Clint
Three
Clint
Clint’s arrival was so quiet, Tony didn’t even know it occurred. The archer had been benched from the Avengers until he could undergo a full psych evaluation to be sure Loki’s brainwashing had been completely disrupted, and to make sure he was fit for the field. Tony had expected to find him detained by security one day, or like Natasha, sitting at the kitchen table one morning during breakfast, but that wasn’t what happened.
In fact, Clint was at Stark Tower a full week before Tony even knew he’d been released from Fury’s babysitting detail, and he only learned of his arrival when Clint stuck his head out of the ceiling and demanded, loudly, “Is that a Black Widow cock ring?”
Tony shrieked and threw a dildo shaped like Mjolnir at Clint’s head, which he easily dodged by pulling back into the air vent.
“What the FUCK, man!” Tony shouted, covering the arc reactor with a hand. “I have a fucking heart condition, you asshole! What are you doing in my lab?”
“I’m not in your lab – I’m above it. What are you doing making sex toys—is that a arrow? An arrow dildo? Is that a Hawkeye dildo?” He pulled himself out of the vent, twisted, and somehow managed to land on his feet. He was quickly at Tony’s side, picking up the dark purple and black toy. “Oh my god, I want one. Can I have one? Can I have this one? You have to give it to me, it’s mine. Does it work?” He pressed a button and it started to vibrate in his hand. “Oh my god, Stark, you are the coolest person I have ever met.” He eyed the Black Widow cock ring. “And possibly a dead man, but still – the coolest.”
“Give me that back,” Tony said, grabbing the toy. “It’s not tested yet!”
Clint’s eyebrows went up and he followed Tony back to the worktop where he had a myriad of very specifically-themed sex toys lined up like little soldiers of pleasure. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you don’t have a robot for that.” He leaned into Tony’s space like a particularly curious seagull. “So who’s the lucky employee who gets to have Hulk’s fist up their ass?”
Tony felt his face heat with an uncontrollable blush. That wasn’t something he’d ever experienced in all of his many sexual exploits and, to be honest, he still didn’t quite understand how that possibly worked.
Still.
“Why’s this one look so normal?” Clint said, picking up the toy that looked remarkably boring next to the colorful and adorned toys next to it.
“It, uh…” Tony wasn’t entirely sure he wanted Clint to know this, but his schematics were right there if he was that curious, so… “It reacts to heat and moisture.”
Clint’s eyes flicked over to him and a grin slowly slid over his face. “Oh my god, really?” He scoured the tabletop and saw Tony’s cup of coffee.
“Don’t you even dare. I will have DUM-E spray you with a fire extinguisher. He’s good at that.” He grabbed his coffee mug and clutched it to him protectively.
The little robot clicked and whirred, lifting its single arm and pointing at Clint in a way that was probably meant to be threatening, but just looked a little confused. Clint grinned and looked back at Tony, then down at the toy. “Heat and moisture, huh? You didn’t already test this one, right?”
Tony frowned at him. “No. It just came out of fabrication.”
“Cool.” And then he licked the dildo from haft to tip, leaving a streak of saliva behind.
Tony just stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “It’s not doing anything,” Clint muttered in disappointment. “Do I have to deep throat it or—OH MY GOD!” Well, that answered the question of whether or not it required full immersion as the warm flesh tone turned green and began to expand.
Tony felt a little like crawling under the table and hiding as Clint burst into excited laughter. “Oh my god, I have to show Tasha.” And he bolted for the door.
Tony let out a sound like a screech and ran after him. “Don’t you dare! Clint! CLINT GET BACK HERE! Jarvis!” He heard the lock on the doors click, preventing them from open, but of course Clint wasn’t limited to doors. He changed course for the air vents and he was much faster than Tony was without the suit. He searched for something to stop the archer and called out the first thing that came to mind. “Cap’s plays music!”
Clint stopped so suddenly he almost faceplanted.
“I’m sorry?” he said, turning around to face Tony with the scariest fucking grin on his face. “Did you just say that you have a Captain America sex toy that plays music?” At Tony’s nod, his grin got impossibly wider. “What song?”
“The National Anthem,” Tony muttered.
Clint cackled like a cheap Bond villain and ran back to the table. “Okay, fine, here.” He dropped the hulked-out sex toy back on the table. “Show me what else you’ve got?”
“Promise you won’t run off with it?”
“And miss the really fun stuff?” He scoffed. “No way, man. Now show me.”
If Steve was the exact opposite of what Tony had expected, then Clint was the equivalent of an asteroid shooting up from the center of the Earth. The man that Tony had met briefly during the Battle of New York, after his brain had been recalibrated by Natasha, had been stern, serious, and cool in the face of homicidal aliens riding alien whales through Manhattan and destroying everything in their wake. His sarcastic quips throughout the battle had been an amusing backdrop to blasting aliens out of the sky, but he had seemed less emotional than Natasha.
Except the Clint Barton that Tony had living in his house was anything but serious, emotionless, or stern. He was more like a five-year-old with the energy reserves of a puppy and the acrobatic skill and agility of a spider monkey. He preferred the air vents over doors, but if they didn’t work, he could (and had) come in through the window on the fiftieth floor.
He had the same sense of humor as Tony, which was weird. He was used to sniping at people with his jokes and teasing until they either got used to him or left, usually the latter. He was not accustomed to having someone fly into a room and sass him before he got the chance to even initiate.
Clint was also really smart. He couldn’t keep up with Tony, but then no one could, not even Bruce (though he came closest of all of them). Clint did trajectory calculations in his head. Tony hadn’t been able to truly appreciate it during the Battle of New York, but now that Clint was living at the tower and using the range Tony had built – an entire floor that was nothing but targets and places to hide and shoot from, and all of it capable of being run by JARVIS as a training simulation.
The room was recorded, because the best way to learn how to fix mistakes was to be able to see their own training sessions. And if Tony liked having JARVIS play the feed when someone was training while he was down in the lab, it let him see what his team needed in terms of equipment.
That was how Tony ended up researching and then designing the first weapons he had created since closing the weapons manufacturing since he got back from Afghanistan.
One morning, when he stepped into the communal kitchen for breakfast (Pepper had asked him – and JARVIS – to be sure he ate at least one regular meal a day, and he was trying to keep to that habit), he brought his new stock of toys with him.
“Morning, Tony,” Steve greeted, as he did every morning. Clint, bent over his coffee mug like he could inhale the caffeine and wakefulness, grunted what was probably meant to be a greeting or a curse at the sun. Bruce gave half a wave from in front of the stove without turning around, asking him if he wanted eggs, which Tony answered with a “Yes, please, Brucie-Bear. You know, I also enjoy breakfast in bed,” which was ignored.
Natasha’s eyes tracked him as they often did across the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea (boring leaf water), but he had apparently peaked her curiosity. “Stark. Why do you have a gun in your pocket?”
Bruce’s shoulders went as taut as a tripwire and behind him, Steve’s voice was filled with cautious worry. “Tony?”
Tony gave Bruce a reassuring smile when the man turned to look at him, then glanced at the table. Everyone looked ready for a fight. Even Clint had come out of hibernation, his eyes alert, coffee cup forgotten. Natasha’s index finger was trailing along the rim of her tea cup like she was contemplating the different ways she could use it in a battle. He got to see Vin Diesel murder someone with a tea cup in a movie once. He didn’t have anything on Natasha.
“Okay, seriously, guys, tone it down and let me drink my coffee first, okay?”
Bruce muttered something behind him, too low for him to catch the actual words. A moment later, JARVIS said, “I can assure you, Dr. Banner, that it is all to the benefit of the team.”
Tony turned and looked at Bruce, surprised. The man shrugged apologetically.
“JARVIS, no ruining the surprise,” Tony called, as he turned and picked up his full coffee mug.
“Of course not, Sir.”
He retreated to the table, giving Natasha a squinty-eyed look as he passed her. She hid her expression behind her tea cup, but he thought she might have been smiling.
He settled down in the empty chair next to Clint, who eyed him suspiciously, then held out his hand palm-up. Swallowing his coffee in scalding sips, Tony raised his eyebrows.
“Give it,” Clint said, wiggling his fingers.
Tony pulled his lips away from the rim of his cup long enough to say, “It’s not for you,” and then attached them again.
Clint had an amused smile on his face but there was something calculating in his eyes. Bruce came over and put a plate in front of Tony, and swatted Clint with a dish towel when he reached for Tony’s bacon. “You ate.”
“But Natasha ate mine,” Clint whined.
Bruce gave Natasha a dry look. “Really?”
She only looked at him and he turned with a sigh and went back to the stove, muttering about suddenly acquiring a bunch of children.
Tony ate quickly. Despite his teasing, he was excited to give Natasha and Clint their gifts. His stomach churned around his nerves, though, and he worried that eggs and bacon might be more than he could handle on top of them. But he’d promised Pepper and she was scary when he didn’t do what he was told.
On the plus side, the days when Bruce cooked breakfast were his favorites.
The man had been all over and he must have eaten food from all manner of cultures, because when he cooked in the morning, nothing was ever the same. His knowledge of spices was massive. Tony’s scrambled eggs today had fucking cinnamon on them and they were probably the best thing he had ever tasted.
They all alternated who cooked on what days. Tony could easily afford to hire someone to make meals for him, but like he distrusted most people to hand him things, he didn’t much appreciate the idea of someone making him food he would eat. At least the other Avengers were eating the same food, so if they suddenly decided to poison him, he knew they’d go down with him. And if they didn’t, they’d have a hell of a time during the next battle, when Iron Man wasn’t there to back them up.
It was endlessly entertaining, seeing what different foods were put before him from the other Avengers. Of all of them, the two most talented at cooking were Bruce and Clint. He had expected Bruce’s meals to be varied. He knew the man had traveled the world in his desire to escape the government (and himself), and his knowledge of cultural cuisine was vast.
The first time he had made homemade shawarma for dinner, Tony had about fallen out of his chair laughing, and had eaten three gyros before regret made him stop. Bruce was large on making stews and meals containing rice for lunch and dinner, and his breakfasts tended to be traditional eggs and bacon with varying spices or vegetables.
Clint was, surprisingly to Tony, just as varied in his choices of meals to prepare. There were meals Tony was familiar with, like spaghetti or stuffed turkey (that had been a surprise – the whole house smelled like a Christmas celebration), and on one memorable occasion, about three different kinds of meat pie. But sometimes he would prepare something that was completely outside of Tony’s experience. The first time he served them up a mutton curry had resulted in the table being taken over by a conversation between Clint and Bruce about their individual experiences in India.
Tony thought he had eaten more vegetables since Bruce and Clint moved into the tower than he had the entire rest of his life, even with Pepper hounding him to take care of himself.
Natasha tended toward traditional Russian recipes. Tony never dared to ask whether this was because they reminded her of home or if it was some attempt to regain what had been lost to her. He was neither brave nor cruel enough and enjoyed the meals in silence. His favorite by far had been her piroshki, and he was not unaware of the fact that she made it the most frequently. He also didn’t dare to ask whose benefit that was for.
Steve’s meals were like stepping back in time. Burgers, homemade pizza, tomato soup and grilled cheese, potato soup. Chicken fried right there on Tony’s stove. It wasn’t the foods themselves that made the meals, but the fact that they were homemade, as though Tony had wandered down a street in New York and stepped into a mom and pop café. The first time Steve had made corned beef and cabbage and admitted it was the recipe his mother always made, Tony hadn’t actually been able to speak.
He’d always had the servants and Jarvis to take care of him growing up, to make him meals and be sure he ate. Cooking wasn’t something his mother did. More than that, the emotion with which Steve admitted that, lost and sad and a little wary, stole whatever comment Tony might have made until, after a few bites, he was able to only comment, “It’s good.” More than good, really, but Tony didn’t have words for that feeling – tasting something that called back your own childhood, brought with it memories of the people you had loved, but couldn’t bring back the people, themselves. There was joy in memory, sure. He could admit that, even though he was prone to looking always ahead, but there was no ability to go back. Steve couldn’t make this meal and take a bite and look at the stove and see his mother standing there. Tony knew that. He did.
Just the same, the next night it was his turn to cook, he’d made a goulash recipe that he remembered eating frequently as a child. Jarvis had made it for him and it had been the one thing Tony would never complain about eating.
He hadn’t eaten it since the day Jarvis died.
And if he spent the next three days after making it locked in his workshop, JARVIS muted and music off, there was no one to say anything except his bots, and he knew they never would.
He didn’t make the goulash again after that, though there were a few other recipes he pulled out from his time in Jarvis’ care that hurt less. Iced lemon scones were a big hit for breakfast, which he served with fruit to appease Pepper and Bruce. He cheated as often as he didn’t, though, and ordered in food from all around the world. Really, why have a private jet if you didn’t get to use it?
By the time Tony finished his breakfast and his second cup of coffee, Bruce had supplied Clint with more bacon (most of which Natasha stole) and eaten his own breakfast. Tony, turning his coffee cup in his fingers, could feel the gun pressed against his side like someone else was holding it with their finger on the trigger. He knew eating had been a poor idea. This was a terrible idea all around. What had he been thinking? Obviously he had been caffeine-deprived. But with everyone else sitting down, there was a clear path out of the kitchen.
He stood up from his chair with a stretch and a grin. “Well, lots of work to do. Call me if we have to assemble!”
He made it a whole three steps before Natasha called out sweetly, “Stark. Didn’t you promise to let me see your gun?”
He turned with a grin. “Ah, you don’t want to see that. Think of where’s it’s been. Best to keep it tucked away.”
She quirked an eyebrow at him in that truly terrifying manner that meant she was about two steps from coming over the table and taking his weapon from him, and he wasn’t entirely sure she’d go for the one in his pocket to start.
With a sigh, he moved back to the table, pulling the pistol out of his pocket as he did so. He saw Clint tense out of the corner of his eye but didn’t let it bother him. SHIELD agents, always so suspicious. Then again, they had Fury as a boss. He probably taught a class. How To Make Your Agents Question Everything 101. To start, give yourself a fake name.
Tony would never admit to knowing Fury’s real name, though. He was saving that in case he ever needed it for a shock factor, or to prove to the master spy that he wasn’t the only one who could go digging in someone’s closet for some skeletons.
He turned the gun so Natasha could take it butt-first and she did, looking it over with a practiced eye. It was smaller than your average pistol. He’d designed it specifically for Natasha, so it only made sense that it would fit her smaller hands. That didn’t lessen its effectiveness, however. Tony Stark didn’t make subpar equipment.
He watched as Natasha checked to be certain the chamber was empty, then sighted it across the room. Her proficiency at handling the weapon was obvious from their time avenging, but he was still impressed as he watched her disassemble the pistol and inspect each of the parts before putting it back together with ease.
“I thought you were done making weapons?” Steve asked, his voice holding confusion rather than the accusation Tony would have suspected just a few months ago.
Natasha held the pistol out for him to take back but he shook his head. “It’s—uh…” He smiled nervously. “It’s for you. For… in the field.”
Natasha stared at him for a long moment, her face blank. “You made me a gun?”
Tony ducked his head, scratching at his temple. “Um… yes? I mean, I know you have guns and you’re great with them but SHIELD tech is still awful and since I’m the best at weapons manufacturing, even though I don’t manufacture anymore, well…” I don’t want you to be unprotected. But he couldn’t say it. Not yet. Maybe never.
He saw Natasha pull the gun back slowly and set it on the table in front of her. Later, she’d no doubt find a place to put it on her person, but not here where everyone could see. Tony still didn’t know where she got the weapons she always carried half the time. He was pretty sure the woman had surgical knife holsters implanted somewhere.
He was not foolish enough to ask, though it did bring up the desire to x-ray her again. No pelvis and surgical weapons compartments. This woman was terrifying. Which he knew, of course. He’d seen her take people out, but when she looked at him like that, with her head slightly tilted and her eyes calculating, it made him feel like he expected a rabbit felt under the gaze of a fox. Small and squishy and very edible.
He forced himself to look away from her, though the eyes of the rest of his team were no less focused on him. Hopping up from his chair, he dashed over to where he had tucked the other package he’d brought up from his workshop. Jarvis opened one of the surface panels in the wall above the stairs and Tony pulled out the tightly bound selection of arrows.
“Legolas, I brought you a present, too.”
Clint was practically bouncing in his seat as Tony handed the arrows over. He removed one from the bundle, turning it this way and that in his hands, inspecting the feathers and the tip, before looking at Tony. “These are custom made.
“Well, yeah,” Tony said. “I’m not gonna give you cheap store-bought shit when I can made better arrows in my sleep.”
Clint gave him a bemused look and held up the arrow for Tony to see like he hadn’t had his face shoved in a holographic image of it at one point. “It says You’ve just been Hawked on the side.”
Tony laughed a little. “Ah yeah, I forgot about that. I think that was after my ninth cup of coffee.” He scratched his head. “Too much?”
“I think you’ve watched too many Schwarzenegger movies.”
“Hey, Eraser is awesome.”
Clint nodded in agreement. “We did that once, too. Faking our deaths to escape. Remember, Tasha?”
“Was that Budapest?” Tony asked, excited.
“Mykonos,” Natasha said. “Greece.”
“We actually aren’t allowed to talk about it,” Clint said, pulling out a different arrow to inspect, “but let’s just say that SHIELD has been dealing with magic long before Thor ever came to New Mexico and proved that aliens are real.”
Natasha threw a piece of toast at him. “Not allowed to talk about it.”
Clint ignored her, having discovered that the arrows didn’t all say the same thing. He held a new one out to Natasha. “Hey, this one says tag, you’re it.” He snickered, looking at the tip. “Head’s a bit odd, though.”
Natasha sent Tony a look of fond exasperation. “Tracking device?”
Tony blushed and glanced at a startled Clint before looking back at Natasha. “Yeah. I figured, you know, it was a good idea.”
“Holy shit,” Clint whispered. He picked at the tip of the arrow, trying to see how it worked.
“There’s an injection needle inside each head. The tracking chip is small enough to pass through the bloodstream, so not as easily plucked out of the skin as one just imbedded. I have it set up so JARVIS can track them now, but I could fit a device on your quiver that would give you a global satellite overlay and track the chip in real-time. Should probably consider allowing access outside of the lab. Consider a wall map? Maybe something tucked away. J, what do you think about a holographic interface all of the Avengers could access if they needed to, and stop me if I’m turning into a 90’s cartoon villain, but I’m talking wall-sized world map with zoom capabilities and satellite imagery down to street level. Can we do that? We can do that. Could require some extensive coding but shouldn’t be too difficult. Traffic cams would be a good inclusion…” His words dissolved into quiet mumbling as he processed through what he would need to do to accomplish his goals, unaware of the others staring at him with various expressions of amusement and incredulity.
“I believe I’m going to stop you there, Sir. Mounting the map on a wall of computer screens would, as you expressed, turn you into a 90’s cartoon villain, and I don’t believe your insurance covers that.”
“Might also give Fury an ulcer,” Tony muttered, then cracked a grin. “Do I still have a room on the helicarrier he planned to stash me when I get out of hand? How long would it take to turn that into my evil cartoon villain lair?”
“I’m sure you could convince Agents Fox and Pixie to assist you, provided you had your usual incentive on hand.”
He could practically feel the temperature drop, the eyes of the two SHIELD agents in the room staring at him.
“Stark,” Natasha said dangerously, “there aren’t any agents in SHIELD named Fox and Pixie.”
“They’re codenames, Natalie, obviously.”
“And you bribe them with… what? Tech?” Clint asked, then glanced at the arrows. His shoulders relaxed slightly and he whined, “Seriously, though, I would be tempted…”
“Psh, I don’t make weapons anymore.” He pointed at the arrows and Natasha’s gun. “Those weren’t created by SI. The Iron Widow is strictly an Avengers project and it’s custom.” He stared past them, thinking. “I should consider fingerprint locking. Or vocal password. No, too easy. Identity-locked. Go full Demolition Man on this. Won’t work unless Natasha’s holding it.”
“You named my gun?”
Tony blinked, coming out of his creative brainstorming to look at Natasha. “Hm?”
“The Iron Widow?” she asked, her lips turning up at the edges.
Tony shuffled on his feet for a moment before he made himself stop. “Sure, yeah, why not? There’s more iron in that gun than there is in my whole suit, and it needed a name. Couldn’t just be Natasha’s Gun, that’s what I call the other ones. What’s your opinion on heat-seeking bullets? I could do that, I think. Better yet, targeted bullets. Or maybe just tiny rockets. Thrusters. JARVIS, we could make thrusters that small, couldn’t we?”
“Are you planning on sending fleas into space, Sir?”
“You never know. First a circus. Next, the universe.”
“Tony,” Bruce said, calling the man’s attention.
“What’s up, Brucie-Bear?”
“When’s the last time you slept?”
Tony hesitated for a moment, thinking. “Well, that depends. What day is it?”
Brice shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “JARVIS?”
“Sir has been awake for one hundred and eighteen hours,” JARVIS supplied, and there may have been a note of vindication in there somewhere. “He has consumed forty-three cups of coffee within that time frame and eaten a total of five meals.”
“No one asked about the coffee, JARVIS!” Tony said, scandalized. “You’re just tattling.”
JARVIS didn’t say anything in response but Bruce was already standing. “Tony…”
“I’m busy, Bruce, and in the middle of a creative spree. I’ll lose it if I do something boring and stupid like sleep.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“It’s how many brain works.”
Clint and Natasha shared a long look, communicating solely through eyebrows and queer-platonic telepathy. Then the archer turned back around. “Tell you what, Stark,” he said, balancing on the balls of his feet on the chair, “I’ll let you play with my quiver if you follow Bruce’s advice and have a nap.”
“Eight hours, and at least three full meals,” Bruce interjected.
“I already ate breakfast,” Tony whined. Bruce gave him a deadpan look and he whined harder.
“I’ll let you tech out my bow too,” Clint wheedled.
Tony gave him a startled look and shouted “DEAL!” He held out his hands to Bruce like he was expecting to be put in handcuffs. “Be gentle with me, Doctor. I bruise easy.”
Bruce snorted and rolled his eyes.
Clint hopped down from the chair and lifted an arrow, holding it out for Tony to see as he stepped up in front of the inventor. It had a thick plastic case at the end, the size of a collapsible umbrella, and a four-pronged metal hook protruded from the top. It didn’t have feathers on the other end, but another head with a shallow V giving it two sharp points. Three thin strips of rubber weaved the length of the shaft in a rotating pattern, to help it keep steady in the air once released from the bow. “Rappel cable?”
Tony shrugged. “Or a zip line. You can shoot from either end depending on what you nEED—”
Tony stiffened as Clint’s arms wrapped around him in a hard, fast hug. As soon as it started, it was over and the archer was bounding away like an over-excited beagle. “You’re the coolest guy I know, Stark!”
Tony remained standing where he was, back stiff and arms straight at his sides. “JARVIS, what just happened?”
“I believe Agent Barton hugged you, Sir.”
“Yeah, but why?”
Natasha stepped up beside him, the Iron Widow held loosely in her hand. She glanced at him curiously for a moment, then smiled softly. “Because we appreciate how deeply you care.”
“I do not,” Tony said in disgust. “I’ve never been so insulted. Natasha, you take that back.”
Humming in amusement, she instead kissed him softly on the cheek. “Thank you.”
Tony turned his head enough so he could watch her walk away, his mouth hanging open in complete surprise.
“What. The. Fuck.” He turned and looked at Bruce. “Does lack of sleep cause hallucinations?”
Bruce was clearly amused as he said, “It can.”
“I see.” He looked back toward where the two agents had gone and nodded sharply. “Definitely time for bed. JARVIS, log this event for later study and find a spare moment in my schedule for a nice, long freaking-out session.”
“It appears you have an opening in eight hours, Sir,” JARVIS said, and really, an AI should not be able to sound that amused. “May I suggest you spend the time between now and then sleeping?”
“Bossy,” Tony muttered.
“You did create me.”
“Like you didn’t boss me during that whole process, too.” He wrapped an arm around Bruce and dropped his chin on the scientist’s shoulder. “You come tuck me in, Bruce? Read me a bedtime story?”
Bruce snorted and poked him in the side. Tony whines loudly in protest. “Yeah, Tony. And if you’re really good, I’ll even do the voices.”
“Ooh. I promise I’m a very good boy.”