Stiles enjoys the elevators in the Mansion a lot. He has a pet theory that they are Stark's personality in a nutshell, actually. Utilitarian-chic, abrasively grey walls, the reflective metal like a mirrored cage bending the angles into the surreal. But underneath it – the unrepentant crazy. In this particular case Stiles approves.

Not that it would matter if he doesn't, of course. Per (very persistent) rumors Tony's Jihad on the Muzak goes back a while, all the way to his first boarding school. Where, judging by the enduring nature of the grudge, the Muzak killed Tony's parents in front of him, in a locked elevator.

Well, whatever.

The upshot is that if you are in a Stark-owned property you get to ride in style, while listening to the best of the Eighties rock.

The downside is that sometimes the elevator refuses to let you out until the song ends.

Jarvis, apparently, has very specific parameters programmed into him.

Again, Stiles approves.

His fellow traveler, on the other hand, does not seem particularly impressed – instead intent on thoughtfully perusing her reflection in the elevator's wall.

"Maybe I should try out the blonde thing again." Allie finally breaks her musing silence. "What do you think?"

Mostly – Oh FUCK! And also – DANGER, STILES ROBINSON, DANGER.

"I think you look perfect just as you are and you don't need to compete with anybody."

Allison gives him a long considering look and the troubling spark of malice dances its way into her eyes. "Perfecter then Pepper?"

The Hunters just aren't nice people. Any of them. That's what it is. Not nice. Low down. Vicious.

"You are both perfect in your own unique way. Like snowflakes."

Or brain-damaged puppies.

That proves too much for her and Allie laughs out loud, patting him on the back. "I'm sorry, I'll stop. You did good. New York got some smoothness on you, huh?"

"I try to scrape it off nightly, but y'know…"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get cute. That was totally the wrong answer. Especially since you are taking me into the nicely secluded basement."

Stiles shrugs disdainfully. "I shan't deny my true nature any more, Ms. Argent. My cuteness and my humility are my greatest flaws. Stop trying to change me, woman!"

He pauses suddenly, and raises a suspicious eyebrow at her, "Er… what does the secluded nature of our destination have to do with anything?"

"Nuthin'."

"Allie…" Stiles drawls warningly and it's her turn to shrug. "Well, I bwas/b going to make out with you in the stacks, but since I am only perfect in…" The heavy sarcasm makes her air quotes positively vibrate, "…my own unique way, I'll just stab you in the face and hide the body down there somewhere."

"You know," Stiles says meditatively, "That joke was a lot funnier before I started hanging out with people who actually do that crazy crap on a daily basis."

"Why do you assume I am joking?" Allie asks interestedly. "I'm a girl, you know. We get all these nutso, hormone fueled urges. No reasoning with us, when we don't feel pretty. Especially when it's that time of the month. I just saw a Clairol commercial this morning that explained it all to me."

"I'm just going to pretend you did not use the phrase 'that time of the month' at me, and go back to that whole make out in the stacks part, kay?"

"Whatever floats your boat, buddy. But the offer is waaaay off the table. Now – just stabnation. Oh man, so much stabnation…"

And the day had started out so well, too.

Of course, most days do when you approach them right. And by 'right,' as far as Stiles is concerned, means 'low bar of expectations.'

Well... no. That's actually only partly true in this particular case.

Yes, Pepper's little crusade to meet Allie is troublingly (although not unexpectedly) effective. That woman takes a truly unhealthy interest in the personal lives of the people around her. And if Coulson couldn't stop her from meddling in that whole Cellist Affair… Well, Stiles is a realist.

But there are several bright sides to the thing.

Stiles has a cunning plan of the Basement

After Pepper meets Allison, she'll get the whole 'not a girlfriend' idea and back off. Or possibly set Stiles up with one of the ridiculously wealthy New York debs, allowing him to finally partake of the life of wealth and debauchery he'd really love to get used to. Possibly with some sort of reality show involved. He should really start working up some catch-phrases…

It's be nice to show the Mansion off to Allie. As the wise Eastern philosopher, Sterling Mallory Archer, had observed: Why be a secret agent intern, if you can't brag about it?

It sort of works out, too. Pepper really seems to approve of Allison, especially after they simultaneously geek out over a Kandinsky original in the foyer. And obviously, judging by the blonde ideas, the approval is mutual.

All his plans are falling into place. So of course, suddenly stabbing enters the picture.

Typical.

"That's one of the things on my bucket list, you know." Stiles sighs, "Right after punching out a zombie. I was so sure I was going to get the whole necking-in-the-library thing crossed off by the time I graduated, too. Never happened."

Nonplussed by the answering silence, he half-turns to catch Allison suddenly very intent on the speck of dust marring her blouse.

"… you did NOT!"

"You don't have to make this big drama out of it! Everybody was doing it in college. Except you, apparently. And it was just a little bit of necking." Allison sniffs. "I didn't like it too much. It seems like a good idea at the time – all edgy and stuff. But it's just uncomfortable and weird. Like nookie in the dorm's bathroom."

Stiles blinks and runs the last sentence through his mental filters again.

Yep, she'd totally just said that.

He definitely did the college thing wrong.

"Damn, Al. That's pretty... skeezy. But also hot."

She sighs again, suddenly melancholy. "That's pretty much my sophomore year in a nutshell, I suppose. Good times." She winces. "Well – good stories, anyway."

"I don't think I want to be talking about this anymore."

"Such a prude."

"Hey, I'm not some filthy French immigrant, like some people in this elevator! I'm a red blooded American. I only do the weird stuff in the privacy of my own bedroom. Or a particularly discrete sex shop."

"Dude, my family has been in the US since before the civil war. And also – if you'd ever seen the inside of a sex shop, your little puritanical head would probably explode."

"Hah! HAH! The joke is on you, missy! Danny totally took me to one of those."

At which point Stiles realizes the very dangerous direction of the conversation. The shop experience was… odd. The transvestites running it decided that Stiles was 'just darling' and when Danny just fucking abandoned him like a filthy traitorous abandoner, wanted to play 'dress up the straight.'

Time to subtly change the topic.

"So, anyway – you remember what we are looking for?"

The corner of Allie's mouth quirks, and she gives him that old, knowing look, but lets him off the hook. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. The question is if this box will ever let us out again. Where the hell are you taking us, the fifth dimension?"

"That's in the 16th floor, we are going to the basement." Stiles tells her seriously and Allison stares back, before snorting. "Almost had me there, not gonna lie."

Stiles doesn't say anything, but the truth is that there's definitely bSomething/b up on the 16th. It's one of those secrets that everybody knows enough not to want to know any more about.

When it comes to Stark there are a lot of those.

As if to underline the thought, Joe Elliott screechingly pleads one last time for his baby to get closer to him and falls silent, allowing the elevator doors to finally hiss open.

"Thank you, Jarvis." Stiles says politely.

"My pleasure, Mr. Stiles." Jarvis replies coolly.

"…!" Allison comments diplomatically.

"We should go," Stiles informs her quickly and makes his escape.

Allie catches up quickly, her mouth already forming a question or an insult, but before she can vocalize it, they are already being met by the security guard.

"What's the rush, kid?"

"Hey, Harry," Stiles grins and dips into his bag. "I brought the stuff!"

The old man's eyes narrow consideringly, adding lines to an already ancient looking face, as he takes in the pair before him and the 12-pack of PBR in Stiles's hands. "15 minutes."

"30." Allison counters without missing a step.

Stiles tried not to gawk at her entry into the deal she knows nothing about and just lets her work.

"15 minutes, and if you start any hanky-panky in there I'm kicking you out."

"30, you never use the words 'hanky-panky' at me again, and we'll bring you jerky next time too."

Harry stares at her briefly and smiles. "I like you. You can stay. 20, and there ain't no next time."

"Deal," Allie smiles back and solemnly spits into her palm. Harry's smile widens as he does the same and the two shake hands.

Stiles queasily fights back the nausea. "You're both disgusting human beings. In what way is that even hygienic? This is a library annex!"

"That's right," Harry squints at him. "So keep it the fuck down. Clock is ticking."

Ten minutes later Stiles swallows noisily, and makes a slight gagging noise. Allie rolled her eyes. "Will you give it up already? Drama llama."

"I have a very tender constitution. And I was brought up right, not in some barn where excreting your bodily fluids is some sort mark of camaraderie."

"Well, then, you've been missing all the fun, haven't you?"

"… probably." Stiles concedes gloomily and turns his attention back to the terminal. To be totally honest he expected this to be a lot easier. Mostly because Rigby, that fucking rat bastard, had told him so.

Which doesn't necessarily mean that Fallon was lying. Just that he, as always, assumes that everybody else also spent their formative years hacking Japanese porn sites and playing hide-and-seek with the NSA.

Still, the theory is sound. The Night Watch Archives are now accessible from the Mansion, and the Annex is still networked in. Pure luck – as far as Stiles can figure out in all the craziness of the recent event they just forgot to take it offline. The access that Rigby was able to claw out for him is pretty limited, but then Stiles is not planning to go spelunking in the data pool. He's done most of his research already, narrowing down the search parameters quite severely.

He was hoping it would take only a few minutes, in fact, but…

"Got it!"

Perfect. Of course she'd be the one to find it. It's not like Stiles spent the last half a decade laying down the groundw—

Up until he heard the sound of heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway, he honestly thought the expression 'blood froze in my veins' was retarded.

Live and learn.

Making a 'we are dead, it's every man for himself!' face at Allie, he drops down flat and tries his best to blend into the carpeting.

Her eyes, huge and terrified, stare daggers back at him from behind a chair.

And she doesn't know the half of it. Only one person makes that much noise walking. They are about to be busted in a restricted area, stealing data from SHIELD by a fucking Norse God.

He should have known.

No day that starts so well, ends in anything but tears.

Fucking typical.

Then Natasha follows Thor though the doors and the situation takes a short step from bad into the indescribably horrific.

She sits, in that seemingly languid easy motion that has the hidden readiness of a compressed spring. Just sinks into the plush chair next to the door and wait.

Thor walks.

He never stops after he strides through the door, just pacing, the blond hair no longer long, hacked into an ugly uneven mess, the cut of mourning and grief. He paces, silent and grim, refusing to look at the Widow, just measuring the room, made small by his presence, with his steps.

She sits and waits, infinitely patient.

"The world," Thor says suddenly, stopping and fixing the faded map on the wall with hooded eyes, "will end in ice and blood. Red snow and stillness, forever."

Natasha doesn't answer, her eyes on the glass pencil cup she twirls absently between her hands.

"It is a strange thing to be born a God who knows that he will end in death and failure. And how. The Wyrd rides all of us. And Loki - he was not bred to this. His shoulders are not broad enough, his back not strong. He is only half-God, you see."

The assassin is still silent, still watching the artificial light refract, break and reform in the industrially produced glass jewel.

"I am terrified of winter," says the God that fell to Earth. "Used to have nightmares about it when I was a child. Loki knew. We'd climb under the covers together and he'd tell me how the cold was a good thing, a friend. It was in his blood and he tried to share that with me. Brothers. It is a thing of strangeness."

She puts the glass on the desk with a soft movement full of the utilitarian grace that defined the century that produced her. No waste, all purpose.

"I used to be Russian, Odinson. I understand cold, and winter, and terror. I understand family and blood." Natasha meets Thor's eyes until he blinks and looks away. "What I don't understand is why you are talking to me. Why you brought me here, away from eyes of all the people who might actually give a damn about the poetic tragedy of it all."

Thor winces as if struck but she never pauses. "You need to stop defending him to me. Explaining. Justifying. All of it. I'm not your ally. I am not the one that will agree with you. I am not the one who will help you save him."

The red hair shimmers and moves as she dips her head toward the door, toward the rest of the mansion, toward the life and laughter out there, streaming past this quiet chilly room. "Any one of them, maybe. But not me. I am an American by adoption, not birth. I lack their... optimism. I am the one who will finish it, if you can't. The haircut is a nice touch. Meaning that you have come to terms with the fact that your brother is a murdering sociopath, I suppose. But it's a lie. And we, you and I, we both know that. He's not dead. He's still a threat. And will remain one until he breathes. And as long as he does it means you haven't come to terms with shit."

She flicks the glass, and watches it fall to floor in, a miniature explosion, and a shadow of contempt flits across her face as she looks down on the bowed blond head next to her. "Therapy and the search of inner goodness is not my brand of poison. We all have our evils to bear, and wounds to lick. I begrudge none their pain, but I am not interested in your excuses. The fact that your brother is a monster is your cross. Grow some balls and fucking deal with it."

Or I will, hangs in the air – unsaid, but clear.

Thor never answers, just straightens heavily and, never looking back, strides out the door, closing it softly behind him.

The Widow watches him, silent, infinitely patient, until the echo of his feet dies away.

"I want you both out of here in 2 minutes. Clean up the glass before you go."

… so, this is what a heart attack feels like. Huh.

Thirty five seconds later Allie scoops the last slivers of glass into waste basket and hisses at him, "Are you coming?!"

"Nah, just breathing hard."

It pops out before he even realizes what he's saying it, and Allison's mouth forms a perfectly indignant oval of silent shock.

Stiles is totally going to pay for it later.

Worth it.