A/N: And THIS is why I don't promise consistent updates. Like I said, it'll get done. Just... not in a timely manner.

I went back and had to make a few edits to the scene in the first chapter after the "Roughly Three Hundred Years Previously" header, so that the setting of the Dragon Disk would be consistent. They're not huge changes and you're not going to be totally lost if you don't go back and reread it, but I did change it, if you happened to remember that bit and thought this chapter was being inconsistent.

—§§§—

Tony thinks the debrief would be a little easier to deal with if he weren't trying to keep his thoughts to Clint silent. Also, if Clint didn't feel so incredibly damn pissed that it made Tony kind of want to go hole up in his workshop for, say, a year.

[This was not my fault,] Tony sends, careful to keep his mouth shut.

Clint doesn't argue. There is no argument to that statement, whatsoever—but he's still unspeakably frustrated. [It's this whole team's fault.] Accompanying the clear message comes the spiraling, vague and angry thought, someone's going to get killed before we get our shit together.

"Great," Tony mutters, because he's not wrong, then immediately realizes he said that aloud and tries to shrink in his chair. Casually.

"Something to add, Mr. Stark?" Fury says coolly. He's glaring at Tony—he's been glaring at all of them for the past half hour, actually, but now the concentrated force of a one-eyed glare is focused on Tony and he isn't happy about it.

"Who, me? Nope. Not a thing. Carry on."

Fury regards him suspiciously, then sweeps his gaze over the rest of the team and continues. "Does anyone want to tell me why I only had four superheroes out there?"

Rogers sits up straighter in his seat. In direct contrast to everyone else, who is slouching and trying to avoid the guilt trip with varying degrees of unprofessional posture, Rogers looks like someone has taped a support beam to the back of his suit. "Sir. I believe we already explained that Iron man was temporarily out of commission—"

"Yes, you did." Fury crosses his arms, his mouth a slash of hard feelings across his face. "I don't care. Everyone's got to fight short-handed sometimes, and you should be able to cope with that. I want to know why I had four superheroes instead of one team."

Bruce rubs the side of his nose, eyes averted, and Natasha scuffs the heel of her boots on the floor, apparently unconcerned. Tony swears he can see the metaphorical raincloud over Clint's head and tries his best to ignore the stretching, awkward silence.

He wasn't there. So therefore he shouldn't be expected to interject with anything useful.

The corner of Fury's mouth curls downward at the awkward silence. "You stepped up to the plate during the first invasion. I can't pinpoint what's changed now, but I want you to fix it."

"If I may, Director?" Bruce says, turning his glasses over in his hands. He's squinting into his own lap, but at least he's talking, which Tony thinks is an improvement. "It's not that easy."

"I didn't tell you it would be easy. I just told you to do it."

The wave of contempt hits Tony like a tsunami and he can't help but snort. "Because your word is supposed to be our gospel."

His voice comes out colder than he means it, colder than he feels—but he does feel it, does feel this arctic storm of frustration swirling inside him and waiting to roar forward—

[Tony. Relax.] Clint's worry is a shard of glass just clear enough to cut through the anger, the frustration, and the storm is slowly withdrawing back to where it came from.

Back to Clint's mind, Tony realizes. [That makes that at least 90% your fault,] he says, alarmed. Then pauses, glancing sideways to gauge Bruce's face. Nothing much different; okay, he probably didn't say that last part aloud.

Fury's eye is sharp. "Who would you rather answer to? Yourself?"

[Still blaming you,] Tony insists. His jaw feels glued shut—no, that's Clint, Clint feels like his jaw is glued shut, Tony never stops talking. The awkward tension in the room is reaching critical levels, so Tony grins and leans back like he doesn't notice. "Nah. I mean, what're the odds that the world could take me being an ultimate authority? It's having enough trouble with me as it is."

Fury stares at him, flatly unamused the way most people get when they're the ones dealing with the mountains of bureaucratic red string and paperwork that Tony tends to leave in his wake. "Is this something you can resolve as a team so I can stay off your backs?"

There's a weighty, elastic moment when anyone might say something incriminating and get Tony and Clint either strapped to lab tables or locked in the therapy rooms, and Tony doesn't know which would be worse.

"Yes," Clint says tightly, before anyone plucks up the courage to deny it. "We'll work it out."

"Good," Fury says. "Make sure what happened today doesn't happen again."

"Well," Clint says, and he's stalling, he's trying to avoid incrimination—"it's not, we're gonna need a little time to fix some stuff, and not the whole team. We're—it's not." Clint seems to give up trying to find words, just clenches his jaw so tight that the muscles are visible across the room.

This is why people can dismiss Clint, Tony thinks. This is why he can pass himself off as just there for a good shot. When it's something he cares about, something that ties him up inside, his words can't unravel themselves from the knots.

Clint rubs his forehead to hide his face and coughs a little self-consciously. He doesn't try to say anything else.

After a moment, Fury stops waiting for him to. "Why don't you try getting your act together as a team before you go all lone wolf." He pauses, looks around at them all. Not the team—they're hardly a team. "You need it." His chair scrapes against the floor as he pushes it back and he stands with a heavy sigh, ever the disappointed mentor. Tony feels shame, shoves it back to Clint, because he doesn't owe Fury anything. Really.

[Not even for saving your life?]

Tony chooses to ignore that.

"You have got to have more in common than just saving the world," Fury tells them. Tony narrowly repressed the urge to snort, but he has the feeling it shows on his face. Fury rolls his eye at the general lack of response from the room's inhabitants and turns swiftly to stalk out of the door. "If you can't think of anything, I'd suggest ballroom dancing as a place to start," he says as a parting shot.

Tony entertains the notion of Captain America on a dance floor. Then calculates the strength and height necessary to safely dip him, and if Tony could manage it—

[Oh my god, shut up.]

Tony frowns, shoots Clint a hurt look that's more emotion across the bond than it is anything else. The exasperation in Clint's thoughts has hooks in its fragile flesh, snared by the anger underneath, the anger that would pull Tony under if he gets too close.

It's no wonder Clint has a resting bitch face, if he's constantly hiding that.

"You know, he's got a point," Rogers says reluctantly.

Tony opens his mouth to protest—oh, so he's supposed to shut up—but closes it before he can embarrass himself because that conversation had been in his head. It takes him a second to rewind—"What, ballroom dancing? Really, Rogers?" According to his calculations, if Tony tried dipping Rogers then they'd both end up on their asses, but if Thor was planning on coming back any time soon they might have a working model.

Rogers shoots him an annoyed look. Tony preens under it maybe a bit more than he should. "We have to get this team together." He glances sideways at Clint. "That includes you two."

"I've been saying," Bruce says tightly. "We're a chemical mixture; too many people who are too strong. We're going to explode."

"And we'll take half the city down with us," Natasha murmurs in agreement.

That triggers a derisive isn't that obvious in Clint's head, accompanied by a sprawling strategy that he hastily shoves into a box, hides it away, draws back before it can see the light. Another thing he's too close to, another thing he won't be able to articulate—

Tony can't help it. He takes it.

"Isn't that the point?" he says suddenly. He's staring Natasha straight on, which isn't the best thing he's ever done, according to his catatonic self-preservation instincts, but dammit, Clint has a point, even if he doesn't share it beyond his head. Tony spreads his hands. "We're all too strong for anybody else. But we can keep each other in check, if one of us goes rogue—provided the others are team enough to work together. This system works, but it can't work one on one."

"That's morbid," Natasha says, surprised. She sounds like she approves.

Rogers doesn't seem as settled with it. "You've gotten cynical."

Tony scoffs. "I've always been cynical, Spangles. I mean, if you could see the inside of my head—"

The conversation—and this is, sadly, about the best conversation they've had as a group since they saved the world together (Tony feels like that's supposed to count for some kind of camaraderie)—abruptly comes to a halt. For, like, a lot longer than Tony would normally let it last, except that he caused this one completely be accident and for once would rather not make it even worse.

"Well," Rogers says finally, looking sideways at Clint. Clint is staring stubbornly at the wall, but watching the rest of the team rather closely through Tony's head; there's a sinking feeling in their shared headspace and it's rooted in both of them. "I really can't."

This is how Tony finds out that Clint hates feeling guilty, but feels it far too often. [Screw this,] Clint thinks venomously.

[Seconded,] Tony agrees. "Poor choice of words," he admits. Rogers' expression stays skeptical, and you know what, Tony's only been dealing with this for a few weeks and he's already sick of it. He doesn't have to prove himself to anyone or anything. "You know what? Fine," Tony says, standing. "When you can get over the fact that I'm kind of trying really hard not to die, over here, then we'll try this again."

He storms out of the room, leaving Clint tugging after him in a bit of a panic—whyareyouleavingnostop—but Tony can't stay in that room. He stops right outside of it, nudging Clint to come after him, huffing at the hesitation he receives.

[If I asked you to fly me out of here,] Tony wonders, [would you do it?]

[No. Something tells me that showing off isn't exactly the best idea at the moment.]

Tony tries pulling Clint out here with him, again, since no one's even talking in that room, just exchanging significant looks that Clint's having trouble reading. Clint ignores him and Tony withdraws, pouting by himself in a hallway, which, when he thinks about it, is about as pathetic as a superhero gets. He didn't even bring his suit, something about solidarity, and how is he supposed to get home without slinking back to the team with his tail between his legs?

Tony huffs to himself and starts down the hall. He can probably hijack a helicopter or something.

When he gets outside, though, someone with a hand approximately the size of his head claps down on his shoulder roughly and Tony yelps.

"Friend Tony," Thor rumbles. "I do not see your flying armor here. I was wondering if you would appreciate a ride home."

—§§§—

"First of all, when did you even get here?" Tony bursts out. Not until his feet are safely on the helicopter pad of the Tower, of course—he's not scared of heights, oh no, he flies around in a tin can! It's just that there's a big difference between a tin can he built and has faith in and a god with an arm slung across his back, casually, like there isn't a terrifying number of feet between them and the ground.

"Inwards of half an hour ago," Thor rumbles. "Heimdall had informed me about some…" Thor pauses as if considering his words, a show of tact that Tony frankly hadn't expected of the god, "curious developments since I last fought by your side."

Tony fought the threat of an escaping hysterical giggle down to a somewhat high-pitched, disbelieving, "Huh." [Clint where are you guys Heimdall's been creeping on me and Thor's in town.]

Clint, almost a mile away but still clear in Tony's head like he was standing two feet from his elbow, responds first with a wordless request for patience and a muffled spike of anxiety. Then, [Okay, I'll get the others going. I have the feeling this is going to be a team thing. Stall him until we get there, yeah?] Beneath the ever-present, curdling tide of anger, there's a sudden jumble of worry don'tlethimspeculate, theydon'tunderstand under a familiar hiss of Asgardian. Apparently that went back a ways. Interesting.

Thor is looking at him rather intently when Tony checks back into his physical body. "Have the two of you already bonded, then?"

"I, um." Tony clears his throat; he isn't sure which answer Thor would like to hear, so he goes with the truth. "Yes, actually."

Thor's face brightens, just slightly, the corner of his mouth tilting up like he's satisfied. "Perhaps you will survive this trial of the body, then. It would be a great shame to lose you before your time."

"And when exactly do you think my time is with all this magical shit from immortals?" Tony snaps testily. A mistake. Losing his temper gets him approximately nowhere ever; he's got to think his way through this. He breathes purposely in through his nose and out through his mouth. "I'm just going to—you want a seat? Let's sit down."

Tony saunters over to the indented pit in front of the television, lined with couches so soft you could probably lose a small child in them. He's practically oozing casualness, here, and hopes Thor picks up on the presented emotion and doesn't make this any worse than it has to be.

"Learning of Clinton's true nature worried me, I'll admit," Thor says musingly, settling into a couch of his own.

So much for picking up on the not talking vibe. But Tony's pretty well resigned to some extremely weird smalltalk. "Dragons not friendly with Asgard?" he asks. That could be a problem. That could really be a problem, actually.

Thor looks pensive. It's not a natural expression on his face, not while he's in full armor like he's ready to go down swinging. "No. That is, we are not unfriendly with the Disk."

"The what?" Tony says blankly. "Discworld?"

It's Thor's turn to look vaguely confused. "I do not know of Disk-World, but the Dragon Disk is where Clint would hail from. They have isolated themselves for some centuries, now. Clint's presence here cannot be a sign boding of much good."

Tony gets the feeling he should probably be asking Clint these kind of questions, but currently he's distracted trying to get the rest of the Avengers on the move and frankly, Tony thinks this line of questioning would plunge him straight into the pit of stewing emotions he doesn't think Clint has looked at too closely for at least a hundred years.

He thinks he can be forgiven a little prying. "It's not good for Earth that Clint's here?" Tony asks, because that could be a problem too.

"Not good for Clint," Thor corrects. Frowns. "You don't quite understand the importance of the bond, do you?"

Tony scowls. "All I know is it's full of warm fuzzies but also a potential emotional disaster zone. Also, I'd die without it."

Thor doesn't appear satisfied with that answer. Personally, Tony thinks he's been doing pretty damn well, all things considered, and it's really not Thor's place to judge that. "The state of a dragon's mind without a bond is the stuff of cautionary tales," Thor murmurs, quiet enough, expression distant enough, that Tony's not entirely sure the words were meant for him. They strike a chord of unease, however, and it runs deep into Tony's mind.

[What happened to waiting to talk?] Clint snaps across the bond. He seems testy—no, uneasy. Almost self-conscious.

Tony rubs his forehead in an attempt to cover the communication. [Well, stalling didn't work so well, okay?]

[Admit it, you were being nosy.]

Tony pauses. [Are you pouting? What are you, five?]

Clint withdraws so fast it gives Tony a mental whiplash. Five indeed.

Or, well, almost two thousand. Close enough.

"Your communication seems to be coming along," Thor says. He looks mildly concerned.

Tony coughs, self-conscious. "Um. Yes. Somewhat." If you can call it 'coming along' when they've been doing this for barely eight hours. Is is supposed to take longer? Does that mean Tony is lucky or screwed? With his luck, probably screwed.

Thor nods, and for the first time Tony sees the veins of discomfort in his movements, as well. "Are… you set to visit the Disk soon?"

Tony laughs, short, sharp. "Visit the Disk thingy. Riiiiight. Nope."

The silence is temporarily palpable. "You… do know that you will need to, correct?" Thor asks cautiously.

"Um, what—" Tony switches almost immediately to contact Clint. Wherever he is. Still not close, but Tony can follow the bond and shout, silently, disoriented, [Okay so what's this about going to your dragon Discworld?!]

[Um.] Vague guilt. [I was going to get around to that part. You know, after we got back, before the whole Asgardian thing.] More sensations of grumbling.

"Oh my god," Tony groans aloud. [Great. I get to be the first human in however many centuries, you know what, nope, it would be a political disaster and contrary to popular opinion I actually try to avoid those.]

[We don't have a choice.] Unease/resignation/guiltguiltguilt [We're going to have to go, if you're going to live.]

Tony glares hard at the floor. He is really beginning to hate the 'or you'll die' that is starting to seem like it's part of every ultimatum. [I demand pictures. Information. I once offended almost half of the population of Tokyo and that is not an experience I want to repeat.]

[I'd help you,] Clint assures him, but the nervousness in the bond doesn't help. An image flashes in Tony's head, attached to wistfulness and gut-wrenching anxiety alike, presumably the Disk. Tall, chrome buildings, shining like it's reflecting the light of a thousand galaxies, dragons flying—and—

"Pod racers?" Tony blurts, straightening his spine so fast he almost falls off the couch. "Ohmygod, I change my mind, when can we leave?"

—§§§—

Rogers walks in with a scowl on his face. "Welcome back," he tells Thor tersely. No one looks surprised to see an Asgardian lounging on the couch; Clint must have warned them. Mind you, Rogers doesn't look particularly enthused about it, but he looks less annoyed than he did in the debrief, which Tony takes as at least an improvement.

Tony is still vibrating slightly in excitement because pod racers, but any time they're all in the same room lately, he doesn't seem to be capable of keeping his mouth shut. "Yeah, welcome back to the train wreck," Tony says blithely.

Rogers no longer looks any less annoyed than he did on the Helicarrier. "Your attitude isn't helping, Stark."

But he doesn't actually deny it.

Thor's eyebrows are slowly crawling up his forehead at the exchange. "I was told some things had changed since we last fought as shield brothers." He pauses. "And sister," he adds, for Natasha's sake. His eyes scan the rest of them, a little bemused and rather unimpressed.

Bruce is holed up on a couch as far away from Thor—and, in consequence, Rogers—as possible, positioning his body like he's trying to hide in plain sight. Natasha has claimed the arm right next to him and is perched on it as regally as Tony's seen anyone sit on a couch. Clint has slumped on the other end of Tony's couch, still close enough to Natasha that he could reach out and rest a hand on her knee.

Rogers is the only one left standing. When he notices, he drops down into the seat next to Thor, but somehow it still feels like he's towering over Tony, and he doesn't like it.

"I get that this is a difficult thing that happening," Rogers begins, with the tone of voice that tells Tony he's about to prove why he doesn't, as a matter of fact, understand it. "But we're a team. It can't be just you two off in your corner."

[This would be a bad time to tell him we have to go to Discworld, wouldn't it,] Tony notes.

[The Dragon Disk,] Clint corrects him, aggrieved. "And why can't it, Cap?" he says aloud, vaguely smirking, eyes somehow distant in a way that tells Tony he's paying way more attention to the bond than anyone else in the room. Which, kind of flattering, but probably not helping.

"We're supposed to be a team," he snaps. "That means teamwork, trust." Clint stiffens, unnoticeably, but internally Tony has the sensation he's just watched Clint get slapped across the face. "We need to know everyone is worthy of being trusted before this can work."

The incredulity blocks Tony's throat, almost bubbles over as it mixes and hisses in a reaction with poison anger, but it's not until Clint starts laughing that Tony can pull back enough to realize the emotions aren't his. Tony sighs, pressing two fingers between his eyes to focus away from that anger before he snaps. Instead, he's swamped with tiredness, emanating, again, from Clint, the kind of hopelessness held back only by sheer force of will.

Natasha side-eyes Clint and Bruce looks like he's about ready to get up and walk out of the room, but it's Rogers who gives them both a flat look and asks, "Care to share with the class?"

Clint grins sharp enough to make Tony have to suppress a wince. "I don't know how you think trust works, Cap, but that ain't it. In order to be trusted? Someone's got to trust you first."

Bruce looks like it's occurred to him he might be standing in front of an oncoming train. "And if that trust turns out to not be deserved?"

Tony knows the answer to that one. "Then it breaks." Reflexively, he looks to Clint, whose expression has smoothed over despite the consistent turmoil inside. He remembers Clint's words: I am the other end. He is Trust.

How many times has he broken?

It's not sent, really, but Clint seems to hear the thought anyway, and he turns to stare at Tony. And even though their bonded, they're closer to each other than Tony's been to anyone besides Rhodey and Pepper, Clint feels suddenly alien. "Trust does that, sometimes," Clint says, and Tony doesn't know who he's talking to.

Bruce notices something, because he's looking between the two of them like he's a little worried for Tony's safety. "And what if we can't take that?"

Clint looks to Bruce, instead, and finally released, Tony tears his eyes away. Natasha is watching him, but he doesn't meet her eyes.

"Then you're going to be running for an awful long time," Clint says. He stands, suddenly, leaves the rest of them in their seats, and Tony doesn't follow him. Clint's anger is tainted with despair and he doesn't want anyone to see that, and Tony, for the moment, doesn't know if he can confront it.

It's silent, without Clint there, for just a few moments. Then Rogers, ever the righteous leader, gets that determined look on his face that makes Tony just a little worried.

"How do you propose we trust you?" Rogers asks, and the worst part is, Tony's about 87% sure he's being sincere. Suddenly, looking at this haphazard joke of a team, Tony feels like an alien too. So distant.

So tired.

Tony's previous excitement about the pod racers has been dampened by the conversation, but he's still sure about going.

Or maybe Clint is sure. Either way, it doesn't seem to matter anymore.

"Just let us do what we have to so I don't die, okay? That's my main goal right now. Next step, we have to go to the Dragon Disk." He almost mentions the pod racers to Bruce, but somehow the gap between their seats seems too far to breach.

"How soon?" Natasha asks abruptly, her eyes shrewd. Probably suspicious that Clint hadn't mentioned it to her, but welcome to the club, surprises all around.

But it's actually a good question. He relays it to Clint and the answer is immediate: [Tomorrow.]

Tony's past worrying about this. He's jumped off the edge hoping Trust will hold, and if it doesn't—

Well, if it doesn't, then he's pretty good at dealing with consequences.

"Tomorrow," Tony says.

—§§§—

When Tony finds him, Clint is perched in the air vents in the hallway. Perfect for watching everyone else leave the room, but he can't fool Tony.

Tony stops just below him and folds his arms, glaring upwards. [Get down from there or help me up.] Even the short message opens Tony to the anger lurking within the bond, but he's not about to let the guy who talked him into a telepathic bond go and hide from it, now.

Clint's riling up to argue, but maybe realizes the futility of it, because he moves an air vent and reaches down. [Jump.]

Tony does, even though he's about 60% sure that Clint's arms don't have the strength. Clint is sure, and Tony doesn't know when that started being enough.

[Dragons are stronger than humans anyway,] Clint tells him silently. [So whatever calculations you're running in that brain of yours? They're faulty.]

The quiet of their little encounter is ruined when Clint's apparently superior dragon strength still can't manage to hoist Tony up without Tony banging his knee hard on the edge of the vent. He swears loudly as Clint finishes hauling him up and shoves him on the other side of the opening.

[Shut up,] Clint sends him, the thought hissing, hackles raised.

[What, do you think the rest of the team is going to hear me and try to corner you for another awkward conversation?] Tony snips irritably. Pauses, paying attention to the sudden lull in the bond. [You totally do, don't you. Clint.]

[Move it, we're going somewhere else.] Clint replaces the vent cover and nudges Tony's thigh in a gesture for him to continue into the deep, dark depths of the ventilation shafts.

[Cliiiiiint.]

[You're right, okay?] And there's the anger—Tony didn't realize it was gone until he could feel it again and wow, he hadn't missed it. This time, a portion of it is directed through the bond. Tony recoils. [I don't want to talk to them, I'm sick of trying to make this work.]

[You've barely even been trying,] Tony points out.

Clint throws a bundle of memories at him. Human faces Tony doesn't recognize, laughing, stony-faced, hurt, all of them flashing by in moments and they're all teams, but not his team. Never his. [It's always the same,] Clint says darkly.

Tony tries to echo the feeling, throw his own mind at Clint's in the same overwhelming way, mirror the feeling of the bond. [Not this time.]

For a moment, Tony's not sure it makes a difference. He's out here on a limb, in the bond because of blind trust that Clint will hold on the other end, and for that moment that feels like an eternity, he's suddenly terrified that Clint is going to let him fall.

Then the bond is flooding back angrily, full force, and Clint crawls over and nudges his side pointedly with his head. [Different this time. But only for you. Now move.]

Tony will take what he can get.

They crawl until Tony has no idea where they are, but Clint's internal map tells him they're above the alcove where the elevator is, the one on the outside of the tower where the glass makes you feel like you could take a step out into the sky. Somehow, proximity to the sky helps, but the inside of the vent is dark and muted, the gentle humming of an active vent a floor or two up vibrating gently in their bones.

[Cap is actually trying to help, I think,] Tony ventures. [We're a mess, but we don't hate each other.]

[If you think he's so set on helping, then why is he the only one who's folder is still labeled by his last name in your head?] Clint sends waspishly.

He's got a point, but Tony is not going into his copious amounts of daddy issues right now. Especially not with Clint's anger dogging his heels with such vitriol there's a high probability that his own emotions would get blown out of the water.

Clint pulls back so hard Tony physically jerks and swears—softly, this time—but the bond is suddenly cavernous and dark. [Hey,] he says, peeved. [Hey.]

No response. He's not even sure Clint can hear him.

It's hard to see in the darkness, but looking over, Tony's pretty sure that Clint has gone pale. He reaches out, touches Clint's arm. Clint flinches. "Hey," Tony says softly.

"I don't—" Clint starts, stops suddenly. He makes a guttural, disgusted sound. "I hate this."

The anger, Tony would guess. But there's a theory on that which has been sitting on a back burner, and Tony finally brings it out. "You know, there's something I read somewhere a long time ago. On psychology. And I've been thinking."

"A dangerous pastime," Clint mutters.

Tony's been in Clint's head just long enough to know his defensive mechanisms when he sees them, and the sudden silence over the bond gives him enough distance to not be affected by Clint's reluctance. "Anger isn't a base emotion. It's secondary. There's always something under it. Sometimes it's fear." Clint tenses. "Or sadness." Tony presses his shoulder against Clint's as Clint seems to curl in on himself. "Or shame," he adds, softly.

"I don't want any of it," Clint whispers harshly. Tony closes his eyes and tilts his head until it bumps against Clint's, trying to seek, as Clint had before, the mind on the other end of the bond.

[But you don't have to be afraid of it,] Tony sends as loud as he can. Clint stills and Tony knows he heard.

Slowly, the bond opens again. [I don't want it,] Clint says again. [I don't want to go home.] Tony can feel that nest of vipers and knows there is fear, sadness, shame, all of it waiting for Clint when they go to the Disk.

Tony doesn't want to go either. Not if that's what's there. But they have to, and they both know it, so they'll push aside their emotions and tough it out like they've both been doing for longer than is healthy.

Oh god, Tony despairs to himself, why is everyone in this tower so emotionally stunted?

Judging by the clear sensation of someone rolling their eyes, Clint heard that. [Speak for yourself.]

[I am.]

[Oh.] Clint thinks about that. [Probably because we're superheroes.] And as if that's supposed to clear everything up, he wordlessly declares the conversation over, leaning his head back against the side of the vent and closing his eyes.

God, twenty-one isn't supposed to be that young, but Tony feels like he should be able to lock Clint up in room and not let him out into the big, cruel world. It's a little too late for that—Tony can feel it—but the feeling is there nonetheless.

[I'd be offended,] Clint says, sounding sleepy—it's been a long day for everyone—[but the feeling is mutual.] And he wraps an arm around Tony's shoulders to shove his head down onto Clint's shoulder. The mental hum of hatchling is more comforting than any word Tony can remember Howard saying and carries the lilt of an Italian lullaby his mother used to sing. He tries to remember the words, but doesn't manage it before he falls asleep.

—§§§—

Tony wakes up alone in an air vent. Somehow, he thinks that's a metaphor for something, but he can't put his finger on quite what.

Prying up the air vent cover is a piece of cake—it's the nine-foot drop underneath that proves to be a little nerve-wracking. Dragons are apparently stronger, but Tony doesn't think that applies to him quite yet. But if Clint can do it, so can he, so he narrows his eyes at the trajectory, measures how to move to disperse the force, and takes a leap out of the vent. He falls okay, not great, but nine feet with only a twinge in his back is a result he'll tick under the experimental success column.

Clint has to be around here somewhere. Reaching out for the bond is easier, now, as though it's growing stronger, or maybe like Tony's brain is still hooking onto new connections that don't exist for most humans. The trail of awareness pops up with cupboards, a boiling coffee pot, and a toaster. The kitchen, then.

Tony walks in carelessly, finding Clint hanging out in the corner and pouring himself a cup of coffee, and it's probably Tony's carelessness that causes Bruce to catch him by surprise.

"Are those the same clothes you were wearing last night?"

His heart skips a beat and he nearly runs into the table. Tony almost turns that into an innuendo, but this is Bruce, and the poor guy is already squinting at him warily enough. Instead, he blinks, and backtracks to what Bruce had said so he can actually answer the question. "Wow, judging me, now?" Tony pouts theatrically. "There was an air vent, it's not—you know what, somewhere in my head that didn't sound as weird as it does." Bruce opens his mouth, but Tony beats him to it, already moving on: "Hey Clint, we're leaving today, yeah?"

Somehow, in the space of about seven seconds, Clint has perched himself on top of the refrigerator. Again. Bruce starts when he turns his head and puts a hand on his chest like he's trying to manually slow his heart rate. Which is kind of weird, because okay, on top of a refrigerator, but it is the highest place in the kitchen, so.

It suddenly occurs to Tony that Clint perching on top of the refrigerator isn't supposed to seem normal. Because it isn't. For humans?

When he starts this whole dragon transformation in earnest, Tony dearly hopes he doesn't start perching on refrigerators and other miscellaneous pieces of furniture or Pepper is going to think he's lost his mind.

"Yeah," Clint grunts. "ETA about an hour. Phil's coming in."

Tony spares a moment for an incredulous look, then makes a beeline for the coffee because boy does he have to wake up. "An hour? Do you have any idea how many projects I have going right now? They'll all explode and die if I'm not here—" Tony pours himself a cup of coffee, tries to take a sip, and promptly learns why Clint is still cradling his mug in his hands.

Jarvis swiftly interjects. "Sir, I have taken the liberty of ensuring nothing will explode or die in your lab whilst you are away."

"—And I haven't packed—"

"Don't bother," Clint says, eying his coffee like he's about willing to risk the heat again. "They'll get you anything you need once you're there."

"—And—an hour? Seriously?"

"Yep." Clint takes a sip of coffee, apparently deems it cool enough, and downs the whole rest of the mug in record time. A quick two movements later and Clint is back on the floor like the normal person he emphatically is not. "Eat up. No, more than just coffee"—Tony isn't so sure this telepathic bond is going to have a positive effect on his dietary habits—"do it now, you'll need time for your food to settle before we leave."

Tony narrows his eyes, because that is not a comforting statement. "How exactly are we leaving?"

Clint offers him a brief flash of sensation: spinning space, nausea, moving too fast to settle before shooting out the other end.

"Oh, that's unfortunate."

Bruce breaks his silence with the air of a student unable to sit on his hands anymore. "Alright, I have to know—did you hear words in your head just now?"

Tony didn't think Bruce wanted to know, but apparently that's not true. It's probably the scientific curiosity. God knows that's been a problem for Tony, as of late. "Well, in general, we can think words at each other, but a lot faster than you'd be able to say them aloud. Don't know exactly how fast, we'd need to do some testing… But just now, that wasn't words, it was a combination of visuals and physical sensations. Did you know dragons see colors differently than humans do?"

Bruce's eyes, already wider than normal, light up at the last piece of information and Tony knows he's got him hooked. It'll be awesome: he can science the bond with Bruce, and maybe they can both make sense of it and Tony will understand why the idea of the bond doesn't bother him anymore—besides the suggestion lurking in his brain that the bond was distorting his perception…

Hopefully that wasn't actually the case.

Clint's eyebrows are raised high and he's eying Bruce like he hasn't even seen him before. [Ooookay, you guys nerd out together. I'm gonna go make sure Phil's got stuff set up. Can I use the roof?]

Tony blinks. "Sure." [Do I want to know why the roof?]

"I need somewhere high up," Clint replies, making a beeline for the doorway and tossing a wave over his shoulder.

"What did you guys just say?" Bruce asks curiously, leaning forward in his chair like he could maybe see the conversation trailing after Clint's sudden departure. Tony echoes the brief conversation and Bruce shakes his head. "That fast?"

"That fast." Tony tries his coffee again, finds it worthy, and settles into a chair with all the contentment of a caffeinated cat. "You know, you were pretty freaked out yesterday. Like you were about to take off for India at a moment's notice. Now you're pretty chill. What changed?"

"I could ask you the same question," Bruce says. He stirs his tea—green tea, when there's coffee right here, the heathen—and raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Honestly, Tony is trying to avoid looking at it too hard. He shrugs. "The whole trust thing? Clint is all over that. Talked me into a leap of faith, 'cause, I mean, this whole dragon thing is pretty ritualistic and I miss a step, I die, it sounds like. I'm trusting him so far, since I'm not dead yet. We'll see where this takes us." Bruce seems to be mulling over another potential question, so Tony waves his hand impatiently to try and derail his current train of thought. "Your turn, bud, what's up with your zen?"

Bruce rolls his eyes. "It's not zen. I mean, I'm a little freaked out still. Dragons aren't supposed to be real." He frowns at his tea. "But the Other Guy freaks me out too." Bruce takes his glasses off, cleans them on his shirt for an excuse to avert his eyes as he continues. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. I don't think I'd be able to take it nearly as well. But if there's a scientific discovery to be had, I want to be there."

Tony smiles, satisfied. This is why science is the greatest; it makes things easier. Bruce is obviously a man after his own heart.

Bruce replaces his glasses and blinks at Tony owlishly. "Speaking of which, does it seem like dragons are scientific? If Clint's given you anything to work off of, that is."

Tony's grin widens, because that excitement he'd maintained so briefly about the imminent expedition to the Dragon Disk is coming back in full force. "Pod racers, Brucie Bear. They have pod racers."

—§§§—

[Come on up, we're ready.]

Tony is jerked back into the moment, away from his scientific musings. Bruce is still staring glassy-eyed into space as he tries along with Tony to speculate how on earth pod racers would work, functionally, in a world with physics that doesn't occasionally go on vacation.

[Ready now?] Tony echoes back questioningly. His brain finally clocks back into real time and, yes, it's been almost an hour. Oops. [Uhhhh I forgot to eat.]

He can feel Clint rolling his eyes at him. But Tony knows that Clint didn't have anything but coffee for breakfast, either—too nervous. [We'll be okay,] Tony says. Clint's emotional makeup doesn't shift in the slightest and Tony sends a tentative, [Right?]

[Right.] Tony isn't sure who Clint's trying to convince, but he's doing a really terrible job.

[Suuuuuure.] The nerves that he had been blissfully steering clear of crashed into him with a vengeance. This had so much potential to go wrong. [Can I bring my armor?]

[Don't, there's only going to be problems if we, I don't know, pop in with a weaponized suit of flying armor. They're not stupid.]

[I know they're not!] Tony sends indignantly, waving goodbye to a pretty well zoned-out Bruce as he staggers out of the kitchen and makes his way to the elevator. [I mean, pod racers!]

Aaaand there's the eye roll again. [You are oddly fixated on those vehicles.]

[You are oddly blasé about frickin' pod racers, I mean, would Star Wars just be old news in the Dragon Disk?]

[I'm sure they'd find it amusing,] Clint offers. As Tony mentally splutters, he adds, [Of course, it's not that accurate to the structure of the world we live in. Too many planets in Star Wars.]

"I cannot believe you," Tony mutters to himself, just as the elevator dings. The doors open and he strides out onto the roof, with whatever Clint's drawing with chalk sprawling across his rooftop. "But really, you've been gone for like three hundred years, doesn't that mean it could be more like Star Wars than you remember?"

Clint sighs, sits back on his heels, and gives Tony a look. "That's still the equivalent of about three years, to dragons. Trust me, there will have been about seven new models of Accipiters—excuse me, pod racers—but nothing will have really changed." He tosses the chalk to the side and stands, dusting his hands off on his pants.

"Is the portal ready?" Agent says from about three feet to Tony's left, and he just about has a heart attack.

No amount of pre-transformation draconic instincts could prepare him for Agent sneaking about, though. "Have you been out here the whole time?" Tony demands.

"Yeah," Clint calls to Agent.

"Good. And yes, I have," he tells Tony. "Sounds like you're ready to go. Any last words?"

Tony scowls. "Not funny. I went through a space portal once already, trust me, that's really not funny." He doesn't actually give Agent a chance to take it back, doesn't want to know if he would, he just swiftly adds, "Actually, give Pepper my love, okay? Explain why I've disappeared and all, she might get worried if I miss more than two board meetings without calling up with ridiculous excuses."

"I thought you told her," Agent says, vaguely confused. Which probably means he's very confused, if history holds.

"Who, me, responsible? I don't know what you were thinking—"

"Clint," Agent snaps, and actually, Clint is smirking rather widely and his satisfaction is rolling through the bond in little waves, "you told me he told her."

"Oh, come on, I've been known to exaggerate." Clint strips off his shirt quickly, now grinning like the cat that got the cream. "And I thought Tony would appreciate it. Ready?"

The last word resonates through the bond and Clint crouches, wings folding suddenly out of his back, huge and Amethyst. His grin is impish, head tilted, and if he weren't still wearing that amulet, Tony doesn't think he would look human at all.

"I am indeed," Tony says, grinning back, because all the anger and the fear and the shame falls away like dried leaves with the magic Clint can sense running through the runes on the roof. Clint telegraphs his movements through the bond, so Tony is ready when suddenly Clint is fully scaled, huge eyes refracting light as his head, larger than Tony's torso, snakes around him in a split second. He reaches out, tries to grab one of the spines on the back of Clint's neck, but Clint's got other ideas.

Clint's jaw snaps shut centimeters away from the skin of Tony's back, right on his shirt, which doesn't bother Tony nearly as much as getting lifted into the air by his shirt does. And it's not like he squeaks, or anything, it's just—

[Yes, hatchling, you squeaked,] Clint tells him, his whole shining, scaled body rumbling in amusement.

"Not a hatchling!" Tony protests.

Agent's eyebrows are currently raised so high it almost makes up for his receding hairline. Whether it's from shock or amusement is anyone's guess except for Tony's.

Clint's wings lift, come down and suddenly the air is humming with something that makes Tony's brain rattle in his skull; there's light, there's space above them, and they fly through, spiraling into foreign galaxies as Clint's heart sings home across the bond.

—§§§—

"Oh my god," Tony says, and sits down hard on the ground.

"It's not that bad," Clint grumbles at him, voice changing from snarly to gravelly to actually human as he shifts down to his bipedal form. [You're being a wimp. Get up, someone's here for you to meet.]

"Tell them to come back later," Tony moans, cradling his spinning head in his hands.

There's a dry chuckle that sounds like the creaking of old hinges that is definitely not Clint.

"Don't tell me you've created a Dragonmade, hatchling," something says, the words hooked and gnarled in a way that makes the hair on the back of Tony's neck stand up. Whatever is speaking is definitely not human.

Tony dares to spread his fingers just wide enough to peek through. There's a dragon, scaly and everything, standing right in front of them, easily as tall on all fours as Tony is standing up. Or, it could be, if it weren't looking distinctly slumped. Its jade-colored scales are greyed around the edges, but the dragon's eyes are sharp, and they're staring straight at Tony.

"Elder," Clint says. His words are echoing strangely in Tony's head, like he's adopting some weird type of accent that Tony hasn't ever heard in his life. "He is a Dragonmade, but I didn't create him. They meant for him to die."

Well, that's something Tony would really rather not think about. He stares really hard at Clint instead, because something is a little off—ha! His mouth isn't moving at the same time as his words. It's like…

[Holy shit are you speaking a different language? Why am I hearing English? Is this the bond, what even—]

Clint glares at him out of the corner of his eye, which is purple again. His ear's pointed too—huh, must have taken off the amulet thing already. It probably would be weird to look like a different species while talking to your own species. [Yes it's a different language, shut up and stop thinking, I'm trying to have a conversation.]

[Um no gimme a second, don't you know like Russian and crap, does that mean I understand Russian too? Wait can you understand Italian now? How does this functionally work, even, do you think in English or in Dragonese?]

"Dragonese?" Clint echoed flatly, giving Tony a baleful look.

"Well you haven't told me what it's called," Tony explains impatiently. The little burst of adrenaline from new information breaks through the worst of Tony's dizziness and he manages to get back onto his feet.

"Pretty sure I haven't had time," Clint mutters to himself, rolling his eyes so hard they're probably going to end up little Amethyst marbles on the ground sooner or later. He's still got his wings out, curled around half of his own body like a makeshift cloak or something.

"Okay, now you have time," Tony says pointedly.

"Doesn't have a name in English," Clint says shortly. "Now, Tony, this is Elder—"

"Then I'm calling it Dragonese," Tony says promptly. "And nice to meet you, Elder. Do you understand English?"

Tony isn't exactly the expert in draconic expressions, considering he's seen Clint scaly a grand total of once, but he will eat his arc reactor if that isn't amusement in this Elder dragon's eyes. "I do indeed, Dragonmade. You're a curious one, aren't you?"

"I've been told it's a blessing and a curse. So if Amethyst is Trust or whatever, what's Jade? I'm guessing you're Jade. I mean, dragons are gem-coded or something, yeah?" Tony's pretty sure he picked up something about that through the bond.

Clint makes a slightly strangled sound "Tony, stop." [At the risk of quoting Mean Girls, oh my god, you can't just ask someone what their gem is. Wait and learn.]

[I don't wait,] Tony sends back stubbornly. [Also? I'm really not surprised you've seen Mean Girls.]

Clint looks to the sky and mutters something in Dragonese that seems to translate to "Tiamat, give me strength."

"Don't pretend he's any worse than you were, hatchling." Elder says, eyes sparkling as she chuckles, the sound like the husk being torn from an ear of corn. Tony likes her already. "Jade is the Gem of Physic Fortitude. In some rare instances, that means a certain amount of clairvoyance. In most cases, I simply understand others' minds. Even if we have never met."

Her eyes are trained on Tony's and he gets the distinct impression that she means his mind, in particular. He stares right back at her anyway; he's in a frickin' telepathic bond with someone he didn't know as well as he thought he did until about two days ago. She's not going to scare him into a corner with her mind tricks.

Elder lowers her head, a brief nod, and swings her long neck around to gently nudge Clint in the shoulder with her snout. "Keep him safe. You need someone like him."

Clint's brow furrows and Tony can feel his curiosity. It simply bounces off hard experience before it comes to fruition, though. Apparently when Elder feels like being cryptic, no one get answers from her. Not even—

"I told the Queen you were coming," Elder says. Clint's anxiety spikes, and though he manages to keep his face schooled, Tony gets the impression that Elder knows exactly what he's feeling. "You may wish to get dressed before you see her. There's a spare robe in the closet."

"Get—" Tony begins in confusion, and then he snorts and tries really hard not to bust a rib laughing. [Did you break your pants when you went scaly?] he sends, delighted. [Wow, buffing it in front of an old lady. Nice trick with the wings, though, I'll give you that.]

Clint shoots Tony a poisonous glare that would probably inspire a little more fear if Tony couldn't feel the embarrassment behind it. His wings curl up a little tighter around him, making it look like he's wearing some weird sort of veiny, purple towel.

[This side of the portal, we've got clothes that can survive through transformation, okay? Humans just aren't technologically advanced enough yet.]

Tony stops laughing in order to gape. [You didn't.]

[I did,] Clint sniffs, pooling his wings out a little so he can pull on the pants Elder so thoughtfully provided without mooning anyone in the room. [Caveman.]

Tony makes in inarticulate sound of rage. [How dare you. We're technologically advanced. I mean, we've made a lot more progress than you guys have the last three centuries—]

[Oh, my bad,] Clint sends with a sigh. [You are technologically advanced. You probably don't need our clunky old pod racers after all.]

[No—what—I—] "I hate you," Tony grinds out.

"You certainly chose the right clanmate," Elder tells Clint cheerily. Clint's long-suffering face is what Tony will always blame for not being able to walk out without placing Elder on some grandmotherly pedestal.

—§§§—

"Just to be clear," Clint mutters, "I talk. You don't talk."

"Queen, right? We're meeting a Queen? I'm pretty sure that calls for my incredible charm."

Clint's roiling emotions have reared their ugly heads with a vengeance, however, and Tony is actually beginning to think that he should shut up for once. Clint is obviously trying to keep his anxiety to himself, but even the leakage makes Tony want to sit down and have a little time to hyperventilate for a while. It's bad enough that even the spectacular chrome city towering ahead of them isn't enough to keep Tony distracted.

[I demand a tour when I don't feel like I'm going to throw up,] Tony says grumpily, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to do some of those lame breathing exercises he's supposed to do when the pain of his arc reactor gets bad. At least this time he's sitting just ahead of Clint's shoulders instead of dangling from his mouth.

[At least that's just the anxiety,] Clint sends back shakily. [This whole trip would be a nightmare if you got airsick.]

Considering that Tony lost count when he tried counting the stories on these buildings? Yeah. Yeah, probably.

They fly up and up until they're cresting over the top of a the first building, then flying around another, wings spread wide as they bank and glide. There are dragons and pod racers below them, zipping past and moseying behind, so many different velocities that Tony starts tracking the lanes they're all moving in. It's so ordered, so natural, and using equations to map out the city's movement in his head is almost enough to distract him from Clint's worry.

Until they crest over another building and land—a little hard, Clint's moving jerky and Tony doubts he's flown often on Earth—on a huge marble platform twice the size of the Avengers' entertainment center. In other words, bigger than even Tony Stark would have thought necessary.

On the far end there's a throne with a huge ruby dragon in it. Ruby with a capital R, supposedly?

[Garnet,] Clint corrects him. He sounds weird, over the bond—trying to tune into his emotions is almost physically painful, so Tony stops trying. Clint nudges Tony off his neck and onto the floor to stand for himself. Clint swiftly shifts back, scales receding, new technologically-advanced clothes thankfully still intact. [Let's go. Remember, I talk.]

Clint begins to walk forward, and suddenly he doesn't look like a lost boy barely discovering adulthood. Maybe it's the posture. Maybe it's the blasé acceptance of a world Tony never would have dreamed of, but Tony finds himself obediently falling into step a pace to the left and half a pace behind him.

It's a weirdly ceremonial table. As they walk forward, the open sky seems to vanish and a ceiling appears, paneled with something that reminds Tony of the Helicarrier's reflective panels. The pillars reveal guards on two legs with brightly colored eyes, armored in metal that Tony would bet is a lot stronger than a titanium alloy. If he didn't feel like he's walking into a painting just by existing here, he'd probably be feeling just obnoxious enough to go over and start asking about it.

When they're just about two thirds of the way across, Clint speaks, his voice carrying, "I come seeking asylum for an unwilling Dragonmade."

Tony almost flinches at the sudden noise, but manages to suppress it. He keeps his eyes up, aware, and the guards are half staring at him and half staring at Clint. The Queen in the throne, Garnet scales strangely dulled from what Tony recalls of the jewelry he's seen, barely spares a moment to flick her eyes in Tony's direction before focusing back on Clint.

Tony would be absolutely sure Clint was about to throw up, if it didn't also feel like his insides might be frozen. He hesitates in his gait, just a moment, and Tony falters in his place behind him.

"Approach," the Queen says. Her voice is soft, but the acoustics of this place must be amazing, because Tony hears it as if she's standing next to him.

Clint continues on.

[Oh god why do I feel like I'm going to get thrown out of a window to fall to my death,] Tony sends frantically.

[Shut up, I just requested asylum for you, it'll be fine.]

[Then why are you flipping out?] Tony demands. He keeps his mouth tightly shut even though he kind of wants to yell at Clint, since he kind of figures that accidentally speaking aloud would be a lot more awkward here, among an entirely different species.

Clint doesn't answer him. Thirty feet from the throne, a guard moves as though to stop them; Tony startles, embarrassingly, but Clint acts like he didn't even notice and the Queen holds up her hand towards the guard, silently stalling him. Twenty feet from the throne, Clint stops and kneels. With a mental nudge, Tony warily does the same, copying the image in Clint's mind. The back of his neck prickles when he bends his head.

The silence stretches, but Clint's anxiety has Tony's jaw glued shut. A bead of sweat trickles down his neck, which he tries to tell himself is from the temperature.

"You seek shelter for this Dragonmade?" the Queen says simply.

Tony gets the impression that Clint would rather be banging his head against the marble floor than actually talking to the Queen. "Yes."

"You have returned solely for this purpose?" the Queen presses.

Which is when Tony conveniently remembers, oh yeah, Clint ran away. Hopefully not because he was an outlaw. [You weren't an outlaw, were you?]

Clint shoves the question back at him without answering. "It is the reason I finally made the journey," Clint says.

[Evasive answer much?] Tony sends grumpily, fully expecting it, this time, when Clint shoves the thought back without responding.

More silence. Finally, the Queen says, "Asylum is granted."

Clint breathes out slowly. "Thank you… my Queen."

Tony dares to sneak a glance upward just in time to see a strange, silent devastation on the Queen's face. It feels enough like an intrusion that Tony swiftly looks down again, because what is going on with her?

"And you are always welcome," the Queen replies softly. "My son."

Tony whips his head around to stare at Clint, who is looking at the floor like he might want to turn the marble into his own—apparently princely—grave.

"Say what?" Tony demands.