Steve woke slowly, stretching languidly and yawning. He hadn't slept so well since 1940. He had, though, dreamt at length about a fluttering horde of butterflies attacking what had once been Gimbel's and about cool metal fingers brushing his cheek. The butterflies had been frightening in a surreal sort of way, but the touch – and really he shouldn't be dreaming about Tony that way – had been calming and soft and pleasantly hazy.

It took another few minutes of dozing in the dark before he realized with some horror that his dreams were in fact very real memories. He now vividly recalled being shot in the face by tranquilizer darts while distracted, everyone but Tony collapsing and – a blush warmed his face – an affectionate caress, then nothing. He had obviously been moved from the battlefield afterward, but by whom? The pitch black of the room offered no suggestions. He reached to his bedside in search of his shield and found it gone.

Villains then.

He sat straight up, triggering motion activated fluorescent lights which briefly blinded him.

"Oh, hey, he's awake, check it out," cried a cheery, nasal voice.

"Who's there?" Steve asked tentatively, eyes straining and stinging in the harsh glare.

"Just us," replied a different voice hastily. "Oh my god it's really him. This is so sweet. So sweet."

Steve blinked until he could make out two henchmen in enormous butterfly wings, one short and husky the other tall and lanky, standing outside what was clearly his cell.

"Where am I?" Steve stood, taking in his obnoxiously purple surroundings. He fought the urge to pace.

"You're in the lair of The Monarch. This is 24, I'm 21, and can I just say I'm a huge fan?" the stockier henchman gushed, pulling a set of keys from his utility belt.

"What are you doing? The Monarch will kill us if we let him go!" 24 cried.

"Dude, if we turn him over, they'll have to give Mrs. The Monarch back."

"So you can be the big hero and the get the girl? The girl who's married to your boss?"

"They never have to know it was us!"

Steve glanced back and forth between them as they bickered, unsure what to make of the whole situation. He decided to pace after all.

Meanwhile, back at SHIELD HQ, Tony was pacing too, striding back and forth impatiently while Natasha made a call from her bed in the medical wing.

"Well?"

"It's ringing, calm down. Oh, hey, Mol, it's me."

"Ask her."

Natasha just glared icily and switched to Russian – probably just to annoy him.

"Clint, how about yours?" Tony turned on his heel to face the next bed where Clint lay, equally absorbed in a long distance conversation. At least his was in a language Tony could eavesdrop fluently in.

"Well yes, I actually do have a reason for calling ... No, I just want to know about a Guild guy, goes by the name of The Monarch ... Yeah, the butterfly one ..." There was an agonizing pause while a lengthy explanation unfurled. Clint's eyes widened. Then his jaw dropped. "His last three archenemies? Just like that? Okay, I'll call him ... I won't tell him I talked to you ... You too ... And Shore Leave? Thank you for the heads up, I mean it."

Tony was practically vibrating with impatience.

"Well, what about his last three archenemies?"

"They're dead. He killed them." Clint's voice was disbelieving, but his faraway gaze said he took the warning very seriously. "I've got to make another call."

"Banner, tell me you've gotten through to someone." Now Tony whirled on Bruce in the farthest bed.

"Not yet. I haven't really kept in touch with anybody since ... you know. Dr. Quymn is out of the country, Dr. Schumpmaker went crazy, Professor Fantomos went Guild, and Professor Impossible isn't taking any calls. I can still give Dr. Sorayama a try though."

"Thanks, Bruce." Tony said, genuinely sorry for putting him through what must be a painful reminder of the life he'd been forced to leave behind. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Natasha hanging up and turned back to her. "Anything?"

"Nothing. She keeps up on Guild business as best she can, but she's not a member. She did say The Monarch's getting a violent reputation though."

"I'm not getting through to Sorayama," Bruce announced, defeated.

Clint was now talking in hushed tones to another old OSI buddy.

Tony gritted his teeth. No one knew what to say.

Thankfully, no one needed to say anything, because Thor chose that moment to step out of the closet.

"I'm afraid my consultation with The Master was most unhelpful, friends."

"Well what did he say? I thought you said he was all knowing?" Natasha pressed.

"He just kept trying to explain the plot of movie to me, one I have never seen. It is about a rich white man and a homeless black man who must exchange lives."

"You mean Trading Places?" Tony asked incredulously. "You're right, that was most unhelpful."

"Well," interrupted Clint, hanging up. "That was Brock Samson. He said he thinks we can take care of it ourselves. We just have to survive long enough for The Monarch to lose interest in us."

All eyes fell on Tony.

"Thanks guys, for all your help," he began, suddenly calm. "Stay here and rest up. I think I know what to do." Hoping he was right, Tony slipped out the door and down the hall to the makeshift interrogation room set up in the nurses' lounge.

He let himself in to find Fury and Coulson laughing genially with their prisoner as she sucked down a Marlboro.

"I'm taking her back. Her husband's a goddamn hero-killer, and I refuse to sacrifice Steve so you guys can flirt with a married woman."

Tony ignored the SHIELD-approved deathglares aimed in his general direction and grabbed the queen butterfly by her arm.

"And put that out, there are oxygen tanks all over this wing." He frowned disapprovingly when she dropped her butt on the linoleum and ground it out with her heel. "You really are a bad guy aren't you?"

"Honey, you don't know the half of it." Dr. Mrs. The Monarch sneered but rose to accompany him out the door.

"So do you have someone you can call to come pick you up or do we have to follow a million stupid rules governing prisoner exchanges?" Tony asked, guiding her none too gently down the corridor.

"There's no one I can call. You're supposed to arrange this directly with The Monarch or through a Guild-sanctioned proxy ..."

"See, this is why I prefer freelancers." Now it was Tony's turn to sneer.