Dinner at the Tower was one of those rare, golden moments—quiet, comfortable, and completely devoid of chaos. For now.

Everyone was gathered around the long dining table, scattered plates and half-finished drinks covering the surface. The soft hum of music played from a speaker in the corner, and the kitchen smelled like garlic, roasted vegetables, and something Tony insisted was “high-protein alien chicken”—though no one had the courage to ask questions.

For once, the world wasn’t on fire. No alerts. No last-minute debriefs. Just food, laughter, and the kind of banter that came when people who trusted each other enough to bleed together finally got to breathe.

You sat beside James, plates pushed aside as the two of you chatted, his metal arm resting on the table as he leaned slightly toward you. He was relaxed, smiling—a rarity that made your heart do annoying little flips when you weren’t paying attention.

You nudged his arm, grinning. “So, remind me again how a highly trained super-soldier managed to trip over absolutely nothing during the last mission?”

He rolled his eyes, biting back a smirk. “I was dodging a stun blast.”

“Sure you were,” you teased. “Looked more like you slipped on a patch of your own ego.”

He snorted, shaking his head in amusement. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Before he could get another jab in, Peter—sitting across from you with a plate piled high like the growing teen he was—suddenly looked up from his food with a furrowed brow and tilted head.

“If I punch myself… and it hurts… am I strong or weak?”

Silence.

Every single person at the table paused.

Nat blinked. Steve looked mildly concerned. Wanda stopped mid-sip of her wine. Sam let out a confused noise that could’ve been a laugh or a groan.

But you didn’t miss a beat. You just shrugged, grabbing your drink. “Strong.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Nah—weak. You hurt yourself. That’s weak vibes, Spider-Boy.”

Peter’s expression twisted in confusion. “But I mean, I used my strength to hurt me—”

“A dumbass is what you’d be,” James said flatly, not even looking up from his fork.

The room erupted.

Laughter echoed around the table—Wanda nearly spit out her drink, Clint wheezed across from her, and Tony gave James an approving slow clap from the end of the table.

Peter blinked, wide-eyed. “.Ouch. Mentally and emotionally.”

James finally looked at him and smirked. “You asked.”

“You’re just mad you fell on your ass last mission,” Peter muttered under his breath, stuffing a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth.

“Oh don’t start this,” you said, nudging James before he could throw his fork across the table.

He leaned back in his chair, smirk still firmly in place. “You gonna defend him now?”

“Nope. Just making sure you don’t st@b a teenager with cutlery.”

Nat raised her glass. “To dumbass questions and peaceful dinners.”

“Cheers,” everyone echoed, clinking glasses as the laughter slowly faded into another round of playful arguments, sarcastic one-liners, and the kind of warmth that only came from knowing your found family would go to war with you in the morning—but tonight, they’d pass the salt.