It had become something of a regular thing for the team to gather for shawarma. Bruce was, after all, living on his own floor of Tony's Stark Tower and spending hours with the illustrious man himself. Thor had decided to stay in New York for a while whilst Jane worked on a research grant proposal at the university, and Tony had offered them a suite too, which had been accepted. Steve accepted a similar invitation to join them so that he could be in a position to bond with his team and to be out from under the stifling watch of SHIELD. He may be a bit clueless when it came down to life in the twenty-first century, but he wasn't as vulnerable and naïve as some made him out to be, and he appreciated Bruce's honest answers to his questions and often Tony's more blunt approach. He was even starting to like the guy.

The only Avengers not in the tower on a daily basis were Natasha and Clint, who were still under SHIELD embargo. Tony was trying to wheedle them out of it, trying to fulfil some newly found fantasy of his in which six superheroes (well, a robotic man, a super-soldier, a demi-god, a huge green rage monster and two assassins) all lived together and trashed the place. Steve had noticed his eyes light up with manic glee as he imagined the sorts of hijinks they could all get up to, some sort of high-budget sitcom. Or maybe even a reality TV show because, really, who wouldn't watch that?

Until that time came though, the group would meet for shawarma once a week. It wasn't even planned, it just sort of happened.

The fourth or fifth time it happened, however, they weren't alone.

It is Natasha who is first to notice something is off. Steve notices her silently communicating something to Clint with a swift tap of the shoulder and a quirking of her eyebrows. Clint frowns and leaves his mouth hanging open mid-chew, exposing the mashed up meaty delights for everyone to enjoy.

'What's up HawkEye, find another bone in your food?' Tony asks as he washes down his own oversized bite with some water.

'As we keep finding bones in our food, the small pointy kind which could easily kill even us, I have no idea why we keep coming back to this place,' says Bruce.

'This is our place, Bruce, our place. It's our Central Perk, our Cheers bar, our-,'

'Alright, Tony, we get your point. This is where we all hang out and have jests and japes together. This sitcom fantasy really means a lot to you, doesn't it?'

'Our theme tune would be Highway To Hell.'

Thor hammers his fist down on the table, a signal the waiters have by now come to learn as meaning 'more of your fine goods, noble sirs.' A fresh plate appears at his elbow in a matter of seconds before the waiter scampers off as fast as his little legs will carry him.

'I like the bones!' Thor exclaims. 'They bring a delicious crunch to our feasting.'

Natasha reaches over and, with her index finger, tilts Clint's chin up and closes his mouth for him as it had continued to hang open as he concentrated on something across the room. The action reminds him that he does, in fact, have part-masticated shawarma in his mouth, and he chews and swallows.

'Yeah, you're right,' he says after a moment, glancing at Natasha. 'You recognise him too?'

'Recognise who?' Tony asks.

Steve sighs. It's probably another one of these celebrities who is famous for no real reason that he can see.

'He's one of the guys who used to shadow Tony,' Natasha says, still mostly talking to Clint and ignoring Tony.

'Who? Who followed me? Recognise who?'

'I thought he'd been reassigned though.'

'A guy? Reassigned? Where, what? His gender?'

'Maybe this is his new assignment.'

'Y'know, super-secret spy guys, you're not being as super and secret as you may think and… And I'm not used to being ignored!' His closing statement is unmistakably a whine.

'Tony, be quiet for a second, will ya?' Steve hisses. 'You're Iron Man, not Iron Petulant Child Who Has Had His Candy Taken Away.'

'Ah, I see you've met my inner child.'

Steve ignores him and glances over at the two assassins. 'It might be nice to know what's going on though, guys. Especially if it affects the rest of us.'

'I'm thinking it probably does. From what Tash has told me before,' Clint says.

'That man over there,' Natasha gestures with the slightest incline of her head to a man sat at a table across the room, alone and scribbling furiously with a pen in hand, the other occupied with shovelling large amounts of shawarma into his mouth.

'What man?'

She instantly regrets having made any gesture at all, as the four men facing her turn away to look at the mysterious man.

'No!' she groans. 'Don't all look at once…'

They turn back to her. Bruce at least has the presence of mind to look somewhat bashful.

'Honestly, aren't some of you supposed to be geniuses?' she says through gritted teeth.

'Sorry,' Bruce says.

'The greatest geniuses of Asgard are our warriors,' Thor says, even though nobody asked. 'And a man who once wrote a poem of the highest comedy. Beowulf.'

'Beowulf's a comedy?' Tony's ADD-addled mind is instantly distracted.

'On Asgard, yes, a comedy of the finest intricacies. Of course, our favourite joke is that you people here on Midgard treat it as something to be revered and never laughed at.' Thor laughs, deep and booming, fondly muttering, 'Oh, you little Midgardians, you.'

'Taking things back on topic,' Natasha starts. 'His name is Lionel Schmidt. He's paparazzi.'

'Papa-papa- paparazzi?' Steve struggles to get out. It has been a long time since he was confronted by the flashbulbs of cameras and the cheers of adoring fans for Captain America.

'Honestly, Cap, I know you're in shock about this right now, but that just sounded like you were about to launch into a bit of classic Gaga,' Tony grins.

'Schmidt's probably not the only one around. I'm guessing there are more of them outside. They must have learned we come here,' Natasha says, all very rapidly as her eyes are darting about, taking in the other patrons of the fine establishment- a young Muslim mother in a headscarf with a crying baby held to her chest and an old man sat in the corner who had been slowly coughing up a lung throughout the course of the evening.

'There go our careers as assassins and spies then,' Clint says lightly.

'Don't worry, Barton, we've got your back. We'll be there for you-,'

Bruce cuts Tony off. 'No, Tony, no. This isn't Friends. We are not creating a superhero sitcom just to amuse you!'

'Well, soooorry, but I think it's too late for that. We're going to have to pull off some sort of comedy getaway to escape the newspaper hounds here. What are we thinking, gang? Disguises?'

'We could just walk out,' Steve suggests. 'I mean, from what we can see it is only one guy and-,'

'Nice one, Steve,' Clint says briskly, starting to stand. 'You've jinxed us.'

'What? But I didn't say any magic words…'

'I'm giving it about twenty seconds until the hordes arrive.'

'What?'

'How?'

'I hear that these paparazzi have silver tongues; are lie-smiths as my adopted brother is.'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen,' Tony rises slowly, as if on an ascent controlled by some divine power. Thor isn't touching him though. 'And Widow,' he nods courteously at Natasha. 'As the public face of Stark Industries, I have some experience in dealing with the press.'

As he speaks, the hordes Clint had predicted assemble suddenly at the window, appearing as if from nowhere, voices loaded with petty questions and accusations, their dull eyes hungry for gossip. Cameras are flashing already and they have to raise their hands to cover their faces.

'I now offer up my services as the new face of the Avengers Initiative. I shall be the sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. I shall be the fall guy. I shall be-,'

'Shut up being a martyr and get out there,' Natasha, half-blinded by flashes, is shoving Tony forward. 'We'll find another way out, just distract them.'

And with that, Tony falls through the door and is quickly engulfed by the many-microphoned swarm. Steve hears a few snippets of questions as Clint leads them out towards the back-

'-Mr Stark, when will we be seeing the Avengers again?-'

'- what are you really doing to protect this country-'

'- what's Captain America like in bed, Mr Stark?-'

'- how do you get your goatee so perfectly shaped?-'

- but he doesn't have time to process any of it before he has having to make his own escape.

Nobody is too surprised when blurry photographs of themselves, accompanied by heavily exaggerated tales (or, who knows, it had been Tony talking after all) of an upcoming Avengers sitcom featurette appear in the newspapers the next day.