G for Gunshot


Hey there folks, thank you so much for the reviews! Keep them coming!

And as a treat, you guys are getting Tony whump AND Clint/Hawkeye Whump…because im cruel and those are my boyz.

School is absolutely nuts, here guys. I am an engineering major at an Ivy League school. Tears. Lots of Tears.

Anyway, G is for Gunshot, get ready for some shot!Tony AND some injured Hawkeye. Hell yah.


Hawkeye punched in the sequence code on the control panel. His nimble fingers flying expertly over the keypad, a code well-rehearsed by almost everyone at SHIELD. The command room doors retracted smoothly and noiselessly.

"Sir," Barton gave a pleasant yet professional nod at Commander Nick Fury who sat at his spotless desk angrily eating a very pathetic salad.

Honestly, Nick Fury was the only man who could make you pity a salad. The poor little pieces of lettuce, the cucumber – they were being stabbed to death before being crushed and gnashed between the older man's merciless teeth. At first, Barton tried to ignore the situation, collectedly picking up the file he had been sent to retrieve and placing it in his backpack. But that propriety didn't last long at all. Clint, being Clint of course, couldn't resist pointing out his observations aloud.

"Geez, sir, what did that salad do to you? Are you practicing new interrogation methods? Cuz I gotta say, they are working. I'm scared shitless." Barton's smirk caused Fury's lone eye to narrow in reproach.

"I will have you know, Agent," Fury hissed, "That this-" he gestured grandly to the mewling bowl of vegetables. "This was Maria's idea. NOT mine." And with that, he went back to grumbling and devouring his pitiful lunch.

On cue, SHIELD Senior Agent Maria Hill bustled past the two of them, coming out from her own work station just long enough to interlude with her stack of papers resting comfortably on her hip. "Commander Fury's cholesterol levels came back yesterday from SHIELD medical. They were abnormally high. His doctor recommended more fiber and less red meat."

"AND I TOLD YOU THAT I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MY CHOL-"

"As senior agent, sir, it is my duty to keep you alive, even if the only enemy is your affinity for double bacon cheeseburgers."

"I CAN EASILY STRIP YOU OF THOSE DUTIES." Fury's threats were as empty as his stomach, and the whole room knew it.

Maria smiled with a frustrating blend of satisfaction and politeness. "I'd like to see you try, Sir."

And with that, she resumed her duties, leaving Fury with his mouth open and defeat written across his face in sharpie. Clint just snorted with laughter and turned back to the door.

The salad bowl smacked the wall just to the left of his head, scattering carrot shavings across the floor. Barton just laughed harder and ducked out of the room as quickly as he could manage.

The archer was on the sidewalk making his way back home to Stark tower and whipped out his phone. He wirelessly started transmitting music to his hearing aids – a little trick that Tony had cooked up in the lab.

"Think about it like Bluetooth," Tony had said, presenting the archer with the gifts. "Except ten times better - with automated connectivity, voice recognition, artificial surround sound, noise cancellation, Imax setting for movie watching, top of the line water proofing…" The list had gone on and on, and Barton had sat through the whole spiel dumbfounded. He couldn't remember half the features Tony had upgraded his aids with, but he did remember the look on Stark's face when Barton had swiftly risen from the lab stool and enveloped the engineer in a warm, brotherly hug. Tony had looked shocked at first, unassuming of how much the gift meant, obviously. But Barton had seen the last glimmer of contentedness that had lingered on the engineer's face. All he ever wanted was to do good things for the team, and he never realized how much everyone appreciated him. That hug was a little piece of proof, and Barton recalled how Tony had acted the whole rest of that day – he had been walking on air. He baked, he had dropped off Bruce's lunch at his lab. He even did his laundry, something that people had been trying to get him to do for at least thirty years.

Sometimes, people just need to feel needed, and it can change their whole outlook.

Barton smiled to himself, tapping his left aid to turn up the volume of the song that had just streamed directly into his ear. "Walking in Memphis" blasted majestically, and he picked up his pace to match the beat of the classic song.


About four songs and a bus ride later, Barton was less than a block from home, and a loud snapping sound, like cracking wood, penetrated the Stark Tech noise cancellation in his hearing aids.

Barton brought his right hand up rapidly to his ears, tapping twice on his hearing aid to shut the music off completely. A quick voice command set the aids to combat mode, where all senses were heightened – another amazing feature.

Damn, Clint really needed to thank Tony again.

Bringing himself back to the situation at hand, Barton listened closely, trying to hear past the alarmed people around him…

One second went by…two seconds…three…

BANG.

A horridly loud gunshot, followed by an uproar of screaming and panicking voices, just on the next street intersection.

Clint didn't even need to think, he just started running. He yelled to JARVIS, who also had direct access to his aids, and told him the situation.

"J, I think there's a shooter nearby, possible civilian casualties, possible hostages, I really don't know, but call whoever is nearby, understood? Send them the location when I get there! We might need the team." Barton was speaking steadily despite his sprinting pace.

"Understood, Agent Barton," The accented AI voice remained ever calm, but with audible comprehension of the urgency of the situation.

Clint rounded the corner, dodging the panicking civilians, and instinctively reached for his concealed sidearm. He withdrew the weapon, holding it low and in a crouch. He scanned the street for immediate threats, and systematically swept the area behind an abandoned car. He stayed low and well hidden, allowing himself to peer over the trunk at the scene before him.

The street was filled with fleeing people, mothers grabbing their children and sprinting in no specific direction, just leaving. Businessmen were abandoning suitcases and portfolios, sirens were blaring in the distance. Through the madness, it was very difficult for Clint to spot the origin of the kerfuffle. Despite his keen eyes, he found himself squinting.

The epicenter of the shooting seemed to be dispersing, emptying quickly of all bystanders. Clint searched the windows of the business sector, searching intently for the perpetrator. He was looking for something – anything to give away a possible location or even a reason for what was happening…

There.

The New York Dominion Bank, sitting smack dab in the center of the beautifully paved street. The blinds were all being drawn, one of the windows was cracked, and a clean grey smoke poured from the doorway - a smoke bomb, something to disorient the people inside, no doubt, before the criminal ran in and locked the place down.

Barton expertly assessed the situation. Bank robbery – Fucking A. This was such a classic cops and robbers scenario. He couldn't help but feel a little excited.

An operation like this would take at least half a dozen highly skilled professional thieves if they were going to pull it off. They struck during lunchtime, when the most tellers would be gone and the business for the day would be at its peak – businessmen using their own hour breaks to withdraw money. Everyone in that bank would have fresh cash in their wallets, and even if the thieves couldn't raid the vaults, they would make out with several thousand in people's private funds.

Barton studied his surroundings for a few more seconds, knowing that soon, the window for him to get in and try to help would be over. The shooting and the smoke bomb had happened less than sixty seconds ago, and soon, the criminals would lock down the rest of the bank – there would be no way in or out. Barton had to go in, it was the only way the people inside the bank might stand a chance.

With a quick stabilizing breath, Barton sprung from his position, running across the street in long, determined strides. He holstered his concealed weapon seamlessly while hurtling over an abandoned bike. Clint ran over the sidewalk, up the bank steps, through the door, past the curtain of quickly dissipating smoke, and let himself crouch, unnoticed, against a wall.

And just in the nick of time.

"Alright, my friends. Its closing time!"

A loud and commanding English accent, dripping with egomania and sadism, rang out and hushed the various sounds in the bank. His cronies all responded back, the same national lull in their voices as well – Hawkeye couldn't place the exact spot in England, but if he had to guess, they were all from the South.

Barton's original assumptions had been right – there were six of them. Six men in the bank, all armed heavily, all very mean looking, and all very vigilant. Quickly, they all began issuing orders and code words. Three men immediately left the room, heading down to the vaults. Barton watched them whipping out bags and fake key cards – he had to hand it to them, they had come very well prepared.

The three Englishmen that remained with the hostages were by far the nastiest of the group, one being the obvious leader. He gazed around, a sickening look of pride on his scarred face, and strolled into the group of civilians.

A few people started to quietly cry and panic when the man walked through the crowd. A quick gunshot to the ceiling silenced everything.

Hostages ceased their whimpers. Feet ceased their shuffling. The smoke cleared. The lights were turned off. The door was shut. And locked.

Barton blinked roughly, peering through the dimness, and his eyes settled in surprise on a familiar face across the room.

The face looked back.

And for a split moment, Barton was comforted by the fact that his friend was here. Maybe they would be able to communicate silently across the room, "hostage to hostage", and figure out a plan. That would be excellent, that would be very professional, that would be very suave – but apparently not very Tony Stark.

"CLINT! You crazy son of a bitch! How are you?!"

Tony Stark, sitting leisurely on the ground with one knee up and his arm resting across it, waved happily to his friend on the other side of the room. The man was dressed in his business suit, a bank note slip in his hand, and his four-hundred dollar sunglasses hanging causally from the corner of his mouth.

"I didn't know you used NY Dominion! Why didn't you ever tell me? I could have upgraded your account for you ages ago - much better interest rates. The CEO owes me a favor. Security breaches and all that. But enough about banking; how has your day been so far, buddy?"

Tony was literally yelling this exchange across the room, attracting everyone's attention. All the while, Barton was waving and gesticulating wildly, shushing him in desperate attempts to go unnoticed.

"Dammit, Stark, will you shut up?!" Clint shot across the room as softly and harshly as he could. But no, that would never deter Anthony Stark, no sir.

"Why would I shut up, Featherface? We're already hostages, doesn't mean we can't enjoy the experience! Honestly, if I had my portable martini bar right now, we could all have one hell of a party. I should program JARVIS to remind me of that from now on when I go to the bank. You never know who might need a stiff drink, you know, other than me, of course. Did I ever tell you about the ti-"

Finally, the men with the guns had had enough. The one who had just shut and locked the door, most likely the ringleader, shouted at Tony to be quiet, and walked up next to the engineer, barrel pointing straight down between Tony's eyes. Barton felt absolutely sick at the mere sight of the gun to Tony's face, but the man in question was completely undisturbed.

"Oi! Quiet, you, or I'll pump you full o' lead."

"That's rather cliché, don't you think?" Tony gave the man a smug grin.

Barton had to screw his eyes shut and physically restrain himself from killing Stark before the thief did.

"You've got balls, my friend. That's for sure." His laugh died down, though, and his voice dropped to a menacing level. "But let's see how brave you are when you're bleedin' to death, nice and slow-like, on a cold tile floor." And the threat hung in the air. And Tony simply nodded, no fear on his face, but not cocky by any means.

"Understood, amigo. Understood." Satisfied with Tony's reply, the man walked back from the hostages and joined his friends behind the counter.

They gave the spiel, of course. Nobody be a hero, nobody try to call anyone, nobody try to organize anything, no talking, and blah blah blah blah. All the hostages huddled on the floor sat in silence, eyes growing wider by the minute. Hawkeye ignored the majority of the speech (he was breaking all of its rules anyway) and studied each captive one by one, trying to determine who would be of use during the escape.

The one furthest on the left was a middle aged Asian woman. Professional hairstyle, expensive shoes, but a worn and hefty briefcase - a professor maybe, collegiate level undoubtedly. Chalk powder on her black, knee-length skirt confirmed the theory. While she didn't seem to be panicking, she was visibly nervous. Her hands were wringing in her blouse, her cheek giving a twitch sporadically. Nervousness was to be expected of course, but all things considered, she was handling it quite well. Barton could almost see her formulating her own plan in her mind, working out game plans for different scenarios – very academic of her, he mused. She would be useful. She could be trusted to hold it together.

The one next to her was an older man, sixty maybe – Caucasian, balding, judging from leg length, no taller than 5' 7". Based on the state of his armpit stains and his glistening head, along with the way he was clutching at his stomach, it didn't take an expert spy to realize this man would be useless. Irritable bowel syndrome, onset anxiety, profuse perspiration, and all in all, on the border of a panic attack.

The next two hostages were old Wall Street fat cats, both in the upper edge of their eighties, completely useless physically to anything Barton could try to formulate. But hey, at least they looked good in their six thousand dollar suits.

The last three hostages were all younger – well, one of them, of course, being Tony Stark – and all seemed rather calm as well, though the two non-avenger civilians were understandably frightened. One female – a university student, perhaps. One, a young accountant - judging by the bulge of his pocket calculator in his blazer; and then, of course, Iron Man himself.

Barton caught Tony's eye, luckily, from across the room, and then gazed back up to the men holding them all hostage. They weren't stupid, that's for sure. At least two of them had Ivy League backgrounds – their hairlines and stature spoke clearly. Also, they had trained properly for this. They refused to take their eyes off the hostages. They understood the dangers of human error.

Barton looked back at Tony. Their eyes met for a brief moment and there was understanding – they couldn't speak, nor could they mouth anything to one another.

Ah well, Morse code it is.

Barton brought his hand silently and smoothly to the ground, passing it off as a fidget. He raised his index finger. Almost inaudibly, he moved his finger up and down on the ground, over exaggerating his movements so that Tony could see the code, not have to hear it.

Tony smartly made it look as though he was gazing absentmindedly at the wall, "zoning out" perhaps, but really, Barton watched triumphantly as understanding and complete focus rose in Tony's eyes.

Barton Tapped.

"Suit?"

Tony tapped on his knee, making it look like a completely causal strum of the fingers.

"No."

"JARVIS?"

"No."

Tony then paused, and tapped another line.

"But you have JARVIS?"

"Yes. Called Team before hostage."

"Good shit, Barton."

"Thank you, Stark."

"Should be here soon. Police, too."

"Police are outside already. They can't come in – hostages. Negotiations necessary."

"True. Do you have plan?"

"Yes."

"Share?"

"You. Briefcase."

"I don't have briefcase."

"USE BRIEFCASE. Save me."

"Don't understand!" But Tony paused again. Ever the genius.

"Understand soon?"

And Barton nodded.

The nod was so small, just enough to make Tony think it was a part of their communications, but just big enough to attract attention from their supervisors. He wasn't sure the perps would notice it – but he certainly hoped so.

"HEY!" The shout was brutal, startling everyone. The old men in the corner closed their eyes, praying to their god of money. The sweaty guy clutched at his chest, praying to his aspiring regimen, and the professor simply pursed her lips and held her breath.

One of the men, not the leader but still a formidable enemy, ran across the bank and got right into Barton's face.

The plan was coming together nicely.

"Was that a nod I saw, mate? Who was it that you felt the need to nod to? Who were you talkin' to? Huh?"

Barton said nothing. He put on his blankest assassin stare.

This infuriated the man. "WHO WERE YOU TALKIN' TO?"

Nothing.

"ANSWER ME, DAMMIT!" And the man swung the barrel of his gun down and whipped it across Barton's face.

Clint's cheek exploded in pain. He felt his jaw crunch and the blood running down the split in his skin just below his temple. He screwed his eyes shut, his head lolled to one side, and felt hot, bitter liquid pooling in his mouth. He raised his gaze to the man who had struck him; it was cold as ice. If the man knew any better, he would have run for the hills. But this man did not know who Clint Barton was, so he pressed on like an absolutely idiot.

On the other side of the room, Tony physically cringed. Anger welled in his stomach like acid. Nobody hurts Barton. Nobody. He gazed desperately around the room, looking for anyone or anything that he could use to – briefcase? His eyes settled on the Asian professor. Then to her lap.

Briefcase.

Tony understood.

The Englishman was not done roughing up Barton however, while Stark was enjoying his epiphany.

"I said," and he grabbed Clint by the back of his hair, yanking his head up to stare directly into his eyes. "Who was you noddin' at, my friend? And you better answer me this time or I swear to God Almighty I will shoot you in the chest."

Barton looked up at the man…

…And then spit all the blood out of his mouth and into the fucker's face.

The man reeled back with a screech, wiping it off, and Barton started talking.

"I was nodding at your mother, Harry Potter, to remind her what a good time we had last night."

"YOU FUCKIN' PRICK!" And he pointed his gun at Barton and put his finger on the trigger.

Everything seemed to go into slow motion. The other Englishmen were running and shouting at their compatriot not to shoot, Barton was preparing himself to get shot, and Tony was –

Wait, where the hell is Tony?

SMACK.

Harry Potter went down like a sack of bricks, his head sent reeling to the side from a heavy handed hit to the back of the skull with nothing other than the professor's briefcase, wielded by none other than Iron Man.

Tony yelled a triumphant huzzah (literally, a goddamn huzzah), and grabbed Clint by the forearm pulling him rapidly to his feet.

The moment he was standing, Clint drew his concealed sidearm and started firing expertly upon the two remaining men. The first one took two perfectly aimed shots to the chest and fell to the ground lifeless in a matter of seconds; the leader took advantage of his friend's misfortune and found cover behind the teller's desk.

From there, it was a standoff. Barton shooting at the bank robber, the bank robber shooting back. Meanwhile, Tony helped to evacuate the hostages. The university student and the accountant, the youngest in the group, helped the older men get out; and then Tony kindly returned the professors briefcase, shielding her from shattering drywall and debris with his coat.

It took less than a minute to get everyone out. The police met all the civilians in the street, pushing them to safety. But it wasn't the police that Tony was happiest to see.

On the sidewalk, in all their glory, was his team - or at least, the two other members of his team that were in Manhattan today.

Natasha was strapping on a sleek Kevlar. Steve was marching straight towards Tony, concern mixed with relief plastered all over his face. Tony was grateful they were here. He watched them handle some of the hostages, asking quick questions, gazing back at the bank. Tony waved them forward, calling them into the building. Clint might need help.

Barton only had three more bullets to fire when Tony slid in next to him behind the corner office wall.

"Nat and Steve are here, they're just outside. They're gonna come in and help us finish up."

Clint snorted, pulling off another shot towards the teller's desk. "I don't see a lot of us finishing up. I seem to be doing-" a shot fired close to them; they both ducked and covered their ears. "-ALL THE WORK!" Barton shouted over the noise, firing his second to last bullet with expert marksmanship back at the edge of the wooden desk; the bullet didn't hit the wood with the familiar crack, instead, they heard a grunt and cry.

Clint stuck his head out from behind the wall, pleased to see that his bullet had struck home.

Baddy number 1 was on the ground, curled up, clutching at his leg. The bullet had skimmed the edge of the bar and shattered his unprotected knee cap. It made Tony cringe – that had to be a world of hurt.

A sound at the street door made both Avengers turn – Nat and Steve burst through the entrance and took in the sight around them. Both were visibly impressed and relieved to see that their friends were unhurt. It wasn't normal that they got to charge in somewhere and see all the work done for them.

Everyone was kind of at a loss.

"Uh, wow! Good, uh, good work, guys." Steve nodded, hands on hips.

Nat walked right to Barton, holstering her own weapon. She spoke not a single word, and her face hardly changed expression at all. She just stared.

"You're hurt." She said blankly. She brought a hand up to his cheek, the swelling was already reaching impressive levels, and the bruise was a deep purple. The gash from the butt of the gun was crusted and gruesome.

"Looks worse than it is, Tash." He reassured her.

"You could be concussed."

"Yah, but I'm not."

She nodded.

He nodded.

God, those two are weird.

It was Steve who coughed, interrupting the silence. "Alright, team, well I guess there isn't much for us to do, now. Excellent, um, shooting, Hawkeye." Steve gestured nonchalantly to the criminal lying on the ground. Luckily for him, he had passed out from the pain, and was nothing more than a lump on the floor. I'll get someone to put him in with medical. Eventually." Steve looked at Tony, now.

"And Stark, what the hell were you thinking, running into a fight without the suit – or any weapons at all, for that matter?!"

"Funny Story, Cap, you see I wasn't actually called into the fight. I was here. Banking."

"You…you were one of the hostages?"

"Well, I wouldn't say a hostage. I was rather useful!" Tony was growing more and more indignant at the amused grins spreading over everyone's face. "Hey! None of that, I-I used the briefcase! I was important - instrumental, even, in our escape plan. Tell him, Barton! Tell him!"

Barton donned a dreadfully wry smile. "He was crying like a little girl: please, scary Englishman, don't shoot me!"

The team started to laugh, Tony all the while blustering about how he wasn't appreciated enough and that never ONCE did he cry to the "scary man" and that Barton could shove it up his ass.

After a minute of this, Tony threw his hands up in resignation, and he crossed the large floor and sat in the corner on one of the waiting room chairs. He played with an annoying plant while his team set about to do cleanup.

If they hadn't all been teasing the resident engineer, perhaps they all would have heard the sneaking footsteps coming up behind them; but Steve was outside calling in a paramedic team, and Natasha was in the middle of a communication with Director Fury to let him know that the situation had been handled. Barton was still busy laughing to himself as he checked, unprimed, and holstered his sidearm.

It was only Tony, who had resigned himself to the other side of the room out of annoyance at his friends, who heard the shuffling sound.

He whipped around to the back of the bank, eyes locked on the figures emerging from the rear hallway.

The other three men.

They had completely forgotten about them – they had been gone this whole time, loading up their bags in the vaults.

They didn't see Tony, as he was sitting in a pout behind a plotted fichus – but they saw the archer, standing out in the open, his back to them, unarmed - and they drew their weapons.

Tony barely had time to breathe before he was up and running, sprinting with all his might across the tiled floor.

"GET DOWN!" The engineer cried, throwing himself at Clint just as the three men at the other end of the bank opened fire.

Bullets whizzed past, and Tony tackled Barton with all his might, slamming them both into the hard floor. Clint cried out in shock and pain as his already damaged face connected with the tile. In a second, Nat was beside them, guns firing, finding her targets with lethal precision. Steve's shield arrived before he did, knocking into one poor man's chest, breaking every one of his ribs and undoubtedly severing his spinal cord from the inside. Clint lay dazed on the ground for the duration of the gun fight, faintly feeling a growing warmth on his shoulder. His ears were ringing, his vision was speckled. He was completely disorientated.

The police outside were retreating again, reestablishing barriers, not letting anyone through at the new chorus of gunfire.

The last three men were all dead in less than thirty seconds.

Nat was focused on them. Steve was focused on them.

But Barton was focused on the pain in his face, and the blood running down his chest.

"Shit - dammit! I'm hit guys- fuck!" Barton was gasping, his head throbbing. He wiped at his shoulder, probing for the bullet hole that he was expecting to find. But…it wasn't there…

"Hawkeye, status report?" Steve's commanding voice echoed loudly in the empty bank He caught his returning shield and turned wildly to see the large blood stain on Hawkeye's shirt. "Where are you hit?!"

Nat and Steve were at his side in an instant, hands searching, pressing down, trying to stop the bleed.

"I'm…I'm not?" Hawkeye was as confused as them. "No, I am not hit." He repeated, shocked. "I am not hit."

Everyone's shoulder sagged with relief for a split moment – until realization dawned on them.

Steve spoke aloud, his voice trailing off. "Then, whose blood…?"

The realization hit Captain Rogers before anyone else, and his face went staggeringly white. "TONY? TONY STARK!"

They all spun on their heels, facing a very downtrodden Tony Stark who had crawled about fifteen feet away to the wall, leaving a large red smear on the pale marble floor.

He raised a pale and shaky hand. "Present." Tony's voice was frail in its banter. He was sitting, much like he had been when Hawkeye had first seen him this morning. But currently, he was leaning against the wall because he had to - not out of comfort. His knee wasn't up to his chest for casual relaxation at it had been this morning - now he had brought his knee up because sitting in a fetal position didn't tear at the gaping hole in his side.

"Stark, Holy shit." A huge lump welled up in Barton's throat as he took in the sight of his friend. "You…you took a bullet for me…" Clint half-crawled-half-ran across the floor, Steve and Nat hot on his heels.

"I did, didn't I...? Well, look at that…. I guess I'm not… just a useless little hostage after a-"

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" Barton was shouting, running his hands through his hair. He was ripping off his jacket, pressing it roughly to Tony's side. The bullet hole was bleeding furiously, the entrance wound just to the upper left of Tony's stomach. The round had lodged itself between his ribs, and had probably pierced his diaphragm – which would explain why Tony's breathing sounded so bad.

"What was I thinking?" Tony gasped out, amused. "I was thi-" He let out a wet cough, a hacking sound that made Steve cringe and Nat purse her mouth. Blood collected slightly on the corner of Stark's lips. This was not good - not good at all. Barton's hands were shaking, he pressed tighter to the wound. Tony let out a groan at the pressure, but continued on. "I was thinking that I should crawl over here….to make sure…that I didn't get your jacket stained too badly….but now you've gone….and gotten in covered in blood on purpose….so all was for naught…" Tony's eyes were half lidded, and the smile that he was trying to put on his face was wane and grim, despite his best efforts.

"Don't worry Stark, it's going to be fine. I promise. You hear me, it's going to be fine, paramedics are on their way, remember?" Steve was helping Barton now, placing his own hands over the wound, allowing Barton to work to get Tony lying flat on his back.

The Italian let out a hiss of discomfort at being moved, but his face betrayed the extent of his pain. It had dropped two shades of color – the crimson specks at his lips stood out like ink on white paper. His skin was cold and a light sheen of sweat draped his face. Tony started to shiver.

"Tash, go find out where those damn medics are!" Steve bellowed. Romanoff wasted no time, and was down on the street in seconds.

Steve ran a hand through Tony's hair. His stomach knotted as Tony leaned weakly into the warmth of his touch. "He's freezing, Clint. Do you have anything to cover him with?" Clint shifted his hands out from underneath Steve, who reapplied pressure immediately, and ran to find the employee lounge on the first floor. There might be blankets or jackets there.

Tony's shivering got worse, and his wound was bleeding more profusely than ever. With one hand, Steve kept pressure on the bullet hole. With the other hand, he effortlessly raised Tony's legs off the ground, trying to get as much blood into Tony's heart and brain as possible. This increased the wound's flow pressure for a while, but Steve was comforted to see a small hint of pink returning to Stark's face.

"Tony, you hear me, you're going to be fine. You're going to get in an ambulance in a minute, and you'll be at your favorite place on earth – the hospital." Tony started to give a chuckle, but it turned into another jarring cough that tormented his wound and sent a large fountain of blood out of his mouth and nose. It coated his chin now; his teeth were stained red. Bile rose in Steve's throat, along with surmounting panic and anger. Where was that medic unit?

Like an answer to a prayer, Tash's footsteps sounded behind him in the foyer. He didn't even give her a chance to speak.

"Are they on their way up? Do they have a backboard?"

Barton ran in just as Tash arrived, a thick emergency shock blanket taken from the first aid kit in the employee lounge draped across his arms. He didn't even spare a glance at Nat. He ran to Tony's limp form, wrapping the blanket around him, applying pressure to the wound now from over top the blanket.

"Steve, they aren't coming."

Movement stopped. "What do you mean they aren't coming?" Rogers spat out between gnashing teeth. "Is there a problem? Is there something in the road – in the doorway that I need to move? Because I will do it. Is there a car crash that is preventing them from getting here? Cuz I will push the damn cars out of the way."

"No, Cap, the police aren't letting the first responders in until the building has been cleared of anymore threats."

Steve gestured wildly to the three dead men at the other end of the room. "WE CLEARED THE THREATS!"

"Cap, I TRIED! They won't let them up!"

Steve shot a glance down at Tony.

His eyes were closed.

When did his eyes close?

"Tony?" Steve patted his face. "Tony? Tony open your eyes, answer me."

Nothing, just ragged breathing coming slower and slower.

"Tony, DAMMIT!" it was Clint now who slapped the engineer roughly on the face. "TONY WAKE UP! TONY WAKE-" Barton started to panic, tears in his eyes, and his own sobs choked off his word. His hands pressed down even harder on his jacket, which had soaked through ages ago.

Nat shot a look at Steve. "He's out of time."

Steve felt a lump growing in his throat. "I know, so we need to give him more."

Steve Rogers threw his hands underneath Tony's limp body and picked him up as if he weighed nothing more than a paperweight. The Captain moved as quickly and gently as he could, running Tony across the room, through the bank's foyer, out the glass doors, down the stone steps, and across the sidewalk. Steve was hollering orders the moment he stepped onto the street and broke through the Police perimeter. Officers were bombarding him, asking questions and demanding answers, but Steve plowed through them, knocking several down in the process. He didn't have time for their crap.

He located the nearest ambulance, sitting idle but prepared. Tony was loaded in, strapped and masked, in less than a minute. One look at Steve - blood stains running down his uniform, shield on back, and anguish in his eyes - and the paramedics had no problem letting Captain America, Black Widow, and Hawkeye all ride in the back of the ambulance with their teammate.

But Steve, Tash, and Clint were riding in the back with one of their dearest friends.


Balloons. There were so many balloons.

Tony had just mustered up enough strength to open his eyes, and the first thing he has to look at in this godforsaken place is balloons.

He hated balloons.

Not in a globophobia kind of way – they didn't scare him. It was just such a weird concept that almost made him so uncomfortable.

"Here," a balloon says. "Have a decorative sack of my air!"

It was just creepy.

The room was relatively dark, He was thankful for that. His head was pounding. Well, so was his side of course; but that had been so well wrapped, he could hardly move it. He was thankful for the immobility. Any more pain than this would be rather unpleasant.

Tony had remembered everything after a few moments of being awake.

He remembered the bank, the sexy teller that had flirted with him…then there was a smoke bomb, gunshots, a briefcase…and trying to get to Clint in time. Tony closed his eyes in reverence. He was so glad he had gotten to Clint in time.

Sure, Barton would be pissed at him for a while. He never did respond well to having people do terribly decent things for him. But secretly, Barton would spend every day of every week repaying Tony for this. Oh, they would still tease each other – they would still prank. But Barton would have his back everywhere. He would clean things, cook things, leave little gifts, do laundry. He was a rather domesticated bird, Tony mused.

Tony opened his eyes back up and let them drift around the room, past the wall of balloons on the bedside table. The foot of his bed was free of archers and super spies – that was strange. Usually when he woke up in situations like this, Clint was either perched, or Tash was curled up around his feet.

A year ago, Tony would have been relieved to have been left alone. Now...

Well, I'm sure they had more important things to do anyway. Saving the world and all that.

Tony tried to nestle back into his pillows, but he just couldn't get comfortable. His pain was starting to surface, and he knew soon that he would need morphine desperately, so he may as well ask for it now. His hand flailed out blindly to the control panel on his bed, and his fingers shakily pressed the call button.

The light on the call button flashed a bright red, signaling that a nurse was on her way. The red light would show up at any nurse's station with the corresponding room number so that they could see who was calling for help.

Apparently, it wasn't just the nurses who had been watching the button.

Tony heard them before they even got into his hallway.

"-WE STEP OUT FOR FIVE MINUTES TO GET COFFEE, AND YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS? WHAT IF SOMETHING IS WRONG, WHAT IF HE'S IN PAIN?"

"IT WASN'T MY IDEA, IT WAS YOURS! NOW HE'S GONNA WAKE UP ALL ALONE AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAU–"

"DON'T EVEN GIVE ME THAT, BARTON, YOU WERE FALLING ASLEEP WHERE YOU STOOD. YOU NEEDED THE COFFEE."

"BOYS, STOP ARGUING."

"SCREW YOU, CAP."

"I DON'T EVEN NEED COFFEE, CLINT. CAFFEINE DOESN'T EVEN WORK ON ME."

"CONGRATULATIONS, STEVE DO YOU WANT A STICKER?"

"BOYS!"

The footsteps were approaching at double time, half a run, half a respectful canter through hospital corridors. They had just turned the corner and were now getting aggravatingly loud. Tony couldn't help but chuckle lightly, despite it tearing at his stitches. They hadn't left him – of course they hadn't. They were right there, bickering like old women.

The door was flung open - Nat, Clint, and Steve had beat the nurses there. Steve reached around with his long arm and threw the lights up, blinding Tony in the process.

"Jesus, Cap, take it easy on my corneas. They get enough damage everyday staring at your ugly face."

The three teammates at the door just gaped.

"You – you scared the hell out of us, Tony." Steve moved with the stiffness of an old, wise man. He looked exhausted and aged. For the first time, Tony saw the ninety year old that was Steve Rogers. He pulled a chair over to Tony's bedside and sat down in it with a grimace and a rueful laugh. He put his head down on Tony's arm.

"Please, Tony. Please don't do that again. My heart can't take it."

Tony scoffed lazily. "Your heart is engineered to last for over one hundred years without even lapsing by one percent."

"Yah well," Steve brought his face up to look into Tony's wickedly gleeful eyes. "You and your idiocy are the exception."

Tash patted Tony's foot, amusement and content visible in her face. "Your idiocy is an exception to a lot of things, my friend."

Tony just gave another wry chuckle and shot a glance to Clint, who stood just behind Tash at the foot of the bed. "How's your face, slugger?"

Barton looked almost…shy, and responded with a small affirmative and a shrug. That wasn't reassuring.

Tony shot a look at his other two teammates. "hey, guys, I heard you yelling about coffee on your way here does someone want to grab me some?"

Steve shot a glance from Tony to Clint, then back to Tony. "Yah, uh, c'mon Agent Romanoff. Let's go see what we can find Tony in the cafeteria." Nat didn't even fight it. She was the first to understand.

Funnily enough, it was as the two were leaving that they ran into the nurse who answered the button. She was breathing heavily, having jogged all the way here after the Avengers took off at a sprint. In her defense, it was a really long distance from the nurse's station – Tony could recall sneaking to that station quite a few times in his life. They were some very cute ones at this hospital if he remembered correctly…

The nurse was a pleasant enough woman. Steve and Tash stayed while she upped Tony's morphine, plumped his pillows, gave him some ice chips. All in all, he felt much better after she had done her work. He shot a satisfied nod to his two friends in the doorway, and they left seamlessly, smiling a quick goodbye.

It was just him and Clint, now.

"What's wrong, Barton." The archer wouldn't even look at him.

"Barton, you need to talk to me, because I spend most of my life telling you to shut up, but now that you have shut up, I really can't stand it." Tony locked eyes with the man and wouldn't let go. His voice dropped, not in tone, but in severity. It was one of the most genuine tones Tony could muster.

"Talk to me, Clint."

The archer's walls came down. His eyes melted, his face crumpled, his shoulders sagged, and his breath came out in a shaky puff of ragged air. His legs were shaking so bad that he could hardly manage to grapple himself to the side of the bed, but when he did, he sat down in the seat Steve had vacated, he put his head down on Tony's side, and he shook.

Clint Barton shook. They weren't wracking sobs - He cried softly, but his whole body shivered. His forehead was sweaty and his nose was dripping and his muscles were sore from shaking, but he kept on going. Tony could only muster up enough strength to rub the top of his head gently – some small circles on his upper back.

"Clint," even Tony's voice was cracking a little bit. "Clint, it wasn't your fault. Never think that it as your fault. And I'm ok! See? Nothing bad happened in the end. We got the bad guys, and we are all ok."

Clint's head shot up. "You're not ok! Stop saying that! It was my fault, Tony! I wasn't paying attention! I had the whole thing mapped out Tony. The whole fuckin plan – and I forgot that there were more – I…I just….I don't know how I forgot, I just wasn't thinking – and my face hurt and we were all screwing with you and I just wasn't thinking and I am so sorry please, Tony, please forgive me, I am so sor-"

Tony stopped Barton, cupping his face in such an intimate way that the other man was shocked into silenced.

"Clint, there is nothing to forgive. I know you would do the same for me, and that is all the thanks I will ever need." Tony paused. "Also, let's not tell anyone about this moment right now because they already think we're banging each other."

Clint let out a soggy laugh between his tears, and the mood immediately lightened. The two men looked at each other in mild embarrassment and understanding; they laughed again. Barton's body began to even out. His shoulders came back up, his shaking died down. He nuzzled Tony's arm on the bed and just breathed deep.

"You're my best bud, you now that, right?" Barton's voice was almost too quiet to hear.

"Yah, I know. And may I say you made a damn good choice with that, too."

"Shut up, you narcissistic asshole."

"That's me."

Silence.

"I'm really glad you're alive."

"Yah, me too. What would this team do without me?"

"Function a lot smoother."

"But that would be absolutely boring, wouldn't it?"

"Intolerably so. I would quit. By some land, own a farm, who the hell knows."

Stark laughed. "Somehow, I can picture you on a farm. You'd rock a flannel."


Nat and Steve got back to Tony's room and smiled contentedly at the sight before them. Clint was fast asleep, his drool on Tony's quilt. Tony was drugged out, but a peaceful smile on his face as he lay sunken into big fluffy pillows. Tony was good. Clint and Tony were good.

The team was good.


REVIEW!

next chapter will by H for Hypnosis, and it will be a domestic tony, and it will pretty much be a while chapter of them taking care of a very upset and miserable Tony, cuz i know thats what you all wanted.

i had a lot of fun with this one, but im sorry its a day late. im super stressed out. engineering, as i said. its rough to find three or four hours to sit down and do this. BUT I DO IT BECAUSE I LOVE YOU ALL!