Chapter 1: Poker night
The air in the common room of Avengers Tower was thick with the smell of pepperoni pizza and cheap beer. Steve Rogers sighed, stretching his shoulders until something popped. “Another thrilling boys’ night,” he said, the words flat. “We couldn’t have found a movie? Or maybe… I don’t know, a board game that doesn’t involve global domination or nuclear fallout?”
Bucky Barnes snorted from the deep leather couch, his metal arm glinting under the soft ambient lighting. “What’s the matter, Rogers? Miss the days of checkers and radio plays?” He took a long pull from his bottle. “This is what passes for relaxation now. Sitting around, not getting shot at. It’s a novelty.”
“It is a noble endeavor!” Thor boomed, slamming his own stein—a genuine, pewter thing he’d brought from Asgard—onto the glass coffee table. It rattled ominously. “The bonding of warriors! The sharing of tales!” He was already on his third keg, by Steve’s silent count, and his cheeks were flushed. “Though… our tales have grown somewhat repetitive. Perhaps we require a new saga.”
Peter Parker, tucked into an armchair that seemed to swallow him whole, fidgeted with the edge of a pizza box. “I mean, we could always just… talk? How’s everyone doing? Really doing?” He looked around at the unimpressed faces. “Okay, tough crowd. Got it.”
A comfortable silence fell, punctuated by the distant hum of New York traffic forty stories below. Thor’s eyes, a bright, stormy blue, scanned the room. They landed on a forgotten deck of cards, peeking out from under a stack of tech manuals.
“A thought occurs,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. He leaned forward, the leather of his vest creaking. “A game of chance. A test of mettle.”
“We’re not playing poker for your hammer again, Thor,” Steve said, rubbing his temple. “The last time, you nearly took out a support beam.”
“No, no Mjolnir,” Thor assured him, a wide, mischievous grin spreading across his face. He snatched the deck and fanned the cards with a surprisingly deft flick of his wrist. “The stakes shall be far more… personal.”
Bucky raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What, are we betting secrets now? Because I’ve got a century’s worth, and most of them are federally classified.”
“Nothing so fleeting as secrets,” Thor said, his gaze sweeping over each of them. “We wager our dignity. Our pride. We play for the very cloth upon our backs.”
The room went still.
Peter’s eyes went wide. “You mean… strip poker?”
“A game of kings!” Thor declared, slamming his hand on the table again. “A true test of a man’s nerve! To see who possesses the fortitude to remain clothed, and who must face the humility of defeat!”
Steve blinked. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, lighten up, Cap,” Bucky said, a slow, rare smile touching his lips. It was the kind of smile that usually preceded trouble. “Might be fun. See if the God of Thunder blushes.”
“I do not blush,” Thor stated, puffing out his chest. “I glow with the fierce radiance of the storm.”
Peter looked from Steve’s stern, unyielding expression to Thor’s enthusiastic grin, to Bucky’s amused smirk. He swallowed, hard. This was not how he’d envisioned his Friday night. “I, uh… I don’t know if my… uh… mettle is up for that kind of test.”
“Come now, young Spider!” Thor encouraged. “It is but a game! What is the shedding of garments among comrades? We have shed blood together! This is a far more pleasant affair.”
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a terrible idea.”
“All your best stories start that way,” Bucky countered, already scooting forward to the edge of the couch. “Come on, Rogers. Live a little. Or are you afraid the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan doesn’t have a plan for this?”
That was a low blow, and Bucky knew it. Steve’s jaw tightened. He looked at Thor’s unwavering, challenging grin, at Bucky’s goading eyes, and at Peter’s nervous, but undeniably curious, expression.
He let out a long, defeated breath. “Fine. One hand. To see how it goes.”
Thor’s triumphant laugh echoed through the room. “Excellent! The Man of Iron is not here to witness this, and for that, we shall all be grateful!” He began to shuffle the deck, the cards snapping together with a sound like tiny firecrackers. He dealt five cards to each man with a theatrical flourish.
Peter picked his up, holding them so close to his face he was almost cross-eyed. Bucky fanned his out with a cool, practiced ease. Steve examined his hand with the intense focus of a man surveying a battlefield.
Thor simply beamed, his cards face-down on the table. “Now,” he rumbled, his eyes alight with gleeful anticipation. “Let the unveiling begin.”
The first hand was a brutal, swift lesson in Thor’s complete lack of poker face. He grinned at a pair of threes like they’d personally handed him the keys to Valhalla. Steve, with a disciplined fold, saved his boots. Bucky, with a calculated raise that had no real heat behind it, forced a call. Peter, sweating, tossed in his cards the moment Bucky looked his way.
Thor lost. Spectacularly.
“A minor setback!” he roared, utterly delighted. He stood up, unbuckled the thick leather belt holding his dark jeans, and yanked it free with a sharp snap. He tossed the heavy strip of leather, with its ornate silver buckle, onto the growing pile of discarded chips and bottle caps in the center of the table. “The foundations of a fortress are not shaken by the loss of a single stone!”
“It’s a belt, Thor,” Bucky said dryly, gathering the cards to shuffle. “Not a foundational stone.”
“You mock, but you have yet to feel the sting of defeat, Barnes,” Thor retorted, dropping back onto the couch with a force that made the frame groan.
The next hand was Steve’s. He won with a quiet, “Read ‘em and weep,” laying down a full house. His expression was pure, unadulterated relief. The loss went to Bucky, who merely smirked, shrugged out of his tight gray henley, and tossed it aside. The worn fabric landed on Thor’s belt. The muscles in Bucky’s torso were a defined map of old scars and newer, cleaner lines, his metal shoulder joint gleaming under the light. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.
“Eyes on your cards, Parker,” he said without looking at Peter, who was staring a little too intently at his own hand.
“Right. Cards.”
The third hand changed the temperature in the room. The playful tension sharpened into a real edge. It was down to Peter and Thor. Peter had nothing. A seven high. But Thor’s tells were like neon signs; his excitement about his cards made his knee bounce, his fingers drum the table. Peter, relying on pure spider-instinct and a desperate desire to keep his clothes on, bluffed. He pushed all his remaining chip substitutes—a motley collection of bottle caps and a StarkPad stylus—into the center.
“I’m all in,” he said, his voice cracking only slightly.
Thor’s booming laugh died in his throat. He squinted at Peter, his head cocked. The storm in his eyes seemed to calm, replaced by a flicker of genuine assessment. He looked at his cards, then back at Peter’s carefully neutral face. For a long, silent moment, the only sound was the hum of the tower.
Then Thor sighed, a gusty, disappointed sound. “The young wolf learns to bite,” he grumbled, tossing his cards face down. A king-high flush. Peter’s heart tried to climb out of his throat.
A collective, held breath released around the table.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Bucky murmured, a new respect in his eyes.
Thor stood, his grandeur undiminished. “A debt is a debt.” He made a show of it, grabbing the hem of his black t-shirt. He pulled it over his head in one smooth, powerful motion, and the fabric made a soft whump as he dropped it. His torso was a monumental landscape of dense muscle, pale skin, and a light dusting of blond hair. He wasn’t just built; he was carved from something primordial. “Does the sight please you, mortals?” he asked, striking a pose that made his shoulders look as wide as the horizon.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Steve admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
The next hand was the killer. The cards seemed to conspire against youth and innocence. Peter lost. Badly. To Steve, of all people.
The silence this time was different. Heavier.
Peter’s face flushed a hot, betraying red. “Uh. Socks count, right?” he asked, his voice small.
“Socks are a garment of the foot, young Parker,” Thor intoned, now deeply invested in the rule of law. “The wager was for the cloth upon our backs. The shirt is the foundational garment of the torso.”
Bucky just gave a slow, merciless shake of his head. “Off it comes, kid.”
Steve looked like he wanted to call the whole thing off, to put a stop to this nonsense and find a blanket to wrap around Peter. But he’d agreed to the game. His principles were a straitjacket in moments like these.
Peter stood up, his movements stiff. The playful energy was gone, replaced by a vulnerable, prickling self-consciousness. He grabbed the collar of his science-pun t-shirt and pulled it over his head, messing up his hair in the process. He held the crumpled ball of fabric for a second too long before dropping it onto the pile with the others.
He stood there, in the middle of the lavish common room, in just his jeans. He was lean, all taut muscle and sharp angles, so different from the sheer, dense power of Thor or the rugged, battle-hardened frame of Bucky. A fine tremor ran through him, and he crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them, shoving his hands in his pockets instead. He looked painfully young.
“Happy?” he muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
The room was quiet for a beat too long.
Then Bucky leaned forward, his metal elbow resting on his knee. “Relax, Queens. No one’s gonna bite you.” His tone was closer to gentle than it had been all night. “It’s just skin. We’ve all got it.”
Steve finally found his voice. “He’s right, Peter. It’s just a game.” He began gathering the cards, his movements decisive. “I think that’s enough for—”
The sharp, electronic buzz of the penthouse door interrupt chime cut him off. All four of them froze.
A voice, filtered through the intercom, laced with familiar, sarcastic genius, echoed into the sudden silence.
“Hey, Cap, you in there? Forgot my damn phone. Jarvis said you were having a ‘clandestine meeting.’ Please tell me it’s not a support group for star-spangled has-beens.”
It was Tony.
Peter’s eyes widened in pure, unadulterated panic. He was shirtless, standing in the middle of the room, with a pile of discarded clothes on the table. His gaze darted around, looking for an escape, an explanation, anything.
Bucky’s smirk returned, wider and more wicked than before. Thor’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline, a slow, dawning amusement on his face.
Steve closed his eyes, a man praying for the floor to swallow him whole.
The door hissed open.