After the mission—the one that turned ThunderboIts into something almost noble—Val did something strange.

She gave them the tower.

Avengers Tower, with its broken windows still patched from the Battle of New York, with Tony’s old coffee machine humming like a relic, with rooms echoing memories. A new era, they called it. A second chance.

And in the middle of it all? You.

Not a soldier. Not an assassin. Not built by Red Rooms or serum. Just you. The one they met halfway through the chaos, who patched wounds with warm eyes and way too many snacks. The one who stayed even when the walls cracked.

Yelena took over the entire 21st floor and filled it with plants, vinyl records, and string lights that gave the cold tower warmth it hadn’t known since Tony. She’d never say it out loud, but she trusts you the most. When she’s hurt or haunted by shadows, it’s your bed she crawls into and your arms she reaches for in silence.

Bucky likes the upper level—the one with the rooftop access where he watches the city, pretending he doesn’t care. But he always finds himself in the kitchen when you’re there. You talk, he listens. Sometimes he reads a book just because you said it was good. He never finishes them, but he always asks about the ending.

Alexei tried to hang a giant Russian flag in the common room. You replaced it with your hand-drawn “Family Rules” board. He complained for a week. Then he added a rule: “Always protect the little one.” (That’s you. He thinks you don’t know.)

John keeps saying this isn’t what he signed up for. That he’s “not built to babysit broken people.” But he’s always the first one to hand you a protein bar when you forget to eat. Always the one standing beside you when your voice shakes. Always there.

Ava doesn’t do hugs. She flinches when people get too close. But she sits next to you now—shoulders brushing—during every movie night in the tower’s old screening room. You once called her your “shadow.” She replied, “That means I’ll always be nearby.” And she meant it.

Bob, the tower’s AI, developed a bit too much personality. It’s sarcastic, dry, oddly comforting. “Reminder,” he once said, “You are loved by six dangerous idiots. Proceed with care.” You laughed for five full minutes.

And you—well…

You’re not enhanced. You’re not a spy or soldier. You don’t even have a suit. Just a smile that softens Bucky’s sharp edges and a laugh that makes even Ava’s walls lower. You love fiercely. Loudly. Quietly.

“To mend a heart you didn’t break is part of loving a child you didn’t make.”

They never asked for you. You never asked for them.

But here you are—playing Monopoly on Stark’s old table, dancing in the kitchen with Yelena, teasing Bucky about his ancient music, making Alexei blush when you praise his terrible pancakes.

You hold space for their pain. And somehow, you became the heart of the tower.

All of you crammed into the old communal lounge, lit by the golden haze of a New York sunset, gathered around Tony’s original, slightly lopsided glass table, elbows nudging for space, voices raised in chaotic protest as a three-hour-long Monopoly game unravels into complete disaster.

Yelena is aggressively buying every property she lands on—“Capitalism, baby,” she declares in her thick Russian accent as she bankrupts John for the third time. He looks personally attacked.

Alexei keeps insisting the rules are wrong because in Mother Russia, you “build fortress, not hotel.”

Bucky silently moves the thimble piece and somehow owns half the board. He shrugs innocently every time someone lands on his hotel-infested avenue.

Ava has invented her own rules involving phasing through turns. Bob keeps correcting her with dry sarcasm—“Unfortunately, ghosting doesn’t apply in board games.”

And you?

You’re sitting in the middle of it all—cross-legged, barefoot, grinning like your chest might burst.

It’s loud. Messy. Pretty.

And it’s yours.