Sometimes Tony wonders why he allows the team to stay in his Tower. They're loud and intrusive and steal his coffee. He has several mini heart attacks a day because Clint will drop from the ceiling or Natasha will suddenly appear at his side, acting as if she's been there the whole time.
They distract him from work and drag him to meals and game nights and movie nights and then make a mess with popcorn and candy because they have a habit of throwing food to get someone who's speaking to shut up.
They break his things when they get too rough because they forget their strength and they leave stuff laying around and take things they find interesting. They constantly damage their uniforms and their gear and of course Tony fixes them because hello he created them but it takes away from his other projects.
And then there's the whole matter of having people live with him. Yeah, sure, he had a lot of empty space in the Tower, and thanks to Loki destroying parts of it, he was easily able to build them each a personal floor. But growing up, his father was usually gone or his mom was at a gala or he was hiding in his room. More often than not he was alone, so suddenly having a bunch of enhanced, lethal people living with him was a bit of a culture shock.
Tony isn't quite sure how they all ended up under his roof and why, or why they continue to stay unless called away for a mission.
However, it's in the small moments that he thinks, maybe, it isn't so bad after all.
Many of these moments come from the united and unparalleled love for Bruce's food.
"I smell food," he calls, following his nose to the main kitchen. He only slightly winces when he hears a soft thud behind him announcing Clint's arrival. He sees that Steve is already leaning against the counter, hair newly washed.
Bruce is standing opposite of him, setting down a steaming tray fresh from the oven. "It's worrying how quickly you all come when food is involved," Bruce remarks, fanning a hand over the tray. "Yet you continue making it."
Clint laughs as Tony jerks so hard that he strikes his funny bone on the corner of the counter. Scowling, Tony gives a sideways glare to him and Natasha. Frickin' ninja spy.
"All these bad guys try to kill us," Tony comments, joining his companions in crowding around Bruce, eagerly waiting. "But I think you have the easiest chance of getting us."
Bruce smirks but says nothing, pulling his Hulk oven mitts off (Christmas gift from Tony). Steve frowns at him. "What makes you say that?" he asks.
Tony gives a long-suffering sigh, but Steve doesn't look upset; he apparently can decipher Tony's sighs now. "He could poison our food and we would never even be suspicious," he explains, poking one of the mushy brown lumps experimentally. "He even knows what chemicals can be used that would be undetectable in an autopsy."
"You sound way too fascinated with the possibility of death via cookies," Natasha says, and is that a hint of affection in her voice?
"Personally, I think death by coffee would be better, but this will do," Tony says, and he elbows Clint when he mumbles, "That can be arranged."
Steve squints at the mystery lumps, tilting his head like a confused puppy. "So what are they? They're just kind of... shapeless."
Bruce raises a hand to his chest, mock affronted. "You're shapeless," he retorts good-naturedly. Steve sticks his tongue out in response, and Tony feels a surge of amusement. Sometimes he forgets that Steve is actually very young, and it's nice to see it when he lets himself shine through.
Bruce gently pats them to test how hot they still are. "Alright, kids, you can take one now," he allows. Lightning fast, four hands fly out and snatch a lump away. Everyone takes a moment to assess it, poking it and sniffing it. "What exotic country did you pick this up from?" Nat asks curiously.
"My grandmother's recipe book," Bruce answers deadpan, and Tony and Clint burst into laughter at the anticlimatic answer. "So what are they, really?" Clint asks when he's recovered.
Bruce shrugs. "They're sort of like a fudge brownie," he tries to explain. "They have no shape, yeah, but there's so much flavor and texture to it that it more than compensates."
Nat is already reaching for a second and Steve lets out a small moan of pleasure as he takes his first bite. They don't seem to be repulsed or dying a mysterious death, so Tony deems it safe to take a bite.
"Holy shit," he swears through a mouthful of food. "Bruce, honey, you seriously downplayed yourself." There is so much flavor packed into this tiny lump. It's like Natasha; it seems small and unthreatening at first, but it hides a whole world of surprise.
Tony recognizes the chocolate and the fudge, and with some soul-searching he can detect a hint of cinnamon. But there's something else that he can't detect. It makes his lips tingle.
"Your grandmother likes 'em spicy, huh?" he asks conversationally, going for another bite. He pauses when he notices everyone giving him a peculiar look. "What do you mean?" Bruce asks with a frown.
Tony lowers his brownie-thing, feeling the breath leave his lungs at the intensity of the four stares. "These are sorta spicy?" His uncertainty turns the statement to a question. Bruce's frown deepens and he looks to the others. "Did I accidentally put in something spicy?" he demands, and Tony feels his throat tighten as the other three shake their heads.
"Then why is my mouth t —"
The food falls from his fingers as he tries to suck in a breath and finds that air does not come. He tries again, pounding on his chest, but still no relief comes. He hears Steve's panicked voice, feels Clint's precise hands grip his shoulders as his knees buckle.
"Tony —"
"Jarvis," he wheezes, feeling his throat continue to tighten (how had he not noticed the symptoms?)
"Medical help is on the way," Jarvis promises, sounding slightly unnerved. "Dr Banner, may I ask the ingredients of the recipe?"
Tony is seeing black and notices that there are already angry red blotches painting his arms. Bruce's voice sounds terrifyingly tight and this really is a touch too stressful for the Other Guy. "Fudge, cocoa powder, milk, eggs, cinnamon, almond ext —"
Tony can't tell if the air leaves the room, or if it's just him. He leans heavily into Clint as his eyes start to sag. "An epipen, does he have one?" Nat demands. "An epipen?" Steve echoes. "I didn't know he had allergies."
"None of us did," Clint says, and Tony feels the archer's arms briefly tighten around him. "Sir does not have one in this residence; he has them stored in his Malibu home."
Tony feels himself going limp, and feels the arms tighten again, much harder. "The medical staff are currently making their way to the kitchen."
"Tony, hang on for a few more seconds, okay?" Clint says, and he's so loud and Tony can't breathe —
He can't breathe, so he doesn't.
Tony feels that if he keeps his eyes closed, he doesn't have to acknowledge that he's in the medical floors of his tower. The machines beeping are just Dummy and You chirping, and the bed is just his old couch that he uses when he's too exhausted to reach his bed.
Naturally, his comrades don't allow him peace.
"We know you're awake, idiot," Nat greets him. Tony lifts a heavy arm to swat his hand in the direction of her voice. "If I pretend you aren't there, will you go away?" he asks. His throat is dry and his voice is scratchy.
His flailing hand is stilled by another, and he feels a Dixie cup placed into his grasp.
The need for water outweighs his hatred of hospital settings, so he cracks open his sore eyes and lets the hand (which is connected to Clint) guide the cup to his lips so he can drink. Tony flexes his hand, imitating the archer's grip on him when he couldn't hold himself up. Clint squeezes back gently and throws the empty cup away.
Tony catches movement in his peripheral and glances to see Nat nudging a sleeping Steve, who somehow cramped his giant body into the small chair. Steve blinks and automatically zeroes in on Tony. He immediately straightens and demands, "How do you feel?"
Tony takes a second to assess his raw throat, his sore eyes, the sensitive skin on his arms where he'd broken out in hives. "Death by cookie is not what it's made out to be," he decides. Steve smirks. "Technically they were brownies," he points out. Tony arches a brow in surprise. "Sorry, I'll be more considerate the next time that I eat The Nut of Death," he sasses back.
"Alrights, kids, save the flirting for later," Natasha chastises, and Tony swears Steve colors a little. "We have to discuss grown-up stuff now." She turns to face Tony full on, giving him the Look (and not the sexy one). "Like why you failed to mention you have a severe allergy to almonds."
Tony wrings his hands in his lap and stares at them. "I kinda forgot?" he offers. Clint scoffs. "How the hell do you just forget something that important?"
Tony shoots him a sideways look. "Pepper and Rhodey and Jarvis know," he says defensively. "They just make sure not to get almonds with the groceries. Bruce must've picked some up on his own." He frowns. "Where is the green bean, anyway?"
There's a pause and Tony rolls his eyes. "Don't tell me he's off feeling sorry for himself, because, hello, he didn't know, and they were so delicious I would probably do it again."
Steve looks alarmed, but Tony gives him a slight shake of his head to show that he's kidding. "He didn't take it well," Nat admits. "He amazingly kept it cool, but he's a bit shaken that he really did get closer to killing you than the bad guys."
Tony wants to comment that it didn't result in him having a huge device housed in his chest so it clearly wasn't that bad, but thinks that maybe this is one of those times where his humor isn't shared.
Instead, he asks, "When the hell can I leave?"
Tony is released later that day, only because the medical wing is just an elevator ride away. As long as he's supervised, he should be fine.
Tony immediately finds Bruce with the help of Jarvis. He's in the library, sitting in one of the plush chairs with a cup of chamomile tea in hand. He doesn't seem to notice Tony until he's sat across from him, wincing slightly as he brushes his arm against the chair.
"I'm a bit offended," Tony says without preamble. "My favorite rage monster didn't come to my deathbed."
Bruce smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I couldn't bear the thought of you not being here to try pissing me off constantly," he mock confesses. "One of your best qualities."
Tony leans forward, leg jiggling. He knows it annoys people, but sometimes it's hard to sit still. "I don't understand why you're blaming yourself. You didn't know." He pauses. "And they were so damn good."
Bruce takes a sip of his tea. Tony disguises a laugh as a cough when he sees that Bruce's pinky is lifted from the cup. "I know," he says eventually. "It doesn't change that you were dying in your own kitchen."
Tony takes a moment to weigh his words, pressing his palms together and steepling them under his chin in his best Sherlock impression. "I don't know why you're in the Tower," he blurts.
Hurt crosses Bruce's face, and then understanding, which is awful because Bruce is thinking the wrong thing. "That came out wrong. Not just you, but the team." That didn't sound quite right, either.
He forges on. "I've been pretty alone all my life. The whole 'not a team player thing' comes from not ever having anyone around me long enough for me to team up with." This is sounding too pitying. Tony scratches his hand restlessly. "So it's still a mystery to me as to how I suddenly have a gang of all-powerful beings sharing space with me."
Bruce listens intently, knowing Tony will work his way through this eventually. After a moment, Tony continues, "I'm still adapting. I'm not used to movie nights. I'm not used to people not only tolerating my company but seeming to like it." He pauses. "I'm not used to family. And sometimes it seems like it's too much.
"But when Natasha throws a knife across the room to stick in the table so that nobody will take her favorite seat, or when Clint challenges me to Mario Kart, or Steve sits in my lab and plays with Dummy, or Thor discovers something like the toaster, I think that maybe, everything is okay." Tony steels himself and meets Bruce's steady gaze. "And you making us new foods to try falls into that. I don't want you to feel bad about what you did. Sure, you set off a reaction, but it was an accident."
He takes a deep breath. This is getting too long and he's on the verge of babbling. "You love to cook and bake as much as we like to eat it, so please don't stop." Tony takes a pleading tone. "Really, don't. I don't think I can handle Clint's cooking."
An echo-y "fuck you" comes from above and Tony and Bruce laugh, and Tony finds himself thinking everything is going to be okay.