An Entry by Tony Stank
It was during one of their usual dinner nights, with the table laden with food and laughter echoing through the room, that Steve Rogers burst into the room. He goes straight to Pepper and declares that Tony should be put in exile. For the reason that he did not give Steve his daily average of three kisses.
The whole room gasped.
Pepper turned to Tony, mock-seriousness in her expression. “Well, rules are rules. Looks like you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”
Tony groaned, slumping dramatically in his chair. “Et tu, Pepper? Betrayed by my own wife.”
Bruce pointed a finger at Tony, his expression mockingly stern. “You have to learn your lesson, Stark!”
Thor thumped the table, roaring with laughter. “The council has spoken! Stark must face the consequences of his actions!”
Steve gave Thor an approving nod. “How about this: we give him disapproving looks until he understands just how serious we are.”
“Alright, alright,” Tony said, raising his hands in surrender. “No more skipping kisses. I’ll accept my exile with dignity.”
Steve smirked, high-fiving Clint in victory. “Good. Just don’t let it happen again.”
As the laughter died down and the meal continued, Steve glanced around the table, his chest tight with something that felt suspiciously like joy. They weren’t just a team anymore. They were a family, bound together not by necessity but by choice.
Tony Stark had endured many things in his life—alien invasions, killer AI, and even marriage. But exile? Exile sucked.
He sat slumped on the living room couch, flipping aimlessly through the TV channels. The “judgment” of the "council" had been swift and absolute. Steve swerved his head during Tony's usual kiss goodnight, given Tony his fiercest glare, and marched like he'd just vanquished a great evil.
“Exile is overrated,” Tony muttered to no one, tossing the remote aside. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, his mind restless.
Eventually, he stood and padded upstairs. If exile was going to be this boring, he might as well entertain himself.
Tony cracked open Steve’s bedroom door and peeked inside. It was immaculate, as expected, but cozy in its simplicity. What caught his eye, though, was the hoodie draped neatly over the chair by the desk.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Tony whispered, stepping in and grabbing the hoodie. He pulled it over his head, inhaling deeply. It smelled like Steve—clean, warm, and just a hint of something woodsy. The comforting scent immediately lifted his spirits.
Just as he turned to leave, the bathroom door opened, and Steve stepped out, a towel slung low around his hips. His hair was damp, water droplets clinging to his skin, and his blue eyes widened slightly when he spotted Tony.
“Nightmares?” Steve asked, his voice soft but laced with concern.
Tony froze for a moment before dramatically flopping onto Steve’s neatly made bed. “Woe is me!” he declared, throwing an arm over his face like a tragic Shakespearean hero.
Steve sighed, clearly amused, and moved to his dresser to grab a pair of sweatpants and underwear. Tony peeked through his fingers as Steve dressed, appreciating the view. "Nice dick, Rogers."
Fully clothed now, probably unwilling to confess how he stumbled after Tony's comment, Steve sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Tony. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Tony opened his mouth to say yes, but the memory of his nightmare stopped him. It was the same as usual—a twisted replay of Ultron, of Sokovia, of all the ways his hubris had nearly destroyed the world. He clenched his jaw and shook his head. “Nah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
Steve didn’t push. He never did. But his eyes flicked to Tony’s hand, where he was absentmindedly twirling the silver ring made from Steve’s old dog tag.
Without a word, Steve leaned down and pulled Tony into a firm hug. Tony exhaled, relaxing into the embrace, until Steve stood up and scooped him off the bed.
“Hey!” Tony yelped, flailing. “What the hell, Rogers?”
“You’re still in exile,” Steve said with a smirk, carrying Tony out of the room and back downstairs.
They settled on the couch, a classic black-and-white movie playing softly in the background. Steve coaxed Tony into resting his head on his shoulder, and slowly but surely, Tony’s eyes began to droop.
By the time he drifted off, Steve had an arm wrapped around him, fingers carding gently through his hair.
When Tony woke up, the sunlight filtering through the curtains told him it was morning. He blinked groggily and realized he was lying in Steve’s lap, his head cradled against the other man’s thigh. Steve was sitting up, a sketchpad balanced on one knee as he absentmindedly combed his fingers through Tony’s hair.
“What’re you doing?” Tony muttered, his voice rough with sleep.
Steve glanced down, a soft smile on his lips. “Drawing.”
Tony squinted and reached up, snatching the sketchpad before Steve could stop him. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the drawing—it was him, curled up and peaceful, a rare vulnerability captured with painstaking detail.
Tony’s throat tightened, but he masked it with a smirk. Leaning up, he kissed Steve on the forehead. “Last night wasn’t sucky.”
Steve chuckled. “I’ll take that as high praise.”
Tony moved to sit up fully, but Steve caught his arm and tugged him back down, planting a quick kiss on his cheek.
Before Tony could respond, a voice drawled from the floor. “Get a room, you two.”
They both looked over to see Natasha sprawled out on the rug, her back against the couch. Thor sat behind her, his large hands carefully braiding her hair while she painted her nails a deep crimson.
Tony frowned. “How are you so good at painting your nails with your non-dominant hand? That’s creepy.”
Natasha didn’t look up. “It’s called skill, Stark. You should try it sometime.”
Thor grinned, tying off a braid with a flourish. “I believe Lady Romanoff could accomplish anything she sets her mind to.”
Tony snorted, leaning back into Steve’s warmth. “Yeah, yeah. Keep buttering her up, Goldilocks. One day she might actually laugh at your jokes.”
As the banter continued, Tony couldn’t help but think that exile didn’t seem so bad anymore.