Broken Glass

Warnings: This could possibly be found as dark.

Tony had been working in his lab for days now, not once coming up to eat, drink, or socialize. It was getting a little ridiculous and Clint would have no more of it. He kind of missed Tony, to be honest. It was quiet and there were no snarky comments being thrown around left and right. There were no ideas for pranks being pitched back and forth between them and Clint was getting a little antsy without his daily dose of tricks. So, keeping all of that in mind, he headed to the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle and a sandwich. He went downstairs to Tony's lab and easily got access.

"I'm a little busy here. If the city is not being swarmed by aliens, leave," he deadpanned, not looking up from whatever he was tinkering with.

"Tony, you need to eat," Clint stated.

"Aw, is Feathers actually caring about something?" he asked with a smirk. Only then, did he look up. "I'm, not hungry. If I was, I would come and eat something. Thanks for your consideration, though." And with that, Tony ducked back down and started typing away on the computer.

"Seriously Tony, you haven't eaten for days." Clint took a few steps in Tony's direction.

"You sound like Pepper. Don't worry about me, it's been like…" he glanced at his watch. "Four days. The human body can last three weeks without food, so I'm fine. Now, if you'd leave me to my work…"

"No more bullshit, man. Just take the damned food." Clint held out the sandwich, but Tony only eyed it, eyes widening slightly. "Seriously? Will you at least take it? You can just throw it out as soon as I leave but at least humor me," he growled.

Tony simply let his eyes roam over it.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm dealing with a freaking two year old," he mumbled angrily. "Take it. Take the sandwich."

"I don't like to be handed things," Tony said with a flat voice.

"Well, get over it. Take the sandwich from my hand."

"Just put it down, I'll pick it up later."

"Take it."

"No."

"Take it," Clint insisted.

"No."

"Damn it, Tony. You're impossible."

"What can I say? I'm stubborn."

"Obviously." Clint started inching the sandwich toward Tony's hands that were lying on the computer keyboard. His eyes flicked from Tony's eyes, to the sandwich, to his tense hands. With a quick move that only Clint and Natasha were capable of, Clint shoved the sandwich in his hands. Despite his fast reflexes, it missed Tony's hands by an inch. Tony's hands were pulled up to his chest, and he was out of the chair, slowly backing away.

"How did you just evade my move? You're fast, I'll give you that," Clint chuckled. The look on Tony's face wiped the smile off his face, though.

Tony was backing away carefully, taking fast yet quiet steps away. His expression could only be described as pure terror.

"Tony…" Clint started hesitantly. "Why don't you like to be handed things?"

If it were possible, Tony's face paled even more. A sheen of sweat developed on his face, making his skin glimmer and appear even sicklier.

"Just a… Just a peeve," he replied shakily.

"It's definitely not just a peeve," he said in a low voice. "Talk to me."

"I'd rather not."

"It'll be good for you. I won't tell anyone if it makes you feel better." Clint was using the softest voice that he could use. It was the one that he usually reserved for pets. It was the most comforting voice that he possessed.

"I just don't want to tell anyone."

"You don't trust me?" Clint questioned innocently. It would help turn the tables in his favor.

"Don't turn this on me," he growled. "Of course I trust you. I just… Don't want to tell anyone."

"Please." Clint sat down in a nearby chair, showing Tony that he wasn't going anywhere.

Tony's petrified face softened and he fell in a boneless heap on the couch. He let out a frustrated sigh. "When I was little, my dad…" he trailed off. "My dad wasn't the nicest guy. He wouldn't ever be home and if he was, he would be drunk. I mean it. I saw him more times drunk than I did sober. Anyway, he used to drink his beer and as soon as the bottle was empty, he would smash it on something. He'd call me over…" He let out a shaky breath.

Clint did not like where this was going.

"He'd call me over and shove the bottle in my hands. He'd say, 'Take this or I'll go get mommy.' I didn't know any better and I didn't want him to hurt my mom. I mean, she wasn't the best lady out there, either, but I figured it was better me than her." His whole body was shaking by that time. From anger or sadness, Clint would never know. Maybe it was a bit of both.

"So, I'd have these sharp shards of glass in my hands and my dad would come over and cup my hands in his. At first, it was really gentle and almost felt like he actually could be my father. Like he actually cared. Damn, I couldn't have been more wrong. Anyway, he'd be sitting there, holding my hands gently, and I'd almost forget the glass that was sitting in my hands. Then, after about five seconds of just doing that, he'd squeeze his hands as tight as possible around mine. The glass would cut into me, but I wouldn't flinch or cry because I needed to be strong in front of him." He stood up and started pacing, hatred emanating from him.

"He'd just laugh as blood poured out of my hands. He'd laugh sadistically. He enjoyed every second of it. The first time he'd ever done it, he took me to the hospital after and told them that I fell hands first into a pile of glass. They stitched up my hands and we went home. I thought that was the first and last time that he would do that. Again, I was wrong." A single tear ran down his cheek.

"He did it almost every time I saw him. 'Take this or I'll go get mommy.' And I'd take it. He'd squeeze my hands. But after that first time, he'd just stitch my hands up himself. It would be too suspicious if he took me back to the hospital again. Around the fifth time that he'd ever done it, he broke my right hand. Just crushed it like it was an ice cube. The glass got pretty deep that time, too. Of course, we didn't go to the hospital and that time, he didn't bother to stitch me up. I did it myself, making sure that I had it wrapped properly so that the bones wouldn't shift."

Tony had Clint crying. Clint didn't do crying. Multiple tears rolled down his cheeks at the thought of the lively Tony Stark being hurt by a man that everyone adored. A man that was supposed to be there for him, through thick and thin. A man that was supposed to be Tony's role model. A man that was supposed to be great and loved.

"Steve always talks about him like he was a hero, but I never understood what the hell he could possibly be rambling about." Tony hadn't made eye contact with Clint yet. His back was to him the whole time. "Do you understand now? Why I don't like to be handed things?" He turned around to face Clint, his eyes cold, void of all emotion.

"No, Tony, I don't," Clint said. Tony's eyes widened in shock. He thought for sure that after the pouring out of his heart that he would understand. "I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you. Howard's gone, he can't hurt you. I don't understand why you wouldn't take a simple sandwich from my hands," he explained carefully.

"I don't want to be hurt again. People come and go in my life and I'm sick of it. Pepper and Rhodey are honestly the only ones that have stayed with me forever. I'm not sure if Jarvis counts, but he's been there for me too. I guess that I actually don't trust you guys, but it's not your fault. It's mine. I don't think I'll ever learn to trust again. If I don't trust you, then I can't take something from you."

Clint nodded slowly. Believe it or not, he did understand. He wasn't going to get mad that Tony didn't trust him because, really, why should he? He'd just have to prove to Tony that he wasn't going anywhere.

"I'm sorry, Tony," Clint whispered, just loud enough for Tony to hear him.

"Please, don't tell anyone. You're the only person I've ever told, not even Pepper or Rhodey. I need you to promise me that you won't tell anyone," he whispered back.

"I promise," he breathed.

"Good. Now, I have work to do. Get out," he dismissed with a sniff. This time, Clint didn't argue. He stood and approached the door. When he was in the doorway, he turned around, searching Tony from head to toe. Tony was shaking still, but not quite as much as he was earlier. His usually clear and sparkling eyes were dull and haggard. His posture was rigid.

"We're all here to stay, Tony."

And for the first time in four days, Tony smiled.

So, I went against greektsik13's advice and wrote an abusive story. I just felt drawn to the idea once it was stuck in my head. Not to worry, though, I'm writing that story that we were talking about, greektsik13. Anyway, did you guys like it? I know it was somewhat dark, but for some reason, I felt almost proud. I would enjoy the reviews, if you could find it in your heart. I enjoy criticism, also. Thanks for reading.

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