I updated! Yay! Thank you so much for the reviews, guys. They always give me encouragement whenever I read them. This can be seen as a filler arc or not. Also I hope you'll enjoy this chapter, too.

Disclaimer: I do not own Avengers nor Fifty Shades of Grey

"May those who accept their fate be granted happiness. May those who defy their fate be granted Glory."

The Maid and the Cat

"Achoo!"

Clint ducked behind the contours of the bedside as Tony sneezed, spraying his germs and bacteria to those who were unfortunate enough to be around the radius. His hand accidentally pushed a remote as he half-heartedly searched for a box of tissues lying around. Clint emerged from the bomb, glaring at the sick teenager who had glazed, feverish eyes. Clint's beady eyes were focused on him, narrowed and almost like slits. Although he does not consider himself as a neat freak or an obsessed sanitary creep with a compulsive disorder, he frowned. It made him disgusted and maddened because Tony did not follow the proper etiquette to cover his mouth when he sneezed.

Calling out to him hotly, he loudly voiced, "Cover your damn mouth Tony!" He scooted back a few inches backwards, avoiding the radius this time. "Unlike you, people like Nat and me are not lucky or rich enough to own an AI or have a Steve at our beck and call," he added, exasperated.

Christmas was a jolly, merry event for all students, the last holiday before the beginning of the New Year and the start of a long winter break. However, winter this year was not a cooperative, friendly season for the ambitious inventor. He was in charge of a committee, but in all actuality, the committee pretty much consisted of Tony and two other representatives. They handled all the technical entertainment the school could have offered: Christmas lights, disco balls, strobe lights, glow-in-the-dark paints, Christmas-themed robots… everything related to the holidays and flashy flamboyance.

Principal Fury's expectations were met and the day turned upside down when his bastardly father patted him on the shoulder once, expressing how proud he was of him. That was improvement compared to the past, but although admitting seeing a toothy grin from Fury and receiving acknowledgement from his father was the reason why he accepted working on this project was tempting, he owed it all to the young man who never knew what a strobe light was, who never danced under a disco ball, who never got splattered by a mere paint ball… who was always and truly his friend, Steve. It was Steve's brilliant smile that made all the hard work worthwhile. The shape of his mouth when he opened his eyes as Tony lured him to the dance floor, the shimmering exuberance he exerted while filling up the balloons with glow-in-the-dark paint- if the consequence was to be deathly ill during Post-Christmas, there were no lingering regrets about the matter. His eyes were droopy now and the crook of his next relaxed into the environment, and then he began to daydream.

Natasha "nudged" her imperfect but tolerable friend. "Clint," she ordered, "Stop antagonizing the patient."

Clint yelped as a spike of pain shot up near his abdomen. Of course, that was to be expected since the typical "nudge" for the average assassin-in-training would be a sharp, assailing elbow to the ribcage. For the average victim, that grueling blow would have knocked a grown man out cold for two hours, but since this is Clint, who was also an assassin-in-training, too, the throbbing area evolved into a plain, purple bruise.

His eyes twitched as he struggled to compose himself, nearly out of breath and sassiness. Abuse and pain were his two favorite middle names, and no, although many groupies and fangirls adore it, the rumor about his middle name being Francis was a fraudulent lie, an outrageous slaughter to his good/infamous name. Rubbing the sore spot where Natasha contacted him, he choked out the question he has been meaning to ask for centuries.

"Is it true Steve is wearing an apron for you?"

Natasha ignored Clint's idiocy and continued to skim the text Fifty Shades of Grey, engrossed by the sexual themes.

Tony shifted his eyes to Clint and smiled cheekily. "Hell yes. I've been negotiating with him to wear a maid outfit, too." His raspy, coarse voice made him sound like an old man.

Natasha smiled for once while reading, possibly hinting her amusement with the kinky references in the book or the mental thought of Steve in a black skirt no longer than his mid-thigh, wearing four inch high heels with his long, skinny shaven legs, with a lacy and ruffled maid hat on top was too hilarious. Clint laughed lightly and sat back on the chair, leaning the leg back. He is impressed by Steve's progression to domesticity.

He switched his spot and sat right next to Tony, the minutes before all in the past. "I applaud you, Tony Stark. If you weren't so sick, I would have toasted you a nice bottle of rum and whiskey."

A snarling voice interrupted the celebration. "Don't you dare give him alcohol, Clint."

Heads turned around, including Natasha's, to see Steve mortified. The sheer look of doom was upon him because he is wearing a standard solid black knee-length dress, black stockings, and is complimented by a white apron. Steve drew the line when Tony added ribbons to the back. He was innocently lifting a tray; the meal today was chicken noodle soup. His face burned shame; his sanguine complexion redder than the scarlet colored stripes of the American flag. He opened his mouth to speak, but he fumbled with his words, feeling the pairs of eyes singling out each mistake he uttered.

Clint had a smug smile. "Dayum, Tony. How did you coax him to wear this?"

"If you tweak your wording and add loopholes, you would realize the awesome, ultimate power our tongues have."

Tony judged Steve's slender frame, moving his head up and down, checking his friend out from top to bottom. If there was some effort added, Tony deemed he would be able to pull off as a woman, not because of his skinny exterior but because of his baby blue eyes, brimmed with naivety, and his golden lush hair gleaming under the artificial light. Both accentuated his natural down-to-earth style, but because it would have offended Steve if he commented on the feminine aspects, he kept his mouth shut. Besides, his throat still feels scratchy and worn.

Standing like a sitting duck for three minutes, Steve proceeded forward, past Clint's sniggers and the judgmental eyes of Natasha.

"Thanks." Tony croak.

In a soft, melodic voice, Steve hushed him. "You shouldn't use your voice too much. It can get worse."

The furrowed angles of Steve's eyebrows and the creases on his forehead before began to flatten, possibly because of relief or the anticipation Tony expressed when he shoved a mouthful of soup into his mouth; it brought a delightful satisfaction in his heart- warmth that reached all the way down to the toes of his feet. This fluffy moment of their friendship, though, to their abhorrence, was ruined by the aptitude of Clint's snorts. What caused Steve to blanch into a chalky white was the horrendous moment when he felt a strange breeze rushing past his upper thighs, and when he looked back, what was a pale sheet of blank paper turned into disintegrated ash. His skirt was flipped by a certain dumbass's diabolical hands: Clint himself.

He could have rolled on the floor laughing, but knowingly seeing the demonic aura seeping out of the fierce tiger waiting to erupt and pierce its fangs into his neck, the maid didn't seem so pure and innocuous anymore.

Steve grinded his teeth, each letter pronounced and emphasized as he said the lecher's name. "Clinton. Francis. Barton."

When Steve Rogers says your name- the one written and signed on your birth certificate- bad things go from there. Long story short, stockings and all, the glorious Steve sprung on Clint like a rabid dog out for revenge while Natasha reads more arousing literature. The racket was almost unbearable for Tony, and disappointedly, he took the last tissue from the tissue box Natasha handed to him. The maid and the archer continued to inflict punches and unintentional bloody knuckles onto each other. The grappling, mauling, and rolling did not cease. Steve may have been the small fry, but that does not guarantee Clint has the upper hand. Too bad that lasted for a minute.

Pinned on the ground, Steve struggled, chest heaving up and down. He resisted the olive branch and glared at the victor, but one glance at Tony told him he wanted water.

He puffed out air. "Alright, alright, you won," he admitted, resigned.

Even though Clint was going to straddle Steve just to frustrate him more, he pushed him off inelegantly. With one knee down, he got his other leg to stand and hopped up. He crossed his legs, too. After all, one does not simply underestimate Clint Barton. One positive con, if there are any more, to wearing a skirt is having the freedom to move your legs without the constraints of denim. Whisking a pitcher of water from the refrigerator, he poured more water into Tony's empty glass. Tony ravenously drank each drop.

"Why are you guys here?" Steve inquired. "We have a school-wide field trip, right?" He poured a refill for Tony.

"Not interested," Clint said bluntly. Then he paced around Tony's room, as if he was searching for the secret passageway leading to Tony's lab. However, that industrialized working space is off limits.

"You should go!" Steve encouraged. "I heard they were going to visit chocolate factories, monumental historical battlefields, beaches, amusement parks… Also! I heard they mentioned a world-renowned circus was-"

The electric crystal ball Clint carried slipped from his fingertips and smashed into tiny, little pieces on the floor.

Clint swerved his head in Steve's direction. "Don't you DARE mention the CIRCUS!" he snapped.

His reaction was teeming with vehemence, and it startled Steve to see a man so collected with his emotions explode like that. Deterred to say anything else, he hid behind Natasha's body, which he used as a shield, and peeked out from her arm heedfully. Clint clenched his fists but made no move to use it. Natasha crossed her arms with a stern look on her face, and her body language right then and there showed not of a pacified, merciful teenager with a dove on her shoulder but of a domineering assassin-in-training with a pocket knife hidden up her sleeve. Unlike their other training sessions, she is not proud of her pupil/friend.

"Apologize." There was an uncompromising tone in her voice.

Clint was silent.

"Apologize, now."

Stubborn and knuckle-headed, he did not utter "sorry" or any other alternate version of an apology, so he sulkily left, and opened the victimized sliding door with a powerful thrust. She ran after him, muttering in Russian about hard-headed men.

There was a whistle.

"That was quite a scene, huh?"

Lavishing his petty needs, Tony gulped another glass of water. Steve poured more for him.

"Did I say anything to offend him?"

He sat at the corner of the bed. Tony shook his head.

"Jarvis, explain to him." he coarsely whispered.

His artificial intelligence answered to his guttural plea.

"Mr. Barton had an unhappy history with the circus, Mr. Rogers. Ever since he joined the business, he was an orphan, wandering from place to place with a couple of strange adults. Sadly, his life took a crude path, and he was betrayed by his valued mentor and accused as a thief. Agent Coulson took him under his wing, but the damage had already been done. Life hardened him and from there forth, he somewhat became a steely, closed-off character, wishing to be, and I quote, 'A straight-shooter'."

Steve looked back at the sliding door. "I should go and apologize."

Tony did a frantic, muffled sound. Jarvis understood his master.

"Translation: Don't take the blame, Steve. Let Barton handle his shitty emotions."

It is quite funny to hear Jarvis cuss with his distinguishable British accent.

Steve patted the curls of Tony's dark brown hair, eventually entwining his fingers with them. "You know me, Tony. I would feel guilty if I left this unresolved."

Tony puffed from his nose, dissatisfied with his answer. Steve got up and went to his closet to pluck out a duffel coat from the hanger, and he embraced the woolen material and sniffed its scent. Marking his approval, he shrugged into the sleeves. He looked back at Tony.

"Have a nice rest, Tony."

Tony couldn't tell if his cheeks were rosy because of overheated electric blanket.

When Tony awoke, blinking his eyes to adapt to the strange glare of the sunlight, he discovered after rubbing his eyes, he was no longer in the reality he knew but was trapped inside a world of dysfunction and cacophony. Clocks were suspended in midair, and they ticked the time. The monotonous rhythm followed the beat of his footsteps as he tromped on pinkish soil, where many plants identical to Venus flytraps grew on. The horizon was a hazy blur, a thin line not meant to be distinguished. He knew he was in his dream, but like a man without a map or a guide, he had no destination to go to, no objective to follow. And so, he rollicked in the personification of his subconscious, not a bit apprehensive to see the pink soil turn red.

"Hey Mister! You shouldn't be lollygagging around this town. Nightmare will devour you if you don't hitch a train soon!"

A mix of aquamarine, light blue and turquoise pair of eyes captured the attention of murky brown ones.

Tony gaped. "Steve?"

There was a human being who looked identical to Steve a few yards away, and the major difference between this Steve and Tony's Steve were the twitchy cat ears glued to his head, the star-spangled collar hanging from his neck, and a coiled furry, fuzzy tail attached to who knows where. Cat-Steve, Tony decided to call him, trotted/sprinted to him. His ears perked, and he hugged Tony's leg in a frolicsome way.

He purred. "Wow Mister! You must be a mind reader to know my name!" He took a whiff of Tony's fragrance, if there was such a thing as sense of smell in the dream world. "And you smell so nice~"

Dumbfounded, Tony rubbed Cat-Steve's back to tame him, his hand prickling as it touched along the vertebral column. Each bump made him seem so human, so real. This creation from his imagination wore a white short-sleeved shirt and tight black pants that hugged his waist; the white shirt juxtaposed the eerie red stream trailing along the horizon but the pants blended in with the murderous color.