Here it is, ladies and gentlemen! Hot off the press! For real, though, it is a rough-ish draft, so excuse any strange moments of not-quite-perfection. (I mean, do that for the whole story, but especially for this section.) Also, I feel it is of import to note that the first part of this chapter was largely inspired by a friend of mine, who requested a scene in which Steve is grilling, wearing "a very manly blue apron." This is for her. Because I couldn't get that amusing image out of my head, and I had to work it in somewhere. :-) Enjoy!

It wasn't until much later that Thor and Elizabeth got back to the tower, Thor looking rather pleased with himself and Elizabeth looking inscrutable, but definitely not happy. Pepper smiled as they came inside, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a six pack of beer. "Everyone's out on the flight deck," she told them. "Go ahead out; I'm right behind you."

From the huge deck—the one that sported the helicopter landing pad and accounted for Stark Tower's rather unique shape—came a burst of electric guitar and drums that could only be attributed to classic rock. Over it, five voices spoke in conversation. When Thor opened the glass door, the smell of charcoal hit them. Behind Thor, Elizabeth moved quietly, holding the door for Pepper, who had stuffed some paper plates under her arm and carried a bunch of plastic forks and knives in her other hand.

As soon as the door closed and Elizabeth turned around, the group on the flight deck smiled collectively, and Tony greeted her with a clap on the shoulder. "Hey, Lizzie!" he said. "Come on and join the party. You're always so stiff; relax a little. Have a beer. Have a burger."

"What's the occasion?" Elizabeth asked.

Tony beamed. "We won today. Thanks to you of course. Now, we celebrate. Come on; take a load off."

She looked around. The previously empty flight deck had been decorated with a bunch of lounge chairs, a very sophisticated-looking speaker system, and a charcoal grill, in front of which stood Steve, wrapped in a very manly blue apron. When she looked at him, he waved a spatula at the pair of newcomers. "How do you like your burgers?" he asked.

"Rare," Thor answered.

"Of course you do," Clint said under his breath with a quick smirk.

Now everyone stared at Elizabeth, waiting for a response. She looked around for a moment, feeling very much on the spot and not liking the sensation. Then, she said, "I trust your judgment." She could feel everybody watching her, even though they all had gone back to their former side conversations; even as she chose the chair farthest from everybody else and angled herself away, she couldn't shake it.

"Hey," Natasha said, dragging a chair up beside her. "What's bothering you?"

"Nothing," Elizabeth replied automatically. "What makes you think I'm bothered?"

Natasha shrugged. "I know it when I see it." She leaned forward, catching Elizabeth's eye. "Look, you don't have to tell me what's up. I just thought I'd come check on you. You had one hell of a day, after all."

With a scoff, Elizabeth loosened just a bit. "One could say that, couldn't they?"

"I mean, it's not every day that you kill a Chitauri Scamorious."

"Scrimorous," Elizabeth corrected.

"Right. Scrimorous." Natasha grinned a little at Elizabeth, who, at the very least was making eye contact. "For what it's worth, we were all really lucky to have you around. I mean, we probably would have killed the thing anyway, just because Loki's not really in our good books, but—"

Elizabeth nodded. "I've gotten that," she said. "Loki is very lucky, then, that this was just a mimic."

Natasha almost gave a quiet laugh. "I guess he is." She reached up, stopping Clint as he walked by with two beers in his hands and taking one of them. She popped it open with a hiss and offered it to Elizabeth, who stared at it for only a moment before accepting it.

She turned the can around and around in her hands, feeling the cold aluminum and thinking. Then, she muttered, "I'm glad it's dead. Some of the things it said—" Natasha just sat there, waiting, listening like a friend. She took a breath. "I know it was trying to upset me. But that doesn't get rid of the nagging in the back of my mind. That feeling that what it said about me—"

"Might be true?" Natasha finished, and Elizabeth gave a small nod. "Yeah. I've been there. It's no fun, fighting with yourself like that."

"More like fighting with the one who said the things in the first place. Trying to keep them out of your head." Elizabeth ran a finger around the rim of the can, contemplating taking a sip. She eventually conceded, though the taste wasn't exactly what she had been expecting. Not unpleasant, but . . . not at all like what she was used to. "I can usually block things out with little trouble. I don't understand why this is posing such a problem."

Natasha thought for a minute, absently watching the other Avengers moving around the flight deck, laughing, talking, and generally having a great time. Her eyes stopped on Clint, who was in a conversation with Steve and making some remark that Natasha guessed was probably at least a little sarcastic. "You know Loki, right?" she asked.

"As much as a distant acquaintance can know him," Elizabeth said, shrugging.

"Well," Natasha began, still eyeing her friends, "you know what I think?" Elizabeth just looked at her, prompting her; Natasha remembered briefly what it was like to see Clint, her best friend, under Loki's control. He had tried to kill her. That had upset her for a very long time. "I think it's hard to have a stranger hurt you, but it's even harder when it's a friend."

Elizabeth sighed. "That's the trouble: I knew that it wasn't the real Loki."

"But still, technically speaking, it was him," Natasha said. "Sure, the Scrimorous was impersonating him, but it still came from his mouth, in his voice. You could still see the disgust in his eyes." Elizabeth sat, mulling over her words. "Honestly, I think it's one of the cruelest things the Chitauri could have done to you," she said.

For a long moment, Elizabeth sat in silence, face blank and pensive. Then, she gave a little laugh. "It was a very poor impersonation, too," she said.

The corner of Natasha's mouth lifted in a half-smile. "I'm going to have to take your word on that one," she told Elizabeth. "But then, I'd imagine that you and Loki are on much better terms than he and I are."

"Oh, much," Elizabeth agreed. "I've never fantisized about killing him, for one thing." She stopped, listening to her own words as they sunk in. And today, I stabbed him to death. "I didn't want to kill him," she said. "The Scrimorous . . . of course I wanted to kill the Scrimorous. But—"

Natasha watched her as her voice trailed off; she filled the gap, finishing Elizabeth's thought: "But you had to kill your friend to do it. I understand that better than you'd think." She smiled wanly at Elizabeth, who mirrored the expression briefly before her eyes strayed back to the can in her hands. A second later, Natasha had gotten up quietly and was walking away.

"Thank you," Elizabeth blurted before she got too far.

Natasha stopped, turning back to the other woman; Elizabeth was looking up at her. The smile on Natasha's lips grew more genuine, and she nodded once. "What are friends for?"

Elizabeth sat a moment longer, staring at nothing and doing her best to tune out the noise coming from behind her. Her mind was everywhere—whizzing around like a fly in a jar—and nowhere at the same time. The blankness was dark, and the fervor was bright. They clashed like fireworks, shedding a surprising amount of clarity onto the situation. She tried not to brood for too long, though she had little conception of time while her mind was so undirected. Still, one ear always listened for a voice calling her name, bringing her back to the present. She didn't hear it.

What she heard instead was: "Damn, I knew we were out of pickles!"

That as just strange enough to make her turn around.

Tony held a plate, looking dolefully at his burger, which was apparently in want of pickles. "Alright," he said, "who's going out to get more?"

A thick hush dropped into the middle of their little celebration, the only sound coming from the speakers blaring loudly. After a moment, Elizabeth stood up. "I'll go," she said, setting her beer on the ground by her chair. She would be grateful for the time to think without their company forcing her to keep one foot rooted in reality.

"Great! See, I like this chick," Tony said, grinning broadly and pulling a bill out of his pocket. "Here. Don't be long. I don't want my food getting cold."

She just nodded, heading toward the tower. On the way, Bruce caught her arm. "You know where you're going?" he asked.

"Thor and I passed a couple places on the way back this afternoon," she said. "They're not far." Then, with a reassuring smile, she set out.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Clint elbowed Natasha. "She gonna be alright?"

Natasha shrugged. "We were, back when it was our turn." She took the beer Clint offered her, reminding him, "We've got the night shift at SHIELD tonight, so go easy."

"Says the Russian," Clint teased, hiding his smirk by taking a sip of beer.

"Don't worry," Steve cut in. "I won't let him go to work drunk."

"Thanks, mom."

Thor, thoroughly enjoying his burger, sat down and cracked open a can himself, sniffing it briefly before deciding it was worthy of being ingested. His first sip turned into a longer sip, and then an even longer one, until Thor had finished an entire can of beer without coming up for air. "This drink is sensational," he proclaimed. "I'll have another."

Bruce, closest to the cooler, grabbed a can, passing it to Thor. "Hey, guys," he said, "I don't want to be the voice of pessimism here, but something's been bothering me about today." When all the other Avengers turned to look at him with confusion in their faces, he took a breath. "I didn't want to say it around Elizabeth, because today was obviously a struggle for her, but . . . did anyone else think it was all a little too . . . easy?"

There was a brief moment of stillness, punctuated only by the music pouring from the speakers and the sizzling of the burgers on the grill. Then, one by one, everyone's expressions shifted, and Bruce knew he wasn't the only one to notice how suspiciously simple it had been to kill the Scrimorous. It hadn't put up a fight; it hadn't triggered any reinforcements. It had just . . . died. And that had Bruce's nerves on edge. Because if the Chitauri were as fearsome as Elizabeth and Thor had described—and as the rest of them remembered . . .

If Bruce's hypotheses were correct, hell was coming.

Clint tossed the tennis ball again, and it bounced off the wall, careening right back into his waiting hands. He spun in his swivel chair to face a different wall – one that he could see with his feet propped up on his desk. He was about to throw the ball again, but held off when his door opened and Nick Fury walked in.

"Agent Barton," he said flatly by way of greeting.

"Sir," Clint replied, not bothering to take his feet down or even pretend to be doing some sort of work. He looked at his boss, turning the tennis ball over in his hands, ready for whatever the SHIELD director might dish his way.

Fury sighed. "Barton, we brought you in tonight to work. Or did you forget that?"

Clint bounced the ball on his desk. "Nope; just bored."

"And what would you have me do about that?"

With a shrug, Clint said, "Dunno. But I'm a field agent, sir. I'm useless behind a desk."

Fury cocked his head. "Funny. Romanov said the same thing."

"Only 'cause it's true." He rolled the ball under his palm, passing it from hand to hand across the desktop. "Give us a target to tail, a skill to hone – anything but this nine-to-five business."

"I don't make you come in often, so you two can just be grateful for that." Fury crossed his arms. "I actually needed to ask you something."

"Fire away."

"We've been monitoring Loki since his special television broadcast, keeping our eyes open for him and preparing for anything he might throw at us. But now, right around the time he was threatening to bring hell to our city, he's conveniently disappeared from our radar," Fury said. "He went off the grid yesterday. You know anything about that?"

"Yep," Clint responded, tossing the ball straight up and catching it. "He's dead."

Fury didn't look too surprised, but he also didn't exactly look pleased. Of course, his face typically only showed the emotional range of a statue, so it wasn't unfounded. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, tone measured.

"He's dead," Clint repeated. "Turns out he was a Chitauri Scrimorus that stole Loki's form. Elizabeth killed it."

"Elizabeth?"

Clint caught another toss neatly. "A new friend."

"What agency?"

"None, I don't think." When Fury only stared at him, he retorted, "We are allowed to have friends who aren't working for you—or anyone else. Besides, she's from another planet, like Thor."

"And you didn't bring her in?"

Clint shrugged again. "She just kind of showed up at the tower one day." He laughed a little at the memory. "I remember I thought she was from England."

Fury's good eye narrowed. "What does she look like?"

"Well, she's pretty tall," Clint said. "Dark, straight hair, pale, I don't know. Why?"

Fury threw a five-by-seven glossy down in Clint's lap and then pointed at it. "Is that her?" he asked, sounding less and less thrilled by the second.

Clint picked up the photograph, clutching his tennis ball in his palm. "Yeah, that's her," he told Fury. "Yesterday. She ran out to get pickles." He handed the picture back to his boss, suddenly skeptical "Why do you have this?"

"Because there's no way she can possibly exist."

"I told you, she's from some other . . . realm," Clint insisted. Fury wasn't making any sense; of course she didn't exist in their records. She'd only arrived on earth a few months ago, and she'd never been to SHIELD.

Fury arched his eyebrow at him. "She can't exist anywhere," he said.

It took a moment for the significance of Fury's words to hit him, but, once it did, he pressed, "But, sir, people don't just pop in and out of existence like ideas. She's real, believe me."

"She's not real anywhere else in the universe," Fury stated plainly. "She's carrying all sorts of signals that made our instruments go wild. They all say she can't exist. She's got more mass than a black hole and less density than a marshmallow. Her body temperature is about twenty degrees too cold. Something about her ain't right, Barton."

Clint's mouth groped for words briefly; finally, he pulled his feet down from his desk, sitting up straighter. "When did you even scan her?" he asked.

Fury held up the photo again. "Wonder what she's looking at here?" Sure enough, Elizabeth was peering over her left shoulder in the image. "We were staking out Stark Tower, just in case Loki tried to make good on his promise. One of our guys just happened to bump into her while transporting one of the small scan units in his pocket," Fury said. He tapped the photo with an index finger, saying, "She's just watching him walk away."

"But she is real."

"I know she is," Fury allowed. "But she shouldn't be."

Clint ran a hand through his hair. "But she's got memories. A childhood. Everything."

"Invented."

"She told us stories –"

"Made up."

"She knew about the Chitauri."

"Researched." Fury hesitated. "Listen, I know it's tough for you to hear, Barton. Romanov wasn't too crazy about the news either. I'm only telling you because you're close to this woman. Maybe you can figure out where she came from before I have to call in my people to do it instead. She probably trusts you, so that makes you the easy way."

Clint leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "She said she's from Vanaheim. We've never met anyone from Vanaheim before. Could your instruments be fooled by it?"

Fury dipped his chin, looking at Clint. "I seriously doubt it," he said. "Thor didn't show such ridiculous readings when we scanned him the first time. Besides, even if her body is suitable for her home, living with conditions like that on earth would kill her. They're just not compatible. Like trying to shove shotgun ammunition into the clip of a 22."

Clint sat, silently mulling things over for a moment. Finally, he muttered, "The Scrimorous baited her into using the word 'fugitive'—"

"And I'd say it takes one to know one," Fury put in. "I'm going to have to side with the Chitauri."

"But say she admits that she's been stretching the truth," Clint pushed. "Say she's not actually from Vanaheim or something. What does it matter? She's still not a threat."

Fury hissed a breath out his nose in a long sigh. "I wish we could be sure of that, Barton."

Clint's stared at the director, saying, "With all due respect, sir, she just saved all our lives. She didn't have to, and it wasn't easy for her, either. Besides, we like her."

"Exactly my point," Fury said, and Clint could see his patience thinning. "I want you to get her to talk."

"And, if we do, we reserve the right to take any kind of action. She's our friend, so she's our responsibility," Clint responded. "Even if she says she's an evil warlord bent on ravaging the earth and turning it into a shrine to her glory, you don't get to take any action against her. She's ours, and we'll handle her. You can't deny we're capable." Fury just stared at him sharply, waiting for him to stop or to break. Clint wasn't about to do either, so he added, "Those are my terms, sir. Take 'em or leave 'em."

Fury didn't speak; Clint, however, knew that he was not in the best place to bargain. SHIELD could just burst into the Tower and confiscate Elizabeth without a word to any of them. But, under those circumstances, both of them knew she wouldn't talk. If SHIELD wanted honest answers, her friends were the best ways to get them.

Eventually, Fury relented. "Fine," he said. "She's yours. All I ask in return is that you keep me informed. If she talks, I want to know about it. If she does anything suspicious, I want to know about it. Hell, I even want to know if she starts drinking her coffee differently. Understand?" When Clint nodded, the director turned to leave. He paused, hand on the doorknob, door held ajar. "Oh, and Barton?"

"Sir?"

"Get rid of that damn tennis ball."