Chapter Text
Good morning Agent Barton.
“Morning JARVIS,” Clint replied automatically. “Where is everyone?”
By everyone I assume you mean the other Avengers, Sir?
In retrospect, that should have been a red flag, but he was too focused on the fact that none of his teammates were in the kitchen eating breakfast to notice. In all the months he had been living in the Stark Tower, Clint had never been the first one to breakfast. “Yes JARVIS, that’s what I meant,” He clarified as he started making himself a bowl of cereal.
Agent Romanoff is currently on the seventieth floor, Doctor Banner and Mister Parker are still asleep, Sir has just woken up, and Captain Rogers should be down shortly. Mister Odinson, of course, is off world.
“If I am the first one up does that mean I have to cook for everybody?” He asked, not even remotely serious, after his mind supplied that ‘seventieth floor’ meant ‘gym’.
Captain Rogers would like me to inform you that he intends to make pancakes for the whole team this morning and welcomes you to wait for them, JARVIS said after a short pause, knowing full well that the archer had just poured milk into his cereal. And Sir has expressed his dissatisfaction towards your culinary skills.
Clint smirked at that, wondering just what words Stark used to express that dissatisfaction, but as he went to sit at the breakfast bar slash dining table, he couldn’t help but feel as if something was off in the room. No, it wasn’t just that his teammates weren’t here. He looked around, scanning the open kitchen and living room floor plan.
He was about to shrug off the odd feeling when he spotted a ratty duffle bag and a black backpack sitting on a chair near the fire place. He set down his bowl and went to take a look, not recognizing them as belonging to any of the Avengers. As he crept closer to the offending items he was shocked to find a sleeping form on their couch.
Instinct took over and in a second he had the intruder pulled up by their shirtfront with a knife to their throat - quite a way to wake up. Clint would know, having been there himself. “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?” He yelled and then shook the guy for good measure. He was in his late teens, with dark hair, and wide fearful brown eyes. That’s probably just a reaction to the knife though.
To the kid’s credit he recovered quickly. “I suggest you back the fuck up. Unless you want to make like swiss cheese.” He said with a shaky voice, accompanied by an audible click. Clint looked down and holy shit the little fucker had pulled a gun on him! This was just not the agent’s morning. Of course Clint had him disarmed before he could even switch the safety off.
He heard footsteps to his left and saw Stark and Steve padding down the stairs. Seeing Clint pointing a handgun at stranger’s face immediately put Steve into team leader mode. “What’s going on here?”
“We’ve got an intruder.”
“Uhm, a little help?” The kid said. His eyes were still wide, but they began to shift around. He also began breathing heavily, obviously afraid. What the hell was this punk doing sleeping in their living room? Clint really hoped it wasn’t another stalker. Giant alien robots of death he could totally deal with; fangirls, not so much. “Apá?”
Stark walked round the couch to get a better view. When he got it, his eyes grew comically wide – not unlike the pair Clint was pointing a killshot between – and threw up his hands. “Whoa there Legolas” he panicked, “Put it down!”
“What?”
“So help me Barton, if you hurt him I will throw you ass out this window and see if you also have the wings of a hawk.” Stark threatened with an odd air of authority. “Put. The. Gun. Down.”
Clint leveled him with a dangerous look, but did as his teammate asked none the less. He tucked the (what he now registered as) Smith & Wesson into the back of his sweatpants. The knife was sticking deep into the retro coffee table – Clint having thrown it just before he took the gun off the kid. Stark was definitely going to bitch about that later. “You know him?”
“Jesus Christ,” the teen muttered.
“Yes, so back the fuck up.” Stark said, ignoring the boy.
Oh god. Clint would not be able to handle it if Stark was having some sort of torrid affair with this kid. He looked like jailbait. Of course Stark’s conquests normally slept upstairs, in his bed. Wait. Did he say apá? Oh fuck, that is so much worse. “Explain.”
Stark huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. The kid squirmed, Clint’s hand still clutching his t-shirt tightly. Steve looked completely lost, but then, isn’t that how Steve always looked these days? It was nearly a minute before Stark spoke.
“He’s my son.”
Yup. So much worse.