Eruption (Disruption part 2)

Tony's POV

You would think that, after six years of being a superhero, I would get used to the harder (bloodier) cases. Desensitized, if you will.

You would be wrong. Dead wrong.

About as dead as those two kids, killed by their own parents.

It's normally the cases with kids that get the most reaction out of me; every single time I see some psycho ranting about how their child is evil, disobedient, etc., all I can think about is my own daughter and how could you do that to your own child? Why?

It's one of the few things my brain cannot – will not – grasp. Right up there next to magic.

So, after that particularly draining mission, I found myself following my usual routine: lab, metal, music, and a light whiskey. For now.

And then the music got interrupted by a smooth British voice. "Sir, I felt it necessary to alert you to the altercation happening in Mr. Barton's quarters."

I frown, my brow pinching. Clint wasn't usually much trouble, so an alert to his room usually meant he was hurt or something happened to Taylor, since she hung out in there (far too often for my liking). "What's going on, Jarvis?"

"I'm not entirely sure, Sir. There seems to be a fair amount of tension surrounding Mr. Barton, and his heart rate and blood pressure are slightly elevated. Miss Stark has followed him into his kitchen and is attempting to get him to talk."

"And how's that going, J?"

"Not very well, Sir," the AI admits.

"Are there any weapons in their vicinity?" I ask with bated breath.

"The nearest weapons ae in Mr. Barton's room. Miss Stark has disarmed herself and left her weapons in the lab just off the landing pad. But sir, might I remind you that they still have the full capabilities of their professions?"

Meaning that even completely weaponless, they can still beat the crap out of each other. I've seen it happen. "Alright, I'll go check up on them," I decide, pushing out of my chair. "Don't let things escalate too far. Dummy, watch the lab."

I don't know if the robot confirmed or not, because I was quickly out the door and in the nearest elevator, pounding the button for Hawkeye's floor.

I arrive in front of his room, surprised that I can hear their words clearly just a few feet away.

"-would be a hell of a lot easier if you were!" That's Taylor, and I haven't heard her get that angry since the last time she was shouting at me. "You're not acting much like the Clint I know right now!"

I pause and tilt my head, catching Natasha - who was leaning against the wall a few feet away, unashamedly eavesdropping, although I wasn't doing much better - and she shakes her head, a silent signal to stay out of it.

I sigh and give a small nod. For now.

Clint's shouting now, louder than I've ever heard him and, judging by Natasha's face, than she has too. "Stop saying you know! You know! I get it, genius, you're smart! I get it, I really do! But that's machines – cold, hard, heartless metal-"

Is he calling her heartless?!

"-This is people, and you don't understand! You don't understand people! I do, and you don't! You don't know me; face it, genius-"

That's not the first time she's heard that barb.

"You don't know me, and you never will! I don't need your help, Stark-"

Oh, they're using last names now. I wince. Not good.

"-and I DON'T NEED YOU!"

Everything - and everyone - stops. I can hear a small inhalation of pure pain and I doubt it was Barton, so that means it's Taylor in pain and he hurt my daughter-

"Fine, Barton." And then she's speaking, her voice shaking like i've heard it only once before, during the Stane mess when I forced her to press the button that had a 75% chance of ending my life.

And Clint Barton - the guy to which she's entrusted not only her life, like she has for the rest of us, but her heart - has inflicted that same level of pain.

I flinch as the door opens suddenly, a black blur rushing out and almost bowling Natasha over; Natasha's not doing anything, however, because she's quickly gaining on the other figure emerging from the room. "Stop, Clint."

"But she - I need -"

The spider moves to wrap Clint in a firm headlock, simply for restraint, forcing him slowly to his knees. "You can't go after her, and you know that. Besides," she looks up to meet my eyes, "if I were you, I'd start running. In the other direction."

The archer follows her gaze, his eyes widening as they meet mine. He only last about fifteen seconds before tearing out of the headlock and down a side hallway.

Brave...right.

I lean back against the wall, plans for revenge already forming in my head.

Because Barton just hurt my little girl…

...and there would be hell. To. Pay.

"What are you working on?"

I barely glance up from my contraption. "A death ray. Did you get a hold on Taylor?"

Bruce nods as he settles in a nearby chair. "Yeah, Betty just called her. She's in Malibu."

"I should've known," I groan. "Of course. How is she?"

"Unsure, mostly," he announces. "She's not sure where she stands with Clint."

"Is she mad at Barton?" Please let her be mad at Clint.

"Clint?" Bruce shakes his head. "No. Nervous, slightly fearful, but mad? Nuh-uh. Although...she is slightly annoyed at you."

I stop and look up at him. "Why? Is it because I was eavesdropping? I'm her father, I can do that." I snap defensively.

Bruce leans back slightly. "Nope, Betty didn't even tell her anything about that. Taylor doesn't seem pleased that you have a shoot-to-kill mission going on with Clint as the target."

"I do not have a-"

"Tony," Bruce sighs exasperatedly, "You're building a death ray and your gauntlets are mere inches away, in ready mode no less. This is a shoot-to-kill mission."

"I wouldn't kill him," I grumble, "too much paperwork."

"Which you have an AI for," he counters. "Tony."

"I don't-"

"Tony."

"Fine," I huff, setting my project down. "I won't kill that idiotic, selfish, son of a-"

Bruce gives me a look, and I reluctantly shut my mouth.

"You don't even know the entirety of the situation," Bruce reminds me. "Maybe they weren't even fighting."

"I know enough," I insist stubbornly. "Clint was yelling, and Taylor sounded like she was about to cry. How many times, in the five years you've known her, have you ever known my daughter to cry?"

He pauses for a moment before replying, "Only a few times."

"And most of that is because some douche has kidnapped someone she cares about," I continue. "It's never been because of something someone's said."

Bruce shakes his head. "Tony, you're making mountains out of molehills here. Couples fight, end of story. And Taylor's probably one of the most responsible teenagers in the world: she won't do anything rash, not here."

"But she's-"

"Your daughter," Bruce nods. "I get it. But, Tony…do you trust her?"

"What?" I blink owlishly. "Yeah – yeah, of course I do!"

"Do you trust her to make her own decisions?"

"Yes! She's old enough."

"Then how about you trust her with her own heart too? Like you said, she's old enough."

And then he's gone.

I eventually emerge from the lab around five in the morning, after a text from Bruce that reads: Clint's gone to Malibu. J's locked the suits, and resulted in my phone meeting the nearest wall.

They were more than likely spending the night together. Without supervision. I mean, sure, the had Jarvis, and Taylor treated him like an older brother (because he is older by eight years or so) and would usually - after arguing for a while - do what he suggests (because he did have her best interests at heart), but she also had all sorts of override codes and lockdown codes - "In case he changes his name to HAL," she stated, "or Skynet."

At the time I had just rolled my eyes, shaken my head, and given her the codes, but if there was ever a time to be kicking myself, it was now.

"Sir?" Jarvis speaks up cautiously, "I have a message from Ms. Stark."

I sigh softly and look up at the ceiling, leaning back in my chair and linking my hands behind my head. "And?"

"She said that she is fine, not to worry, and to not come because she and Mr. Barton are trying to sleep and should be back around 1:30 this afternoon, local time. She bids you goodnight and advises you to sleep tonight."

"Yeah, yeah," I wave her concerns off with a small grin, before catching a smaller detail in that message. "Barton's sleeping too? Like, in the house?"

"That is what she said, sir," he agrees. "But, sir, may I offer a solution?"

I sigh wearily. "Yours might be the first conducive solution all night, J. What do you have in mind?"

"Trusting your daughter, sir," the AI tells me bluntly. "Do you, in all honestly, think she would do anything untoward?"

"Not normally," I concede, then add, "But I was nineteen once too, J."

"You were, sir, and a very wild nineteen at that," Jarvis agrees. "But her nineteen is not yours."

"What do you mean?"

"Were you partially responsible for the fate of the world at nineteen, sir?"

"No…?" I trail off uncertainly.

"She is," he reminds me. "She is one of seven people that protect the entire world; ergo, she is predictably more responsible than your average teenage girl."

"All the more reason to do something irresponsible when no-one is watching!" I counter.

"And what if someone were to break into the house in the middle of the night, sir? Normally, she would have six other responders and could go back to her...business, whatever it may be-"

I shake the thoughts I really did not need of my daughter out of my head.

"-but tonight, it will only be the two of them, constituting the need to wake up at a moment's notice. And Ms. Stark knows this, sir."

"But still!" I insist. "They're alone in the house!"

"Sir, I-"

"Mute."

One twenty-five in the afternoon found me in a plush leather armchair, flicking through an old issue of Forbes magazine with a glass of scotch balanced on the arm of the chair. To a casual observer, I might've seemed relaxed.

There were no casual observers around. I had my gauntlets on the side table and my eyes weren't even on the magazine; they were glued to the clock.

I had suggested – oh, who was I kidding, ordered – the team go somewhere for lunch and not be back by 2:30, at the earliest. I wanted to do this on my terms, in my space, and on my own. That's how I do my best work, after all – where the only brain is mine, and I can factor out all the variables by myself and not have anyone else bringing in surprises.

There would be no surprises here. Because Barton was coming home, and he would pay for...I wasn't even sure anymore. Principle.

A muted ding alerts me to the elevator, and another ding, closer this time, lets me know it's going down.

I take a moment to pat myself on the back for that brilliant pun before grabbing the gauntlets.

They're charged before Barton even has the chance to take two steps out of the elevator.

"Tony! What-"

"Barton. Shut. Up."

"What'd I do?"

"Seen Taylor lately?"

"Yeah, actually, I – oh."

"Yeah, oh. Now, would you rather be flame-broiled or thoroughly charred?"

"Um…"

Before anyone can do so much as blink, there's movement behind Hawkeye and suddenly Taylor's blocking all shots and her eyes are glacially hard – daring me to keep it up.

Some small part of me thinks she'll be a great mother someday.

That is, if she already hasn't-

No. Nope. Not going there. "Taylor, are you okay?"

"Fine."

"Okay, good. Now, would you mind moving?"

"Why, so you can blast my boyfriend to smithereens?" And that's her challenging voice.

I let out a frustrated huff. "Uh, yeah, pretty much. Now, come on, move."

"No."

I tilt my head to the side, not unlike a dog. "No?"

"Yeah, I said no. Not going to let you do what you want. Not here."

"Why not?" I can push back too.

"Aren't I always the variable you don't plan for?" she asks, a cheeky grin climbing onto her face.

I glare at her. "Mostly. But not now."

She sighs and closes her eyes and I give her a half-smug, half-apologetic look, powering up the gauntlets again.

But, as it turns out, she's not backing down, instead moving forward and directly into the line of fire and grabbing my arm, pressing down on the Last Resort button, a switch that manually interrupts the energy flow in the gauntlet.

Just in case the suits were taken and we were incapacitated.

And did I mention her eyes had darkened a few shades?

"Yes, now. Right now. Why don't you trust me?" she asks calmly.

"I do!" I protest.

She gives a slow, small shake of her head. "No, you trust my abilities. My ability to go out in the field. My ability to create something weird and out of this world and absolutely brilliant. My ability to be your support system. But not me."

She keeps one hand on the interrupter as the other reaches around to release the gauntlet, pulling it off my arm and repeating the motion with the other one. "Calm down. Nothing happened. Everyone's fine."

And my mood brightens a little bit at the fact that she's not mad enough to let me worry (and it seems she never is) and at least she gives me that much before leaving the room quickly.

I apologize, after dinner that night, with an authentic DeLorean engine, just like in the movies, from 1982, right at the peak of production.

Her eyes – back to a bright, electric sapphire – light up when she sees it, and all may not be lost.

I sigh as I lean forward onto a stray ex-computer cart. "I'm sorry."

Her hands pause from where they were already exploring the motor as she twists to look at me. "You didn't do it necessarily on purpose. But…I don't understand why."

I give an amused huff. "You won't understand until you have kids one day – and that won't happen for a while. If you have a daughter, somewhere in the future, I can guarantee that Clint will do the same thing the first time she fights with her boyfriend."

She pauses, sitting back on her haunches and looking up at me. "Scarily enough," she whispers softly, "I could've easily seen that earlier."

I grin and shrug. "I've been preparing for that ever since I saw your first sonogram."

"Really?" she perks up with childish excitement at the rare mention of my life pre-her. "Wow."

"Mhmm," I nod. "Although, I also planned tea parties and tutu's not…"

"Car engines and grease?" she supplies, shrugging at my confirming nod. "Too bad, so sad, and I'm not sorry at all."

I laugh at all my genes shining through in that one sentence. "Wouldn't expect you to be. What did you when you were little?"

"'Only apologize if you really, truly mean it. Otherwise, you have done nothing wrong, and the world can bite you.'" she quotes me with a genuine grin. "Was that really the best advice to give a three year old?"

I shrug. "You were starting school. Figured you needed it."

She shakes her head in fond exasperation and returns to the engine, her face smoothing out as she focuses on it entirely.

I take a moment to simply watch her through half-lidded eyes; for once just relishing in the fact that she wasn't being shot at, this wasn't a battlefield, and nobody was panicking.

I watch her as grease gets streaked up her arms and across her face, reflecting, for a moment, about how much she really does look like me. I know people point it out all the time, but she honestly does look like me: my hair, my chin, my eye shape, my nose.

"What're you looking at?" I blink at her as she's suddenly staring at me, grease streaked – somehow – down one side of her nose.

I shake my head and toss her a spare rag. "Nothing, kiddo, nothing."

I was going to make this Tony and Taylor talking more about the future (specifically Clint + Taylor kids) but then I realized I'm making her grow up a little too fast for my tastes.

Please remember that, all the way back in Iron Beta, I created her at fifteen. Fifteen.

And then I made her eighteen, then nineteen…I can't make her grow up much more right now. It's making me feel old.

So, no kids or marriage just yet.

Please review and favorite and follow!