The Birthday Ambush
Harry never told them his birthday.
That should've been enough.
It should've meant they'd ignore it. Let it pass quietly. Maybe toss him a "happy belated" in passing the way normal emotionally repressed people handled birthdays.
But no.
He underestimated them.
Rookie mistake.
It started with coffee.
He walked into the lounge that morning and froze.
On the table: a gold-rimmed porcelain mug that said "Birthday Brat" in sparkly teal script.
Next to it: a small hand-written note in Natasha's perfect, terrifying cursive.
"You're not special. But today, you get cake."
Harry blinked. Once. Then slowly turned to Bucky, who was sitting on the couch with a newspaper like this was 1953.
"You ratted me out," Harry accused.
Bucky didn't look up. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You told them."
"You say that like it's not in your SHIELD file."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "I deleted my SHIELD file."
Bucky smirked. "I have copies."
"You traitor."
Bucky flipped a page. "Check the oven."
Harry blinked. "What."
"Check. The. Oven."
There was cake.
Three layers.
Dark chocolate. Cinnamon. Something suspiciously glittery on top.
He stared.
Tony strolled in, wearing sunglasses indoors and carrying a gift bag with zero subtlety.
"Happy birthday, kiddo," he said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "You're officially old enough to inherit sarcasm, emotional damage, and one company lawsuit."
"Is it wrapped?"
"Gift-wrapped in trauma."
"Perfect."
By mid-morning, the lounge looked like a Pinterest board hosted by a team of trained assassins.
Balloons. Confetti. Cupcakes shaped like foxes.
Steve had made a playlist. Bruce brought themed tea. Clint was wearing a party hat he absolutely stole from a child's birthday pack.
And Harry?
Harry sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by gifts he didn't ask for and affection he pretended to hate.
"I will sue all of you for emotional sabotage," he announced.
"You'll get nothing and love it," Natasha replied, handing him another box.
Bucky sat beside him, quietly smug.
"I hate surprises," Harry grumbled, unwrapping a book labeled "Chaos Engineering for Fun and Profit."
"You love attention," Bucky countered.
"Don't out me in front of Steve."
Steve walked by and patted Harry's head. "We already knew."
Then the elevator dinged.
Harry looked up—and froze.
Because standing there, calm as a hurricane in heels, was Pepper Potts.
Poised. Polished. Smiling.
Harry immediately stood. "Oh no."
"Oh yes," Pepper said sweetly. "I heard there was a birthday."
He looked at Tony. "You called her to come supervise my party?"
"She insisted."
Pepper walked over and handed him a beautifully wrapped gift.
"You're family," she said warmly. "Get used to it."
Harry melted on the spot. "Oh no. I like her."
Bucky leaned in. "Told you she'd adore you."
Harry stared at the gift. "...Is this a monogrammed Stark Industries lab coat?"
Pepper winked. "With built-in fireproof panels. Just in case."
Harry looked up at her like she'd handed him the moon.
"I'm crying," he whispered. "But in a dignified, masculine way."
"Of course you are," she replied, and kissed his cheek.
Later that night, after cake and chaos and several rounds of "who can hug Harry the most without being murdered by Bucky," the lounge was quiet.
Harry lay curled on the couch, blanket up to his nose, a birthday crown askew on his head.
Tony sat across from him, nursing a drink.
"You alright?" he asked.
Harry yawned. "I think my heart grew three sizes. It's gross."
Tony smirked. "Better get used to it."
Harry smiled—small, real.
"I am."