Author Note: Hello again all honored fans! This is Peechtao returning to you from an ever-so-brief hiatus with this newest little gem for your reading pleasure. Please note, this book is complete and I intended to do all chapters up at once, however it has become more lengthy than anticipated so such nonsense will not be tolerated. I will therefore be giving you installments in parts. the following is part 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own concepts. they will be rented on request:)

True Description: Clint and Pepper have come down with the flu and intend to ride out their duel illness at the Stark Mansion, seeing as Tony has rented their typical rooms out of the Tower for a fundraiser and to show off his new toys to Reed Richards (fantastic four) whom Tony secretly believes is his arch enemy. While enjoying a night of vomiting and watching reruns of Avengers cartoons, Clint is suddenly thrown into a torrent of gunfire. Can he rescue Pepper and himself from sudden armed intruders? Will news of their plight reach the other Avengers in time? Will I ever stop abusing the Hawk? Stay tuned!

Roasted Red Peppers and Hawk Rotisserie

Author: Peechtao

Part 1

Crap was one word for it, the flu was another. Either way, Clint Barton was feeling just about the same. He'd fought through being ill the last week the team had been stationed in Bosnia. He had started feeling bad then, but decided to ignore it. Like most of his ails it would eventually get better on its own without much intervention. Or so he assumed. The first inclination that he'd been diagnosed with something besides a remedial cold was the return flight to New York. Clint ears had been so out of balance he could do little more than lie on the floor of the helicarrier and refuse to get up.

He'd done a good job of hiding the fact that he was sick at all. It sure came as a surprise to the Captain when he was suddenly without a primary pilot a mere eighteen hours from home. Tony had elected to fly himself back in his Iron Man suit. He was probably half way across the Atlantic Ocean by now and well outside of range of being remotely helpful.

It wasn't Natasha's way to be surprised by much that Clint did. She knew him better than anyone and countless hours in the field together gave her adept insight into his physical being as much as her own. Being lovers was a simple icing on the proverbial cake. She could tell he was moving at a slower pace for the last few days. He'd avoided being around her much at night, his own way of keeping his cooties to himself. She knew he didn't feel well, but his sudden collapse shortly after takeoff was a surprise even to her.

Natasha's initial response was academic. First, she flipped the primary piloting to her own console to keep their continual free fall from splattering them into the ocean rushing horribly closer. When she had the jet leveled out, her next primary objective was keeping it that way. Steve Rogers, as the luck fell, was instantly recruited to copilot. At least he held a little experience in the area, even if it was during a war fought over half a century before.

Relatively safe from any immediate transfer into the realm of the dead, Natasha was at last able to turn her attention back toward Bruce Banner and Clint Barton. Bruce was keeping himself calmer then Rogers at least. The Captain had to have reached the level of excitability where the mind shuts down all rational thought and becomes a one way vacuum focused toward a singular goal. Like a mother bear whose cub was just chased up a tree by a rabid wolf. His hands were stuck to the copilot's controls while the rest of his body was turned around to see what the heck had happened to his ace archer. For everyone's benefit, Natasha redirected the course plotter to automatic.

"How's he doing Bruce?" Natasha asked first.

"OhmyGodI'mdying, leavemetodie." the grumbled, jumbled moan came from the stretched out heap of assassin on the floor. Clint's hot cheek was shoved against the cool floor tiles in a desperate attempt at relief.

"You're not dying, you have a cold. Probably the flu." Bruce told him. He looked forward to Steve and Natasha. "Don't worry, once I get him home, in a bed for the next two weeks he'll be right as rain again. I bet he got it from Pepper; she was just coming down with it when we left. Tony said she's starting to get over it now."

Steve's shoulders gave an obvious sign of relaxing. Now that they had transitioned from the obvious possibility of death to the less-than-lethal Clint has a cold he could allow the tension to remove from his shoulders.

"Clint . . ." he drew the name out slowly as he turned back around to look through the cockpit windshield. "I thought we had a talk about not sharing personal injuries with the team. I get that you don't want to appear weak, but the last thing we need is you collapsing at the pilot's seat. All right?"

"What the Hell is he saying to me?" Clint whispered from the floor.

Bruce patted his shoulder. "Just don't worry about that. Your head feeling better down there?"

Clint grumbled a "No," but remained where he was.

It was still a long flight to go, and whether Natasha would agree to let them land some place within the continental United States, but not particularly at the Stark Tower remained to be seen. If Clint had his say, he would have flown straight through. He'd feel better the minute he hit his box spring of a bed and the crumpled shirts that served him as a pillow and blanket while simultaneously banishing Tony's carefully chosen bed linens to the floor.

Somewhere along the endless flight, Clint must have fallen asleep. When he did awaken, his little dream of returning to bed was already a reality.

:(:):(:):

Dawning the day of his first real admittance of being ill was like awakening during the zombie apocalypse as a zombie instead of the lone survivor Clint had always imagined he'd be. His skull felt simultaneously weightless and full of sloshing fluid that moved drastically from one end of his face to the other as he moved. He knew exactly what land mine exploded in his face. He'd only ever had full-blown influenza once as a kid. Since then he'd only imagined himself sick every few years when a colleague crowded him on a mission with some gnarly cold. The flu vaccine was never really an option given his wonton dislike for all things involving hypodermics. He was healthy, male, and in the prime of life. Not exactly the top of the list for a flu victim.

How wrong he was.

His stomach had turned against him. The part of his gut involved in any form of food processing decided to fold itself into something akin to a soft pretzel creation. While effectively preventing him from enjoying all things edible, it also prohibited him from vomiting whatever contents may still be fermenting inside of him. The urge, however, remained like an ever present, untended ache in the pit of his stomach.

He rolled onto his side, taking shallow breaths to try and relieve a portion of his internal suffering. With the movement of his body came the inevitable movement of his cranium and all the dismay that induced. A flood of snot and bile made a similar journey to the back of his throat. The once coordinated (artful even) movements of the assassin trickled to a floundering mass of human flesh scrambling across the floor like a diseased rat escaping the light. He knew he couldn't reach his bathroom and settled, rather tragically, for his laundry hamper. With his head hung into whatever clothes he swore he would never be seeing or wearing again, his focus again concentrated on his breathing. With a belly full of mucus and a respiratory tract the cause of it, breathing at all became a worthy challenge.

With this scene of dignity, Clint's once peaceful loneliness was interrupted. Bruce hadn't always intended on being the team doctor. But as the one person with intimate knowledge of human (and now alien) anatomy and five years of practicing without a license in whatever back world hole he could throw himself in the designation was an understandable one. He liked having a niche again. He appreciated everyone's need for him. But it was scenes like this that made him wonder why on God's green earth he ever agreed to play doctor in the first place.

Clint looked like a two-year-old with scarlet fever. His skin was flushed and sweaty. He was on his hands and knees hurling into his own laundry hamper on top of all his clothes. His breathing was mere raspy rattles of an emphysema patient. His eyes were pouring tears down his cheeks out of reflex with his spasming middle.

"Yeah, I think you got it all right." Was all Bruce could say. He sighed and sat on the end of the bed by Clint's crouched legs, trying not to let the sound of his struggling comrade get his own physiology from commiserating.

"Ugh…." Clint moaned, leaning on the closest wall, not daring to remove his face from its hovering position. "I feel . . . like . . .crap."

"Yeah, I know." Bruce told him. "Pepper too. She's gotten over the vomiting part. Said it took her a few days. I say by next Monday food will look better to you again."

"UGH!" Clint said in protest. "No . . .don't food. Don't say that."

Bruce had to smile a little. "Sorry. Well, look at it this way, at least you're going to miss the fundraiser."

Feeling somewhat safe, Clint sat back on his bent knees. He turned his face toward Bruce. If the change in Bruce's posture was any indication of how Clint appeared, then Clint must have looked like the zombie he felt like. "Fundraiser?"

"Yeah, well, we did break New York. Twice. Pepper thought it would be good PR if we did a fundraiser for the victims."

Clint nodded his head. It was a mistake he paid dearly for.

While he watched as Clint returned to the soiled clothes with another donation of stomach contents, Bruce kept talking. "Tony's hoping Reed will be there. You know, the big wig, stretchy weirdo down on Tenth Street? All of the Fantastic Four were invited more for Tony's own ego than anything else. He got back early and moved a lot of the tech around. If you haven't noticed, we're not actually at the Tower right now. He needed it for the fundraiser so he moved you into the mansion for now. Most of the tech's back in the old vault. Keep it from the fancy pants, you know?"

Clint leaned against the wall again, panting with his head dropped against his chest.

"You think you're done?" Bruce asked.

Clint thought about it. "Yeah," he managed.

"Ok. You aren't getting these back. Hope you don't care." Bruce told him. He grabbed the sides of the clothes hamper and gingerly removed it from the room. Clint watched it leave with only half an interest. So what if he lost a few pairs of pants. There wasn't anything he couldn't replace easily enough. But now that he could actually look around he did realize the change in scenery. It was a good thing he didn't try to get to his attached bathroom, because he didn't have one. He doubted Tony would put him up in the master suite of his own home. Even the guest bedroom was thinking to highly of himself in Clint's opinion. Most likely this was some back room Tony just realized existed. At least he had the decency to pull the mattress off the bed like Clint preferred. Sleeping for so many years in chairs, planes, under rocks, and in trees had spoiled him when it came to proper bedding. But just because the room was somewhat to his taste, didn't mean that Clint was going to stay in it, especially after Tony went through all the painstaking details of isolating the plague invading his home to the crappiest room in his mansion.

Clint grabbed the duvet cover off the bed. Apparently that had been his blanket and he intended to keep using it that way for now. He didn't bother with a pillow. He didn't have any. His first order of business would be finding the bathroom so as to clean the crap off of his face. If there was one thing Tony could be it was practical. That is to say, Tony had Pepper, Pepper designed every home he ever divined to have created, and Pepper was practical. That meant the restroom would be fairly close by.

"Hey, where you going?" Bruce asked, returning.

"Ba-room." Clint grumbled.

Bruce indicated it with a throw of his thumb. "You need a blanket for that?"

"Couch. TV." Clint explained. He dropped the blanket where he stood; expecting Bruce would get the hint. The guy was bright. Not just book smart and scientific, but actually intellectual. He'd pick up on the fact that Clint was not about to hide out in Tony's back room for the entire length of his illness. Before he even entered the restroom, Clint could see Bruce moving off down the hallway and away from the bedroom with Clint's blanket in tow.

:(:):(:):

"Seriously? Is this necessary? Is it not bad enough that poor Pepper has been sneezing her little flu spores all over my room and now I have this stuck to my couch?" Tony complained the minute he walked into the large common space.

Behind him Rogers and Natasha were both holding up the bar with a drink in their hands, looking amused. Bruce had been hunting around for the remote control until JARVIS was kind enough to point out the television was remote censored and voice activated.

On the couch, Clint was propped up in a swaddle of blankets and pillows. Two twisted sheets of Kleenex were shoved, one-a-piece in each of his nostrils. He gasped for breath through his hanging jaw. Anyone looking at him felt an instant sense of not only repulsion but an overwhelming empathy. Everyone except for Tony Stark.

"You look like a demented walrus, Clint, I hope you appreciate that sincerity from the bottom of my heart." Tony said.

"I hate you." Clint replied. Then purposefully turned and licked the arm of Tony's leather couch.

"Oh-My-God, you did not just do that!" Tony shrieked. He half rushed forward, then stopped himself to maintain his approximate thirty-foot distance. "You are a sick, sick, little man!"

Clint smirked, the stopped because he had to continue to breath. "Yeah, they call it the flu. You want some?"

"No doggie bag for you." Tony fired back, as if it were an actual threat.

Clint looked disheartened to play the intimidation up for him.

"You do know I am like one of the only immune-compromised people in here, right?"

Slowly, deliberately, Clint made a large hacking cough.

Tony fidgeted in place before turning and heading right for the door. "Nope, that's it. I'm leaving now before I come down with polio. Cap, Killer Girl, let's go."

Romanov emptied her drink and set the glass on the bar beside Steve's. She approached the couch first, rustling a hand through Clint's hair. It was a playful gesture at first, until her fingernails dug a trench in his forehead. "Oh, you owe me for babysitting alone." She told him quietly.

"Is it bad that I'm a little turned on by that?" Clint asked innocently.

"Coming Bruce?" Steve asked, grabbing his dinner jacket off the back of his chair.

Banner shrugged. "Yeah, I should. Clint and Pepper aren't going to get themselves into much trouble."

Steve grinned, nodding his head towards Hawkeye. "Hear that? No theatrics while we're gone."

"Not even a hit on the side?" Clint joked, sinking into the cushions a little further. "JARVIS, find that Avengers cartoon for me."

Bruce chuckled. He grabbed a pot out of the kitchen and dropped it at Clint's feet. He gave the archer a just-in-case look of sympathy and headed off with the other three.

"Take care of Pepper!" Tony called behind him. "You kids play nice. Daddy's going to be out late."

"Go make Mr. Fantastic eat your Arc Reactor." Clint called to him. He leaned his head against the back of the couch, allowing his eyes to slowly drift shut. "I'll hold down the fort." He was fast asleep before the words "Avengers Assemble!" ever left the mouth of cartoon Tony Stark.

:(:):(:):

Sleep lasted about as long as his first dose of liquid Nyquil. Clint awakened promptly four hours later with the dislodging of his snot-stopping Kleenex from his left nostril. Already his nose began to leak green/yellow mucus down his face. In a wave of shock and desperation to hide the infamy, he grabbed the box of tissues and hurriedly blew his nose. The sheer pounding pressure in his sinuses was enough to put any headache to shame. Then the sudden onslaught of a sore throat that made him swear he must have swallowed a sword in his sleep was no better a wakeup call.

"Don't forget to share." Someone said beside him.

Through half closed eyelids, Clint swung his head in a slow arc to see the person. Not surprisingly it was Pepper Potts. She seemed better than him, but not by much. It was like looking into the face of the ghost of Christmas Future. If this is what Clint had to look forward to in a full week of bed rest, he felt simply swallowing the whole bottle of Nyquil and waking up then was a better alternative.

"Wow." He said.

She gave him the same pained expression. "That bad? Really that bad? Tony said it wasn't that bad."

"Hate to break it," Clint told her, passing over the box of tissues. "But Tony's a bald-faced liar."

She gave a small smile. If she had the energy to be disturbed at her looks, it was long gone out of her. There was an L-shaped couch in the living room all arranged in front of the television JARVIS was kind enough to turn on again after Clint reawakened. How JARVIS was still streaming his favorite television show was a mystery. Clint doubted it was another Saturday morning marathon like he'd stumbled onto before. No doubt the AI was illegally downloading it.

While Clint had taken up his nest on the longer three-cushion sofa directly in front of the television, Pepper had filtered out of her room and arranged a nest of her own on the two-cushion love seat by Clint's feet. She seemed perfectly content to stay there for the remainder of her sickness, just as he had committed to.

"I'm sorry for getting you sick." She told him. She had already reached over and taken the box of tissues. Together they had a contest on who could remove the most snot from the endless supply their bodies were producing.

Clint waved it off. "It's all right. What option did you have? I don't think Natasha knows what sick is. Tony sucks on chlorophyll like it's not being made on trees, Thor doesn't get sick, Banner can't get sick, and Steve is Steve. He probably had it for like two seconds."

She smiled. "Sore throat yet?"

He swallowed painfully. "Like razors."

"Stomach?"

He held up a hand in warning. "Just, don't mention that."

"Nyquil's been helping me." She told him. She returned the tissue box to the table between them then curled her blankets under her chin and was asleep before Clint realized it.

Tiredly he took her advice and grabbed the bottle of medication. Taking a judicious dose, he rolled over again to get comfortable. Exactly five minutes later, he bypassed the puke pot left by a gracious Banner and went right for the bathroom. He was a gentleman (sometimes) first and a flu sufferer second. He didn't particularly wish to burden Pepper with the sounds of his retching. Not yet anyway. He'd save that little slice of joy when he lost the ability to stand at all.

If Clint's throat felt like a nail bed before, now it was more a kin to a wall of knives his flesh was continually being dragged across. Whatever medication he had added to his stomach contents was veritably expelled within a matter of moments. He flushed the greenish mixture away and shifted back to the sink to clean himself off. His nose was running down his face again.

He moaned a little in discontent. This was not how he imagined spending the first few weeks of winter. Flu season was on the down swing, or so reports went, and even at that his exposure to such pathogens was extremely limited. Tony was a germaphobe, and Natasha (as he pointed out to Pepper) had probably never understood the word illness. And here Clint was with the only person in the world who could give him a cold.

"This sucks." he said to himself through a raw throat. He spit the mouthwash he came across into the sink and vaguely searched for a toothbrush. He doubted Tony would have the forethought of bringing his own from the tower. The first time Clint was moved into the Stark monolith; Tony had forgotten everything, including every change of clothes Clint owned. He doubted for an improved situation this time. It was thoughtful that Tony brought along his laundry hamper, full of dirty clothes, which Clint would never see again. So maybe the situation had improved some.

After a fruitless search, he simply gave up. His body was too tired to stand. It probably wouldn't be long before he decided to make a return trip to the porcelain throne anyway. He flipped the light off and headed back to the living room.

If he had been feeling better, in full use of all his faculties, or anticipated that in Tony's impenetrable mansion that Pepper and he would suddenly be in danger Clint may have slowed his steps. He would have caught on that the telltale sounds of the living room television had been muted, while the screen itself was still casting bright blue and red hues into on the dark walls. He would have noticed that Pepper's gentle snoring of her clogged nose had stopped. And lengthy shadows with human shapes overlaid the colors the television cast. He would have noticed they were under attack. But he didn't.

Clint walked back into the room with his hand rubbing a hole into the side of his pounding forehead. His eyes were cast to the unfamiliar floor, assuring he wouldn't stumble over some random land mine he was ignorant of. The sudden chorus of guns cocking and Pepper screaming his name is what at last drew the distracted assassin too life. With the sudden flood of adrenaline invading his pores, Clint was on the defensive before he realized what was happening. He saw the first man to his immediate right. The guy was clad in black, held a semi-auto, and was already turning in the archer's direction. Clint grabbed the barrel of the gun, pulled it forward between his arm and his body then shoved the butt of the weapon into the guy's gut. He folded at the waist and Clint flipped the gun until its barrel was now facing away from him and toward the rest of the room full of men. They didn't seem shy about trying to kill him either. Clint grasped the first man by the arms and pulled him up while simultaneously allowing the guns in the room to use his back for target practice. Clint squeezed the trigger on his semi-auto, dropping three men in three shots. The remainder, at least five but perhaps more, began to duck for cover.

"Pepper!" Clint quipped. The woman had been surrounded, but was left unguarded long enough for Clint to orchestrate her escape from the line of fire. She bounded over the back of the couch without pause and headed right for him. Stooping behind him and the now deceased man in Clint's grasp, the three of them moved as one towards the back hall of the house. The first door they reached, Pepper opened, and they dove inside, sealing the door behind them.

Clint shoved the body at the foot of the door, then flicked the lock on. He sat to the side of the door jam with only his arm holding tight to the doorknob to prevent anyone's attempt at entry. He took a rapid glance at his surroundings. A bedroom.

"Pep, dresser, shove it over here."

Pepper grabbed the chest of drawers to Clint's immediate left and shoved until the furniture piece dropped into Clint's vacated post. It tumbled first onto its side with a heavy clunk before cascading its drawers open and falling flat on its now shambled face. Clint grabbed one end and pushed it closed to the door, wedging it over top of the dead body already acting as a draft dodger. It wasn't in place for more than a few seconds before the gunfire ripped through the unprotected wood. Clint grabbed Pepper by the arm and dragged her to the floor. Elbows over knees they crawled across the carpet until reaching the opposite side of a king size bed. Simultaneously, the two grabbed both ends of one side and lifted until the bed was standing perpendicular to the floor. The mattress skied off, a nightstand crashed, a lamp shattered and the gunfire never ceased.

The reprieve of dropping to his knees beside the bed was all Clint needed for his wave of Herculean adrenaline to fizzle out. His body shook like a crack addict on withdraw. He couldn't support himself on his hands, so he collapsed against the rug to catch his breath. His brain swirled around in a pounding mass of purulent discharge and fuzzy consciousness. A metallic gauntlet reached into his abdomen and grasped his intestines with a single unforgiving hand. Regardless of how he suffered, Pepper was pressed against him for dear life. She was terrified, and it was easy to tell even for someone suffering as he was. It took a moment for him to point out her clinging to his torso was making his health worse. That was something they simply could not afford.

"To—ny." Clint panted, trying to keep down whatever his body just dumped into his tubular organs. He swallowed, wincing against the soundless scream his throat made at the action. "Call him . . . Grab the phone."

Pepper reached over him, her body pressed against his and as far below the zinging bullets as possible. The cordless had come free of its holder in the struggle to upend the bed. She found it beside the other overturned end table and sunk back against Clint before attempting to dial.

"It's not," she punched numbers, listened, punched numbers again, dial 9-1-1, then gave Clint a disconsolate look. "No dial tone, nothing, not even emergency calls."

"Cell phone." He instructed. His eyes were shut. He was trying to ride out his stomach spasm without succumbing to it. He needed his second wave, and he needed it fast before that wood door gave up on offering the minimal protection it was already suffering for.

"Master bedroom, unless you have yours."

Clint shook his head a little, remembered that was a bad idea and stopped. He released a slow steady breath.

"Why today?" he whispered. "Why the Hell . . . do they want?"

Pepper shrugged. He could feel her shoulders lift and lowered against his chest as her head ducked into him again. That last bullet was close. Very close.

"We got to move." He said, opening his eyes. Trying to focus, he blinked a few times and rubbed them vigorously with his hands. "Bedroom, where?"

Pepper pushed away from him some but remained glued to the floor. "Down the hall, the opposite direction of us, Clint I don't know how we can get—"

"Outside?" Clint interrupted. "Can we get there from the windows?" He was forcing his body to submit now, just like the mission. This wasn't the time for his system to decide to rebel. He couldn't just call in sick and tell the men trying to kill them they had to come back later. If he didn't pull himself together here, right now, they were going to get slaughtered.

"I, the cliff—I don't—" Pepper was working with about as many firing brain cells as Clint. Contemplating leaping out of the room window to the obvious cliff face directly below them, then somehow scaling Tony's exterior walls to reach his bedroom seemed like an impossible task. Even saying it over in his head made it all the more a feat of sheer lunacy.

"Can't think." He told her. He grabbed her arm again and they headed for the window. Clint cautioned a glance back to the door. It had lasted longer than his mental estimate. Already pockmarks had given rise to holes large enough for a decent shot to take the pair out from behind. It was a good thing for them that the men currently storming the Stark Mansion weren't decent shots. They weren't even all right ones. Like mindless drones they bashed against the door by brute force and did all they could to move the stack of crap Clint had piled up. At least that would keep them busy for a while.

"Pepper out!" Clint shouted, noticing at once her hesitation. For one there was no way to get the window open, no way but the bold way.

Clint grabbed the first thing he could find off the floor that may have enough weight to shatter a window. First went the desk lamp. When that did little more than splinter the center, he moved up to the entire side table. The affect was more desirable, but by no means perfect.

One of the gunman had discovered the ability to aim through the door holes. The warning shot Clint was afforded created a .45 sized hole in the window he was attempting to dislodge.

Without being told, Pepper squeezed herself into a corner of the window sill. She was not out of danger, but she at least offered a less appealing target than the fully exposed back of Clint Barton, member of the Avengers.

Semi-automatics, Clint had to remind himself. He abandoned his task for a moment to dodge out of the way of the bullets that followed their counterpart. They ripped through the glass, improving the shattered radius Clint had begun to chip away at. Give the sheer holding power of the tempered glass, Clint figured he'd have to wait until the clip of ammo ran clean before he could finish the job with a few more swings of the destroyed end table. He didn't expect the sudden rush of wind that tore through the bullet holes like claws. The window pane inflated as if pulled up on invisible strings of a puppeteer. Almost at the same time, the pane pulled outward and shattered completely.

The gunfire ceased to reload. The SHIELD agent knew he could move but for a moment he was frozen in alarm. With the shatter of the window, the cacophony of gunfire, his rapid threading pulse flooding through his own eardrums, he nearly missed the shriek of a woman meeting her untimely death. What was missed by sound was supported in spades by the sight. Pepper, curled into a ball against the window sill with her hands braced over her head, suddenly flailed out. Her body shifted off balance, turning in midair like a cat twisting to right itself in free fall. But there was nowhere for her to land. Nothing below but the expansive ocean crashing against the unforgiving rocks hundreds of feet down. Her face turned to his, the scream falling near deafly over him, as her body leaned into space and dropped out of sight.

It took a moment to filter through Clint's mind what exactly he had been a witness too. He lunged forward, his body pressed flat against the floor while his upper half hung over the edge himself. His mouth never formed words. Never spat her name into the whipping air. He just looked out into the endless ocean completely at a loss.

"Take care of Pepper!"

"Go make Mr. Fantastic eat your Arc Reactor. I'll hold down the fort."

"What have I done?" Clint whispered.

well, there you go with part one. I get very stingy on my updates if i don't see reviews, so get them up!

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shout outs to: my readers in Taiwan, Vietnam, and how about the UK!