Chapter Text
It’s a quiet afternoon at the luxurious mansion that serves as the Los Angeles headquarters of The Defenders.
The face of Bryan Patterson filled the gigantic screen in front of them. Just behind his shoulder stood Rudy Reyes; Patterson’s right hand, dogsbody, and all around voice of reason.
Brad barely suppressed a sigh. Patterson was a nosy prick, but Brad had to put up with it. Not only was he one of the smartest fucking men on the planet, it was his name at the bottom of the Defenders’ metaphorical paycheck.
“Afternoon, Defenders,” Patterson said, by way of greeting. “Time for some of you to earn the right to live is that luxurious mansion I provide you with.”
“We’re on it like a motherfucker,” Ray declared loudly. “Nighthawk needed to save the world, as always.”
“Actually, Ray, as much as we appreciate your finer points,” Patterson replied, no change in expression, “it’s Iceman’s special talents that are needed. You and Hawkeye will go along as support, so do try not to get in is way too much.”
Ray drew breath to speak but stopped when Walt laid a hand on his arm. “We’ll give Brad all the help he needs, sir.” Walt declared firmly.
“What is the mission?” Brad asked, since it seemed he’d be doing the heavy lifting.
“The US Navy asked me to investigate what appears to be a human, frozen in a block of ice, submerged in the extreme North Atlantic.” Patterson leaned over to comment to Rudy. “If they’d bought their submarines from me, they could get there just as fast and check this thing out themselves.”
“Yes, sir,” Rudy said, expressionless. “A fact the Navy is aware of since you’ve pointed it out at least three times.”
“Human ice cube in the frozen North Atlantic. Sounds like Iceman’s idea of a vacation,” Ray quipped, “or maybe his version of a mutant blind date?”
Walt shushed him.
“If the Navy asked you to check it out, why am I going?” Brad asked, as if Ray hadn’t spoken.
“Because Iron Man just received some shiny, new upgrades,” Patterson replied, as if that explained everything.
“Mr. Patterson has been asked to demonstrate the upgraded suit for the Joint Chiefs,” Rudy clarified.
Brad suppressed a grin. “If we’re responding as a team, the two flatscans will need transport,” he said.
“Not all of us can be freaky, Omega-level mutants, Brad,” Ray said, churlishly.
“Your loss.” Brad shrugged.
On the screen, Patterson arched an eyebrow. “Careful who you call a flatscan, Colbert. Remember who signs your paychecks.”
“Oh, I do,” Brad said with mock reverence. “Thank you, Rudy.”
“You’re very welcome, brother,” Rudy replied.
“Still here and still your employer,” Patterson said, sarcasm lacing every word. “Iceman, you’ll take a Patterson Industries jet to the east coast. There, you’ll board the Patterson Industries submarine, which will have you on site in a few hours.”
Brad silently marveled at the genius it took to design a sub that traveled that fast. “What do I do when I’m there?” he asked.
“Investigate the ice block, determine if there’s a risk,” Patterson’s answer was precise and succinct, just how Brad preferred. “If you need to execute a rescue, do it. If you find anything threatening, take it the fuck out.”
“When do we leave, sir?”
“As soon as you get up to the roof, Brad.” Patterson’s smile was slight, but the humor was unmistakable.
Somewhere … deep in the North Atlantic Ocean …
The submarine surfaced carefully through the ice pack. Brad stood back, arms crossed over his chest, listening to Ray and Walt run scans and analyze the information.
“The ice block is standard sea water, salinity and mineral levels consistent with the Northern Atlantic Ocean,” Ray said.
“Particles and life forms match the ice floes that passed through about five years ago,” Walt added.
“Readings on the subject frozen inside?” Brad asked.
“That’s the weirdest thing of all, Brad,” Ray answered. “He’s not a mutant. His readings are straight up human. They’re just from a really, really good human.”
“Meaning?”
“If there was such a thing as the perfect human, this guy’d be it. He’s at the extreme end of the range of human physical potential.”
Something tickled at Brad’s memory. A half remembered story ghosted across his mind but he couldn’t pin it down.
“Active life signs?” he asked.
“Affirmative, Brad,” Walt confirmed. “You’re go for a rescue and retrieval.”
“Gentlemen, I’m going for a swim,” Brad announced, turning and beginning to make his way to the stern of the boat.
As he made his way back, the highly trained civilian crew, all on Patterson’s payroll, made room for him to pass. Most kept their eyes averted, but a few nodded in respect. No one wanted to tangle with a giant man who could control the temperature of water to manipulate its form on an elemental level.
Brad reached the airlock door for the sub’s lowest external hatch. The crew was waiting for him. Ray or Walt must have told someone Brad was on his way.
“There’s a med team responding,” a young crewman said as Brad stepped through the open airlock door. “They’ll be standing by right here, awaiting your return.”
Brad nodded.
“Good luck, Iceman.”
The heavy door shut behind Brad with a metallic clang. Moments later, the airlock began to flood.
Icy Atlantic ocean water swirled around Brad, the level rising rapidly. He let his entire body turn to ice, literally, with hardly a thought. As soon as the water level reached halfway, Brad changed his form again. He became water itself.
He could hear the release of the exterior hatch, when the airlock was completely flooded. Brad flowed out of the lock and into the vast ocean.
Extending his senses, he felt around for his target. He pressed through free-flowing water, under and around the massive floes of ice, until he located the smaller, submerged block.
It was different, probably due to its human stowaway. The ice block floated differently, and moved sluggishly, bobbing just beneath the surface of the water. Brad caught up to it with ease.
Brad forced his body to coalesce back to a solid ice form. Placing his hands along the uneven sides of the ice block and slowly, he began the swim back to the submarine. He resisted the urge, but couldn’t help trying to make out the features of the man trapped inside. Though the ice was cracking and cloudy with inclusions, Brad could see just enough of the man. He was stunned by the man’s beauty. His features were defined and distinct. His mouth was full; for all that his lips were blue from cold. His skin appeared to be smooth and pale.
Brad pulled himself from his thoughts. Now was not the time to be developing fantasies, even if it was face to frozen face with one of the most attractive men he’d ever seen. Focusing his power, Brad moved the ice block toward the waiting submarine. It moved easily, and he steered it with little effort.
Despite his efforts, he couldn’t help his repeated glances at the figure in the ice. The man wore a military uniform, solid olive-colored. Brad would have expected woodland or desert camo. The ice distorted the view, but Brad could clearly make out a large pocket that bore the eagle, globe, and anchor, along with USMC. On the other was most likely a name patch. It said RICK, or FICK, or something like that. The entire uniform looked vintage to Brad.
Once he had made it back to the hatch, he forced the ice block to melt instantaneously. Brad swept down and gathered the unconscious man before he could sink too far, holding him tight to his chest. He keyed the code to the outer door of the airlock and when it opened, he swept them both inside.
Brad closed the outer door and turned to the crewman peering at him through the window in the inner door. He gave the O.K. sign and heard the mechanism engage that would drain the water from the lock.
Kneeling, Brad held his ice form and kept the Marine cradled against his chest. He could read the name patch clearly, now. It said FICK. He ran his hands over the body in his arms – limbs floating limply in the water - checking for obvious injuries, and finding none. The uniform seemed to have Lieutenant insignia on it. Brad noted the service shoes and canvas leggings, where he expected leather combat boots.
The water level dropped and Brad could see the man’s skin was indeed pale and smooth. It was nearly translucent from the cold, delicate blue veins visible along his closed eyelids. He felt solid and well muscled beneath Brad’s hands. His hair was slicked back from his handsome face, but between the water and the dim light, Brad couldn’t tell what color it might be.
The inner door activated and Brad pulled himself back into the present. A crewman entered and grabbed the unconscious man’s legs, helping Brad carry him out of the airlock to a waiting stretcher. They set the man down on the gurney and he was immediately swarmed by several doctors and medics. Brad felt superfluous.
Walt suddenly appeared beside him. “I put some dry clothes in your quarters, Brad,” he said quietly. “Any idea who he is?”
“Possible last name of Fick; foxtrot, india, charlie, kilo,” Brad answered, “Lieutenant, USMC. Check back fifty, sixty years. His uniform seems old. Out of date.”
He watched as the medical team cut Lt. Fick from his clothing. He had a brief glimpse of fair skin before the man was covered in warming blankets and tucked with bags of hot saline. Brad swallowed reflexively – he’d been right. The man was solid and well muscled. Brad remembered the feel of those muscles beneath his palms. They tingled at the memory.
“Ray and I will check on it.” Walt placed a hand on Brad’s arm to get his attention away from the medics working on the boat’s newest guest. “Go get changed, Brad.”
Reluctantly, Brad headed for his quarters. He could alter the water molecules in fabrics to turn them into liquid or ice, but he couldn’t dry them out, when he himself and taken the form of water. It had never been a more inconvenient limitation.
As Brad quickly changed his clothes, he hoped Ray and Walt found some information soon. He hoped even more fervently that the man would wake up in the next few minutes.
As soon as his clothes were changed, Brad picked up his earpiece off the small desk in the corner and activated the comm. “Ray,” he snapped, “sit rep?”
“The medics took Popsicle-boy to the infirmary,” Ray answered. “His core temp has risen quickly and steadily, but he’s still unconscious.”
“Any idea who he is?”
“He’s a US Marine with the last name of Fick,” Ray fired back.
“Thank you, Ray,” Brad responded drily. “Have you learned anything of additional usefulness, or do I have to do your job, and mine too?”
“You wish you could dig up the dirt that I do, Brad,” Ray sounded offended and not a little hurt. “You think this shit is easy?”
“Find something, Ray,” Brad growled, impatient.
“You’re the one who interrupted me.”
Brad impatiently shut off his comm. He stormed out of his quarters and headed for the infirmary, brushing brusquely past the people he encountered along the way.
The Marine was propped in a comfortable looking, if narrow, hospital bed. He was no longer covered by the heavy duty warming blankets, but was simply covered in one of the Patterson Industries Med Blankets that monitored vitals as it regulated body temperature.
“He seems to be resting comfortably,” a medic told him. “Brain activity is still a little low, but we think that’ll pick up as he gets closer to waking.”
“Will he wake up?” Brad asked.
“We have no reason to think he won’t,” the medic replied.
Brad moved to stand beside the bed. Fick’s hair was dry now, and Brad could see it was dark blond and wavy, burnished slightly with red. He looked almost alive now. Fick had color in his cheeks, and his lips were nearly red. They looked soft. Brad wondered what they’d feel like –
A tone sounded in his ear, which meant someone was trying to raise him on the comm. Brad turned it back on, on the chance Ray had information.
“Dude,” Ray’s voice jarred Brad, “the Sub-Mariner tossed him into the ocean! Can you believe that fucker?”
“What are you talking about, Ray?” Brad asked, hoping this had something to do with Fick.
“Popsicle-boy was tucked up, all nice and quiet in his block of ice, being worshiped by an Arctic Inuit tribe.” Brad could tell Ray was working up a rant. “He was minding his own business, being treated like a god and all, and fucking retarded Schwetje took exception to that. Instead of rescuing the guy, or calling one of us to help, he just puts on his superhero tights, goes into Sub-Mariner mode, and tosses the block of ice into the North Atlantic. Complete with its creamy Marine filling.”
Brad rolled his eyes. Ray was right. Schwetje was retarded. “How did Fick get into the ice block in the first place, Ray?”
“Still workin’ on that.”
“How about you stop bothering me with your useless drivel, and find out?”
“Jesus, Brad,” Ray replied, mockingly, “how ‘bout you get your panties out of their twist. Just hold your boyfriend’s hand and let me get back to work.”
Brad turned off his comm in frustration. But he did wrap his fingers around Fick’s limp hand.
Walt came into the infirmary, smiling at the medics. Brad snatched his hand away from Fick’s. Hopefully before Walt saw.
“Ray’s onto something but he’s being stonewalled by the military,” Walt said, handing Brad an e-tablet to read. “There was a Marine Corps Lieutenant; Fick, Nathaniel C., back in World War II.”
Brad paged through Ray’s preliminary report. “And?”
“His records dead-end with a single entry; ‘Operation: Rebirth.’”
“What the fuck is Operation: Rebirth?” Brad’s patience was nearing its absolute end.
“That’s where Ray keeps running into roadblocks,” Walt calmly replied. “He’s contacted Rudy to get Patterson’s clearances, so he can access the records.”
“At least he’s using his brain,” Brad muttered, handing the e-tablet back to Walt.
Waving it away, Walt continued, “Hang onto it. Ray can forward information as he finds it.”
Brad set the device down and turned back to Fick. Possibly Nathaniel. Nathan? Nate, maybe? Had he really been frozen in that ice block since World War II? If so, how the fuck did he get there?
“I’m going to go back and help Ray keep digging,” Walt said quietly.
Brad nodded.
When Walt had gone, Brad wrapped is fingers around Fick’s hand once more. It was good that he felt warm to the touch, now.
Alarms began to sound on the monitors near the bed.
“What is it?” Brad demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” the medic replied hastily, checking different readouts. “It looks like his brain activity is rapidly increasing. He’s probably getting ready to regain consciousness.”
Brad’s grip on Fick’s hand tightened slightly. He eased closer to the bed, and watched for any sign Fick might be waking up.
Meanwhile, in the dark recesses of an unconscious mind …
Nate struggled toward the light. Behind him lay fear, pain, and cold. Bone-aching cold. Ahead, he could just make out a warm light. He could hear, finally. He’d been deaf for so long.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Nate opened his eyes. The light was blinding, it made his head hurt and he blinked against it several times. He was surrounded by muted sounds. Soft voices discussed medical terms. He must be back in the Rebirth laboratory. That would make sense. Nate’s hands fisted convulsively as he struggled to breathe evenly. There was something in one of his hands. It felt warm and firm. It felt like someone was holding his hand.
“Easy, Marine,” a soft, deep voice said from just above Nate. “You’re safe. You’re going to be fine. Just relax and stay calm.”
Nate didn’t recognize the voice as one of his doctors or a lab assistant. He squinted against the bright light and tried to force himself to focus on the face hovering above him.
Blue eyes. Really attractive blue eyes. They stared down at him with warmth, humor, and just a little bit of hesitance. That confused Nate. He swallowed against his parched throat and then cleared it, wondering how hard it would be to speak.
“That’s it,” the man above him said, soothingly, “just go with it.” The right side of his mouth lifted slightly in a half smile.
Nate couldn’t find his voice. He’d never woken up to anyone this attractive watching over him. The man seemed exceptionally tall and was narrow-featured and handsome. With his short blond hair, he made Nate think of a Norse god or a Viking raider.
Nate’s heart began to pound in his chest. Panic rose up in him like a deadly wave. The height, the broad shoulders, Nordic features, blond hair … Nate’s brain seized on one word and wouldn’t let it go.
Nazi.
He tore his hand out of the Nazi’s grip and didn’t stop to ponder the look of confusion and concern that rolled over his face. Nate clawed at the covers, trying to scramble out of the bed and get to his feet. He had no idea how the Germans had gotten their hands on him. The last thing he remembered was trying to defuse a bomb on an airplane. There’d been blinding light and a deafening roar and he’d been falling …
“Easy, Fick,” the Nazi said, palms out in supplication, “just calm down, Nate. It is Nate, isn’t it?”
Fuck. How had this Kraut learned his name? Did he know Nate’s other identity, as well?
His mind seized on another tactic. Nate slumped down in the bed, lying passively. He stared up at the ceiling, refusing to make eye contact with any German.
“Fick, Nathaniel Christopher, Lieutenant, USMC, three-two-eight-four-nine-one.” Nate would only give them his name, rank, and serial number.
“Okay, so it is Nate,” the Nazi said.
Nate replied by repeating his name, rank, and serial number. There was no way these Nazi bastards could find out his other identity just from that information.
Iceman watches in confusion as Nate wakes up, only to completely withdraw once again…
Brad didn’t dare attempt to place a comforting hand on Nate. He’d been stunned when Nate had woken and opened his brilliant green eyes. Wishful thinking had made him sure he’d seen the smallest spark of attraction before Nate had panicked and then shut down.
No matter what question Brad asked, Nate gave the same reply, the same set of words followed by a string of numbers.
“What happened to him?” Brad asked the medics. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, sir,” one of them replied. “He’s in perfect health and his brain waves are normal. He’s choosing to give that same answer. He’s in full control of his faculties.”
Walt walked in at that moment. “Hey Brad, Ray found … oh, hey, he’s awake.”
Brad seized on a thought. “Walt, have Ray use Patterson’s clearance codes to get everything he can on Lt. Nathaniel Christopher Fick, United States Marine Corps, serial number three-two-eight-four-nine-one.” Brad didn’t miss the way Nate’s hands curled into fists.
“I’ll tell him, while you read your panel,” Walt replied. “He’s dug something up on Operation: Rebirth.”
Brad saw Nate’s jaw clench because he was watching closely.
Retrieving his e-tablet, Brad scanned through the information Ray had sent.
“Operation: Rebirth, launched in 1940 and headed up by Dr. Abraham Erskine, code name: Josef Reinstein, under the supervision of Marine General Chester Phillips,” Brad read aloud. “The goal was to develop a means of creating physically superior soldiers.”
“How the fuck did you get access to that information?” Nate demanded unexpectedly. Anger and outrage were apparent in his expression and every line of his body.
“The internet; an annoying, yet irritatingly gifted computer genius; and the security pass codes of a man who owns three-quarters of the world,” Brad hoped levity would set Nate at ease.
Instead, Nate’s face paled, his expression one of utter shock. “Hitler owns three-quarters of the world now? How long was I unconscious?”
Brad’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Hitler?” He’d heard Bryan Patterson called a lot of things, but this one was new.
Walt gave a short laugh. “Can I be there when you tell Patterson his new nickname?”
“Careful, Walt, or you’ll be the one telling him. In person,” Brad threatened. He resumed reading. This information had gotten a reaction from Nate once, maybe it would work again.
“After a rigorous selection process, the Super-Soldier serum,” Brad stopped reading. “Oh, for chrissake, Super-Soldier serum? Is this Ray’s idea of a joke?”
“It’s not a joke, you dirty Nazi,” Nate spat, chest heaving with every breath.
“That makes sense, Brad,” Walt said, with mock sincerity. “If Patterson’s Hitler, that would make you a Nazi.”
“And just when I was bordering on being able to tolerate you, Hasser,” Brad sighed.
“Seriously, Brad,” Walt made a sweeping hand gestured that indicated the length of Brad’s body, “you do sort of have that whole Aryan perfection thing happening.”
Something suddenly occurred to Brad, and it turned his blood to ice.
“Nate, you are not in Nazi Germany,” he said carefully. “We’re American.” Brad gestured around the room. “You’re on an American submarine. Our boss is American, and his name is Bryan Patterson, not Adolf Hitler.”
Nate’s eyes darted between Brad and Walt, both blue-eyed, blond-haired, and fair skinned, and looked doubtful.
“Hitler was defeated in 1945,” Brad continued. “America won. The Allies won. We retrieved you from the Atlantic Ocean at the request of the United States Navy.”
“The Aryan race has been genetically proven to be a myth,” Walt added. “Brad’s just … well, we aren’t sure what Brad is, but he looks like he’s Scandinavian.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Brad said derisively, “a Jewish Viking.”
“You’re Jewish?” Nate asked incredulously.
Brad nodded.
“Then you can’t be …” Nate broke off.
“A Nazi,” Brad finished for him.
Nate relaxed, looking around the infirmary as if seeing it with fresh eyes.
Ray burst into the room. “Brad, Brad, you gotta read what I just sent to your tablet … oh, hey, Popsicle-boy’s awake.”
“His name is Nate,” Brad snapped.
“Well, that’s the name they gave him when he was born,” Ray sing-songed, looking like a canary-eating feline.
Brad turned back to the panel in his hand and scanned through Nate’s personal information. “It says here, Nate, that you were declared missing-in-action, presumed dead, in April of 1945. You were trying to stop a Baron Zemo – seriously? – from destroying an experimental drone plane.”
“I think I remember that,” Nate murmured, his eyes looking distant, as if he was trying to access a memory. “We were flying over the Atlantic and I was trying to defuse the bomb when …”
“It detonated,” Brad finished for him.
Nate looked up at Brad, eyes wide.
Brad found himself snared by Nate’s gaze. He knew he should glance away, pick up the thread of the conversation but he couldn’t. He waited for Nate to break the connection, but those brilliant green eyes stayed locked on his.
“Now we know how he ended up frozen in a block of ice,” Walt observed.
Brad managed not to startle at the sound of Walt’s voice. He felt slightly disappointed when Nate finally glanced away.
“I was frozen in a block of ice?” Nate asked, eyebrows lifting.
“Floating in the North Atlantic,” Brad confirmed.
“Okay, you can play rescue ranger later, Brad,” Ray said. “Keep reading.”
“One subject was deemed suitable for injection with Super-Soldier serum – Lt. Nathaniel Fick, United States Marine Corps.” Brad lowered the tablet and looked at Nate. “You were an experimental test subject?”
“A successful experimental test subject.” Nate was looking at Brad as if willing him to understand something.
Brad resumed reading. “Lt. Fick survived the conversion process to become a human with extraordinary strength, speed and reflexes. His enhanced skills were utilized for Ultra Top Secret, ultra dangerous missions. He was issued the code name …”
“Wait for it,” Ray said, watching Brad with an evil smile.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Brad cried, tossing the tablet at Ray.
“That’s right, Brad,” Ray crowed. “You just rescued Captain America!”