Summary: Tony is older than the rest of the Avengers think. When they find out his real age, they can't help but treat him differently. He hates it.

Clint tried the door again.

"I'm sorry, Agent Barton, but I would recommend against disturbing Mr. Stark. He hasn't slept at all in four days and I only just managed to convince him to take a rest," Jarvis sounded from the device Tony had put in Clint's hearing aids.

"Okay, fine, but we need pizza money. He can fall back asleep."

"As you wish." The AI sounded more irritated than an AI should be able to sound. The door clicked open and Clint opened it, surprised to find that it was dark and Tony was actually probably sleeping. Honestly, he had figured that it was some excuse to prevent people from coming in. The Great Tony Stark didn't need sleep, after all. But now that Clint realised his mistake, he couldn't help feeling a little bad.

Tony rolled over in a quilt cocoon, face barely visible in what little light was streaming in from the hallway. "What is it, Legolas? Come to take this rare opportunity and kill me in my sleep?"

"If I could find your body," the archer fired back before getting to the point. "We're ordering pizza and you're buying."

Tony groaned a little as he shimmied a hand out of his blanket and reached into his night table drawer. "If I'm buying, you're saving me some." He threw his wallet at Clint and buried himself back. "Now scram."

Clint did as he was told and left in peace with his prize. As much as he hated to admit it, there was some tinge of worry about Tony in the back of his mind. He obviously didn't really take care of himself, especially when it came to sleeping. Everyone knew that, at least physically since you can't really compare actuality when you have Cap and Thor in the mix, Tony was the oldest Avenger. He always seemed the least mature, and not only in that he couldn't take anything seriously, but he also couldn't really be left responsible for himself. He might've forgotten to eat until he literally starved to death if it hadn't been for Jarvis. If anything, it seemed like Stark's habits were getting worse, and he wasn't getting any younger.

Come to think of it, how old was Tony? Fifty? That was scary to think about.

He looked at the wallet in his hands while he waited for the elevator to take him up to the common floor where everyone was waiting on him to start whatever game Natasha would beat them at tonight. They hadn't invited Tony because they had been told ahead of time not to disturb him all this week. Some massive project with a deadline.

Stepping into the elevator, Clint popped open the wallet and leafed through it. Just the cash in here would be enough to buy a small car. Credit card, library card (why?), frozen yogurt card with one punch left until a free yogurt (again, why?), and his drivers license.

"Don't mind if I do..." Clint muttered to himself as he pulled it out.

The elevator doors opened just in time for the rest of the Avengers to see Clint's mouth drop open as he blinked at the birth date. He was sure he was either reading it wrong, or his math was way off. There was no way-

"What do you have there?" Nat was next to him before he even knew she had moved. She plucked the card out of his hands and scanned it. Her eyebrows shot up and then crinkled together. "Tony is seventy-one!?"

Variations of "what" followed by the floor inhabitants jumping up to see for themselves ensued.

"Forgive me, but I'm not sure I quite understand," Thor said.

After a very brief discussion about Asgardian lifespans, Bruce figured out that Thor was 23 in human years, and translated for Thor that Tony would be about 4,950 years old in Asgardian terms. To this Thor gasped.

"Why is an elder still on the front lines of battle!?" Thor exclaimed so loudly that Clint actually feared that Tony might wake up to that unpleasant comment.

"If you call him that to his face he might kill you," Natasha warned in a tone so casual it seemed like obvious fact.

"I do not mean it as an insult. To be an elder in Asgard is a great honour."

"Hey, uh, Jarvis?" A question of his own occurred to Steve.

"Yes, Captain Rogers?" Jarvis him know that he was there and listening.

"What's life expectancy like nowadays?"

Natasha hit him for insinuating that he though Tony could keel over of old age any day now.

"Compared to 1944," Steve added as glared at Natasha.

"As of 2017, the average lifespan of an American male is 78.12 years. As of 1944, it was 63.6 years. But I can assure you that Mr. Stark will live well beyond that, assuming he doesn't die in battle or blow himself up." Was that a hint of sass in his artificial voice? Probably. Tony made him.

"So, should we do something about this?" Clint said after only a moment of silence. The card was still being passed around. Thor couldn't figure out how to read it.

"Like what? He seems perfectly capable despite his age. Until it atually becomes a problem, it isn't one," Cap took charge as the leader.

Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Alright, but if he falls and breaks a hip, remember that it was your call not to keep an eye on him."

Natasha shook her head at him. "He's not made of porcelain."

"Obviously not, but there's still-"

Steve interrupted. "I didn't say we wouldn't be keeping a bit of a closer eye on him, we just won't take any action unless it's needed. Unless I deem it needed."

"You're the boss," Clint didn't sound too happy about that fact.

"I don't think we have anything to worry about," Bruce said. "I've more or less been his doctor for a while and I honestly thought he was forty-five."

The group continued talking, unaware that Tony was watching and listening to the security feed. He made a mental note to sabotage Clint's hearing aids out of pure spite. His hands shook with nerves, or maybe anger. When a familiar feeling overtook him he knew it was nerves, escalated to an anxiety attack. He ran to his bathroom, using the walls and then the sink counter to stable himself. He doused his face in water as cold as he could run it and tried to breathe. It wasn't even that big of a deal. So what if they knew his age? The most they could do was make jokes. And maybe he did need to be watched more closely.

A wave of nausea hit him and the pain in his chest tightened. Bad thoughts, okay, bad thoughts. He sat on the cool bathroom floor and waited it out, one harsh breath at a time.