The Hoodie Heist
It started with one hoodie.
Technically, it started with Bucky's hoodie—a faded black one, soft with age and smelling faintly of gun oil, cedar, and whatever aftershave Bucky pretended not to wear.
Harry stole it after sparring. Left a note that said "Finders Keepers" and a muffin in its place.
Bucky didn't say anything. But he definitely looked longer at Harry the next morning when he walked into the lounge wearing the hoodie, sleeves hanging past his fingertips, drawstrings in his mouth.
"You're going to start a war," Natasha said, sipping her tea.
Harry grinned. "Let them come."
By the end of the week, he had five.
One from Steve—navy, oversized, and still smelling faintly of clean laundry and guilt.
One from Clint—technically swiped while he was napping.
Two from Bruce, who didn't notice at first, then just quietly added more hoodies to the laundry rotation with a shrug.
And one from Tony.
That one was accidental.
Tony left it on the back of a lab chair. Harry was cold. Harry wore it. Tony tried to protest, and Harry launched a preemptive distraction by telling Jarvis to play Baby Shark on loop until Tony backed down.
Tony never got it back.
The Tower responded like a hive poked with a stick.
Steve created a sign-out sheet for garments. No one signed it.
Clint started hiding his clothes in vents. Harry left him decoy socks in retaliation.
Natasha began writing her name inside the collars in Latin. Harry changed them to "Property of Fox Prince" when she wasn't looking.
Bruce gave up. "If he's warm and not breaking anything, I don't care."
Bucky? Bucky watched. Quietly. Calmly.
Until the morning Harry walked into the gym wearing a red hoodie three inches too short and entirely too familiar.
It wasn't Bucky's.
And Bucky did not like that.
"You're pushing it," Bucky said, crossing the mat slowly.
Harry raised an eyebrow, stretching lazily on the bench. "Jealousy's not a good look on you."
"I'm not jealous."
"You are absolutely jealous."
Bucky stopped in front of him. Looked down. Tilted his head.
"Take it off."
Harry blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The hoodie. Take it off."
Harry smirked. "Or what?"
Bucky reached down, grabbed Harry under the arms like a rebellious kitten, and hoisted him straight off the bench.
Harry yelped—loudly and with flair.
"Bucky!"
"You have three seconds to trade it for mine," Bucky said calmly, carrying him toward the exit.
"I am a free and independent being!"
"You're a menace in stolen cotton."
Natasha leaned in through the door. "If you drop him in the laundry chute, I want video."
Bucky didn't drop him in the laundry chute.
He deposited Harry in his own room, retrieved his softest hoodie—the softest, Harry noticed with a satisfied hum—and dropped it into his arms.
Harry wiggled into it. Burrowed. Smug.
Bucky just shook his head. "You win."
Harry leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Bucky's jaw.
"I always do."
By the time the team gave up the fight, Harry had ten hoodies, three fleece pullovers, and a custom bathrobe from Tony with "Official Tower Menace" embroidered on the back.
There were no more complaints.
Because a sassy gremlin in stolen clothes was still their gremlin.
And when Harry curled up next to them in something that used to be theirs, somehow... it felt better.
Like home.