Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

That fucking cube is sitting on the deck of the Valkyrie like it isn't the reason Dan's here alone, at the end. He thinks of kicking the damn thing, but what happened to Schmidt is reason enough to leave it where it is. He slides into the pilot's chair and programs the radio for the Fortress. He hopes the Howlies have the place locked down by now. 

  Sure enough, he gets a "Morita receiving" in response to his "Lockwood transmitting".

  "Heya, Jim," Dan says. He collapses a little, somewhat from relief, mostly from realisation. "Buddy, I don't think I'm coming back from this one." 

  "Yeah," says Jim. "We figured. Nobody wanted to say it, though. Where are you putting the plane?" 

  "Sorry, mate," Dan sighs. It's like all the war's worth of hurts are catching up to him at once. Since Halliday fell, it's like he's been running on pure grief, and that's run dry too, now. "We're SOL on that front. All I can tell you is there's a fuckton of ice down there. I'm going to put her down in the water." 

  "Right, Dan," Jim says, clearly doing his damndest to keep the heartbreak out of his voice. Jim's lost so many friends through this war. Danny's so sorry, but saying it would make it so much worse. "Godspeed and good luck. We'll keep the light on for you." 

  "Ha! Make sure you give Adolf one in the jaw for me, and one for H- Halliday, yeah?" 

  "Roger, Cap," Jim says, and the burst of static that follows sounds terribly close to a sob. There's tears in Dan's eyes as well, but not for all the same reasons. 

  Dan fumbles in his suit pocket for the compass, flicks it open so it'll sit on the console like a proper pilot's sweetheart picture. Halliday, Danny's true North. The little red needle points right to him. Dan kisses the tips of his fingers, brushes them against Halliday's in the newspaper clipping. 

  "We had the worst damn luck, didn't we, Halliday?" Dan asks the empty air. "God almighty, I miss you so much. It's Sunday again, Haly," he says, jamming the plane controls into a forward dive. The plane starts to tilt and Dan's suddenly just… peaceful. 

  "Don't worry, Haly," he says, right hand worrying the ring on his chest. There's tears falling upwards from his eyes, now, but they're not sad, or even scared tears. "Halliday, honey, I'll see you soon. I'll be right there, baby. You just gotta wait for me," he says, voice hitching in earnest now. He's gotta say this, get it out before- fuck, the ice is close, now-

  "Hey, Halliday, it's Sunday now. I love you. You wanna get married?" 

Chapter Text

WASHINGTON, D.C.

14 MAY, 2014

05:43

  Routine, according to the self-help book Jazz had foisted on him a few weeks back, is important. It’ll help him settle in. He’s woken up at five and gone for the same run and had the same breakfast every day for three weeks, and he doesn’t feel any more settled. Everything’s changed so much; he might as well have woken up on Mars (which has human technology on it now). 

  His cell phone, which fits nicely into the pocket of his stretchy, lightweight running shorts, buzzes. He stops his run and manages to unlock the phone in less than thirty seconds. He’s getting better at handling the tech, even if it’s still odd to him. 

  Jazz (work): heya!

  Jazz (work): meet me at the bench by the water fountain in 15?

  Dan’s halfway through typing which bench? when Jazz texts him again. 

  Jazz (work): the one at the end of your run 

  Jazz (work): and dw about texting me back, I know it takes you forever, old man <3

  Lovely. Dan rolls his eyes and shoves his phone back in his pocket before taking off again, running the length of the reflecting pool and doing his best to sink back down into the headspace Jazz’s text had interrupted. If he’s right and this is about a mission, this run is the last bit of peace he’ll be getting in the next day at least. 

  One, two, one, two, left, right, left, right. His shoes slap against the concrete rhythmically, carrying him around the edge of the pool and back towards the Washington Monument. Fifteen minutes. 06:00. He can do that. 

  According to the weather app Storm had downloaded on his phone, the sun has been up for three minutes. The Washington Monument glows pink and purple against the lightening sky and he wishes he’d brought his art supplies. He and Halliday used to…

  He’s slowed, he realizes. Hardly walking now, let alone jogging, but his heart pounds against his ribs. Shaking his head, he picks up the pace. One, two, one two, left, right, left, right…

  Jazz is already there when he arrives at the bench. Likely, she’d been sitting there the entire time, hanging out the window of a blue Porsche he’s never seen before. Her hair is highlighted the same blue, done up in two thick braids falling over her shoulders, twice the length it was the last time he’d seen her. She’s wearing a loose black tee shirt and a bracelet he knows transforms into a set of brass knuckles and she looks perfect. Dan’s not sure he’s ever seen her with so much as a hair out of place when not on a mission. He thinks of butterflies behind glass and shudders. 

  “You’re a minute late,” she calls, grinning. “What would Red say?” 

  “Probably not to call her that.” Dan slows to a stop at the passenger door. “Mission?” 

  “You know it. Call from Director Dobson a few minutes ago. Hope you like the ocean, because we’re going for a swim!” 

  “Oh, joy.” 

  “Don’t sound so put out.” Jazz revs the engine, drawing the attention of the few people walking in the park this early in the morning. “Prowl brought donuts!” 

  In the month Dan’s known her, he’s yet to get used to Jazz’s somewhat aggressive style of driving. He tries to cut her some slack. Perhaps it’s not her; perhaps it’s a Washington, D.C. thing, or a modern thing, or just something about new cars that he’s not used to yet. He’s ridden with other people, though, and he’s pretty sure it’s a Jazz thing. Jazz drives like she’s late, no matter how early she is (and Jazz is always early). Every speed limit is tested, every slow car passed, every merge taken with full confidence that no matter what, Jazz and her car will come out of it okay. Privately, Dan thinks it has something to do with the fact that Jazz doesn’t own any of the cars she drives. 

  They make it to the Triskelion unharmed and in less than ten minutes, so he supposes he can’t complain too much. Agent Powell, who everyone calls ‘Prowl,’ is waiting for them at the edge of the roundabout by the main doors holding the promised doughnuts and coffee. The bright Dunkin’ Donuts logo is at odds with the dark base layer she’s wearing, as well as with the scowl on her face. She’s probably not actually unhappy, he figures. Prowl always looks a little angry. Jazz calls it the ‘Prowl Scowl,’ which usually intensifies said scowl quite a bit. 

  Jazz waves to her through the window and gestures to the back seat. Prowl raises an eyebrow, looking from Dan to Jazz and back again, but climbs into the back without complaint. 

  “Mornin’, Sunshine!” Jazz pulls away from the curb as Powl hands her a Boston creme doughnut wrapped in a napkin. “You’re the best.” 

  “Mm.” Danny receives the other Boston creme and one of the coffees. He actually hasn’t tried a modern doughnut other than Boston creme yet, as Jazz had insisted these were the best ones. He’s not too eager to go trying more. They’re still a bit sweet for his taste, but he figures he’ll need the energy for the mission. Prowl keeps the other coffee and reaches into her bag, producing a Java Monster for Jazz.

  “Sweetness!” She makes a sharp left turn with one hand, opening the can with the other. Dan cringes. Prowl just sways with the movement of the car, unconcerned as ever. 

  “Have you briefed Dan?” Prowl asks. 

  “Nah, figure that can wait for the quinjet.” Jazz puts on her turn signal and makes another left, headed for SHIELD’s portion of the docks. 

Prowl nods, then pulls out her cellphone and selects a contact, someone who picks up after two rings. “Agents Crothers and Powell inbound with the Captain,” she says into it. “ETA 06:27”

  “Copy, Agent. We shall see you there.” Agent Soundwave. Dan frowns. Soundwave’s almost as new as him and goes only by their callsign. He’s sure Jazz knows their real name, but if she does, she’s not telling. Everyone else he’s spoken to about the agent professes ignorance, as if Soundwave had somehow made it into SHIELD with their callsign and nothing else. It makes Dan uneasy. Soundwave makes Dan uneasy, but he knows the agent has had some trouble fitting in, so he does his best to keep it to himself. His people instincts aren’t quite what they used to be, as out of place with the rest of him in this new century. 

  Part of his unease is, he suspects, due to the fact that Jazz and Prowl had taken to Soundwave so quickly. He’s been close with both of them since his arrival at SHIELD Headquarters almost a month ago, and though he likes them, there’s something about them he can’t quite put his finger on. They’re excellent at their jobs and plenty friendly (well, Jazz is plenty friendly), but there’s something behind their eyes that sets him on edge. They’re made for this world in a way he’s quickly learning that he is not, and he’s not sure he likes what that says about them. More and more, he’s learning that he needs a stronger stomach if he’s going to keep doing this. 

  He wonders what Halliday would think of SHIELD. 

  Jazz and Prowl fill the fifteen minute ride with inane chatter. SHIELD gossip, mostly, the kind of thing Dan isn’t up to speed on enough to participate in. It’s nice to listen, though. Soothing. 

  “Blue’s coming out with us on this one, right?” Jazz asks, making eye contact with Prowl in the rear view mirror. 

  Prowl nods. “His first naval mission. He’s excited to see you.” 

  “Of course he is.” James Powell, better known by his nickname ‘Bluestreak,’ is always excited to see Jazz. At only eighteen years old, he’s the youngest SHIELD agent Dan knows, almost a decade younger than the rest of STRIKE. He doesn’t do ops with them often, but when he does, his sharpshooting skills more than make up for his immaturity and inexperience. “How has he been?” Jazz continues. “I haven’t seen him since he got back from spring training.” 

  “He’s been well.” Prowl fills them in on Bluestreak’s latest exam performance as they pull up to the security booth outside SHIELD’s docks. 

  “Identification,” the woman in the booth says when Jazz rolls down her window. Prowl and Dan pass their badges to Jazz, who shows them to the woman. “Proceed.” 

  Jazz rolls the window back up as the gates rattle open. “Friendly this morning, huh?” 

  “It’s early,” Dan says. 

  A few hundred meters ahead, a quinjet waits for them on the landing platform. In front of its open door stand Soundwave and Bluestreak, along with a few other STRIKE agents Dan knows by face but not by name. Jazz parks the car and hops out almost before the engine’s off and waves, calling out to Soundwave. “Sounders!” 

Soundwave nods their acknowledgement. “Agent Crothers.” 

  “Aw, come on, you know it’s Jazz.” 

  Soundwave smiles, just the barest upturning of their mouth. “Agent Jazz.” They turn to Prowl and Dan, who’ve just caught up with Jazz. “Agent Powell. Captain. Good morning.” 

  “Morning, Agents.” Pleasantries aside, Dan heads up the ramp, already digging his suit out of the go bag Jazz had presumably grabbed from his apartment. Hopefully, this time, she hadn’t broken the locks. Or the window.

  He likes to change early, in the privacy of the quinjet’s single, tiny onboard bathroom. He knows that without showing his chest or genitals, it’s unlikely anyone would clock him as transgender. Hell, he knows that, in this day and age, it’s possible none of them would care. Jazz is open about her gender identity, even wears a little pink, white, and blue pin on her bag, but he just can’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. 

  He stretches as everyone else dresses, strapping on tactical gear and double-checking equipment. 

  “Status?” Prowl asks Soundwave as she fits an earpiece into her ear. 

  “Launch in two minutes. STRIKE: prepared. Brief: will happen in the air.” Soundwave buckles their parachute as the quinjet’s engines cycle up, preparing for takeoff. 

  Once all six members of the op are dressed and the quinjet is in the air, they gather around Soundwave and Jazz. Dan may be the de facto head of this mission, but the brief will come from someone familiar, someone with the kind of experience Dan is sorely lacking. It’ll come to him, Jazz assures him, but for now, she provides mission briefs more often than not. 

  Soundwave begins. “Mission description: satellite launch platform the ‘Lost Light’ overtaken by Algerian pirates. Vessel: contains SHIELD operatives. Mission objective: free hostages with focus on Agent Godwin Sitwell, callsign ‘Swindle,’ dispatch or capture pirates, liberate the ‘Lost Light.’” That’s not… Something’s not right there, but before Dan can interrupt, Jazz continues the brief.

  “What they said.” Jazz crosses her arms. “The ransom came in ninety-three minutes ago; they’re asking for a billion and a half. Intel says twenty-five hostels lead by known French operative ‘Onslaught.’ We’re looking to capture him, but everyone else is kill-on-sight unless Cap or comms says otherwise. Standard op procedure, Cap’s the first one in the door. Any questions?”

  “Yeah,” Dan says. “What’s Sitwell doing on a launch ship?” No one answers him. Typical. He’s getting a little sick of being the only one not to know what’s going on. “Alright, I’m gonna sweep the deck and find Onslaught. Jazz, you kill the engines and wait for instructions. Soundwave, you sweep aft, find the hostages, get them to the life-pods, get them out. Let’s move.” Before anyone can protest, he straps the shield to his back, turns, and jumps out the open hatch. 

Behind him, as he falls, he hears Bluestreak ask, “Was he wearing a parachute?” 

  “No,” Jazz laughs. “No, he was not.” 

Chapter Text

 Dan hits the water with arms crossed over his chest, legs straight, textbook perfect pin-drop position. Christ almighty that is really cold. The anchor chain is five meters from his position at fifty degrees, just how he planned the drop. Good. Gameface.

 Man, if he thought the water was cold- the air outside is absolutely frigid. It's not quite arctic. Of that much Dan's thankful, as he scales the chain. He could do without feeling that cold ever again. Nothing good, he muses, has ever happened to him in the cold.

 Anyway. Dan gets one hand over the lip of the Lost Light's stern and holds there, paused just staring over it and across the deck. Paused, and counting.

 There's seven of them he can see from here. He waits another minute or so, waiting patiently, and an eighth wanders around from the corner. He trades off with one of the seven- they've got rotating patrols, and they wander the deck in a lovely, predictable circular pattern. Dan picks his moment, swinging up and over, quiet as you please behind a pacing guard and knocking him cold with a hit to the back left base of skull.

 The next ones are a cluster of three, so Dan undocks his shield and winds one with a stomach blow, then trips another on the rebound right into the perfect spot for Dan to grab him and throw him bodily against the third, taking them both to the deck via a painful-sounding vent pipe's wall. The first one gets the flat of the shield applied to his face, with prejudice and a solid clang. Four down, three left.

 Dan sprints around the curve of the bow, using his momentum to slide-tackle the feet from under the next man, coming up on a nasty haymaker swing to his friend's jaw. The first gets back up, and Dan dodges his clumsy grab to sling the man up and over to dump him hard on his back, on top of the other guy. Six down, where's the- oh. Well.

 In what appears to be a shift change, five more guards wander out along the port  deck. The last one of this first set is dropped like a sack of potatoes with Dan's shield upside his head, and he starts off towards this new group at full tilt. One goes over the rail into the water with a shoulder check, the next two fall with well-placed shield ricochets.

 The last pair are well placed- for them. Dan tosses one against the wall, but the second pulls a knife- and his friend is reaching for the alarm. Dan dislocates the knife-wielding one's elbow to disarm him, and throws the dropped knife into the alarm-reacher's hand, and oh, boy could he have been the alarm himself. Dan lets his right hook play the snooze button. Sorted- time for the sub-deck.

 Dan manages to land feet-first- all two hundredish centimeters of him- on an unfortunate pirate. The two standing next to him get a one-two-one-two from the shield, which Dan then launches into the back of a running guard's legs, who slams his forehead against the guardrail. The last of the group is a challenge, swinging at him like a practiced boxer, but far from expecting a kick to the stomach with enough force to send him over the rail completely. Then, Dan catches the next with his shield to their head, and sets their skull to ringing with a punch of the metal underside.

 The final guard makes himself known by the click of the safety on his semi-auto. Soundwave makes theirs known a second later with a sniper round right through his sternum. Dan waves them down and moves to hold with their parachute, Jazz landing whisper-soft next to him.

 "Thanks," Dan says, and Soundwave huffs.

 "Captain: certainly required help," they say, in their own particular brand of irony. Jazz snorts walking past them both.

 "How about Rowan, from Medical?" She says, continuing their earlier, very one sided conversation the second Dan catches her up. "He's cute. And nice."

 "Secure the engine room, then find me a date" Dan tells her, because this conversation is the last thing he wants to be having. Jazz shrugs and vaults the tertiary railing into the depths of the Lost Light with a parting sally directed at Dan's "lack of game". He'll have to look that up on his phone later.

-

 Below the Lost Light's deck, Jazz feels very much at home. These corridors are running on emergency lighting- just the two strips of dim LED runners like the floor lights on a plane. Jazz is fond of the dark. Makes it easier to slip by a guard, just like she does to this one, and take him out silently. She marks the door he's guarding. That's the room she wants, for part B.

 "Agent Jazz," Soundwave's voice settles in her ear like a sweet coffee on her tongue. They've got a great voice, do they know that? Surely someone's told them sometime. "Secondary mission objective progress?"

 "Coming along, boss," Jazz whispers, trusting the mic to pick it up. Of course it will. Soundwave calibrated them, after all. "Door's marked. Gotta do the time sensitive bit first."

 "Agent Jazz: always so timely," Soundwave says. "Soundwave: appreciates it greatly."

 "Aw, flatterer."

 "Statement: truth," is their reply. It's very easy to imagine the little shrug that comes with it.

 Jazz can see the section of hall where the lights start to brighten up ahead. That means more guards, she knows, so she keys her mic.

 "Listen, Waves, I gotta let you go. Get back to work and all. I'll let you know when I've picked up the B-side."

 "Acknowledged. Soundwave out," says Soundwave, then the static hiss that means a live mic cuts off. Alright. Enough chill-time. Jazz takes the corner at a run, straight towards the three guards she knew would be there.

 "Jazz, status update," says Danny's voice through Jazz's comm. Oh, he's got great timing- Jazz kicks off the wall, twists and slams her foot into one pirate's collarbone, then starts for the next- in fact, they really should work on that.

 "Give me a second here!" she yells back, letting her forward momentum take her into a roll that knocks the next one down into the reach of her stunners. The two following him go down just as easy, and Jazz knows exactly where to put her strikes so they stay down. That over-shoulder suplex is very fun to do.

 Another quick zap, and she's back on comms with "engine room secure." No matter about the guy stirring behind her- the wrench hanging on the wall is a great sleeping aid. Jazz is happy to help him administer.

 Jazz takes her time winding her way to the engine console room, cataloging the Lost Light's interior for future reference, and it's maybe half a minute before she encounters more pirates. Well, that's inaccurate. Before she happens to some more pirates, would be a better way to describe it. She scales the big one's back and uses both her stunners against his neck to put him straight on the floor, then sweeps the little one's legs and lets her elbow meet him on the way down. Then it's simple work to slip into the control room.

 The grille floor- Jazz blesses whoever thought of grille catwalks, a spy's absolute dream- affords a wonderful vantage point for Jazz to see that there's only one pirate operating it. Prowler would have an absolute fit, Jazz thinks to herself. They've clearly never heard the word "redundancy".

  And since there's only one of them, Jazz can have a little fun without sparing half her thoughts to watching her own back. She drops down from the catwalk, sound at zero, and taps the pirate once on the shoulder, right fist already pulled back and ready, trademark grin on her face, and gives him a wink.

 "Hello, sailor!"

-

 Godwin Sitwell is tired of this nonsense already. He can feel his back starting to ache, he's sure it will be a problem for his physiotherapist before long. The floor is metal, and it is cold as all hell, and his joints are tight from sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest. What a farce. What an uncomfortable one, at that, which is the greater crime. Godwin sighs, which earns him a nudge from the rifle barrel dangling in the pirate behind him's hand.

 Well, there's that, too.

 Two of the pirates have been arguing back and forth in French(ugh) for the past fifteen minutes. Godwin has been sort of following it, with his very limited third language knowledge, catching words like "hostages" and "execute", which do make him a little nervous, but the arguing pirates seem to disagree on a timeline. Which is just fine in Godwin's book, since time spent arguing is time spent not shooting him.

 Then, there! At the porthole in the outside door, a flash of light off a white 'A'. Perfect. Of course SHIELD command wants to protect him with the best. He knows far too much about them. He laughs, which draws the attention of the pirate behind him.

 "What?" The pirate asks, jabbing his gun's barrel at the back of Godwin's head. "What is funny? Do you want to die first? Please, tell me that you do. My trigger finger, it has been so, ah, itchy, this night."

 Perhaps Godwin's picked the wrong one to antagonise. Well! Cards on the table, go all in.

 "No, sorry, it's just funny," he says, careful to keep his tone light and pleasant. "It's just. You do know that SHIELD is going to be sending a retrieval team, right? Like, even if you killed us all, you wouldn't even get a cent of what you want. How much are you even asking for, anyway? Don't lowball me, I know my worth."

 The pirate blinks, and answers "One and a half billion," before he's done processing the full statement. Godwin continues- keep the hostile off balance.

 "Good, great, that's about right. Like I was saying, you're not going to get any of it, my man. SHIELD's real protective about their projects, and there's a hundred percent chance a team's already on their way to fuck your shit all the way up. And rescue us. We don't negotiate. So I'm not super worried. Are you worried?" Godwin turns to the hostages either side of him, both silently willing him to shut the hell up. "See, they're not worried."

 The pirate's face is a study in how a little annoyance can go a long, long way. He's livid. Godwin is so very good at this.

 The pirate leaps up, storming over to the arguing two, and informs them that they should tell an 'Onslaught' that he has two minutes before he starts executing the hostages, starting with the "mouthy little bald bastard" over there. Ooh, hurtful. But the taller of the two rolls his eyes and relays that information through to whoever's posted on the other side of the door. Great. Not long to wait.

-

 Danny listens to the sounds of carnage from Jazz's end for maybe three more seconds. You've got to feel a little sorry for the pirates, he muses. They have no idea what they're up against. At least with him, they can see the massive shield coming at them for a few seconds. Not Jazz, though. She's scary.

 "Alright," he says, line of sight to Onslaught clear, said massive shield at the ready. "On one. Ready? Three, two, one."

 The glass of the bridge's window shatters as Dan's shield flies through it, embedding into the wall where Onslaught was standing not two seconds ago. Dan's already up and taking a running leap through, following his shield's path. Onslaught tosses out a lucky elbow that catches Dan in just the right place to wind him, and then he's gone.

 Well. Shit.

Chapter Text

Dan sprints across the deck, trying and failing to keep Onslaught in sight. Just as the pirate rounds a corner, though, his communicator buzzes to life. 

Soundwave says over comms, “Hostages: being extracted. Jazz has missed the rendezvous point.”

“Jazz,” Dan says, “circle back to Soundwave and protect the hostages.” No response. “Jazz!” Nothing. Whatever Jazz is up to, she’s not going to be of any help to Dan or Soundwave. No matter, he’ll just have to —

Pain explodes across his shoulders and down his back as Onslaught jumps on him from the level above. He hits the deck hard and when Onslaught pulls him up, he can’t get free in time to avoid being thrown a meter forward onto the ground. Onslaught uses his own momentum to flip himself into a kick that narrowly misses his crotch. For a moment, both of them are frozen, and it takes Dan a second to realize that Onslaught thinks he should have hit Dan’s dick. The benefits of being trans are varied and wonderful, Dan thinks as he scrambles to his feet. He charges at Onslaught, blocking punches and kicks with his shield and once punching the back of the thing, sending it into Onslaught’s face with a satisfying crunch. Maybe he is getting a taste for this kind of thing, after all. 

He continues to drive Onslaught back, trying to corner him against the wall, but for all his size, Onslaught’s quick. He ducks out of reach of a punch and flips backward, landing on his feet. “I thought you were more than just a shield,” he pants. 

Dan docks his shield on his back and discards his helmet. Distantly, he knows this is a bad idea, but he’s been itching for some real action ever since he joined this team. Ever since waking up in this god-forsaken century, actually. He thinks of scraps in alleyways and Halliday watching his back and says, “Let’s see.” Then, he charges. 

He’ll admit, the first few seconds are touch-and-go. He’s gotten used to fighting with the shield and reflex has him taking a few punches he meant to catch on it. Soon, though, it’s clear which way the battle will be going. He takes a running start and tackles Onslaught through the door. He lands hard on his back and falls unconscious with one quick blow to the face. Dan rolls to his feet, out of breath. He’s in some sort of computer room, and—

“Well, this is awkward. Fancy seeing you here, Cap,” Jazz quips from one of the monitors. She’s standing in front of it typing furiously, hardly pausing to look up at Dan as he approaches. He gets a look at the screen and sighs.

“What are you doing?” He’s got a suspicion already, but he wants to hear her say it. He wants a straight answer from one of the people he works with, and he’s run out of patience. 

Jazz just grins. “Backing up the harddrive. It’s a good habit to get into, you know.” She keeps typing, completely unconcerned. Shameless, and she’s making Dan angry. 

“What happened to the plan?” he demands. “You were supposed to rendezvous with Soundwave and the others. 

“That was your plan. This,” she says, pulling the thumb drive out of the computer and tucking it in her pocket, “is mine.” 

“You’re saving SHIELD intel.” 

“Whatever I can get my hands on, yeah.” She smiles wider and Dan resists the urge to punch something. 

“You just jeopardized this whole mission.” 

Jazz cocks her head. “I think that’s a bit of an overstatement.”
“Really? Because I—” 

Before he can finish his sentence, both of them are distracted by the sound of Onslaught getting to his feet. He’s got something in his hand, and Dan and Jazz identify it at the same time. 

“Grenade!” 

Dan grabs Jazz around the waist and dives through the window, using the shield to break the glass. They crash to the ground and Dan smacks his head on the wall. Head spinning, he keeps his shield raised as the rubble falls around them. Finally, when the sound stops and the world settles, Jazz stands up from under the shield. “Okay, that one’s on me.” 

“You think?”