Quiet Like A Fox
The Avengers were learning.
Not just about Harry's habits—though by now most of them knew he didn't function before caffeine and that interrupting his tea was an offense punishable by death glare—but about Harry himself.
Small. Sassy. Too clever by half. And, inexplicably, the most sought-after source of cuddles in Stark Tower.
He hadn't meant for it to happen. Truly. One day he'd fallen asleep in the lounge with his head in Clint's lap (mostly by accident, sort of on purpose), and by the next morning, he was in Natasha's armchair, wrapped like a burrito while Steve gently placed a second blanket over him.
And now?
Now he had options.
He could plop onto a couch and someone would move to make room. Arms opened instinctively. Shoulders became pillows. Lap space was contested like prized real estate.
Tony, of course, denied wanting in.
"I'm a billionaire, not a bed," he grumbled once when Harry flopped dramatically into Bucky's lap mid-movie.
"Exactly," Harry had replied without looking up. "You're stiff and make weird noises."
Steve snorted into his soda. Tony walked out of the room.
But Bucky?
Bucky said nothing.
Just pulled the blanket higher and curled his metal arm around Harry's waist like a silent mine.
The issue, really, was that everyone wanted a turn.
Natasha liked to drape him over her legs while reading. Bruce claimed he was "a very still blanket." Clint once tried to barter for cuddles with cookies and almost succeeded—until Bucky appeared out of nowhere, dropped onto the couch, and pulled Harry out of Clint's lap like a mother wolf reclaiming her pup.
"I was warm," Harry protested, chin resting on Bucky's shoulder.
"So am I," Bucky said simply.
Tony tried reasoning.
"I could build a cuddlebot. Temperature regulation, heartbeat simulation—"
"Or," Harry offered sweetly, "you could accept that Bucky gets there first."
"Possessive much?"
Harry grinned against Bucky's chest. "I like it."
Bucky didn't speak, but the arm around him tightened. Slightly. Enough.
One evening, Harry found himself cornered.
Steve was sitting on the couch. Alone. Casually stretched out, gaze hopeful but subtle. Natasha was in the armchair, blanket ready, tea already steeping. Bruce was nearby pretending not to watch.
And Harry?
Harry stood in the center of the room like a fox who'd just realized he was the prize.
"Alright," he said, hands on hips. "Rock, paper, scissors. Winner gets me for an hour."
The room stirred.
"Unfair," Clint muttered. "I have slow reflexes."
"You snooze, you lose."
Just as Steve was raising his hand to throw, Bucky walked in, deadpan.
"Nope."
"Bucky," Natasha warned, "you can't just—"
But he was already behind Harry, lifting him clean off the floor like he weighed nothing.
Harry squeaked. Then laughed. "You kidnapped me!"
"You volunteered," Bucky said, settling on the couch with Harry in his lap, blanket dragged off the back like a banner.
"You didn't even let them play!"
"They'd lose."
Harry turned to look at the others, completely unbothered. "Sorry. He's got the best arms."
Bucky tucked his chin into Harry's shoulder.
The others muttered, groaned, and dispersed.
Harry? He fell asleep smiling.
That night, Tony passed by the lounge, paused, and peeked in.
Bucky was half-asleep, arms draped around a Harry-shaped lump curled up like a cat in the sun.
Jarvis whispered, "Shall I take a picture, sir?"
Tony smiled faintly.
"Yeah. Frame it. Title it: 'Victory.'"