The Chapter Where Tony and Nat Fangirl Over A Teenager
Saturday afternoon turned out to be rainy and cold, the perfect excuse to spend it inside gawking at the wonderful art that decorated the halls of the museum galleries. Since no sane person ever really drives in Manhattan, Steve caught a cab and met Tony and Natasha in the museum cafe. They had claimed a comfortable little booth and were sipping coffee and had a third cup waiting for him when he sat down.
"So where do we want to start?" Tony asked.
Natasha set down her cup. "They have a new exhibit on Greek art that I want to see. There's also the new exhibit on Imperialist era art on the third floor."
Tony nodded. "And the usual for you, big guy? Domestic art."
"Yes, please," Steve smiled. "What about you?"
"Van Gogh," Tony murmured reverently.
Natasha grabbed his wrist in a flash of movement, startling both men. "Tony, look."
Tony followed her gaze and gasped. "My future adopted child!"
"Excuse me?" Steve stared at them like they'd morphed together and grown a third head.
Natasha tore her eyes away briefly. "Becca Barnes is here. She's alone, too. We should go say hello. Come on, boys."
Tony didn't have to be asked twice. He knocked his chair over in the process of leaping up to race Natasha.. Steve hesitated a beat longer before joining them.
"Bonjour, Becca," Natasha laid a light hand on the girl's shoulder.
She turned, surprised. "Bonjour, Madame. Hello, Mr. Stark, Mr. Rogers."
"What are you here for?" Tony gestured to the museum in general.
"Nothing specific. I'm just browsing," Becca responded. "Though I did want to check out their American art gallery."
Tony chuckled. "You and Blondie both."
Natasha glanced around. "You aren't here alone, are you?"
Becca nodded, her smile dropping. "My dad's at a conference in Washington until next Friday, and my mom's in Virgina until the day after he gets back. So I'm left to my own devices."
"Then you should join us," Tony suggested. "We can't let a poor, innocent new girl roam the halls of this deadly museum alone."
"When you put it that way, how could I say no," Becca sighed complacently.
Tony and Natasha took the lead, arguing over the best method of working their way through the exhibits. The wide halls of the lobby area narrowed so that it could only accommodate two people walkind shoulder to shoulder. Becca fell back to walk with Steve, her fingers playing with a key chain on her shoulder bag. Steve glanced down at her. watching the amused turn of her lip as Natasha started speaking to Tony in Russian.
"What is she saying?" Steve asked, keeping his voice low.
Becca grinned. "She just said he had the intelligence of a slaughtered mule, and then she insulted his facial hair."
"His facial hair?" Steve laughed. "It's a good thing Tony doesn't speak Russian, or we'd have a meltdown to deal with."
“Natasha! Stop it! I hate it when you do that! I swear to god, I will throw a fit. I will go into full toddler tantrum mode, I have no shame, woman!” Tony hissed.
Natasha ignored whatever Tony was insisting upon and pushed open the door to the American art gallery. They settled into a comfortable silence, drifting apart and finding each other again as different pieces caught their eyes. Steve was almost through the sixties when he noticed that Becca was gone, and the last time he remembered seeing her was somewhere around 1923. He retraced his steps, leaving Tony and Natasha to continue on into the seventies. He found Becca in the fourties, amid post-war, life-is-good, kiss-me-I'm-home-again art. As he walked up, she sniffled and dragged her sleeve across her eyes. Steve's heart dropped somewhere in the vicinity of his knees when he realized she was crying.
"That's one of my favorites," Steve offered quietly, pointing to a photograph of a young couple sobbing in each other's arms on a pier, an American flag waving a few feet above their heads.
Becca looked up, startled and tried to cover her red eyes. "Oh, it's you. Sorry, I lost track of time. I didn't realize I'd lost you guys."
"It's okay. We all get caught up in the art at some point," Steve assured her.
Becca looked away, back to the wall of happy young people.
"Are you all right?" Steve asked softly.
She stared hard at the wall and nodded. Her lip trembled and her face crumpled. She covered her face with her hands and her shoulders shook. Steve moved closer, alarmed, but unsure what to do with a crying teenage girl. He settled for wrapping an arm around her shoulder and they stood like that for a couple of minutes until Becca straightened and wiped her eyes.
She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that."
"Hey, you were upset. It was a perfectly normal reaction," Steve said, still worried about her.
Becca looked like she thought he was just trying to make her feel better, but she gave him a sad smile anyway.
"Do you want to talk about whatever it is that caused this?" he asked her gently.
She shook her head quickly. "No. It's in the past. I don't need to think about it, and I don't need to dump it on my history teacher. Thank you, for caring. And, please, could you not mention this to Mr. Stark or Ms. Romanoff?"
Steve dropped his arm and gave her a reassuring smile. "Of course not."
"There you are!" Tony rounded the corner. "I can’t be with this woman anymore, Steve! She’s driving me insane. Take her away from me. I want the teenager now. My turn!”
“Tony, she isn’t a possession,” Natasha drawled from behind him.
He whirled around. “Stand back, heathen!”
Natasha reached out and shoved him.
“Oh! Oh no! It touched me! Oh, god, I can feel the communism seeping into my veins! Help me, Steve!” Tony begged.
Natasha rolled her eyes. “Oh, grow up. I find that offensive, by the way.”
“You find all of my good jokes offensive, Commie,” Tony dismissed her. “Now, are you ready for Van Gogh?”
Natasha "If not, I highly recommend the Imperialist gallery upstairs."
Steve looked down at Becca. "Imperialism or impressionism?"
"Tough voice. I'm partial to Van Gogh, but who doesn't love a good portrait of Catherine the Great?" Becca answered seriously, the smallest glint of mockery in her eyes.
"Van Gogh it is!" Tony turned on his heel and marched away, giving Natasha a wide berth.
Steve chuckled and cast a glance at the teenage girl walking next to him, wondering that it was that made her cry in the middle of an art museum.