Title: A Midnight Rumble
Word Count: 1,257
Rating: T
Summary: Tony's been working all night and just wants a cup of coffee. Is that so much to ask for? Apparently so because things don't go as planned.
Notes: I wrote this after reading a post on tumblr that said what their Avenger's sleeping headcannons would be.
It's 3 am again- or is it 4? - and he's finally clawing his way out of his workshop, doors closing behind him with a soft whoosh of air and a metallic click. He drags his feet, Italian leather scuffing the tiled floors and surely leaving marks, if not on the white linoleum but on the brown cowhide itself, as he heads up the seemingly never-ending set of stairs in his state of exhaustion, hand gripping the banister like iron as he slowly climbs up from the bowels of the Avenger's main base.
Tony's been buried in his work for hours and he is in desperate need of coffee, black. He knows he should sleep, his body tells him so, but he can't; his work is unfinished and needs to be completed. And so, he ignores the creaks and groans of his joints, ignores the crick in his neck that has no hope of being massaged out, and ignores the way his eyes burn and blur with sleep just to bring his little brain child into fruition. Tony would go through the mechanics of his new project in his mind if he could, oh on how this piece fits there, and this much battery power was needed to get its tiny little motor running, but he was just too dog tired to even try to mentally work through the blueprints. The only thought he could focus on was the saving grace that was caffeine, brewed just how he liked it and made with a few more ounces of coffee beans than was necessary for a single cup. Sure, it would taste bitter and most likely make his stomach turn, but it did its job and gave him that kick that Tony needed.
He makes it into the communal kitchen without a hitch, navigating his way through the labyrinth of hallways that made up their shared living space with the lights off, trailing his fingertips along the smooth walls to guide him. He shuffles around the center island, running a hand through tangled hair, eyes half lidded. A curse tumbles from his lips as he rounds the corner too quickly and bounces off the steel tabletop, needles of pain shooting down his hip. Tony rubs a slow circle into the sore spot on his hip, glaring at a spot on the wall as if it was all the flaking porcelain's fault.
It takes him a moment to remember why he went to the kitchen in the first place, and then it hits him: fresh coffee. That's all he needs. Once there's a piping hot brew in Tony's hands, he'll be back in the tombs, yes-sir-ee. He'll be back to his children in no time.
Tony sets about filling up the coffee pot, water sloshing into the pot and up to the two cup line. He knows he doesn't need the two cups, contemplates dumping out the pot and doing it all over again and settling with one cup, but the hell with that. What's done is done and he's in desperate need of caffeine now. Tony dumps the water into the reservoir and shoves the pot into place. He ladles out the needed amount of coffee beans and is about to dump the beans into the coffee maker's basket before Tony realizes that, hey dipshit, there's no filter to catch all this mess. Roughly shoving the spoon back into the coffee pouch, he yanks open the drawers around the coffee maker and slams them shut when a filter can't be found.
After about ten minutes of searching, Tony finally finds the coffee filters, on the complete opposite side of the kitchen. Whoever decided that was a great idea needs to be shot, he thinks as he slams two or three filters into the basket and shovels in more coffee beans than necessary. He roughly presses the on button and settles against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, fingers tapping against his elbow, as he hurries up and waits. Tony knows about that old saying, about how it takes longer if you just watch it, but can't keep himself from staring down the coffee maker, watching as one drip at a time of black liquid piddles into the pot.
The jeopardy theme runs through his head multiple times, distorting itself to something other than the normal show tune as his impatience grows. He warps it into something demented, something like a creepy calliope theme and lets it play over and over again, index finger tapping against his arm in time with the separate syncopated beats. It feels like it's been an hour, but Tony knows it's only been about ten minutes before the coffee is finished. He takes the pot with a "Praise fucking Jesus" and turns to get a cup from the shelves. And that's when he sees him; Clint fucking Barton is on top of the opposite counter, nestled in between the fridge and the toaster oven, knees tucked up close to his chest and eyes wide open, half hidden in the shadows.
Tony lets out a scream and drops the pot; backing into the counter, hand pressed flat against his chest to still his beating heart. He's for sure that the shrapnel in his chest has moved a fraction of an inch closer to his heart, and it's all because of Hawkeye. A snarl curls his lip as he watches the fucker come back to life, eyes blinking momentarily before a grin splits Clint's face from ear to ear.
"Mornin', Stark," Clint says nonchalantly, uncurling himself from his position on the counter and dropping to the floor. He stretches out his arms and tilts his head from side-to-side, working out all the kinks from sitting in such a weird position all night, and bursts out laughing at the look on Tony's face. "Looks as if you'd just seen a ghost, or somethin'."
Tony grumbles out something about how Clint really needs to quit doing that and to leave him be as he kneels down to pick up the broken glass on the floor, his brows furrowing in barely controlled rage as he stares at the puddle of coffee, when there's a ruckus from down the hall. He hears a door bash into a wall, footsteps rumbling down the narrow halls. Tony and Clint both pause, turning to the hallway to see who's coming their way. What they see causes completely different reactions in both of them; Clint's laughter grows into a boisterous roar as Tony's face gets that stony look of 'I am so done with this shit'.
"What is all the ruckus?" asks a very groggy, and very naked, Thor. His legs are spread apart and arms are crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the kitchen and the occupants inside it. He's about to inquire on what Mr. Stark and Hawkeye are doing up at such a late hour when Tony stands up, walks through the puddle of coffee, and thrusts the broken coffee pot, all that's left is just the handle and a bit of its frame, into Thor's hands. He pats Thor on the shoulder in a it's-your-problem-now manner and stalks off down the hall to his own bunker, kicking the door closed behind him. Tony collapses onto the mattress and is out like a light, breath evening out into a quiet rhythm, left foot dangling off the bed, shoe slipping off to the ground with a soft thud. It looks like Tony's brain child won't get completed today after all.