"Why can't I just call it-"
"Him."
Tony sighed, "Why can't I just call him Nightmare or blacky?"
Clint flipped over onto his back, abandoning the Wii controller in favour of pinning Tony with a reproachful look as he explained, "Because they're booooring. They lack originality. Where's the 'Tony Stark' flair?"
Tony shook his head in disagreement, "Familiar, comfortable and perfectly suitable. I've done some research into this topic – and descriptive names are highly appropriate in almost any circumstance. He's a blackish rock – blacky!"
"I will tell Natasha that you named him after her." Clint threatened.
Tony backed down, asking instead, "What about 'Nightmare', then?"
"Even better" Clint shot back.
Tony grimaced as he muttered, "She'd probably be honoured", but mentally put a strike through all dark and sinister sounding names.
DID.
"I suppose if you really have to give me something, I'd really appreciate more adaptable lighting options in my studio…" had been Steve's eventual capitulation to Tony's ongoing pestering.
THEY.
Natasha had simply said, "Knives. Sharper, shinier knives. Maybe a new garrotte, to match that red dress-"
ACTUALLY.
"Pants. I just want pants. How close are you with that new formula Ried was hel- … providing intel on?" Bruce replied.
THINK.
"A Grand Midgaurdian heating box- yet unusually large of size, so as to sate a true warrior's appetite." Thor declared.
THAT?
Clint grinned, "Well. On the first day I'd like a new wrist guard. And the second I'd like two quivers. The third? Arrows that dissolve. Fourth I'll have a folding bow. Fifth- "
At first it hadn't bothered him. He was brilliant. A genius. His creations
were works of engineering brilliance. But they weren't meant
as gifts. They were just things he'd made to help them, entertain them,
keep them safe, keep them comfortable.
But now he wondered, was the only form of affection they thought him
capable of?
Steve had actually been the easiest. A week anywhere in the world (Steve's choice), with just Tony. No media, Paparazzi, SI board, S.H.I.E.L.D, Fury, Avengers, Monsters, Villains, or Mutants. He'd even agreed to leave the Ironman suit at home (Tony knew Steve planned to bring the suitcase suit, in the same way he knew Steve was aware of the red white and blue spandex that would be folded into the bottom of Tony's suitcase. Just in case.) And a book of vouchers, in garish Christmas colours (red and gold), each carefully hand printed with things like 'one foot rub' and 'breakfast in bed' and 'You supply the mistletoe, I've got everything else covered'. Corny? Undoubtedly. Appreciated? Most definitely.
Bruce was also simple, just because of their shared scientific interests. Wrapped, ribboned and labelled neatly, artfully arranged beneath their oversized Christmas tree in the main lounge, was a first edition of every significant, interesting or otherwise important physics text of the past century, with special regard to Gamma radiation and mutation. Including several that were yet to be officially published. And a black t-shirt, with scrawling neon green ink stating, 'It's not easy being green'.
Natasha was more difficult, mainly because buying for women was full of pitfalls and traps, and buying for Natasha Romanov a veritable death sentence. In the end, a morning of pampering, and an afternoon of shopping (with his name firmly attached to any purchases), proceeded two tickets to the Russian ballet. And that dealt with Pepper as well.
Thor was simply a lifetime supply of pop tarts (which the Asguardian had received the previous Christmas and finished by May, but well-) and any movie Tony could get his hands on that had a dragon in it somewhere – the guy was seriously obsessed with "Earths fiercest creature", and was devastated that it had gone 'extinct' many eons ago. Tony was going to hell for that one.
Clint was the troublesome one. Sure, it would be easy just to buy the guy something, but Tony at least wanted it to show some semblance of thought and consideration, and the guy wasn't into anything quite the way Nat was into ballet, or Steve art. Food was also a contender, but all the cheap-ass nasty food that made it onto Hawkeyes top ten list was stuff he could easily afford and procure.
Out of ideas, and with no inspiration, Tony did what was only natural when in the pursuit of information.
He broke into Clint's room-
Well, he overrode the locking mechanism-
He asked JARVIS to open the door.
And found Clint sitting on the narrow headboard above his bed, sharpening a blade so lethal that it had to be one of Natasha's.
"Help you with something?" Clint had asked.
Tony fled.
He had noticed something though, during his very manly retreat while he'd been pointedly not meeting Clint's maniacal/amused gaze.
A tiny picture frame, lonely and out of place on Clint's bedside table. Silver and worn with age, yet obviously treasured and well cared for. A yellowing newspaper cutting had been carefully pressed behind the pristine glass, blurry and pixelated.
He was going to need Steve's help.
The day after Christmas the tiny silver photo frame on Clint's bedside table no longer sat alone. Beside it sat a companion, the same silver frame but nearly four times the size, the image held within, lovingly hand drawn, each line and stroke as close as the artist could match the original image, being that it was an old newspaper cutting.
And Clint could gaze upon an image of his parents that was larger than the thumbnail headshots he'd cut from an old newspaper when he'd been 7, the story reporting a tragic car accident.
Several floors above, Tony gently rubbed his thumb over the scratched base of his nameless pet rock, the wording having morphed once again, from 'One in a Billion' to 'One in a Trillion'.
Epilogue.
Tony had breezed into the kitchen before 6am one morning in early February. He'd pushed his way between Thor and the toaster (zone of mortal peril), flung himself onto the nearest bar stool and with great pomp and circumstance, had withdrawn the little rock from his pocket and sat him on the coaster by Clint's knee.
"I've named him. And it's final." Tony said.
Clint, seated above him on the kitchen bench, "hmm'd?" without lifting his chin from where it was propped on his fist, which in turn was propped on the knee of his crossed legs. His usually sharp eyes droopy and his face mostly buried in his coffee cup.
"This has gotten beyond ridiculous. So I've chosen, and I'm not changing it." Tony argued, mechanically accepting the piece of toast that Steve passed to him, and taking a pointedly viscous bite out of one corner.
The visage of Tony ferociously ripping the toast apart and chewing violently less than a foot in front of his face seemed to break Clint from his half asleep daze and he shot upright, asking, "Huh? What?"
"I named him. And I'm not changing it." Tony repeatedly slowly, gesturing to the rock, bright purple fuzz camouflaged against Clint's lurid track pants.
"What?" Clint asked again.
Tony actually growled his reply, "I. Named. H-"
Clint laughed, and swatted at Tony's head, cutting him off, "Yeah I got that, genius. What did you name him?"
Tony looked at him sideways from the corner of his eye, his gaze determining, voice pointed and emphasising as he repeated, "I'm not changing it."
"Okay, okay. We get it. Reveal your stroke of brilliance that is this pet rocks permanent and forever name!" Clint mocked, eyes flashing with amazement.
"Clint" Tony said seriously.
"Okay, okay. I'm being serious, what's his name?" Clint asked.
Tony shook his head, repeating, "Clint. I named him Clint."
Clint just sat there, empty mug lax in his fingers, looking ludicrously baffled as he computed what Tony was saying.
It was Natasha's sniggering from the table behind them that seemed to bring Clint back to awareness, and he blinked once, before speaking, "That – that is just-" Clint gasped, seemingly unable to form words, his emotional state too intense to overcome, "For that, you deserve-" and then he grabbed the pet rock before Tony could react.
"Hey!" And while there was mock outrage in Tony's voice, there was also an element of something. A fear of rejection, of loss. That Steve heard, and nodded to Natasha, who dug Clint in the ribs, who looked up and noticed. Clint grinned a hidden message to Natasha, all smug and good natured, and Natasha nodded to Steve, who hooked an arm around Tony's waist, arresting him mid lunge toward Clint.
Who had pulled a wicked blade from somewhere and was defacing the bottom of the rock.
When it landed back in Tony's reaching hands thirty seconds later, what greeted him on the bottom was quite elegant in its simplicity.
1 of a Kind.
A/N
And that, ladies and gentleman, is how you wrap a fic that has gotten away. I have no idea how this supposedly cute little ficlet became whatever this mutated beast was, and to be honest, toward the end I wasn't really enjoying writing it all that much. But I've never been one to leave things unfinished - and so, I've forced out an ending that somewhat resembles my original idea - I hope all those who came along for the ride found something to enjoy, and that you'll be back later in the week for more Steve/Tony goodness in my eighth instalment of 'As Easy As...'
Which features Angst. Also fluff. And lying. And anger. And all the hurt. Also, is it too much of a spoiler to tell you that Tony spends a good portion of the story trapped in what is essentially a coffin? Yes? Oh. Oh well.
Happy Reading :)