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- Red is the Rose
Tony couldn’t tell at first who was singing—there wasn’t anyone on the team who he expected to break out into song without significant chemical or magical intervention. The voice sang clear and bright and on key.
You choose the road, love,
and I'll make the vow
And I'll be your true love forever
Tony struggled to come up with something to tease them about and came up blank; the singer was good, and he didn’t recognize the song to make a joke out of it.
Still, he’d come to the common floor hoping to combat boredom, and finding some company seemed as good a way as any. He picked his way around the tables, couches, screens, and pillars that comprised the open floor plan. It became clear why he hadn’t spotted the singer earlier when Tony reached a sunken couch area on the other side of the kitchen space, which was obscured not only by the difference in altitude but also by the kitchen’s floor-to-ceiling banks of ovens, microwaves, and refrigerators.
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows
Fair is the lily of the valley
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
But my love is fairer than any
It was Steve singing, his timbre slightly altered by the angle at which he reclined into a mountain of pillows. The lounge’s couches and coffee table were strewn with cushions, blankets, colored pencils, pencil shavings, and stacks of drawing paper. Tony couldn’t quite see what Steve was working on because of the way his socked feet were propped on the back of the couch and how he had piled his pillows under the drawing board in his lap.
’Twas down by Killarney's green woods that we strayed—
“Whaddya got there, Cap?” Tony asked, making his way down the little set of stairs to reach the lounge level.
Tony hadn’t been trying to be particularly quiet, but maybe Steve had been too engrossed in listening to his own singing, concentrating on his drawing, because at the sound of Tony’s voice, Steve jerked his head up and, arms flailing, tossed his pencils and papers onto the floor. There might have been a little yelp of surprise, too, before he managed to squeal, “Tony!”
“Not your usual graceful response to an ambush,” Tony noted.
Steve blushed and ducked down to gather up his drawing supplies.
Tony joined him, sitting back on his heels, his knees crunching on the pencil shavings that scattered the floor. “What was that song? I was expecting you to be into, I dunno, swing or jazz or something.”
“Oh! Uh.” Steve fingered the crimson pencil he was holding. “It’s an old Irish one, actually. Something my mom used to sing to me.”
“You thinking about a particular girl who’s prettier than that red rose or lily of the valley?” Tony teased.
Steve’s shoulders hunched. “Kind of,” he choked. “I was just using a lot of red, for my drawing, and I thought of the song, and I just—”
Tony took pity and interrupted his babbling. “Didn’t mean to pry. Who names these things, anyway?” he asked to change the subject. He pointed the label of one of the pencils in Steve’s direction. “‘Petal?’ ‘Bubblegum?’ They should call this one ‘Steve Rogers’ face when he blushes.’”
Right on cue, the pink flush returned to Steve’s cheeks. He snatched the pencils from Tony’s hands. “I’m sure it’s some weird marketing thing, like paint chips, or the names clothing has in catalogs.”
“‘Beacon yellow?’ What does that mean? Oh, I like this one: ‘drillbit metal,’ that’s evocative. What kind of background do you think someone needs for this job? Poetry? Copywriting? We should have a line of Avengers colors, don’t you think?”
“I dunno Tony, does the world really need more colors than just ‘Iron Man scarlet’ and ‘Iron Man gold?’” Steve asked, catching Tony’s eye with a deadpan look that slowly warmed into a smile.
Tony chuckled. “Judging by these, yes, some people want all the colors they can get. Apparently you’re one of them. Can you even see the difference between ‘poinsettia’ and ‘vermillion?’ And what is this, ‘chili pepper?’ Seriously, ‘chili pepper?’” Tony squinted at them.
“‘Vermillion’ is a little warmer, I think,” Steve said thoughtfully, examining the trio of pencils Tony held. “‘Chili pepper’ has a little blue in it and is a smidge grayer, maybe. And ‘poinsettia’ is in between.” He picked up another one from between his nest of cushions. “This one’s ‘rhubarb’—it’s a little brighter, see? It’s actually the color of rhubarb.”
“Christ, do you have to be a supersoldier to see that?”
Steve shrugged. “It’s just training and practice, like anything else.”
“‘Smoldering red,’” Tony read off another pencil. “‘Maple leaf red,’ ‘pink eraser,’ ‘candy cane red.’ So, you drawing some red roses, then?”
“Something like that,” Steve agreed.
“We could come up with better names than this,” Tony scoffed. “Let’s see, this could be ‘taxicab yellow,’ that’s an easy one. ‘Do not step over the double yellow line yellow,’ for this one. Maybe that’s too long to fit on a pencil, though. And, hmm, ‘Loki cape green,’ maybe?”
“Not ‘Hulk green?’”
“I think Bruce prefers purple, really,” Tony replied, slipping the pencils into the wooden case Steve had out now. “This gross gray brown color looks like the grimy concrete in a subway station, doesn’t it? I wonder what pretentious way there is to name that…” Tony trailed off, realizing that Steve was staring at him. “What? Do I have pencil shavings in my beard or something?”
Steve laughed, batting Tony’s examining hand away from his own chin. “I was just thinking how sweet it is that you always distinguish between Bruce and the Hulk. A lot of people forget to.”
“Well, they’re pretty different people,” Tony pointed out, unsure of what they were really discussing any more. “Here we go!” he said triumphantly. “Here’s one with a real name: ‘dioxazine.’ Now that’s how it’s done.” He brandished the violet pencil.
“Only you would think that was a good name. What even is that?” Steve asked.
“It’s the the chemical that makes it this color,” Tony said. “Here’s another good one, ‘indanthrene.’ This way you actually know what to expect!”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Oh, here’s ‘rose red,’ do you need this for your rose drawing?”
“You know the song isn’t really just about flowers, right?” Steve’s eyes sparkled. Cornflower, sapphire, denim, lapis, cerulean, peacock, Tony’s brain provided, taking in the multitude of blues visible twinkling at him.
“It’s about how hot the singer’s lady-love is, right?”
“I think the Scottish version might be about the Jacobite uprising, but yeah,” Steve replied. “Hey.” He swallowed. “Thanks for not making fun of my singing. I haven’t ever sung in front of anyone, you know, on purpose.”
“Weird to be singing on the common floor then. And god, am I that much of an asshole, Rogers? That I get thanked for managing to not be a dick to you for once?”
“I just meant—whatever, never mind.”
“No problem,” Tony finally said quietly.
- Castle of Dromore
“Why does everything hurt?” Tony whined. Talking hurt his throat, which he wanted to complain about, but he didn’t want to get caught in an infinite loop. He opened his eyes, and the bright light somehow made his headache even worse. “Ow,” he complained, pressing his eyes shut.
“That’s what happens when you jump in front of a falling building,” a chastising voice replied.
“Pepper?” he managed.
Tony felt a slender hand grab his and squeeze. “I’m here, Tony,” she said. “You have awful timing, though. I’ve been waiting with you here in medical for hours, and now that you’re finally awake, I have this meeting. I have to go. I’m so sorry. Someone from the team should be here soon to keep you company.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Tony griped, though the prospect of being left alone didn’t sound so great, either.
“We’re all just worried about you, you know.”
“So everyone else is fine?”
“Other than Clint’s debilitating jealousy that you got out of the mission debrief, yes, everyone’s fine. They’re saying you should be alright in a day or two. For now, you just need rest. I brought you a tablet for when you feel well enough, and there’s—”
“Can’t I just—” He coughed. Stupid sore throat. “Recover at home?”
“No,” she said immediately. She started to say something else but was interrupted by a beeping noise. “Damnit, that’s me, I really have to run.” Tony smelled Pepper’s shampoo, felt warm breath against his cheek and then a small peck on his forehead. “Promise you’ll actually sleep and get better?”
“I promise,” he grumbled. “If I can really go home tomorrow.”
“We’ll see. Say hi to everyone for me!”
“Bye, Pep,” Tony said quietly. Speaking softly hurt less, which seemed karmically rude. He listened to the sound of Pepper’s heels clacking on linoleum.
For a few minutes he managed to pre-empt the imminent boredom with his usual mental detritus: the tensile strength of various materials; musings on a few of his favorite prime numbers; how SI might be able to find a niche market for holographic displays in the form of computer-aided design software; a paper he’d read on a new form of steady-state welding. Soon though, he found himself employing some of his more last-ditch resources, like counting in base 8 or reciting Lucas series.
So it was with relief that he heard a heavier set of footsteps approach him. “Entertain me!” he commanded. It might have been more impressive if he weren’t still a little raspy.
He heard a chuckle in reply. “You’re supposed to be resting,” Steve’s voice said.
“But it’s boring,” Tony complained.
“Pepper texted me. She said you promised you’d sleep.”
“Ugh, fine. Turn off the lights, would you?” Tony heard the click of a switch and felt the brightness beyond his eyelids dim. “Can I get a bedtime story at least?”
“I have a mission report I could read you.”
“No, no, that sounds horrendous. I get injured like this to avoid paperwork, Cap.”
“Tony…” Steve sighed.
“I know, you could sing me something until I fall asleep!” Tony suggested. After a moment’s silence he hastily added, “I mean, if you want to, if it’s weird—”
“No, I—I just didn’t know you liked my singing,” Steve replied. “But I only know Irish songs, and most of those are about murder and war.”
“That sounds like my speed. I haven’t heard you sing about murder. What’s your favorite murder song?”
“They’re ballads, but don’t think you can trick me into getting in a conversation with you. I know some lullabies, I guess?”
“You’re no fun. Okay, lullaby it is. Hit me. I’ll sleep.”
For a few breaths, Tony thought that Steve had changed his mind, or even left the room without Tony realizing. Then, quietly,
The October winds lament
Around the castle of Dromore
Yet peace is in her lofty halls,
My loving treasure store.
Though autumn leaves may droop and die
A bud of spring are you
A bud of spring, Tony thought. What a beautiful term of affection. He tried to remember lullabies from his childhood and came up blank. He tried to remember when anyone had sung to him at all, in fact, and still found nothing. He discovered he liked it. A feeling of safety enveloped him, and his breaths were steadier by the time Steve reached the chorus.
Sing hush-a-by lull-a-loo, la lan,
Sing hush-a-by lull-a-loo
The rest of the song washed over him like a sunbeam on a winter’s day.
Take heed young eaglet,
Till thy wings are feathered fit to soar.
A little rest and then the world
Is full of work to do
Before sleep claimed him, Tony thought he heard Steve whisper, “Codail sámh, stór mo chroí.”
- Courtin’ in the Kitchen
“Good morning!” Steve said brightly.
Tony somehow hoisted himself onto a barstool and let his face plant on the kitchen counter. “Mmmmph,” he replied.
“Jarvis made you coffee,” Steve said, handing Tony a mug.
Tony sat up to take a swig, humming contentedly as the hot drink touched his tongue.
“I was just going to make some pancakes. You want some?”
Tony nodded into his coffee.
Steve chuckled. “It’s weird having you all nonverbal.”
“Enjoy it while you can,” Tony advised. “Gimme three or four more of these”—he saluted with his mug—“and I’ll be back to my usual supersonic speeds. You, uh, want some help?” he asked, watching as Steve pulled out half a dozen different white powders from the cupboards.
“Nah,” Steve replied easily. “I have something in mind. You like blueberries, right?”
“Love ’em,” Tony agreed. Why did it take three kinds of flour and two kinds of sugar to make pancakes? Better that Steve didn’t want his help.
Steve shuffled and spun around the kitchen, occasionally singing quietly to himself,
Too-ra-loo-ra-la
He filled a small saucepan with water, then a porcelain pitcher Tony didn’t know they owned with syrup, placed it in the pan, and set it over the stove to warm up.
Te too-ra-loo-ra-laddie
He sang absently, measuring buttermilk into a mixing bowl. “You ready for more coffee?”
“Yes please,” Tony replied, wiggling his fingers in the direction of the mug Steve refilled for him. He took in Steve’s wide grin and felt his pulse quicken.
Steve continued to sing as he stirred a flour mixture with a wooden spoon.
I drank hot punch and tay till me side had got to stitchin’
Tony finished two more mugs of coffee in companionable silence while Steve hummed more of his song to himself, combined the wet and dry ingredients, started a blueberry sauce, and heated and oiled the griddle.
“You have a late night last night?” Steve asked when he handed Tony his fourth cup.
“Just working on the suit,” Tony agreed. “Figuring out some air ventilation and oxygen supply stuff. See, I’m trying this different polymer for absorbing shocks and dampening vibrations and impacts and everything, but I also want insulation from—” Tony was off after that, glad for an interested ear on the topic of thermal and electrical insulation, thermoelectric generators, and how to make a version of the suit that could breach atmosphere.
Steve was a good listener. Over the bubbling sound of the pancakes sizzling on the stove, he asked questions about polymer networks and non-Newtonian fluids. His eyes never glazed over, even when Tony lapsed into a long tangent about covalent cross-linkages.
Before he knew it, Tony was being presented with a beautifully plated tower of perfectly dimpled pancakes, each the same thickness and golden shade of brown. The stack was topped with a dollop of hand-whipped cream and striped with deep purple ribbons of blueberry sauce and bands of maple syrup that were already soaking into the spongey cakes.
“Holy shit,” Tony said. “This is gorgeous.” They tasted even better than they looked. Tony gobbled them down in a rush, then looked up to watch Steve eat his own pancakes at a more sedate pace, enjoying the golden light of late morning that kissed across Steve’s skin, examining the way his jaw worked when he swallowed.
Over their second helping, Steve took the lead in the conversation. Soon they were both laughing at Steve’s description of an exotic weapons training with Clint and Natasha that involved the former trying to shoot arrows through a chakram the latter tossed, and the ensuing wrestling match and juggling competition.
“I’ll clean up,” Tony offered when their plates were empty, starting to stand.
“No, no, let me get it,” Steve insisted, snatching the plate and fork out of Tony’s hand and spinning on his heel toward the sink.
And the hours passed quick away
With me too-ra-loo-ra-la,
Me too-ra-loo-ra-laddie.
When the griddle was clean, the plates rinsed and sorted in the dishwasher, and all the ingredients tidied away, Steve tossed Tony another brilliant grin and said, “Thanks for having breakfast with me, Tony. Have a great day!”
An hour later, Tony was in his workshop, going over some Riemannian geometry Jane Foster had asked him to review, when he found his mind wandering back to Steve. The caffeine must have finally finished kicking in, because it just then struck him that although he'd come into the kitchen hours after Steve's usual early-morning routine, Steve had said he was "just about to" make pancakes. “Hey Jarvis?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Do you know what old song Steve was doing this time?”
“The chorus appears in several other traditional Irish songs, but based on the melody and the other lines the captain sang, I believe it to be ‘Courtin’ in the Kitchen,’” the AI replied smoothly.
“Well that’s,” Tony said, smiling to himself, “goddamn adorable, actually.”
- Shores of Amerikay
“How do you want me, Cap?”
He hadn’t said it for the sole purpose of seeing Steve blush, but he was rewarded with one anyway. “Just, ah, whatever’s comfortable, for now,” Steve replied.
Tony grinned. “Sure thing.” He flopped onto the couch. “Do you listen to music while you draw? Or, I don’t know, the news? You seem like a talk radio kinda guy. I just, I need something to keep my mind busy if I’m gonna pose like this for long.”
Steve swallowed and ducked behind the easel he was setting up. “I usually sing when I’m drawing,” he said tentatively. “When I’m alone.”
“Oh!” Tony still wasn’t sure what Steve thought about singing in front of him. “Um, I wouldn’t mind that, then?”
Steve wrinkled his nose. “You aren’t tired of the Irish stuff?”
Tony shrugged. “Try me.”
“Okay, there’s this one my mom used to sing, and I know most of the words, but it’s really tricky. It’s a slip jig.” At Tony’s blank expression, he added, “It’s in 9/8 time. It’s hard to figure out when to breathe.” He squinted.
“Let’s hear it, then.”
Steve finished clipping paper to his drawing board and arranging his tools on a little tray at his waist height. Clearing his throat, he began,
In the merry month of May,
when first from home I started—
“—Ugh. I already messed it up.”
Tony tried to give an encouraging smile without shifting his pose too much. Steve started again.
Now in the merry month of May,
from my home I started,
And left the girls alone,
sad and broken-hearted.
Shook hands with father dear,
kissed my darling mother
Steve sang on—or chanted, almost, it was barely a melody, just the rhythm of the words—starting and stopping and beginning verses over again a few times. The challenge in singing it was clear; the jaunty and bouncing emphasis on the different syllables was slippery and unnatural. In the chorus, road stretched into two syllables to keep the time.
Some minutes later, the song reached its end.
One, two, three, four, five,
Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road
And all the way to Dublin
whack-fol-la-de-da
“It’s weird,” he added after a moment. “How everyone just thinks now that they’re ‘American.’”
Tony laughed. “Says Captain America.”
“I know, I just meant, back in my day—”
“Ooh, ‘back in my day,’ I already love where this is going,” Tony teased.
“—In my day,” Steve continued, “we thought of ourselves as, you know, Irish-American, if that’s what someone was, or, I don’t know, Russian-American or Jewish-American or whatever. And, like, in that song, everyone can tell that he’s Irish.” He pursed his lips. “Back then, even people who were second or third generation or even later spoke the languages their grandparents did.”
“Do you know Irish, then? Oh, shit, wait, should I stop talking?” Tony made a face. “This might not work after all, if I can’t even talk.”
Steve smiled. “You can talk, I’ll just work on your face during the milliseconds your mouth is shut. As for Irish, I used to speak a little, but I haven’t practiced since I was a kid. I know some songs, though. I just meant, I know Natasha speaks Russian fluently, but she doesn’t ever tell us about her family’s traditions, the foods she grew up eating, or anything like that. And I guess Thor is really always speaking whatever Asgardian language he speaks, but it’s everyone else, really. I don’t even know where in the country Bruce or Clint are from, not to mention anything about their families or traditions. Or you, for that matter.”
“My mom was Italian, and my dad was German and a bunch of other European things that he stopped talking about during the war. Your war, I mean. It wasn’t really popular around here to embrace German heritage, for a while there.”
“Do you speak any Italian?” Steve asked.
“Solo un po,” Tony replied. “My Japanese, Mandarin, and French are all much better. I was properly taught those, and I’ve actually had reason to use them.”
“So was your mom Catholic?”
“She was raised that way, I guess,” Tony said. “Religion wasn’t really part of my childhood. I think I remember Seders with the Jarvises more than any Stark family holidays.”
“You didn’t celebrate Christmas?”
Tony shrugged. “If by ‘celebrate’ you mean ‘make an occasional appearance at corporate Christmas parties,’ then sure. Otherwise, not so much. My parents were usually out of town that time of year, anyway.”
“Sounds like family history wasn’t a big part of your life, then.”
“Nah, the closest thing I had to any heritage stuff was pretty much just about Stark Industries.”
“How very capitalist,” Steve teased.
“Very American,” Tony agreed.
“I don’t think I like it,” Steve admitted. “How being ‘American’ has become its own identity, I mean. Instead of ‘American’ meaning, I don’t know, made up of all the different peoples, the different circumstances everyone comes from, coming together to make something new, something complicated.”
“Most people would be surprised you’re not more into, y’know, nationalism.”
“I hate that word.” Steve shuddered. “It used to mean something different. Back in my day,” he added wryly.
“I don’t know about that,” Tony said. “I think it still pretty much means ‘xenophobic isolationism.’ Hey, I see color! Aren’t you supposed to be drawing?”
“They’re pastels. It’s hard to draw you without color. And it’s still on paper, so it’s still a drawing,” Steve insisted. “And Captain America wasn’t supposed to be about that kind of America, about exceptionalism,” Steve grumbled. “That’s what I thought, anyway. Maybe that doesn’t matter.”
“I think it matters. What do you think it’s supposed to mean?”
“Ideals,” Steve answered fervently, with that earnestness that made Tony want to gobble him up. “The things that America is supposed to be, that we should be trying to be. The United States came from rejecting being an empire and a monarchy, from trying to be more free, more open, more accepting. America’s supposed to be a home, welcoming to everyone, no matter where they’re from, who they are, or what’s happened to them.” His gaze settled on Tony’s face, then softened. “Like how you gave me a home, here, now.”
Tony didn’t know how to reply to that. As his mind whirled to catch up, Steve swallowed and looked away, maybe worried he’d gone too far. “Uh, I know another Irish song about that, actually. May I?”
“Please,” Tony agreed quickly.
I'm bidding farewell to the land of my youth,
and the home I loved so well
This song was much more suited to his voice, the slow, vibrant notes of his baritone filling the room and reverberating in Tony’s bones.
And the mountains so grand
in my own native land,
I’m bidding them all farewell.
With an aching heart I’ll bid them adieu,
for tomorrow I’ll sail far away.
His drawing slowed, then, and Tony thought he could see it as Steve redirected his breath, his energy, into the song.
O’er the raging foam for to seek a home,
on the Shores of Amerikay
Steve was staring at Tony now, not just looking at him, not just studying him for his drawing.
It’s not for the want of employment I'm going,
O’er the weary and stormy sea
But to seek a home for my own true love
On the Shores of Amerikay.
Steve’s voice might have wavered. His eyes didn’t leave Tony’s. Something crackled—the chalk pastel Steve was clutching, snapping in his grip.
Before he knew what he was doing, Tony was on his feet, compelled toward Steve as if by a magnetic force. Steve seemed rooted to the spot where he stood at his easel. Only his eyes moved to follow Tony’s approach. He had a smear of forest-green pigment on his forehead, Tony noticed.
And then their mouths were slotted together, and he was kissing Steve. Steve made a brief shocked noise before coming back to himself, dropping the pieces of pastel from his hand and pulling their bodies together. He kissed as earnestly and eagerly as he’d just been talking about America, which was frankly more than Tony had dared hope.
“Oh thank god,” Tony said, breathless, when they pulled apart. “I was pretty sure you’d been flirting with me, but it would’ve really sucked if I’d been wrong.” He smiled up into Steve’s twinkling eyes and let his hands run down his sides, lingering on his hips.
“You’re not wrong,” Steve assured him, his fingertips caressing Tony’s jawline. Then they were pressed together again, Tony on his tiptoes, Steve dragging Tony up toward him, their lips and tongues twining together.
“Do you kiss all of your models like this?” Tony asked some minutes later, his face still just millimeters from Steve’s.
“Only you,” Steve said. “You’re pretty much all I draw, anyway,” he admitted.
“Oh yeah? I must be a great model.”
Steve pressed his forehead against Tony’s. “I was drawing you in the Iron Man armor that time you found me in the living room, singing ‘Red is the Rose.’”
Tony didn’t have words to reply that, so he surged up and kissed Steve again. He never wanted to stop touching Steve, to stop tasting Steve, vibrant and vigorous and perfect.
Later, when Steve had scooped Tony up in his arms and was carrying him toward the bed, he sang,
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows,
Fair is the lily of the valley.
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne,
But my love is fairer than any.
- Wedding Dress
By the time they were engaged, Tony knew nearly as many Irish folk songs as Steve did. His favorites were the bawdy ones.
“I can’t believe these are real lyrics. ‘Lock your legs round me and dig in with your heels, for the closer we get, oh, the better it feels!’” he chanted with enthusiasm. “Those old Irish and their ramrods and their bullets, I think we’d have a lot to talk about,” he added, snuggling his face into Steve’s blushing neck.
Some were not only sexually explicit, but just generally gross. “Who is this poor girl’s mother and why is she trying to set her up with this disgusting old man? ‘My mother she told me to pass him the sugar,’ it says. And then, ‘he shivered and shoveled it down like a bugger.’ Does that word mean in Irish English what it sounds like it means?”
And, as Steve had promised, there were quite a lot about murder. Tony liked “What Put That Blood” and “The Cruel Mother” the best of the murder ones. The former reminded him of Loki, the latter was just a good ghost story. Steve never sang the ones about war, and Tony never asked him to.
They were sitting in the penthouse one night, working on the seating chart for the wedding, when Tony mused aloud that instead of a bespoke suit, he could just get married in the Iron Man armor. He’d expected Steve to laugh, but instead he sang,
Well, It's already made,
Trimmed in red, stitched around with golden thread
Golden thread, golden thread,
Stitched around with golden thread
Steve kissed his forehead. “I think that’s perfect,” he added.
“What’s that song?” Tony asked. “I don’t know that one.”
“It’s not Irish,” Steve replied, carefully writing out the name of another guest on a sticky note to go on the diagram of tables laid out before them. “It’s Appalachian, I think.”
“There’s really an old mountain song about a girl getting married in Iron Man colors? That’s awesome.”
Steve chuckled. “Yep. Well, there are other verses too—‘trimmed in brown, stitched with golden crown,’ and then, ‘trimmed in green, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen,’ and so on.”
“Well, the red and gold one is all that matters,” Tony said firmly.
“Definitely,” Steve agreed.
The day of their wedding, surrounded by the fluttering petals of the white cherry blossoms that Sarah Rogers had loved and the fragrant white lilies that Maria Stark had favored, Tony let the armor assemble around him. He hummed to himself,
Better be making your wedding dress,
Wedding dress, wedding dress…
and on the other end of the comm, Steve was quietly singing,
Well, It's already made,
Trimmed in red, stitched around with golden thread
Golden thread, golden thread,
Stitched around with golden thread