Christ he was sore.

Everything hurt and he hadn't even moved yet, hadn't so much as attempted to blink. Unfortunately, this situation was way too familiar. Numerous kidnappings where he was robbed of both his consciousness and his dignity, some questionable and possibly slightly unsafe engineering benders resulting in minor—or slightly more than minor explosions, and an awe inspiring and frankly ridiculous number of hangovers, probably Guinness Book worthy, had taught him not to move too suddenly when he woke up feeling this bad.

Focus, genius… deep breaths, assess the damage and the situation, listen before opening your eyes, and for god's sake don't say anything in case you're not alone, he told himself over and over in an effort to both slow his heartbeat and regulate his breathing.

There was no doubt he was in a hospital, judging by the antiseptic tang in the air and the incessant beeping of a nearby machine that clearly said 'I am monitoring your vital signs'. He wasn't going to mention the quality of the bed linens or clothing he was wearing, and what sucked even worse was that he wasn't on the good stuff according the amount of pain he was in and his racing, always overactive while sober brain. Speaking of things that sucked, let's add the fact that his throat hadn't been this dry since his stroll through the scenic outskirts of a cave in Afghanistan.

Okay, hurt but alive, with minimal drugs and something sticky and uncomfortable on his face. Shit... not my face he thought, almost groaning before he caught himself. Then he remembered—the S.H.E.I.L.D slut kissing Steve, or that Steve had been kissing (semantics, whatever), the battle and their fight after it. He couldn't help but notice a pressing weight on his chest, a heaviness he almost hoped was the reactor, but when was he ever that lucky? The memory of their last moments together, the unrestrained super punch and reason he was here, combined with the throb in his chest caused him to gasp...audibly.

"Tony!" The outcry was accompanied by scraping chair legs on the floor and hurried footsteps towards his bed.

Fuck!

Why couldn't this particular head injury be accompanied by short term amnesia? Oh right, yeah, because again, he wasn't that lucky.

He could tell at least one person in the room was Pepper; if her voice hadn't given her away, her perfume and the unmistakable clack of Jimmy Choos' certainly would have. Her cool, slender fingers touched his hand as he heard someone else's shuffled approach behind her.

Barton…please be Barton and not Steve. The power of positive thinking had never seemed to work out for him before, but, hell, it was worth a try…he really, really wasn't ready to see Steve right now. If he was here though, how would he look, well besides gorgeous, obviously? Would he have those sad, pathetic eyes and that sheepish, pouty expression Tony was willing to do anything to change? Or would he still be angry, beautiful blue eyes frigid like chips of the Atlantic ice that had encased him for so long? Would Steve look as he had that day on the helicarrier, smug and righteous, leveling him with that focused, scornful glare? Any of those looks, however, would be preferable to the expression gracing his handsome face as he had pulled back from kissing that whore earlier and then looked at Tony so dismissively…

Jesus. Okay, enough already— man up, see for yourself, you're Tony Stark for Christ's sake, open your eyes… or eye, as apparently one was either taped or swollen closed.

"Oh Tony, thank God you're okay." He heard Pepper's relief laden tone before he saw her small, watery smile, which might actually be more his bleary vision than the quality of her smile, she was almost as used to this as he was, after all.

He blinked several times, which pulled uncomfortably at the dressing on his closed eye, trying to clear some of the grit and film that covered his good eye like a crack-house window. Oh god, he was like Fury now…this had better not be permanent. He had subscribed to some highly reckless fashion choices in the past, and could make almost anything look good, but an eye patch might just be pushing it.

Groaning at the thought, since he could no longer pretend to still be sleeping, he turned but only slightly, because ouch. And that was Barton standing next to Pepper; he would have to give this power of positive thoughts thing a bit more credit. As soon as the thought was formed, though, he wished Steve was there too. He wanted to feel like his…boyfriend?… whatever they were, or used to be—had they broken up?—cared enough to check on him. He supposed kissing someone else then punching your… whatever in the face, hard, would constitute breaking up. Yeah, they didn't call him a genius for nothing.

"Don't try to talk Stark," Barton said hoarsely, as if he had gone a while without speaking. He cleared his throat, twice, and continued, "Broken jaw, and other things…" he waved vaguely at his own face. "Bruce can explain it better, but they would only let two of us stay with you until you woke up, we're first shift."

That explained the shit ton of pain he was in and the desert that was his mouth. This, unsurprisingly, was not his first broken jaw. He knew very well it meant weeks without really speaking and, almost as disturbing, meals fresh from the blender (Dummy will be so excited). He wished he could say the previous time had been a result of super-heroing, but it was a lot like this time, only he had been much younger and didn't have a suit of armor, not that it'd helped, clearly. On the bright side though, single malt scotch through a straw; oh, and also, he wouldn't have to worry about saying anything stupid and embarrassing to Steve, like unashamedly begging him to change his mind. The ache in his chest hurt almost as much as his face did.

He needed to focus and stop thinking about Steve.

"You've been out for a day, Tony." Clint said, pouring a small cup of water from a tacky plastic decanter. He moved towards the bed, cup in hand but Pepper gracefully took it from him, setting it down on the bedside table before pulling a bottle of Evian from her purse. He hoped his thank you expression was as effective with half his face taped up and only one eye. He did not like to be handed things, and who the hell imagined he would drink tap water from a hospital?

"Right…spoiled billionaire," Clint chuckled. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

He tried to answer with a smile, and holy fuck that hurt.

"Tony, here," Pepper said, inserting a straw (yeah, get used to it) into the bottle of water and bringing it to his lips. The water was only slightly cooler than room temperature, meaning either it had been in her purse for a while as she waited for him to wake up, or that she had intentionally bought a non refrigerated one realizing how much of a shock cold water would be when it met the tumbleweeds in his throat. He decided to go with the latter, because in her own way, Pepper was just as brilliant as he was. Okay, focusing back on the water. It was possibly the best thing he had ever tasted, aside from the one Rhodey had given him that glorious day in the desert, and not counting that time Steve had been eating coffee flavored ice cream and had kissed him senseless with a spoonful of it still in his mouth, melting all over the place between them. And in case anyone was wondering, coffee and super soldier was, with scientific certainty (trust him, he'd done the research), the best flavor ever…at least non-sexually, and he wasn't even going to go there, because a boner right now would just be all kinds of awkward.

"Dude, seriously, I can literally hear you thinking. Relax, he's not here."

Wow, had he said any of that out loud? Sometimes that happened and there was not one time when it had been pleasant, but that couldn't be the case here; that was impossible right now because his fucking jaw was wired shut. Therefore, Barton was being ironic and his thoughts must be showing on his face; half his face, whatever, and for some reason Clint read that as Tony didn't want to see Steve.

And, really, that was the million dollar question—did he want to see Steve?

"Tony, he's right. Relax, everything's okay. I'm going to let them know you're awake and I'll get Bruce." Pepper ran her fingers through his hair, his much shorter hair, as she spoke, pushing it back from his forehead. She really was a mother hen sometimes, but he liked his balls hanging right where they were too much to ever call her anything like that to her face. That was as big an insult to her as it was to him. Why hadn't their relationship worked out again?

Oh God, now he was reminiscing about Pepper as well as Steve. He should just think of something simple, something that made sense to him, would help his scattered brain calibrate, like energy conversion in quantum-scale electromechanical systems, or the Boltzmann transport equation.

Even that didn't help to focus or calm his mind. By "everything's okay," she had meant physically. Yeah, a broken face sucked, and they may have shaved his goatee and most likely half his head and he would trudge through a few mostly silent weeks (somewhere angels were rejoicing) but he would recover eventually, probably with the aid of a very expensive plastic surgeon. His broken heart though, how would he recover from that?

Or from this sudden transformation into a teenaged girl?

Now would be a really good time for some of that aforementioned single malt scotch through a straw, or at least a few powerful drops of something through the goddamned tube in his arm.

As soon as Pepper left the room Barton came right up next to him, possibly a little too close, but his peripheral vision was slightly skewed due to the whole tape over the eye thing. He resisted the familiar urge to flinch from the proximity. He wouldn't let what Steve had done cause him to regress and show that kind of weakness again in front of anyone. If he had learned to stand his ground with Howard, he could certainly do it now.

And holy shit, had he really just gone there? Wow, his brain was all over the place. Looks like a super soldier punch to the head was capable of shaking loose some deeply buried—okay, repressed—memories. Or, it was maybe possible he had a concussion, again.

"Listen, I know you're not okay. I know in that fucked up mess of a mind you're thinking you're fine, I can actually see you thinking it, but I was there and I saw it all. Nobody would be fine after that Tony, but it is going to be okay." In an uncharacteristic show of affection, manly, straight guy affection, Clint took his hand and squeezed it. "I've got you. I'm here for you, here for whatever you need." And because this was Barton, he couldn't stay serious for too long.

"If you want me to hang the periodic table of the elements or some equally nerdy science shit for you to stare at, I can do that." The comfortable pressure on his hand subsided and Clint moved back a fraction. "If you want cheeseburger and spicy fry smoothies, as disgusting as that is, I can do that too." Clint grinned, but Tony didn't smile back, he'd learned his lesson from the last time he'd tried to return that gesture, so he nodded slightly instead. It hurt, but welcome to his life for the next few weeks. "But if you want me to sing sappy teenage angst Taylor Swift songs to you, you're one hundred percent shit out of luck."

And that right there was the reason why he had always like Barton best.

"Don't pretend you didn't like the math reference at the end there, only for you buddy."

On second thought, he might have to reconsider his thought from a moment ago because that was about the lamest math related reference ever, although, Barton was from Iowa, and if that wasn't pathetic enough, he had run away to join a fucking carnival…just, wow…could it get any more tragic than that? Okay, Clint was allowed to make lame math references, at least for now.

At the sound of footsteps just outside the door, Clint moved back another few steps. Pepper came in the room, accompanied by Bruce and Natasha. As the two women approached the bed, Bruce chose to check out the monitor in the corner, always the scientist, gathering data first, which is why Banner was his second favorite.

"Glad you're finally up Stark." It was practically a declaration of love coming from Natasha. Thank god he couldn't speak at the moment because he could think of at least ten great comebacks for that, but as previously stated, or thought, whatever okay, he liked his balls hanging precisely where they were. She stepped towards Clint, and together the two retreated to the chairs on the other side of the room. There was always something extra, something more in the glances the spies shared, something unspoken, but meaningful. Not for the first time he wondered why they weren't together. Call him an asshole, everyone did eventually, but it was refreshing to think about someone else's fucked up relationship for a change.

Before Bruce could come over to him, Pepper leaned in (don't flinch) and whispered, "I know you're wondering, and yes, he wanted to come in too, but I told him no, that I had to check with you first." Tony knew exactly who she was referring to. Not that he needed another million dollars, but the answer to that question was yes, he did want to see Steve.

Even with his fucked up sense of self preservation he knew how bad of an idea that was.

Nobody else would have told Steve no successfully, because Steve was the most stubborn person he'd ever met, no exaggeration, absolutely none whatsoever, his stubborn streak was just as enhanced and perfected as everything else by Erskine's formula. But he wasn't Pepper's captain and she could be pretty damn persuasive when she tried. She would stand up to him, not unkindly because that just wasn't Pepper's way, and Steve would back down, and right now he was very grateful for that. He shook his head, or tried to, only getting half a turn in before the pain was too much. She understood though, like he said—thought earlier, brilliant in her own way.

"Okay then," she pressed a light kiss to his forehead before leaving the room, presumably to tell Steve he wasn't welcome in here right now. For the second time in as many minutes he was glad he couldn't speak, because if he could he would have called her back and said he'd changed his mind.

He'd been too distracted trying to steel himself against the desire to see Steve again to notice Bruce coming up to him. As a result he jolted badly, and quite painfully, at the sound of Banner's voice. "Your doctor will be by soon…sorry, didn't mean to startle you." Bruce said, as the stupid machine he was hooked up to started beeping more rapidly, indicating a spike in his heart rate.

He was tired of the pain in his head, tired of the ache in his chest, tired of thinking about Steve, and just plain tired in general. He needed sleep. Peaceful, drug induced while his body recovered sleep. He knew, thanks to some agonizing memories, that he could actually sort of mumble-talk with his jaw wired, but he also knew how awful it would feel, at least this soon. He waited until he had Bruce's full attention again, hoping he would notice the fatigue, and then eyed significantly (not as easy as one would think with only one eye) the tube in his arm, knowing how clever his fellow scientist was and that his meaning would be clear.

And Bruce did not disappoint.

"Okay, everything else can wait, you should rest now," he said, pushing that beautiful little button that was just out of Tony's reach. "We'll be here when you wake up again."

And they were, well, at least he thought Clint and Bruce were, but they were his two favorites anyways. It was mostly dark in the room and it took a minute for his eye to focus on the two asleep in the chairs, the indistinct forms were too large to be women, so not Pepper and Natasha, and too small to be Thor or Ste—Cap, maybe if he used the nickname it would ache less to think about him. There was dull light filtering through the blinds, so it was still daytime, just a dreary one it seemed. At least his powers of observation were still somewhat intact.

Okay, it was semi-dark and quiet, with the small exception of the soft snores coming from his visitors, but that was fine with Tony. He took a moment to re-assess; his face hurt less, though he hadn't tried to move it yet, he could lift both arms and wiggle all his toes, so no spinal damage, and his brain seemed less scattered than the last time he was awake, so probably only a mild concussion. The fact that half his face was mummified meant damage to more than just his jaw. He'd realized this before, broken face and all, but as for specifics; the orbit definitely, and the cheek most likely, based on the searing pain when he'd tried to smile at Clint. But it was true pain, not tingly and far from numbness, so the underlying nerves were probably okay. He was going to embrace his new found respect for the power of positive thinking where the eye damage was concerned, though maybe he could rock that patch as well as Kurt Russell had in Escape from New York, but Fury would still accuse him of being a copy cat which was just unacceptable.

His face would be a mass of bruises and scars for a while, not to mention the whole closed jaw thing. The last time his jaw had been wired closed even the dorky kid who wore the headgear had made fun of him, and he hadn't even been able to fight back. First, because insults and wit had always been his best offense as well as defense, and he hadn't been able to speak clearly, which is what had gotten him laughed at in the first place. And second, because even he wasn't enough of an asshole to hit a kid wearing a headgear.

So, roughly four weeks of healing. There was no way Fury or St—Cap would let him back in the armor like this, which was absurd but still a fact. Although, a month away from his current life might be a good thing, he wouldn't go as far as calling this a blessing in disguise or a gift horse, but, yeah, time away sounded like a good idea. Maybe somewhere warm with steel drums, girls in bikinis and foreign dudes in Speedos. Guys here usually wore those big board shorts, leaving everything to the imagination. Sure, he wore those too at the beach, and though some people might call him a shameless exhibitionist, certainly not enough to wear a Speedo on a public beach. Someplace like that had the added bonus of lots of rum and tequila, and through a straw no less, meaning he could drink himself into forgetting while drenched in sunshine watching beautiful bodies stroll along the sand. Of course, pain meds and tequila was probably a bad combination, and a hangover on top of the misery in his head now would be downright horrible. Oh, yeah, and there was the chance he would overindulge (yes, hard to believe, but no less true) and throwing up into a mouth he couldn't open was just…aghuuuk. No!

The repulsive thought had him shuddering for a full thirty seconds.

Getting back on a much more relevant and way less disgusting track, Malibu was out of the question too; anywhere he had to fly really, that would wreak havoc with the swelling in his face, maybe pull some sutures and cause more scarring, and probably hurt like hell. He did own some pretty remote cabins, well, not cabins, he was a billionaire for god's sake, more like very lavish chalets, where he could go, in a car, and wallow in peace.

Who the hell was he kidding? Four weeks with only himself to talk to would land him in the loony bin for sure, but a month without even himself to really talk to would probably push him to mad scientist levels of insane, like Dr. Jekyll, ew, or, even better still, Dr. Frank N Furter, he could totally pull off lingerie and heels. Yes, they're fictional mad scientists, but there was no way he could equate himself with some of the real life mad scientists out there, like Josef Mengele [1], that sick fuck, or that absolute batshit crazy Ffirth[2] guy who drank the vomit of yellow fever patients to prove it wasn't contagious, and of course it's contagious! Ack…even Reed Richard's wouldn't go that far, speaking of a real life mad scientist…

Clearly his brain was still a bit scattered, because that was so off topic it was ridiculous, and he should probably add vomit to the list of things to stop thinking about.

This inability to focus might mean a not so mild concussion after all, or maybe adult onset ADD.

He needed a vacation from his goddamned brain.

FOCUS!

Right, so, somewhere he wouldn't be alone, maybe with JARVIS and his bots. Okay, definitely with JARVIS and his bots. Also, it wouldn't do to have too much down time on his hands with his brain liable to go into freefall so easily, so he would need work to do, well, more work than usual since there wouldn't be any distractions like his armor or his teammates or the SI board of directors or Steve.

He did own a small building just off the MIT campus. He used it to house his scholarship recipients, smart kids who would get admitted to MIT but whose parents couldn't afford to send them even with a partial scholarship. He gave them all free apartments in his building until graduation and the scholarship included all on campus meals, and all course materials, which was by no means a small consideration. There were state of the art labs in the building, a first rate security system, and equally as important, a gourmet coffee shop in the lobby, a true staple for all budding young scientists. He could work there without having too much set up involved and he could probably even poke around a bit on campus. He would email a contact there, because if there was anywhere he didn't mind helping out with nothing to gain, it was MIT. They never asked him for anything, well, except for extravagant alumni donations and the more than occasional commencement address, but still, nothing like what S.H.I.E.L.D. expected, those greedy bastards.

He couldn't wait to tell Dummy they were going back to Boston, well, technically Cambridge, but whatever.

And thank you, brain, for your cooperation, finally.

It would take the better part of a day to get everything ready, preparing JARVIS would take most of that, and then make the drive. Realistically he could be there in a day, two if Pepper was really on a warpath when she found out about him checking out of here. What he needed right now was a tablet or at least a phone. For that he would either have to wait, definitely not his forte, or he would have to wake Bruce up, which meant making some kind of noise, which most likely meant there would be pain, but there was a reason everyone on the planet quoted the old adage "no pain, no gain", right?

Tony moved to sit up straighter; trying to gauge how much movement would be allowed without said pain. It was only when he moved his head that he felt the twinges. He braced himself and cleared his throat as loudly as he could. His throat was dry and sore, but not as uncomfortable as he expected. The sound produced wasn't as strong as he'd hoped, but it was still harsh and echoing in the stillness of the room, and it almost had the desired effect. It was Clint who stirred then snorted awake.

"Tony," Barton whispered as he strolled over to the bed, rubbing his eyes. "What's up buddy? What do you need?"

Tony mimed holding something in front of him, then moved his thumbs in imitation of texting. He really hoped Barton caught on because he didn't want to resort to the outstretched thumb and pinky finger next to his ear, it might still be the most common gesture for a phone, but it was outdated and stupid. Luckily, he was spared the disgrace of having to go there as Clint pulled his phone from his pocket. See, his favorite for a reason.

Tony sent an email to himself tagged as 'attention JARVIS', knowing his AI scanned all of his incoming messages and would read it. He outlined his plan, cryptically, told his brilliant creation to get his bots ready to travel and, with the dreaded caps lock on, typed emphatically that this was between them, nobody else was to know, no matter what their clearance or what override codes they had, or if they threatened to throw a vibranium shield through the door, then stated as strongly as caps lock and ten exclamation points would allow that no return messages were to be sent to the phone he was using…paranoid; yes, stupid; absolutely not.

"Care to tell me what's going on? Well, not tell, exactly, but you know what I mean." Clint said, grinning and reaching for his phone as Tony pulled it away, still trying to eradicate all traces of the message, now that it was safely stored on his private server.

He shook his head very slowly and somewhat playfully. It hurt, but it was time to stop being a diva about it. At least he hoped it seemed playful to Barton since he wasn't sure how effective rolling one eye was, and his smirk probably made him look more constipated than mischievous, but he wasn't brave enough to attempt anything close to a smile yet, that agony still too fresh in his mind, he would be a prima donna about that particular pain for a while yet, which was okay because he certainly didn't have too much to smile about these days.

"You know Stark, I've wanted you to shut up since I met you, but it's not as fun as I thought it would be. Laryngitis would be fun, this not so much."

And because he couldn't stick out his tongue, he gave Barton the finger. He couldn't actually remember the last time he'd stuck his tongue out at somebody; he was just being bitchy because he couldn't.

He opened the note app on Clint's phone and typed, How soon till they let me out? before passing the phone to its owner.

"Seriously?" It was said with a long suffering sigh.

Yes, seriously. How long do they expect me to stay in here? He kept his face serious, because why the hell would Barton think he was joking about that?

"Tony, do you have any idea of the extent of your injuries?"

Broken bones in the cheek, orbit and jaw. Concussion, but mild, and road rash all over the left side but minimal to no nerve damage. I'm actually quite intelligent in case you haven't heard.

"I've heard, quite often, from you." He deadpanned, but the eyebrow quirk lessened the effect. "If you're so goddamned smart why do you think they'd release you with that laundry list of damages?"

It's a broken face; it'll heal no matter where I am. It's literally all about just sitting around and waiting for it to heal on its own. He decided not to mention the antibiotics and other precautions needed to make sure no infection set in. And before you say anything about my new diet restrictions, I have a bot that's quite literally in love with the blender and a live-in archer who offered to make cheeseburger and spicy fry smoothies for me.

"I'm not saying you have to stay till you're fully healed asshole, but a couple of days at least." Tony's expression must have conveyed something, because Barton added, "You're planning to take off aren't you? Don't get finger cramps," he said, putting his hand over Tony's on the keypad, "I know you are."

Tony nodded, and at least it felt better than every other time he'd done it. He didn't want anyone to know where he was going, but he didn't want to lie to Barton. They would all know he wasn't at the tower, there was no avoiding that, but that's all he wanted them to know. Maybe it would be okay if Pepper and Clint knew.

Listen bird brain, I was okay to move around a filthy, fucking freezing cave in Afghanistan shortly after a much more delicate and involved surgery, I crawled hundreds of feet to my lab while mostly paralyzed and going into cardiac arrest…I can do this and I'll be okay.

The shocked look on his friends face did not go unnoticed. In fact, it looked as if Clint was getting ready to point out all the reasons why this time he didn't have to cut his recovery time short. He decided to derail that train of thought right away.

I need to not be here for a little while, just while I heal. No tears, I know you'll miss me, but I, Tony Stark, do solemnly swear to return as soon as Fury will let me back in the suit. Clint still looked as though he wanted to argue, so he continued typing…I'm going to a place I own where I know people, I won't be alone and I'll have JARVIS and the bots. I need this Clint. He put on the most earnest half-face he could and looked up at the archer.

"I don't like it, but I do get it." Clint was looking at him, not with pity, thank god, but with something akin to respect, adding to the growing list of reasons he liked Barton best. "I probably wouldn't stay either, and Tony…" The archer rubbed his hand over his face slowly as if deliberating saying more just then, but exhaled slowly and continued, "I know you care about him, and I know you said some shitty things, but you didn't deserve it, any of it. Please tell me you know you didn't deserve this."

And, really, how the hell was he supposed to answer that? Despite what Clint and Pepper expected, he wasn't mad at Steve. He didn't blame him at all, not for the punch and not for the kiss. He accepted most of the responsibility for everything. Yeah, the punch was too hard, but that was just a result of bad timing with the armor, that doesn't mean it was undeserved. Tony had said some pretty nasty things but he'd been angry at the time and very hurt. Many people had been that pissed off at him before, hell, he could think of more than a few times when he'd wanted to punch himself in the face, but Steve was the only one with balls enough to actually do it.

He would tell Clint half the truth, but only because he wanted his friends help getting the hell out of New York.

I may not have deserved quite that degree of wrath from a super soldier, but I did my best to piss him off. He could see Clint preparing to argue again and looked back at the phone and started typing. Whatever, it sucks, but it's done. Let me go lick my wounds peacefully and privately and then I'll come back…really…and be the same asshole you know and love.

Barton nodded, "let me ask a few questions and see what I can do." Tony was going to spend some serious time upgrading Hawkeye's bow for this, and maybe some awesome new arrows too. After Clint left, Tony's thoughts strayed back to whether he or not he thought he deserved this.

When he'd seen Steve with that woman it was the worst he'd felt in a long time, too similar to the helpless, paralyzed state Obie had inflicted on him. Yeah, he wasn't in danger of dying, and Pepper's life wasn't threatened either, but the all encompassing despair was the same. When he'd seen that, the two of them kissing, everything had stopped, the blood in his veins, the breath in his lungs and the superhighway of information speeding through his brain, and it had fucking hurt. He was loathe to admit it, even to himself, but if he hadn't worked himself up into that defensive anger, he would have actually shed tears, and that was a weakness Howard had cured him of over thirty years ago.

He had never put it all out there with Steve, never told him how he felt. There were some pretty altruistic reasons behind that, but look where the fuck that had gotten him. He was all too aware of how smothering he could be, just ask Pepper, and he just hadn't wanted to push Steve or make him define things he might be uncomfortable with at first…but he'd honestly thought 40's mentality would equate fooling around and having sex with "going steady", he hadn't really thought he needed to explain that.

Did they even have fuck buddies back then? Maybe in the army some of Steve's guys had that kind of thing going on. He was starting to get what Pepper meant when she rode his ass about good communication and his inability to clarify boundaries.

After things with Pepper didn't work out, he'd known, seriously fucking known that he wasn't cut out for the world of serious relationships. He'd never, not even once before her, thought of "settling down." There was just too much out there for him, too many women and a few men as well, too much sex, too many parties, and he was as shallow as the rest of them. Who needed the misery, hurt and bitterness of failed commitments or, god forbid, divorce? But he'd thought about it once or twice while he and Pepper were together, in the beginning anyways.

Maybe his relationship with Steve was too soon after Pep; maybe the thoughts about forever were just left over. Right, even drunk off his ass he wouldn't believe that. He was in love with Steve Rogers and that's why he thought about forever at least twice a week these days, but had he told Steve any of that? No. As they had lain together afterwards, sated and euphoric, had he told Steve that he wanted that every goddamned day for the rest of his life? No. His previous commitment phobic and incredibly slutty lifestyle was all Steve had to go on and Tony hadn't said a single thing to let Steve know just how new and different this was for the renowned playboy Tony Stark, and it was all his fucking fault, not Steve's, none of it Steve's.

Steve obviously didn't feel the same but Tony certainly couldn't blame him for that. Tony was no stranger to people wanting him for his body, his fame, for the promise of pleasure his reputation touted. Honestly, though, he had at least thought something was reciprocated, besides mind blowing orgasms, maybe not love, but something. The human equation was one problem he just couldn't figure out no matter how hard he tried—he fucked it up every single time.

So here he was, disillusioned yet again, and now with the added joy of a half broken face and a crushing ache in his chest. Despite being an incredibly selfish bastard he could do this; he could take a little time, a lot of alcohol, bury it deep, and be friends with Captain America again, maybe not with Steve Rogers right away, but he could keep that difference to himself. If there was one thing he'd learned from Howard, (and thanks for that dad) it was Stark men are stronger than that, made of iron, if you will. Well, not their jaws apparently, but he would pull through this because he pulled through everything. He was stronger than that. He was Iron Man.

What seemed likes minutes later Clint came back. He must have dozed off again though, because Bruce was no longer in the room, Clint was freshly showered and it was dark outside now.

"You are the luckiest son of a bitch alive." Clint said, without qualifying it.

Tony sat up to show he wasn't an invalid, and gave him the best 'what the hell look' he could manage, since he no longer had Clint's phone to type on. He was a lot of things, but funnily enough, he didn't consider lucky to be one of them right now. The ironic thing was that he had thought of himself as lucky recently. Being with Steve, having Steve choose him, had made him feel like "the luckiest son of a bitch alive". Even that small thought was ridiculously painful and he was more than grateful when he realized Clint was oblivious to the emotions wreaking havoc inside him.

"First, here's a tablet," Barton said as he reached into a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and pulled it out. "Second, you were right; you can pretty much recuperate anywhere, with a few precautions. And third, everyone else is going to that stupid benefit tonight, so it's just you and me till Banner sneaks away. Don't give me that look Tony; it was either talk to him, or a S.H.I.E.L.D. doctor."

Tony knew Clint was right, and nodded, though very grudgingly. Yeah, he was still a bit bitchy, so sue him; you certainly wouldn't be the first. Wait—the benefit is tonight? He'd been out longer than he thought.

"Here," he said, pulling clothes out of the bag. "Is JARVIS getting things ready for you? I know that's who you sent the message to earlier."

Sometimes the carnival freak from Iowa was too smart for his own good, Tony thought, but he couldn't have been happier that Clint was someone he could list up there with Pepper and Rhodey as a very good friend. He nodded again, it was starting to hurt less, but the real test would be getting dressed.

"Good. I grabbed some clothes, nothing fancy, just a few dozen band t-shirts," he smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. "Teenagers don't even have that many, Tony, you're a freak. Anyways, some other shit too, just to get you started." Clint had the feeling Tony would be gathering stuff from his lab, not his bedroom when they returned to the tower, so he had taken the time to grab a few essentials from his room and pack for him, they could get more stuff later if needed. Little did he know that just about every place Tony Stark owned was stocked with some of his things and ready for him to drop in without even a moment's notice. Except for food, that Tony would have to have brought in.

Tony couldn't type and do anything else at the same time, which slowed them down a bit. Clint helped with Tony's shoes so he didn't have to lower his head too much and they slipped out quietly and headed to the motor pool. He didn't know how the archer had cleared their path, he wasn't sure he even wanted that information, but he was incredibly grateful.

"Type out what I need to know, where you're going, and how much JARVIS will be able to help while on the ride over." Clint was all business at the moment, and Tony felt another rush of gratitude for the man. It would be great if he could bring him along too, just to have him there. He didn't need anyone to explain why Clint wasn't going to the benefit tonight, and though it helped his own cause considerably, he still felt bad that the man was treated like a traitor sometimes.

"Are you okay, Tony?" His head was killing him after so much activity and Barton must be able to see it.

He nodded, this time more vigorously, which made his head throb worse, but he wanted Clint to know that he could do this. Clint had muttered softly when prompted by Tony that Steve was going tonight with the agent he'd been slobbering all over. The pain in his chest opened up, stabbing deep and burrowing in to settle behind the arc reactor, he'd been able to pass it off as general broken face related pain, hopefully, but the archer hadn't commented if he knew.

"There's one more thing…" Clint mumbled, letting the sentence trail away. Tony could tell this wasn't going to be good and the archer confirmed his suspicions a second later when he continued. "You're not going to like it Tony, but I didn't really have a choice." He didn't add anything further, instead choosing to leave the statement out there for a minute, gearing up for the argument he knew was about to come.

"Pepper is meeting us with Banner." He said quickly, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road and not on his passenger, knowing Tony couldn't really respond and not wanting to see the look on his face. "Really, you can't expect her not to realize you're gone and you seriously can't expect me or Bruce to hold up under the interrogation you know she would put us through. I've withstood torturers less intimidating than her." Sure, it was an attempt at humor, something to lighten the mood, but every word of it was true.

[1] Josef Mengele ( 1911 –1979) was a German Schutzstaffel (SS) officer and physician in Auschwitz concentration camp during World War II. He was notorious for the selection of victims to be killed in the gas chambers and for performing unscientific and often deadly human experiments on prisoners. After the war, he fled to South America, where he evaded capture for the rest of his life.

[2] Stubbins Ffirth (1784–1820 was an American trainee doctor notable for his unusual investigations into the cause of yellow fever. He theorized that the disease was not contagious. Ffirth decided to bring himself into direct contact with bodily fluids from those that had become infected. He started to make incisions on his arms and smeared vomit into the cuts, then proceeded to pour it onto his eyeballs. He continued to try to infect himself using infected vomit by frying it and inhaling the fumes, and, when he did not become ill, drank it undiluted.

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who has taken the time to leave feedback, it is greatly appreciated.