When Tony wakes up, he's still languishing in that mid-sleep warmth that a person just can't get when they're awake. His pulse is slow, and he can hear the low humming of the arc reactor. He's extraordinarily relaxed like he hasn't been in a very long time. He's warm. His brain isn't buzzing with alcohol or spinning with a new invention. He isn't covered with bruises. He isn't dodging imaginary bullets. He isn't completely fucked in the head because his life is one big train wreck after another.

He blinks sluggishly, eyelids sticky with sleep. The television is on, the muted colors of The Godfather flickering across the screen. There are hushed whispers filtering through the airwaves and into his ears. It's vaguely kind of maybe sort of possibly nice. But Tony Stark doesn't have emotions, so it's not.

Something shifts underneath him, and if he wasn't so blatantly comfortable, he'd be alarmed. He flops one of his arms up to itch his nose, not quite ready to move. A sigh weighing lightly in his chest, Tony resists it, because he doesn't sigh, especially in satisfaction. He hears the gritty, accented voice of Vito Corleone telling Johnny Fontane to act like man, and realizes there is a foot on his thigh. The lighting isn't very good, but he can glean enough from the darkened room to see Steve.

The guy must have fallen asleep sitting up, because he's half-propped against Clint, his cheek pressed against the archer's bicep. Tony mildly debates on pushing Steve's foot off his lap to join the other one on the floor, but doesn't. He's going soft in his old age. But really, that would be especially douchey, because for once Steve doesn't appear like the entire planet is riding his ass, and he doesn't have that perpetually constipated look on his face.

Steve and Clint had developed some sort of weird SHIELD, super-spy brotherhood that he doesn't understand. He figures that maybe it's due to the fact that they spend weeks on end engaged in covert operations and close quarters. Whatever's going on, Clint is the only person who can dropkick Steve out of his Captain Control Freak without getting chewed out. Tony appreciates that.

Clint's awake, as is Natasha. He doesn't find that surprising. They always seem to be watching. Maybe it's a spy thing. Steve isn't really a spy. He's a soldier, through and through. His presence is solid and commanding and all that Captain America shit. Tony's probably being hypocritical; he worshiped Captain America growing up.

Natasha's back is resting against Thor's arm where she's sitting sideways on the couch, her toes dug underneath Clint's leg. Her head is slightly tilted as she whispers something to Clint, fingers slowly running through the hair on the back of his neck. It looks like a private moment that he's intruding on, but Natasha's cool glance reminds him that she knows he's awake anyway.

He doesn't quite know how to act around her. She's imposing in a deceptive way. Manipulative. But she's saved his life a thousand times over, and he figures he trusts her.

Clint's just hilarious. Tony enjoys people who are likeminded in his sense of humor, and sometimes this whole Avengers gig really needs a bit of lightening up. Clint does that, in a nonabrasive way, which Tony is still trying to figure out.

He tries, he actually fucking tries. Tony's not oblivious. He gets that when he makes a joke about Loki, Thor's going make a rainstorm that doesn't stop for a week; he knows that any digs about Clint's worth to the team will send him on the roof for hours on end; he realizes now that a mention about Natasha having emotions results in him waking up in dark places; he understands that trying to provoke the Hulk actually insults Bruce; he regrets that horrible argument when Steve pushed too far and Tony pushed back with you think you can tell me how to interact with people? The only ones who give a fuck about what you have to say are dead. Steve hadn't even said anything. He had just walked away.

So Tony is still learning. And for some reason, the Avengers keep coming back. They endure his verbally abusive tendencies and have the balls to keep saving his life and sitting by his hospital bed.

And it's nice and heartwarming and he doesn't know why they do it, but now that he knows that he has them, he's not letting go.

The warm surface beneath him moves again, and Tony sits up, feeling slow and rumpled. Bruce is looking at him with an amused expression. Damn. Tony had fallen asleep on his shoulder. How very unprofessional. He straightens his shirt. "Sorry," he mutters.

Bruce blinks tiredly, resting his head on the couch cushion behind him. "No need."

Tony gets up, lifting Steve's foot and setting it behind him.

He's about to retreat from the utter disaster that all his repressed emotions can turn out to be, about to walk away and take a breath because it's so damn staggering that he has five people he loves, like more than coffee and Iron man and money and fame, and he doesn't have to have sex them in order for it to happen.

There's no way this should be so disarming. All he did was wake up surrounded by friends. So what if when he crawls to his kitchen in the morning Steve is reading a newspaper, Bruce is making breakfast, Clint is perched on the fridge, Natasha is wearing sweatpants, and Thor is arguing with the TV. And it's horrible and wonderful and he's finally learning to stop expecting them all to go.

"Where are you headed?"

Tony lurches to a halt, hand resting on the door. He looks back and sees that Bruce, Natasha, and Clint are all staring him down.

"Uh, back to… a place."

Bruce, with those ridiculous grandpa-glasses on, taps his wristwatch. "It's…five in the morning. Sleep's a little useless at this point, is it not?"

Oh, Tony knows what this is. He does, and it's horrible. It's just wrong.

"I agree. Get some coffee, would you?" Clint rattles.

Tony's eyes jump over all them, noticing Thor's nose twitch has he snores, to Natasha's fingers resting on Clint's neck, and lands on Bruce wrinkled shirt. He wants to make some smart-ass comment about the fact that's he's not a Golden Retriever, and even if he was, he'd probably try and eat Clint.

"Yeah, I suppose I'll do that."

He comes back with four cups of coffee, because Steve and Thor are still asleep and Thor detests anything that isn't loaded with sugar and whipped cream anyways.

Tony slides under Steve's foot again, and Steve finally responds, but only to mumble, "Move t'much," and roll to his side, picking up his planted foot and plopping it next to his other on Tony's lap. This is fantastically unguarded, and Tony wants to use it as blackmail for later in life, but for God's sake, Steve is wearing a hoodie.

There's a click as the television is shut off, and Tony looks over and realizes that the sun is rising through the glass windows. A soft orange light starts to peek between the skyscrapers, and Tony takes a sip of his coffee and sighs.

He can hear the soft snuffle as Thor breathes, Natasha and Clint continuing their whispered conversation, the crinkle of paper as Bruce reads, and Steve's almost inaudible inhales and exhales. He's relaxed, well-rested, and content.

Then it comes.

It hits him like a freight train.

Tony Stark has a family.

This was just a little random thingy I came up with. I needed a break from my other story, because I have this urge to just skip to the WHOAFEELS scene because that's what I've had in my head the whole time and it wants to be written very much. And then you realize you've got like, actual plots to fill, and sigh.

Back to focusing—OH WAIT. Jeremy Renner is a bein' a boss in the Bourne ad. And hawwt.

Oh. And Shhllleeepyy-Steve. I just wanted it.

Fanks for reading. I assume me new tale will be published Monday. If all goes to plan. Steve-pain, for the win!

Oh. Yeah. I'm spitting out another one-shot tomorrow night. It's Steve with a flashback. Hasn't been written, so self-proclaimed Steve whumper writes!

I finished a 20 hour Harry Potter marathon yesterday. It was intense. And draining. I get a bit Tony-snarky when I'm tired. Who knew?