"Does anyone have a fucking clue how Thaddeus fucking Ross knew we were going to be at that particular base, at that particular time?" Tony shouts, holding a hand to his head. "Because I would really like to fucking know that."

So would Steve, though he would have worded it a little more politely and with a few less curses. Only a few, though, because he is stiff head to toe and his head is pounding and he's about as stressed out as Tony, and would also like to know how the Hulk's arch enemy knew where to find him. He doesn't know much about Ross, but after today he's had enough of the man for a lifetime.

Steve has all the respect in the world for the armed forces; he's fought side by side with them, seen soldiers lay down more than just their lives for more than just their country. But Steve couldn't see any of that in Ross. There's a big difference between thinking you're doing what is right and actually doing it, and he thinks Ross embodies that difference rather well.

"I told you it was the worst idea you ever had." Bruce grumbles from beside Tony, slumped, obviously worn to the bone. His face is pale, bags under his eyes, and he looks as if he could use a meal or three.

"Yeah, well, I hadn't counted on Ross still having a rage boner for you after all this fucking time," Tony slumps into the chair, looking a little too tired to keep his usual air about him. He had a rough night, too.

"Then you don't know Ross very well." Bruce manages to chuckle some.

"Well, I think we can consider it a win. Pepper got the info, I blew up the bad guy; it's all good." Clint adds.

"That's a nice segue way into discussing why you were shadowing Bruce and Tony instead of on your mission with Agent Romanov." Steve has a hand over his face, eyes shut, feeling once again that the title of leader fits him badly. Shoulders slumped, stomach twisted in knots, he feels less like a leader and more like a sham.

"One word: Ross." His feet on the table, Clint is fiddling with his bow in his lap, eyes down. "We caught wind of the guy heading towards you two and figured you could use the assist. Well figured, I think."

"And you didn't tell anyone, why?"

"All happened kinda fast, Cap." Clint shrugs. "Sorry."

He wants to be mad, irritated at least, at the man for disobey orders and ignoring the mission plan; but he can't forget that Clint's interference is what kept a sniper from shooting Bruce with a tranquilizer that could kill an elephant.

"And Miss Ross?" Steve opens his eyes, putting his arms on the table. In the corner of his eye he sees Bruce perk up. "How did she become involved?"

"Pepper rescued the damsel in distress from yonder tower and her nefarious, mustache-twirling father, and has brought her to the magical land of science and pop tarts -" Thor, who Steve could have sworn was actually asleep a moment ago, sits up in his chair. "- and returned her to her prince charming, who did not rescue her only because he was busy being my big green rescuer." Tony claps Bruce on the shoulder and addresses him, a thin grin on his weary face. "It's Tangled meets Beauty and the Beast meets Brave, and it should really be awkward considering it's your ex and mine and…"

Steve's headache is getting worse. "Tony."

"Right. Shutting up."

"Can we please learn how to copy the Stressed Steve voice? Because I would love to have the ability to shut him up that quick."

"Barton."

"Zipping it."

As a scientist, Betty has become used to facing impossible, extraordinary, seemingly un-explainable things. Many a time she's been faced with data she can only partially understand or comprehend, and been forced to work with it. Often, she's jumped half-cocked into a project on which she has only half the variables. Explosions are often the result.

This way of thinking is aiding her now. In the past few hours she's helped a stranger steal government secrets, snuck out of her father's base with said stranger, hitched a ride on a Stark airplane, and joined the merry hero band in their tower all for the sake of Bruce. Who she still hasn't seen yet. Not that she's impatient or anything.

She knows this is likely to get her fired or worse, even with her dad being General and all – she also knows she doesn't care. Her dad is going to pitch a fit to rival the Hulks when he learns what she's done, and she can honestly say she hopes she is present for it and can get it on camera. It's likely to be priceless. The fact is the consequences really don't matter. She hasn't seen Bruce in so long she thinks she'd do anything to get to him.

She's not really sure what she'll do when she sees him, though. But that's nothing new. For years, their relationship has been ambiguous and inexplicable. They were friends, lovers, confidantes, vigilante partners; the definition of 'them' always changing. All she knows is she cares for him and has to see with her own eyes that he's okay, that the 'Avengers' or whatever aren't keeping him against his will as a weapon.

Which is why she is currently sitting at a computer terminal with Pepper Potts, looking over the information they stole and trying to make head or tails of it.

"Division X… I've never heard of this before." Betty mumbles. "Not that that's a surprise or anything."

"The day the government is open and honest with the public about something is the day I'll be surprised." Pepper remarks, still filing through the data.

Laughing, Betty shakes her head. "Yeah, that'll be the day. Peace and love will dominate the globe and my father and Bruce will shake hands and all will be forgiven."

"Never going to happen."

"Never."

Betty takes a sip of the coffee Pepper was kind enough to help her obtain (half coffee, half milk, two sugars) and leans forward, glancing over Pepper's shoulder. "Wait, hold on." Pepper stops scrolling, the screen paused on an image of a building. A blue print. "What in the world is that?"

"You're the scientist, not me." Pepper snorts. Clicking the screen, she zooms in, reading some of the details. "It's huge, but the actual dimensions are small. It's a lot of empty space and maybe fifteen square feet of room you can actually walk on."

"It's a device of some sort, but for what I can't tell." Which is irritating, since there's nothing about this that is encrypted or hidden or written in code. It's just a blue print for a strange looking room. "Perhaps part is missing. It seems incomplete… I mean, that can't be all there is to it."

"Don't ask me – I'll let the science bros tackle that one."

Blinking, Betty quirks an eyebrow. "Science bros?"

"The team's nickname for Bruce and Tony." It takes a minute for Betty to realize Pepper is referring to the Tony Stark. "The resident geniuses and home-wreckers."

"That sounds like a story to me." Betty grins, but behind the look she is completely uncertain: unsure of how to feel or what to think. She's thrilled, thrumming with joy that Bruce is back, that he's okay, maybe even happy. She's terrified he's being somehow coerced or held against his will. At the same time, a dark, bitter part of her heart is damning every bastard in the building for being able to live and work with Bruce without it being a constant struggle as it always was for her.

"The two of them managed to burn one of Tony's houses down." Pepper steps away from the computer, stretches her back as she stands. "To be honest, it was mostly Tony's fault. 98% his fault. That 2% I blame Bruce for because he let Tony hide in the workshop for too long."

There's something awkward in talking about fire and destruction in relation to Bruce Banner and completely omitting the big guy. It's like the elephant in the room, only greener and a bigger insurance liability. Also, he's a tad bit more terrifying. Betty's mouth is dry and she's not sure how to take this peppy red head light heartedly joking about house fires and the Hulk and how they're related.

"And, um, how did Bruce take the fire?" Betty murmurs reluctantly.

"He saved Tony's life." Pepper looks directly at Betty and the brunette suddenly realizes that Pepper is simply not going to tiptoe around the Hulk, at all. That's refreshing, if not also a bit concerning. "For the second time, actually. Yesterday was the third. We should really be keeping a tally at this point."

"Sounds like it." Betty mumbles and looks away. She feels slightly ashamed, and angry for feeling ashamed, because how dare this stranger make her feel ashamed for how she feels about the Hulk? She's been there for Bruce since the beginning. She was there at his first transformation, she held tight to his sweating, naked body as he convulsed and turned back into himself again, shaking and sick. Despite the army, despite her father, she stood by him and never backed out, no matter what happened. She knows Bruce Banner and the Hulk better than anyone.

Yeah, the Hulk scares her. He's eight feet of pure unadulterated rage and power, and she's all of five foot five. She's sure he'd never hurt her on purpose, but she's seen his accidents. They are not pretty. But just because she's scared doesn't mean she doesn't care about both of them and won't fight to protect them. After her father, she figures the Avengers will be a piece of cake.

Though he knows it is unkind of him, Thor is very irate with Tony and the Hulk currently.

Logically, he knows they did not plan to interrupt his day, but he doesn't feel like thinking logically at the moment. He'd been enjoying a wonderful bout with the Captain and had finally broached the subject of Mjolnir when the emergency had occurred and they had been called away. Forgive him for being a little bitter.

Thor is still in something of a stupor over that subject: the fact that Steve Rogers, a mortal, can lift the mighty Mjolnir.

He can remember the day he was first given Mjolnir; even then, before the Allfather's spell, it had been a special and temperamental weapon. The warrior who could wield it well was few and far between, and none did so better than Thor. In his hands, Mjolnir shone like the star it was born from, it leveled mountains and tamed seas. No other could wield it so. It was an honor to be its bearer, though at the time he did not see it as anything other than a tool, an extension of his will.

After being forced to re-earn the right to wield Mjolnir, the hammer has become something more to him. It is a symbol, a comfort even; both a memory of home and brighter days and a gift that gives him the ability to protect those he loves and the worlds he inhabits. Without it, he could not have broken the bridge, nor turned back the Destroyer, nor fought so well against the invasion.

Some might think that Thor would be jealous to have Mjolnir obey another, but not so. It is… complicated. There is a duty bound in Mjolnir that is a heavier burden than the hammer itself. It takes more than physical strength, but strength of soul, a conviction to protect. The one who lifts Mjolnir from the ground must do so for the right purpose. It takes absolute dedication and selflessness to lift the hammer to the sky and slam it down upon the enemy.

Being that person is a burden unto itself. He became that person when he gave up Midgard, gave up Jane, to stop Loki's attack on Jotunheim. He became that person when he faced his brother down to protect Midgard. Though he knows his fellow Avengers have made sacrifices for the cause, he has difficulties weighing them alongside his own. He gave up his home, his old way of living and looking at the world, recreated himself into a new man to lift the hammer again. Then, he lifted it against the one he loved most in all the worlds. The price to wield Mjolnir was as high as it could possibly be.

Seeing another lift the hammer is heartening to him. In Steve, he has a kindred spirit, one who has lost and suffered; who knows the weight of Mjolnir, the burden, and has born it with no complaint. It was in that moment, seeing Steve cross the field of battle with Mjolnir at his side, that Thor realized he had found an equal in such an unlikely place as this.

He thinks that if things had been different, if he had changed his ways before, Loki might be the one beside him now, sharing Mjolnir's weight. There was a time when his brother was worthy, he is sure of it. And he is sure he can be worthy again.

It is… hard, knowing what Loki has become. Worst still is acknowledging how large a hand he had in that transformation. He sees his own handiwork in all of Loki's scars, in the pain in eyes during their battles, the tears which pour down his face. It finds it hard to fault Loki, or even hate him, for his deeds. More often, he hates himself.

The sound of a knock at his door pulls Thor out of his reverie; he's sitting by his window in his room in the Tower, which is slightly uncomfortable given his stature. "Enter," His booming voice fills the room and a moment later, the door opens.

"Hey," It's Steve, looking somewhat reticent as he steps into the room. Thor tries to smile, but it doesn't stay on his face long. It feels like a chore to attempt cheer without feeling it, and here in his room, with Steve, he doesn't feel like faking. The other man seems to notice, his brow furrowing. "You okay?"

"I will be, in time," He murmurs, and believes it for the most part. He's been alive long enough to know that pain truly does fade with time, but he also knows it never fully fades away. "What brings you here, friend?"

Steve pauses, eyes drifting to the ground, his hands clenching at his sides. Though many consider Thor to be dense, and would perhaps be correct, he is not as thick as many would believe. Steve is… shy, the mortals would say. To see him so self-assured in battle, and yet so soft-spoken outside of it, is odd to the brash warrior. His deeds in battle reflect his attitude outside it, and he had always assumed the same was true of everyone else. Before falling to Midgard, he would have believed Steve to be a spineless wretch – once again, he deeply regrets the person he once was.

"Just, uh, though you could use the company." He steps forward some, hands behind his back. "We never did finish that conversation, from before. Unless you want some time alone…" He points back to the door, taking a half step back towards it. Thor stands.

"Nay friend; I could… use the company." He doesn't want to be left alone to his thoughts, for he knows all too well who he will dwell on. There's no use brooding over what cannot be changed. "Though, perhaps we should find ourselves a more comfortable setting?"

Steve glances around, quiet for a moment. "Want to spar?"

Thor beams in reply.

It is the day after Tony and Hulk's camping trip, as Tony likes to refer to it, and he and Bruce are up at the ass-crack of dawn for no discernible reason, though Bruce insists that Tony has a vendetta against sleep and that he was roped into it.

But Tony's not really thinking about himself and his reasons right now (Shocking, he knows). Though he isn't exactly known for being considerate of the feelings of others, Bruce is actually, maybe, possibly making him feel a smidgen of concern.

The man looks stiffer and more stressed than he usually does, walking with his head down and keeping his arms at ninety degree angles, which honestly looks painful and makes him seem like a robot. Tony doesn't think he's eaten since before noon yesterday, and he knows he hasn't slept because neither of them has slept a wink all night. Tony blames it on the excitement of being Hulk-napped; Bruce hasn't given any clue as to why he's restless. They might be friends, but he knows the man didn't stay up the whole night to keep him company.

Two words: Betty Ross.

They haven't so much as walked down the same hallway since her arrival. This is partly due to the work she and Pepper are drowning themselves in, but Tony knows it's mostly because Bruce has been avoiding her like mad. That is why he's still awake down here; he's hiding. Tony's done the same thing enough to recognize it in others. And really, it's ridiculous. Though there's a small voice in the back of his mind saying something about "pot, kettle", but he's ignoring it.

"So, when're you heading topside to see the pretty lady?" He begins with no preamble, still looking for all intents and purposes as if he's working. Bruce sighs across the table, a hand going to his glasses.

"Don't start, Tony."

"What? I'm just curious because I'm sure it's going to be a heartbreakingly romantic reunion and I'd like to be prepared. I'm allergic to sincere emotions." He gives a shrug, sighs as if he's admitted something that has weighed heavily upon his heart, and then waves a hand through the air. "But enough about me – I can hardly believe I said that – this is about you and your Lois Lane."

Bruce stares for a moment; suddenly he shakes his head. "Tony, that's not –"

"You're right, bad comparison. Your Elita-One?" That response puts a baffled look on Bruce's face and shuts him up, so Tony rambles on. "What, I was going with a heroic, red and blue theme –"

"You went from Superman to the Transformers. And Betty's not a robot." Bruce is frowning, but he's playing along with the game, so he can't be that annoyed. Maybe.

"The point is when are you going to go sweep your Zelda off her feet?" Tony shrugs, gesturing at the door. "I could have JARVIS play Coldplay to set the mood, if that helps."

Bruce blinks at him. "Zelda?"

"What? Link is green."

Shaking his head, Bruce turns away and shuffles to another computer, shoulders hunched. "Tony, there's no reunion, romantic or otherwise. It's…" For perhaps the fifth time in as many minutes, the man gives a heavy sigh. "It's better for everyone involved if I just stay away."

"If this is going to be one of those 'If you love them, let them go' speeches, I will find something pointy and poke you with it. And this time, there's no Captain America to come to your rescue." Tony crosses the room and stands by Bruce, leaning his hip against the man's desk. "Which is a shame, he's really very good at the heroic rescue; I'm kinda jealous –"

"Tony," Bruce's voice is low, serious, and any trace of joking has left it. "Tony, I – I ruined her life. We had problems even before the – the Hulk showed up, but afterwards it all went to hell. She lost her job, her relationship with her father, she was hurt because of me." He takes his glasses off his face, drags a hand down over his eyes. "How can I just walk back into her life as if none of that ever happened?"

"Easily, since it really didn't happen. At least, not the way you're thinking."

Tony had opened his mouth to speak, but he falters when he realizes that was definitely not his voice, or Bruce's. Then he realizes it could only be JARVIS's doing and thinks he might want to let up a little on giving the AI his own consciousness and ability to make decisions, because while he had wanted the two to reunite, he had not wanted to be present for it.

"Right. Romantic reunion, allergic to emotions, I'll just –" He points to the door and begins backing away, but no one is listening to him.

Bruce has frozen, his hands gripping the desk almost tight enough to break it, his head lowered. A rumble rises from his chest that is half Bruce, half the beast inside him. "Betty."

The woman is crossing the room with long strides, almost running by the time Bruce turns around and at that point, it's magnetic, they are drawn to each other as Bruce opens his arms and she leaps. Tony feels his stomach twist as they pull each other closer, tighter, one laughing, the other's mouth dropped open but making no sound. He can see how taut Bruce's muscles are, how carefully he's moving, while the woman simply wraps herself around him as much as she can, jean-clad thighs moving around his legs, arms tight around his neck. She's laughing and crying and Tony feels bile in his throat and is pivoting on his foot and moving across the lab. He's not sure where he's going or what door he's leaving through, but he's leaving now, right now.

"Sir, is it safe to –"

"Mute." He mutters and stomps away, thinking of equations and patterns. He's thinking he's an idiot and it's just making sense now, everything is, and he hates everyone whose name was ever Ross and he hates the color green because he loves it. He's looking over the data and arriving at the one possible conclusion and he wants to stamp on it, to snuff it out but he can't. Storming the halls, he tries to think of solutions and every one that comes to mind is shattered by this new variable, this Betty Ross, of whom he is suddenly and inexplicably jealous.

Natasha has infiltrated many places for many reasons and has never felt any guilt or reservation. There has always been – at least, since SHIELD – an adequate reason for the action. But tonight, despite how important this mission is, she has quite a few reservations about where she's infiltrating.

It hadn't been easy to connect the dots and find the location of Charles Xavier; though the man isn't exactly hiding. He's in New York, not far from the Avengers tower, living in a somewhat secluded mansion. There is no problem with any of that – the problem is who is living with him.

Children. Children of all ages, from the very young to the young adults, are staying in this mansion. If she didn't know better, she would think the place is a halfway house for runaways and the neglected. But there's something else going on here, she can feel it.

Clearly, she has reservations embarking on a mission where the casualities, if there are any, are likely to be under the drinking age. Yet she'd be lying if she believed that was all it was. There is something hauntingly familiar in the faces of these young people, in their situation, where they are. She can feel it. These kids have felt the despair and isolation of having nowhere to turn. For a moment, she remembers Barton.

Natasha shakes those thoughts aside and moves on with the mission; she needs to get inside, figure out what the connection is between Xavier and the government, and what any of it might have to do with Tony. Though she doesn't always act like it, she's fond of the man. He's more than he likes to make himself out to be, and he's honestly a kinder man than most of those she's met. He would hardly believe her if she said it, though, so she keeps her opinions to herself. Secretly, she'd prefer it if he didn't die.

Within minutes, she's inside the mansion. It's late; the children, who she's been keeping an eye on throughout the day, are mostly asleep. Some of the older ones are awake and playing games in the living areas, on the second floor. She avoids those places, as she doesn't want to attract attention and she's relatively sure the information she needs is not with prepubescent teens.

The halls are ornate, well decorated, and clearly the house is maintained with some care. For a moment she entertains the dark thought that this place might be a gilded cage for these children, that they might be here for a sinister purpose. She remembers the team meeting, and the discussion that this might all relate to government experiments. Is that what's happening here? Is this a cover up, a place where children who won't be missed are taken and used as lab rats? It could be true. Something tells her it isn't. Something about the place… it feels… safe.

That thought puts her on edge; nowhere is safe. Natasha never feels safe. So why does this place radiate that feeling? It's not right. Even more on edge, Natasha moves swiftly down the hall, trying to find a room that isn't a bedroom or bathroom. So far, nothing. She moves towards a staircase and heads up.

Or at least, she plans to. The mountain of muscle standing at the top of the stairs hinders her movement forward. Immediately, her body tenses, one foot on the bottom stair, staring up at the shadowed figure with narrowed eyes.

"I don't think you're supposed to be here," A masculine, gritty voice mutters. "… bub."

Natasha, her body poised to fight at a moment's notice, cocks her head to the side. "… what the hell is a bub?"

The man leaping down the stairs at her is the predictable part, and she sidesteps him easily, back flipping out into the hall to put some distance between them. The metal claws extending from his clenched fists were not so predictable. Natasha takes them and their extended reach into account when she begins dodging his moves.

She would love to simply knock him out and move along, since combat isn't really the purpose here. But it looks to be impossible. She attempts a few of the traditional knock out techniques – blows to the head, spine injuries – they don't seem to be working. After a few minutes of ducking, dodging, and thwarted attempts to beat him back, Natasha begins to believe hitting him is hurting her more than it's hurting him.

She really doesn't want to draw her gun in a crowded hall where a kid might enter at any minute, but it's beginning to look like that's her only option. The stranger leaps at her again, claws extended, and her foot collides hard with his face, sending him off course. A fancy blue vase shatters on the floor when the man flies into the table that had been holding it. Natasha takes the momentary lull to withdraw her pistol and empty the clip into the man's chest.

It is not quiet or discrete, but at this point she has realized stealth is no longer an option. Knowing that others like him probably fill the building, she leaves his corpse and races down the hall, looking for any sign of a computer, a laboratory, anything…

She passes a door and suddenly there's a voice: This way.

The woman pauses, listens for a moment. That didn't sound like any voice she'd ever heard. Breathing heavily and a little miffed at how strange the mission has become, Natasha glances through the door which had 'spoken' to her, sees that it's not a lab, and moves onward.

You're going the wrong way.

She is alone, no one is speaking, and she is fucking hearing voices. Natasha tries to remember if her brute of an opponent ever hit her in the head, and for a second wonders if Loki has escaped Asgard and returned to Earth with his mind-controlling stick in toe. She keeps moving, putting space between herself and the creepy voice, turning left and heading towards another staircase.

Then a figure steps in the way and holy fuck a red beam of light is blasting towards her. She just barely ducks and rolls into an alcove, taking out a new clip and replacing the old one in her gun. The beam is gone, but she's no idiot; she knows the opponent is simply waiting for her to reappear. She can't wait him out, because she knows there are others on the way, so she examines her options.

There's an ornate plate hanging on the wall above her head; she grabs it, lobs it into the hall, and watches the red beam decimate it. She's already rolling into the hall, guns blazing, aiming to cause injury, not death. For all she knows, these are brainwashed government experiments being forced to fight against their will. For the second time tonight, she thinks of Barton. Her preoccupation with his suffering and the way everything is reminding her of it is beginning to put her in a bad mood.

He stumbles, the beam vanishes, and she leaps to her feet, rushing past him. She takes the big staircase behind him, hoping that its grand position in the house means that it leads somewhere important. She would love to find the info she needs, get home, and take a nice long bath where she can properly brood on something other than the pain her partner is feeling and her inability to make it go away.

What if you can make it go away? I can help you – help you both.

Grimacing, Natasha is almost tempted to scream 'shut up' at the ceiling but she keeps her cool and runs up the stairs, turns a corner – and is surrounded by children in pajamas.

Some of them have their fists raised like they're ready to fight; some are just standing there, blocking her way. The older ones are in front, but some of the younger look to be seven or eight. Natasha's grip on her gun falters. Footsteps come from behind and she hears them, spinning around and raising her gun again, only to see a familiar face.

"Didn't work the first time," The rough looking man says as he grins. "But go ahead – try again." He extends his claws and stands at the ready. More people are behind him, including one wearing sunglasses who is bleeding from the shoulder.

Natasha feels her frustration rising because she has failed the mission and because she can already hear Tony's voice at the briefing: "Ha, you got beaten by children." But she lowers her hands slowly, kneels to drop the gun to the floor, and then stands back up, arms raised.

A white haired woman with strikingly bright eyes approaches the front, moving to stand beside the guy with claws. "Who are you and why are you here?"

Natasha stays silent. She will never say a word.

"She is Natasha Romanoff; otherwise known as Black Widow, one of the members of the new superhero team, the Avengers." Heads turn to face this new voice; a bald man in a wheelchair is speaking as he is helped up the stairs by some of his fellows. He is in his night clothes as well; when he reaches the landing, he is helped back into his chair, and then turns his head to face Natasha. "As I hear it, we all owe you our thanks. You and your allies turned back an invading army."

Natasha gives a stiff nod. Behind her, the children are clamoring, whispers of 'Avengers', 'super heroes', 'Tony Stark' flying around the hall. The chatter draws the attention of the adults; all it takes is a few hard looks, and the kids are headed back to their rooms, still chattering and unlikely to be returning to sleep anytime soon.

This leaves Natasha with the man in the wheelchair, the man with claws, the white haired woman, the guy with sunglasses, a red headed woman, and a man covered in blue fur. She realizes suddenly she should have noticed the man with fur first. The fact that she is not stunned by the sight tells her she needs to stop hanging out with such strange crowds.

"Well, Ms. Romanoff, will you tell us why you're here? Or should I discover for myself?" She's not sure what he means, but she feels uncomfortable suddenly. But she won't say a word.

"Let me ask her and I'll get her to talk." The clawed man is speaking, but the bald man glowers at him and he shuts up, still grumbling a little under his breath.

"Jean, take Scott to the infirmary." The red head that has been supporting the man with sunglasses nods and walks away with him. "Miss Romanoff, though it may not appear to be so now, I am thoroughly convinced we are not on opposite sides of this. We are not your enemies."

She smirks, crosses her arms. "I have two murder attempts that suggest otherwise." The white haired woman bristles; the blue guy crosses his arms. Clawed man is unimpressed.

"You mean the explosion at Stark Mansion, and the attack on that SHIELD base a few days ago." The bald man, who she assumes is Xavier, sets his chin in his hand and leans his elbow against the arm of his chair. "Neither I nor any of my colleagues are to blame for the attempts on Mr. Stark's life. But I believe I can help you find the answers."

"I find it hard to believe that you'll help someone who snuck into your home and shot two of your men." Natasha says to him, still trying to formulate a way to escape.

"To be honest, most of those here with me today have at some time snuck into my home. Some were even more violent than you." That makes the clawed guy grumble a little bit. The white haired woman smirks. "But I understand your mistrust. We haven't exactly started this on the right foot." He extends his hand. "I am Charles Xavier." She does not shake his hand; he smiles and lowers his arm. "This is Hank McCoy," He gestures to the furry man, "Ororo," the white haired woman, "and Logan." At 'Logan', the guy with claws grunts. "I believe it is in best interests of both my people and your Avengers for us to work together on this."

"Prof. Xavier, the most I know of you is that you performed genetic research for the United States government and your name showed up on a list of people which so far has included children in bad situations, and two people who have tried to kill me and mine." Her eyes harden. "That does not exactly endear me to you."

"No, I suppose that does not – though that is hardly the truth of what happened." He sighs, brushes a hand over his head. "But I think I know of a way to mend this bridge, Miss Romanoff." Xavier looks back up again, hesitates. Natasha quirks an eyebrow. "What if I told you I happen to know the location of someone you care for, someone being kept from you?"

"I care for a very small group of people, I think I would notice if one of them went missing." This is beginning to be very annoying.

"And if they didn't go missing?" He begins. "What if you were told they were already lost to you? That they had been tragically killed?" Natasha feels her heart stop, her eyes widening. "What if they had died – but somehow, had not remained so? And in being so strangely brought back to life, were kept from you and yours by powerful people even Director Fury could not fight?"

Bitter, venomous cold fills her veins and in an instant the gun on the floor is back in her hand, it's aimed at the professor, and she doesn't even notice the three bodyguards preparing to take her down, the crash of thunder outside, doesn't see anything but the enigmatic professor's distant expression.

"Where is he?" She spits out violently, finger on the trigger. "Where is Coulson!"