Nesting (OT7)
It starts off in clusters: Tony and Bruce, Thor and Steve, Natasha and Clint and sometimes Phil. And it starts of quietly, with stolen moments here and there; occasionally, Thor gets a little loud or Tony will catch Phil and Natasha making out in the kitchen at two in the morning.
For some of them, it's like college all over again.
For the others, it's like... well, it's like coming of age—sneaking around and trying to be quiet, trying to have that exquisite tryst without anyone else finding out.
Then the pairings shift and change and it's Clint and Tony or Phil and Steve or Natasha and Thor and somewhere in there, it changes again, the ranks closing until it's all seven of them in a pile on the floor in the living room. The latest mission had left virtually all of them with bruises on their person, with the notable exceptions of Thor and Steve. Which meant, of course, that they are relegated to the job of bringing in pillows, blankets, ice packs, and painkillers while the rest lay on a hastily put together, makeshift bed. (Bed being loosely used: it's more a nest, and if Phil wasn't flying high on a hefty dose of vicodin, he would have remarked on it.)
"Can we vote people off the planet? Because I'd really like to vote Doom off," Tony groans, shifting until he's got his head pressed against Steve's chest and a leg thrown over one of Natasha's.
"I second that." Clint rubs over one black eye, and flexes his toes for the hundredth time; the docs had promised that the tingling and patches of numbness in his legs would abate, but that was hours ago and Clint doesn't exactly have a lot of trust in them to start with. Still, they move so he'll let them have the benefit of the doubt until morning.
From under Steve's free arm, Phil grouses, "Clint needs his meds," and then flicks a toe when Clint nudges his head with it. "You need to stop jumping off of buildings."
"Now that's a motion I can get behind," Steve agrees.
"Okay. Next time I'll let you get shot."
The conversation goes on from there, rising up from the quiet and then ebbing after Steve pulls himself away to begin handing out meds from various amber bottles; slowly, they each fall asleep and when it's just Thor and Steve, they stand there with nearly identical expressions of fondness before edging their way back in.
;;
The morning light is too fucking bright and Clint bitches when it hits his eyes. He's kind of hung over from the drugs and he also needs more—his legs are fucking throbbing, particularly the left one but then, it's in a cast, so yeah, throbbing is kind of expected for a compound break—but he's not about to say that.
Phil shakes his head gently and taps Natasha on the shoulder, who hands over a bottle of water and a bottle of pills without looking. The fact that it's the correct bottle is either luck or simply Natasha's omnipotence, either way it earns her a kiss to the temple and she smiles sleepily into her pillow.
"Here, take these and go back to sleep."
"Not tired."
"You have a broken leg, fractured ribs, and more bruises than I can count. You haven't eaten and you woke up annoyed." This is Philspeak for 'You're being stupid. Go back to sleep and wake up in a better mood.'
Clint pouts and Phil sighs. It takes a minute or two to crawl over Tony without jarring him and when Phil stops, he's got one hand on Clint's shoulder and an arm under his head and the pout's gone; Bruce is on Clint's other side and he murmurs in his sleep, his legs tangled up in the blanket and Phil's fingers itch to straighten it.
"You should sleep, too."
"I will."
"Phil..."
"What?"
"Just... so you know," Clint mumbles, then speaks a little louder, a little firmer, as he turns his head and says, "We don't like it when you get hurt. So try not to."
"Trust me, Clint, I am more than happy to stay on the helicarrier." Phil presses down the curling end of a butterfly bandage on Clint's cheek. "Fury's already sent out a memo that I'm not to be in ground command unless absolutely necessary."
More than one person lets out a breath of relief at that news, and Steve silently thanks Fury for being as protective of their handler as the Avengers are themselves. (No one likes to think about that first injury. About Loki and the scepter. But inevitably it stumbles into their thoughts whenever Phil gets hurt.)
"'m glad." Clint leans forward, pressing a kiss to Phil's lips, then eases back with eyes closed and settles in to sleep for a while longer.
;;
Their nest is still there on Friday, worn in and comfortable, and no one is really thinking about taking it apart. It's movie night anyway; Clint and Tony have this habit of cuddling together on the floor during the opening credits and somehow, midway, Natasha winds up with them, so having something to lay on that is not each other is appealing.
It also helps that, with the blankets, cushions, and pillows, Clint has no issue with wrangling everyone else down to his level—"I'm wounded," he says, with his hand in swoon-position—and, honestly, it's probably the most comfortable they've ever been.
"Bruce. Foot," Natasha mutters at one point.
"Sorry," he whispers back, drawing his leg away from her back and throwing it over Steve's thigh.
"Told you he always ends up sticking an appendage in your kidney."
"Clint, shut up."
"You shut up."
This goes on for several minutes until it erupts into a wrestling match of pitiful proportions: Clint doesn't have the leverage to do anything more than grapple with Tony and Tony's wrist is still too sore to do more than slap at Clint. It's like watching toddlers duel over a toy and Phil and Steve just sit back, rolling their eyes at the level of ridiculous unfolding before them.
Then someone growls and someone else yanks them apart and Thor lays between them. "If you cannot behave as men of your age, then I shall treat you like younglings."
Phil shakes his head and smirks and holds his arms open for Natasha to slide into.
;;
The nest never does get pulled apart.
Rather, Tony remodels the living room into a private studio suite and their nest is hefted up to get washed then laid back out on the newly made sunken bed that Tony creates. It's soft and comfortable and even with a certain Norse God's tendency to sprawl out, there's enough room for all of them.
No one deigns comment on it, but they all get a little giddy the day Tony lets them back in. (For the record, not one of them had liked having to go back to their old sleeping arrangements and there may have been a mutiny wherein one of the bedrooms was emptied of pretty much everything, furniture-wise, and turned into a secondary nest the night before their primary suite was finished.) And Clint hobbles over, his plaster cast having been removed but his leg still weak from disuse, to slide down into the mess of linens. He falls asleep with a smirk on his face; Natasha rolls her eyes and asks, "Whose turn is it to cook?"
"It's Tony's," Steve says, a slight tone of horror.
"Oh, thanks. I see how it is—I redesign my fucking Tower for you people and you bitch about my food."
"Tony, it's not food if Clint's using it for target practice."
Stark grumbles, reaches into a drawer, and spreads several menus out on the bar top. "Asian, Italian, or American?"