Author's Note: Thank you all for your reviews. Special shout outs to OwlMay and Totenkinder Madchen, who gave me a slew of ideas that I will be incorporating over the next few chapters. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. As always, please let me know what you think. Reviews give me motivation, which means faster updates. Hint hint. Cough cough. Nudge nudge. In other words, I'm shamelessly begging for reviews because they make me happy.

Author's Note: The information about an added character is found on Comic Vine. I've added a little bit to his history; call it writer's freedom, but if you want to look him up, you can just google his name.

Disclaimer: No infringement intended.

"We need to come up with a signal or some shit, so our fucking family doesn't terrify the living shit out of my girlfriend."

"I'm surprised she's still your girlfriend after all of that," Amelia laughed, throwing her head back.

"Thanks. You're not helpful," Philip deadpanned.

"I didn't come here to help. I came here to mock."

"You suck."

"You love me," she countered with another chuckle. "Anyway, there is a sign. It's called a text message, and in my defense, I texted you a lot before we all traipsed in on your sex parade."

"I wasn't," Philip blushed as he squabbled. "We weren't…"

"Whatever. That's what it looked like. I'm surprised Mom didn't jump down your throat. Last time I checked, she seems to like the living room upholstery to remain unstained by certain bodily fluids."

"Shut up."

"I wonder if she was just in shock or something," Amelia debated aloud.

"Yeah, right," he drawled slowly. "The infamous Black Widow is stunned into silence by the sight of her son necking on a couch."

"If I recall, I wasn't exactly silent. I did talk to the girl." Philip and Amelia jumped at the sound of Natasha's voice in the doorway. "We want you to invite her over again. You will both remain clothed this time though." Her son blushed furiously.

"Yeah, sorry about that," he murmured.

"Are you? Or are you sorry we walked in?"

"Probably the second one," Philip replied. "You want me to bring her back?"

"Yes," Natasha replied simply.

"Why?"

"Don't fall for it, Philip. They just want to lure her to a very painful death or something," Amelia teased from the beanbag.

"Shut up," he grumbled again. "She isn't right, is she, Mom?" Natasha laughed, but offered no verbal response.

"I told you. She's plotting. That specific laughter is never ever a good thing," Amelia continued. "Ever," she emphasized.

"Mom," Philip whined.

"No, we're not going to kill her. We're going to have dinner and get to know each other."

"Oh," he nodded. "That might actually be worse than you both planning her murder." Natasha lifted an inquisitive eyebrow at her son's comment. "It's the plot for a really bad movie. The son brings his girlfriend over for a nice family dinner at the home of two of the world's most notorious assassins."

"Nothing could possibly be worse than how Leila met them all the first time, so really, what have you got to lose," Amelia asked with a half-hearted shrug.

"Umm well let's see. I could lose her. She was only in the same room with them for ten minutes. A whole meal and she just might run for the hills, especially since they don't realize how crazy they are." Philip gestured wildly at his mother as he felt his frustrations grow.

"You don't have to talk about me like I'm not in the room. I am standing right here," Natasha reminded. "You want a normal life; that's fine. That, however, does not give you the right to feel ashamed of your family. We're your only constant in this world or any other. Ask her when she's available for dinner. If you don't, I'll call her and ask her myself." She spoke sternly before leaving the room.

"Damn, boy. You have an amazing talent for getting your foot stuck in your mouth," Amelia teased. Philip thumped his head to his desk in response.

"Dinner is going to suck," he groaned.

"Which one? The one tonight where Mom will still be quietly irritated with you or the one in the near future when your normal girlfriend will be exposed to the inquisition? Personally, I think both are going to be just amazing. I can't wait."

"Shut up, and get out. I've got shit to do," Philip grumbled.

"Yes, I'm sure you've got to find your balls somewhere around here, so you can invite your girlfriend to her death." Philip threw a pen at her. She caught it out of the air with a laugh as she lifted herself out of the beanbag. Despite the usual mocking nature of their relationship, Amelia couldn't help giving him a little encouragement. "Look at it this way. She met everyone at once, and she's still with you. For whatever reason, her feelings for you are stronger than her feelings of being overwhelmed by all the insanity related to you. They just want to get to know her. It won't be that bad."

Philip sighed in relief when his sister left, closing the door behind her. He looked around for his phone, clicking through his password and calling one of his speed dials.

"Fuck all of this shit," he said in lieu of a greeting. "I need to smoke."

"I'll be there in twenty," Murphy answered gruffly before hanging up. Philip grumbled something, knowing his best friend well enough to know that twenty minutes meant at least forty. He asked JARVIS if anyone was in the range for target practice. When the AI responded, Philip practically ran downstairs to let off a few rounds.

Slipping on his headphones, he pulled a Sig from the armory. Noting that was his mother's weapon of choice, Philip slipped it back into its spot before blindly reaching for another gun. He paused and glanced at one of the many bows in the system. He grabbed it before he could analyze the last time he had shot one. Standing mid-floor, the teenager called for the archery targets instead and watched anxiously as the system altered the set up of the room for him.

He clicked through his playlist, finding one just loud enough to help him zone out of one mentality and into the next. Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, he shifted his body into a stance that was wholly natural to his being, regardless of the time lapse since his last archery session. One arrow after another steadily hit the target, each shot nearly a perfect hit. His muscles ached, but his posture and accuracy never faltered. He reached back for another arrow and surprisingly found his quiver empty. Dropping his left arm, the bow fell to his side as he surveyed the target. As he stomped down to recollect his arrows, he noticed unhappily that his brain was more clouded than it was.

"Your friend has arrived," JARVIS announced sounding somewhat displeased. Philip could just hear the AI over his music.

"Send him down please."

"Other individuals are not allowed in any of the training facilities."

"I'm not going to let him shoot himself in the foot or anything moronic like that. Come on, JARVIS." The AI appeased the teenager, and soon, Murphy was stumbling through the door.

"Jesus, this place is huge."

"You've been here a million times," Philip pointed out.

"I walk in and the elevator sends me to your floor. Dude, is that a closet of guns?"

"Yeah, don't touch anything. You're already not supposed to be in here."

"So why are we here?"

"I want to shoot and smoke," Philip responded. "JARVIS, please kill all recording devices in the room, and override the protocol that demands you tell Uncle Tony when such devices are turned off."

"This is probably the worst idea you've ever had," Murphy said, even as he pulled out a bag from his backpack. "I'm in."

"Figured you would. JARVIS, could you turn on the playlist I was listening to earlier through the stereo system for this room?" When the AI responded affirmatively, Philip offered his thanks. He lifted his bow and fell back into the appropriate stance, firing off arrows rapidly, as he waited for Murphy to fill the bowl on the pipe. "Make sure you stay behind me," he instructed.

"Is there recording shit in your room," Murphy asked before he held a lighter to the bowl and inhaled, filling his lungs with smoke.

"None in our suite at all. JARVIS can hear us and respond to whatever, but anything like cameras or audio recording isn't there. Uncle Bruce told me that my mom and dad destroyed all that shit when they moved in before I was born. Uncle Tony had the whole place wired, so he could see what was happening at all times. My parents have a thing for their privacy."

"They picked an interesting place to live then. Here," Murphy offered him the lit pipe.

"Hmm," Philip noised in slight agreement. "It's a long story." He loosed an arrow before dropping the bow to his side. Fingering the holes on either side of the pipe, he inhaled the weed's smoke, holding it in his lungs, before blowing it casually from his lips. The pattern continued as such for a good period of time. Murphy sat on the ground within arm's reach of Philip, so the bowl could be passed between the two.

"Does the weapons closet have a fridge? I'm so fucking hungry. How do you even shoot an arrow? Dude," he paused. "That's why Stark calls your dad Robin Hood. I just got that. Sweet," Murphy drawled. "Robin Hood wears tights. Does your dad wear tights when he's off avenging?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I don't wear tights ever." Clint answered from where he was leaning against the doorframe.

"Fuck, dude. I told you this was a bad idea," Murphy mumbled. Philip's eyes widened as he let his stance slacken. "I'm gonna go."

"Good plan." The boy practically ran from the building, grabbing his backpack and racing for the elevator. Philip stood frozen to his spot. The silence ticked by slowly. Clint watched his son carefully. "Drugs and weapons," he asked. "Really, Philip? What the fuck are you thinking?" The teenager shrugged lamely. "I'm all for giving you your space, but now you've crossed a line. Now I need answers. What is going through your head right now?"

"I should have remembered to get JARVIS to lock the door," he mumbled in response. Philip slapped a hand over his own mouth. He couldn't believe he just said that out loud.

"JARVIS, could you please ask Natasha to join us down here," Clint asked the omnipresent AI. Philip audibly groaned. "Just for your future reference," he added, "SHIELD has a very strict no-drugs policy. It's a 'one-time offense and you're out' kind of program. As a new recruit, they will test your hair, and after finding illegal drug usage, they will not allow you to continue with the recruitment program. You're going to need a back-up plan."

"She says she is busy at the moment," the AI informed the archer.

"It's urgent. You can turn the recording devices back on and shut off the music as well. Do you know why SHIELD is so strict on drugs, Philip?" The teenager stared resolutely at the floor. "No? Nock an arrow." When his son looked at him with confusion in his eyes, he repeated the command. Philip did as he was told. "Take aim, and loose the arrow." Philip's left arm wavered as his diluted mind struggled to pinpoint the target's bulls-eye. Finally, he released the arrow and noted glumly the miss.

"Do it again," Clint demanded. "In a perfect world, you make one shot, and you have a clean exit strategy with complete intel. That's not how the field is, ever. Even by-the-book missions get messy, especially when the agents add a volatile variable like drugs. In the field, Philip, if your brain is foggy, you die; your team dies. It's harsh, yes, but you wanted that life and you need to know. Nock another arrow. You will nock until you hit a bulls-eye. Realize how hard it is to complete a mission or even defend yourself against enemy forces if you can't clear your mind enough to hit a simple foam target as opposed to a moving human who likely has years of training."

Five arrows in, Philip dropped his bow. "Fuck this," he mumbled under his breath. "I get it," he said louder, addressing his father. "I get it. Drugs are bad. Can you just ground me or something already?"

His parents shared a look, a conversation passing silently between them. "Drugs cannot be your coping mechanism for when things turn to shit," Clint said finally. "I get it, Philip. Trust me. I get it. You don't want to talk about what bothers you; that's just fine, but you need to find appropriate methods of dealing with it, whatever it is. You're grounded for three weeks- no social calendar, no TV, no phone, computer-limited to school work."

"Three weeks," he gaped. "That's not fair! It was just weed! Like the two of you haven't smoked before," Philip grumbled.

"It's not just weed." Natasha spoke, her words deadly calm. "You endangered yourself, as well as your friend, by using drugs and using weapons."

"I'm not stupid enough to shoot myself with an arrow. I'm not demented enough to shoot my best friend either." He defended, his arms gesturing wildly.

"You were stupid enough to smoke in the first place. You were stupid enough to suggest smoking here in a room filled with easily accessible weaponry. You were stupid enough to pick up one of those weapons while high, and you were stupid enough to have target practice while high." Clint argued back.

"We're not having this argument with you," Natasha continued calmly. "You will be grounded for three weeks with all of the stipulations your father listed. Also, you are banned from using any weaponry of any form for an undefined period until we are sure you understand the damage of weapons in inappropriate hands. You will also volunteer for a community for those who are affected by their own drug usage. You clearly don't understand how serious it is." She fixed their son with a glare. He knew better than to argue.

"Yes ma'am," he answered roughly. "Can I go now?"

"Phone," Natasha said, stretching her hand out to accept the device. "Pick up your arrows. Check the bow and return it to its hold if it's in proper condition. Then you can go to your room, where you will stay until we call you for dinner." Philip moved quickly, obviously wanting to be out of the presence of his parents.

It wasn't more than three minutes before he was retreating to his room, leaving Natasha and Clint alone in the range.

"Our children are going to be the death of me," he grunted.

"Well, it's about to get worse." She answered. In response to Clint's raised eyebrow, she said, "Amelia has a new boyfriend." The archer groaned loudly and fought the urge to grab the bow and just shoot the boy without any more information. "Crimson Dynamo ring a bell," she asked her husband.

Clint closed his eyes, scanning through names and dates, before opening them to meet her gaze. "Yuri Petrovitch," he murmured. "What about him?"

"What do you remember about him," she asked warily.

"Son of Ivan Petrovitch, the man who pulled you from the fire and into the Red Room. He was taken by a Russian man… Bruskin, I think… after his mother was killed. He was brainwashed to be blindly loyal to Russia, like you were. He was assigned to capture three of Russia's most important defectors – you, his father, and Bruskin- and return them to Russia. I thought you killed him."

"I thought I killed him, but apparently, when he returned to Russia empty handed, having killed two of his three marks, he was stripped of his armor and sent to a Siberian work camp."

"Okay. What about him though?" Clint started to get nervous.

"Yuri Petrovitch, now goes by the name George Petrol, escaped the Siberian camp and fell off the grid."

"Recently? Is he back for you?"

"Twenty two years ago," she answered. "From what I can tell, he doesn't know we live in the same city."

"What," Clint stammered.

"Amelia's new boyfriend is Yuri Petrovitch's son, Patrick Petrol."

"I'm sorry." He lifted his hand to scrub roughly at his face. "Let me get this straight. Our daughter is dating the son of a man, who for all extensive purposes is your archenemy." Natasha nodded. "I did not see that coming." He paused again. "Well holy fuck. What's the social protocol for that shit storm?"