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Tony stumbled into the kitchen with the grace of a decapitated chicken, eyes crusted with too-little sleep and coordination shot to hell after another extended stay in the lab, ousted from that particular haven by the persistent nagging of lovely, lovely Pepper. She uncharitably pointed out that his facial hair was reaching neanderthal proportion and that if he failed to remove himself from the lab in ten seconds flat, so help me, Tony, I will send Natasha after you, no, do I look like I’m kidding TEN NINE EIGHT-
A threat that was unnecessary and terrifying and effective because… well. It’s Natasha I-Know-How-To-Disembowel-A-Man-Using-A-Plastic-Spoon-Would-You-Like-Me-To-Demonstrate Romanoff. Tony liked his internal organs intact and inside him, thank you very much.
“You look like death warmed over, Stark.”
Speaking of master assassins. Tony squinted at the bulk of muscles in nondescript uniform currently occupying the kitchen island. “What’s the alphabet for today, Big Bird?”
Barton raised an eyebrow. It was a pretty damning eyebrow, in Tony’s muddled and slightly incoherent mind, but he was okay with it because the eyebrow was attached to Barton’s face. Which was sort of pretty to look at, upon closer inspection and without giant armoured alien whales trying to decimate them. Good bone structure; Tony wouldn’t mind spending a weekend licking that jawline. Barton had pretty eyes too. Grey-blue-green-flecks of gold thrown in there for good measure. Definitely better than the ice-cold blue he wore under Loki’s kinky, BDSM-inspired reign.
“I’m glad you think so,” Barton said, a hint of amusement bleeding into his otherwise-dry tone. Tony blanked out for a second because what the hell are you talking about…oh fuck did I say that out loud. Barton looked even more amused, eyes shifting through a kaleidoscope of colours and it was unfair that Tony couldn’t even get angry when faced with that. “Sit down, Stark, before you hurt yourself.”
Tony scowled. “Don’t patronise me, Katniss.”
“I have coffee,” Barton countered easily.
Tony made a strangled noise that might have been a marriage proposition in some indigenous tongues and flopped into the offered seat, forfeiting whatever left of his pride and dignity for the mug Barton had nudged towards his general direction. He wrapped his fingers around the smooth porcelain and basked in the slow curl of warmth seeping under his skin, felt more alive than he was minutes ago. The coffee was black and bitter and Tony sighed happily as the world tilted into focus again. It was then that he noticed the collection laid out in front of Barton, polished metal catching the spill of light overhead.
“What are those?” Tony asked, even as he catalogued the coats of arms and acronyms. His eyes lingered reluctantly on EOD.
A wry smile cut into Barton’s cheeks. He picked up the NYPD badge and ran a thumb over its golden indentations. “Souvenirs.”
“Oh.” There were eight of them, including Barton’s own stylised hawk for SHIELD, and Tony reached out for the one that said IMF, because he had always liked the impossible. “All yours?”
Half a second of hesitation and Barton shook his head. “No. They belong to the dead.”
“Never would’ve pegged you as sentimental,” Tony said. Barton’s eyes were the shade of secrets and Tony was never good with secrets, always ready to dig up the skeletons for a night of dubious fun and debauchery. He turned to Barton, armed with his most charming (and therefore, irresistible, even if Bruce just called it ‘smarmy’) smile. “Tell me about them.”
“What?”
“The guys behind these badges.” He flipped IMF between his fingers. “Impossible Mission Force?”
The razorsharp line of Barton’s spine seemed to unbent when he laughed quietly and plucked the badge from Tony. “Stickler for rules. He’s a field agent turned chief analyst turned field agent. Shitty with height.” Barton paused When he continued, his voice was steady, “He took a bullet for his team leader. Didn’t survive the operation.”
Tony hummed around a mouthful of coffee, already picking up his next target. “SWAT?”
“Cocky son of a bitch. You’d like him,” Barton said and his smile was fond when he looked at Tony. He was giving Tony rough sketches, painted in broad strokes. Maybe more than he had ever given anyone (aside from Natasha but these two were as BFF as assassins could get so she didn’t count). Tony figured that he should consider himself honoured or some shit like that. “Had an unfortunate case of train-over-the-head.”
“Good luck finding insurance to cover that.” Tony grinned triumphantly when Barton laughed, blaming the surge of warmth pooling in his stomach on the coffee. He flicked an accusatory glance at the mug, before he pointed at the badge that read DELTA FORCE. “That one.”
Barton’s grin slanted into a mischievous smirk. “Zombies.”
Tony raised both of his eyebrows because what. “For real?”
“You’ve just survived an alien invasion and you’re questioning the legitimacy of zombies?”
“Point well made,” Tony grimaced. He could still feel the claustrophobic grasp of a cold, dead world (something his paranoid mind latched onto, fed the fears through nightmares and half-fragments of memories). He desperately thought of zombies instead. “How did he go?”
Barton shifted closer, wasn’t the type to offer concern but his thigh felt warm and solid against Tony’s. There was a measure of self-deprecation in his voice when he said, “Burned down while trying to save a couple of kids.”
“Better than being eaten alive.” The thoughtful, almost distracted nod that followed prompted Tony to move on to other stories yet to be told. “FBI and CIA. Any juicy government secrets to share?”
“If there’s any, I’m sure you’ve hacked into them,” Barton said, the corners of his eyes creased with humour. Tony conceded with a shrug and an unrepentant grin. Barton trailed calloused fingertips over the badges. “The guy who worked for CIA… he’s genetically-enhanced. Faster, stronger, more intelligent than the average operator. He defected with a doctor and an agent from another program tracked him down. Shot point-blank.”
“He’s like Cap?”
“Nobody is like Captain Rogers.” Barton stood up, pilfered the mug from between Tony’s clasped palms and headed for the machine that looked more like an extension of The Enterprise than something that made coffee. When he came back, he was armed with two mugs and a plate of pretzels. Tony made more strangled noises. “The FBI guy worked with a con artist to catch other con artists. Went through the best of them before someone stuck a knife into his gut.”
Tony dunked a pretzel into his coffee and devoured it messily. He didn’t realise how hungry he was, too preoccupied in the lab to think about basic human necessities (was it possible to invent food particles that could be inhaled during work; he should put that in the to-do list). He grabbed another pretzel, absent-mindedly brushed soggy crumbs from his beard. “NYPD?”
“Detective. Investigated corruption in the force. Got caught in the crossfire.”
Tony deliberated for minutes, nibbled on his pretzel and nursed his coffee, before he finally asked, “And the EOD?”
Barton tilted his head and stared quietly, thoughtfully at Tony. Tony realised for the first time that they were about the same heights, comfortably slotted together even when there was an expanse of space around. He felt the itch to squirm, maybe to lean away, maybe to touch and Barton looked at Tony like he knew.
“He was stationed in the Middle East,” Barton murmured after what felt like eternity. If Tony leaned a bit closer, it was only because he wanted to catch every word. Barton didn’t comment on the sudden breach of his personal space but his eyes strayed to Tony, grey-blue-green-gold under dark, dark lashes. “Couldn’t stay away from the war. Couldn’t even keep his family together. They gave her his dog tag after he failed to defuse an IED.”
“Ouch.”
“At least he went out with a bang.”
Tony sniggered, even if that was a terrible pun and he told Barton so. Who only grinned in response, slow and languid and painted in the soft pastels of the early morning sun. The itch started again, more to touch than anything else, and Tony blurted out the first thing in his head that didn’t sound like an invitation for an enthusiastic romp between the sheets, “They all died rather horribly, huh?”
Which, while not ‘hey I’m pretty you’re pretty let’s hook up right now’ level of stupid, would rank pretty close in that department.
“Yeah,” Barton answered, his expression shuttered into one of cool indifference and a hint of something Tony didn’t really understand. He gathered the badges into a tidy little pile and nodded stiffly at Tony. “I should get going. Fury’s assigning me to the new recruits and-“
There really was no reason for Tony to feel more than a little put-off, teetering dangerously into the unfamiliar realm of panic like he had committed the worse faux pas ever to be committed because hello, Tony fucking Stark? Practically redefined faux pas. He’s pretty sure they had his name in a dictionary listed under the accursed phrase. Tony somehow managed to distract himself enough from the ensuing mental tirade (over the inability of normal people to comprehend his brand of special, therefore resulting in severe misinterpretations of his very being - it’s tragic being a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist) and snatched one of the badges before Barton could escape with them. Barton, being Barton, had his fingers curled in an iron grip around Tony’s wrist before he could withdraw. Barton pressed closer, there was a raised eyebrow involved and Tony was seconds away from having a conniption fit. Because Barton had pressed closer to his crotch, fucking hell.
“What are you doing?”
Tony resisted the urge to flail. He preened instead and distractedly wondered why his defense mechanism consisted of preening. And then even more distractedly wondered why he felt the need to be defensive. He settled on snarking in place of the preening, because he’s a certified pro at that. “If you’d wanted to hold me down and have your wicked ways with me, Agent Barton, all you have to do is ask.”
Barton scoffed and his grip loosened, although (Tony’s mind noted gleefully) he didn’t pull away. Tony liked to think that even master assassins like Barton couldn’t resist his magnetic charm. “That’s not yours to take, Stark.”
“What is?” Tony was never good at feigning innocence and from the unimpressed look plastered all over Barton’s face, he could safely conclude that the attempt was as unsuccessful as he had predicted. “Look. Why don’t you let me keep this one?”
Barton said ‘no’ in a tone that brooked no argument and hinted at possible physical mauling if Tony would even try. While Tony appreciated mauling of the sexy kind, he didn’t think that that was what Barton had in mind. And maybe because he’s a repressed suicidal headcase, Tony argued anyway. Never let it be said that he listened to his survival instinct (which suspiciously sounded like Pepper, bless her lovely derriere).
“Do you even know which one I’ve taken?”
A quick glance to his pile and Barton turned to Tony again, confusion seeping into the deadly blankness of his eyes. “What do you want with my insignia?”
Tony uncurled his fingers slowly, mindful that Barton was following his every moves. The badge rested against his palm, all straight lines and regally purple and Tony grinned at Barton. “It doesn’t belong.”
“What are you talking about, Stark?” The threatening edge was gone from Barton’s voice. He sounded more curious than pissed off and Tony considered that a marked improvement.
“You’re alive.”
Barton looked decidedly even more unimpressed. “I’m well aware of that fact.”
Tony heaved a sigh, feeling the familiar surge of exasperation scratching at the back of his head. “No, no. You don’t get it. You’re alive. The rest of them? Dead. So you can hoard that lot, those stories, those ghosts but I’ll take this one, yeah? I’ll keep yo- uh, this safe. Cross my heart, or you know, shiny arc reactor, whatever.”
The silence was palpable when Tony snapped his mouth shut, and he had to stay very, very still as Barton just looked at him. He was used to close scrutiny, thrived on it as a matter of fact but something in his ribcage treacherously fluttered when confronted with the brunt of Barton’s sole attention. It could’ve been seconds, minutes and Tony wondered how long it would take before Barton finally decided to say something. Or do something, preferably one that didn’t involve breaking Tony’s fingers for touching his stuff.
“You’re keeping it safe,” Barton said after what felt like hours. It wasn’t a statement as much as it was a question.
“Yes.”
“Because I’m alive.”
“That’s the general idea, yes.”
Barton ducked his head at that but Tony caught the beginning of a smile before it disappeared when Barton took a step back. He released Tony’s wrist, his hand sliding over Tony’s fingers and straightened in one fluid motion, his expression neutral. But his eyes - grey-blue-green-gold, the colours of sunsets and love songs and oh god Tony had devolved into an extra from a bad rom-com someone please kill him before he started quoting Shakespeare - are lit up with something that looked strangely like affection. Tony hoped the lighting-flash twinge in his chest wasn’t an indication that the reactor was short-circuiting because he kind of liked that look in Barton’s eyes, kind of liked that twinge in his chest.
“I need to go.”
Tony cleared his throat, opened his mouth, thought better of it and cleared his throat again. “Breaking in the recruits?”
“Fury told me not to make them cry too much.” Barton drained his mug and licked his lips. Tony had a sneaking suspicion that he only did it to see if Tony would follow the wet line of that tongue and Tony didn’t want to disappoint. He shamelessly ogled and was rewarded with Barton’s laughter, low and warm in the quiet space in-between. “I’ll see you around, Stark.”
Tony fisted the badge he had belligerently fought for and flashed Barton a smirk. He’s pretty sure he had some free time afterwards, since Pepper had explicitly banned him from the lab, so it really wouldn’t be his fault if he decided to hack into the security cameras in SHIELD’s training facility. If Fury asked, he’d blame Pepper. Ah, the blessings of being morally-corrupt. “Have fun babysitting.”
Barton raised a hand in a parting wave and Tony realised belatedly that there was a glint of silver on one of Barton’s fingers after he had disappeared into the hallway. He looked down at his hand.
His ring was missing. His custom-made ring, the one with inlaid Palladium fragment from his old core.
Bruce chose that very moment to stumble into the kitchen, hair tousled into a crazy birdnest and his shirt inside out. He stopped short when he noticed Tony at the island, groaned unhappily and said, “You look like you’re about to do something really, really illegal. Even for your standard.”
Tony grinned wide and vicious.
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