The second time it happens was completely accidental. Tony was drunk on exhaustion (again), and had actually been able to make it to the elevator, for once. Bruce had just kind of grunted at him from where he had been wrapped up in his own work when he'd left, and Tony had collapsed into the elevator car and leant against one of the walls and just kind of melted into the cool metal and let it throb against his side for a little as the lift buzzed and rose through the floors. He couldn't remember pressing one of the buttons on the panel, but it was clear that he had, otherwise JARVIS would have automatically brought him to his own floor.
As it was, he had either (in his sleep-deprived state) selected a button on the panel without really making sure it was his floor, or JARVIS had decided to spite him for something he couldn't remember doing and had taken his revenge. He was leaning towards the former; JARVIS would usually wait until he was at least sixty percent coherent to strike. Catching him off-guard when he was already paying less attention than usual was bad form for the AI, and Tony should know; he had programmed him, after all (to which, he still didn't really know where the sarcasm and rebellious streak had come from. He blamed Rhodey).
Tony had stumbled out of the elevator car, nearly tripped over the plush carpet covering the floor, righted himself, blinked to get his brain to focus on the wrongness of the fact that there was fucking plush carpet covering the floor, and then cursed. Loudly. If any situation had called for swearing, it would be his very situation. His room didn't have plush carpet. Which, logically, meant that he was not in his room. It could also mean Natasha could be ready to shoot a tranq into his coronary right at that moment, which was not something he wanted to think about, ever, because his room was the only one that didn't have plush carpeting, and that pretty much meant he was screwed four ways to hell.
"Stark?"
Well, that wasn't Natasha's voice. That was a mildly good sign that he was not going to be maimed in the very near future.
It did make him yelp, though. And flinch back a few steps, and nearly trip over the goddamn carpet, again. Fucking carpet. Fucking sudden-ass voice. He had some dignity, y'know.
Tony blinked again, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to get them to adjust to the darkness of the space quicker to no avail. There were vague, grayish blobs of shadow in the vast expanse of blackness in front of him, only faintly let up by the blue light escaping the reactor, but he couldn't really properly make out what they were. His exhaustion was making everything fuzzier than usual, and he couldn't even pinpoint whose voice it was who had spoken. So he just grunted and hoped they got the message. 'The message' being 'I don't know who you are or why I'm here but I'm working on about two brain cells right now and it would be nice if I could crash on your couch'.
Luckily, the voice seemed to understand Stark-speak. He'd have to get them a fruit basket later.
Tony felt two hands grip his arms from behind, firmly steering him forward into the blackness that was the room's soul. He blinked a few times more to try to clear his cloudy vision, but the only thing he really saw was the single wall to his right, illuminated by his chest. It wasn't really a wall, per se, more like a line of ceiling-to-floor, bulletproof, two-way windows that overlooked Manhattan Island in just the right way that all the specks of light he could see behind it were just that – specks of light. He knew it was really just the New York nightlife on the prowl again, windows lit up and glowing from the high-rises nearby, but Tony just saw specks.
It was Clint's room.
Before he could really process that thought, he was being lifted off the ground and hoisted into something flexible and soft and hard as hell to stay still in. He wiggled and squirmed, trying to get comfortable in the small amount of space available in the hammock Clint had set up in place of a bed, because damn, could he be less like a bird? Clint had asked for one in exchange for the mattress Tony was going to install, and Tony had delivered (while insulted, just a bit, because his ego was malfunctioning and Clint was so fucking sincere about the whole thing and how could Tony stay mad at him about that?). It was custom-built and everything, because Tony was a giver, and he would spend as much as necessary to get his bird-friend the best hammock ever.
That didn't mean he'd ever wanted to be in it. Hammocks were evil things. The last time he'd been in one of them, one of the clasps that were supposed to keep you off the ground had decided to be rebellious and bruise his spine for the next few days by dropping him on the ground like a ragdoll. It hadn't been an enjoyable experience.
It was cozy, though, to be honest, if he ignored the constant moving and the feeling that he was about to fall out of it and fall flat on his face. There was a thick, fluffy blanket draped over it on the bottom of it so that the holes in the fabric weren't overly noticeable, and it made it feel more homey and warm. Pillows surrounded him on all sides, worn and well-used. He could smell his own expensive cologne on the one near his arm, and Natasha's perfume on the one under his head, Bruce's earthy chamomile scent on the one below his hip, Thor's strawberry-PopTart-and-ozone odor on the one by his thigh, and the faint wisp of Steve's vanilla shampoo on the one under his feet from where his legs had to be bent to fit in the cramped space. Something clicked in Tony's head that 'oh hey there's my missing pillow', but he didn't really investigate it further. The combination of the scents of all of his teammates was more comforting than the actual hammock, and his fatigue washed back over him in full-force. It made him feel safe, and he couldn't even bring himself to wonder why.
Then Tony was cursing under his breath as the thing wobbled, again, and he hung onto the edge that he could reach with all of his might so he wouldn't fall off. The next thing he knew, Clint was pushing at his side, making him scoot over as much as he could without moving the damn thing all that much (which was fucking impossible). The dirty blond nestled next to him in the cocoon of pillows, snatching the other blanket and tugging it over the top of them both. It was still warm from when Clint had thrown it off to get down and see who the hell was on his floor at this time of night, which was a plus.
Clint was rearranging Tony's limbs so they were chest to back, and it was a show of how exhausted Tony really was that he just yawned and didn't complain about how he was the little spoon. His ego would scream at him in the morning, but it was comfy and Clint was a source of warmth and didn't say anything. He just locked him arms around his midsection, tangled their legs together, rested his chin on his shoulder, and maybe made a few shadow puppets in the light cast from the arc reactor just because he could, and because Tony was too tired to bat his hands away.
The genius tried to blink to stay awake, which worked for all of about two seconds before he was out like a light and nuzzling the pillow beneath his head with his cheek.