“Steve, don’t."
"I should go over there and snatch the champagne from their fucking hands–"
“Look, look at me–” Your voice is hushed and desperate, your hands that cup his face on the verge of shaking. And all because of them. “I haven’t spoken to them in years. Don’t let this blow up – not here, not now.”
It would be bad for image – everyone’s. Because this is a fundraiser for underprivileged girls in developing countries and he’s the image of American justice and your parents are benevolent benefactors and there are cameras everywhere. The picture of Captain America throwing glasses of rosé from the hands of some of New York’s greatest philanthropists would be covering the fronts of newspapers and tabloids for weeks and weeks.
You can’t afford to make a mess here, his smarter mind reminds him. PR bomb. You’re already on thin ice after the Accords.
But… but you had frozen at the sight of them across the room. He hadn’t noticed them at first, too caught up in conversation with Bucky and Sam and Rhodey, but you did; from beside him, he’d seen you grip the peachy tulle skirt of your dress in two shaking hands, stepping closer to him unconsciously, eyes widening just the slightest bit.
And you’d tried to brush it off, at first – when asked what was wrong, you simply smiled and shook your head, making a cheeky quip about how you wanted some champagne. You’d slipped beside Wanda, then, and interlocked her elbow with yours. Smiled a bit, as you split off to begin making the usual rounds.
And then Steve saw them. For a moment he thought he was dreaming; but no, there they were. Tall and slim and hard and stern looking, nursing a half-full glass of champagne each. Dressed in the best clothes money could buy and surrounded by equally as rich donors, probably talking about their vacation houses in the Maldives or the yacht they’d bought that weekend.
They looked nothing like you. Nothing like you at all. You, with your playfulness and cheekiness and glowing beauty, your occasional softness. Your brains – completely out of this world. You spoke multiple languages, could easily keep up with the greatest minds available to you–
But at what price?
That couple across the room had done horrible things to you to get you up to their standards. Things that still affected you today, things that traumatised you, things that still gave you nightmares. And here they were, sipping expensive drinks and wearing diamonds and silk, completely and utterly at ease–
He saw red. Complete and utter red.
Glass and alcohol and blood go flying to the floor. Bucky and Sam are immediately at his side, pulling him back so as not to sully his suit – even Tony casts him a concerned look from across the room.
The sound of shattering crystal and shocked gasps draws your attention, your head snapping towards him from a few tables away where you were chatting with a New York senator. You were quick to flutter over with a nervous smile and a quietly hissed what the fuck, Steve.
He sees how easily you cleaned the situation up. How you laughed, placing a hand on his arm and making a joke about old age and he doesn’t quite know his strength, excuse us. You’d flagged a waiter with ease while Sam and Bucky worked on getting conversation going again, and then you’d pulled him gently away.
You walked both idly and with determination out of the venue hall – and that pissed him off even more. This was the life that you grew up in, this was the way your parents groomed you to act. You covered your discomfort and confusion with layers of charm and humour, so potent and well-made that you yourself couldn’t tell when it was or wasn’t real.
He’d held you through every breakdown, every bout of tears, every panic attack that those – those assholes had induced. And seeing them just standing there, enjoying themselves, not caring for one second that you probably wanted to get sick at the sight of them –
If there was another glass in his hands it would’ve followed the fate of the last one.
"Are you okay?"
Which brings him to now. Sitting on the – fortunately barren – velvet staircase that leads down to the bathrooms and service hallways, his hands cupped in yours. Your thumbs brush his steadily healing cuts, your chin resting on his knees. In the back of his mind he wants to tell you that someone could stumble upon your less-than-platonic position, that it would look bad for the both of you, but honest to God, hand on his heart, he doesn’t care. You need it as much as he does.
He inhales deeply, hand finding your perfectly styled hair, brushing over the little metal flowers braided through the strands. He’s had his moment of anger. And he’ll continue to be angry when you can’t find the will to – but right now, you need him more.
”_____,“ he repeats, "Are you okay? Talk to me, sweetheart."
You swallow. Avoid his eyes. "Yeah, I guess.” More silence, and then you clear your throat. “I… guess I could be better.”
Your hands tighten on his slacks – clinging, desperate, and his anger boils again.
“We don’t have to go back in there.”
“Yeah, Steve, we do. I want to be here. I’m – I’m not leaving because of them.”
“We don’t gotta talk to them, then. We’ll go around them.”
“No, I know them,” you say softly. “They’ve probably looked at the guest list. They’ll seek me out – and I bet the reporters are looking forward to a family portrait, too.”
“Jesus Christ. Fuck them. Fuck them. I should – I should–”
“Steve, don’t."
”–I should go over there and snatch the champagne from their fucking hands–"
“Look, look at me–” Your voice is hushed and desperate, your hands that cup his face on the verge of shaking. And all because of them. “I haven’t spoken to them in, like, years. Don’t let this blow up – not here, not now. I’ll – I’ll talk to them for a few minutes and then I’ll walk away, okay?”
“I’m staying with you, then.” Because hell will freeze over before he lets you within three feet of them alone. “I’m not letting you go out there alone.”
“That’s too suspicious, Steve,” you argue, recoiling. You fiddle unconsciously with the draping, glittering gold earrings that almost reach your shoulders. “They could – I don’t know. They could ask questions.”
(And, God above, he told you earlier that you looked beautiful, and, well, now seems an inappropriate time to remind you. But you are, genuinely shining with the light from the chandeliers above you, lips glittering with gloss that he kissed off just before you left–)
“Fuck suspicions,” Steve says quietly, reaching up and squeezing your hand in his. Any other time you would’ve teased him or his bad language – now, you simply laugh, smile watery. “I don’t care about them anymore. Not your parents, not the press. I care about you, okay?”
He grasps your chin gently, tilting your head upwards so that he can see you – really see you, his best girl, eyes glassy with worry and concern and he knows damn well that he’ll do whatever you ask. But he won’t do it with a smile.
“I know, Stevie.” Your voice breaks halfway through. Your bottom lip trembles, but as his thumb drifts over it you break into a blinding smile again. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He doesn’t even glance over his shoulder before pressing his lips to yours – brief, sweet, and he most definitely has lip gloss on his lips when you separate. “When we get home we’ll have a nice, calm night, yeah? We’ll get some dinner and a movie and–"
"A bath?” You say, perking up. You’d had one earlier together, and for the first time you’d broken out a set of bath bombs from a place called Lush. Steve almost had a heart attack when the thing started fizzing, turning the bathwater pink and glittery and–
You giggle, lifting his hand up and twisting it back and forth. His pale skin shimmers. “You still have glitter on you, doofus.”
You wave them off with an apologetic smile, grip tightening on the expensive navy cashmere of his suit as you catch a fleeting glance of the socialising couple across the room.
“We’re matching then, huh?” With an overdramatic groan Steve stands up, holding his hand out for you to take with a joking milady and deep bow.
Together, with you holding the crook of his left arm in both hands, you make your way back upstairs, back towards the venue hall. And you don’t let go of each other, not even as you re-enter, not even as Steve’s stopped by politicians and socialites and entrepreneurs desperate for a word with America’s Golden Boy, not even as you’re hailed by senators and presidential campaigners and reporters – _____, _____, can you tell us about–!
“Do you want something to drink?” Steve asks, reaching over his elbow to clasp a hand in yours. You push all fears of being spotted and shunned from your mind – because hanging off the elbow and gripping the hands of a teammate almost ten years older than you will get you dragged to hell and back online – in favour of focusing on your current problem.
“Thought you said no alcohol after last time with Peter?” You murmur, trying desperately to regain your easy-going demeanour with a teasing quip, and dimly noticing that you’re approaching the table where most of the team have managed to gather. “I think the reporters from Us Weekly would have a field day if they caught me underage drinking.”
“There’s non-alcoholic options–”
“There they are!” Tony crows loudly as you approach, nursing a glass of whiskey that hasn’t actually been touched all night. That was one of Tony’s first lessons to you: you gotta keep your wits about you around reporters, kid. Politicians, too. Not that you’re gonna drink until you’re 40, right? “Disappeared on us for a second, guys.”
“Sorry,” you say. “We were busy.”
The entire team grimaces in some shape or form–
“Not like that,” Steve groans seconds later. He crowds closer, then, leaning on the table to discreetly pull the conversation tighter. “You, uh, take a look at the guest list?”
“I don’t care about most of the people here,” Tony says, shrugging. “Why?”
Natasha lifts her glass to her lips; green eyes lift past the rim and glance coyly over the bend of her shoulder. To any starstruck onlookers she simply looks like she’s surveying the crowd in interest, people watching as any world-renowned assassin would – and they’re not wrong. But she doesn’t watch aimlessly. Her eyes zero in on her target, and her red painted lips turn downwards. “I have a feeling those are the people I don’t want them to be.”
Tony follows her eyes – and just stares. Full on, unabashed staring. His drink shudders in its glass cage as his hands begin to tremble – from anger, that much is obvious, because the billionaire furiously tugs his glasses off seconds later and tucks them into the pocket of his jacket. “I’m going over there.”
“No, you’re not,” you hiss immediately. You cast a hurried look around at the table. “And can you stop staring? Don’t make it so obvious or they’ll slither over–”
“Too late,” Bucky mutters, glaring darkly at the approaching figures.
Immediately, you clam up. Steve steps in front of you, eyes steeled, but he can still see the way you instantly straighten yourself up, fix your hair, blot the slight shine from your cheeks. The hand that’s still wrapped around his elbow tightens, tightens, tightens until he feels like the glittery acrylics you wear are on the verge of piercing the fabric.
Tony inhales sharply, muttering something like the audacity underneath his breath, and Sam simply glowers, sipping his drink casually as if he usually tended to scowl murderously at wealthy couples – all illusions of amusement slip completely from Natasha’s eyes. You’d be terrified of the sudden stone-cold hardness she replaces her carefree exterior with if not for the fact that she’s standing in front of you, guarding you. She sends an unassuming wink your way when she catches your anxious eyes.
“What an honour,” a baritone voice says. Smooth and steady, confident in every single fucking word. You hate the way he speaks. You always have. He sounds as if he’s constantly trying to procure a deal, always trying to gain something. You watch with bated breath as he greets the entire team with a strong handshake and flat, emotionless smile. You feel sick to your stomach. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He reaches Steve, who grips his hand so tightly that you see your father’s lip twitch for a second. “Quite a strong grip you have, Captain – this is my wife, Amara. We're–"
“_____’s parents,” Steve interrupts. “Yeah, we know.” The deliberate lack of decorum doesn’t go unnoticed. There’s a few seconds of awkward silence. You know your father’s unused to being interrupted.
He clears his throat, shifting his eyes to you and you genuinely feel like you’re going to puke up what snacks you’d sneaked during the ride here–
“Yes, yes, of course. _____, it’s good to see you’re doing so… well.”
You swallow. You barely notice you’re clenching your fists until the pain of it floods your brain, springing you back to reality, back to this moment, back to this second.
You put on that fake, perfectly crafted smile that you haven’t had to use in a casual setting in a long time. And then you step forward a bit, brushing a strand of hair charmingly from your face. “Father, mother! How good to see you. Life as an Avenger hardly leaves time for socialising, you understand…”
And it’s like you never left – like you never packed away your faux smiles and carefully contrived expressions, like you never let go of the ability to meticulously plan each word so that your parents wouldn’t get angry. You suppose, really, that you never truly got rid of those abilities – they came in use on missions. But they were bad guys, not the people who’d made you.
(Maybe they were one and the same.)
An air-kiss to the cheek of your father, an air-kiss to the cheek of your mother. No touching, but you still get a heart-breaking whiff of their perfume and cologne. Too familiar, too intimate, dragging too-painful memories from your mind and yet you do what you’ve always done; plaster on a smile and stand tall, training yourself to act the opposite of how you feel.
Steve’s hand finds the curve of your waist again – your father’s eyes briefly flicker down to it curiously.
“_____,” your mother says, stiff. She’s always been like that. Unappreciative of affection and uncaring in her cold, cutting remarks. “You look… interesting. Though I must say, peach isn’t your best colour, dear.”
Your smile falters just the tiniest, microscopic bit. Steve inhales sharply, shifting where he stands like he’s ready to fight, and you open your mouth to make a hopefully neutral comment when–
“Really?” Tony interjects, all fake-incredulity and the anger in his voice is so obviously tangible that you almost instantly clutch onto Steve again, terrified that your parents would take the bait and explode. But they don’t – simply watch in a weirdly amused way that makes you angry. That makes you want to get angry. “I mean, I’ve never seen her wear a colour that she hasn’t been able to pull off. Then again, I suppose it’s hard to find your kid less than perfect, huh?"
Your mother balks. Well, she doesn’t balk as such – her perfectly waxed brows raise the slightest inch, and the wrinkles around her mouth tighten for a moment. That was as good a reaction as she’d ever give.
You, on the other hand, choke on your non-existent drink.
"I’m sorry?” Your father asks, glancing shortly at your mother. He laughs – fake and grating, completely and utterly out of social conventionality rather than humour. To any normal person he’d sound genuine, but you’d grown up around it. “Perhaps I misheard you–”
“You didn’t, I can assure you,” Tony continues, standing up straight. He places his untouched drink onto one of the many tall, thin tables dotted around the room, fixing your parents with a positively filthy look that pays homage to his earlier days as an egotistical playboy billionaire. “I talk too loud to be misheard.”
Steve steps back and pulls you gently with him, a large hand crowding the slope of your waist again. He glances down at you, and he doesn’t need to speak to say what he wants to say. It’s all there on his face: it’s okay. You’re okay. I’ll protect you. I love you.
Almost as if summoned by an invisible call to arms, the rest of the team step quietly forward – Natasha and Sam and Rhodey standing by your right shoulder, Wanda and Bucky and Vision standing by your left. Steve, proudly by your side, and Tony, standing in front of you.
So much for not blowing up, you think dryly, still clinging to the man beside you, but a large part of you is glad. You’ve always been too frightened to stand up to your parents – even when you left them years ago it had been under the guise of furthering your training, of putting your skills to good use, and the lack of communication since then had been glossed over with a few well-placed excuses. Never once had you told them how you actually felt about them. Never once had you told anyone else how you felt about them – until this ragtag group you call a family had come along.
“I’ll keep this short, because I have better people to be talking to,” Tony says – blindingly bright smile on his face, eyes unassumingly friendly and disarming. The cameramen must be having a field day – if only they really knew what was being said. “If I hear another shitty comment, another misplaced opinion, another word being uttered about my daughter I will make sure every penny you have disappears into thin air. You know what, actually? You come near her again and I’ll do the same. She comes to you first? Fine! But if you even dare start anything, you’ll have the earth’s best defenders on your ass. And that never goes down too well.”
Your father still looks as if he’s having a hard time wrapping his head around everything. His eyes trail slowly over the group that had unconsciously formed around you, jaw hard and set. Bucky’s metal arm makes a threatening clickclickclickshling! sound as the gears inside it turn and the panels slot into each other snuggly. Sam’s arms – bigger than your father’s head – seem to bulge even underneath his suit. Wanda’s eyes glint ruby red for a moment. Natasha simply smiles and your father pales.
And Steve? His hand tightens on your waist and his eyes harden and he knows he’s putting the fear of God into your parents but he hopes that, even more than that, they can see what you’ve both been hiding for so long. He hopes that they can see that you’re his, that he’ll protect you from anything that would cause you harm and that includes them.
“Excuse me?” Your mother says incredulously, voice shaking with anger. “You can’t just–"
"He just did.” Your own voice trembles the slightest bit. Your stomach feels weak just at the thought of speaking up, but you dig your nails into your palms and steel your nerves. “He just did, and I agree with him. You treated me like – like trash for so many years. You messed my head up in ways that I’m still healing from–”
“Everything we did, we did to help you, you ungrateful–"
"Don’t interrupt her.” At the sound of Steve’s voice – the voice of America, basically, the image of morality and justice, one of the most famous people in modern culture – your parents, quite comically, shut themselves up. He speaks with such a cold, fury-filled tone that you almost follow suit.
“I don’t want to ever see you again,” you finish – and there’s tears pricking at your eyes, happy or sad or anxious or excited you have no clue because you feel everything in that moment. Happy that you’re finally getting closure, happy that your family are standing with you. Sad that you never had the parents you really wanted. Sad that so many years of your life were spent blaming yourself for them. Anxious, because there’s still some part of you that thinks they can pull the rug from under your feet, ruin everything you’ve built for yourself.
Excited. Because you have the love of your life beside you, a man you’re proud to call dad in front of you, a family that would literally fight tooth and nail for you. Because you have so much life ahead of you to spend with the people you love.
Your father splutters. Your mother’s face goes so still that you actually worry that she’s stopped breathing – but then you breath deeply, ground yourself to the hand on your waist, and beam. You peer over at Tony, who’s looking a little misty-eyed, and then up at Steve, who’s doing absolutely nothing to conceal his emotions around all these cameras.
But you don’t care. Not anymore.
“This place blows,” you say, wrinkling your nose. Your hands come up to unclasp the shoulder-length earrings dangling there. “Cheeseburgers?"
×
The second you’re away from the crowds of reporters and journalists and newscasters outside, the second the door closes and the tinted windows are rolled up, Steve crowds you. Bucky’s in the front seat with Sam because Natasha likes the window on the left and he refuses to sit in the back behind Sam after last time – and he whoops just a little when Steve places a big, smushy kiss on your lips.
"Hey, hey, keep it clean back there,” he warns. “Room for the bible and all that.”
Natasha rolls her eyes and snorts, and Sam reaches over from the driver’s seat to slap the back of the Winter Soldier’s head. You stifle your own laugh against Steve’s cheek, shoulders shaking.
(It still hasn’t set in yet.)
“I’m so proud of you, you know that?” He says, so utterly fond, eyes squinting with the force of his smile. His hands frame the sides of your face so hard that your lips squish together. “You’re amazing. You’re – I’m so proud of you, baby."
Another kiss, and another, and another – and Jesus, Steve has never been so open with his affections around his teammates. An arm around the shoulders, a kiss to the forehead, yes, but never quite like this.
"It hasn’t set in yet,” you admit, breathless. “But honestly? I don’t care. I’ve been waiting so fucking long to tell them that.” You lift a hand, and it’s still shaking. You chortle. “God, this is so weird. I… did it. I finally did it!"
"And we couldn’t be prouder,” Natasha coos, setting her chin on the curve of your shoulder. “But Tony’s frantically texting me about how the best cheeseburger joint in the city is closed. Shawarma?"
"Sure.” As she turns and begins to tap away at her screen, and Bucky and Sam begin to converse lowly between themselves, you redirect your attention to Steve again. “And you, mister.”
“What’d I do?” He teases, kissing your shoulder.
“I could tell you were holding back for my sake,” you murmur, pulling his face up to you again. You hold his gaze seriously. “That meant a lot, Stevie. Thank you. Really.”
“That obvious?” He says, smile soft. “I thought I hid the fact that I wanted to break your father’s fingers well."
"Maybe.” You shrug. “The reporter’s will be none the wiser, so that’s something. Though my father definitely knew. He looked like he was gonna hurl.”
“I think half of that was Natasha,” Sam interjects. “You gotta teach me how to stare people down like that, Nat–"
×
After settling for shawarma instead of cheeseburgers, you found yourselves dressed to the nines and reclining on shitty plastic chairs in a place that Steve told you they visited right after that whole ordeal in 2012. So you think that maybe Tony was just feeling a bit nostalgic.
Over plates of succulent meat and grilled vegetables Tony had caught your eye. He was happier than you’d seen him in a while – still reeling from the events of the Accords, still battling his own anxiety and guilt. But his cheeks were glowing with happiness and his eyes were doing the same, and you felt your heart swell. That’s your dad. "I’m proud of you, kid.”
“We all are,” Rhodey had added, smiling fondly, before throwing a sliver of tomato at Tony’s head. “Didn’t know you could be so threatening, short-stack."
"I’m not short–!"
And that had been a whole other discussion, which brings you to now. Strolling towards the Compound alongside Steve with your shoes in one hand and his hand in the other. The adrenaline has worn off, and you’re tired enough to sleep for the next few days, but when you tell Steve as much–
"Ah, ah, ah,” he tsks, heaving you up so quickly that you squeal. “You promised me a bath, young lady.”
And so you disappear into the bathroom.
(The text comes hours later, when you’re fast asleep and wound up in those strong arms. Your friend is freaking out, sending you screenshot after screenshot of a trending tweet. It’s got a link to a hot new article from a popular gossip site. The tweet has reached almost 100 thousand retweets – almost three times that for the likes.
The picture that accompanies it is one taken from the fundraiser – the moment after you’d stood up to your parents. You’re gazing up at Steve, beaming, and Steve’s just as happy looks down at you.
Love brewing? Insider reveals that Steve Rogers – Captain America – and _____ _____ are in a relationship and have been in one for a few months! How are we feeling, folks?)