Tony was well aware of Captain America's eyes boring into the back of his head the entire time he was talking to Bruce, thanks very much. The sketchbook was definitely a not-so-subtle cover for the super soldier's newly-developed distrust of the scientists around the archer, and Tony didn't blame him. Hadn't he himself predicted, way back after the most recent team breakfast, that he'd slip up, say something easily misinterpreted and make things worse for Clint? He had never claimed to play well with others; when S.H.I.E.L.D. had pointed this out, he had gone so far as to take the label and turn it into part of his identity, something that couldn't be used against him.

Tony Stark needed nobody; it was a well-established fact.

Except it also happened to be a lie, one designed as a cover for his inability to keep the people he cared about close. He wanted the Avengers to work, and part of him knew that his motivations were not entirely oriented around the fame and heroics, no matter how much he tried to project otherwise to his teammates. In all his years, he'd never been tied to a team before, never had teammates to protect or stand with.

And now they'd been delivered to him on a plate, and it had taken everything he had to keep them together. Even now, Thor was on Asgard, and Natasha had returned to S.H.I.E.L.D.. Steve and Bruce were only still around because they had yet to work out where else to go; the super soldier didn't have faith in them, and the physicist itched to return to hiding. Tony had offered them his resources and his home, and it had been just enough to keep them in one place, for now. And then there was Clint, someone who Tony knew his assets could do nothing to assist, someone who Tony had no idea how to help.

It scared him.

He didn't know how to sit around and hope for things to fix themselves; he had grown too used to solving his problems with a cash-laden flick of a wrist, or by simply engineering a solution. But there was a growing pattern in the types of problem that he faced most often - his relationships with family, friends, and partners were all blindingly clear evidence of it. He didn't know how to fix his team or his teammates, but he did want them to stick around, and so he was trapped.

Clint slept long enough that the other two eventually left to go to bed themselves. Steve twisted his graphite-stained fingers together and wondered briefly about moving the archer to an actual bed, but was talked out of it by Bruce patiently reciting the dangers of touching sleeping assassins. Tony stayed in the lab, working on repairing and updating his suit, and moving onto developing the rest of the team's gear. He was spinning a holographic model of a net-firing arrow prototype when he was interrupted.

"Needs better mass balancing," said Clint, somewhat groggily. "I can give it more power, easy, so weight's not the issue, but the torque's harder to work with."

Tony turned around in surprise. The archer was propped up where he had been left, surveying the room's holograms with heavy lids but quick eyes.

"That's a vast improvement on 'purple'," he said slowly.

"Yeah, well," Clint shrugged, somewhat defensively. "I rebooted. How long was I out?"

"Around six hours, Agent Barton," JARVIS chipped in. "The time is presently 4am."

Tony took a second to feel miffed at his AI's assumption that he hadn't kept track of time, and nearly missed the tiny look of surprise-tinged confusion that Clint emitted.

"That's… huh."

"And here I was being stunned by your apparent intelligence," Tony quipped. Clint glared at him without any real hostility, and visibly did a double take.

"Tony, what's up with the arc reactor?" the archer asked, shifting into a more upright position and frowning slightly.

"Oh, that," Tony said, glancing down at his own chest, where a circle of red film was affixed to the glowing tech. "I did some restyling. It goes better with the suit."

Clint shot him an inscrutable expression, and said nothing for a moment.

"How long's it been since you ate?" he eventually asked. Tony was caught off-guard, and JARVIS took the opportunity to answer for him again.

"It has been approximately eighteen hours since Sir last had a meal."

"Traitor, J," Tony hissed. Clint took the response in his stride and got to his feet, straightening his clothes as he did so.

"Any objections to pasta? I doubt I'll find anything remotely fresh in any of the kitchens around here, so, y'know."

Tony blinked in surprise, and opened his mouth to say something, but the archer had already gone.

A/N - Short chapter, but I wanted to get it out and it kinda naturally stopped so I let it. Some Tony PoV, because he's grown on me in the last three years and I haven't written anything from him since Chapter 5 lol oops.

Amusing anecdote: yes, Tony did predict he'd screw up, and no, I didn't remember this when I wrote him screwing up xD I reread the fic before this chapter and was like woah, foreshadowing I accidentally followed through on, isn't that convenient. It's made me a little more sceptical of literature analysis though, heh.

Thanks to ELOSHAZZY, Nock and Bolt, and irishleesh93 for the reviews, and welcome back to Sandy-wmd - I remember yooouuuuu :D Tony would totally be Sirius, and yes, Sitwell can be Pettigrew xD