I know. I know. It's been a year and I am so, so sorry. I got stuck with this story, forgot about it, got stuck again, nearly finished school and now got this chapter done on a long train ride and hope it'll flow better now. As an apology for my long absence, this is actually pretty fluffy! Forgive me?

As he has expected, Tony jerks awake at around four in the morning, fingers clenched around the blanket that feels like thin cotton wool under his fingers, he's sitting in a cave without a roof and where the sky should be is just nothing, just blackness, streaked with fire and coldness and death, and he can't –

"Breathe, Tony, breathe, shh, calm down, it's okay."

Somebody is touching him, there are rough, calloused hands cupping his cheeks and turning his face away from the window, and then he's looking into a pair of stormy grey eyes, not a trace of tiredness in them.

"Tell me where you are," the voice orders calmly, Clint, that's right, he asked Clint to stay, and – yes, right, there was a question.

Tony takes a short, shuddering breath, closes his eyes but opens them again immediately. "New York," he replies slowly, uncertainly, the hint of a question in his tone. At the archer's affirming nod, he continues: "Stark Tower. My bedroom. Not the cave."

"Not the cave," Clint confirms, his thumbs slowly stroking over the inventor's cheekbones, dragging over tear tracks and wiping them away. Tony nods minutely, not wanting to dislodge the momentary comfort; still, one of Clint's hands falls away to rest at his shoulder and guide him back down onto the mattress gently.

"Can't sleep now," he murmurs, betraying his words as his eyelids flutter shut and he settles into the cushions.

"Try," the archer whispers. "And if it gets bad, I'll wake you and we do something else, alright?"

"Alright," Tony responds quietly. He hears Clint shifting briefly and then feels the other's hands withdrawing; without thinking, he catches one of them and holds it in place briefly before he moves it to the mattress between them, not letting go.

The archer is quiet for a moment, then murmurs a careful "alright" and tugs the blanket back into place with his free hand before he settles down again and silence descends over the room once more.

The next time, Tony wakes up peacefully, slowly, like he hasn't in days now. He can feel sunlight on his skin, colouring the insides of his eyelids red, but JARVIS hasn't said anything yet, so he can't be late for anything. Those are the first things he becomes aware of; next is the warm body at his side, no, wrapped around him, really.

Slightly confused, he turns his head away from the window and opens his eyes to look down at Clint. While Tony is laying mostly on his back, the archer is pressed up against his side, his head resting on Tony's shoulder so all the inventor really sees is tousled blond hair, the other's arm draped over his chest and his legs tangled with the engineer's underneath the blanket. Tony bites his lip to suppress a laugh.

Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, aka the last person known for casual touching if you don't count Natasha, is a sleepy cuddler. It really is more adorable than it has any right to be.

Then again, it looks like Tony himself had a part in this, too, since one of his arms is trapped underneath the archer and slung around his back, holding him in position. Oh, well. The inventor shifts a little, bending his arm up so he can reach the back of Clint's head and play with the short, surprisingly soft strands of hair there while he contemplates how to wake the archer.

Turns out, he doesn't need to. The thoughtless touch was enough; Clint stirs with a quiet, questioning sound, and then there's a startled, muffled curse.

Tony laughs quietly. "That's not usually how I'm greeted when someone wakes up in my bed."

The archer props himself up on an elbow, rubbing the other hand over his face before he blinks down at Tony, looking mildly embarrassed. "Um," he starts, apparently working on some sort of explanation or excuse while still half-asleep.

Before he can begin, Tony states quickly: "I don't mind."

Clint turns his head to the side, and boy, he probably needs more coffee than Tony does in the mornings, since it takes a few seconds until he replies: "Oh, alright then." With that, he resumes his position curled up against Tony's side, murmuring into the inventor's bare shoulder: "I should probably go and make coffee."

"You read my mind," Tony declares and then yawns. "Alright. Coffee." Neither of them makes a move to get up and after a few seconds, he adds: "... soon. Ish."

"Coffee, and soon-ish," the archer agrees, and they lapse back into silence. Tony closes his eyes again, because he's not going to deny that this is pretty comfortable and it's been a long time since he's not been alone in bed – maybe even longer than it was since he last cuddled, and since Clint is not complaining, he doesn't know why he should.

It's surprising, actually, that he doesn't find himself bothered by the skin contact at all. He hasn't really attempted anything like a one-night-stand after Afghanistan – at first, he has been too busy sorting out his mess to even consider anything like it, then he has had Pepper, and after she had quit because he and his issues had become too much for her, there was a gap that he hasn't even attempted to fill for a long time.

Not that he wants Clint to fill that gap, Tony reminds himself with a minute shake of his head. That isn't where that thought was supposed to be going.

God, thinking about things like that is getting him more awake than he would like to be, and after a few minutes, the inventor finds himself squirming subtly. Clint notices, since it's probably hard to miss what with the way they're entangled with each other, and seems to take it as his hint to get up.

"I'll go fix up that coffee now," he offers while he sits up with a yawn. Tony hums affirmatively, rolling onto his side, and wolf-whistles before he grins widely. Clint slept in the tee he has worn the day before, but apparently got rid of his jeans, so he's padding through the bedroom in just a shirt and boxers. At the whistle from Tony, he glances back over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised and a deadpan expression on his face. Drily, he asks: "Like what you see?"

Flirting is so ingrained in the inventor's routine that he doesn't even miss a beat before he responds: "There's still a little too much clothing in the way for me to judge that."

Clint just snorts and shakes his head, used to Tony's habit of hitting on anything that moves. "You really need that coffee, don't you."

"Absolutely," the engineer agrees. "That was still true, though."

Again, Clint huffs and shakes his head as he disappears into the kitchen, although Tony would swear that he saw just the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks when he turned around. It's sort of endearing, really. While the archer is fun to be around, he's not much of the outgoing type – at least he wasn't when Tony met him, which was to be expected after the whole mind control shtick, he supposes. Lately, Clint has gradually become more open and trusting towards his surroundings which fills Tony with a strange sort of pride, having adopted the Avengers as a sort of pet project without really noticing that he's done it.

The inventor stretches, covers bunching around him, and yawns. He resolves to get out of bed but ends up sprawled out with his hands over his head, staring at the ceiling; he's more well-rested than he's been in some time and the temptation to just stay here and stay in the comfortable warmth of his bed is, admittedly, rather high.

Actually, now that he's starting to think about it, he really doesn't feel like facing the team just yet, even though he probably ought to get up and sort things out after he already hid away for a day. Sooner or later, he'll have to confront real life again, and it will probably be less unpleasant if he doesn't put it off for too long.

He sits up with a sigh and pushes a hand through his hair, immediately pulling it away with a disgruntled "ewww".

Clint enters the room just then, eyebrows raised in a silent question, and Tony doesn't hesitate before he starts complaining: "Oh my god, Clint, we are disgusting! That's – yikes, how could we go to bed like that? That's just... that's gross. Ew."

The archer chuckles, approaching the bed with two coffee mugs in his hands, and perches on the edge of the mattress as he hands Tony an Iron Man-themed one while replying: "You were tired, not to say dead on your feet, and I just sort of assumed that it wasn't the first time you slept with fire extinguisher foam in your hair since it didn't seem to bother you much. I've certainly had worse."

"Ew," Tony just repeats, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances up at Clint warily and remarks: "I don't take cream with my coffee."

"Yes you do," the agent replies, unperturbed. "When you think nobody's looking."

Tony opens his mouth to protest, but decides against it in favour of taking another sip of the frankly fantastic coffee he's been served before he says: "So you know how I take my coffee, then?"

A small shrug is his reply and Clint pretends to be fascinated by the content of his own cup as he answers, almost sounding nonchalant: "Keen eyes. Just happened to be looking in the right moment. I know how Bruce likes his tea after a transformation, too, and how he drinks it when he wants to go to sleep. Or how Nat takes her cocoa when she's upset. It's as nice a way to use my memory as any other, don't you think?"

"S'pose," Tony replies quietly, glancing over at Clint's own, plain black coffee. He's seen the archer drink it straight from the pot, not much of a secret to memorise to that. "Now, I guess taking you to shower with me would be stretching the boundaries of a platonic friendship?" he asks with a grin.

"S'pose," Clint echoes his previous answer back at him, even though there's a mischievous sparkle to his eyes that Tony might have taken as a challenge at any other time. Right now, though, he really just wants to get this mess out of his hair and away from where it has dried on the rest of his body, so he nods and finishes his coffee with a few unhurried gulps.

The archer has downed his own, too, and holds his hand out for Tony's mug. The inventor hands it over with a quiet "thanks" and stretches again before he moves toward the edge of the bed. While getting up, he looks back at Clint, who is already heading back in the direction of the kitchen. Probably for more coffee.

"I guess you'll be heading off to your own shower, then," he remarks in a way of saying goodbye and the archer pauses. "Pity. Good luck with the foam."

Instead of raising to the bait and continuing the playful banter from before, Clint replies: "See you at breakfast?" There's a certain measure of carefully concealed trepidation in his tone, but the implication is clear. They still want to get him down with them, still want to get him to talk.

For a moment, that is enough to make Tony want to bristle and decline, snappishly, but it's the tone in Clint's voice when he asked that gives him pause. Unlike the other times, the unpleasant arguments from the days before, there is no order in that sentence. No urging. There is a certain expectancy, however, it's more the sort that is hoping for a yes, but still takes no for an answer. Tony can decline if he wants to. Clint won't reproach him with it.

"Probably," he agrees after a few beats. "Depends on how hungry I am." Translate to: depends on how my mood is once I'm done showering. Same thing.

Clint doesn't beam, because that is a very un-Clint-like thing to do, but he does give Tony an honest, content little smile (he'd almost go as far as calling it happy) as he nods. "Great." He raises one of the empty mugs in a mock-toast as he walks out. "Later."

"Later," Tony echoes, and stands there for a second more before he, too, turns and half-walks, half-limps into the bathroom. Only there, when he catches his own reflection in the mirror, he is suddenly reminded that he hasn't been wearing a shirt the whole time. The arc reactor was on display from the moment he woke up, hell, Clint has practically slept on it. Still, he has been either too tired or too comfortable to notice. And Clint hasn't freaked out either. Huh.

He stares at his reflection some more, trying to figure out the implications of that. His mind doesn't really come up with any answer he would like, so he decides to blame the whole thing on his first good night's sleep in ages and go on with his day.

As predicted, getting the foam out of his hair is a bitch. Tony had almost forgotten how it was; since the first days of testing with the Mark II and Dummy on fire extinguisher duty, he hasn't really gotten sprayed.

He hasn't missed it a bit.

Still, the shower went the rest of the way in waking him up, and when he does get out clean and without any sticky substances coating his hair and skin (no comment please), he feels surprisingly motivated. Determined not to let the moment pass, he gets dressed in simple jeans and a shirt; after a short hesitation, he decides on plain socks, because he doesn't think he can take shoes just yet. Also, this is his own house. There's no real reason for him to wear shoes.

Before he can think better of it, he takes the elevator down to the common floor. Since they went to bed at a sort of reasonable time the day before, he and Clint were up way earlier than Tony is used to; he might even be in time for breakfast. He's not sure when that happened the last time.

Slightly apprehensive, he steps into the large kitchen they share. His eyes immediately find Clint, also freshly showered and dressed, and the archer gives him a smile that is a tad surprised, but still definitely genuine. He hasn't expected him to actually show up, then. Huh.

Natasha is the next to notice him, and Tony raises his chin self-consciously in a show of defiance. He won't let himself be scared of entering his own kitchen. Not even when it has Natasha Romanov in it.

There's a few seconds in which they silently hold each other's gazes, then she says: "Hi, Tony."

A bit of the tension drains from his shoulders and he manages a smile that even feels halfway genuine. "Morning," he replies and ignores the looks from the rest of the team as he walks over and sprawls into one of the kitchen chairs, next to the archer. Clint gives him another little grin and gets up for a coffee refill.

That leaves Tony on the table with Bruce, nursing a steaming cup of tea, Natasha buttering her toast and Thor, who has apparently claimed the first serving of Steve's pancakes for himself and is now beaming at Tony, trying to speak around a mouthful of food.

"Swallow and give it another try," the inventor advises drily.

Thor chews some more, swallows and repeats: "It is a joy to have you joining us, Anthony."

Tony raises his eyebrows, remembering the last time the team and he were in this room together. Everybody seems to be making an effort to act as normally as possible; Steve smiles at him from the stove, Bruce stares into his tea guiltily, and Natasha butters her toast with deliberate, slow movements.

A mug of coffee (with a dash of cream) is set onto the table beside him and Tony looks up to thank Clint, who smiles slightly sheepishly. Right. He hasn't had the most pleasant role in the argument either, and now that he's thinking about it, Tony should probably be angry at him – maybe more at him than anyone else, actually, because it has been Clint who pushed and wouldn't let up even when they started yelling at each other.

But then again, it's Clint who stayed with him through the night and made him eat and get his feet taken care of, so there is that. Getting pissed again now just seems like a lot of unnecessary effort.

Tony smiles and accepts the coffee cup. A moment later, Steve is next to him with a plate of pancakes (is Tony supposed to eat all of those?!) and one of his mother-hen-smiles, and Bruce pushes the syrup over in his direction. Tony can deal with that. It's when Natasha gets up to fetch the chocolate sprinkles that he chokes the first bite down that he has just started chewing on and leans back, fork clattering on the table.

"Okay, seriously. Could you stop being so ridiculously nice? It's weird." He glares, or at least tries to, but it ends up petulant and maybe a little uncertain. "We're never that nice to each other. You're up to something, what the hell is it? I'm not having another scene like the one at lunch, I thought I made perfectly clear that –"

"That's not what this is!" Steve cuts in, halfway between appalled and reassuring. "Really. We just figured that, well, we might have gone about it the wrong way."

Tony raises his eyebrows and leans forward. "You think?"

The Captain grimaces, but doesn't back down. "Yeah. We think. So, I suppose we sort of..."

"What he's trying to say is that we're sorry," Bruce speaks up, raising his eyes from his tea. "We should have known that wasn't the right way to go about it, but we thought we were doing the right thing."

"Because we are worried about you," Steve adds on. "But you don't talk to us."

"So you thought you'd make me," Tony says drily. "Yeah, that seems like the most logical next step."

"Tony." The inventor purses his lips and looks over at Clint next to him, who mumbled his name like a quiet plea. "We're trying to apologise. None of us meant to make things worse and I know that we did and the cause doesn't justify the means, but we can't take it back now. It won't happen again, okay?"

Tony deflates a little. Maybe because different from the last time, none of them is giving him something he can fight and protest against. He's being agreed with where he expected to have to claw his way through this conversation and it quells his justified anger.

"Yeah," he sighs. It feels a little bit like defeat although it shouldn't, he knows that, rationally. "Okay. Apology accepted, and all that." He casts a look around the silent kitchen. "Look, I don't really know what else to say to this. Can we just get back to eating?"

There's another few seconds that feel uncomfortably tense and quiet, and then there's the crunch of Natasha taking a bite out of her toast. The sound spurs the rest of them back into motion and noise begins to fill the room again – cutlery clinking, Steve moving around, a pan sizzling, honey being stirred into tea.

Tony pours syrup onto the topmost pancake of the stack in front of him and rolls it up, ignoring the fork next to his place as he leans back with the sweet treat in hand. When he looks over at Clint, the archer is watching him over the rim of his coffee cup. Tony raises his eyebrows at him.

"Is that all you're gonna have for breakfast?" he asks. "I mean, it's not like I'd call myself a role model for a healthy diet, but seriously." Under his breath, he adds: "Help me, if I eat all those pancakes I'll probably die of... something."

Clint raises an eyebrow right back at him. However, he does lean over when Steve isn't looking and steals a pancake from the inventor's plate, so Tony counts this as a win.