And one time it was brought to them…

Steve was almost ready to say that he had had enough, that his super soldier brain was about to explode from having to babysit four injured Avengers whilst also preventing Thor from making things worse in his over-enthusiastic attempts at playing nurse.

He was really beginning to regret convincing Fury that his team, following a battle of proportions even more epic than their initiation into the initiative, would recover better from the various wounds at the tower that they all called home.

'Steeeve,' Tony whines, for about the hundredth and twenty eighth time that day. 'My foot is itching again.'

The Captain looks over at the whinging Iron Man, sat up against his headboard, the reach of his arm to his exposed foot encumbered by the cast wrapped all the way up the leg. He scratches restlessly at the specially commissioned red and gold-flake plaster cast.

'It's only itching because you keep thinking about it,' Steve gets out through clenched teeth.

'But you're so good at scratching it!'

'I can't believe I've already been that near to your feet, Tony.'

'I know I wouldn't,' Clint chips in from across the room. He can't turn to look between the two other men properly, due to the neck brace he is bound up in. Any movements he does make get the sling he is also wearing increasingly entangled in the strapping of the foam padding supporting his head.

'I have the feet of a thrice pedicured and pampered Indian princess, I'll have you know,' Tony pouts indignantly.

'What an oddly specific comparison.'

'It's a metaphor, dumbass. Not a comparison. I have the feet of a thrice pedicured and pampered Indian princess, my feet are not like the feet of a thrice pedicured and pampered Indian princess. Metaphor.'

'What have you met her for?' Thor interrupts.

'Never mind,' Tony says dismissively. 'It's been impossible to start up an intelligent conversation around here ever since Banner came down with the pox.'

A blanketed lump on the couch groans at the mention of its name. It shifts and Bruce's head appears, feverish and sticky-haired. His face is a constellation of angry red dots.

Bruce- or rather, the Hulk- had made it through the fight unscathed, such was the benefit of being a huge, green, rage monster. It had only been whilst he was helping secure civilians in his human state that he had come across a young boy infected with chicken pox and managed to catch the disease. How he had never caught it before was a mystery to all.

'Don't call it the pox,' Bruce moans, 'you make it sound worse than it is.'

'I don't know if I can, you look terrible.'

'You go back to sleep, Bruce, best thing you can do right now.'

'Can't,' Bruce sulks, and Steve is suddenly able to vividly picture the four year old Bruce must once have been. 'Itches.'

'Oh, that reminds me!' Tony says. 'Steven, my foot itches. Would ya be a doll and scoot on over here and scratch it for me?'

'No, Tony!'

'But you're so good at relieving me!'

'What?'

'Of my itches. I have an itch that only you can scratch.'

'Hey Steve,' Clint adds, about as usefully as he ever does in moments when Steve has just about had enough, 'I think he may be coming onto you.'

'Whatever it takes to get my foot to stop itching,' Tony winks.

'Yep, he's definitely coming onto you.'

'It's so itchy!'

'Stop talking about scratching…' Bruce mutters. Uh-oh, they could be in a danger zone here.

'What? You went on about your itches for hours earlier, and I'm not even allowed to talk about these things, once- no, twice- no, thrice-,'

'What is it with you and the word thrice today?' Clint ponders.

'Why, Feathers, not know what it means?'

'I do!'

'Then shut up.'

'No.'

'Steve, scratch my foot, dammit!'

'Stop talking about scratching!'

Steve throws his hands up into the air, feeling as ridiculous as the melodramatic action looks coming from such a muscled figure of a man.

'Clint, shut up,' he instructs, 'and Tony, no, I will not scratch your foot. Or anything else you may have implied- if that's what you want, you'll have to wait til Pepper gets back. And Bruce-,' Steve leaps, one-handed, over the couch on which Bruce has chosen to suffer. He grabs both of the scientist's hands and pulls them away from his face. He looks Bruce sternly in the eye. '- no scratching! Captain's orders, don't make me tape them together!'

Natasha chose that moment to wake up, her well-honed spy instincts breaking through any grogginess her medication may have left any more normal human being would have experienced. She was, however, still confined to the bed Steve had had rolled into the room so that he could keep an eye on all four of the injured Avengers together.

'Captain, I'm not convinced that you're quite cut out for this whole nursing thing,' she comments, taking in the scene before her, and the frustration rolling in waves off Steve's toned shoulders.

Steve drops Bruce's hands with a warning look. He stands and sighs.

'I'm a soldier, not a medic.'

'The greatest gift one warrior can give to another is the time to heal,' Thor adds wisely. From where he is sat, engulfing an armchair, he leans over, grips Mjolnir by its steel head, then twists and uses the end of the handle to scratch the bottom of Tony's foot.

'Oh, Thor,' Tony groans graphically, 'you're a god.'

'I know.'

Steve gives Thor a look that quite plainly reads couldn't you have done that sooner? Thor shrugs.

There is a knock at the door. The team looks somewhat startled at this event, they had become used to only being the six of them involved in these situations in which talk and irritations were vented. It would seem strange for another to participate and crowd the room of overlapping voices even more.

Steve crosses the room and opens the door to reveal a non-descript SHIELD agent carrying a slightly less non-descript white carrier bag. The smell is familiar.

'I knew something was missing!' Tony crows joyously.

The agent passes the bag to Steve, then turns and leaves wordlessly. It would have been weird if another person had joined the conversation at this late stage, anyway.

'Shawarma!' Clint cries. In his excitement to rush over and relieve Steve of his bag carrying duties, he manages to hitch his sling up higher than is comfortable for his shattered elbow, whilst simultaneously choking himself by tightening the neck brace. 'Shwrmphf!' he wheezes. He grabs out with his free hand. Steve twists out his reach.

'If we're going to eat, we're going to eat off plates.'

Clint, wincing, manages to unravel his tangled bandages. 'Go on then, mother.'

As Steve is plating things up, he finds a note underneath all of the containers. He reads it, then tucks it into his shirt pocket before stepping out to serve his demanding patients.

Thor, with hitherto unforeseen deft waitering skills whisks the plates out of Steve's arms and disperses them amongst the team. He places one on the couch arm above Bruce's pock-marked head, hands one to Tony, then one to Clint, who has perched himself at the end of Natasha's bed, before handing one to Natasha herself.

Steve chews thoughtfully and enjoys the peace that has at last descended among the ranks.

'There was a note with the food,' he says after a few moments.

'Was it an invalidated health certificate from the food health and safety board?' Bruce enquires. His constant disdain at the quality of food from the shawarma restaurant has never prevented him from eating for long, however.

'It was from the restaurant.'

'How nice of them,' Tony says, 'considering that I did pay for their restaurant to rebuilt.'

'After we destroyed it,' Natasha points out.

'What did it say?' Thor asks Steve. 'Was it compliments from the chef.'

'Something like that. Of course, when I say it was from the restaurant, I do mean that it was from Fury.'

That sent a ripple around the room. Steve smiles deviously. It isn't often that he is in the know up against the others.

'What do you mean?' Bruce says.

'I haven't read the note,' Natasha says, 'but I think I know.'

'Know what?' Tony demands. 'What is there to know? How can Fury be Fury and the shawarma joint. That's transforming not even I can engineer.'

Steve sets his empty plate down and pulls the folded piece of paper out of his pocket.

'My dearest Avengers,' he begins to read.

'I don't think he means that….' Tony mumbles darkly.

Steve continues. 'Ever since the initiative came together and you idiots proved that you were capable of working together as something like a team, we at SHIELD have been closely monitoring you. There is no doubt you know this; at least, I hope you suspect something, otherwise what am I paying you incapable morons for?'

'He doesn't pay us!' Tony protests.

'He pays me, Tasha, Bruce and Steve,' Clint tells the put-out billionaire, 'and even Thor got put on payroll for a bit after the whole Loki business.'

'It is true. I needed some midgardian currency following the removal of my adopted brother from this land.'

'So it's just me then?'

'Like you need a couple of extra thousand from SHIELD, Stark. They really don't pay that well.'

'Can I finish reading now?'

'My liege,' Tony nods and gestures airily for Steve to, indeed, please continue.

'Following the Loki incident, we found out that you all shared a terrible taste in food. You developed a taste for shawarma and we followed you there. After the chitauri sought revenge upon you whilst you were there, we even placed agents on the premises, and in the kitchens-,'

'I was sure that the food had got worse,' Clint interrupts.

'It was never exactly good to begin with,' Natasha says.

'- in the kitchens. You can take care of yourselves but you can be a danger to others, so you can understand why we had to keep an eye on you.'

'Ha, eye,' Tony says. 'Not eyes. Good ol', Eyepatch.'

'I have something to express to you in this note now, however. Stop eating this motherfucking shite.'

The words sounded strange rolling off the end of Steve's tongue.

'Huh,' Bruce starts, 'he had been showing an unexpectedly formal writing style up until then.'

'Seriously. SHIELD was also keeping tabs on you in order to make sure that you were bonding as a group, as is necessary to effectively function. These shawarma trips allowed you to further bond. But enough is enough, you live together, you don't need to eat out all the time. Our base nutritionist says this food is terrible for you, even you, Thor, and you should stop eating so much of it. Get out of the habit, try something new. Maybe a juice bar. You won't be able to come back to this place anymore as SHIELD shall be shutting it down following the dispatch of these final meals to you. Health and safety or some shit we don't really believe in. Enjoy it while it lasts.'

Clint looks sadly down at his empty plate. 'I already finished mine.'

He reaches over to swipe some from Natasha's plate, but she swipes him away viciously and he gets the message.

'That's that ruined then,' Tony says dryly. 'We have to find a new place to hang, gang.'

'I shall be sad to see the great shawarma food hall come to a close,' Thor says mournfully.

'And yet our stomachs and digestive systems shall be forever grateful,' Bruce amends.

Steve's eyes scan up and down the note another time.

'Wait a second, there's a PS I missed- This is for Agents Barton and Romanoff- there is a security camera in that store cupboard. You probably knew that, even if you didn't know that the footage would be coming directly to me. I just thought that you would like to know that the behaviour exhibited within is not encouraged by SHIELD. It is frowned upon. Yeah, that's it. That's all it says.'

Clint looks unusually silent. Natasha sits up straighter.

'Frowned upon,' Tony says slyly, 'I think I can guess what, but you could always just save me the embarrassment and tell me.'

'None of your business, Stark,' Natasha says levelly. 'There are plenty of things frowned upon in SHIELD.'

'Yeah, and apparently now shawarma is one of them.'

…*…

A/N: And that's it! It took longer than I intended, but this brings this little five and one to an end. Hope you guys all enjoyed.