A/N: Thank you for the FANTASTIC reviews! They were much appreciated!

Shout Outs: To my beloved editors, Icanhearthedrums and JRBarton without whom my work would be in sad, grammatical disarray. Merry Christmas:)

Chapter 2 –Meningioma-

With no evil producing itself from the dark corners of the room, Logan returned his attention to the unconscious Avenger. He had to get some help, immediately. Bill wouldn't hear him this far down unless he found a phone. After patting a few pockets in his plaid shirt, Logan figured his own cell phone was in the side pocket of his bag. He checked for Clint's, and fished it out of his pants pocket. Beneath him, Clint moaned and tried to roll. Logan set the phone aside to grab his shoulders.

"Whoa, now, hang on. You just fell on your face."

Clint blinked at him. "Logan?"

"Yeah, it's me. What you do? Forget to eat a Twinkie or something?"

Clint pushed Logan away and sat up. He tapped a hand to the side of his head, and felt the stick of blood there. "Crap."

"Told you about that crack you took. Care to enlighten me about what that all was?"

The archer looked around. "Bill down here?"

"No."

"Help me up."

"You going to fall over again?"

"No."

Logan moved back and helped Clint to his feet. The archer swayed, despite Wolverine's hand keeping him upright. After giving him time to gather his wits, Logan directed them both to the closest bench. Clint didn't lean too heavily on him, but it was obvious whatever happened to him left the archer stunned. He reached his hand out to feel along the wall, and sat down beside Logan's duffle bag. The X-Man left him for a minute to grab one of the cleaning towels. He soaked it under the water fountain and returned with the cloth. Clint heard him coming, and held out a hand for it.

"I need something in my office." Clint said.

"You going to walk yourself up there?" Logan asked incredulously.

Clint began to shake his head, but stopped very quickly. His eyelids fell, and he held the towel to the cut on his head. "I need you to get it. Don't bother Bill, he'll keep Katie distracted. Top drawer, left side. Three bottles. I need all three."

"You going to be ok for the minute it takes me to get those?"

"I should be fine. Just don't stop for tea." Clint leaned back, holding the front of his head in one hand as if the knock had walloped a headache through him. Logan didn't doubt that he'd feel something after dropping onto his face. After standing there a moment longer to be sure Clint wasn't going to pitch forward onto his face again, Logan retreated for the stairs.

Nothing seemed different in Clint at first. Logan hadn't seen the guy in a few months, but the archer had gotten a bit of press after the last attack by a new HYDRA faction a week before. Logan remembered laughing at the television. Clint went in doing his whole rescue routine with the Hulk and Iron Man beside him. Clint didn't typically make a spectacle of himself but there were some days he just couldn't help it. Logan remembered seeing Clint walk away. No one was staying at his place, meant they didn't have him under concussion watch. Even Bill seemed unconcerned. Katie certainly had no idea something was up. For a straight up human, Clint had taken his fair share of knocks in the past. It was possible something knocked him down and he had yet to fully recover from it.

The Wolverine headed into Clint's office and fished around in the desk for the bottles of pills. While his fingers searched, he glanced over one shoulder to watch Katie take another jog around the building. Bill ran right behind her. The guy could run from Africa to the Arctic Circle and never tire. He might masquerade as a man, but the fact that he was an alien occasionally came out. Feeling the pill vials, Logan wrapped his fingers around them and brought them up into the light. He wasn't the most talented when it came to knowing the names of medications and their uses. What he could comprehend was the name of the doctor on the prescription label. Neurologist, popular in New York, and the only reason Logan knew it was because Jean often referred to his work. Pocketing the medication, he returned to the Danger Room.

Clint had either moved on his own, or fallen right over. When Logan returned, he found the archer lying on his back beside the bench with the damp towel rolled up under his head. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he appeared content . . . or dead.

"Hey, tail feather, you dead down there?" Logan questioned, kneeling beside him.

In response, Clint held out his hand, palm up. "One of each." He said.

Figuring Clint meant the medication, Logan worked the lids off and extracted one of each pill type. Before he could ask if Clint wanted something to wash them down, the archer already tossed them into the back of his mouth and swallowed. He never sat up.

"How did that taste?" Wolverine asked.

"Like chalk and pennies." Clint retorted. "And before you ask, I got down here on my own. It's supposed to take the pressure off or something. I don't know. I just do what they tell me."

"You take a hammer to your forehead or something during the last job?" Logan asked. He wasn't exactly curious, he just wanted to know why his friend, who had randomly passed out and had three bottles full of medication prescribed by a neurologist, was living alone in his house. Clint's eyes opened briefly. They tracked toward Logan's face, but diverted by about a foot. Figuring Bill had come up behind him, Wolverine glanced over his shoulder. No one was there.

"Who you lookin' at? The Invisible Woman?" he joked. Clint's eyes shifted a little, but still missed locking with Logan's. Concerned, but not really believing his suspicions, the X-Man reached his hand forward and slowly moved it over Clint's face.

The archer didn't move.

"I can feel your hand there, Logan. And don't ask me how many fingers you're holding up, 'cause I won't be able to answer that one either. Right now I can't exactly see anything. Give me a couple minutes though and it'll come back." Clint's voice was steady and calm. Too calm, for a guy who made his living off of his impeccable eyesight and was now lying with his back on a gym floor totally blind.

"You're pulling my leg."

"Laying down helps," Clint said. "Supposed to take the pressure off or something. Brings it back faster. The pills knock me out. I'm going to have to go back to my place. Katie's going to be upset, but she can deal. Don't let her come down here."

The reality of what Clint trusted him with slowly filtered into Logan. At first he might have thought this was an elaborate prank, of which Clint had been known to pull. The last time they met, Wolverine was convinced Natasha had been killed in a running of the bulls in Spain. Clint even had pictures to prove it. Then, of course, Natasha walked into the office, and the jig was up. Before that, Clint faked his own death. Bill helped with that one. And for ten minutes, Logan felt like an idiot, offering his condolences to Natasha. Clint was an excellent spy, and nearly as masterful as his girl at spinning tall tales. This time, though, Logan had the distinct impression Clint told the truth. Wolverine lowered down until he sat by Clint's left side. He didn't know what the drugs were, or how fast it would take them to kick in. The archer breathed steadily, both arms draped across his face

"So – "

"Posterior Fossa Meningioma Grade 2 wrapped around my occipital nerve. Inoperable, and slow growing. It's not going to kill me, but it occasionally presses on stuff it shouldn't. I'm on anti-seizure meds, some type of crap to lower the pressure in my skull, and like three other things I don't remember. One day, I'm going to go blind, and I'm not going to get my sight back. No one can tell me when that's going to happen."

Logan nodded very little, and tried to absorb what Clint trusted him with. He couldn't help leaning forward and again waving his hand, more slowly, in front of Clint's face. Sure enough, the archer had no reaction. The weight of it all suddenly hit like the crash of a wave.

"Clint…" Logan whispered.

"I'm sorry, you weren't supposed to know." Clint said by way of explanation.

"Not supposed to know?! You just told me you have a tumor in your brain, and you weren't going to tell anyone about it? That you are going to end up just as blind as you are deaf, and you plan to just keep that to yourself? When were you going to tell someone, bub?!" Logan nearly shouted. He didn't have many people he referred to as friends, but over the years, Clint came about as close as most of the people in Logan's life that he liked. He couldn't help being slighted at Clint's plan to keep him in the dark. What was he waiting for? The perfect time to break the I-have-an-inoperable-brain-tumor news?

Clint moved one arm away as his sapphire eye attempted to track over Logan's face. "It's not like that."

"It's exactly like that!"

"Stop being such a girl about this. I'm the one with the brain tumor. I should be the one upset!"

"Yeah, I agree. And why aren't you? How many times has this – " Logan indicated the archer's body stretched out across the floor lined in prescription bottles, forgetting Clint had no idea what motion he was making. " – all happened to you? Enough for it to be common place?"

"No. Only, like, three times. And I never fell before. Usually, I get a headache first and I feel it coming. So this is as much of a surprise to you as it is to me. And stop giving me that look!"

"What look?!"

"That pity look! That I'm-mad-you-didn't-tell-me look! I haven't had an episode in four weeks, OK, so how was I supposed to know this was going to happen right now?"

"You're blind, you don't even know what look I'm giving you." Logan retorted, but didn't have much emphasis in his words.

Clint laughed, then stopped, then laughed again and stopped. "Come on, I'm working to decrease some brain pressure here. Stop crackin' jokes."

"When did you find out about this?" Logan changed the joviality with the seriousness of his tone.

"Two months back. Got dizzy, couldn't figure out why. Tasha made me get checked out. Tony was around, and I hit up his JARVIS brain system to take a look. He ran the system so Stark saw it first. Natasha wasn't far away, so she saw it too. We didn't know what we were dealing with, so I agreed to let some real docs in."

Wolverine picked up the closest pill vial and turned the name over in his hand. Neurologist. New York. Stark probably knew him. Clint went on and explained how, after the three realized the extent of the tumor growing in Clint's brain, they made a consultation with the foremost brain expert in the country. Clint had already undergone brain surgery once, years back, and wasn't keen to go under the knife again. But he did agree to a biopsy, at the least. After three scans over a few weeks, and receiving the results back, he was diagnosed with the insidious meningioma. Most likely, as far as the neurologist knew, he wasn't going to die from it. The location made it difficult, if not impossible, to operate on. As to where the thing originated from to begin with, Clint's private profession may have been a contributing factor.

Radiation.

As a human, he'd been to more interstellar places than Thor, encountered his fair share of nuclear weapons, and then there was the Hulk Gamma Wave of 2020 Hawkeye was pivotal in preventing. Each time he diffused a nuclear warhead, he fed the cells secretly encapsulating the optic nerve in his skull. Eventually, it pressed in just the right spot to make itself known.

Clint hadn't suffered any seizures, but it was a possibility. That was the first medication he was prescribed. Next, they had to slow the tumor's growth. Very few drugs known to mankind worked on Clint's tumor type. He was on two clinical trial medications currently. One of the side effects included a sudden loss of consciousness from a rapid drop in blood pressure, which he had yet to experience until just then.

Tony went into creation mode. While he fabricated something that may halt the progression of Clint's disease, Clint and Natasha did the only thing that they could think of. First, they traveled to Asgard together and consulted with the healers there. Finding no cure, they instead traveled to Alfheimr. Again, Clint returned in no better health. He'd had time to think among those alien friends he always entertained, and in the time away, he came to terms with the reality of his diagnosis. Of course, Clint hardly used that depth of words when he said it to Logan, but his long-time friend understood regardless. In essence, Clint had done everything a human could do to prevent the inevitable, and, finding no relief, he accepted it.

Clint slowly sat up. Logan slipped a hand behind him to prevent his falling back.

"Hey, should you be getting up?" Logan asked, concernedly.

"Headache's going away. I'm all right. Look, we've got to get me out of here before Kate gets onto me about shooting."

"She doesn't know yet?"

Clint shook his head and stood with Logan's help. He motioned off in the direction where he remembered the bench being. "Grab your stuff, we'll head back to my place. Bill can babysit. Until this sight thing is irreversible, I don't want to tell her. Just wait a bit, and it'll come back like it always does. The meds just have to kick in. Once they do, though, I'm going to be too tired to even walk."

Logan left him for a moment to grab his gear and hauled it over his shoulder. Clint took part of the bag's strap in his hand to act as a guide. With Logan in the lead, they slowly made their way toward the stairs.

"You going to make it up all these?"

"Yeah, I'm feeling less nauseous already. Hey, did you grab my meds?"

Logan patted a pocket of his bag, and the sound of pills hitting against one another was audible. Clint acknowledged the sound, and they started up the platforms of stairs. Logan asked about the knock on Clint's head, but apparently it was superficial, hardly more than a small cut. Logan took the bloody towel from Clint's hand, and dropped it in the clothes bin on their way up. They might as well hide the evidence from Kate.

"Hey, boss!" Bill called. Entering through the front door, he caught sight of the two friends heading for the side exit.

Clint looked over and smiled. "Hey, Bill. Kate with you?"

"Nope, she's out there blasting arrows at the hundred meter like she's actually gonna Robin Hood all those things. Everything all right in here?" He drew a little closer, and noticed Clint's hand on the strap of Logan's bag. With a worried expression, he looked at the X-Man. "Is it gone again?"

"For now." Clint answered. "Look, cover with Kate for me. Logan's driving me back to my place. I'll leave my truck here so she can switch it with hers. Tell her . . . I don't know . . . tell her I knew she wouldn't perfect it tonight and I headed home. Or I got a call from Natasha or something. Use whatever."

Clint was spared the look of abject apprehension on Bill's face as he agreed to the terms. He took a few steps closer, reaching out one hand as if it may do something or suddenly divine the ability to cure a mortal body, but in the same instance he retracted it again. His misery directed to Logan. If Bill had any talents awarded to him, besides being able to survive an interstellar apocalypse and cook the best batch of pumpkin spice muffins this side of the cosmos, his best asset had to be the smoldering face. The loss of hope in him was so encompassing, Logan felt as if a stone rolled right into his heart and crushed his very soul. The X-Man had to look away, or else be drawn into those pitiful depths. It was fortunate for everyone Clint was blind, or else he may have lost his mind.

"We're leaving now." Logan said, directing Clint for the door as they headed out into the parking lot.

:(:):(:):

Logan stared into the black, grey, and white images he held over the uncovered living room light fixture. Blobs and masses that floated into a vaguely humanoid form were transected in individual slices, producing a series of images across the massive sheet. It was the printout of Clint's third MRI. It didn't look very different from the first two. The size of the obvious foreign object invading the base of his frontal lobe hardly changed. But what little movement the tumor had done, cost the archer dearly.

"So you're saying he's right? Is this thing going to kill him?" Logan asked the person on the other side of his cell phone line.

"I'm sorry, Logan, but it appears that whoever has assessed these scans was correct. While it may seem like the change is minimal, the damage caused by the displacement of normal tissue is quite extensive. As to his imminent death, I would disagree. Damaged, yes, but it may take a long time before this particular mass would result in death. Are you sure you don't want to share the name of this patient?"

"Not my secret to share, Professor." Logan replied. He slipped the film back into its manila envelope and set it aside in Clint's box of medical notes. There were printed articles, digital reconstructions, even a 3D printed rendering of the tumor in his brain. A fat lot of good the thing did when Clint still faced losing his sight forever.

Xavier breathed a careful sigh into the other line. "Well, while I wish you would trust me with such things, that is your prerogative and not mine. Are we still expecting you soon?"

"Yeah, I'm just sticking around here for – " Logan paused. Sure, Xavier could just read his mind, but the guy tended to give him his privacy too. If Logan mentioned Fight Night, then it wouldn't take a telepath to figure out the patient was Clint Barton. Who else would Logan stay with in New Jersey?

"I'll be up by Tuesday. Let Rogue know." Logan hit the "end" button on his phone with little more ado.

"Baldy not have much insight?"

Logan jumped, curled his hand into a fist and turned all at once to face Clint. The old spy could still move like a ninja when he wanted to.

After making it back to Barton's house, the archer had slowly made his way to bed and promptly dropped on the top covers without bothering to take off so much as his shoes. He said the meds liked to knock him out, but Logan underestimated just how well they could. Within a few seconds of hitting his mattress, Clint rolled into a ball, dragged his pillow against his face and disappeared. Logan lowered some of his insensitivity for a moment to pull off Clint's old sneakers and throw a blanket over him. To save Clint a little self-respect, he had left after that.

"I keep telling ya, one day you are going to scare me and get a few piercings through your chest you can hang more than just earrings in!" Logan complained.

Clint grinned. He'd changed his clothes and walked into the living room with a new shirt in his hand. The freshest scars, the ones known to every mutant across the globe were clearly evident. They criss-crossed Clint's back like slashes from Wolverine's claws. A picture taken of him when those wounds were fresh and raw became the image of a revolution. The non-mutant had been tortured at the hands of the Registration Act Committee to give up those men and women he shuffled in and out of Clint's Place. When the public at large saw what the government did to a normal man, and an Avenger at that, all in the name of the Registration Act, change finally blew in. Following months of campaigning after the image's release, the Act was repealed at last.

Noticing that the scars made Logan uncomfortable, Clint finished pulling on his shirt. He grabbed the box of medical information Logan had helped himself to

"You can, what, see again?" Logan asked. The way Clint carried his box, replaced the lid he discovered on the coffee table, and slid it up onto a shelf beside a second, untouched, box so they might be out of sight, the assumption appeared valid.

"Yeah." Barton replied. He turned around, locking eyes with Wolverine. "I told you. It comes and goes. But so far, it's always come back. One day it won't. I don't know when that will be, no one does, but it's back now."

"You're still Avenging like this?" Logan seemed incredulous, but he knew for a fact Clint had been on a mission only the week prior. Probably even more recent than that, if it didn't make headlines.

Clint shrugged. He headed into the kitchen with Logan trailing after him. He aimed to set up some coffee. The hour-long trip to Never Land left him groggy and disorganized. Caffeine provided the sure-fire cure for that.

"I'm not an invalid, Logan. And technically speaking, I'm not even terminal. I'm . . . complicated."

"You'll be a vegetable if you drop off a skyscraper one day and land on your brain tumor." Logan pointed out. He knew where the cups were, and most of the things Clint used for coffee. So while the archer worked to get the water boiling, Logan collected the other necessities.

"This was the first time I ever lost consciousness. And I just called Tony over. He's coming by in ten minutes. If you don't want to deal with him, I suggest hiding over at the guest house now." Clint accepted the two coffee cartridges from Logan and fed them one at a time into his Keurig. Pepper had gotten it for him a few Christmas's back. His life hadn't been the same since.

"Is he going to act like an idiot?" Logan asked.

Clint smirked. "What do you think?"

Logan took the first coffee the machine produced and tipped his mug at Clint. "I'll be outside. Call me if you randomly hit the ground again. Oh, and Mini-Hawk came by and grabbed her car. I think she slashed one of your tires."

"No, it was flat before she took it." Clint clarified.

Logan smiled, shaking his head, and headed out for the guest house in the back yard. It wasn't much. More like a mother-in-law suite with a small kitchen, toaster oven, mini fridge, and the bare essentials to make life comfortable on the road. Honestly speaking, the best thing about it was the bed. Designed in the same cottontail moss as the cushioned pads in the Danger Room, and found only on Alfheimr, it was a bed Logan literally drove an extra thousand miles out of his way to sleep in. He'd never met any of the Elf-men in person, but if they were anything like Billetekeli "Bill" Frostketen, he might just decide to like them.

Clint didn't expect Logan to stick around by any stretch of his imagination. Though Logan and Tony weren't rivals, enemies, or frenemies, they had a sort of dueling wit that would prevent any normal work from ever seeing itself to completion. Both of the men liked to push buttons, and, more to the point, they knew exactly how to push each other's buttons. That, in itself, brewed a recipe for disaster at every turn.

"It's me, so don't shoot!" Tony called as he walked inside. Tony, for his part, didn't even bother to knock anymore before he let himself into Clint's house.

"Kitchen!" Clint called back.

There was a great sound of crashing metal, gears twirling, and then the thwap of something heavy landing on the carpet before Tony at last made his disheveled appearance in the doorway. Clint glanced at him from above the rim of his coffee cup.

Tony hadn't changed much over the years. He and Pepper had been engaged since the day Clint forced them to propose, and a marriage was not soon in sight. Neither seemed disturbed by those prospects. That was simply the way of Stark's life. Clint had been Tony's eyes on more missions than either could count. They shared secrets, fears, psychological trauma, and together added numerous scars to their ongoing collection. The most prominent was the wrap of Ruun-Na's noose around Tony's neck. The scars never fully healed, not the way the Avengers thought they might. It had been years since the near-murder attempt, and, still, from front to back along Stark's jaw line, the near-hanging was unmistakable.

"Was that you falling over my sofa for a second time, or you bringing me a metal box of toys?" he asked, blowing the steam down on his drink.

"Both. It's not my fault i can't feel your sofa with my left leg." Tony proclaimed. He'd lost all feeling in the left side of his body from the fractured neck vertebrae. Banner had restored the feeling in his hand, only, at the sacrifice of everything else.

Stark approached and looked forlornly at the Keurig. "None for me?"

"Logan took yours."

"Badger-boy's here?" Tony asked, surprised. He reached into Clint's cabinet and extracted his own coffee concoction. Every big-name hero, and even a few lesser ones, knew the entire layout of Clint's house, right down to which drawer he kept his spare fletches in. That didn't mean Clint still didn't have his secret stash-holes, but he was considerably more open with his home life. Anything not bolted to the floor was free game.

After the Mutant registration act went into effect, many close friends found themselves on the run. Clint's house became part underground-railroad among its many other uses. After the Act's repeal a few years prior, many of the more untrusting of the mutant brothers still kept to their underground ways. Clint's door remained open to them all.

"Came in a couple hours ago. Drove me home after I couldn't. Missed Kate too, she just took off."

Tony's disheartened look deepened. He'd never admit it openly, but he was getting fond of the mini-hawkgirl. He knew Clint struggled with the right time to tell her the bad news.

"Bill at Clint's Place?" Tony asked. He fished his cup from beneath the finished coffee stream and dropped some sugar and milk into it.

"The Training Center, yes." Clint corrected.

"Oh, come on. Everyone I know, and everyone you know, just calls it Clint's Place. I really think you should change the name."

"The first time I suggested a name, you insisted on calling it the Iron Hawk Emporium." Clint pointed out.

Tony smiled against his coffee cup. "That name had gold written all over it. Fan-fiction girls would swoon."

Clint snickered, shaking his head. "Toys? You said you brought something over?"

"Mmhmm." Tony pulled his cup away and led Clint back into the living room. He dropped the mug on the fireplace mantel before indicating the box beside his empty Iron Man suite.

"I've been tinkering." Tony said.

"Big surprise." Clint replied.

"I opened up a new project heading under the Daredevil work book, and started using some frequencies from the new auricular device we installed in your head and transferred the signals to this." Tony grabbed something out of his box and held up a pair of very similar looking sunglasses.

"Hey! I've been looking for those!" Clint exclaimed. He held them up and noticed at once Tony lined his inner lens in the clear film digital display he used for the inside of his Iron Man helmet.

"I lined it with the same JARVIS interface I created for off-world travel. It works on an independent server and it's adaptable. My plan is – "

"To have it feed information into my auricular implant like a digital seeing eye dog?" Clint put the glasses on. The world lit up instantly in hues of high intensity color and heat imaging. He lifted them to see the normal world again, then dropped for the high intensity images. "Fantastic."

Tony's giddiness couldn't be hidden. "Close your eyes and ask him something."

Clint did so. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few spare dollars. "JARVIS, what am I holding?"

"In your left hand are three single, USA dollar bills, and in the right are two ten dollar bills."

Clint opened his eyes and smiled. "Nice."

"You heard him?"

"Loud and clear. Why? Is it not generally audible?" Clint pushed the sunglasses to the top of his head.

"No. It feeds directly into the aural implant. I'm not done tinkering yet, so give me another week or two. It's in case you need to . . . well, in case." Tony wanted to say on a mission, but he wasn't sure whether or not it was appropriate. Steve made the decisions as to who could be on the team. As of right now, the Captain had no clue that Clint had a severe illness.

Clint could tell what Tony wanted desperately to say. For years, he'd dealt with being one of the only supermen on the planet who overcame being deaf and continued to do his job. The only other hero somewhat in the same league of physical impairment as himself was Daredevil. However, the weight of the matter came down to the fact that Clint only lost one major physical sense. He still relied on the others. Facing the loss of his second major sense carried the potential of ending his career as an Avenger forever.

"Your tire's flat." Tony pointed out to smooth over the awkward silence.

"Yeah, haven't really fixed that yet. I'm having a little trouble leaning over and staying that way, so I've avoided it. I thought about asking Bill when I drove in, but completely forgot about it after Logan drove me home."

Tony pushed off from the couch where he leaned, and pulled open the front door. If Clint couldn't change his own tire, then Tony would do it for him. Barton trotted along after. Years ago, he stopped trying to hide his troubles from his friend. Their closeness over made it impossible to hide what Clint really struggled with. They could sit and fight about what Clint wanted to hide, and in the end the truth would always come out. Clint decided it wasn't worth the headache of the back and forth anymore, and resorted to admitting whatever Tony wanted.

"Is it just the pressure from leaning down that makes it difficult?" Tony asked as they headed for the truck.

"Mostly. I feel it right behind my eyes, and everything starts pulsing. Then I get dizzy and have to quit. I've been on the meds, what, a month now?"

"What's today?"

"The third."

"One and a half if you aren't counting the time off world. Has it gotten better? The pressure changes and headaches?"

"It has, actually. I can lean over for longer. I missed my morning dose, I realized it after I got back, and I think that's why I passed out at the center."

They rounded the front of Clint's truck to see the passenger side front tire. It wasn't completely flat that morning, but time grinding along its rim dropped the pressure to virtually zero. Where they expected to see the flattened tire, though, they instead saw Logan rolling the recently procured full-sized spare into place. He had just begun jockeying the lug nuts on when he stared up at them.

"This doesn't make us friends." Logan said.

No Cliffie this time because, of course, i'm being generous for Christmas:)

Next Time: Fight Night

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