Hey, guys! So, here's another extremely long one-shot that took me a little over two weeks to write, mainly for lack of motivation.

Warning: this contains Stucky, as will future stories. Don't like, don't read, and please don't write angry reviews.


Valentine's Day: I've always regarded it as a general paragon of all things sweet, mushy, and generally an opportunity for couples to be couples without (much) judgement.

Personally, I've always put it as either Before Boyfriend or After Boyfriend. Before Boyfriend meant I didn't give a flying fish about February 14th; it was just another day of the year, just with extremely expensive chocolates and an abundance of oversized, usually pink, balloons.

After Boyfriend, I still don't care all too much, and I still wouldn't be caught dead wearing pink, but Clint used it as an opportunity to take me out on dates that we didn't really get the change to go on anymore.

Not that I was complaining, of course. A girl likes to be treated.

Which led to lunch at our usual café followed by window shopping on 5th Avenue; just a few hours where we could be just two normal people without all the press and fame for once.

"What are you thinking about?" Clint's voice startles me out of my thoughts.

I shrug, scanning the surrounding area for paparazzi. "I don't get to do this very often."

"What, think? I should think otherwise," he teases.

"No," I roll my eyes dramatically, bumping his shoulder with mine. "I meant a normal date like this. With no interruptions or cameras…which is weird."

"Well I like spoiling you." He squeezes my hand. "And I may or may not have struck a deal with several newspapers and magazines to give us a wide berth today."

"What did you do?" I ask him suspiciously. "Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but you didn't need to make a deal with the devil."

"I didn't!" he denies, then pauses. "Although I don't know where they are, so some poor shmuck is probably being hounded at the moment."

I consider this for a moment. "I hope it's Hammer," I declare. "I know he doesn't have a date, either."

"Oh, poor him," my boyfriend drawls. "Actually, no-"

He's cut off by both of our phones blaring Klaxon alarms and vibrating wildly. One quick look confirms the Assemble Alerts, and one glance is shared before we're making very fast progress back to where my car.

"We can't have a normal date, can we?" I grumble as we weave through the crowds on the sidewalk. "Not even one."

Clint just glances back at me before picking up his pace, and I relinquish that conversation because he's clearly in mission mode already.

We make it to my Aston-Martin in record time, and the passenger door is barely closed before we're speeding for the Tower.

"Ma'am, Mr. Barton, you have an incoming call from Miss Romanoff," Jarvis announces.

"Route her through," I order, tightening my grip on the door. "Clint, don't break my car. Do you want to owe me 2.3 million dollars?"

He eases off the gas a little, but the intense look in his eyes remains as the windshield lights up, Natasha's contact photo appears in the upper right hand corner with a small Black Widow hourglass and an audio signal.

"You're on the line," Clint prompts absently.

"Is Taylor still with you?" the ex-Russian asks brusquely.

"Right here," I pipe up. "What is it? We got the call."

"About that – don't come back to the Tower."

"What?" I press back against my seat as Clint floors it again. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," she backpedals. "Nothing here, anyways. We got a report of a group of rogue mutants – that was the call – but it's in Fort Hood, Texas. Taylor, if you deploy Beta V now, you could make it in just under an hour."

"And I can carry Clint," I agree. "What about everyone else?"

"Steve and Bucky were together when the call went out, and they're flying the Quinjet in together. Thor's flying himself in, Tony's in the suit, and I'm… currently being carried."

It takes a second before her last sentence sinks in. "Is my dad carrying you? Is it bridal style?"

"Taylor, just get here," she growls.

"It is," I laugh, and Clint gives me a reproving look. "Right, sorry, back to the mission. Although I'm not letting this go. Where in Fort Hood?"

"I'll get Tony to send you the coordinates."

"Got it," I nod. "Beta out." I end the call and look at Clint. "Pull over here – no, here."

Clint gives me an incredulous look but follows my instruction anyways, pulling into a dark alley between two old brick buildings. I hop out before the car pulls to a full stop, shedding my jacket, tossing into the back seat and accepting my bow, quiver, and gear from Clint.

I step a few feet down the alley, fishing a small earpiece out of my pocket and slipping it in and activating it. "Jarvis, deploy. Send it in."

I should probably explain – I designed Beta V to be lighter, faster, more flexible, and completely autonomous, and instead of relying on assembly bots, I decided to take a page out of the Mark XLII's book and put it together puzzle-style with help from the trackers in my metal prosthetic.

And it should be arriving in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…

A slight hum fills the air as metal peaks over the building to my left, slamming into my hand and quickly expanding to form one of my gauntlets, the action then copied by the other gauntlet so that I'm incased up to my elbows. Then come shoulder pads and the upper arms, followed by the legs (and don't ever say that metal hitting your shins at high speeds doesn't hurt) and abdomen pieces – which are smaller plates that link together like chain mail – and the back plates. Thankfully the chest and helmet plates come in slightly slower, followed by a few smaller side pieces.

And then I'm left staring at the last piece – the faceplate. Which is kind of creepy, actually.

I take a deep breath before giving a short blast of the thrusters, launching up a few feet to meet the faceplate in mid-air, summersaulting forward to land on one knee with a fist planted firmly on the asphalt.

"Well," I muse as the holoscreen lights up, "that went better than the tests." I straighten up and look at Clint, who was fully armed and waiting by the car.

"You done, show off?" he teases, brushing a piece of lint off his leather vest.

"Yeah, yeah," I roll my eyes, taking off and smoothly scooping up my boyfriend in a bridal carry and lifting us both to about 10,000 feet.

Clint sighs and shifts carefully in my arms. "Well…at least this is romantic."

"Don't make me drop you."


One hour later, Clint and I have arrived in Fort Hood, Texas – which is a military base – and for once, it's not freezing, just a brisk sixty degrees.

I swoop down to drop Clint on the concrete below before landing myself and looking at the Captain. "What are we looking at here?"

"Rogue mutants," he replies, and that certainly gets everyone's attention. "A four-person team that goes by the name of The Fearsome Four. two guys, two girls – codenamed Hurricane, Feline, Arborion, and Brimstone. They seem hell-bent on destroying the base."

"Question," I interject. "Why can't the X-Men do anything about this? It seems right up their alley."

"Or the Army, for that matter," Bucky adds, both from Steve's right and over the comms. "This is their home turf – where are they?"

"The X-Men are busy with another group called The Wrecking Crew on the West Coast. The soldiers are holed up in the mess hall. I've just spoken the base commander – they can't move and we're the first sign of help."

"Well…they're welcome." I rock back on my heels. "This feels good – the whole knight-in-shining-armor stuff."

"Sorry to burst your bubbles," Dad calls. "But remember the angry mutants? We need to get moving."

"Right." I watch as Cap takes on his 'leader' persona, tightening his grip on his shield. "Okay…Hawkeye, there's a guard tower to our north – that should work as a perch. Hold position there, give us a big picture of the field. Iron Man, drop him off and then find out where the Four are localizing they're efforts."

"On it, Cap," Dad confirms and Clint nods before they're gone with a rush of air.

"Thor, Iron Beta, you're air support – if any of these guys can fly, give it all you've got," Cap continues. "Widow, Winter Soldier, get ready to mobilize on Iron Man's signal."

I don't get a chance to ask what signal, because suddenly there's a huge explosion that lights up the afternoon sky and rocks the ground, even where we all are.

"That signal?" I ask only half-rhetorically as I take off to avoid the trembling ground, waiting for Cap's nod before taking off towards the source of the explosion, Thor just behind me.

I get my first glimpse of the mutants from hundreds of feet in the air – and even from there, I don't like what I see.

There are four of them, just like Steve had said – one man with white, unruly hair and eyes that almost looked white (but were blue upon closer inspection) and dressed in white robes with blue detailing; one woman with large black wings, red eyes, and fangs, dressed in dark shades of red and black; another man, this one looking like a smaller version of the Thing; and another woman, crouched in the shadows with a cat-like grace.

Thor, of course, immediately heads for the strongest one while I head for the only one that can obviously fly, opening fire on the winged lady. "Hey, chicken lady! Over here!"

Her head snaps over to look at me with unnatural speed, her eyes glowing red like embers. Locking her gaze on me, Bird Lady spreads her wings, showing about a fifteen-foot wingspan – and I take a moment to admire that, because it really is a pretty sight, and they match my color scheme – before rising into the air to match me in altitude.

"Ah, little Miss Stark," she greets with a sardonic grin. "How wonderful to see you."

"When will people stop calling me little?" I complain. "I mean, I'm almost twenty-one, I've graduated college, really-"

My rant is cut off by several sharp things flying at me dead on, which I manage to duck just in time. "Rude. You cut me off."

"Well, if you want to play with the big boys, my dear…" Bird Lady mocks, flicking her wings and causing several more sharp things to fly at m, which I now see are feathers – somehow. "So which one are you?" I ask casually while arming the stinger missiles that were kept on my thigh. "Or do you just want me to call you Feather Cannon?"

She lets out a harsh cackle that makes me want to book her in an asylum. "You can figure it out dearie, if you're so smart."

And then she almost seems to glow around the edges before there's a blinding flash and suddenly the winged lady isn't there anymore, leaving behind only a strong smell of sulfur.

Wait, sulfur?

"Iron Beta, report!" Cap barks in my ear, jerking me back to reality. "What was that?"

"Not quite sure, Cap," I admit slowly. "She was shooting feathers at me, she was glowing and then gone. And now I'm going to have to let this air out because everything within twenty feet smells like rotten eggs. And…" I do a quick 360 analyzation of the base around me. "I've lost her."

"And idea which one she is?"

"No," I sigh absently, my eyes flicking from building to building.

"Brimstone," Natasha cuts in curtly from the ground, where she and Feline – apparently a lithe woman that took a page out of Cat-Woman's book – were locked in a hand-to-hand-slash-parkour battle. "I've got Feline, Steve and Bucky have Aborion-" I glance down to where the shield was bouncing between Steve, Bucky, and the Mini-Thing "-and Thor's taking on Hurricane, so you get Brimstone."

"The sulfur makes more sense, then," Clint interjects. "Fire and brimstone, God's wrath and all that." There's a muffled explosion on his end of the line, and some muffled coughing sounds before he comes back on. "Found her. She's just west of my position – I'll keep her busy for a second."

"Copy that, Hawkeye," I reply before taking off towards his position. I arrive to find that Brimstone's wrapped herself in her wings, like a giant, black, feathery cocoon, and none of Clint's arrows seem to be hurting her.

"The wings are invincible," my boyfriend reports. "You can't touch her when she's curled up like that."

I nod and, after doing some quick calculations in my head, charge straight for the mutant. I manage to slam into her back, the one place where her wings weren't, and send her flying into the side of a building.

She picks herself up and glares at me, her eyes flashing. "You, little one, are getting on my nerves."

"Good," I quip. "That's what I do best." I blast her with the repulsors dialed to full power, but she just takes flight again and gives me an infuriating smirk. I switch to internal comms. "Hawkeye, any weaknesses?"

"She doesn't have any weapons," he reports after a moment. "Not that I've seen, anyways. All she has is her wings – take those away, and she's a sitting duck."

"Noted." I nod before charging forward again.

Five minutes and three failed shots later, I've gotten absolutely nowhere with Ms. Feather Cannon and I'm severely pissed off because of it.

"Is there anyone that can help me with Brimstone?" I ask the general battlefield, not speaking to anyone in particular. I get seven negatives – Widow and Hawkeye are busy with Feline, Bucky and Steve are duking it out with Aborion, and Thor's just managed to corner Hurricane – who could float on clouds, by the way – on the southern end of the base.

"Cap," I say again, this time directly, "I need permission to call in help."

"Permission granted, Beta," Cap replies over the sound of gunfire and someone – more than likely Bucky – screaming curses in Russian.

I duck behind the nearest building, hovering steadily as I address Jarvis. "J, keep an eye on her signature, tell me if she moves or pulls another disappearing act. And put Reserve…Two on the line please. I don't care if he's busy."

"Yes, Miss Stark," the AI responds dutifully, putting the call through as requested.

"Wilson." a slightly distracted voice answers.

"Falcon," I greet flatly, skipping all pleasantries.

"Tay – Iron Beta." Sam definitely sounds more alert now, and I smirk slightly. "What's up?"

"Where are you, and how fast can you be at Fort Hood Military Base, Texas?" I demand. "I'm calling you in."

"Well today's your lucky day, then," he quips. "I was in Amarillo – for vacation, mind you."

"Don't even start," I snap. "I was on a date when we got called out. ETA, Falcon?"

"Sorry. I should be there in about an hour and a half at top speeds," he reports, sounding apologetic. "It's the best I can do."

"I get it," I sigh. "Check in with Cap when you here."

"Yes ma'am!" he replies smartly, even though I don't think I outrank him – not in this team, anyways. The Air Force was a whole other basket of eggs.

I roll my eyes as I disconnect the call, refocusing on the scans Jarvis had pulled up. She hasn't moved, and that was odd, but I push her to the back burner for a moment as I make my way over to Steve, closer to the center of the base.

"Cap," I call, perching precariously on a ledge about ten feet above the ground. "Wilson's on his way."

"Roger that, Iron Beta," he acknowledges. "Get back in position."

I sigh, nod, and fly back the way I came, praying to Thor that Brimstone has mysteriously died in the last ten minutes.


One hour, twenty-nine minutes, and ten seconds (but who's counting?) later, I'm seriously regretting all of my life choices and debating a career in accounting.

I could do math, and it was safe. Certainly safer than flying around in a 200-pound modern suit of armor against a demonic-angel-mutant-lady that I had no idea how to beat.

"Falcon," I try for the twentieth time in the last hour, "where the hell are you?"

"On your left!"

I blink. That was new. Was he-?

"Don't tell me you were giving up," a voice calls, and I turn to see Sam Wilson walking across the rooftop to where I was standing as his silver and red wings retract into their backpack.

"Of course not," I reply flippantly as I flip the faceplate up. "That'd just save all the fun for you."

He gives a soft chuckle before stepping up next to me and squaring his shoulders. "Sit-rep?"

I roll my eyes at him – military types, they never change – but report anyways. "Brimstone's a mutant – big, black, invulnerable wings that can shoot feathers at you, glow-y red eyes, and she occasionally disappears in a flash of bright light. She keeps you on your toes."

"Weapons?"

"None that I can see."

"This should be a piece of cake then." Sam looks at me incredulously. "What are you waiting for?"

"Backup." I flip down my faceplate again. "Come on." He follows me off the roof and a block west, following the scent of slightly burnt rotten eggs to the winged mutant.

"I'm going to burn these clothes when I get home," Sam announces decisively from behind me. "Talk about B.O."

I roll my eyes, unseen by him, and dive into the courtyard with my thrusters and repulsors both at full power. "Brimstone!"

She flashes in next to me and immediately sends another volley of feathers my way before noticing Sam. "Oh, how nice! You've brought friends! Was I not invited to the party?"

"Your invitation must've gotten lost in the mail," I growl, blasting at her feet. She flies up and out of the way of my blast, only to get her lower half at by Falcon, who had been hovering above and behind me.

Yeah, see? Teamwork.

He dives out of the way as I take his place, both of us aiming for the lower half of her body; not only was that out of the way of her wings, but we were under orders to not kill them (if at all possible), no matter how much I wanted to.

One of my shots actually grazes her knee, leaving a nasty-looking brown burn that I knew from experience hurt like hell.

(Lab Safety 101: What Not to Do.)

She wasn't expecting me to actually land a hit, so she loses balance and almost falls from the sky – therein allowing Sam to land a shot on her foot.

Slowly but steadily, we manage to force her back against a wall, pinning her down at last.

Well, pride does come before a fall.

She starts to glow again, and I just manage to shout out a warning before there's another bright flash and this time, I'm sent tumbling and hit the ground hard.

"Beta, report!" Clint shouts, and by the sounds of things he's asked the same question many times before my comms rebooted.

"I'm fine, Hawkeye," I groan, both for Clint's benefit and everyone else's because I know they're listening. "Brimstone might have to die now," I add in Russian, for those that can understand. Switching back to English, I look around for my companion. "Falcon?"

"'M okay," he groans, and I see a shadow just around the corner to my right. "Damn, Miss Feathers will not stay still."

"No dip, Sherlock," I drawl, rolling myself out of turtle position and checking all suit systems before standing up and firing up the thrusters. "This ends now."

"Agreed," Sam says, shaking out his wings before taking a running start and circling around to make pace with me. "Lead the way."

I quickly take the lead, following Jarvis' instructions to a gigantic on-base airport, littered with idle cargo planes and one insane mutant.

I motion for Sam to stay back as I arc upwards, moving so that I got an aerial view of the runway where Brimstone hadn't seen either of us yet. She didn't seem to see us, which was very unsettling.

"Falcon, keep an eye on her," I request, external speakers turned off. "Jarvis, cupcake, I need weak spots."

Jarvis quickly points out all her vulnerabilities – between her shoulder blades, her lower body, her head; anywhere were her wings couldn't cover.

My brain starts whirring with force calculations – a 200-pound object traveling at high speeds compared with the lethal force to humans…

"Sam," I clear my throat, "I have a plan."

"Oh, no," he groans. "That's your I-Have-an-Incredibly-Dumb-Plan voice. Don't do it. Whatever you're planning, do not do it."

I ignore him, quieting my thrusters to a whisper, take a deep breath, and leaving Sam with "Don't tell dad!" before kicking the metaphorical throttle, quickly reaching speeds upwards of 1,000 while on a forty-five-degree angle downward.

Brimstone literally doesn't see me coming as I grab her in a football tackle, slowing down at the last moment so I don't actually kill her, only shatter some bones because I'll take what I can get.

That part of the plan goes perfectly – the problem happens when I can't stop – careening the ground, still going around 500 miles per hour.

That's fast enough to knock me out with the helmet.

Maybe this plan wasn't the best one.

Sorry, Sam.


I feel like I've been hit by a train.

That's my first thought upon regaining consciousness. My second thought, true to my heritage, is did anybody kiss me?

"Guilty," a familiar voice admits, and I realize I said that last part out loud.

I moan softly as I peel my eyes open, blinking against the late-afternoon Texas sun. My faceplate isn't there, but I can feel it simply retracted and not ripped off as Thor was prone to do – and thank god, because I don't think Pikachu realizes how hard that is to fix.

I'm lying in a shallow crater in the asphalt, presumably right where I landed after epically taking down Miss Avian-American.

My eyes focus on Clint, who is crouching nearby and more than likely the one that kissed me.

"Brimstone?" I ask, my sore everything protesting even that smallest of movements.

"Currently restrained in the back of a van the X-Men loaned us. She's not going anywhere fast, not with two broken legs." He gives me a small, proud smile. "You got her."

I breathe a sigh of relief, glad that the nearly four-hour ordeal was finally over. "Everyone else okay?"

"They are," Clint confirms. "Thor got Hurricane, I shot Feline in the leg, and Barnes knocked out the tree guy. We're packing up the jet now."

"Okay." I nod, then raise a hand. "Help me up."

He gives me an incredulous look. "You weigh like, 300 pounds right now. I'm not helping you up."

I arch an eyebrow. "Are you calling me fat?"

My boyfriend opens his mouths as if to protest, gapes for a moment, and then closes it again. "Never mind."

Another set of footsteps crunches across the asphalt, and Bucky comes into view. "Come on, I got you."

I accept his hand and he pulls me up easily, thanks to both his metal arm and the serum running through his veins. I give Clint a gentle peck on the cheek to show that I had realize what he meant – the suit did weigh around 200 pounds – before making my way back to the jet, not trusting my suit to fly me home.


Apparently Clint's deal with the media didn't last the six hours that we were in Texas, because they flocked the plane as soon as we touched down at US Air Force Department base.

I told Dad we should've landed on the roof. I told him.

But I just straighten the clothes I had on under the suit, slip on a pair of extra sunglasses and my best press smile, and grin and bear it, just like always.

Dad and I field the usual questions about SI, our public images, so on and so forth. But then the questions turn to the fact that it's Valentine's Day and they haven't seen heads nor tails of any of us all day.

Clint and I, as the only concrete and completely Avengers-inclusive couple, get the most questions about what we were doing all day, if Clint spoiled me (which is all based on perspective), and if I enjoyed it (I did).

But then the conversation turns to the possible couples in the team – i.e., Steve and Bucky, known to social media collectively as Stucky. (Clint and I were Claylor – I didn't appreciate sounding like pottery, but at least I didn't sound an adhesive.)

It was common knowledge among everyone on the team – sans Steve and Bucky themselves – that the two had had a "thing" for each other since at least last April. It might've sprouted during the Civil War, or possibly before that, but given that back in the 40s being anything but straight as an arrow could get you jail time, they were probably denying whatever they felt for each other.

So I didn't expect either of them to do anything, not even when provoked by the sharks.

I underestimated the boldness that was James Buchanan Barnes.

"Do something cute!" one young female reporter demands.

Bucky pauses, mid-turn, and seems to deliberate something for a moment before I can almost see the lightbulb turn on over his head in a moment of decisive clarity. He turns on his heel and faces Steve for a moment before grabbing the slightly taller man and spinning him into the perfect ballroom dip.

(I take a moment, through my slightly shocked state, to wonder where he learned how to dance.)

Their faces are literally inches away, and for a moment I'm sure – as are all the reporters, whose cameras are going wild – that they're going to kiss, right here on an Air Force base under the dark, late-winter sky.

But they don't. Not really. Bucky straightens up slowly, pulling Steve with him, and quickly pecks the other man on the cheek before walking away.

The reporters go insane – cameras flashing like crazy, questions being shouted left and right.

I back out of the fray, making my way over to Clint, who had been watching the whole spectacle from a safe distance away.

"You know," he murmurs softly, so that only I can hear, "this wasn't a bad Valentine's Day, after all."

"No," I hum as I lay my head on his shoulder, watching Steve who was looking at Bucky as if he'd never seen him before. "It really wasn't."