The living room of the Avengers compound was bathed in late afternoon light, the kind of lazy golden hour that made even superheroes want to put their feet up. The air smelled faintly of coffee and burnt popcorn — someone had clearly tried to use the machine again and failed.
It was, for once, quiet. No alarms. No world-ending threats. Just a scattering of Earth's mightiest heroes draped across various pieces of furniture in varying states of consciousness.
from the corner of the couch, metal arm resting on the armrest If one more person kicks the coffee table, I'm not the one cleaning it up.
without looking up from his tablet FRIDAY, make a note. Barnes has volunteered for table duty for the next month.
sprawled on the floor, tossing an arrow into the air and catching it Bold of you to assume anyone here cleans anything.
flipping a page in his book, not looking up Clint, you're going to lose an eye.
It's fine. I've got a spare.
from the armchair, shaking his head Man, this is the most relaxed I've seen any of you in weeks. It's almost suspicious.
curled up in another armchair, smirking Give it five minutes. Something always happens.
leaning back, feet on the ottoman Then perhaps we should enjoy the quiet while it lasts. It is a rare thing, even for gods.
perched on the back of the couch, fidgeting with his web-shooters I mean, it's not that rare. We had a whole three days last month with no— okay, there was that one thing with the robots. But still.
entering from the kitchen with a cup of coffee, calm as ever We should appreciate days like this. They don't come often.
deadpan You sound like a Hallmark card, Steve.
small smile, sitting down Someone has to.
A comfortable silence settled over the group, broken only by the distant hum of the compound's systems and the occasional shuffle of someone getting more comfortable. It was peaceful. Almost too peaceful.