Chapter Five: Friend Tony

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Clint closed the door behind them, turning a serious look upon Tony. "Any chance those people will come after us here?" he demanded.

"No," Tony shook his head with a grimace. "If they knew exactly where I lived, they would have just come directly here. They wouldn't have had to set up that thing at the warehouse."

The blond peered at him for a long moment before finally giving a nod. Taking Tony by the shoulder, he then led him over to the sofa and pushed him down onto the seat, ignoring Tony's protests that he was fine. "Stay put," he told him, the movement of his hands emphatic.

He went off towards the kitchen, limping slightly. Which didn't seem right to Tony. Clint should have been the one sitting on the couch, elevating that leg. The brunet shifted to go after the other man, but the motion made his ribs complain so he settled back into the cushions, eyes drifting shut.

"Don't sleep," Clint snapped aloud, sending a stab of pain into Tony's temple.

Tony winced, eyes snapping back open. He let out a hiss as Clint pressed a towel-bundle of ice against the side of his head, jerking away from the contact and sending stars across his vision. Clint gave him a look until he sat up straight. Then, he set the ice against Tony's head again, picking up one of Tony's hands to take over the job of holding it in place.

"I think you're concussed, " Clint informed him, thankfully silent. He gave Tony a wry look. "You didn't notice the head injury?"

"Was kinda focused on not dying." Now that it had been pointed out, though, his own voice did seem god-awful loud. Ouch.

"I think it happened when we hit the fire escape. You're favoring your ribs, too."

"Noticing that," Tony replied a bit clumsily since one of his hands was occupied.

The corner of Clint's mouth quirked. "Let's get you patched up, genius."

"What about you?"

"It's a few cuts and a sprain," Clint shrugged. "I'll be fine. Head injuries and potentially cracked ribs come first."

Which was a valid point, Tony supposed. Although, the argument could probably be made that his concussion couldn't be that bad if it had taken him this long to notice. Probably.

"Aren't you going to ask what happened?" Tony questioned softly, letting the ice rest in his lap while Clint dabbed iodine on what must have been a pretty good cut along his left temple.

Clint paused in his ministrations, gaze grimly meeting Tony's for a second before turning back to his task. "Let's wait until talking stops doing your head in," he suggested just as quietly. He put a few butterfly stitches into place before grabbing Tony's arm to direct him to put the ice back to his head.

"Thank you," Tony told him.

"Any time," Clint replied, including a sign Tony couldn't immediately identify. When it occurred to him what it had to be, given the context, it filled him with a burst of warmth. It was Clint's name for him - the way he'd decided to sign it: "Tones."

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Finding a comfortable lying down position with sore ribs was no easy task. Which surprised no one and Tony least of all. In the end, Tony remained in a mostly upright position with his legs propped up on the coffee table. Clint had foisted four painkillers on him after patching him up then settled himself into the opposite corner of the couch.

They sat quietly, Clint scouring the news stations with the television on mute as Tony dozed in and out. If Tony fell asleep for too long at a stretch, the blond nudged him back awake. The rest of the night passed in this way and by the time daylight was seeping through the windows again, Tony's head no longer felt like it was trying to split open.

Clint got up and limped out of the room while Tony blinked groggily. He returned with a glass of water, holding it out for Tony to take. "How's the head?" he asked.

"Better," Tony replied, reaching up to probe at the injury. "A little tender, but, ah, the headache seems to be gone for now. At least mostly."

"That's good," said the archer, nodding slightly. He sat down on the edge of the coffee table so he was facing Tony, left leg stretched out. He regarded Tony for a very long moment. Then, he drew in a breath and blew it back out. "What the fuck was that last night?"

Tony grimaced and diverted his gaze. He calculated the probability of explaining himself without revealing too much of his past. Said probability was pretty low if he intended to make much sense or satisfy Clint's demand for an explanation.

"Dude, you might as well just tell me," Clint cut into his thoughts when he took too long to answer. "I thought you were a hacker, what with all the electronic stuff, maybe a thief, but that's not it. At least, it's not all of it. Hackers don't have the sort of training you obviously do. And those people at the warehouse? Seriously bad news, man. So, out with it."

Sighing, Tony scrubbed a hand over his face, glancing back at Clint but not quite able to meet the blond's eyes. "I can't tell you everything," he began.

"Then just tell me what you can," Clint told him.

"I was trying to help my friend."

"The guy that grabbed you."

"Yeah, he… he probably didn't recognize me," admitted Tony.

The archer gave him a skeptical look. "Your supposed friend didn't recognize you?"

"No, but there have been times that he has. Sort of. Maybe," said the brunet, frustrated that his account was already growing complicated. "Look, before they send him anywhere, they wipe his mind so there's nothing but his training and whatever mission they give to him. It wasn't his fault. I should have known they were using him to draw me out to capture me."

"Okay, but who are 'they'? And what do they want with you?" Clint asked. "Seems to me, you've skipped the beginning and jumped right into the middle of the story. Who are you? Hell, what are you? Are you human? A - a clone? Is that why you look just like that Stark guy?"

"No. No, I'm not-" Tony shook his head. "I'm not a clone. Just human. The fact I look so much like Stark is really just a coincidence. Hell, I didn't even know he existed until…"

"Until?"

"Until about three years ago, when I… left. Escaped. I escaped, and nearly the first thing I learned was that my face is known everywhere."

Tony chanced a look at Clint's face and his expression conveyed just how poorly he was clarifying things. He heaved another sigh. Already he had said more than he had ever planned to share with anyone, but it was clearly not enough. He wanted his explanation to be enough. More than that, he really wanted to trust Clint with what truth he could offer the man.

"I was raised by a group of authoritarian paramilitary… terrorists would probably be the most succinct way to put it. They're this cultish, top-secret organization bent on world domination. Like you said: seriously bad news," Tony relayed. "I was trained to fight and… and a lot of other things. My whole life, they prepared me to do anything they might need of me.

"My handlers and trainers noticed pretty early on that I was good with weapons, but it wasn't until I was around ten - maybe eleven - that they realized I had a knack for modifying them. In fact, I had a knack for modifying, even building, anything they put in front of me. If it was mechanical or electronic, I took to it as easy as breathing.

"So they used me," Tony said grimly. "And I modified and built stuff - weapons, mostly, of course. And I trained. And I learned. Sometimes things they didn't want me to be learning, but I'm a genius. They didn't really have anyone who could keep up with me intellectually. I expected that to be my life. It sucked, but what can you do?"

"Jesus, Tones," Clint breathed out.

The brunet raised his head, offering a wan smile. "That was about the time I learned that my mother had been murdered and my father stole me away to be raised as some sort of human tool or something. Or I guess, maybe I'm a weapon. I don't know. I just knew I couldn't stay," Tony declared. "But when I saw that the soldier had been deployed… My life has been rough, sometimes, but it's nothing compared to what's been done to him. I had to-" He broke off to release a shaky laugh. "I thought I could save him. Instead, I nearly got you killed with me."

For a long moment, neither of them said anything else. Tony watched as Clint studied him, the blond's expression too complicated for him to decipher. Finally, the man blinked rapidly and raked a hand through his hair.

"Well, shit," he declared. "And I thought being raised by carnies was weird."

Tony felt his brows draw together and he hesitated before tentatively asking, "Carnies?"

"Carnival workers. Circus people," Clint supplied. "God, this explains so much about you."

"It does?" Tony asked warily.

"Yes! Dude, I've been trying to figure you out since we met. One moment, you're all super-genius smartypants and the next, you're clueless about some everyday thing that everyone knows about. And nobody just knows sign language, let alone however many other languages you speak. I know it's at least four."

"Probably closer to eight or nine, depending on whether you count dead languages and computer coding," the brunet offered.

"You know at least ten languages," Clint stated incredulously. "Of course, you do. Why not? Holy shit. You were raised to be a spy."

"I guess? I mean, they didn't really use me for spywork that often after they learned I was so good at building stuff," said Tony.

"You said they figured that out when you were ten !" Clint squawked.

"Yeah..?"

"They used you as a spy before that?"

"Oh," Tony rubbed at the back of his neck and shrugged a shoulder. "A few times? There are places adults can't really go."

"Holy shit, dude," Clint reiterated.

Tony looked down at his hands, right thumb pressing against the faint scar in his opposite palm. His mouth quirked up in amusement despite himself. "Yeah, that's probably a good way to summarize it," he agreed.

Clint snorted and shook his head. "So, what now?" he asked. "I'm guessing you probably shouldn't stay put, even if they don't know exactly where you live. Bad enough they know the city."

"I've already stayed longer than I should have," the brunet sighed. He glanced over to where U sat in his charging port. Maybe he could devise a way to have the bot shipped to wherever he went next. Or perhaps, it would be best to leave it in storage until he could return. Tony looked back at Clint to find the blond following his gaze.

"I think I know someone who could look after him until we get settled," he offered.

"'We'?" Tony echoed in surprise.

"What? You think I'm gonna stick around after that daring escape of ours?" Clint asked, raising a quizzical brow. "Even if they don't know my face, they know you've got backup. And let's just say, I've got enough of a rep that they could probably figure out who I am, even if it's just my alias."

"Right. Not really a lot of people using bows and arrows, these days," Tony said.

"Exactly," Clint confirmed. "Also, in case that big brain of yours hasn't figured it out, yet, that's what friends do, Tones. They watch each other's backs."

"We're friends?" the brunet asked uncertainly.

The archer gave him a smirk, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. "Yeah, genius," he told him. "We're friends."

#

Malibu, CA, About a Week Later - Early January

"You know what? I'm sick of this," Arno Stark declared, adjusting the position of the touchscreen monitor again when it blocked too much of his view of the rest of the garage. "Move the holoscreens up the priority list, would you, Jarv? I just cannot deal with these monitors cluttering up my work space, anymore."

"Of course, sir," a disembodied voice with an English accent replied. "How else would you make room for more clutter? I mean, projects."

"Ha. Sarcasm. Cute," Arno drawled. "I want it on record that you did not get that from me."

"Noted," JARVIS stated dryly. "Speaking of which, would you like to see the article I found in a New York newspaper?"

"You got a bead on our friend?" The man glanced at the AI's camera before turning his attention to the closest computer monitor where the article soon appeared. "Okay, so a warehouse on the bad side of town got trashed. What makes you think not-me was involved?"

Several grainy images popped up on the screen. "These were taken by nearby security cameras on the day in question," the AI supplied.

"Huh. Looks like our friend's got a friend," said Arno, tapping at an image of his lookalike leaving a subway tunnel with another man. "Have we got a new name?"

"A search of local DMV files suggest he went by the name Antonio Rinaldi." JARVIS pulled up the license in question.

Arno let out a low whistle and slouched back in his chair. "That will never not be weird. What do you think is with the hippie hair?"

"I believe it to be an attempt to lessen his likeness to yourself, sir," said JARVIS.

"Yeah… I don't think it's working," the man concluded, tilting his head to one side as he considered the other man's image. "Are you noticing a trend with his identities? I mean, he was Tony Babbage, what, three identities ago?"

"Four, sir."

"Right. And the first time he showed up. What was his name then?"

"Anthony Strong."

"Anthony, Tony, Antonio," Arno uttered thoughtfully. "Has he used any other names that have been similar like that?"

The AI took a brief moment to scan the information on file. "From what I have compiled so far, he has not," he replied.

"Well, what do you know. Let's call him Tony from now on," the billionaire said.

"A logical leap, sir."

Arno went back to trying to find an ideal position for his computer monitors before pausing again. "Hey, JARVIS? When was the last time Tony hacked into the server?"

"It has been quite some time. He is due to try again," reported JARVIS.

"'Try'," scoffed Arno, rolling his eyes. "Next time he breaks in, introduce yourself. But don't let him know I'm on to him. I want to see what he'll do."

"As you say, sir."

"Oh, and see if you can figure out what he did with the arc reactor blueprints he downloaded."

"I still think you're remarkably blase about that, sir," the AI opined.

Arno gave an impish smirk and shrugged a shoulder. "Like I said, Jarv," the man declared, "I want to see what he'll do."

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To be continued...