gettinghawkeyed​:

All things considered, it was a miracle that Clint had grown up into the person that stood before Tony now–not just that he’d managed to be as tall as he was or as strong as he was when his protein intake came from breaded chicken, but that he’d managed to survive a less than ideal childhood and come out the other side kind, helpful, and determined to do good. Frankly, he was a miracle. But Tony had a feeling Clint wouldn’t want to hear any of that, and he was at least trying not to piss Clint off or offend him again within an hour of them ‘making up.’ 

As the food came, Tony tipped the delivery man then returned to the living room, handing Clint the spaghetti while he sat on the couch and opened the salad box. He didn’t tell Clint that he’d pay for anything and everything the Avengers needed whether he was on the team or not–though it was true–and he figured the last thing anyone wanted to hear was some rich guy whining about how he’d like to be valued for more than his wallet, so he took a bite of salad and shrugged. “You’re right,” he agreed. And it was more than enough motivation to make himself as useful as possible. He did not want to be the guy they put up with because they had to, that they humored so he remembered to pay the electricity bill. “It’s not a bad gig–” Tony broke off and set down his fork. “Why are you in the vents, Barton? I thought we had a possum.” Luckily for Clint, Tony didn’t believe in exterminators and so had been resigned to the fact that if there was a possum, they’d be adding it to the Avenger’s roster. 

“Kind of,” Tony admitted. “I’ve tied the two together so tight now that if one rope gets cut–” He shrugged and took another bite. He was putting everything he had into the Avengers, and now everything was dependent: if the Avengers fell, so did Stark Industries; if Stark Industries fell, Tony wouldn’t be able to keep the Avengers afloat. And they were getting dangerously close to that point as the board of investors was trying so very valiantly to kick him out. “But it’s fine,” he added quickly. “You want a job? I’m sure we have something open in box testing. Actually, we probably have a box around here somewhere. I’d be happy to shove you in it if you want to practice.” 

Tony set down the salad bowl and leaned forward, tone more serious now. “You make your own arrows, right? They’re good work, Barton. And I don’t say that lightly. You got this whole song and dance about being ‘just’ a circus kid, but even if we pretend that the circus doesn’t take skill–and it does–then you’re still sitting on some serious tech talent. Why don’t you tell anyone?”

Clint shrugged. “Call it reconnaissance? Assessing our security system for weaknesses?” Truthfully, he went into the vents simply because he liked it in there. It was quiet, peaceful, and private--or as private as one could get living with a JARVIS. He was a little surprised that Tony didn’t already know what he’d been doing. There seemed little that Tony Stark didn’t know about, especially when it came to Avengers tower. “Also, we did have a raccoon. For awhile. I shooed her out once her babies were grown.”  “My arrows?” Clint’s attention drifted to his quiver, which he’d propped up against their stupid-huge sofa built to accommodate six people plus a Hulk, if necessary. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not that hard, really. Anyone with a screwdriver and enough time on their hands could do what I do. S’not like your stuff--the robots and the suit and all that. Pales in comparison, really.” He supposed he’d never really thought about his arrow work as noteworthy feats of engineering. His trick arrows were just that--tricks. Something he started doing at the circus to get people more interested in his act. He considered it an amazing stroke of good luck that those skills translated so well into superhero work. “Suppose I didn’t think anyone would care,” he said. Nobody had before. Not as a kid in the circus, not as a young SHIELD recruit, and certainly not as an Avenger. At least, not until now. “Didn’t think you’d care, especially. Was I wrong?” 

gettinghawkeyed​: 

“That we do,” Tony agreed, smiling. He just also had the life long assumption that anyone who decided to be in a relationship with him, whether colleague, friend, or more, did so because of certain perks that came with getting close to a super rich guy, and Tony hated to disappoint. Anyway, it wouldn’t help anyone to hoard wealth, and Tony fully planned on spending every last dime before he left this planet. Granted, he ordered a salad for himself, but that had a lot less to do with cost and a lot more to do with his ongoing heart condition. 

It was a good thing Tony had learned to keep his face even. In business, it was a vital skill, a good poker face sometimes the only thing standing between success and failure, and with super villains, it was often life or death. So Tony managed, with a Herculean effort, not to react viscerally to the idea of chicken fingers and popcorn as a sustained diet. He shook off the apology. “Noted,” he said. “I’ll make sure to add chicken fingers to the list next time JARVIS goes for a grocery run.”

By then, they’d reached the elevator that ran from the training room up to the communal living room. Stepping in, Tony looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “I don’t think anyone that’s seen you shoot would categorize you as normal, but I get your point.” Neither Clint nor Tony had superpowers–no enduring super strength or heightened healing factor to save them. They came back from a fight wearing bumps and bruises that wouldn’t fade over night. “They were hardly stones. Pebbles, maybe. If we’re being generous.” But he was grinning now, hoping this time the teasing wouldn’t be taken the wrong way. After all, Clint had just called him a dick, and Tony wasn’t taking that the wrong way. 

“But I get it,” he said more seriously. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out onto the communal floor. “We’re working twice as hard to prove we’re an asset and not a liability, knowing the whole time that even one mistake could be enough to prove us wrong.” He wouldn’t admit that to just anyone–he barely even admitted it to himself. But Tony was terrified of showing weakness, that it would make him seem just as breakable, human and fragile as everyone likely suspected. And it was hard to stand next to Thor or Steve and ever feel adequate. 

Clint was pretty good at reading body language, but even he almost missed the barely perceptible twitch in Tony’s jaw when Clint started talking about the “Circus Orphan Special.” He imagined that Tony probably grew up with a team of nutritionists monitoring his diet--people who made sure he got the four food groups and plenty of calcium or whatever it is kids need to grow properly. Clint would argue that he turned out just fine without all that. Other than the deafness and the dyslexia and the propensity for falling off buildings, that is.  “At least you’ve found a convenient way to make yourself indispensable,” Clint said, gesturing broadly to their surroundings. “I mean, you own the tower and the tech and the jet and the--everything. If you got the boot, the Avengers would be sitting on the curb panhandling for Shawarma money. I’m just--that weird bird guy who gets stuck in the vents a lot.” Clint blinked. “Oh, wait. I wasn’t supposed to tell you about the vents. Whoops.” Their food is delivered shortly after. Clint sits cross-legged on the floor, stabbing his fork into the mound of spaghetti as though it had offended him personally. He can already see the fancy-pants restaurant used spices that he isn’t familiar with. He skeptically examines a bay leaf, turning it over in his hands as though it were a puzzle he might hope to solve. He takes a cautious nibble, pulls a face, and quickly discards the leaf. “Plus, you’ve got the whole Stark industry thing to fall back on just in case being a superhero doesn’t pan out. This is all I got.” His tone was jovial, but this is a problem that he’d thought about at length. He’d always felt useless and disposable in the lives of his loved ones, and being on a team of exceptional people hadn’t helped matters. He had no reason to believe he’d be tossed to the curb like that, but Clint knew from experience that people didn't always give you a warning. “I suppose I could go back to the circus, but I’m not quite as bendy as I used to be,” Clint muses. “Maybe if I started practicing again. I used to be able to fold myself into a box, but I’d probably break my arms and legs if I tried it now.” 

gettinghawkeyed​:

Tony came to land on the ground beside Clint. He was just as tired–and had not made nearly as many shots as Clint had–but he had the suit to stand between him and the look of exhaustion. Never let the bad guys see you sweat, right? “A sadist who’s going to make sure you don’t get your ass kicked next time Manhattan is invaded by tiny, mind-reading aliens. You’re welcome.” The faceplate rose first, Tony smirking down at Clint. He’d lost, but it was a hell of a match. Tony had known all along he didn’t stand a chance against the best of archers, but training–and especially this training–wasn’t about winning; it was about letting off steam, figuring out how to work side by side, how to duck and weave at the right times so he could help but never get in the way of Clint’s shots, so Clint could knock out the targets in Tony’s blind spots. So that they worked. 

The rest of the armor dissolved into thin sheets which shot back into the cupboard behind him, leaving Tony in his black under armor, sweat on his brow, breathing just as hard, and reaching out a hand to help Clint back to his feet. “I could do Italian,” he agreed, then snorted at the implication. “Yeah, they’d have a field day with that one.” Any two Avengers alone doing anything sparked rumors–coffee, tacos, hot dogs at a stand in the city–but an Italian restaurant had that particularly romantic flair that would make the gossip rags go crazy. 

“JARVIS, shut down the simulation.” While the room dissolved around them, holographic buildings and targets all disappearing, leaving them once again in a plain, gray-walled room, Tony nodded toward the door and led them back toward the Avenger’s common room. “Can you give us a menu for that place on third?” Immediately, a holographic projection of the menu appeared, streaming out of Tony’s wrist-watch. He turned it toward Clint–as his second olive branch, it was a pricey place, but he had promised, and Tony didn’t do anything small. “You know,” he added, leaning back against the hall wall. “I never doubted you. I teased you more than I should have. I can admit that. But you were good from day one. That was obvious to anyone. We’re lucky to have you on our team.” 

Clint further embarrassed himself by ordering a basic spaghetti and meatball dinner. He was almost positive it was from the kid’s menu, but he didn’t really care. If Tony and he were to be friends, then he would have to learn that Clint Barton didn’t do fancy food. “I grew up in the circus,” he told Tony, almost shyly. “I prefer simple meals. You rich people make everything too complicated.”  He could see that Tony was trying to be kind to him, and he appreciated it, though truly he needed very little to be happy. When he suggested Italian, he’d been thinking about the drive through Spaghetti Barn downtown. He was going to leave it at that, but then he remembered that they were trying to get to know each other better, so he should probably explain why he was so particular before Tony decided he was just odd. “I grew up in the circus,” he said. “That’s where I learned how to shoot. Where I learned a lot of the things I know how to do, actually. Only downside? Over ten years of eating nothing but chicken fingers and popcorn somewhat limits the palate. Sorry about that.” He shrugged. “On the bright side, it makes me a pretty cheap date.” 

Clint thought about his words for a moment. He wasn’t used to Tony being genuine, and he didn’t want to fuck it up by saying the wrong thing in response. “I really appreciate you saying that,” he said eventually. “Especially because it’s really hard being the only normal guy on the team. I mean, you’re technically normal, but I don’t know anyone who calls you that.” He looked down at his hands. “So when the only other technically-normal guy was throwing stones, I reacted poorly. Sorry about that. Again. I should’ve known it wasn’t personal. I mean--you’re like that with everyone. I should’ve been worried when you weren’t being a dick.” 

gettinghawkeyed​:

It was true, and Tony knew it: there were a lot of reasons to despise him. No matter what Tony did to try and right the wrongs of the past (and it didn’t help his case that most of that ‘good’ he did was off book), there was no erasing the way his family had made their money or his years of being a giant tool in the public eye–drunk and disorderly was just the beginning. Tony liked being liked, and in many ways, he was in the business of being liked–a charming public persona kept this whole operation afloat. But he didn’t need it. If he had to be the bad guy, so be it. They had Steve to be the boyscout when it came to team PR, but Tony had hoped, at least, that he could get his team to like him, that the word ‘team’ might actually mean something. 

“Us assholes have to stick together,” he said. It seemed to Tony that Barton was a project he needed to revaluate. The first experiment had gone wrong and now needed another approach. It was the way Tony approached everything in his life–like machines–but he had a feeling saying it out loud wasn’t going to earn him any brownie points. Most people didn’t like being compared to robotic inventions, but Tony just couldn’t see the world any other way. 

He also wasn’t so great at apologies, but plowing over the problem and moving on? Much easier. “An unbeatable course makes for an unbeatable team. If the rest of us only slightly fail, I’d say we’re standing pretty good.” This time through, Tony just watched, taking notes on his StarkPad. Part of the point of these obstacle courses was good old fashioned fun, but more importantly, it was preparation, making sure every single member of the Avengers was prepped and ready for the next big fight. These days, their “battles” consisted mostly of low level baddies, petty thieves who’d stumbled into one of Oscorp’s experiments gone wrong or been hit by alien lightning, but Tony made it his business to predict the future, to understand it, and that meant being prepared for anything and always having the big guns at the ready.

“What? You getting tired on me, Barton? That was just the warm up round.” Tony tossed the StarkPad onto the cubby near the door and raised an arm. Though he didn’t say a word, the cupboard on the wall behind him opened up and the Iron Man armor shot out, assembling around him within seconds. “JARVIS, start the course over and switch to two player mode,” he instructed and the training course reverted to the beginning. “Gather your arrows, Barton. First to finish buys dinner.” Tony would be ‘buying’ either way–he paid for everything around here–but it was just something you said. “And JARVIS, play some fight music.”

Clint was still anxious, drumming his fingers against his bow. He was equally afraid of messing this up, of offending Tony somehow now that they were so close to something akin to friendship. Clint would never admit this, but he’d been pretty lonely lately, and Tony was often around when the other Avengers preferred to be spend their time outside the tower. Clint was always a homebody, and he’d gotten even worse since joining the “I'm tired,” he admitted. “But I can keep going.” For anyone else, that might have sounded like bragging. For him, it was just a fact. He was used to pushing through exhaustion, reaching that point within him where he could no longer feel pain and his body moved with almost robotic-like accuracy. It was something he learned when he was a kid in the circus and he wasn’t allowed to stop until the show was over, no matter how tired he was. By the end of the second round, Clint was flat on his back, soaked to the skin with sweat and panting. “You’re--” He coughed. “A sadist.” His words held no true venom, though. He was having more fun now than he had in months, even if his body was rebelling a bit.  “However...” he said, sitting up and wiping the thin sheen of sweat off his brow with the back of a hand. “You’re a sadist that owes me dinner. You feeling Italian?” He drummed his fingers against his cheek in contemplation. “I’m thinking we should order in. Imagine what the tabloids would say if they saw us eating at a restaurant together, alone, without the rest of the team. I can only imagine.”  

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gettinghawkeyed​:

Tony leaned against the wall of the training room, his arms crossed over his chest. He was prepared to stay mad, irritated, to have it out–again–with Barton here and now until Steve came barging in to break things up and lecture them about teammates ‘getting along for the greater good.’ But nothing Clint said made him angry; it just made him confused. “You think I don’t like you?” he asked. “How did you get that?” Then he put up both hands in a sign of surrender. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll take this one. I’m not so good with people. Or so I’ve been told. Guess I’ve been remiss in my host duties. But for future reference, I don’t generally invite people I don’t like into my house. Self destruction is all good fun until you have roommates worse than freshman year of college–”

He broke off. He’d add college to the list of taboo topics, at least until he could figure out what their situation was here and how to navigate it. He’d need to take notes, draw up some plans. “I like you fine, Barton,” he said instead. “I just don’t know you. Everyone on this tip is a lock-lipped mess, but you’re something else. And that’s not a bad thing,” he added quickly before Clint could get offended again–if he hadn’t already blown it. “But I thought Natasha would be the hard nut to crack. But you’re a whole other type of puzzle. You realize this is the most we’ve talked since we put this little team together?”

Tony shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “It’s fun when Cap’s a little mad. Leave him alone too long and he starts humming show tunes, talking about world peace and the beauty of friendship. It’s incredibly boring.” This, too, was a joke–they were all supposed to be heroes around here, and Tony’s life goal (though even he could admit he didn’t always go the right way about it) was world peace, and he did, in fact, want the team to get a long–but he thought he could get away with it as long as the joke wasn’t directed at Clint. Or he’d have to figure out an entirely new way to speak to people, which was going to take a hell of a lot of practice.

Tony moved a little closer and gestured toward the targets at the other end of the room. “I could use your help with something, actually. If you can stand another ten minutes alone with me. I’ve been setting up a new training course for the team. Thought maybe you could help me test it out. We all could use a challenge, keep our skills sharp. If you shoot everything in the first 10 seconds, I’ll know I need to scrap it and start over. What do you say?” 

Clint thought he’d had plenty of reasons to despise Tony Stark. Who wouldn’t, right? That’s what he’d told himself. Except--everyone else around them seemed to like Tony, even Nat, who made it a point not to like anyone. Though she’d never admit it, Clint knew her well enough that he could tell she found him charming. Just a little, but still, more than most people.

Though now that he’d burned through all his anger none of that seemed important. Silly, really. He always did this--overreacted, lashed out, blamed others for his own shortcomings. His SHIELD appointed therapist would be so disappointed in him. He felt his face start to burn and turned his head to hide it. “...I’m not so good with people either.” As if that wasn’t the understatement of the century. 

He considered his own fault in this. He tried to think back and remember if he had been the one to pull away first, if he had acted standoffish and proud. Probably. It seemed like something he’d do. “I’m not usually so sensitive,” he said, because he felt like that was something worth noting. “Or such an asshole.” That part rang a bit truer. He didn’t mind teasing, usually. He really wasn’t that thin-skinned. Tony had just been---an anomaly. A tough nut to crack, to use Tony’s words.  “I’d say that’s not very fair,” Clint said eventually. He even managed a smile. “Nobody shoots as well as I do. You’ll be creating an unbeatable course.”  He was boasting, of course, but he didn’t do so needlessly. Ten minutes later they were in the course, Clint firing arrows into targets as quickly as they appeared. It was clear Tony had put some work into this one. They’d just started and Clint could feel sweat drenching his tshirt, his muscles aching from the exertion. Eventually, he finished the course. Good thing, too. He was nearly out of arrows.

He turned to look at Tony, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. “That...all you got? He wheezed. Not quite as nonchalant as he’d like, but acceptable.   

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gettinghawkeyed​:

“Wait, this is because I’m smarter than you?” Even as he said it, Tony failed to realize just how it sounded: crude, cocky, condescending. “Look, I didn’t know you were so sensitive about–” He paused. Now that he could hear. He sounded just like his dad. He took a deep breath and tried again, steeling himself. “I’m sorry, okay? I was never trying to make you feel like an idiot. But I am smarter than you. That’s just a fact, Barton. I’m smarter than everyone in this tower. I’m smarter than everyone in this city. Usually. Depending on what form Bruce is in. Point is, it’s not personal. And if you want me to pretend I’m not to make you feel better, yeah, we’re going to have a problem.”

“Smart is my superpower. Steve has his super strength. Natasha has her super spy kick-your-ass thing. Bruce has the Hulk. Thor has lightning. You have archery, your sight. I have my brain.” Tony had been naive–and that as not a word he liked to use often, though it seemed to pop up more than he was proud of. Of course he’d end up right back here, in this same situation, all over again. He’d never been good at team work, at friends, for this reason: if he tried to be himself, to do what he was good at, he was a show-off, an asshole. No one ever liked the smartest guy in the room. 

“You think I care that you don’t have a degree? It’s a piece of paper, Barton. And yeah, I have a lot of them. Because it was easy and because I could. We all have things we do when we’re bored. Steve catches up on Grey’s Anatomy. I get a PhD. But it doesn’t mean anything. You know how many kids–kids, Barton–are smarter than me in countries where they don’t have the resources they need to prove it? Where that piece of paper doesn’t mean shit? So if you’re hiding some genius ideas, feel free to bring them to the table. I’m all ears. I don’t need to be smarter than you. It’s not a competition. I don’t need to win this. I just am. Knowing everything is my job. I don’t ask you how you get your arrows to fly–though the physics is actually fascinating–” He paused. He was getting off track. “I just trust that you’ll hit the target. You’re the shooting guy. I’m the answers guy. Why can’t we just all do what we’re good at and call it a day?”

Clint didn’t want to accept or acknowledge the possibility that he had overreacted. Unfortunately, though, that scenario was seemingly more and more likely. He shouldn’t be surprised. Phil always said his mouth was faster than his head, that he took things too personally. He was so guarded, so afraid of being hurt that he lashed out first. He took a deep breath, let it out, mentally preparing himself for what was going to happen next. He was going to have to apologize to Tony Stark. Natasha would be so disappointed when she found out. Yet, it had to happen. Yes, Tony was a conceited, arrogant asshole, but Clint had never known him to be cruel. Not intentionally, anyway.  “Look, I don’t care that you’re smarter than me. Most people are. It’s never bothered me much. Being smart isn’t the issue--” He sighed. How could he explain without sounding like the biggest loser in the world? He wasn’t sensitive, not really, but there was something about it being Tony Stark--Tony, who seemed to get along with everyone, everyone but him. The things Tony said rankled him more than he’d like admit. More than he cared to try to understand. “I’m not trying to be difficult.” No, he didn’t have to try to be difficult. Being difficult was something that just came naturally to him. Everywhere he went, he seemed to make enemies. He wasn’t any better at people than Tony was.  “Of course you’re smart. You’re Tony fucking Stark. I don’t want you to pretend not to be. I think it would weird me out if you tried.” Even imagining it sent a cold shiver down his spine. “It’s true that I don’t find your jokes very funny, and yeah, I’d like you to ease up a bit. But--it only really bothered me because it felt like you were actively making me feel unwelcome. Because you don’t like me.” He was staring at the ground now, hating the situating, hating himself. “You get it? And yeah, I still think that second thing is probably true, but I’m a big boy and I don’t need you to like me for me to do my job. Shouldn’t let feelings get in the way of work anyway. I’m sorry I made such a big deal outta this. We good?” Ironic, since Clint didn’t think he’d felt any less good in his entire life. “I’ll go tell Cap we kissed and made up, if you want. Get him off your back a smidge.” 

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gettinghawkeyed​:

Tony was hardly paying attention, even now. About half a second after speaking, he’d turned back to his work and didn’t look up again until he heard the shuffling of feet and Clint’s almost threat. “What?” he asked. “Woah, hey, who said you were an idiot?” Tony might be a genius, but emotional intelligence was a whole other ball game. “What?” he asked, to Steve’s accusing glare. “I didn’t say anything.” 

But Clint was already storming out of the room, and Steve was giving Tony the ‘fix this now, or else’ patented Captain America stare. “Fine,” Tony mumbled, tossing the StarkPad onto the coffee table and standing up. “But if the world ends, or SI goes under–and trust me, we’re close–I’m blaming you. Not Barton. You.” Steve, annoyingly, didn’t look bothered by this threat. 

Tony followed Clint out to the range. “Hey, Bird Brains,” he called after him. Not a good start, and definitely not what Captain Perfect had in mind, he was sure, but Tony was too tired and now too irritated to be tactful. It must have been three days, at least, since he’d slept, and yeah, that was on him–he had to stop doing that–but did Barton have to go and make everything so difficult? “What the hell is your problem?”

“Look, I get that you don’t like me. Fine. Join the club.” He’d thought, maybe, that inviting Clint to the tower would have helped some, if only because Steve kept going on about boot camp and ‘bonding’ by living with your teammates. Apparently this had gone the other way, the way Tony was used to, and bit him in the ass; Barton seemed to hate him more now than ever before. “But you want to tell me what the hell you’re going on about?”

Clint was doing his best to focus on his archery, doing his breathing and trying to decompress like Phil and all those damn SHIELD psychiatrists always told him to do when his blood was boiling. The range had always been a place of quiet contemplation for him--a safe place, if such a thing existed. Of course, Tony couldn’t simply leave well enough alone. Clint whirled around to look at him. “Me?” He scoffed. “I don’t have a problem, Stark. You are the one that seems to have a problem with me.”  Or--at least, he was pretty sure Tony was the one with the problem. Tony’s behavior, the stupid jokes, his perceived lack of effort to make Clint feel welcome--it all seemed to indicate that Stark disliked him. Didn’t it? It was possible--not probable, maybe, but possible--that he had misunderstood. Sure, Stark had invited him to live here, but Clint had assumed that was something Steve had suggested. Steve and his silly old man dream of the Avengers one day becoming like one big happy family. 

“You’re always--makin’ fun of me,” Clint said, feeling ridiculously childish. At the very least, Tony had been condescending at him.  His ears were burning. “You wanna know who said I was an idiot, Stark? You did. Every damn day.” He turned to put his bow away, sure that he wasn’t going to be left alone anytime soon. “It grates on you after awhile, s’all. I’m not as smart as you. I get that. You’re--you. I’m lucky to even have my GED. You don’t need to rub it in so much.” 

gettinghawkeyed​:

Tony had worked hard over the years to build a reputation as a sociable, party-loving play-boy who was a little too proud of his few million followers on Instagram and knew all the up and coming celebrities. In his business, appearances and the right connections were the only thing that separated him from a mad scientists tinkering in his garage, dreaming of changing the world, and a man with the means to actually make that change. 

But the truth was, he’d never been particularly good at making friends, and technically speaking, the only friends he did have he was either paying to be there–Rhodey, Pepper, Happy–or were literally beings of his own creation–JARVIS and his bots. The Avengers, if he could call them friends–and he still wasn’t sure about that one–were no different: after they’d saved New York and after learning that he actually sort of liked being part of a team, Tony had done the only thing he could think of to keep them together until the next time the world nearly ended: free lodging at Stark Tower–now rebranded to Avenger’s Tower–and a get-out-of-jail free card in the guarantee that he’d be paying for everything they broke, whether it was the elevator, or an entire Manhattan block after a run-in with a sentient serpent with delusions of grandeur, or whatever else they were fighting on a Tuesday afternoon. 

But after year of living with someone, you tended to get to know them, whether you wanted to or not. Which was how Tony now knew that Natasha was incredibly good at ballet and still practiced–now with a few added kicks and her Black Widow stingers–whenever she couldn’t sleep; or that the Hulk was actually incredibly neat in his own room, everything in order, as if Bruce came to the surface a little more near his bed and his own four walls; or that’s Steve’s favorite ice cream was butter pecan and when he was particularly missing the past, he liked to paint. So Tony had a dance studio and art studio put into the Avenger’s floor of the tower, got them a life-time supply of ice cream, and added more shelves to Bruce’s room so everything could be put in perfect order. But after a year, Tony still didn’t know anything about Clint only except what he’d read in his SHIELD file. 

In his experience, most people didn’t like to talk about their past directly–at least, he didn’t, and neither, it seemed, did most of the team. So they teased and joked, let slip their pasts in small doses. When he couldn’t sleep after a bout of PTSD fueled nightmares, Steve would roll his eyes and tell Tony “expensive beds aren’t always better, Stark. Money can’t buy everything.”  Tony would tell him he was a plebe who wouldn’t understand luxury if it bit him in the ass, and Steve would lecture about boot camp and his time Germany, sleeping on the floor in a tent with Tony’s father nearby. But Clint was a closed book, a code Tony still didn’t know how to crack. He’d have liked to say he didn’t care–he didn’t need another friend, and frankly, it didn’t matter; if they worked together well enough on the field and no one died because of it, no harm, no foul. But Tony couldn’t stand not knowing something, couldn’t ever give up on a puzzle he hadn’t yet worked out. 

Somehow, he’d already screwed things up today–though it wasn’t exactly a surprise. That was, after all, what Tony did best. At the moment, he was sitting in the living room, feet up on the coffee table, taking up most of the room on the couch and typing away on his Starkpad. When he’d told Clint ten minutes ago not to “do anything stupid” it was only because Thor had already shorted out the electricity before Clint had arrived, and Tony had just got it back up and running, and he didn’t have time for another “incident.” And when, in lieu of explaining why he needed everything to go smoothly until he finished, he’d said impatiently, “You wouldn’t understand and I don’t have time to explain it to you” without bothering to look up, it hadn’t been personal. Clint wouldn’t understand, nor would anyone else in the tower, including most of the people who worked for him on the Stark Industries floors downstairs–hell, most of the world wouldn’t understand. He didn’t just not have time to explain it now–he wouldn’t have time to explain it if he’d had a year. 

And then had come the nail in the coffin: Steve coming into the room to ask what they wanted for lunch–he was ordering in, as he was now an expert at Grubhub–and Tony had ordered, “Coffee. And–” He’d finally looked up from his work to ask Clint, “Let me guess, Circus Peanuts?” his smirk a challenge for Clint to finally correct him. What he got wasn’t any more information he could add to his ‘How to Understand Clint’ playbook, but it certainly was an indication of where the line was. That had to be a start, right? “Ooookay,” he said. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the nest.” 

“You know fuckin’ what--” Clint growled. Now he was really, truly pissed, and Stark couldn’t even muster up the decency to be affected by it. He started towards Tony, pausing when he felt Steve put a hand on his shoulder. He shook off Steve’s hand, turning to glare at him. “Jesus, Steve, I’m not gonna fuckin’ hit him.” He could, though. Maybe he should. Maybe then he’d finally earn some goddamn respect.  It was little things, sometimes. Steve’s ice cream. Natasha’s dance studio. The gifts that Tony gave to the people he liked, asking nothing in return, while everyone else was forced to just stand on the fringes and watch. Clint hated butter pecan.  Ridiculous, to be upset about this. Ridiculous to want to stamp his feet and yell like a slighted toddler. That was what Tony Stark did to him--brought out so many ugly, uncomfortable emotions that Clint had gotten very good at repressing. Until recently, anyway.  Clint jabbed at accusing finger in Tony’s direction. “I am not an idiot,” he said firmly, with as much conviction as he could manage. He was sure everyone could hear the way his voice shook, but it was too late to stop now. “You are the goddamn idiot. You think you’re so much better’n me, Stark. You don’t know a single thing about me.” And whose fault is that? The reasonable part of his brain cautioned against this, had been screaming at him to shut his mouth before he said something he shouldn’t. Calm your sensitive ass down, Barton. Clint was a difficult person to get to know, and he knew that. The psychiatrists at SHIELD were always trying to get him to open up and talk about his feelings. Tony was smart, yes, but he wasn’t a mind-reader. Maybe he could stand to relax a little.  Except, he was guarded for a reason. He’d put up these walls around himself when he was a child to protect him against people just like Tony Stark. A year wasn’t enough to change that. Especially not when Tony insisted on putting him down at every opportunity. He scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. Was there any point in trying to change the mind of someone who had already decided you were beneath them? He turned to Steve. "I’m not hungry. I’m goin’ to the range.” 

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