Avengers – and just superheroes in general – seldom get breaks.

So I was savoring my Wednesday afternoon by lounging on my bed in a pair of MIT sweatpants and a tank top with my nose in the latest tabloids about me, my dad, and the press digging up things that were farther from the truth than Hydrogen was from Lawrencium on the periodic table. Apparently I was cheating on Clint with Bruce and my dad was having 'marital spats' with Steve, of all people.

These were entertaining to read, they really were.

A familiar rustling above my head causes me to look up and wait for the appearance of the archer.

"Hey." Clint pops his head out of the vent in the center of the room. "Are you busy?"

"Not particularly, no." I sigh. "This had better not be a call to assemble and save some city somewhere, because I'm not on call."

He shakes his head. "No, nothing like that. Can you come down to the living room real quick? There's someone we want you to meet."

"Okay." I say suspiciously. "Just anyone, or…?"

He smirks. "You'll see. Can you manage to look as threatening as possible without the suit?"

"Of course. Anything else?"

"Armed to the teeth, and cover your arm."

I nod. "It's not some biased bigot like Fury was, is it?"

"No."

"Good. Threatening, armed, covering the metal arm?"

"You got it. Bye."

"See you."

I hop off my bed as he pulls back into the vents, opening my Jarvis-enabled closet. "Okay…threatening, threatening…"

I quickly lay a black tank top on my bed, and it's joined by a pair of black cargo pants. I dig out a pair of army-issue combat boots and a black leather jacket as well.

I quickly apply the layers and layers of black, tucking the pants into the tight laced boots and making sure all traces of my prosthetic arm are hidden by the jacket sleeves and gloves. My bow and quiver are strapped to my back, one gun goes on each hip, a third on my left ankle, a six-inch hunting knife in my right thigh, a mini gun on my left shoulder, and two four inch knives up my sleeves.

As a finishing touch, I slip on the wrap-around polarized glasses like Clint has.

"How do I look, J?"

"Frightening, ma'am. My worst nightmare." The AI tells me, with a gentle teasing tone to his British voice.

"Aw, thank you Jarvis. Call the elevator, would you?"

"At once."

I give myself a slightly wolfish grin in the mirror before jogging silently towards the glass elevator.

A~A~A

The air in the living room is buzzing with tension, the room itself occupying seven highly armed superheroes, a few S.H.I.E.L.D. techs, and a new guy.

New Guy has about shoulder length stringy brown hair, wary brown eyes on top of dark circles and bags, a slumped air in general, and…

Oh.

New Guy has a shiny silver metal arm with a faded red star on the shoulder.

Well then.

"So," I say flippantly as I take my place between Dad and Clint, "Who's the new kid?"

"Taylor, meet Sergeant James Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier. Sergeant, meet Taylor Stark."

His eyes scan me up and down, taking in every blade, firearm, and arrow. I pretend not to notice as I cross my arms. "Sergeant." I acknowledge with a sharp nod.

"Miss Stark." His tone and nod are equally as sharp.

"So…Cap's best friend?" I nod towards where Steve is standing just behind him.

Barnes nods with a small smirk. "Someone had to keep the little punk out of trouble."

I allow myself a small smile as I nod and look towards my boyfriend. "I know how you feel. So what's your deal?"

He shrugs. "Just your friendly neighborhood brainwashed assassin."

I snort. "Those words should never enter the same sentence. And just and FYI, you're the third assassin here."

He looks over my shoulder at Natasha and Clint. "Tasha, Barton."

I blink. "You know them?"

He points at Tasha, "She seduced me as my partner," his finger moved to Clint, "then he tried to kill me. So yeah, in a way."

I grin and shrug. "Welcome to the team, then, I guess. Someone else will show you around, it's my day off."

I turn to go back into the elevator, but in doing so I cause my right jacket sleeve to shift and reveal a slice of silver.

"Nice arm." he whispers behind me. I sigh and turn back to him, discarding my gloves and jacket by my feet to reveal my right arm in all of its glory.

"How'd you get yours?" he asks.

"Explosion. Sliced through the shoulder with rebar. You?"

"HYDRA experiments."

Silence hangs for a moment, then…

"My arm is better than yours." he boasts.

"No way." I scoff.

"Mine has muscle definition."

"Mine has heat repellent."

"I can catch Steve's shield with no kickback."

"And I can catch a speeding arrow."

"I have reflexes twice as fast as normal humans."

"And mine is twice as strong."

"I killed solely using this arm."

"That's not all that impressive." I point out.

"True." he agrees. "Truce?"

"We were arguing?" I smirk as I stick out my metal arm, which he shakes using his own artificial limb. "Here's a tip, though: never argue with a Stark over their tech."

"Yes ma'am."

"You'll fit in just fine, Bucky."