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It was a watershed of an evening.
Coming out with your cousin had been different, for starters. He’d originally asked his girlfriend, but her anxiety about it had proved too great to overcome. Instead, she’d taken you on a quick shopping spree – shoes, dress, makeup, hair. She’d attempted to get you to wax your legs, to no avail, and you’d pushed back, only eventually accepting a dress that had to be tailored to include large, comfortable pockets, and elbow-length sleeves.
It was hard to not feel outclassed at the Stark Gala – willowy blondes crossed the floor like comets, men in tuxedos held court in small clusters – but you sighed, relaxing into the knowledge that this, like most things, was temporary, and held casually to your cousin’s arm.
There was a grand staircase, and it was your suggestion, of course, to get a video of yourself descending, like some high school cliché, looking so fancy. Mira would like it, and having something to do would make the evening go by faster.
So you did, doing your best to look genteel, and in control – posture straight, neck long, eyes distant and, you hoped, glittering – then, when you were doing your very best Murder Queen impression, is when you slipped on a too-high heel and fell the last few steps.
There was that hushed intake of breath, and of course it was made worse by you – the heaviest woman in the room. You looked up, face flaming, and realized that James was still filming. For a frozen moment, you considered the horror of the gala – and then how fucking hilarious that video would be – and how, even though nobody was going to help you up, you could choose to make this okay, right now. So you laughed, a defiant laugh that eventually took on your natural humor, as you hauled yourself to your feet and dusted off your skirt. “Did you get that?” you asked James brightly, loudly enough so that the onlookers could hear, and walked over to watch the replay over his shoulder.
After that, you retired to the bar to first and foremost, get off those damn heels, and to people-watch. You were halfway through a glass of something expensive-tasting and red when a man approached you from the side, surprising you.
“Hi there,” he said. You paused, eyeing him over the rim of your glass. Between the superhuman physique and the blonde hair, this was plainly Steve Rogers. You dimly recalled seeing something on a superhero tabloid about how he and Iron Man were quibbling again – apparently untrue if he was here.
“Hello,” you responded, wondering what he could possibly want with you.
“Nice tumble you took, over there.”
You grinned, and motioned towards the discarded heels at your feet. “I’m a modern Icarus: behold my hubris.” You chuckled to yourself and took a sip of wine, and another joke left your lips, before you could stop it. “And here you are, the son of modern Prometheus. What an interesting pair we make.”
A smirk crossed his own face. “Are you calling me a creature?”
You weren’t expecting him to get it; this was a delightful turn of events. “Would you like me to?”
“I’d settle for Steve.” He held out a hand, still looking amused. You took it, told him your name. “Some of your hair is loose. May I…?” Steve pulled a bobby pin from his jacket pocket, held it up in offering.
One of your hands rose to your hair, and yes, a lock had escaped. “If you’re up to the task,” you said. The idea of Captain America being close enough to smell was… very nice. If this is what the evening had to offer, you’d take it.
He came closer, you turned your head to give him access to the nape of your neck. You felt him looking at you, and was just tipsy enough to allow a pleased breath to escape your lips as his fingertips touched your skin, gathering up the unruly curl. You felt the pin slide into place against your scalp, and Steve stayed there an extra, smoldering moment, hand cupped against your skull.
It was all so very pleasing. You took his hand, drew him down to sit next to you. “Good job. You aren’t going to abandon me for the North Pole, are you?”
“Hmm.” His arm wrapped around your waist, and he reached for your glass. “I think I’ve spent enough time in the cold.” He raised the cup to you, in toast. “To hubris.”
You took it back after he had drunk, and toasted him. “To fire.”