Disclaimer: Of course the Avengers don't belong to me. The Muse just felt like a little Clint and Tony bonding, so here it is.

Don't Turn Away

By: Syntyche

Day Five: Don't Turn Away

Don't turn away

I pray you've heard the words I've spoken

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This sucks.

He's pretty sure the walls are closing in, at least that's how it feels. Can't breathe when that happens, so he curls up and chants sweet words of calm, words that have always brought a balm of peace to his quailing soul:

And you, you shook me all night long …

(AC/DC: one of the greatest bands ever,) he hears in his head in a Jarvis-sounding voice, and it sounds a little familiar, and he feels a little better, so he waits for it to pass. But it doesn't pass, actually, it just gets worse. Dances along his shoulderblades like an army of goddamn spiders - don't! think about the spiders, oh God, don't think about them or the dozens of other nasty shitty little creatures scuttling around down here in the dark. This sucks. This sucks ass. This sucks more ass than anything has ever sucked ass before, and that includes Stars and Stripes giving any sort of report to Fury, although that's more of ass-kissing than ass-sucking and his face screws up into a laugh as he wonders what the hell he's even on about.

There's a giggle trying to escape … weird, but he guesses he'd rather be laughing than doing something far less manly, though he's sure he's done that too. Weeks spent in mostly darkness would mess with even Rogers' self-esteem.

(Rogers, Steve: goody two-shoes. Captain America. Suspicious character - nobody is that good, Jarvis says helpfully.)

That's right, buddy, he agrees whole-heartedly, because despite, well, nobody's best efforts, he just can't bring himself to like the former soldier. Everybody has a dark side, and Tony doesn't trust anyone without one.

It's just light enough down here that his eyes keep straining to see better, and it's giving him headaches that piss him off with the sort of indignant anger that says money should be able to buy his way out of here or at least fix the damn lights. So far no takers, though, and it's not the first time someone hasn't wanted him for his money - only bad guys, though, because he can't think of a single woman that ever turned him down. They were all before Pepper, though.

(Potts, Pepper: CEO of Stark Industries who somehow manages to keep his ass mostly in line.)

The skritching between his shoulders digs in again and he snarls at it as if this will enforce his extreme displeasure at his shitty circumstances. But his snarling sounds kind of funny and he takes a minute to do a few Hulk impressions - Tony SMASH! - thumping his arc reactor and drumming his fists on the floor as he laughs until tears stream down his face.

And eventually he drifts off to sleep.

What else is he going to do?

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She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean!

Shouting at the top of his lungs, because precisely fuck and all. Kicking the door as he screams; it's thick but not soundproof and he hopes his guards enjoy the serenade.

She was the best damn woman that I've seen! She had the sightless eyes telling me no lies!

He hopes they hate AC/DC and it pisses them off, whoever they are.

Knocking me out with those American thighs!

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Getting restless. He knows: Tony Stark and restless are synonymous, but it's getting worse, annoyingly so. He needs a project. Needs to work.

Needs Pepper.

(Potts, Pepper: amazing, intelligent, beautiful. All that is right and good in this cold, brutal world.)

Okay! slapping his hands together and surveying the clean stone walls in the dim lighting, I got this.

There isn't much he wouldn't do for a Sharpie right now: these walls are begging to be covered in numbers and formulas. In the absence of a marker or pencil - hell, even a crayon - he nervously start pacing until the inevitable realization once again sets in that the small confines of the cell make his claustrophobia worse.

(Claustrophobia: a feeling of discomfort produced by a space too small to hold the amazing essence of all that is Tony Stark.)

Absolutely right, Jarvis, he agrees silently, and he curls into a ball, counts to one hundred, and hopes that it passes.

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He's been here awhile - doesn't know how long; but long enough to know that he would have found him already - but today the count starts over! Because suddenly he's got a companion, a friend, a comrade in this hellhole: their very own Avenging Archer, ladies and gentlemen: that's right, the inestimable, the esteemed, the astounding, the amazing Hawkeye - his good buddy Clint Barton!

(Barton, Clint: Archer. Acrobat? Smartass. Avenger.)

Apparently Clint doesn't appreciate his long-winded introduction, because the first thing he says, in his usual don't-forget-I'm-an-asshole growl, is, "We're not friends, Stark."

At first, Tony doesn't recognize him. A huge part of that is Tony's newly acquired inability to stay calm. He'd thought the panic attacks were bad before, but those were little bitty baby cries compared to the full-fledged tantrums his battered psyche was all about throwing now. To be fair, he's spent … weeks? … trapped in a basement and that would do a number on anybody, but every time he finally passes out from exhaustion, he immediately wakes back up in a cold sweat imagining he's hooked up to a car battery in the middle of a desert, sweating his ass off and baking in his own tasty juices.

So he might've swung at Clint when the archer first dropped down beside him, an embarrassing flail of wobbly genius arms that he's sure definitely did not actually happen.

When he realizes it's the archer, though, solid and warm and fleshy Clint, something else, something far more embarrassing and primal takes over, and he latches onto Barton's forearms, digging his scrabbling fingers into the corded muscle there and bringing frantically jumping eyes to meet Clint's face. There should be words that come from his mouth, but instead a harsh, guttural whine fills his ears: the product of his incessant singing and screeching. Strong, proud, handsome, sarcastic Tony Stark has been replaced by a fearful, sniveling shell of a man, but Clint takes this in stride somehow, and turns his hands so his fingers are curled around Tony's shaking arms, too.

"I'm not leaving," he assures. "Try to rest. They feeding you okay? Getting enough water?"

Tony wants to fight: Barton's here now, they can make a plan, they can get out of here. There's no time to rest.

"Tony," Clint says, and he's not asking. He's wearing his long-sleeved jacket and he shrugs out of it to bundle it carelessly into a lumpy pillow that he hands over. Feeling self-conscious but too needy to care, Tony takes the offering and stretches out carefully with his back to Clint, his spine pressed up against the archer's right leg. Clint's jacket is warm from his body heat and in spite of his anxiousness Tony starts to drift toward sleep as he burrows into it. Despite his propensity for getting hurt, Clint also gets shit done so now that Clint is real and solid at Tony's back his panicked thoughts start to lull and slow with only randomly frantic jitters that bite at him in the quiet.

He's almost asleep when he realizes Clint is talking softly to himself as he sits with his back propped against the wall and Tony propped against him, his legs thrown out in front of him carelessly as if he's exactly where he planned to be at this moment. Maybe he is, but Tony thinks of the patrolling guards that wander past the door and the darkness that won't go away and he finds that a little hard to believe. He's about to tell Clint so when the archer catches sight of the inventor staring at him and he grins.

"Go to sleep, Tony," he says quietly. "Natasha will be here for us soon."

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