Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers. Please exercise understanding of personal sensitivities before and during reading.

Author's Note: I'm really bad at romance. But have some preslash for Clint & Tony anyway? Also, this should be obvious, but I'm blending in a lot from other Marvel runs for Clint's characterization here. This includes the lack of Laura Barton, unfortunately.

Dedication: Rcok (Mrshyrockstar) on the Stark Industries United server on Discord as part of their Secret Santa event.

Challenge/Competition Block:
Stacked with: Winter Bingo; FF; PP; LL; NC; SI(N); StL; ToS; FPC; Neurodivergent (N); Fear Inside (N); Truth (N); Slicing Life (N); Shipmas (N); Long Haul (N); Laws (N)
Representation: Exploring new connections; magic & comic book science; learning about new people; Tony Stark; Randomness; mlm ship; Superheroes; Natasha Romanoff
Bonus Challenge(s): Lovely Coconuts; Infinity; Second Verse (Not a Lamp; Ladylike – Stoic; Wabi Sabi; Middle Name; Tomorrow's Shade; Unwanted Advice; Unicorn; Zucchini Bread; Misshapen Pods; Casper's House; Machismo – Softness); Demo (Most Human Bean)
Space (Prompt): 2D (Vigil/Mass)
Word Count: 1930

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Speaking without Words
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When Tony Stark repaired the tower, he had originally wanted to create individual floors for each of the Avengers. What better way to prove that he was a team player than to give homes to his new teammates? Rhodes had successfully talked him out of that idea, much to Pepper Potts' relief. Instead of personally designed floors, Rhodes convinced Stark to go with a much more conservative plan of creating loft-like suites for each with a few communal floors.

Nothing could convince the genius that the suites could be generic.

Clint discovered this soon after being dragged to the tower by Natasha roughly two weeks after the Avengers had defeated Loki. He had been moping about the New York base, doing his best to avoid any other agents. It wasn't just Coulson's death either. The majority of the deaths leading up to the invasion were his choices. It would have been worse if SHIELD hadn't been evacuating the Pegasus base for hours before Loki's arrival, but that didn't offset the fact that Clint was always brutal when pursuing mission objectives. Honestly, that was part of why he got along so well with Natasha.

Which is why he didn't argue or fight when she told him that they were moving to the tower.

He was still sore from her cognitive rehabilitation.

Stark showed them their quarters with all the flair and swagger Clint was expecting from the man. There was still something slightly off about the sweeping gestures and constant stream of words flowing out of the man's mouth. Stark kept Natasha in sight at all times, but Clint couldn't fault him that. Natasha was a scary, scary person even if she liked you and she had already made it clear that she didn't like Stark. It nagged at Clint until he noticed Stark reaching to adjust his cufflinks.

Coulson had been very thorough in his explanations about suits. There had been times when Clint had believed that Coulson's love of them had been bigger than his love of all things SSR/SHIELD history. Casting a measuring gaze over Stark's form, he noted that it was a bespoke of some kind, someone not even attempting to emulate a more famous style. That fit what Clint had heard from some of the Sci-Tech agents about the kind of man Stark was, always looking for the next little guy that would benefit from association with him. Natasha claimed that was the height of arrogance, a way to pander to his own ego, but Clint knew the value of those things, especially if the rumors were true that Stark asked for nothing in return.

Stark had faced an ALPHA threat on his own without even a gun after at least two days without sleep. He had faced Vanko unarmed as well and while dying of heavy metal poisoning when absolutely no one (not even Natasha) would have blamed him for retreating. Perhaps even more impressive, when Coulson had kidnapped Stark for a debrief after his battle with the Iron Monger—where Stark had almost been smeared across the pavement several times—the man had still been as cool as a cucumber.

Yet that same man had armored up in order to welcome them to live with him.

The internal sense that had always warned him when an op was going south shifted at the back of his mind, tinged with a blue closer to the Tesseract's color than the one that had filled him during those fifty-six hours he had worked for Loki. He didn't know what was changing or if it was going to be a good thing—the same feeling had led to him leaving the circus and deciding to not kill Natasha, so really it could go either way—but he knew it was going to be bigger than anything that had come before.

They dropped Natasha off at the door to her rooms. Clint had mocked the decorative cartoon spider that was on her nameplate. Natasha allowed it, taking the comments about the resemblance with her typical stoic silence and only a single twitch of her hand towards her favorite stiletto blade. Stark had twitched at the motion but covered it with a deep breath. The shifting slid a bit more as Natasha disappeared into her rooms with a knowing tilt to her lips.

Clint had his own cartoon on his nameplate. Well, cartoon wasn't accurate. It was symbols and most people would probably pass it off as simply decorative. Clint knew better. Etched into the plate were all the symbols that conveyed a really good place to stay—somewhere safe with food and medical help. Those symbols had kept him alive when he had stuck out from the circus on his own. There had been more than one mission that they had done the same.

He turned slowly towards Stark, who looked a lot less confident than he had when showing them around the common areas. Stark tapped the center of his chest a few times, releasing a muffled metallic ting. Then Stark started moving his hands very deliberately, disrupting everything that was in his SHIELD file.

"Your file said you grew up in the circus," Stark signed. His motions had the fluidity of fluency, someone who had been using ASL for years despite how it wasn't on the list of languages that Stark knew. "I guessed. I just wanted you to be comfortable." His hands spasmed through a couple of nonsense gestures as the worry lines around his eyes deepened. For the first time, Clint noticed the perfectly blended makeup below those expressive eyes. "Agent noted that you liked places to hide or climb. I couldn't reinforce the ducts—at least not outside these floors—but you have access to the dead space and one of the larger pockets have everything necessary for a panic room. There's perches, too, and dart boards—do you play darts?"

"When was the last time you slept?" Clint asked instead of answering. His motions were sharper than he had intended, and the difference made Stark stutter through a few more nonsense gestures. "Seriously, you look beat and this is a lot of stuff to do in a short period of time. Nat said you were in California last week and three days ago, you were in Germany. When was the last time you slept?"

"Uh," Stark answered aloud. He clearly needed to stop and think about the answer, which said a lot about the timeframe. He lifted his hands a few times to answer, only to drop them back to resting positions. Unable to watch the confusion, Clint covered Stark's hands with his own.

"If you have to think about it this long," Clint said, taking care to keep his tone calm without patronizing, "then it's been too long. I'm willing to be that you probably haven't eaten much in the same time, just like I'm willing to bet that you stocked my kitchen. So here's a plan for your consideration: we raid said kitchen and then I'll keep watch while you hold down whatever couch-like thing you put in my living room?"

"Why?"

The single word sounded just as baffled as it had when Natasha had asked after he had dragged her back to Coulson, like his actions were so far removed from previous experiences that they were incomprehensible. Maybe Coulson had a point about Clint's habit of picking up strays, because that tone mixed with the expression on the billionaire's face just made him want to bundle him up even more. Clint tugged him through his door into his new quarters instead of answering. Stark's hands twitched repeatedly as they went, clearly wanting to speak but being prevented by Clint's continued hold on them.

"Do you have any food issues I should know about?" Clint asked because he was nothing if not good at avoiding explaining himself.

Stark swallowed hard enough to be audible. Then he licked his lips and Clint had to force himself to look around them. Well, damn if this wasn't starting to get complicated. Even as close as him and Natasha was, he had never felt the urge to kiss her like he had just had with Stark—though Clint supposed he should get used to thinking of the other man by his first name, shouldn't he?

"I don't like eggs," Tony answered hesitantly, as if the words meant more than simply a dislike of a common food. His eyes had gotten wider when Clint looked back. "Or bacon and seafood."

"How do you feel about waffles?"

"Only on Sundays," Tony answered immediately. His hands jerked under Clint's and he immediately started trying to backpedal. "But that's just for me. I'm not going to tell anyone else when they can eat waffles. Waffles are awesome and everyone should be free to enjoy them whenever they want. I'm not trying—"

"Tony, relax," Clint interrupted when it seemed like Tony was working himself into hyperventilation. The brunet blinked uncomprehendingly at him but obeyed. "It is Sunday. Would you like waffles?"

"JARVIS?"

"Agent Barton is correct, Sir," said a British voice over a speaker. Clint pinpointed the accent to urban Midlands but beyond that he had nothing. "It is indeed Sunday. Also, I concur with Agent Barton's suggestion of food intake and rest. Your last full meal according to my records was prior to Col. Rhodes being recalled from leave five days ago. That is also the last record of more than two hours of consecutive sleep."

"Nightmares or adrenaline dumps?" Clint asked softly. His thumbs stroked along Tony's in a preemptive attempt to soothe. Tony gave a half-hearted jerk of his hands, suddenly agitated just like Clint had been expecting. "It happens after particularly rough missions, and like it or lump it, you did fly a nuke into space, man. It's not a sign of weakness to not be fully okay after that. I've sat vigil for Natasha after a few bad ones, and I don't know if you've noticed, but she's scarily tough and likely to stab anyone who suggests otherwise. So waffles? And then you sleep and I'll keep watch."

"JARVIS can keep watch," Tony pointed out, but Clint could tell that he was on the verge of agreeing.

"JARVIS can't take out potential threats like a person can."

"Alas, that is one of my few limitations." The tone was so dry that Clint was thirsty just listening to it. "I also find it exceedingly difficult to offer the touches and embraces that Col. Rhodes provided which allowed you to gain adequate amounts of sleep."

"Aw, are you a cuddler, Tony? I never would have imagine that." Clint used his hold to pull Tony closer and swapped out holds for a hug. Tony was stiff at first, probably due to shock, before melting into the hold. His curls smelled surprisingly fruity, something sharp and tart. "I have no problem with that either."

"You're a strange bird, Hawk-ass," Tony quipped, the words muffled into Clint's chest. Unable to resist, Clint ran a hand through Tony's hair, prompting a sigh before the man leaned more heavily against him. He added a bit of scratching to the motion in response. Tony whined sleepily as Clint subtly lowered them to the delightfully large couch. "You promised me food."

"And I'll keep that promise," Clint vowed, "but it can wait until you wake up. You sleep. I'll keep watch."

As Tony settled into sleep, so did the feeling of things shifting.

Clint thought it felt a lot like finally coming home.

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An Ending
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