(It begins like this.)
Tony’s tower had been a wreck in the wake of the Battle of New York. It was standing solidly — Tony Stark didn’t do half-assed skyscrapers, thank you very much — but many of the rooms had collapsed beams, and bloody floors strewn with shattered glass and warped metal. Still, the Tower had half a dozen intact beds and Tony offered them to his teammates. Purely out of convenience, of course.
Dizzy from exhaustion and half out of his mind with fear, Tony had excused himself as soon as he possibly could, and made his way up to his Penthouse. He hadn’t even made it past the kitchen before his blurry vision warped the the blinking lights of night-time New York into stars. His throat seized up and terror wrapped around his heart like a vice, and he remembered the vast openness of space, and the millions and millions of stars. Tony remembers stumbling blindly out of the room and finding a windowless room, and curling up in the corner. It was alone and quiet, and the darkness was without any sort of twinkling lights (the ones that looked so much like stars and space, god help him).
As it turned out, Tony’s private rooms were damaged to point of dangerous, and Tony was forced to move into the rooms next to the other Avengers. Which was fine, of course. Except for the curtain less windows and the too warm blankets, and the people in rooms beside his that could hear when he woke up screaming.
And so it’d become a habit. He’d sneak out and find that old, windowless room, and curl up on the bare concrete, and sleep fitfully.
The team found out, eventually. He’d slept in, and Jarvis had given up his secret. That morning, when Tony woke up to sore joints and a cold floor, the team had been sprawled around the room, munching on toast, and reading the paper, and chattering quietly about upcoming football matches. Tony had blinked, once, twice, and then asked, “What the fuck?”
Clint, who’d been the closest to him, rolled his eyes. “Think we’re just going let you come up here and angst by yourself? Nice try, Stark.”
Steve had lowered his paper, and nodded. “He’s right. We’re a team.”
“Who cares if we’re a team?” Tony snapped. He felt shame burn his cheeks. Fuck them. This shit was personal. This didn’t feel like helping; it felt like an invasion.
“Means your shit is our shit,” Clint said, eloquently.
“You don’t have to sleep up here by yourself,” Bruce told him quietly, looking rumpled and fond under his sleep ruffled hair.
“My room is—“
“We know,” Bruce continued. “Mine too. It’s— hard. At night.” He looked around the room, completely bare save for the six avengers, and the bowls and plates of cereal and toast. “This room actually seems kind of comforting.”
And, well. That had been it. Tony would head up there at night, and the team would follow, carrying sleeping bags and pillows under their arms.
They all refrained from mentioning the nightmares, or the screaming, or any accidental cuddling that happened. If Steve’s panic attacks, or Tony screaming himself awake, or Natasha’s panicked thrashing sometimes woke them all up, then they didn’t complain.
And sometimes, Tony would wake with his head pillowed on Thor’s shoulder, or Clint’s limbs sprawled in his, or Steve’s head snoring on his belly. He always laughed and shoved them away with a joke, but really, he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all.
The darkness in the room is solid and without any blinking lights. Tony gets used to falling asleep to surrounding darkness, and the comforting breathing of his teammates.
(A little over a year later.)
Tony stretches, whining as he feels his sore joint pop and flex. His whole body is stiff, despite the previous night's steady rest. He’d stayed almost entirely in his own bed, and now it felt as though his body is rebelling at the comfort.
He slides onto a kitchen stool, yawning. Bruce looks up from his book, and smiles. “‘Afternoon.”
“‘Afternoon” Tony says, voice slurring with sleep. He makes a little happy noise when Bruce slides over a mug of coffee. “Wait, afternoon?”
“Everyone slept in,” Bruce explains. “It’s 1pm.” He’s in jeans and a ratty old t-shirt, so Tony assumes that everyone excludes Mr Perfect Sleeping Schedule.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Steve’s out jogging,” Bruce tells him, ignoring Tony’s ‘ew why’, “and Clint, and Natasha are occupied. Jane and Thor are watching a movie.”
“Occupied?”
Bruce reaches out and turns down the pop music playing from the kitchen’s radio. Now that he’s listening, Tony can hear- oh. Oh, gross.
“Occupied,” Bruce repeats, and turns up the radio at Tony’s disgusted expression.
Natasha pads out a little while later. She’s dressed in nothing but her underwear; a black bra, and a pair of Clint’s boxers that hang low on her hips. Her hair, recently shorn tomboy short, is fluffy and standing up almost vertically along the back. She’s grinning, and though its smug and cocksure, its lazy and content.
“You look happy,” Tony comments. “Throughly satisfied.”
She ventures into the kitchen, peering into the fridge, and then the freezer. “I am,” she says, and then, casually, “I just had so much sex.”
Bruce laughs, somewhat startled, but Tony just smiles and asks, “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. Sundays are my new favourite thing. Hey, do we have any food?”
“Hot cross buns, bottom cupboard,” Bruce tells her, munching on his own glossy bun. He looks fond, if a little awkward. They’d all struggled to fit in at first, and then struggled even more to trust each other. They’re all adjusting, though. Slowly. Beginning to get comfortable around each other. It’s— nice. A lot less lonely. Bruce, Tony knows, struggles the most. Being totally comfortable around someone else isn’t something he’s used to.
Natasha snags a jar of strawberry jam from the fridge, one of the bags full of buns, and a butter knife. She swishes her hips on her way out, smirk pulling up her lips. “Seeya.”
“Have fun,” Tony calls.
“I will!” she calls back, retreating to her room. They can hear Clint laugh briefly before the door shuts close behind her.
After breakfast (lunch, afternoon tea, whatever), Tony wonders out into the living room. Thor and Jane are sitting on the couch, leaning into each other and passing a huge bottle of Sprite back and forth.
“Afternoon,” Tony greets, taking a seat on the other end of the couch, tablet in hand. Thor grins at him, and passes the soda bottle back to Jane, who takes an appreciative swig. “Got a big enough bottle there? I didn’t even know people drank soda straight from a 2L bottle. Actually, I didn’t even know alien viking princes drank soda at all.”
“Jane introduced me to carbonated beverages,” Thor says easily. “I like the bubbles, they’re unalike anything we have in Asgard.”
“I just like the sugar,” Jane explains. “I love sugar.”
Thor nods, “She does.”
Jane snuggles further into his side. She takes a second mouthful from the overly large bottle, and makes a happy mmm noise.
Couples. He’d never been this sappy with any of his past partners. And yeah, he may have a private fondness for sunsets, but Tony Stark doesn’t do sappy emotional bullshit. Thor may like to braid tiny daisies into his hair, and walk on along the beach with his girlfriend, and do cute, romantic shit, but he’s a crazy huge pillar of muscle, okay. He can do what he wants.
“Wait,” Tony says suddenly, “are you guys watching the Notebook?”
“Yo, Brucie,” Tony calls out. He has his armoured gauntlet in one hand, and he fiddles with it as he wanders further down the hallway. “Bruccccce?”
Bruce’s voices is muffled, distracted. “In here, Tony!”
His bathroom, Tony assumes. Still, he makes sure to knock before entering Bruce’s room. Now that they’re living together, Tony had seen his share of naked teammates’ butts. Too many, one would argue.
Making himself comfy on Bruce’s bed, Tony lets his eyes wander. The room is painted in soft hues of blues and greens, and there’s an old fashion radio playing softly in the background, not quite enough to drown out the clattering of dishes he can still here from the kitchen. All standard, really. Bed, chest of drawers, bed side table with a jar on top.
Actually. That’s new.
Tony picks the jar up, and examines it. It’s halfway filled with small pieces of mismatching paper. Notepaper, coloured paper, plain paper and torn paper and paper dirty with grime. He peers at the jar, but he can’t make out what anything says.
“Tony—“ The bathroom door cracks open, and Tony starts, fumbling with the jar in his hands. It tips, then falls, and Tony catches a glimpse of Bruce’s face as the scientist rushes forward, looking panicked and desperate, before Tony manages to catch the jar. Bruce exhales roughly.
Tony apologises quickly, watching as Bruce bites back the Hulk. He averts his gaze, looking back down at the jar as Bruce visibly calms, and his face drains of any green.
“So, er. What is this thing?“
“It’s nothing,” Bruce says quickly, and snatches the jar away. His hands wrap protectively around it, cradling it carefully. “It’s— sorry, Tony, I just. It’s personal, y’know?”
Personal, huh? The jar looks old, spidery cracks encircle the rim, and the lid’s gold coating is mostly chipped away. There’s obviously history there, and Tony itches to push the issue.
But there’s something in the way that Bruce rubs at it with the sleeve of his shirt that gives Tony pause. “It’s okay, B,” he says, raising his hands inoffensively. “I get it. You don’t need to share your intimate letters with me.” He adds a wink, and though Bruce wrinkles his nose, the defensive curve of his shoulders relaxes just a little bit.
“So.” Tony watches Bruce swallow and shuffle uncomfortable, and changes the subject before the poor man tries to apologise again, “you hungry? I’m hungry. Famished. Jarvis, order everyone pizza?”
“Of course, sir,” Jarvis replies, voice smooth and reassuring. “The usual order I presume?”
“Got it in one, J.” Bruce pulls out his sock draw to put away the jar, and Tony turns his back and pretends to check his phone. Privacy, he tells himself. It’s important, no matter how much he wants to find out what in that goddamn jar is making Bruce so uncomfortable.
“Jarvis, tell the rest of the team to meet up in the dining room in 10. Come on, Jolly Green,” Tony prompts, already striding from the room and very resiliently not turning back. Forget the jar, he tells himself. Forget it. “Let’s go eat some pizza.”
The sun is fading behind the New York skyline, and the dining room’s floor to ceiling window does little to keep out the soft orange light. It looks warm and happy, and he feels a brief surge of quiet contentment. There’s over ten chairs around the large wooden table; five for his team, four for regular visitors, and one for him. It feels close in a way it hasn’t felt since he’d insisted on buying Jarvis and Rhodey and Pepper McDonalds on the day of his MIT graduation. And, holy fuck, Tony is blaming his entire team for making him a sentimental idiot. Goddamn.
Bruce follows some minutes later, and it’s a little awkward.
“It’s a collection. Of any happy memories,” Bruce says suddenly. He pauses, ducks his head and stares down at his battered shoelaces, not meeting Tony’s eyes. “My jar. Every time something really happy happens, I write it down and put it in the jar. Sometimes it’s saving a life, or trying a new food, or even going a day without thinking about killing myself.” The words are awkward and Bruce has to forces himself to say them, but it’s obvious that he’s sincere.
“A… happy jar?” Tony thinks he knows now who’s been infecting him with nostalgic thoughts. Though it could possibly be Steve, too. Damn his teammates. Sentimental motherfuckers, the lot of them.
Bruce shrugs, and the movement is stiff and uncomfortable. “Yeah. It gives me a reason to move forward on Bad Days.”
Tony swallows, and looks away. They don’t talk about Bad Days much.
“I— er. It’s not just things that happen. Sometimes I write down names.”
Something twists in Tony’s gut, and he asks, “Bruce, are we—“
The elevator dings open, and Thor strides out, Jane in tow. “Good evening!” he greets, smiling big and welcoming. “Is there pizza?”
Abruptly, the moment is broken, and Tony feels even more like an emotional idiot. “Yeah, Thor,” he says weakly. “It’ll be here soon.”
Thor throws himself into a chair. Jane, taking the chair between her boyfriend and Bruce, turns happily to the fellow scientist, and asks, “How’s your research going?”
Bruce clears his throats, and Tony sighs and finds his own seat as Bruce answers. He rocks back on his chair, and folds his arms over chest. Damn Bruce for being so emotional. Damn himself for letting his words get to him.
The elevator dings a second time, and Steve steps out, towering stack of pizzas in hand. Natasha trails after him. Thor inhales deeply, enjoying the aroma that wafts off the boxes. “Pizza,” Thor says, happily.
“Pizza,” Steve agrees, and pushes Tony’s chair back onto four legs as he walks past.
Clint filters into the room as Steve begins handing out the boxes, starting with Bruce’s vegetarian, and then Natasha’s margherita. “Did someone say pizza?”
“Who said they were for you?” Tony asks, and Clint ignores him. He steals a slice of Natasha’s as he goes past, and she bats him away halfheartedly. Tony knows she’ll probably eat his leftovers tomorrow, anyway.
Any inappropriate comments Tony wants to make about Thor’s love for sausage pizza are kept at bay by his own full mouth (ha). He’s half the way through his supreme pizza, when Bruce turns to him, and says, “Your name is in my jar.”
Tony almost chokes on his pizza. “Everyone here is,” Bruce continues, conversationally, and then picks up his leftover pizza, stands, and leaves before Tony has a chance to finish his mouthful. The coward. The stupid, sentimental coward.
(Tony is touched.)
Around 3am that night, the screaming starts. Later than usual, and from a different room than expected. Tony bolts out of bed, and has to pause when he comes to Natasha and Clint’s room.
Steve is hovering outside the door, a physical barrier between the ex-SHIELD agents and everything else. He shakes his head at them, raising a finger to his lips.
The screaming dies down to rough, panicked breathing, accompanied by calm and soft Russian. They can hear the rustling off blankets, and bitten back screams, but the Russian continues, steady and calming.
“Room,” Steve mouths at them, and then waits for them to retreat to their rooms to gather blankets and pillows before he leaves his guard by their door.
The room is as beautifully bare as it had been a year ago when Tony had first stumbled into it, half blind with terror. This time, it’s Clint that they move to the furthest side of the room. He curls into Natasha, and shakes as she runs gentle fingers through his hair. Thor sits at his back, a heavy, protective presence. It’s not Clint’s first time in that corner. They’ve all had their nights there. They know what it’s like.
Clint rarely wakes up screaming. Like Natasha, he thrashes his way through his nightmares. Quiet, and terrified. Before, he rarely ever became the centre of the Room, but now that he shares a bed with Natasha, and she’s able to recognise the nightmares when they start, it’s much more common.
Steve sits down and leans beside the door, expression steely focused. Tony grabs a pillow and stretches out beside him, shifting closer when Steve places a hand on his shoulder.
Clint’s breath quickens, and he squirms in Natasha’s arms. Bruce breathes in, breathes out, feels the hulk ripple beneath his skin. Tony thinks Bruce’s curled strength is reassuring, rather than terrifying. He watches Steve finger the gun at his side.
No one will get into that room tonight. No one will touch Clint, not tonight. Not if they can help it.