Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Tower was still too quiet.

Too many echoes. Too many memories burned into the walls — of smoke, alien fire, shouting, screaming. Of that goddamn portal in the sky.

Tony hadn’t left the workshop in two days. JARVIS reminded him. Pepper texted. Rhodey called. He ignored them all.

Until Friday night, when he pushed back from his desk and announced to the empty room: “Alright. Fine. I’ll play mom.”

JARVIS, ever helpful, interpreted that as a go-ahead.

Within an hour, invites were sent. Casual dinner. Team bonding. No uniforms. No missions. No aliens.

Tony cooked — himself. His mom’s old lasagna recipe. Garlic bread. Even a big bowl of Caesar salad because “healthy optics,” as he told the AI while layering noodles.

When the team trickled in, there was a strange kind of tension. Not anger. Not even awkwardness. Just... newness. People who had fought together now trying to exist without bullets flying.

Bruce arrived first, hovering in the kitchen with a bottle of wine and the nerves of a man not used to being invited anywhere.

Steve showed up fifteen minutes early, naturally, offering to help and getting politely shoved out of the kitchen by Tony.

Natasha ghosted in next — quiet, observant. She didn’t speak much, but she helped Clint into the room without a word. Her hand brushed his shoulder in a way that was both guiding and grounding.

Clint looked tired. Not just physically — though there were shadows under his eyes and his posture had that half-slouch of someone exhausted — but in the bones kind of tired. One of his hearing aids blinked a soft blue behind a mess of blond hair. The other was missing its outer casing, patched up with black tape. He didn’t speak right away, just waved a little. But when Tony handed him a soda, he rasped a quiet, “Thanks.”

Dinner went... about as well as could be expected. Steve tried to ask polite questions. Natasha stabbed her salad like it insulted her. Bruce slowly relaxed once Tony jokingly insulted his sweater, and Clint — well, Clint didn’t say much, but he listened. Really listened. One hand always near his ear to adjust the hearing aid, tilting his head to catch what he could.

There were moments of laughter. A few smiles. Lasagna seconds were claimed.

Afterward, Tony dragged the group to the lounge with the excuse of “mandatory movie night.” He picked something ridiculous — The Mummy, because even Natasha cracked a grin when Brendan Fraser smirked onscreen.

Somewhere between halfway and the final act, Clint fell asleep.

He was curled sideways on the couch, blanket half-draped, breathing slow and deep. His hearing aids were out, resting neatly in a dish on the table. No one said anything.

Tony watched him a long moment.

Then — quietly, carefully — he gathered Clint up in his arms. The kid barely stirred, just tucked his head against Tony’s shoulder and sighed, soft and warm.

“Light as a feather,” Tony muttered, climbing the tower steps. “You better not be growing. I’m not buying new pyjamas.”

In Clint’s room, Tony laid him down, pulled a blanket over him, and dimmed the lights.

He paused, brushing back a few stray strands of hair, it was soft.

“You’re safe,” he whispered.

Clint didn’t hear him. But maybe he didn’t need to.

Tony stood there a minute longer. Then two. Then left the room, heart a little heavier and lighter at the same time.

Down in the workshop, JARVIS said nothing.

Tony sat. Stared at the armor.

“You think I’m doing the right thing?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

Silence.

He picked up a wrench.

But didn’t use it.

Instead, he pulled out another recipe card. This one had smudged ink, barely legible. Apple cake, Mom’s way. A note in the margin: “Don’t forget the cinnamon, Tony. It makes it warm.”

Tony pressed the card to his chest.

And finally allowed himself to breathe

Chapter Text

It started with a shadow in the doorway.

Tony glanced up from the workbench, safety glasses low on his nose, fingers deep in a mess of wires. The hum of the shop filled the room — the soft whirr of an arc welder cooling, the flicker of holographic blueprints dancing in the air.

There, just inside the threshold, stood Clint.

Barefoot. Oversized hoodie. He looked like he hadn’t slept. One hearing aid in, the other cupped loosely in his hand like he wasn’t sure he wanted it back on.

Tony didn’t speak right away.

Clint didn’t either.

But after a few seconds, the kid stepped inside.

Tony straightened and gestured toward a stool. “Come to judge my welding, or just haunting my vibe?”

Clint gave a crooked smile. “Vibe,” he said, voice soft. It had a rough edge, like gravel. When he was this tired, the words came slower — more effort. But he still spoke.

Tony nodded once. “Cool. You break it, you fix it.”

They fell into a rhythm. Tony worked. Clint watched. Sometimes, he’d gesture to a tool. Tony handed it over without asking. They didn’t talk much, but they didn’t need to. Clint was a fast learner, and Tony liked showing off for people who paid attention.

When Clint tilted his head too far — trying to catch something — Tony spoke slower. Clearer. He turned toward him when talking. Didn’t raise his voice. Just made sure he was seen.

That seemed to matter.

Later that night, long after Bruce and Steve had gone to bed, the door creaked open again.

Tony was still working, of course. Sleep was for people without trauma-fueled insomnia.

Clint stood there again.

No hearing aids this time. Eyes red. Shoulders drawn tight. Hoodie sleeves hanging past his fingertips.

Tony didn't say a word. Just motioned toward the beat-up couch shoved under the wall of spare parts.

Clint shuffled in, crawled under the throw blanket, and curled up without a sound.

Tony grabbed a warm mug from the station in the corner — not coffee, but warmed milk with cinnamon, one of the few recipes he still remembered from his mother’s kitchen. He set it on the table beside the couch, where Clint could find it.

“You're good,” Tony said gently. “You’re safe here.”

Clint didn't answer. He was already drifting, face tucked into the pillow, blanket pulled to his chin.

Tony sat nearby, back to the wall, watching the soft rise and fall of Clint’s breathing. The boy looked younger when he slept. Softer. Less war and more wonder.

Watching the faint blue glow blink from behind the kid’s ear.

Just a tiny light in the dark.

Like a firefly.

Tony blinked, surprised by the thought. Then he chuckled softly and shook his head.

“You ever stop glowing, Firefly?” he whispered, pulling the blanket a little higher.

And though Clint didn’t hear him, Tony smiled.

Because maybe he didn’t need to.