The infirmary doors open with a whoosh of depressurized air, granting me access without the staff even glancing my way or at the cups I was holding; not that they should, I'm in here often enough.
Occupational hazards, you know.
The hospital room – and we're weren't at a hospital really, just another Stark-funded facility – was big enough to fit seven beds and then some; thankfully, seven beds was all that was needed.
The first bed had Bruce passed out on it, sleeping off the drugs they had given them after about five or so hours under their influence. His recovery depended purely on time, they said; after the drugs wore off, he would be as fine as he was before this whole ordeal.
Bed two belonged to Thor – or, it had, because the god was currently nowhere to be found and the only sign he had been there was a dent in the pillow and Jane's current science journal on his nightstand. I didn't really blame him for leaving; all he had was a broken nose, which was healed by the time we left the compound. Why the doctors kept him was beyond me.
Bed three was Steve's, who was currently fast asleep and snoring softly, an alarm by his bed to make sure he gets woken up every two hours to make sure he can still tell us what his name is, where he is, and what the Director of SHIELD's name is. We quickly found we couldn't ask him what the year was or who the president was, when he first had a concussion a few years ago, because he's originally from the 1940's and the fact seems to be more prominent when he was just waking up.
Bed four is mine, but all I have to show for my time in captivity was five stiches on my arm, over the gash that Taylor had bandaged up.
That left beds five through seven, and their occupants were the only ones awake.
Five and six were arranged perpendicular to each other so Clint could lay out comfortably and still have his head on Taylor's lap, her fingers combing through his hair while she and Tony, who was on his own hospital bed and had his injured shoulder and the attached arm in a sling, held an animated discussion about something on the hologram in front of them.
It had been twelve hours since we got out of the compound.
Twelve hours since Taylor had taken the shot that killed Ansari.
This mission was hard on all of us (we even submitted to the infirmary without much complaint), but Taylor, especially, was taking a bit of time to recover. I think she mentioned something about 'the right mindset' before she fell asleep on the plane ride home.
I approach quietly so as to not wake Clint, a notoriously light sleeper. "Hey, I brought coffee." I pass her one of the cups, a mocha whip with whipped cream, chocolate creamer, and a double shot of Espresso. One part sugar coma, the other part pure caffeine. "You're lucky – the only reason they had that creamer was because he," I nod at Tony, "owns this place."
She shrugs as she takes a sip of the coffee before reaching to set it down on the bedside table, next to her sunglasses and one of her guns. "I don't care how you got it, just that you did."
I smirk and take a sip of my own black coffee with two sugars and a tiny bit of plain creamer. "You looked like you needed it."
Her eyes meet mine for a split second, and she gives me a minuscule nod. I could tell that she was aching to get home, into the workshop, and become Iron Beta again. She was good at Sparrow, but that was like being a good actor: if you played the part too much, you would eventually become the part.
The smell of coffee must be an alarm clock of some sort, because everyone in the room starts stirring and the room is soon filled with what must be the entire nursing staff. I send one of them to get four more coffees and a Gatorade for Thor (because trust me. you do not want to see him on a caffeine high).
Once everyone's fully awake, caffeinated, and sitting up, Steve clears his throat. "Are we all up for a post-mission report?"
"No," Tony groans, speaking for all of us, "but what choice do we have?"
Steve shrugs apologetically. "So, Sparrow-"
Taylor shakes her head immediately. "No, Steve."
"Oh." Realization dawns on the Captain's face. "Beta?"
Her face lights up, and she grins. "Yes?"
"Explain."
She sighs. "I thought we went through this already? Fine. This is in case I need to get a mission done without the suit, which will not be very often, because Jarvis is upgrading all shields as we speak. Sparrow flies completely under the radar, and I can even use a voice modifier if necessary."
"So your main alias is…."
"Iron Beta," she rolls her eyes dramatically. "Geez, I thought I've stated this before. I always have been, and always will be, Iron Beta, Iron Man's second in command. It's been that way for six years now. I only branched out because of necessity, and technically this is all Clint's fault."
"Me?!" Clint looks up at his girlfriend, his head still on her lap. "How is this my fault?"
"Do you remember that time when I was fifteen, with the Zygone mission in Kansas*?"
He nods after a pause. "You and Tony got in a fight, right?"
She hums in confirmation. "And you told me I could become Sparrow, a mini-you, if I ever got tired of doing what I was doing."
"So then you did this?"
"Not right away," she admits. "I stated developing this," she motions at the black clothes she was wearing, with the armor shoved behind the bed, "around…oh, I think it was…seventeen? Maybe sixteen and a half. Anyways, I developed this by myself in secret because I couldn't risk the press leaks. Sparrow stays under the radar, no exceptions."
"Will you be bringing the gear into the field?" Steve asks.
"It'll be where I need it," Taylor answers coyly. "If I need to get out of the suit in the middle of a battle, I'll already have my bow and a compact quiver on me, possibly also the glasses. But the boots, clothes, belt, and armor will stay on the jet otherwise."
"Will this change anything…otherwise?" Tony asks hesitantly.
Taylor turns to look at him. "Otherwise?"
He lets out a frustrated huff. "I mean, will you start threatening people with murder and stuff like that?"
Taylor blinks and gapes at him for a long moment before answering "Um, no," so awkwardly we all burst into laughter.
"Seriously, though," Taylor says once she's recovered most of her composure. "That's not going to happen. I'm not an assassin, I don't enjoy killing people – no offense, Tasha, Clint – and the only people I've killed have been bad guys. Nothing is going to change."
They both fall silent for a moment, having one of their silent father-daughter expression conversations that we can all tell have been happening for years before we arrived on the scene.
"Right," Tony coughs, "now that we've got all that mushy crap out of the way, can we get out of here?"
Taylor rolls her eyes and hops off the bed. "I'll go check. Don't burn down the place while I'm gone," she drawls, voice laced with sarcasm.
"But what if it lets us get out sooner?" Tony calls to her retreating back.
"I doubt it will!"
I chuckle as the doors close again, leaving Tony in a pout, muttering about how he owned the pace so it shouldn't matter what he did.
"Just remember who handles your paperwork," I advise. "She can make your life a living hell. Trust me, Phil's the same way."
"The power goes to he who handles the requisition forms," Clint offers, and I nod.
Tony just sulks more, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms petulantly and as best he could with the sling. "Fine."
"…I wonder if it'd be worth anything on the insurance policy if I did destroy the place?"
"Tony!"
"Fiiiinnnee."
* = Refers to Iron Beta: Life as Tony Stark's Daughter, chapter 9. Please read!
And that's a wrap, folks! My second short story that was only supposed to be a three-shot.
Please review, reviews make me happy!