Cracks in the Armor
It started with a dream.
Clint stirred in his bed, his breathing heavy as the familiar specter of a nightmare tugged at the edges of his consciousness. His hands twitched, gripping the sheets like they were the string of his bow. Somewhere in the haze, he heard Natasha’s voice—steady, grounding—but it wasn’t real. It was the past clawing its way into his present, and there was no escaping it.
Tony had been up late as usual, tweaking something at his workbench when the sound pulled him away. It was faint at first: a low murmur, a sharp intake of breath. Then Clint’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Nat…” Clint muttered, his voice strained. “I couldn’t—no, I—”
Tony froze, his wrench halfway to the table. He wasn’t great with emotions—his own or anyone else’s—but even he could recognize the signs of someone caught in the grip of a nightmare.
“Friday,” Tony whispered, “lights at twenty percent.”
The room glowed softly, illuminating Clint’s tense form tangled in the sheets. Tony hesitated for a moment before crossing the room, unsure of what to do.
“Barton,” he said gently, keeping his distance. “Hey, wake up.”
Clint didn’t respond, his breathing quickening.
“Clint,” Tony tried again, his voice firmer now.
This time, Clint jolted awake, sitting up so fast he nearly toppled off the bed. His eyes were wide, darting around the room like he didn’t know where he was.
“Easy,” Tony said, raising his hands in a calming gesture. “It’s just me. You’re fine.”
Clint’s breathing slowed as he took in his surroundings. “Stark?” he rasped, his voice thick with sleep.
Tony nodded, lowering his hands. “Yeah. You were… uh, having a bit of a moment there.”
Clint scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering something Tony couldn’t quite catch.
“You wanna talk about it?” Tony asked, leaning against the workbench.
Clint shook his head. “No. I’m fine.”
Tony didn’t push, but he didn’t leave, either. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching Clint with a look that was far too perceptive for Clint’s liking.
“You don’t have to do the lone-wolf thing all the time, you know,” Tony said finally. “Some of us are actually decent listeners. Shocking, I know.”
Clint huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. “You’re really leaning into the whole ‘roommate bonding’ thing, huh?”
Tony grinned. “What can I say? I’m a natural.”
Clint didn’t respond, but the tension in his shoulders eased ever so slightly.
The next morning, Tony didn’t mention what had happened. He didn’t need to. Instead, he left a mug of coffee on Clint’s nightstand with a sticky note that read: Drink up. You look like you wrestled a bear in your sleep. P.S. You’re welcome.
Clint rolled his eyes when he saw it, but the small gesture didn’t go unnoticed.
The days blurred together in the way they always did at the compound. Training sessions, briefings, and occasional missions filled the hours, but the nights were something else entirely.
Clint found himself looking forward to the quiet moments he shared with Tony. Whether it was sitting on the balcony with beers in hand or exchanging snarky comments over whatever late-night snack Tony had conjured up in the kitchen, there was an ease between them that Clint hadn’t felt in a long time.
Which is why it caught him off guard when he realized he was starting to feel… more.
It was in the little things—the way Tony’s smile lingered a beat longer than necessary, the way his voice softened when he said Clint’s name. Clint wasn’t stupid. He knew the signs. He just didn’t know what to do about them.
Tony wasn’t faring much better. He’d always been good at compartmentalizing, but Clint had a way of slipping past his defenses without even trying. It was disarming, infuriating, and… kind of wonderful.
But Tony Stark didn’t do feelings. Not the messy, complicated kind, anyway. He told himself that whatever this was—this strange, magnetic pull toward Clint—was temporary. A side effect of their forced proximity.
At least, that’s what he told himself until it wasn’t.
One evening, as they sat in the living room watching a movie, Clint caught himself watching Tony instead of the screen. Tony was laughing at something—a genuine, unguarded laugh—and Clint felt his stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with the beer in his hand.
“You’re staring,” Tony said without looking over, his voice teasing.
Clint blinked, startled. “What? No, I’m not.”
Tony smirked, finally turning to face him. “Oh, you definitely were. Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Comes with being this devastatingly handsome.”
Clint rolled his eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, here you are,” Tony shot back, his smirk softening into something almost… fond.
The air between them shifted, the teasing banter giving way to something heavier. Clint opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words stuck in his throat.
Tony tilted his head, studying Clint like he was trying to solve a particularly tricky equation. “You okay, Barton?”
Clint nodded quickly, standing up. “Yeah. Just… tired. I’m gonna call it a night.”
Tony frowned but didn’t press. “Alright. Sweet dreams, Katniss.”
Clint didn’t look back as he left the room, but his heart was pounding the whole way up the stairs.
Tony stayed on the couch long after Clint had gone, his mind racing. He told himself it was nothing—that whatever he thought he’d seen in Clint’s expression was just his imagination.
But deep down, he knew better.