What Comes Next
The morning after their late-night conversation, Clint half-expected Tony to pretend it never happened. That would have been easier, wouldn’t it? A fleeting moment of honesty buried under sarcasm and deflection. But Tony wasn’t pretending—if anything, he was leaning into it.
Clint walked into the kitchen to find Tony standing at the counter, meticulously plating breakfast. Not his usual slapdash coffee-and-pop-tart routine, but actual food: scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon arranged with almost artistic precision.
“What’s this?” Clint asked, leaning against the doorframe.
Tony looked up, grinning. “It’s called breakfast. You’ve heard of it, right?”
Clint raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you cook?”
Tony shrugged, sliding a plate across the counter. “Since I started caring about impressing someone who insists on eating like a normal human being.”
Clint’s stomach flipped. He stared at the plate, unsure whether to be touched or suspicious. “So… this isn’t some elaborate prank? You didn’t slip hot sauce into the eggs?”
Tony gasped in mock offense. “You wound me, Barton. This is pure, unadulterated effort.”
Clint smirked but couldn’t quite suppress the warmth creeping into his chest. He grabbed the plate and took a bite, humming in surprise. “Not bad, Stark. Maybe you missed your calling as a short-order cook.”
Tony beamed, clearly pleased with himself. “See? I’m full of surprises.”
After breakfast, Clint headed to the training room for his usual sparring session with Natasha. He hadn’t told her about his conversation with Tony—or anything about the growing tension between them—but he had a feeling she already knew. Nat had a way of seeing through people, especially him.
“You look… different,” Natasha said as they circled each other on the mat.
Clint snorted. “Different how?”
“Lighter,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Like something’s changed.”
Clint hesitated, his mind flashing to Tony’s grin, the way he’d said, I won’t. Promise.
“It’s nothing,” Clint said quickly, lunging forward to deflect her strike.
Natasha didn’t press, but the knowing look she gave him made it clear she wasn’t fooled.
Meanwhile, Tony was in his lab, trying—and failing—to focus. He’d spent the last hour tinkering with a new design for Clint’s arrows, but his mind kept drifting. He was terrible at this kind of thing—feelings, relationships, anything that required actual vulnerability. And yet, for the first time, he wanted to try.
When Pepper called to check in, Tony almost blurted everything out.
“Is something wrong?” Pepper asked, her tone sharp with concern.
“No, no,” Tony said quickly, leaning back in his chair. “Everything’s fine. Just… navigating uncharted territory.”
Pepper’s expression softened. “You mean Clint?”
Tony froze. “How do you—”
“You’re not exactly subtle,” Pepper said with a small smile. “It’s written all over your face.”
Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Pep. What if I screw this up?”
Pepper’s voice softened. “Tony, you’ve spent years building walls around yourself, but Clint? He’s still here, despite all of it. That says something.”
Tony nodded, her words sinking in. “Yeah. I just… I don’t want to mess this up.”
“Then don’t,” Pepper said simply.
Later that evening, Clint was back on the balcony, nursing a beer and watching the stars. He didn’t hear Tony approach—again—but he wasn’t surprised when the other man sat down beside him.
“You’ve got a habit of sneaking up on people,” Clint said without looking over.
“Maybe you’re just easy to sneak up on,” Tony countered, a teasing lilt in his voice.
They sat in silence for a while, the comfortable kind that Clint was starting to associate with Tony.
“So,” Tony said eventually, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Clint said dryly, taking a sip of his beer.
Tony chuckled, but his tone grew serious. “About us. About… whatever this is.”
Clint stiffened, his grip tightening on the bottle. “And?”
“And I think we’re both a little out of our depth,” Tony admitted. “But I also think that maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
Clint turned to look at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice. “You’re really not letting this go, huh?”
“Nope,” Tony said, meeting Clint’s gaze. “Because I think it’s worth figuring out. Don’t you?”
Clint hesitated. His instinct was to push Tony away, to shield himself from the inevitable fallout. But the way Tony was looking at him—hopeful, open—made it harder to cling to his walls.
“Yeah,” Clint said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “I think it is.”
Tony’s smile was small but genuine. “Good. Because I’m not exactly the giving-up type.”
Clint shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
For the first time in a long time, Clint felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t alone in this.