He and Bruce managed to continue the pretense for over six months that Bruce might be able to father a child, not that they actually tried that long. The game was finally up on one of their stops back at the tower between raids. They were all on the medical floor to be patched up and checked over when the doctor working on Tony asked idly if he was pregnant yet. "That is not relevant," Tony said icily.
"But it is," Hill said, stepping into the room, her arms crossed. "If you aren't abiding by the terms of the agreement, you are no longer on the team."
"Fine. I'm no longer on the team. You realize that also means you'd no longer have access to my money, right? How do you plan on running the Avengers then?"
Hill's mouth compressed into a thin line. He had her there and she knew it. "You should check the agreement for what happens if you don't comply. I will activate that clause if I have to."
She turned on her heel and left. Tony stormed out a few moments later.
Clint caught up with him in the hallway and pushed him against the wall. "Hey, I promise I won't hurt you. I know how to treat a woman."
Tony squirmed against his grip and the hips thrusting against him. "Not a woman," he protested, even as Barton forced his pants down.
"Really? Then why are you on the receiving end?" Clint asked as he thrust into Tony.
It was quick and rough and probably wouldn't amount to anything except another tear in his already tattered pride.
Clint accosted him a couple more times in the weeks before their final raid on Baron Strucker's encampment, but Tony accepted it as what had to happen to maintain the status quo. He'd checked that non-compliance clause and shuddered, resolving not to test Hill. Far better to work on an extrication agreement with his lawyer lady in hopes that Hill (and Fury) might prove reasonable if enough money was thrown at them.
They found the scepter.
Tony and Bruce somehow managed to create Ultron.
In Ultron's maniacal plot to cleanse the earth of Avengers, Tony detected his own resentment for the team and what they'd done to him.
He wasn't sorry, though he regretted the collateral damage that Ultron caused.
Here, again, was an opportunity, the potential to bring his predicament to an end. As he worked with Thor to blow up the plummeting rock, he wished desperately that the power drain would be too much, that he would fall or be crushed and that would be the end.
But still he survived.
He gave the Avengers a new headquarters on some old property of his father's and began negotiating with Hill to remove himself from the team. Under a preliminary agreement, he told everyone he was leaving, departed the compound, and went back to his tower to oversee repairs to the rooms damaged by Ultron.
His feeling of freedom lasted for about six weeks.
That was when he realized he didn't quite feel right, his clothes didn't quite feel right, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd bled.
A cheap drugstore pregnancy test informed him he was pregnant. Again. God fucking dammit. Fucking Clint Barton who had three of his own kids and still felt the need to knock Tony up as well.
He debated what to do for an entire week.
There was really only one choice.
He gathered up his courage, dressed as inconspicuously as possible, and rode down the elevator, his stomach churning.
Maria Hill was waiting for him at the bottom. "If you come quietly, I'll consider it compliance with the agreement. Or I can have you knocked out. Your choice."
"Go to hell," he said, but raised his hands in surrender.
"Damn, I was hoping you'd struggle," she said, then nodded her head and something hit him from behind.
He came to in a hospital bed. Or, more accurately, strapped into a hospital bed that was angled so he was staring into a blank corner. There was a tube running into his arm and another running into his bladder, but none of the medical equipment was visible and there was a strap across his forehead that kept him from turning his head to look for it.
They had learned their lesson and used handcuffs for his wrists and ankles rather than anything he could try to pick apart. At first he simply stared at the wall and waited to see what they'd do. He was hoping for some sort of opening whenever someone came to tend him, as they would have to do-catheter bags don't empty themselves-but long hours seemed to pass without anyone coming.
He called for Friday but got no response. He hadn't expected one; they would have had to take her offline at some point for this to work. If they had waited to do it until after knocking him out, then she might have called for help. It seemed like a long shot.
After a while he concluded that they were waiting until he dozed off to come into the room, so he tried to keep himself awake by maintaining an endless monologue about whatever came into his mind and attempting to work his hands free of the cuffs. He had no idea how long he was able to manage this-the light of the room was always dim and there were no windows-but he met with no success.
It took him longer than it should have to realize they were probably drugging him unconscious for the times they needed to come into the room.
He also made the mistake of saying aloud that he was considering breaking something to get his hands free. The next time he woke, his arms were immobilized from just above the elbow down to his fingertips in old school plaster casts that were then tied to the railings of the bed. He tried pulling against the restraints, but the casts were heavy and he had no leverage. His legs were similarly restricted, and his pitiful efforts to pull them free had him feeling frustrated and very weak.
He started consciously working his muscles as best he could, flexing and stretching within his bonds, because he had no idea how long they were planning to keep him here and he had to do something to keep himself occupied. So he did his little 'workout' routine and talked to himself and thought darkly about all of the ways he could end Fury and Hill.
His existence was timeless, interrupted only by periods of unconsciousness-both the normal sleeping kind and the enforced drugged kind-and he felt himself begin to lose his grip on reality. It seemed like he'd always been here, would always be here, and only the fact that his gut wasn't overly large yet told him that he hadn't been here for the months that it felt like.
Still, he'd been there long enough he was feeling sore spots where his body touched the bed, long enough that biting his tongue until it bled to force someone to come while he was awake seemed like a good idea.
When he woke again, he'd been decked out with a muzzle like Loki and he laughed hysterically until tears ran down his face and something inside seemed to shatter.
No one was coming for him. He was going to be the immobile incubator they'd always wanted. There was nothing he could do except continue to exist while they did whatever they wished to his body until they were satisfied. If they would ever be satisfied.
He found he was no longer capable of caring, no longer capable of rational thought, no longer capable of anything but staring blankly at the wall.
And then he saw a purple apparition float through one of his blank walls.