Team Tony's Tiny Tyrant
It started with Clint.
Which, to be fair, was how most problems began.
He was moping in the corner after a mission, face in a bowl of cereal at 3 p.m., when Harry wandered in wearing a hoodie three sizes too big and a judgmental expression that could level cities.
"You look like a depressed raccoon," Harry said.
"Thanks."
Harry grabbed a spoon, stole a bite of Clint's cereal, and chewed thoughtfully.
Then: "You're upset because you messed up in the field and Steve didn't say 'good job' even though it wasn't actually your fault and you crave approval from paternal figures."
Clint blinked.
Natasha blinked.
"I—what?" Clint asked.
Harry patted his shoulder. "Get over it. Tell Steve you need validation like an adult. Then come back here and help me reorganize Tony's lab drawers by color."
And Clint… listened.
--
The next day, Bruce was spiraling over lab results.
Harry walked in, peered over his shoulder, and said, "You're overthinking. You've already solved the formula. You're just panicking because it worked too fast and you don't trust yourself to be right."
Bruce froze.
Harry handed him a cookie.
"Take the win, science wizard."
--
Then it was Steve.
Steve, who had been pacing the balcony with enough tension to snap steel.
Harry strolled up, handed him a smoothie, and said, "You're angry because you don't know how to handle everyone moving on without needing your approval."
Steve blinked.
"You're not obsolete, Cap. You're just evolving. Try therapy."
Steve blinked again.
Harry smiled. "Or push-ups. Your coping mechanisms are basic."
--
And then Tony.
Tony, who was snapping at everyone, storming around the lab like a caffeine-fueled thunderstorm.
Harry marched in with zero fear and a teacup.
"You're panicking because you care. And because Pepper said 'structure' and your brain heard 'chains.' You're not failing. You're just being weird about it."
"I am not—"
"You're being weird, Tony. Accept it."
Tony stared at him.
Harry handed him a packet labeled "emergency validation — use as needed."
It was full of sticky notes that said "you're doing fine," "your hair looks okay," and "your child loves you, you idiot."
Tony didn't cry.
But he didn't speak for ten minutes either.
--
Now, Harry had a list.
An actual, color-coded schedule called "Team Emotional Regulation (A.K.A. Babysitting the Dysfunctional Adults)"
Clint: Mondays.
Bruce: Tea Thursdays.
Steve: Balcony walks every other morning.
Natasha: Shared knife polishing (surprisingly therapeutic).
Tony: Nightly sass check-ins and reassurance sticky notes.
Pepper laminated it.
Bucky framed it.
And no one argued.
Because for all the sass, all the teasing, and all the chaos, Harry knew them.
Saw them.
Cared.
And in a Tower full of world-class fighters and legends, somehow, the smallest one of them was the only one brave enough to say, "You're not okay—and that's okay."
--
That night, Harry lay draped across the common room couch, feet in Steve's lap, head in Bucky's hoodie-clad chest, while Tony read a report and pretended not to look over every five seconds.
"You're watching me again," Harry mumbled.
"Checking for signs of villainy," Tony replied.
Harry smirked. "Find anything?"
"Just overwhelming adorableness."
"I'm a menace."
"You're my menace," Tony muttered.
Harry smiled into Bucky's chest.
"Yeah," he said. "I am."
--