A/N: Unbeta'd.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose as Clint rambled on. "I just don't get why she won't talk to me. It's not like I did anything wrong. We aren't even dating!"

Bruce sighed. "Are you sure you weren't dating? From what she told me you don't exactly have the best track record with that."

Clint pointed a finger at Bruce and opened his mouth to rebuke the comment but no sound came out. His eyebrows furrowed and his jaw snapped shut. He started to run his hand through his hair but stopped short. "Wait. You talked to her about this?"

Rolling his eyes, Bruce responded. "Yes, Clint. I talked to her two days ago. Steve was in here all day last week, Thor was on that couch for three hours the day before that, and don't even get me started on Tony." He rubbed his face with both hands. "I don't understand. I'm not—this isn't what I do! I'm not that kind of doctor."

Clint stretched out further into the couch, sinking into the soft cushions, nodding absently to what Bruce was saying.

Bruce really liked that couch. It had taken him weeks to find. It was the one thing he let himself splurge on, rich brown in color, soft and supple fabric… it swallowed you whole in all the best ways when you sat in it. He found himself sleeping more on that couch than he did in his actual bed.

But it seemed like the moment the couch was delivered, his teammates started treating his office like a psychiatrist's office. They'd walk in without knocking and just fall onto the couch, splaying their limbs, and start telling Bruce about all of their personal problems. And it wasn't a 'one friend to another' kind of thing. They rarely asked for advice, they never asked how he was doing, they just spread out on those cushions and started monologuing.

Clint had started speaking again, hands gesturing wildly but Bruce tuned him out and stared at the couch like it was the root of all of his—

"Clint, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I've got a lot of work to get done today. I'm sure you can figure this one out on your own, just go talk to her about it, alright?" Clint looked a little shocked at Bruce's interruption but just shrugged his shoulders, swung his feet to the floor and exited the room.

Bruce stood up and stared at the couch. He shook his head sadly and sighed. "Damn."

Bruce wandered up to the communal floor, empty coffee cup in hand. Sure, he had a coffee pot in his office but Tony had really outdone himself with the one in the shared kitchen. Plus, Bruce felt the need to stretch his legs anyway. He walked down the hall, hearing the low rumble of someone talking from too far away to make out the words.

As he got closer to the living area that was adjacent to the kitchen, he identified the voice as Tony. Specifically, Tony on a roll. He didn't sound angry or upset, but the words just weren't ending. Honestly, Sometimes Bruce wondering how Tony managed to get enough air when he hardly seemed to pause between sentences. Curious, Bruce walked as quietly as possible and peered around the corner.

Tony lay sprawled across the brown couch, hands gesticulating wildly in the air as he spoke about something that he obviously felt strongly about. But he wasn't alone. In the matching arm chair perpendicular to the sofa, Steve sat quietly, scratching away at his sketchpad with a worn down pencil. Bruce could hear him prompting Tony with questioning noises or murmurs of understanding.

It was probably the first time Bruce had ever seen them together for so long without resorting to name calling or insults.

He smiled to himself and made his way to the kitchen, the two men glancing over at him in acknowledgment before going back to what they were doing.

The next time someone stopped by Bruce's office, they sat in the stiff leather loveseat and asked Bruce how he was doing.