Edit: Heads up that the uploaded version changed S.H.I.E.L.D. to just S.H.I. . for some stupid reason. I went through and fixed it, but I'm not sure if it will do it again. Ugh.

The letters were swimming in her soup. Max forced herself to focus on the stupid ABCs in her bowl, but they blurred in and out of focus as she tried to ignore some of the worst nausea she had experienced so far. No one around her seemed to notice: Johnny and Loki had been extra chatty that day, their sandwiches almost forgotten as they discussed Norman Osborn—a man Max gave literally no fucks about when she felt like this—and his plans for S.H.I.E.L.D., and Thor seemed content to listen. His ladies were shopping for the day, though Darcy had seemed less than impressed that they were shopping for groceries and other necessities, not anything interesting, but at least they were out of the tower.

Out of the tower and into the paparazzi. Pictures of everyone living in the tower had been surfacing on gossip websites that morning, and while Johnny liked to lurk through his tag on a borrowed laptop, Max steered clear as best she could. She didn't want to see herself anywhere. Hell, she barely looked in the mirror unless it was an absolute necessity. Still, she was happy to be back in the Avengers Tower and wearing comfortable clothing after her appointment with her doctor the day before. What was supposed to be a routine check-up (according to Doctor Donna Fisher on the phone) turned into a meeting with a genetic counsellor, followed by a run-in with a thin, long needle to carry out a process called amniocentesis—something she hadn't ever heard of until her doctor proposed it.

Today, she wasn't sure why she had agreed to the procedure. After collecting some of her amniotic fluid, doctors and lab techs would be able to analyze the genetic make-up of the thing inside her. On most women, her doctor had explained, the process was done to check for any possible defects: Down syndrome and other chromosomal issues were usually high on the list of reasons to get it done. Max had none of that in her family, but when the geneticist—a waspy woman with the tiniest nostrils Max had ever seen on a person—instructed her that it was necessary, given what Loki was and what Max was biologically, to check on fetal development.

Without her dad sitting beside her, Max's head was a mess again. When he was there, she was so sure about what she wanted to do with this pregnancy: she wanted it to be over. She wanted the pain to stop. She wanted her life to get back on track. She wanted a relationship that wasn't defined by a kid. But when she sat in the doctor's office and watched the ultrasound screen, her choices were unclear again. She panicked over the idea that the fetus may have genetic abnormalities: why would she panic if she didn't want it?

Normally, there would be a few appointments between her decision to have the tests done and actually doing them, but both her doctor and the geneticist pushed for her to get it done sooner rather than later—yesterday was the day, they insisted. She agreed, though she wasn't entirely sure why, and her forty-five minute appointment stretched to three hours. When she was finished, she found Loki in the waiting room, playing on his new S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued phone, eager to know why she was in there for so long.

In that moment, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to blurt everything, but she couldn't. With her mind still so fuzzy on the issue, she didn't have to heart to tell him about a baby that she hadn't made a decision on yet—especially when her decisions changed in different circumstances. And she didn't want to face his wrath, his joy, or his sadness at the idea: she wasn't stable enough for it. So, she simply told him she was tired after a long bout of the normal tests, which her dad insisted she do, and asked if they could have a quiet day at the tower.

With McDonald's, of course. She ended up falling asleep in the late afternoon in front of a movie with Valeria and Franklin, and when she awoke, she was in bed and Loki had been, according to Sue, persuaded by Thor to attend a charity function that night. She was surprised to hear that he wanted to do something like that, but it also encouraged a small strand of hope in her that he was warming to Earth, that maybe he'd want to stay here after all.

Unfortunately, he was a moody mess when he returned from the charity event, which was apparently laden with press and smarmy politicians who wouldn't leave him alone. All proceeds went to the restoration of a children's hospital in upstate New York, and Loki admitted to pledging three thousand dollars on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D. with a bit of a smirk. They fell asleep together, surrounded by thick duvets and plenty of pillows at her request, her paranoia that he'd wander upon a small bump on her abdomen heightened with their closeness.

But what was she supposed to do—not touch him? The situation had yet to lend itself to an easy solution, and Max grew more and more impatient with herself the longer she waded through the fog in her head.

She sighed heavily, poking at her soup, and then slid off her chair and made her way to the couch. Sprawling out on the lush cushions made her feel a little better, and the chatter between Loki and Johnny softened the further she went. Maybe today was a day where she'd draw a bath and wait for it to be over. Bowl of soup on her lap, Max grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, preferring a mindless distraction to the serious one back at the table. She flipped to a gossipy reality station out of habit, setting the remote down and scooping a spoonful of soup into her mouth.

A few commercials passed before they returned to the program, and Max's eyes widened when they ran a feature on the Avengers—and all the rest of them. Johnny Storm leaving a nightclub. Bruce Banner shopping at an electronics store. Suddenly, an image of Loki in a parking lot came up, and Max grinned, leaning forward.

"Oh my god, you're the cutest," she teased noisily as she looked back at Loki and gestured to the screen. A short video clip of him ran, in which he took pictures with a cluster of little kids down by the harbour, encouraging them to raise their toy Thor hammers and make battle cries for the camera.

"Yes, brother," Thor mused, speaking for the first time in quite a while. "You are simply too cute."

Loki gave a dry laugh, like he was trying to find the balance between unimpressed and cruel to direct toward both Max and Thor at once.

"Was this when you dropped my dad off?" she asked, gaze fixed to the screen. He was cute with kids. Like. He actually looked like he cared about something there.

"Yes… I had just seen him off."

Oooof. That got her right in the heart, and she felt the urge to go wrap her arms around him and nuzzle his neck. She refrained, naturally: his tone was stilted and awkward, and she knew he was uncomfortable with the fact that the clip had aired on public television—he didn't need to say it for her to know. Grabbing the remote, Max was just about to switch away from the newsroom discussion of Loki and his behaviour when a picture of her and Tony Stark flashed up with a massive heart around it, the heart surrounded by obnoxious white question marks.

"And the question of the day," one of the reporters chuckled, circling a photo of Stark on the communal corkboard, "has Tony Stark found love again? Spotted here with Johnny Storm's video mystery woman, known only as Max…"

"What the fuck?" she hissed, eyes narrowing at the screen. A video, clearly filmed from a phone, flashed of her and Stark pushing through the horde of photographers the other day, her McDonald's bag clutched to her chest. He took her hand fleetingly—she remembered that—and whispered in her ear. Pictures of the incident flashed across the screen, followed by obnoxious comments from the peanut gallery in the studio.

Her thumb actually hurt from pressing down on the red power button as hard as she did, and she resisted the urge to hurl the remote at the TV. Great. Like she needed her name brought up again. Her video with Johnny seemed to be airing less and less over the last few days, and she wasn't an Avenger—she didn't need this media bullshit.

The trio of men were silent behind her, and she almost didn't want to look back at Loki for a reaction. However, it seemed that nausea was there to save the day: a wave of saliva flooded her mouth suddenly, and she nearly spilled her soup in her haste to get it on the coffee table. With that sorted, Max dashed out of the room, a hand over her mouth as she felt a familiar gagging sensation clawing at her throat.

She made it into the hall, thankfully, but she didn't quite make it to the elevator: in her vomit-fearing state, she hadn't even considered running to the bathroom on this floor, thinking only of the peace and quiet she'd get from the one on her floor. Doubled over with her hands on her knees, she puked up everything she'd eaten that day twice over, a colourful array of sick painting Stark's pretty tile.

At least she hadn't hit the white shag rug nearby.

The elevator doors whizzed open just as she finished, and she looked up slowly to find a disgusted Tony Stark staring at her. He paused briefly in the doorway, a pair of pricey sunglasses partially obscuring his expression, and then sighed at her.

"Awesome."

Anger surged through her: he was the one who grabbed her stupid hand in the first place, and now she was the one being talked about on TV. Fuck him and his drunk attitude. It wasn't even sunny out—he could take those fucking sunglasses off inside.

"Yeah, it's a real bucket of sunshine for me too," she snapped as she slowly straightened up. Footsteps caught her attention behind her, and she felt like crumbling as Loki hurried toward her. Stark stepped back onto the elevator and disappeared without another word, and her lower lip trembled when Loki placed a hand on her back.

"I'll find someone to… clean… this," Loki managed as he led her around the pile of vomit toward the elevator. "Why don't you take a shower?"

She pushed her hair away from her face, then used her shirt to wipe around her mouth. "I'm so embarrassed."

Mortified, actually. Humiliated.

"Hush." Loki pushed the button a few times and rubbed her back. "It isn't your fault."

"I know."

"I thought you were going to stop taking the medication that made you ill?"

The doors slid open smoothly and Max stepped inside. She nodded, though as they stared at one another, the doors slowly closing, she gave no real answer. When she was alone, she leaned her head back and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing for the day to be done.

As Max watched the designer's assistant roll in another rack of exquisite evening gowns, she couldn't help but wonder how this day had taken such a favourable turn.

After cleaning herself up with a lengthy warm shower, one that cured her nausea and cramps in one sitting, Max suddenly found Jane in her room, the door shut behind her and a worried expression on her face. Apparently, there was going to be a gala at the end of the summer. It would be for the city's elite, including all the superheroes who participated in the revolution, and it was supposed to be a celebration of all that was accomplished in the aftermath of the battle. In Max's opinion, the whole idea of a massive victory party for the rich and famous seemed a little premature, but since no one cared about her opinion, she didn't voice it.

However, Jane had been incredibly flustered at the thought of going there with Thor—Darcy hadn't warranted an invite, and Jane was only going because the organizers somehow knew she was an extension of her man. Before she could ask what any of this had to do with her, Jane had produced the envelope with Loki's name on it, in which there were two tickets to the event.

"Please," Jane had said, looking incredibly awkward as she stood in the middle of Max's room. "I really don't want to be the only… normal person there. Please talk him into going."

At first, Max couldn't fathom why Jane found solace in her: surely Sue and Reed would have warranted an invite too, and they were pretty normal—all things considered, anyway. However, the more she mulled over it, the more she realized that Jane came to her because their situations were so similar, and without thinking too much into it, Max promised she and Loki would come to keep her company. She had then learned that a designer was coming in that afternoon with gowns for Jane to try on, and once he'd finished there, Jane offered to send him Max's way.

The dresses were only rentals, and when Jane had told her S.H.I.E.L.D. would cover the hefty fee, she couldn't resist the idea of playing a little dress-up for the day.

"Well," Loki muttered, his hands clasped behind his back as they watched the newest garments roll by. "I don't want to go, but I suppose my wants carry no weight here."

"You never wanted to do things before either," she said as she studied the colour variations, "but then you always had fun when we'd eventually go… This will be the same."

He rolled his eyes when she glanced up at him, then scoffed. "I really don't want to schmooze with the people who are considered… important to the realm—"

"Oh my god, relax." She chuckled and looped her arm around his, grinning at the ghost of a smile on his lips. "You know we're just going to sit in the corner and get drunk with Jane."

"Ah… Is that the plan then?"

"Yup."

As if Max wanted to talk to anyone important either. There were a number of reasons why she accepted Jane's request, and she collected more every time she thought about it. Galas were an excuse to get dressed up, which was a huge rarity in her world. Dressing up usually meant throwing on an uncomfortable dress and going to a bar. Galas would also have free alcohol, which would make the night much more tolerable—unless she was still pregnant, but she preferred to think of the fun aspects of the night rather than the stressful ones. Her tentative relationship with Jane had just taken a giant step in a positive direction, and the thought of spending the afternoon looking at pretty dresses sent her mood in the same direction.

"Okay," Marian, the designer's assistant, said as he hurried in with the last rack. "George can't stay… He didn't know he was doing two fittings today."

"It was sort of a last minute decision," she admitted, Loki's hands wandering to her shoulders as they strolled toward the dresses. "It's totally fine."

The assistant nodded. He was roughly Loki's height, though about half his width. He was almost alarmingly thin, actually, and Max wondered just how many bones she'd see if he took his shirt off. He wasn't the first ultrathin person she'd seen now that Manhattan was righting itself, and if she was being honest, she'd seen people just like that before the invasion too. It shouldn't be such a shock anymore.

"So, what we'll do today is get you to pick the dresses you like," Marian instructed, strolling along the racks with a hand trailing over the exquisite fabrics. "If you find one you want, we'll take measurements and alter them to fit for the night."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Really? I thought we were just renting them?"

"Well, we still want them to look good," the man told her as he stopped at the end of the rack, a hand on his hip. "You'll be giving George's name to all the press, so he wants the fit to be immaculate."

"Fair."

"And what about you, sir?" Max glanced back at Loki when Marian addressed him. "Will you be needing a suit? We have a men's collection too."

"No," Loki remarked stiffly. "No, I have my own attire."

She set her hands on his, smoothing her palms over his cool skin, and then leaned back against him. There was no need to say anything, to correct his snippy tone, because she could feel him relax behind her, his arm now stretched across her and his chin resting on her shoulder.

"Okay," Marian said after a few moments of silence. "Well, just let me know when you have some dresses in mind."

"What did Jane pick?" she asked, almost wishing that they had done this together.

"A black knee-length number," the assistant admitted with a shrug. "Bit boring."

Neither Max nor Loki said anything, but she was sure they were thinking the same thing: "bit boring" seemed to suit Jane from all they knew of her thus far. Lips pressed together, she shot him a look over her shoulder, and the flicker of his eyebrows indicated that she was right.

"I definitely want a bit of colour…" Slipping out of Loki's grasp, she started at one end of a nearby rack, pushing through the heavy gowns. She was only a few dresses in when she paused and pursed her lips, turning back to Loki as the thought entered her mind. "Maybe you shouldn't be here."

Arms crossed over his chest, he arched an eyebrow at her. "Why?"

"I'm sure this isn't exactly the highlight of your day," she said as she gestured to the dresses. "Maybe I'd like it to be a surprise…"

Maybe she didn't want to explain to the assistant about a potential size increase around her midsection should she change her mind about her pregnancy. Maybe she didn't want him to see the fitting around the small baby bump. Maybe she did want that moment where he saw her in a beautiful gown for the first time—maybe she wanted to see his reaction.

Maybe she was being selfish again.

"Well, I can't say choosing dresses is what I had in mind for the afternoon," he admitted after a moment's consideration. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay?"

She shook her head, then sauntered forward for a quick peck. "No, I want my final choice to be a surprise."

Loki looked between her and Marian, then departed with another kiss and a curt nod.

"Jane had Thor stay," Marian told her once Loki was gone, "but he look so bored the whole time. This was a good choice."

She stared at the thin giant for a moment, his shaved down tuft of bright blond hair a little distracting, and then smiled.

"Most guys don't like shopping in general," she mused as she returned to the dresses. "Loki's not any different."

Sure, he probably would have sat there dutifully while she tried things on, but he wouldn't have had a good time. In fact, he probably would have thought the afternoon was a giant waste of time, and she would be to blame for that. Not that he would ever say it, but Max knew he'd think it.

Each gown was different from the one beside it in colour, texture, length, and style, and while they were all gorgeous, she could discard a number of them right away. Orange only looked good on her when she had a summer tan, and considering how much time she'd spent inside lately, that didn't seem like it was going to happen. Her hand went to her stomach as she picked out a number of jewel-tone pieces, a few sharp pains shooting from front to back. Taking a few steady breaths, she smiled through the aches when Marian asked if she'd found a few she liked.

"These are nice," she said, handing over the ridiculously heavy pile of fabric. "I like the flowy skirts on them…"

As the pair hung all the dresses up on an empty rack so she could get a better look at them, Max realized she had chosen garments that were essentially elaborate maxis with no fit. Very little tailoring would need to be done to any: they'd all hide a baby bump should they need to. Marian studied each piece with as much scrutiny as she did, and then cleared his throat.

"You have a great body," he noted, looking her up and down. He studied her like a piece of art in-progress, searching her for her strengths and weaknesses. "We wouldn't need to tailor too many of the sample sizes to fit. Are you sure you don't want something a little more flattering?"

"Well, I plan on putting a lot of the weight back on that I lost recently," she told him. It wasn't exactly a lie: even if she didn't go through with the pregnancy, she still planned to get back some of her usual weight—normalcy was key.

Marian's bright blond eyebrows furrowed, stark against his tanned complexion, and then cleared his throat. "Why?"

"Because that's where I feel comfortable." Her tone was a little colder than it ought to be, but she wasn't about to explain herself to a complete stranger. She pointed to a blue dress, one with capped sleeves and a fitted bodice that would flare just before her ribs. "Can I try that one first?"

They were in an empty office space on the twenty-third floor, surrounded by windows showing off a beautiful Manhattan afternoon. Max popped into the bathroom to change, feeling somewhat awkward at Marian's suggestion to strip down then and there, and when she returned, the fashion assistant had set out a circular stand for her to get on in front of a mirror.

"Now, what shoes would you like to wear?" he asked, kneeling beside her to pull the bottom out. The dress was really very pretty, but she thought she looked out of place in it, like she was never meant to wear it.

"Heels, I guess," she replied after a long moment of consideration. He glanced up at her again with the same expression he wore when she said she wanted to put some weight on, but said nothing. Loki was tall, so… No, fuck that. She could wear whatever she wanted, and she wanted to wear heels.

But if she was still pregnant by then… Maybe heels weren't the way to go.

"Actually, I need to think on that."

"We'll need to add some extra fabric depending on the height, so be sure to tell us."

"Yup."

When Max remained indecisive about how much she liked the dress, they moved on to a few of the others, picking each apart as she went. Marian was surprisingly helpful with his tips about choosing a dress that'll be seen in pictures—Max hadn't even considered that, and she wasn't sure if she cared how she looked.

"Well, aren't you a sight." She flinched at the sound of a new voice in the room, and she immediately found the man doorway, his reflection in the mirror in front of her. "Truly marvelous."

Max looked to Marian, wondering if he was familiar with the new arrival, and then teetered around on the large stand to look at him.

"Are you… the designer?" she asked weakly. He looked like he belonged in the fashion world: the tasteful suit sans tie paired nicely with his cropped hair and shiny leather shoes. A little older than the general population of the tower, Max noted that he looked sort of familiar, but she couldn't place his name.

All that aside, he seemed to be trying hard not to smile at her question. "No, no, I'm not the designer."

"Oh."

"Sorry, I should have introduced myself sooner," he said as he swept toward her, a hand extended. "Norman Osborn… Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. and CEO of Oscorp. Pleasure to meet you."

He gripped her hand a little too tightly, and Max held back her wince. Still, she managed to smile through the pain, both in her hand and in her back. Her eyes darted toward a nearby chair, longing to plop down on it, but decided against it. Osborn's presence filled the room, his voice deep and his gaze steady, and she put herself on the defensive as soon as he dismissed Marian.

"Can you give us a minute?"

She watched Marian shuffle toward the doors, shooting a long look at the gowns he passed, and then disappear into the hall.

"These are all very nice," he commented, gesturing to the rack of discarded dresses. "Picking something for the gala at the end of the summer?"

Max shrugged. "Actually, trying on designer frocks is pretty much the norm for me."

Chuckling, he stood next to her and studied her in the mirror, eyes wandering up and down slowly just as Marian's had. This time, however, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she folded her arms across her chest.

"I think Mr. Stark left for the day," she told him. Why else would he be here? Captain America was gone, none of the Fantastic Four were around, and it was usually pretty easy to find Thor.

"I'm not looking for Mr. Stark… or any of the Avengers, actually. I'm here for you."

"Me?" She stiffened at the thought, wanting now more than ever to collapse into the chair she could see in the mirror's reflection. Still, she stood tall, trying not to show more than a polite interest in him. "Are you sure?"

"I'm always sure," he remarked, his hand suddenly on her arm. He patted it a few times, still watching her in the mirror. "Why wouldn't I be looking for you?"

It took a lot of effort not to flinch away: his hands were unreasonably cold. "I'm… I'm not an Avenger. I don't work for Oscorp… I don't have anything to do with any of it—"

"But you were in that video with Johnny Storm," he mused, his arm falling back to his side. "It's sort of a gossip magnet these days. Then there was that picture with Tony Stark… I believe you two were holding hands?" Her cheeks flushed scarlet as he grinned. "But I know you're Loki's gal, aren't you? Lots of fun connections to important people, Miss Wright."

"They're all coincidental at best," she said stiffly. Osborn laughed, his hands sliding easily into his pockets, and then started to pace around her.

"You don't need to sound so upset, Max… I'm just here to offer you some work."

"For S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

Max frowned when he nodded enthusiastically, head bobbing up and down. She wanted nothing to do with that agency. They'd already given her what she assumed were bugged cellphones and credit cards, both able to track her wherever she went. Max wanted off the radar, not on.

"It's really fun work, I promise." He turned to face her when he was in front of her, tilting his head up a little. "Lots of fun charity events, promotional campaigns, magazine interviews… You'll be like a celebrity."

"I'm… fine with not being a celebrity," she told him. "Thanks but no thanks. It's nothing personal, but I'm not interested in working for S.H.I.E.L.D. for anything."

She looked back over her shoulder to see if Marian might take that as a cue to come back in, but she was still stuck in this room with Osborn—alone.

"Oh, now, don't be hasty." He touched her hand again, and this time Max pulled it away. "We pay handsomely, and you'd be working with all your new friends."

"No thanks—"

"I didn't want to bring this up," Osborn sighed as he resumed pacing, "but we've been very good to you thus far."

She frowned. With her mind racing, it was easier to ignore the sharp pains in her abdomen, her back. "Excuse me?"

"We've put you up in this nice tower free of charge—"

"Tony Stark is letting us live here," she argued, to which he laughed again.

"Of course he is." Osborn smirked. "And then there's the medical bills that we've taken care of… We've kept your little secret from a certain Asgardian." He pointed to her stomach, waving a finger at her. "We've not only been good to you, but there's your family to consider."

Her jaw clenched as she followed his reflection, and then took a deep breath. "What about my family?"

"Well, don't you find it strange that your mother, Nancy Wright, was able to just… casually resume her chemotherapy sessions? Strange that her clinic bumped her up the list, isn't it? I know she's almost critical, but there are people worse off…"

"How do you—"

"If you aren't interested in working with us, that's fine," he admitted with a shrug. "We'll move you out of the tower, stop paying your medical expenses, retract our influence in that hick town in Vermont where Mummy gets her treatment… It's fine, really. It's up to you, Max."

Mouth hanging open, she stared at him for a moment before shaking her head. "Are you blackmailing me?"

"Blackmail is such an ugly word. I'm giving you a choice to either work for us, or don't. It's that simple."

"It's really not." She was shaking now, her hands in fists. "It's not at all."

"Look, I have a lot of people to get through," he told her, pulling out his phone and swiping his thumb across the screen. "Your boyfriend is one of them… Can you maybe work on him a little? People are really warming to him, and we get a lot of press out when him and Thor make public appearances together. Good for everyone, if you know what I mean."

"I…" She couldn't formulate sentences. She couldn't think beyond the threats made toward her mom, toward her. This guy was a world-class dick, and yet all she managed to do was smile weakly and nod. "I'll try."

"Good girl." Stopping beside her, he met her gaze in the mirror. "I'll send you your schedule for the rest of the week on that super cool new phone we bought you. Let us know if you have any… baby things that will interfere. Otherwise, we can expect to see you at all your designated activities, right?"

"I don't want to work for you."

"You're working for the city, really," he insisted. "Everything you do will be to raise money and awareness about all these good projects that we're doing… Rebuilding hospitals, funding schools, cleaning up Central Park."

"I… guess—"

"Excellent." He turned and stalked back toward the door. Just before he left, Osborn called out to her over his shoulder, "You look stellar in purple, sweetheart."

Her legs gave out when she was alone, and she crumbled onto the little stand, glaring at her reflection. Her hands fumbled over the zipper on the back of her dress, and when she could wrench it down far enough to slip the material over her shoulders, she exhaled noisily, too lightheaded and stunned to do much. What she knew for certain, however, was that she disliked the woman looking back at her in the mirror—that woman was weak.

Selfish and weak.

Natasha winced when her head knocked into the side of the trunk for the umpteenth time in the last twenty-five minutes. However, this knock was harder than the rest, and when she heard the engine quiet and the door open at the other end, she assumed they were finally there.

"Have you ever driven a car before?" she snapped as Steve opened the trunk. She sat up and kicked her legs out, eager to stretch every part of her body: she'd been in the trunk for almost two hours now, waiting.

"Never an automatic," he admitted sheepishly. "You okay?"

"Of course I am." She'd survived wars, assassinations, and now an alien takeover—she could handle a little slipping and sliding in the trunk of a car. "Anyone tail us?"

"Not that I noticed."

Dressed casually in a baseball cap and a pair of shorts that were just a little too tight, Captain America looked like any average America that evening. Well, he'd always be a little bulky in the shoulders—and arms, legs, thighs too. Still, in a boring Honda Civic, he'd smuggled her out of Brooklyn to an airbase far north of the city, away from Osborn and his operatives in Manhattan.

Suitcase in hand, she followed Steve into the hanger, and smiled at the fleet of Royal Air Force fighters that Britain had lent them during what was now hailed as a revolution.

"This is Captain George McGuinness," Steve told her as a pilot approached them, dressed in his air force colours, a helmet in hand. "He'll be taking you to London."

She shook the man's hand and nodded.

"This is Paige Freemore," he continued, gesturing to her. The pilot scanned her quickly, and she could see his little mind trying to figure out who she really was. Her freshly-dyed brown hair would hide her for a little while, and she made a promise to herself to keep her combat skills subpar should anything arise. "You'll be taking her to London."

"Will do, Captain," the man said after a few seconds of careful study. "My dad sends his regards."

Steve grinned. "Tell him I'll visit next time I'm overseas."

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, their conversation light and to the point, while Natasha studied the hanger. There were a dozen other pilots getting their planes ready to go on the hour.

"Last I heard, Barton was in Nairobi," Steve told her once they were alone again. "Osborn's guys say there was a base of operations there. He's gone quiet since the aliens disappeared."

"I'll find him," she said, more for her sake than his. "Ol' McGuinness didn't have a problem putting a stowaway in his co-pilot's seat?"

"Told him it was a personal favour for Captain America." He glanced back at the plane, which Natasha now noticed had a woman's name—Margo—painted across the nose. "His dad owes me a few."

"War buddies?"

"Something like that."

Engines started to hum, echoing in the empty hanger. It was a clear night for flying, and Natasha was antsy to get going. Setting her bag down, she faced Steve properly, face to face, eyes meeting.

"Thank you for this."

"Hey, I'd want out too," he told her, and she nodded. She knew he did. He wanted out now that Osborn was in, but Captain America was too flashy, too well-known a name to vanish. The Black Widow was a mystery, and Osborn would want to keep her that way—for now, anyway. She planned to deal with him and his threats to leak her identities at a later date. For now, she had Clint on the brain.

"Look after yourself." She wrapped her arms around his thick upper half, pleased with the warm contact. "Good luck with… all this."

Natasha felt him nod. "Make sure our guy's okay."

"Don't trust Loki," she said as she pulled away. "Not him or his girl… I know everyone else does, but keep an eye on them."

"I've got it covered, Paige Freemore."

She smiled. "You always do."

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Yeaaaaay updaaaate! This was going to be out on Friday, but I rearranged my writing schedule to get it out today. When you're in the zone, there's no point in putting it off.

Not too much on my end to report. I was especially enjoying the way Osborn tuned out in this chapter. He's a total creep, and I wanted to play that out to its fullest extent with Max. Also, I wasn't initially going to deal with Natasha in the aftermath, but I just couldn't leave her alone: had to give her some closure with our mysterious Clint Barton issues.

Based on the reviews, I can see some people are getting frustrated with Max as a character. I like the varying opinions: some see it as a negative portrayal of her , while others just see her as scared. I like it. I like that everyone it taking something different from it. My hope is that it won't turn people off from the story for good, but I can't really control that. If this is your last chapter, thanks for sticking it out so far. If it's not, there's still lots left of this ride for Max and Loki to go.

The title of this chapter is from the song Bones by MS MR. I was listening to it while doing some chores today, and it just gave me so many feels for this portion of the story. Music is such fun inspiration.

Much love, bbies! I think my updating strategy will be two weeks on (aka two weeks in a row of updates), with one week off—at least until I finish my freelance novel in mid-June. SEE YOU NEXT WEEK!