D for Drowning
Hey cupcakes, thanks for the feedback! I'm flattered by all the follow and favs. Here's the next installment in the series, please continue to review! I'm looking for more prompts!
Like I promised, this one will be a little fluffier.
It was a beautiful November morning in Manhattan. The sky was clear, though grey. The ocean was churning. The air was heavy with the threat of snow.
Agent Natasha Romanoff was enjoying the crispness of the air. Her lungs rose and fell steadily, her focus was intense. Her earbuds sat securely in her chilly ears. They didn't dare fall out.
She always enjoyed the gentle cold of late autumn in America's northeast. It reminded her of her childhood, when school would start in September in Russia and snow was only weeks away. That had been so long ago…when she was so young. That was before they had chosen her, before she had been taken.
Tash brought her attention back to her run. Her sneakers hit the pavement at a steady pace, drumming out the tempo to match the song that had come up on shuffle. She rounded the last block of her jog just as the morning sun was starting to beat down on her back. Delicate sweat beads trailed down her nape and collected in the sweatband of her baseball cap. She felt content as the tower came into view, feeling the familiar self-satisfaction that every runner gets at the conclusion of their route.
She entered the base lobby, waving quickly to Happy who stood at attention with the other security guards in the lobby. The secretary at the main desk nodded to Tash as the elevator doors opened, and smiled politely. Punching in her security code to the elevator, the Black Widow watched the doors close and she felt the familiar shift of the elevator car as it switched off the regular track onto the Avenger's access track that was reserved for Team members and SHIELD officials – and Pepper, of course.
After a quick ascension, the car slowed and the doors opened with a quiet ding. She stepped out, peeling off her hat and untying her laces. She put her shoes on the mat next to Barton's boots and hung her cap on a peg by the door. It all felt incredibly domestic. It had taken the superspy and assassin a while to adapt to the stationary lifestyle here in Manhattan – not stationary in the sense that nothing happened (on the contrary it seemed like every week heralded a new global threat); It was stationary in the sense that, well, she lived in one place. She had a home – a permanent one. It was scary and wonderful all at the same time, and after years of living out of a bag, it had been nice to fill a bureau.
Stark was just shuffling out of his bedroom as she entered the kitchen, rubbing his hands over his groggy face. He had one sock on; the other foot was bare. His hair stuck out in every direction and his stubble was at an impressive length. His eyes were still a little blurry and he definitely needed to brush his teeth, but all in all, it was an endearing sight.
"Mornin'," The engineer gave her a squinty grin and trudged to the coffee machine. Tash was at the Brita drinking her second glass of water.
"Good Morning, Stark." She finished her glass, placing it into the sink.
"Nice day? Good run?" He was searching the cabinet for a filter.
"Beautiful day. It's getting colder, for sure. High possibility of snow within the next forty-eight hours."
"Huh," the engineer nodded. "That's good then. Rockefeller Center will look even nicer when there's a good dusting."
"I agree."
The lack of substance in such early morning conversations used to annoy Natasha. Now, however, she admitted with only a little embarrassment that she rather enjoyed the small talk. Maybe she really was being domesticated…and it wasn't all that bad.
By noon, the team had finished a few SHIELD issued training courses and everyone was planning on going out for a late lunch. It was technically Thor's turn to choose the food, but since he had returned to Asgard for an indefinite political assignment, the choice fell to Barton.
At around 2 pm, the team was all showered and dressed to go out to one of New York's most popular barbecue joints: Round Up. The unofficial motto of the place was: If you can kill it, we can cook it. They served everything: cow and pork, of course, but also venison and veal and buffalo - and for a very special price, moose.
So, thirty five minutes after ordering, Tash had a lean turkey burger on her plate, Steve had a massive BLT, and Banner was too busy holding a stopwatch between Barton and Stark to enjoy his own freshly made kabobs.
Tony and Clint sat on opposite sides of the table, both staring down at their own personal "Round Up Canadian Challenge 42 oz. Moose Steak" that they each had ordered just for this moment. A competition: who could finish the most meat in the shortest time?
They had laid down ground rules, of course, about drinking and sides and vomiting (which was an automatic forfeit, by the way). Despite having told them they were both idiots, the whole team was secretly looking forward to the match.
"I hope you took a good shit this morning, Stark, cuz you're gonna be stuffed from your throat to your colon." Barton had an absolute devilish smile on his face.
"Yah, well, you need the protein, birdbrain. It'll help you build some bulk in places where there isn't much of anything," and with the steak knife in his hand, he pointed oh-so-not-discreetly to the archer's crotch.
"Why you little – "
"Well, what did you expect? Running around in tight leather pants for all those years had to cause some shrinkage, I mean its science! Did you kn-"
Banner did them all a service and clamped his mouth over Tony's hand. "Let's go you two, enough smack talk. The next thing that comes out of those mouths is moose, you understand me?"
The countdown began.
"Ok, here we go," Bruce looked at his watch and prepared to hit the button. "In 3…2…1…EAT!"
45 minutes later, Tony was absolutely green with nausea. His hands were shaking. His tongue and jaw were so sore he couldn't move anything above the neck. He had to keep his eyes closed to direct the next forkful into his protesting mouth. He was hallucinating his dead Italian grandmother. Her voice was in his ear: "Mangia, Anthony, Mangia!" This was true hell.
Barton…well, Barton was a mess. He was making Tony look like a competitive eater. Barton had the meat sweats. His face was clammy, his hand and mouth were covered in steak sauce. He'd barfed into his mouth a while ago, and Tony had tried to call him on a forfeit; but the Archer, much to his own credit, had looked Stark straight in the eye and without flinching, swallowed it back down.
It was disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.
And it was really damn entertaining.
But now, both men were hardly in any condition to continue. Clint had just resigned to chewing the same piece for the past five or so minutes. He was done, and whether or not he would admit it, so was Tony.
Finally, it was the Russian who spared their lives. "Alright, boys, that's enough." And before they could sluggishly protest, Tash grabbed their plates. She wasn't mad, which was clear by the disgusted smirk on her face, but she was absolutely right. They were done. A quick look at the platters and it was obvious that Tony had out-eaten Hawkeye, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Tony raised his shaky hands above his head. "Yusssss," he formed the words past a mouthful of meat. "I…am…the victor…." He groaned and put his head down on the table.
Barton just watched Tash take away his plate and let out a very pitiful Thank you that made Rogers and Banner laugh. The redhead just smiled and patted him on the back – which was definitely not the jarring motion that he needed, because the Archer gagged a little and ran to the bathroom.
Romanoff watched Barton stagger off and she shot another pitying look at the sedentary Tony Stark.
My Boys…
Later that night
"No thanks, guys. I really have to finish this new model study I'm doing. Maybe next time."
"Sure thing, Brucey. Hey, you text me and let me know how that mock up is going. I want full read outs of the preliminary stress tests and dynamics analysis." Stark clapped Banner briefly on the shoulder.
"Sure thing, Tony." And the doctor retreated back into his lab, searching absentmindedly for his pencil that he didn't realize was stuck behind his ear.
Tash had insisted that Hawkeye and Iron Man try to go for a walk tonight to begin to work off the several pounds of meat they had gorged themselves on earlier in the afternoon. Barton, who was still mad at Stark for winning the challenge, insisted that Natasha at least accompany them so he wouldn't be stuck alone with "buckethead." At this point, with the three of them going, Steve had decided to tag along as well.
It wasn't often that the team members got to just casually stroll through New York. Every corner held a memory, good and bad, of battles or accidents - and even some normal events like a good hot dog vendor or a favorite street performer. For Steve, it was a lot more. He would ramble on about buildings and architecture from the 30's and 40's, talking about people who used to live Southside, or certain streets and developments that were special to him. The rest of the crew enjoyed hearing him talk about it, as he never opened up much about his past life.
They walked for a good forty-five minutes in one direction, sweater collars up and hands in pockets: chatting, discussing, debating. It took all of ten minutes for Barton to forget he was still sore about losing, and soon he and Stark were tossing ideas back and forth about a new design for his arrow heads.
The wind was nipping at their ears and noses, but short respites in crowded cafes along their walk warmed them up again. They had all agreed that they would make it to the pier and then turn around. It was a long walk, for sure, but it was in good company.
They reached the pier at half past eight. The ocean waves swelled up to the side of the docks and mooring, crashing noisily but predictably on the breezeway's concrete slabs and giant boulders. The breakwater was loud, but relaxing in only the way an ocean can be. The waves were the heartbeat of the sea, the blood flow of the world.
They all leaned against the sturdy wooden posts and gazed thoughtfully into the black water. The sunlight was scarce at this time of the year, and it was already dark. The moon, however, shone a path across the water and lit the bay area well enough that the harbor was clearly outlined.
Steve sniffled slightly, the cold making his nose run, and Tash wordlessly handed him a tissue from her pocket. He accepted it.
A stray cloud rolled over the moon, casting them all into grey darkness. If it weren't for the odd lamppost on the pier, they wouldn't have been able to see a thing. The radio silence was pleasant for the team, and they all reveled in the peace of the moment. Barton smiled to himself and hung his head against the nipping breeze coming in off the ocean. The breeze was causing a small crinkling sound against his hearing aids, like wind running over the receiver of a telephone. He turned to put his back to the wind.
What his keen eyes found at the other end of the pier caused him to gasp and stiffen.
"Oh, god." Barton's voice was incredibly strained and quiet, but it caught the attention of the whole team who had been looking in the opposite direction to which he had just turned.
"What? What's wrong? Clint?" Steve was in hyper vigilance mode.
"Wh- what do we do?" and Hawkeye pointed.
At the opposite branch of the large dock, a man stood shakily, obviously weeping, unbalanced on one of the posts. His loosened tie was blowing back into his face, and his shirt was untucked and soiled. He had his arms out. His shoes, wallet, and expensive jacket were folded neatly on the planks. He was going to jump.
"Sir!? Sir, no!" Tony was already running to the other end of the pier, the rest of the crew on his tail.
"Wha-?!" The man turned around. He stank of booze and his eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying. He took in the group of strangers and waved them off.
"Jus' lemme do it." Another small sob wracked his body. "You don' understand. She left me. She left me and she took m' kids and they're not ever, never comin' back." The man buried his face in his hands and swayed dangerously on the post. The whole team was on high alert.
It was Nat who spoke next. "Friend, what's your name?"
He looked at her warily. "M- m'name i-is Henry…Henry McDouglas."
"Ok, Henry, well why don't you come down from there and we'll buy you a hot cup of coffee and talk this over, ok? We can help, I promise, but you don't want to do this, Henry." And Nat took a hesitant step forward. Her advance sent Mr. McDouglas into hysterics.
"DON'T!" Henry screamed, flailing, making his position on the slippery and almost icy pier even less stable. "DON'T COME ANY CLOSER! I'LL JUMP! I'LL DO IT, - I SWEAR!"
Nat quickly retreated, but her face was as stoic and focused as ever.
Steve spoke next, keeping his hands in front of him. "We know, Henry. You can do what you want, you have all the control here. We just want you to come down and talk about it first. We won't try anything, I promise. Do you know who I am? Who we are?"
Henry just looked confused and slightly wary. "Should I?"
"I'm Steve Rogers, you might know me as Captain America. This," he gestured to Barton, "Is Hawkeye. These are our other teammates, Iron Man and Black Widow. We're the Avengers. We are here to help. Will you please talk to us? I'd really like it if you would come down from there."
The man looked shocked. "Well holy shi'," he muttered. "Here I am try'n' ta kill m'self and fuckin' Cap'n 'merica and his team show up." The man thought about it for a moment. "Ok, yah, 'k, I'm, um, I'm gonna come down now, 'f that's ok." Then almost as an afterthought: "Tha' water looked really fuckin' cold, anyway."
"That's great, Henry, that's just great." Steve smiled, let out a breath and his shoulders sagged. Henry moved to climb down. The tension as fading from the air, and the team visibly relaxed.
But that's when Henry slipped.
Wordlessly, the drunken man toppled backwards into the churning dark sea. Steve rushed forward to catch him, but caught nothing but a face-full of the side rail. He was milliseconds too late.
"BARTON, CALL 911. GET A PARAMEDIC HERE FAST."
Steve was stripping off his heavy coat getting ready to jump into the water himself when a second splash sounded only moments after the first one. Steve leaned over the side, straining to see. And there, bobbing up and down, searching for the lost civilian, was Tony Stark.
"DAMMIT, TONY!" Steve was more than frustrated. That water had to be near to freezing temperatures. Steve would have been fine. He was always an oven; the super serum had his body running at excessively high temperatures. Tony on the other hand was painfully human. He could succumb to a number of things: fatigue, hypothermia, hypoxia… the list ran through Steve's head. But sense told him that one rescuer in the water was enough. Stark would be fine…. He better be fine.
Steve took his eyes off the water for a minute, and looked back at the other teammates. Barton was speaking curtly and pointedly into his cell phone, giving locations, counts, and coordinates. Steve gave him clearer directions, his extensive knowledge of the city proving painfully useful. Natasha was backtracking, dashing down the pier. She was going to wait near the beach by the water's edge for the two men when they emerged. Steve called her back, throwing his own jacket and Henry's discarded blazer into her hands to wrap the two up if they made it to the beach before paramedics arrived with blankets. She nodded, accepting the items, and pivoted back towards the shore, returning to a full sprint.
Steve was comforted by their action plan, and returned his gaze to the water to see – nothing?
Why was there nothing? Where were they? WHERE WERE THEY?!
And suddenly – there, a bobbing head, but not Tony's calm and focused head, not his heroic and intent head, but a drunken mess yelling and begging for help, panicking and flailing. That head. Was he... Swimming? No, it wasn't the right kind of flailing. He was… clinging. He was clinging to Tony for dear life. Not only was he clinging to Tony, but he was trying to use the sober man as a flotation device. Dread filled Steve's stomach as the scene played out before him. The man was pushing Tony under the water, trying desperately to stay afloat for his own sake, but thoroughly drowning his rescuer.
"TONY!" Steve called out down to the men twenty feet below him. He craned, watching Tony attempt to free himself of the larger man's panic-induced iron grip. Steve knew he had no choice now. He had to go in too. With his enhanced hearing, he could detect the faint sound of the sirens getting closer and closer to the pier, but they were still at least two minutes away. He only hoped they would arrive in time.
And with that, Steve Rogers willingly dove into the icy ocean waters…
… For the second time in eighty years.
Tony had a directive: save Henry, the poor bastard.
Stark had remained fairly silent during the interaction with the suicidal father and now-ex-husband. He couldn't trust himself to speak. Too many times had Tony been that close to throwing himself into oblivion. Depression was a nasty piece of business, and sometimes, well…even Avengers have those moments of weakness.
Stark had watched the team relax when Henry began his descent, but Tony was strung too tight to do so. He knew the moment they first spoke to Henry that this was not a man who really wanted to die. So when his footing slipped and the slightly overweight drunkard fell backwards, Tony knew he had no choice. He ran and jumped without any hesitation, landing a perfect dive into the briny depths below. Henry had surfaced for a few seconds before thrashing downwards into the water. He obviously wasn't an Olympic swimmer. Tony dove deep and wide, searching for a warm body. Henry had clung to him then, about ten feet below the surface. His grip was tight and Tony was actually grateful – it made kicking and hauling him towards air that much easier.
But then he didn't let go, and he didn't stop thrashing.
Stark tried desperately to calm the man down. "Stop, Henry, stop!" Tony was getting mouthfuls of water for his efforts as the man splashed and tugged at him. The engineer was coughing away the brine, reaching to halt the man's movements, but Mr. McDouglas was too panicked and confused to realize what was going on. Henry was hyperventilating, reaching desperately for a solid land that was still a hundred yards to their left with a signaling Natasha waiting for them. It would have been an easy, albeit freezing, swim if Henry had just cooperated, but fear was building in Tony as the heavier and taller man that he was rescuing began to significantly push him under. Pretty soon, it was Stark who was gonna need rescuing. Tony tried to kick away, spinning and thrashing himself, but Henry's grip grew and grew until it was painful. Tony tried diving down and going deep until Henry would let go, but the man would scream and dig in with his fingernails, wrenching Tony back up to the surface where he would get a split second to breathe before Henry was on top of him again. If the engineer had had enough time in the air or enough breath, he would have called out for help from his team, but he hoped and prayed that they would recognize his struggle and come to his aid unprovoked.
Tony twisted away once again and brought his head up to the surface. He gulped in a huge breath before Henry regained his steadfast grip and pushed down on Tony's neck with his entire shoulder and upper body. Stark was now being effectively pinned beneath the other man with a large hand covering his jaw. Only a foot from the surface, but a distance had never seemed so far.
Tony needed to breathe, he needed air. The cold was sapping his energy, and his heartbeat was growing erratic. The water threatened his nostrils and clouded his vision. This rescue was not going to plan. In a last ditch effort, Tony kicked out wildly at Henry once more. The poor man screamed loudly and beat his legs out to silence Tony's efforts, landing one solid sucker-punch into Stark's submerged gut. It knocked the wind out of him, and the instinctual pull back of air after such a hard hit was too powerful for Tony to override. His diaphragm retracted and drew in a gulp of nothing but seawater.
The cold ocean filled his lungs and stray bubbles escaped Tony's nose. He let out one last violent spasm, but other than that, the Avenger went absolutely still. A haze surrounded him, both mentally and physically. The water didn't seem quite so cold anymore. It was almost nice. His lungs didn't scream for air, his throat didn't burn. It was almost like falling asleep.
Ton's eyes were flickering closed when he felt the weight of Henry leave his body. Ten seconds later, without anything to hold him near the surface, Tony felt himself sinking. Deeper and deeper he fell, so slowly and gracefully. It felt like a ballet as he floated through the water. It was so quiet down here, so peaceful. Tony's sluggish eyes cast one look at the surface; only the moonlight was penetrating the water's edge. He lazily judged his depth at about twenty feet, now. Nobody would be bale to see him down here. He would just sink to the bottom of the sea and stay there. His eyes closed.
I hope they don't ship Dummy to MIT. He deserves better than that…
That was Tony Stark's last thought before a solid mass hit the water. The underwater vacuum it created sent a loud echo throughout the bay that reached Tony's ears, making his eyes shoot open. He watched the dark shadow of the shape hesitate near the surface, spinning in each direction, before locking onto Tony's location. the engineer continued his slow descent as the shape came nearer and nearer to him; suddenly, the dark body was upon him, and two warm, large hands grabbed Tony around his stomach and ripped him upwards toward the surface, kicking frantically.
Tony felt his face break the water tension of the surface, and he felt the cold biting air nip at his face, but Stark didn't have the energy to cough, to breathe. He was on the verge of consciousness, slipping faster and faster away until…SLAP.
Tony's head was smacked to one side and his eyes flew open in panic and more than just a tad of indignance. His chest instinctively heaved and he began to spew lungful after lungful of disgusting dark water and bile up his throat, all over the shoulder of – Steve?
"Oh, thank you, God." Steve Rogers took one look at Tony's aware and breathing face and he clung to the smaller man with all his might, comforting himself in the knowledge that he hadn't been too late. Steve was treading water easily for the both of them, his blonde hair plastered and wet, sticking to his forehead and leading droplets to dribble on his nose. His breath come out as fog over the cool water and his eyes were searching Tony's face for recognition and a sign that the engineer was alright.
Tony made eye contact amidst his terrible wet hacks, but successfully drew in haggard breath after haggard breath between his fits. Steve held him upright over his shoulder with one hand and used his other arm to swim them into shore. Steve was shivering slightly from the cold, and the fact that Tony wasn't shivering at all was not a good sign. The brunette's lips were blue and his whole body was snow white. He needed to get to dry land immediately.
"H-Henr-ry?" Tony's throat was raw and crackling. The sound of it made Steve wince.
"He's fine, Tony. Barton threw him down a life jacket from the pier after I jumped in." Steve said between breaststrokes. "I ripped him off of you, strapped him in, and pushed him towards shore. Nat picked him up. He's getting checked out by EMTs now." True enough, the flashing lights on shore blinded the two swimmers.
"'m glad…he's ok…"
"Hm," Steve's jaw tightened at the thought of the man who had tried to drown his teammate. Tony noticed.
"D-Don't be mad - wasn't h' f-fault."
"I know, Tony, I just…."
"I know…"
Steve covered the last thirty yards to the beach in record time, noticing as their swim progressed that Tony was growing more and more silent. He tried to keep the man talking, but to no avail. Panic grew in the soldier, and the moment Steve could touch the silty bottom, he had Tony up and in his arms bridal style, sprinting through the water. He reached the beach, his thighs burning and his lungs heaving, but determined to get Stark to medical.
Tony was laid gently onto an awaiting stretcher, and an oxygen tank was hooked up to his face. The man's eyes were struggling to stay open, and his chest was still heaving slightly. Steve drew a hand across his face in worry. Nat came up behind him and draped a fluffy dry blanket over his shoulders, no doubt from the EMTs. A similar shroud was wrapped tightly around Tony's sopping wet and hypothermic body. The ambulance with Henry had already left.
A paramedic approached Steve, but was waved off. Steve could already feel his body warming itself back up again. Barton emerged from the back of the ambulance with a thermokit, strapping the hot pack to the neck board, trying to heat Stark's main arteries. Tony needed to leave. He needed to get to the hospital.
The ambulance workers loaded the now unresponsive hero into the back and, sirens blaring, flew to the emergency room. Steve, Nat, and Barton stood in their tracks. They had walked here; they had no car to follow the ambulance. Fear was at the back of all their throats. Barton called Banner, and after less than thirty seconds on the line, the call was over. Bruce was on his way. He was coming to pick them up.
Tony could feel himself resurfacing to consciousness. It had happened a few times here and there, he knew that much, but never long enough for him to learn anything about what was happening in the conscious world. He had no semblance of how much time had passed between each of his attempts at lucidity, but he didn't really care. His mind was fuzzy and sluggish, but this time felt different. He felt like he was really coming around. His eyebrows scrunched, his tongue ran along the roof of his dry mouth – yup, he was definitely waking up this time, even if it was just to get a cup of coffee.
Tony mustered up all his focus and energy to pry his eyelids open. They resisted, but much to his credit, he managed to force them into half-squints that allowed some light to pass through. The hospital room was dark. Only gentle lights from the hallway permeated his little cave of warmth and healing. Tony usually hated hospitals, but he could clearly remember the cold – the agonizing bone-deep chill that the doctors had magically cast from his body. He gave a small shiver at the very memory of the sensation. Mr. Stark couldn't stay mad at the group of doctors who had made him so nice and toasty warm after such an inconvenient dip into Hudson Bay.
Tony gave a whimsy of a thought to Henry's well being, but then remembered what Steve had assured him of – he was alright, probably much better off than Tony was at the moment.
The dark haired engineer gave a small stir, testing his fingertips and his toes, before slowly clenching and unclenching his muscle groups. He tested all the way up his body, from his ankles, to his knees, to his thighs, to his midsection and his arms, and then his neck and face. Everything seemed to be in working order. That was good.
The urge to sit up and steady himself was too great for such an independent mind, and he quickly set upon the task, squirming his shoulders and setting his jaw. All he would need now to prop himself forward would be a deep, stabilizing breath and then he would hoist his abdominals and convince them to function.
On the count of three….
1…2…3…
Tony inhaled deeply and sharply – or, at least he tried.
The sudden intake of breath inflated his lungs only halfway before the air sacs spasmed and thrashed, roiling dangerously and sending Tony into a horrendous fit of coughing. He craned his neck and dizzily pivoted himself onto one side, leaning on his elbow, wracking violently and loudly. There was a chorus of immediate clattering throughout the room, lights threw on, chairs were shoved back, and suddenly pairs of hands were upon him, touching him, patting him, soothing him, steadying him. One of the hands hit the call button apparently, because several nurses rushed in, followed by a silver-haired doctor in a pristine white coat.
Had Tony been overtly aware of the presence of so many other humans, he may have felt self-conscious; but he was much too preoccupied coughing up his lungs to frankly give a damn. It wasn't until the ringing ceased in his ears and the whooping died down to a manageable level that Tony flung himself back upon his propped up pillows, absolutely spent and shaking. He was met with a dozen eyes staring at him in anticipation.
Tony cleared his throat gently, attempting to speak. The doctor took the foreground, pressing his palm to Tony's bicep.
"Mr. Stark, your lungs are recovering from hypothermic shock and a mild pre-pneumonial infection. You swallowed quite a bit of the Hudson the other day. Please take it easy."
Tony nodded sincerely. The doctor gave him a small smile.
"Your charts are looking good, you've woken up earlier than expected, and your core temperature is well out of the danger zone. You're doing quite well, and you're expected to make a full recovery." The whole team smiled and Nat patted Tony's leg through the heavy quilt. The doctor plucked a pen from his coat pocket and scribbled a few more notes on the clipboard besides Tony's bed. "I'll leave you to your company, now, Mr. Stark. I'll check back in a few hours." And with that, the Doctor and the nurses escorted themselves out, leaving only a WW2 hero, two assassins, and a short scientist to gaze anxiously at the man in the bed. Tony gifted them with a small pitiful wave of the fingers.
"Hey." He wheezed out.
It was Steve who spoke first.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like a…half a million…bucks…" Tony huffed between shallow breaths. "Which, coincidentally…is…the same amount of money…that it cost…to buy the watch…that I ruined…during my impromptu…swim session." Tony was wheezing, but his smile was evident, as were the smiles of those around him.
"You gave us quite a scare, Tony." Bruce took a look at Tony's updated chart, and obviously satisfied with what he saw, placed it back on its peg and leaned his hip against the nearby counter. "How are you really feeling?"
"I…I'm good, guys…I swear. Just a…little sore and tired…" Tony was being sincere.
It was Barton who spoke next. "Well, bud, you're a hero. And as a hero, we thought that it was only right that you be rewarded with a gift." The archer grinned wide, uncaring to Bruce's responsive groan.
If Tony had been paying attention, he would have seen all of the other Avengers avert their gaze and bite back their smiles, but he was too focused on Clint and the prospect of a present.
"For…*wheeze*…me?" Tony was genuinely touched and even a little excited. It had been forever since he had gotten to unwrap a present. Barton placed the beautifully wrapped box upon his lap, and watched avidly as Tony strained to open it, all the while stifling his giggles, but Tony was too focused on using his energy to shed the wrapping paper to take note.
Finally, the last crease was unfolded and the paper could be easily slipped off to reveal-
"WATER WINGS?!" Tony shouted in disgust, which pushed his lungs much too hard and resulted in a whole new round of painful coughing. Nat punched Barton on the arm, and moved to help Tony through this bout, but not before Tony tossed the box of children's flotation devices at Clint's head. Everyone was laughing though, despite their best efforts. Tony would kill him for this later, but for right now he needed a cough drop and a long nap.
Everything settled down quickly, and pretty soon, the engineer was asleep with his head on Tash's lap, her own body situated upon the bed and her back against the headboard. Steve was sprawled across the one cushioned chair while Barton perched himself on the counter. Bruce had laid claim to the cot, and it took less than five minutes for the whole team to fall fast asleep for the first time in days in the solidarity and comfort of knowing that all of them would be awake come morning.
Thank you guys so much! I had a lot of fun writing this one, please review and let me know what you think. I need some prompts guys, please! If you want the series to continue, drop a line and review. Your feedback keeps me going!
