So this is for a prompt for Avengerkink. I swear I'm working on my other fics. I swear. Also, if you know me, you know each character has a reason for their actions, so please hold on and have faith in me. Remember, reviews are next to the only thing keeping this fic going, same as all my other ones, because I'm only partially writing this for me. Most of my purpose behind writing is for my readers. So if I don't hear for my readers, I lose hope. Anyways, enjoy. uvu

**8**

"Are you drunk?" Barton asks in disbelief. Tony squints up at him from where his head rests on the mercifully cool counter.

"Yeah, totally," he says flatly. His voice sounds like a running garbage disposal. "Drunk as a skunk, in an alcohol-free tower. Aren't you proud."

"I'm disgusted, actually," Barton retorts, taking the stool across from Tony at the counter. Romanov comes up behind him and offers one of the three pistols in her hands - only two of them are Stark made, especially for them. Barton takes the largest of the two, which Tony's briefly grateful for, but when he gets a look at the third he frowns.

"What happened to the third one?" he questions, sitting upright to stare at the smallest, a round pistol of an ancient-looking European make. It's terribly designed; Tony's half convinced it's rigged to explode just by looking at it. "God, it's hideous. Why would you do that to yourself? Gimme."

Romanov scowls at him. "Don't be such a baby. I've been using this gun since before I joined SHIELD."

"It shows," Tony remarks, glowering at it as it disappears into one of her many invisible pockets. He could do so much better with that design. In fact, maybe he will.

She rolls her eyes. "You look like shit. What happened to no alcohol in the tower?"

"Why, yes, thank you, I do feel marginally better after my week-long bout with the flu," Tony snits, "I'm glad you asked."

"Bullshit," Barton snorts. "I think we'dve noticed if you had the flu. The bottom floor would've been able to hear your complaints."

Tony gapes. "Are you accusing me of lying about having the flu? Do you know how -" dangerous the flu is for me? Tony bites his tongue and glares at the marble counter. He'd like to see one of them with a nasty case of the flu and only 86% of their lungs to work with. No, scratch that: he wouldn't wish it on anyone.

"How immature you can get?" Romanov finishes, eyebrow raised. "Yes, yes we do." She drops next to Barton, folding her arms on the counter.

"I hate to pull this card," Barton drawls, and Tony knows what's going to come out of his mouth, he knows and for that brief moment he's so breathtakingly angry - "But what would Pepper think? You were doing so well."

That hurts.

Romanov elbows Barton, hard, and for a minute Tony thinks she's on his side, but then she opens her mouth. "Don't lump Potts in with his actions, she's washed her hands of him already."

Tony takes as deep a breath as he can manage, half congested as he is, and wills himself to calm down. "Bad day, ladies?" is what comes out of his mouth. "Midol not cutting it for you this fine morning?"

Barton narrows his eyes. "You expect us to be all buddy-buddy when the last time we saw you was two weeks ago? You embarrassed all of us with your shit at that party, Stark, and then you disappeared and left us to handle it. You expect me to be friendly? Fury just shut up about it two days ago."

"Sorry about that," Tony concedes. He really hadn't needed to get so spectacularly drunk, he'll admit it.

"Oh yeah," Barton says venomously, "you sound real sincere."

"And how do I look?" Tony seethes, anger leeching back in slowly. "Do I look like a verbal punching bag? Quit being such an asshole! I don't deserve this shit!"

"We didn't deserve the situation you left us with," Romanov points out, a thousand times more calm than Barton but still with that cruelly disdainful air she only pulls with people lower than her, in any sense of the word.

"I know that," he snaps, "but right now I -" his voice cracks painfully and his argument devolves into a miserable coughing fit. It seems to go on forever, his eyes squeezed shut, one hand clutched to his mouth while the other reaches blindly for the water he brought with him to the counter.

There's a warm hand on his back when he finally sucks in real air again, another prodding the cool glass into his open hand. Eyes cracking open, Tony makes sure the glass is actually moving towards his face instead of his left arm or something stupid borne of a sudden lack of coordination and oxygen. He gulps down half the cup at once, heaving as deep a breath as he can when he's done. "So that sucked," he says conversationally.

As it turns out, the hand between his shoulder blades is attached to one Bruce Banner. "Are you alright?" he asks, adjusting his glasses. "I thought you'd gotten over your flu."

"Apparently not." Tony shrugs. "Does this mean I get the good drugs?" His lungs are still burning, muscles around the arc reactor still jumping and shivering with each previous cough. It's going to hurt for another hour. Bruce sighs, dropping his hand and shuffling over to the nearest stool.

"It doesn't," he says. "Sorry. Your body should recover on its own at this point."

"Boo," Tony says good-naturedly. Then he notices the two agents, who have apparently been staring blankly the whole time. Rude. "I hate to say this," Tony says in a perfect imitation of Barton's voice, "but I told you so."

Their matching scowls deepen.

"Tony," Bruce says conversationally, stealing a sip from the half-empty glass, "don't antagonize SHIELD's top agents. They could kill you with their pinkies."

"Quit drinking my water," Tony complains. Bruce only smirks. That jerk. He could bathe in flu germs and not get sick. He says it's because of the Hulk, but Tony suspects it's because he's already bathed in every disease imaginable in every third-world country imaginable. Except the STDs. Bruce is a prude who refuses to sleep with him, so it stands to reason that he hasn't slept with anyone else, either.

Something spasms in his chest and his breath catches. "Are you sure the flu doesn't warrant painkillers?"

"Nothing above motrin," Bruce says, and Tony knows they've been doing this all week but he hurts, a hundred times more than a normal person with the flu and it stings that Bruce is acting so annoyed. So exasperated. "You're an Avenger, Tony. Toughen up. You can deal with a few aches and pains."

"Ugh," Tony moans, pillowing his head with his arms.

"What is wrong with the Man of Iron?" And there's Thor, bursting into the room with his size and weight and, and noise. Great.

"Hey, big guy," Tony says, voice muffled by his arms. A heavy hand drops onto his shoulder, earning a wheeze as his lungs compensate.

"Stark's whining about being sick," Barton explains, nonchalant. Tony feels another spike of irritation.

"Is this true, Man of Iron?" Thor asks, sounding concerned. Tony garbles an answer into the countertop. The hand on his shoulder squeezes. "You must not act as though you are a child. You are an Avenger, and rather old in Midgardian years."

"Hey," and yep, that's a whine. "I'm thirty-eight. That's not old."

"That's middle-aged, Tony," Bruce says patiently. "And you're thirty-nine."

"Lying about your age?" Romanov snorts. "Grow up."

"What's Stark complaining about now?" Captain America marches into the room, adjusting the straps on his gloves. "Whatever it is, we don't have time for it."

"I'm not complaining," Tony objects. Rogers turns an unimpressed eye on him.

"Sure you're not," he replies. "Stow your problems or stay behind, Stark. We need to get moving. Fury sent an alert not two minutes ago -" He pauses. "Stark, why aren't you in your armor?"

"I didn't know there was a call to assemble," he says honestly.

"What did you think when we all assembled in uniform, then?" Thor inquires, moving his beefy hand to his hammer. "Were we not all alerted?"

"My commlink is upstairs," Tony says with a sigh. He heaves himself out of his seat. "I'll go get it."

"How did you even get on this team?" someone mutters. Tony rolls his shoulders through a flinch.

"Don't look at me," Romanov mumbles.

"Maybe you should stay behind," Rogers says with a hint of concern. "You look sick."

"I've been sick," Tony grouches. "But I'll be there. Just - commlink."

"Right," Rogers says, unconvinced. "Meet us at Central Park, then, if you can. Doctor Banner, is he okay to fly?"

"He should be fine," Bruce assures him.

"Alright. Avengers, get to the Quinjet." He turns around and leaves the way he came, followed by Thor, Bruce, and Romanov. Clint lingers long enough to say, "maybe you should stay behind."

Fed up with it all, Tony bristles. "You couldn't last a day without me."

Clint shakes his head, snatching up the Stark pistol and turning away. "That's the thing, Stark. I really think we could."