Collateral Damage
The Avengers compound was buzzing with the kind of controlled chaos that only superheroes could create. Clint Barton leaned against a wall, arms crossed, as he watched the scene unfold. The smell of scorched electronics filled the air, and sparks still flew intermittently from the fried security console in the corner.
“I’m just saying,” Clint said, gesturing to the mess, “maybe next time don’t test your experimental laser defense system while the rest of us are in the building.”
Tony Stark, standing amidst the wreckage in a grease-stained t-shirt, waved a dismissive hand. “Relax, Legolas. It was a minor miscalculation. Besides, no one got hurt—”
“Except my room,” Clint interrupted, pointing toward the charred hallway where his quarters once stood. “Which now looks like it went twelve rounds with the Hulk. And lost.”
Tony winced, though his tone remained nonchalant. “Okay, so maybe it was a slightly major miscalculation. But look on the bright side! You’ll get an upgrade. Better ventilation, a new espresso machine—”
“I just want a door that closes, Stark,” Clint cut in, glaring.
Steve Rogers stepped into the room, his shield slung across his back. “Until the damage is repaired, Clint, you’ll have to share a room. We’re running out of space with everything under construction.”
Clint groaned, already dreading where this was going. “Please don’t say—”
“With me!” Tony interjected, grinning. “You can be my temporary roommate. It’ll be like a buddy comedy. Or a sitcom. We can call it Iron and Arrow. Get it?”
Clint’s face fell. “I’d rather sleep outside.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Steve said. “It’s only for a week or two. And Tony’s room is the only one big enough to fit another bed.”
Tony clapped Clint on the shoulder. “Welcome to the penthouse, Barton. I’ve got a mini-fridge stocked with beer, and Friday’s AI capabilities include white noise playlists and soothing ocean sounds. It’ll be great!”
Clint rolled his eyes but followed Tony upstairs anyway. As much as he hated to admit it, the billionaire’s room was better than the barracks-style spare quarters. Still, the idea of living in close proximity to Tony Stark—arguably the most annoying person he knew—was enough to make him consider pitching a tent on the lawn.
Tony’s room was predictably over-the-top. It was a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows, a sleek modern design, and a faint hum of machinery beneath the polished floors. Clint dropped his duffel bag on the empty bed in the corner, eyeing the pristine sheets warily.
“First rule,” he said, turning to Tony, “don’t touch my stuff.”
Tony raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely amused. “Noted. Second rule: don’t complain about my late-night tinkering. I’ve got projects to finish.”
“As long as you don’t blow us up,” Clint muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress was ridiculously soft—like lying on a cloud. He hated how much he liked it.
Tony smirked. “Oh, please. If I wanted to blow us up, I’d have done it by now.”
Clint shot him a look, but Tony had already turned back to his workbench, humming to himself as he adjusted some tiny, intricate gadget. Clint leaned back, resigned to his fate.
Later that night, Clint tossed and turned while Tony worked at his desk, the glow of his arc reactor faintly illuminating the room. The gentle clinking of tools was surprisingly soothing, and Clint found himself drifting off despite his earlier frustration.
Just as sleep began to take hold, Tony’s voice cut through the quiet. “You know, you’re lucky. Most people would kill for the chance to hang out with me 24/7.”
Clint groaned, pulling a pillow over his face. “I’m going to kill you if you don’t shut up.”
Tony chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Sweet dreams, Katniss.”
Despite himself, Clint couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips as he drifted off.