EDITED :)

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          "No no no no no nonononono NO. Look at this Frosty! This is a catastrophe! She's going to completely break his heart when Tommy finds out, and my motto is completely against that. 'Don't break people's hearts, they only have one'."

          "Yeah, you're completely right Ally. Why break their heart when you could break their bones? People have plenty of those."

          "Lilly."

          Ever so innocently throwing my hands up in surrender, I shrug helplessly at my partner in crime sprawled beside me with her legs inelegantly strewn over my lap. "Sorry sorry, I sometimes forget that I'm the assassin with a penchant for violence. No matter, I'm bored anyway," I huff, slumping back even further into the couch and staring wonderingly at the blonde hacker – who now has pants on instead of just underwear and a t-shirt – an impish spark dancing behind my hazel gaze. "Truth or dare?"

          Despite eyeing me suspiciously for the abrupt change in conversation, Ally eventually drags out a wary "Truth...?"

          I am the very epitome of an angel when I inquire "What's your credit card number?"

          Her tanned face slackens, dropping into a deadpan dripping with displeasure. "We share the same bank account, idiot."

          "I know, but I left my credit card somewhere in the second living room and can't find it, so I need yours to do my online eBay shopping."

          DING!

          "Saved by the cookies!" Springing off the couch faster than I believed humanly possible, a humph escapes my pouty lips as the blonde bounces eagerly towards the kitchen, still visible from where I'm comfortably sat.

          Curling my lips mockingly, I furl my fingers and fiercely shake my fist at Ally's retreating back. "You can run but you can't hide Renegade!"

          "Watch me Nightshade!"

          Unable to repress the humour bubbling beneath the surface, I allow the light chuckle to breathe past my lips as I pause the TV, lazily standing up to stretch languidly like a cat. It only took Ally five minutes to take my mind off the crazy coincidence that was Stark appearing at our home for a bathroom break ten minutes ago, and yet, all too soon do I find concern and paranoia clawing back at my doors, demanding to be let back in. If we try to vacate the house now, we'll likely be seen by at least one hero patrolling the neighbourhood, but we can't stay here too long either, for the likelihood of being found grows with each passing second.

          I wish the saying 'Ignore it and it will go away,' would apply to this situ—

          KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

          One of my brows quirks entirely of its own accord, faced in the direction of the front door around the living room entryway on the left hand side. Snapping my attention to Ally in the kitchen, which is through the other living room entryway on the right side, she seems mildly troubled from her place in front of the oven, but otherwise more concerned about the chocolate chip cookies in threat of being overcooked.

          "If we end up being arrested, and you go down protecting those cookies, I can't even say I would be mad," I honestly chirp up, dragging myself unenthusiastically off of the lounge. Trudging towards the doorway, I pause with a modest distance between the door and I, curling my fingers to form a firm fist as condensation begins to dance and tickle up to my forearms, a sure sign of the unforgiving ice ready to freeze over the surrounding area at a split second's notice.

           "Already have my daily surplus of girl scout cookies, thank you!" I cry out from behind the door, not forgetting to lay on the thick Russian accent.

          "But I worked so hard baking these." A whiny objection is audible through the door, a voice immediately recognisable as one Jonathan Lowell Spencer Storm.

          Wonderful, so Stark did recognise me. Fantastic to see that Robert Downey Jr's Sherlock Holmes observation skills have passed down to Tony Stark.

          "They'll have surrounded the house," I yell out to Ally from where she still is in the kitchen, indifferent to the fact Earth's Mightiest heroes would be able to hear my warning whatsoever. "You know what to do Allie-Bear."

          "I do?"

          "Yes, you do."

          There's a distinct, worrisome pause.

          "Uh... cool cool cool cool. Noice. Yes, I definitely know what to do."

          Just like Ally to channel her inner Jake Peralta when she has absolutely no idea what to do.

          Splintered wood flies following the distinct crack of the timber door exploding from a mild fiery explosion, Johnny Storm the first to stick his head through the entry way with a shit-eating grin playing at his lips. "Heeeeere's Johnny!"

          I swear, I tried to stop my eyes from rolling, I really did, but I simply couldn't help myself. "Really?"

          "I've always wanted to do that."

          It's in that moment, as Clint Barton somersaults in through the doorway with his bow at the ready – Steve Rogers, Tony Stark and Ben Grimm not far behind Johnny – that Ally decides to scamper in with a piping hot tray littered with an assortment of imperfect yet divine smelling chocolate cookies. Skidding to a stop, her baby blue eyes bug out of her head like a Looney Tunes cartoon, staring at the heroes like a deer in the headlights.

          "Intruders! I –wha – when –" Ally is almost never in the field with me, being more so the brains to my brawn. It's a wonder her brain hasn't completely shut down from shock and instead merely finds itself short-circuiting, resulting in her asking a question with an entirely obvious answer. "How did they get in here?"

          "In-tru-da-door," I snicker, hands still as frosty as the Arctic, before sobering up with a single glance back towards the splinters on the floor. "....That was funny until I realised it's our door."

          "This has gone on for long enough Nightshade," Captain Crunch severely warns, a stern, impatient shadow casting over his face. "You have nowhere else to go. Just give up nicely, and we can talk this through."

          "We've been enemies for what, five months now? And you dare possess the audacity to ask of me to be nice?" I scoff, truly hurt by such a request. "My middle name is trouble, not nice. Doesn't have the same ring to it."

          "Nightshade."

          "Plus, I reaalllyyy can't come with you guys today, I'm fully booked. Not to mention with you guys breaking in like this that you've undoubtedly disturbed the neighbours and local pets. I've got a yorkie upstairs and he pees when he's nervous—"

          TWANG – SWOOSH.

          A taught bowstring being released accompanied by an arrow cutting through the air to imbed itself in the banister of my staircase a foot to the right and behind me breaks off my incessant yapping, followed by the scowl of one Clint Barton. "Do you ever shut up?"

          Clucking my tongue, I give the question some actual thought. "Mm no not really, you'd have to pull an X-Men Origins on my ass and sew my lips up Deadpool style. It's okay if you don't like me though, not everyone has good taste."

          Deciding that I would be the one to initiate the next attack, I watch my hands dance fiercely in a style that's a cross between tai chi and Krav Maga, the act resulting in cutting ice to cloak the floor darting in the direction of the heroes. The Independence Day Mascot and low-rent Daryl Dixon are quick enough to dart out of the way, but in the end, their dodging proves fruitless, for the ice merely follows them until all five heroes are encased in it. The entire thing barely lasts five seconds.

          "Ally, dear?" I pipe up, trying to draw her out of her debilitating shock whilst we both have a window of opportunity, sharply snapping my fingers in her direction. "Earth to Renegade, we need you back down here with us Hun."

          "I-I'm here it's just – what are we going to do, exactly?"

          Thoughtfully mulling over her question, I opt to respond with indecisive shrug, casually answering "I dunno, maybe pizza?"

          There's a very distinct, silent as the dead interlude of our tense confrontation as not only Ally, but the distinguished super heroes pause in their escape from their icy entrapments, everyone blinking at me dumbfounded. After a couple more moments, Ally sighs in exhaustion, elaborating "What are we going to do about them, Lilly?"

          "Ah yes, them. How long did you say we would have if you hit the Tinman with an EMP?"

          "Six minutes maximum, four minutes minimum."

          Blinking at her, readying to turn upon hearing Shellhead blast his way through the ice, I can feel my eyebrows rise to my hairline when the hacker makes no signs of moving, resorting to snapping my fingers in her direction once again. "Anytime now Ally..."

          Finally shaking the remnants of shock from her system, the blonde hacker squeaks and bolts around a corner and down a hall, leaving me with the five heroes. Two of which, have already broken out of their encasements.

          Fire dances around Tinkerbelle's hands, yet as he shoots it in the direction of Grimm, in order to melt the ice sheathing him, I catch the burst of flame mid-air, abruptly sending it towards the Tin Can Man instead. The billionaire alarmingly throws his arms up to block the fire's unforseen change of course, but finds himself sent helplessly soaring through a wall anyway.

          The dust and debris hasn't even settled before the hero is flying back out of it, straight in my direction. I fail to notice this you see, for I'm too preoccupied manipulating the fire-coated Fantastic Four nitwit back out my front door. By the time I discern the incoming assault in my peripheral vision, I find the air sharply knocked out of me, Stark tackling my gut mid-air.

          Timber, plaster, dust. All of which obstruct my vision as the Avenger ploughs me through a couple walls. By the time I find the strength to rip the air from his lungs and breath fire straight into his helmet covered face, the two of us inelegantly drop and nose-dive directly into my kitchen. Ratchet and Clank over there – Ratchet is Stark, whilst Clank is that AI of his, obviously – tears a massive hole through my kitchen island counter before completely obliterating my fridge in his landing, whilst I'm merely thrown atop the untouched part of kitchen counter, wheezing in pain.

          Waveringly maintaining my hold on Stark, I start to hear him aggressively coughing and gasping as his lungs struggle to draw in enough breath. Stumbling to stand, I weakly gesture in Stark's direction when Ally skids into the kitchen with the EMP device in hand, startled at the level of damage dealt. "Deal with that and then make a run for it, I got the others."

          "Deal with—?" Ally repeats, as if asking for confirmation that I did in fact ask her to take care of a highly dangerous hero all by her lonesome, and then leave me to fight the rest of them off by my lonesome.

         "I believe in you," I supportively encourage, throwing her a thumbs up. Staggering out of the kitchen, my head heavily falls back to stare at the ceiling, groaning exasperatedly. I wonder if there's some kind of super hero pest control business, because this infestation is getting crazy out of hand. Not to mention they'd probably make a lot of business; the Avengers and Fantastic Four certainly don't have a shortage of adversaries all around the globe.

          I remerge into my house's entryway at the same time that one of the explosive arrows in Barton's quiver goes off, freeing him from his entrapment. As instinctual as breathing, does an arrow find itself lodged in his bow, drawn back and released, all within the span of two seconds. Narrowly dodging it, I give up with tiptoeing around the edges of this altercation, glaring at the archer and allowing piping hot, liquid fire to stream down my palms, past my fingers and onto the floor, forming two blazing whips. The heat refraction distorts the air around the scorching whips, the same way a highway mirage does when the concrete on a street overheats.

          Snapping my wrist out, the whip snakes its way around Merida's ankle, and in the same movement, do I throw the hero – who drops his bow and a couple arrows amidst his frantic flinging – back out the door in a manner akin to the way in which I did so to Johnny a minute ago. Now left with Rocks For Brains and the Walking Puerto Rican Flag, I huff irritably, placing my hands on my hips. "Are we done here? Because I'd really like to have a cookie before they get cold."

          "Gotta say, I ain't ever fought a gal in Looney Tunes pyjamas before," Ben admits, scowling in my direction. "But there's a first for everything."

          Staring down at my attire, the fact that I'm in a plain red, low cut pyjama singlet and pyjama shorts with Tweety Bird, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and Marvin the Martian on them short enough to almost be classified as booty shorts, almost completely slipped my mind. Not exactly proper battle armour.

          "I don't exactly lie around in my assassin suit all day. It does need a wash every so often," I bite back, practically sensing the judgment rolling off of Grimm in palpable waves. "So cool it Paul Bunyan; at least I don't wear matching blue spandex. I bet you four having matching ugly Christmas sweaters as well, you stain on humanity."

          Alright, maybe I'm a little too defensive of my pyjamas, but the Looney Tunes demand respect Goddammit. Daffy Duck puts up with even more shit than I do.

          Stealing a glimpse at America's Baby Boy, the founding father of Spandex, I find myself faltering in my verbal onslaught, brows drawn into a perplexed knot. The familiar blue gaze I've come to love and hate (mainly hate) is eyeing me up and down, and not in the 'is she carrying any weapons I should be aware of' kind of way, but the honest to God 'just enjoying the view now that I've noticed she's not wearing much clothing' kind of way.

          "Enjoying the view Cap?" I snap him from his reverie, my smug smirk barely hiding the fact that I'm maybe a teeny tiny bit flustered at the fact the hot grandpa who's known for courtesy and being a gentleman was possibly checking me out.

          Possibly. Could've read that entire situation wrong – probably did, because that would be lazy, OOC romance writing on the author's part – but a part of me is still slightly awkward at the prospect that it could also be true.

          "I mean, I know I am," I tag on, ignoring the caught off guard, startled at his own behaviour expression the Avenger is adorning. My rambling doesn't cease there though. "The ice really knows which parts of you to magnify. I've heard you have a Dorito shaped shoulder to waist ratio but wow, I can really see it now."

          Open mouth, insert foot.

          "Still hate you, though."

          Nice save. Smooth. Idiot.

          "I think I'm gonna barf," Ben shamelessly admits his disgust at topic of conversation, sarcasm and humour immediately gaining jurisdiction back over my tongue as an automatic defence mechanism.

          "Would that be like throwing up dirt? Because if so, please do that outside. Don't want to stain the rug, it's new."

          "There's not usually this much talking in a fight," Cap grunts, expression straining under his intense concentration as he tries to free himself from the ice for the second time in his life. Like a spider web, it cracks, but doesn't give way.

          Gasping, I hold a hand to my heart, mock offended. "I thought you adored my snarky commentary. Lies. All lies. This entire relationship is just built on lies."

          The red, blue and white hero opens his mouth to retort, but cuts himself off when commotion and explosions begin to rumble outside, followed by startled shouts from both familiar and unfamiliar voices. Suspiciously staring down the two heroes in front of me, I interrogate "What, you call SHIELD to kick down my door as well? Isn't two groups of supers enough?"

          "We didn't call SHIELD," Rogers slowly admits, just as concerned and puzzled as I.

          BOOM.

          An explosion seismic enough to shake the earth and house thrums in my ears, weakening the ice enough that both Rogers and Grimm shake the frozen water off of them. The sound of Jonathan Storm calling out for assistance tears the other member of the Fantastic Four's attention away from me, the Walking Mountain growing mildly panicked and charging out the front door, calling out "Johnny!" as he lumbers.

          Now left alone with the Ancient Flag, I sheepishly smile, asking "There's no chance you'll follow after you pal Grimm, is there?"

          Face moulding sternly to stone, I'm rewarded with an answer when the World War II Grandpa forcefully throws his shield at me, prompting me to dive and somersault just to avoid the attack. "Guess that answers that," I exasperatedly sigh, climbing back to a stand.

          When the shield collides with a nearby wall, I freeze it to place, leaving the hero without his iconic tool. That doesn't deter him from his mission, sprinting straight for me. Razor edged stalagmites of ice sharply rise from the ground, Rogers having to jump this way and that just to avoid being impaled or stabbed. Closer and closer he grows, my own nerves bubbling beneath the surface. That man is twenty times stronger than me; blocking one of his punches with my bare hands would seriously hurt. I can't let him get that close.

          Call it paranoia, but I keep an assortment of weapons hidden all around the house for emergencies like this. Super powers can only get me so far when I start to lose energy and get tired, after all.

          Lunging several steps in the direction of the front door, I reach for a simple handgun I keep hidden in my umbrellas stand. For a millisecond, my eyes dart to the commotion transpiring outside, noting the recognisable Nazi bastard uniform on several agents trying to take down the heroes. Great – the Avengers, Fantastic Four and now HYDRA. The FBI, CIA, Interpol, SHIELD and local police department must have missed out on my invite.

          Snapping back to attention, I sharply spin and aim the firearm Captain Crunch, mildly startled to see him already holding a weapon of his own. Well, not his own exactly, but rather Clint Barton's fallen bow and arrow.

          Snorting, I disbelievingly taunt "You wouldn't—"

          TWANG – SWOOSH.

          The force of an arrow imbedding itself through the flesh of my thigh snatches the rest of the words from my mouth, aggrievedly forcing me down to one knee from the brunt strength and palpable pain. Did he just....

          .... shoot me?

          He did. He just shot me.

          The bastard shot me.

          With an arrow.

          "Ow. What the hell Rogers?" I hiss, rage thrumming in my veins and obscuring my vision. Gritting my teeth firmer than a vice, I venomously glare at the dick. "I'm done being nice, dickprick."

          BANG.

          The Avengers looks as startled as I did moments ago when I was shot, staring down at his abdomen where crimson begins to stain accumulate around the wound. Glowering at me with the same level of animosity as I'm staring at him with, he looks borderline murderous, drawing a sardonic cluck of disapproval from me. "You shot me first!" I reprimand, pointedly gesturing at the arrow still imbedded in my leg.

          "In the leg, not the gut," Rogers rebukes, firmly applying pressure to his bullet wound.

          "And? That's suppose to make a difference?" I retort, huffing in annoyance. "It's the thought that counts Rogers, not the trajectory."

          Aggressively, he starts forward, ready to re-engage in our fight, when something stops him from doing so. He pauses in place, cerulean eyes passing over my shoulder, and expression slackening at something behind me.

          Immediately I turn around, on the defence. Not for the first time, do I find myself too slow. Before I even make a full pivot, something crude and blunt harshly slamming across my face and sending my senses into a tizzy. The world is a washing machine, colours jumping and tumbling all around, mixing in with the black growing around the edges. And after the blunt object finds its home, smacking me across the face one more time—

          Nothing.

A/N: Oooft, trouble in paradise. Don't you just hate it when your bae shoots you with an arrow in the leg, or a bullet in your gut?

QOTD: To be or not to be?

AOTD: Not to be. I can't be bothered  to be 'to be'. So exhausting just being.

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~ T.L