129 Bachelor Party

Harry sat alone in his room alone and had shut the world out for hours, maybe days. He wasn’t even keeping track anymore. Natasha came and went but he faked to her that he was using his occlumency to organize the recent events. This way, she wouldn’t disturb his brooding with honeyed optimistic justifications to re-emphasize the point that he was well within his rights to do what he did.

The thoughts came in waves with the same message. Initially he was thinking about whether there was misinformation. But the more he thought, more the guilt festered inside of him. ‘Two hundred dead. Two hundred families broken. And for all his power, for all his promises, he hadn’t stopped it.’ He tried to tell himself it was unavoidable, that they had done everything they could, that without them humanity would have died. But the excuses rang hollow in the quiet. He was supposed to be better. Stronger. Smarter. What was all the training with Frigaa worth if he and the team could be defeated by something that they created to protect the world?

The spiral deepened, the silence thickened, and Harry sank further into himself that is, until the door burst open without warning. The door slammed open, rattling the hinges and in came playboy, billionaire, philanthropist, Tony Stark in all his glory. “Up and at ’em, Potter. We’ve got places to be and a tight schedule to keep,” Tony announced like a drill sergeant hopped up on espresso. His voice carried zero room for debate.

Before Harry could even form words, Tony was yanking the covers off and hauling him upright with alarming strength. Harry stumbled after him, still blinking the haze of brooding thoughts away. He tried to say something, but Tony stopped him immediately. “Nope. No questions. No time. You’ve had your sad-boy montage. We’re done with that. Come on.”

In the next breath, Harry was shoved into the bathroom, Tony marching in behind him with all the grace of a hurricane. The next thing Harry knew, the shower knobs were turned, cold water blasted, and Harry was standing fully clothed under the spray, spluttering as his shirt clung to his skin.

“Tony!” he protested, coughing as droplets ran down his face.

“Excellent. You’re awake. You smell like the inside of Thor’s laundry basket.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder, earning a soaked slap in return from Harry’s sleeve, then spun on his heel like he had just completed a successful mission.

“Chop chop, Boy Wizard. Clothes off, wash up, look presentable. We’re burning daylight.” Tony was already halfway out the door, tossing over his shoulder, “Try not to drown in there, alright? Would be super awkward to explain to Romanoff.”

And then he was gone, leaving Harry dripping, dazed, and very much awake in the shower.

Confused but resigned, Harry did what Tony had commanded. He showered, scrubbed away the grime of his sulking, and tugged on a clean white T-shirt and black jeans. He ran a towel through his hair, still not sure what madness Tony was orchestrating this time, and stepped out into the hallway.

The moment he entered the common room, Harry froze.

Every single person he knew was there.

Yao stood with her hands clasped behind her back like a disapproving teacher on a field trip, her ornate robes replaced by a simple, pressed linen suit, though the glowing sling ring on her hand spoiled the attempt at normalcy.

Steve wore khakis and a button-down rolled to the elbows, looking like he was about to give a lecture on school safety. Clint leaned against the wall in a vintage band tee and cargo shorts, sipping from a can of soda with the smug energy of a man who knew exactly how many ways he could kill someone with a toothpick.

Thor, of course, had interpreted “casual” as leather pants, a sleeveless vest, and enough jangling jewelry to make a Vegas performer jealous. Tony was head-to-toe in designer athleisure, sunglasses already on, radiating chaotic ringleader energy. Pietro sported neon running gear as if someone was going to time his bathroom breaks, while Bruce wore a polo and slacks like a dad on vacation reluctantly dragged to Disney World.

Even Coulson was there, his crisp suit traded for a plain Mets jersey, grinning like this was the best assignment he’d ever been given. Beside him, Fury stood in black jeans and a leather jacket, scowling like he’d been blackmailed into showing up.

And then there were the girls: Natasha curled on the couch with a book, legs tucked under her in yoga pants and a fitted tank top; Wanda in oversized sweats, cradling a cup of tea with Vision beside her, looking oddly pleased to be wearing a cardigan; Maria Hill in workout leggings, scrolling through her phone; and Felicia, stretched across an armchair like a cat, wearing silk lounge pants and twirling a strand of platinum hair.

“Did I miss a memo or something? Where are we going?” Harry asked, his brows furrowed like Tony had just dragged him into an IRS audit.

Tony threw his hands up. “Vegas, Potter. Vee-gas. You know lights, casinos, poor life choices?”

Harry tilted his head. “Why? Is there a conference or do the Avengers need to make a speech again?”

Tony stopped dead, pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a strangled scream. “Yes, Potter. A conference. Keynote speaker: me. Topic: How Not To Be A Clueless Wizard When Your Friends Throw You A Bachelor Party.”

Harry’s expression didn’t change. “You could’ve just said no if you didn’t want to tell me.”

Tony rounded on him like he’d been personally insulted. “It’s your bloody bachelor party, you idiot!” He gestured at the room full of Avengers like it was Exhibit A. “Do you think I gathered Earth’s Mightiest Heroes in casual wear because we’re starting a book club?”

Harry blinked at him. “Depends what kind of book club.”

“Son of a bitch, he’s serious,” Tony muttered, throwing a despairing look at Steve. “And people think I’m the dramatic one.” He jabbed a finger in Harry’s chest. “Now let’s move. Vegas is waiting, and Romanoff has threatened to skin me alive if I don’t get you back before curfew. And I, for one, like having my skin attached.”

On cue, Yao lifted her hands and began sketching glowing golden circles in the air. Sparks hissed and spun until a shimmering portal snapped open, revealing a luxurious, but completely empty, hotel lobby on the other side.

“Vegas, baby!” Tony shouted like a hype man at a concert.

Before Harry could protest, Steve and Clint flanked him like overenthusiastic bouncers. “No second thoughts, soldier,” Steve said with a grin, while Clint added, “Bachelor tax, you go first.”

And with that, they each hooked an arm and dragged Harry bodily through the portal, his feet barely touching the floor.

Thor laughed heartily as he followed. “At last, a proper Midgardian feast hall adventure!”

Bruce muttered, “Oh God, I already regret this,” but still stepped through. Pietro zipped in after them, and Fury and Coulson strolled in last like they were checking off an operation on their clipboard.

As the portal began to shrink, Natasha called out smiling in that dangerous way only she could. “Get back home soon, have fun, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Just as the circle snapped shut, Harry heard Felicia’s voice float through with feline mischief: “But is there much you wouldn’t do?”

That was the last thing he heard before the golden light vanished and the madness of Vegas engulfed them.

The hotel lobby was eerily quiet. Only two receptionists stood stiffly behind the desk, plastered smiles straining on their faces, while a lone valet lingered outside, fiddling nervously with his cap. The air felt… too empty, like the place had been scrubbed of life.

Harry slowed his steps, glancing around at the deserted sofas and silent chandeliers. “Why is this hotel so empty?” he asked with a frown.

Tony threw his hands up in mock exasperation. “Well, turns out ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes’ aren’t exactly a hot selling point these days. Apparently, nobody likes the idea of hosting a bunch of so-called walking weapons of mass destruction in their establishments.” He wiggled his fingers dramatically at the words, dripping with sarcasm.

Harry frowned. “So they didn’t want us here?”

“Not only didn’t want us, they lectured me,” Tony said, voice rising theatrically. “Like I’m some reckless, unstable menace to society. Can you believe that? Me!”

Steve gave him a flat look. “Yes.”

Tony ignored him and spread his arms wide. “So, instead of being treated like a criminal in my own bachelor party plans, I did the only logical, sane thing a totally reasonable billionaire would do—” He spun on his heel and pointed at the grand casino entrance. “I bought the entire goddamn hotel. Voilà. Tonight it’s just us, the staff, and a mountain of free alcohol.”

“Logical, sane, and totally reasonable,” Clint muttered under his breath.

Bruce sighed. “So this is either the best or worst idea you’ve ever had.”

As they made their way through the quiet halls, the staff they passed gave small, awkward bows and murmured greetings, their voices a little too stiff, like they weren’t sure if welcoming the Avengers was hospitality or self-preservation.

Pietro slowed to glance around the grand corridors. “So,” he asked, smirking at Tony, “what exactly are you going to do with this place once our party’s over? Keep it as a souvenir?”

Tony waved a dismissive hand, like Pietro had asked him what kind of socks he was wearing. “Please. I don’t have time to run hotels. That’s way too… ordinary.” He pointed at the marble columns. “Pepper can do whatever she likes with it. Sell it, rent it, remodel it into a luxury spa, I don’t care. Or maybe I’ll just donate it and let SHIELD turn it into another depressing bunker. Or an orphanage. Or—ooh—a museum dedicated entirely to me. ‘The Stark Experience.’ People would pay good money to see my collection of old coffee mugs and half-finished inventions.”

Bruce groaned. “God help us.”

Pietro chuckled and gave a nod of approval. “I like this answer. No strings. No responsibility. Just… ‘meh.’ Respect.”

Tony smirked at him. “That’s the spirit, Speedy. You’re catching on to the Stark philosophy: never sweat the small stuff, and everything is small stuff.”

“Except Ultron,” Steve muttered under his breath.

Tony threw him a look but didn’t break stride, leading them into the pool area with the swagger of a man who’d just bought an entire kingdom for the night.

The pool deck had been transformed as per Tony’s request. A Michelin-star chef manned an outdoor grill, flames leaping high as he expertly flipped steaks, seafood, and skewers of vegetables. Platters of exotic fruit lined the tables, and bartenders mixed cocktails like it was an Olympic sport.

Thor was the first to make trouble, slamming a massive barrel of Asgardian mead onto the deck with a thunderous thud. He had asked Tony to stash the barrel here for their arrival. “A celebration is not worthy without the drink of the gods!” he bellowed, filling flagons with golden liquid. Harry, Yao, and Steve each took one.

Steve sniffed suspiciously. “This smells like jet fuel.”

“Do not be faint of heart!” Thor cheered, clapping him hard enough on the back to nearly send him into the pool.

Harry took a long gulp, his eyes widening as the fire tore down his throat. Yao coughed into her sleeve, muttering in Mandarin about “poison disguised as liquor.” Steve steeled himself, took a sip, then immediately doubled over in a coughing fit.

Pietro, grinning, grabbed a mug. “If the old man can drink it, so can I!” He downed half in one go, then dropped like a sack of bricks onto the deck, unconscious.

“Amateur,” Thor declared proudly.

Harry sighed, knelt down, and with a wave of his hand siphoned the alcohol out of Pietro’s bloodstream. The speedster groaned, sat up groggily, and muttered, “Worst… pit stop… ever.”

Clint was already waist-deep in the pool, dual-wielding water guns he’d found by the cabana. “Alright, who wants some? Barton never misses—” His words were cut off as Tony, in his swim trunks and aviators, launched a miniature repulsor blast into the pool. The resulting geyser blasted Clint clear out of the water and onto a deck chair, where he groaned. “Cheap shot, Stark…”

“Correction: efficient shot,” Tony said smugly, high-fiving Coulson, who had been lounging under an umbrella sipping a mojito like this was just another day at the office.

Bruce tried to relax in the hot tub, but every time he closed his eyes, a terrified staff member hovered nearby with towels and stress balls, like they were on Hulk-watch duty. Bruce groaned. “You people know I don’t turn green because of bubbles, right?”

Nick Fury, surprisingly, was the most committed to enjoying himself. He commandeered a lounge chair, sunglasses on, drink in hand, and barked at a nervous waiter: “Refill. And keep them coming. I’ve earned this.” By the third round, he was loudly critiquing the lifeguard’s form: “You call that a rescue stance? Back in my day—”

Steve, determined to prove he could still cut loose, dove into the pool and started organizing a “synchronized swimming routine.” It lasted all of two minutes before Thor cannonballed in and obliterated the attempt with a tidal wave that sent everyone spluttering.

Yao, quietly sipping her Asgardian drink, finally sighed, stood, and with a flick of her hand, animated the pool water into a towering dragon. The staff screamed. Clint yelped. Pietro tried to outrun it around the deck, but the water-dragon pelted him into the pool like a rag doll. Everyone laughed as Harry joined in, conjuring a second water beast that wrestled the first.

“Okay, okay, this is cheating!” Tony cried, holding up his martini glass as a shield. “Rules: no magic in pool fights!”

“Then no tech either,” Harry shot back, pointing at Tony’s repulsor gauntlet.

“…Touché.” Tony grinned, tossing the gauntlet aside and cannonballing into the chaos.

Even the staff got dragged in. One brave chef delivered trays of sliders to the edge of the pool, only for Pietro to zoom by, grab all of them at once, and return seconds later holding an empty plate. The chef nearly fainted.

By the time the sun set, there were half-empty bottles scattered across tables, Clint snoring in a floaty shaped like a flamingo, Steve giving heartfelt lectures about “teamwork” to a completely unconscious Pietro, and Fury belting out karaoke on a staff member’s phone.

Harry, chuckling, walked around quietly purging hangovers before they could even settle.

Once everyone had dried themselves and gotten out of their swimwear, they headed to the hotel’s casino. The casino glittered under neon lights, humming with slot machines and the faint chime of winning bells. Rows of dealers stood ready, bowing as the Avengers sauntered in like they owned the place, which, technically, Tony did.

Tony immediately strode to a roulette table, tossing a stack of chips that nearly made the dealer faint. “Put it all on Stark red. If I lose, I’m renaming this place Banner’s House of Losers.” Obviously, Bruce put all his bets on Black to challenge Tony. The ball spun. He lost. Without hesitation, Tony threw down another stack twice as big. “Double or nothing. This is how geniuses fix bad luck.”

Bruce just smirked. “Your loss is my gain in the Banner’s house of Winners.”

Thor spotted a hammer-shaped lever on a slot machine and yanked it so hard the machine shattered into coins. “I have conquered Midgard’s gambling challenge!” he roared, stuffing his pockets until Harry muttered a spell to keep the machine from imploding.

Steve sat at a blackjack table with a polite smile. Every time he hit, he got exactly 21. The dealer looked at him like he was either cheating or blessed by God. Steve just shrugged innocently. “Guess honesty pays off.” Behind him, Harry noticed Steve accidentally winking at the dealer, who nearly melted.

Clint slipped into a darts-style game, only to use toothpicks and paper straws instead of the proper darts. Somehow, he still nailed bullseye after bullseye. “Do you see this? Best two-dollar champion in the house.”

Pietro blurred through three slot machines at once, pulling their levers in a blur of speed. Within seconds, alarms screamed, jackpots blaring in chorus. “What? It’s not cheating. It’s efficiency!” he declared, juggling gold tokens until one smacked Fury in the head.

Fury, nursing his forehead, glared and marched to the craps table. With his single eye blazing, he threw dice so hard they ricocheted off two walls and landed in snake eyes. The entire table groaned. “Story of my damn life,” he muttered, stalking away.

Coulson quietly found the claw machine in the corner and, with the seriousness of a SHIELD mission, maneuvered it for ten full minutes. His prize? A plushie of a raccoon wearing sunglasses. He held it up triumphantly. “Worth it.”

Yao didn’t bother with any machines. She calmly conjured glowing rings to spin the roulette wheel herself, landing exactly what she wanted every time. Tony accused her of cheating, to which she deadpanned, “You bought the casino. I bought the laws of physics.”

Even the hotel staff joined in, bartenders arm-wrestling against Thor, valets betting on Pietro’s lap time around the pool, and one receptionist quietly winning at poker against Phil and Coulson.

As time wore on, Tony slammed his hands on the table and announced on the speaker phone: “Enough amateur hour. Boys, time for the real game. Poker. High stakes. Winner takes glory, bragging rights, and maybe the raccoon plush Coulson won.”

With that the floor was set and everyone took their seats in the Poker table. The games went on for hours. Chips clattered, cards flicked across the green felt table, and the mood from the pool party had dissipated into a Mexican standoff.

Tony sat at the head of the table, sunglasses indoors, nursing a martini like he was auditioning for Bond. “Gentlemen,” he declared, throwing his chips in the pot, “try not to embarrass yourselves. I’m about to conduct a masterclass.”

“Is that what you call losing?” Steve muttered dryly, tossing in his own bet.

“Poker isn’t about muscles, Capsicle,” Tony shot back, swirling his drink. “It’s about finesse, charm, and—”

“—luck,” Clint interrupted, leaning back with a smug grin. “And I’m feeling lucky tonight.”

Bruce sat quietly at the far end of the table, glasses slipping down his nose, fumbling slightly with his chips. Everyone assumed he’d be the first out. Instead, his meek little raises and cautious calls kept stacking up into a small fortune.

Yao, for her part, looked as if she had better things to do than play mortal games. Yet somehow, her perfectly stoic face made her unreadable. “I’ve faced demons older than the sun,” she said calmly after one hand. “Do you really think your ‘poker face’ frightens me?” Tony folded instantly.

Thor, meanwhile, had misunderstood the concept entirely. He kept slamming down his cards with booming declarations like, “BEHOLD! A PAIR OF… TWO!” Every time, the staff politely explained that pairs of twos were not the divine hand he believed them to be. That didn’t stop him from laughing thunderously and demanding another round of drinks for everyone at the table.

Pietro had burned through his chips at super-speed, too impatient to wait for the right hand. “This game is boring,” he complained, tapping his foot. “Why can’t we play something faster?” Clint just slid another pile of Pietro’s lost chips toward himself with a grin.

Fury, of course, played like he was interrogating the deck. One eye narrowed, cigar clenched in his teeth, he leaned across the table at Coulson. “You’re sweating. Means you’re bluffing.”
Coulson smiled nervously. “Uh… or maybe it’s because Thor just splashed beer all over me?” He still lost the hand.

The real shock of the night came when Bruce quietly revealed a full house, wiping out Tony’s towering stack of chips. Tony’s jaw actually dropped. “Banner, my man… where the hell did that come from?”

Bruce gave a tiny shrug. “Probability and statistics. It’s not that hard.”

The table erupted into groans, laughter, and protests.

But Clint, Clint was the true silent assassin of the night. Every time someone raised, he knew exactly when they were bluffing. Tony tapped the table nervously; Clint smirked. Steve scratched the back of his neck; Clint pounced. Pietro blinked too fast; Clint cleaned him out. By the time the night wound down, Barton had an Everest-sized stack of chips in front of him.

“How?” Steve demanded. Clint raised an eyebrow. “I spent a decade watching liars for a living. You think any of you are harder to read?”

Tony groaned dramatically, throwing his cards across the table. “This was supposed to be my moment! You were supposed to be the comic relief, Legolas!”

“Comic relief that just bought himself a new boat,” Clint replied, raking in the last pot.

Thor slapped him on the back so hard chips went flying. “A most honorable victory! Truly, you have the cunning of Loki himself.”

By the time the final hand rolled around, the table had been whittled down to four: Fury, Clint, Bruce, and Tony—though in Tony’s case, he’d bought back in so many times that nobody was sure if he was still technically in the game or just burning money for sport.

The dealer slid out the hole cards.

Tony peeked: six and five of clubs.

Fury lifted his cards with that impassive one-eyed stare—two tens, hearts and spades.

Clint got a ten and an eight of diamonds.

Bruce… two of clubs, seven of hearts. His face scrunched like he’d just read the end of a bad lab report. He knew he didn’t have any skin in the game. “Fold,” Bruce said instantly, tossing his cards aside.

The pot was already sitting at $130,000.

Tony smirked, pushing in a thick stack of chips. “Raise. $135,000.”

“Of course you do,” Clint muttered, matching with a lazy call.

Fury didn’t blink, didn’t twitch, just slid in his own chips quietly.

The dealer revealed the flop: ten of clubs, three of diamonds, three of clubs.

The table shifted, suddenly Fury had three tens, Clint had a reason to hope, and Tony… well, Tony was bluffing at best.

Check. Check. Check. The quiet stretched as if the table itself were holding its breath.

The turn came down: four of diamonds.

Tony’s eyes lit up. A straight draw. Two or seven would seal it. He forced his grin down, fighting for his poker face. Across the table, Fury sat like a statue, already holding three tens, already the true winner, and not giving away a thing.

Clint broke the silence first. “Two-twenty.” He slid the chips forward.

“I’ll play,” Tony said, tossing in the same, too quickly.

Fury matched with a soft clink of chips.

Then came the river: two of hearts. Tony had his straight.

For a heartbeat, the table was dead silent. Tony’s smirk grew slow, shark like.

Clint leaned forward, throwing in $430,000. Tony immediately pushed a mountain across the felt. “Raise. 1.113 million.”

That finally drew the faintest lift of Fury’s eyebrow. Then, without a word, Fury shoved everything forward. “All in.”

The room erupted into whispers and muffled laughter. Clint stared, then quietly folded, shaking his head. “Nope. Not tangling with that.”

All eyes locked on Tony. The tension was electric.

“You don’t know what you’re messing with, boy,” Fury rumbled, puffing his cigar, the smoke curling like a halo of menace around him.

Tony tried to read him. Then with a defiant grin, he shoved his last stack in. “I call.”

He slammed down his cards, six and five of clubs, the straight. “Read it and weep.” He stretched out a hand toward the chips, already basking in his triumph.

But Steve’s stopped him. “Hold it, Stark. Let the man show his hand.”

Tony shot him a wounded look. “Come on, Cap. Don’t ruin my—”

Fury laid his cards down with brutal finality: pair of tens. Three of a kind.

The room exploded. Thor’s laughter shook the chandelier. Pietro collapsed onto the floor, wheezing and kicking. Bruce nearly spat out his drink, clutching his stomach. Even Yao, who rarely cracked a smile, gave a tiny smirk.

Fury leaned back in his chair, puffed once more, and delivered the killing line: “Don’t play games with a man who only needs one eye to see you sweat.”

Tony slumped in his chair, sunglasses crooked, mouth hanging open as the dealer dragged the mountain of chips toward Fury. Clint still had the most winnings overall, but Fury’s last-minute heist left a mark no one would forget.

“Clint wins the war,” Bruce said between chuckles, adjusting his glasses, “but Fury just won the battle.”

Tony groaned, throwing his arms dramatically over his head. “I lost everything. My money. My reputation. My dignity.”

Steve didn’t even look up from his glass. “Dignity requires you to have some in the first place.”

That set off another round of roaring laughter at Tony’s expense, the sound echoing through the casino floor.

After the laughter died down, everyone got whisked away by a small army of spa staff. Within minutes, the Avengers found themselves wrapped in robes softer than clouds, cucumber water in hand and the chaos of cards and chips left behind.

Thor had immediately claimed the sauna, sitting cross-legged in the steam like some golden-haired deity, while two attendants scrambled to shovel in more hot rocks just to keep him satisfied.

Steve, meanwhile, was clearly uncomfortable at first, until one masseuse cracked his spine with a pop so loud the entire room turned. His face went slack with relief.

Bruce was in heaven, mumbling equations under his breath as a mud mask was carefully applied. “This clay actually has fascinating mineral content,” he noted, before the attendant firmly told him to shh.

Clint had fallen asleep instantly on the massage table, snoring so loudly the staff had to drown him out with pan flutes. Pietro, unable to sit still, zipped between stations: foot bath, hot stone, aromatherapy. He tried everything in under five minutes before Harry finally flicked his hand and stuck him to a chair with a Sticking Charm. Pietro sulked, but his pout melted when two attendants started scrubbing his feet.

Fury sat in a massage chair with a cigar still in his mouth, utterly unfazed as three staffers tried to loosen the knots in his shoulders. “Harder,” he ordered. When one complained about the tension in his muscles, Fury just smirked.

Coulson wore his robe like a badge of honor and somehow managed to look professional even with a green face mask on. “You know,” he told Tony while sipping cucumber water, “I could get used to this as a SHIELD debriefing standard.”

Tony himself? He’d gone full Tony. “Two attendants per limb, please. Symmetry is everything.” He lounged like a king, sunglasses back on despite the dim lights, clearly trying to salvage what pride he had left after Fury’s takedown.

And Harry was laughing. Proper, carefree laughter as a masseuse worked magic (the mundane kind, not his) into his back, the knots of stress loosening with every press. He looked around at the absurd sight: gods, geniuses, spies, and soldiers all sprawled out like kids at a sleepover.

They forgot about the headlines. They forgot about the jeers and the protests. They forgot about Ultron, about public opinion, about everything except the here and now. For one night, they were just a family, soaking in hot tubs and teasing each other over who snored loudest.

It was messy. It was ridiculous. And it was perfect.