Sneaking
It took a team of engineers a couple of weeks to fix Clint’s room. Tony, of course, had orchestrated the repairs, making sure Clint’s space was upgraded with state-of-the-art everything: soundproof walls, a reinforced door, and a bed that looked way more comfortable than anything Clint had before.
When Clint finally stepped back into his room, it felt… wrong.
It wasn’t that it was bad. Quite the opposite—it was perfect. Too perfect. It didn’t have the comfortable chaos of Tony’s room, the faint hum of the arc reactor charging, or the occasional clang of a half-finished project sitting forgotten on a table.
It wasn’t Tony’s room.
That night, Clint tossed and turned for hours before finally giving up. The silence of his new soundproof walls was suffocating. He stared at the ceiling, cursing himself for getting used to someone else’s space, someone else’s company.
Eventually, he slipped out of bed, grabbed a hoodie, and padded silently down the hallway.
Tony’s door slid open without a sound, and Clint stepped inside. The glow of the arc reactor’s charging station cast faint blue light across the room. Tony was sprawled out on the bed, one arm over his face, his chest rising and falling steadily.
Clint hesitated. He could feel the absurdity of what he was doing, but his feet didn’t move to leave. Instead, he crossed the room and slipped under the covers, careful not to wake Tony.
He told himself it was just for tonight. Just to get some actual sleep.
When Clint woke up, Tony was lying beside him, half on his stomach, his head turned toward Clint. His hair was a mess, and his expression was relaxed in a way Clint rarely saw when Tony was awake.
“You know,” Tony mumbled, his voice rough with sleep, “most people just ask for company. They don’t sneak into my bed like a ninja.”
Clint froze, caught. “You were awake?”
Tony cracked one eye open, smirking. “Not until you hogged half the blanket. You’re stealthy, Barton, but not that stealthy.”
Clint groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. “This is embarrassing. Forget it ever happened.”
Tony chuckled, tugging the blanket down so he could see Clint’s face. “Relax. I don’t mind.”
Clint peeked out, surprised. “You don’t?”
Tony shrugged, lying back against the pillow. “It’s kinda nice. Been a while since I had someone around who didn’t snore like a freight train.”
Clint rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “You’re impossible.”
Tony grinned. “And yet, here you are.”
The next night, Clint tried to sleep in his own room again. He really did. But by 2 a.m., he was back in Tony’s bed.
And the night after that.
And the one after that.
It became a routine, unspoken but understood. Clint would wait until the compound was quiet, then sneak into Tony’s room. Sometimes Tony was already asleep, and Clint would carefully climb into bed without waking him. Other times, Tony would still be awake, typing on a tablet or tinkering with some gadget, and he’d glance up with a smirk but never say anything.
Every night, Tony joined him in bed.
One night, as they lay in the dark, Clint finally broke the silence. “Why do you let me do this?”
Tony turned his head, his face barely visible in the dim light. “Do what?”
Clint gestured vaguely. “This. Sneaking into your bed every night. You don’t even ask why.”
Tony was quiet for a moment, then said, “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
Clint blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in Tony’s voice.
“It’s not just about sleep,” Tony added. “You don’t strike me as the type who does things without a reason.”
Clint sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I guess… I got used to it. Being here. Being with you.”
Tony’s voice softened. “That a bad thing?”
“No,” Clint admitted. “But it’s weird. I’ve spent most of my life keeping people at arm’s length. Now I’m sneaking into your bed like some kind of—”
“Adorable stray?” Tony offered, grinning.
Clint groaned, throwing a pillow at him. “You’re the worst.”
Tony laughed, catching the pillow and tossing it back. “Seriously, though. I don’t mind. If it helps you sleep, it’s fine by me.”
Clint turned to look at him, his expression serious. “It’s not just about sleep.”
Tony met his gaze, his grin fading. “I know.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Tony reached out, his fingers brushing against Clint’s. It was a small gesture, but it felt significant.
Clint didn’t pull away.
From that night on, Clint stopped sneaking. He still came to Tony’s room every night, but now it felt like he belonged there.
And every morning, when they woke up tangled in blankets and limbs, Clint felt a little less like running.
Tony never said it out loud, but Clint could tell he felt the same.