The room is unbearably cold – and you don’t quite mean the temperature, no.
Tony Stark stands outside of Conference Room 2, phone pressed to his ear. You can’t help but glance over at him every few seconds, glass doing absolutely nothing to hide the extent of his anger. You’ve never seen him look quite so furious – nostrils flaring and lip on the verge of curling and his eyes are impossibly, scarily dark. He’s been staring at Steve like this for the past ten minutes. Steve’s been staring back.
(You weren’t here for the Accords but you’re sure this is exactly what it felt like.)
Your hands shake as you twist your thumbs back and forth – and, ignoring the concerned look that Steve sends you, you vaguely realise that this is the most nervous you’ve been since that archery tournament when you were eleven. Your parents told you that if you got less than 1st place you’d have your favourite bow snapped in half and 20 new lashes on the backs of your thighs. Your anxiety had forced you to do well.
(Ah, childhood trauma – hello, old friend.)
Isn’t it strange? You take down bad guys for a living. Men and women twice your age and usually twice your size, fighting without mercy and with only one goal in mind: to kill you. And yet, sitting here at this stupid ass conference table and waiting for the rest of the team to arrive, you feel your heart thunder in your ears.
Goddamnit, you hate disappointing people, and you have a sneaking suspicion that Tony is a tad more than disappointed after seeing you shove your tongue down Steve Roger’s throat–
Steve reaches a hand over the table – so fucking stupid, you think, because Tony is literally on the verge of storming in and plopping down on the table between you just to keep you separated – but you swallow the lump in your throat and avoid Tony’s prying eyes, gripping Steve’s hand like it’s your lifeline.
“Hey, look at me,” he murmurs, so quiet that you barely hear him at first. “Princess, look at me.”
You take a few deep, calming breaths, trying to ease away the shakiness that slips down your spine like some sort of inky crude oil – yet when you look up at him, meet those blue eyes that are so worried, so caring and concerned for you, you realise that your eyes are welling up with tears.
You laugh, all watery and thin, and wipe at your mascara covered lashes. Your eyes feel heavy and bruised, and you know they’re going to be bloodshot for the rest of the day. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”… “Ugh, this mascara was limited edition.”
Steve ignores your deflection, smiles that all-knowing smile that makes you feel both like a misbehaving child and simultaneously the safest person on earth.
(… You swear you do not have daddy issues.)
“You’re nervous. That’s okay.”
“Are you?”
“Honestly?” Steve laughs demurely. “Out of my mind, yeah.”
And it’s not even funny, to be honest, and definitely not a situation that you’d want to make light of – but it’s such a relief to laugh and know that maybe the world isn’t ending because you were finally found out. After all, it had to happen at some point, right?
Steve and you are getting pretty serious – things had been going good, save for the little spat that you literally just got out of – wasn’t it time that you broke out of this shell that you’d restricted yourselves to?
Your mind wanders as Steve’s hand tightens around yours – walks in Central Park, bookshop dates, being able to hold his hand and kiss his cheek in public? Being able to cuddle him on Friday Movie Night? So mundane, and yet here you were, practically mooning over the thought. Kinda pathetic, but whatever.
You inhale deeply again, shutting your eyes. All you had to do was get through this! And then you could live your life unbothered, finally get the break you need after that mission gone wrong and this hellish modern Spanish Inquisition…
And you’ve got it all rationalised in your head, honest, but the second you open your eyes you’re thrown back to your shitty reality with the glass tabletop and this muggy grey carpet and your anxiety begins to boil again. Your shoes tap erratically against the floor – against your will, mind you – and when Steve lifts your hands upwards and kisses your knuckles, thumbs smoothing over your skin, you can only conjure the ghost of a nervous laugh.
“Tony’s going to kill you if you keep rubbing this in his face,” you mutter, but you don’t pull your hands away. “Or, kill you faster, I should say.”
“Let him. I’m calming down my girl.”
“My chest feels tight… I really should’ve taken Tony’s therapy offer sooner, huh?”
“You’re anxious. Breath with me, okay?”
“What are we even waiting for?” You demand, suddenly looking back at Tony. “What gives him the right to do this? To – to interrogate us? This is fucking humiliating. I got off bed rest less than a week ago!“
It is humiliating, Steve will admit. And under any other circumstances he’d be silently fuming, but he’s ready to admit that this isn’t what one would call an everyday occurrence. And yeah, he’d prefer to not be treated like a war criminal again, but he knows it’s coming from a place of concern…
But you’re on the verge of trembling. He’s never seen you like this before, and his chest swells with anger and pity and the need to just take you away until this blows over. Steve suddenly doesn’t care about where the fuck this is coming from. It could be handled in a better way than this irritating show of power and annoyance.
“I think he’s calling Natasha and Clint back,” you say. Your chair creaks loudly as it’s pushed out, and Steve makes to follow you as you stand, running your hands stressfully over your face. “A–and Sam, and Wanda, and – and–”
He rounds the table quicker than he thought possible and seizes you in his arms, winding himself tightly around you as you begin to shudder and hyperventilate against him, fingers clenching and unclenching his shirt.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, hand pressing the back of your head to his shoulder. His chest swells with that need to protect and comfort you, and as he catches Tony’s concerned gaze over your shoulder he can’t help but glower. “C’mon. Breathe with me – in, out… in, out… Remember what I told you about anxiety?“
You nod, eyes still screwed shut. “It’s just – just brain noise.”
“That’s right.” His hand continues its calming path up and down your spine. “Just brain noise. You’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna be fine.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
After your little breakdown (which no-one will ever mention ever again) Steve abandons all traces of coyness and sits beside you, chair pushed against yours as far as it possibly can. One thick arm lays across your headrest, occasionally tapping soothingly against your shoulder when you huff about how long everything is taking.
In fact, it takes almost two hours to gather the entire team. Sam left his VA meeting quickly and Bucky was already in the Compound, but Natasha and Bruce and Clint had to make the quinjet ride from essentially the middle of nowhere, and Wanda and Vision had to cancel their date night.
(As if you didn’t already feel guilty as fuck.)
Eventually everybody trickles in, dragging with them their confusion and cluelessness. In fact, the first thing that Clint says when he enters is What the fuck is going on? Sam casts his eyes about the room and cracks a joke about another world-ending alien invasion – Bucky swings back and forth in his chair and almost bangs his knees against the table. Natasha takes a seat opposite you and eyes the arm still resolutely sitting on the back of your chair, but no-one else seems to notice.
Your nails tap incessantly against the glass top as Tony takes his place at the front of the room, waiting for the conversations to dwindle. When they finally do, he clears his throat.
“I’m sure you’re all wondering why we’re gathered here today.”
"Considering I just recovered and should be on vacation right now? Yeah,” you say snarkily.
“Can we just get on with this?” Clint groans. “I’ve got three kids and an angry wife waiting for me at home.”
“Steve and _____ are dating.”
…
…
…
Maybe he could’ve taken his time with that.
Natasha freezes. As does Sam. Bruce, too, and Clint is the same. Bucky’s lips purse as all of the eyes in the room slowly turn to the two of you – and, suddenly uncomfortable, you sit up, thumbing at the half-inch glittery acrylics on your fingers. Steve simply steels himself, lets his arm remain on your seat, and although you’re not completely facing him just the sight of his large, imposing frame in the corner of your eye makes you feel safer.
“…You’re kidding.” Clint guffaws, slapping his knee and clutching his chest as he bellows with it, tears of humour clinging to his eyes. “God, that’s hilarious, Tony. Didn’t they have an argument like last week–?”
“He’s not joking,” says Steve, stern. “We are dating.”
More unbearably awkward silence that makes you want to crawl into a deep, dark hole and die. Your eyes stay trained on the table, but when he reaches underneath it and grasps your hand you squeeze it so tight that you’re afraid you’ll break a bone. His or yours, you’re not sure. Maybe both.
“…Well,” Natasha sighs, leaning back in her chair. Her eyes focus on you thoughtfully. “I… don’t know what to say.”
“And just how long has this been going on for?” Sam exclaims, surveying the both of you with a judgemental brow. “I – you’re 19.”
“Thanks for the observation, Sam. I appreciate it,” you say dryly. “And a few months.”
Banner rolls his bottom lip between his fingers, staring down at the table, mind obviously elsewhere. “…The Marchand case, right? I knew something happened between you two.”
Bucky stays silent, quietly watching and observing, not sure if he should express any modicum of bewilderment considering he was both the first to know and a terrible actor under non-life-threatening circumstances. Tony, though, zeroes in on his indecisiveness and latches onto it.
“You’re very quiet, tinman. And you don’t seem so surprised,” says Tony lowly. “Got something to share with the class?"
Bucky’s eyes widen and flicker uncertainly between the three of you, Adam’s Apple bobbing nervously – but, seeing as most of the damage had already been done, he decides to bite the bullet.
"I’m, uh, not. I knew.”
…
…
…
“… You knew,” Tony says. He inhales deeply then, fingers twitching. “Of course you did. Of course you did!"
"I feel like I should take this time to reveal that I also knew,” Wanda says quietly.
“What?” That’s news to you. You hadn’t even considered the possibility of Wanda reading your mind. God, you should’ve been more careful–!
“I can’t always control what I see,” the mind-reader says, shrugging apologetically.
“And you didn’t tell anyone?” Tony demands. “Didn’t tell me?"
"It wasn’t my secret to tell. And it wasn’t yours to tell either.”
Tony’s chest is heaving with some quiet exertion, pent up anger burning beneath his skin. You’re not sure if he’s angry at you or Steve or Bucky or Wanda but you just want it to stop. Just a few days ago he was wishing you sweet dreams as you recovered in the medbay, and now he’s glaring daggers at the table in front of him, arms folded like a child.
You think his pride has been hurt.
“Tony–” You begin quietly.
“Don’t Tony me!” He snaps. “I thought you trusted me enough to at least tell me when you start dating one of our teammates, never mind someone who’s more than half your age–"
"Hey.” Steve’s voice is scarily sharp. “Don’t talk to her like that–"
"He’s not more than half my age, c’mon–"
"He’s a-hundred-and-fucking-one years old–!"
"I think,” Vision’s voice intercepts, cutting through the growing anger like a hot knife, “that this discussion is quickly growing out of hand. If you could calm down and talk clearly with the two parties involved, Tony, this discussion would be much more efficient.“
“I am calm!”
“At this point,” you say, anger relit by Tony’s outburst and the still-lingering scraps of embarrassment and shame in your chest, “I don’t even know what the point of this stupid ass meeting was – it’s not gonna change anything!”
Steve’s hand meets your spine. Calm down, it says.
(Spoiler: you do the exact opposite. Like always.)
“And I think you should ask yourself–” Goddamnit, your bottom lip is trembling– “Why I didn’t want to tell you in the first place! I mean, considering you held us in a fucking conference room for 2 hours like we committed a crime and brought the entire team here to make our relationship a gigantic fucking discussion like some narcissistic prick with control issues!”
Tony’s jaw quivers, and for a second it looks like his eyes are glassy underneath his frames. But you’re stubborn and hard-headed and you simply stare at him, chest heaving – and slightly teary, you’ll begrudgingly admit.
“But yeah. Why on earth didn’t I tell you, huh?”
Tony opens his mouth. Closes it, opens it, closes it and opens it again. Beside you, Steve sighs.
“Go calm down,” he says, voice hushed. “I’ll talk to him.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Listen to me,” he says. Captain-voice activated and sternness to boot, he slides his hand from your spine to the base of your neck. It’s a wonder that he can radiate this – all this warmth and comfort and care and safety. Stability. Everything this atmosphere is lacking in. “Get a drink, take a break. You’ll do yourself more harm staying, okay?”
You don’t want him to take the brunt of the interrogation, don’t want everyone in the room to dig holes into the happiness you’d built over the last few months. You know Steve had a lot of inhibitions when it came to your relationship and it took long enough to make him see sense. A tiny part of you is still scared that he’ll walk away – especially considering the fact that you were broken up for, like, four days before this.
(Now that you think of it, it really seems as if there’s always at least one threat to your relationship present at any point in time. How nice.)
The air is filled with a pregnant pause as your answer is waited on. Steve raises his eyebrows and drifts a thumb almost unknowingly over your cheekbone.
“Fine. I’ll get a drink,” you huff, and you push yourself from the table and stomp outside. You disappear around the corner towards the common area and then Steve’s left alone. Or, not alone, because as soon as you’re out of sight:
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
Steve raises a brow. "Anything to say for myself? No, I don’t.”
“You don’t, huh?"
"That’s what I said, Tony.”
“I think we should leave,” Bucky interjects, sensing the rising tension in the room. “I, uh, think this a conversation that you two should have. Alone.”
And I don’t want to be caught between the two of you.
Nobody objects. Slowly, they seep out just as they had seeped in, exchanging looks and whispering underneath their breath as they leave. Maybe now, Steve thinks, he’ll get through to Tony. Maybe now he’ll be able to speak freely without having to worry about the thoughts of more than one person.
The automated door slides shut behind them, and the quiet barely has a chance to establish itself before Tony springs to action.
“One question,” Tony says. “Why her, huh? You’ve got one hundred women pining over you at any one time, why her? Is it a fetish thing? You like young girls, Cap? Is that a thing that gets you off? I won’t lie, back when I was in college I–"
"I thought we were going to take this seriously,” says Steve, sharp. “Or are you just going to keep talking out of your ass?"
Tony’s voice trembles with restrained anger. "You have a lot of nerve talking to me like that–"
"You’re being an asshole, Tony–"
”I’m being the asshole–?!“
"I love her!” Steve roars. “I love her. And as much as you want me not to, I can’t. Trust me, it tore me apart at first but–"
”Goddamnit!“ Tony turns and lifts his hands to his hair, tugging his perfectly styled locks out of their quiffs. His breathing is heavy and stunted, sitting so deep in his chest that his stress is almost tangible. "The only girl in this godforsaken compound that’s off-limits, Cap, and you got her.”
Steve waits with bated breath and folded arms for his next move – but all Tony does is sigh.
He sounds so defeated – brings to mind the dilemma of a few years past, a treaty and an old friend and a fight at an airport – and for a second Steve sees where this is coming from.
Tony’s never dealt well with having control taken from him, never been comfortable with having things being out of his realm of power. And with you, well, he had been protecting you since you’d arrived. The responsibility he feels for you is that of a father – and Steve can understand why his immediate reaction to your relationship is to lash out, grapple for power.
Tony tugs off his thick-framed glasses and rubs at his eyes, exhaling tiredly again, and when he finally fits them back over his eyes he fixes Steve with a firm stare.
“Well, I won’t downplay this for you,” he says, folding his arms. “I’m pissed. I’m furious. If the anger I felt during the Accords and that thing with Ultron had a lovechild it would be what I’m feeling right now.”
(Steve suddenly knows where you got your use of humour to cope from.)
“Tony, I didn’t–”
“You betrayed my trust,” continues Tony. “That girl, she’s like – she’s like a child to me, okay? And don’t act stupid, because it doesn’t suit you, Cap. ____ ’s not my kid legally but she is my kid. And you’ve been dating her for months and you didn’t tell me.”
Yeah, he’s not stupid. And saying it out loud makes it sound even worse. Ever since you’d arrived at the Compound Tony had seen something in you, that same neglected-rich-kid disease that rendered you cold and overconfident and defensive. He took you under his wing, recommended you a therapist (that you only agreed to attend a few hours ago), helped you cope with your bleak parental situation by filling in the gap they left.
And more than that, Steve considered Tony a brother. They’d been through too much to think otherwise – but Steve hadn’t even given it a second thought when everything started. He was anxious about pursuing you of all people, nervous to start dating (seriously) after 70 years. Conflicted, torn between his stubborn morals and his own selfish desires. He’d been thinking about you.
(And although he regrets betraying Tony’s trust, he really wouldn’t give up anything he’s gotten for the world. Under any circumstances.)
Nevertheless, Steve’s elbows meet his knees and his head bows to his hands. “I never – I never thought of it like that. I know that you don’t care about my apology but I’m sorry.”
The billionaire shows no acknowledgement of his words – apart from a raised brow that’s gone in half a second – and just continues to pick at his cuticles in an almost bored manner, jaw clenched. “What are your intentions with her?”
“What?” Steve doesn’t know what takes him aback more – the fact that Tony appears to be coming around to the idea of you together or the fact that he’s asking Steve what his intentions with you are. Steve thought that he had avoided the whole intimidating-father-threatens-date ordeal when he got stuck in the ice.
“I’m not an idiot,” Tony snaps. “She’s been happier for the past while, okay? And that’s all I care about so if you make her happy I can’t do anything, can I? She made that clear enough. But I also know that men your age usually want one thing from girls like her and I’m trying to make sure that that’s not what you’re looking for.”
“I’m not – it’s not like that–” He knows it’s a common train of thought concerning your relationship. It flustered him when Bucky had insinuated it months ago and it still does. “I really, really love her, Tony. This isn’t just a… a one-off thing for me. And it isn’t for her either.”
Steve looks his friend – brother – in the eyes; hopes that the whirlwind of whatever he feels in his chest for you is communicated with the same energy in his eyes, hopes that when he leaves this room his teammates will see it too.
“She’s been through a lot,” Steve says. “Let down by the people who were supposed to care for her and love her and that hurts, Tony. I just… want to make it better. She deserves that much.”
Maybe it’s his unwavering morals, a need to do what’s right and to protect those who need protecting. And yeah, he knows you can fend for yourself; you’ve proved that many a time, you’d got him on his back in training more times than he can count… but you shouldn’t have to. Because he’s willing to do it for you.
Tony inhales. His jaw trembles for a second, and he glances over to the side of the room, unable to hold Steve’s gaze. Then, his resolve evidently crumbling and fading away, he strides over and sits on the edge of the seat opposite him, clasping his hands tightly.
“That kid means everything to me, do you hear?” He says, so quietly that Steve almost doesn’t hear him. But he does, he does, and Steve feels every word as deeply as Tony does.
“I know, Tony.”
“And if you do anything to hurt her – anything, including whatever mess you made in Prague that’s been upsetting her for the past few days,” Tony enunciates, “I will have your head.”
Tony’s eyes bore into him for a few seconds, searching for a malicious intent that isn’t there, before they soften just a fraction. “French Revolution style,” he adds.
Steve cracks a smile. The tension in the room tightens and bursts, flowing free and allowing a (slightly stunted) calmness to take its place.
"I don’t plan to,” Steve promises. Not again.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. You told Bucky!"
The common room is just slightly chaotic.
You’d been attempting to calm yourself down when the rest entered, a glass of water in hand and eyes shut. You’d heard them – how could you not? For the world’s most elite group of spies and agents, they had the combined grace of a baby elephant – but you’d kept to yourself, doing anything from grinding your teeth to counting your breaths.
And it had worked for a while – but then you’d gotten restless and decided that you just had to lie on the coffee table if you ever wanted to be comfortable ever again. And then the chatter started up again.
To be fair, it was mostly Sam and Bucky and Clint passing comments back and forth like the 6th graders they are. Sam is currently complaining about how Bucky knew about your relationship before him, and you wouldn’t be all too surprised if he had this lecture in PowerPoint form. Clint is playing devil’s advocate and riling up the both of them – and you’re just doing a good job of blocking them out for the most part, phone hovering over your face and nails clicking against the screen as you scroll.
The Fenty website has been open for the past 30 minutes and your basket is almost at the 3K mark. Pretty low, all things considered. The last time you were this close to a breakdown you bought a pair of earrings for $20,000. Or maybe it was a necklace. A watch, maybe.
(Your fingers are trembling as you scroll but you’re sure it’s just because you skipped dinner.)
(Maybe if you keep telling yourself that, your heart rate will fucking chill.)
You’ve been playing your friend’s Bad Bitch Playlist repeatedly for the past 30 minutes in an attempt to force a sense of confidence and control on yourself, painted toes tapping erratically against the tabletop. The heels you’d been wearing for your date are abandoned somewhere on the floor, record player shut away and takeout lying untouched on the counter. You’re too lazy to change into something more casual so you simply lounge on the coffee table looking like some sort of ethereal haunted spirit out for blood.
You’d find yourself periodically jumping to your feet and pacing for a few minutes before taking up the same position again, wondering just what was taking so long.
Maybe they made up!
(Maybe they never will.)
Your stomach sinks and twists at the thought – because for all your anger and snark, you do care about Tony’s opinion. You want him to support you and Steve, you want him to be proud of you and trust that you’re mature enough to handle what needs to be handled because he’s the only man in your life that’s actually treated you like a daughter.
And not like the type of daughter your parents thought of you as. Not the trophy, not the model child, not the prodigy. Tony cares about everything your parents had deemed stupid, even if it didn’t exactly seem like it today.
Like you said, you think his pride is hurt. You’d be hurt if he was dating someone and he didn’t tell you.
"I mean, he doesn’t even have a trustworthy face–"
You finally reach your limit and sit up, eyes narrowed and jaw set.
”Steve told Bucky,“ you snap finally, peering around your phone to glare at him. "If you want someone to rant at, go and find him and leave me alone."
"I will,” Sam says, but the fight has gone out of him now. He collapses down beside Bucky with folded arms, pouting. “When Tony’s finished with him.”
“If there’s anything left for you to rant at,” Bucky snorts.
You huff loudly, suddenly standing with a stomp of your feet. The team watch with wide eyes as you storm into the kitchen, feet thumping angrily against the floor.
Bucky turns to the rest of them, clueless. “Was it something I said?”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Natasha slinks into the kitchen minutes later. She says nothing at first – simply watches as you pour yourself a much too large glass of cranberry juice and begin to chug. Finally, after drinking until you were breathless and staining your lips red, you sniffle.
“I’m sorry."
"What for?”
“I didn't… I didn't…” You take another large gulp, acrylics clicking anxiously against your glass, “I didn’t tell you. I was scared about what you’d say, so I said nothing at all.”…“Which I’m realising was a shitty idea, so, uhm, if you could say something…"
She doesn’t answer for a second. She observes you in that unnerving way of hers – the way that hails her profession, like she’s looking underneath your skin and seeing past your perfectly crafted facade. Then, she sighs, and spreads her arms wide.
In truth, you don’t even know where the tears that erupt from you come from. You’d gotten out a majority of your anxiety earlier and you knew things would probably end up okay, but… Something about having everything coming to a head, having this entire shift in your dynamic, makes you feel sick. And so you end up sobbing in Natasha Romanoff’s arms.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she mutters, petting your hair. “I know what you were thinking. I understand, okay? You don’t need to feel guilty about that.”
She lets you cry into her blouse with no complaints, rocking you back and forth, and for a moment you’re reminded of all the times she’d joked about her lack of emotion, of empathy. This self-proclaimed cold-blooded assassin is letting you stain her shirt with foundation and mascara and rubbing your back like a baby for no reason other than your mental wellbeing. Cold-blooded your ass.
“You’re the only family I have,” you mumble, screwing your eyes tight. “I never meant to upset any of you.”
“And you didn’t, not really.” Natasha pulls back and cups your face in her hands. “It stung a bit, I’ll admit, but we’re all big boys and girls. We can handle it, kid.”
You sniff again, bottom lip pouting involuntarily. “And you don’t… think it’s weird, right? Me and Steve?”
Natasha pauses, hesitance clouding her features. “I… won’t lie, it’ll take a while to wrap my head around it. But… you love him?”
It’s such a blunt question – one you had never really given any thought to because you assumed it was clear on your face that you loved him. Truth is, you can’t imagine a life without your fair-haired supersoldier and his stupid jokes, his protectiveness, his adorable, boyish smile. The way he went out of his way to learn what you liked, the tenderness he treated you with. It’s terrifying… But it’s lovely, too.
The strength of your emotions catches you off guard so suddenly that your throat balls up with tears again.
“Yeah,” you breathe, laughing wetly. “Yeah, I do.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
At Tony and Steve’s almost sheepish arrival into the kitchen another 20 minutes later, Natasha takes her leave back into the common area with a good luck and a kiss on the forehead.
You’re left alone with the two most important men in your life. And they don’t seem to have murdered each other, which is nice, you guess. Tapping your nails against the glittery case of your phone and narrowing your eyes, you shimmy up onto the countertop and purse your lips. “…So?”
Tony shrugs, glancing over at Steve. “It is what it is. For all the people in the world you could’ve chosen, this one’s… not that bad, I guess.”
And normally you’d reply with some smart comment or joke but you’re honestly not in the mood for it; less anxious, for sure, but a little more than vexed and a lot more than petty. So you simply stare at his with your arms folded and your lips pursed, and you watch – slightly satisfied, you won’t lie – as he shifts uncomfortably.
“Okay, okay.” He deflates, hands slouching into his pockets. “I know that you don’t need my blessing but he has it anyway, okay? And I'm… sorry.”
Now that’s surprising. And it must show on your face that you think so.
(And yeah, you don’t need his blessing. But it’s nice to hear him give it. You hold him in high regards – not that you’ll tell him, of course. His ego is large enough as it is.)
“Yeah, yeah,” he huffs impatiently. “You won’t hear that from me again. Take it while you can.”
“Well, I’m sorry too.” You wiggle your fingers back and forth in the hopes that maybe you won’t feel so awkward. It doesn’t work very well. “I… didn’t mean what I said earlier. About the reason why I didn’t tell you.”
“That’s okay, kid–"
"Just let me talk, Tony,” you say impatiently. “I’m on a roll and after this emotional turnout I won’t be sharing my feelings for the next 10 years.”
“It’s best to leave her when she gets like this,” Steve jokes.
“Shut up, Steve. Anyways – um, you’re very important to me Tony. And I cherish your opinion a lot and that’s why I didn’t tell you."
You hesitate for a moment, and then: "You’re like… the dad I never really had. And I appreciate that.”… “Or whatever.”
“…God, c'mere.”
And Tony Stark rushes to meet you halfway and hug you so tightly that your lungs begin to hurt. And yeah, maybe you cry a little, what of it? You hide your face in Tony’s shoulder and attempt to steady yourself, breathing in his expensive cologne.
And then you open your eyes and meet Steve’s over Tony’s shoulder – his smile is gentle and warm beneath his beard, and you feel your heart become that much lighter when he realises you’re looking back at him and mouths I love you.
I love you more.
His eyes narrow playfully. I love you most.
You roll your eyes – and then, with a start, realise that everything’s really, actually starting to look up. And this time, you don’t think there’s a ball to drop.
“We should probably set some ground rules, by the way,” Tony interjects suddenly, pulling back. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t want to see Capsicle canoodling my kid–"
Whatever playful argument that had welled up in your throat dies miserably – Tony doesn’t even seem to notice his little slip-up, but you do. He called you his kid. You hide a sniffle and grin up at him.
"–no smooching,” Tony says. “Well, pecks are fine. I don’t want to see any tongue action, guys. That’s disgusting."
"Like we want you to see,” you jest, wriggling out of his grip to throw yourself at your burly super-soldier. “Right, Stevie?"
Tony makes a puking sound immediately and promptly turns and leaves the kitchen, leaving a trail of laughter behind him. The swinging door sways and shuts behind him, and you’re once again left with America’s Sweetheart, whose laugh positively bellows in his chest.
"That went better than I expected,” you say, almost disbelieving. “We… really got through that. What the fuck, Stevie."
"That’s because you believe everything is gonna end in Armageddon, sweetheart.” But he doesn’t object as your hands wind and wrap around his neck, clasping loosely behind him.
“Can’t blame a girl for overreacting."
One kiss, two kisses, three kisses, four. Your nails scratch lightly against the scalp at the back of his head–
"Hey lovebirds! Just because we know you’re together now doesn’t mean you get to skimp on movie night!"
Steve laughs against your lips.
"We signed ourselves up for this, really,” you sigh. “It’s been less than a day and I already need a break.”
“Well,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek. “About that trip to New Orleans…"
(When your re-enter the common area the room continues moving, chatter and TV filling the air, but there’s also a pregnant sort of pause. Everyone’s waiting, you realise. Waiting to see how you and Steve act around each other for the first time, waiting to see what they’d missed for the past few months.
So you give them what they want, naturally. Clasping Steve’s hand in yours and laying your head on his shoulder when he takes his place on the couch. And when Sam coos jokingly, batting at Steve with a cushion, the blonde is quick to retaliate.
"Ey, ey,” says Steve, grabbing the pillow and pointing warningly at Sam. “Don’t make me pull rank.”
“Man, do it. I’m not scared of you, Stevie.”)