Lines, Blurred
It had been over a week since Clint had moved into Tony’s room, and much to his surprise, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Sure, Tony was still a relentless whirlwind of energy and ego, but Clint had started to see past the bravado. Underneath the flashy suits and snarky comments was someone who worked tirelessly for everyone else—even if he never admitted it.
Clint didn’t like admitting it either, but he’d started to enjoy the rhythm of their odd living arrangement. He liked the quiet nights when Tony tinkered at his workbench and the occasional banter that flowed as naturally as breathing. It was easy, effortless in a way that Clint hadn’t expected.
Too easy, maybe.
One particularly late night, Clint was sprawled on his bed, half-watching a rerun of Brooklyn Nine-Nine on Tony’s obscenely large TV. Tony, as usual, was buried in his work. He was hunched over his desk, the glow of his arc reactor casting faint patterns across the walls.
“You ever sleep?” Clint asked, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.
Tony didn’t look up. “Sleep is for people without world-changing ideas.”
Clint snorted. “And humility is for people without egos the size of Manhattan.”
Tony spun his chair around to face Clint, a mock-offended look on his face. “Are you implying I’m not humble, Barton?”
Clint gave him a flat look. “I’m implying you don’t even know the meaning of the word.”
Tony grinned, clearly unbothered. “Fair. But for the record, I do sleep. Occasionally. Just not when I’m on the verge of a breakthrough.”
“And what’s tonight’s breakthrough?” Clint asked, gesturing toward the mess of parts and blueprints on the desk.
“New arrowheads for you,” Tony said casually, like it was no big deal.
Clint blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, what?”
Tony shrugged, turning back to his desk. “Your old ones are fine, I guess, but they’re outdated. I’ve been working on something sleeker, more efficient. You’ll like them.”
Clint stared at him, unsure of what to say. It wasn’t just the gesture that threw him—it was the fact that Tony had clearly put thought into it.
“Thanks,” Clint said finally, his voice softer than he intended.
Tony waved him off. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, Barton. I told you, it’s for the team. Better arrows mean better missions.”
“Right,” Clint said, but he couldn’t shake the strange warmth that had settled in his chest.
The next morning, Clint woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Tony muttering under his breath. He opened one eye to find Tony sitting on the floor, a half-disassembled coffee machine in front of him.
“What are you doing?” Clint asked, his voice groggy.
“Improving this piece of junk,” Tony said without looking up. “The coffee it makes is mediocre at best. You deserve better.”
Clint sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I thought you said you didn’t care about anyone’s coffee standards but your own.”
“Yeah, well,” Tony said, finally glancing up. “You’ve been putting up with my nonsense for over a week. Consider this a peace offering.”
Clint didn’t know what to make of that. He’d spent most of his life assuming that people like Tony Stark—brilliant, larger-than-life personalities—didn’t have the time or energy for simple kindness. But here Tony was, fixing a coffee machine for him, of all things.
“Thanks,” Clint said again, and this time he meant it.
That night, they found themselves on the balcony again, two beers between them and the stars stretching out overhead. Clint leaned back in his chair, feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks.
“So,” Tony said, breaking the silence, “what’s it like being you?”
Clint raised an eyebrow. “Being me?”
“Yeah,” Tony said, gesturing vaguely. “You’re, like, the most normal one here. No super-soldier serum, no god powers, no billion-dollar suit of armor. Just you, a bow, and an unreasonable amount of sarcasm. How do you do it?”
Clint considered the question for a moment. “Honestly? I don’t think about it much. I just… do what I can. Same as everyone else.”
Tony gave him a look. “That’s a very boring answer.”
Clint smirked. “You asked.”
They lapsed into silence again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Clint found himself watching Tony out of the corner of his eye—the way his expression softened when he wasn’t trying to be clever, the way the glow of his arc reactor reflected in his eyes.
He didn’t know when it had started, but somewhere along the line, Tony Stark had stopped being just a teammate. He was… more.
The thought startled Clint. He shoved it down, burying it beneath layers of sarcasm and deflection. Whatever this was—whatever it could be—it was better left unexplored.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Tony, for his part, was also grappling with unfamiliar feelings. Clint Barton had always been an enigma to him—quiet but sharp, unassuming but endlessly capable. Tony had expected living with Clint to be a disaster, but instead, it had turned into something he hadn’t anticipated: easy companionship.
And that scared him more than he cared to admit.