Puzzle Bar sat halfway down 75th Street, tucked beneath an aging apartment building whose brick exterior had seen better decades. It wasn't flashy from the outside, just a narrow doorway and a modest neon sign humming faintly above it. But inside, the place was alive.
By the time Locke and Brown stepped through the door, the bar was already busy. Not packed shoulder to shoulder, but comfortably full. Music drifted low through the air, conversations overlapped in steady waves, and the scent of alcohol mixed with something fried and vaguely nostalgic.
Behind the counter, Karl McLaren was exactly where he always was—leaning slightly forward, laughing too hard at something a pair of blonde sisters had just said. His charm was turned up to full power.
Locke and Brown didn't interrupt. Karl was clearly in the middle of a delicate social maneuver.
They scanned the room, found an empty booth near the back, and slid into it.
"Bourbon," Locke said.
"Vodka," Brown added.
"Got it. Give me a minute," the waitress replied with an easy smile.
She returned shortly, setting the glasses down in front of them.
"Cheers," Locke said, lifting his glass.
"Cheers. To not being dead," Brown answered.
"Clink."
They took a drink.
Locke swirled the bourbon thoughtfully, then shot Brown a sideways look. "You've been talking about dying for months. Going out in glory, reuniting with your wife in hell. What happened? Changed your mind?"
Before tonight, Brown's standard speech involved exterminating mutants and embracing death like it was an overdue appointment.
Brown downed his vodka in one go and set the empty glass down with a soft thud.
"It's one thing to die clearing out mutants," he said calmly. "It's another to get ripped apart by vampires for no reason. That's not heroic. That's stupid."
Locke snorted. "Fair enough."
Brown poured himself another drink, his expression shifting.
"But seriously," he continued, "what the hell happened after we went down? Blade looked confused as hell. He didn't seem like he killed Deacon. And are we even sure that ash pile was Deacon? I don't remember there being a second vampire in that hangar. So where did the other one go?"
Locke blinked slowly.
"That's a lot of questions for someone who was unconscious," he said dryly. "You're asking me like I was awake."
Brown paused.
"…Right."
He squinted slightly at Locke's suit jacket.
"Then how come your clothes were torn and you don't remember anything?"
Locke didn't hesitate.
"No idea."
Short. Clean. Absolute.
In this incident, no matter who asked—Brown, Debbie, a federal inquiry, a polygraph—his answer would remain unchanged. He'd passed out from Deacon's sonic attack and woken up when the emergency team arrived.
That was the script.
Locke lifted his glass again.
"Maybe Blade did it," he said lightly.
Brown blinked. "Then why not say so?"
"Professional vampire hunter," Locke shrugged. "Probably doesn't want the paperwork."
Brown let out a breath through his nose. "He hunts vampires for a living and he's scared of paperwork?"
"Everyone has limits."
Locke was about to continue when something at the door caught his attention.
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
Brown followed his gaze.
At the entrance stood a woman dressed in black. Long red hair cascaded down her shoulders like liquid flame, and she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how much damage she could cause without raising her voice.
Brown recognized her instantly.
"It's her," he muttered. "You work fast. Already got her here?"
Locke stared, mildly intrigued.
If he didn't know better, he might've suspected Natasha had planted a tracker on him.
But then—
"Nasha, over here."
The voice came from the booth beside theirs.
Natasha paused mid-step. For a split second, her eyes met Locke's. There was the faintest flicker of recognition before her expression smoothed out effortlessly. A smile touched her lips.
She turned and walked toward the neighboring booth.
"Robin," someone greeted.
"Let me introduce you. This is Ted, Barney. And these two are Matthew and Lily."
"Hi, I'm Ted Mosby."
"Matthew."
"Lily. Perfect timing, we needed one more."
"Beautiful, my name is—"
"Shut up."
Locke and Brown exchanged a look.
What was happening?
Locke blinked.
Nasha?
Not Natasha.
Brown casually slid his phone out, bent down as if adjusting his shoelaces, and snapped a photo of the next booth. He sat back up and handed the phone across.
Locke studied the image.
Three men. Three women.
One of the men was heavier, dressed casually. Another wore a suit and tie, slim build. The third fell somewhere in between, relaxed posture.
The women—
One was petite and bright-eyed, sitting close to the heavier guy like they'd been a couple for years.
The second was Natasha—currently answering to Nasha.
And the third—
Locke's gaze narrowed.
Maria Hill.
Deputy Director and senior commander of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Except she wasn't wearing authority tonight. She was laughing casually, dressed like any other woman enjoying a night out.
Locke replayed what he'd heard.
Robin.
He inhaled slowly.
"So," he murmured, "a squad of female S.H.I.E.L.D. agents comes to New York under fake names to experience civilian life?"
Brown raised an eyebrow.
Before either of them could continue, Natasha stood from her booth.
"Excuse me. Bathroom."
Locke felt the shift in the air more than he saw it.
She walked past their booth without glancing over, heading toward the hallway leading to the restrooms. At the corner, just before turning in, she paused.
Turned.
Met his eyes.
The faintest smile curved her lips.
Then she disappeared around the corner.
Message received.
"I'm hitting the restroom," Locke said casually.
Brown's mouth twitched.
"You sure that's wise?" he muttered under his breath. "If I remember right, Esme's back tomorrow."
He wasn't blind. Ever since Locke had walked into the office with Natasha a month ago and announced their 'cooperation,' Brown had known something was off.
He didn't meddle in personal lives. But he did believe in not detonating your own house.
Locke paused, genuinely curious. "Esme's back tomorrow. Yeah. I told you. So?"
Brown stared at him.
"Do you think this is appropriate?"
Locke blinked.
Then his expression shifted into sudden understanding.
"Oh…"
Brown exhaled in relief. Good. He got it.
He didn't want to see domestic warfare derail their mutant-hunting operations.
But Locke reached over and patted him on the shoulder.
"Relax," Locke said calmly. "Do you know my second nickname?"
Brown narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"Langlilong."
"…."
...
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