Chapter Text
Steve's in the kitchen, watching popcorn pop in their state-of-the-art microwave with a childlike smile on his face. Bruce is down in his lab, as usual, and Clint doesn't know where Thor is at the moment. He heads over to the fridge and rummages through Tony's drawer, looking for the blueberries. Tony loves those goddamn berries.
“Movie night?” Steve asks when they both walk into the living room. Natasha is sprawled on the floor, on the thick, soft carpet that covers most of the living room floor. Tony's curled up in a corner of the couch, looking half-asleep. Clint knows he hasn't eaten since lunch, but Tony had claimed not to be hungry, so Clint's hoping something familiar will make him force something down. Tony is still so thin.
Tony glances up at Steve's voice, looking relatively relaxed under his blanket. There's been a lot of movie nights lately.
“Nah,” Clint says and dumps down next to his – something. He's just downloaded the new Lara Croft game on Tony's X-Box, and Clint's itching to try it out. Lara's using a goddamn bow. It's gotta be awesome. “I wanna play a game,” Clint says.
The effect is instantaneous, and Clint realizes his mistake the moment the words pass his lips. Natasha's shoulders tighten, Steve's eyes widen, and Tony – Tony goes absolutely fucking rigid next to him.
“No,” Clint says and turns to Tony, grabbing him gently by the arm, even though he knows the damage is already done. “No, Tony, I did not mean that.”
It's too late. Tony's frozen beside him, eyes glazed over, face paling as he begins to tremble finely. He sucks in a breath, and doesn't let it back out.
“Fuck, fuck, I didn't,” Clint babbles, even though Nat and Steve know; they all try not to trigger Tony, but sometimes it just happens, and - “Tony. Tony, c'mon. Please look at me. Hit me, I said a shitty thing, c'mon, lay it on me.” He puts a hand on Tony's cheek, and Tony's eyes don't even flicker. He's completely gone and they have no way of telling how long it'll last – or how he's going to react when he comes back out of his head. They never know.
“Clint, you didn't mean it,” Steve says softly and puts a hand on Clint's shoulder. Clint didn't realize he's also trembling, guilt sour on his tongue, like vomit. “Tony?” Steve asks and kneels in front of them.
Tony's eyes are empty, and so far away. This is the worst part, Clint thinks as he lets his hand fall. Not the injuries or the illness or the scars; not even the worst ones. Not the way Tony flinches every time his arc reactor is visible, or touched, or even mentioned. Not the way he sometimes panics, gets anxiety attacks – or even wakes Clint up in the night time, sobbing softly into his pillow and trying to hide the sounds from him.
No. The worst is this; this nothingness. There's nothing left in there when he's like this; no Tony Stark, no Iron Man, no nothing. Just an empty shell. Like Clint, when he was under Loki's thrall. And every time it happens, Clint thinks this. This is the time he won't come back. When he'll stay gone.
“Breathe, Clint,” Natasha says next to him, and puts a hand on Tony's neck. Steve's hands are on Tony's knees, and Clint is pressed against the genius's side. The contact helps, sometimes. Makes it easier for Tony when he returns to the now; reminds him that he's not there anymore, that he made it out.
The three of them wait, staring at Tony's slack face and dull, brown eyes. They just wait.