Okay... so some of you may be expecting the bonding... I'm afraid to say that it won't happen here. But, I do have future plans to write a side story with a moment with each of the Avengers. I'm afraid at the moment that you'll only get a summary. However, there will be more undertones of bonding as the story goes on.

And what's this? Three chapters without a hint of our dear Iggy? I have to correct this.

It had been months since Alfred joined the team, and he fit in quickly. All of them looked at him like a younger brother, one who was meant to be protected, even though he was rather strong on his own. Even Tony warmed up to him, though it probably helped that Alfred boosted Tony's ego every time he was given an electronic (which was always the quickest way to his good side).

Tony gave Alfred a few electronics to keep the boy entertained. He was surprised to see how quickly he took to video games and the sort. The members would find Alfred and Clint playing first person shooter games into the late night before Natasha would come in and shoo them off to bed (Clint mocked the spy for having maternal instincts around Alfred; the black eye the next morning needed no explanation).

Clint had taught Alfred how to shoot with his arrows after the young man pleaded nearly a hundred times (153 times actually; Bruce kept count). To everyone's surprise, Alfred was astonishingly good, causing the archer to worry about Alfred beating him. Surprisingly, the training had sparked something in Alfred's memories, but nothing concrete. Just a small voice that cried, I wish to shoot the arrow! Oh please, may I? Nothing had happened after that.

Alfred allowed Bruce to rant to him about his newest discoveries, even when the man had no idea what they meant. He just felt that Bruce needed someone to talk to and so Alfred had offered himself to be the man that Bruce ranted to. Bruce also confided some of his fears about the Hulk into Alfred, who nodded sympathetically and mentioned that maybe embracing Hulk more would help Bruce in the long run.

"I don't think the Hulk is a monster. I just think he's misunderstood," Alfred has said with a small smile. "He's really cool you know, and I consider you two my friends."

Needless to say, Bruce began to accept Hulk more, if only with the encouragement of Alfred and the team. The team found that Alfred was working miracles. Natasha had grown kinder, but only ever in Alfred's presence, like he was a child needing comfort. It made her more approachable, Tony had said (there was not need for an explanation when a yelp appeared from the lab much later).

"You okay Alfred?" Steve asked one July morning as he walked into the living room of the Tower.

The young man wasn't watching cartoons like he normally did or was playing a game. He was just sitting on the couch, staring at nothingness. This confused and worried Steve, who was used to seeing the young man with a smile on his face. The boy turned and regarded him blankly. Steve's brows furrowed further and he walked over, sitting on the couch beside the young man. Alfred didn't budge.

"Alfred?" he asked.

"Hm?" Alfred asked, seemingly coming out of his stupor. "Yeah?"

"Are you alright?" Steve asked.

"I...I don't know. I woke up really sad today," Alfred responded. "What's today?"

"July 2nd," Steve answered.

"Huh," Alfred muttered. "I don't know why... but I'm in a lot of pain."

"Where?" Steve asked with worry. Was Alfred hurt and they didn't know about it? Had the fight with Doctor Doom last week do something they had missed?

"In my heart," Alfred whispered. "It's... it's like my heart is being ripped out... but I don't know why." He lowered his head into his hands. "I wish I can remember."

Steve clasped a hand on Alfred's shoulder, trying to offer all the comfort he could muster.

"You will in time," Steve said. "We'll help you, and you'll find them soon. They can't be lost forever."

Alfred nodded lightly.

"I guess," he whispered.

Steve didn't like to see Alfred so down in the dumps. It made his morale lower, and so he tried to think of something to do to raise his spirits. He stood up and turned back to Alfred, holding out his hand.

"Come on. Why don't we grab some pancakes?" Steve asked.

Alfred looked up at him. Something in his mind clicked. There was a sun that was setting, and a breeze blowing by. He was on a trail, and someone he cared about was holding their hand out to him, for him to take. He gripped the hand with his little one, trusting the person unconditionally. He gasped, snapping back to the present, with Steve looking at him in worry.

"Alfred?"

"I remember something," he said.

"Really?" Steve asked.

"It... it wasn't very descriptive. I was on a road somewhere...with someone... but I don't know who," Alfred responded, throwing his head into his hands in frustration. "Why can't I remember!?"

"It's okay Alfred," Steve comforted. "You'll remember in time."

"I just want to remember now," he whispered. "I hate this... this feeling! Like all of me is missing. How can I be Alfred... if I can't remember Alfred?"

Steve didn't know how to answer that completely, so he once again clasped his hand on Alfred's shoulder and offered a sympathetic smile.

"You're still Alfred, whether you remember who he was or is," Steve responded. "You'll know in time."

Alfred sighed and nodded; there was no fighting it.

"Thanks," he said with a small smile to Steve.

Steve smiled at seeing Alfred's look and he nodded.

Across the pond, the personification of the United Kingdom island sat in a rather lush chair beside an open window. The man was in a miserable state, sitting with a cold cup of tea beside him. A leather jacket laid across his lap.

America had been missing since the end of April, and it was already the beginning of July. England had always been in a miserable state whenever it came to the first week of July, but it was ten times worst. No one knew where the young nation was, and no one knew how to find him.

He and Canada had looked over America's home for any sign of why he disappeared, but there were no clues. It was on that visit that England took America's leather jacket (the one he wore during World War II) and brought it with him. It was like his security blanket.

France stepped into the man's home and found the owner of the estate in his miserable state. France withheld a sigh, no longer surprised to see his friend as he was. Since America's disappearance and England's lack of caring for life (which had begun sometime in May when there was no sign of him), the G8 had taken to watching over England. It was getting harder and harder to convince England that America was alright when the nations themselves weren't sure. The only reassurance was that the American land was still around and healthy.

"Angletterre," France said in exasperation, "have you eaten a thing today?"

England ignored France, continuing to stare out the window. France bit his bottom lip and reached for England, pulling the Englishman out of his trance. England looked up at him with dull green eyes, recognizing the Frenchman but not saying a word. It made the older man truly pity his younger brother; he was truly broken without America.

"C'mon Angletterre," France said, pulling England to his feet. "Let's get you to watch some TV."

England followed France without a word, holding onto the jacket and taking it with him. France sat him in front of the TV screen and turned it on, finding the BBC channel. The news, though not the ideal channel, was something England always watched.

"Here, Angleterre," France said with a smile. "You sit here and watch the news while I make you something to eat, deal?"

He received no response, and so he rushed off to the kitchen, making England a nice breakfast. He was in the middle of flipping an egg when he heard a yell from the living room, where he had left the spaced out man. He quickly turned off the oven and ran into the living room. He found England kneeling right in front of the TV set, his face only inches away from the screen.

"What's wrong?" France asked in worry. Oh God, did something happen in America?

"America!" England's raspy voice from dis-use spoke, "America!"

"What's wrong with America?" France asked.

"America! It's America!" England said, pointing at the TV screen.

France took a glance at the screen to see BBC running a segment on the Avengers.

"I don't understand," France spoke up.

England released a growl and grabbed his remote, rewinding the video and then pausing at a certain time frame. He then pointed and snarled,

"Look!"

France obeyed the enraged Englishman and walked over to the screen. It only took him a second to recognize the American. He had been fighting alongside the Avengers all these months? And under the alias Mr. Jones? He looked back at England, who was now happy that he had found the American. His happiness turned into determination.

"I have to get in contact with him," England said.

"Angleterre," France said, trying to remind England of reality. "He doesn't have his phone on him. How will you get in contact with him?"

"I'll go through the Avengers if I have to," England responded. He had held off the Nazi Germans, how hard could it be to get in contact with America?

"Do you have their number?" France questioned in surprise.

"No. But I'm sure my prime minister will be able to get me the connection that I need," England said, shooting up from his sitting position and running to grab his cellphone.

France followed England's movements and shook his head. This was something he had to see. He glanced back at the frozen TV screen, and hoped that everything would work out for the best.