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My first fill for my Happy Steve Bingo card!

“You know,” Tony starts, walking slowly beside Steve as they make their way out of the Avengers compound, “I need to take a page out of you and Barton’s book.”

Steve chuckles, resting his hands on his belt, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean. Pep and I just can’t find the time to settle down, you know? She doesn’t want to give up control of Stark Industries and,” He peeks out over the rims of his expensive sunglasses at the tall blonde man, “You know me.” He shrugs.

Steve can’t help but smile, nodding his head in agreeance, “You do like a good party.”

The playboy shrugs, cocking his eyebrow and flashing that million dollar smile that Steve knows all too well. Tony tilts his wrist toward him, illuminating the state of the art Hublot watch, “You should get home to those babies. Take the Audi.”

He tosses the key fob haphazardly into the air, know that Steve will undoubtedly and skillfully catch it. He shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a step before Steve calls, “I can’t, Tony. I’ve got my bike.”

“Live a little, will ya?”

“Tony-“

The billionaire just lifts his hand into the air, continuing his stroll toward his own vehicle, “See you when I see you old man.”

Steve rolls his eyes but smiles all the way through, “Since when is a hundred old?” He calls loudly, “I feel like a teenager!”

“You look like one too.”

Steve watches for a few minutes more as Tony jumps behind the wheel of his other brand new, shiny Audi and speeds off down the dirt road. His blue green eyes land on the orange Audi R8. He takes a step toward it and quirks his eyebrow toward the sky as the engine automatically roars to life. He stops, and the car rolls toward him slowly, coming to a stop right at his feet. He starts walking toward the road and the car follows slowly beside him. He stops, and so does the car. Tony and his toys.

Steve slides behind the wheel and is soon twisting and turning his way through upstate New York. Autumn has fallen over the state with burnt orange and red leaves littering the ground as he burns across the pavement. He makes a left turn and makes his way down the familiar gravel road, his body relaxing as soon as their hideaway breaks into his view. It’s an old farmhouse that they are still, slowly working on, but it’s coming along. If aliens could just quit invading the city, he’d have some time to finish that playroom. He rolls to a slow stop in front of his humble abode and swings the door open, placing his feet on the grass. He lowers his head into his hands, finally taking a moment for himself. He’s home. Where he belongs.

He moves like a cat through the front yard and up the stairs of the porch, his heart fluttering all the while. He’s ready to hear their little voices. He steps through the front door and is met with a deafening silence. It makes him stop dead in his tracks. There’s no Spongebob from the tv, no music from the stereo, no screaming or fighting or laughing or crying. His wife’s heavy accent usually rings through the house but there’s nothing. He exhales slowly as the hair on his arms stands erect. It doesn’t feel right. He closes the door slowly behind him and immediately takes to the stairs, climbing them quickly and quietly, his ears and eyes honed in on any slight change in his atmosphere.

He hits the top step and moves toward their bedroom door which is slightly ajar. His mouth drops open as his breath becomes heavy. He pushes the door with his hand slowly, the contents of his bedroom slowly being revealed to him. His closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath as his wife’s sleeping form comes into view. She’s nestled in the middle of their king sized bed, completely surrounded by their four curly headed girls. Arms and legs and hair are strewn about, intertwined with each other like vines as they slumber. He’s been out there too long this time. Silence shouldn’t scare him like this. He moves into the room and drops to his knees at the side of the bed, stretching his hand toward Okoye’s pregnant belly. Baby number five. Another girl. He rubs her belly, closing his eyes again as he tries to calm himself down. You’re home Steve. You can act like it.

He pulls away from his wife and brushes some curly, light brown disheveled hair out of their youngests’ face. He smiles softly as he watches her, her pretty little lips murmuring slightly as she inhales deeply. Sarah. After his mother. She’s just barely two but is a force to be reckoned with. She’s sweet but strong, caring but intensely diplomatic. She’s an old soul. Next in line is three year old Amara; curled around her mother, her arms around her neck and chest, her sweet face buried in her mother’s neck. She takes after Steve the most. Her eyes are big and wide, a light hazel in color. Her dark, long eyelashes splay against her caramel skin as she inhales and exhales with all the calmness a person can muster. She’s tall for her age, agile, confident but shy. She’s quiet and brooding, always wanting to just do the right thing.

Ch’Tea and Kisani are on the other side of Okoye, nestled within each other. Twins. Their first borns. He remembers it like it was just yesterday. Okoye had been in labor for almost two days. Any longer, the doctors warned, and they had to take them out via surgery. Okoye refused adamantly. They’ll come when they come. It’s up to them. They handed him his babies just as that beautiful Wakandan sunset broke through the sky. That feeling of having them, his babies, something he helped create, in his arms was indescribable and irreplaceable. He’s done so many things, incredible things, otherwise impossible things. He’s been to so many places, seen more than what the history books can describe, but nothing holds up to that moment. Not even punching Adolf Hitler. He’d never known love; a true love, a lasting, living, breathing love until he met Okoye, but, he never knew an unconditional love, an unprovoked love, until he held those babies in his hands. Hisbabies.

He stands, shedding out the of the last remnants of Captain America and tosses them to the floor. It’s time to be daddy. He shrugs into his sweatpants and moves to the other side of their large crowded bed, his footsteps heavy against the wooden floor. He pats Bingo’s head, the chihuahua/terrier mix that wandered out the woods and into their backyard a few months ago, as he too sleeps comfortably at the end of the bed. Steve climbs over the small bodies of Ch’Tea and Kisani, his weight dipping the mattress as it creaks and squeaks under the added pressure. He settles next to his wife and brushes his lips over her forehead, closing his eyes again as he lets his body relax. He pulls the twins into him, pressing their warm bodies to his as his exhaustion quickly catches up with him.

A hand slinks around his neck protectively and her long fingers dig into his blonde hair, “I think I like Dolores for the little one.”

Her voice is soft and sleepy, wafting over him like a warm breeze. He chuckles lightly, replacing his hand on her budding stomach, “It’s growing on you, huh?” He whispers back.

She shrugs, never opening her eyes as she continues to massage his head lightly. She rests her free hand on Amara’s arm that’s slung across her chest as a smile spreads on her lips, “Yeah. Dolores Azzuri Rogers.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, letting the name move around his brain before he starts to give in to the sleep, “It’s perfect.” He exhales.

Sarah begins to stir beside her mother, humming softly as her father’s voice breaks into her subconscious. She sits up quickly, rubbing at her eyes furiously before swiping her small, chubby hand across her forehead. She turns her head, her eyes still half closed as she begins to whine softly, “Mama…”

“Shhhh,” Steve coos softly, opening his eyes slightly as he tries to calm her, “It’s okay baby girl.”

“Daddy.” She reaches for him, extending her arms and flexing her fingers toward him, “Hol’ me daddy.”

Steve obliges, sitting up a little to pull her gently over her sleeping sister and mother. He finds a small space between himself, Okoye, and Ch’Tea and Kisani, and settles her down, draping his large arm over the three of them, “My sweet, sweet Sarah baby.” He whispers, tickling her stomach and smiling as her little giggle fills the quiet room, “You like the name Dolores?”

She nods sleepily, twisting her body to face her sleeping twin sisters and father, “You like, daddy?”

“I do.”

“You mama?”

Okoye nods softly, “I love it.”

“Then I like too. You pick middle yet?”

“Azzuri.” Okoye answers, “You know who that is?”

“Nuh uh.” The young girl answers as she lifts Steve’s hand in the air, intertwining her little fingers with his before tracing the lines on his palm.

“That is your uncle T’Challa’s grandfather.” Steve answers, pulling her hand toward his lips to kiss every last one of her chubby fingers, “He was a king.”

“And he was the fiercest Black Panther there ever was. He never lost a battle.” Okoye finishes, “Uncle T’Challa loved him dearly.”

Sarah brings her father’s hand to her own lips and plants a kiss in his palm, smiling as she’s rewarded with a chuckle from him. The young girl yawns sweetly and cuddles into her sisters, rubbing her hand against Steve’s skin as she drifts back into a peaceful sleep. Okoye turns her head toward his and plants a small kiss on the tip of his nose as best she can, “You’re home now, right?” She questions, her voice still soft, “No more avenging until after Dolores is here?”

“I’m all yours, doll.”

She smiles again. He returns a soft kiss on her cheek and nuzzles into Kisani’s hair as Ch’Tea wraps her small hand around his bicep. The parents drift off to sleep again, comfortable and warm, surrounded by their babies.

Festivities

You love the fall. The first day of September is a holiday for you. You break out your cozy sweaters, you drink nothing but pumpkin spice lattes, and you pull out the Halloween decor. Your nails are painted black, your favorite tea is brewing on the stove, and your one eyed black cat Sam paws at the plastic bats hanging from the corner of your kitchen counter. You remove the baked chicken from the oven and return to your squash as the familiar sound of his bike wafts toward you. You can’t help but smile. You knows what’s coming.

You continue to cook as you hear him head through the front door, his keys jingling. His heavy footsteps move through your small but cute house and then stop once he moves into the kitchen. You glance over your shoulder at him, “Hi babe.”

“Hi yourself.” He says as hemoves toward you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist.

You close your eyes as another smile spreads across your face. He pokes his nose into your curly hair and takes a deep breath, his eyes closing as he breathes you in. The two of you sway back and forth slowly to your own rhythm before he leans down and pecks your cheek with his pink lips. He opens his eyes again and moves them around the kitchen, taking in your themed decorations. He chuckles and it vibrates through you. You eye him as he moves around you, nodding his head slowly as he reaches out to touch the small pumpkin sitting the corner of the island. You bite your lip and try to stifle the laugh bubbling in your chest as he moves to the windows, checking out the ghost and zombie window clings. He then moves to the kitchen table, a beautiful old table from the forties that he found and restored a few years back. He taps the small red button on the skeleton centerpiece and watches unenthusiastically as the skeleton begins to dance and sing.

You snort from the pent up laughter. He turns and leans up against the table, crossing his arms over his chest with a smug look on his face, “I thought we talked about this?”

“Oh? We talked about what, dear?” Your voice is light and sweet, like a fifties housewife.

He squints his eyes and you smile wider. You know exactly what you two talked about. You’ve had many, many, MANY conversations about it. You still really can’t believe you ended up with him after he admitted his fauxpaux. It really hurt your heart. Steve Rogers hates Halloween. The blasphemy of it! But even more, Steve Rogers, six foot two, two hundred and forty pound Captain America, eats, lives, and breathes Christmas. Not just Christmas, though, you could tolerate that somewhat. No, no, your husband, the greatest Super Soldier of all time, love Christmas music. Hymns, songs, carols… he loves it all. Sometimes, you feel like it’s just to spite you. He stands from his spot at the table and starts to move toward your record player.

You place your hand on your hip, a smile playing on your lips, “Steve.”

“Yes?” He answers sweetly, combing through his expansive collection.

“Don’t.” You warn. He looks at you over his shoulder before completely ignoring you and picking out his favorite album, “Steven Grant Rogers, I mean it!”

He plucks the round disk from the cover and places it gingerly into the player, picking up the needle. You can’t help but laugh at his theatrics, “Captain!”

He sets the needle down despite your objections and for a few seconds, just static can be heard. But once the static clears, Judy Garland’s voice lights up the kitchen as she belts out Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. You close your eyes in exacerbation, taking a deep breath, “Captain,” You say calmly.

“Yes dear?” He answers smugly.

“We talked about this.”

“Oh?”

You laugh wildly as he mocks you, “It’s too early for Christmas Carols!”

“So, let me get this straight. You can decorate the house in this morbid stuff two months early, but I can’t listen to Christmas music?”

You tap your foot, pretending to think over your answer, “Yes.”

It’s his turn to laugh, “That is not fair.”

“Life’s not fair buttercup.”

“I have to combat your ghoulish lust somehow! This is the only way I can do it.”

You fake offense, placing your hand to your chest as you lean back slightly. You look at each other as Judy croons in the background, a terrible mismatch for your skeletons, bats, zombies, and ghost decor. He quirks his eyebrow, that stupid smirk on his face as he believes he’s won something.

“It’s September.” You plead, “This is making my ears bleed.”

“This,” he motions around, “Makes my eyes bleed.”

You chuckle again, clicking your teeth as you return to stirring your pesto sauce, “I’m not taking it down.”

“Good.” He taunts, “I have plenty more Christmas records.”

“You know,” You start, motioning for him to start grabbing the plates and silverware, “You could at least have better taste and play Last Christmas by Wham.”

He stops reaching for the plates and looks back at you over his shoulder, his face scrunched, “Who?”

“Oh my god,” You giggle.

He moves around in the kitchen, grabbing plates, and cups, and silverware, humming rather loudly with Judy Garland. You shake your head and keep your eyes on him as he has the nerve to even dance a little. He grabs your wrist and spins you into his chest, smiling down on you as you laugh wildly again. You begin a sloppy foxtrot with him, pretty much just hanging onto him for dear life as he whisks you around. You throw your arms around his neck and hug him tightly, resting your chin on his shoulder as he slows down.

“I’ve missed you baby.” He whispers.

“I’ve missed you Captain.”

Steve holds you to him as though if he lets you go, he’ll never see you again. He spins you away from him slowly but keeps a hold of your much smaller hand. He pulls you back into him and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips. You stare up into those big eyes of his as the Christmas Song begins playing from the record player. You can’t remember how many September nights the two of you have spent slow dancing to Christmas music in the past five years, but you’ll never tell him that these are some of your favorite nights of the year. Despite the music choice.

You and Steve don’t even eat. The two of you end up in your bedroom, as usual, making love. You’re wrapped up in your sheets and comforter as your unclothed husband moves back out into kitchen after growing an appetite. Steve picks up the needle from the now skipping record, his hands full of food. He flicks his eyes toward his music collection just as he’s about to move back toward the bedroom, but stops as something catches his eye.

“You will never guess what I found.”

You toss your eyes toward him, a lazy smile on your face as he moves back into sight, “What’s that?”

He sets down the slices of cheesecake and wine before moving over toward the radio in your room. He slides a CD into it and turns back toward you, cocking his eyebrow as Last Christmas by Wham starts to fill your bedroom. You fall into a fit of laughter again, covering your face with your hands. God, you love this man.

2:30 AM

You wipe your hands on your towel and check the old clock that hangs on the opposite wall. It’s going on two twelve am. He’ll be here soon. You smile to yourself, tucking some loose hair behind your ear before you get busy by cleaning the counter. You check on the rowdy table in the back, teenagers all decked out in their finest after their prom. Their laughing and excitement makes you smile again, reminding you of your own youth and of the times where you had no responsibilities and no worries in sight. You then move to the old man on the other side of the diner, sipping on his tea, reading the paper, and munching on his crispy bacon. He’s a regular. He’s been coming here for as long as you’ve moonlighted as a waitress and for many more years before that.

You glance at the clock again; two twenty two. You move back behind the counter and start a fresh pot of coffee, just for him. Who eats at a diner at two in the morning in New York City? All your friends ask, wondering why, night after night, year after year, you stay at this little dump. Old men and over the hill superhero’s, that’s who. You always smile as your mind wanders to the mysterious blonde stranger with the long eyelashes. He usually comes by himself, but sometimes, he brings his long haired friend with him. You recognized the two instantly, who wouldn’t? Their faces were plastered all over the news papers after that deadly explosion last year at the UN. Bucky Barnes was public enemy number one. But when he walked in behind the stoic Steve Rogers, he was anything but. He was quiet and respectful as you took their orders, barely making eye contact with you, his voice low and soft.

Steve was the same, just a little more direct. He made square eye contact with you. His yes ma’am, no ma’ams’ were confident but gentle. He was just as sweet as pie; they both were. Contrary to the stories of them punching and kicking and shooting their way through a herd of nazis or being a world class assassin. Steve came pretty regularly after that, usually at the same time, and always ordered the same thing; a black coffee, strong. He’d sometimes pair it with a piece of apple pie or a bowl of vanilla ice cream but usually, it was just cup after cup of black coffee as he stared out the window or doodled in his small notebook. One night, and you’re not even sure why, you stopped by his table and thanked him.

“For what?” He asked softly as he looked up at you behind that blonde hair.

“Just for everything you do. For keeping us safe.”

The two of you didn’t speak another word that night. He got up and left after another hour or two, and when you went by his table to collect his empty coffee cup, there was a note scribbled on the back of the receipt, along with a forty dollar tip. No ma’am, thank you. You don’t know why he thanked you, you’re not off saving the world. But, unlike the rest, maybe it’s because you treat him like a person. Not a commodity or a celebrity. You just serve him his coffee and leave him be. You glance over at the clock again, just as the door chimes as it opens. You don’t even look up. You just turn and move toward the coffee pot, pulling it from its home and grab two cups. You motion toward Jose, the short order cook, and he nods back toward you, winking. You move toward his favorite table and place the two cups on the surface, pouring the steaming black nectar into the mug as he brushes by you to sit.

You slide into the seat of the booth opposite him, pouring your own cup before sitting the pot down. You pick your eyes up toward him for the first time to find him staring at you, like he usually does, a slight smile on his face.

“Hi.” You say softly and simply, letting out a breath through your nose that you weren’t aware you were holding.

“Hi.” He answers, his own smile growing.

He holds the hot mug in his hands as he watches you perform surgery on yours. You pull three sugars out of the small, black holder and shake them thoroughly before tearing off the tops and tipping them over the black liquid. You then move for the tiny creamers, plucking two from the small bowl that sits near the window and pour them one by one. You grab a spoon and being to stir, watching the coffee go from jet black to caramel brown. You finally bring your cup to your lips and he does the same, waiting. You glance up at each other and hold your gazes as you both take your first sip. You set your cups down at nearly the same time, the sound of the glassware connecting with the tabletop is comfortable and familiar.

The kids behind you burst into laughter again at something on one of their phones. You turn slightly, watching them over your shoulder as Steve does the same, “They look nice. Prom night?” He asks, taking another sip.

“I think so. They’ve been here since about midnight.”

“At least they’re not out getting into trouble.” You laugh lightly, “They’re not giving you any guff are they?”

You roll your eyes a little, playfully, “No. They’ve been better than most adults.”

His aptitude for justice and order is overwhelming at times but, it is so him. You like it. You turn back toward him and rest your elbows on the table, wrapping your hands around your warm cup. You bring it up to your mouth but you don’t drink right away. You just look over at him as he gazes out of the window, lost in thought. The steam from his black coffee rises slowly and moves into the air before dissolving before your eyes. You take a slow sip, humming slightly as the sugary drink settles into your stomach. You’re not sure what you two are doing. Every night, well, mostly every night, when he’s not off in space fighting aliens and outside threats, for the last six months, the two of you sit together at two thirty in the morning and drink coffee. Sometimes you two talk a lot, other times not so much. Tonight is the obviously the latter. You like him. You’re not exactly sure how you like him, or even really what liking him means for you. You think that maybe he likes you; why else would he venture out this early in the morning for a pot of your terrible coffee?

He turns toward back toward you and blinks. Another slow smile spreads across his lips as you sheepishly look away, unable to keep yourself from smiling in return. He lifts his cup back to his lips and takes another drink as the kids behind you continue to laugh and joke and chortle about. Little do you know how much Steve enjoys his late night coffee dates with you. He watches you, just like you watch him, when you’re not looking. He likes your calm spirit. He likes that sometimes you do all the talking, andexpect absolutely nothing from him. You pick up on his anxiousness and fill the void with the happenings of your day, knowing and understanding that sometimes he just needs to escape himself. He needs to get away from Captain America. He likes your curly hair, your long fingers, and how bite your lip when you smile. He likes you.

He’s not sure what the two of you are doing either, he’s got far less experience in this kind of thing than you. But, until the two of you figure it out, he’s more than happy to meet you at two in the morning for some of your terrible coffee. He reaches out toward you, laying his hand palm up on the table as he turns his gaze out toward the street. You don’t hesitate. You never do. You lay your much smaller hand into his and watch as his fingers curl around yours. You smile again. So does he. He then lifts his black coffee to his lips and takes a long drink, smiling softly to himself as he rubs your fingers.