Steve couldn't stop running.
He was exhausted. Banner's stitches had long since ripped. He honestly had no idea where his shield was. He didn't remember exactly in what direction he should be going, but he didn't care.
He couldn't stop running.
Tony was tucked into his chest like a rag doll. It had taken them less than a minute to get him out of the suit – most of the system locks were sliced cleanly through by what he could only assume were the droids. The Mark VIII was beaten to hell, and Tony wasn't faring much better. Anyone could tell the engineer was on Death's door. His hair was plastered to his forehead in a cold sweat. Each of his breaths came shakier and bloodier than the last, and crimson spots speckled his body like a grotesque Twister mat. Steve, for the first time, cursed his enhanced hearing - each unsteady heartbeat struggling in Tony's chest resonated in the super soldier's brain, burning itself into his memory and igniting nightmare after nightmare.
Steve could only pray they hadn't gotten there too late, but he knew that he couldn't waste any time he might have left.
So he kept running.
FIVE MINUTES EARLIER
"Tony? Oh, god, Tony. It's ok, pal. Tony we've got you, now. It's alright." Barton was tripping over his own words, honestly unsure if he was muttering reassurances for his own benefit or the benefit of his best friend lying motionless on the earthen floor. His nimble archery fingers were uncharacteristically numb, fumbling along the gnarled and twisted pieces of titanium alloy.
"Tony? Tony please stay with me, pal. I can't lose you, Stark. Not today, pal, not today. Tony, you're gonna be fine, Tony, I promise...I promise."
Clint had never seen him so destroyed – so utterly mutilated. It was ghoulish – completely unnatural. His flesh was torn; he had been run through God-knows-how-many times…there was so much blood. Do people even have that much blood? How is he even alive? How can we even save him? I…
Steve appeared at his side without giving Barton time to warn him. Before Barton could even hold out a forearm to stop the solider from advancing, Steve's eyes found Tony and his expression seemed to go blank. His eyes focused in on the sight before him and he sat back on his heels, a small gasp catching in his throat. Steve barely gave himself half a second, before he sprang back into action, mumbling to himself and helping Barton to take off the last pieces of the suit. Tony was free in moments, and Steve scooped him effortlessly into his arms, fatigue and injuries forgotten.
"Tony needs a medivac immediately. If we don't get him cleared soon, He's not going to last much longer."
The archer nodded, face flushed. They ran from the room, climbing over the destroyed mounds of droids. The team had made relatively quick work of the hoards as soon as they setup their lines in the corridor. The droids were forced to file in a line – walking single file to their deaths. The combined forces of the Avengers had destroyed them easily enough once the team had gotten into the rhythm of it – but if they had been caught with their backs to the walls, Steve had no doubt that the rest of his crew would be in the same shape as Tony….
Oh Tony…
Steve held him closer, stumbling quickly through the dimly lit passageways. Natasha and Thor were piggybacking off each other, taking down the last few droids, but Sam Wilson had the corridor already secured and was ushering them forwards. Sam had been the one to spot Tony on the heat scanner once the battle had died down, and his retrieval had quickly become the number one priority.
"GO, GO, GO!" Sam waved them through the hall, flagging their movements and directing them to the front door. Natasha fired into the dark, and the screams of the last few droids echoed in the tunnels.
"Get Stark out of here. Now!" Her tone was like cold steel. This was not a good situation, and nobody was pretending to be optimistic.
Barton took off as fast as he could go, just feet behind Rogers. It didn't take him long at all to realize that he was not going to be able to keep up. Steve was in full Captain America mode, sprinting fast enough to outrun a jeep, never mind a tired archer.
But Hawkeye, to his credit, didn't stop trying. He followed Steve up the side roads of the cliff, the gap between them getting larger and larger as Steve maintained his ridiculous superhuman pace. Clint was struggling to catch his breath, his eyes glassy and his chest burning, but he kept running. He kept running until Steve was hundreds of yards ahead of him, until he couldn't hear anything but the pounding in his hearing aids and a faint buzzing sound. He ran until his legs gave out, until bile and fear snaked up his throat and he was suddenly on his knees, retching into the French countryside, his whole body shaking and his hands grappling in his hair as panic welled in his throat, making everything clench and tremble.
Sounds were all around him – his own heartbeat, his shallow breathing, the sound of Tony's breaths, the sound of Steve mumbling, the sound of the water lapping so innocently at the shores of the town as if nothing had happened – there was too much sound.
Barton was clawing at his ears, wrenching his aids out, scratching, and muttering incoherently. The aids jostled in protest at the efforts of his numb fingers and screeched a high pitch protest at being so carelessly handled, which just laid Barton flat on the ground, wincing.
He didn't even realize Natasha was rubbing small circles on his back until she grabbed his face in her hands. He found her eyes and immediately stilled, the hearing aids still screeching away. She delicately plucked them from his ears, one by one, and shut them off, putting them in his chest pocket carefully, making sure he saw where she was storing them. The silence was intoxicating, and the overwhelmed Avenger almost sobbed aloud with relief, his head falling backwards to face the sun.
She cupped his face again, his slight stubble tickling at her palms. A delicate thumb came to his cheek, wiping away a frustrated tear from the Archer's face. "Shhhhhhh…" She mouthed. She leaned forward, still crouching, and pulled his face to her sleeve, wiping some spittle from his lips. She handed him her canteen, and he drank small sips, hiccupping slightly. But the archer was breathing normally again, feeling safe in the enveloping silence and knowing that his lover was there. She hugged him quickly, humming to him, knowing that he couldn't hear her tune, but was soothed by the vibrations against his shoulder.
Barton nodded into her, burying his face deep into the red curls licking at the nape of her neck. She smelled like sweat and gunpowder. His calm deepened.
Natasha held him for only a few more moments, and then a familiar static filled the air. Barton opened his eyes as a heavy wind descended upon the team in the field. The quinjet hovered above them, and before Clint knew it, Thor had him by the waste and was launching himself upwards towards the aircraft. Sam Wilson had Natasha only a few feet away, jetting upwards with the spy wrapped carefully around his middle.
As a team, they carefully flew up into the docking bay of the quinjet, the doors sealing quickly behind them. Before they even had time to regain their balance on solid ground, the quinjet was taking off, Bruce Banner at the controls, extra years of stress seemingly etched into his face. From the corner of Barton's eye, he could see Tony Stark's motionless form locked and sealed into the medivac transport tube, field scans of his body being taken electromagnetically and sent to the nearest Class A trauma center in Paris.
The team's ETA with the quinjet maintaining top speed would be less than twenty minutes.
The Archer doubted it would be fast enough.
A pincushion.
Stark looked like a pincushion.
Natasha had seen a lot of gore in her day – some of it she had inflicted. She seen stabbing, shooting, pulling, twisting, snapping, tearing…hell, she'd even seen some flaying once in Lithuania.
But pincushioning? That was new.
She watched the gurney take Stark from the helipad and load him into the high speed elevators that would take him directly to surgery. She had called ahead while they were in the quinjet. While she delivered specifics to the Chief of Surgery in perfect Parisian French, JARVIS sent their orthopedic and thoracic surgeons every scan of Tony's skewered body.
If Stark survived this, he would look like a Dalmatian, covered in spots from head to toe.
But survival was the first step.
Natasha didn't usually shut herself down the way she used to – the way she had to, especially before Budapest. But today, she found herself resigning – not disassociating, but simply centering herself on solidity. The solid facts were that Barton needed her to keep him calm. Thor needed her to explain what the medical devices were doing. Bruce needed her to keep his heart rate down. Sam needed her to comfort Steve, and Steve needed her to glance into his eyes every minute and give him a slow nod that was supposed to be meaningful.
Each person she helped here found their own meanings in her small reassurance. They found personalization, as if she were letting down her own walls just for them. It made them feel special – loved a little bit extra – something everyone needs once in a while. In some cases, it was true, she was dropping walls; in others, it was a façade of a dropping façade spun out of earnest sympathy and compassion rather than solely for the point of deception. Basically, what she was doing was the spy equivalent of a white lie.
Let them think I know what I'm doing. Let them think I'm just as internally unstable right now as they are.
As long as it helps them sleep at night.
Her fears were controlled within her. Pent up and clawing at their cage, but harmless. Meanwhile, pheromones leaked from the pores of everyone who she had seated in the waiting room. The smell of fear was all around. Fear and blood and sweat.
Towels were…borrowed…from the locked supply closet. They were passed to soldiers, gods, doctors, and assassins alike. Each numbly began to wipe sweat (and in most cases, Tony's blood) off their faces, chests, and hands. When they missed a spot, it was wiped for them. When they needed warm water and soap, they were led to a washroom. When they needed water or a pillow, it appeared.
This was Natasha's job. A quiet mother with even quieter maternal instincts. She did what she did half out of training and half out of decency, but not solely out of compassion.
Deep down, the thought of losing Stark ripped her apart. He was a dear friend and confidant, and she would mourn him severely in her own way – but she had mourned many friends – more than the world would ever know even existed. But more importantly, Natasha knew what Tony's death would do to Barton. She knew what it would do to Steve, and to Pepper. She knew Rhodey would never be the same – though the United States Air Force might be better off as a whole…
Agent Natasha Romanoff was a spy, and adaptation is in her nature – she should always be ready for change and be prepared to accept it. If Tony Stark were to die tonight in a French Hospital, her life as an Avenger would end, and a new one would begin.
New friends to make, new names to remember, new backstories to fabricate, and new identities to assume. She had grab bags all over the world. She knew what she needed to do, and on any other occasion, like so many other occasions in her life, she would do it without any hesitation.
But her piercing gaze swept over a pained pair of hazel eyes, slight freckles dusting the bridge of the nose that separated them, and an unruly lock of dirty blonde hair teasing the temple of the face that she had caressed so many times in private. She watched the way his hand curled involuntarily around the armrest of Steve Roger's chair, the Captain who sat next to him, willing the soldier to stay by his side. She watched as Thor's calloused hand patted her favorite one of his shoulders softly in comfort. These were her truest friends, but this was his family.
If Tony were to die, and the team to disassemble, she would always have Barton. But if they were to lose the team, Barton would only have her.
She couldn't let that happen to him.
For the first time in a long time, Natasha Romanoff found herself hoping that things wouldn't change.
"Ant'ony Edward Stark?"
The surgeon's accent was thick, but the name was clear enough to send a ragtag bunch of superheroes scrambling to attention outside the operating ward. The hard backs of waiting room chairs had been their only home for the past 20 hours while Tony's life was in limbo, but nobody was really having a hard time leaving them behind.
"That's us. Me. Well, we-but, us, in general." Steve's tone was that of a nervous kid from Brooklyn, not holding even a trace of a commanding officer. His hands gestured wildly to himself and the others in a confusing series of gesticulations that only amplified his nerves.
"We're here for Tony. Yes, Tony is why we…are…here." He cringed. So did everyone else.
"Well, Monsieur." The surgeon flipped his charts open, skimming over French notes on the surgery, nodding and pushing his reading glasses up his nose. "Your friend, eh? Iz' a fighter. Mon dieu, hiz heart stop ze beating t'ree time - but non, we got heem! Ze blood bank is empty, Monsieur," he laughed, hopefully joking…hopefully… "But he will live. Give your friend seex more hours to, eh, recover. Zen, you see him, oui?"
There were a few smiles and one large collective sigh of relief as Steve gratefully shook the surgeon's hand. The doctor went down the line, recognizing Avenger after Avenger, even stopping with Thor to have an ER nurse take their picture. Natasha thanked him in French, and the two had a soft conversation on one side of the room, the Russian undoubtedly getting more details from the doctor in his native tongue. The group, which had grown since their initial arrival, finally kicked back to life, making phone calls, grabbing real meals, finding a shower…
Well before the surgery had finished, Coulson had showed up with Miss Potts and a very welcome onslaught of clean SHIELD PT uniforms. The grey sweats were welcomed by all, especially Thor who had started to feel self-conscious about his cape somewhere around hour 4 when a rushing nurse tripped over it. He had jumped to help her to her feet, slewing chivalries – the poor girl's ovaries had probably exploded on the spot, but luckily for her she was in a hospital. Had she fainted, all would have been well.
So now they sat again, the Earth's Mightiest Heroes, decked out in matching grey sweat suits.
The CEO of Stark Industries and Coulson (first name, Agent) were the only two in suits – but then again, for those two, business dress was probably their version of comfortable.
Pepper had just slammed her phone back down into her purse after a lengthy conversation with some idiotic investor when its ringtone sounded once more, a low and professional buzzing.
Pepper looked exhausted, obviously considering rejecting the incoming call, until the caller ID flashed across her face. The whole team jumped a little at her shrill gasp as she answered hurriedly and clattered to a quiet hall, black stiletto heels clickity-clacking on the tile floor as she rounded the corner towards the water fountains. Her voice was high and excited, and piqued everyone's curiosity.
Pepper returned within moments, a smile plastered on her face. She gathered everyone around.
"That was Doctor Helen Cho's office." She preluded, everyone catching on in an instant. "She's on her way to Paris." People outright cheered, clapping Pepper on the back as well as each other. "As long as Tony is stable," Pepper continued, tears licking at the corner of her tired and overjoyed eyes, "tissue regeneration should only take one night."
The gravity of Pepper's words seemed to hit Bruce Banner a little later than everyone else. "Wait, so - Helen's coming? Here?" He looked like a kid at Christmas.
His voice was also an octave too high.
"I mean, uh, Helen's coming – how n-nice. Helen is great, yah, gotta love Helen." Literally everyone was staring at him, and he just fiddled with his glasses in typical Bruce manner. "I mean, gotta like Helen. Like her. She's very smart. Great…labcoats. Helen."
Steve blushed slightly and Sam Wilson shook his head, a low chuckle stifled in his throat.
Barton just laughed out loud, watching as Bruce's ears went firetruck red.
The ICU where they were keeping Tony was completely off limits. Once the French Surgeons and Post-Op teams had been alerted of the situation and the arriving guests, all space had been cleared and sanitized for Helen Cho's tissue regeneration therapy – aka The Cradle 2.0.
Even Steve had to admit, thinking about the Cradle left a bad taste in his mouth – especially after everything that had happened with Ultron…But that was in the past, and regardless of what had happened, Helen Cho's Invention was being implemented in mobile trauma units and battlefield medical kits around the world. He couldn't find fault with the invention, just what it had been used for in its sad beginnings…
Dr. Cho greeted the team when they arrived, but promptly set to work unloading and preparing her room. The Cradle was laid in an empty operating room and Tony was wheeled in to meet it.
They hadn't seen their friend since handing him off to the helipad doctors upon arrival, but even as he was wheeled past them, they couldn't really see much of him anyway. Almost 80 percent of his body was wrapped in white gauze and bandages. The doctors had told Natasha some figures – somewhere along the lines of half a mile of sterile wrappings, over four hundred stitches, ten bone screws, twenty one pints of blood – the number made Steve's head spin, and he was glad that Tony was as unconscious and as bundled up as he was when they saw him from the short distance in the hall. Otherwise, their hearts might not have been able to take the sight before them.
The Team was allowed into the gallery to check on Tony after the Cradle had been working its magic for about an hour. At first, stitches had to be carefully removed to let the tissue regeneration work, but only one by one. It was tedious work, but as soon as the outer layers of skin had healed over the puncture wounds, the full Cradle could be allowed to operate normally without stitches getting in the way.
The IV in the engineer's left forearm was taped over with a special reflective tape that told the machine to avoid it – although, as Bruce commented, it would be "fascinating if Tony's tissue cemented an IV Port in his skin," to which Sam commented "it would certainly make doing drugs a lot easier," to which Barton responded "and it would look like a miniature arm penis."
Natasha swatted him for that one…right before adding her own: "miniature penises are something Stark is used to." Which caused Sam Wilson to literally choke on his blueberry muffin to the point where Thor smacked him across the back in order to dislodge the perilous pastry, but only managed to send Falcon face-first into a wall.
So now, seven hours into Tissue Regeneration – Stark was over 85% healed, and Thor was snoring contentedly in the viewing deck of the O.R.. Steve was napping lightly nearby, comforted by the steady beeping of the machines below. Barton was sprawled on the floor perpendicular to the Asgardian, his tousled hair brushing against the blonde's torso. Sam Wilson was in a chair with his legs propped up on Mjolnir, which lay unmoving on the coffee table, and his head tilted back against Steve's shoulder so that the icepack sitting on his slightly broken nose wouldn't shift.
Bruce was geeking out over coffee with Helen in the hospital café, and Natasha had been the only one sensible enough to go with Pepper and Coulson to get a hotel room across the street.
Tony would be kept on sedation until the morning. Steve felt peace wash through his body at the thought of his friend being awake and responsive. Horrible, bloody images of the smaller man's tattered shell would forever haunt the super solider – he doubted he would ever stop seeing the bloodstains in his suit. He shuddered hard, almost disturbing Sam who so gracefully had plopped down onto his shoulder. Steve had a compassion for his teammates that ran deeper than friendship – these men and women were his siblings, the only family he had left on this earth.
He couldn't help but overanalyze the events of the last 48 hours – how close he had come to losing every one of them…
But now wasn't the time to dwell on those things.
Tony is fine, he kept reassuring himself. You got there in time. You had him. You saved him. You didn't let him down. He repeated it in his head like a mantra, soothing himself into a drowsy state.
Tomorrow, Tony would be transported in perfect health back to Stark Towers for a mandatory full day of bedrest – which Steve knew very well that he would undoubtedly ignore. Instead, Tony would immediately begin to redesign and rebuild his Mark VIII, probably starting on a Mark IX while he was in the swing of things.
Come to think of it, Stark would probably complain the whole flight home about his damn suit – about weapons optimizations, problems, troubleshooting – not to mention how whiney he's going to be that the team didn't at least try to salvage some of it…
Steve pondered on this for a moment, eyebrows furrowing together as he drifted off to sleep.
On second thought, maybe the Captain would ask them not to lift sedation until after the fourteen hour flight.
FIN
I'm sorry this update took so long, guys! I'm writing it at 2 am as it is! Midterms, ok. Midterms. Engineering is hard.
Please keep being patient, you're all amazing! And honestly, seeing the reviews makes me spur into action faster, so if you want more updates, REVIEW!
