Before Iron Man, before the playboy, the genius, the billionaire, the philanthropist, before Tony Stark, there was just Tony, the mechanic.
But everyone, including Tony Stark himself, forgot about "just Tony". But they all kind of knew he was there. Tony built things, lots of things, but that was just Tony. Tony built when he was bored. He fiddled when he was frustrated. Fashioned devices when furious. Made machines when melancholy. Devised when devious, engineered when ecstatic, and constructed when crazy (which was somewhat often).
The mechanic was there, just forgotten. He was needed, but not acknowledged.
Until New York.
"Hey Stark." A very bold archer leaned over the workbench. The man at said workbench was, however, not mentally there. He was in his work. He was completely immersed. His turbulent emotions exploded with the sparks that scattered at his feet.
"Tony?" Clint waved a hand in front of Tony's face. No response. "Earth to Tony?" Clint, daring and stupid, started waving his hand around whatever Tony was working on - some new fangled gizmo that would take ages to explain to the Captain or Thor.
Clint suppressed a sound of dismay as Tony swatted away the assassin's hand. Tony just hit an assassin. Without blinking. Clint watched Tony continue working for a few moments before promptly slapping the back of his head. "What was that for?" Tony glared at the smug archer.
Clint gently pushed over the thingamabob Tony was working on and placed a white Chinese take-out box and a pair of chopsticks in front of the man. "Pepper says you haven't eaten all day." He glanced at a nearby clock. "It's almost eight." Tony looked at the clock, half surprised and half nonchalant.
"Did you notice the Captain or Banner try to get you to eat earlier?" Tony had thought there had been some super soldier sighing earlier. He also vaguely remembered some doctor babble and someone mumbling, "It'd be easier to just attach an IV to him..."
"Nope." He took the chopsticks and the box and leaned back in the chair. Clint stayed where he was. "What?" Tony mumbled through a mega-mouthful of lo mein.
"Pepper said to make sure you eat all of it." Tony tried to wave him off. He had work to do. And not even the physical limitations of his body could stop him. Clint simply shook his head, sat on the couch, and crossed his arms. Tony raised an eyebrow before giving a humph and the two settled into silence.
Tony was annoyed. He glanced over at his latest project. After a few mental calculations, he decided he had enough time to annoy Clint. He ate slowly and avoided conversation. Clint became bored, tapping his foot, plucking at non-existent pieces of lint on his clothes. Tony watched with devious glee as the edgy marksman's eyes began to droop. When they remained closed for a full minute, he picked through his food and successfully found a large chestnut slice. With the precision of... well, an inventor and engineer, he plucked it from the tangle of greasy noodles and tossed it at Clint.
It bounced off his head and Clint slept on. Tony cursed under his breath.
Two minutes later, Tony watched with interest and concern when Clint started twitching and mumbling, eyes still closed.
Not thirty seconds after that, Clint let loose a short, hoarse scream, a cry of pure terror. His eyes flew open, panic and fear consuming his grey eyes. He seemed to forget where he was, reaching for his bow and an arrow, but found nothing, which only fueled his panic. A thin sheen of sweat shone in the light of the shop. The usually calm and capable assassin was almost at the point of hyperventilation, hands trembling, opening and closing, having the need to grasp something.
Tony set down his half-empty carton. "Clint? Buddy?" Clint swiveled in the direction of the new possible threat. He continued to grope for the stash of weapons that was usually on his person. Finally concluding he had nothing, Clint took an offensive stance, fists up and ready to pummel Tony into one of the grease puddles that stained the floor. He lunged towards the genius, grabbing him by the shirt, his fist just brushing the bristles of Tony's beloved facial hair.
"Whoa, whoa there, Clint. Remember me?" Clint's face twisted in confusion. His grip slackened and Tony remembered how to breathe properly. "It's just me, Tony. I know you want to kill me sometimes, but this time I did absolutely nothing." Tony paused, in thought. "Just don't use your shampoo tonight.
Clint released the man, utterly bewildered. His threats had proved to countless cold-hearted men that they could cry, no matter how often they argued against the fact. But this man just kept talking. Sure, he had trembled a little. But he started talking to him, calling him by his name..
"Tony?" The inventor examined the archer, whose face showed confusion and body showed exhaustion. But there was no longer that primal fear, that threatened stance and look that screamed of a broken man
"You okay now?" Clint did not reply, choosing instead to flop back the couch. He closed eyes and sighed with the age of a man lost to time, the world, and himself. "Clint?" The archer looked at the unusually concerned genius through slitted eyes, his grey eyes saying, What do you think?
Tony sat on the edge of the couch near Clint's head. Clint contemplated pushing him off. Nah, too much effort
"Does, um, this..." Tony awkwardly trailed off.
"Happen often?" Clint finished. Tony nodded. "Yeah. But I'm usually by myself or with Natasha. And before you ask, the SHIELD quacks already diagnosed me. Sometimes I go into some sort of survival mode when I remember..."
"Yeah, that." Tony knew he didn't want to dwell on Loki and his hare-brained scheme
"It doesn't influence my missions." Clint chuckled bitterly. "Hell, sometimes it helps." The sarcastic smile faded. "They don't know how to fix it. Loki's magic really screwed me up. That time really screwed me up." He paused, hesitating to reveal himself. Revealing himself meant vulnerability, vulnerability meant weakness, and weakness meant failure.
Tony had turned to face the archer, knowing that telling the genius all of this was hard. It went against all his instincts, his code, his way of life
"Not even Tasha can do anything," Clint continued, downcast, "All she can do is watch and make sure nothing too bad happens. It's hopeless." On the last word, Tony heard the subtle crack in the assassin's voice. He looked over to the tired man whose eyes had closed in apathy to what his life had become.
"Clint." The archer didn't respond.
"Clint." Tony poked him. Clint swatted his hand away.
"Clint!" Tony dared to shove the assassin, who proceeded to give him a half-hearted glare.
"What?"
"Get up."
"Why?" Just to contradict Tony, Clint sprawled across the couch, "accidentally" pushing Tony off, who landed with an indignant noise
"I said, get up." Tony propped up the limp, sturdily built (as demonstrated by Tony's grunts of effort) archer. Clint gazed up at him, his grey eyes dull as slate.
"It's not hopeless."
"What?"
"Are you having hearing problems? I said, it's not hopeless." Clint stared at him, incredulous.
Tony sighed in his infamous argh-I'm-surrounded-by-idiots (except maybe for Bruce) manner. "It's not hopeless. It's not impossible. I mean, c'mon! Your leader is a super-serum man that came out of a block of ice. Your partner is a beautiful, frightening spy and assassin. And as for your other teammates you have a man stupid but ingenious enough to fly around in a metal suit, a Norse god who's obsessed with Poptarts, and the calmest doctor you could find who can turn into a giant green rage monster."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "With us around, nothing is impossible." Tentatively, Tony wrapped an arm around the archer in a one-arm hug. Clint, rather than flipping him onto the ground, instead rested his head on Tony's shoulder, letting hope flicker in his chest.
Tony thought Clint had fallen asleep when he heard the archer mutter, "Tony, what did you do to my shampoo?"
"Ah, I see you don't have hearing problems."