Demolishing the Drawing Board
Pressure Points: Nature's 'Nope' Button

"Here, give me your arm." Clint was holding his hands out expectantly. Tony looks at them like they were lined with tiny, invisible razors.

"What're you gonna do?" He says, glancing back up and fixing Clint with an expression of hesitant skepticism. If the miserable combatives training he's been through over the past four days, and the resulting black eye he complained loudly about to nearly everyone he encountered, were any indication of what was to follow, oh, he would not go without a fight.

"I'm gonna break your wrist." Clint replies with so much impassivity and sincerity that it takes Tony an entire two minutes of staring at his placid face to realize he's kidding. He hopes. "Kidding. I'm gonna show you something cool."

Tony raises an eyebrow. "Something cool." He repeats, mockingly and Clint scowls. "Every time you tell me you're gonna show me 'something cool', it's ended up being something totally not cool. Like something resulting in pain for me and hysterical laughter for you." His words aren't angry. Just a subtle verbalization of his exhaustion and frustration. No one's said this would be easy, but he can't help but wonder if it was supposed to be this difficult.

He's sore. Worn, tattered and bruised. Peppered with open wounds that weeped crimson, scabbed over and ripped open once more the following day. Sure, he's worked out before. More so, lately since his coming up as Iron Man, and a desire to fulfill that demanding role with a sense of duty and honor. Not to mention, working out just made him feel generally better both physically and mentally and suppressed his depression almost enough to make him forget he even suffered from it. But he had only done so at his own pace. And the things Steve and Clint had him doing, these crazy cardiovascular work outs which sent his damaged heart panicking against the arc reactor casing, and often had him convinced that he would go into cardiac arrest (although he never did) were on a whole different spectrum. And this all occurred before attempting to hold his own against two admittedly far superior human beings.

There was speculation in his mind, about how many more bear crawls, supermans, eight-count pushups and spidermans (he'd laughed at the name, then. He didn't laugh anymore) he could suffer through before his heart just simply gave up on him. Because Tony knew he'd reach his physical limits before he ever ran out of the sheer determination and stubborn intent which drove him. Quitting just wasn't in his programming regardless of physical demand.

Steve and Clint were supportive, doing everything they asked of him right alongside him, but never seemed to be burdened by the same limitations, the same ragged panting, the same drenching sweat that dripped off his nose and accumulated into a puddle beneath him as he pumped out an ungodly number of pushups. But of course, he tells himself bitterly. One was a chemically enhanced super human, and the other... god only knows, but he definitely wasn't normal. He realized how ridiculous it was one morning when Clint literally used Steve as a punching bag to demonstrate certain strikes, and Steve had just stood there absorbing blows like a fucking statue, not even giving indication that he felt them.

It was almost disturbing, seeing Steve be used like that, and knowing he would restrain himself from hitting back for fear of killing him, Tony had been adamantly opposed to doing the same. So instead, he'd settled on Clint, feeling that he was more on his level. Unfortunately, Clint did hit back. He was swift like a cat, and just as sneaky.

And now, standing there on the huge tumbling mat in Stark Tower's enormous gym as Clint smiles at him with deceptive innocence, Tony thinks that offering up a perfectly good limb to be used for some unknown demonstration seems immensely idiotic. Clint scoffs and rolls his eyes at Tony's cautious resistance. "I promise, it's not that bad. Stop being a wimp."

Tony clenches his jaw, shifts it around in his unique way of displaying annoyance. Yup, it was still sore. "'Not that bad' implies that there's something bad involved. And you have a warped opinion on what's 'good' to begin with."

"Oh my god." Clint pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. Tony just watches him, arms crossed defiantly. "Ok, here." He shows Tony the underside of his forearm. "You're gonna try it on me first, and I'll prove to you it's really not that bad." He places a finger lightly on his wrist. "See these two tendons running up into my hand?"

"Yeah." He confirms, feeling slightly better that whatever it was isn't going to happen to him just then, and allows his curiosity to get the better of him as he watches closely.

The tendons shift as Clint moves his thumb to make them more pronounced and places his finger between them. "There's a nerve in there called Pericardium-6. Rubbing it reduces nausea. Pressing it makes your hand spaz and causes pain. Very effective if you want to make someone drop a weapon like a pistol or a knife."

Furrowing his brow and frowning deeply, Tony's gaze shifts up to meet Clint's. "You realize damage to my wrists, hands, arms, fingers, could be devastating to my entire career."

Hands fly up defensively. "Tony, do you really think I'd ask you to do anything that could cripple you? C'mon, man, have some faith. Here just try it on me, okay?" He holds his arm out again, nodding at it, willing Tony to take it and Tony sighs as he steps forward, taking Clint's wrist in both hands. He cups the limb, thumb hovering over the nerve Clint had pointed out to him.

"I'm not liable for anything that happens." He says and presses.

And Clint just collapses.

Like a goddamn demolished building, just crumples into himself and fucking collapses onto the mat, lifeless, open eyes staring.

"What the fuck?" he breaths.

And Tony looks terribly foolish, his hands lingering in the same spot Clint's arm used to be seconds earlier, thumbs stuck out as though he was still holding it. All he could do was stare at the lifeless form, utterly shocked, reason leaving his mind to be substituted with confused horror.

Pericardium-6. He knew next to nothing about Pericardium-6. Anatomy was something he aced in highschool, only to expel the useless information later in life, making room for engineering, advanced mechanics, nuclear fission. You know, important things. Was Pericardium-6 capable of killing someone? He makes it a point to brush up on it later.

He drops his arms to his sides. Looks around the empty room, not expecting to find anyone but half-hoping someone would be there to put this into persepctive for him anyway. Kneeling down, he lightly smacks Clint's cheek a few times. "Hey. Clint." He grabs a wrist, making a point not to use the one he's apparently just killed the man with, and searches for a pulse. It's there. Strong, steady. Not at all altered.

Then nearly shits his pants when Clint's hand flies up, latches on to his wrist and presses, hard, right into the nerve he showed him, eliciting a yelp from Tony. Electricity seems to shoot up his arm and in seconds Clint has him face down on the ground with one hand behind his back, the other clawing the mat, the threat of pain enough to render him immobile.

And the bastard's nearly snorting with laughter the whole time. "I cannot believe you actually fell for that." He says, releasing his hand and stepping back. Tony lays there, face twisted with rage, humiliation having destroyed the pride required to push himself off the ground to retaliate. Behind him, Clint continues laughing. And he had actually cared about this asshole?

Something dark surfaces in his mind, painful and terrifying. A huge man wrenching his arm behind him, slamming him to the ground. Twisting it, threatening to break it if Tony didn't spill secrets, three more brutes standing around watching and laughing and the helplessness was overwhelming, and goddammit, they were going to take his arc reactor anyway, what did it matter if he had a broken arm?

It's been a whole month since the Avengers had rescued him, storming in just in time to find the men packaging his arc reactor for transport, Tony himself, tied to a chair next to them, fighting for breath that just wouldn't come, pale and sweaty and beaten. He hasn't spoken a word of it since. And the others haven't asked.

What was that clicking sound? His eyes focused to find fingers snapping in his face. Clint's there. He looks worried, almost regretful. "Tony, you alright?" He certainly sounds regretful.

Glaring, he bares his teeth, swings his legs around and kicks Clint square in the chest with both socked feet, releasing a furious growl. With a very loud expulsion of air, Clint's thrown off the mat from the force of it, and sent sliding across the floor beyond, coughing and sputtering.

Tony isn't exactly sure what would come next. He sits there, glowering at his feet, arms crossed over his knees, as Clint catches his breath. "I probably deserved that." He rasps and there's still lighthearted humor in his voice, like he was smiling as he spoke.

Tony nods absently, stares with haunted eyes at the mat. "Yeah. You did." His tone demonstrates exactly how unamused he truly is.

"...you alright?" Now there's legitimate concern, and Tony bites his lip, winces when he draws blood.

"Sure." He lies, then reconsiders. Clint is his friend, has proven himself a true friend. Fuck, he had to trust somebody in his life besides Pepper, but this last abduction has left him wary and doubtful and he couldn't... he can't...

Shit. He's letting them win. "No." He corrects himself, spits the word and buries his face in his arms. "I, um... just... just, uh." He needs to pull himself together. Stuttering was not something Tony Stark did. "Had a flashback." he finally mumbles.

There's silence, then movement and he looks up to find Clint squatting in front of him, and there was terrible understanding in his eyes. "I get 'em too." He says quietly, his words sincere, and there was tacit comprehension between them, a silent agreement that they would never ask each other, that awareness of their existence is more than sufficient to offer support. Neither of them need nitty gritty details. "I'm sorry."

Tony grunts acknowledgment and rises to his feet, the lingering fear leaking away, the memory stifled in a locked box for which he didn't seem to be able to loose the key. For now. "So, what's next?" He asks resolutely and Clint's very obviously confused as he stands.

"What do you mean?"

"What are we doing next?" Tony inquires again, wiping sweat from his brow, and stretching his lower back. He wants to continue, want's to force the memory out, and insert new knowledge in its stead. Wants to continue learning how he could keep it from happening again.

Clint looks skeptical but only for a moment, before continuing as though nothing happened. Tony is more than thankful for it. "Alright, try to hit me. Right here." He points to his own face and Tony chuckles. It isn't forced at all. He would not let them win.

"Can I skip trying, and just go ahead and fucking sock you as hard as I can?" he says, lifting clenched fists and cracking his neck. "Give me at least that."

Clint smirks back and raises his hands, lowering his torso a little into a defensive stance. "I'd like to see you try, old man."

Tony smiles and his fist flies forward, but he experiences that same lightning up his arm when Clint executes a move so fast, he didn't even see it happen. Ultimately, whatever he did had rendered his strike completely ineffective and his fist just sort of falls, useless. "What the hell was that?" he says but he's curious, not angry.

"That pressure point I showed you earlier. If you strike an incoming wrist in just the right way, using that point, it'll stop it." Clint explains. "Hold out your arm." He does so, this time without protest, holding his fist out to represent a half-completed strike. Clint slowly brings his flattened hands together on either side of Tony's wrist, his right hand lightly touches the pressure point, and his left rests at the crease where his wrist begins. "Right here." He expands his hands, and brings them back together a little faster.

"Huh." Tony remarks and stares, fascinated at the event before him. "Amazing what a little nerve can do."

"Right?" Clint seems to love this stuff. He always smiles when he's playing drill sergeant. "Now, I'm gonna go slow at first, so you can get a feel for it, but you learn fast enough, so don't expect mercy for long."

Tony drops into the defensive stance he's been taught, and raises his hands. The flashback is all but forgotten. "Bring it."

He pulls back, mimics a slow punch, and Tony strikes the incoming arm. "Good." Clint comments, "but I'm the one holding back on this. You should be smacking the crap out of it." Tony nods, repositions himself and repeats the gesture, this time as hard as he can. Wincing, Clint shakes the jolt out of his hand and smiles his approval. "Better. Again."

As time progresses, Clint's incoming blows become faster, until Tony is capable of stopping multiple punches from both fists, hands flying through the air, face set in concentration. Deadly accurate, he never misses, and Clint's acclaim is showing on his face with the conclusion of the one hundredth thwarted punch. "Good shit." Tony says, placing hands on his hips and panting.

"Not bad." Clint confirms, not at all out of breath, but whatever. He was still shaking his hand out, ridding it of the electricity rippling through it.

Tony bends over, places his hands on his knees. "Ugh, god, I need to quit drinking." He groans, and when he comes back up there's a fist flying right at his face. With a yell of surprise, he disables it instinctively with the move he's learned, and strikes back.

Clint emits a grunt and stumbles back, holding his jaw where he was struck and Tony, recovering from his initial shock, becomes furious. "Really, guy?" He exclaims, rising from his crouch. Clint's laughing at him again, and Tony growls. "I can't guarantee that the next time you do something like that, you won't lose a limb."

"It's a good thing, Tony." He assures him, taking his hand away from his face and shifting his jaw around a huge smile which, quite frankly, was seriously uncharacteristic for him. "If I hadn't known beyond a doubt that you would stop that, if I didn't think you had the reflexive ability, I wouldn't have done it."

Tony hadn't thought of that. Rage slipping away to reveal a proud grin beneath, he runs a hand through his sweaty hair, leaving the black ends spiked. "You had that much confidence in me?" he asks, and his answer comes in the form of a slow nod. Maybe he could do this.

Behind them, the gym door opens and they both turn to find Steve walking in, looking tired and frustrated. At their questioning looks, he smiles, reassuring and utterly maddening because Tony knows something didn't go well during his meeting with Fury, but he also knows that Steve will never discuss it. He prefered to keep all that sort of stressful bullshit on his level, never passing it down to the team, never requesting that they help carry the burden. In his mind, that was his job. He was their leader. And Tony hates it, hates Steve's self-sacrificing crap, finds it completely illogical to operate in such a way, when perfectly capable minds exist in his life who could help him. Could offer sound advice, or even just an open ear.

But that was Steve. Far too caring and peaceful for his own good.

"What did I miss?" He asks, clearly wishing to avoid the topic currently stampeding through the room in a massive herd.

Clint answers before Tony could object to the obvious diversion. "Oh, nothing, just Tony performing above standard in everything he does." Clint beams at him, but Tony doesn't look up, choosing instead to watch the floor intently, a deep frown marring his features.

"Yeah?" Steve's looking at him. He can feel the icy blue piercing him. "So you're ready to fight me, right?" Steve's not oblivious, and he's definitely no idiot, and he wants to keep the situation in check. Wants to hold that stupid burden all himself and fuck everybody else, right? Infuriating is what it is. So moronic, Tony can't even understand it.

"That meeting was about me." It's not a question, it's a statement. He notices his fists clenching and chooses not to look at Steve, unable to face the pity, the worry, the sorrow he knows is present in that face of his. "I'm not a fucking child, Steve. I can handle it."

When there is no answer, which in itself is answer enough for him, he storms from the room. Neither of them move to stop him. They understand. Clint gets it, although no words are exchanged.

Fury has lost the trail. Whomever wanted him dead, wanted his arc reactor, his very heart, had slipped through their fingers like fine sand.

A/N: Experiment writing in present tense. Woo! Not sure if it's all correct, so let me know if there are any grammatical screw ups, or if the story doesn't flow right.

Thank you all for the reviews! Jesters of the Moon, you made my heart swell with pride. I'm glad you like this so much, and I appreciate the feedback on my little idea conjoining this with The Dark Horse.

Let me know if anything confuses you and I'll explain it in the next chapter. Thanks for reading! Please review!