Insomnia

Clint’s legs were cramping up.

No matter how many times he shut himself up in the vents, he couldn’t get used to how small they were. To stretch out, he would have to either lie down on the musky metal, or-

Go to Tony Stark’s floor.

For reasons unknown, Tony Stark decided that his floor would have the largest vents. They were large enough to kneel in, and Clint went up there to take a break when he didn’t feel like returning to his room or having to deal with the other teammates throughout the tower. It was also calming, watching the man work, how he moved around in the workshop with ease and heck, he had a good taste in music. Clint would sometimes just lie there, listening to the sound of a hammer against metal with AC/DC in the background. It didn’t really sound relaxing, but it was for Clint.

Climbing up through the vents was no problem; there were handles lining the vents for easy access whenever someone had to do maintenance, so he didn’t have to exhort the same amount of energy he would have to use when he was back in the helicarrier. Or maybe Tony knew that he spent most of the time up there, and installed the handles. After all, everything was automated here in the tower, so why would robots need the handles?

Clint made it to the floor and was going to make his way to the workshop, when he realized that someone was sleeping in Tony’s bed. A closer look told him that it was indeed Tony, and for some reason that felt strange to him.

In all of his time at the tower, he had never once seen Tony Stark sleep. He always trusted him to be up, working, the music blasting so loudly that he could hear it through the vents when he hadn’t even reached his floor yet; no matter how soundproof the walls were. He had thought it was weird, he realized, when the trip up to Tony’s floor had been silent. There wasn’t any faint electric guitars, the beat of a drum pounding through the walls.

Was Tony Stark actually sleeping?

Clint thought for a minute about how unhealthy his sleeping schedule must be when he realized that Tony wasn’t actually asleep, judging by the way he tossed and turned, so he crouched so just his eyes were peering over the edge of the grate, at an angle at which Tony wouldn’t be able to see them should he look up.

Then he realized that this was probably really creepy and decided to just abandon the vents altogether, and just go to his room and sleep. It was, after all, two in the morning, unless the clock on Tony’s bedside table was wrong.

Clint had just turned around when a muffled yell stopped him, and he turned back to look through the grate. Tony had flung all of his blankets off and was breathing heavily, holding his knees to his chest and running his hand through his hair. Hold on; did he have a nightmare? He listened harder, and he could definitely hear a bit of crying going on. This was bad, this wasn’t the Tony Stark anybody knew, this wasn’t good.

Retreating back the way he came, Clint decided that even though he wasn’t supposed to care about these things, he was still going to check on him. Not through the ceiling, obviously, because then he’d have to admit that he was spying on him, so he crawled a bit more until he found the grate that went out into the hallway outside of Tony’s bedroom, and he carefully pushed it open and fell out gracefully.

He made his way to Tony’s room, and knocked three times on the door before it opened automatically and Clint stepped in.

“What do you want?” Tony grumbled. He was in the little kitchenette in his bedroom (seriously, what the heck, a kitchen in a bedroom), brewing coffee.

“Why are you awake?” Clint asked, stepping forward as the door closed behind him.

“Tried sleeping, didn’t work, decided that sleep was not for me,” Tony said, waving the question off. “You?”

“Giraffes sleep with their eyes open, and only in short micro bursts,” Clint answered.

Tony looked at him like he had no idea what he was talking about but still completely understood him at the same time.

“Coffee?” he held up a mug.

“I’m good,” Clint shook his head, moving over to the marble counter. He watched silently as Tony shrugged and poured a steaming mug of coffee, then took a sip, not even bothering to add cream or sugar or to wait for it to cool down.

“What are you doing these days?” Tony asked, sitting down on the couch, in the ‘living portion’ of the room (seriously, Tony’s room was basically a hotel room). Clint sat on the love seat, across from him.

“Nothing much. Waiting to be called in, sitting around, playing WiiFit with the captain, you know the drill,” Clint sighed. “Gets a bit boring.”

“You liking this place?” Tony asked, taking another sip.

“God, yeah. Man, you’ve thought of everything,” Clint nodded. “I’ve never had an archery range at my house, let alone indoors.”

“Thought you might want something to keep you entertained,” Tony shrugged as if it were no big deal. “You being a sharpshooter and all that.”

“True,” he replied. “But you didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do,” Tony said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m Tony Stark.”

“I know. But this is my way of showing gratitude. Accept it,” Clint smirked. “I don’t say thank you too often.”

“You should. Makes you sound almost normal,” he sighed, taking a rather large gulp of coffee.

“Have you ever said thank you in your life?” Clint challenged.

“I’ll have you know that, because I don’t like saying thank you,” Tony pointed at Clint. “I don’t say thank you.”

“Because Tony Stark does what he wants.”

“Correct,” he tilted his head back and drained the mug. “You sure you don’t want coffee?”

“I don’t think caffeine at this time of the night is the best,” Clint answered. “Should you even be having it?”

“Tony Stark does what he wants,” was the answer, and Tony stood up to pour himself more coffee.

Clint made himself comfortable, stretching across the seat. “What’s Pepper up to these days?”

“Pep’s on a business trip for the next two weeks. Something about,” Tony paused, thinking. “I think it had something to do with stocks.”

“You don’t know what goes on in your own company?”

“Not only does Tony Stark do want he wants, Tony Stark also only remembers what he wants,” Tony sat back down, holding a fresh mug of coffee. “I’m telling you; it’s easy being me.”

“I imagine so,” Clint replied, crossing his arms over his chest, sinking deeper into the cushions. “You’ve got everything, man. A big house, a car, and a loose schedule. Heck, you could probably push back a meeting for a year before someone calls you out on your bullshit.”

“Nah, it’s two weeks. I’ve tried. Pepper’s usually quick on that,” Tony pointed out. “And I’ve got fifteen cars. And three big houses.”

“Three?”

“Not to flex, but I’ve got this tower, the compound, and a mansion,” Tony listed, counting on his fingers. “I could probably buy all of New York if I tried.”

“You should.”

“PR will have a field day.”

There was a silence, and Tony finished his second cup of coffee of the morning.

“You ever wonder what would happen if you died? Like, with all your properties and such,” Clint asked.

“Every single night,” Tony answered, standing up to grab a third cup of coffee. “I made my last will and testament, so it’s not like it hasn’t been thought of before.”

“You’ve already made your will?” Clint asked, looking up.

“You haven’t?”

He stayed silent. Tony sat back down with his mug, putting his legs up on the coffee table, staring at Clint expectantly. It was almost as if Tony wanted Clint to say that he had, as if to prove something. That rich and the slightly less rich weren’t all too different when it comes to dying, or that he wasn’t alone in his crazy death fantasies.

Unfortunately for Tony, Clint didn’t have a death wish.

“You suicidal or something?”

“Nah. Just a realist.”

Clint didn’t quite know what to do with the information.

“You planning on sleeping tonight?” Clint asked, changing the topic.

“I told you; I tried, it didn’t work,” he took a sip of coffee. “I don’t like sleep. It’s useless. Waste of time.”

“It’s actually necessary for the brain,” Clint contradicted, folding his hands behind his head.

“Tony Stark does what he wants,” he said plainly, staring at the spot above Clint’s left ear.

Clint didn’t answer, but studied Tony’s face. He noticed how heavy and dark his eye bags were, how pale he’d gotten, and his eyes were bloodshot from either the tears from before or from lack of sleep. Either way, Clint didn’t want to say anything about his appearance, because that would probably be insensitive to a man who prided himself on it. Especially one who wore satin pajamas to bed, what the heck. Clint was literally in sweatpants and an off-white tank top, one that used to be white before he discovered that he could fit in the vents at the tower.

He deduced that Tony, as he stated, really didn’t want to sleep. But maybe it wasn’t because he saw it as a complete waste of time; maybe it was because he didn’t want the nightmares. Because who else would drink coffee at this time?

“You tired, Birdbrain?” Tony said, draining the last drips of coffee. “You’re zoning out.”

“Just thinking,” Clint brought his hand down to rub his face. He was feeling the effects of fatigue.

“'bout what?”

“How you should probably sleep,” he answered.

“Heh,” Tony said plainly, looking at his empty mug disappointingly. “I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t like it,” he shrugged.

Clint left it at that, deciding not to press the matter, yawning with grandeur.

“If you fall asleep here, I’m drawing on your face,” Tony warned, standing up to put his mug in the sink; the coffee pot was now empty.

“I’d like to see you try. I’m trained to wake up once someone even approaches me,” Clint smirked, but he wasn’t so sure; slowly, he’d begin to trust everyone in the tower, so the ‘override button’ that woke his brain up in any of the stages of sleep didn’t sense the danger anymore. It would work fine when he wasn’t in the vicinity of the others, which was great for missions, but not so great whenever someone declared a prank war on him.

Tony just smiled and brewed another pot of coffee.

The next thing Clint knew, he opened his eyes to an empty room, brightened by sunlight streaming through the blinds. There was a scratchy wool blanket resting on him, and he threw it off and rushed to a nearby mirror.

A carefully drawn Tony Stark goatee in permanent marker had found its way on his face.