AN: Sorry for the longer wait on this one. I've been kinda running myself into the ground and then I got sick... Oops. But it's here now! Most of it was actually already written (which is why the ending probably sucks, couldn't sleep so I wrote it now at 1 AM). Hope you like it anyway. I'll try to get the next one out sooner.

To Me And Not You 1001: I'm so glad you liked that part! Took AP Psych last year and thought that would be fun to add in. I'm glad the super small cliffhanger gave you (and others apparently) such a hard time too XD

To Qu0thTheRaven: I'm super glad you think so! Everyone gives me such high praise, you leave me glowing, I don't deserve it. I'm glad you're enjoying it and I'm so so so happy you think I'm doing Tony's reactions well! I've been trying super hard at that.

To Krows Scared: I'm glad my story could cheer you up even a little bit. Again, such high praise, I really don't live up to it! I'm happy you're enjoying it though, I'll try to keep doing you justice!

Relief flooded through him as he stared at Clint's still tapping fingers, hoping he hadn't imagined it or hallucinated because of his concussion. Yes, he tapped out, the small metallic ring of the thumb tack on the metal of the vent suddenly comforting. Lucky, he was so goddamn lucky. None of this should have worked, not a single thing he had thought up since waking up in the closet, but it had. Someone was on his side - he'd have to ask Thor to thank them.

Honestly, it took a lot of effort to interpret what Clint was trying to say. The language they had come up with was really meant to be heard or directly felt, and with just looking the taps were hard to distinguish. Tony found himself tapping his own finger in time with Clint's so he'd be able to determine the exact pattern of the taps better.

He was worn down and aching, but Clint was right there, promising escape, freedom, food, comfort. Just a little bit more, he told himself, just a little more and we're out of here. A little more and I won't have to act like a functioning adult anymore.

Because he really wasn't a functioning adult, even when he was an adult, and right now it was just ten times harder to act like one with his instinctual hindbrain trying to force down his higher reasoning.

Injured, Clint tapped out, and it took him a second to realize the archer was asking if he was injured.

Not as bad as I could be, Tony tapped back quickly, eager to be communicating with an ally. Just from the blast. They didn't hurt me. What about Nat.

Seeing her prone form through the computer screen was one thing, but seeing someone so important to him look so fragile, especially Natasha, almost made him physically sick, especially when he couldn't touch her and examine her for himself. He had no idea the extent of her condition, just that she was still unconscious, which never meant anything good in his experience.

Playing dead, her partner responded, and Tony let out a small breath he had been holding. He suddenly felt the tension drain out of him, and more than anything wanted to be at home watching TV with the others.

I have weapons, he said instead, knowing he had to keep going at least until he got the spies out of their cage. After that, he could let them take over, but for now he was still the only one free. And I know where the others are. But they are all KO. Well, Thor had looked conscious, but it hadn't seemed like he'd be able to help either.

Bad injures, Clint asked, clearly worried.

No. I think sedatives. If his hunch was correct, it would make everything so much harder. Took out cameras. No phone to call backup.

What weapons.

Explosives, one gun, three knives, Nat's bracelet, Cap's shield, he rattled off, the thumb tack making a soft pinging with every letter. Found your bow but couldn't carry it.

Lockpick.

Paperclip.

Think you can slip them to me. Tony glanced around the room again, peering through the grate and taking in the positions of the guards.

Maybe. If you move in front of the vent. Knife won't fit, but paperclip and explosives will.

Widow bite.

No. Too big. Won't get through the grate.

OK.

He heard Clint sigh and watched him shift, marvelling at how he somehow managed to make a purposeful move five inches to the right look like a bored stretch. The guards didn't even glance over. Now able to see him better, Tony could tell the archer wasn't in top shape. His skin bloomed with bruises and cuts, and his shoulder was swollen like it had been dislocated.

He may have had an incredible run of luck so far, but the rest of the journey was just getting harder and harder.

He dug the paper clip that didn't really resemble a paper clip anymore out of his pocket, along with a couple exploding arrowheads, and carefully pushed them through the bottom of the grate. Normally he would be more hesitant about such a careless handling of explosives, but since he was the one who had made these explosives he wasn't concerned. They made a small plink as they hit the ground right behind Clint, not loud enough to attract any attention, and quickly they were tucked into the archer's pocket.

If you can get two screws out of this vent I can help.

Using what.

Piece of glass. Can you do it. There was a long pause before the archer answered.

Yes.

He quickly dropped the glass through the vent as well, watching as Clint picked it up, clearly watching the guards, and slowly loosened the two bottom screws holding the grate on. They, and the glass, were swept into his other pocket. All Tony could do now was wait for his opportunity.

He watched as Clint pretended he was rousing himself from a stupor, physically shaking himself before crawling over to Natasha's motionless form. The Russian certainly had patience to be still for so long. Her friend placed his fingers on her pulse, his other hand shaking her arm lightly as he softly pleaded for her to wake up. Tony watched as Clint's fingers brushed over Natasha's skin. The gesture would look loving or affectionate to anyone else, but he knew better. The two spies had been working together long enough to develop their own set of secret languages, many of them silent.

"Dammit!" Clint shouted after 'failing' to rouse her, standing and slamming his hands against the bars of the cell. "She needs help!"

"Shut up!" someone shouted back. Clint's arms were shoved through the spaces between the bars, the guards completely ignoring him, and from this angle it looked like he was pushing at them in a search for weak spots, but Tony had the sneaking suspicion that he was really unlocking the door to the cell. He had the sudden thought that something very bad was about to happen and pulled his other pistol. This one was larger - he hoped he could handle the kickback.

His premonition proved correct when one of the soldiers glanced at Clint and apparently saw through his ruse, shouting for a moment before Tony dropped him. The shot wasn't clean, Tony didn't think he was dead, but incapacitated at least. Probably unconscious since he wasn't moving.

The sniper shot in an apparently closed room sent the guards into furious panic just as Clint flung the door open and Natasha lept up, arming an arrowhead and tossing it. It exploded in midair feet from Clint's face, although he didn't seem phased, setting clothes on fire and eliciting more screams. Tony shoved the vent cover out of the way and scrambled from his hiding spot as Nat darted to meet him, snatching the gun from his hands and picking off guards. The door slammed open and more streamed in, shooting into the air like they were trying to stop a riot. "It's that kid!" one of them shouted, and Tony froze in place while Clint grabbed two of his knives right from the sheaths, whirling and immediately brandishing them. Natasha shoved him from the side and he remembered he was supposed to be moving and trying not to get shot. He yanked the shield free from the ventilation and Natasha snatched that from him as well, tossing the gun at Clint at the same time he threw her both of the knives. How they managed to pull that off without either one of them getting hurt was something he would never know.

He was left with exploding arrowheads and the singular goal of not dying.

But bodies and blood and bullets were flying, Clint pulled a full clip of ammo from fucking God knows where and flawlessly reloaded his gun while Natasha choked one guy with thighs that should not be that attractive and stabbed someone else right in the ear while catching Cap's shield with the other hand, how the hell did she do that, and he was completely frozen because Jesus Christ it sounded exactly like a warzone and he was probably imagining the sounds of the Hulk roaring below him and the vast cavity of space yawning around him but people were dying, they were fucking dying and he was standing here. And this was not the place to be freaking out. Unfortunately, he was, and all he wanted to do was curl up in his extremely comfortable bed next to an extremely beautiful Pepper while J talked equations to him and he slept for about ten months, because boy did he need it. Everything was starting to ache again, because despite what everyone said terror did not always equal adrenaline and he thought his quota for generally life-saving hormones was up for the day, probably. He had no idea how he had even made it this far as his leg crumpled under him without warning, twisting his body awkwardly as he fell, and he painfully remembered that, oh yeah, he had sprained his ankle. And dislocated his wrist. And-

A body thumped to the ground next to him and he could hear Clint and Natasha yelling. Who was he, Iron Man? No, no, no, he wanted to be James. Let him be James. Let him be a normal boy with normal parents who love him and normal thoughts and toys and emotions and he stared right into the lifeless eyes in front of him, feeling the warm blood seeping into his clothes and taking far longer than he should've and with a sickened feeling to realize that the blood wasn't his own, and he wasn't any more mortally wounded than he had been, but he was lying in a growing puddle of the dead man's blood which was streaming from a gunshot right between those lifeless eyes. Normal children didn't have to see this. James didn't have to see this. Hell, normal adults didn't have to see this, and he was reminded, painfully, why he and Bruce were still considered civilians as he rolled onto his hands and knees and, amidst bloodshed and gunfire, puked his godforsaken guts out.

And then it was over, he realized as he instinctively flinched away from the hands that were ghosting over him, looking up into Natasha and Clint's worried eyes. "Tones, what's wrong?" Clint asked. "Were you hurt?" He shook his head slowly, still trying to process. It didn't make sense again. He knew about death, had seen death, experienced death, hell he had caused death, but this was different, and it didn't make sense. He didn't want to try and make sense of it. He wanted to go home.

"I want to go home," he said, and he was pretty sure it came out like a whimper, but neither of the assassins said a thing as Natasha gathered him into her arms and he let her, going boneless, tears starting to fall. This shouldn't happen. He was a hero. Stark men are made of iron. He shouldn't be crying. But he was.

And then came the sobs, and he felt so relieved, so cathartic, and it felt good to cry and he needed it so badly, and they let him. Natasha rocked him as Clint looted bodies for what he could, and they both murmured and cooed reassurances to him, and he nodded and tried to assure them he was okay, really, he would be okay. But none of them were convinced.

It didn't take long for him to wind down and he found himself blinking sluggishly with his head on Nat's shoulder, the only thing keeping his thumb from his mouth being the blood liberally coating his hands, some of which he suspected was his own. He was tired, and in so much pain, and just wanted to sleep. Natasha and Clint were talking plans, and that was fine. They didn't need him anymore. He had done his job, and now (he couldn't believe he was saying this) the adults could handle it. He didn't want to be an adult anymore right now. He couldn't.

"Tony," Clint finally asked quietly, running a soft hand through his hair that Tony leaned into sleepily. "We need you to stay awake for now. Can you walk?" He shook his head slowly, blinking a bit as he tried to come up with a coherent way to explain his answer.

"My ankle," was all that came out from all his thinking, and nimble fingers were brushing over the bruised and swollen skin, making him hiss and sniff with freshly awakened tears.

"Oh, baby," Natasha breathed, and Tony found that he didn't really mind the term of endearment, especially coming from her. Clint sighed a bit, and they shared one of their silent eye conversations that Tony probably would've found creepy if he didn't do the same thing with Pepper.

"I'll carry you," Clint said finally. "On my shoulders, alright. But you need to stay awake, you're the only one who knows the layout." He nodded slowly again.

"And then we'll go home, right?" It was stupid, and it slipped out before he had time to shove it back in, but his mind was still trying to drag him a thousand miles away to a place he thought he'd never get out of, and damn should he be over that by now. Natasha and Clint just nodded, all warm hands and concerned eyes and nothing like the blood they had just shed.

"And then we'll go home."