Author Note:

Yay new chapter! Let's call this my Halloween gift to you all. I've had this written for a while now, but I went on a crazy edit spree. I didn't mean to be this late in posting, but working on my research manuscript took up more time than I thought and along with everything else for school just left me exhausted. I'm not even done *sigh* Anyways, enjoy! As always, beta'd by the beautiful, lovely, and spectacular cheerful dispositions!

*Trigger warnings for a panic attack and flashbacks.

Chapter 3

"The human race tends to remember the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars." -Bertolt Brecht

Three am finds Tony down in his workshop flicking away yet another holographic screen in sheer frustration.

There is too much data and at the same time, not enough. The molecular analysis Bruce did of the Chitauri, while thorough, leaves too much room for speculation—more than either he and Bruce is comfortable with. They have been studying these samples for weeks now, but there's only so much they can glean from a dead sample, an alien one at that. All they have are untested hypotheses and educated guesses. He and Bruce speculate Chitauri cells must have a mode of communicating between cells that are outside of the organism, specifically with other Chitauri cells. What else could explain the way the Chitauri dropped dead once the nuke Tony flew into space detonated, destroying what Tony refers to as the "mothership"? And while Bruce seems to have alienated a few unknown cell structures he hypothesizes must be involved in such a process, he has been having trouble testing his theory considering all their Chitauri samples are, well, dead. Their daily reports to each other are filled with more unknowns every passing day and Tony's frustration has increased with every new question. But he can't remember the last time he encountered this significant a challenge and he would be lying if he said part of him didn't relish it.

For a moment, Tony halts he constant holographic flicking and zooms in on a scan of the Chitauri gun laying atop his workbench, only to flick it away a minute later as well. He has a working theory that the guns must somehow activate via electrochemical impulses—much like the human brain sends messages throughout the body. According to Bruce's report, all the necessary chemicals are present: sodium and potassium, among a few others. But, again, Tony can't test his theory due to their dead sample. Although, now that he thinks about it, he could create a program to run the proper simulations. Unfortunately, given the fact the Chitauri are made up of several chemical compositions they have never previously encountered nor heard of, any simulation would be incomplete and still in the realm of uncertainty. Fucking aliens, he thinks.

Still, the biological and mechanical processes are so thoroughly fused together, that Tony won't have a chance to study the mechanical parts until Bruce finishes his initial report on the biological nature the weapons seem to have as a whole. Sure, Tony could do his own biological analyses, but Tony is, first and foremost, a mechanical engineer. Tony also knows that Bruce needs to do those analyses, knows they make him feel useful and good. They give him a chance to feel as if he is giving back to the city, making up for all the collateral damage done by the Hulk during the battle. Tony knows they assuage his guilt—though he himself doesn't believe Bruce has anything to feel bad about to begin with—so Tony asked that he do them, claiming the biological aspects of the Chitauri were more Bruce's area than his own.

Tony stops flicking through screens when one in particular catches his eye. It's the backtrace he asked JARVIS to do on the SHIELD hack. The signal keeps bouncing from server to server, but… there's almost a pattern. And Tony can't believe this because whoever hacked SHIELD was good and good hackers just don't commit these types of solecisms, they don't. It's obvious someone failed their Hacker 101 course, Tony thinks, either that or it was purposeful.

"JARVIS?" Tony calls, already settling in his chair and pulling up the tracker screen on the monitor. "Identify the servers that have bounced the signal the most and pull them up on this monitor."

"Yes, Sir."

When a map of the Middle East comes up on the monitor with several red dots spaced throughout, JARVIS continues,

"There appear to be six servers that are the primary bouncers of the signal, Sir. All of them scattered throughout the Middle Eastern area, however there are two in Afghanistan that appear to have the highest rate of cyber traffic."

Tony stares at the map, at the blinking red dots, and tries not to think of a confining hot cave and a car battery in his chest. For a second, with frightening vividness, he can feel the graininess of sand on his skin, hair, and clothes; feel the way his clothes stuck to his sweat damped skin. He feels his breath quickening as JARVIS zooms in on the general area and all Tony can see is an expanse of desert that goes on for miles and miles, endless in its reach, and he can just feel the heat on his dry cracking skin only to suddenly feel himself submerged under cold water once more, his lungs longing for air to the extent of burning.

"Sir?" JARVIS says and Tony isn't quite sure how, but there's concern there, has always been concern there. There are parts of JARVIS he coded while drunk, lost in an engineering binge, and he has no memory of these occasions, but somehow he managed to wire concern into JARVIS' code, and it's amazing, always amazing, he thinks, that he managed to create JARVIS, the one thing in all the world who knows him best, who has been with him almost longer than anyone else, and Tony's breathing keeps quickening, his gasps becoming shallower, but he focuses on JARVIS, on the concern there, and he tries to stop breathing for a bit to see if that would make it better, but he just ends up shaking and taking big gulping breaths when he can't hold his breath anymore and that just reminds him of drowning, so he grips the edge of his workbench until his knuckles turn white and his hands ache, as he fights to forget.

"Sir, it is three-thirty am and you are in New York, in the tower's workshop. You have been here for approximately thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes," JARVIS begins, his tone calm and precise.

Tony shuts his eyes and fights to control his heaving breaths, focuses on the information JARVIS is providing: the date, time, location, the current temperature in the room, and what he had been doing for the past hour before his attack hit. It isn't until his breathing slows down that he releases the death grip he has on the bench and manages to uncoil his tense muscles. Opening his eyes, he sees that JARVIS switched the screen. Instead of the endless expanse of desert sand, he sees floating pictures of what must be the most adorable puppies in all of existence in various stages of play. He can't help but huff a rough laugh at their short little legs and floppy ears.

"Thanks, Jay," he says, his quiet voice loud in the silent space.

"You are welcome, Sir," comes the soft reply.

When he feels a tap on his shoulder he turns to the side and notices Dum-E is there, his claw outstretched as he holds what looks to be a chocolate shake towards him. He can see You and Butterfingers in the background, both apprehensive to come closer. His bots are quiet, none of them chirping with their usual merriment, and he can't help but feel a little guilty over the fact.

With trembling fingers, he takes the shake from Dum-E and pets his mechanical claw in wordless thanks; when Dum-E chirps in response, Tony smiles. The gesture reminds him of the many times Dum-E had brought him a similar shake after one of his numerous nightmares and/or panic attacks after returning from Afghanistan. Once he had left the conference and returned to the familiar comfort of his home, he had shut himself up in the workshop for weeks, sleeping on the couch, fighting off nightmares. It had been the one place he had felt safe, secure, and like he were finally home. For three weeks his routine had been composed of panic attacks, horrific nightmares, coffee, and a plethora of shakes, along with whatever food JARVIS ordered for him. On the morning of the fourth week, he began building Iron Man.

After finishing his shake (he swears he tasted a hint of motor oil in it), he decides to go up to the communal kitchen in search of coffee. He can't go to sleep now, not after having a panic attack like that. If he somehow did, nightmares would only plague his mind and startle him awake.

"Okay, JARVIS," he says, rising from his seat, "scan the region and compile a report of any active groups currently operating within a fifty mile radius of those servers that pose a threat. Send it to my tablet when you finish."

"Yes, Sir."

When he gets to the communal floor he notices the kitchen's lights are off, but there is a faint blue glow along the walls that lets Tony know someone is watching tv. He pauses at the threshold, his mind going over everyone's sleeping habits, only to realize there is only one person who could be awake at this time of the night.

With light quiet footsteps, he ambles towards the couch, seeing a familiar head of blonde hair peeking over the top. He comes around the side and casually plops himself down, taking a seat beside Clint, who turns towards him to mutter a short greeting, turning back to the tv screen once more.

Tony can't help but feel a bit uneasy when he takes his seat beside Clint—the last time he saw the archer was when they argued down at the workshop and Tony uttered words that caused Clint to walk away from him. That was two days ago. Two days they spent avoiding each other; Tony locked up in his workshop, fixing SHIELD's systems, welding away his frustrations, and Clint down at the range, shooting arrow after arrow. Tony may or may not have asked JARVIS about Clint's whereabouts throughout those two days. He feels the urge to say something, possibly apologize, but before he can come up with the words to say, Clint speaks.

"You know, I blame you for this," he says, gesturing towards what's showing on the television.

When Tony notices what Clint is watching, he cannot for the life of him contain his laughter. He laughs until the tension leaves his body and his unease seeps out from his pores leaving him light with relief. Glancing over at Clint, he can tell the agent has relaxed—his spine no longer as straight, his shoulders less taut.

"It's only because I'm all caught up on the show that I'm not only going to accept the blame, but apologize as well. You don't know what you're in for, Barton."

"Stark, they killed Stark!" Tony can't help it, he chokes on his breath as he guffaws once more. "What kind of show kills off their own fucking main character!" Clint glares at Tony as if he were responsible for this.

"My dear Ygritte, soon enough you'll learn no one is safe in this game," Tony tells Clint once his lungs contain enough air.

"Fuck, something told me I shouldn't have kept watching it after that first night," Clint shakes his head, but Tony can see the warm amusement in his eyes.

"You know, I came up here for some coffee, but now that I think about it, waffles and ice cream sound good—alongside the coffee, of course. You in, Robin Hood?" Tony asks, his tone colored in mirth.

"Sure, I'm down. But, you know, you do need to sleep, right Tony?"

"Yeah, no, not tonight." Tony's limbs feel heavy as he rises from the couch, and he thinks Clint must have noticed something because he doesn't ask Tony about it. He's grateful; Afghanistan is a topic he doesn't wish to revisit, even though he recognizes the signs that he'll have to face everything he tried so hard to bury in the near future.

Tony sits with Clint for hours, watching episodes of Game of Thrones he's already seen, laughing at Clint's reactions, all the while bantering back and forth as they eat the waffles Tony put in the toaster and covered in strawberry ice cream. A part of his mind reflects on the fact that this night appears to be an echo of their previous ones: they always seem to find each other in the middle of the night at the communal floor, both running from the terrors sleep brings them, somehow managing to gravitate towards each other. He wonders if their friendship will only consist of these echoes, always confined to the still, dark hours of the nighttime. He wonders when he began considering Clint an actual friend, not just a coworker, not just a teammate, but an honest to god friend. Tony can tell Clint doesn't want anything from him; he doesn't want his money, doesn't want to latch onto his inevitable limelight like many others have previously done—hell, Clint doesn't even want him for his weapons, he could invent his own.

There's something freeing in this knowledge, Tony realizes. He can breathe around Clint, can settle next to him without the usual tension that seems to coat most of his conversations with other people.

With a pang, the thought that he hasn't been able to do so with Pepper these past few weeks resonates within his mind. He's noticed she's been distant, focusing more on the company than their relationship, but that could be due to the widespread panic the invasion caused. Truth is Tony isn't sure what any of it means and it worries him, her apparent distance and withdrawal. Looking over at Clint, he shoves the thoughts aside with an ease born of years of practiced repression.

Tony wakes to the blinding morning light of the rising sun. Groaning, he turns away as if on instinct, pulling the blanket over his head in a feeble attempt to block out the sun. His mind drifts in the groggy space between conscious and unconsciousness and it takes him a full couple of minutes to realize he is not laying on his bed, that he's still on the couch, wrapped in a warm quilt someone must have draped over him. It takes him another minute to become aware the rest of the Avengers are shuffling about in the nearby kitchen; it's only the fresh smell of coffee and the delicious smell of breakfast that beckons him to rise, quilt still draped over his shoulders.

Upon seeing him, the rest of the Avengers shoot him amused glances; particularly Clint, who hides a snicker behind a cough, though his glance is more fond than not. Tony glares at him, knowing full well who's responsible for his current state.

"You're an ass," he mumbles, perching himself atop a barstool at the kitchen bar beside the archer.

"I'm sorry," Clint chuckles, "I didn't realize I was supposed to put you to bed."

Tony decides to ignore the double entendre in favor of the plate of toast, bacon, eggs, and pancakes Steve places in front of him, alongside a steaming cup of coffee.

"Thanks, Cap."

Steve gives him a small smile which Tony acknowledges with one his rare genuine smirks. Ever since Steve moved into the tower, he and Tony have been working on their relationship, trying to get past the explosive fight they had on the Helicarrier. Tony knows that Steve is a good man. He's aware of the ghosts that haunt Steve's footsteps every waking moment. He knows that Steve is still adjusting so he's made it his personal mission to help the man acclimate. He's given Steve a StarkPhone and commanded JARVIS to assist the Captain with whatever he may need; he even programmed lessons on the basic workings of the internet, Google, satellites, and commonly used social media sites. When it comes to technology, Steve is adapting faster than Tony anticipated.

Tony's finishing off his toast when he hears a shrill beep come from off to the side. As soon as it sounds though, the others groan in utter exasperation.

"Ah, the foul noise returns once more," Thor proclaims.

"I thought someone turned that off?" Bruce wonders aloud from his seat at the kitchen table, his green Hulk coffee mug in hand.

"I did," Natasha answers, a scowl on her features that causes worry to churn in Tony's stomach—he's seen what Natasha is capable of.

"I told you we should've just thrown it out the window or something," Clint mutters beside Tony.

"Okay, what the hell are you guys talking about?" Tony wonders, when another shrill beep sounds and the others all groan in annoyance once more.

"It's your tablet," Steve says, turning off the stove and making a plate for himself, "it hasn't stopped beeping since we came in this morning. We looked at it, but we couldn't unlock it to see whatever notification it had. Natasha just turned it off, or I think she did." He looks over at Natasha with a questioning glance, she just glares back.

"I did," she says, rising from her seat at the kitchen table to stalk to the fridge, extending her arm to retrieve something from the top.

"Uh, why is my tablet on top of the fridge?" Tony has to ask because, while he knows he has the irksome habit of leaving his tech everywhere, he's certain he hadn't left his tablet on top of the fridge last night. Or maybe he had? "You know what, don't answer that. I know what the alert is. JARVIS, why didn't you wake me when the geographical scans came in?"

"Sir, you have slept a total of four hours in the past two days, I thought it prudent to not immediately alert you."

Beside him, Clint huffs a laugh. "Your AI takes better care of you than you do, Tony."

"Barton, if Steve hadn't cooked this morning you would be scouring the pantry in search of stale cereal," Tony retorts taking the tablet Natasha laid in front of him and unlocking it with a biometric scan.

"And you would have only had coffee for breakfast."

"I don't know where you're getting your information from Legolas, but coffee constitutes a meal," the genius claims.

"No it doesn't, just because your IQ is higher than anyone else's here, besides Bruce's maybe, does not mean you can just—"

"Boys," Natasha says, ending what Tony knows would have been a harebrained argument. "Stark, did the scan JARVIS conduct have anything to do with SHIELD's hack?"

"Yes," he says, his mind spinning through all the possible scenarios that would allow her to know this.

Even before revealing her identity as a SHIELD agent, Natasha had unsettled Tony. At first, this caused him to hire her, to try and figure her out; not to mention she had the air of someone strong and competent enough to be his PA, to manage his life while dealing with his numerous "eccentricities." Natasha gives the impression that not much gets by her. He's read her mission reports and knows she has the uncanny ability to focus on minute details no one else seem to notice. It's not Natasha's ability of being able to take him down outside of the suit in one fell swoop, without breaking a sweat, that uneases Tony. No, it's her mind. It's her ability to comprehend the hidden meanings in her surroundings that unsettle him, her ability to read the silences, that cause the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Natasha knows and Tony wonders just how much.

"I backtraced the hack, narrowed it down to a few possible locations, and had JARVIS scan the region for any active terrorist groups," he states, recovering from the slight fluster he felt at being reminded of how much Natasha knows, of how much she notices while the rest of them live unawares.

Once he starts to read the report, Tony feels his muscles tense as a slight spike of fear shivers up his spine, he supposes he should have known though. Organizations like the Ten Rings don't just go away, don't just disperse in defeat after taking a hit. For a moment, Tony is reminded of Hydra, of how its members used to proclaim that if one head is cut off, two more will take its place. Gathering his resolve, Tony rises and motions for everyone to follow him into the living room where he displays the results on the wall hanging monitor with only a second's hesitancy that appears to go unnoticed by all except Clint, who is looking at him with veiled concern.

The rest of the Avengers crowd around him in order to get a clearer view of the screen. Tony can tell Steve and Thor are at a loss, having no idea what the results mean, but by everyone else's reactions they can see they mean nothing good. Clint, Natasha, and Bruce, on the other hand, are tense beside him. It is Natasha who breaks the silence.

"I thought you took care of this problem, Stark, when you got out of that cave."

While her words aren't cruel, Tony still has to fight off the urge to close his eyes, to ascertain the status of his arc reactor, to shake his shirt so as to get rid of the uncomfortable grainy feeling of sand on dry, chapped skin. For all his control, he can't help but shift his stance.

"Tony, are you okay?" Bruce's eyes roam over Tony's form, his tone concerned. But Tony can't answer, not yet.

"Can someone please explain what the Ten Rings is?" Steve questions, looking from Tony to Natasha to Bruce, a note of frustration in his voice. It's clear he isn't used to being in the dark, isn't used to having to have so many things explained to him, not when he's supposed to be their leader, not when he's supposed to be the one guiding them.

"You have got to read our files, Cap," Clint says causing Steve to duck his head. Sometimes Tony forgets just how young Steve is; for all that he's lived through—the Great Depression, World War II, an alien invasion—the man is not even thirty.

Tony collects himself, berating himself for allowing the weakness to show. It has been well over a year and a half. It was high time he got over it, put his less than stellar experience in Afghanistan behind him. He beat the odds, he survived. That's what matters. Everyone had thought him dead and he had escaped, had built what had then been his most advanced piece of tech, and risen up like a metal encased phoenix metaphor personified.

"About a year and a half ago, these guys kidnapped me while I was doing a weapons presentation in Afghanistan. That's how I got this," he says, tapping the arc reactor casing. "Long story short, they asked me to build them weapons, I said no, they got pissed, and three months later I built the first Iron Man suit and got out." He leaves out the part of him torching the compound to the ground, of how shrill screams filled the air as the flames devoured everything in their path. He refuses to mention Yinsen, because despite how long it has been, that particular memory is still too raw. Yinsen gave him more than he would ever know and the fact that Tony's here, that he got out alive, but that Yinsen didn't unsettles him to no end, a painful unease that sits heavy on his chest.

"The Ten Rings is a terrorist organization, primarily based in Afghanistan. They're highly secretive. Based on SHIELD intel, their mission is to cause instability whenever and wherever possible. Whoever their leader is gets off on destabilizing regimes, causing civil unrest to the point it escalates to civil war. They're suspected of being responsible for a significant part of the unrest going on in the Middle East right now. No one can prove anything, though. A few years ago, SHIELD had an agent infiltrate one of its cells. According to the agent's reports, each cell has a leader and no cell actively communicates with each other or with the top boss—or bosses, again, we don't know. Each cell just gets a shipment of supplies, mostly weapons. That's all we know; the agent was killed a few months into the mission and SHIELD hasn't tried infiltrating the Ten Rings since." Clint's tone is hard, yet matter of fact and while his low voice doesn't resonate his tone leaves an impression.

Tony stares at the picture of Raza, at the cold black pools of his eyes, and thinks about the first time his head emerged above water, coughing and spluttering, his lungs screaming for oxygen, only to go back under again. For a moment, his breath catches in his throat and his lungs burn.

"Who are the rest of these guys affiliated with?" asks Natasha, breaking Tony out of his reverie. All the photographs of Raza JARVIS has accumulated are those involving meetings, some sort of exchanges. Each photograph shows Raza shaking hands with different men, in different locales. It's then that Tony focuses on the burns that smear the right side of Raza's face; he can't help but feel a perverse sense of pride over them.

"Affiliation unknown, Agent Romanoff," JARVIS declares.

Beside Tony, both Natasha and Clint stiffen. It's almost imperceptible with the way they were trained to move, but Tony can see how Clint's shirt tightens around his muscles and how Natasha's whole body stills to the point Tony wonders if she's still breathing.

"We need to work on identifying these men. You should send this to Fury, he'll want to know if he doesn't already," Natasha says, her voice as calm, cool, and collected as if she were discussing breakfast options with the rest of them.

Tony nods, part of him feels numb. He wonders whether it would have helped if he had reviewed this information down in the workshop by himself before showing the rest of them.

"Tony, who exactly is this guy?" Bruce asks, patting and rubbing his hands.

"His name's Raza, he was the leader of the compound that took me," he answers, eyes never leaving those endless pools of black. "I burned half his face getting out."

Trickshot thinks that if anyone were to look close enough they would be able to see the slow and steady—almost subtle—descent Russia is heading towards. It's been more than twenty years since the Berlin Wall fell, since Nikolai Gorbachev gave in to his people, and yet it's clear the country is reverting back to its old Soviet ways.

And it starts the way it always does: with fear.

Trickshot has spent a month or so in Moscow and during that time has learned to read the ever present fear that permeates the city's streets. But where there is fear, there is often anger. The tide of civil unrest is rising and Trickshot can't think of a better time to leave the country. Change, after all, can be a bloody process. And while there is fear, anger tips the scales. Russians have never been a trusting people. They don't put much trust on the governments of other countries and they sure as hell don't trust their own. History, he thinks, has taught them well.

The address his new employer sent him turns out to be a PO box in one of the city's main postal offices. Inside he finds cash, a credit card, a fake passport that sports a picture unknowingly taken of him sometime in the last year, a fake birth certificate (he sure as hell isn't in his twenties), a fake driver's license, and a sealed envelope he guesses contains his escape route. When he opens it though, he finds another slip of paper containing a different address. Plugging it into his phone's map app reveals the location is in Afghanistan, somewhere on the outskirts of Kandahar. Trickshot stuffs everything into his duffle bag and gets going, never one to remain in one place for long.

His way out of the country turns out to be a black, battered early 2000s Toyota Camry he finds in an almost empty parking garage in the middle of the rundown Kapotnya district. The instructions sent state the birth certificate, license, and passport should hold up to inspection by the border patrol. When he looks in the glove compartment of the car, he finds registration papers with the fake name that match the rest of his papers: Viktor Dragunov. He doesn't mind the Russian name, knows that it would be less suspicious for a Russian to leave the country than an American—they were too noticeable, too conspicuous in this part of the world. An American's presence was always noticed in these parts, for the worse.

He gets in the car and makes his way to Uzbekistan, only stopping to stay at a motel once, when his eyes can no longer withstand the long, endless expanse of road without dropping shut every half hour or so. Crossing the border into Kazakhstan proves to be simpler than he thought, even with the armed guards patrolling. His Russian is rusty at best, but over the years he has managed to perfect the common phrases—enough to not arise suspicion to the fact he's an American.

Kazakhstan proves to be an endless expanse of road as well and Trickshoot stops in seedy gas stations to refuel the car and grab snack foods along the way. He spends one night in Kazakhstan, in a small town near the Uzbekistan border, before once again getting in the car and moving on.

Clint watches the slight tremors that run through Tony's hands as the genius grips his tablet with worry. They're all sitting in the conference room Tony had installed within the Avengers' common room.

"You're sure?" Fury asks, his voice projecting through the conference room's speakers.

"We have visual confirmation, sir. Raza's been spotted making deals with an unknown," Natasha reports.

"Send me the files."

"We need to figure out what exactly they want, sir. Tony's history with them is concerning. They should know that if they come after one of us, they come after all of us," Steve says, meeting everyone's gaze when they all turn towards him.

It's a silent agreement, their second act as a team. It seems that nothing rallies them faster than imminent threat.

Coulson would have been proud, though he wouldn't have mentioned it. But Clint would have known, after years spent in the field he had translated Coulson's minute expressions. They became Clint's favorite language.

"Is it not clear?" Thor asks, his deep voice snapping Clint back to the here and now.

"Thor?" Steve prompts.

"They seek the Chitauri weapons, Director. I informed you, Director, that the tesseract was a signal to all the realms your world was prepared for a higher form of war."

"The Ten Rings isn't some damned alien race, they're human terrorists!"

"Hell bent on causing chaos for the hell of it. Thor's right, the tesseract, the invasion, the fact that we won, it all signals to us owning some advanced weaponry. People are going to think we—that SHIELD—has it and they're gonna come for it. The Ten Rings kidnapped me so that I could build them advanced weaponry and now they're simply aiming to steal it. See Nick, this is what happens when you ignore my advice. After all, aren't I just a consultant, isn't that what you wanted me for?" Tony sneers, but Clint can read his growing agitation in the incessant tattoo his fingers beat against the hard oak wood of the table.

"I am afraid, my friend, that even had the Director done as he should have, this group would not have believed such a declaration. It is the treacherous nature of war," Thor says and Clint wonders at the Norse god's age, wonders how many battles he's seen carried out, how much destruction.

"You should never have fished that out of the ocean," Bruce says shaking his head. "It's only caused more trouble than it was worth, first Loki, the Chitauri, now this. How long before we have another invasion?"

"Are we even sure stealing the Chitauri weapons is their end game?" Clint questions.

Natasha narrows her eyes in his direction. "What are you thinking?"

"This feels off somehow. They don't have the resources for this, not after the revenge bender Stark went on after he built Iron Man. I've read the reports, he decimated fifteen compounds. This is too big game for them. If they're really aiming to pull this off, they'll need help. And even then they must have read we still don't know how to operate those weapons, all those reports they looked at were filled with nothing but theory and speculation, no empirical data. Why come after weapons they won't know how to activate? Why risk themselves like this when the benefit doesn't outweigh the risks? If Tony and Bruce haven't figure out the mechanics behind these things, I doubt the Ten Rings has someone who will."

Fury stares at Clint through the screen and he can see the director assessing him, beginning to ponder over the same questions himself.

"We need to learn who that unknown party is. Agents Romanoff and Barton, start reaching out, call in whatever favors you have. Whether legal or illegal I don't care, someone out there knows something about this and I want to know what it is."

"Yes, sir," they reply in unison and the video feed cuts off.

"Tony," Steve says, "they aren't taking you again. We won't let that happen."

Tony huffs out a mirthless laugh. "Cap, even you can't promise me that, but if they come for me again there'll be nothing left of them," he says, his eyes darkened and hard, before walking out of the conference room.

Clint doesn't doubt his words. While he's read Tony's file, it doesn't contain much information on what happened in the three months he spent locked within that cave. Most of the information contained is speculation based on accounts of others who had also had the misfortune of being kidnapped by the Ten Rings. If even half of those speculations are true, Clint can understand why Tony avoids sleep, why he drinks like a fish, and why all the showers in the Tower are the stand up kind.

Tony's been in the lab for an hour when the doors open and his music shuts off without warning. He's been on a knife's edge ever since the impromptu briefing and had come down into his lab for solace, for the type of comfort being surrounded by his creations and his own genius can give him. But there's little comfort to be had after learning the Ten Rings is still operating, that despite all he had done, they were still standing, plotting. He feels a swell of irritation at the sudden intrusion, only for it to melt away when he turns around to see Pepper.

"There was a board of directors meeting this morning, Tony. You missed it."

The way she folds her arms, along with the resigned look in her eyes and her hesitant steps, disconcert him. He's seen Pepper seething with fury, has seen her cry of pure joy and relief. He's seen the way Pepper looks at him when he's drunk too much, the way her lips tighten into a thin, pale, bloodless line. He's seen the way Pepper's eyes have hardened as she sent off the numerous women he slept with. He's seen Pepper stand tall with determination, feet solidly on the ground, eyes steely with the strength needed to run a Fortune 500 company.

He's never seen her hesitate.

He's never seen her step falter like it did just this moment as she ambled into the workshop. He's never seen the resigned look in her eyes—not aimed at him. The looks he was used to were of fond exasperation; no matter the situation there was always a hint of fondness in her gaze when she looked his way.

Pepper looks tired in a way he's never seen her before, smaller too, though he guesses that's because she's out of her customary, ever present high heels.

Nausea curdles in his stomach when he realizes the fondness has been replaced with a quiet, yet sad, resignation.

They haven't spent much time together since the invasion, since Tony gave in to his impulses and invited the Avengers to move into the tower. While the tower underwent repairs, Pepper had been staying in a hotel in the city, overseeing the plans to move the company's headquarters to the city. But the reconstruction finished weeks ago and Pepper has yet to move in. He questions whether or not he should move out, get a separate space for him and Pepper and leave the tower for the rest of the Avengers.

"Tony."

His name is a sigh on her lips.

"Pep."

"This isn't working anymore, Tony."

"Pep, no come on. I went to that dinner last week, showed the board those new designs. This morning was just…something came up is all." He wasn't telling Pepper about the Ten Rings. If he does, she would be frantic with worry they would come for him again and Pepper doesn't need that. She already has enough to worry about trying to manage a company that has taken far too many financial hits over the past few years and god knows how many PR hits since he was born.

"That's not what I meant, Tony. Even before all of this, you weren't much for managing the company. I can handle that about you. I—" Tony's never heard Pepper stutter before, never seen her wring her hands, but she is and he doesn't know what to do with that so he picks up whatever piece of tech is closest and starts dismantling it. "Tony look at me." And when he does she stills, taking a breath as if gathering her strength. "I meant us, Tony. We aren't working anymore."

He flinches back when the loud crash of the tablet he was halfway to dismantling clatters to the floor, loose pieces scattering every which way. Fighting the burning in his eyes, he scrambles to pick up the pieces—the tablet's screen is cracked, irreparable. Smaller hands join his in an effort to pick up the tiny loose screws, but Tony rises and steps away, leaves the dismantled tablet strewn on the floor.

"You're breaking up with me."

If he's honest with himself, he'll admit to having been waiting for this moment. He and everyone else have known that Pepper deserved better than what she was getting with him. She deserved someone who was attentive, who would remember their anniversaries, who remembered that strawberries caused her to break out in hives and made her mouth burn. Pepper deserved someone who made her life easier, not harder.

Considering she's the one terminating their relationship, Pepper looks distraught. There are tears in her eyes she is struggling to keep in check, though her efforts don't prevent the reddening of her eyes, nose, and cheeks. She appears as if she's lost something precious to her, which confuses Tony because she is the one leaving, not him.

"Yes, but it's not—" Pepper steps closer and Tony can't help the one step he takes back, can't help crossing his arms over his chest. The flinch she fails to hide causes hot regret to well within him, but not enough to take it back. She wrings her hands, fingers twisting the ring around one of her fingers.

"You don't need me anymore, Tony. I'm not sure you ever really did, at least not in that way."

Her words cement the thought that's been rattling around in Tony's mind since she stammered out her words: He doesn't understand, any of this. He didn't need her anymore? Tony needed her more than he needed anyone else. Pepper was his constant, his grounding point whenever he flew too high and needed to be brought back down to Earth. Pepper steadied him and kept his self-destructive tendencies in check—for the most part. But the point remained that with Pepper around Tony drank less, left the soothing confines of his workshop more often, ate at semi-regular intervals, and even made it a point to spend more nights sleeping in his own bed because he knew she would be there waiting for him, a comforting warmth by his side—though admittedly without her living in the tower all of these things occurred less often and he spent more nights in the workshop than not.

"Pep, I love you."

Her smile is as watery as the day he came home from Afghanistan; it doesn't reach her eyes.

"I know you do and I do too, I'll always care about you. But…that's not enough, Tony. I—I've gone back to being your assistant. I spend more time nagging you about board meetings and R&D design preparation than I spend being your girlfriend. You have a whole team looking out for you, who give you a purpose beyond the company. You don't need me like you used to and I need that, Tony. I need to feel more than wanted, I need to feel needed and you don't need me anymore than you would a friend and an assistant, that isn't enough to sustain a relationship."

"Can we talk about this?"

A stray piece of hair falls loose out of her bun when she shakes her head and curls around her cheek. He resists the urge to step forward and push it behind her ear.

"I need to do this, Tony. For the both of us."

Pepper leaves as quietly as she came in, though in the still silence of the workshop her footsteps echo.

Tony stands there for a while, enveloped in a silence that holds a too heavy weight, staring at the broken, scattered pieces of his work and the lone ring that sits atop the work desk.

A half hour later the workshop is in critical lockdown. The music from the speakers is a blaring cacophonous sound and a half a bottle of whiskey flows through Tony's blood. With each passing moment the world is becoming more of a haze and Tony lets go, sinking deeper and deeper until the weight in his chest is nothing but a warm burn. At one point, Dummy tries sneaking the bottle from the workbench, but Tony proves too fast and snatches it back, taking another swig, embracing the slow burn spreading in his chest.

Trickshot enters Afghanistan as the sun rises in the horizon and arrives in Kandahar at around three in the afternoon.

The last time Trickshot was in Afghanistan he was on a job with Duquesne, before they had attracted too much attention and had decided to part ways. Even now, years later, he feels a bitter stab when he thinks that for Duquesne, parting ways had meant trying to take him out with a bullet to the head. It was that lesson, above all, that taught Trickshot the fluid nature of loyalty. People are only loyal to those who prove advantageous, who are useful, who provide more benefit than risk to keep around. And when their use runs out, when they're more trouble than they're worth, when they become loose ends to be tied up, they should be put down like a rabid dog. Loose ends are unpredictable and cannot be afforded. It's this hard learned lesson that allows him to push back the bitter regret, to pull the trigger and to tie up the loose ends that come with the job, though he's never enjoyed taking a life that he wasn't paid to take. It was a waste, plain and simple. And if half formed memories of a woman with clear blue eyes whispering words of love came to mind, while together they caught butterflies in the yard only to release them once more, he sets them aside. Too much time has passed from then; he isn't the same anymore and she's somewhere he can't follow, at least not yet.

Kandahar is the second largest city in Afghanistan and there are people littering the streets everywhere he turns. The weather is a drastic difference to that of Russia and he can't help the shiver that runs down his spine when he thinks of the harsh Russian winter spent in a broken down, ramshackle building, shivering as he tried to staunch the blood of a job gone bad. Focusing on the sweat dripping off his skin, on the warmth seeping through and looking up at the hot, blinding sun, he thinks he prefers scorching summers instead. The weather reminds him of his mother, the skies above him a parallel to the clear blue eyes that never failed to make him think of the blooming spring. With effort, he pushes the thoughts of her away into the recesses of his mind and gets out of the car.

The address the employer led him to turns out to be a decrepit warehouse in the middle of an abandoned industrial district. Trickshot tries not to roll his eyes at the obvious cliché as he makes his way to the entrance. The instructions given to him state he is to meet someone here, though he doesn't know what for. The inside of the warehouse is dark, the only light coming in through the holes in the walls and ceilings. Shadows fall across every surface and for a heartbeat he thinks the warehouse is empty, but before he turns back he notices a crack of light coming from one of the doors to the left. The plaque on the walls reads "MANAGER," the Pashto and Dari letters underneath; but before he can outstretch a hand to turn the doorknob, the door swings wide open.

"Finally. I was about to call, thought you might have gotten stuck at one of the border crossings or just bailed on this idiotic mission altogether. Come on in, we got plans to make. I'm Rumlow."

Trickshot only hesitates a minute before walking in after the man who is covered in tactical gear from head to foot, heavy duty combat boots laced on his feet. It's obvious his presence has been expected. He can read in Rumlow's movements that he is some sort of agent—though Trickshot's not sure whose—and has had military training. He has a strong jaw covered in at least a week's worth of stubble and a voice that speaks of authority—he's someone who is used to being in charge, used to dictating orders and having them followed without protest. Trickshot already knows they won't be getting along; hell, ever since Duquesne he has worked alone. Duquesne taught him that a partner was another loose end.

The office is compact compared to the warehouse's main room, but there's a desk littered with laptops and a bed pressed against the far left wall, beside a door marked "RESTROOM." The old, yellowed, abandoned books lining the small bookshelf on the right only confirm what he's suspected: the warehouse and the surrounding buildings were owned by some U.S corporation. Although, he's pretty certain it belongs to whoever hired him. He's learned that certain groups do that, buy old, abandoned buildings that were owned by some American corporation. It's a sick joke, terrorists cells establishing bases in American made buildings.

When he notices Rumlow resting against the desk, he says, "Trickshot," by way of greeting.

Rumlow raises an eyebrow and snorts. "I swear there must be something in the water."

Before Trickshot can reply, though, the door to the restroom swings open to reveal a masked man in tactical gear, his face framed by brown, wet hair. Normally, he wouldn't think anything of the man and his mask, after all, in their line of work keeping your identity a secret was as important as getting paid. But the man has an entire arm made out of metal, and that, Trickshot thinks, isn't fucking normal.

Looking into the stranger's eyes reminds him of a pale, lifeless blue and endless Russian winters.

Author Note:

*Grins maniacally* Penny for your thoughts?

This is getting more exciting, isn't it? I already started the fourth chapter and I'm hoping to write and post two more chapters before the end of the year. I can't really say when the next update will be because I'm still working on my research manuscript (I know way too much about distress tolerance) and I have four other papers to write. Plus, my dear aunt is coming to visit on the 9th and will be staying with me for two weeks (why she feels the need to visit me during the busy month of November I will never know, there is a thing called summer lol). Oh!

So I made a tumblr specifically for my writing stuff (though I keep accidentally posting things that don't belong there!). It's .com.

Feel free to hound me for updates or sneak peeks and enjoy me venting my frustrations when I loose plot ideas because I am an epic failure because I forget to write these things down! I gotta be honest, I lost track of what I planned for Ch. 4 and it was going to be so good too! I will get it back somehow! It's in my brain...somewhere. Or scribbled somewhere on the margins of my systems of care notes. Thank you to everyone that has favorited this, subscribed, and left me lovely comments! They mean a lot and they make me very excited to be sharing my stories with you all :) You're all amazing!

*Disclaimer: I've actually no idea if former U.S owned buildings are/have been bought by terrorists groups.