Rag-Tag Tower Defense Part Two

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Part three coming next week!

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Tony shuffled along the hall with a grunt. His knee throbbed angrily, sending shooting pain up through his thigh with every step—but he was taking them. His right arm was locked around Clint's neck, the archer's left shoulder dug into Tony's armpit. He had even had the courtesy to retract the gauntlet on his right arm to avoid blowing Clint's face off—after Clint had demanded that he retract it. Tony was appalled that Clint thought something he had designed would misfire, but he had grudgingly agreed. He was going to have a hard time making it anywhere without his human crutch, and Tony was really the only member of their rag-tag band that had an offensive weapon. Sure, Steve's shield was a force to be reckoned with—definitely offensive—but he was going to have a hard time slinging the shield with cracked ribs and a broken arm. They had had that rather irritating conversation before making their way out of the workshop.

"Stark, I'm fine," Steve had practically growled at him. Tony had noticed that it was only "Stark" when Steve felt like he needed to pull rank nowadays. It had used to always be "Stark."

"Sure, Rogers," Tony had sneered back, just as unimpressed by Steve's demanding, self-sacrificing, I-can-do-whatever-needs-to-be-done-even-if-I'm-killed Captain America shit-show attitude as ever. Tony Stark didn't cower in the face of authority. More often than not, he spit on the shoes of authority before turning around and doing the opposite of what he had been asked. Nobody told him what to do.

But that was a vestige of the old Tony Stark attitude. Sure, he wasn't particularly good at following orders now, but he did respect Steve and his leadership of the Avengers—not that he would ever admit that to the Star Spangled Man With a Plan.

"Look, Steve," Tony had finally ground out. See, he could play well with others. "I know you could go out there and fight if you had to. The serum would heal you, eventually you'd be fine, blah blah blah. Right now you need to act as a strictly defensive measure. You've got your shield, you protect us from the bad guys, capiche?"

Steve had nodded tersely, as if realizing that Tony was actually trying.

Now they were limping down a hall in Avenger Tower as the lights flickered ominously. Steve was leading, shield held in front of him with his good arm. He was moving stiffly, being gentle on his ribs, but Tony knew he would spring into action the moment it was required—Steve was predictable like that. Each man had an earpiece that allowed JARVIS to relay information silently.

"I feel the need to inform you that one of the teams of intruders is nearing your position," JARVIS said through the earpieces. "If you turn right ahead, you will come face-to-face with them in roughly 20 seconds. There are six armed men in this group."

"Shit," Clint whispered, expression dazed. He wasn't one-hundred percent present because of the concussion, but he drifted in and out of focus. Right now he seemed just as concerned as Tony was.

Six armed men? Is that something we can handle right now?

Normally, Tony wouldn't be fazed. Steve alone could wipe out a team of six armed thugs any day of the week. But these men knew who they were after, they had gotten into the Tower too easily, and Steve was not in top form. They could definitely try to make a run for it, but they would likely be in view of the team if they turned left at the hall up ahead, and going back would end up trapping them near the workshop. Not the worst place for a last stand, but they needed to start taking the intruders out.

"Let's do this," Tony whispered. "These bastards are about to find out just how out of their depth they are."

I hope.

"Do you have a plan?" Steve hissed, trying to keep his voice down as he prepared himself to fight.

"Isn't that usually your job, Cap?" Tony asked, allowing a small smile to show Steve that he was ribbing him.

Steve rolled his eyes as he crept closer to the junction of the hallways. Tony could see him itching to glance around and scope out the situation. Evidently JARVIS noticed as well.

"Captain," JARVIS said, "they are headed this direction and will most certainly see you if you attempt to look around the corner."

"Right," Steve whispered. "Good to know. JARVIS, will you give us a count when they're close enough?"

Tony strained to pick up Steve's next words. He was basically just mouthing them at this point.

"I'll go out and surprise them, get some hits in while I can," Steve said. "I may be able to handle them all, but be ready to use your gauntlets, Tony."

He glanced quickly at Clint, blue eyes flashing with worry. "Clint, can you handle this?"

Clint snorted, eyes widening as he belatedly remembered to keep quiet. His snark and sarcasm weren't tempered at all by the concussion. "God I wish Nat was here, she talks less than you babies. Of course I can handle it."

Yeah I wish Nat was here too.

Natasha was laid up in SHIELD medical. They were keeping her overnight to make sure that there was no foreign toxin on the arrowhead that injured her. Bruce was sleeping near the bottom of the Tower—Tony had built his floor lower because he knew it was more comfortable for Bruce. With the systems of the Tower on the fritz, Tony wasn't sure that JARVIS would be able to alert him, much less get him up to the communal level. Bruce was an incredible asset as the Hulk, but the Hulk was a little dangerous in confined spaces. Thor had returned to Asgard soon after the mission, so that left Steve, Tony, and Clint to take care of this.

We can do this.

Steve spun out into the hallway junction as JARVIS gave the signal. Immediately a hail of bullets pummeled the shield, ripping into the walls and floors. The sound was deafening, so much so that Tony would have clamped his palms to his ears if he had his hands available. As it was, he clenched a handful of Clint's t-shirt in his right hand, raised his left gauntlet, and prepared to limp into the line of fire. Steve was huddled behind his shield, he cast held protectively close to his body. People who didn't know Steve would assume that Captain America had things handled, but Tony could see the stress this was placing on Steve. He was tired and injured, leaning far too heavily on his shield to protect himself. Usually he was moving quickly—striking, lunging, dodging—using the shield as a tool, not as his only defense.

"Alright, Feathers," Tony shouted over the din, "let's do this shit!"

With a grunt of effort, Clint manhandled the two of them into the main bend of the hallways. Steve was tangling with the men, bashing them gracelessly with his shield. He normally wore his symbolic weapon on his left arm, and Tony could tell that he had grown accustomed to it. Steve was athletic as hell, but he was unused to wearing his shield on his opposite arm. Tony winced as one of the men landed a quick fist against Steve's ribs. The super soldier blanched, staggering as his injured ribs took the hit.

"Down," Tony yelled, raising his left hand and firing up the gauntlet. Steve immediately hit the floor, choking on a moan as he did so.

Tony rapidly aimed and fired seven times—okay so he missed once, he wasn't perfect—grinning madly as the intruders dropped like flies. His gauntlet popped and sparked after the last shot. Tony fumbled to get it off before it burned the skin of his forearm.

"That's right, you bastards," Clint whooped, letting a concussion-induced giggle slip free. "Never stood a chance!"

Clint suddenly went pale, eyes growing wide and distant. Tony had just enough warning to twist and land on his good leg when Clint dropped him. The archer staggered over to the wall and collapsed to his knees, retching and coughing as he threw up violently.

Tony looked away and swallowed convulsively over his gag response. "You okay there, buddy?"

Clint whimpered, retching and spitting one more time.

"Sorry, Stark," Clint said on a ragged exhale, sarcasm dripping from his words. "I know you don't have the money or resources to clean up your damn hallways."

Tony felt his lips curl up in a smile. Clint could be knocked down, but he never failed to get right back up.

"Cap, you alright?" Clint's voice was raw, but he was obviously concerned.

Steve was panting rapidly, eyes wet with unshed tears of pain. He glanced over quickly when he heard Clint's voice, embarrassed that they were witnessing his moment of weakness.

"I'll live," Steve ground out abruptly, pushing himself to a seated position with careful, measured breaths. He looked awkward and ungainly as he struggled to hold himself up without using his casted arm or straining his ribs.

"Seriously, Steve," Tony sighed, glaring in frustration at the hard-headed man in front of him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Heat climbed in Steve's face, anger mixed with frustration and embarrassment.

"I don't have to give you every detail, Stark," Steve growled at him.

"Oh please," Tony said, laughing harshly. "Just call me Tony—or smartass—that's what most people do. I know you call me Stark when you're pissed at me."

Steve glared at him suspiciously. "I'm not pissed at you, I just think we need to get moving. There are other intruders we need to take care of."

"Smartass has a point," Clint said, rolling his eyes toward Tony. "You're definitely pissed. Look Cap, we're a team. How would you feel if one of us refused to disclose our injury status?"

"Both of you do that at least once a mission," Steve said, irritation clear in his voice now.

"Okay," Tony said, jumping on the bandwagon. "But do you like it?"

"Obviously I don't."

"So tell us what's going on. We're not going to be able to cover your ass properly if he don't know where you're weak right now." Clint was shakily standing now, leaning his weight heavily against the corridor wall.

"Here, I'll start," Clint volunteered. "I'm so concussed that I'm seeing two jackasses with knee injuries and two star-spangled morons with broken arms. I can't decide if I'd rather puke or sleep, but I sure as hell don't want to be fighting in a hallway with the broken-down cast of 'Where Are the Avengers Today.' Your turn, Smartass."

"Um, well Clint really nailed it," Tony said, choking down his amusement. "My knee is super screwed up. I don't want to think about it right now—and the brace is preventing further injury—but I'm probably going to need surgery. I fucking hate surgery."

A heavy pause filled the now-silent hallway.

"Fine," Steve breathed, sliding his shield off of his arm and letting it clatter to the floor. "My arm is throbbing so much I can barely think straight, my ribs were cracked and now at least one is definitely broken, and I'm not used to fighting with my shield on the wrong arm."

Steve flushed when he realized that the last bit slipped out with a frustrated whine.

Tony barely restrained his urge to tease Steve, but he let out a sigh instead. "There you go, Cap. And look, admitting your injuries didn't kill you outright, so I think you're going to be okay."

Steve glared at Tony again, but this time it didn't hold much heat.

Clint swallowed heavily a few time from his place leaning against the wall and spoke quietly. "Cap, all teasing aside—"

Tony gasped in shock. "I'm not agreeing to that."

Clint shot Tony a look. "—you can trust us. We think you kick ass. We're not going to think less of you because you get knocked down sometimes. Damn, you get up faster than any one of us. I think that's pretty fucking impressive."

Steve looked down at the floor. Tony was uncharacteristically silent.

"Thanks," Steve said simply, slowly pushing himself to his feet.

"As tender and touching as all of this was," Tony drawled, moving gingerly to avoid aggravating his knee, "we should probably wipe out the rest of these guys."

"Agreed," Clint said with a smile. "Just point me in the right direction and I'll puke on them—that'll do the job, right?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "JARVIS, how're we doing?"

"One team down, three more to go, sir."

Steve glanced at the single remaining gauntlet. "Is that going to make it through three more groups, Tony?"

Tony chewed at his lower lip as he ran through possible outcomes in his head. If his math was correct—and it always was—they were going to need a new game plan.

He shrugged. "We're going to have to get creative."