Chapter Text
Meditation was an integral part of any extended prison stay, especially now that Coulson had taken the initiative of altering his mission parameters. He would need to be rested and prepared for the physical, mental and emotional exhaustion that came with a rescue from within enemy territory.
Patience was one of the hardest lessons any field operative had to learn, but Coulson’s decades of experience—along with the cues he’d picked up from days of watching the guards interact and the chatter he overheard —told him that his opportunity was coming if he just stayed put a little longer. So instead of breaking himself out of the lovely cell he’d called home for the past week like he’d thought about on the first day, he set himself to his prison routine.
Coulson wasn’t usually one to brag, but he was especially proud of the schedule he’d perfected through years of trial and error. It was designed to maximize the rest his body could achieve from even the most uninhabitable of conditions, cleanse his mind of things like all the ways the mission could go wrong or all the paperwork waiting for him when he got back, keep his muscles loose, prevent injuries, all while carving out room to make plans single A through double Z.
It was true that having seven hundred and two plans for any possible outcome was overkill, but in Coulson’s experience, it was always worth having a plan EK for if the villain’s base split open to reveal a rocket ship about to blast into orbit and shower the entire globe with man-eating space piranhas or something similar, or a plan PS for the mission target turning out to be his clone from a parallel dimension trying to sacrifice him and use blood magic to rip open a portal between the worlds as the first attack in an attempted invasion.
Coulson was halfway through his midday mediation about forty-eight hours after Barton’s visit when the door to the cell block opened again.
The kid’s shredded and bloodstained clothing was gone, replaced with a set of clean linen robes that looked a little like pajamas. Coulson was surprised to see that the guards flanking him weren’t dragging him; Grayson was walking on his own, exhaustion clear in every step but considering how close he’d been to death’s door two nights before, the fact that he was even on his feet was shocking.
Grayson kept his eyes on the ground with his wrists clasped in front of him, but even though the guards were each holding one of his arms, he wasn’t bound. In fact, everything from the guards’ stances to the concern leaking through their stoicism all the way to the gentleness in their grip screamed that the they were trying to protect the kid. Despite the fact that the kid had spent his nights locked up behind bars, the soldiers of Nanda Parbat saw him as one of their own.
The kid waited silently as one guard unlocked the cell—and Coulson didn’t miss the fact that they were putting him in the cleanest cell, or the even more obvious fact that the new cell was immediately next to his—and entered without protest when the other guard released him from the gentle grip.
“You will be brought water every hour,” the first guard said in the local dialect. Grayson’s head shot up, his eyes widening in terror as he began to shake his head, but the second one held up a hand.
“The Great One’s orders,” the second one assured him, “Your master agreed.”
Grayson let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through him. He looked up at the guards, and for a second Coulson thought he was going to say something. But instead, he slowly walked over to the back wall and sank to the ground, legs crossed with his head resting against the wall.
The guards closed the door and locked it with a thud that echoed through the room. Then they left without another word.
The cell block was silent. In the cell on the other side of the dungeon, the prisoner with the broken fingers grunted in pain and rolled over in his sleep. Grayson took a deep, shuddering breath and released it slowly.
Coulson kept his eyes shut and didn’t move from his meditation position.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Grayson muttered in a hoarse and tired voice. He didn’t bother opening his eyes or looking over to see if Coulson was listening. “I failed him, and now he’s just going to be angrier.”
“He’s going to kill you,” Coulson stated; probably not immediately, but based on the last forty-eight hours, the kid’s prospects for long-term survival were grim.
“Not if I show him I can do better.”
“Do you really believe that?” Coulson asked simply, and the kid shuddered. He finally looked over and met Coulson’s eyes.
“I have to believe something,” he whispered, pain and terror and exhaustion carved into the lines on his face.
“What if I could get you out of here?” Coulson asked. Grayson’s eyes widened, emotions flashing across his face as hope and fear battled each other inside his head.
“Getting away isn’t the hard part,” the kid finally answered, a little too firmly for Coulson’s comfort. That tone came from experience.
“My organization is uniquely capable of neutralizing threats like Wilson,” Coulson replied confidently, “We can get you out of here and we can bring you home safely.”
“No!” the kid shouted, the word escaping him in a terrified burst. He winced but there was no taking the sound back after it was already out. He shook his head, staring at Coulson with frantic eyes. “I can’t go back, I can’t. I can’t, not ever.”
“You’d rather stay with Wilson?” Coulson asked, trying to keep his voice level as a new layer of alarm bells went off in his head.
“You don’t understand,” the kid hissed, his face flushed red with emotion and his eyes quickly turning bloodshot, “I had to keep them safe, if I… he’ll kill them if I go back, I can’t… and even if I could… after everything I’ve done, I can’t. I can’t.”
The kid drew in a deep breath and his hands shook.
“I don’t care if he kills me,” Grayson whispered, staring down at his trembling hands, “As long as I know they’re safe. As long as they never know…”
Coulson frowned. He had to get the kid out of here. Whatever it took to convince him.
“And if I promised that you wouldn’t have to go home unless you want to? That we could keep you safe and away from him for good?”
“He’ll come looking for me,” Grayson met his eyes firmly. “He will. He’ll go after them, do whatever he can to try and get me back. Can you protect them from whatever he tries?”
“We won’t give him the chance,” Coulson promised. Grayson swallowed.
“But we have to move now. We can’t waste any time. And we can’t give your boss a chance to catch on.”
“How do we get out of here?”
Grayson clearly wasn’t talking about the cells or the actual complex of buildings. As Coulson and Barton had both demonstrated, getting inside wasn’t the hard part. Provided that you could navigate through the treacherous terrain in the first place.
“I have that handled. We just have to get outside the walls of the compound,” Coulson warned, “We’ll only get one shot, so we’ll need to move fast.”
The kid looked down at his bare feet and shuddered, no doubt thinking of the rocky, icy terrain of the mountains and dense forests surrounding the League of Shadows’ stronghold.
“Here,” Coulson stripped off his shoes and socks and passed the fabric through the bars for the kid to take, “My shoes won’t fit you, but some protection will be better than nothing.”
The kid accepted the socks but instead of putting them on, he looked up at Coulson.
“Why are you helping me?”
“That’s my job,” Coulson answered honestly.
“Are you sure?” Grayson asked. “If he finds us, he’ll kill you.”
The last part wasn’t a question. Coulson met his eyes and said, “I’m going to get you out of here, kid. I promise.”
Grayson closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly through his nose. Then he nodded.
Escaping from the fortress wasn’t an easy task by any means. Coulson had expected it to be challenging, especially with an injured rescuee to escort out safely. But all Coulson’s careful planning based around the expectation that he’d have to practically carry the kid the whole way turned out to be for nothing. Grayson’s knees trembled a bit when he first climbed to his feet but his legs only got steadier as he waited for Coulson’s cue.
The guards hadn’t notice the lockpicks (or any of the other toys) Barton smuggled him, so it was effortless to open the door of his cell and the one Grayson was in. Sneaking out of the cell block and taking out the single guard was a little trickier but mostly because the lack of sightlines meant Coulson wouldn’t be able to see anyone approaching until it was too late.
Luck was on their side and they made it all the way through the maze of the lower levels of the complex, sneaking carefully and waiting for patrolling guards and assassins to pass before continuing up. Or maybe it wasn’t just luck. Grayson was the easiest rescuee he’d ever rescued. When Coulson raised his hand to tell the kid to stay low so he could see if the hallway was clear, Grayson was already down. When they heard voices around the corner, Grayson was already holding up fingers with the correct number before Coulson even had a chance to count. The entire escape was going flawlessly.
Flawlessly enough that the seeds of doubt were starting to gnaw at Coulson’s chest. Nothing was this easy. But even if it was a trap, there was nothing fake about the cuts and burns covering every visible inch of the kid’s skin, or the limp in his right leg that left him fighting not to favor his left, or the unsteady rattle that accompanied Grayson’s every breath. Wilson had broken at least two of his ribs, maybe more.
Despite the fact that Grayson might have been leading him—or more accurately, letting him run headfirst—into a trap, Coulson didn’t hesitate. He had to get Grayson out of here and away from Wilson.
The first hints of natural light, along with the mental map he’d built, confirmed that they’d reached the ground floor. Grayson looked a bit steadier on his feet now but that was almost more disconcerting than it had been to watch him fall deeper and deeper into shock.
His sweat-soaked black hair was plastered to his forehead and his blue eyes were narrowed with intense concentration as he tried to push through the glassy haze that settled over his features whenever he started to lose focus. Grayson had been perfectly lucid—if tired and worn—during their conversation in the cell but it was clear that the exertion was exhausting him.
But even though every step shook and every breath rattled and he swayed unsteadily whenever they stopped, Grayson never missed a beat. He kept up a steady pace.
Grayson froze suddenly, his borrowed socks muffling the sound of feet slapping against cold stone, and Coulson’s hand snapped out to catch him.
“They know,” the kid’s voice was shaky, the first hints of fear breaking through.
“Then we need to move faster.”
Coulson started to crouch down to pull the kid onto his back but Grayson held his ground.
“I can run,” he said and Coulson didn’t argue. They didn’t have time. Besides, trying to coddle the kid would only end badly. He may have been Deathstroke’s victim but he was a long, long way from fragile.
The exit was heavily guarded, nine guards armed with long blades and another six of the colorfully dressed assassins on high alert at their sides. Grayson tensed, reaching for something at his waist that wasn’t there. His eyes were fixed on the enemies in front of them and it took Coulson a second to realize that the look on his face was recognition. And under that, the fear was much easier to place.
The assassin he was staring at was a tall woman with a belt of knives hanging around her waist, bright paint decorating her shaved head and dark skin all the way down the back of her neck. She was speaking in sharp tones to the assassin dressed in purple, spiderwebs decorating his costume.
Onyx and Black Spider. Two of the most notorious assassins the League of Shadows had ever produced. It was hard to see the Spider’s face, but the woman was scowling furiously and a pair of knives flashed between the fingers of each hand.
“We can’t take them,” Grayson hissed, his voice trembling.
“Close your eyes and be ready to follow me,” Coulson whispered back. His hand was already wrapping around the trigger of the gadget Barton had so thoughtfully delivered. This wasn’t the only exit, but if al Ghul had put this much firepower on a hidden door then their best bet was to get out as fast as they could rather than continue sneaking around in the hopes that they found a better one.
Coulson waited until Grayson had his hands pressed firmly over his eyes before aiming the pulse gun and firing. The blast of light that burst out of the end was blinding on its own, but the accompanying whine of the frequency they’d tuned using the Foster-Selving wave-transform from an adapted Roth-Einstein bridge was what stunned anyone in its path. The paralysis wouldn’t last long (not more than a minute) but that was plenty of time to grab Grayson by the wrist and make a break for it.
He pushed Grayson through the door and towards the forest, turning around to drop a smoke pellet behind them. Coulson ran into the trees, glancing over his shoulder when he realized Grayson wasn’t behind him. Because he was much, much farther ahead. Coulson put on a burst of speed to catch up, his hand pressing the comm link into his ear.
Coulson had activated his beacon the second Grayson had agreed to escape, which meant the jet should be waiting as soon as they got to the clearing.
The unfortunate consequence of the stun blast was that once their sixty seconds were up, there were ten furious assassins on their heels and the margin for error was closing with every passing second. Burst of gunfire cracked through the air, too far away to do anything more than shake the leaves, but even that was closer than Coulson wanted. Especially with the way Grayson was gasping for air with every stride and there was an unnatural bend to his gait that was growing more and more pronounced.
“Get to the clearing!” Coulson shouted. Grayson was still ahead of him and if he fell, Coulson was ready to drag him the rest of the way. But they were so close and Coulson’s feet pounded against the rocky grass, staunchly ignoring the chill seeping its way into his bones as they ran.
The hum of the twin engines as he barged through the tree line into the small clearing was the most beautiful sound Coulson had ever heard. The plane was a far cry from the usual quinjet but it was fast and big enough to fit them all.
He was so focused on the objective—get to the plane—that he almost didn’t notice as Grayson stopped short.
“Grayson!” Coulson grabbed his shoulder in alarm. Grayson’s eyes were glazed over, terror leaching the color out of his skin as sweat dripped down his face.
“He’s coming,” the kid whispered, shivering so badly that it was a miracle he was still on his feet, “He’s going to catch me, he’s coming.”
“Keep it together!” Coulson squeezed Grayson’s arm, trying to coax the kid further. But his feet wouldn’t move. The gunfire in the distance got louder and Coulson bit back a swear as the guards got close enough to hear their shouts and footsteps cracking through the forest.
“Need a ride?” Barton’s voice was cheerful but the look on his face was anything but. He notched another arrow and pulled back, firing at someone deeper in the forest. In the pilot’s seat, Agent Romanoff flicked a trigger on the controls and the hover propulsors fired to keep the plane about thirty feet off the ground where it was ready for a quick escape. Coulson reached for the harness Barton threw him, ready to clip the kid in but he flinched away.
“Let go!” Grayson snapped but his voice was so frantic he was practically shouting, “I can’t leave, he’s coming—"
“Keep it together, we need to go.”
Panicking would only freak the kid out more, but the guards were suddenly storming into the clearing and they were outnumbered and Grayson was a hair’s breath from wrenching himself out of Coulson’s grip and running straight back to the enemy.
Before Coulson could move, a volley of arrows knocked the entire row of guards backwards, thick foam blooming into a heavy curtain between them. Barton landed easily in the snow on Grayson’s other side.
“Nat’s got your line, I’ve got him,” Barton said calmly as he wrapped a harness around the kid’s waist and clipped him in. Then he wrapped his arm around the thick metal cable and slapped his earpiece, “Packages secure, take us up!”
Coulson didn’t step away from the window until the jet had reached cruising altitude and Romanoff felt confident enough to drop the cloaking device. The former Red Room assassin was the most paranoid person he’d ever met, aside from Fury himself, so if she was sure they hadn’t been followed, Coulson believed her.
The kid on the other hand…
Grayson was staring out the window numbly, one hand clenched around the shock blanket Barton had put over his shoulders. His chest was rising and falling in panicked breaths, and every time he breathed in, a wince shook his frame.
“I can’t do this,” the kid whispered so quietly he probably hadn’t meant to say it at all. At first glance, Coulson assumed the tremor in his voice was from his injuries, but then he saw Grayson’s face.
He was crying. His face was red and his eyes were puffy underneath the purple bruises around his eye and discoloring his cheek. Coulson reached out slowly to put a hand on the kid’s arm—as gently as he could so that he didn’t aggravate the dislocated shoulder—and terrified blue eyes met his.
“Take me back,” Grayson’s voice was hoarse and it shook so badly Coulson could barely make the words out. And that was saying something.
“We’re not going to do that,” Coulson answered slowly. The kid flinched and yanked himself out of Coulson’s hand and Coulson took an extra step back, raising his hands to show that he wasn’t any threat. “We’re not going to let Deathstroke hurt you anymore. You’re safe now, Richard.”
A choked sound escaped the kid’s throat.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes we do,” Coulson answered calmly, “I told you before, I work for a highly specialized branch of the US government—”
“SHIELD,” the kid said before Coulson could get any farther.
“Right,” Coulson nodded.
“He told me. He told me everything but I can’t… I can’t do this… Take me back. I can’t do this again, please, take me back—”
“Kid, take it easy,” Barton cut in before Coulson could say anything. He handed the kid a bottle of hydration supplement, SHIELD’s own formula that was essentially Gatorade on steroids. “You need to hydrate and by the looks of it you could use some serious first aid.”
Grayson grasped the bottle with shaking hands. He took a deep, pained breath before steeling himself and opening the cap. He took a small sip, which turned into a much bigger one, until he’d drained half the bottle.
“Better, right?” Barton asked softly. Slowly, he held up a roll of medical tape. “Will you let me patch you up?”
Grayson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before slowly looking away from Barton to stare at Coulson.
“Where are you taking me?”
“For now, back to SHIELD. We’ll get you medical attention and go from there.”
“Speaking of,” Barton held up the roll of tape again and Grayson nodded, wincing in pain when the movement put pressure on his chest. Romanoff cleared her throat quietly and Coulson looked up at the rear-view mirror, locking eyes with the agent. She raised a single eyebrow and nodded at the seat next to her. Coulson sighed.
“I’ve got it,” Barton nodded from where he was wrapping the kid’s leg and Coulson headed to the passenger seat to go headfirst into the lion's den.
Romanoff spared him a single dry smile in solidarity as she pushed the headset at him. Coulson took a breath and smiled placidly, pressing the button on the console to answer the direct video call from one Director Nicholas J. Fury.
“Agent Coulson, why do I have the feeling that you’re about to drop a shitstorm on me?” Fury didn’t sound happy (which could have just been sound distortion through the headphones and the plane’s video screen), and Coulson offered him his most professional shrug in response.
"Director Fury, you’ll be glad to know that your intuition is as sharp as ever,” Coulson answered in the bland voice he reserved for only the very worst shitstorms. Fury sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was trying to stave off a headache. “Romanoff estimates two hours until we touch down in Washington. I trust that all the accommodations I requested will be ready.”
Fury inclined his head in affirmation before holding up his hand.
“Before we get into whatever was big enough for you to completely alter the parameters of your mission, can you at least tell me that you made some progress on the mission you were actually sent on?”
“Morning, Grayson,” Coulson smiled, “Mind if I sit with you?”
Grayson didn’t answer but he did nod, so Coulson took it as a go-ahead to sit down across from him. He set down his stack of files and pulled out the top sheet, his stylus flying over the screen of his tablet.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” Grayson said after a few minutes, staring glumly at the bowl of oatmeal on the table. He leaned over sullenly, his head in the crook of his elbow and the other hand absently flicking the spoon around. Coulson was a little surprised the medical staff had approved him being given metal utensils; protocol for anyone ranked over threat level eta was to limit them to disposable plastics.
He was grateful, though. After everything the kid had been through, he didn’t deserve to be treated like a prisoner.
“I figured you could use some company,” Coulson answered lightly, “Medical can get a bit lonely.”
Grayson didn’t answer but his fingers made an aborted twitching motion and the spoon clattered against the bowl. He swallowed and for a few seconds it seemed like he was about to say something. But the moment passed and he went back to eating. Coulson turned back to his paperwork, keeping one ear tuned in case Grayson changed his mind.
It was barely five minutes before Grayson spoke.
“Aren’t you going to grill me for information?”
“Absolutely not,” Coulson answered firmly. Grayson blinked and shock was the first full emotion he’d seen on the kid’s face that wasn’t fear.
“What?” the kid asked, looking dumbfounded, “You don’t have any questions?”
“I’m sure you’re in possession of a lot of information that SHIELD would like to know. But under no circumstances is any personnel permitted to ask you for any of it. Richard—”
“Don’t call me that!” the kid jumped in, holding his hands up to soften the words, “Please.”
“What would you like to be called?” Coulson asked gently.
“Grayson is fine. Or, just Gray?”
“Okay, Gray. I want you to understand that your SHIELD protection is not conditional. You do not owe us any information or services in exchange for your safety.”
Grayson didn’t look like he really believed Coulson, but he nodded anyways.
“So what happens now?” Grayson asked, looking unsure.
“Since you’re a minor, your custody has been temporarily granted to the agency. Usually, in cases where an operation results in the rescue of displaced minors, we typically provide short-term housing, meals and counseling while our case workers arrange permanent placements. For abducted minors, our priority is normally to reunite them with their families.”
Grayson stiffened, his eyes widening in fear but Coulson was already holding up a hand to cut off the worry.
“I made you a promise, Gray,” Coulson started, “There is no official record of your rescue, and although I do have some questions, you have my word that Wayne will never find out you were ever here. You are currently in SHIELD's protective custody for the indeterminate future.”
Gray nodded. Some of the tension in his back bled away, his posture slouching to something Coulson wouldn’t have thought him capable of a week prior.
“He’s a good dad,” Grayson said quietly. His eyes were welling up with tears and the metal spoon in his hand was getting mangled by the force of his grip. “I miss him—all of them—but if he knows I’m here then he’ll come and then Slade will—”
He cut himself off with a hand over his mouth. The twisted lump of metal that had once been a spoon clattered against the table. Coulson took the liberty of discreetly removing it before the kid noticed what he’d done and got worried about accidental destruction of property.
“Your father has been trying very hard to find you these last few months,” Coulson said quietly. He didn’t know if it would make any difference, but Coulson had dealt with enough abductions in his life that he could see how desperately the kid just wanted to go home. “He has an exceptionally large pool of resources; with SHIELD’s guidance, we could help him put together a security force capable of protecting both you and your family.”
The kid barked out a laugh that sounded like he’d swallowed broken glass.
“Nothing works forever,” Grayson said in a voice that left no room for doubt, “When Slade finds me, he’s going to hurt me for leaving again. But as long as I stay away from them, he’ll leave them out of it.”
“Wilson is not going to find you.”
Grayson gave him a despondent smile.
“This isn’t a rescue, Coulson. I wish it was, but… this is just… I want to be away from him as long as I can until he comes back for me and it starts all over again.”
There was nothing to say to that.
“You should get some rest,” Coulson said as he stood up. “The doctors are happy with your progress, if you keep it up, they’ll be releasing you in a day or so.”
“The council is not happy,” Fury started as soon as Coulson entered his office.
“When are they ever, sir?” Coulson returned, taking his usual seat across from Fury’s desk. Fury nodded to concede the point. Goose trotted out from under Fury’s chair and jumped up on Coulson’s lap, headbutting Coulson’s hand and demanding to be pet. Coulson obliged, scratching under the cat-shaped alien’s chin and behind his ears the way Goose loved.
“The situation in Nanda Parbat is stable; al Ghul is focused on retaining his power base and with a few notable exceptions, his followers are being well-treated and the local populace considers themselves more or less unaffected by DEMON’s stranglehold over the region,” Coulson reported.
“Except…” the director prompted, and Coulson sighed.
“Except that we were not able to confirm why Deathstroke was present in Nanda Parbat in the first place,” Coulson answered.
And of course, Fury had to go ahead and say what Coulson didn’t want to admit.
“Then there’s a possibility that Grayson was a plant. And you’ve apparently gone ahead and promised him that he won’t be questioned.”
Coulson scowled, his hand tensing. Goose opened one eye and let out a frustrated mrowl, prompting Coulson to resume petting him or risk upsetting the alien.
“If Deathstroke orchestrated this situation to get the kid inside SHIELD then what good would questioning him do? As long as you suspect him, any information he might have would be suspect as well. And in the case that Grayson is just a kid that has spent the last year of his life being tortured by Interpol’s most wanted, then I would just as well skip the step where we put him through any more misery.”
“Not grilling him is one thing,” Fury snapped, “What you’re suggesting is another thing entirely. He’s not Romanoff.”
“You had your suspicions about Romanoff,” Coulson reminded out sharply. Fury took a deep breath.
“Romanoff was a very different case. And she has more than proven herself.”
“Doesn’t he deserve that chance too?”
“Grayson is not an agent. He’s a minor in protective custody until we figure out a way to deal with that motherfucker Wilson.”
“And how is that going?” Coulson demanded, the first hints of anger leaking into his voice. “The kid is positive Wilson is coming back for him. From what he’s said, this isn’t the first time Grayson has managed to slip away.”
Fury scowled. He sat down in his desk, fingers tightly interlocked.
“He’s in the wind. Our sources in the area reported that following your escape, Wilson attempted to kill the guards that failed to stop you and al Ghul personally intervened. There was a very ugly, very loud confrontation and al Ghul had Wilson cast out. Of course, he seems to have disappeared in between takeoff and landing.”
“So it seems like Grayson’s concern is justified.”
“It would seem,” Fury agreed. The twitch in the man’s single eye revealed exactly how much he hated being outmaneuvered.
“So what are our options?” Coulson asked.
“We could put him in witness protection and allocate a branch of IT to run constant surveillance and interference to make sure he’s never recognized, running the risk of Wilson killing innocent civilians if his location is discovered.”
“Which is not an option.”
“No, it isn’t. Which brings us back to square one.”
“…Not quite.”
Fury looked up at him with an unimpressed eye. He made an impatient gesture with his hand, practically demanding Coulson to get on with it.
“There is the other thing,” Coulson said after a long moment of trying to decide whether or not to say it.
“What ‘other thing’ would that be?”
“Have you had a chance to look at his medical report, sir?”
“Concussion, six broken bones, deflated lung, fractured tibia,” the Director listed off, “Not pretty but nothing life-threatening. Unless I’m missing something?”
“Did you look at his blood work?”
“The tox screen was negative.”
“It was. But they found something else.”
“Well?” Fury prompted when Coulson didn’t continue.
Coulson reached into his briefcase and pulled out a file. He passed Fury a stack of chemical analysis sheets; Nuclear Magnetic Resonance scans, Infrared Spectroscopy readings, Ultraviolet Spectrum Visibility analyses, Plane Polarization Chirality data, and a set of ultra-high resolution electron microscope images of the blood samples they’d taken.
Fury glanced down at the files, raising an eyebrow at the graphs and assortment of readings and spectra and looked back at Coulson with an unimpressed expression.
“Do I look like a damn chemist?” the director demanded.
“There was an irregularity that kept appearing in his blood work. We had a sample taken to the labs for extensive analysis and Agent Fitz noted some striking similarities to… data collected from a very old blood sample. He made some notes for you,” Coulson summarized. The unimpressed look on Fury’s face turned suspicious.
“How old?”
“Oh about… seventy years or so.”
Fury’s eye widened. He looked down at the charts again, flipping through them with laser focus as he read the scientist’s notes. Coulson knew by the way Fury’s eyebrows rose that he’d seen the note reading, “No peak matching from external literature review. One match confirmed in SHIELD database; see S. Rogers, 1944.”
“It’s the serum?”
Coulson nodded.
“It’s not an exact match, but it looks like the closest anyone’s gotten since… well, Rogers.”
“The kid’s a goddamn supersoldier,” Fury realized.
Coulson passed him the mangled spoon.
“Grayson didn’t even seem to notice,” Coulson said as Fury inspected the damage. “What Wilson did should’ve killed him and less than a day later, he was walking around on his own.”
“If this is accurate…”
Coulson could see the wheels turning in the Director’s head. He was right; the instant Fury had seen the serum, the chance of letting the kid out of his direct sight was gone. And from what Coulson had seen, the last thing the kid wanted was to be coddled. Wilson had evaded every law enforcement agency in the country, and most of the agencies outside it, for almost two years. SHIELD was the best there was, but Wilson somehow managed to slip their surveillance in the span of a few days.
Coulson had a feeling that if anyone was going to be able to catch him, it was Grayson. And after everything the man had done to him, he deserved that chance.
“Then Wilson is going to be back for him. And if this gets out, he won’t be the only one.”
“Richard Grayson,” Fury announced as he entered the room. The kid flinched, his back straightening and his posture smoothing itself into a picture-perfect military stance at the clear recognition of authority. “My name is Nick Fury.”
Grayson met Fury’s eye and barely stopped himself from flinching, but he couldn’t stop the tremor that ran down his spine.
“At ease, kid.”
The kid didn’t move until Fury raised an eyebrow and nodded firmly at him, and slowly, the child soldier allowed himself to relax.
“That’s better. As Agent Coulson was just informing you, you are not under arrest. But given that you have no intentions of allowing us to bring you back to your foster family and the fact that you are an extremely high-profile individual, we do have a bit of an issue regarding your situation.”
Fury paced the room as he spoke, mindful of the careful gaze Grayson had on him.
“You are officially in SHIELD's protective custody and all records of your rescue have been sealed and placed under maximum security clearance. No one will ever know that you are or were ever here, so long as that’s what you want.”
“It is,” Grayson breathed in sharply, his hands twisting together, “They can’t know I’m here, no one can. Coulson promised—”
“He did,” Fury agreed, “Which leaves us with a fairly limited number of options.”
Grayson listened in rapt attention as Fury explained exactly what those options were, detailing what the various forms of protective custody would entail and the unfortunately bleak timeline they were looking at for the manhunt for Wilson. As both he and Coulson had suspected, Grayson seemed entirely uninterested in the idea of being given a false identity and sent into protective custody to wait.
“Of course, there’s another option,” Fury said careful, watching Grayson try and fail to hide the misery at the thought of being hidden away somewhere, just waiting for the day when SHIELD would track Wilson down without any way to help.
“What is it?”
“You might call it an employment opportunity.”
Grayson blinked. He stared at Fury for a few seconds in incomprehensible confusion. Then…
“Are you serious?”
“We do have a bit of precedent for this. I will warn you, your actions will be under scrutiny but given your situation, you will be able to assist in the efforts to track Wilson.”
“You’d let me help?” Grayson sounded stunned.
“Your assistance would be welcomed, in whatever capacity you’re willing to give it,” Fury answered.
“Then I want that,” his hands tightened into fists and he nodded firmly, “If there’s something I can do, I can’t just sit around and wait for him to catch up to me. I want to help.”
“Good. In that case,” Fury held out his hand and the kid only hesitated for a second before shaking it, “Jr. Agent Gray, welcome to SHIELD.”