Chapter Text
“Is that Tony’s?”
Steve glanced up from the newspaper. “Is what Tony’s?”
Bruce adjusted his glasses on his nose, leaving them more crooked than they had been before. “The, the-” He gestured at Steve. “The sweatshirt. Is that Tony’s?”
“The-” Steve looked down at his chest. “Oh. No. It’s just a StarkIndustries one.” He shifted in his chair, reaching for his coffee cup. “All my SHIELD ones are in the laundry.”
“Yeah, I’m, uh, I’m down to my last, and worst, labcoat,” Bruce said with a lopsided smile. “It’s been a rough couple of weeks for-” He stopped, one hand coming up in a little twitch of a gesture. “Everything.”
Steve grinned into his coffee. “‘Everything’ is a bit of an understatement, actually.” He stood up, folding the paper and smacking it against the tabletop. “And laundry certainly hasn’t been the priority.”
“Laundry is, uh, it’s never the priority,” Bruce admitted, as the kitchen door swung open with enough force to bounce against the wall. Bruce never looked away from the tea kettle on the counter. “Morning, Clint. Nat.”
“HSxialllavaka,” Clint said, and Steve didn’t know what that meant, but he was pretty sure it was a curse word in some language. Clint was clad in a pair of boxer shorts and a pair of mismatched socks, and a black t-shirt that didn’t come close to reaching his belly button.
“Don’t you know a watched pot never boils, Doc?” Nat said, nudging Clint forward and out of her way. “Move your useless ass, Barton.”
Clint leaned against the wall, his head flopping to the side, his mouth hanging open. “Fraushat.”
“Is he awake?” Steve asked, walking over to the coffee maker. In an act of compassion, he reached for a second cup from the cabinet.
“Is he alive?” Bruce asked. He didn’t sound particularly concerned.
“He’s fine,” Nat said, walking over to the fridge, clad in black yoga pants and a red tank top. She opened the fridge and leaned over, studying the contents with a faint frown. “Clint, want a yogurt smoothie?”
Clint made a noise that sounded a snore, and she apparently took that as assent, because she stood up with two bottles in one hand and a jar of pickled eggs in the other. “He’ll be better after food, honestly.”
“I’m going to take your word for that,” Bruce said as the kettle started to whistle. “Is… Is that your shirt?”
“Possibly. The left sock is definitely mine,” Nat said, pausing to peer over Bruce’s shoulder. “Tea?” She sounded hopeful.
He smiled. “I’ll make you a cup.”
“And this is why you’re my favorite,” she said, carrying her bounty to the kitchen table. “Speaking of stolen clothing-” One sharp eye peered up at Steve from under a sweep of copper hair. “That’s not your sweatshirt.”
Steve sighed. “You know they sell these, right?” He pinched the fabric, pulling it away from his chest, just above the logo. “You, too, can have one for an obscenely high price.”
“They sell them?” Nat asked, eyebrows arching.
“All of mine appear in my life without warning or, uh, me asking for them,” Bruce mused. He leaned over, concentrating very hard on pouring water into a couple of mugs. “They just- Show up. In, uh, the ugliest wrapping paper I’ve ever seen.”
“For Christmas, your birthday, Easter, Arbor Day,” Nat said, counting the holidays off on her fingers. “Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Evacuation Day-”
“That’s not a real thing,” Steve said.
“Apparently Boston thinks it is.” Nat smiled at him, her lips curling up. “But that’s not yours.”
“It’s mine,” Steve said, holding a cup of coffee in front of Clint’s face. His eyes snapped open, his hands coming up to fumble for the cup. “We okay?”
“Frasheaidhas thtaseas,” Clint said, but he did seem to have a solid grip on the coffee. Steve took that as a win.
“Good morn, my friends!” Thor strode in, a massive paper bag braced on one shoulder, a smaller one held easily in his other hand. He was fully dressed in jeans and a cableknit sweater, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He grinned as he tossed the bags on the kitchen island. “Bagels, cream cheese, and lox for all.”
“Bagel,” Clint said, and everyone looked at him. He shrugged, already reaching for the bag. “Shut up. I- Rally for baked goods.”
“Hard to argue with that,” Steve said, looking over his shoulder. “Did you happen to get-”
Thor threw an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Cheddar cheese bagels, and garlic cream cheese, just for you.” He grinned. “We all deserve a treat, yes?” He paused, his smile dimming by degrees. “Is that Stark’s sweatshirt?”
Steve stared at him. “No.”
Clint flopped into a chair at the table, coffee in one hand and a bagel clamped between his teeth. Steve wasn’t sure how he’d gotten cream cheese on it so fast. “Shaveask tha-” he started, and Nat reached over, pulling the bagel out of his mouth. “That’s Stark’s fucking sweatshirt.”
Steve squeezed his eyes shut. “It is not-”
“It fucking is.” Clint’s eyes were narrowed into slits, his jaw set. “That is absolutely Tony’s-”
“I’m not having this conversation again,” Steve said, throwing his hands in the air. “Who wants fruit salad?”
“Are you wearing Nat’s shirt?” Bruce asked Clint.
He shrugged. “If it was in my laundry basket, it’s mine now.”
Bruce’s chin dipped in a slow nod. “If this explains my sudden shortage of underwear-”
Clint shrugged again, and jammed half a bagel in his mouth. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“It’s Tony’s sweatshirt,” Nat said, her fingers cradling her tea cup.
Steve reached for his newspaper. “It’s not-”
She reached up, one finger brushing against the fabric of the sleeve, right above where Steve had it rolled up above his elbow. “See, I told Tony that wearing an oversized hoodie while he was welding wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, and he insisted that he had everything under control. That he was a professional.”
Her finger tipped his arm up, revealing the scorch mark on the sleeve. “Right before he lit himself on fire.”
Natasha looked up, her long lashes dipping in a slow, deliberate blink. “But maybe you’ve just taken up a new hobby.”
Steve stepped back, and she let her hand fall back to the table. “Right.” Steve yanked at the sleeve, unrolling it back to his wrist, his head tucked down. “So.” He looked up, ignoring how hot his face felt. “He must’ve borrowed it. That day. When.” He stopped, and they were all looking at him, with varying expressions of amusement. He scowled at them, ignoring how hot his face felt. “That happened.”
“Of course,” Thor said, slapping him on the back. “Such things happen.”
“No, they fucking don’t,” Clint said, and he jerked in his seat. “Stop kicking me! You’re the one who-”
“Shut up and give me my shirt back, Clint.”
“Morning.”
Everyone turned to face the kitchen door and Tony took two steps in, and came to a stuttering stop. “What?”
“You’re- Very awake,” Bruce said, squinting at him.
“Early to bed, early to rise, all that shit,” Tony said, his voice breezy. “Is there coffee?”
“You didn’t go to sleep, did you?” Natasha asked.
Tony pointed at her. “Slander. Slander and lies. I slept-” He gestured with both hands. “There was a lot of sleep. Happening. To me.”
“Clint,” Steve said, and Clint was already moving, sliding between Tony and the coffee machine, snagging the carafe with a twist of his wrist. Before Tony could do more than make a futile grab for him, he was back at the table and safely out of reach.
“I can make more of that, you know that, right?” Tony asked him.
“Go to bed, Tony,” Steve said, and Tony looked at him. And stopped.
For a second, Steve froze, his throat closing up as Tony took a step forward, his head tipping to the side.
Tony pointed at him. “Is that-”
“It’s my sweatshirt,” Steve said, talking over Tony before the words were even out of his mouth. “I don’t know why-”
The grin that split Tony’s face caught him off guard. “Repping the brand.” He reached out, patting a hand on Steve’s chest over the SI logo. “Excellent. I’ll-” He stopped, swaying on his feet. “I’ll get you- Another one.”
“Perhaps a nap,” Thor said, wrapping an arm around Tony’s waist and spinning him around, force marching him back to the kitchen door. “A bit of rest and all will be well.”
“Got some work to do-” Tony started.
“And it will wait.” Thor looked back over his shoulder with a wink. “I shall be back. Do not let Clint eat everything.”
“No promises,” Clint said, a bagel in each hand and the coffee put on a plate in front of him.
The kitchen door shut, and Steve took a deep breath. “Not. A. Word.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Natasha said. “Who wants pancakes?”