#archerrulerofyourmind

Barney was having a bad week. Well, more of a bad month. Fuck it, Barney was having a bad life and it wasn't getting any better. He could barely sleep now, after what the Moonstar girl had done to him. He was scared, jumpy, sick. He saw Harold Barton in every shadow, heard his voice in every silence. Barney couldn't even stand to look himself at the mirror - daddy Barton had the same eyes, hadn't he, the same red hair and the same mouth and nose. They were so much alike, weren't they, inside and out. So like any good alcoholic, Barney decided to cope with his problems drowning his sorrows on a bottle. He'd drank all the bourbon he had back at home in the course of a few days, so when the headache started and the need to drink started to crawl under his skin, Barney finally got up, grabbed his coat and went to the bar. And there he was, sititng in the counter, crawling into a bottle of Jack, already half drunk and out of his mind, when one certain Tony Stark came strolling through the door.

Tony was actually exhausted. He'd been at the lab for, what was it, close to two days now? Either way, he'd been working on the problem of creating something that would protect him from Magneto, mostly doing that so that he wouldn't have to go home to what he was sure was going to be nightmare-filled nights. It was a pretty typical reaction to stress, which he'd been under lately - not that he really showed it to anyone. So, he stopped at the bar on the way back to the dorm, figuring that a few drinks might help him just drop off. As he walked in, he scanned the place, seeing if anyone he knew was there. He almost missed that one professor at the bar - Barney Barton, if he remembered correctly. The one who actually kind of amused him and who, if he remembered the email right, had taken the week off and cancelled classes. He'd never really talked to the guy, but he wandered over, taking the stool next to him anyway. Barton looked haggard and quite deep in his cups, but Tony just gave him a polite smile. He could relate. "Hey, there."

Barney gave Tony a sideway glance and took another sip. "The fuck are you." He asked, voice hoarse. He was drunk already, but not enough - not enough to get some proper sleep for once in days, not enough to actually stop thinking, remembering, fearing his own shadow. Just not enough for him to forget who he was now and who he had been ("Yer bad, Charlie boy, yer bad"). He was sure he had seen the boy somewhere, just wasn't sure where. "Fuck me, one of Armour's brats, ain't ya." He thought, a moment later. There weren't many places he could know a kid from. "Ya even legal ta drink?" He asked, which, of course, was a big joke. Was he even legal to drink when he had his first cup? Obviously not.

Tony snorted, flagging down the bartender as he realized just how drunk this guy was. It wasn't often that someone didn't recognize him, and the fact that the first place Barton mentioned was Armour was highly amusing to him. Not the constant news of how he was head of Stark Industries, not being the start of a multinational company's new direction, not the horrible incidents that made both of those happen. No, it was the fact he was a student where Barton taught. He shook his head. "Yes, I go there, but I'm more than just one of their 'brats'. I'm Tony Stark, head of Stark Industries, and yes, I'm fucking old enough to drink." He rolled his eyes as he took a moment to order a whiskey from the bartender. The guy wasn't bad looking, but he was probably going to avoid Barton's classes at this rate. Probably was a grade-A asshole when it came to teaching, too.

Barney shook his head. "Ya brats are always head of corporation Daddy Paid for My Private Jet or I Spend My Holidays in Aspen or whatever the fuck." There was a long pause in which Barney simply stared at his glass. He wanted to get angry - them fucking rich kids, having everything handled to them in a silver platter - but all he could muster was some sort of tired resignation. Yes, he knew of Tony fucking Stark. Kids like Tony would rule over the world soon enough, and guys like Barney would do their dirty work, like it had always been since the dawn of humanity. "What else is new?" Barney reached for his pocket and took his pack of American Legend out. It was the cheapest brand you could find and it tasted like hell, but he liked it. He lightened one of the cigarettes and gave it a long puff before talking again: "I figured big cats like yerself had their own private bars in your mansion or somethin'."

Tony raised an eyebrow as he glanced back over, the smallest curl of anger at the mention of his father rising in his stomach. He pushed it down, though, reminding himself that he'd dealt with bigger assholes saying worse things. "Whatever, man," he said, grabbing the glass that the bartender put in front of him and taking a sip. "I bought my own damn jet, and I've put more work into my corporation than some people twice my age." He smirked over. "And I'm currently stuck at Armour U instead of at my mansion, so I have to slum it a little."

Barney didn't miss a beat: "Oh, poor you." He mocked, voice falsely sweet. It was nearly damn impossible to imagine the man's voice as anything but angry. There was no sweetness in the hoarse growls, no gentleness in the cuss words and midwest drawl. He gave his cigarette a deep puff and let the smoke through his nose, burning all the way down. It tasted both bitter and relieving at the same time. "So, lemme guess. Daddy issues, ya wanna prove yerself ta him an', at the same time, step away from his shadow." He muttered, slowly due to the amount of alcohol in his blood. "Is he an alcoholic like ya too or am I just projectin' here?"

Tony felt the anger curl higher at each target the man hit, but the only indication was the fact that his hand clutched tighter at the glass. It was probably a good thing that he didn't have super strength or something like that, because otherwise it would've busted. Instead, he just let his own smile turn a little nasty, taking another sip. "He's dead, thank you very much, and I'm guessing you probably have something similar if you're projecting so much." He turned to look forward, only keeping Barton in the corner of his vision. "Of course, at least my father left me an empire. What did yours leave you, Barton? A lifetime of vices and struggle?" He suddenly remembered the connection to Clint, mentioned somewhere he couldn't recall. "The responsibility of caring for someone instead of living your own life? I don't know why else someone like you would become a teacher." He glanced back over. "Or am I wrong?"

Barney laughed. It was a painful, bitter thing, hoarse and dry. It felt more like purging demons than an honest demonstration of happiness. Barney was so far from happy right now. In fact, he could hardly remember the last time he could say he was happy, if there ever was such a thing. Maybe when it was just him and Clint back in the circus, in those few first hopeful months. "Ya bet yer ass he did, the old drunk." Had he been a little sober, Tony's face would be a little less good than it looked right now - a few teeth less, maybe. But as it was, Barney had no capacity for lying. "And Clint, that too." He shook his head. "But that wasn't bad. No, kid was probably the one good thing... the one good thing the motherfucker ever gave me." The archer slurred, finishing his glass and ordering another. "I'm a teacher 'cuz they pay me, kid, 's that simple. Not everyone was born sittin' on a fuckin' fortune like ya."

Tony blinked, because he hadn't expected what turned out to be an outpouring of drunken emotion. He didn't know what he had expected, maybe more barbs slurred out in that admittedly sexy, perpetually angry voice, but the fact that it ended up this was kind of strange. It made him look at the other man, his smile turning bemused. "Um, yeah, I guess I can see that," he said, shaking his head and taking another sip. He shrugged. "Of course, I just wouldn't understand being left anything else, especially a sibling or something." It was strange, but he was starting to find himself feeling sorry for Barton, even though he was still pretty much an asshat.

Barney shrugged and gulped down his drink with the despair of a broken man. "There ain't much to understand when it happens, there's no choice. Ya either man up an' take the challenge or ya regret it forever, I suppose." There was something bitter and raw about his voice, as if he was talking more to himself than to Tony. Barney felt like he was losing it - losing his feeble grasp at reality. Dani's powers had turned him inside out and upside down, opening up old wounds that had never quite healed. The alcohol was the one thing he could do to regain some control. Poisoning himself to forget was his best bet right now. He had no idea what else to do. Obstinate, he took another sip. "But the fuck one can expect from ya, he left ya a fortune, makes a guy wonder if ya didn't finish the old geezer yerself."

Tony narrowed his eyes at Barton, all good will flying out in an instant at that last accusation. "It was a car accident," he said sharply, voice probably showing a little too much pain as well. He had to look away, the anger burning up again, some of it at his own current inability to actually find out about the rumors that his parents had been killed. Of course, he'd been distracted lately, but even he knew it was partially a coping mechanism, throwing himself into everything but revenge so that he didn't go over that dark edge inside himself. He'd already gone over that once, and even though he killed those that deserved it, it was still someplace he loathed to go again. He took another sip, voice coming out harder. "And I took up a challenge, too, you know. It might not be flesh and blood, but SI still needs something from me to continue." Especially since he'd learned that he had to be the one to make it better, more than just a place that funded wars and terror around the globe.

Barney "Oooh, hit a nerve there." He grinned cruelly. "Bless car accidents, doin' their dirty job since Ford came along." He raised his own glass, as if in a toast. A car accident had killed his parents as well - and he was more than grateful for Harold Barton's death. Maybe he would have done himself it eventually. He liked to believe that. The desire had always been there, but at fifteen his father still towered over him, held him captive of fear. No more. "Well, then fuckin' congratulations 'bout whatever it is that you do. I'm pretty sure keepin' a fortune that's already yours from the comfort of your king size back at your penthouse an' your private jet an' your limo must be hella--" He stopped himself for a moment. Fuck, Lu was rubbing off on him. "must be really fuckin' hard. I mean, it's not like ya have money to hire people to do everythin' for ya anyway, right, rich boy? Chillin' on that pool must be hard work, tirin' as fuck."

Tony snorted at the use of 'hella', the sound almost too pleasant for how he was feeling. He'd had his share of assholes, but none of them had gone quite so far. Still, something about the way Barton said that bit about car accidents..."Oh, sounds like you know something about that. What? Did your dear old daddy go that way, too? Are you accusing me of something you did yourself?" He shifted away slightly on the bar stool, debating the wisdom of just getting up and walking away. The guy was pure acid, and he doubted that there was anything worth getting to know under the caustic shell. "And I guess you have everything about me all figured out, so there's no point even explaining all the work I do." Making his decision, he drained his glass in one long pull, figuring that his next one was going to be enjoyed either in another bar or in his room after stopping someplace for a bottle. Most likely the latter, since he was suddenly not in the mood for company.

Barney suddenly smiled. It was a dangerous thing, a little mad even, a smile as sharp as a knife. "Oh, yeah, ya bet yer ass he did. Frontal crash too, right into a tree." Barney finished up his drink and ordered another one before talking again. "I'd announce it proudly if I'd killed the old fucker. I had my plans." He felt no shame, and the alcohol made it harder to lie. He wouldn't anyway, not about this. This still hurt. "Figured it was either me or him, the bastard." And then he figured life would get better without Harold Barton, but oh, neighbors, oh, friends! How wrong he had been! How fucking wrong he had been. "Me an' Clint or him. Easy 'nuff decision."

Tony knew there was something wrong with him, but it was still kind of funny that the slash of a smile actually made Barton seem more attractive. Not that he figured he'd ever touch the other man - the guy's view on that sort of thing had been plastered all over, and he wasn't exactly looking for anything, happy as he was. Either way, the shift in topic and the way the conversation turned less attacking did tempt him to order another as well. He kind of smirked in reply, shaking his head. "I know I didn't go that far," he said quietly, "but I'm guessing it's different when it comes down to that." He shrugged. "And I guess that you succeeded somewhere. I mean, Clint's a pretty good guy from what I know of him."

Barney frowned, as if deciding if Tony was mocking him or not. "Fuck it." He finally said, deciding he didn't care either way. "Yeah, Clint's good. He's good." He said, echoing Harold: yer bad, Charlie, yer bad. Barney took another sip, starting to get really damn dizzy now. Good thing he was sitting. "I dun' really think there's much of a difference there. We're all fuckin' animals. We'll all kill if we feel threatened 'nuff, I suppose. It's a survival thing. So lucky fer yer daddy yer such a goodie two shoes." Barney smiled that smile again, sharp and dangerous.

Tony couldn't help it, he started laughing at Barton calling him that. Considering the fact that he was thinking of all the people who he'd already killed in his life (they deserved it, but still) and the things that he learned some of his own designs had done, he was pretty far from a goodie two shoes. "Yeah, right. I'm so one of those," he said, taking the whiskey that was set in front of him and drinking to ignore that smile that had reappeared. "Just because I didn't plan to kill my father doesn't mean that at all. After all, as you said, I'm a fucking animal, and I've been threatened before with much worse than anything my father dished out." His own smile was a bit dark and bitter.

Barney snorted, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, lookit you, so fuckin' bad." He shook his head, not convinced. "What did'ya do, snorted coke outta some hooker's belly? So hardcore, ain't ya." Barney would never imagine, in a billion years, that Tony was Iron Man - all he could see was this rich little boy who had it all. He had Tony mostly figured out: rich as fuck from birth, daddy issues running deeper than NY's subway tunnels, as these guys usually had, alcoholic tendencies, to put it gently - starting off the night with bourbon was the sign of the drunkard. He knew it from experience. And in nowhere in there he could see motivation for Tony to become a super hero. But then again, Barney didn't believe in heroes, not anymore.

Tony shook his head, taking another drink as he tried to forget the image of the people he had killed, people he burnt to death with barely a thought then, because they had tortured him and killed his only friend in the place. He looked down into his glass, anger mixing with his own self disgust. "I killed people after being tortured for weeks, Barton." He really didn't know why it all came out. Maybe he just wanted the man to back off from the stereotypes - many of which, yes, he had filled in the past. Either way, it just came out, his voice quiet and almost blank, and he drank more despite the nausea starting. "Is that hardcore enough for you?"

Barney shrugged for a moment - he didn't peg the guy for a murderer, but then again, he had been wrong before. (He didn't think Clint could kill either and oh boy, how wrong he had been again and again). Barney had done worse for not nearly as good reasons. He was usually beyond remorse too - or maybe he was just generally too constantly drunk to care. "Oh, started wearin' your big boy pants? Didn't think ya had it in ya." Barney slurred, too drunk to feel anything besides anger, besides hopelessness. And so he took it on the easiest target: Tony. "Did ya feel justified? Did ya feel good? Afraid yer gonna do it again, rich boy? It gets easier after the first time. So fuckin' easy, am I right?"

Tony narrowed his eyes at the other man, anger rising up to choke him. He really should've known better anyway - he barely talked about it with people that cared about him. What the fuck made him spill anything to Barney, of all people? He looked away and downed his drink, slamming the empty glass on the bar. "Okay, I'm done here. Fuck you, man." He tossed some bills on the counter, including one closer to the asshole. "Here. You're pretty enough for one drink, but I don't think I really want to talk to you again after this." He smirked as he said his sarcastic statement and started for the exit, wanting nothing else but to curl up around a bottle in the dorm.

Barney almost laughed again - that cruel, hoarse laughter of his, but it died on his throat when Tony threw the bills his way. The pretty thing would have been offense enough - he was not a fucking hooker. But the money was what really got to him. Barney knew what it was like to be desperately poor. He knew what it was like to sleep hungry, to not have a roof over his head. And he had survived all that, and gotten himself a good enough job to pay for his rent and his bike to end up in a bar, hearing some eighteen year old throw him a dollar bill as if it was a favor? Not a fucking chance on Earth. Fucking rich kids, born with everything already and still moaning endlessly about how sad and terrible their life were. Well, Barney was about to show Tony how actually awful life could be, yes sir. The man left the bar and Barney grabbed his own wallet, paid for his drinks, and then took the money Tony tossed at him. He was going to make him eat that fucking money. Tony was still outside when Barney got out, both terribly drunk and obstinate - which was never a good combination for the Bartons, if the stories about Harold Barton were true. "The fuck ya think yer goin', rich boy." He growled, following Tony, dollar bill crumpled in his closed fist. "This talk ain't done."

Tony stopped and turned around, rolling his eyes. He really didn't want to continue this, especially considering he was already sick from the memories and had a feeling that he was most likely going to have another nightmare if he tried to sleep. As it was, he had been contemplating just going back to the lab, losing himself in work, since that made it even easier to stop feeling. Then he wouldn't sleep, which meant he wouldn't dream. "It's done as far as I'm concerned, man."

Barney was surprisingly fast for a drunk man. But that was on the Bartons' genes, apparently. Barney still remembered the way his father would come for him, so fast he barely had time to think before that fist hit him square on the face and put him to sleep. He grabbed Tony's collar, towering over the boy at the top of his 6'3, smelling of whisky and anger. "It's far from fuckin' done, rich boy. The fuck do you think you are."

Tony felt the same calm descend that happened every time he was threatened by someone like this, a defense mechanism from years of being the smallest and smartest in the room, making him the obvious target. He automatically went into his usual act in this case, pulling what confidence he had around himself and starting the scan for an out. Ignoring the light buzz of fear under it all, he drew himself up in the grip and grinned wide. "I'm Tony Fucking Stark, pretty boy. What? Couldn't let it go without coming out for a kiss? I completely understand." He reached out a hand and mockingly drew a finger down Barton's cheek.

Barney frowned. Tony didn't react as he expected - the archer expected him to cower and whimper and beg. Maybe, that would have gotten Tony through of this night with only a scare and scratched knees. But as it was, Barney could feel hot red anger spread over his brain like a disease, blooming inside him, clawing his chest to get out. Tony's words and, worse, Tony's touch, awakened something wild and insane inside his brain, like flipping a switch. It had been there waiting, alright, since the Swordsman, since the archer silently promised to stay away from that, to never do this again, to never let another man touch him like-- "TAKE YOUR FUCKIN' HANDS OFF ME," came the growl, as Barney pushed Tony away and lunged at him the same time, like some rabid animal, fist raised to deck him. ("No son of mine will be a fuckin' pansy!") The first blow was hard, right in Tony's left cheek - the man hit like a truck. ("I'll cut your dick off if I ever see ya with another guy, Charlie.") If only Barney could see his uncanny resemblance to his own father right now - oh, how it would haunt him. ("I'll fuckin' kill you myself.") "I'LL FUCKIN' KILL YOU MYSELF!"

Tony had only an instant to figure that he made the wrong choice, eyes widening as he was first shoved back. Normally, it would be enough, time to duck and run, but Barton was fast, and he grunted as the blow caught him, sending pain sparking through his face and down his neck as he reeled from the impact, barely hesitating to bring his own arms up in an attempt at protection. "Fuck! It was a joke, man!"

Barney may have stopped if this was another day, another time. If he hadn't been face to face with the not-quite-so-dead Harold Barton just some days ago, if his voice and his smell weren't still lingering on his memory like scars, open wounds still oozing blood, after all those years. If his bones weren't still aching with some sort of ghost pain from a ghost hammer. But as it was, Barney didn't stop. He could not - he didn't want to. It was too much. The memory of his shameful acts with Swordsman burned in his mind like some kind of accusation. It was the last drop, shattering his self control to dust as a growl bloomed from his throat. After so many days of drowning himself in whisky, stuck in some kind of miserable inertia, this was like freeing a wild animal from its cage: his immense, almost solid sadness became anger, red and hot, and his anger poured out of his fists as he hit Tony again, and again, and again. It was the natural reaction from his body - the one that made him feel at home. He had been raised in violence and it was in violence that he found himself again. His fists painted Tony in all shades of red, purple and black like a canvas. First strike landed on his stomach, to make him drop his arms. It reminded him of the way his father beat him with that hammer on that dream-reality the squaw gave him. Second strike hit him on the face again, maybe breaking a nose if the crunching noise was anything to go by. And the more he hit, the ore he felt impossible to stop, spreading Harold's legacy with his own fists.

Tony had no time for any attempts at protection past the first one, the fists setting up a chain reaction of pain bursting through different parts of body. He grunted and cried out with each impact, the one to his stomach making him wretch and almost lose what little he had in it while the one utterly crushing his nose made him swear, hands uselessly trying to come up as he curled in on himself, vision already swimming from the agony.

Barney grunted through gritted teeth, lips pulled back in a snarl, panting as his fists opened gashes in the other man's face. "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?" ("Who do you think you are, boy?") He roared and grabbed the man by the hair, slamming his head against the concrete. "WHO?" ("Who?") He echoed long forgotten words spitted out in Harold's voice once upon a time. "I'll make you eat this, rich boy, fuckin' eat this won't ya--" Barney grabbed the dollar bills Tony threw at him and forcibly opened the man's mouth, fisting the money inside. "SWALLOW IT YA FUCKIN' FAG! SWALLOW IT!" He forced the billionaire's chin closed with a snap, and punched him again - bruised knuckles against his left temple. He could feel Tony's body wriggling under his, trying to escape, trying to claw its way out, away from him like Barney did once to escape Harold. But he was too far gone into his own deep, dark rage to realize that as much as he ran from his father, the closest they became.

Tony didn't even know when he fell to the ground, all of it going by in flashes by the point he had something dirty and nasty shoved in his mouth, the guy's - who the hell was it again? oh, yeah - Barton's screaming almost drowned out by the ringing in his skull. He only had the slightest grasp on consciousness, vision blacking over in turns, but he was still reacting, still trying to move away from each new form of pain that shot through him, not caring how, just wanting it to stop.

Barney felt the fight start to die in Tony's body, going out like a candle in the wind. He'd painted the scientist's face dark red with his knuckles, and that vision somehow made him smile - that same dangerous, sharp smile he offered at the bar, a twisted, unhappy little thing. "Got any funny lines for me now, rich boy? Huh? I'm waitin'." He asked, grabbing Tony's chin for a moment, eyes glistening with rage in the dark. The loud music and laughter from the bar drowned the sounds of their little fight in the back outside. "Good thing yer rich, right? Ya gonna need a fortune to fix yer face." There was a short pause, while Barney raised his fist. Tony may have thought it was finally over, now he could breath, now he could-- "Send ya dentist my fuckin' regards." Barney's fist went down his face again, hard as a wall of bricks against the other man's mouth. The blow was so strong Tony's head went up and slammed the concrete again with a loud thump. The sound filled Barney with relief and satisfaction for about half a second - half a second of bliss, of joy, of peace. And then everything came back again, harder than ever, weighting over his shoulders: the shame, the rage, the hopeless need for one more drink, and Harold's goddamned words: yer bad, Charlie, yer bad.. "Fuck ya too, old man." He mumbled, getting up, before looking down at the kid on the ground, the pathetic broken figure of the billionaire he knew earlier, bragging about Stark Industries. And as he kicked Tony on the ribs for good measure, he couldn't stop to think that after this, Tony was going back to his money and Barney was going back to the same tiny apartment smelling like alcohol and vomit, to wallow in his own fucking nightmares once more. Who had lost after all?