts doing that thing where he pretends he isn’t listening, but turns the paper just enough to peek over the top.”
On the live feed, Brevlov turned the paper just enough to peek over the top.
Tony threw a hand in the air. “Ha. Pay up.”
Steve sighed. “We’re not betting on suspects.”
“I’m not betting on suspects,” Tony argued. His humor was a shield and always would be.“I’m betting on narrative clichés.”
Natalia studied the subway route on the screen Friday had provided. Eastbound had options. Too many. “He’s not getting off at a major hub. He’s not stupid.”
Natalia exhaled a quiet, controlled laugh through her nose. Brevlov’s impatience grew visible—telltale tightening of his jaw, the slight tap of one foot, the rigid spine of a man who believed he was the smartest person in the room and was offended reality wasn’t cooperating.
The train slowed into the next station. New passengers stepped in, shuffling around Brevlov’s seat, blocking his carefully curated lines of sight. As late as it was, New York didn’t sleep. A tired mother with a stroller parked directly in front of him. A man with an oversized backpack loomed. A group of teenagers swarmed in, talking loudly.
Brevlov’s eye visibly twitched.
Meanwhile, Remy’s coin vanished entirely—only to reappear a second later behind the boy’s ear, prompting another delighted shout.
If Brevlov had teeth worth grinding, he would’ve ground them to dust.
“Is he aware,” Tony said slowly, as though he were testing the idea out, “that Remy is the distraction? Because he looks… offended.”
“Is he offended?” Peter asked and she could feel his gaze flick to her.
“Yes,” Natalia said, tone cool, “but he used to hide it better.”
Brevlov slapped his newspaper closed with a rigid snap.
“Oh,” Wanda whispered, studying the byplay as closely as the rest of them. “He’s flustered.”
Peter snorted. “I’ve seen pigeons at Times Square keep their cool better.”
Natalia’s lips twitched—barely—but enough.
“Let him be irritated,” she said. “It means he’s less careful.”
Clearly as irritated as they suggested, Brevlov stood abruptly, gripping the overhead pole as the doors chimed open. He pushed through the cluster of passengers in a way that screamed entitlement rather than urgency, and Remy rose smoothly after him—coat settling, coin disappearing once more into his palm.
Friday zoomed out. “Brevlov is exiting the train. You are correct, Nat, he is agitated.”
“Good,” Natalia said softly as the Quinjet banked toward the station. “Let’s keep him that way.”
“Thoughts?” Steve locked his gaze on her and she got it. They needed more information. Scoop him up now? Stay on him? What was the better play?
Natalia tilted her head. “He’s counting on us to hesitate.” She let the pieces line up—Brevlov’s earlier move, his very visible escape route, the sloppy loose ends he left behind. “He wants to be followed. He wants an audience.”
“Trap?” James asked.
“Of course,” she said. “What kind is really the only question.”
The Quinjet angled lower, skimming the river. Friday dimmed the interior lights to preserve visibility. Clint leaned toward the forward glass, squinting at the dark spine of the city’s elevated tracks.
“We’re about to lose visual,” he warned.
“Friday?” Steve prompted.
“Traffic cameras show Brevlov standing,” Friday said. “He’s moved toward the doors. He is preparing to disembark.”
“Where?” Steve asked.
“Eighty-sixth Street.”
“Residential,” James murmured. “Not a good place to make a stand.”
“No,” Natalia agreed. “It’s a good place to vanish.”
Wanda unbuckled, already moving toward the rear. “So we cut him off.”
“Careful,” Steve cautioned. “We don’t know what he’s carrying.”
“We’ll know when he makes his play,” Natalia said, pivoting. “Prep for street entry.”
“Remind me why we aren’t just scooping this guy off the tracks and calling it date night?” Tony scowled a she checked his arc reactor and then tugged a jacket on to cover it. Despite his claim that he didn’t do subtle, he was going for it right now. She was geared up—he was in civilian clothes. Steve was also pulling on a coat. It would cover most of his gear.
“Because subtlety matters,” Steve said, making her proud. His wink was so playful it eased some of the tightness in her chest. Yes, they did have plans tonight and she was also ready to get back tot hem.
“You say that like I’ve ever believed that,” Tony muttered.
She brushed his knuckles as she passed, a brief touch that rewired the tension buzzing beneath his skin. “Stay watchful.”
“I’d rather stay close,” Tony muttered.
“They will be,” Steve said. “I want Bucky and Nat to take lead. They can move without being seen easier than anyone else here.” Even through a crowd.
Clint coughed and Peter actually made a little sound of objection. Both of which Steve ignored.
“We’re the second distraction,” Steve said, pulling a baseball cap on and Natalia felt as well as saw James roll his eyes.
“It’s a look,” she murmured, bumping his hip again. James grinned. Ignoring Steve’s quelling glance, she blew him a kiss. She and James were both in calf length coats that hid the body armor. Winter was definitely good for disguises.
“Spider-man and Wanda, you two are also the big guns, hang back, be ready to step in and intercede. Civilian protection first.”
Thankfully, neither argued.
“Clint?”
“Already planning to go high,” Clint said.
We all had our parts to play.
“Hang in there, Loverboy—Maria. We’re about to be in play,” Natalia warned them.
“Understood,” Maria answered. Remy didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to.
The Quinjet slowed. Doors hissed open. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the thick scents of the East Side—icy breezes off the river, exhaust, and the faintest traces of woodsmoke. Some people still had wood fireplaces.
“Brevlov’s on the platform,” Friday updated. “Mr. LeBeau is following.”
“Maria?” Steve asked.
“Already out of the car and heading down the stairs.”
“Copy.” Steve tossed his shield to Peter. To her delight, he took it without question. “Nat, you and Bucky have point.”
Exhilaration threading through her veins she headed out with James, flowing right into the shadows as Pater and Wanda both went high and out of sight. Wanda also sent Clint up to a better watch position.
Steve and Tony headed for the street in quiet, almost practiced formation. No one paused for them. Taxis sped past, pedestrians walked with their heads down, the rhythm of the city continuing undisturbed by the silent insertion of gods, geniuses, and ghosts into its arteries.
Natalia slipped down the steps, not worrying about the lights, the shadows, or the commuters streaming up them. The crowd was an excellent disguise.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead. The platform smelled of steel dust and oil. A handful of commuters lingered, unaware that the man standing casually near the pillar at the far end was a bomb waiting to go off.
Brevlov didn’t look up—but his shoulders tightened.
He knew.
Remy leaned against the wall nearest the stairs, hands in pockets, expression lazy. “Bonsoir,” he murmured as she passed. “Thought you’d never get here, Boo.”
“Thank you for holding position,” she replied.
“Anything for you.”
Then he nodded toward Brevlov.
The man finally turned his head.
Their eyes met.
Brevlov smiled.
Not the smile of a cornered man.
The smile of someone who thought he had one last card.
Natalia slowed, feet silent against the tile. Tony and Steve moved behind pillars, blocking Brevlov’s view. James Spread out from her to her left, calculated, but not agressive.
Not yet.
Peter and Wanda were both holding back, ready to drop in.
Brevlov didn’t run.
He didn’t even shift his weight.
Instead, he dipped a hand into his coat pocket.
“Stop,” Natalia said.
He did.
Only to pull out—
A thin, black phone.
He held it up between two fingers. “I would offer you congratulations,” he said lightly, accent curling around the word. “Except you’ve already cost me a portion of my bet.”
“You should know better than to bet against me,” she warned him. “What are you doing here, Yuri?”
“Paying off an old marker and collecting on an even older debt.”
“Cryptic much?” Tony asked. “Can we just bag and tag him and move on?”
Old debt.
“Now,” Yuri continued. “I can make a call then we can talk. Or you can let Director Fury die. Then we can talk.” He gave an almost careless shrug. “It doesn’t really matter that much to me.”
Director Fury.
“Already scanning for him, Nat,” Friday said via comms. “He was not on the train.”
“He’s not even in the city,” Maria offered. “As far as I know.”
Always a caveat.
“Well, Widow?” Yuri asked her, a cruel smile on his face. “How would your husband put it? Door number one? Or door number two?”
The phone in Brevlov’s hand buzzed.
Just once.
A single, sharp vibration that didn’t match any notification pattern she knew. Lifting the phone had been the signal. Clever.
She might almost be impressed.
“James,” she said quietly.
“I know.” His stance shifted, weight going to the balls of his feet. The platform lights flickered. Then died.
A rolling darkness swallowed the station—total for half a second—until the emergency strips along the walls throbbed to life with sickly red illumination, turning every commuter into a silhouette, every reflection on the tile into something sharp and wrong.
“Friday?” Steve murmured.
“I’m being jam—,” Friday replied, her voice suddenly distant. Then it cut out. A split-second later. “Rerouting.”
Brevlov smiled.
Not at them.
Behind them.
The ground vibrated—a wrong, heavy tremor. Not a train.
Too rhythmic. Too controlled. Too… dense.
Like footfalls.
Metal footfalls.
“Of course,” Natasha murmured, voice dropping to a blade’s edge. It was one thing for Maria to tell her he’d survived. Another to see him for herself.
A shape stepped out from the far end of the platform, emerging through the haze of emergency lights like a nightmare dredged out of cold water and dragged into daylight.
Seven feet of red-haired fury, tattoos crawling like serpents across corded muscle and steel-braced limbs.
Hazel eyes that once stared blankly at her as she shoved him into the depths.
Eyes that now burned.
Molot Boga.
She’d watched him sink—broken, bleeding, too heavy to swim because of those steel implants. She’d felt the water swallow him.
Apparently not deep enough.
His voice rumbled across the platform. “Natalia.”
Her name wasn’t spoken. It was condemned.
Peter landed silently on the tiled ceiling, whisper-yelled, “Uh—is that a friend of yours?!”
“No,” Natalia said. “That’s Molot Boga.”
Boga lifted one arm, the metal-reinforced limb whirring—a sound she hated, a sound she remembered.
Two more shadows flanked him—men with rifles slung across their chests, bodies crackling faintly with energy. One glowed faint blue beneath the skin like a living capacitor. The other’s eyes flickered with infrared pulses, targeting HUDs built into implants.
Three more operatives dropped down from the pedestrian overpass above the tracks, landing with synchronized thuds. All armored. All enhanced.
They cut off every exit.
Typical Boga efficiency.
Typical Brevlov treachery.
And Brevlov just stood with that infuriating half-smile, phone still between two fingers.
Steve’s hand went out subtly, positioning himself between Tony and the incoming threat.
Tony, under his breath, muttered, “Hate to say it, Capsicle, but subtlety time? Over.”
Wanda hovered above the tracks, red power already bleeding off her fingertips. “They’re augmented,” she warned. “More than normal.”
“Wonderful,” Clint said from somewhere unseen above. “Just once can someone send normal guys with normal guns?”
“No,” James answered. “Natalia would be bored.”
The quip was delivered in such a flat monotone, Natalia damn near laughed. Serious situation or not…
“What did we say about that stoic humor, Bucky?” Tony asked, but she could hear the nanos sliding over him and the way his mask changed and filtered his voice.
Boga’s gaze locked on Natalia with cold, surgical contempt.
“You should not have left me to drown.”
“I didn’t leave you,” she answered. “I ended you.”
“Not well enough.”
He blurred forward.
Too fast for a man his size.
But not too fast for James.
Bucky intercepted him like a missile, metal arm crashing into Boga’s wrist—vibranium sparking against steel—before the force launched both men backward, skidding across tile. Commuters screamed. Some ran. Some froze. One dove over the turnstile.
The enhanced soldiers opened fire.
Steve’s shield—now in Peter’s hands—whipped downward as Peter dropped from the ceiling, bouncing the ricocheting rounds away with perfect instinct and a startled squeak. “Why do they always shoot immediately?!”
“Because it’s rude to monologue!” Tony shouted, ducking behind a pillar.
Remy snapped a card to life—kinetic energy pulsing violet—and flicked it cleanly into one attacker’s chest. The kinetic blast sent him flying backward into a vending machine with a crunch of shattering metal and chips raining like confetti.
Wanda flung a pulse of scarlet energy that folded another augmented man into a wall with bone-rattling force.
Steve dove forward at the third, slamming into him with the weight of a truck. He caught his shield on the rebound. “Wanda, Spider-man—clear the civilians.”
Natalia focus snapped back to Boga—James grappling with him, neither giving an inch, both grinning ferally. Boga’s strength was monstrous, but his weight was his weakness. Every time he shifted, he sank slightly, boots grinding through tile.
“Widow,” James called between gritted teeth as Boga shoved back. “He’s heavier than he looks.”
“He’s had work done,” she muttered, sprinting forward.
Natalia launched herself onto Boga’s back, arms snapping around his throat as she yanked his head sharply to the side—trying to compromise the implant lines beneath the skin. If she could get the right angle, she could use her bites.
He roared and flung himself backward, slamming her into a pillar so hard her lungs seized.
James shot forward, metal arm swinging in a brutal arc—crunching into Boga’s ribs.
Boga barely grunted.
Enhanced durability. Steel-plated bones.
“Natalia,” he growled, grabbing for her ankle. “I promised I would end you myself.”
She flipped upward, avoiding his grip, landing behind him.
“Then you should’ve stayed dead.”
Brevlov calmly pulled a second phone from his pocket.
Even in the chaos.
Even while bullets ricocheted and Wanda’s power lit the tunnel like hellfire.
He looked directly at Natalia.
Then pressed a button.
The floor trembled again.
Boga smiled.
Not the smile of a berserker.
The smile of a man who knew phase one was only the opening act.