y/n stark stumbles into the Avengers’ common room late at night, visibly drunk and barely keeping herself upright.
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@n81n1aThe common room was warm—too warm, the kind of warm that made the air feel thick and heavy. The lights were dim, set to that low evening level Natasha always complained about but never bothered to change.
Steve had his feet up on the coffee table, one hand resting on the spine of his book. Across from him, Clint was sprawled in the loveseat, gesturing vaguely at Sam.
“I’m just saying, you could have caught that,” Clint said.
“It was seven hundred feet in the air, Barton.”
“And?”
Bruce didn’t look up from his laptop, but the corner of his mouth twitched. On the other end of the couch, Natasha shifted, shooting a glance at the door. Then back to the TV. Then the door again.
“You’re waiting for something,” Steve said quietly.
Natasha didn’t answer. She just tilted her head slightly as the hallway light flickered. Then the door pushed open.
Y/n stumbled over the threshold.
Not dramatically. Not with a crash or a stumble that suggested injury. Just a misstep, a sway, barely a wobble. Her hair—once neat, probably—was now a dark tangle, sticking slightly to the side of her face. She wore an old hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves swallowing her fingers. Her jeans were scuffed, one knee stained with something that didn’t quite look like dirt.
She paused in the doorway, blinking at the room’s seven superheroes like they were a fever dream she hadn’t asked for.
“…oh.”
The silence stretched.
Tony lowered his phone slowly, a voice sharpening into something like concern. “Why do you look like you just lost a fight with a liquor store?”
She frowned at him, a little crease of who-are-you-and-why-do-you-talk-to-me. “I’m fine.”
“You’re walking sideways.”
“I’m walking creatively.”
There was a beat. Steve’s gaze flicked to Natasha. Natasha met his look, then trained it on Y/n, still half-hidden in the doorway. Across the room, Sam sat up a little, grabbing the remote as if it could help.
Tony stood up. The armchair released him with a soft exhale. “Nope. Absolutely not. Come here.”
Y/n took one step backward. Immediately. “Don’t.”
“I’m your father.”
“Unfortunately.”
Sam snorted, then quickly covered his mouth with a noisy cough. Clint hid his grin behind both hands, a muffled wheeze escaping despite himself. Tony stared. The look of a man who had just been roasted and was too close to laughing to mask it.
“Okay. Definitely my kid.”
But Natasha saw it. Halfway down the hall, the second Y/n stepped in, she saw the shift. The unsteady weight when you can tell someone is holding themselves taut. The way she leaned slightly more to her left side. The smile that came way too fast to be completely honest.
“I’m going to make tea,” Natasha said, pushing herself off the couch with a fluid ease. She didn’t ask. She didn’t explain. She just walked toward the kitchen, pausing long enough to look directly at Y/n. “You’re sitting down.”
It wasn’t a question. She didn’t give Y/n room to argue.
Tony was still standing, one hand near his hip. He didn’t look busy. But he looked heavy.
The room, the room seemed louder than silence: Steve’s book, Clint’s suppressed snicker, Sam’s quiet exhale. Bruce’s fingers paused over the keyboard for half a second before he kept typing.
Then Tony said it, open and low: “You’re drunk.”
It wasn’t an accusation. It was the quiet, terrible, reality-check of a man wondering when that became possible.