Part 2
Tony felt bad, he really did. He'd hit Barton hard. Hard. Poor guy probably had a cracked rib at least, but it was better than the alternative.
Definitely better than the alternative.
And Tony would know, seeing how he was now the poor bastard suffering the alternative.
That smelly fucking tentacle wrapped around Tony's airborne ankle less than a second after his arms and chest pinned Barton to the street. It would have gotten Clint right around the waist, snapping his spine instantly. Stark was yanked with such a force backwards that it felt as though a parachute had just interrupted a freefall. His head snapped back and he flew through the air, wind rushing over his face.
Oh, shit. The wind is on my face.
The realization struck him, and if he hadn't been busy playing ragdoll for the Boogie Monster, Tony would have slapped himself. He was almost completely unarmed. Tony had only managed to get one of his gauntlets back on before he had grabbed Clint, the other gauntlet and his helmet were lying uselessly on the ground 20 feet away. It might as well have been 20 miles. The gooey, crushing grip on his armored calf wasn't going to budge. "JARVIS!" Tony screamed, hoping his helmet would register over the noise of his teammates and the scrambling of agents. "PUT EVERYTHING WE'VE GOT INTO THE THRUSTERS!" Tony pushed and tried to fly with all his might, his thrusters, independently energized, were still functioning. However, without the brain of the suit actually attached to the suit to distribute the power, there was nothing Tony could do. Despite the tremendous force of the jets on the bottom of his boots, the beast held on, to its own credit. Not only did the bastard hold on, but it seemed to have caught its second wind, and it was pissed. It pulled Tony in close, wrapping another tentacle around his waist. It couldn't crush him in the suit, it wasn't that strong yet, but it seemed more and more alert and furious every second. There was no telling what it might do.
Tony pulled his one gauntleted hand up, blasting the beast in its already irreparably damaged eye. It wailed that putrid gurgle, but only brought another tentacle to wrap around Tony's torso, pinning his one useful arm to his side. "DAMMIT!" Tony screamed. "A LITTLE HELP HERE, GUYS?!" He didn't want to sound as frightened as he was, but he was vulnerable. More vulnerable than he cared to be.
"Tony, we're coming!" Came Steve's shout of assurance. They were wading their own way through the minefield of tentacles, slicing, rolling, and trying their best to get close enough to help Tony. The billionaire felt fear and guilt welling inside his stomach as he watched them narrowly, and often times, only luckily escape the crushing force of this barbaric booger's limbs.
They were gonna get themselves killed. Tony had to act.
"STEVE, BACK OUT - BACK OUT NOW. I HAVE A PLAN!" It was such a fucking lie, but what other choice did he have?
Steve looked puzzled, but nodded. He grabbed Romanoff and ran to the outskirts of the beast's reach. 'Check on Barton,' Tony heard him say. In the grasp of the beast, he could just slightly turn his head to peep at the archer himself. Barton was still lying, dazed, fumbling about for his hearing aids. Whoops. Tony would apologize for that, too, later. If there was a later. Jesus he hoped there would be a later. Death by booze? Acceptable. Death by Viagra overdose at a very old age? More than acceptable. But death by booger? You've got to be shitting me.
There was only one thing tony could think to do (and he really hoped the mayor of New York would forgive him for the property damage). "STEVE! PLAN B, OKAY? CALL BRUCE. GET BANNER IN HERE NOW, THIS THING IS GETTING WAY TOO STRONG. HEAR ME? GET BR-"
Tony felt the black slime dripping on his forehead before the thin tendril snaked its way around his throat. It clamped down, cutting off his voice, but more crucially, his air. It was squeezing, but luckily it was one of the smallest tentacles on the beast, just small enough to fit around Tony's throat, but not big enough to snap any bones. Maybe. Hopefully not.
Tony could hear the blood rushing in his ears; he could feel that terrible pressure in his head, could almost sense the deep scarlet of his face. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe at all. He tried to claw at the tentacle, tear at it with his fingers, but his stronger gauntleted hand was still pinned down by the larger tentacles wrapping his waist and legs. He could hear them shouting, calling his name, screaming. Steve, particularly louder than the others, but Tony couldn't really focus. The tentacle was like a python, unyielding and merciless. He could hardly see anymore. Little black spots danced in his vision. His lungs screamed for air. It had been almost 60 seconds without a breath, now, and tears leaked from his eyes. His veins in his arms were bulging with effort. The pain was like fire, tearing at his throat and his insides. This couldn't last much longer. Tony couldn't last much longer.
Distantly, Star could hear SHIELD agents firing off guns, trying to force the monster to drop him. Slightly closer, Tony could hear Roger's furious screams at them to stop, that they might hit Stark. Aww, he does care. Tony would have smiled cheekily if he could have mustered up the focus. That was very like him, of course – practically a Stark Commandment: Even in the face of thy death, thou shalt act like a sassy lil shit.
SHIELD's firing squad had almost completely stopped, but some stray bullets were still being fired, and frankly it was only pissing the booger off even further. Tony didn't think it was possible for the monster to squeeze his throat any tighter, but somehow it did. As the grip tightened, Tony's body began to thrash in protest. His thrashing was only met with a stronger clamping, like his neck was in a vice, and even his pitiful gurgles ceased. Despite his panic, his heart rate was dropping, the flow of oxygenated blood being stifled. His throat was nothing more now than a shut off valve for circulation. Tony started thinking back to plumbing and the physics of water flow and pressure…he couldn't really focus on much at this point. It had definitely been more than two minutes now. He couldn't really feel his legs…or his arms…a sort of numbness was dancing like needle pricks in his extremities. His throat was the only thing he could feel anymore. Pain…so much pain… His lungs gave their last lurches, spasming in his chest, each one less agonizing and less powerful than the last. Finally, even his lungs gave up. His heartbeat was weak, erratic. His vision tunneled and the world fell silent. Tony Stark faded out with one last thought….
Fuck, I guess this is the end.
Tony Stark's eyes rolled back in his head and he slipped into unconsciousness…
… just as the roar of a hulking green rage monster shattered the air.
Steve Rogers saw the tentacle wrap around Tony's throat before Tony even registered it was there.
"TONY, NO!" Steve lunged at the beast, watching the man who was practically his brother being choked by a horrifying slime monster that Steve was absolutely useless against. He had never been so furious and so scared. Not since…Bucky….
No, Steve set his jaw tightly. This would not be that. Steve couldn't watch another friend die in front of him while he was useless to help. He would not let himself stand by and let Howard Stark's baby boy be strangled to death by some fucked up looking sludge alien.
He was two strides in when a strong but small hand grabbed his neck. Steve almost reacted instinctively, about to punch whoever it was, but he registered Widow's grasp before he spun.
"Steve, Dammit!" She cried, exasperated and more than a little panicked. Despite her cool Russian exterior, she was just as afraid for Tony. "You can't just walk in there, you heard what Stark said; we need to get Banner. Steve, it's that same fucking gung-ho attitude that got Stark in this mess in the first place."
"Actually, I'm what got him in this mess," came a very shaky and distressed voice from their right. Clint was up, brushing himself off, and cradling his side where Stark had most likely cracked a rib or two. He was a mess of guilt and bruises and shame.
Nat threw him a sympathetic glance, but everyone understood that now was not the time for heartfelt speeches. With only a slight hesitation, and a look at Romanoff for reassurance, their leader shouted into the com system for Banner to get his hulking green ass down here immediately.
They sure as hell didn't need to ask twice. Dr. Banner already had his shoes off and was running down the street, getting greener and greener every step he took. The sight of his best friend dangling helplessly by the neck was certainly very helpful with the "whole rage thing." The other guy was just as pissed as Bruce, and for the first time they had an exact understanding. Save Tony.
Bruce leapt into the air, and right before he landed on the monster's body, the transformation was complete. The hulk let out an earth-shattering roar, and pounded his fist through yards of goo. The beast flailed helplessly and the Hulk literally pounded holes in its massive cavity. Tentacles shook violently and erratically, trying desperately to stop the pain and the attack, but the Hulk swatted them away like flies. Using his ungodly strong fists, the Hulk plunged his hands into the beast and pulled, ripping it apart. Black and Brown puss rolled and bubbled from the 10 foot tear in its body, and it finally stopped fighting, just dying and twitching in the street. The smell was almost unbearable to the humans in the field, but Hulk was unfazed. His glowing green eyes looked for one thing in the mess, the man of iron. The friend. Hulk's friend. His vision set upon an unmoving metal form. Concern offset anger, and the Hulk knowingly retreated, allowing Bruce to resurface. The man within the monster flew back to the surface and took control, his form shrinking and paling. By the time he was at Tony's side, his eyes were just returning to their chocolate brown and his whole body was shaking with fatigue, but Tony was the number one concern.
As fast as he could manage, Bruce unwrapped the tentacle from Tony's throat, tears welling gin his eyes at the obvious bruising and the deep indents the deathly grip had left behind. As soon as his throat was clear, Bruce expected Tony to draw in a breath. He waited for a second. There was nothing.
"Shit, shit, shit," Bruce muttered and fumbled for the mechanical releases on the suit that Tony had showed him how to operate. He could hear the others running up behind him, barking questions at him, but he couldn't focus on them. It had been almost 3 minutes now that Tony had been without air. He had to get him resuscitated within the next 60 seconds. 4 minutes is where things started shutting down. Past 4 minutes was permanent brain damage. Tony would rather die than not be able to function the way he wanted. Bruce would never let Tony die, but at this rate he might not be able to stop it. Tony looked absolutely terrible. Unmoving, unresponsive, bruised and swollen, the purple strangled shade had flushed from his face which was now alarmingly pale.
Finally, the last lock snapped out of place and Bruce heaved the heavy chest plate to the side, pressing his head down to Tony's lifeless chest. It was difficult to hear anything over the hum of the arc reactor, but Bruce was still able to detect it. - just there, ever so faint, was a weak heartbeat. Tony was still alive. Oh thank God.
"Oh, God, ok, he's still alive." Bruce gasped out, the rest of the team all standing on wobbly legs and panic evident on all of their faces. Bruce closed his eyes for a split second, and became Dr. Banner. There was no time for fear or nervousness; he needed to detach himself from his feelings and let his medical training take control.
"Clint," he snapped. The archer went fully alert, desperate to do something to help. "I need you to run into the buildings you see here and find me a pen. A plastic pen with refillable ink tubes. I don't need the tubes, just the pen, do you understand?" Bruce held his gaze steady as Barton turned and sprinted towards the offices that lined the street. "Tash, I need you to hold Tony's head very still and pull slightly to elongate his neck. I have no idea if his windpipe is collapsed from the struggle, so I need you to stabilize it, do you understand?" The Black Widow, ever poised, nodded simply and did as she was told. "Steve," Bruce shuffled on his skinned knees over to Tony's mouth prepping him for CPR. "I need you to do chest compressions for me. I don't know how long this will have to go on, and the other guy took a lot out of me."
That was the understatement of the century. Even kneeling, the doctor was swaying a little back and forth, his face flushed and clammy, and his skin drenched in a cold sweat. But he remained strong in his voice, if only for the rest of the team's benefit. They were all terrified.
Bruce leaned down and pinched Tony's nose with one hand, raising his chin with another. Natasha was right there, cradling Stark's head and holding it steady for breaths. CPR began - two breaths and then 30 chest compressions by Steve. It was hard to work around the arc reactor, but he tried his best. They were on their second set of breaths when Clint returned with the pen in his hand. Bruce sagged in relief. He hadn't wanted to raise alarm, but the CPR had been entirely for show. Tony's windpipe and trachea were already collapsed, Bruce had known it on first glance, but he couldn't scare the others.
"Thank you, Clint." he said hurriedly, uncapping the pen and ripping out the ink cartridge. He unscrewed the top and writing tip, forming nothing but a sharp tube.
"Bruce, what are you doing with tha-OH MY GOD!" Steve's pained and panicked voice ended in a shocked cry as Bruce plunged the pen into the base of Tony's throat. It pierced the skin and Bruce immediately bent his lips to suck on the tube in short huffs like a straw. He sucked quickly, and the rest of the team stood unmoving, pale faced, as a small hiccup of blood trickled out of the straw before it cleared completely.
"This is a field tracheotomy," Bruce explained, hands clamping around the base of the pen, steadying the life line to Tony's lungs. "Tony's throat is severely damaged. Breaths were not entering through his mouth, so we had to…skip the trachea. Steve, continue compressions."
The blonde did as he was told, despite the slight tremble in his hands as he pressed, one, two, three, four… Bruce now delivered rescue breaths through the pen tube. Despite the grotesque situation, all 4 teammates were relieved to see the crumpled man's chest rising and falling. He was getting oxygen, desperately needed oxygen.
Nat checked her watch. Tony had been out for three minutes and fifty-one seconds. They had come in under the infamous four minute mark. Her usually stoic and unreadable face visibly sagged with the release of incredible tension. Stark would still be fine. Stark would still be Stark.
Tony could feel himself waking up. The soft, silky darkness was peeling back now. Things were brightening; voices were coming into an audible range. He could feel his toes and his fingers.
He pouted. This was not what he wanted. What he wanted was to curl up and sleep for another five years, minimum. The darkness was soothing and warm and safe. He was exhausted, he hurt, and he was grumpy. He squeezed his eyes tighter against the intrusion.
Tony couldn't remember anything, and nothing really made sense. There were beeping noises, here - steady and persistent.
And annoying, He internally remarked. Seriously, the persistent bell tone was driving him mad. If he could manage to open his eyes, he would be able to see what it was and tell someone to shut it the fuck off.
It's probably the damn toaster oven beeping away, he thought groggily. Thor never remembers to shut it off after he's taken out the half dozen pop tarts he eats every morning for a snack between breakfast and second breakfast. No matter, JARVIS could shut it off if he told him to.
Tony opened his mouth to call for the AI. Strange... His mouth was like sandpaper; his jaw weighed a million tons. His tongue was about as pliable as a steel beam. Speaking was not going to be very easy, if it was even possible. Even so, Tony opened his lips a fraction of a fraction of an inch, already feeling the fatigue from that simple movement.
Here goes nothing…
Steve and Barton sat sullenly in the hard plastic chairs. Steve was stationed just left of the hospital bed with one large warm hand resting tentatively on Tony's arm, just above his IV. The steady "beep…beep…beep" of the heart monitor was music to his ears – his favorite sound in the world. It was proof that Tony was still here, still with them, when they had been so close to losing him.
The super solider never left his post unless it was to check the hallway for possible threats or to use the bathroom. Steve can't remember the last time he slept, and he supposed, all in all, it was best not to dwell on those things; it would just make him more tired than he was. Shaking his foggy head, uncombed hair sticking up in different directions, Steve stretched slightly. He wouldn't sleep until Tony woke up. He wouldn't sleep until he knew everything was alright.
Clint was perched at the foot of Tony's bed. His back had molded into the chair that he had been occupying for the past 4 days, and he was pretty sure he had left a permanent ass-imprint on the plastic. Like Steve, Barton hadn't slept. But he had no super serum to keep him running. He was on his thirtieth cup of espresso, and the blotchy dark circles under his eyes were both proof of his exhaustion and his grief. Clint felt incredibly guilty, and all team's assurances and kind words had been met with naught but silence. He hadn't spoken since Stark was rushed to New York- Presbyterian 72 hours ago. The regret and the pain were crushing him like a rock pile. All of his thoughts were full of buts and if only's. Hindsight isn't twenty-twenty, hindsight is a bitch.
A gentle knock on the door, a pause, and then three more gentle knocks heralded the arrival of Nat. Romanoff, in a fresh change of clothes and freshly showered, handed one grab bag to the super solider staring at their fallen compatriot's arm and the other bag to the sullen archer who couldn't take his eyes off the floor. She waited, and gave a cough to get their attention. They didn't even blink out of rhythm. The Russian had had enough.
"I swear to God, if you two don't quit sulking around here I'm going to knock you both unconscious and set you up in rooms across the hall." Her voice was soft but sincere. "Maybe then you'll get a good night's sleep."
Normally, this would have been met with a cheeky invitation to share a bed by Clint and Steve pulling rank with a smug grin on his face, but not today. Today, Steve just quietly thanked her for the bag of clean clothes she had brought; he set it on his lap, drawing it into himself the way a child does with a stuffed animal. Clint didn't even each for the bag Nat had thrown next to the chair. He simply nodded at her and then returned his gaze to the floor.
"I'm serious, you jackoffs." She grabbed Steve roughly by the shoulder, spinning him around. "You smell. You look terrible. You're exhausted. Tony isn't going to wake up for at least another two days. You heard what the doctors said. Go take a fucking shower. And you," the assassin walked over to where Barton sat, unresponsive. She facepalmed, letting her cool and calculated mask slip away completely. She dragged her fingers down her face, frustrated. Enough was fuckin' enough.
In a swift movement that nobody was expecting (least of all, poor Clint), she crouched low and kicked the legs out from underneath the chair. Clint fell with a crash, the suddenness of the move causing him to try to jump to his feet, alert. Plastic flew across the tile, and the archer landed on his back with a satisfying "oomph!" He stared at her unbelieving, mouth open and fumbling for words.
"Yah, you. Go take a fucking nap you look like the ass end of an overworked mule." And with that, Nat handed him his go-bag and pushed him into the cot at the far end of the room that Bruce had slept on the night before. Nat had slept across the hall overnight after taking hallway watch duty. She woke early and, seeing there was no change with Tony, she returned to the Tower to get some clean clothes for herself and her surrogate brothers.
Clint hit the cot and started to protest, but the moment his head came in contact with pillow, his eyes started drooping. Nat could tell he was fighting it.
"Shhh, Clint. Just try to get some sleep. I'll wake you in twenty minutes."
"Fi-teen," he mumbled. His protest caused the redhead to smile, just slightly.
"Fifteen minutes, then." And with that, the archer was dead to the world. Nat glanced over at Steve, who looked at Barton, then her, and then back at Tony. He patted Tony's unmoving hand gently, and took his grab bag into the bathroom. Nat breathed contentedly when she heard the shower turn on.
She had just seated herself in Steve's vacated chair when Bruce sounded the password at the door. He entered and smiled at what he observed. Nat, stroking Tony's calloused fingers. Clint was snoring lightly in the corner, and the sound of rushing water and Steve, humming a 1930's love song ever so softly, echoed from the bathroom. Bruce shot Nat a thankful look, the small smile always on his face. He placed the pastries down on the counter next to the door and handed the Russian a cup from the full drink tray he held in his arms. She nodded silently in thanks. He nodded back and leaned against the foot of Tony's bed, his hip resting near the unmoving pair of feet. The steady sound of the heart monitor reassured them both.
Steve's shower had just stopped, and Clint had just rolled onto his stomach and ceased his snoring, so maybe it was the absence of noise that allowed them to hear it. Maybe it had been going on this whole time but they didn't know, or maybe it was freak luck that they had both been sitting without talking the way they usually did. But in the complete silence of that hospital room, Nat and Bruce almost spilled their drinks when the noise came, so softly, yet clearly audible.
"….Ja….?"
They froze, staring at each other, both too afraid to believe that it was true. Slowly, ever so slowly, they turned to look at the face of Tony. Pale, haggard, and sunken, their friend had never looked so frail. The field trach that Bruce had performed was nothing more now than a small white gauze pad above his thyroid. A cannula was the replacement for the ventilator he had been on for the first 24 hours. But now, they were watching his mouth, waiting for another small peep. They didn't have to wait long.
"….vis?...Ja…vis….lights…."
Bruce felt tears prick behind his eyes. Nat smiled a real, toothy smile and ran her fingers softly through Tony's hair. They both smiled wider when Tony leaned into her touch. He was waking up. The two avengers jumped slightly at a sharp intake of breath behind them. They turned. Steve stood, towel halfway through his soppy hair, watching Tony come back to life in front of his very eyes. His legs began to shake and he managed to get himself to the foot of the bed to hold on to the guardrail before he collapsed. He smiled brilliantly at Nat, then Bruce, breathing sharply, not sure whether to cry or cheer. From the corner, Barton resumed snoring.
Tony Stark would be just fine. They would all be just fine.
Thanks guys! Thats it for "A"! the prompt for Letter "B" will be out soon, i promise! and from now on, they will be oneshots, i swear, not as long as this one.
