Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Steve has dreams.

Like any other person, he has more than one type of dream when he’s asleep, but the most common one involves the miracle of him flying. Weightless, high in the air and surrounded by nothing but blue sky and white clouds for miles. He isn’t ever scared in these dreams, which is usually what clues him in on the fact that they aren't real. If the real him were up that high, he wouldn’t be enjoying himself. He’d be too busy being terrified of falling. 

That feeling tends to be what interrupts his dreams when he’s awake, too. 

Today, what interrupts Steve’s dreams in the literal sense winds up being Sam’s voice booming in from behind Steve’s cracked open bedroom door. 

“Rise and shine, Rogers,” he calls, voice slightly garbled by what Steve assumes is his toothbrush stuffed into the side of his mouth. 

After five years of living together, they have a pretty good grip on each other’s morning routines, hence why Sam has taken it upon himself to give Steve a wake-up call not thirty seconds before Steve’s actual alarm goes off. Steve groans and smacks a blind hand out towards his nightstand, patting around until he finds the top of his clock to shut the sound off before patting around in a different direction to find where his glasses should be sitting. 

Really, Steve would love nothing more than to chuck the clock across the room until it shatters, but he just can’t bring himself to destroy the damn thing. He’s had it so long. Ever since middle school, the blaring of that alarm has been what’s woken him up— well, it used to be that and his Ma. She knew his urge to hit the snooze bar was a little too strong during those first few years of puberty, so if he wasn’t up within the first five minute interval past his set time to get up, she’d usually shove into his room and yank the covers off. 

As much as Steve had hated that when he was a teenager in the making, he really misses it now. He misses her a lot in general. It’s been six years since she passed, but losing a parent isn’t something you ever really get over. Steve should know that better than most considering he was barely eighteen years old by the time he lost them both.

Needless to say, that experience had been rough, but Steve knew he wasn’t the only kid in New York City who had it rough. He hadn’t grown up with much money, but neither had most of the people he’d grown up around in the part of Brooklyn where Sarah raised him. 

Right after Sarah’s funeral had been the roughest patch of it all. The grief of losing her had been so strong Steve could barely get out of bed some days, but he’d known it was coming for a long time. Sarah being sick was a definite turnaround from how Steve had always been the sickly one of their small family as a child, but as Sarah had told him a million times, that’s just life. 

Steve knows he’s lucky that she’d had pretty decent insurance thanks to her years as a nurse and the precaution of a life insurance policy she’d taken out after Steve’s father was killed. That had covered most of the hospital bills and some of the funeral costs, but Steve had still chosen to put off his plan of going to school for a year after in order to get his financials and feelings about the future together. 

That year is when Sam had come into the picture. He and Steve have known each other since high school thanks to their gym teacher seeing fit to pair the track star and a skinny asthmatic together for a reason Steve would still view as cruel if not for the fact that he and Sam ended up liking each other so much. They’d fallen out of contact for a brief period of time after graduation when Steve found himself overwhelmed with everything going on with his mother, but that had only made it even more relieving when Sam reached out to him out of the blue and asked Steve if he would be on board with them getting a place together. 

Although letting go of the apartment he’d grown up in was hard, Steve had said yes in a heartbeat once Sam had let it slip that them moving in together would help him out with his money situation just as much as it would Steve. They hadn’t gone too terribly far, in any case. The place they’d ended up settling down in is still in Brooklyn, which Steve is grateful for. 

Maybe it’s silly, but Brooklyn has always been home to him. It’s served him well during his 24 years of life so far. 

Things haven’t always been easy, but he’s doing pretty well for himself all things considered. He’s got a steady paying job at the community center down the block, is able to make rent every month in the apartment he and his best friend live in, and is halfway through his senior year of college, where he’s also maintained a pretty lucrative scholarship for the past three-and-a-half years. 

His mother would be proud. Steve never got to meet his father, but he hopes that Joseph would be too. 

With how old his aforementioned alarm clock is, it should practically be an antique. Steve gives the thing a glare once he has his glasses shoved on, sighing and steeling himself for the rush of cold air he knows will be coming as soon as he throws the covers back. Not everything about living in a cheap apartment can be perfect. 

But, while things in Steve’s life aren’t perfect, they’re still pretty good. He’s accomplished a lot on his own, even if his accomplishments mostly chalk up to him being an art student that helps clean up classrooms after kids who are taking free painting classes. 

Looking on the bright side, there is the fact that Stve hasn’t been sick since last summer. Ever since he finally hit that long-awaited growth spurt in the fall of his senior year of high school, his health crises have slowed down, even if the chronic ones can’t be completely solved. 

Steve rolls his shoulders and winces at the crack he hears when his back twists. His back and joints are at the top of that list of problems, but on the bright side, painkillers are the least expensive of the medications in his cabinet. The ones for his heart and blood pressure are what put a real dent in his wallet. 

He’s sure to pop an aspirin after making his way into the bathroom, washing it down with a gulp of tap-water, which probably isn’t the safest move considering the city’s water quality. Steve might care about that more if he wasn’t about to step in the shower to wash off his body with that same water. 

The shower he takes this morning is quicker than most of the ones he’d usually take, but there’s a good reason for that. Steve needs to look good today— not just good. He needs to look put together. That isn’t exactly his strong suit, but it needs to be something he gets better at if he wants to make it through his honors program. 

His shower isn’t long, but it is hot enough for the lenses of his glasses to be fogged up with steam when he tries to put them back on after stepping over the rim of the tub. He wipes them off on the dry corner of his towel after using it to rub out some of the wetness from his hair, combing the water-darkened strands out so they’ll dry flat as he gets dressed. 

He has to go back to his room to do that, but Sam should be busy in his room getting dressed in his own clothing for today. Unlike Steve’s, Sam’s classes require him to wear a uniform every day. Flight school is no joke. Sam isn’t even a certified pilot yet, but they sure expect him to dress like one as he goes through his own program. 

The uniform that Sam wears looks much more professional than what Steve throws on, but Steve doesn’t really have many more options to choose from than the striped brown slacks and white grid-checked button down he winds up going with. He knows that stripes and checks don’t really match, but the lines on his shirt are so thin that you can barely see them if you’re stepped back. 

In any case, this outfit is nicer than the jeans and hoodie combo that he’d usually be wearing to class. Besides, these pants are the only nicer ones he owns, bought from a thrift shop for his Ma’s funeral. That shop is where the shirt had come from too, albeit for the different occasion of his high school graduation dinner. Neither of them are the best fit, even now that his body is much bigger than it used to be, but it’ll just have to do for today. 

Steve needs to impress the honors committee with his ideas , not his fashion sense. If he cared that much about style, he’d be in the fashion program with Natasha. He might consider ironing the shirt before he puts it on if not for the fact he knows their iron is lost somewhere in Sam’s room, which Steve doesn’t really have the time to go through if he wants to get to campus early enough to run through his notes one last time before he presents.

He does stop in the bathroom to make sure his hair is drying properly, but by the time he finishes biking to class, it’ll probably be messed right back up again by the wind. There’s nothing he can do about that, though. Not unless someone magically appears with a limo and a chauffeur. 

“On your left,” he says to Sam, scooting past where the older man is standing by the toaster, eyes fixed intently on the machine as he waits for his breakfast to pop. 

Sam’s eyes don’t move, even as he steps back slightly to allow Steve to reach over and snag an orange from their fruit bowl. “You feeling confident?”

“Not really,” Steve mutters, but Sam already knows that. It’s why he asked.

Like he needs an excuse to give Steve a pep talk. “Just remember, when you make your speech, don’t look at anyone. And don’t imagine them naked. That’s the worst advice ever.” He shakes his head, catching his toast as soon as it pops up and grabbing a knife so he can butter it. “I don’t know why everyone always says to do that.”

“I think if I imagined Dr. Bosko without pants on, that might be what finally pushes my heart over the edge.” Steve digs his nails into his orange and begins to peel it, glad for his fingers to have something to preoccupy themselves with besides twitching with nerves. “I have everything all laid out in my notes and it’s not like they haven’t seen the outline I submitted last semester, but…”

“This is your first time talking to them about it face to face,” Sam finishes. He’s heard Steve spiral about this topic more than once. “You’ve got this, man. You’ve had exhibits up before and these professors have had you in class. They know you’re talented.”

Steve snorts. “I doubt they even remember my name. And those exhibits were for extra credit. I didn’t even have to attend most of them.” He bites into an orange slice and sucks the juice in through his teeth like the taste will somehow erase the tang of anxiety from the back of his mouth. “If I don’t do well on this project, I won’t meet the requirements of my scholarship to graduate.”

Sam rolls his eyes and bites into his own toast, hand curled under it to keep the crumbs from landing on his crisply-pressed shirt. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

“Maybe you’re just giving me too much,” Steve counters.

“You’ve got this.” Sam thumps him on the back and crunches through the last few bites of his breakfast, taking a sip out of his travel thermos of coffee as he heads towards the door. “And I’ve got to go. I’ll bring takeout home tonight and you can tell me how everything went? Mr. Wok’s sound good?”

“Pick me up a couple of extra egg rolls in case everything goes wrong?” Steve tries to joke, but his apprehension must show through on his face, because Sam pauses and looks back at him with an exasperated expression. 

“You’re gonna be fine, man. Break a leg, okay?” And with that, Sam is out the door with one last wave, leaving Steve alone to finish his orange and try to turn his thoughts towards something more optimistic. 

That optimism doesn’t last very long. Sam may not have meant it in the literal sense when he told Steve to break a leg, but that’s exactly what Steve almost does when trying to ride his bike down the street. It’s something he does every day, but he’s so caught up in his own head that he almost crashes not even a minute after taking off. 

It’s embarrassing, but by some miracle, there’s no one else around to see. Steve tries to shake off the jitters the best he can. The last thing he needs is to show up at his presentation with ripped pants and a scraped knee. 

Steve wouldn’t exactly say he’s accident prone but he does have a long history of injuries, some of which he’s accumulated completely on his own. He’s not the most graceful guy in the world, especially when he’s got so much on his mind to distract him from his usual daily routine. 

He manages to make it to campus without any more near-crashes or other catastrophes, but the relief of that is pretty short lived, because he has a different sort of collision almost immediately after he locks up his bike on the rack in front of the Arts building and tries to head up the steps. Steve really is trying to look where he’s going, but during the two seconds it takes for him to look down and adjust the strap on his bag, he somehow manages to bump into the only other person who happened to be walking down the same stretch of stairs he was trying to head up. 

And as if his luck today weren’t rotten enough, it’s not just someone . It’s a professor. One of his. He’s only had Professor Glennon twice before in his time at SHIELD, but it’s enough for him to recognize her even with the addition of a cup of coffee nearly tumbling from her hand. She must have better reflexes than Steve, because she manages to get hold of the cup before Steve has even realized what he’s just bumped into is a person. 

“Oh, God, I am so sorry,” he rushes out, face no doubt turning as red as a fire engine as he comes to the further realization that he’s just nearly taken down a faculty member. “I’m so, so sorry, Professor, I wasn’t paying attention—“

“No, no, I had my nose stuck in my lesson plan.” She’s kind enough to laugh it off, but Steve feels like he could pass out of humiliation regardless. 

He feels like he could die when he realizes that a couple of other people have noticed what just happened, and of course one of those people just has to be fucking Gilmore Hodge. SHIELD isn’t a school known for the strength of its sports teams, but like any other college, their athletes garner a little more respect than most among the student body. Gilmore Hodge being one of those athletes, star of the Hockey team. An allstar on the ice and an asshole off of it. 

He’s laughing, but it’s much less nicely than Professor Glennon’s own chuckle. Steve presses his lips together to keep from scowling at him. He’ll just do what they normally do to him: pretend they don’t exist. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says again to the professor. “I’ll just— get out of your way.” Running off seems like a cowardly move, but there’s no real reason for him to stick around either. Her coffee is fine. It’s his ego that’s bruised. As if he weren’t feeling unsure enough about his self confidence this morning.

He seems to be taking one hit after another today, because although he doesn’t bump into anyone else in his way into the building, he’s offered only a brief reprieve from embarrassment when he finally gets inside and to a bench where he can sit down and collect himself during the little bit of time left he has before his presentation is scheduled. 

It isn’t technically his fault this time, so there’s that singular positive side of the situation. He isn‘t even moving, as a matter of fact. That might actually be the problem, though. He can’t think of why else someone wouldn’t see him sitting in such an obvious spot. Apparently he’s so stationary that the guy doesn’t even realize he’s not about to plop down on a bench until Steve makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. 

“Oh, shit, man. You scared me.” This guy is laughing now too, more at himself than Steve. He’s the one that looks embarrassed this time too, but Steve still feels a twinge of the same emotion in the pit of his stomach. 

“Sorry,” he says for what feels like the millionth time in the two hours he’s been awake today. “I can scoot over if you—“ 

It’s probably a good thing the guy cuts him off before Steve can work himself up into needing his inhaler, waving a hand and stepping away while holding up what looks to be a wrapped sandwich in the other. “No, it’s cool. I’ll find somewhere to eat that isn’t on top of a stranger.”

“Oh. Okay.” If there’s one other positive to be found here, it’s that the guy isn’t Steve’s type. Steve doesn’t want to think about how high-strung he’d be right now if he’d been nearly sat on by someone he thought was cute. 

He’s polite, at least, nodding at Steve before turning and walking away. Steve can’t really be mad at the guy for not noticing him. Not a lot of people do. Steve kinda prefers it that way, to tell the truth. 

There’s only one person on campus that could spot Steve in a crowd every time without fail, but that’s because Natasha has a sharper eye than most, not to mention the fact that she’s pretty much been Steve’s second best friend since the first time they met in Drawing I freshman year. 

She’s in the fashion program, not art, but there was an overlap of required skills in their degrees that led to them having a few classes together in the beginning. The ability to sketch is an important part of being an aspiring designer, so Steve has been told. It makes sense. Natasha has about as many drawing pads around her apartment as Steve does around his and Sam’s, even if she doesn’t tend to dabble in other mediums outside of fabric. 

Natasha is the type of person that’d be impossible not to notice, both in a crowd or out of it. She’s not the tallest— especially compared to Steve, who she’d only met after his growth spurt— but even if she didn’t have bright red hair, the way she carries herself is hard to look away from. Steve isn’t even into women in that way, but he has enough of an eye for aesthetically pleasing people to have been drawn to Natasha from the first day. 

Admittedly, Natasha is the one that approaches him this morning, but the sound of her heels clacking against the floor signals him to her arrival. He doesn’t even have to fully look up to know it’s her. Who else casually wears heels to class other than a fashion major? Well, them and people who have to do presentations. 

Steve looks down at his own slightly-scuffed brown dress shoes. Another secondhand store purchase he’d made years ago. He’ll never know why Natasha chose him to be her closest friend on campus. 

No matter the reason, her smile is just as bright when she comes to stand in front of him, arms crossed and a hip jutting out at an angle to the side. Despite the chilly weather of January, she’s wearing a skirt with nothing but patterned tights underneath, more put together on an average day for herself than Steve probably will be at his own damn wedding, if he ever gets married. 

“Good morning.” Natasha’s greeting is so chipper that Steve almost feels guilty for how glum his sounds in response. 

“I’d say it was good, but someone just almost sat on me.”

“Really? Again?” If he were talking to anyone other than Natasha, Steve might be slightly more insulted by her smirk and the untrue implication that he gets sat on on a regular basis, but it is Natasha. Sarcasm is pretty much her number one form of self-expression. 

Doesn’t mean Steve can’t play at that game too. “And how many people have called you Daphne today already?”

“Just one,” Natasha shoots back without missing a beat. “But that’s what I get for wearing purple. Now are you gonna sit here and talk to me about Scooby-Doo all day or are you gonna let me tell you that your presentation is going to go okay?”

Steve sighs, shoulders slumping down at the same time his chin lowers to look at the stack of index-cards he has in his lap. “Sam already tried that. Don’t really think it took, but that wasn’t his fault.”

“He knows you’re thick-headed.” Natasha’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle, which speaks to how tied-up with nerves Steve truly is if she’s joining in on Sam’s attempt to coddle him into calming down. “But I mean it. Things might not go perfectly, but it’s going to be fine. You’re talented, Steve.”

“That’s what Sam said too,” Steve says quietly, only looking back up at her once he’s managed to twist his mouth into a tight smile. “You sure you two aren’t communicating about me behind my back?”

Natasha meets his smile with a lopsided one of her own, brushing the curled edge of her bangs back as she tilts her head. “Only to try and figure out where we want to take you for your birthday,” she deadpans. “Hope you don’t mind us counting it as your graduation present too.”

Steve laughs, and though it’s strained, he is slightly comforted by the attempt to lighten him up. He’d expect nothing less. None of them are exactly well-off, and Sam will no doubt be counting the trip as Natasha’s graduation present too since both she and Steve are in the same class. 

Natasha isn’t an art major, but she is still in a program that’s made sure she also understands just how nerve-wracking it is to present creative ideas and leave them open for criticism, even if she has much more confidence in handling it than Steve feels he does right now. 

“You’ve got this,” she tells him, another quote shared with what Sam had said earlier in the morning. “And even if you feel like you don’t, all you can do is grin and bear it until it’s over.” There’s a light touch to Steve’s shoulder then, one of Natasha’s hands moving down to pat over the crease of where Steve’s shirt sleeve folds out. “You’ve got good ideas, Steve. You’re gonna do great things. You’ve just gotta graduate first.”

“Changing the world is one of the main themes of my thesis,” Steve mutters, mustering up another smile to give Natasha before he stands, still gripping his stack of cards tightly in hand. “Thanks, Nat. I appreciate it.”

She leans up on her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek that would probably make the people around them speculate about their relationship if the boy she were kissing was anyone but Steve. This is another instance where Steve is happy to be invisible. 

That seems to be the main theme of this morning, at least where Steve Rogers is concerned. People never seem to notice him unless he’s making a spectacle with someone else, and the amount of run-ins he’s had this morning have done nothing but prove that. 

People don’t see him, let alone remember his name, and maybe that was understandable when he was small and skinny, but now that he’s finally had a growth spurt Steve only feels even worse about being reminded that he’s just a nobody who is always in the way. 

He’s grown, yes, but it seems he hasn’t quite grown into himself yet. That’s going to make it hard to make a difference in the world the way he’s always wanted, even with his art project that’s supposed to be one of the main things that helps him get started on that while he’s still young. Maybe Steve can’t change the world with his smile the way Natasha can, but he’s got his art. 

As his thesis is meant to point out, art always has the potential to impact people’s views and emotions. It’s certainly impacted Steve’s state of mind. 

“I’d go in there with you if I could, but this is as far as I can go,” Natasha says once she’s stepped back. “Call me about how things went later? Or maybe we can get brunch tomorrow?“

“If it’s not one, it’ll be the other.” The further Nat walks away, the more intimidating the door to the room Steve’s meeting is supposed to be in seems to look across the hallway.

Without looking back, Natasha calls out one final bit of reassurance doubling as advice. “Deep breaths, Rogers, and make sure you give them a smile at the start.”

As she’d said before, all he can do now is grin and bear it until it’s over. 

“You’ve got this,” he whispers to himself. Maybe if he, Sam, and Natasha have all said it, it’ll have an increased likelihood of being true. He can only hope. 

He steps towards the door. Here goes nothing. 

At the very least, if all turns to disaster, Sam will still be bringing him those extra egg rolls.  

-

Steve isn’t sure of what word he would use to describe the experience he just went through. Disaster feels like it’d be painting things (no pun intended) out too darkly, but Steve just…. He wouldn't say it went well either. 

Something in the middle, maybe. Mediocre? Average? Isn’t that only describing a different sort of letdown than doing downright awful?

His hopes hadn’t been very high to begin with, but considering that one of the first things the committee members did when he got in there was snap at him to speak up, the idea of starting off with a smile had gone right out the window. He’d kept going, though, heeding their instructions by raising his voice and squaring his shoulders back to stand up as straight as his scoliosis allows him. 

He doubts it’d ended up being as straight as they were expecting, but he’d tried to make up for it by making as much eye contact as he could without upchucking into the nearest trash can. Trying is the important part of it all, or at least that’s what his Ma had always taught him. 

Steve can only hope that his sweaty palms and slight stuttering won’t have put the committee off from seeing all of the effort behind the work that’s gone into his project and ideas so far. He’d barely been able to avoid the urge to wipe his hands off on his pants while talking, having to clear his throat a couple of times in the middle of his speech in order to keep his voice from cracking like a boy still going through puberty. 

The way all of those professors were staring at him was just so intense. It’d felt like they were somehow both picking him apart and looking straight through him at the same time. 

Steve is probably white as a ghost right now. Maybe that’s why he feels like he’s floating as he walks out of the room, flinching at the sound of the door slamming shut behind him. They’ve told him to wait out here for a moment until someone comes out with instructions for what he’ll need to do to follow up, which could result in either one of two options: Steve’s thesis gets rejected and sent back to the drawing board, setting him back by months, or it gets approved and he’ll continue to work, staying on track with the schedule he’ll need to take to make it to graduation. 

The thought of being told that his idea isn’t good enough makes Steve nauseous. It’s not that he wouldn’t get back up and try again on the project, because he would, it’s just— the thing is, he knows his idea is good. He just hates public speaking so much. No matter how strongly he believes in something, he’s always so scared that he won’t get his point across if he fucks up the delivery process. 

Which is exactly what he’s terrified he’s just done during this meeting. He’s been working on this idea for months, but actually putting it out there for criticism is different. Steve can take criticism, but that doesn’t mean it always leaves him feeling good. 

The mere possibility of it has him so nervous he’s near tears at the present moment. He might even head to the bathroom to squeeze in a quick breakdown before his actual classes for the day start if he weren’t still waiting for one of the professors to come out and deliver his fate. 

Luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you look at it), he doesn’t have to wait for much longer. It only takes another minute for the door to creak open and Dr. Lee to step out. 

“Steven,” he says, reaching out a hand for Steve to shake before he goes on. Steve’s suddenly glad he took the time to finally wipe off his palm once he got out into the hall. “Thank you for giving us your time this morning. I know senior year is often a busy time for students.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve says, hoping he doesn’t sound as numb as he feels with how hard he’s trying to prepare himself for what he’s afraid may be crushing news. 

“We’ll be emailing you sometime soon about our decision for approval and the timeframe for our next meeting. All I can say until then is… keep up the hard work, son.” He smiles and gives Steve a quick nod before turning to re-enter the room where the rest of the committee is still inside. 

Steve blinks and tries to process what that might mean. He knows he shouldn’t overthink what he can’t control, but that’s easier said than done. Keep up the hard work? That’s not the same as saying good work would have been, but it’s something. It’s an acknowledgment, isn’t it? That Steve is working hard. That he really is trying his best. 

There’s a million other implications Steve could pick apart in that statement, but as much as he’d love to stand here all day and do that, he has class, and after class, he has work. 

Stop dwelling on what-ifs a voice in his head helpfully supplies, sounding suspiciously like Natasha. 

Steve sighs and slowly begins trudging towards the stairs that’ll take him to the floor above where his Art History class is located. 

He tried. Like his Ma would’ve said, that’s the important part. 

-

Steve also tries not to fixate on the possibility of his presentation being a major fuck up for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, Steve’s attention span is just as stubborn as the rest of his personality is. 

He can’t shake the worry off, not even with his classes keeping him busy for most of the morning and afternoon. By the time he’s able to head over to work once he makes it out of his Ceramics class, it’s a relief to have something methodical to do in the form of cleaning. 

Technically his job at the community center is as an assistant teacher in the arts and crafts room, but he doesn’t really get to interact with the kids much outside of the summer just because his classes and studio time tend to run into the evening. 

As much as Steve likes helping the kids learn, he’s glad that he gets to be alone in the classroom today. Wiping down the tables and making sure the supplies are put away properly aren’t the most strenuous of tasks, but they are repetitive enough to help clear his head of some of the negative thoughts that have been taking it over all day. 

Steve doesn’t really mind not being the one to lead the programs. If today has proven anything, it’s that he’s not the best with people, even if kids are usually a lot easier to handle, in his opinion. They don’t care if you fuck up or stutter. Half the time they don’t even notice, and if they do they’ll usually forget in five minutes tops. 

Losing himself to the rhythmic process of spritzing the tables with cleaning and swiping them over with a cloth is easy. Normally Steve might go up to the front and turn the stereo that they usually play CDs of children’s music on just to have some background noise, but today he’s content with the silence. He needs some peace and quiet. 

There aren’t many people left in the center now that it’s approaching dinnertime, so no one comes to interrupt Steve’s cleaning process in the nearly two hours he takes to make sure that everything is in tip-top shape. 

His boss is kind enough to be understanding that school keeps him pretty busy during the semester, so most of Steve’s shifts are short, but given frequently enough to bring enough rent money in when paired with the casual selling Steve does of his artwork sometimes. The least Steve can do to repay that kindness is make sure that everything will be found squeaky clean for whoever is working with the kids tomorrow. 

By the time he’s deemed his job in the classroom done, the building is empty enough for the only person he passes on his way out to be the woman who always works at the front desk. 

Steve gives her a polite smile as he stops at her station to sign out on the employee’s log. “Don’t stay here too late,” he jokes. He’s known Lena long enough to know that the older woman likes to be the last one out. 

Her only response is to snort and wave a hand towards the door as if to shoo him out. “You’re the one that needs to get out of here,” she says. “The night is still young and so are you. Go have fun! That’s what your college years are for.”

The laugh Steve lets out is tired and a little bit forced. If only she knew how ironic that advice is to him on a day like today. Fun. Eating Chinese takeout with Sam once he gets home will have to cover that for tonight. 

“I’ll do that,” he tells her regardless, giving her a tiny wave before beginning to head towards the door. “See you next week.”

This time when Steve gets on his bike to head back home, it goes smoothly. No near crashes or anything. Pushing his feet down on the pedals helps clear his head in the same way cleaning had, and though the air that blows his face gets colder the faster he goes, he relishes in the way it makes him feel. Refreshed, almost. 

The ride back to his and Sam’s place from the center isn’t very far. It only takes a few minutes, and before he knows it, Steve finds himself outside his building. 

After such a long day, Steve is happy to be home, but he does have to take a second to himself before he begins heading up the stairs. Sam will inevitably ask him about how the presentation went over dinner, and while Steve doesn’t mind telling him… he’s not sure he wants to talk about it just yet. He needs a minute.

Unlike the ride over here, he takes the walk up to their apartment slowly, locking his bike in the rack under the stairs so he doesn’t have to carry it the whole way up. The temptation to stay down there and hide right next to it just so he doesn’t have to admit to his fears about failing is strong, but as usual, Steve calls upon the memory of one of his mother’s favorite sayings in order to keep moving. 

There’s nothing you can do when you get knocked down but pick yourself up and keep walking towards tomorrow. 

Or in this case, keep walking towards the front door. 

Steve twists his key in the lock and takes a deep breath before turning the handle to push it open. “I’m home,” he calls, just so Sam won’t think that there’s someone trying to rob them. He’s a little paranoid like that. 

He’s also apparently forgotten his manners, because when he yells back at Steve from the kitchen, his mouth is just as full with food as it had been with his toothbrush this morning. “You got mail,” he calls. “I left it on the arm of the couch. You know anyone from Europe? It’s got international stamps.”

“What?” Steve’s brows furrow as he trudges his way over to the envelope Sam must be talking about. He’s glad for the brief reprieve from talking about his day, but he doesn’t know anyone in Europe, unless one of his friends decided to study abroad without telling him. 

He flips the envelope over and his frown deepens. Abraham Erskine. Yeah, he definitely doesn’t know who this is, but whoever it is, they have pretty fancy handwriting. The envelope feels pretty fancy too, the paper thick and high quality. 

The confusion doesn’t lessen even a little when Steve pries the thing open to reveal the letter inside, written on a cream-colored stationary bordered with an ornate pattern that the artist in Steve marvels at when he takes it out. If anything, Steve only gets even more confused when he reads the first few lines. 

Steven Rogers,

I know this letter and the request it contains may come as a surprise, but if I can offer one reason that you should at the very least read what I have to say, here it is: I knew your father quite well before he died . 

Now Steve isn't just confused. He’s shocked, fingers so paralyzed by the emotion that the letter slips out of them and flutters down the carpet below. 

Who the hell is Abraham Erskine and how did he know Joseph Rogers?

Chapter Text

After dropping that bombshell, it’s almost ridiculous in comparison that the actual request the letter contains is an invitation for Steve to meet this Abraham Erskine for tea. 

Tea? He wants to have tea? 

According to the stamp that was used to send the letter, Abraham Erskine is going to be coming from somewhere that’s practically on the other side of the world, and the first thing he wants to do when he gets to New York City is have tea with Steve Rogers?

Steve can’t even remember the last time he drank tea for recreational purposes. He’s more of a coffee guy, personally, but that preference isn’t the only thing that’s making him skeptical about attending this little… tea party. It’s hard to put into words, but with how hard Sam is badgering Steve about agreeing to go, he at least has to try. 

They’re both collapsed on the couch now, takeout boxes spread out on the table in front of him. Steve is currently chowing his way through the second of the three extra egg rolls Sam had brought him, using the time it takes to chew to try and piece together an answer for the question Sam has just asked him. 

“You’ve always wanted to know stuff about your dad. What’s stopping you from jumping at this opportunity to learn more?”

And ain’t that just the million dollar question? Sam is right. If Steve has one wish that’s remained constant throughout his life, it’s that he had been able to know his father. Joseph had died months before his son was born, such a close window of time that it makes the tragedy of him dying so young even more heartbreaking. 

Sarah Rogers had certainly been heartbroken over it, even if she had always tried her best to hide that grief from Steve. Steve had learned at a young age not to ask too many questions about his father. He always waited for the rare occasions that Sarah would bring him up first, clinging to every small fact and fond memories that she offered. 

It wasn’t that she hated talking about her late husband, it was just hard. Steve understood that, and he loved her enough to put his curiosity to the side. 

Sam knows all of that. He and Steve have engaged in enough late-night heart-to-hearts over cheap beer and ice cream to have each other’s life stories practically memorized, which only makes his question even more conflicting to answer. 

Steve swallows and tries anyway. “I don’t know,” he says softly, because when it comes down to it, he really doesn’t. “I guess I’m just scared to meet someone who actually knew him, you know?” He laughs, a little bitterly. “I sure didn’t.”

He doesn’t mean for that to come out so miserably, but Sam must pick up on the feeling, because he reaches over and squeezes Steve’s knee from where he’s sitting two cushions over with his back against the arm of the couch. 

“I get that.” Sam can only understand what Steve is saying as someone who has never lost a parent as a child, but Steve knows the empathy is heartfelt. 

He gives Sam a grateful but melancholy smile, pushing his glasses up on his nose before going on. “I know my Ma knew him, but she didn’t just know him. She loved him, and even though she didn’t say much about him, you could tell with what she did that she never stopped.” And Steve admires that, really. He can only hope that he’ll find a love like that someday that doesn’t come at the cost of losing them so young. 

Steve doesn’t know much about Joseph Rogers, but what he does know is that if Sarah loved him, he must have been a good man. That’s the one truth Steve has held close about his father since he was a kid. 

There had been one time when Steve was very young and very sick where Sarah had brought up Joseph to him in a way that stuck with Steve even through the fever and the rest of his recovery for the following weeks. He had to have been about eight years old at that point, and it was far from the first time he’d been sick, but that time, it was bad. Pneumonia, if Steve remembers right. The cough had been a nasty one. 

He’d spent most of his time in bed that week, Sarah taking off the same amount of time just to take care of him. Steve had been too young to understand how much of a sacrifice that was, but he had been old enough to be scared that he wasn’t going to get better. 

He’d told his mother as much. That was exactly what had led her into bringing up his father. 

“Steve,” she’d said, smoothing a hand back over his forehead and laying a damp cloth down soon after. “My brave, brave boy. You’re going to be just fine, you hear me? You got no quit in you.” She’d brushed a finger over the tip of his nose then, doing her best to muster a smile in order to calm him. “You’re like your father in that way. You and him, acorn and tree. Once he got an idea lodged in his head, there was no shaking it loose either.”

She was right. Even at that age, Steve had been stubborn as hell.

“Whatever you dream, you can do. But you’re going to have to fight for it. People are going to take one look at your body and tell you what you can and can’t do, but they can’t see what’s on the inside like I do. It holds a heart ten times its size, and that’s what’s going to help you get better.” She’d gripped his hand and given him a fierce look that Steve hadn’t completely understood for what it was until he was older. “Just promise your Mama you’ll use your head too. There’s a fine line between fearless and foolhardy. Took your father from us too soon, as brave as he was.”

“i’m I promise, Mama,” Steve had croaked, and that was that. He’d taken those words to heart, and when he’d eventually gotten better, he saved them for next time as well. 

Every time he’d gotten sick or injured after that, he’d thought of those words the entire time he fought to heal. His father had been brave. Steve could be too. 

Maybe that’s what he needs to do now. It’s been a while since he thought about that memory, but he’d just told Sam that he’s scared of meeting someone who knew his father. This is a situation that calls for bravery. 

Exhaling heavily, Steve leans forward and grabs the glass of water he’d brought from the kitchen and washes down another bite of his half-finished egg roll. He waits until he’s completely done with the third to come to a decision that he quickly clues Sam in on. Might as well let someone in on everything that’s rushing through his head. 

“The letter says that if I’m willing, I should meet up with him at some lounge on Saturday afternoon,” he eventually says, taking a break from eating to instead wrap his arms around his legs, bent up on the couch so he can prop his chin on his kneecaps. “That gives me a couple days to come up with any questions. Or just completely back out. Whichever comes first, of course.”

Sam’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Of course.”

“I’ll be out of the house on Saturday anyway to spend some time in the studio, so I guess it wouldn’t be too much of a bother to at least stop by and see who the hell Erskine is.” Steve shrugs and tries to smile back. “Might as well see what he looks like.”

“Might as well.” 

Sam doesn’t even question Steve’s choice to spend what’s supposed to be one of his days off working on his art before echoing his own words back at him. That’s just what Steve does. He works in order to avoid his personal problems– that’s pretty much how he made it to school to begin with. It’s definitely a big reason as to why he’s been able to keep his scholarship. 

He spends the next minute or two stewing over whether or not he’s making the right decision by even considering this meet up, but in true Sam Wilson fashion, he doesn’t allow his best friend to stay stuck in his head for two long. 

The way he shoves up off the couch is sudden, but the offer he makes as he walks towards the kitchen is clearly meant to be a soothing one. “I picked up some of that strawberry cheesecake ice cream on the way home too,” he calls, the clinking sound that Steve can hear beneath his words acting as a clear signal that he’s pulling out some spoons and bowls. “How’d you feel about making our way through the carton while we watch a couple of Cheers episodes? I think channel 12 is doing a marathon.”

Feel good television reruns and a bowl of his favorite flavor of ice-cream? Steve doesn’t need to be asked twice, especially not if it’ll help put off him telling Sam about how his presentation went for a little while longer. 

“You’re the best, Sammy.”

“Don’t you forget it, Rogers.”

-

Saturday morning feels like it comes a lot sooner this week than it would on any other, but Steve supposes that’s just what happens when you have something scheduled that you’re looking forward to. 

Or dreading. He isn’t sure which option best describes how he feels about meeting up with a man who claims to have known his father. 

Wouldn’t it be funny if after all of Steve’s worrying, this Erskine guy turns out to be nothing but a scam? If he asks for money, Steve has every intention of running, but with how fancy the lounge where he’d told Steve to meet him looks from the outside, he kind of doubts that will be happening. 

Jesus. The letter hadn’t said anything about Steve showing up in a suit and tie, but now that he’s here, Steve’s beginning to wonder if he’s shown up underdressed. His studio clothes are a little… sloppy. 

He’s still not sure about all of this, to be honest, but the curiosity has been killing him all morning. He could barely even focus on his canvas earlier, and he’d accidentally put so much creamer in his coffee that it wasn’t even really coffee anymore. He’s about as nervous for this as he was for his damn presentation, which is just ridiculous. 

He doesn’t know Erskine at all, so it’s not like he owes him anything. Erskine had even said in the letter that he’d understand if Steve didn’t want to see him at all, but the guy is coming all the way from Europe, for crying out loud. As apprehensive as he is about this meeting, Steve would just feel like an asshole if he made the guy come all the way out here for no reason. Sarah Rogers raised him to have better manners than that. 

Steve glances down at his feet as he begins to head up the cobblestone walkway that leads towards what appears to be the front entrance of this so-called Stork Club. It certainly isn’t the kind of club Steve is used to going in. The contrast of his beat-up white converse against the clean stones is so stark that Steve is almost embarrassed to make it up to the door. 

Yeah, he definitely is not dressed to be spending time in a place like this. The way the worker reacts to him when he opens the door confirms as much a moment later. 

“Oh.” The worker— a short, stout man with a hairline creeping back from his forehead— offers no greeting to Steve besides that exclamatory sound. He makes no effort to hide the distaste taking over his expression at the sight of Steve’s attire. “Are you sure you’re in the right place, young… sir?”

Steve can feel his cheeks heating up as he crosses his arms over his chest, his go-to move whenever he’s faced with a confrontation that he finds uncomfortable. Which for him, is most. “This is the address I was given, yes.”

“Ah.” The man looks him over again, this time from head to toe, taking in the sight of Steve’s paint-stained jeans, white t-shirt, and the gray hoodie he has zipped up over top of it. “Typically our establishment has a policy for dress that we ask our members to adhere to—“

The back of Steve’s throat tightens with embarrassment, but it’s like he tells the guy, cutting him off before he can be outright rejected from going inside— “I wasn’t aware of that. I’m not a member, I’m, uh— I’m here to meet Abraham Erskine?”

That statement changed the worker’s tune so quickly that Steve might as well get whiplash, though it’s not his chin that jerks up at the sound of that name being spoken. “Ah, Dr. Erskine’s guest! Well, why didn’t you just say so? We’ve been expecting you. Come, come, come in so we can get you sent on back.”

Getting sent on back isn’t actually the first order of business, apparently, because what actually happens when Steve first steps food into the building is him being sent to a halt by the hands of who he presumes is the lounge security. This place is definitely fancier than Steve was expecting. 

Still, what the fuck do they have to frisk him for? Steve didn’t even bring his backpack to the studio today, which is lucky, because that would have probably only made this process take even longer. They take the time to pat him down, stopping at his jacket and then his jean pockets before the bigger of the two men taking on the job orders Steve to empty his pockets. 

What else can Steve do but comply? “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t crush my cashews,” he sighs, handing the bag of them over from his jacket pocket and then groaning when the guard gives him a pointed look, spurring him to dig into the back pocket of his jeans and hand over the pen he always keeps in there too. “Or break my pen.”

It’s his lucky one, after all. He’d tell them that, but he’s pretty sure they’re suspicious that he might use it to stab someone. Christ, how loaded is this Erskine guy?

It looks like Steve is about to find out. Once his pockets are emptied out in full, the guards step away. “We’ll keep these safe until you leave,” one of them says. 

The other, who had given Steve the look, raises an eyebrow. Steve thinks he sees the corners of his lips move too. “Don’t worry. Your cashews will be fine.” 

“They’d better be,” Steve mutters, begrudgingly letting the original worker who had opened the door lead him towards a private room with a sofa. The guards don’t follow, evidently concluding that Steve isn’t a threat to security. 

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable while you wait,” the worker tells him, though even as he does so, he continues to eye Steve’s clothes like they’re something offensive. With how well decorated the room is, maybe they are. 

Once the worker is gone, Steve really takes the opportunity to look around, letting his face display the full sense of wonder he feels now that he’s alone. This room is decorated with a theme that’s slightly different from what Steve’s artist eye had noticed in the lobby. There are a lot more blue, pink, and purple tones back here. More floral patterns too, even outside of the literal arrangement of flower blossoms sitting on the table in front of the sofa. 

Steve squints and leans forward, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he tries to get a better look at the details of the arrangement. Those aren’t just flowers. Why do these people have plums mixed in with their floral arrangements? Rich people sure are weird. 

Apparently they’re also very loud, because Steve hears the person coming to get him talking before he actually sees them enter the room. Whoever she is, she can’t be Erskine— unless her name is Abraham— but Steve doesn’t suppose he’ll get the chance to ask her who she is until she’s off the phone. 

Whoever she is and whatever she’s talking about, it must have her feeling snappy, because she takes on a no-nonsense tone for the call, words heavy with more than just her accent. Steve’s no expert in linguistics, but he’d say she’s most likely from London or somewhere close. 

“We’ll need all new pillows for the suite in the East wing,” she’s saying. “Yes, it is possible to be allergic to goose-feathers, and as the senator’s wife has been so kind to remind us at least fifty times this week, all of her daughters mustn't sleep on anything that comes from a bird. I suppose it’s genetic.” There’s a pause during which the clacking of heels grows closer, Steve twisting his head to peer over his shoulder to watch the door. “There’s five of them. No, none of them are adopted.”

Steve would snort if the woman on the phone didn’t choose that exact moment to come into view. She can’t be far from her age, but she’s in a pants-suit and has her auburn hair pinned back in a manner that’s clearly meant to make her look professional. It works. 

She’s sort of intimidating, actually. Steve turns back around just so she won’t think that he’s staring. It’d be hard to miss him sitting on the sofa, though. Part of the curse of finally hitting that growth spurt. Unlike the people on campus, the woman notices him almost immediately. 

“I’ll check in with you later,” she murmurs to whoever is on the phone. “I’ve got some other business to take care of for Erskine.” There are no goodbyes that Steve can hear being made before she hangs up and comes to walk around the front side of the sofa so she and Steve can finally see each other face to face. 

She’s smiling, red lipstick a contrast from the pink of the flower blossoms adorning the room around her. Steve tries to smile back, but he doesn’t get the sense that she’s being friendly so much as polite. 

He would be right. Her smile gets much tighter when he blurts out the first question that comes to mind just to break the awkward silence that’s settled over the room. 

“Why is there fruit in your flowers?” Admittedly, it’s a stupid question, but what else is he supposed to say?

Well, he could have led with his name or a hello, but it’s too late to change what’s already been said. Besides, his companion decides to fix that mistake for him, thank god. 

“Vengean plums. We’re famous for them.” She sticks out a hand, the color of her perfectly polished nails matching her lipstick so well that the part of Steve’s brain still stuck at the studio worrying about his project is impressed. It’s a pretty good color match. “Peggy Carter, from the Vengean attaché corps. It's good to meet you.“

“Steve Rogers.” Steve takes her hand. It’s very cold. “It’s nice to meet you too, but, um— what am I doing here exactly? I thought I was supposed to meet with Abraham Erskine.”

“If you’ll stay seated, he’ll be with you in a moment,” Peggy assures him cooly, but before Steve can even begin wondering how much longer he’ll have to wait—

“No, I don’t need a moment, Miss Carter. I’m here.” Steve looks up just as a third person enters the room, this one an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair, walking forward with a poise that makes Steve want to automatically straighten up despite the fact he’s still sitting down. “I apologize for my tardiness. I was trying to make sure our lunch was ready, but it’s just so hard finding good tea in America. Miss Carter, if you’d be so kind as to remind me to restock the kitchens before our next visit.”

“Absolutely, Doctor.” Peggy turns and exits the room, shutting the door behind her, her need to be in the room seemingly gone now that Erskine is here. 

Steve stands as he watches her go, making sure to stand as straight up as he can before stretching out a hand to meet the one Erskine offers. He opens his mouth to greet him— in a much more proper way than he’d remembered to do with Peggy— but before he can do so, Erskine beats him to the punch. 

“Steven. I’m so glad that you could come. Let me take a look at you.” Erskine glances over the top edge of the wire-rimmed glasses he has on, sweeping his gaze over Steve in what’s thankfully a much kinder manner than what the security guards had done. It still makes Steve feel strangely vulnerable. “You’re the spitting image of your father in the face. A little taller than I was expecting from the photos we found of your school paper, but…” Erskine’s face grows oddly blank, as if he’s trying to hold an emotion back that doesn’t quite match what he says. “You look so… young.”

“Oh,” Steve says awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other just to shake off the heaviness of this stranger’s scrutiny. “I guess I got the blonde hair from my Ma. And I had a growth spurt during my senior year, so… thanks? You, uh. You look…” The automatic answer that comes to mind as being the opposite to what Erskine had said definitely isn’t appropriate, so Steve scrambles to find an option that’s less insulting. “Clean?”

Erskine looks vaguely amused, even if still a little stiff, so it must work. Steve is just thankful the older man doesn’t use his fumbling as an excuse to call to attention just how un clean Steve looks in his studio clothes in comparison to Erskine’s own brown tie and khaki suit. 

“Why don’t we take our tea in the garden? It’s such a lovely day, it would be a shame to waste it.“

Steve is certainly in no position to argue Erskine’s request— he’s a guest here, but he isn’t rude— so he only nods and follows Erskine out the door towards what turns out to be a small terrace behind the building, a table set up on a small, platformed patio made of the same cobblestones out front on the walkway. There’s an archway built above it as well, wrapped in ivy around the pillars and with lanterns hanging from the too, unlit due to the daylight. 

It’s all very rustic, especially paired with the spread of food and beverage that’s already laid out on the table by the time the two of them sit down. Steve didn’t think people actually drank out of real teacups anymore, but he can appreciate the artistry that goes into making them even if he’s a little nervous that he’s going to break his as soon as he picks it up. 

Just to play it safe, he reaches for one of the finger sandwiches first only to stop as he noticed the way Erskine is tucking his napkin into his lap. What the hell. The manners Sarah taught him aren't quite that elaborate, but Steve can copy what he sees. 

He drapes his own napkin over his lap and then reaches for one of the sandwiches, taking a small bite as Erskine takes an equally small sip of his tea, one lump of sugar and a dash of milk going in after as he attempts to adjust the taste. 

Steve wishes they hadn’t taken his pen away. Normally, if he were out eating at a cafe or a coffee shop, he’d be using it to doodle on a napkin while waiting for his food to come. He doesn’t have to wait here. He probably wouldn’t want to draw on these napkins either considering they’re made of cloth, but the placemats seem to be paper, so one of those might do. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have his pen. All he has is a stupid sandwich filled with cream cheese and cucumbers. At least it tastes alright. 

“I know I’ve already said it, but I really am glad that you decided to come meet me.” It takes a few long moments for Erskine to speak up, but when he eventually does, it’s accompanied by a look that’s so genuinely grateful that Steve doesn’t know what to do or say. 

In the end, all he does is nod. 

Erskine seems to think that’s enough in order for him to go on. “I know you don’t know me very well, but I’m hopeful that after I tell you about everything today, that can be something we’ll change. Well,” he smiles wryly. “I suppose a lot of things might be changing for the both of us after today.”

“What’s going to change?” Steve doesn’t mean to interrupt, but the way Erskine is talking, it feels like Steve is being left out of some big secret. “What is it you need to tell me?”

“Ah, we’ll get there soon enough, my boy.” Erskine’s tone has taken on a faint hint of fondness that Steve soon realizes isn’t really meant for him. “Impatient, aren’t you? Just like your father. But all in good time. First, I’d like to get to know you a little— outside of the background check my head of security helped me run.”

Steve isn't sure if that’s meant to be a joke or not. He’s still not sure all of this isn’t some sort of elaborate hoax set up by Sam and Natasha, but he doesn’t think it is. If there’s one thing they know not to joke about with him, it’s his father. 

“I don’t know if there’s much to tell. I mean, I’m an art student on scholarship at SHIELD University. I’m halfway through my senior year. I work at the community center down the block from my apartment, clean up after the kids finish their lessons. I share a place with my best friend.” Steve shrugs awkwardly. “That's it, really.”

And the sad thing is, that really is it. Those four facts cover everything important in Steve’s current situation. For him, it’s good enough, but now that he’s saying it out loud it doesn’t sound particularly impressive. Maybe he really is a nobody. 

He barely knows this Erskine guy, so he has no idea why it feels like what he’s just said is somehow letting him down. Is it because he’s expecting Erskine to hold him up to the standard of a father he knows nearly nothing about?

Erskine doesn’t look unimpressed or upset once Steve finally spares a tentative glance at him from across the table, but he’s quiet for long enough that Steve begins to wonder if he’s about to get sent out. 

He must not be, because eventually Erskine clears his throat and wipes his mouth with his napkin before smiling again. “You are quite the accomplished young man, Steve.” Steve can’t help the snort that slips out or the sheepish way he ducks his chin, but Erskine shakes his head. “No, I mean it. I know it couldn’t have been easy getting here on your own.”

“I wasn’t on my own the whole time,” Steve interjects, because it’s true. He wasn’t. “I had my Ma. She raised me. And now I have my friends.” He swallows despite the fact that he has nothing in his mouth. “They’re my family just as much as she was.”

“It isn’t easy losing a parent before you’ve had the time to fully grow up,” Erskine murmurs. “Let alone both.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the hand life dealt me, I guess.” Steve gulps down his first sip of tea just to keep from having to say anything else. 

“I think there are quite a few cards left in your deck that you don’t know about.” 

And there's that cryptic phrasing again. Steve almost wants to ask him what all of this is about, but Erskine once again begins to answer the question before Steve can even ask it.

“Steven, have you ever heard of a place called Vengea?”

Steve frowns at his predicted question being met with another question. “I think Peggy mentioned something inside about Vengean plums?” He’s also pretty sure that that’d been the location on the envelope listing where the letter had been sent from, but it looks like Erskine is about to cover that point himself, so Steve doesn’t bring it up. 

Erskine nods, taking another sip of his tea before setting the cup back down on its saucer with a clink. “Vengea is the country from which I come from. I’m not surprised you haven’t heard much about it. It’s a small, somewhat isolated land, but it’s absolutely lovely. The obscurity is part of its charm, as your father always liked to say. Helped him travel abroad much more discreetly.”

“My father?”

Although Steve’s brows are the ones knitting together in a frown, Erskine is the one who takes a deep breath before exhaling heavily. It’s like he’s preparing himself for something. Should Steve be preparing himself for whatever it is too?

As it turns out, the answer to that question is yes. 

“Your father,” Erskine begins, wincing before having to start over again. “Your father was not only a citizen of Vengea. Joseph Almanzo Rogers was our crown prince before he died.”

Yeah, that’s it. This definitely has to be some big joke thay Nat and Sam have decided to spring on him, because really— “ My father was a prince? Of Vengea? You expect me to believe that?” 

Erskine frowns now too. “I do, Steven, because it’s true.”

“You’re joking.”

“Why would I joke about something like that?”

Steve can’t take this anymore. He’d worried so much about what coming here might mean for him, he’d even looked forward to learning a little more about the man who makes up half his blood, and this is what he gets? Some crackpot old fool trying to convince him that his father was royalty?

“And I’m supposed to buy that my mother conveniently neglected to mention this to me?” Steve shakes his head with a laugh that edges on hysterical even to his own ears. “Or what, she didn’t know that he was a prince? My mother wasn’t that much of an idiot, pal. I don’t know who you think you are or why you picked me to do this to, but it’s not funny.”

“Steven.” Erskine’s voice is now dangerously calm where Steve feels riled up enough for the tapping of his foot underneath the table to rattle the china. “I’m not trying to be funny. Your mother knew, and I’m sorry she never told you, but please listen to what I’m trying to tell you now.” He leans forward, eyes fixed on Steve’s face. 

It’s more terrifying than the thought of losing his scholarship that Steve finds nothing but truth behind them even with what Erskine says next. 

“Your father was our prince, and seeing as he’s been gone for quite a while… I know it’s far past the optimal time to tell you this, but your father’s passing made a great many things more complicated than usual. As his natural heir, Steven Grant Rogers— you are now the next prince of Vengea.”

There’s nothing Steve can say to that. Even the most eloquent person on the planet couldn’t possibly know how to respond to such a revelation being dropped on them out of nowhere— what is there to say? Steve can hardly even bring himself to entertain the thought that what Erskine is saying could be true, but the longer he goes on, the lower Steve’s stomach seems to think with the weight of what’s quickly turning out to be a terrifying truth. 

“I have been the royal advisor to the Rogers family for decades now. It’s how I knew your father, and your father’s father, and hopefully it will be how I finally get to know you.” Erskine’s words are steady, but he does look to be sympathetic to the shock Steve is still reeling from. Steve has no doubt that his face is as white as a ghost. “As a natural heir, you are royal by blood. The last of the blood heirs, now that your grandmother— God rest her soul— has passed away.”

“Oh,” Steve whispers, finally thinking of a reasonable response to yet another bit of the information he’s being bombarded with. “I’m sorry for your loss, I…” 

She’s supposed to have been his loss too, but it’s not like he knew her or anyone else on his father’s side of the family. It’s becoming even clearer just how little Steve knows about either of his parents considering how large of a secret it is that’s been kept from him for 24 years. 

Erskine waves him off. “It was a long time coming. She was elderly, and hadn’t been very involved in running the country for some time. Frankly… that’s why I’m here, my boy.” If possible, Erskine looks even more serious with what he says next. “At the current moment, the only thing holding Vengea together outside of the Parliament is me, and as much as I love my country, ruling it is not my duty, nor is it my right. That would be yours.”

“ Mine?” Steve repeats weakly. 

Erskine nods. “As of now, the throne and the palace are without a proper heir to take them over. That’s where you come in, Steven.” Taking in a deep breath, Erskine reaches across the table and places a hand over top of one of Steve’s own in a firm grip. “This is your time to rule.”

“ Rule?” The continual repetition of what Erskine has already said himself is no doubt getting old, but Steve can’t help it. What Erskine is saying is so ridiculous that Steve has to double check it before he reacts in full, but once he can see that Erskine isn’t about to take any of it back— “No! No, I’m not ruling a goddamn country that I didn’t even know existed until five minutes ago:”

“Steven—“

This time, the interruption Steve makes is intentional. “You have really got the wrong guy, pal. I’m not leading anybody, let alone an entire country! I haven’t even graduated college yet.” Steve knows he’s babbling on, but Erksine has gotten to say plenty. It’s Steve’s turn now. “My expectation in life is to be invisible outside of my artwork, and that’s if I’m lucky. I like being a nobody! I’m not cut out to—“

“But you are,” Erskine cuts in. “You were born for this. It is in your blood, and you are the only true heir to the throne we have left. I know you don’t feel prepared. I know all of this is new and overwhelming, but I assure you, we are more than willing to accept the challenge of helping you transform into the prince that you have the potential to be” The grip Erskine has on Steve’s hands tightens, and for some reason, Steve can feel the squeeze go straight through his throat. It’s suffocating. “I can give you books. You’ll have the opportunity to study languages, history, art, political science. I can teach you to waIk, taIk, sit, stand, eat, dress like a princess, and given time, I think you'll find the palace in Vengea a very pleasant place to live.”

There’s a lot to take away from the speech Erskine has just bafr, but Steve’s brain chooses to fixate on his final statement.

 “ Live in Vengea?” He laughs incredulously. “You want me to uproot my entire life and leave everything I love behind to— what, be your king? No!” He shoves away from the table and then up, still reeling so hard that he almost stumbles. “No, I won’t do that. You can’t make me— coming here was a mistake.”

“Steven, stop! Please, just listen to me—“

Erskine’s own chair squeaks as he scoots it back to stand as well, but Steve moves away so fast that Erskine has no hope of matching the speech he takes when running towards the door that’ll take him back inside so he can exit through the way he came. 

Steve doesn’t want to be here anymore. He doesn’t want to speak to Erskine or think about what it means that his mother lied to him for his entire life, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be a prince, let alone a king. 

How can they expect him to rule over an entire country when he doesn’t even know if he passed a measly college presentation yet?

-

Steve chose to walk to the studio earlier in the day rather than ride his bike like usual, which would normally result in a leisurely stroll home, but today rather results in him taking the long way just so he can stop somewhere that matches the melancholy introspection his head has been filled with ever since he ran out of the lounge. 

The graveyard. Specifically, the graveyard where his mother is buried. Who else would he be there to see? 

He’d actually stopped by here with the intention of talking to her like he usually does when he’s got a lot on his mind, but now that what’s weighting his mind is partially because of her, all he can seem to do is stare down at her name and the small epitaph carved underneath her birth and death dates. 

Beloved mother, wife, and woman. 

All of that is true. That much Steve knows even of some of the other things he knows about her is turning out to be part of a lie, or at least a majorly omitted truth. 

Part of Steve feels guilty for harboring ill-will towards a dead woman, especially one that he misses so much, but also… his entire life has just been turned upside down. What right feeling is there for this situation?

Everything he thought he knew and idolized about his father has just been flipped on its head. 

“Why, Ma?” he finally whispers, crouching down and pressing a hand to the rough, rounded edge of her headstone. “Why’d you never tell me?”

That’s what really has him so torn up over this, he thinks. Not just the fact that she’d kept it from him as a child, because that much he understands— but the fact she hadn’t mentioned it even when she was on what they both knew was going to be her deathbed?

He knows that Sarah had loved him. He also knows she’d probably thought she was doing the right thing, but the question is, the right thing for who?

Steve always thought that the reason she rarely talked about his father was because it was just too hard, but now he has to wonder if that was a false assumption. Maybe the real reason she barely brought him up was because she didn’t want to keep outright lying to her son so often. 

According to the story Steve was able to piece together over the years from what tidbits his mother let slip, Sarah and Joseph had met when they were both young. It had been love at first sight, a whirlwind romance that resulted in an elopement not even a week after they’d met. 

Joseph had been the one, Sarah had assured him. They’d been so, so in love, but that was the thing about relationships, wasn’t it? Sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes the right person just falls into your life at the wrong time, and that’s why the tale of Sarah and Joseph Rogers wasn’t one with a storybook ending. 

Sarah had still been in nursing school at the time they’d gotten together, whereas Joseph had been somewhat of a wandering spirit. She was young and wanted to fulfill her dreams. He wanted to be with someone who he could not only give, but show the world. Once Sarah had gotten pregnant with Steve, she’d been weighed down in a way that Joseph struggled to come to terms with. Sarah had understood. She’d told Joseph that whether he chose to stay or leave, she’d be raising their son in Brooklyn. An ultimatum, even if it was a gentle one. 

And then, before Joseph could even come to a decision that Sarah was let in on, tragedy had struck in the form of a cab colliding with his body as he was leaving the airport in New York where he’d just flown in to presumably deliver his news to her in person. 

He’d been so young. So full of life and love. Why would Sarah want to talk about him being taken? Though now that Steve knows what he does, it does make sense that Sarah probably didn't want to be royalty— she never liked rules or regulations or having to stand one step behind anyone other than the doctors she may have been assisting. 

Steve understands that part of all of this, but she’d lied to him for so long. 18 years of birthdays and hugs, kisses and sicknesses. 

Acorn and tree, Sarah had once called Steve and Joseph. Personally, Steve had always thought of himself and his mother as two peas in a pod, so maybe it’s only fitting that he doesn’t want to be royalty either. 

He sighs and rubs his thumb over the smoother front of Sarah’s stone one last time before pushing back up into a standing position. He doesn’t have anything nice to say right now, it feels like, and as the saying goes… maybe it’s better he doesn’t say anything at all. 

He allows himself a few final words before heading out. “Bye, Ma. I love you.”

No matter how mad he is, he always will. 

Chapter Text

To Steve’s surprise, there’s another letter from Erskine waiting for him once he finally makes it back to the apartment. 

That was fast. He was only gone after he left the lounge for an extra hour, but apparently that was long enough for Erskine to leave an envelope laying on their front doormat with Steve’s name on it for Sam to find when he got home. He gives it to Steve as soon as he arrives, taking in the hard expression that crosses Steve’s face when he reads who it’s from and apparently taking that as a signal that it’s a good idea to follow him up into his bedroom when he storms off. 

“Steve,” Sam tries, reaching a hand out towards Steve’s shoulder before he can slam his bedroom door shut behind him. “You alright? You wanna talk about it?”

Steve swallows and closes his eyes for a brief moment. As not alright as he feels about all of this, he doesn’t want to take it out on his best friend. It’s not Sam’s fault that Steve has gotten such big news dropped on him today. “I don’t really think I’m up for much talking right now,” he says softly. He stares down at the envelope he has clutched in hand. “I don’t know if I’m up for that much reading.”

“Then how about I read it for you?” Sam smiles at him and squeezes in the grip he still has on Steve’s shoulder. “I gotta start practicing my pilot’s voice anyways.”

That might be a good idea, actually. If Sam reads the letter to Steve then maybe it’ll help him get a better understanding of the situation without Steve having to explain everything. Steve wants him to know, he really does. But how do you explain to your best friend that your parents never told you that you’re royalty? This sort of stuff isn’t supposed to happen in real life. It definitely isn’t supposed to happen to Steve . 

“Whatever it says…” Steve has to clear his throat before he can go on, shoving the envelope into Sam’s hand and stepping away like that’ll do anything to distance him from the problem. “Just please don’t freak out when you read it. I’ll explain everything to you sometime but I just don’t think I can do it tonight.”

And Sam, God bless him, nods. If Steve weren’t so busy trying to distract himself by running across the hall to the bathroom to grab his toothbrush, he might do something dramatic like burst into tears or hug Sam and declare he’s never letting go. “Got it. No freak outs. You mind if I steal your desk chair while we do this?”

Steve shakes his head once he re-renters his bedroom, toothbrush now stuffed into his mouth. Now he has a real excuse not to do any of the talking. 

“Alright. Here we go.” Sam tears the envelope open and leans back in Steve’s chair as he holds the letter inside up so he can get better light to begin reading the words scrawled across the paper. “ Dear Steven. I suppose the most important thing to say right now is that I am sorry for a multitude of things, but first and foremost I am sorry that all of this had to come as such a shock. I can assure you that that is not what this meeting was meant for, and though I did not know her very well, I can also assure you that your mother never kept any of the things I told you today from you in order to hurt you. No one did.“

At that, Sam glances up to gauge Steve’s expression, but he doesn’t react to anything he sees outside of clearing his throat before continuing. 

“In fact, most of what we discussed today seems to have been born from a misunderstanding of an agreement that your father and mother made before you were born. I assume your mother told you that she and your father were in the middle of making a decision before he died pertaining to whether or not he would be in your life, but what you do not know is the details of what that decision entailed. Prior to departure back home on a trip meant for him to clear his head and think, your mother had given him somewhat of an ultimatum as to what life would be like if he were to choose to leave.”

Steve closes his eyes and brushes a little more aggressively. That’s the worst part of his father’s death being accidental. He may never know if his father was going to choose to leave or not.

“If Joseph were to leave New York permanently, it would be under the conditions of him and his entire family staying away from both you and your mother until you turned 21. That was when they would have planned on telling you the truth together, allowing you to have a childhood that was normal and free of emotional complications until you were old enough to understand the responsibility that comes with being…. royal.” Sam falters the slightest amount, but he keeps his promise not to freak out. He’s a lot better at that than Steve is. “It was a good plan, but unfortunately, it was not one that we knew about until recently. You see, when your mother cut off all contact with your father’s family, we assumed that that meant she wanted you to remain unaware of your status for good. We had every intention of honoring what we thought was her wish even following her death, but the agreement she made with your father recently has recently come to our attention through a note discovered in some of your father’s old belongings. I was the one who went through them myself, and though I know your mother and father wanted nothing more in this life than to protect you, I also now know that Joseph wished— in his own words— for his son to ‘know both his country, his father, and the legacy of his family’. That is why I came to you today. That is why I hope that you will not let today be the last of our interactions. There is so much more I would like to tell you and even more that I would like to teach you. I hope you will be willing to listen when I reach out to you again, but until then, ” Sam finishes. “Take care. Abraham Erskine.”

As those final words ring out into the room, Steve shoves up off his bed and rushes to the bathroom. He could say it’s only to spit his toothpaste out, but to tell the truth, he just can’t sit still right now. Not when his head's still spinning. 

Sam remains sitting in his chair until Steve returns, still as a statue in comparison to the rate at which Steve begins pacing around on the rug like the madman he feels like he’s about to become. He’s more fit for that than he is to be prince. The agitation is winning out over any of the residual anger right now, at least. 

The tone Sam takes to talk to him is gentle, like he’s talking to some sort of cornered animal rather than his roommate and best friend. “I’m not gonna ask any questions right now, but I just want you to know that whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen.”

Part of Steve wants to sigh and take Sam up on his offer, get everything he’s thinking off of his chest by spilling it out into open air where someone else can help him deal with it. But therein lies part of the problem— Steve doesn’t know what he’s thinking, and to be honest, he really doesn’t want to do anymore thinking today at all. 

There are a lot of things he could say, even if he doesn’t have most of what he’s feeling sorted out yet. Things like ‘I know they did this to protect me, but I don’t feel protected’ . Like ‘How am I supposed to know who I am when such a big part of my life has turned out to be a lie?’

He doesn’t say either of those things or any of the other ones that come to mind. Instead, he settles on something much simpler and much softer. 

“I think I just need to go to bed right now,” he whispers. 

Sam doesn’t argue with him, but it’s clear that he’s regretful to leave Steve alone. He raises his eyebrows while standing, but doesn’t say anything else as he heads towards the door— and then, he does, stopping in his tracks as he passes Steve by and giving him another firm grip to the shoulder. “You sure you don’t need anything to eat? We got plenty of soup and TV dinners I can heat up if you want.”

Steve’s stomach has been tangled up in knots ever since he finished that finger sandwich at the lounge. He’ll force himself to eat breakfast tomorrow before he heads to the studio, but for now, he doesn’t think he could bear to force anything down. “I just want to sleep.”

“Okay, man.” Sam’s smile is tight even as he steps past Steve to exit the room completely. “Wake me up if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Sam. Night.”

“Night.”

It takes everything in Steve to keep it together as he moves to shut the door, barely waiting for the latch to click before he slides down to the floor and presses his back to it, knees drawn up and head buried in his arms. He isn’t crying, but the numbness might be even worse than if he was. 

He doubts that he’ll be able to sleep anytime soon with all these thoughts currently swirling around in his head. He can’t even make himself get up and go over to the bed, not when he feels like he’s been knocked on his ass. 

So much for getting up and walking towards tomorrow.

He wonders if that was a saying his mother ever told his father. 

-

Waking up the next morning is brutal, but that’s what only getting two hours of sleep will do to you. Steve is a college student who has been through more than one tragic life experience in his time. He’s used to functioning on little to no sleep as long as he can make up for it with a probably indecent amount of coffee. 

Technically, he could sleep in. It’s Sunday and he has all of his homework finished for the weekend, but he’d been planning on going into the studio again today. With how he’s woken up feeling, it’s a pretty strong temptation to just bury himself back under the covers and stay in bed, but the stubborn part of Steve’s brain (which is most of it) somehow translates that into letting Erskine win. 

It’s not as if the man is trying to play mind games with him or anything (at least to the best of Steve’s knowledge) but that letter he sent last night has been weighing pretty heavily on Steve’s mind. It’s clear the older man doesn’t plan on leaving Steve alone just yet. 

He’s going to reach out to Steve again? How? What does that mean?

Ironically, Steve realizes he’s going to find out the answer to that question a lot sooner than he originally thought, because he doesn’t get more than two steps out of his room before he hears a voice drift out of the kitchen that definitely isn’t Sam’s. Steve wouldn’t go as far as to say that the voice is familiar, but his memory is good enough to recognize it as the one he had quite literally run away from the day before. 

What the hell is Erskine doing here in their apartment? In Steve’s home? What’s he doing talking to Sam?

There’s only one way Steve can find out. He throws the covers back and swings his legs off the bed, ready to head towards the door until he realizes that he should probably put more clothes on than the boxers and tank top he wore to sleep in. He glances at his clock. Might as well get ready completely before he goes to face the man who’d ruined his Saturday. 

Steve has enough self-dignity to pull on a different pair of pants than the ones he’d worn to tea the day before— it’s not like he wears dirty clothes everywhere, but why should he watch something without wearing it more than once? He’s on a budget here. The jeans he chooses today are less paint stained, and he even takes the time to tuck his t-shirt into the waist of them before rummaging around to find the only belt he owns. 

He’s not trying to impress Erskine. He’s just trying to make himself feel like less of a fool for how they’d left things off. That is, with Steve running away like a coward and Erskine calling out his name. 

Grabbing his jacket from where it’s draped over the back of his desk chair, Steve shrugs it on before stepping over to his dresser where he can check his hair and fix his glasses in the mirror. It’s sticking up a bit thanks to his cowlick and the fact he hasn’t washed it in almost two days, but that’s not exactly a problem he’s worrying about right now considering what’s waiting for him out in the kitchen. 

He takes in a deep breath and maintains eye contact with himself in the mirror for a long moment. Erskine and Sam aren’t being very loud, but Steve can catch a few low murmurs if he strains his good ear hard enough. 

“So the future of your country is in the hands of a 24 year old art student?”

Oh, Jesus. Sam knows about the prince thing. He’s not stupid, so what he’d picked up on from the letter last night had probably been enough for him to have a pretty good idea about Steve’s new secret, but now it sounds like Erskine has made him privy to his predicament as well. Steve doesn’t even know how long they’ve been talking. What else does Sam know about now?

Steve is a little freaked out about Sam knowing he’s a prince who is being asked to move across the world, but it’s Sam. They’ll talk about it later. In private, preferably. 

Hiding in his bedroom from Erskine after he finishes brushing his teeth isn’t something Steve will ever admit to, but he will admit that he takes an extra second to himself to stare at the photo he has tucked into the edge of his dresser mirror before heading out to face the music. It’s a small photo, barely 5-by-7, dulled by time and worn around the edges thanks to how many times Steve has held it.

It’s one of his most precious. Not the most expensive, but definitely the most precious. It’s the only photo of Steve’s father and mother together that he’s ever seen, though he doubts that it’s the only one that his mother ever had. She’d given it to him on one of the birthdays he’d had growing up where she couldn’t afford to buy him as many presents as she wanted. 

To this day, that photo is still Steve’s favorite present out of all others he’s ever been given. His father looks happy in it. So does his mother. Usually it makes Steve happy just to look at, but today, he can’t bring himself to smile even when he reaches up and brushes his fingertips over their faces. 

This is how he wants to remember his parents. Happy. Honest. 

Unfortunately, that makes hearing what Erskine is saying to Sam as Steve enters the kitchen even harder. He’s not even sure he’s meant to, but this is his house, so Erskine couldn’t have expected much else. 

“Joseph was ready to choose being a father over being king, but then the accident…” Erskine’s voice is resigned, almost as drained of energy as Steve feels as yet another new piece of information about his parents hits him. His father had planned on choosing Steve and Sarah. He’d wanted to stay. “We can only leave the throne empty for so long before—“

It’s Sam that sees Steve standing in the doorway, taking in his lost expression and lowered shoulders before quickly cutting whatever else Erskine was going to say off before he can drop any other parental bombs. “Steve, I really think you and Mr. Erskine need to talk.”

“Actually, it’s Doctor,” Steve says hollowly. That’s one thing he can get right even if everything else he thought he knew is turning out to be nothing more than a manipulation of facts he never had. “And I’m not talking to either of you right now. I have to get to the studio.” 

Sam knows damn well that Steve going to the studio is only being used as an excuse for him to rush out. But why shouldn’t Steve leave? Maybe it’s spiteful, but Steve resents the fact that Sam seems to be siding with Erskine on this, and while he knows it isn’t fair to he angry at him when he isn't really doing anything wrong, Steve can’t help but be upset. 

“Steven, please, if you’d just wait for a moment—“ 

“I have to get to the studio,” Steve repeats, but then as he reaches over to grab an apple from their fruit bowl, Sam’s hand is landing on his shoulder. 

“You can’t keep running away from this forever,” he murmurs, low enough for Erskine to most likely miss it. Somehow, the illusion of privacy settles Steve enough for him to sigh and come to a stop at the counter. 

The tone he takes is still biting. “What, do the two of you have some other life-changing news that I might finally need to know about? Do I have a twin brother? Superpowers?”

Erskine sighs too now, accepting Steve’s hostility with an acknowledging tip of his head. “Yesterday did not go well, but if you have a little more time to think what I’m telling you over, maybe today can go better.”

Fat chance, Steve thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. “I think today will go great if you leave me alone.”

“Steve,” Sam warns. “Just listen to him, okay? Give him a few minutes and then you can leave.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson.” Erskine smiles as Sam while Steve gives him a side eye so strong it may as well be a glare. “There’s a ball in a few months that I was hoping you may be willing to attend. Right around your birthday, as a matter of fact. Whatever decision you come to pertain to Vengea and the crown, I’d like to present you to the public and use the event to announce to the press whether or not you will be taking the crown.” 

Steve opens his mouth, more out of outright shock than to try and give a verbal response, but Sam elbows him hard enough to make him snap at shut. Fine. He’ll wait to tell Erskine no. 

“Of course, if you go, you’ll need some training before then. As I said yesterday, we can offer you plenty of instruction. If I may speak for the entire Vengean parliament, it would mean the world to have a member of the royal family present in the palace again, even if it ends up being for one night only.” Erskine draws in a deep breath. “I am not asking you to make your choice about the crown right now or even in the next month. All I am asking for is a chance, Steve. A chance to show you what your life could be like if you were to follow in the footsteps of your father and his family.”

And isn’t that just a low-blow? It’s a dirty fucking trick to use Steve’s own father against him, especially when Erskine knew him better than Steve ever got to. It’s not fair. None of this is. 

“I don’t have to choose anytime soon?” His words come out much smaller than he intended. 

Shaking his head, Erskine offers him an equally small smile. “If you want, you can wait until the night of the ball to decide. The only thing you’ll be asked to do until then is try.”

Another dirty trick. Did Erskine know that Sarah always told Steve that trying is the most important thing to do in life, or is that something she picked up from his father?

It takes him almost a full two minutes to answer, but eventually, he speaks back up. “I’m not promising anything about the ball or being your… prince, but I guess I can let you teach me a couple things.” Anything to get Erskine to let him get out of here. 

How hard can it be to sit through a couple of lessons on how to act like a prince? Hell, it might even help Steve with his public speaking skills, and if it helps him put off the decision on whether or not to become a prince for a while… 

Erskine looks so giddy that Steve begins wondering if he’s made a mistake about agreeing to all this almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “Your first lesson will start tomorrow at the lounge, Mr. Rogers. Consider this your royal boot camp.” 

Before Steve can process whether or not that remark is meant to be a joke, Erskine is slipping a weathered hand into the pocket of his suit coat and pulling out what Steve immediately recognizes to be his favorite pen. He hadn’t even realized he left it behind yesterday, but it’s a relief to take it back once Erskine hands it over. 

“I think someone may have eaten the cashews. My apologies.”

Yeah, that one was definitely a joke. Steve snorts and finally crunches into his apple now that the conversation seems to be over. “Am I free to head to the studio now?”

The sarcastic question is actually aimed towards Sam, but it’s Erskine that answers. “I’ll tell you what. I can have one of my drivers give you a ride over.” The smile he gives Steve now is slightly friendlier. “To make up for yesterday. You should be introduced to the staff and security, in any case.”

“I already met Peggy,” Steve says, stepping towards the door with Erskine following behind him. “How many more staff members did you bring?”

“You’re about to meet most of them.”

Them, as Steve soon finds out, is referring to the group of five people waiting for them outside by the cars. Cars, plural, because evidently Erskine saw fit to bring Steve his own limousine despite the fact that he hadn’t even known if Steve would be willing to speak to him today. There are two drivers and three security guards, one of the latter three who seems to be the most important of the bunch based off of the general attitude he carries. 

Erskine is quick to introduce them all. “Steven, this is Nicholas Fury, head of our royal security.” The man who Steve had noticed first nods at him. 

Steve tries not to stare at the eye patch he has on, but it’s impossible not to wonder how he ended up having to wear it. Was it an accident on the job? Is being royalty really that dangerous?

“And these are our guards, Maria Hill and Happy Hogan, as well as our drivers, Timothy Dugan and Jacques Dernier.” Steve nods at every person as they’re introduced, smiling politely— that is, until Erskine contines. “Dugan can drive you to wherever you need to go. Maria and Happy can accompany you, just in case.”

“I don’t need a security detail just to go to the studio,” Steve protests, hoping he doesn’t sound like he’s complaining. He’s not trying to be ungrateful, but having two guards go babysit him through a simple ride in a limo is just unnecessary. “My prince lessons don’t start tomorrow, remember? I can act like a regular guy until then.”

Erskine raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t try and argue against Steve’s refusal past making the dry remark of, “I didn’t know regular guys rode in limos.” Steve flushes, but Erskine only laughs and nods to Dugan, an older man with a sandy-colored mustache. “You heard him, Mr. Dugan. He’ll be riding with you sans security.”

Dugan smiles and steps towards the second car, keys already in hand. “I’ll be extra careful with him, boss.”

Steve is curious to hear that Dugan has what sounds like an American accent, where both Erskine and Peggy have ones that are different. Do Vengeans have a distinct way of speaking? Steve has never heard a recording of what his father sounded like. It doesn’t seem polite to ask Dugan about his background or any details about his personal life considering they met only moments ago, so Steve stays silent as they both climb into the lino, Steve in the back seat and Dugan behind the wheel. 

Steve can admit that he’s more than a little relieved to get away from Erskine, even if it is only for the rest of the day, but what he won’t admit is that he spends almost the entire ride over to the studio playing with the buttons that control the partition. He’d only lowered it to make sure Dugan had the address, but the amusement provided by trying to figure out how to raise it back up again is a bonus. 

Steve’s never ridden in a nice car in general before that he can remember, let alone had access to a personal limousine. He doesn’t even have a license— not that he needs one now. That’s the great thing about being rich (or royalty, at least). You have people you pay to drive you around. 

He frowns at his way of thinking even as Dugan is rolling them to a stop outside the building where the studio space Steve rents is located inside. Is this Erskine’s plan? To get Steve used to nice things so he’ll be spoiled enough by his birthday to be brainwashed into agreeing to be their prince?

“Have a nice day, your Highness,” Dugan calls, rolling down the driver window so he can lean out and give Steve his parting words without having to fully yell. “I’ll likely be the one to take you home tomorrow as well.”

Well, if they’re going to be seeing each other on a regular basis for the next few months… “Thanks, Mr. Dugan. And you can, uh. You can call me Steve. None of that your Highness stuff for me.” It’s not like Steve would feel like a real prince at this point even if he had already agreed to take on the title. 

“In that case, you can call me Dum-Dum.” At Steve’s puzzled expression, Dugan laughs and begins to slowly raise the window back up, but he doesn’t get it fully shut before his last words ring out. “It’s a palace nickname. Don’t worry about me feeling insulted.”

Wanting to be called something that’s so close to being disparaging doesn’t make much sense to Steve, but it’s not like he’s in much of a place to question it, so Steve just shrugs and watched the limo (and all of the eighty-six flags stuck on the sides) pull away. He turns, fully ready to head up the steps only to make almost the exact same mistake as he had on the day of his presentation. 

Only this time, the woman he runs into isn’t a professor. It’s Natasha, who is standing on the step above him with her jaw dropped into an uncharacteristically shocked expression. 

Part of Steve feels smug for pulling such a reaction from her— usually he’s the one with his feathers ruffled and she’s the one with secrets— but the other part of him immediately starts panicking thinking about how on Earth he can explain what she just saw. 

He’s supposed to be a broke college student, not some preppy prince that rides around in limos with a private chauffeur. She’s going to have questions that Steve’s half-assed answers won’t satisfy. He can only hope she didn’t hear Dum-Dum call him your Highness. 

It’s not that he wants to keep this a secret from her because he doesn’t trust her. He just… he wants things to be normal between them for a little while longer. Erskine had been the one to tell Sam, but outside of that, Steve had gotten the impression that the man wanted to keep things out of the press until the ball. 

In the end, all Steve does is smile and give Natasha what he hopes is a normal greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says slowly, not taking her eyes off of where Dum-Dum is still pulling the limo down the block. “What’s going on?”

And this is the hard part, because Steve is known by Sam and Nat alike to be a horrible liar. Whatever he says is going to have to be rooted in the truth. “Oh, some people from my dad’s side of the family reached out to me.” He keeps his voice casual and chooses his words carefully. “They’re just visiting.”

“And they have a limousine?”

If she only knew what else they have that they’re trying to give to Steve. “Yeah. They’re better off than I’m used to, that’s for sure.”

Natasha shakes her head, but doesn’t ask any more questions just yet. Instead, she hands Steve the coffee cup that she must have come over to deliver him in the first place. “And here I was thinking bringing you brunch would be the nicest present anyone gave you all day.”

Steve smiles at the smooth subject change and takes a sip of his drink, sure to smack his lips after in an exaggerated gesture of gratitude. “Who says it isn’t? You know I love lattes from the Willow Tree.”

“Only place in town that offers them apple-pie flavored.” Nat bumps his shoulder as they begin to climb up the rest of the stairs together, silently inviting herself into his studio to eat whatever pastries she no-doubt has in the paper bag she’s holding. “You got any big plans this week?”

It’s a good thing Steve hasn’t started on his project yet this morning, because the anxious habit he has of brushing his bangs out of his face even when they aren’t flopped down has resulted in him getting paint all over his forehead whenever Natasha is questioning him while he’s working more than once. “Just work and class. Might see my dad’s side of the family again before they head out of town.”

If Natasha knows he’s tiptoeing around the truth (really just outright manipulating it— maybe he’s more like his mother than he thought), she doesn’t say anything about it. All she does is hum and launch into a discussion about the girl she’d met at the library and asked on a date. Apparently, her name is Laura, she’s an accounting major, and she has a tongue piercing, which apparently is a plus in Natasha’s opinion. 

If Steve had any romantic prospects of his own, now would be when he brings them up, but they both know that he doesn’t. He’s busy with school, stressed about his project, swamped with work. Natasha has heard all of those excuses from him and more, but the simple truth of the matter is, Steve just doesn’t think he’s met the right person yet. 

Call him crazy or picky or a hopeless romantic, but all he’s ever wanted for that part of his life was somehow to make him smile as brightly as the mere memory of his father’s love had done for his mother. 

If he was willing to give up his status for her, he must have loved her a lot. Steve guesses that means he can at least try and stomach sitting through a few lessons on princeliness. It doesn’t mean he’ll ever have to sit on the throne. 

He could get used to the free limo rides, though. Sure beats riding his bike. 

-

Unfortunately, while Dum-Dum had mentioned something about taking Steve home from his first lesson, he hadn’t mentioned anything about taking him to it, so Steve’s bike doesn’t stay in the rack collecting dust for too long. 

Adding the distance it takes to get to the lounge on top of the route Steve usually takes to and from class actually leaves him a little out of breath, and more importantly, it’s left him running late. He tries to hurry the best that he can, but out of the two problems possibly caused by the conundrum of not being on time, being late seems better than showing up on-time and sweaty. 

This time when Steve gets to the lounge, no one bothers to frisk him at the door. Rather, they lead him to one of the other back rooms where Erskine and Peggy are already waiting, Peggy standing behind the sofa with her hands primly clasped and Erskine sitting on it looking up at Steve disapprovingly through his glasses. 

Not exactly the best way to start off these so-called lessons , but Steve figures he’s on the learning curve. He’ll get better at this, he hopes. 

Hopefulness isn’t exactly a feeling stirred up in his chest by the stern tone Erskine takes while gearing up for what must be his introductory speech. Christ. Maybe this really is going to be like a royal bootcamp. 

“You’re late.”

Good observation, Steve thinks drily, but he’s not dumb enough to say that out loud. “Sorry. Class went over today and I tried to hurry, but—“

“Not buts about it,” Erskine cuts in. Steve thinks that it’s to give him a lecture, but all Erskine ends up doing is smiling and holding up a singular finger. “Lesson number one. A prince is never late. Everyone else is simply early.”

Steve exhales a breath he hadn’t known he was holding in that ends in a laugh. “If you could tell my professors that, I’d appreciate it.”

“Now, if you’d circle slowly for me, we can get started.” Erskine must be able to see that Steve has no idea what he means, because he uses his still held-up finger to make a twirling motion. “Just so I can evaluate what work there is to be done.” 

His presentation had been enough to tell Steve that he doesn’t particularly enjoy the feeling of being stared at by people who want to pick apart his flaws or his ideas, but if he’s going to do these lessons like he agreed… he’ll just have to deal with it. How hard can it be?

Very hard, apparently. Erskine’s first complaint comes before Steve had even finished spinning. “Straighten up, please.” When Steve doesn’t do so immediately, he sighs. “Does your bad posture affect your hearing as well?”

“My hearing isn’t that great in general,” Steve says shortly. He’s not embarrassed about most of what still ails his body at this point, but it is tiring having to explain sometimes. “And the scoliosis might be a problem if you want my posture to be perfect.” 

Really, he’s surprised Erskine hadn’t snooped in his medical records. He seems to have snooped through everything else in Steve’s life. 

Erskine winces and signals for Steve to stop turning. “Not perfect,” he concedes apologetically. “Just… better. Miss Carter, if you could start a list for me?”

Now that is what’s embarrassing. They’re going to make a list of what they need to fix? Steve can feel the back of his neck turning red. That’s a problem of his that should probably go at the top: his tendency to turn into a tomato every time he gets the slightest bit flustered. 

“Eyes— lovely, but hidden behind the distraction of those glasses.” Steve finds that a bit hypocritical considering Erskine wears glasses himself— admittedly ones that are wire-rimmed, but still. “The hair could use some styling. Complexion is fair, cheekbones are marvelous. Steve, if you could tilt your head?” Erskine stands and moves closer as Steve obeys, stopping a few steps away from him and placing his hand under Steve’s chin to keep it tipped up while he takes a long look. “Ears just like his father’s.”

“Really?” Steve clears his throat and tries to sound less excited over such a simple comment. “They are?”

Erskine gives him a smile that Steve can’t get a read on before it’s gone. “I’ll expect you to be better dressed when you come to me next. No more blue jeans.”

“Then what am I supposed to wear?”

“Khakis, preferably. Or slacks, if you have them,” Erskine responds, stepping back and surveying him this time from head to toe. “If you don’t, I’ll ask Mr. Dugan to pick up some in your size. Do you have a pair of dress shoes?”

“Yeah.”

“Princes say yes, Steven. They also try not to slouch.“

“Yes, Dr. Erskine.”

“See? You’re learning already.”

-

Getting out of the limo and heading into the apartment later that night has Steve feeling like a lost man who has just found sanctuary. 

Fine. Maybe he’s being a bit dramatic considering all they’d done today was go over some basics, but who fucking knew there was a way to sit wrong? And apparently ways to walk and stand wrong too. Steve has been doing all three of those things wrong for his entire life, apparently, at least when it comes to the standards of a prince. 

He’d almost fallen out of his chair, at one point, but Erskine had laughed it off— so had Peggy, even if she’d been trying to hide it behind the clipboard that held the damn list of Steve’s imperfections. That list is pretty long. 

And this was only Steve’s first lesson. What’s going to happen when he has his second one tomorrow? Erskine had told him to show up at the lounge again— on time, as he’d clarified, despite Steve’s protests about having class. 

“Your classes tomorrow won’t end until I’m done with you too,” he’d said cheerfully, waving Steve out the door. “Now, Mr. Dugan should have those pants for you tomorrow. He’ll pick you up from campus to help keep you on schedule. You can change in the car.”

Steve hadn’t been able to protest against that. If there’s one thing a college student needs, it’s free stuff. He hasn’t said anything since getting in the limo, actually. That doesn’t change until he’s gotten out of it and is turning back towards where he can wave at Dum-Dum through the window. 

“Thanks for the ride,” he says, even though he knows it’s a job the guy is getting paid to do. That doesn’t mean Steve gets to be rude. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Dum-Dum waves back, and then he’s off down the block, leaving Steve to head up to the apartment where he can finally decompress. 

Today was crazy, even by the standards of someone who has lived in New York City since he was a kid. Getting lessons on how to be a prince from one of his father’s long-lost-acquaintances who seems dead-set on convincing Steve to one day be king? Talk about nutso-cuckoo. 

He groans and rolls his shoulders as he walks through the front door, tossing his keys into the bowl on the entryway table. All of this stress has his already prone-to-aching muscles twisted up with tension. As if he isn’t usually already stressed enough for ten people— how is he supposed to handle these lessons on top of his regular classes, job, and thesis project? 

He’s going to collapse. Or explode. Whoever comes first. Hopefully his approval email will come in from the committee before either. Sam had joked a few days ago about being open to seducing one of the professors on it if Steve thought it would help, and whole Steve had smacked him for it then… maybe he should reconsider. 

“Is that his Royal Highness I hear entering our humble household?”

Steve groans again and gives Sam a good-natured glare from where the other man is already sprawled out on the couch with the TV on. “It’s just your roommate,” he mutters, yawning at the end as he collapses onto the couch, taking up his usual cushion. 

He’s too tired to be mad at Sam for siding with Erskine this morning. Besides, it’s been hours since it happened. He just can’t find it in himself to care anymore. 

“So I don’t need to get up and bow?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no to you getting up to get me a bowl of ice cream. We all out of the cheesecake one? I’ll take Rocky Road.”

“If I get you ice cream, I expect you to spill all the royal secrets you found out today as payment,” Sam says lightly.

Steve takes it as the conversation starter that it is. They’ve been putting off discussing that letter Sam read him last night for too long and they both know it— and no matter what else changed, Sam is Steve’s closest friend. He deserves to know. 

Nat does too, and while Steve feels guilty for not letting her in on the secret yet… he knows he will. Soon. But for now, he’ll just have to bare his chest to the best friend he already has with him.

“Have you ever heard of a place called Vengea?”

“Let me grab a map.” 

Chapter Text

As Erskine promised, when Steve is picked up from campus for his next lesson, there’s a brand new outfit folded into a neat stack waiting for him in the backseat of the limousine. 

There’s actually more than one, from the looks of the shopping bags tucked down on the floor, but it seems that Erskine was kind enough to pick out something from the haul for Steve to wear today. Steve’s grateful for that. Means there’s less room for him to show up having already made another mistake. 

Steve can see the partition is down once he climbs in, allowing him to give Dum-Dum a shy smile as he shuts the door and moves to fasten his seatbelt. “Hey.”

“Hello, Steve,” Dum-Dum responds cheerfully, glancing in the rearview to make sure Steve is secure in his seat before beginning to pull the car away from the curb outside the art building where he’d been waiting for Steve to come out. “How was school?”

For some reason, the mundane question makes something in Steve’s stomach twist. He doubts this guy or any of the staff Erskine brought along actually care about him outside of him being their potential prince, but he hasn’t had anyone ask him that in a while. It reminds him of his Ma. 

“It was good,” he says. “Just, uh. Just a normal day.” He’s thankful for that. As boring as he finds his art history class, he needs as much normalcy he can get when there are so many other things going on in his life that he would label as crazy. “You mind if I…?” He twirls his finger and nods towards the partition controls. 

Despite his chosen nickname, Dum-Dum picks up on what Steve is getting at immediately. “Of course. I’ll try to warn you about any sharp turns.”

“Thanks.” Steve presses the button to raise the partition, waiting for it to get all the way up before he reaches over to the opposite seat and grabs the pile of clothes Erskine left for him. 

Steve is unsurprised to see that part of the outfit consists of khaki slacks, the material much softer and slightly paler than what Steve would have expected, but he suspects that these didn’t come from any of the places he would usually think to shop at. For Steve, Macy’s is about as high-class as he can afford when it comes to clothing. Does he even want to know how much these pants cost?

Doubtful. He’s grateful to get as much free stuff as he can, but if he looked at the price tag for any of the things that came from these shopping bags, he’d likely be liable to barf all over the backseat— and his new clothing. He avoids looking at the brand name on both the pants and the shirt. Blissful ignorance it is. 

The shirt is much nicer than anything Steve owns as well, a blue and white checked button down that looks to already have been pressed when Steve unfolds it. Erskine even bought him socks. As nice as all of this is, Steve is relieved Erskine didn’t buy him underwear. There’s only so much embarrassment and scrutiny Steve can handle in one day, and the older man knowing exactly what Steve is wearing underneath all the nice clothes he’s been given is definitely pushing that limit. 

So, Steve’s usual underwear stays on even as he begins kicking out of his shoes and jeans. He decides to leave on his undershirt as well. It’s only a plain white tank top, and Steve doubts Erskine will find fault in him for that. His underclothes are the only things he’ll wind up wearing of his own, other than the dress shoes he barely remembered to toss into his bag this morning. 

Maybe he should have shined them? Steve winces as he fumbles in pulling the khakis up his legs, trying his best not to kick anything in the process. It’s too late for that now. 

Dum-Dum keeps his word of warning Steve about most of the turns he makes, calling out helpful phrases to prepare Steve for the change in motion. There’s only so much he can do, though. Steve muffles the groan he wants to let out after he smacks his head against the door while in the process of trying to pull his hoodie off without removing his glasses, which is almost always a mistake. 

“You alright back there?”

Steve sighs and attempts to flatten down his hair to regain some sense of dignity. “I’m fine,” he assures the driver. “Don’t worry about me.”

“It’s my job to worry, kid.” Dum-Dum sounds amused. “We’re almost there. And word of advice, Mr. Rogers?”

Pausing where he’s in the middle of buttoning his new shirt up, Steve tilts his head and glances at the partition, only feeling like a slight idiot when he remembers Dum-Dum can’t even see him. “What is it?”

“Tuck in your shirt and make sure the collar is straightened.”

Now Steve frowns and glances down at himself. How did Dum-Dum know Steve hadn’t done either of those things? It is good advice, he’ll admit. He doesn’t know Dr. Erskine that well yet, but the older man seems like somewhat of a stickler for keeping a good appearance. The nit-picking he’d done at Steve’s looks and choice in dress yesterday is proof enough of that. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

After he gets his shoes on, Steve does as Dum-Dum suggested, even going as far as to make sure his cuffs are straightened out as well. He sort of wishes he’d brought a comb, but he’s glad that he thought to bring a belt along with his shoes. It makes him feel more proper to have it tightened around his waist. Steve is no Natasha when it comes to fashion, but he thinks Erskine will approve of the addition to the outfit. 

Everything fits almost perfectly— much better than anything Steve has ever found as the thrift store. More proper. 

This is probably how Steve should have dressed for his presentation, but it’s not like Steve can go back and ask for a re-do when it’s already said and done. He should be getting that email about it any day now, which is something he’d rather not think about when he’s about to go into the lounge for Erskine’s second day of lessons. 

Steve wonders what he’s going to be taught today. They already went over the basics of how to walk, sit, and stand like a prince. What’s next? Re-learning how to breathe like royalty? He snorts at his own joke as he unbuckles his seatbelt and allows Dum-Dum to open the door for him to climb out, smoothing a hand down his chest and then his thighs in order to brush out any wrinkles that may have formed while he was getting changed. 

“How do I look?” Steve doesn’t really know why he’s asking, but Dum-Dum smiles and gives him an answer regardless. 

“Very presentable.”

Steve can live with presentable. Erskine did say perfection wasn’t the goal— being better is, and Steve definitely is better dressed than he was the day before. He smiles back at Dum-Dum, running his fingers through his bangs on last time to help settle his nerves before beginning to make his way down the walkway and into the lounge. 

He survived yesterday. How much worse can today be?

-

Steve doesn’t know about worse, but today’s lesson is definitely weirder. How else would one describe being bound to a chair with scarves after being lured into the dining room with the promise of free food?

“Dr. Erskine,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice calm while the older man settles into his own chair across the table from him and tucks his napkin into his lap at the same time Peggy finishes tying the last knot in the length of silk scarf that’s being used to hold him captive. “Is it common practice in Vengea to imprison your dinner guests with Hermeez scarves?”

Steve’s hearing may not be the greatest, but he definitely picks up on Peggy muttering to herself as she steps back. Something about him being dramatic. Steve would be inclined to disagree. What’s dramatic about not wanting to be tied to a chair in a room with a couple of people who are practically strangers?

Besides, Steve might not mind being in this situation half as much if it were a handsome young man doing the typing behind him, but considering it’s Peggy Carter— well. She’s not exactly Steve’s type, is she? Not that she or Erskine know that yet. Again, Steve barely knows these people. He doesn’t need them to be involved in all of his personal business even if they want him to be their prince. 

“It’s Hermes, Steven,” Erskine tells him with one of those half-smiles that always lets Steve know that he’s just said something that sounds obtuse from the perspective of someone who has actually lived in a palace. Turns out Steve says a lot of things that come off that way. 

It’s embarrassing, but at least Steve can blame the scarves for cutting off his circulation if anyone asks about his blush. 

“And the scarf is merely meant to be a training tool, in this case. Eventually, proper posture will come to you naturally enough not to need them, but until then, I think they serve their purpose quite nicely. This is how a prince is supposed to sit when at the dinner table.”

“And how am I supposed to eat my dinner if I can’t move my arms?”

Erskine ignores him for a moment, gesturing for Peggy to hand him her clipboard, the list of what Steve needs to fix now up to two pages rather than one. “You can eat once I’m done speaking to you about today’s lesson plan,” he eventually says, looking up at Steve over the rim of his glasses. “Manners matter. Etiquette is one of the most important things you’ll need to learn.”

Steve sighs. It doesn’t sound like Erskine is telling him off or anything, but if Erskine is going to be teaching him so many important things, Steve may as well let the man know what methods may not work as well on him as they would other people. “I’m not trying to be rude. It’s just… my joints aren’t the greatest. If I stay like this for too long I’m probably going to regret it tomorrow.”

He always carries extra painkillers in his bag, but there’s only so much they can do. It’s hard enough studying for a degree that requires so much hands-on work. His fingers feel like they could fall off on some nights. 

There’s a pause as Erskine takes in what Steve is saying, ending with a tip of his head as he acknowledges it. “I appreciate the honesty. I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Another pause, paired with a thoughtful look aimed at Steve’s shoulders. “Have you ever tried massage therapy? Or maybe pilates?”

Steve’s heard this speech before. People always expect him to somehow exercise his body’s ailments away now that he’s gotten bigger, but as he tells Erskine— “I don’t really have the means for any of that.” 

Or the space. Or the time, especially with these lessons added on top of his coursework and thesis project. 

Erskine tips his head even further, but counters Steve’s statements with another suggestion. “It’s possible we could make it a part of your training. The palace staff includes many trainers with a variety of specialties. I’m sure we could use their connections to find someone here in New York that could assist.”

Blinking, Steve gives Erskine a surprised look. Helping Steve dress better and sit properly is one thing, but helping him manage his pain is a different sort of kindness. It’s so… genuine. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do.” Erskine jots something down on Peggy’s clipboard before setting it down on the table. “Health and wellness are important parts of life, even to people who aren’t princes.” He gives Steve yet another half-smile. “Besides, meditation would work wonders to improve your posture.”

“Probably my sense of balance, too,” Steve admits, meeting Erskine’s smile with a tentative one of his own. “But you’re already doing so much for me. I mean, I don’t expect you to—“

“Nonsense,” Erskine interrupts, brushing off Steve’s excuses with a wave of his hand. “Your father’s side of the family already missed out on 24 years of your life. Consider this making up for lost time.”

“You were to him family, then?” Steve doesn’t realize how personal that question must have come off until Erskine falls silent after he’s asked. Maybe they should have put one of those scarves over his mouth as well. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry or make things weird, I just…” He trails off. 

Erskine finishes that sentence for him. “You want to know more about him.”

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. 

“Yes.” 

At first, Steve thinks Erskine is saying that in order to correct Steve saying the slightly more informal alternative to the word, but once the emotion in his voice registers, Steve realizes that he’s not correcting him. He’s answering his question. 

“Not by blood or even by status, but I spent every day by his side for quite some time. I cared for him greatly. He was a good man, your father.” Before Steve can react to that bit of information, Erskine clears his throat and pushes back from the table in order to move around it and begin untying the knots of Steve’s scarves himself. “Now, I was going to make you sit here and stew while I let you in on what today’s lessons are supposed to consist of, but since you were so kind as to tell me you like to keep moving, I suppose we can get straight to it instead. Do you know how to dance?”

Oh, god. Steve already wants to groan and he hasn’t even stood up yet. He knows the answer to the question Erskine is asking, though. Too damn well. “Define dance.”

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

Steve lets a sigh slip out once he’s on his feet again, rolling his shoulders and twisting his back just to luxuriate in the fact he’s allowed to move now that the scarves have been put away. “I mean, I can do the macarena and go to a club without being trampled into the dancefloor, but somehow I really doubt that those are the sort of dances you’re talking about.”

Erskine snorts. “You’d be correct. Unfortunately, I’m no expert dancer myself, so we’ll have to enlist the help of our esteemed Mr. Fury.”

Right on cue, the door to the dining room opens. Steve doesn’t need to look to see who’s walking in, but he does anyway, because somehow, this isn’t adding up. “I thought he was the head of security?”

The woman who walked in behind Fury— Maria, if Steve remembers right— smiles at him. “And an excellent dancer.”

“I think excellent is stretching things a bit, but in my line of work, you pick up skills.” Fury shrugs, crossing his arms across his puffed-up chest. Like he doesn’t already intimidate Steve enough. “You get good at a little bit of everything.” 

Another Vengean with a decidedly American accent. Steve frowns. Does the palace only hire liaisons from other countries or what? What does Fury mean by his line of work ? He’s almost making it sound like he’s a spy. 

Well, he does wear an eyepatch with a scar peeking out from underneath. Anything is possible, really. 

Except this idea that they seem to have about Steve being able to be taught how to dance. He shakes his head, even as he follows where Erskine is leading them to a side room that is revealed to have a much more spacious floor without a table interrupting the center. 

“You’re making a mistake. People have tried to teach me how to dance before— as in, more than one person.” And if Sam and Natasha hadn’t been able to succeed in sharing their skills with Steve, he really doubts that Nick Fury will. “Besides, is dancing really all that important for royalty anymore? Princes aren’t allowed to just… wear a suit and lean up against the wall?”

That was what Steve had done to get through almost every single school dance he’d attended, including prom. Hell, it’s what he does most nights whenever his friends are able to drag him out to a club. He doesn’t dance. He barely even drinks. He doesn’t really enjoy doing either with men he doesn’t know. 

“Princes, like all other royal family members, are meant to mingle,” Erskine corrects him, snapping his fingers towards where Peggy is already standing next to what looks to be a record player. The sound of violins starts to fill the room immediately after she’s set the needle down. “The quickest way to a diplomat’s heart is almost always through one of two channels: the stomach, or the feet.”

Food or dance, he must mean. Steve guesses that makes sense considering he himself had been halfway bribed into staying today by the promise of a free dinner he’s yet to receive. 

He tries to crack a smile as Fury comes closer, hand already outstretched for Steve to take. “Please don’t stage a coup if I step on your toes,” he jokes just to try and get Fury’s nearly blank expression to break. 

It gets Peggy and Maria to both roll their eyes over his shoulder, but Fury only raises the brow above his good eye and begins to move Steve’s hands into what Steve assumes is the proper dancing position. 

As Fury tells him once he appears to be satisfied with the way they’re standing, “Dance in Vengea held at the palace are sedate in comparison to what I’m sure you’re used to.” Should Steve be insulted by that? Probably not. It’s true, after all. “What most people will stick to at balls and galas is something between a wantz and a tango. Not too slow, not too fast.”

“So it’s a wango.” Another attempt at a joke. Fury doesn’t laugh, but Erskine chuckles. 

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

Dancing is an awkward feat in general for Steve, but dancing with Fury is awkward on a whole other level. It’s clear Steve isn’t the one leading, which is a relief, but only a small one. Steve has no idea what he’s doing, to be frank, but he doesn’t have time to ask for clearer instructions before Fury has them both moving. 

He and Steve are about the same height, leaving Steve to almost smack their foreheads together when he drops his chin down to watch his feet. Not that that does anything to keep him from stepping on Fury’s toes at least three times during their first few minutes of slow movement. It doesn’t help that Steve is painfully aware of the three other people in the room, watching him like a hawk. 

“You know, maybe you’d step on me less if our feet were further apart,” Fury eventually murmurs, tone surprisingly mellow for a man who most of Steve’s interactions with have consisted of stern looks and silence. “How about we try a spin-out?”

For all that that sounds like a good idea, it’s one that comes at the cost of Steve elbowing the man in the ribs after accidentally turning back in faster than he’d originally spun out. He does avoid stepping on Fury’s toes, though, so there’s that. 

Making such a stoic man let out a loud oof doesn’t make Steve feel nearly as smug as shocking Natasha with the limo had. It’s humiliating. 

“Sorry, sorry—“ Steve tries to back away from Fury as quickly as he can, but despite the way the other man is wheezing, he holds on tightly. 

“No, it’s natural in the learning process to make mistakes,” he manages to say, bracing his free hand on his thigh before using it to push himself back upright. “Let’s try again.”

The humiliation doesn’t lessen when Steve realizes that Erskine is outright laughing behind his hand in the corner, but it does lighten the mood in the room enough for Steve to square his shoulders and nod. 

“Just take it slow,” Fury reminds him. “We can work on speed some other time.”

“One proper spin and I’ll let you have that dinner I promised.” Erskine sounds suspiciously cheerful for someone trying to coerce Steve with food he was already supposed to have been given over an hour ago. 

“You’re setting a pretty low bar,” Steve mutters, but he shifts himself back into the starting position for a spin and gives it a go. A much slower go. 

Fortunately, it’s also a much more successful one. Steve doesn’t hurt anyone with his feet or his elbows this go around, and though it’s a small win, he does feel a sense of genuine triumph. He turns to face Erskine, Fury finally letting him go and leaving Steve with the silly urge to take a bow. 

Since he’s a grown man, he refrains, but he does toss Erskine a grin. “I spun without hurting anyone.”

“You did indeed,” Erskine agrees. He claps his hands with a smile of his own and nods his head towards the door. “And I suppose that means it’s time for us to eat.”

-

When Steve is sent home later that evening, it’s with a belly full of warm food that has the belt he’s wearing with his brand new pants straining at the buckle. Apparently some of what they’d eaten tonight were Vengean specials— Peggy really wasn’t kidding when she said Vengea was known for its plums. 

One of the dishes that had been featured in their meal had consisted of small sausages glazed with a sweet, savory sauce flavored with plum preserves made right in the palace, according to the long-winded explanation of each dish served that Erskine had launched into in between reminders for Steve to watch his posture. 

They hadn’t had any tonight, but Steve is sort of looking forward to the plum wine Erskine had promised to crack open during their next lesson, provided Steve makes it through without saying yeah more than three times. That’s a habit that’s proving to be difficult to break. 

To be honest, Steve is beyond grateful to get home just because it means he can shrug off the prim and proper persona he feels like he’s putting on every time he tries to act ‘royal’ . Sam doesn’t care if he says yeah or slouches when he sits. 

Hell, he scoots over on the couch and pats the spot next to him to encourage Steve to crash down on it as soon as he’s changed out of his fancy clothes and into the usual sweats and slouchy t-shirt he wears around the apartment. “Take a load off, Rogers.”

Steve is all but too happy to comply, tucking his sock-covered toes between the cracks of the cushions and leaning his back against the arm of the couch where he’s chosen to sit sideways. “How was your day, Sammy?”

Humming, Sam grabs the remote and turns down the volume on the television several clicks so he doesn’t have to raise his voice when he responds. “The usual. Class is…” He huffs. “I always find it funny that flying is the easiest part of flight school. Studying for the written exams is what really kicks my ass.”

“Hey, if you could pass Mrs. Weaver’s geography tests sophomore year, I’m sure you won’t have a problem acing any tests about airplanes.” 

Sam snorts and takes a sip of the beer he has in hand. “You might be right. Memorizing all those countries and having to place them on a map… I have no idea how either of us passed that class.”

“I seem to remember a certain someone writing a cheat sheet on the palm of his hand in pen.”

“Hey, a teenager’s gotta do what a teenager’s gotta do.” Sam gives him a pointed look. “Besides, I seem to remember someone giving that pen to me after doing the exact same thing on his own hand.”

Steve smiles and looks down at his lap, turning up his palms to study them despite the fact that for once, there’s no ink or paint to be seen on his skin. “Just don’t tell my scholarship office about it. I have a feeling they won’t appreciate the fond memory as much as us.” 

“Speaking of, you check your email yet today? I know you’ve been waiting to hear back from that committee about your project.” Sam nods towards their shared computer they have set up in the corner— one of the only truly luxurious purchases they’ve invested in since moving in together. “I was doing some browsing around on the net earlier. Haven’t turned it off yet if you wanna look in your inbox real quick.”

Does Steve want to look in his inbox? There’s a certain bliss in not being aware yet of whether the committee has answered yes or no. Until Steve knows for sure, there’s still hope. 

But if agreeing to Erskine’s lessons have taught him anything, it’s that sometimes taking a leap of faith isn’t always something that’ll end in falling. Steve can’t lie to himself and say he has everything with the lessons or even his track to graduation all figured out, but he doesn’t have to. Not right now. He has his future stretched out in front of him. 

There’s plenty of time, and just like with the dancing, maybe things will be easier if he just takes it slow. 

The computer is only a few steps from the couch, so taking it slow is more of a metaphor than a literal course of action in this instance, though Steve does take a few deep breaths before beginning to click his way into his email.

While he’s waiting for the website to load, he can’t help but let his thoughts wander towards an area that he’s been trying to avoid all day: Natasha. More specifically, the fact that she doesn’t really know about most of what’s going on with him once he gets off campus anymore.

He feels guilty for not telling her, but Erskine had made it clear to him before he left that no one outside of the palace staff should know about any of this yet. Sam is the only exception to that rule so far, and even that is because Erskine was the one to spill the beans and because Steve hadn’t known he was supposed to be keeping things quiet until after Sam had read him the letter. 

It’s hard keeping his mouth shut about something so major, especially when it comes to Natasha, who he usually confides in about almost everything. It feels unnatural. 

Is it odd that that guilt makes Steve feel bad for feeling good once he finally opens the email he’s been dreading and anticipating opening in equal amounts for almost a week? Maybe. But how can Steve not be ecstatic when having his thesis approved is something he’s been hoping for ever since the fall semester first started? This is major news. 

He can’t keep it to himself for more than two seconds, it feels like, and unlike with what’s going on with Erskine, he doesn’t have to. The smile he gives Sam is so wide that he even lets his teeth show in his smile, something he usually never does. He’s just so happy . All of his hard work is finally beginning to pay off.

He probably doesn’t need to say it out loud, but he does anyways just because he wants to hear the words coming from his own mouth. A reassurance that this is real. “They approved it,” he says, voice soft with what he can only describe as awe. “My project is a go for graduation.” 

All he has to do now is actually finish it, and then present it one last time for the panel to grade it. Those sound like pretty daunting tasks, but Steve doesn’t have it in him to worry about the worst case scenarios for once. He’s too busy celebrating his victory, leaping back onto the couch and bursting into a belly-deep laugh that only gets louder when Sam pulls him onto his side of the couch for a congratulatory hug. 

He ends up saying it in words as well, though the sentiment is already obvious. “Congratulations, Steve. You deserve it.”

For once, Steve doesn’t bother trying to brush the compliment off. He just accepts it. Sam is right. Steve does deserve this. His art is one of the things he works the hardest at in life, and whether he’s training to be a prince or not, that won’t ever change. 

He’s got just as much of his Ma in him as he does his father, and she raised him to be passionate, to try and find work that he loves. That’s what she always said being a nurse meant to her. Did being a prince mean that to his dad? With how Erskine talks about him, it must have meant something special, but he’d also said that Joseph was willing to give it all up just to stay with Steve and Sarah. 

He loved them. He loved Steve even if they never got to meet, and being around Erskine these last couple of days has made that clearer to Steve than ever before. 

Steve sighs to himself and slowly lets his smile fade away, relishing in the self-satisfied pride that remains curled up at the pit of his stomach, right alongside the remnants of all those plum sausages. 

Today was long, but it was good. He learned a lot. He accomplished just as much. He doesn’t have to wonder this time when he thinks about how Sarah and Joseph would be proud of him too. 

Chapter Text

Canceling plans with people in general is not something Steve would consider one of his strong suits. 

Even when his reasons are justified, he always feels bad for calling stuff off, like he’s flake or somehow a bad friend just because he had something else come up. Logically, he knows that’s just his— as Sam would put it— perpetual habit of putting other people’s needs before his own making itself known, but knowing that never makes it easier having to make the phone call to cancel. 

Or in this case, having to cancel in person, which would be bad enough if it were anyone but Nat, but since it is— Frankly, Steve would rather drink a glass of dirty paint water than have to tell Natasha their plans to get lunch will have to be put off until later in the week. 

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what Steve is having to do. It’s his own fault, really. If he were able to keep his schedule straight like the adult he’s supposed to be, this wouldn’t be happening. Looks like keeping a timetable is yet another thing he’s going to need Erskine to teach him. Actually, Erskine teaching him is how Steve got here in the first place. He’s not canceling his lunch with Natasha for no reason. 

Erskine hasn’t been giving him lessons every afternoon. Steve had refused that offer when it was brought up, stating firmly that he had responsibilities to his coursework and his job down at the center to keep a hold on. Surprisingly, Erskine hadn’t pushed back against Steve’s refusal, instead shrugging and telling Steve he could settle for seeing him three times a week on the days of Steve’s choice. 

It was a pretty great deal. Steve’s options were flexible and his boss down at the center had even been understanding when Steve told him that he might not be able to come down as often as he usually would since he has family in town. 

That’s not technically a lie, he doesn’t think. Neither is what he’s trying to say to Natasha to get her off his back about why can’t come with her down to the Willow Tree for their usual lunch date.  

She sure isn’t making this easy. 

“I’m really sorry, I just— Something came up that I forgot about.” His apology is sincere, even if he is being sort of dodgy about what exactly it is he’ll be doing instead of going to lunch. 

What’s he supposed to tell her? ‘Sorry, I’d love to go get a sandwich with you, but I have to go meet up with an old man who is teaching me how to act more like a prince. Oh, and by the way, it turns out my dad was modern day royalty!’

Christ. Steve’s still coming to terms with that ridiculous statement being the truth. Lying might actually be easier than trying to explain, even if he were in a place where he could be honest right now. 

“I’ll make it up to you, okay? Maybe you can come over for dinner sometime this week? I could even try and get Sam to make us meatballs.”

He gives her his best attempt at a smile, gripping onto the railing to keep himself from giving into the urge to bolt down the stairs and run away from the confrontation he can feel coming. Natasha always knows when she’s being bullshitted. 

That’s why the reaction Steve gets is so shocking. That is, if you can call the long look and slow blink Natasha gives him a reaction. Steve was expecting her to snap, huff, maybe even shove him in the shoulder. But this… this is nothing. 

Why is this almost scarier than if she were to have yelled?

Her voice is so calm when she speaks that it’s downright creepy. “I understand.” Instead of shoving his shoulder, she gives it a quick pat as she steps to the side and then begins moving past him down towards the sidewalk. “I’ll see you when I see you, Steve.”

If Steve didn’t love the woman so much, he might find all of the cryptic remarks she makes a little annoying, but it’s Nat. Being mysterious is her trademark.

He sighs to himself and shoulders his bag, leaning against the railing as he scans the street and watches for the limo he’s sure will soon be pulling up. Natasha’s probably annoyed as hell at him right now. Not that he can blame her. 

Maybe her nature is rubbing off on him. If this is what it feels like to be mysterious, Steve doesn’t think he likes it. 

-

It’s odd, going from spending the morning with his friends and his classmates to spending the afternoon and evening with Erskine and what Steve has taken to calling in his head the castle crew. It’s like stepping from one world into another, but the ways in which they both bleed over into each other is enough to make Steve dizzy. 

When he’s not with Erskine, things are almost normal until he remembers the secret he has stored inside, the secret that he’s obligated to keep away from almost everyone he’s used to having in his life. And then, when he is with Erskine, it’s like he’s being picked apart just so they can mold him into what they want from the inside out. 

Erskine keeps saying things about how these lessons are meant to help Steve learn how to act like the prince he was born to be, and part of Steve has to wonder if there’s a truth in that claim. Is this who Steve was meant to be? Would he have grown up to be what Erskine wants if the status of his father’s family had never been a secret at all? 

It’s all confusing. Steve’s had more than one identity crisis in his life— the one to do with his sexuality hitting him before puberty truly had, and then there was the one to do with how much his body changed after his growth spurt— but this is different. Steve doesn’t think he could put his emotions into words even if he had anyone who really needed to hear about them to that depth. 

If Steve thought he was having an identity crisis before today, it becomes pretty clear once he arrives at his lesson that they’re about to add another layer on top of what’s already there. Erskine said something the other day about getting Steve a trainer and a massage therapist, but he hadn’t mentioned a damn thing about the entire horde of stylists he’s apparently hired on to make Steve’s appearance more… princely. 

At least that’s what Steve assumes they’ll be doing. He still asks, just in case, stopping in his tracks and having to force his face to refrain from twitching into a frown. “Uh… Can I ask what today’s lesson is about?”

“I’m glad you did,” Erskine says. Those four words alone are enough to spark Steve’s apprehension. “Today isn’t going to be like one of your usual lessons, Steven. Today is going to be—“

“A makeover!” 

That exclamation bursts from who Steve assumes is the leader of the well-groomed gaggle surrounding Erskine, each dressed in all black and clutching what Steve just knows are hair and makeup bags. 

The man who has just spoken is standing at the very front, the pushed back edge of his hairline made up for by his smart sport coat and the charming smile he has plastered across his face. He looks and sounds very excited. Steve isn’t sure how foreboding he should find that. 

“Steve, this is Mr. Coulson.”

“But you, your Highness, can call me Phil,” Mr. Coulson— Phil — pipes in. “It’s required that I get very… personal with most of my clients. We may as well be on a first name basis.”

“How, uh,” Steve clears his throat. “How personal are we talking?” What the hell is he in for that Phil needed to bring along three assistants to help? Should Steve be insulted?

Erskine hums and turns towards Phil, ignoring Steve’s question as he so frequently does when others are around. “We’re so pleased you could make yourself available, Mr. Coulson. We won’t waste time.” Now he does glance at Steve, but only briefly. “We have some time left before he’ll have to be properly presented to the public, but I figured that it’s best to work your magic as early as possible.”

Magic? Is that what it’s going to take to make Steve presentable in these people’s eyes? He’s definitely insulted, but he can’t say they aren’t right. Steve’s a mess even when he’s dressed in slacks. 

“He’s a very handsome young man,” Phil muses. “But I’ll admit, we have much to work on.”

“If your assistants would also agree to sign our confidentiality agreement, it would be much appreciated. Just in case, you know.”

Phil looks mildly offended. “Dr. Erskine, I assure you my people know how to keep a secret. Hush-hush. We understand. A contract is not needed.”

Steve is expecting Erskine to argue against that more, but before he can, Peggy walks in and taps him on the shoulder, leaning in and whispering something that has him sighing and seemingly forgetting all about what it was he was saying prior to the interruption. 

“Ladies and gentlemen. My apologies, but duty will be calling me elsewhere for the next little while.” He turns his attention fully to Steve for the first time since introducing him to Phil. “Will you be okay letting Mr. Coulson take over?”

Like Steve has a real choice here. He nods anyway. “I’ll survive.”

“And I’ll leave Miss Carter in here to supervise just in case.” Steve never thought he’d be relieved to have Peggy left behind to watch him, but with the way Phil is eyeing him like a steak on legs… “I’ll just have to come back and be surprised, I suppose.”

Phil’s grin widens. “You won’t just be surprised, Dr. Erskine. You’ll be amazed.”  

“I’m sure I will be, Mr. Coulson.” And with that, Erskine is off, leaving Steve to fend for himself. Technically, Peggy is his backup, but somehow he really doubts that she’ll be sticking up for him if he starts whining when his eyebrows are being plucked. 

Though luckily, it doesn’t seem like that’s what’s at the top of Phil’s list of makeover priorities, because as soon as he has Steve ushered over to the styling station that’s been set up in one of the back rooms and sat down in the chair, he’s taking a step back and looking down at Steve’s contemplatively. It almost reminds Steve of how he looks at one of his own blank canvases when in the studio. 

After a few long minutes of careful consideration, Phil eventually speaks back up, fist propped under his chin and brows furrowed. “Now, Dr. Erskine’s instructions to me when he asked me to do this job said the extent to which I take my work is up to you, your Highness.”

Really? That’s… surprising. And almost kind. 

“I’m thinking that we have a lot to do— a haircut, a facial, manicure, full body wax, maybe even some self tanning and lip tint. Is there anything in there that doesn’t sound doable to you?”

Steve’s face feels like it’s on fire when he answers, but he figures that not answering honestly is only going to result in him being even more embarrassed in the end. “I don’t really think the waxing is necessary.” He looks down at his chest self consciously despite the fact that he still has one of Erskine’s gifted shirts on, completely buttoned up. “I don’t really have a lot of— yeah. Not enough to bother with all that.” 

And it’s not like anyone is going to be seeing him like that anytime soon. What’s the point in going through the pain of waxing his already almost bare chest and abdomen when there wouldn’t even be anyone to see it, let alone appreciate the smoothness? Steve doesn’t have a boyfriend. Erskine doesn’t even know that Steve would want one yet. 

Phil nods, looking only slightly disappointed. Steve tries very hard not to dart his eyes over to where Peggy is sitting in a chair behind him in the mirror. “Maybe we just take care of the eyebrows?” 

Steve can live with that. It probably will be over with quicker than plucking with tweezers would. “That works for me.”

“No, no, Mr. Rogers.” Phil winks at him in the mirror and steps forward, bracing both of his hands on the back of Steve’s chair. “Today, I work for you. Fitz, Simmons, Ms. Johnson— let’s get started!”

Steve would describe the next few hours that pass as a blur if not only because of the speed at which Phil and his assistants work, but also because one of the first steps Phil takes after they start is removing Steve’s glasses and promptly snapping them in half. Like anyone who has paid good money for a prescription and a frame, Steve squawks in protest. 

“I need those!”

Phil only shrugs, a motion Steve can barely see thanks to the destruction of his glasses. “Contact lenses were invented for a reason. Dr. Erskine was kind enough to send us your optometry records so we could bring along a proper pair. We’ll show you how to put them in after we finish with your hair and facial.”

Yeah, Steve doesn’t even want to know how Erskine got a hold of his personal files. He doesn’t really want to wear contact lenses either, but it’s a little late for that if he wants to be able to properly see anytime soon. Thank god he keeps a spare pair of frames at home. 

Not being able to see what Phil and his workers are doing is a bit nerve wracking at first, especially with how much touching their tasks require, but when one of them starts massaging their fingers into his scalp in order to shampoo and condition his hair, he begins to find the process almost comforting. It’s definitely relaxing to be taken care of like this. Usually the only pampering Steve is used to is Sam bringing home food or offering to rub his back if the aching is strong enough for him to notice Steve’s stiffness. 

But this is on a whole new level from all of that. Steve can’t remember the last time he had someone else take over washing his hair for him, but in all likelihood, it was his mother when he was a child. It wouldn’t be fair to fall apart on a total stranger because that realization makes him emotional, so Steve does his best to hold it in, closing his eyes and focusing on keeping his breathing slow. 

The lull of having his scalp scrubbed clean and then his hair rinsed before his head is tipped back up so they can dry it is almost enough to make Steve fall asleep. The only thing keeping him from doing that is a sense of personal dignity. And not to mention the sharp snip of scissors that sounds off next to his ears once Phil begins to give him his promised haircut, though it seems to be more of a trim than anything.

“You have lovely hair,” Phil murmurs between clips. “Very thick, very shiny. You aren’t taking advantage of the volume  nearly as much as you should, but once I show you how to style it correctly— I may need to give you my blow dryer. Unless you have one already.”

“I don’t,” Steve admits. “Usually I just let it air dry and lay however it wants after I comb out my bangs. Getting the cowlicks to behave is impossible.” 

Phil makes a disgruntled sound and rakes a comb of his own over Steve’s crown. “Today, that will change.”

And change it does. Steve doesn’t get to look at himself in the mirror even after Phil has finished with his hair and has moved on to giving him the closest shave he’s had in his life before getting to slathering a multitude of products onto his skin. According to Phil, a facial alone isn’t going to cut it. Not for a prince. 

“Don’t you want to look fresh-faced for the cameras?” he asks, though based off of his tone, that’s a rhetorical question. “A fine young man such as yourself? I’ll be shocked if people don’t start putting your picture on posters before your coronation comes.”

“I’m not really expecting to end up in front of a camera anytime soon,” Steve says. 

Steve doesn’t plan on partaking in a coronation anytime soon either, but Phil doesn’t need to know that. In any case, the idea that his face could be plastered on people’s walls? Terrifying. Steve didn’t even like having to have his picture taken for the yearbook in high school. 

He does like the facial, though. Usually the steps of his skincare routine are limited to a washcloth, soap, and water, but the stuff Phil is using on him all smells nice, and Phil is right about one thing. Steve does feel refreshed when they move onto their next step, which turns out to be the waxing of his brows. 

It isn’t as painfully drawn out as the process of plucking would be, but god damn does it sting. Steve does his best to block it out, biting his lip so hard as he grits his way through it that Phil utters a complaint about it when he goes to tint Steve’s lips. 

“You’re lucky I’m not trying to do this with needles,” he mutters. “Not that you need much more color here than what you’ve naturally got. Try not to gnaw off all of the product, will you?” He presents Steve with a tube that Steve can’t make out the label off without those contacts Phil mentioned are to come, but the pink color doesn’t exactly leave Steve wondering what it is.

It’s a lucky thing that Steve’s lashes and brows are dark despite him being a blonde. It means the gel Phil combs through both to keep them curled and in place is just as clear as the polish they use on his nails is. Apparently the look Phil is going for with him is what he calls “naturally polished”.  Steve has never really felt polished before, and he definitely hasn’t ever worn it on his hands, but it’s not the worst thing in the world. 

He’s used to the feeling of having paint on his fingers, even if it usually isn’t on top of his nails. Waiting for it to dry while Phil fusses over the finishing touches on his hair and dusts his face with powder is the most difficult part, because it leaves him unable to move his hands even when Phil pulls out the plastic case that holds the contacts Steve has been dreading having put in ever since Phil first mentioned them. 

“You’re sure we have to put these in?”

Phil scoffs. “After all the trouble we’ve just gone through to make you look beautiful? How are you supposed to appreciate all of our hard work if you can’t even see it?”

Well, Steve can’t argue with that. He is curious to finally see what Phil has done to alter his appearance (or enhance it, as Steve was repeatedly told during the process) but having someone touch a slimy disk to his eyeball is not something he thinks he’s going to enjoy. 

He’s right. It’s not enjoyable, but it’s at least over with before too long. Phil allows him to take a few seconds to blink between popping the lenses in each eye, but the whole ordeal only takes about five minutes. It’s not painful or anything, but the feeling of there being a layer between his eyes and eyelids is foreign enough to have Steve’s eyes watering. 

Phil hands him a tissue, positioning himself intentionally between Steve’s chair and the mirror. “Dab, don’t wipe. The last thing we need is for you to make your eyes swell up right before our big reveal.”

“Should we wait for Dr. Erskine to get back in here first?”

“I’ll save you the trouble of having to.” It’s Erskine himself that answers the question as he enters the room, Phil yelping a little at the sudden entry and snapping his fingers so his assistants move to block Erskine’s view of Steve as well. 

“Close your eyes, please. Both of you,” he directs. Steve assumes Erskine obeys the same as him, because after a few short seconds of scuffling sounds, hands are spinning Steve’s chair around and patting him on the shoulder. “What we’ve accomplished wasn’t easy, but Steve was a lovely young man to work with. You’re training him well.”

Why do those comments make Steve feel like some sort of show dog? 

“If you would open your eyes, Dr. Erskine. Steve, wait just one more moment— but please, give us a smile.”

Steve doesn’t understand why he doesn’t get to see the results of his own makeover first, but he does as he’s told. The reaction he can hear Erskine give only ups his anticipation. 

There’s a quiet gasp, and then an approving hum. “You really are a magician, Mr. Coulson. He looks even more like his father now, doesn’t he?”

That makes Steve’s ears perk up. Coulson knew his father too?

“Steven.” Erskine sounds very pleased. “Open your eyes up and take a look at yourself so we can take Mr. Coulson and his staff to tea as a thank you for all of their hard work.”

Steve doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s been both dying to and terrified of seeing what he looks like ever since Phil first finished with his haircut. Everyone who knows him knows that he’s never been a particularly patient person. 

He’s also never been a person who is very wowed by his own appearance— it’s not that he thinks he’s ugly so much as knows he’s average— but what he sees when Phil spins his chair back around so he can gaze at himself in the mirror has his jaw dropping in a way that’s usually reserved for him passing an exam he was sure he’d fail or seeing a stupidly good-looking guy in a bar. 

He wouldn’t go as far as to say he thinks of himself as stupidly good-looking all of the sudden, but… wow. Phil really did mean it when he said the goal of this was to polish Steve up. Steve has always been a blonde, but whatever Phil did to his hair has it looking so golden that Steve almost feels like he's glowing. 

Maybe he is. They scrubbed at his skin and nails enough for that to happen, though the flush that’s settled over the rounded edges of his cheeks when he smiles at himself has nothing to do with makeup, even if the new tint to his lips has his smile shining even brighter than usual. 

He looks nice. He feels nice, and even if he won’t admit it to Erskine or anyone else anytime soon, there’s a tiny part of him inside that catches sight of his fluffed up hair and unobscured eyes and thinks I could get used to this. 

It’s a tempting train of thought to follow, but Steve tries to steer himself away from it before he strays too far down its path. One day of pampering isn’t enough to trick him into agreeing to be a prince. Getting a goddamn haircut doesn’t mean he’s ready to run a country. Really, all of the hairspray Phil used must be going to his head. 

Still, he has to say something to let them know he appreciates what they’ve done for him today. “I….” He’s at a loss for words until he tears his eyes away from his own reflection and turns to directly address both men instead. “I don’t even know what to say.” Honesty is the best policy, right? “Just… thank you. You’re amazing at what you do.”

“All in a day’s work,” Phil says lightly, somehow brushing the compliment off in a way that still gets across the right he has to brag. “You can thank me by letting me be the one to prepare you for your first ball, yes?”

“Yeah— yes ,” Steve corrects himself, not even needing to look at Erskine to do it. “I think I can do that.”

“We wouldn’t dream of asking anyone else.” Erskine takes back over the conversation after that, gesturing towards the door. “Now, if everyone would follow me, I believe Miss Carter has been so kind as to set up tea for us in the garden. Mr. Coulson, do you take sugar or cream?”

“I take all the good stuff I can get.”

Steve is the last one out of the room, eyes flicking back to linger on himself in the mirror for a few short moments, stolen to himself. He smiles. 

Sam going to flip the fuck out when Steve gets home. 

-

Just as Steve predicted, Sam’s reaction when he sees Steve step into the apartment later that evening is one that’s mostly made up of shock. Not just a little shock either. This isn’t a small surprise or something slightly startling. It’s shocking. 

Sam might be shocked, but Steve finds himself feeling an emotion much closer to being smug. He hasn’t seen Sam at this much of a loss since Natasha came over for the first time during her brief stint as a bottle blonde. 

The older man doesn’t waste any time asking the obvious question. “What the hell happened to you?” He looks around like he’s expecting someone to jump out with a camera on one of those extreme makeover TV shows. 

Come to think of it, what Steve had done today isn’t that far off from that. He shoves down his usual habit of running his hand through his hair, instead rubbing it sheepishly over the back of his neck as he approaches the couch and lets Sam give him a long look to take everything in. 

“I guess you noticed my haircut?” he jokes. 

Snorting, Sam sits up on the couch and sets the book he’d been studying with to the side so he can stand and begin walking around Steve in a circle. “Jesus, Rogers. You’re giving James Dean a run for his money. What’s next, they pop you in a modeling contract so you can get a feel for the cameras before you put on the crown?”

“I don’t know about all that.” With the polish coating his nails, Steve has to suppress his habit to bite at them when the nerves that come from Sam studying him surge up. Instead, he crosses his arms and makes a face as Sam arches an eyebrow and mimics the motion. “It’s not a big deal.”

After a moment of careful scrutiny, Sam shrugs with a small smile. “Maybe not. But you do look like a million bucks.”

Steve exhales a sigh of relief, his own shoulders slumping. He’s thankful that Sam isn’t making this into something bigger than it is, because while all he’s technically done today is sit in a chair and drink some tea, it’d still taken a lot out of him. He always ends the day feeling pretty drained after one of Erskine’s lessons. 

“Let’s hope all this lip tint stuff doesn’t come off when I eat.” Steve nods towards the kitchen. “You want me to make you anything? I was thinking I’d just pop one of those TV dinners in the micro—“

Before he can finish his offer to make Sam food, a knock at the door interrupts him. Steve’s brow furrows as he frowns at it, approaching hesitantly. Who the hell could it be? He doubts Erskine or Fury would send someone in person to call on him this late, and he hasn’t had a group project assigned in weeks, which only leaves one other option.

“Nat?”

Cool green eyes lock with Steve’s own, the wideness of them even more visible now that his glasses are gone. Natasha must notice that change immediately, because her head tilts and her lips press together in a thin line before she lifts her gaze away from Steve’s perfectly manicured fingers curled around the edge of the door where he has it cracked open. 

“Steve.” Her voice is stiff. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Steve had canceled their plans earlier saying something had come up and now he’s standing here looking like he’s just spent the day at a spa— which he sort of has. “I just wanted to come over and check up on you. Make sure you’re okay.”

“That’s…” Steve swallows. He doesn’t feel deserving of her kindness at all right now. “That’s real nice of you Nat. Thanks.”

“Clearly, you’re fine. You look better than ever, as a matter of fact.” Her tone is dangerously calm. 

There’s judgment in there too. Steve isn’t sure if it’s bad or good. What he does know is that one of his best friends in the entire world is standing here in front of him looking more hurt than Steve has ever seen her. It’s not an expression he likes on anyone, but on Natasha— and knowing it’s because of him?

He feels helpless. She wants answers, and more than that, she deserves them. But how is Steve supposed to give them to her and keep his word to Erskine all at once? It’s like he’s caught in a trap, unable to do anything other than watch as Natasha waits another moment for his response before nodding to herself grimly once she realizes he doesn’t have one. 

“Alright then. Well, at least you’ll look good when you’re lying now.” She looks over Steve’s shoulder and smiles sharply at Sam, who must be standing behind him. “You boys have a nice night.”

“Natasha—“ Steve only seems to be able to find his words once she’s already started walking away. The call of her name doesn’t make her stop, even when Steve tries again a second time. “Natasha!”

Her car starts, and then she’s gone, leaving Steve with a wide-open front door and what feels like a hole in his heart. 

He doesn’t know exactly how long he stands there looking out at the street, but it’s long enough for Sam to make the executive decision to come over and shut the door, gently guiding Steve by the shoulders over to the couch so he can help him sit down. Steve doesn’t even protest the man-handling. He’s too numb to bother getting mad. 

He feels oddly empty. He hates fighting with people, especially his friends, usually he’s lucky enough for that not to be the problem. But all this prince stuff is making things complicated, more and more by the day. The makeover isn’t the further Erskine is going to take his changes either. 

How long will it be before it’s too late for Natasha to forgive him even after he does tell her? Is it too late already? What if—

“Steve, I don’t know where your head’s at right now, but there’s nothing you can do about Nat until she’s had some time to cool off and you’ve had some time to calm down.” Sam’s voice is a murmur, his hand gripping so tight on Steve’s shoulder that it acts almost as an anchor to reality. “You can talk to her tomorrow if you want, but even if you don’t… she’ll come around eventually. I promise.”

Steve wants to believe that so badly that his breathing turns tight. If it stays like this for too much longer, he’ll likely need to reach over and grab his inhaler just in case. But for now, all he can do is try and jerk out a nod, unused to the way his hair doesn’t fall in his face when he ducks his chin.

He should probably take out his contacts before he cries, shouldn’t he?

-

It takes everything in Steve to not blurt out the truth to Natasha as soon as he spots her red ponytail the next day in the lobby of the art building. The only thing keeping him from doing that is the fact that he’s not supposed to be spilling the news to her at all, but when he asks Erskine for forgiveness about it later, he’d rather not have to deal with an additional confession about the general public knowing everything as well. 

He’d come to the decision of telling her almost as soon as he’d crawled in bed the night before, so worn out from having his little emotional crisis down on the couch with Sam keeping an eye on him that the choice had been made simple with the clear-cut way of thinking that only exhaustion could bring. 

This morning he’d woken up a little more well-rested, but there’s still no doubt in his mind. He needs to tell her. He’d rather risk pissing Erskine off than have Natasha be mad at him for even a few more hours. That’s exactly why he’d rushed through his morning routine in order to get to campus a good hour and a half before his first class. 

Putting his contacts in and actually styling his hair bad added a few extra steps to his usual process, but it’d been surprisingly easy to use the blow dryer and hair mousse Phil had sent him home with. He’d even put on some of the lip tint despite the fact he doubts anyone is going to notice, but if he can find even one tiny thing to make himself feel better through what he's about to do, he’s going to use it.  

So, lip tint it is. It’s a bit of a struggle not to lick it all off where he’s pursing his lips while trying to look around for Natasha, but luckily, her hair makes it pretty hard for her to blend in. Steve spots her almost immediately, straightening up before slipping through the throng of students in the midst of their class changes in order to cross the lobby and intercept Natasha. 

Right around this time of morning is when she always heads to the coffee shop on campus for a snack to tide her over until after her History of Medieval Metalwear lecture ends. Usually, she eats alone seeing as Steve is supposed to get to campus for another hour— but today isn’t a usual day. Today, Natasha is going to have her life changed. 

Or, she’s going to hear about how Steve’s life has changed recently, anyways. 

He doesn’t bother with trying to give Natasha a proper greeting, well aware that when she’s in a bad mood, good manners do nothing but piss her off even more. “We need to talk.”

She stops and looks up at him, chin jutted out and an eyebrow lifted. “We do?” Her eyes send out an additional message, even though she doesn’t make the comment out loud. You done lying to me?

Steve sighs. “We do.” The contact lenses have him blinking a bit more than usual as he’s still getting used to them, but he thinks his look says something that goes unspoken as well. I’ll tell you the truth. 

“You’re buying the coffee,” is all Natasha says as she promptly turns and begins heading out the door. It’s as open of an invitation as Steve knows he’ll ever get in this situation. 

He takes a deep breath and follows. This is Nat, for crying out loud. If there’s anyone he can trust other than Sam, it’s her. What’s he got to worry about?

He doesn’t want that question answered. 

The coffee shop is only a short walk away from the art building, hence why he and Natasha both frequent it so much. They’ve spent many a finals week holed up in here with their notes and textbooks spread out on the table amongst empty coffee cups and napkins covered in pastry crumbs. 

Today, they both get white chocolate mochas. Natasha gets a blueberry muffin. Steve pays, simply grateful that Natasha agreed so sit down with him here in the first place. 

Her willingness is still limited. There’s a tension between them that makes it hard for Steve to even swallow the first sip of his drink, waiting for the hot liquid to warm his throat before finally just deciding to bite the bullet and speak. 

It’s only two words, but he knows they’re the first that he needs to get out. “I’m sorry.”

Natasha is silent for a moment, picking a blueberry off the top of her muffing and popping it into her mouth. “You’re my friend,” she says plainly. Steve notes her use of the present tense. “I don’t say that about many people, because I don’t trust many people and I know you don't either. So, if it was the other way around, and I was the one with some giant secret and you were the one who was being lied to— wouldn’t you want me to tell you the truth? Would you trust me to do it?“

“I would,” Steve whispers, because it’s true. “And I do now, it’s just…” He looks at her, feeling just as helpless as he had in the doorway last night. “I don’t even know how to explain.”

“Would it help if I said I went to the library and looked up where the flags on that limo came from as soon as it pulled away? There’s not much information out there about Vengea, but it does have its own encyclopedia page.”

“You— what?” The look Steve’s giving her now is one of surprise. Is she trying to imply what he thinks she is? “Do you know?” Has she known this entire time?

She snorts, acting as if she hasn’t just upset Steve’s entire plan of knocking her out of the park with his confession. “I’m not stupid, Steve. And you’re a terrible liar.” Her gaze is even over the edge of her coffee cup as she raises it and swallows another sip of her drink. “I understand why you didn’t tell me right away. But I don't like being lied to.” She gets quieter. “Especially not when I’ve already decided to trust someone.”

Steve understands most of where that comes from. Natasha is one of the only other people he knows whose parents died when she was young, and with the life she’s lived since then… it’s hard for her to let people in. But her and him, they make a good team. Steve wouldn’t want it any other way. 

“I won’t do it again.” Steve releases half of his grip on his cup to hold a hand out between them, pinky outstretched and a tentative smile creeping across his lips. “Promise.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but begrudgingly links their fingers together in the same way they’ve been doing since Steve swore her to secrecy about his crush on their TA the second semester of freshman year. “Aren’t princes supposed to always be honest? Should I be calling you ‘your Highness’ or what?”

Steve darts his eyes around a little frantically, making sure no one is close enough to eavesdrop before he hisses out a response. “It’s a secret still. There’s a reason I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“Rule-breaker Rogers, even when he’s royalty,” Nat sings under her breath, eyes dancing. It’s a relief to see them so bright after how cold they’d been last night. “Fine. How about I come over for dinner later tonight and you can spill all the details over those meatballs you promised me?”

“You bring a bottle of wine and it’s a deal.” 

Natasha laughs and Steve feels more relaxed than he has since getting his hair washed out by Phil’s assistants. Since Natasha’s next class starts relatively soon, she can’t stay for very long once her drink and muffin are finished, but Steve sends her off on her way with the knowledge that they’ll be seeing each other again for dinner, so he doesn’t mind too much. 

In any case, it gives him a little while to sit on his own in the cafe while he clears his head. He hadn’t realized just how heavy of a weight it was keeping everything with Erskine a secret from Natasha, but now that it’s gone, his chest is so light that it almost feels as if he’s in one of his flying-dreams. 

He practically floats when he gets up to head out, buzzing so much from the caffeine and relief that he nearly knocks into someone right as they’re about to walk in the same door he’s trying to head out of. As usual, he’s embarrassed, all apologies and stumbled sentences, but there’s something about this encounter that’s out of the ordinary. 

The man he’d walked into isn’t just anyone— apparently, Steve has a habit of running into important people. Namely, his professors. 

“Oh, God, Dr. Bennett, I’m so, so sorry—“

”No, no, this is on me— Steven, isn’t it? No worries.” Dr. Bennett pats him on the shoulder before brushing past him and moving towards the counter.  

Steve blinks, and it isn’t because of the contacts. Dr. Bennett remembered his name? Steve has sat in the front of his classes for more than a few semesters, but this is the first time he’s ever called Steve by name. 

That makeover Phil gave him really was made of magic, wasn’t it?

If there’s an extra spring in Steve’s step as he walks away, confidence boosted, that’s no one’s business but his own. 

Chapter Text

With all of the things Steve is learning thanks to the combined workload of his prince lessons and his actual classes, it’s a miracle that his mind hasn’t exploded sometime during the past few weeks. He’s learning a lot. 

Turns out Erskine wasn’t exaggerating when he spoke of all the things he and his staff were willing to teach Steve— or as Erskine likes calling it “exposing him to the finer points of life”. That’s a bunch of fancy bullshit in Steve’s opinion, but so is half the stuff he’s being taught. Not that Steve doesn’t appreciate or even enjoy some of the stuff he’s been shown. 

To tell the truth, the last time he’d read a book before Erskine entered his life was probably for an assignment in the Gen Ed English course everyone was required to take at his university. That was forever ago, and as much as Steve used to like reading as a kid, it just hasn’t been at the top of his priority list in quite some time. 

Erskine is changing that, amongst other things. He’s not officially giving Steve homework , but he has been sending him home with books of what apparently count as classical literature in Vengea as well as some volumes of poetry that Steve didn’t think he’d like nearly as much as he ended up liking. He even has a few poems memorized at this point, which Erskine had been impressed about considering Steve had done it without his advice. 

“ That’s one of the best ways to escape an awkward conversation with someone at the palace,” he’d said, eyes twinkling behind his glasses in a way that suggested this was one of his very rare joking remarks. “ If you can’t think of something to say on your own, use someone else's words and make your escape while they’re still trying to sort out what the quote means. Worked for your father every time.”

Steve had gone home and memorized three more poems that night. 

Reading literature and poetry isn’t the only thing they have him doing— there’s also the matter of him being subjected to lectures in political theory and strategies which Steve can admit had him close to falling asleep during the first few rounds, but even besides that, there’s the matter of the physical aspects of his lessons. 

Being taught how to sit and walk had only been the beginning. Steve never thought there’d be a difference between how the average citizen and royalty are supposed to wave, but evidently, one flapping their hand around with their head stuck out the window of a limo is a bad look. 

Personally, Steve thinks the stilted side-to-side motion he’s been forced to practice looks stupid in its own way, but no one has asked for his opinion on that yet. 

The way he’s supposed to smile when facing the public also feels a little stiff, but frankly, Steve has less of a problem with that. It’s not like he’s ever exactly jumped with joy at the thought of having to be in front of more than five people at one time. The mere idea of having an entire country watch him (even if it may just be for him to reject the crown) doesn’t give him much to genuinely smile about. 

It’s ironic that out of all of the physical parts of his lessons— the sitting, walking, waving, dancing— the one he prefers the most is the training he does with his actual trainer. Erskine had kept his work of hiring someone on to help Steve learn how to better deal with the effects of his pain. 

Most of what Frank has been helping him with has him doing in these early stages of their work together is made up of simple stretches, light jogging, and massage techniques that Steve can practice on himself at home. Who knew a rolling pin could be used in places outside of the kitchen? 

Since Steve’s back is one of his problem areas as well as an area that’s more difficult to reach than his arms or legs, Frank’s technique to help him with that has been a little more… hands on. Steve likes to think he’s been doing a good job of keeping it together during their session, but what’s he supposed to do when he has a very handsome, very intimidating ex-Marine quite literally rubbing up on him? Not get flustered?

Natasha has been sworn to secrecy about that as well. 

Now that both of his best friends know, Steve has found himself settling into a routine that feels surprisingly regular. Well, as regular as someone who is secretly royalty can get. 

The three of them all have their work to do. Steve has his lessons, his thesis, and his other classwork; Natasha her own course load as well as an internship with a local designer; and Sam his track to stay on for flight school.

All of their combined responsibilities have resulted in them having more than one group study night at the apartment recently, usually with boxes of takeout and binders of notes scattered around the living room while they try and cram as much knowledge into their brains as they can. 

So much for college being their golden social years. Steve hasn’t had a day off of school, his lessons, or the center in what feels like ages. He’s lucky that he lives with one of his best friends and goes to school with the other, because if he didn’t, he doubts that he’d be getting to spend time with them at all. 

Things could be worse, though. Life is busy (and exhausting on some days), but it’s the type of busy that makes Steve feel accomplished. He’s getting things done, and even if it’s a lot to handle at once, he’s happy to say that he’s found his stable ground. 

So isn’t it only fitting that the universe sees fit to upset that almost as soon as he’s had the thought? The luck of the Irish must truly mean nothing. Steve can’t think of any other reason that this would be happening to him today. 

This being the waking nightmare of what would happen if his secret were revealed before any of them were ready. Steve definitely wasn't ready. He didn't see this coming at all. 

He doesn’t even realize what’s happening at first. All he knows is that when Dum-Dum pulls up to the block outside the art building, there’s a cluster of people waiting there. Steve has to do a double take before he accepts the fact that most of them are holding what looks to be notebooks, which wouldn’t be out of place on a college campus— but then there are the cameras. 

With how bright the flashes are when they start going off at the car, it doesn’t take but a second longer for Steve to realize what this is. It’s an ambush. An ambush meant for him. 

There’s no way in hell he’s getting out of this car. He doesn’t know how the press got wind of him enough to know exactly what building his goddamn classes would be in today, but— no. No, Steve is not getting out of this car, and he would tell Dum-Dum as much if the man didn’t take it upon himself to roll the partition down and give Steve a grave look before Steve can even figure out how to get his voice working. 

“We need to get you somewhere safe,” he says gruffly. “Away from here. Is there anywhere you can think of that would give us enough privacy for you to wait while I call Dr. Erskine?”

Steve doesn’t understand half of what’s going on right now, but he knows he doesn’t want to risk leading this mob back to the apartment. Sam doesn’t deserve that. There’s only one other place he can think of that might give them the space. 

“My studio,” he manages. “The one I rent. That’ll… it’s the best option.” He rattles off the address, barely getting it out before Dugan jd slamming his foot on the gas and the limousine is peeling away from the crowd on the curb. 

The speed at which the car is going matches that at which Steve’s mind is spinning. He doesn’t know what to think. What to feel. How did this happen? How did they know?

He doesn’t even entertain the thought of Natasha or Sam being the ones to tip the press off. They just wouldn’t. They wouldn’t give up years of trust and friendship for fifteen minutes of fame, and as comforting as that loyalty should be, it only upsets Steve even more, because who else could have done this?

Erskine wouldn’t, not with how hard he and the others have worked to make sure Steve’s status and lessons are kept secret. Peggy is cold, but she’s just as loyal to Erskine as Sam and Nat are to Steve. Dum-Dum and Fury take their jobs seriously. They wouldn’t let their coworkers live if they caught wind of them selling Steve out. Frank barely talks to Steve when they're together, so Steve can’t see him talking to a journalist. Who else does that leave?

Steve doesn’t know how much time passes before they get to the studio building, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers the car going around in circles that aren’t on the usual route here that Steve takes. Dum-Dum must be trying to throw any wayward followers off their trail. It works well enough for Steve not to see anyone around them once Dum-Dum exits the car and rushes around the side of the limo to open Steve’s door and point him towards the building. 

“Go inside, get wherever you need to, and don’t open up for anyone that doesn’t announce themselves,” he orders, tone uncharacteristically solemn. This is serious business and they both know it. “I’m going to call Dr. Erskine from the car, but with the amount of people that were at your school, I’m going to wager that he’s already found out who the leak is and is coming up with a plan to fix it.”

Fix it? Steve would laugh if his throat weren’t so tight. How can something like this be fixed? The cat’s out of the bag now. Not like they can put it back in. Yet again, Steve’s life has just changed forever. 

Dum-Dum must be able to tell that Steve’s internalized freak-out has just upped itself a notch, because now he’s gripping Steve’s shoulder and fixing him with a steady look. “We’re going to take care of this. Things will calm down eventually.”

It feels like everything Dugan says only leaves Steve with more questions that he can’t bring himself to ask out loud. How long is he going to have to wait for eventually to come? Days? Weeks? Months?

Climbing the steps up to the room he rents as his studio space is an almost out of body experience. Nothing feels real. Not even himself. 

For some reason, it’s the sound of the lock clicking when Steve shuts the door that finally gets him to crumple. Now that he’s alone behind the safety of a locked door, no one can get to him until he comes out, and until he’s ready to do that, he doesn’t have to be strong or put on a show for the cameras. 

He’d say he’s taking a moment to himself, but really what he’s doing is taking a moment to try and forget that he exists at all. He sinks down to the floor, still facing the door, winding up curled into a ball with his head pressed against the wood and the heel of his hand shoved into his mouth to stifle the gasping sob that wants to break free. 

It makes no sense. He isn’t even crying. His breathing is heavy and his heart is racing, but there are no tears falling down his cheeks. It’s like he can’t let them go even though logically he knows there’s no reason to keep them trapped inside. Maybe it's the contacts. 

He shifts until he has his head lowered down enough to tuck his head against his knees, caps of them putting pressure against his eye sockets. It’s grounding in a way that he desperately needs. 

Steve wishes that he had Nat or Sam here with him, but more than anything, he wishes he had his Ma. He might be a man now but he doesn’t think that small part of him inside that believes his mother can make all of his problems better will ever go away . He misses her. He misses his life before everything got so complicated.

Since the floor of his studio space is made of linoleum, it isn’t a comfortable place to sit for long. Time passes in that strange way it always does when Steve is upset, but however long he’s down there, it’s long enough for his ass and heels to start aching. He lifts his head and takes a deep breath, eyes closed, before looking across the room to the armchair he has set up beside the window. 

He’d put it in here after a few weeks of Sam and Nat complaining that they had nowhere to sit whenever they came to visit him while he worked, though he occasionally uses it for himself whenever the mood to sketch rather than paint hits him.

 It’s a good chair, even if it is from a secondhand shop. Lived in. The light the window provides makes it a pretty good setup, and if Steve shuts the curtains, it might even be a good place to have a breakdown. Or keep an eye out on the street through a crack in the fabric. Whichever comes first. 

Steve’s limbs are so heavy that they feel like lead when he goes to stand, abandoning his schoolbag by the door in favor of dragging himself over to the chair and collapsing down into it, immediately bringing his feet up so he can curl himself back into a ball. It probably looks ridiculous, a man as big as him doing this, but he doesn’t care. Who’s gonna see? This might be the one place that Steve has left where people won’t be watching his every move. 

He hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on when he came in, so now that he’s settled, the room has fallen almost completely silent save for the sound of his breathing. It’s New York City, so the sounds coming up from the street are inevitable, but those are easy enough to tune out. What’s more difficult to silence is the noise in Steve’s head. 

It’s a tangle of questions and emotions that Steve doesn’t have it in him to even begin sorting out right now. Maybe Erskine should bring on a shrink for Steve as his next hire. Or maybe, thanks to this leak, everyone Steve already knows will be fired. He doesn’t want that. He’s sort of started to like most of the staff he’s met. 

The proverbial knot of Steve’s thoughts is tied up so tightly that Steve’s neck snaps up like it’s been pulled on a string as soon as the sharp rap of knuckles on wood rings throughout the room, clearly coming from the door specific to Steve’s studio. Following Dum-Dum’s instructions, Steve doesn’t move or even make a sound until the person who has come calling announces their identity. 

“Steven. It’s Dr. Erskine. Please let me in.”

For a moment, Steve can’t bring himself to move. He takes in a shuddery breath and tightens his hold around his calves, willing himself to wake up from the twisted nightmare today has somehow managed to morph into. 

He doesn’t wake up. 

“Steven.” 

“Just gimme a second,” Steve calls back, voice hoarse with all that he’s been holding back. He tries to clear out his throat and straighten his clothes so he’ll look more composed when he lets Erskine inside, but there’s only so much he can do to hide the despair that’s no doubt shining clear as day in his eyes. 

Dr. Erskine’s own gaze is sympathetic, as Steve can see when he opens the door. The older man doesn’t give Steve time to even try and speak first, which is something Steve is for once grateful for. It means he doesn’t have to worry about finding the right thing to say. 

“I know you have questions. Some of them I can answer, some of them I’m still asking myself.” He sighs and twists the lock behind him, sending Steve a wry smile. “It was a smart move telling Mr. Dugan to drive you here.”

“He asked where my safe space was,” Steve whispers, voice still rough around the edges. “And I didn’t want to risk leading them home.”

“You were right not to. The press can be ruthless.”

Steve snorts and goes back to his chair, throwing himself down on the seat and bracing his elbows on his knees so he can look up at Erskine. “So I’ve seen.”

Erskine winces, crossing his arms and standing up straighter— a position that Steve soon finds out is meant to muster up the courage to deliver important news. “Much to my surprise, it appears that the source of our news leak came from someone who I thought was to be trusted. Mr. Coulson has been dismissed from the palace payroll.”

“ Phil?” Steve doesn’t bother trying to mask his own surprise. “He did this? Why? I thought he liked me!” Phil had said Steve was an excellent client. Why would he—

“Evidently, Mr. Coulson enjoyed working on you so much that he simply could not allow his efforts to go unclaimed.” Erskine shrugs. “He sent us a message with his apologies. I suppose that it makes sense now why he and his assistants brushed over signing our confidentiality agreements. He said in his message— and I quote him directly here— that you should ‘consider this a compliment to your good looks’.”

Steve feels about as far from fucking flattered as he could get right now, but he somehow doubts Erskine would appreciate the usage of profanity in his presence even in these pressint circumstances, so Steve doesn’t say that out loud. What he does instead is laugh and bury his head in his hands. “Christ. A compliment? And he’s serious?”

“I assure you, Steven, I share your sentiment on the matter.”

“Do you?” Steve doesn’t mean to speak so harshly, but he can’t help it. As much as Erskine and the others may be able to empathize with him, none of them are going to have to live with eyes on them at all times. 

Going from being a nobody to a prince who gets mobbed by the paparazzi outside their own goddamn school— it’s not exactly easy to find someone with that shared life experience. Steve never even got to ask his father how he dealt with all this. 

“I know you’re feeling angry right now,” Erskine says gently, stepping forward so slowly that Steve almost feels more like a scared animal being approached by a well-intentioned stranger. “This sense of violation and fear that can come with this life… I should have prepared you more for that, and I’m so very sorry that you’re having to deal with this before you’re ready.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m not trying to blame you, I just—“

“You’re afraid.” 

A hand on the back of Steve’s chair as Erskine steps slightly to the side and braces his weight on the furniture. It’s not a hug or even an actual touch, but it’s close enough when coming from someone as normally aloof as Erskine to be of some comfort. 

“And it is my duty to guide you through your fears, your mistakes, and even your triumphs. Steven…” Erskine exhales, long and drawn out. His next words are careful. “What I am trying to say is that I am here for you. I want to help you, in every way, just like I did for your father. All you have to do is let me.”

“I have been letting you,” Steve mutters, more than a little bewildered. “I’ve gone to your lessons. I’ve even liked some of what I’m learning. I’m trying.” Even if he isn’t ready to lead, he’s been willing to learn. 

“And I admire your tenacity. That’s not what I’m referring to.” Waving a hand around, Erskine gives Steve a pointed look that Steve doesn’t know how to interpret until he continues with his little speech. “Letting me teach you is one thing, but letting me show you where we go from here is another. The public now knows who you are. There is nothing we can do to take that back, and as much as I would like to let you stay up in your studio and hide from that reality, that isn’t an option.”

“So if I don’t have a choice in this, why are you acting like this is somehow up to me?”

Erskine’s gaze is steady. “The fact that you’re going to have to face your fears is inevitable. The choice comes through exactly how you choose to face them. Alone and afraid, only begrudgingly accepting our assistance, or the alternative.”

“And what exactly is the alternative?” Steve asks, though he suspects he already knows what part of the answer is going to be. 

“With us by your side. Willfully .”

Steve looks up at him with a watery smile. “With bravery.”

“I do believe that’s how your father would put it, yes.” Now Erskine’s hand is on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing softly. “It takes a brave man to ask for help when he wants it, Steve Rogers. Royalty or not.”

“Dr. Erskine?”

“Yes, my boy?”

Steve finally has to blink back his tears. “Please help me figure out what to do.”

-

As it turns out, what Steve ends up needing to do is come up with a plan. Most notably a plan that will help him avoid run-ins with the press as he goes through his daily routine of classes and occasional shifts down at the community center. His coworkers have been surprisingly good about everything that’s going on, while his classmates have been what Erskine would call difficult . 

Personally? Steve would call them  annoying , but he doesn’t have to when Natasha is so willing to do it for him. She’s taken it upon herself to become his personal bodyguard of sorts (as if Steve doesn’t already have the self protection front covered with Fury lurking around every corner), biting the head off of anyone who has made odd remarks towards him in the hallways or outside the art building. 

Her and Fury have actually become somewhat of a dynamic duo. Steve doesn’t know whether he should be happy or insulted that they get along better than Steve does with Fury himself, but he figured that some of that may be a product of how the few close calls they’ve had with the press have involved speculation about what Steve’s relationship is with Natasha. 

That might be a sign from the universe that Steve really should tell Erskine that women aren’t really going to be in the picture for him even if he does agree to be their prince for real, but considering how the universe has been taunting him lately, Steve is willing to put it off for a little longer. It’s just not the most important thing for him to do right now, frankly. 

The first few days after the incident with the reporters and having to run to the studio, Steve had felt so sorry for himself that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave the apartment. Even though he had asked for Erskine’s help, he was just… exhausted. 

The only thing that had gotten him through it was coming to the realization that Steve knowing he’s a quitter deep down inside would be a whole lot worse than the entire world knowing that he’s royalty on the surface. Only one of those things speaks to who Steve actually is as a person. 

Steve doesn’t want to be a quitter or someone who gives up when the going gets tough. Neither or his parents would have wanted that for him either. So, Steve is still trying, even if things have gotten a little harder now that the secret has gotten out about what the headlines have been calling the Star-Spangled Prince. 

Cute name, right? Sam had found it hilarious once he saw Steve was finally getting over the initial shock of the experience enough to be able to take him cracking a joke about it. Steve had thrown a pillow at him rather than laughing, but he knew the remark was all in good fun. 

With the past few weeks Steve has had, he’ll take all of the fun he can get. Unfortunately, what Erskine is about to have him do is one of the furthest things Steve would describe as fun. 

Being subjected to lunch with strangers wouldn’t be a fun experience for anyone, but in the context of Steve being a prince, the lunch being prepared by world class chefs, and the strangers being a bunch of fancy-pants big-wigs Erskine insists Steve will benefit greatly from meeting? Yeah, it’s not exactly what Steve would call a fun night— or, afternoon— out on the town. 

At least they’ll be leaving the lounge for once, Steve guesses, even if it is only to go to the rented out space of a restaurant so luxurious Steve doubts he would be able to afford even an entrée at all if Erskine weren’t around.  

Everything is so expensive. Including the suit Erskine forced him to show up in. Steve would have thought suits that cost this much would be more comfortable than what he could buy at a thrift shop, but he’s been proven wrong in that assumption. The fabric might not itch nearly as much, but the collar and shoes are still so stiff that Steve is beginning to suspect all of that may be a ploy intentionally implemented by Erskine to remind Steve that he’s supposed to be standing up straight. 

Well, it’s working. Steve will give him that. And even if this getup doesn’t feel the greatest, it does make him look good. 

As nice as the suit is, that doesn’t stop him from being nervous as hell about what he’s about to have to do. They’d planned on presenting him to the public at the ball, which is still months away, but thanks to the unfortunate outing that’s happened with the American press, that plan has had to be altered. 

Steve is still going to be presented to the Vengean public at the ball, but now that the element of surprise has been taken away, Erskine has decided that Steve may as well get some practice with meeting people before then. That’s what this lunch is for. 

As good as the food smells from where Steve is hesitating in one of the side rooms, his stomach is churning so heavily with nerves that if he were to take even one bite of it right now, he thinks he might be liable to upchuck. It doesn’t help that the person who comes to drag him into the main room with everyone else is Peggy.

Her instructions to him are just as clipped and clinical as they are in every other situation, the only difference from the norm being that she’s not currently in possession of her usual clipboard. “It’s time for you to make your entrance. Everyone is ready to sit down.”

“And they can’t do that without me?“

The look she gives him is flat. “You’re the guest of honor.”

Great. No pressure, then.

Steve takes a deep breath and squares up his shoulders, trying to muster some sense of the bravery he and Erskine had spoken about the other day. “Okay. I’ve got this.” 

That second statement was more for himself than her, but she still quirks her mouth as she begins stepping towards the curtained entrance that leads to the room where everyone is waiting. “I’m sure you do.”

That everyone that’s waiting turns out to be a group of only ten people, which calms down at least some of Steve’s anxieties. Ten people. He can handle ten people. Even if those ten people are all richer, older, and more worldly than Steve feels even after all the weeks of his lessons. 

Dr. Erskine is the first to notice his entry, eyes lighting up and fingers crooking to beckon him over towards the empty chair at the head of the table Steve assumes is for him. “And there he is! Our man of the hour. Steven, please, come join us.”

Yeah, there’s some pressure there alright. 

Steve smiles and forces himself to not do something stupid and reflexive, like wave to all of the people that are lookinf at him all of the sudden. “Hello. It’s very nice to meet you all.”

“We’ll make our formal introductions in just a moment.” Erskine pulls Steve’s chair out for him, a subtle reminder for Steve to remember that he needs to sit before everyone else can since he’s at the head of the table. “For now— let lunch be served.”

Steve eyes the bottle of wine one of the servers brings out. The temptation to down it all in one go is strong. 

He settles for gulping down a sip of water from the glass that’s already sitting in front of him instead. 

Here goes nothing. 

-

Steve comes out the other side of that lunch feeling scarily similar to how he had felt after his thesis pitch presentation. 

It wasn’t necessarily a disaster, but it wasn’t a success either. It just was. It’s over now, at least. Steve is still at the restaurant waiting on Erskine to finish supervising the cleanup of their meal, but most everyone else is gone. 

Most of the people Steve had been introduced to this afternoon had been interesting, to say the least. It was weird meeting so many people who seemed to have this idolized idea of him before they’d even met. 

One man in particular had stood out– Alexander Pierce, a Viscount from Vengea who had shaken Steve’s hand so hard when rattling off his name and status that Steve’s knuckles had twinged when he next went to pick up his fork. Pierce was an older gentleman with sandy hair and a weathered face as well as a charming way of speaking that almost made Steve feel like he was under a spell during their brief conversation. 

All Pierce had done was tell Steve his name and wish him well on his path to the throne. Steve might be reading into things too much, but the way Pierce had looked at him when he said that had been… odd. 

He hasn’t told Erskine about it. To be honest, Steve hasn’t talked to him at all since lunch ended. He’s too scared that when he does, he’ll see the disappointment written across his face. 

Again, lunch hadn’t been a total disaster, but Steve hadn’t made it through completely unscathed. There had been a couple mishaps. Namely, the one where he’d almost lit his napkin on fire with the candle placed too close to his spot at the table. Then the one where he’d accidentally given himself a brain freeze with the plum sorbet that had been brought out towards the end. 

Tripping the waiter had been very narrowly avoided, as had knocking his glass of wine over onto Pierce’s arm. Small blessings. As thankful as Steve is that things didn’t go worse than they did, he still hasn’t been able to bring himself to leave the bathroom he’s been hiding in ever since the table started being cleared. 

Steve has never been a particularly religious guy, but he doesn’t think he has to believe in a higher power in order to try and talk to his parents in his head. It makes him feel better even if he isn’t so sure anyone is actually listening. 

I’m sorry, he thinks, eyes shut and hands curled around the edge of the sink in a grip so strong it turns his knuckles white. I don’t want to let you down, but I don’t know how to do this.

Making mistakes is inevitable. He knows this. But how is he supposed to not worry that Erskine might be mad at him for fucking up? After all the man has done to try and make Steve better, feeling like he’s failing him makes Steve feel almost as bad as the thought of failing his family’s legacy. 

Steve has to take several deep breaths and splash cold water on his face before he can even think about exiting the bathroom. He can’t hide here forever. Just like with the studio, he has to go face his fears– and his failures– eventually.

Much to Steve’s surprise, Erskine is standing right outside the door once Steve finally barges out. Steve blinks. How long has the clean-up been over? Does Erskine know he was hiding?

He may as well get ahead of this while he can. Erskine doesn’t look angry, but— “I’m sorry.”

Now it’s Erskine’s turn to blink, brows raising to crease his already lined forehead. “What for?”

What for? Steve gestures to himself. “You’re telling me you’re not mad I messed up so many times? I’d understand if you are.”

“Steve.” Erskine sounds amused, which only confuses Steve even more. Why does he look like he’s about to laugh? “You are new to this. I don’t expect perfection. And in any case, the stories I could tell you about your father’s first formal events— I’ve seen it all already, I can assure you.”

“Really?” Steve’s interest is piqued, his insecurity set to the side for a moment in favor of the possibility of finding out more about what his father was like. “What sort of stories?”

“Would you believe me if I said there was one occasion where he sent a spear flying through the window in front of an Italian diplomat? Your grandfather had all decorative suits of armor removed from the castle after that incident.”

“You’re joking.” Steve really hopes he isn’t. It’d be nice to know that his dad went through this ugly duckling phase too. 

Erskine pauses and gives Steve a look that Steve can’t read, though his tone is much lighter than usual when he speaks. “Why don’t we cancel our lesson for this evening so I can tell you some more stories?”

Steve smiles shyly. “I’d really like that.” He rolls his lips for a moment before adding on a second statement. “Maybe I could show you around the city a little while you do? There’s a boardwalk along Rockaway that I always like going to when I need to relax a little. It’s not Coney Island, but…” He shrugs. “I’ve never been one for roller coasters.”

“The closest thing to a roller coaster we have at the palace would have to be your father’s favorite pastime of sliding down the staircase on a mattress when he was younger.”

This time, Steve’s smile is surer. “I have a feeling I’m going to like a lot of these stories.”

“I’ll tell Mr. Dugan to fetch the limo. To the boardwalk it is.”

-

It’s sort of funny, seeing a man that’s usually as composed as Erskine licking his fingers after they’ve gotten sticky from kettle corn. 

It had been Steve’s decision to buy the bag when they walked past the stand, mostly just because he loves the stuff personally and likes to get it while he can. He hadn’t even really been expecting Erskine to accept his offer of trying some, but now here they are, walking down the boardwalk and splitting the bag between them as Erskine continues to relay each humorous story about Joseph Rogers he can think of. 

Steve can admit that he’s holding on tight to every single one. 

Fury has been trailing along behind them at a safe distance for the entire time, just in case of an attack by the press, but so far things have been surprisingly calm. Steve is grateful for that. He’s enjoying himself right now, and he’s pretty sure that Dr. Erskine is as well. 

Talking about Joseph has him more animated than Steve has seen since they met. His memories are being shared through grand storytelling, complete with exaggerated motions of his hands and facial expressions Steve didn’t even know a man as proper as him could make. It’s nice seeing him like this. Compared to the time they usually spend together, this casual outing is completely different. 

Steve likes it. Through Erskine and his stories, he’s feeling closer to his father than ever before. 

“He really got his fork stuck in a duchess’s hair?”

Erskine snorts. “To be fair, that woman’s hair was so voluminous that it took up half the room. Vengean updos were all the rage back then.”

“And here I thought me getting a brain freeze was the worst thing that could happen.”

“There are definitely worse things. Your mother is lucky your father cleaned up his act before he met her.” Erskine chuckles and straightens his glasses over the bridge of his nose where they’ve slipped down from looking at his feet as they walk. “He did get around some in his youth. There wasn’t a princess in all of Europe who didn’t know his name.”

“And you weren’t surprised that the woman he ended up marrying wasn’t one of them?” 

If Erskine picks up on the fact that Steve is trying to steer the conversation in a specific direction, he doesn’t say so. He just tips his head and thinks about the question for a few seconds before providing Steve with an answer. 

“I knew that Joseph was a man who used his heart just as much as his head. It was up to him which one he wanted to follow in the end. Was I surprised? No. Was the rest of his family?” He tips his head in the opposite direction. “That was a different matter.”

“And did you… mind?” Steve asks quietly.

This answer comes easily. “No. Your father was brought up to honor his duty to his family. He was still trying to do that when he died. You and your mother were his family too.”

There’s an honesty behind that sentiment that touches Steve somewhere deep inside, distracting him temporarily from the topic he was about to transition to in their conversation. 

He tightens his grip on the kettle corn bag and inhales the scent of burnt sugar and salty air. He can do this. He can be brave. 

“So if I were to tell you that I won’t be ending up with a princess— or, uh, any other woman either— would you… would you mind that?”

Jesus, that was hard to get out. It’s not like he hasn’t come out to anyone before, but this is important. Erskine is the closest tie to his family that Steve has left. Steve can only hope that the older man understands what he meant by that, because he really doesn’t know if he could try to say it again without having a heart attack. 

Erskine falls silent long enough for Steve’s heartbeat to start speeding up, but then, he’s stopping in his tracks and giving Steve a look so intense it his Steve’s breath halting right alongside his feet. “If you’re asking if I mind, the answer is no. As for the rest of Vengea? I won’t pretend we’re the most progressive country in the world, but I can promise you that the people will not care who is beside you as long as you rule them fairly.”

It’s such a fiercely loyal vow that Steve doesn’t even have the heart to correct the assumption that Steve will be ruling those people at all. And maybe it’s dumb, but the reassurance from Erskine about this means a lot. It’s like a confirmation of sorts, having someone who knew his father other than his mother support him. 

He’s believed all his life that Joseph Rogers was a good man, but there’s always been some part of him that’s wondered if he would have still loved him even if he knew. Never getting to meet him or get to know him— it’s a tragedy that’s always woven a terrible web of what if s that Steve has spent years trying to escape. 

It’s freeing. Like having a weight taken from his shoulders. Steve knows he doesn’t need anyone else’s approval, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it sometimes. 

He won’t thank the man for not minding, but— “Thank you,” he whispers. “For telling me that, I mean.” 

“You deserve to know that people value you,” Erskine murmurs, slowly beginning to move forward again. “That was true even before we started our lessons, and no matter what you choose in the end, it will be true after.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say in response to that, so instead of responding verbally, he nods and stuffs another handful of kettle corn into his mouth before leaning the open bag towards Erskine to offer him some more. Erskine gives him an understanding smile and takes a few pieces. 

That afternoon is the first time in a long while that Steve hasn’t worried about his thesis or anything else.

Chapter Text

After that day at Rockaway, things are good.

Almost too good. 

Call Steve paranoid, but he isn’t used to anything going right so easily in his life. Most stuff is a fight— or as Sam has claimed, sometimes Steve makes it a fight just because he’s trying to get the jump on anything bad that might happen. Steve’s really trying to avoid doing that with this. It’s harder than it sounds. 

Though he has to admit that the lessons have gotten a bit easier now that he and Dr. Erskine have warmed up to each other a little more. There are still a few things that have been frustrating to try and get the hang of, but Erskine had been right in saying that accepting help and wanting it are two completely different things.

Handling the press has been the most frustrating facet of all this prince prep business. Thanks to Fury’s intimidating presence during mist outings Steve takes in public and the several escape tactics he was kind enough to teach Steve how to utilize, the number of run-ins with reporters has dwindled slightly, even if not completely yet. 

Erskine has promised they’ll die down more eventually. Steve wishes they’d hurry up and do that already. Having to deal with paparazzi jumping out from bushes and banging on the car windows on a normal day is already annoying enough in general, but during finals week? The stress might make Steve’s heart finally give out even with the medication and workout regimen he’s on. 

Natasha is handling all the headlines speculation about their relationship much better than Steve is himself. It’s laughable, really, this narrative of a secret romance that they’ve created in their minds. What, is Steve supposed to be in love with every woman he walks to class with all of the sudden?  

If anything, Natasha should be the one that feels more insulted by the insinuation that she’d ever settle for the likes of him. 

For some reason, she finds it hilarious. If she wasn’t aware of how uncomfortable Steve was, Steve would bet fifty bucks she’d be playing into it just to get people more riled up. She’s rebellious like that. Steve would be too if he weren’t already so worried about ruining whatever reputation he’s going to have to live up to when he finally visits the palace. 

There’s about two more months left before the ball and his birthday, which also gives him two more months before he has to announce his decision as to whether or not he wants to accept the crown. He’s been avoiding thinking about that too much, which might not be the bravest move, but in his defense, finals week has him busy as hell. 

His thesis project is almost ready to he presented, which means he’s spent most of this time these past few days putting on the finishing touches between his many hours of cramming for his exams with Natasha and Sam, who are also in a period of crunch time that has their kitchen sink full of empty coffee cups and their recycling full of energy drink cans. 

Natasha’s own final projects consist of physical pieces of her designs that she’ll have to turn in on top of written tests. Such is the life of students in art-focused programs of study. Sam has his own version of that for flight school— Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sam read this much in his near decade of knowing the man, but he wasn’t kidding when he said the knowledge portion of his pilot’s exam is what has him the most concerned. 

Out of everything that he’ll need to get through to be granted his license, Steve would have assumed that the solo flight would be the scariest section, but that isn’t true for Sam. 

It’s been Sam’s dream to take to the skies since he was a kid. Steve has always been content to admire that devotion from the sidelines. It’s not like he could ever be a pilot himself, even with the contacts. The vision test is the one thing Sam seems to have no worries about passing. 

If they all stay on track, Steve and Natasha should be able to graduate shortly after Sam finishes with his pilot program. Steve doesn’t want to jinx anything by tooting his own horn too much, but he thinks that things should be fine for him until then. 

He’s doing well in his classes, almost finished with his thesis, and his lessons even have him feeling a little bit more confident in his presentation skills. Again, he doesn’t want to jinx anything, but he thinks it’s safe to say that he’s found a pretty steady place to stand, all things considered. And there are a lot of things to consider in his life right now. 

The weather in the city is getting nicer by the day now that they’re entering the spring months, something Steve is grateful for. He always feels happier when the sun is shining, and apparently Erskine feels similar, because the lesson he’s leading today has been relocated from their usual room in the back of the lounge to outside in the garden. 

Every time they come out here, Steve can’t help but remember that this is the place where Erskine had first dropped the news on him about his fathers being royalty. Steve doesn’t know if he’d classify that as a positive or negative memory, but it’s definitely a significant one either way. To think how much his life has changed— how much he’s changed since then. 

Today’s lesson is a continuation of one they’d begun a few days ago. Steve thought they had finished with learning the basics of princely walking weeks ago, but evidently, walking down a flight of stairs isn’t on the same level of difficulty as walking across a room. 

“When you make your entrance into a ballroom, it will always be accompanied by an announcement of your name and title,” Erskine tells him from where he’s standing at the bottom of the patio steps Steve is about to have to descend in a proper manner. Whatever that means. “All eyes will be on you in that moment, and in our palace, there is a grand staircase you will be expected to make your way down without looking at your feet. You will have to walk, smile, wave, and maintain eye contact with your guests at the same time.”

Oh. This might actually end up being more difficult than Steve first thought. “How many stairs are we talking?”

“More than what we have here,” Erskine says, eyes flicking down to the dozen or so steps that are between him and Steve. “But we’re starting small. This balcony is similar to some we have in the palace. Now, if you would place your hand on the railing, that should help guide you.”

“And you’re sure princes aren’t allowed to look at their feet?” 

Erskine gives him a look and takes a few steps back from the bottom of the steps, like he’s clearing the area just in case Steve falls. “I’m positive. Now, put on a smile and keep your chin up. Mind your posture.”

Steve sighs, but does as he’s told, stretching out his mouth into a dazzling smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Do I have to wave in my first try too?” he asks through clenched teeth. 

“Give it your best shot. Walk towards me. Pretend I’m part of a crowd of people who are here to see you— who are watching your every move.”

So much for no pressure. “If I break my wrist while I’m doing this, Dum-Dum is driving me to the hospital.”

“Less talking, more walking, if you please, Mr. Rogers?”

Please. Steve refrains from rolling his eyes in response to Erskine’s quip, focusing instead on moving his feet at the same time he begins talking his hand into the sort of wave Erskine taught him is meant for these occasions. 

For some reason, the combination of movement makes Steve think of the game he used to play with the other kids in his grade as a child where they would all make a competition out of seeing who could rub their stomach and pat their head at the quickest pace. 

This isn’t the same, but it’s where his mind went. Steve was never the best at that particular game in the past, but he does manage to make it down the stairs without tripping in the present, so that’s something. 

He still looks to Erskine for his approval when he reaches the bottom of the steps. “How’d I do?”

Erskine hums. “There’s some room for improvement, but it’s a promising start.”

It’s probably stupid how proud Steve is of himself for succeeding in such a simple task, but if it keeps him from making a fool out of himself in front of all those people whonare supposed to be at the ball… 

“You want me to give it another go?”

Nodding, Erskine strokes his chin as he watches Steve climb back up the stairs. “Try and move your legs a little less stiffly. We want you to look elegant, not like you’ve been electrocuted.”

“I’ll do my best.”

-

They end up running through that lesson so many times that by the end of it, Steve’s knees quite literally creak when he goes to sit down at the table Peggy has set up for them to cool off with their usual mid-afternoon tea and sandwiches. 

It’s a credit to how much Steve has learned to control himself that he doesn’t immediately scarf at least three of them down. It seems like he’s hungry all the time lately. Probably a side effect from how much work he’s having to cram in. He’s been so busy with his studies that he’s only been down to the center once in the past week-and-a-half, which he’d feel guiltier about if Erskine hadn’t offered to help him pay this month’s rent to make up for what happened with Coulson. 

Steve confines himself to only taking two sandwiches and eating them in small bites between slow sips of his tea. He thinks he’s doing a good job of minding his manners, but then he notices Erskine staring at him with a pensive expression on his face. 

Swallowing, Steve glances down to make sure he doesn’t have any crumbs on his shirt before asking, “Is there something wrong?”

That startles Erskine out of whatever trance he’s in. He blinks behind his glasses and sets his cup down. “Ah. My apologies for staring. Nothing is… wrong, per se.”

“But?” Steve prompts, brows furrowing.

“Something has come up that I’ve been meaning to ask you about.” Before Steve can take away too many ominous notions from that statement, Erskine goes on. “Ever since your existence was revealed to the world, my contacts back in Vengea have been pushing me to bring you over there for a visit.”

“I thought I had two months left before the ball.” Before I have to choose. Steve’s stomach has dropped. 

“You still do,” Erskine assures him. Then pursing his lips, “That part of our agreement has not changed, but the plan we had for how we were going to get there…”

“You weren’t planning on everyone knowing about me so early,” Steve murmurs. As dumb as he feels sometimes, he isn’t actually stupid. He looks up at Erskine, brows still knitted together. “They want to meet me? See if I’m good enough?”

Erskine’s next words are chosen carefully. “They have asked me to accompany you back to Vengea so we can celebrate our Independence Day with a small gathering in the palace. It would be limited to a very selective list of guests, primarily others who are of royal blood, ambassadors, diplomats.”

“So a lot of really important people.” 

“To them, you are just as important.”

Steve sighs and clenches his hands on his thighs under the table so he won’t hide his face in them instead. “That doesn’t make me feel much better about things, you know.”

Erskine’s lips twitch despite his sympathetic tone of voice. “I know this is a very sudden change in plans, but how many of those have you already dealt with? I have every bit of confidence in you, Steven. You’ve come so far in our lessons together already. Think of this as a way to gauge how your skills with the public have improved.”

“I just…” Steve swallows and attempts to even out his voice so he doesn’t sound as unsteady as he feels about this offer. “I don’t know if I can do it. I mean, look at how many mistakes I made at that dinner alone. You really trust me not to do something even worse once we get to the palace?”

“Haven’t we been over this already? Mistakes are normal when you’re learning. They’re expected. And frankly, if I didn’t think that you are ready, I would have simply told my contacts no.’ But I do think you are ready, which is why I am asking you to do this. Not telling.”

“So you’re saying that if I didn’t want to go and I told you no, you’d accept that?”

Erskine gives him a small smile. “Yes.”

Steve sighs again. “But you know I won’t.”

“I know that your father and mother were always a stubborn pair. I know that Joseph also loved rising to a challenge. And I know that you, Steven Rogers, are just as stubborn and just as headstrong.”

“But what if I’m not as good at this as he was?” Steve whispers. “What if I–” Disappoint everyone, he almost says, but he doesn’t in fear of if he hears himself utter the words, they’ll somehow become cemented as his fate. “What if they decide I’m not good enough? If I’m not really one of them?”

Erskine is quiet, Steve’s questions left hanging between them as he bends down and reaches for something under the table that turns out to be a bottle of the same sort of plum wine they’ve drank during most of their shared meals. This one looks to be much older than the others. 

“Those people back at the palace who might question you have only ever lived a life in the lap of comfort,” he eventually says. “They have always been powerful. They have always considered themselves to be larger than the common man, but that’s the thing about power.” Erskine raises his hand and points a finger towards Steve, jabbing it against the table to emphasize the point he makes. “It amplifies everything that is inside a person. A man that is good before he holds power will become great. A man who was bad will become worse, and a strong man who has known power for all of his life may lose respect for that power, but a weak man knows the value of strength. He understands compassion. Your father was a lucky man, not to succumb to that. Too many kings of the past fell into that very trap.”

“And you don’t think that I could too?”

“Would a man without compassion even ask me that question?” Erskine’s smile is knowing this time. He waits for Steve to shake his head before he goes on, gripping his procured bottle of wine around the neck. “This was your fathers. We found it in the drawer of the same desk where the note detailing his wishes containing you as his heir was hidden.” 

“I thought we were here to drink tea,” Steve tries to joke. It’s hard to act nonchalant. 

“What better occasion is there to have a toast than this?” Erskine is uncorking the bottle before Steve can further protest his suggested day drinking, pouring out a healthy amount of the dark liquid into empty glasses he brings out as well. “And if I may quote your father while we drink in his honor…”

Steve can admit that he leans forward in his seat at that. He’ll hang onto every word of his father’s someone is willing to hand him.

These ones turn out to be more insightful to Steve’s current situation that he thought could be possible for a dead man. 

“Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important. The brave may not live forever, but the cautious do not live at all. In life, you’ll often travel the road between who you are and who you can be. It is up to the individual to choose the destination of their journey.”

Hearing that is enough to make Steve want to curl in on himself and cry, but the sound that ends up actually being drawn from him as he ruins his posture to collapse against the back of his chair is a laugh. “Was my dad a motivational speaker on top of being a prince or what?”

“Motivational speaking— and more importantly, making speeches— are both things a prince has to be good at.” Erskine hands Steve one of the glasses so they can raise them simultaneously and clink them together. “To Joseph Rogers. May he rest in peace.”

“May he rest in peace,” Steve echoes. 

And may Steve somehow get through finals week in one piece, especially now that he might have his first trip to Vengea lined up for after. 

-

In the end, Steve decides that he’ll go to Vengea for the Independence Day gathering on one condition. 

The condition has to do with his presentation, and more specifically, how well it goes. When he’d pitched the idea to Sam, he’d actually said depending on how badly it goes. At that, Sam had smacked him with a rolled-up packet of notes and given him a stern look as well as a lecture about the beneficial effect of using most positive phrasing in everyday language. 

Steve had rolled his eyes, yet had also begrudgingly switched the word out. He’s still wary of being too positive, but he’ll admit that he’s feeling a little hopeful. He’s done well on every exam he’s taken this week.

Actually, presenting his thesis is the last thing to check off on his to-do list for school other than graduate. After this, no matter how it goes, he’ll be done either way.

He doesn’t think he’ll be too keen on flying across the globe to Vengea if he doesn’t do well, though. Erskine has already been informed of Steve’s singular requirement to agree to the trip, surprisingly chipper. 

Steve guesses that’s proof the older man really wasn’t lying when he said he thought Steve could do this. He can only hope that he was right. Erskine usually is. Though Steve doesn’t tell him to his face, Dr. Erskine is one of the wisest— and kindest— men Steve has ever had in his life. 

Looking down at himself where he’s standing outside the classroom that’s been reserved for his presentation, Steve goes through a few rounds of the breathing exercises Frank had taught him in an attempt to both kill time and calm down. He’s just as nervous as he had been the last time he was in this position, but there are a few other changes that Steve wonders if the committee will take notice of. 

For one, Steve has shown up for this meeting looking much more put together. The impact Erskine’s taste has had on Steve’s wardrobe— well, the formal parts of it anyways. Steve still loves his hoodies and jeans on the weekends— is significant. 

The tan slacks and light green button-up he has on are actually pressed, and more importantly, they actually match. Natasha had been so kind as to help him pick out an outfit for today, so the color of the shirt even brings out the hint of green in his eyes that Steve hadn’t known existed before Natasha pointed it out. 

It’s not only his way of dress that’s changed, either. The very way he stands and holds himself has shifted thanks to Erskine’s efforts to better his posture. His shoulders and spine are no longer caught in a constant slouch, which has definitely been helpful in cutting down on the aching a little, which Steve hadn’t been expecting. 

It’s nice. Erskine says it makes him look more confident as well, which is something Steve is still trying to translate the effects into his mind— he’s managed to get some of it into the way he speaks, at least. Erskine has taught him how to use what he calls a royal tone when trying to get a point across. 

Steve is definitely going to have to call upon it for this presentation. He’ll have to stand up there in front of all those professors and talk about his thesis for half an hour. Sam had already helped him cart his pieces in and set them up in the classroom the evening before, so that’s one less thing he has to worry about during these last few minutes before his meeting is scheduled to start. 

None of the professors have shown up yet, but that’s normal. Steve can’t remember the last time he took a class where the teacher hadn’t come in late at least two times every week. 

While he’s waiting, he runs through the list of reminders in his head of how he should behave when he finally makes it through that door. 

Stand up straight. Keep your chin lifted. Don’t cross your arms or clench your fingers. Make sure you don’t only talk with your hands. Project your voice so they can hear you even from the back of the room. Be confident, not cocky. Make sure you ask if they have any questions at the end. 

The voice in his head starts sounding suspiciously like Dr. Erskine after a while. Steve huffs and shakes his head from side to side a little, like that’ll do anything real to help clear it out. 

He can do this. He’s already gotten this far. There’s no way he’d let himself fail now.

“You’ve got this, Rogers,” he murmurs to himself, closing his eyes for a brief moment that somehow allows one of the professors to sneak up behind him, announcing their presence with a remark that forced Steve to tense up completely just to avoid being visibly startled. Hopefully they didn’t hear him talking to himself. 

“Hello, Mr. Rogers. Would you like to step inside with me and make sure everything is where it should be while we wait for the others to arrive?”

Steve clears his throat, settling on speaking politely rather than bringing out his royalty tone in full force so early. “That would be wonderful, ma’am.”

“Step right this way. The others should be here shortly.”

Before following her into the room, Steve pauses to square up his shoulders and take in a deep breath. He can do this. He’s worked hard to get here, and like his Ma said to him when he was sickly and small, Steve Rogers has got no quit in him. Neither had his mother and father.

That’s just the Rogers’ family way. 

He exhales and lifts his chin up as he begins to head into the classroom. 

He’s got this. He’s got it. 

And even if he doesn’t, there’s no turning back now.

-

For once, Steve thinks he knows what word to use in order to describe what the experience he just went through was like. 

The presentation was… good. 

Not just good. Now that he’s no longer in any danger of jinxing himself, Steve might even say that it went great. Not too sound full of himself or anything. 

But is he really being full of himself if he’s just acknowledging his accomplishments? A few months ago, there’s no way in hell he could have come close to doing something like that without fainting on the spot. 

But today? 

Erskine’s lessons really had come in handy for his presentation. Steve won’t give them all the credit for his success, but he knows they made a major contribution towards helping him learn how to speak up a little. 

His grin is so wide that he’s surprised he can fit out the door when he goes to exit the classroom. The committee members are still inside, milling around his pieces to get a closer look. 

They liked his idea. They loved his work. They even clapped after he was done presenting. Never in his wildest dreams— even the ones about flying— could Steve have imagined something like this.

Jesus, Steve feels like he should be jumping for you and clicking his heels like an old timey movie star right now. For once in his life, he doesn’t try and tamp down how proud he is of himself. 

He is proud of himself, and he knows that when he tells them about his success, there are other people who will likely be even prouder. Will Erskine be proud? Steve hopes so. 

He knows his mother would be. He’s certain his father would be as well.  

As for the others—

Natasha is waiting right outside the art building just like she and Steve had agreed on earlier, Natasha insisting on being the first to hear the news and Steve knowing he would need someone he could be truthful with just in case things didn’t go his way. 

But they did. That makes breaking the news to her a whole lot easier. Steve doesn’t bother holding back the way his face lights up with a smile as soon as he sees her. So what if it gives the surprise away? Steve doesn’t need her to be surprised. He just wants her to be able to share in his happiness. 

In any case, she doesn’t look all that surprised by whatever she sees in his expression. Steve assumes its joy, because he soon sees the exact same emotion reflected on her own face. 

He confesses his outcome to her out loud regardless— with how much he’s gone through to get here, why wouldn’t he want to say the words? “I did it, Nat. I did it.” 

“Is it impolite to say I told you so?” Natasha drawls, but Steve can tell that she’s more excited than she is smug based off of how tightly she hugs him once he’s gotten close enough. It’s the first time in weeks Steve hasn’t looked around for a reporter before expressing any affection towards his friends in public. 

“The lowest score I got on the rubric was a nine out of ten,” he says, feeling the need to tell her every single detail of his triumph. “One of the notes they left me said my artwork has the potential to be of great impact.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely saying I told you so about that.” Natasha rubs a small circle into his back the way she always does when they hug, letting go of him shortly after just to look up at him with an uncharacteristically gentle smile. “You’re going to change the world one day, Steve Rogers. Whether you’re wearing a crown while you do it or not.”

That makes Steve’s throat grow so thick with emotion that the chuckle he forced out is slightly choked. “Don’t tell me you’re going soft on me, Romanoff.”

Natasha hums. “Don’t worry. It’s only temporary.” Then, looking over his shoulder, “The bodyguard has arrived. Shall you tell him the good news or should I? I know how much you hate bragging.” That last quip comes out as a teasing quip.

Steve rolls his eyes and turns to see Fury approaching them, clad in his usual all black uniform and eyepatch. “Nick.”

“Mr. Rogers. Since you’re not in tears or hiding in the bathroom, I assume all went well in your presentation?”

Steve flickers his gaze between Fury and Natasha both. “What is this, a joint effort to make fun of me when I’m supposed to be at my highest? Don’t tell me I need to be humbled already.” He pitches his tone to be accusatory, but his smile doesn’t leave his face long enough for either of them to take the comment seriously. 

“Does that mean you’ll be wanting Mr. Dugan to drive you to the apartment to drop you off? Or will you be packing for that trip Dr. Erskine mentioned a few days ago?”

Ah, yes. There it is. The question of the hour. 

Well, Steve did say that his presentation’s success would be the determining factor of him agreeing to go. And Steve Rogers, prince or not, is a man of his word. 

He exchanges a meaningful look with Natasha, who knows all about Erskine’s proposed visit to Vengea thanks to the ranting session she and Sam had sat through with Steve the night after Erskine had first made the offer. 

“I’ll only need half an hour or so to pack,” he eventually says. Erskine had promised him that there would be formal wear waiting for him at the palace for the event if he were to agree to go, so he doesn’t have to worry too terribly much about what he brings. “And, uh— don’t mention anything about my presentation to Dr. Erskine yet? I sort of want to tell him myself.”

Fury nods, lips turning up at the corners. “I’ll keep it hush-hush until we meet him at the lounge. Word of advice? Wait to tell Mr. Dugan the good news if you don’t want it blabbered across town within fifteen minutes.”

“Duly noted.” 

Steve looks down at Natasha, opening his arms up for one last hug. He needs it if they aren’t going to see each other until he gets back. Sam won’t be getting away without Steve giving him a few squeezes either. 

Though Natasha tries to laugh it off, her voice is softer than usual when she goes to give him a few parting words. “Don’t forget that you have people that are over here worrying about you while we’re gone,” she murmurs. “Sam and I will always be one phone call away. I don’t care what time it is when you make it.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Steve whispers, choked up with emotion yet again. “I’ll be back here to bother you before you know it. I promise.” When they part, he holds out his hand to her, pinky crooked so that it’s easy for her to link it with her own.

“I’m holding you to that, Rogers. Don’t think you’ll be getting out of a pinky swear just because you're a prince.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Nat.” And he wouldn’t. He never wants to have to lie to his friends again. 

The giddiness of his triumph lasts the entire car ride back to the apartment, then only strengthens even more once he gets to clue Sam in on his celebration. The hug Sam tackles him into is so overjoyed that it barrells them both down onto the bed where Steve’s clothes are strewn over the covers in his hurried attempt to pack. 

The laughter and playful pushing at each other is a brief distraction from his efforts, but eventually, Sam snorts and stands, scooping up a pile of shirts and tossing it into Steve’s suitcase as he starts helping. 

“How long are you gonna be gone for?” he asks.

Steve gives him a small shrug, because he really doesn’t have a concrete answer to that question. He gives Sam his best guess instead. “I’m not sure. I’m only going there for the ball, which is gonna be happening pretty soon after I get there. Probably only a couple of days?”

Sam nods and passes Steve a bundle of socks. “You excited for your first trip out of the country?” 

Blowing out a breath, Steve shrugs again. “I think so, but it’s hard to tell through everything else I’m feeling about it.”

The anxiety, he means. The apprehension. The fear. And yeah, the excitement is there too, but it’s also hard to tell which one of those emotions is going to win out. 

“As long as you’re back here for graduation. I think Nat might skin you alive if you don’t walk.”

“With how much stress it took for me to get here?” Steve stuffs one last hoodie into his suitcase before reaching over to zip it shut. “I wouldn’t miss walking across that stage for anything.” Not even a crown. 

His Ma was so supportive when he told her he wanted to go to school for art that not walking feels like it’d almost be a betrayal. Besides, he’s been practicing walking with Erskine enough. What’s he got to worry about?

“Well, it’ll be your first time in an airplane.” Sam grins and claps him on the back. “You’ll finally get to see what all the fuss is about.”

“I doubt I’ll like flying as much as you do, Bird-Boy,” Steve teases. “With how much you talk about taking to the sky, I’m surprised you haven’t sprouted a pair of wings yourself.”

“You never know. One day I just might.”

It’s hard saying goodbye to Sam, Steve feeling just as oddly emotional as he had with Natasha. Sam squeezes him so tight that Steve is breathless by the time they separate, which Steve takes to be a sign that Sam is going to miss Steve as much as Steve is going to miss him. 

They live together, after all. It’s always a little lonely when one of them is gone. Steve tries to make up for the absence he knows he’ll be leaving behind with a few adamant promises to call and a joking remark about picking up a souvenir to give Sam when he gets back home. 

There’s still a buzz in his blood that Steve attributes to the pride leftover from his presentation, but it’s dampened slightly when Fury informs both Steve and Dum-Dum in the car that Dr. Erskine will be meeting them at the airport. The car ride over gives Steve enough time to start thinking. 

His thesis project being done is a relief, but this trip and the upcoming ball still leave Steve with plenty to be worried about. Fury has advised him that it’d be in his best interest to get some rest on the plane just so he won’t be ready to fall asleep on his feet once they arrive, but somehow, Steve really doubts he’s going to be able to sleep. 

It’s not even that he’s afraid of flying. Sure, the idea is a little intimidating, but it’s not like he’ll be the one flying the plane. 

At least he doesn’t have to go through security. One of the perks of being royalty evidently is having access to a private plane, because that’s what Fury leads Steve and Dum-Dum to once the limo has been parked in the lot behind the building. 

“Dr. Erskine should already be on board,” he says, gesturing towards the staircase leading up to the open plane door as if Steve couldn’t tell where he’s supposed to go just by looking. “You can tell him the good news now, Mr. Rogers. I’ll hold Mr. Dugan back just in case.”

Steve responds to the sarcasm with a good-natured eye roll, hefting up his suitcase before either of the men beside him can insist on lifting it for him. He can still do some things himself. “Thanks, Nick.”

Fury and Dum-Dum end up lingering on the ground while Steve climbs up to enter the plane in order to give Steve a moment alone with Erskine. Steve finds the older man already sitting down in one of the seats, legs crossed and a book in his laps, glasses perched low on his nose. He pushes them back into place when he glances up at Steve’s arrival. 

“Steven,” he greets him. “How did things go this morning?“

It’s easier to say it since Erskine is the one who asked. Despite his doubts about where they’re about to go, a shy smile creeps across Steve’s face, reaching his eyes enough for them to crinkle at the sides.

“It went well. Really, really well.”

Erskine’s smile reaches his eyes too. “I can’t say I’m surprised. But I can say congratulations. I’m sure your father and mother would be very proud.” He sounds like he’s feeling that way himself, which only makes the lump in Steve’s throat grow even larger.

“A lot of it is thanks to you,” he says quietly. “What you’ve taught me…”

“I simply assisted you. The achievement is all your own.” Before Steve can really even process that statement, Erskine is beckoning Steve over. “Come, come. Put your luggage in one of the compartments and sit across from me.”

Steve does as he’s told, shuffling over to the seat Erskine has pointed to and plopping down once his suitcase is tucked away safely above their heads. It’s facing the seat Erskine is already in, located closer to the window than the aisle. Steve wonders briefly how much more space this plane has in comparison to normal ones. It’s enough to comfortably fit his legs, thankfully. 

“I assume you have never flown before.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head, only slightly self conscious. Erskine already knows he didn’t have an extravagant upbringing. “I have not.”

“The view from the clouds is always something spectacular,” Erskine muses. “No matter where it is that you’re flying over. But the sight as we cross over through the skies over Vengea… I find it particularly beautiful.” He chuckles. “Though I may be biased. Patriotism is not uniquely American after all.”

“Is this you asking me to give my outside opinion?” Steve jokes, but Erskine only smiles at him and chuckles again. 

“More of me preparing you to finally experience it for yourself.” His gaze focuses behind Steve rather than on him as Dum-Dum and Fury join them on the plane with Peggy and the others in tow. “Gentlemen. Ladies. Takeoff will begin shortly, so sit wherever you please as long as it has a seatbelt.”

With the attention off him, Steve takes the opportunity to finally buckle his own seatbelt before relaxing back in his seat, head tipped back and eyes closed. He isn’t trying to sleep just yet, though. He’s just trying to prepare himself. 

He’s always dreamt of flying, even if in a more literal sense than this. He’s also always dreamed of changing the world. With his thesis complete and them about to make their way to his father’s homeland for the first time, Steve can’t help but think that maybe— just maybe— it’s possible that both of his dreams will someday come true in one way or the other. 

They’ll just have to see, won’t they?

Chapter Text

Steve finds out that Erskine was right about the view of Vengea being particularly beautiful once he finally wakes up from the power nap he’s fallen into sometime during the second hour of their flight. 

It’s a little disconcerting, falling asleep in one place and one time zone and waking up somewhere completely different, but the jet lag isn’t enough to cloud Steve’s eyes from settling on the stunning landscape laid outside of his window. No pun intended. 

It’s gorgeous in a way that a city boy like Steve hasn’t seen much of in person before. Lush and green with thick forests and rolling hills— and are those farms? Steve’s never seen a farm outside of a picture before, but there must be a half dozen dotted below where they’re flying over right now, and that’s only a prelude for the sight of the palace on the horizon that soon greets them. 

The structure is stunning in its own right, but considering it’s a castle and Steve has spent his entire life living in shitty apartment complexes , he doesn’t think it takes that much for him to be impressed. It is a piece of very aesthetically pleasing architecture, though. The artist in Steve can objectively appreciate that. 

Watching the landscape pass by in a blur as they get lower and lower is almost enough to make Steve forget about the terror of what’s going to happen once they land. Almost. 

As things are, the bumpy descent that happens once the wheels of their plane finally hit the runway isn’t enough to explain why Steve’s hands are shaking when he goes to unbuckle his seatbelt. At least the others are kind enough not to point it out, though Erskine most definitely notices based off of the soothing smile and small talk he tries to make once Steve stands on equally shaky legs and moves to pull his luggage down from the overhead compartment. 

“How was your first flight?”

To be frank, Steve slept through almost three quarters of the entire thing, but Erskine got a firsthand look at that. They both know he’s only asking to give Steve the time to calm down before they get off the plane and head into the palace. 

“It was okay. Sam’s in school to become a pilot, so I got the speech about how to keep my ears from hurting the whole time before we left.” Chewing gum as a painkiller. Who would have thought?

“I know that flying can be quite the exhausting experience.” Suddenly, Erskine looks apologetic. “If we had the time for you to rest some more before the celebration, I would gladly give it to you, but unfortunately, things are scheduled to begin soon. I’ll have to leave you in your chambers in order to prepare, but Peggy will come and fetch you after you’ve had the chance to freshen up.”

Steve sighs and almost yawns at the mere thought of taking another nap. They’d left New York in the late afternoon, which means they’ve arrived in Vengea early in the morning thanks to the time difference. He thinks, anyway. He isn’t even really sure what day it is over here. “My… chambers?”

“You’ll have a suite all to yourself in the palace,” Erskine informs him, standing up himself and walking down the aisle, leaving Steve to follow behind with his suitcase in tow. “We haven’t had anyone to occupy the prince’s quarters in quite some time, so there are still some renovations being done, but your bed and bath should be finished by now. Your closet might take a little while longer.”

Renovations? To his closet? Steve doesn’t think he’s had a bathroom all to himself in his entire life before. To be given an entire suire— the prince’s suite? It’s all so overwhelming, and Steve hasn’t even stepped off the plane yet. 

“I…” He trails off. What’s he supposed to say to something like that?

Erskine seems to take pity on him, continuing to lead the conversation like Steve didn’t just somehow fumble the single syllable he managed to make come out of his mouth. “The staff should have already laid out an outfit for you, so you won’t need to worry about that. All you’re being tasked with is washing up and getting dressed.” He smiles over his shoulders right as they approach the plane’s exit. “And of course prepare yourself for a day full of dining and dancing. Independence day is one of the most dearly beloved holidays amongst our nation.”

It’s ironic that Steve starts feeling like he might be sick almost as soon as his feet touch solid ground. “I guess I’ll see you later,” he says faintly.

Before he turns to head off towards wherever his attention is being called, Erskine sighs and gives Steve another smoothing smile accompanied this time with a gentle squeeze to the shoulder. “Steven,” he murmurs. “What did we talk about? I trust that you are ready for this. I’m asking you to trust my judgment. You have nothing to worry about. This is what we’ve been training for.”

A petty, childish part of Steve wants to point out that their deal was he’d have two more months before he had to do something like this, but the reasonable, mature part of him knows that it isn’t Erskine’s fault that things didn’t go according to plan. 

It just is what it is. Que sera sera, whatever will be will be , or however that song his mother used to love goes. He doesn’t really want to get that stuck in his head right now, but it might give him something else to focus on other than the nauseating amount of fear coursing through him as he and Erskine separate so Peggy and Dum-Dum can lead Steve towards what he assumes is a back entrance to the palace while Erskine walks away with Nick towards the garden. 

Peggy’s no-nonsense tone is just as clipped as usual, completely at odds with Dum-Dum’s own easygoing expression. “Mr. Dugan will show you to your suite, but I’ll be the one coming to get you for the celebration. You’ll have an hour and a half to prepare yourself.” She glances at him. “Plenty of time for you to make yourself presentable, yes?”

Steve blinks. Was that meant to be a backhanded remark or is he just being sensitive because of all the anxiety? “Oh. Uh, yes?”

“Excellent.” With that, Peggy walks off as well, leaving Steve to be whisked away to his chambers by Dum-Dum instead. 

The normally chatty man makes no attempt at his usual small talk, apparently picking up on the fact that Steve is a little too preoccupied with ogling at the inside of the castle to hold a conversation. Steve doesn’t really know what he was expecting things to look like, but he’s surprised at how modern some of the interior is. 

It’s still mostly traditional, but when he gets to his room, he finds a brand new stereo set up in a cabinet located directly under a bonafide sword and shield mounted on the wall. Safe to say it’s a blend of both styles, then. 

The stereo isn’t even the first thing Steve notices about his new bedroom. It’s the bed itself– which would be pretty hard to miss considering how colossal it is. With how tall Steve is himself, most beds feel a little too small to him at best, but this one is so massive that it could probably fit Steve, Sam, and Natasha in it comfortably all at once. 

If there wasn’t a freshly pressed suit already laid out over the comforter, Steve would probably be giving into the urge to jump on the bed face first just to see if it feels as heavenly as it looks, but Erskine had said there would be no time for naps. Steve settles for walking up to the mattress and pressing his fingers to it instead, turning to address Dum-Dum after a few seconds spent marveling at the softness of the fabric under his fingers. 

“Do you know which door leads to the bathroom?”

Dum-Dum points him to a door in the corner. “The other one is the closet, but that isn’t finished yet. Do you need anything else while I’m here, or should I leave you to it?”

Steve doubts either of them want Dugan to assist in Steve’s bathing and dressing with the whole waiting hand-and-foot on royalty shtick. “I’ll be okay, thanks.”

“I’ll see you at the celebration then.” 

Giving Steve a mock salute, Dum-Dum back out of the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving Steve to stand by himself in what’s now apparently his brand new room. His royal suite. Fit for a prince, because that’s what he is.

Jesus Christ, Steve is never going to get used to thinking about shit like this. 

His suitcase looks almost laughably cheap when he places it at the end of the bed and abandons it in favor of going to explore the bathroom. It ends up being just as ornate as the bedroom is, the all marble floors, bath, and sink hidden behind a heavy wooden door. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen a toilet half as nice as the one in here.

Thankfully, there’s already a line of products on the shelf located on one of the walls by the tub, so Steve won’t have to worry about asking for shampoo. A little bit of poking around in the cabinets proves he won’t have to worry about requesting a towel either.

There’s a lot of nice things about hanging out with rich people, but Steve has to admit that being able to stay somewhere where the water doesn’t take half an hour to warm up is one of his favorite perks so far. He usually prefers showers to baths, but since he’s staying somewhere so fancy, he may as well luxuriate a little, right?

In the time it takes for the tub to fill, he’s able to unpack enough to lay out his medications, hair products, and contacts case out on the bathroom counter. After what happened the last time Coulson made him over… yeah, Steve is okay with getting himself ready for today. He can handle a hairbrush and some powder just fine. 

Stripping out of his clothes does feel a little odd, like getting naked in someone else’s home always does, but it’s also a relief to be able to step in the tub and sink down under the suds. He doesn’t start getting clean right away. An hour and a half is more than double the time it usually takes for him to get ready, and besides– it’s good to relax.
With how he’s about to have to spend the day, Steve wants to release some tension while he can. 

He’s never been much of a party person. Or a people person. Having to go to a party where every person there is going to be expecting him to act like some perfectly proper prince isn’t exactly his idea of how to have a good time. 

He’d deny that he takes out some of his stress on his skin when he begins scrubbing it with a washcloth and the apple-scented body wash that’s been provided, but by the time he’s finished washing his body and can move on to his hair, his skin is as red as a tomato from just how hard he’s rubbed it. 

He works his scalp just as much, so squeaky clean by the end of it that he almost feels like a completely new man. Maybe that was the point of it in the first place. He’ll need to put on a mask to get through today. Might as well start as fresh as he can. 

The skincare, careful combing of his hair, and close shave are all a part of that. It’s just an act, Steve reminds himself. All he has to do is put on a show in the way Erskine has taught him and he’ll be fine. 

That’s what he tries to tell himself while he gets dressed, anyways. He’s not sure it works, though putting on the tuxedo that was left out for him does feel a bit like wearing a costume. It’s a deep navy ensemble with a white shirt and a red cummerbund, the color scheme of the outfit seemingly drawn from the brooch bearing the royal crest that’s been left for Steve to pin to his lapel.

It’s the most official mark of royalty Steve has been stamped with so far. That fact shouldn’t make it as hard for Steve to put the damn thing on as it does, but he knows stabbing himself with the needle wouldn’t be enough to get him out of having to attend the celebration. 

There are also gloves that Steve thinks he’s supposed to put on under the jacket, but he puts that off in order to fix up his face and hair first, using the lip tint, mousse, and powder Coulson had given him after their makeover. 

You can say what you want about the man, but he’s damn good at his job. Steve thinks he looks pretty dapper once he finally has the entire ensemble put together and is able to get a good look at himself in the full length mirror set up in the corner of the bedroom. He’s not in a crown or anything just yet (not that he’s complaining), but he thinks he looks… nice. Like he might actually belong in a crowd of fancy guests instead of sticking out like a sore thumb. 

Steve hasn’t ever really felt like he’s belonged anywhere, but especially since his mother died. And now here he is in the place that his father once called home. Maybe Steve is attaching too much meaning to that, but he doesn’t think anyone can blame him. 

He sighs and straightens his clothes in the mirror one last time, trying to run over a mental checklist just to make sure that he’s covered everything he needs to. God knows if Peggy catches him slacking she won’t ever let him live it down. A glance at the clock tells him that he has at least twenty minutes before Peggy will be coming to escort him to the party, which gives him the chance to do one of the main things he’s been meaning to ever since they landed. 

There’s a phone over on the nightstand that Steve has been eyeing, and now that he’s done getting ready, he can finally put it to use and fulfill the promise he’d made before they’d left the states. 

The number he dials is one he knows by heart, his fingers pressing against the buttons only slightly hindered by his gloves. He’s able to lift the receiver to his ear before too long though, waiting for it to ring a couple of times before a familiar voice greets him on the other end of the line. 

“Hey, your highness,” Natasha drawls. “How was the flight back to the motherland?”

Steve huffs out a strained laugh. “I think in this situation, it’d technically be the fatherland.” He pauses and purses his lips before speaking back up, voice slightly softer than before. “I’m trying really hard not to freak out, but…” He swallows. “You and Sam are gonna be with me the next time I do this, right?”

He knows damn well that they’ve already agreed to come with him to the ball, but he really just needs the reminder of that right now. 

Natasha, bless her, gives it to him without her usual sarcasm attached. “We wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world. You know that.” 

“Yeah, I do, I just—“ Steve blows out a quick breath and closes his eyes “I guess I just wanted to remind myself that I still have you guys in my corner. Even if you can’t be here right now.”

“I don’t recall receiving an invitation to tag along,” Natasha teases, sobering up so fast it almost could give Steve whiplash with what she says next. “We’re always with you, Steve. Sam and me… we miss you just as much.”

That’s just how family is, Steve thinks, but he doesn’t say it, because if he did he thinks Peggy might kill him if she finally shows up only to see him with his eyes all swollen and bloodshot from crying on the phone with Natasha. Well, Natasha wouldn’t be crying. It’d probably just be Steve. 

Natasha must hear how ragged his breathing is, though, because she’s brushing on before Steve can manage to find anything to respond to her with that wouldn’t provoke tears. 

“All you have to do is draw on that confidence from this morning. You nailed your thesis. You can do this. Easy peasy, right?”

“Right.” Steve doesn’t think he’s ever heard Natasha use the phrase easy peasy before, but he’s pretty sure she picked it up from Sam. 

“Just go out there, strut your stuff, and try not to step on too many toes. I’m sure at least one good looking guy will ask you to dance, so try not to combust when that happens, okay?”

Groaning, Steve drops his head and smiles down at his shoes. “I’m pretty sure there’ll be more diplomats and dignitaries there than there will be wannabe Prince Charmings.”

“Isn’t that what you are?”

Steve’s smile turns into an eye roll and a scowl at Natasha’s mockingly innocent tone. “I called you for emotional support and yet here you are tearing me town. That’s kind of a rude thing to say to royalty, Romanoff.”

“I’m not one of your subjects,” Natasha says sweetly. “I’m just your loyal best friend who’s trying to make sure you don’t get too big of a head while you’re mingling with all those fancy folks.”

“Trust me, that is not going to be a problem when it comes to which direction my self esteem is heading,” Steve mutters, glancing up at the clock and exhaling heavily once he sees the time. “I should go. I’m about to have to head out, and I know it’s not the best hour for a phone call over there anyways.”

“I said you could call me anytime, Rogers. But I don’t want you to be late to your first palace party, so I’ll let you go. But!” she adds right as Steve opens his mouth to say his goodbyes. “Remember: stick to the basics. Smile and stand up straight. Everything else is extra.”

“Thanks, Nat,” Steve whispers, so full of gratitude and affection that he feels like he might burst if he speaks at a louder volume. “I really appreciate you.”

Nat hums. “I know you do. Now go and have fun!! The dance floor awaits. And so do all those handsome rich boys.” With that, she hangs up, leaving Steve to pull the phone away from his face and stare at the receiver incredulously. 

Natasha Romanoff is one odd nut sometimes. Steve shakes his head and chuckles to himself as he sets the phone down completely, feeling successfully calmed down for the time being. 

Which of course means that that’s the exact moment Peggy Carter has to choose to come knock on his door. 

“Mr. Rogers,” she calls. “Are you ready?”

Is he? 

Taking Natasha’s advice, Steve straightens up and smiles, first to himself, and then at Peggy one he has the door pulled open. “Yes, ma’am.”

Peggy gives him a once over. “I see everything fits.”

Steve will never get used to being ogled at in the way Erskine, Peggy, and half of the people they pull in to assist with Steve’s lessons love to do, but he nods, hesitating over whether or not it’d be appropriate to comment on the form-fitting red dress Peggy herself has on. 

He thinks better of it. “Yes, ma’am,” he repeats instead. 

The lack of small talk as they make their way down towards the party is a lot more awkward than the walk up here with Dugan had been. Steve still takes the time to admire the interior of the palace regardless, appreciative in particular of the statues that line the hallway they’re walking down. 

He wonders if there are any books on the sculptor Erskine could give him. Learning about the artists of his father’s nation is a combination of interests he’d love to look into.

That’ll have to wait, though. The closer they get to the double doors Steve just knows are going to lead to that staircase Erskine warned him about, the more Steve’s apprehension grows. 

He made it through his thesis and that dinner, but this is different. This time, he’s going to have to walk down while everyone is watching his every move, where at least a few people in the crowd will be waiting for him to make a mistake. To show he wouldn’t be worthy of the crown even if he was sure that he wanted it. 

Sometimes, he wishes his brain had an off switch. 

For once, he finds himself thankful for how brisk Peggy’s voice is when she stops him just outside the doorway to give him his instructions on what to do when he enters. It makes her easier to focus on. 

“When the doors open, wait for your name to be announced before you walk in,” she tells him. “Pause at the top for a few seconds and give everyone a smile. Walk down the steps and Dr. Erskine should be waiting for you at the bottom. He’ll take it from there.”

That’s a minor reassurance at least. It’ll keep Steve from having to make any speeches today. “Copy that,” he murmurs.

Peggy raps her knuckles on the doors twice and points Steve to position himself behind the center of them before they open. 

Once they finally do, it feels like the world stops in the split second that Steve stands there, blinking at the crowd while he waits for his name to be called so he can walk his way forward. And he isn’t even exaggerating. 

He swears he can feel his heartbeat all the way down to his toes, the fear rising up so thick in his throat that he almost considers turning to run away, but then—

“Presenting the son of Prince Joseph and heir to the throne, come to us all the way from Brooklyn, Steven Grant Rogers!”

The rest of Steve might be frozen, but his feet move almost like Steve isn’t the one in control of his own motions. He doesn’t know how the hell he manages to get through the doors. He’s even less sure of how he manages to plaster a smile across his face as he begins to wave and walk slowly down the stairs, but maybe the how doesn’t matter. 

What’s important is that he does it. One foot in front of the other, just like his Ma always taught him. Her words as well as Natasha are what’s echoing around Steve’s head right now, with a few of Erskine’s favorite phrases thrown in there for good measure.

Easy peasy, Natasha had said. Stick to the basics. 

Smile. Stand up straight. Don’t look at your feet. 

Steve smiles. He stands up straight. He doesn’t look at his feet. Being able to stop once he reaches Erskine is a relief, but the halt doesn’t rid him from the attention of every single person in the crowd. 

As promised, Erskine takes things from there, transitioning Steve’s announced arrival into a dramatic toast that Steve suspects may be rehearsed. 

He lifts up the glass of champagne he’s holding, grabbing one off of a server passing by and handing it to Steve so his own hands won’t be empty as Erskine declares in a boastful voice, “To Vengea and the independence that we so gladly enjoy! May that continue as we prepare to instate a leader that will honor the legacy that has been left behind.”

He looks towards Steve then. Steve doesn’t care who’s watching when he downs his glass of champagne all in one go. He needs the drink after that statement being made in front of everyone. 

Christ. Erskine really knows how to catch a guy off guard, huh? 

The smile Erskine gives him once they finally get a moment to themselves as the people around them begin to mingle is decidedly innocent. Steve knows better than to buy it, but he’s not about to argue with the one person in the room who isn’t trying to pick him apart. 

“See?” Erskine murmurs. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Steve answers that question by asking one of his own. “What’s next?”

Erskine hums and pats him on the shoulder. “Now you get to relax. Have some fun, make conversation if anyone tries to approach you, dance with some of the people around your age. This is a party, dear boy. We’re celebrating.”

“And me working the crowd has nothing to do with you wanting me to form connections for the future?” Steve shoots back knowingly. 

“So you have been paying attention in our diplomacy lessons.” Erskine’s eyes twinkle behind his glasses. “I won’t deny that that may be a benefit that comes from all of this, but who knows? There’s always the possibility of you finding a young man for yourself as well.”

Is he implying Steve should look for a boyfriend here? Steve’s face heats. 

“I don’t know about all that,” he starts, but before he can finish, Erskine is spinning him around by the shoulder in order to bring him face to face with what he assumes is the first of many potential dance partners of the night. 

The guy standing in front of him is paler even than Steve himself, with slicked back black hair that nearly reaches his shoulders. He’s wearing a green velvet jacket that matches the emerald ring Steve can see on his pinkie when he holds his hand out, waiting for Steve to take it before he introduces himself. 

“Loki Odinson,” he says smoothly. “Prince of Asgard. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please, call me Steve,” Steve manages, shooting Erskine a slightly terrified look before he allows Loki to pull him closer by the hand, leading him towards the area of the room where people are dancing. 

He has no idea what the hell he’s doing, but he knows he doesn’t want to have to deal with being called Mr. Rogers for the rest of the day, especially not by people around his age. It makes him feel like an old man. 

“Shall we take a spin around the dance floor then, Steve?” Loki’s smile is charming, but his touch is cold. Still, Steve doesn’t think it’d be wise for him to deny the first person who wants to get to know him. 

So, he nods and plasters on a smile of his own. He’ll show Erskine just how much he was listening during those damn diplomacy lessons. 

“We shall.”

Over the course of the next two and a half hours, Steve dances with what must be at least a total of half a dozen people and is forced to make conversation with even more. Steve feels a little bad about it, but he definitely doesn’t remember all of their names. He can’t help that they all began to blur together after a while. 

There had been a few standouts— Loki being one, mostly because he was the first, but also because there was just something unsettling about him and his well-practiced politeness that Steve can’t quite put his finger on. He talked the entire time they danced, but it felt more like he was talking over Steve than he was talking to him. 

Steve had sort of gotten that impression with Anthony as well, though they’d danced together much later. He was much more casual about their conversation, chattering on about things he’s working on in his weapons manufacturing business and bragging about just how large the trade network for his company is.

To tell the truth, Steve could care less about all that. He’d been grateful as hell when his next dance partner had stepped in and cut their dance short— a blonde woman named Carol who funnily enough had the exact same haircut as Steve. 

She was nice, even if a bit blunt in telling Steve she was dancing with him out of pity and not interest. Steve hadn’t minded all that much, to be honest. She got him out of dancing with Stark, and besides, it’s not like he was exactly interested in her either. They’d bonded over that a little, and by the end of their dance, Steve had even begun enjoying himself. 

Erskine had looked smug about that the next time he checked in with Steve, bringing him another drink and standing in the corner with him while they both slowly drained their glasses. 

It’s probably a good thing they switched out the champagne for punch at that point considering the next person who came up and asked Steve to dance was an actual child. The last thing they would want is for him to be drunk for that. Peter was so short Steve might’ve squished him entirely if he so much as stepped on his foot.  

It was only after their short dance was over that Steve learned from Erskine that Peter, like him, had lost not only both of his parents, but also his uncle, his country left to be run by his aunt until he turned eighteen. Despite his sad background, Peter was a surprisingly bright kid. A little anxious and overeager, but that’s something Steve understands better than most. 

Peter is actually the last person Steve has danced with at the current moment, having abandoned the dance floor in favor of making his way towards the dining area to sneak in a few quick bites of the horderves being offered. The food is delicious, but it still isn’t enough to distract him completely from the fact that he can feel so many people watching him as he chews. 

He knows they’re talking about him, too. Is it cowardly that he’d rather not know what they’re saying?

It’s definitely cowardly that Steve is considering running off to hide behind a curtain for at least the next half hour, but he’d do nearly anything to be able to take a break from being in this room. 

The bathroom is less of a cop out than the curtains, Steve decides. He can probably get away with locking himself in there for a little while.

He’s on his way over there when it happens— his first big accident of the day. It’s his fault, as usual. He really does have a habit of not looking where he’s going, doesn’t he? First he nearly bowls over his professors and now he’s just knocked into some poor party attendee and stepped on their shoe—

Oh.

Steve outright freezes when he finally catches sight of his foot-stomping victim amidst his litany of awkward apologies. Oh, God. He’s handsome. Why does he have to be handsome? That only makes this even more humiliating. 

It also makes it even harder not to stare, which Steve is really trying not to do– but with how wide his eyes have gone while looking into the gray gaze of this handsome stranger’s own, it’s nearly impossible. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever met someone with eyes this color before, such a pale blue that they’re almost silver. 

Steve could say it's the artistic part of him that appreciates just how sculpted this guy’s cheekbones are, but that would be a lie. It’s the gay part. 

“Oh,” the handsome stranger laughs, a smile stretching across his lips– is he wearing lip tint too, or are they naturally that shade of pink? 

Yeah, it’s definitely the gay part of Steve that’s taking the lead here. 

“Oh, your foot. I’m so sorry!” he says, hoping he sounds more gracious than he feels, but the guy only laughs again and shakes his head, standing up straighter from where he’d bend down slightly to inspect his now slightly scuffed shoe. “Are you— are you alright?”

No amount of lessons could ever make Steve smooth when it comes to talking to good-looking guys, it seems. 

“I’ll survive.” Said good-looking guy is even more good-looking now that Steve and he are standing fully face to face. “I’m not sure whether I should be saying hello or pardon me in this instance, but the fault was entirely my own. I should have been looking where I was going.”

Steve should have been doing that too, but he’s already embarrassed himself in front of this man. Arguing with him doesn’t seem like a better option, so instead, Steve attempts to make a joke instead. 

“Are you sure you don't want to exchange licenses and proof of insurance?” 

At most, Steve is expecting a polite chuckle or a snort in return, but to his surprise, the guy laughs again and fires back a joke of his own without missing a beat. 

“These shoes were a little big anyway. The swelling should help them fit better. Really, you did me a favor.” 

This time when he smiles, Steve notices the dimple in his chin that forms. It shouldn’t be so endearing on a stranger, but Steve has always been a sucker for brunettes, and with the thick, dark brown waves that this man has swept back… Steve would be a goner even if the guy wasn’t so charming on top of his good looks.

Steve just can’t seem to stop staring. He should stop. He should go somewhere else, find Erskine or Peggy before he makes an even bigger fool out of himself and ruins another part of the poor man’s outfit or crushes his other foot. 

He just can’t.

He’s still in the process of trying to force himself to walk away when he spots Anthony approaching from across the room, his expression so smug that Steve just knows he’s about to come over and ask for another dance. As if Steve hasn’t already heard enough about the changes that could be made if Vengea let Stark Industries become the official weapons manufacturer for their military. 

Like Steve would have the final say in that. He’s supposed to be a prince, not the damn prime minister. Parliament still exists. It’s not as if they live in the Dark Ages. 

His soft groan of “ oh, no” slips out before he remembers that he’s in earshot of a stranger. Great. Another fuck up. Steve is on a roll with this guy, isn‘t he?

Gray eyes flick over to meet where Steve’s own are still pointed before the man lets out a small sound on his own end. “Ah.” His next words are full of understanding. “Would you like to dance with me, your Highness?”

“What?” Steve rips his eyes off of Anthony and points them back towards who is apparently about to become his newest savior. “Are you sure your foot is up for it?” 

This joke is much weaker than the last. Steve wants to dance with him, but he doesn’t want it to be out of pity in the same way his dance with Carol had been. 

“You don’t have to—“

“As someone who has attended more than one party with the esteemed Mr. Stark, I cannot in good faith leave you alone in his company. No one deserves that fate,” the man murmurs, holding out a gloved hand and giving Steve a bemused smile in the few seconds that pass before Steve takes it. “Dance with me. We’ll see how long that holds him off.”

It’s as if Steve has been bewitched by his touch. Or maybe all the champagne he’s been drinking is just finally catching up to him. Either way, he allows himself to be led over to the dance floor once more, only smiling to himself a little when he sees Anthony’s expression sour. 

Steve prays to God that there aren’t too many signs of him being flustered showing on his own face. He doesn’t want to scare his savior off— or start any rumors amongst the guests. Erskine had only been teasing him with the boyfriend remark, he’s sure. 

But maybe… even princes are allowed to flirt a little, aren’t they?

“Your timing is impeccable,” Steve says once they’ve finally started to move together, his hand curled over the shoulder of the black suit coat his companion is wearing. 

Are those military medals on his chest? Is that why he doesn’t like Anthony? Steve should probably cool it with all the questions he wants to ask considering he hasn’t even caught the guy’s name yet. 

Steve could just ask that question outright, but since when does he ever do anything the easy way? “And you don’t have to call me your Highness,” he tells him instead. “In fact, please don’t. I like to be called Steve. Just Steve.” He has to wait until he’s been brought back in from the spin out their dance includes to go on. “And you are?”

“James.” The guy— James — smiles and squeezes his hand where he has it resting on Steve’s waist. Or maybe Steve is just imagining it. It’s difficult to tell with how dizzying dancing with someone this mysteriously alluring is. “Just James.”

“Well, James , I’m certainly glad to see that my clumsiness hasn’t affected your dancing. I’m sorry I stepped on your foot.”

James is practically the same height as Steve, but somehow when he smiles, he manages to look at Steve through his lashes. “You can step on my foot anytime.”

Is he flirting back, or is he just being nice because Steve is an important person at this party? Steve blushes either way. “I couldn’t possibly put you out like that,” he says, aiming for a light tone but landing on one that comes off even to his own ears as breathless. 

“I’d say you could repay me by shining my shoes, but somehow I think that work is a little below your pay grade.” Bucky raises his eyebrows, his eyes full of mirth. 

Steve’s mouth almost drops open. He’s almost positive James is flirting. I’m sure I could take on the job , he wants to say. If he were braver, he might even want to say I could make it work with you. 

He doesn’t get the chance to say either of those things, because not two seconds later, Steve feels a tug on his elbow and looks down to see Prince Peter standing beside them. 

“May I cut in?” he chirps, already bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

The way he has his chest puffed out is almost adorable. Steve would probably feel more accommodating if he were dancing with someone other than James, but as things are, he’s reluctant to pull away. Still, he doesn’t want to let the kid down. It’s only after he and James exchange an understanding glance that Steve is able to release the hold he has on James’ shoulder and hand. 

James is slower to let go of Steve’s waist. Steve tries not to read into that too much, but who knew such a short dance could be so intense?

“It was a pleasure dancing with you, Steve,” James murmurs. “I look forward to the chance to do it again.”

“So do I,” Steve echoes, eyes staying trained on James even as he turns, gives Steve a small bow, and begins walking away. 

And listen— Steve knows he’s likely being overdramatic, or at the very least a sap, but he swears that he hasn’t felt a spark like that all day. Not until James.

The buzz from their interaction is what carries him through the rest of the party. Not even almost running into Pierce at the table where the punch bowl is located is enough to dampen his mood, though Steve does find the slightly cryptic comment he makes a little off-putting. 

Again, he means. Pierce is an odd man, but Steve did almost make him spill his drink on himself, so he supposed that the man saying he hoped Steve wouldn’t run into too many obstacles on the way to the throne wasn’t totally out of place. 

It was more the ‘ someone might try and take it from you one day, you know’ added on at the end that caught Steve off guard. Luckily, Pierce had left before too much longer, giving Steve and Fury a tight smile where the older man had come over to covertly check on him while Erskine was rounding up some of the parliament members so Steve could be introduced to them one on one. 

That had been an experience in and of itself, but Steve had gotten through that too. All of the members were polite, even if a bit stuffy, but Steve hadn't paid that nearly as much mind as he would have if he weren't still running on the high of he and James spinning around together on the dance floor. 

The confidence boost it caused is so strong that Steve barely even notices how tired he truly is until Fury leads him back to his chambers much later in the night. Christ, how long ago was it that he went in for his thesis presentation? And all he’s done between now and then is take a nap on a plane? No wonder he’s exhausted. 

It’s been a big day, even by the shifted standards of how weird Steve’s life has gotten ever since Erskine sent him that letter. 

For it being Steve’s first night in the palace, he falls asleep surprisingly easily. His head has barely had the time to hit the pillow before he’s out like a light, but he’s sure he’ll be able to fully appreciate just how heavenly his new bed is tomorrow morning.

And if he dreams of gray eyes and a crooked smile that night, no one else has to know. 

Chapter Text

The next day Steve is pretty much given free reign to explore the palace and grounds on his own, which is about as much reigning as he thinks he’s equipped to handle right now. 

Erskine had invited him to sit in on the Parliament meeting he’s attending today, but Steve had politely declined once Erskine informed him that it would mostly consist of going over potential bills that need tweaking. Talk about boring. 

Now that the party is over, they only have a few days left to spend here. Steve wants to fit in as much exploring as he can. 

Who knows if he’ll ever be coming back?

The place really is something spectacular. The outside of the palace is just as beautiful as the inside— Steve spent almost two hours strolling around the garden to take in the wide variety of flora and fauna. There are even some of those shaped hedge sculptures, which Steve is fascinated with. 

His medium of art is usually done through drawing or painting, but the talent it must take to create something like that impresses him greatly. He almost wants to ask Erskine who it is who’s behind it just so he can tell them how stunning their work is. 

He does eventually go back inside to poke around some more as well, finally stumbling across the library after 45 minutes of searching. This place is huge. It’s a miracle he hasn’t gotten lost in it yet. 

The library alone is gigantic, bearing an almost uncanny resemblance to the one from Beauty and the Beast. That comparison is admittedly corny, but Steve blames Sam’s little sister for making them watch the movie three times in a week when he stayed with them for winter break a few years ago. 

Does that make Steve Beauty or the Beast? Can he be either without a partner? 

Steve is not going to think about James as a possible answer to that question. He’s not that pathetic. 

Well, maybe just a little. It’s hard to be in the setting of a palace and not succumb to romanticizing the experience. It’s also hard not to wonder what it’d be like to stay here longer— or, as his mind so helpfully supplies, live here permanently. 

He tries to squash that thought as soon as it pops up, scowling at his brain’s own betrayal as he walks down yet another winding hallway towards a destination he isn’t sure of yet. He’ll figure out where he’s going once he sees something else that catches his eye. 

The thought doesn’t disappear from Steve’s head as quickly as he’d like. It lingers, even as he’s admiring the gilded decorum and ornate architecture he’s passing by. This place, this palace— part of him feels like he could call it home. It is home to the part of him made up by his father’s DNA. 

But the other part of him scoffs at the thought of him even entertaining leaving Brooklyn for more than a short vacation. That isn’t even what this really is— it’s more life a business trip for a job he barely even agreed to, let alone signed up for. 

Besides, what would Steve even do with his degree if he were to stay here? He worked his ass off to get through school, but what’s a king going to do with a scrap of paper like that? He wouldn’t need it. Not with that much power. 

Steve has been studying with Erskine for months now, but he studied at SHIELD for four years. Giving that up just to have a big bed and a bunch of strangers serving at his beck and call… what a waste that would be. If Steve were going to do this, he’d want to be doing it for the right reasons. 

Everyone keeps saying that ruling is his right, but the only thing Steve can see it as is a terrifyingly large responsibility. 

He’s so stuck in his own head that it’s really no surprise when he doesn’t realize Peggy is following him down the hall until the click-clack of her heels against the floor has come so close that it’s impossible to ignore. Steve knows it’s her even before he turns. How does that woman manage to make even her walk come across as no-nonsense?

Her smile is just as clipped as her tone. “Steve. I’ve been sent by Dr. Erskine to tell you that he’d like the two of you to meet in the throne room once his meeting is over. It should take another hour at most.”

Steve hasn’t found the throne room during his explorations yet, but he’s sure he can get one of the hundred or so workers that mill around the palace every day to point him in the right direction once the time comes. He nods and tangles his fingers together behind his back so she won’t see the way he squeezes them in an attempt to relieve some of the anxiety that his latest spiral has stirred up. 

“I’ll be there. Thank you for telling me.”

After Steve gives his confirmation that her message has been received, Peggy spins on one of her two-inch heels and leaves without another word. Mission accomplished, then. Must be nice only worrying about one thing at a time. Steve envies that ability. He really does. 

Now that he’s been giving a time constraint on how much more exploring he can do before he’ll need to track down Erskine, Steve decides to poke his nose around the nearest interesting corner of the palace he finds. The one he goes with must be a good choice, because unlike the other halls he’s gone snooping down this morning, this one leads to a part of the palace that is much different than what Steve has seen so far. 

And by that, Steve means it’s much darker, which in turn means it’s more mysterious. The rustic sconces and well-preserved paintings in what look to be antique frames hanging on the walls only add to that even further. 

In short, it’s exactly the sort of thing Steve was looking for. Forget Beauty and the Beast. This reminds Steve much more of Sleeping Beauty, even if this hallway probably doesn’t technically count as a secret passage. If Steve finds a spindle, he’ll be sure not to touch it. Everyone knows how that story ends. 

Once again, Steve refuses to picture who he’d pick to be his Prince Phillip. Even if James is handsome enough to pull off the stupid red cape and feathered cap the character is known for. 

In any case, he becomes distracted from those pesky temptations pretty easily once he discovers a door at the far side of the darkened hallway he’s made his way down— at least he thinks it’s a door. It opens with the push of a button rather than a handle. Does that mean the corridor revealed behind it counts as a secret passageway now? 

Steve hovers at the end of the hall, hesitating over whether or not he should choose to go any further. Erskine will be expecting him in about 45 minutes, which means he only has a limited amount of time available to explore, and no time at all to get lost. 

It also feels a bit odd to be sneaking around like this in a place that’s still familiar, but aren’t Erskine and the others always trying to convince Steve he belongs here? Steve barely believes that even on a good day, but his curiosity and his stubborn streak coincide enough for him to make the choice to keep going. 

It’s not like he’s breaking and entering. Opening the door only took the press of a finger. So, Steve reasons, following where said open door leads him isn’t wrong. Erskine should be happy that Steve is showing such initiative in getting to know his way around the palace. 

The corridor is even darker than the hallway and has none of the sconces that had been present on the way in, but luckily, Steve always comes prepared. He may not have been able to afford to be a real Boy Scout, but he does keep one of those tiny, cheap flashlights on his keyring. Although it isn’t very bright, it does get the job done if Steve holds it up high enough. 

Now that he can see a little better, he notices that the walls in this section of the palace are rougher than the others. Does that mean this section has gone unfinished, or that it just wasn’t meant to be seen when it was originally built? 

Steve snorts at himself as he runs a hand along the rough edge of the stones. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all. Not everything in his life has to be some grand mystery just because his mother lied to him for so long. Still, it is fun to wonder what went on in this palace during the centuries before Steve was even born. His family line lived here for about as long. 

Did his father ever come back here? What places in the palace did he consider his safe havens?

Steve had lain in bed and stared at the ceiling for an hour this morning once the realization hit him that his room being the Prince’s Suite meant that his father had grown up sleeping in the same room. He hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after that no matter how comfortable the mattress was. 

This really was his father’s home. Home in the same way that Brooklyn was to Steve and Sarah. Could Joseph have ever felt the same way about New York?

Could Steve ever feel the same way about Vengea?

Sighing, Steve shines his light forward, trying to gauge just how long this corridor is. He should probably turn back around, but he also doesn’t want to stop before he’s found something interesting to look at. Otherwise this little excursion may as well have been for nothing. 

He’s just about to make the executive decision to turn back and head in the opposite direction when he hears a sound. 

He frowns. The sound is… familiar. A repetitive banging. Where has he heard that before?

It hits him about ten seconds later than the source of the familiarity is in fact a product of the embarrassing amount of Judge Judy episodes he and Sam have binged ever since moving in together. The pounding of a gavel. 

That in turn tells Steve there’s only one place the sound could be coming from: the room in which Erskine and the Parliament members are congregating. Which means this has to be a secret passageway, right? Where else would someone get the opportunity to eavesdrop on the legislature? 

If Steve were the pillar of righteousness a prince is supposed to be, he probably would outright jog his way down the rest if the corridor in order but find where he can press his ear to listen in properly, bit Erskine had told him perfection wasn’t the goal of their lessons, so that’s exactly what he does. 

Besides, if the big-wigs didn’t want anyone spying on them, then maybe they shouldn’t hold their meetings in a room where a literal peephole has been put into place behind the grate. 

Really, Steve is only taking advantage of an opportunity that’s practically been served up on a silver platter. 

The grate is low down enough for him to have to crouch in order to press himself up against it. He switches his flashlight off once he’s in the position, taking advantage of the small amount of light filtering in through the slits in the metal that make it necessary for him to squint in order to even halfway see the activity taking place on the other side. 

It’s almost a stereotype of what Steve was expecting— a bunch of old guys and maybe three or four older women, all dressed in black robes and sitting in rows of wooden benches that line both sides of the room. No one is wearing white wigs or turning red around the ears, but as the banging of the gavel suggested, things are getting pretty heated. 

Steve’s frown deepens. What are they discussing that has everyone so riled up? He listens even harder, intent on finding out. 

“As we all know, the 25th birthday of an heir to the Vengean bloodline is indeed a matter of great public significance,” someone is saying. Steve can’t tell with how the man’s back is turned to the grate, but he thinks it might be Pierce. 

Of course it’s Pierce causing a problem. 

“It signifies that this young individual is eligible to assume the crown,” Pierce continues. “As we all know, it was a tragedy that our last prince was taken from us shortly after he reached that age.”

That remark makes Steve’s heart drop. The Parliament members aren’t the only people that know Joseph Roger died when he was 25. It’s what’s made Steve so apprehensive about reaching this next birthday, even more so than the ball. He’s going to get the chance to live past an age that his father did not. 

“We are well aware of this, Viscount Pierce.” Steve doesn’t know who is doing the talking this time. “Dr. Erskine has informed us that Prince Steven intends to render his decision pertaining to the crown when we are closer to the ball, which also will fall within a few days of his 25th birthday.”

“He will use the time to learn more by my side.” Now it’s Erskine himself that speaks up, hands folded nearly in his lap where he sits almost directly across from where Steve is crouching. “He has already learned a great deal, I assure you.”

“That is all very well and good, but you mistake what I am trying to say. It is not Prince Steven to whom I am referring.”

Steve’s mouth drops open, a startled gasp flying out before he remembers he’s supposed to be hiding. Is he imagining the way Erskine’s gaze momentarily moves towards the grate?

Pierce and the others must not have heard anything, because he makes no pause before moving towards his point. “King Zola was in fact the great, great, great grandfather of the late George Barnes, and so, as of March of last year, on the occasion of my nephew’s 25th birthday, another Vengean became eligible to assume the throne.”

What? 

Luckily, Steve doesn’t have to make a sound in order to get more information. Someone else asks the same question for him. 

Pierce sounds overly smug as he begins to elaborate. It’s the exact opposite of how Steve feels himself. “My nephew, Lord Barnes, is George Barnes’ eldest son, and of King Zola’s extended bloodline, which is royal by proximity— and as my nephew’s late mother was my wife’s sister; I am here speaking on behalf of Lord Barnes and the legacy of his family. If it pleases the court, I am happy to announce that Lord Barnes is ready to take his place as Vengea’s rightful king, in loving memory of his parents, who disclosed this as their greatest wish before they both died.”

That launches what Steve can only describe as the most dignified uproar Steve has ever seen in his life. There are several gasps and even more shouts, but no one gets up or tries to threaten each other, so Steve guesses it’s better than what he’d expect from American politics. 

Frankly, Steve loses track of what is said for a few minutes, so numb with the news that he doesn’t even notice they’ve started talking again before one voice in specific rises above the others. 

“Is Prince Steven not the first in line to ascend the throne?”

Pierce has now twisted far enough for Steve to be able to see the smile that’s twisting at his lips. It only makes Steve’s heart sink even lower. He looks so sure that he’s right in his claims. “Lord Barnes turned 25 in March of last year, and has already finished serving time in the royal military as well as completed his education at Oxford. In comparison to Prince Steven…”

A younger, stupider art student who grew up in America. He doesn’t even have to say that part for Steve to hear it echoing around the room thanks to how everyone else has suddenly fallen silent. 

“In any case, Vengean law states that a prince or princess must meet a requirement in the case they would like to take the throne before age 26: if they have not lived in the land for more than four years, they may not do so alone. They must marry.”

Erskine cuts in then, his voice louder and angrier than Steve has ever heard it. It reflects how the part of Steve that hasn’t been knocked flat on his ass in shock feels. “That law has not been enforced since the olden days! It was designed to fit the morals of a completely different period.”

“I agree with Dr. Erskine,” someone else says, a woman who is sitting on Erskine’s left. “The law is archaic. The only reason we have refrained from throwing it out for all these years is because no one has needed to enact it for centuries.”

“And yet here we are, needing to now,” Pierce interrupts smoothly. “This has been the law of Vengea since the days of its very formation. Why provide an exception to tradition now? Vengea shall take no American outsider as king lest he have someone better qualified to rule by his side. As I have already informed you, Lord Barnes is not only older than 26, but also has been a resident of Vengea since his birth. He fits both of these requirements, leaving him ahead of Prince Steve in more than one aspect when it comes to taking the throne.”

Steve wants to scream. If he weren’t required to stifle even the smallest sounds while sitting behind this grate, privy to a meeting he isn’t even supposed to be a part of— he just might do it. 

For lack of better words, what the fuck? He’s done everything they’ve asked of him for months, gone through so much just to get this far, and now a matter of one year and a couple months between ages is what’s going to take it away?

They can’t be serious. They can’t . 

But the longer the others allow Pierce to drone on, the less certain Steve becomes that all of this is just some sort of elaborate joke. If it is a joke, it seems that Steve might be the butt of it. 

“Forgive me for saying what we have all been thinking since the letter that first led us to our secret prince was was discovered, but how can someone who was brought up to be ignorant of our country’s very existence be a suitable choice to govern our great nation. Vengea shall have not have Rogers as king lest he be bound in matrimony. As of now, Lord Barnes has a more solid right to the throne, does he not, Prime Minister?”

This is the moment where they should say no. This is the moment where Steve prays that they’ll take it all back, that Erskine’s plan won’t have been ruined yet again. 

That doesn’t happen. The no never comes. Instead, what does is this:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are all fond of Prince Steven. The Rogers’ family line has faithfully led us for a great deal of time. While the point may be made that he is not the most suitable choice for the throne, it is our duty to give him the opportunity to prove that he is. If he were to find a suitor or show in some way that he is more qualified…”

“I suggest that this honored body allows Prince Steven a year to settle down.“ Erskine has to be enraged, but he keeps it from showing in his voice or on his face. He’s doing a much better job at controlling himself than Steve is, to be honest. “If he fails to please Parliament by then, he will forfeit the crown to young Lord Barnes.”

“It is convenient that that period of time would bring Steve so close to turning 26,” Pierce fires back. “I object most strongly to Dr. Erskine’s obvious tactics to avoid adhering to our laws.”

Steve objects to the insinuation that he should be getting married anytime soon, but even if his throat weren’t too tight to speak right now, it’s not as if anyone out there is exactly asking for his opinion. It only gets tighter with every suggestion made after that. 

“Nine months?”

“Six months.”

“Six days.”

“Three months!”

“Two months at most should be allowed,” Pierce insists. “Prince Steven will not even be eligible for the crown to begin with until his birthday. It seems reasonable that he may have until then to try and figure some alternate path towards the throne, yes? He may announce his decision or his engagement at the ball.”

Say no, Steve silently begs. Say no to everything Pierce is demanding. Make him take it all back. 

No one can hear Steve’s cries. Not even a higher power, it seems, because—

“Prince Steven will be allowed 2 months to find a suitor who is willing to marry him and rule by his side. All those in favor?”

Steve runs back down the passage before the gavel has had the chance to crack back down a second time. 

-

“How can Parliament expect me to fall in love in sixty days?” Steve demands, shoving a hand through his hair and pacing around the throne room, making no attempt to hide his agitation. “I haven’t even gotten to graduate yet! I’ve been here for two days! It’s like… It’s like a big trick to get me to have an arranged marriage, or—“ 

Steve stops dead in bis tracks when he sees Erskine wince, a look of horror spreading across his face as it dawns on him. 

“No,” he whispers. “No. That’s it, isn’t it? There is no or. There’s…. if I want to keep this throne, an arranged marriage is my only choice. They’ve taken all the others away.” He throws up his hands helplessly. “What kind if a person agrees to an arranged marriage?”

“A great deal of your ancestors, do one. It used to be quite common amongst the royals.” Erskine’s gentleness almost scares Steve more than witnessing his anger before Parliament had. “Many of them turned out quite splendidly. Your grandparents… they became best friends after a while. Grew very fond of each other’s company.”

“Be that as it may,” Steve says hollowly, “I dream of love, Dr. Erskine. Not fondness.” He’s always wanted his damn foot to pop. To meet the one in the way his mother and father had found with each other. How is he supposed to do that when whatever relationship he may find would be forced at best? 

Erskine sighs. “There is always still the option that you were so insistent upon going with in the beginning. If you really don’t want this, if you really have no desire to take the throne one day… no one will hold you here against your wishes.” 

He’s giving him an out, Steve realizes. He’s saying it’s okay to quit. That’s how bad this situation really is. A few months ago, Steve would have jumped for joy at this opportunity, but after spending all of these months working to get here— Steve’s always been stubborn as hell. There’s no way he’s going to give up something that meant so much to his father to a stranger trying to take advantage of the fact that Parliament isn’t sure Steve is worthy. 

It’s just like Sarah had told him when he was a child. Whatever he dreams, he can do. But he’s going to have to fight for it. He may not he outwardly small anymore, but these people have still taken one look at him and decided what he can and can’t do. 

And Steve had promised her, hadn’t he? Promised that he’d use his head, because he was just like his father. Stubborn as hell without an ounce of quit inside him. 

He can’t give up now. Not when she’d had so much faith in him. Steve isn’t fearless, but he isn’t foolhardy either. He won’t allow himself to be pushed out of this fight just because a bunch of old fools in black robes can’t see what he's made of inside. 

If Steve really is the acorn to Joseph Rogers’ tree, he’s damn well going to plant himself here. See if they can pull up his roots to get him to move. He won’t be going easily. 

No, he thinks. You move. 

He repeats that first word out loud as well. “No,” he says. “I know my father gave this up to be with my mother, but that was because he loved her. I can’t just… walk away. I don’t know what I should do, but I know I can’t just run.“

“You really are his son,” Erskine murmurs, approaching Steve from the side and setting a hand on his shoulder as they both turn towards the wall where the line of royal portraits are hanging— the last one being the spitting image of the man from the photo Steve has been looking at every day since his mother gave it to him as a gift. “I know how unfair this is, Steven. I never wanted it to be like this.”

“It isn’t your fault, Dr. Erskine. I know…” Steve swallows, hard. “I know you’ve always done your best to keep me safe, but there are just some things even you can’t control.”

“Now when did you get so wise?”

Steve gives him a half-smile at the attempted teasing. “Someone once told me that courage is not the absence of fear,” he recites. “But rather the judgment that something else is more important than the fear.” 

Erskine squeezes his shoulder and offers back a melancholy smile of his own, the two of them standing in a somber silence for a long moment before Erskine breaks it in order to speak back up. 

“The decision is yours. There is a long line of Rogers up on these walls, and you deserve to be up there, Steven. Your father’s portrait should not be the last from your family, but I would ask that no matter what happens, you must promise me one thing.”

“And what would that be?”

“That you will stay who you are. Not a perfect king, but a good man.”

Steve lifts his chin and nods, staring into the eyes of his father’s portrait. It seems like a nobler option than bursting into tears and sweeping Erskine into a hug. “My father won’t be the last of our line,” he says quietly. It’s not quite a vow, but he intends to keep his word. “I want my chance to make a difference as a ruler.” 

And not just as an artist. Art can only go so far, and if things in Vengea can be so unfair for a prince, he can’t even imagine how they are for other people. Maybe one day Steve’s artwork will end up somewhere important, but as things are, the place where he’s standing is pretty important already. 

Erskine’s smile is more genuine this time. “Spoken like a true king.”

That’s not what Steve is yet, but with the right amount of determination, he might be able to get there eventually. 

Steve exhales and returns Erskine’s smile with a shaky one of his own. To tell the truth, he’s not sure about most of this, but he is sure of one thing. This is what he needs to do in order to be okay with himself. 

He’s not a quitter. He’s his mother’s son and his father’s legacy. That’s what he wants to carry on, and if he has to marry someone he doesn’t love, so be it. 

He loves his parents. That’s enough. 

“So tell me more about Viscount Pierce and Lord Barnes?” 

They’ll need to come up with another plan if they’re going to pull this off. Know thy enemy and know yourself, or however the saying goes. 

“Let me call Mr. Fury in to meet us. I’ve had him running background checks ever since Parliament adjourned.”

At least Steve will be doing this with plenty of people in his corner. He’ll need all the help he can get to find a husband.

Chapter Text

When Steve finds out that Erskine has invited Lord Barnes to stay at the palace, needless to say, he isn’t exactly pleased. 

Frankly, he’s pissed, but he knows better than to tell Erskine that, at least not in those specific words. But how is Steve supposed to feel about being forced to share a space with a man who may as well be his arch-nemesis?

Natasha had laughed at him when he’d referred to Lord Barnes as that during their next phone call, but Steve thinks it’s a pretty apt descriptor. The guy is trying to steal his throne, something that Steve would have thought only happened in bad regency novels before it actually happened to him in the modern day. Stealing his throne. Who does that? 

“Power-hungry people,” Natasha had told him during their conversation. “Some people don’t care what they have to do or who they have to step on in order to get what they want. Not as long as they do get what they want in the end.”

“Well, in this case, that isn’t going to happen,” Steve had muttered, curled up in his too-big bed with the phone pulled over so he could lay down and talk at the same time to both Natasha and Sam, who were eating breakfast together on the other end of the line. “He’ll have to get through me first.”

“Didn’t Erskine say you were supposed to play nice?”

“Why should I be nice to someone trying to steal my throne?”

“The throne you didn’t even want until he tried to take it away,” Natasha had pointed out.

Steve had ignored her point in favor of complaining some more about the mysterious Lord Barnes. “He’s rude, he’s arrogant, he’s self-centered–”

“You sound like you feel very passionately for him considering you haven’t actually met.”

“And they said this guy was an Oxford graduate? Oh, forgive me. A Cambridge graduate.” At Steve’s offended sound (towards both of their remarks, thank you very much), Sam had snorted and presumably dodged whatever elbow Natasha was aiming at him from the scuffling that came through the receiver. “I’m not trying to scare you off or ruin your self-esteem or anything. I’m just saying, you should never underestimate your enemy.”

As right as Sam probably was, Steve had still sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, careful not to dislodge the stupid contacts he was still hyperaware of sitting in his eyes. “I don’t even know what he looks like yet. For all I know, he could be hideous and have even less skills with the public than me.” 

Or, he could be ridiculously good-looking and capable of charming the pants off of even Dr. Erskine, his ever helpful mind had supplied. 

Steve is still trying not to think about that option, but now that Lord Barnes is scheduled to arrive within the hour, it’s gotten pretty hard not to wonder what he might be like. 

He’s only a little over a year older than Steve, so unless he’s one of those guys that started losing his hair in his late teens, he won’t be balding or stooped over like half of the other men Steve has met over here, barring a few of the guys he’d danced with last night. And according to what Fury learned about him over the past day, he isn’t blood related to Pierce or Steve’s family at all– he’s so far removed from the royal bloodline that it’d be laughable to think of him as being in line for the throne if Vengea’s laws didn’t work so differently than what Steve is used to, but apparently over here, it’s perfectly acceptable for someone whose ancestor was royal by marriage to claim that they’re eligible for the throne. It probably doesn’t hurt that Lord Barnes is well-educated and already served Vengea during his time in their military. 

In any case, Steve is pretty sure Lord Barnes won’t look anything like his uncle, but that only leaves more room in his imagination to picture what other appearances might be possible. 

Will he be tall? Short? The same height as Steve? Will he be blonde like Steve, or will his hair be darker? The accents over here seem to be pretty versatile. What will he sound like? Smell like? He might not look like Pierce, but there’s a likely chance that he’ll be just as seedy considering the circumstances under which they’re meeting.

Then again, he went to Cambridge and has already won half the Parliament’s heart just by existing, so there’s a likely chance he knows how to be charming as well. 

God. Steve’s heart drops right down to his stomach when he has the sudden thought– while standing right next to Erskine waiting in the parlor for their guests, no less– what if Lord Barnes is Steve’s type? 

Wouldn’t that be just his luck?

Luck has got nothing to do with it, as Steve soon finds out. Luck would insinuate that the universe isn’t laughing at him behind his back every chance it gets, which is exactly what must be happening, because why else would Steve have to recognize the man that follows Pierce into the room?

For a second, he can’t believe what– who – he’s seeing. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” he whispers, loud enough for Erskine to give him a sidelong glance, but quiet enough for the two men in front of them not to hear. Which is a good thing, because Steve is pretty sure he doesn’t want to talk to either of them ever again. One more than the other. 

Part of him is angry, but that’s only a surface-level emotion, sizzling hot on the top while the embarrassment curls in his gut like he’s swallowed something rotten. Embarrassment, because he doesn’t just recognize Pierce’s companion. He knows his goddamn name.

Or at least he thinks he does. He can’t be sure of whether or not anything James said to him was a lie or not at this point in the game, because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A game? 

So much for wanting to dance with him again.

This is who Steve is going to have to share the palace with for the next two months? This is who he’s going to have to bring as a guest to his graduation? Forget what Erskine had said about keeping their enemies close. This guy shouldn’t be touched with a ten foot pole. 

Outwardly, James is just as handsome as he had been at the party when Erskine unwittingly introduces them for a second time, though he’s very pointedly not making eye-contact with Steve even while Pierce and Erskine are shaking hands. It’s slightly satisfying. 

Good. Steve doesn’t want the little slime-ball to speak to him, let alone lay eyes on him. It figures he’s just as sneaky as his uncle. Now what Pierce said at the party makes perfect sense– this was their plan all along. 

Steve only looks at James long enough to take in the downward tilt of his chin as well as the white sweater and navy slacks he’s wearing. It makes Steve’s own pink button down (because apparently princes wear pastels, but never neon) feel like a somewhat garish choice, but Steve refuses to be insecure about it. This is his palace– well, sort of. He and James are technically both guests, but Steve got here first. 

That doesn’t mean he’ll be leaving first, though. Or at all, if he can help it. Damn James and his stupid chin-dimple. Steve should give him another few dents to the face while he has the chance. 

That chance comes when Erskine looks at him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to step forward and shake hands with James the same way he had done with Pierce. 

“Steven, this is Lord Barnes. You’ve already been introduced to his uncle, Viscount Pierce. Would you care to welcome our guests?”

Oh, Steve would care to do a lot of things to James Barnes. Welcoming him anywhere isn’t at the top of that list, but he can’t tell Erskine that in mixed company, can he?

Gritting his teeth, Steve tries to keep in mind the instructions Erskine had given him earlier when telling him that James would be staying with them during the duration of his search for a suitor. Be charming. Present yourself with poise and grace no matter how low they go. 

He’s just about to offer a greeting when James beats him to the punch. It only makes Steve want to punch him even more.

“The pleasure is all mine, Dr. Erskine,” he says smoothly. “Thank you so much for inviting me to stay at the palace.” Then, nodding towards Steve with a small smile, “Your Highness.”

That’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Steve’s entire body stiffens where he’s just stepped forward in order to allow James to grasp his hand as the memory of him telling James not to call him that at the party flashes through him. His pathetic attempt at flirting, which at the time James had returned, probably only in order to laugh about it with Pierce later. 

Steve acts before he thinks, his anger not sparing a thought for Erskine or his rules when he brings down his foot and grinds his heel directly on top of the point of James’ freshly shined shoes before spinning around and marching away with a scowl plastered across his face. 

His mind registers the surprise that streaks across James’ own face before giving away to pain, but everything else is tuned out. He’s sure Pierce and Erskine must react to his sudden rudeness, but Steve doesn’t care to turn around and take it in before he leaves the room. 

He does hear James’ slightly strained response of “He seems to always do that”, but even that isn’t enough to keep Steve from leaving. 

Was it a spiteful gesture? Sure. An immature one? Absolutely. But it was also completely deserved, so forgive Steve if he doesn’t feel all that guilty. James got what was coming to him.

That unfortunately doesn't keep Erskine from coming after Steve. He finds him not five minutes later where Steve has holed himself up in the small kitchen area of his chambers, already three spoonfuls deep into a dish of ice-cream from his personal fridge meant to help cool him off in both the literal and figurative senses. It looks like Erskine might need a bite or two himself.

He’s understandably irritated at Steve’s behavior, and while Steve can’t blame him, he isn’t exactly too keen on explaining himself either. It’s just embarrassing. What’s he supposed to say? That he already managed to get himself played by a gold-digger– throne digger?-- after only spending two nights at the palace? It’s humiliating to even think about, let alone admit to out loud. 

Still, he does owe Erskine some sort of answer to the question he poses. 

“Steven, would you care to explain what it was that just went on down there? You were barely in Lord James’ presence for two seconds and I’m already having to send someone to get ice for his injuries. These are not the sort of manners I taught you.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs, eyes trained on his lap. He can’t say he regrets what he did, but it’s possible he could have at least waited until later to get his revenge. Now he’s only made Pierce think he’s even more unfit for the throne than he had already. “It’s just… I, uh. I have met Lord Barnes before. We kind of danced at the party.” He presses his lips together for a long moment before he finally confesses, “And I may have flirted with him the entire time.”

“Ah. I see.” Erskine sighs and pulls out a stool from the counter in order to sit across from Steve. Great. Now he’s going to have to sit through a speech, isn’t he? 

“I just feel like an idiot,” Steve continues in a rush, wanting to get out everything before Erskine interrupts with something he’s sure to think sounds motivational. “He knew who I was but I didn’t know who he was, and he didn’t actually outright lie to me or anything, but I can’t help but feel like I fell for some sort of trick.”

“He manipulated the situation, Steven,” Erskine says gently. “Even if it was merely a trivial one. No one likes being put into that position.”

You’re telling me, Steve thinks bitterly, stabbing his spoon into a chuck of softened ice cream with a bit more force than necessary. “I am sorry that I caused a scene.”

Erskine must notice how carefully phrased his apology is, because he snorts and raises his eyebrows. “As a professional and someone who is supposed to have your best interests in mind, I cannot condone your actions.” He pauses before leaning in conspiratorially. “However, off the record, I’d say right on, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve laughs, momentarily forgetting his troubles when confronted with the odd sound of someone as proper as Dr. Erskine using such modern slang. “I’ll try not to do it again.”

He can’t promise anything, though. If James does anything else to piss him off, who knows what Steve might do when he snaps? Push him off one of the five million palace balconies, maybe. Feed him to the fish in the pond. Lock him in the dungeon Erskine claims never existed. Steve has a lot of backup plans here. 

“I’m sure Mr. Fury will appreciate that. It does make his job easier, not having to sweep a scandal under the rug.” 

Once again, Steve has to wonder why Fury has so many responsibilities when he’s supposedly just the head of security. He’s almost positive he’s a spy by now. “Do you want me to go back out there and apologize?”

Steve is half-expecting the answer to be yes, but Erskine only shrugs. “Lord Barnes seemed rather amused by your antics. I’m not sure an apology is needed.”

It probably is amusing, how quick Steve is to start seething at the thought of James finding anything funny about their interactions. There’s just something about the man that gets under Steve’s skin, and embarrassing as it is, Steve can’t help but let it work even though he knows it’s probably intentional. 

“Is there a reason you followed me in here, then?” he asks, just so he won’t start spewing out ideas on how to torture James during the next two months they’ll be living together. 

“As a matter of fact, yes, there is. If you’d come with me, I have a surprise for you waiting in your bedroom. I was half expecting you to storm in and find it yourself.” Dr. Erskine’s smile is cryptic, but the curiosity it piques in Steve still isn’t enough for him to forget about his ice cream as Erskine takes the bowl from him and places it in the sink before beginning to drag him away. 

“Hey, I was gonna finish that!”

“I assure you that you’ll forgive me for making you leave it when you see your surprise.”

Erskine is right, as usual. As good as that plum-favored ice cream all of Vengea seems to enjoy tastes, it’s nothing in comparison to the joy that Steve experiences when he walks into his room only to see his two best friends already in there waiting for him, sitting side by side on the bed wearing smiles that must be contagious, since Steve feels one breaking out on his own face within seconds. 

“Not that I’m complaining, but what the hell are you two doing here?” Even as he asks, he’s pulling both of them into a hug, first with all three of them together, and then one at a time. 

“Dr. Erskine invited us out for the weekend,” Sam answers, chin still digging into Steve’s shoulder as he speaks. 

Dr. Erskine interrupts Sam’s explanation with one of his own from behind their embrace. “I know you gave them the run down on our little, ah, suitor situation, but I thought it might be of some comfort if you had them here with you while we figure out what our first steps should be going forward.”

“What he’s trying to say is we’re here to help you pick a husband,” Natasha calls from where she’s begun snooping around in the bathroom, humming appreciatively when Steve assumes she gets to the tub. “Because we all know your taste in men can’t be trusted.”

Steve’s face goes hot, his protest of “ Natasha! ” coming out as a squawk, but he can’t fully deny her claim. Not with James right down the hall as living proof of her point. 

She smiles innocently at him when she returns into the main room of his suite. ”I’m sorry, did you want me to sugarcoat the truth?”

Huffing, Steve crosses his arms and looks to Sam for support only for Sam to wince and scoot closer to Natasha. “Et tue, Brute?”

“Calm down, Caesar.” Sam shrugs, smiling ruefully. “You’re probably gonna spend the rest of your life with whoever we pick. Can’t hurt to have some second opinions.”

Steve sighs, shoulders slumping as he looks down. The thing is, he knows they’re right. They do need to be careful about who he chooses, but the fact that he’s having to choose at all is still taking some getting used to. “I know,” he says quietly. Then, to keep the conversation from settling onto something too heavy, he looks back up and does his best to give them a grin. “So, what do you think of the palace? Pretty sweet, right?”

“You’ve seen our apartment. What do you think I think, Rogers? You’ll be lucky if I ever leave this place at all.”

Once Dr. Erskine has wrangled them all out into the hall and into the direction of the rooms in which Sam and Natasha will be staying for their few days in Vengea, Steve allows himself to fall quiet again. He’s not in a bad mood. Just an introspective one. 

Having his friends here is nice, but bringing that small bit of home over here has somehow made this situation feel a bit more real.

They’re going to help him find a husband. He’s going to have to pick a man that he finds suitable for marriage without even really getting to know him. He might be a prince, but it doesn’t look like he’ll be getting a storybook ending. 

But then again, it’s possible that this is only the rising action, isn’t it?

-

Project Royal Engagement as Natasha has dubbed it begins like all good hangouts with his best friends do: curled up on the couch in sweatpants with a bowl of popcorn split between the three of them.  

The only thing that’s different from their usual movie nights is what they’re staring at on the television screen. It’s not a movie at all or even a series— it’s a list that Peggy has put together of their best candidates for engagement. 

Steve would say it’s a simple spread of rich bachelors, but apparently no one had actually clued Peggy in on who Steve’s party of interest is when it comes to a relationship, because one of the first named that popped up on the screen had been none other than Carol Danvers herself, the kind Samaritan who had saved Steve from his dance with Anthony Stark at the party only to inform him her only interest in him stemmed from pity. 

“Carol Danvers of Kree,” Peggy had recited from her clipboard without looking up. “Very skilled in martial arts, good with animals, and an amateur pilot. No title, but a very well-rounded woman, even among socialites.”

“She’s lovely,” Steve had started, struggling with how to resolve the misunderstanding before they went any further and he had to reject suggestions of the opposite gender for the rest of the afternoon. “But—“

“Her girlfriend thinks she’s lovely as well,” Erskine had cut on. He must have taken pity on Steve too. 

Natasha had laughed so hard at Steve’s horrified expression she’d almost cried, snatching Carol’s contact information from Peggy’s hands and declaring she’d be using it for herself instead. “Maybe she can introduce me to one of her fancy friends.”

“Miss Carter, I do believe we best leave that half of the stack in Miss Romanoff’s hands.” Rather than Steve’s goes unspoken, but Peggy is a smart woman. 

She nods and moves on without further comment. “I believe some of these young men attended the party, so they may look familiar.” She clicks a button on the television remote and the picture on the screen switches to one that’s of a face that Steve finds all-too-familiar. “Anthony Stark, the son of a very affluent weapon’s manufacturer. He describes himself on his business cards as a billionaire, philanthropist, playboy.”

“I’m going to have to pass on this one.” Steve doesn’t even have to pause to think. “He’s just too… much.”

Erskine hums in agreement. “I doubt that we will end up needing a steady supply of weapons anytime soon, so I have no qualms with that. In any case, I knew his father, and if the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in that family…” He grimaces. “Go on, Miss Carter.”

“Next we have Doctor Robert Banner. He—“

“Too old.” Natasha is the one who actually says it, though Steve had been thinking it. He just hadn’t wanted to interrupt Peggy, but it looks like Natasha has no qualms with that. She shrugs when he looks at her. “I don’t recall you having a thing for men twice your age.”

Steve shoots her a dirty look, but she isn’t wrong. “You can, uh— you can go to the next guy, Peggy. Thanks.”

Thankfully, Peggy seems unfazed by the disturbance in her spiel about the doctor. “There’s also Prince Charles Xavier. He’s a very intelligent man, and I’m told very charming as well.”

His photo is somewhat promising— he’s young, good-looking, and the rest of his profile sounds wonderful, but Steve can’t help noticing that he has a certain look about him as well. “He’s very… clean-cut,” he eventually says, and by that he means the guy looks like he was born with a silver spoon sticking out of his mouth. 

It’s probably just a sign of Steve being picky, but he thinks he might be miserable if he had to marry someone spoiled. Of course half of his options are going to be people that were born into their statuses, but that doesn’t mean Steve has to settle for the first somewhat decent sounding option. 

“We’ll move on. Don’t throw him out just yet, though.”

Charles Xavier’s file goes to the bottom of the stack as Peggy clicks the remote yet again at Erskine’s request. 

If Steve and Sam both visibly sigh at the next photo that pops up, that’s a secret that will never leave the room. Steve would defend himself for his reaction, but he doesn’t really feel the need to. Who wouldn’t swoon over the Prince of Wakanda?”

“Yes,” he says, breathless half because he’s awestruck and half because Sam is elbowing him in the ribs trying to rile him up. As if he doesn’t have a crush on Prince T’Challa as well. Steve has seen the way he looks at the TV whenever a story about him is on. “I absolutely accept.”

“Unfortunately, Prince T’Challa is not eligible because he is already first in line for his own crown.” Erskine’s expression suggests he finds their tizzy over T’Challa very entertaining. It almost keeps Steve from feeling embarrassed. 

Almost. 

“If he’s not eligible, why is he included in these pictures?” 

“I thought you might like to look at him.”

Steve would bury his face in the popcorn bowl to hide his blush if Sam’s hands weren’t currently reaching inside it. Hasn’t he been humiliated enough today? Thank God James isn’t here to see this.

It is nice to relax with his friends, though. This is the first time Steve has felt like he’s able to loosen up since coming to the palace, and even if he’s hyper-aware of the handsome backstabber lurking somewhere down the hall, he’s got Sam and Natasha here to keep him sane for the weekend. 

Everything is still a bit overwhelming, but it’s a little more bearable with them here. 

“Thanks. I think.”

Erskine smiles at him. Steve smiles back, only slightly strained, as Peggy’s voice picks back up as she begins to read yet another profile. 

They go on like that for a while, Peggy’s monotonous reading making it easy for Steve’s attention to drift elsewhere between quick nods and absentminded laughs at the right moments after someone makes a joke. He knows he should be paying more attention to this considering how important it’s going to be to his future and his happiness, but that importance just makes him wander into his own head even further. 

He’s always wanted to have a great love story. Something like his mother and father, though hopefully without the tragic accident to cut it short. He’s always wanted to have his one person, someone whose name alone could light up his face, whose kiss could make his foot pop. 

Maybe that’s why he’d put so much stock into his dance with James. It’s his fault for being such a hopeless romantic. That’d probably made it even easier to manipulate him— God, Steve feels so stupid for thinking they’d had a genuine spark. Even if the attraction was real, the connection definitely wasn’t. 

He’d had such high hopes, but now all he can hope is that whoever they settle on will be able to be happy with him, all things considered. Steve never wanted to fall in love with strings attached, and yet here he is, unsure if he’ll ever be allowed to fall in love at all. 

An arranged marriage. How is he supposed to make peace with that?

It’s Dr. Erskine’s agitated huff that pulls Steve back to reality. He’s glad to find it isn’t directed at him. Apparently no one had noticed his attention drifting away, too focused on the screen and the stack of rejected candidates to care. 

“We need someone titled,” Erskine is saying. “Someone who can help you run a country without ego getting in the way. Someone attractive, smart, but not arrogant. Someone with compassion .” 

“You mean someone like him?” Sam points to the screen, his other hand frozen halfway between the popcorn bowl and his mouth. 

Steve freezes in the same way once his eyes land on the photo now plastered across the television. He’s not the only one. Even Erskine sounds impressed by the newest candidate.

“Yes. Someone exactly like him.”

Him is one of the handsomest men Steve has ever seen, and that’s saying something, because Steve isn’t usually into his fellow blondes. But this man… there’s no way to describe him other than godlike. Anything else would be selling him short. 

“Thor Odinson of Asgard,” Peggy narrates from the file held in front of her. “He was an Olympic swimmer, is a current mountain climbing aficionado, loves photography, studied linguistics in university, and participates in show-riding.”

“So, he’s pretty much perfect,” Natasha says bluntly. She lifts her eyebrows when everyone looks at her. “What? I’m a lesbian, not blind. I can still tell when a man is objectively attractive.”

“I don’t think there’s anything objective about how attractive this man is,” Sam murmurs. “He’s an adonis. Like, are we sure he’s even real? He sounds like he might be too good to be true.”

Peggy interjects with her own words for the first time in almost an hour. “I’m fairly certain Steve danced with his brother at the party. Loki Odinson, the fellow with the black hair and green jacket?” 

It makes sense Steve didn’t recognize the connection. Loki and Thor look absolutely nothing alike, and although Loki had been the first person Steve danced with, his last name wasn’t something Steve had focused on in particular. 

“He looks… decent,” is all Steve can think to say. He’s being honest, and he doubts any of them would want to hear what else he’s thinking anyway. 

If Steve can’t be happy with Thor, there’s not a chance in hell any of these other guys are going to cut it. He needs to stop being so picky. Like Natasha said, the guy is pretty much perfect. It isn’t his fault Steve is still having doubts about doing this. 

“He’s a fine young man from a fine young family. An excellent choice if I do say so myself, Steven. It’s a wonder I didn’t think of him earlier.”

Choice. What a funny word. What’s the saying? Choose your battles wisely? Is this battle a wise one?

James doesn’t have to get married to someone he doesn’t love in order to fight for the throne. James doesn’t have to fight for the throne at all. It was his choice in the first place to try and insert his claim to the throne, and yet Steve is the one bearing the burden of trying to win it. How is that fair?

Steve wishes he could hate him. He really does, but he doesn’t think he can, not when the emotion he truly feels when he thinks of the other man is envy. 

He studies the photo of Thor on the screen for another minute or two while Sam, Natasha, and Erskine continue to chat about his good qualities around him. It’s all background noise for Steve’s thoughts. 

Thor is handsome. He looks kind. What more can Steve ask for in this situation? He knows he wants more, but this isn’t about what he wants. This is about what he needs to do. 

“Thor seems like a good option,” he says quietly. 

The vague compliment is all he can manage for now, but maybe when they meet, things will be different. There’s still a small chance that he and Steve might be a good match, that what they share could be more than a convenient companionship. 

Steve will just have to give it his best shot. All he can do is try, right?

Chapter Text

Thor does end up being a good option. Natasha really is right about him being perfect. 

If the guy weren’t so sweet, Steve might find that perfection annoying, but as it turns out, even guys like Thor have their fair share of personal problems. 

Thor’s comes in the form of his father. Namely, his father favoring Loki to rule rather than Thor despite the order the line to the throne is supposed to go in, a decision that Steve absolutely does not understand after meeting both of the Odinson brothers. According to Thor, his father doesn’t think he’s worthy of ruling. Something about Thor being too headstrong and quick to aggression, claims that Steve doesn’t know if he agrees with. 

Admittedly, he’s only known Thor for a week and a half, but first impressions are more revealing than getting to know someone in some cases. Not in the case of James, obviously, but Thor and James couldn’t be more different if they tried. 

Steve is trying. He’s trying hard to make things work with Thor, but he can’t help feeling like something between them just isn’t clicking in the way it’s supposed to. That’s what’s annoying about Thor being so perfect, actually. Why can’t Steve settle for that perfection?

Sure, Thor is a little obliviously cocky at some moments, but overall, he’s nothing but a golden retriever come to life. If anything, it’s his brother that’s the oddball. He’s more like a chihuahua, or maybe a snake if they’re branching their comparisons outside the canine category. 

From what Thor had told Steve during their first outing— a walk on the beach, because apparently Peggy and Erskine are excellent at faux-romantic scheming— Loki had set him up with their father to take the fall for something he’d done himself, leaving Thor behind as the unlucky scapegoat. Evidently, Loki is an excellent schemer in his own right. 

Steve had asked Thor if he hated Loki for it (because he sure would if it was him who had been played like that), but surprisingly, Thor had shaken his head and said no. 

“He’s my brother,” he’d said quietly, keeping his expression neutral so the reporters hovering somewhere up behind the trees lining the beach wouldn’t pick up on anything more than the two of them walking together. “I could never hate him, no matter how angry he may make me.” 

Steve guesses he can understand that, even if he’s never had any brothers or any siblings at all. The closest experience he has to relate that to is how he’d felt towards his mother after finding out about the whole prince thing, but even then, she hadn’t intentionally sabotaged him the way Loki seems to have done to Thor. She’d been trying to keep him safe. 

After the beach walk, their next outing had been a picnic in one of the nicer public gardens Vengea has to offer— a location strategically chosen so the press could take pictures from a safe distance, of course. Steve hasn’t bothered looking at any of the newspapers or tabloids featuring the two of them on the front page, but he assumes that the headlines must be going their way, because Erskine has been pleased as punch ever since Thor first showed up for his visit at the palace. 

The palace might be huge, but in Steve’s opinion, it’s getting just a little crowded. Having both Thor and James around at all times is overwhelming, to say the least. Not that Steve has seen much of James since Thor’s arrival. He’s not sure if he should feel smug about that or not. 

It’s probably ridiculous, but James’ avoidance of him is getting on Steve’s nerves. Steve can’t decide which is more irritating; the idea of James hovering around him at all times the way Thor is required to or the reality of him ignoring Steve’s very existence altogether. 

He feels guilty as hell for it, but he finds his mind drifting to the other man far too often for someone who is supposed to be making an effort to form a relationship with a completely lovely man who hasn’t lied to him or tried to steal his throne. Unlike certain grey-eyed individuals that won’t even make eye contact with Steve when they’re eating dinner.

Steve hasn’t been thinking about Bucky the entire time he’s been getting to know Thor, but it’s enough that he’s ashamed of himself for being this caught up over a guy who has only ever given him the time of day in order to betray him. He should have higher standards than that, damnit. 

All the questions bouncing around his brain about what James is doing, where he is, whether or not he’s seen Steve and Thor together are enough to drive a man mad. Every time Steve thinks about James for more than two minutes, he does get mad. The questions of whether or not James hates him and whether or not he feels bad about being so manipulative are even more infuriating to dwell upon. 

He doesn’t know if it’s all the talking he and Thor have done about Loki or the fact that they’re both blondes, but Steve is also being driven crazy by the lack of romantic chemistry he feels with his stupidly sweet specimen of a man. 

Again, Thor is perfect. He’s handsome, he’s kind, he’s funny, he’s smart, he’s charming, and even his flaws are oddly endearing. So why isn’t Steve falling for him?

It’s only been a few days, he knows, but he hasn’t even developed a proper crush yet. Is it because their moments together are mostly forced? Because they’re both hyper-aware of the pressure that both of their situations to do with thrones put on their budding relationship?

Whatever the issue is, it’s making Steve feel like he’s going nuts. Because Thor definitely isn’t the problem here. It’s Steve and his annoyingly high romantic standards that he just can’t seem to set to the side for his heart, even if he’s (mostly) made up his mind about getting married to a stranger in order to make sure Lord Barnes doesn’t get to the throne. 

All the activities and outings that Peggy and Erskine have planned in order for Steve and Thor to bond both in front of the press and in front of each other have been straight out of the same sort of romantic comedies that Steve would probably be binging with Natasha and Sam to prepare for the wedding to come if they were all in the same place.

Jesus Christ. Steve really is going to have a wedding sometime in the semi-near future. He’s going to get married, wear a suit and a ring and everything, and after that will come the crown. It still doesn’t feel real, probably in part because Thor hasn’t proposed yet. 

According to Erskine, Steve proposing to him is out of the question. When Steve had asked about why that particular part of the plan was necessary he’d received a ten minute spiel about how it wouldn’t be proper. Steve had only been half paying attention, too busy thinking about how James hadn’t even glanced in his direction during breakfast to care about the explanation Erskine was giving him. He probably should have listened a little more, because he still doesn’t really understand why Thor has to be the one to pop the question. 

No one has given Steve a concrete time or place where it’s going to happen, but he knows it’s going to have to happen sometime soon. 

Steve really hopes it isn’t going to happen today, not only because he isn’t ready for it in general, but because today’s ‘date’ has resulted in the two of them getting fairly sweaty. Two guys with strong senses of competition put together on a tennis court? Whoever thought of this strongly underestimated just how into it their intended lovebirds would get. It’s more aggressive than adorable, the way they’re going up against each other. 

Tennis is one of the few sports Steve had enjoyed even before Erskine arrived and brought his slew of staff and personal trainers into Steve’s life, though the recreational matches he’d played against Natasha on weekends at the local park weren’t nearly as intense as this is, but Steve can’t say he isn’t having fun. 

Thor is good company, but he’s also good competition. It makes it easy to get lost in the game, Steve doesn’t remember that they’re technically doing this for a photo op until Erskine comes over to where they’re sitting on the bench between rounds, Thor chugging a water bottle and Steve lazily stretching just so his muscles won’t tense up while they’re resting. 

“Steven. Thor,” Erskine greets, tipping his head towards them both. “I was wondering if I could have a moment with Steven alone?”

“Of course, Doctor.” Thor smiles, as easygoing and sunny as ever, even with sweat dripping down his forehead and the bun he’d pulled his hair into earlier now reduced to a sloppy ponytail that he tightens as he stands. 

Steve watches Thor make his way over to the cooler on the other side of the court in order to grab another bottle of water, longing for one himself but knowing he won’t be able to have it until he lets Erskine get whatever it is he needs to say out of the way first. “What’s up, Doc?” 

Erskine doesn’t react to Steve’s phrasing, so he must not pick up on the reference. His face is serious when he speaks back up. “While I am very happy that you and Thor seem to be having a good today, I feel the need to remind you that it is crucial you let the cameras pick up on the romance. Your relationship needs to look like a real one. We cannot allow there to be doubt surrounding your commitment to the throne, especially now that the press has discovered that the young Lord Barnes is staying with us.”

“Do they know why?” Steve eventually asks instead of snapping back with any of the angry remarks that immediately come to mind at being told he needs to make his romance with Thor look real.

It isn’t real. It doesn’t feel much like a romance, either. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? If anything, the bonding they’re doing feels like it’s succeeding in every way except the one that Erskine wants the most. 

“Viscount Pierce has not yet gone public with his desire for Lord Barnes’ claim to the throne, but I have no doubt that he plans to at some point. For all of his less desirable qualities, Pierce is a very intelligent man. He knows how to execute a plan just as well as we do.”

“So you want me and Thor to pass off our relationship as real before they find out,” Steve murmurs, catching up to Erskine’s train of thought much quicker than he would have a few weeks ago. He’s getting better at thinking like a leader, he thinks. More strategic in his state of mind. It comes in handy sometimes. 

Erskine sighs and sits down next to him, hands clasped between his knees. “In order for your engagement to appear believable to the public, we need to properly build up to it. I know this is difficult for you. Anyone who has not been brought up with the expectation for their marriage to be arranged from a young age… it is not a mindset that is easy to slip into.”

You’ve got that right, Steve thinks, only semi-bitterly. He’s grateful that Erskine somewhat understands just how conflicting this is for him.

“I’m not sure how to make this look real,” he admits. “I’ve been in relationships before, but I’ve never…” I’ve never been in love, he wants to say, but he can’t bring himself to utter the words out loud. If he did, he thinks he might do something ridiculous, like burst into tears where the reporters, Thor, and the palace staff will see. 

James wouldn’t see it, at least. He’s not been around to see Steve at all for these past few days. It’s a small mercy. 

“I’m not asking you to proposition him in public or anything of that sort, but the lack of affection is… noticeable.”

Steve’s face heats up at the bluntness with which Erskine makes his statement. Unfortunately, Steve can’t argue against that, because not only is it true, it’s intentional. On his part, anyways, but Thor hasn’t tried to do anything past hold his hand to help him up from where they’d taken a carefully timed tumble into the sand the day they were at the beach so the paparazzi could catch sight of them making their first outing together memorable.

What Steve remembers most about that day is having to pour sand out of his shoes once they finally got back to the limo. Dum-Dum had been less than enthused about having so much of the stuff tracked back onto the carpets of his limo. 

“I’ll try and do better,” he responds after a moment, wiping off his face with one of the damp towels that’s been provided by one of the ever-present servants that seem to follow him around everywhere he goes. “I can… I don’t know. Pretend to trip again so he can catch me?”

It’s a dumb idea, but playing dumb had actually been one of the bits of advice Natasha had left him with during one of the stressed rants he’d gone on in the privacy of his room before she and Sam had had to fly back to New York. 

“There’s no shame in taking it back to the basics,” she’d informed him from her upside down position where she was laying on his bed with her head hanging off one side of the mattress. “Faking being an idiot is a sure-fire way to get a guy to flirt with you.”

“ And what makes you an expert on getting guys to flirt with you?” Steve had asked, scowling and batting away the empty candy bar wrapper she’d tossed at him in retaliation. 

“I’m an expert at flirting with anyone who might get me free drinks.”

So, maybe playing dumb is a smart move in this instance. According to Natasha, slowing things down a little will give them more time to connect. Everyone else seems to be keen on forcing moments between Steve and Thor. Why shouldn’t Steve give it a shot himself? 

With that thought in mind, Steve gives Erskine a curt nod before standing, tossing aside his towel and beginning to make his way over to where Thor is still standing by the cooler. 

“Hey, Thor,” he calls with the brightest smile he can muster. “Would you throw me one of those bottles, please?”

Ever the gentleman, Thor of course smiles back and does exactly as he’s told, reaching in the cooler and pulling a bottle of water out in order to toss it in a graceful arc towards Steve’s outstretched hands. 

Steve doesn’t have to pretend to be uncoordinated in order to miss the catch. Not even Erskine’s months of lessons can’t totally undo twenty plus years of being clumsy.

It is a little bit over the top, the way he uses the fumble as an excuse to make himself fall flat on his ass, but he’s just doing what Erskine asked. Playing it up for the cameras and all that. 

He continues the effort as he smiles sheepishly up at Thor, whose expression of concern quickly morphs into that of a laugh. “Care to give me a hand?”

Thor grins down at him and stretches out an arm, his grip smooth and warm against Steve’s own palm when their hands connect. “And here I thought I’d be waiting a few days more before asking you for yours.”

It’s a clear tease towards the proposal they both know is coming. Thor isn’t stupid, and Steve isn’t cruel. Erskine had been open about needing to find Steve a good match to help keep the throne. That had been one of Steve’s conditions from the start— whoever he settled on as his suitor had to know that their romance wouldn’t be organic. 

And maybe this relationship with Thor doesn’t feel romantic yet. Maybe Steve had taken his tumble on purpose. But that doesn’t keep Thor from helping him up or keep Steve from being thankful that he’d chosen such a good sport to one day rule by his side. 

Odin is wrong about Thor. Steve’s only known him for a little while, but Thor’s worthiness would be visible even to the blind. 

Steve thinks back to what Erskine had said about the long history of arranged marriages in his family tree. His grandparents had become best friends after a while, hadn’t they? They’d become quite fond of each other. 

It isn’t quite the love at first sight or inferno fueling spark he’d imagined would come with his first love, but it’s a start to something that is going to get Steve where he wants. Steve can live with that, can't he? He just has to try his hardest like his mother always taught him. 

Maybe one day, it’ll even start to feel like it’s enough. 

-

As the staged moments between himself and Thor continue to roll out on the front pages of every newspaper and magazine in the country, Steve has to wonder just how dumb the people reading them must be. 

The photo-ops and ‘accidentally’ revealed details only seem to get cornier by the day. And they’re really falling for it? 

Well. If he were still an average citizen, Steve guesses that he might be eating this up too. A romance between two princes coming out of nowhere? It’s like a fairytale come to life. 

Part of Steve wishes that he were an outsider to this whole situation just so he didn’t have to be aware of the less than picture perfect circumstances that brought their story into creation. At least then he’d be able to believe it has a happy ending. 

He’s being dramatic, as Peggy would say— as she had said the one time he’d finally complained last night about having to spend yet another day forcibly bonding with his soon to be husband. 

All things considered, the date they have planned for them today isn’t so bad, so maybe Peggy’d had a point when she snapped at him for letting his dramatics get in the way of his duty. The duty he’d agreed to take on, as she’d pointedly reminded him. 

He’d kept his complaints to himself after that. They’re all doing their best, he knows. 

He and Thor have gotten to the point of holding hands now that they’re hit the two week marker for how long they’ve known each other. It’s not like Steve’s never held hands with another man before, but for some reason he finds himself fixating on the fear that his grip might go sweaty and gross before they’ve finished the walk through the gardens Erskine and Peggy have lined up for them. 

The weather is warm and the sun is shining, but it’s Steve’s nerves more than the temperature that have him feeling overheated. It’s hard to concentrate on the casual conversation he and Thor are trying to engage in when he can hear the sound of camera shutters going off in the distance. 

That’s not to say the garden isn’t lovely. Out of all the spots in the castle Steve has spent time in thus far, he has to say the gardens and the royal gallery are his favorite places to be. Living in the city all his life hasn’t given him many opportunities to admire nature outside of the bushes lining the street and the occasional visit to the park. 

This is different. Steve likes looking at the flowers and has already filled more than one page in his sketchbook with blooms drawn from memory. There’s a corner in the garden behind the fountain that’s filled with forget-me-nots and purple daisies. 

Sarah’s favorites. Steve is almost certain it had to have been his father that asked for them to be planted. Who else would have thought to do it? Who else would have known? Those flowers show that even when he was back home in Vengea, halfway across the world from New York, Joseph Rogers never stopped thinking about the woman he loved. 

Passing by those flowers is enough to make Steve’s words get stuck in his throat, but the presence of the paparazzi is a pressing factor as well. 

He doesn’t realize he has Thor’s hand in a steadily intensifying death grip until Thor slows down their pace and squeezes Steve’s fingers gently with his own. “Would you like to take a break from walking?” he asks lowly, head tilted deliberately to the side so none of the reporters will be able to read his lips. “I’m fairly certain there are some benches around the next corner. I can arrange for us to be left alone for a few moments, at least.“

If Steve were braver, he might reject that offer and insist that they keep going so they can remain on schedule for the lunch Erskine has planned for later where Steve will finally be meeting Thor’s parents, Odin and Frigga.

There’s a reason for that. It’s the real reason behind why Steve feels so nervous he could upchuck. 

Today is the day. Today is the day that Thor is going to propose. 

Saying that things have escalated quickly between the two of them would be a gross understatement, but that’s sort of the point. This engagement needs to happen fast, and despite their lack of a romantic spark, Thor has more than proven himself to be a good match for Steve’s temperament. 

The perfect example of that being just how calm he is right now, even while Steve’s head is spinning in circles right beside him. If he were still small, Steve suspects this might be one of the times where he would have fainted. 

He doesn’t faint now, but it’s a close call. The only thing grounding him is Thor’s hand on the center of his back when he leads Steve towards the benches he’d mentioned a minute ago. So they are going to be taking a break, then. Steve is thankful Thor didn’t make him agree to it out loud, because he really doubts his voice would work even if he tried to respond. 

For one glorious second, Steve thinks that the benches will be an escape, even if it’s only a brief one. But then, because the universe seems to be perpetually mocking him, it turns out that there’s already someone stretched out on the length of stone they’d been planning on occupying. 

And of course, like most things that have gone wrong in Steve’s life lately, the cause behind it is none other than the big, bad Lord James Barnes himself. 

Figures. Here Steve is trying to enjoy his afternoon (and by that he means narrowly avoid an anxiety attack) with his future fiance and James can’t help but show up and ruin things with his stupid dimpled chin and his stupid grey eyes, which are currently trained on the pages of the book he has propped in his lap, legs stretched out along the bench behind the cover. 

Steve hates himself for noticing how nice the man looks like this, lazed up in the sun. Not only is he able to pull off the Prince Charming look. Apparently he’s able to look like every rich college boy fantasy come to life while putting in almost zero effort. 

All he’s had to do is throw on a cropped t-short and cotton shorts branded with a logo probably belonging to some pretentious country club and grab a book after getting back from his daily run. Steve also hates himself for knowing that James goes on a run every day in the first place, but the route that he takes always has him passing by right outside Steve’s window. 

Manipulate bastard. He has no right to be out here looking like that when Steve is already on the verge of losing it. He came out here on purpose, didn’t he? He must have known Steve and Thor would be coming this way. Does that mean he knows about what’s going to be happening later too?

Or maybe Steve is just being paranoid and James doesn’t know anything at all, because for an evil mastermind, he sure doesn’t seem to be all that happy to see Thor and Steve pass by him. Once he finally pulls his nose out of his book and catches sight of them, he frowns, twisting his handsome features into an expression Steve can only describe as sour. 

Somehow, Steve doubts that the face he makes has anything to do with the plum he’s just bitten into, no doubt fresh from the royal orchard that’s located not far off from the flower garden. 

If Steve weren’t so caught up in trying not to choke on his own tongue, he might even feel smug about having caught James off-guard, but as things are… 

“Let’s try sitting somewhere else, shall we?” Thor murmurs, steering Steve around by the shoulders. 

Steve barely pays attention to how they get there, but they come to a more successful stopping point soon enough. This one is a swing rather than a bench. It makes it easier for Thor to slip his arm around Steve’s shoulders once they’ve gotten sat down and situated. 

His head is tilted in the same deliberate way as it had been while they were walking, though Steve can’t hear any cameras going off this time. “This is all a bit overwhelming for me as well, I must admit. And I grew up in a castle.”

“Oh.” A sudden pang of guilt hits Steve’s stomach. He’s being selfish, isn’t he? He isn’t the only one who is being pressured into this proposal. “I didn’t mean to…”

“What? No.” Thor shakes his head with a laugh. “I was not trying to elicit an apology, I…” He pauses and thinks, his foot tapping restlessly on the ground while he uses his heel to slowly rock the swing back and forth. “I merely meant that I understand your nerves.”

We don’t have to do this if you don’t want, Steve wants to say, but he can’t, because they do have to do this if Steve wants to keep the throne. “I’m sorry if my nervousness is making yours worse.”

“No more apologies,” Thor chides, mockingly stern for a moment before the seriousness truly seeps into his tone. “I wanted a moment alone with you for my own reasons, Steve.”

“What reasons?” 

Thor sighs, shifting on his side of the swing at the same time he slips the hand not curled around the far side of Steve’s shoulders into his pocket and begins rummaging around. Steve is so preoccupied with his curiosity over Thor’s reasons that he doesn’t notice that Thor has brought something out until the object is being held out in front of him.

Steve’s brows furrow. “What’s this?” He’s perfectly capable of seeing that it’s a film canister, but what he doesn’t understand is why Thor has given it to him. Steve is into art, but photography is more Thor’s medium of choice.  

“Every marriage in my family for the past 200 years has been arranged,” Thor begins, fingers brushing against Steve’s own as he passes off the canister. 

“Thor?” Steve whispers, careful not to move his lips too much just in case the reporters have binoculars. He’s learned not to underestimate the power of the press. “What are you—“

“I have something for you.” Thor nods down towards where Steve’s hand is curled around the canister. “Open it and you’ll see what’s inside.”

Steve’s fingers are trembling when he attempts to follow Thor’s instructions. He can guess what he’s going to find when he finally gets the thing cracked open, but that doesn’t stop Thor from building up to the reveal with a further explanation. 

“My great, great-grandmother and my great-great grandfather were married for almost sixty years. I know that we were supposed to do this later, but I thought that maybe this would be better.” Thor chuckles, only slightly hoarse. “I’m willing to face the consequences.” 

The canister finally pops open and Steve’s breath hitches at the reveal of its contents, even as the action only confirms his suspicions. It’s a ring. And not just any ring— 

“This was my great, great-grandmother’s engagement ring. I felt it could be lucky for us, maybe… a sign that perhaps what we share will one day be more than an arrangement.”

Steve continues to stare down at the ring. It’s very clearly vintage, but the ruby placed at the center of the gold band is small. Practical, almost. For it being a woman’s ring, Steve finds its appearance pretty close to his personal taste. 

Subtle, but still elegant. And with what Thor has just told him, meaningful. 

It leaves Steve speechless. They’d had the proposal planned for tonight, at sunset in front of the palace with Erskine and Thor’s parents watching from the steps. He can’t say he doesn’t prefer the sense of privacy Thor has given them by breaking the rules, but as unprepared as he thought he’d be for the proposal latee, it being sprung upon him now has him reeling. 

This is it. A man who he’s known for two weeks has just asked Steve to marry him, and Steve… Steve knows what his answer is. He knows what it has to be. 

It’s not just about keeping the throne. If he wants to take care of this little suitor problem before he goes back home for graduation (with James, as his brain so kindly reminds him), he’s going to need to accept that Thor is his best match. 

He just needs to keep trying, take it step at a time until he reaches the end of the metaphorical aisle. 

Giving Thor his best attempt at a smile, Steve holds his left hand out. “Do I have to put it on myself?” he asks shyly, pretending that he can’t hear the gasps the gesture of Thor lifting the ring up draws from those who are still trying to watch them. 

“No, you do not,” Thor says with a smile of his own, wide and beaming just as bright as the cameras flashing in the distance. 

The ring slides on. It doesn’t feel half as constricting around Steve’s finger as his emotions do around his heart. 

Chapter Text

Steve finds it more than a little ironic that he and Thor end up confirming their engagement before they’ve even shared their first kiss, but such is the life of the prince.

Thor’s his fiance now. Steve supposed it doesn’t matter much whether or not their mouths have touched, especially when their mouths are so busy doing other things at the current moment— namely, gushing about each other to the media and answering everyone’s million and one questions about wedding plans. 

The event they hold to make the announcement about their engagement ends up being to kicker for all that to start, as if waving at a crowd out a thousand cheering members of the public as the news was dropped by Erskine’s booming voice wasn’t daunting enough. 

Having to pretend to care about what color table cloth they’ll have at their wedding brunch is somehow just as hard, if not harder. Pretending to be in love with his future husband… well, that’s a different sort of hardship entirely. 

It’s not hard to get along with Thor at all, but even now that Steve’s hand is bearing his ring, it’s getting more difficult by the day to try and pretend there’s a fire of passion burning between them when Steve is yet to have even felt that first spark. 

Waving to the crowd with one hand while the other is clasped in Thor’s is easy. Even if they aren’t truly enamored with each other, they share a sense of companionship born out of being thrust into positions no one else around them can understand. Arranged marriages among royals are common, but not when the arrangees (is that the right word?) have only known that it was going to be necessary for a few weeks. 

Most participants are aware of their arrangements for years, maybe even decades, depending on how young they were when the discussions between families began. Steve and Thor never had that, and even if it stems from different reasons, the dissonance is coming to the same result. 

A ring around Steve’s finger and a crown sitting upon both of their heads. Not that they’ve been allowed anywhere near a crown yet. Coronation won’t be happening until after Steve’s two months of searching for suitors are up. He’s already settled on one, but he’s going to cling to these last few weeks of freedom for as long as he can. 

He and Thor haven’t spoken about it— or about most things, actually— but he presumes the other man is planning on doing something similar, hence why Thor had disclosed the night before that he’d be on his way back to Asgard the following morning. Something about spending time close to family before making such a big life change. 

Steve gets that. It might mostly be an excuse for them to give each other some space, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. If he had any family left outside of Sam and Nat, he’d want to be closer to them now more than ever, but as things are, he isn’t going to get to see either of them again until graduation. 

For the time being, he’s stuck at the palace. That doesn’t sound too painful, and it isn’t physically thanks to how posh his surroundings are, but if one more person asks him about wedding plans this morning, he might have to jump out the window of the nearest tower. Peggy and Erskine have both been driving him crazy with all of their questions, which is what’s gotten him to the place where he’s at now. 

With all the space inside the palace walls, it’s a bit ridiculous that Steve is having to hide just to make sure Peggy and Erskine don’t find him, but it’s the measure Steve has had to resort to. No matter what room he’s in, the two of them have managed to sniff him out. 

Sitting under the staircase behind one of the too-tall vases that line the end of the railing has allowed him fifteen more minutes of peace and quiet than his last spot had, so as uncomfortable as the marble floor is underneath his ass, he can deal with it as long as it keeps him from having to pick out another half dozen preferences in napkin and placemat options. 

He has a book to help keep him occupied, at least, though counting the tiles on the bathroom ceiling during the twenty minutes of bliss he’d stolen before Peggy came knocking was entertaining in its own right. He’s so caught up in the pages he’s flicking through that he doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching until the boots they belong to are right in the edge of his vision. 

Thank god they aren’t heels or loafers. That limits the number of people they could belong to. 

The hearty laugh Steve takes in before he can even get his eyes up to the person’s face is another tell. The mustache is what really tips it off, Dugan’s mouth twisting into an amused grin as Steve starts and then blinks up at his sudden arrival. 

“It’s such a lovely morning I’m surprised not to catch you out in the gardens.”

Steve sighs and gives Dum-Dum a smile of his own now that he’s no longer in fear of being found out by someone he’d rather not run into. Dugan is one of the few people who won’t be asking him anything about wedding plans. 

“On any other day, you might, but…” Steve trails off, not sure of how much he should say. Erskine and Peggy are Dugan’s coworkers.

Luckily, Steve doesn’t have to say anything in order for the older man to understand. “Ah, I see. Playing a little game of royal hide-and-go-seek.” Dugan’s eyes are twinkling in a way that suggests he’s well-aware that Steve’s fellow players have no idea they’re participating in this little game. “Don’t worry. Contrary to what Mr. Fury may believe, I can keep a secret. Shall I fetch you anything from the kitchens while I’m in the area? I know how much of an appetite sneaking around can raise.”

“I’m not sneaking ,” Steve defends, more out of reflec than anything. At Dum-Dum’s snort and raised brows, he huffs and crosses his ankles, setting his book down beside him. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” There’s no way he’ll be able to escape Erskine’s attention past lunch anyways. 

“If you say so, your Highness. I just thought you might like to know that Mr. Odinson took off an hour ago and will call soon when he’s back home.” 

“Oh. Uh, thanks.” 

With his message now delivered, Dugan raises a finger to his lips and ever so carefully makes his way up the stairs, leaving Steve to roll his eyes down below, alone once more. 

Finally. These are precious moments, far and few in between for Steve these days. 

His book remains discarded as he holds his hand out in front of him in favor of burying himself back in its words, shifting his intention instead on the glint of light that catches in the stone now permanently set on his left ring finger. 

It’s not hard to admit the ring is beautiful, nor is it difficult to acknowledge that the man who gave it to him is just as lovely. The feeling Steve gets when he remembers he’s wearing it is slightly more complicated, to say the least. He wouldn’t describe it as straight up dread, but he wouldn’t call it joy either. 

He just… he doesn’t have a word for it. It just is. 

Propping his chin up on the palm of his ring-free hand, Steve lets out a slow breath and lets his eyes close for a brief moment. He needs to watch where his head goes. Ever since the proposal, getting lost in his own thoughts has become easier than ever. 

Even now, the montage of moments from the past few days is starting to unfold itself on the back of his eyelids just like the list of suitors had on the television screen with Sam and Nat the week before when Thor was still nothing but a hypothetical. 

Erskine smiling at Steve on the couch and saying he’d chosen well. Natasha advising him to play it dumb to get Thor’s attention. The reporters following their first walk on the beach. Thor pulling out the ring. James leaning against a pillar with an unreadable expression on his face as they walked out onto the balcony to announce their engagement to the press.

That last memory is one Steve has been trying his hardest to push down. It shouldn’t matter to him what James is doing anymore. Steve has found his suitor to help him keep the crown. He’s won. James may as well pack up and go home, but of course because he’s every bit the insufferable asshole Steve predicted him to be, he hasn’t. 

He may be an even bigger asshole than Steve first thought, actually. Why else would he be bothering Steve when he’s so clearly not looking to be disturbed?

Steve has no idea how James ended up finding him before Peggy, but somehow, that’s exactly what happens. Yet again, Steve doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching until the owner of said feet has come close enough to announce his arrival with words. 

Figures that a backstabbing bastard like James Barnes would sneak up on Steve from behind. What the hell is he doing wandering under the staircase from that direction?

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts already.”

At the sound of James' voice, Steve’s head jerks up so fast it’s a surprise something doesn’t audibly snap. 

Jesus. Why is it that everything this guy does gets Steve to give him such a strong reaction? The only Steve can do is try and hide it. James doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing he’s caught Steve off guard. Especially not when the brunette is so at ease that he’s whistling as he walks up, oddly cheerful in comparison to the last time Steve saw him. 

“Wouldn’t you like it if I was,” Steve retorts, curling his fingers in and stuffing his newly formed fist down into his lap like hiding the jewelry will do anything to get James to fuck off. “But quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. If you must know, I was actually admiring my ring. It’s an Odinson family heirloom. Thor really is such a romantic.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” James sounds a touch too amused at the bragging tone Steve takes. Steve hates it. And him. “I think I read that exact thing in a tabloid just last night. You and Thor are a hot topic at the moment. It seems like no one else even knew you were in the market for a beau, hm?”

Steve’s sure his knuckles have turned white with how much force it’s taking to keep him from decking Lord Barnes straight in his crooked smile. They both know why Steve’s engagement has come as such a surprise, as much as Erskine is trying to make people think otherwise. 

“If you’d excuse me, I really must go see to some wedding details,” he gets out through gritted teeth, though he’d rather subject himself to almost anything other than that torture— except stand here and keep letting James rile him up. Besides, he doesn’t actually have to go do any planning. A little white lie won’t hurt anyone who already lies as much as Janes. Steve just needs to get out before he does something catastrophic. 

Christ, where can a prince catch a break if not in his own castle? Steve was trying to avoid any more conflict today, but apparently James has taken it upon himself to come and cause it anyways. 

Case and point, the way James can’t seem to leave well enough alone even when Steve stands and makes a bolt for the other side of the double staircase. All James does is pick his tune back up and continue whistling as he climbs up the side of the stairs closest to him in an exact mirror of the motions Steve is going through himself on the opposite side. 

Steve has to bite his tongue before he speaks just so he won’t say something completely unbecoming of someone with a higher status. “l'm sorry, is there something you wanted to say to me?”

James’ smile is serene and his grip on the railing loose in comparison to the death grip Steve has on his own stretch of it. “No, no,” he hums. Then, after a well-timed pause that lasts just long enough for Steve’s hackles to rise, “You were the one who stomped on me with your big feet, were you not?”

“Big feet? ” Steve’s voice comes out shriller than he’ll ever admit to anyone else, but what’s he supposed to do? Not get offended by James’ obvious insult just because it’s been delivered with a wink?

If anything, that only serves to piss Steve off even more. 

As righteous as Steve feels in his irritation, he’s not able to focus on it for long. As soon as he and James have both made it to the top of the staircase and are making their way towards each other for a standoff in the center, there’s a familiar voice floating in from one of the nearby rooms that makes Steve freeze in fear. Peggy. 

“ Angie, have we made any progress on locating Steve yet? We still need his input on what design the caterers will fold the napkins with and Thor should be calling from Asgard any second now

This strange little dance he and James have been doing out here made him momentarily forget that he’s supposed to be hiding— something that requires him to be quiet as well, and as long as he’s out here bickering with Lord Barnes, he can’t exactly do that, can he?

That leaves one obvious solution. They’ll just have to take this little argument elsewhere. 

As someone who is recently engaged, Steve knows he shouldn’t be letting or wanting other men to get him alone, but this isn’t like that. Steve just wants to get James all to himself so he can finally let loose on him, is all. Verbally. Nothing else. 

And maybe Steve also finds himself relishing in the thought of finally letting James see how far ahead in this game he is, but who wouldn’t? James and Pierce started this mess. Steve never wanted to participate in the first place, but here they are. 

Steve is less sure about why he wants James to get mad about it. When it comes down to it, he guesses he just wants James to know he’s losing both the throne and Steve— except, he never had Steve to begin with, so Steve probably shouldn’t be thinking that way.

As the tennis match with Thor the other day had proven, being overly competitive is admittedly one of Steve’s weaknesses. That’s probably all this is. 

James isn’t just Steve’s enemy. He’s his competition.

Once Steve has shaken off the surprise of James speaking to him so boldly— because no one at the palace outside of Erskine and Fury would do that, not really— he holds in an aggravated groan and opts instead for the quieter route of grabbing James forearm and dragging him down the nearest hallway. 

It’s a drastic change from the little dance they were just doing. They seem to do a lot of dancing around each other, don’t they?

In fact, that’s the first point Steve chooses to make once he’s twisted open the handle to what he’s pretty sure is a cleaning closet and tugged James into the unlit space, careful not to shut the door behind them with a slam. He does not need Peggy finding him in this position.

As such, the volume of his words is much lower than yelling he wants to let out. “Well, you know, you danced with my big feet!” he whisper-shouts, glaring at where James is standing across from him in the cramped space of the closet, the shine of his eyes barely visible in the small amount of light filtering through the slats of the door. “And you were the one that asked me for that dance. ”

In case James needs reminding that the two of them had had plenty of chemistry before Steve knew about Viscount Pierce’s sneaky plan to steal the kingdom. Steve remembers that without prompting, unfortunately, even though all he’s been trying to do since they met is forget it. 

“Fine,” James shoots back. “I danced with you. Call the Hague, convene the war crimes tribunal. Steve,” his voice takes an exasperated turn that makes Steve’s stomach to a funny twist underneath the anger simmering at the bottom. “l would remind you that we only danced for about a minute.”

“It was more than a minute.” Steve prays to all of his royal ancestors that he doesn’t sound half as crestfallen as he feels over that stupid statement. 

When will he stop letting himself down by putting even a drop of faith in this guy? Of course the dance hadn’t meant anything to him. Why would it? No one other than Steve would be dumb enough to deem a minute-and-a-half long dance as important. 

“Well, maybe a minute and a half.”

Steve squares up his shoulders, determined to hold onto at least some small sense of dignity. “Fine. It was a minute and a half, but that’s not the point!”

“And this point is…?”

“The point is it was also a lie ,” Steve hisses, crossing his arms across his chest like that’ll make him feel any less ridiculous about letting James’ flippancy in this matter make him even more upset. “Because you didn't tell me who you were and that you were trying to steal my crown.” 

You tricked me, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Like he said, he’s going to cling to what little dignity he has left. 

“Well, in that case,” James drawls, and Steve can tell from that simple phrase alone that what else is coming is going to make his blood boil. He’s not wrong. “Please pardon me, your princeliness. I just had a momentary lapse of good manners. You see, usually when I ask a pretty boy to dance, I always show him my family tree.”

James takes one deliberate step forward when he croons out his last sentence. It’s all Steve can do to keep from tucking his proverbial tail between his legs and running straight out into Peggy’s much, much colder clutches, but he manages not to combust under the heat of James’ gaze by briefly diverting his attention to finding the lightswitch and flicking it on instead. 

Which may have been a mistake, because it only gives him a clearer view of the bemused expression James is wearing. He just called Steve a pretty boy . Steve wants nothing more than to punch him in his stupid, smug face. 

Pretty? Men who lie to Steve and make him feel like a fool for flirting don’t get to call him pretty . Thankfully, this is one time where the compliment gets Steve more frustrated than flustered. 

Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean he’s any more articulate. Oh, aren’t you just… crafty,” he bites out. “You wanna know what else you were doing while you were doing your little lie dance?”

James looks both amused and baffled by Steve’s outburst. “What the hell is a lie dance?”

Steve is actually a little surprised that James is willing to curse so casually in front of him given both of their statuses, but he supposes that makes this whole angry rant business a whole lot easier on him now that he no longer has to confine himself to PG language. They’re behind closed doors and all, aren’t they?

“The lie dance isn’t the goddamn point. The point is that—“ he begins heatedly, but before he can really get into his intended point, the sound of heels clacking somewhere close by has him clamming up. 

He refuses to thank James for taking the precaution of switching the closet light back off. Knowing him, the guy didn’t do it to help so much as piss Steve off even more. He succeeds, as usual. 

“Again, I ask– what exactly is the point, Rogers?”

“I—“ 

For one painfully embarrassing moment, Steve is at a loss for words. All he can seem to notice is how dark this damn closet is. And how cramped. Not to mention how close and quiet the two of them are having to remain because of it. It makes this whole exchange feel a little too intimate.

“The point is that I’m onto you, Barnes,” he eventually settles on. “Oh, boy, am I onto what you’re trying to do.” His finger is coming up and jamming into James’ chest before he can think better of it. 

To his credit, James handles the touch better than Steve would have if it were him being provoked, a lopsided smile barely visible in the low light but coming through perfectly clear in his voice. “And what is it, pray tell, that I’m trying to do, your Highness? Is there some mission I’ve been given that I’m unaware of?”

“I don’t doubt that you’re well-aware of it, my Lord.” Steve tucks his arms tighter around himself just to ensure he won’t touch James again, though the way James leans in closer makes that measure feel ineffective. 

“Why don’t you clarify for me, hm? A good prince like you should be more than willing to assist one of his loyal subjects, right?”

Loyal isn’t the word Steve would use to describe James Barnes. He doesn’t know how he and James wind up standing almost nose-to-nose, but that’s where he finds himself with what he says next, muttered out seething and snappish under his breath, filling the small space between them with tension so thick not even a knife could get through it. 

“I think we both know exactly what that is.”

“Do we now?”

Steve knows. There’s no way James isn’t flirting with him again, but this time Steve also knows it isn’t genuine. James just wants to get him to slip up, and as unsteady as being so close to him makes Steve feel, there’s no way in hell Steve is letting that trick work a second time around. 

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.” James isn’t dumb. He’s an evil mastermind, as far as Steve is concerned. 

“Wasn’t that one of the tactics you used to get your fiance to propose?”

While Steve is still trying to properly sort out the implications of that statement— or more importantly, how the hell James knows that little detail when the only people who know about it are Natasha and Erskin— James gives him another one of his trademark half-smiles and looks down at Steve’s own mouth, which is pressed into a thin line. 

It’s a reflex to relax his lips and lick them once he notices James staring, Steve tells himself. A reflex. Nothing else. He very pointedly doesn’t look down at James' smiling mouth. 

It’s also a reflex to flinch back so hard it may as well be a jump when a sudden flooding of light enters the closet, much too bright to be from the bulb overhead. Which of course leaves only one other possible source— the hallway. They’ve been found out. 

Steve won’t ever admit to it out loud, but he’s equal parts relieved and disappointed that he and James won’t ever get to find out what could have happened next if one of the servants hadn’t come busting down the door. 

The worker that’s found then seems to be even more flustered than Steve is himself over catching the two of them in what Steve can admit is a very compromising position. Steve would like nothing more than to explain himself, but what is there to say?

He tries anyway, but his words come out in an awkward fumble that matches the expression the worker— Scott, Steve thinks his name is— is wearing. “We were just— uh—“

“Please forgive the intrusion,” Scott rushes out before Steve can finish his stuttering. “Your Highness. Lord Barnes.”

“No, you don’t—“

“Don’t worry about it,” James calls once Scott has begun scampering off. Steve doesn’t want to know what he’s going to report back to Erskine with. “We were just finishing up.”

Oh, good. Another attempt to sabotage Steve’s reputation. Figures. 

Steve scowls at the loud laugh James lets out, turning around so he can begin retreating down the hallway without showing James his back. The last thing he needs is for the man to stab it again. “You are the worst person I have ever met, James Barnes.”

James takes Steve’s insult in stride, his dazzling smile not dimming one bit as he lazily leans against the wall and watches Steve leave. “For the sake of honesty going forward, I should tell you, no one but my uncle calls me James. The name’s Bucky. Nice to meet you, Steve.”

Bucky? What kind of name is Bucky for someone of royal blood?

All Steve can think to do is give him a jerky nod and try not to focus too much on why his heart is still racing even after he rounds the corner and can properly run away. He could chalk it up to simple embarrassment over getting caught standing inches away from James’-- Bucky’s face, but somehow, that feels like a lie. 

It’s only after Steve has made it halfway to the library for another attempt at hiding that he realizes he’d let Bucky get the last word in without even putting up a fight. 

He can’t let that happen next time. Bucky Barnes needs to know that Steve Rogers means business. If Bucky wants to go to battle, Steve is willing to take this to war. 

-

Even people who haven’t gone through Erskine’s crash course in political science know that one of the most important parts of winning a war is making sure you have a cohesive strategy. 

Erskine has already taken care of the keep your friends close and enemies closer aspect of things by inviting Bucky to stay at the palace until the ball, which leaves Steve with a different job: getting to know the man he’s going up against. 

Since Steve still stands by the statement that he’d rather drop dead than have to sit through another conversation with the brunette, he’s decided to get his information from what is actually probably a more reliable source than Bucky himself. Fury had been tasked with collecting intel on Viscount Pierce and Lord Barnes weeks ago, but that doesn’t keep the man from giving Steve a funny look when he finally asks to hear about what he’d found. 

“Why the sudden interest?”

Steve tries to keep his tone nonchalant. He knows both Erskine and Fury are aware of the closet incident even if they haven’t said anything about it yet. “I’m just curious.”

Fury snorts and clasps his hands together behind his back where he’s walking beside both Steve and Erskine during the second man’s daily stroll through the garden. If he thinks it’s unusual Steve is joining them just to ask about Bucky, he’s kind enough not to say so. 

“As we all know, Lord Barnes is a native Vengean, born and raised in our capital. He recently graduated from Cambridge, is a gourmet cook, plays polo, rugby, and baseball in his spare time, and is preceded by his reputation as quite the Casanova with the gentlemen and ladies alike.“

Steve hates himself for the way his ears perk up at the revelation that Bucky likes men, but that means at least some part of their flirtation was mutual, right? Steve’s not a bad looking guy. Neither is Bucky. That’s sort of the problem. 

Erskine doesn’t seem to care nearly as much about Bucky’s potential interests in a partner as Steve does. “And Steven was in a closet with him?”

Before Fury can answer, Steve interrupts with a wince and an apologetic explanation. “It wasn’t like that. We were just… arguing.”

“Yes, Mr. Lang did mention that things between the two of you looked to be getting rather heated.”

Is that an accusation? It better not br. Steve didn’t even do anything, and wanting to do things isn’t a crime as long as he keeps himself from following through on the temptation. 

“Nothing happened. I swear.”

Sighing, Erskine slows his pace so he can give Steve a sidelong look as Fury continues to make his way forward a few steps ahead. “I believe you, Steven, but I just want to make sure that you will not allow Lord Barnes to get under your skin. His uncle is exceptional at that, and I don’t doubt that his nephew has been taught the same skill.”

He definitely has. Steve can attest to that, but he doubts Erskine wants to hear about how easily Bucky can get Steve to lose it. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he eventually murmurs, giving Erskine a small smile when the older man nods and claps him on the shoulder. 

“Good man.” Then, after a moment of strange silence that Steve is unsure as to whether or not he should break, “Lord Barnes may have been raised to be royalty, my boy, but do not forget that you have always had the makings to be king.”

Steve isn’t so sure he believes that about himself, but if Erskine does, he can go along with it. He nods now too. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“The wedding invitations have been sent out,” Erskine continues as they take slightly larger steps forward in order to catch up to where Fury is lingering by the roses. “And I must tell you again how greatly I approve of your choice in Thor. The two of you make a fine pair on paper and in person.”

“Thank you,” Steve says again, because it’s all he can think of. The invitations are already out? What’s next? Suit fittings? Crown fittings? Do they have to write their own vows?

“But this doesn’t mean your lessons are over just yet. The wedding is taking precedence in planning, I admit, but there is also the matter of your coronation that will come shortly after.”

“How shortly?”

Erskine ignores his question for the time being, apparently having more important details to relay before setting up a schedule. “There are many traditions you will be asked to partake in throughout these ceremonies and celebrations. The most difficult one in my opinion is that of the flaming arrow.”

“Flaming arrow?” Steve echoes. He doesn’t miss the way Fury grins at the faint sound of his voice. That isn’t promising. “How literal is that name?”

Sure enough, Fury’s tone is uncharacteristically cheerful when he takes it upon himself to provide Steve with a description. “The message of it is symbolic for lighting your own eternal flame. All you actually have to do is shoot a flaming arrow through a ceremonial ring and strike the target on the other side.”

“That’s all?” Steve’s voice isn’t getting any stronger. How’s he supposed to hit a target with a flaming arrow when he hasn’t ever shot a bow in his life before? At least it isn’t a gun. “Please tell me I’ll be getting lessons on how to do this.”

“We’ve had to teach many a prince and princess how to do this,” Erskine promises him with a pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure most palaces don’t keep a royal archer on staff, but we’re a special case when it comes to that. Mr. Barton has been with us for quite some time now. I believe he trained under the man who taught your father how to shoot, did he not, Mr. Fury?”

“He did indeed.” Nick’s tone is back to being somber, as most people around the palace get when mentioning memories of Joseph Rogers. “Don’t worry, your Highness. We’ll make sure your aim is true by the time your coronation is upon us.”

Fantastic. Another responsibility to worry about. 

One thing is for sure. Mr. Barton is going to have his word cut out for him when it comes to letting Steve wield a weapon. 

-

As Steve expected, his first archery lesson is nothing short of a disaster. Shooting a bow is in a whole different ball park— shooting range?— than playing tennis, and these arrows aren’t even on fire yet. Which is a good thing, because if they were, Clint and Steve both would surely be burnt to a crisp thanks to how unreliable Steve’s aim has proven to be thus far. 

Steve is trying, he really is. But it’s hard, and he doesn’t mean that in the realm of physicality alone. The pressure that this event puts on him is almost symbolic of everything else that’s expected to come from him in these next few weeks. 

The wedding. The coronation. The beginning of his reign. Christ, they’re lucky Steve isn’t shooting himself with one of these damn arrows. If he does, it’ll be an accident, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about doing it on purpose at multiple points throughout the afternoon. 

Clint— the Mr. Barton Erskine spoke of— is thankfully a pretty good-natured guy, even if a bit younger than Steve was expecting for someone who has apparently spent most of his life training for this job. 

He’d disclosed to Steve during the first few minutes of their lesson that almost no one is a natural with a bow their first go around, which had made Steve feel marginally better about wildly missing the first shot he’d taken at the row of targets set up along a portion of the garden’s hedges. 

All Clint had done in response to Steve’s groan was laugh and make sure Steve had the bow set down while he went to retrieve the wayward arrows.

“I had enough accidents with these things when I was a beginner to know that you should never let a newbie hold a bow when anyone’s back is turned,” he’d told Steve upon his return. “Believe me. Archery is as much of an art as those paintings I hear you like to make, but in this case, practice can make perfect as long as you’ve got the right instructor. And lucky for you, you have me!”

He’d grinned then, and annoyingly enough, the crooked tilt of it had reminded Steve of someone else’s smile that he was trying his hardest not to think of. Steve is actually getting sort of suspicious that his thoughts hold the power to conjure Bucky up, because why else would he spot the smug bastard sitting on a bench in the distance almost as soon as he’s popped into Steve’s mind? 

It’s either that or Bucky is following Steve around. Either way, Steve can’t seem to shake his presence or the pesky thoughts of his person that have been plaguing Steve’s brain ever since they first danced. 

It’s irritating. Infuriating . Steve is already halfway to getting pissed off by the time he remembers what Erskine said about letting Pierce and Barnes get under his skin. 

He has to close his eyes and take several deep breaths before he feels collected enough to open them up again. To be fair, Bucky’s not even doing anything remotely suspicious (at the current moment). He might not even know Steve is closeby. All the guy is doing is reading a book and crunching his way through one of the apples he always seems to be stealing from the kitchens.

Hell, Bucky is spending the afternoon doing what Steve wishes he were allowed to. He probably would be doing the same thing if he didn’t have these stupid lessons and a million other things to worry about. 

It’s not just that he dislikes Bucky or hates him or feels betrayed, though all of those things are certainly emotions that Steve has felt when looking at him. He also envies him, Steve realizes. 

He bets Bucky is great at archery. Definitely better than Steve. Didn’t Fury say Bucky was into polo and baseball? Those are sports that require aim. All of this royal stuff seems to come so naturally to Bucky, even though it’s Steve who has the supposed blood and birthright that gives him precedence to the throne. 

Yeah, Steve does not want to dwell on that too much. 

Envy is a close enough emotion to anger for Steve to easily revert back to his original agitation over spotting Bucky on the bench to begin with, which in turn makes it easy for him to forget the very important fact that he’s holding a fucking weapon. 

Not just holding it. He’s supposed to be aiming it, but with Clint having taken a few steps back to avoid Steve potentially elbowing him in the ribs (again) the lack of a hands on reminder has Steve doing the one thing people with weapons should never do— he shoots without stopping to consider where his weapon is pointed. 

He’s already shot out one of the tires on their golf cart, chopped the heads off of an entire row of flows, and taken out a few glass panes of the lamps used to light the garden at night, so one might think that Steve couldn’t possibly hit anything that would humiliate him more than any of those mishaps. 

One would be wrong. The only thing worse than actually hitting an object is almost hitting a person, as it turns out. Steve’s mind isn’t the only thing attuned to Bucky’s presence. Apparently his arrows are too. 

By some miracle— or maybe a gust of wind— Steve doesn’t actually hit Bucky himself, but he does wind up shattering the statue that sits not five feet away from where Bucky is still lounging on his bench. Oh, God. Steve hopes that statue wasn’t valuable. 

Military reflexes must keep Bucky from reacting with too much panic, but his attention is grabbed from his book within seconds at the sound of the statue crumbling into pieces, lips parting and eyes widening. They’re just as wide when he flicks his gaze up to where Steve has frozen with his bow clutched to his chest, Clint scrambling over towards the statue to check the damage. 

Steve lets out a noise that’s a bit too close to a squeak for his dignity, but it’s not like anyone is close enough to hear it. He has to raise his voice considerably for his apology to carry across the distance between him and his accidental target. “Sorry!”

He’d love to pretend the close call was part of an intentional attempt to intimidate his opponent, but the wave Bucky gives him to acknowledge his acceptance of the apology is accompanied by a smile so affectionate that it’s all Steve can do not to drop his bow entirely. 

Why is it that even when Steve is the one being spontaneous, Bucky always manages to catch him off guard? Steve shouldn’t be this flustered over a smile from a man he despises. At least he’ll be able to play off any blushing as part of the sunburn he’ll no doubt wind up with as a product of all their practicing. 

That practice seems to be over for the day, made clear by the way Clint carefully gathers the bow from him and flashes him a smile of his own, stepping forward. Steve refuses to acknowledge the disappointment that comes with Bucky being blocked from his view. 

“We’ll get a fresh start tomorrow. You did good for this being your first try.”

Maybe Steve should be miffed by the obvious attempt at placation Clint is giving off, but he’s a bit distracted from that by the fresh wave of disappointment that rises when he peeks around the man’s shoulder only to realize Bucky is now gone from the garden entirely. He can’t avoid acknowledging it this time, but he can definitely avoid unpacking it for the time being. 

He blows out a breath and nods as Clint moves past him to begin gathering their equipment. 

You’ve gotta get it together, Rogers. How’s he supposed to survive graduation and coronation if he can’t even get to the end of this week in one piece?

Chapter Text

As terrified as he is about most of this royalty business, Steve does have to admit that there are some aspects of ruling that appeal to him. 

They’ll still take some getting used to when it comes time for him to actually take over and handle the responsibility of helping his subjects himself, but for now, watching Erskine work his magic with the long line of people congregated in the throne room is a good enough way for Steve to pick up on what the job entails. 

Erskine isn’t sitting on the throne. Neither is Steve. No one had questioned his choice to stand next to Erskine instead. They all know he’s not ready for that quite yet. Instead, Erskine is perched on one of the chairs that usually line the walls, dragged over and set up in the center of the aisle leading to the throne. 

Steve finds that to be symbolic, in a way. Erskine has been practically running the country while they’ve been in between monarchs, making sure Parliament isn’t caving in on itself at the same time he’s been giving Steve his lessons. That can’t be easy. 

And yet, he still finds the time to sit down and handle problems that members of the public are struggling with face to face. It’s so… personal. Steve is both surprised and impressed that the man is able to manage it all without collapsing. 

They’ve been here all morning, and after standing quietly at Erskine’s side for almost two hours straight, Steve is debating whether or not it would be improper etiquette to drag over a chair of his own. It’d probably be more comfortable if he were the one kneeling on the carpet in front of Erskine, but that would definitely not be the behavior fit of a prince. 

To be honest, Steve finds the formality a bit strange and the thought of someone kneeling in front of him like that a bit disconcerting to entertain, but it seems like the gesture is a tradition no Vengean involved thinks twice about. Erskine isn’t even their actual king, but he is offering them assistance. 

If the kneeling is their way of showing gratitude, Steve doesn’t suppose he can be too judgemental of that. He’s supposed to be acquainting himself with more Vengean royal traditions, anyway. The flaming arrow ceremony is apparently just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to that. 

Kneeling isn’t the only way the people they interact with express their gratitude, though. As it turns out, another tradition in Vengea involves the offering of gifts in return for much-appreciated help. They’ve gone through so many people this morning that the pile of goods they’ve accumulated is taking up almost a quarter of the room. 

It’s touching how much thought has gone into this exchange on both ends. Erskine handles each request he’s presented with with the grace of a thoughtful response, never snorting or scoffing even when the issue brought up sounds less than pressing in Steve’s opinion, and in return, those that have come to the palace to ask for their help repay them with something that comes from the fruits of their labors. 

So far, they’ve gotten a half dozen fruit baskets, a couple different types of bread, a hand-carved wooden sculpture Steve finds fascinating, an ornately embroidered tablecloth, and all sorts of other goods that are each offered with a genuine smile and dip of the head. 

Erskine thanks every single person who comes before them for their contributions to the kingdom no matter what item is given, and in the rare instance where no gift is able to be provided at all, he simply smiles and touches their shoulder. 

At the current moment, the man in front of them is a farmer who has come to ask for assistance in repairing the well on his property, damaged in a recent storm and endangering his crops and flocks as a result of the flooding. The man is understandably stressed by the situation, but Erskine handles it with the same patience as he has with everyone else today. 

“We will have somebody come and visit your farm in the morning, and perhaps we can repair the well and save your field,” he says, making a note of the man’s name and location on the pad of paper he has in his lap. “If you hear that any of your neighbors are in the same boat, please do not hesitate to tell them we will be sending someone out with enough supplies to help them as well.”

“Thank you so much, Dr. Erskine,” the man exhales, so quick to show his gratitude that he almost faceplants when he attempts to bow. “Your Highness.”

Steve opens his mouth, unsure of how to react. He doesn’t deserve to be thanked. He’s not doing anything other than standing here, for Christ’s sake, but saying that in response to this man’s thanks feels disrespectful. 

“Safe travels on your way home,” he says instead, accepting the bag of flour Erskine hands him once the man has offered it to him with the usual utterance of ‘for your table’ and placing it on the edge of the pile behind him. 

They take a bit of a break after that while Fury continues to check people over before approving them to go inside— because even in a country as peaceful as Vengea, they still have to take precautions— during which Steve takes the opportunity to fetch Dr. Erskine a drink and pull a chair over. 

Like with every other item he’s been offered this morning, Erskine accepts the cup with a grateful smile. “Thank you, dear boy.”

“If anyone should be showing their thanks, it’s me,” Steve tells him, completely honest. The admiration he has for Erskine has only grown over the time they’ve spent together over these past few months, but this morning in particular has it practically bursting at the seams of Steve’s chest. “You do this so well. They just adore you.”

“They’ll adore you one day as well, I’m sure.”

“Not like you.” Steve looks down at his hands, folded in his lap. “What you’re doing is amazing, Doctor. You might not be of the royal bloodline, but I can only hope I’ll be as good of a leader as you.”

This is the aspect of ruling he appreciates and hopes to fulfill the most. Helping people is more important than power. This, he reminds himself, is why he’s agreed to marry Thor. This is how he helps make the world a better place. 

Erskine is quiet for a moment. “I have no doubt that you will accomplish anything you set your mind to, Steven. You may not have known him, but I can assure you, you are your father’s son.” Then, because he must know that what he’s just said is liable to make Steve’s throat close if they don’t move on, “This is part of an ancient Vengean tradition. One has to be fair and very honest. Even if you can't help, you have to show the people you care.”

As usual, Erskine’s wisdom shines through even when Steve wasn’t expecting them to begin their lessons again until later. It’s still appreciated. 

Steve nods and sits up straighter in his chair as Fury brings in their next guest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The person who comes and kneels before them a moment later is a completely different demographic from the male farmer who had come before, a demure looking young woman who can’t be much younger than Steve is himself. College-aged, as they soon find out. 

“Dr. Erskine,” she says quietly, lowering her head. “Your Highness. I sent you a letter a few days ago, and I’m not sure if you’ve gotten it yet, but—“

“Do not fret, Ms. Ross,” Erskine interrupts gently. “Your letter has arrived and already been looked over. We will review your scholarship application, and someone will be in touch no later than the end of next week.”

“Oh, thank you.” She sounds relieved, shoulders slumping in a reflection of that sentiment. Steve can relate to that— all the trouble he’d gone through to get and then keep his scholarship? He might have to personally oversee the fulfillment of her request. “Something for your table. I hope you like omelets.”

Steve doesn’t have the time to ask what that’s supposed to mean before a wicker basket is being thrust at him. He frowns while the woman makes her exit, flicking open the latch that keeps the lid down and opening it up. 

He doesn’t register Erskine’s cautionary call of his name before it’s too late. “Steven, I would not advise—“

Whatever Erskine was going to say to finish that statement is cut off by the loud sound of… clucking? Is that– It can’t be. Not even Steve can be enough of a clumsy fool to let a chicken loose in the throne room.

Except he can be, because that’s exactly what’s happening. 

Steve is a city boy. He’s never seen, let alone held or needed to catch a live chicken before, but what else is there to do to remedy this situation? “Sorry, sorry–” He tries to apologize, but it’s hard to get words out while trying to chase a sprinting animal. “I’ll just–”

“Mr. Fury,” Erskine calls. “We have a chicken situation in the throne room, if you’d please? And Steve…” He waits until Steve freezes at his exasperated tone and looks up, his arms still outstretched in pursuit of their runaway poultry. “A prince does not chase a chicken. Ever.”

“Not even when they’re trying to escape into the palace?” Steve jokes weakly as Fury enters the room, takes one look at Steve’s predicament, and snorts. 

“Especially not when the palace is involved.”

Steve begrudgingly returns back to his seat and picks up the basket, waiting for Fury and his guards to capture the chicken. Of course, it would be just his luck that none of the guards are actually the one who manages to catch their feathered friend despite the fact that there’s at least four of them scattered around the room attempting to scoop it up. 

With how skilled Fury is at his job, Steve is expecting it to be him that returns the chicken to the basket, but it isn’t him or anyone else inside the room– it’s someone who has just conveniently stepped in through one of the side entrances. 

Steve would know that stupid chin dimple and twinkling grey eyes anwhere. It’s Bucky.

Why is it always Bucky? 

The brunette sounds thoroughly amused when he bends and grabs the chicken before it can dash away from where it’s just run into his calves with an infuriating efficiency. He’s a Lord . Why is he so good with farm animals? 

It’s not just humans he can charm, huh? 

“Doctor. Your Highness,” Bucky greets, stepping closer and holding his catch out towards Steve, who can do nothing but hold out the basket with a barely concealed glare so long as they’re in front of Erskine. “I thought I heard a commotion in here.”

Barnes to the rescue . Steve would scoff if he weren’t so concerned with minding his manners in mixed company. If he and Bucky were alone, he’d show him commotion, alright. 

Erskine doesn’t seem to hold any ill-will towards Bucky’s intervention. On the contrary, he’s just as grateful towards him as all of the citizens they’d interviewed this morning. “Your assistance is much appreciated, Lord Barnes. You’ve saved us quite a bit of trouble.”

“Maybe I can make you fried chicken for dinner?” It’s not fair that Erskine laughs at Bucky’s joking remark when he barely reacts past raising a brow when it comes to Steve’s own attempts at humor.

Steve scowls and snatches the basket back once the chicken is safely secured inside. “I prefer omelets,” he says, and even he can hear that it’s snippy, so he adds on, very, very stiffly, “But thanks for the save.” 

Bucky smirks, taking the thinly veiled dismissal in stride. “I’m a military man, remember, your Highness? I’ve got your six whenever you need it.” 

With that and a wink, he’s off before Steve can think of anything biting or witty to respond with. 

One day, Steve is going to make sure that he gets the last word in. 

-

The traditions Steve has to partake in before taking on the crown seem to be compiling into a list that only grows longer by the day. On this particular day, the traditional task at hand involves yet another farm animal– only unlike the chicken, the horse’s involvement is intentional. 

Specifically, Steve is supposed to review the royal guard. Not only will the troops be watching, but the entire court as well. Putting on some fancy-pants outfit and riding across a field and through a parted line of soldiers doesn’t sound more daunting than half of the other stuff he’s had to do, but there’s also the fact that Steve has never ridden a horse in his entire life before to consider. 

Hell, he’s only driven a car a few times before. He doesn’t even have a license to operate an automobile, and now they want him to control an animal? He couldn’t even catch a chicken for crying out loud, and as many times as Erskine has promised that riding a horse is just as easy as riding a bicycle, Steve can’t help but remember how many times he had crashed when his mother finally saw fit to take off his training wheels. 

Predictably, Steve’s stress levels have been through the roof ever since Erskine first told him about the task. Erskine had also of course designated time for Steve to spend at the stables learning the basics of riding in the days building up to the event, but even with that, Steve is nervous as hell.

According to what Steve’s instructor has told him, horses can pick up on the basics of human emotions, which doesn’t exactly boost Steve’s confidence. It's almost like a negative feedback loop. Not even his phone call with Sam has been able to snap him out of how worked up he’s getting, though the second one he decides to make after getting dressed helps settle his stomach slightly. 

He’s still straightening the cuffs off the stuffy suit they’ve forced him into when Sam picks up, offering a hoarse “ hey, man” that suggests he already knows exactly who is calling. 

“Hey, Sammy,” Steve murmurs, smoothing a hand over his hair to make sure his cowlicks are flattened down properly for the cameras. “Everything alright over in the States?”

“Don’t worry, the apartment’s still standing,” Sam teases. “Natasha’s been over here so much she might as well move in. And what about you? How’s life as a prince treating you?”

Part of Steve wants to suggest they actually take that step considering he has no idea how he’s going to manage his living situation once his wedding and coronation are over with, but he’s not sure he’s equipped to handle that at the present. First he has to get this damn horse ride over with. 

“It’s… a lot, as always,” he exhales with a half-hearted laugh. “But I’m managing it, I think. Thor’s not here right now, but with all the planning that’s going into the wedding and coronation…”

“Yeah, that definitely is a lot. But you’ve got this, Rogers. I know you.”

“Guess that’s why I’m calling,” Steve says softly, fiddling with the phone’s cord while he talks and glancing at the clock. He still has a few more minutes before he’ll need to head out. “You guys know me better than anyone over here does, and right now I just need that reminder.” 

He doesn’t think now is the moment to mention the ever-evolving rivalry he and Bucky have going on. Bucky sees him, in a way. Steve just doesn’t like the fact that he’s looking, let alone seeing. 

Sam hums in a way that Steve knows is meant to tell him the other man has picked up on what he means, though he’s kind enough not to tease Steve about the sudden sappiness– too  much, anyways. “This is about the horse thing again, isn’t it?”

“There’s no ‘horse thing’,” Steve defends, even though there definitely is. “I like animals plenty, but climbing on one’s back and riding through a crowd of really important people who I’m supposed to be impressing isn’t my idea of a good time.”

“Like I said,” Sam states, voice both fond and exasperated. “You’ve got this, Steve. All you have to do is make sure you don’t fall off for what, five minutes? Get on, get off, and you’re done. It’s gonna be fine.”

The part of Steve that never stops missing his mother he lost and the father he never met wants to say something stupid, like you promise? But he doesn’t have to. He knows Sam is telling the truth. He always keeps it honest. 

“I get through this and I’ll tell them to name a horse after you,” he jokes in return. Then, more seriously, “Thanks for helping me keep my head screwed on straight. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Lose your mind, I suppose.” Sam’s voice softens. “Now get out there and show those folks how to do it the Steve Rogers way, okay? You can call me after if you want. I don’t care what time it is.”

“Thanks, Sammy,” Steve says again. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Good luck.”

After Steve hangs up, it’s easier for him to stand up straight. He even gives himself a smile in the mirror before exiting his room to where Peggy is waiting outside. For once, he’s arrived right on time. 

“Mr. Rogers,” she says breezily, already turning to head down the hall. Straight to business as usual. “I hope you slept well. Your steed should be ready and waiting for you down at the stable along with a member of security who will give you a go ahead once they receive the signal for your departure over the radio. Sound manageable?”

It sounds like a waking nightmare, but it’s not like Steve can tell her that, and his chance at prolonging honesty hour over the phone with Sam has just slipped out of his fingers. 

So, he takes a deep breath and plasters on a smile in the exact way Erskine has taught him. “Let’s get this over with.”

The horse Steve ends up being given once they make it to the stables is a palomino gelding named Lucky, who according to Clint— who evidently has a side-gig helping out in the stables as well as being the resident archery expert— is the option they always go with when it comes to new riders. 

Steve has already ridden him a couple times before, but never without supervision. And there may be plenty of people around today once Steve and Lucky take off towards the courtyard, but they won’t only be there to supervise. 

They’ll be there to scrutinize. Steve can only hope that he holds up under their gazes. Lucky is a fine looking steed, at the very least. If Steve can avoid falling off of his back, the two of them should make a very fine picture. 

He can already see the headlines now— some play on them having the same colored hair, no doubt. 

Stroking a hand down the side of Lucky’s neck where the hair of his mane lays flat, Steve exhales and bends down slightly in order to whisper a couple words in his hooved companion’s ear. 

“Everyone keeps saying I’ve got this, but you and I both know this is a team effort. Right, boy?” No one else is around to judge Steve for waiting until Lucky flicks his ear in response before going on. “You and I have been getting along just fine these past few days, so if we can both just work together and make it across that field…” Steve huffs out a laugh and tries not to feel crazy for engaging in a pep talk with a barn animal. “Maybe you becoming the prince’s personal horse would warrant a stable upgrade, how about that?”

Lucky flares his nostrils and shifts on hooves in an almost uncannily timed reaction to Steve’s suggestion. Steve laughs and pats him on the flank once he’s straightened back up in his saddle. 

“I’ll take that as the sign of a done deal,” he murmurs. “It’s just you and me today, Lucky. Let’s just hope our performance lives up to your name.”

It takes another five minutes or so of waiting before the guard Fury had sent over pokes her head back into the stable.

”The doors will be opening in a moment, your Highness,” she says brightly. “And as you know, the path you’re meant to follow is clearly marked. You can’t miss it.”

Steve nods, having already gone over the path in question during his days of practice. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She hesitates in saying what it looks like she wants to add on, but upon Steve’s equally as hesitant smile— “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Steve waits until she’s gone again before adding on an additional statement of his own. “I’m gonna need it.”

A bell sounds right as the wooden doors of the stable begin creaking open as well. Steve knows what announcement is coming. 

That’s his signal. 

“Hear ye, hear ye,” the announcer calls from somewhere outside— the same one who had been at the Independence Day celebration, Steve might add. “Crown Prince Steven Grant Rogers joins us in order to review the Royal Guard of Vengea.”

“Hope you aren’t holding it against me that they aren’t announcing your name too,” Steve says through gritted teeth, sparing one last look down at Lucky’s face before lightly squeezing his legs together. “Let’s get moving, pal. We got some pretty important people to impress.”

As it turns out, Steve isn’t nearly as well up-to-date on the guest list to this event as he’d initially thought. How else could he have possibly missed the fact that Thor and Bucky would both be in attendance?

Steve is allowed about a solid minute of ignorance bliss before he finally notices, eyes flitting over both sides of the parted guard and the crowd congregated on the far end as he keeps his smile stretched tight and his hand moving mechanically in a practiced wave. 

After Erskine and Fury, Steve spots Bucky and Thor almost instantly. It’s not difficult. There are admittedly a lot of people here, but Thor is unusually tall even to someone of Steve’s stature, and Bucky? Well, Bucky pisses Steve off so much that he may as well be able to know him anywhere, from the back of his head alone or otherwise. 

In this case, it’s the side of his face that clues Steve in on the unlikely interaction. Bucky and Thor’s face are both turner, and they’re both smiling, and Steve can’t think of a single goddamn thing the two of them could possibly be talking about. 

What  do they have in common? Thor is perfect. Bucky is one of the slipperiest bastards Steve has ever met, but he’s also completely capable of being charming. He might want to get under Steve’s skin, but what does he want from Thor?

Oh, God, is he telling him about the closet? Steve somehow doubts Thor would be smiling that wide if he were, but it’s the fact that Bucky could that has Steve’s heart rate spiking in his chest. 

He’s distracted and disoriented both, which is what must make it so easy for the accident to happen. As on par with most recent mishaps in Steve’s life, it’s somehow connected to Bucky fucking Barnes. 

Steve didn’t even know they had garden snakes in Vengea, but they must, because that’s exactly what Lucky almost steps on before they’ve even made it halfway across the field. 

The green color of its scales blends in so well with the grass that Steve, still reeling from the threat of nearly being tossed, can barely spot the movement of the reptile slithering away on its belly before Lucky takes it upon himself to turn and execute that same plan of escape with his legs, skipping the speed of a trot and heading straight into a gallop.

The fanfare that had been playing in the background as Steve made his way through the crowd fades, and at first Steve can’t tell if that’s a product of his panic or not. That’s before the shouting and gasping start. Once Steve hears that, he’s almost grateful for how fast Lucky is taking them away from the mess that’s been left behind them. 

A mess that Fury and Erskine will no doubt be the ones to clean up, because that seems to be the responsibility that’s taken over their jobs. Mopping up Steve Rogers’ mistakes. 

Here’s yet another one to add to that list. Maybe Peggy can use her clipboard to keep track. 

Steve's vision is blurry with tears born from more than just the wind blowing back into his eyes by the time he and Lucky have made it back to the stable. Steve immediately hops down, ties Lucky to his post, and latches the door shut behind him. 

He can’t face anyone right now. Not Fury. Not Dugan. Definitely not Erskine. Hell, he doubts he could even make it through a phone call with Natasha or Sam right now. 

He wants his mother. He wants his bed. He wants to go home, but isn’t this supposed to be his home now? If things for a prince were as perfect as all those fairytales promised them to be, Steve could fall into the arms of his loving husband and weep all he wanted. He wouldn’t have even messed up this badly to begin with. 

But this isn’t a fairytale. Steve needs to stop being naïve. 

Wiping furiously at the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks, Steve makes his way into the tac room and locates the couch he knows is in one of the corners. He’s going to do what any grown man would after having his ego so substantially injured. He’s going to sit in a quiet place on his own and lick his wounds. 

Better than going to a bar and drinking himself into a stupor, right? Not that he could do that here without the press having even more of a hey-day. Steve doesn’t want to even entertain the thought of what the front page is going to look like tomorrow. 

He bets Bucky and Pierce would be more than glad to offer the reporters some quotes on just how clumsy the prince is. Steve can’t ride a horse without it ending in catastrophe. What makes them think he’s capable of running a kingdom? 

Unfortunately, Steve doesn’t have an answer to that question at the current moment. The way he feels right now… not even that first encounter with the paparazzi had humiliated him this much. At least back then, no one had expected anything from him outside of his art. 

Now? It feels like he’s just let an entire country down, or maybe confirmed every doubt any of them had about him. He doesn’t know which option sounds worse. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, dropping his head into his hands, bony elbows braced on equally bony knees. “Fuck.”  

That’s the only word he can think of to sum this entire thing up that properly gets across the commotion going on in his brain. It’s so loud that he doesn’t notice that the quiet of the tac room has been broken by someone else’s arrival until their voice cuts into the noise of his head. 

“You shouldn’t hide. It only makes them gossip more.”

It’s him. Why is it always him?

Steve can’t bring himself to lift his head. He’d hidden back here so the press, Erskine, and his fiancé wouldn’t see him like this, but of course Bucky Barnes has to be the one that finds him. Because why shouldn’t Steve’s day only get worse?

Bucky quietly shuts the tack room door behind him, but only takes a few steps closer to the couch. He’s keeping his distance, almost as if Steve is some sort of scared animal he needs to be cautious in approaching. Somehow, that only makes Steve feel worse. 

“What do you want?” he asks roughly, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes like that’ll keep Bucky from picking up on just how much of a wreck he is. 

Bucky doesn’t answer his question. “Here.” Steve finally looks up just in time to see Bucky toss a small square of cloth at him. 

He stares down at where it’s landed next to his thigh with swollen eyes. A handkerchief? What, Bucky is trying to comfort him? That’s hysterical. And what grown man under forty still carries a hanky with him?

“Just think, Steve. If you’d stuck around to kill that snake, we could have made them spin a story about the prince slaying a dragon.” Bucky’s voice is light and suggests that what he’s just said is a joke, but Steve knows damn well when a joke is being made at his expense. 

The idea of being made fun of— by Bucky, no less— only makes him even more upset. “I don’t need this right now,” he says harshly. “If you came in here to kick me while I’m down, you can leave. Or I’ll throw you in the dungeon. Whichever one gets you to stop faster.”

A fresh wave of angry tears well up along his lower lashline, forcing him to turn his head towards the corner. Like hell he’s going to let Bucky Barnes see him cry. He’s surprised Bucky isn’t already laughing at him outright. Steve had caught a flash of just how gleeful Pierce’s own expression had been upon Lucky’s stumbling. 

“Steve, I…” Bucky sighs, and Steve can see him scrub a hand over his face out of the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry.”

Steve’s tired of being stupid today. No matter how genuinely apologetic Bucky sounds, he isn’t going to fall for the false sympathy. 

“You’re lying,” he snaps, his stomach churning with so much emotion he feels like he might be sick. “You’re not sorry. You never think about anyone but yourself, so just this once, can you please not make me feel worse about myself and just let me be miserable in peace?”

A look of hurt flashes over Bucky’s face that might make Steve feel guilty if he weren’t already feeling so hurt about everything that’s happened today himself. Still, Bucky tries again. He’s stubborn in his own right, it seems. 

“I’m not lying,” he says quietly. “I’m worried. We all are.”

We? Who is we? Erskine? Fury? Thor? Those are all people who care about Steve in some way shape or form, but what is Bucky thinking, lumping himself in with the likes of them?

“I can see why you’d assume I’m being a jerk, but I promise, Steve.” Bucky’s voice softens even further and he takes another step closer. “I’m not trying to trick you.”

A beat of heavy silence passed between them during which Steve’s throat tightens so much that he feels like he’s practically choking on the words he’s tempted to let spill out. He told Bucky to go, but he’s staying. He’s offering Steve soft words and quite literally trying to help wipe his tears away with his stupid handkerchief. 

What’s Steve supposed to do with that? He hates Bucky. Bucky is supposed to hate him, but he’s the one that’s here with Steve in what feels like one of his worst moments to date. 

That means something. Steve just isn’t sure what. And it looks like if he wants to try and figure that meaning out, he’ll have to do it later. 

When Fury opens the door Bucky had come through and steps in, it’s like the closet moment all over again. Any potential course of action is cut short now that they’re no longer alone. Bucky and Steve aren’t nearly as close as they were in that precarious situation, but somehow, Steve still feels like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t. 

Bucky must feel the same way. He’s quick to speak up. “I was just leaving.”

Fury’s expression is unreadable as his gaze flicks between the two of them. “Dr. Erskine has sent me to fetch you. He’s already up in the palace, and I believe has tea waiting for you. The guests have already been dismissed for today.”

Steve closes his eyes, determinedly avoiding making eye contact with Bucky once he opens them back up. The handkerchief is clutched tight in his lap, and though he isn’t using it, some strange feeling in the pit of his stomach is preventing him from tossing it back at the man it belongs to. 

“Yes, sir.” He stands and moves towards the door. Fury holds it open for him, but doesn’t immediately follow once Steve has slipped out. 

Instead, he cracks it shut slightly and leans in to murmur something to Bucky that Steve can’t quite hear. Whatever it is makes Bucky’s expression shutter slightly, his response a slow nod. 

“Yes, sir,” he murmurs, the same as Steve had.

Steve shakes his head to rid it of the curiosity stirred up by their secret conversation and turns to head out the stable door. If Fury isn’t coming, he’ll just have to walk up to the palace on his own. 

The stable seems to be quite the social hotspot today. Just as Steve has pulled the door open to make his exit, he passes by Viscount Pierce, who is making a beeline straight towards the back where Fury and Bucky are still presumably located. 

He doesn’t say anything to Steve or even acknowledge him past angling his path slightly to the side to keep them from colliding. It’s a small relief. Steve doesn’t think he could handle any snide remarks right now. 

Apparently neither can Bucky, because as Steve begins making his way up the hill that leads to the palace, he spots the man slipping out the side door of the stables with a stormy look on his face. He looks about as happy as Steve feels, which is to say not at all. 

So much for traditions sparking joy. 

-

Tea with Erskine only makes Steve feel minutely better about the snake debacle. Erskine spouts his usual spiel about how everyone makes mistakes and how Steve still has his full faith, and as much as Steve appreciates him for it, he also can’t help but spend the rest of the afternoon moping in his room. 

He’s promised himself that he’ll come out for at least one meal and bid Thor a proper goodnight since he’s going to be visiting all day tomorrow as well, but after what he’s been through he figures he’s allowed a few hours to himself. 

Some of that time is spent lamenting to Natasha and Sam over the phone, but most of it is spent napping. Steve is exhausted more emotionally than anything, but that doesn’t mean his body isn’t on board for the extra rest. 

He actually ends up sleeping a bit longer than he’d intended on— when he wakes up and grabs his glasses to get a good look at the clock, he finds it’s well past dinner time. 

Fuck. Now he’s going to look like even more of a coward— and a hungry one at that. He doesn’t bother with his contacts before leaving the room. There’ll be no risk of reporters wandering around the palace this late, so who is going to be upset about his bedhead and glasses? At least he’s got on sweats rather than pajama pants. 

He figures he’ll just have to settle on a snack stolen from the kitchen rather than an actual meal. Breakfast at the palace is always extravagant, so it’s not like he’s going to starve anytime soon. 

As he continues stumbling his way towards the kitchen, he’s slightly surprised to find that it’s still occupied when he gets there. It’s not late enough for that to be totally unusual, but usually Erskine retires to his chambers almost as soon as dinner is over. 

So what the hell is he doing up at this hour in the kitchen with Bucky?

There’s no mistaking that those are their voices mixing together in quiet conversation, even from Steve’s vantage point in the hall. He can only make out a few phrases of their exchange, but what he does hear has him stopping in his tracks. 

“I happen to feel he’ll make a great ruler,” Erskine is saying, accompanied by the sound of a spoon scraping against ceramic. “He’s terribly bright, sensitive, caring.” They’re talking about him?

“I know that.” And that’s Bucky speaking now. 

Steve frowns. He does?

Erskine asks that very question out loud. “You do?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Bucky’s voice is resolute. “But I have to ask, how can one rule a people they do not know?”

“Touché, James. Touché.”

Steve forces himself to make his presence known before he can overhear them say something he’d rather not hear. He isn’t even aware of the full context of the part of the conversation he did hear, but whatever it was has Bucky looking deeply contemplative as Steve enters the room. 

He doesn’t say anything, though he does offer Erskine a tired smile as he walks over to the fridge in search of something to tide his stomach over until tomorrow. However, before he can get there, he’s being handed a dish with something in it that Steve is 90% certain is crème brûlée. He’s never had crème brûlée before so he can’t be sure, but whatever this is looks as delicious as that name sounds. As for its maker…

Steve looks up and blinks behind the lenses of his glasses when he realizes Bucky is wearing an apron. One glance at the counter where Erskine is still sitting with two empty dishes in front of him tells him that Bucky had made at least three servings, the last of which he seems to have reserved for Steve. He really is an excellent chef, evidently.

Bucky is silent even after Steve accepts his dish and the silverware he’s handed after, but before Steve can open his mouth and break that silence with a thank you , Bucky is wiping his hands on a towel and taking his apron off without a word. 

He’s finally doing what Steve had asked of him earlier, Steve realizes as he watches Bucky’s broad back retreat from the kitchen. 

Bucky is leaving Steve alone. 

For some strange reason, in this instance, getting what he wanted doesn’t make Steve feel better at all.

Chapter Text

Saying Bucky is giving him the silent treatment would imply that Steve and Bucky were ever engaging in regular conversation in the first place, but Steve doesn’t know how else to explain the way Bucky has been acting towards him since the stable. 

He’s been cold, which Steve isn’t used to. Bucky is charming, conniving, confusing. Complicated. He’s just as confusing when he’s quiet, but Steve sort of almost prefer the other, louder version of Bucky. At least that one wasn’t as broody. 

They haven’t bickered in so long it’s almost unnatural, and it’s not like Bucky can avoid him now in the same way he could back at the palace. No, not speaking to someone you spend hours sitting across in a plane takes things to the level of intentional ignoring, and Bucky hadn’t spoken a single word to Steve on the entire ride over to the States. 

He hadn’t said much to Erskine either despite the older man’s attempts to engage them all in small talk where he was sitting beside Steve, asking whether or not Bucky had been to the United Stares before and whether or not Steve was excited to get graduation over with. Both answers to those questions were yes, but they didn’t exactly keep the conversation going. 

Bucky had buried himself in one of the books from his bag shortly after that, leaving Erskine to sigh and begin going over some paperwork while Steve spent the next few hours alternating between staring out the window and trying to catch some sleep. That wasn’t all about trying to deal with Bucky’s odd behavior— graduation is a big deal. Whether Bucky was being an ass or not, Steve wanted to be prepared. 

He did ask for space, he knows, but this wasn’t what he meant. Leave it to Bucky to throw him off on the day of one of the biggest events of his life so far. 

Prince or not, getting through college almost completely on his own is something he’s proud of. He refuses to let Bucky hold any sway over how he feels about that accomplishment today. 

Steve tries his best to hold himself to that promise, but that becomes difficult when Bucky decides to open his mouth almost as soon as he’s made it in his mind. It’s like the brunette has some sort of super sense when it comes to catching Steve off guard.

“It’s a shame Thor couldn’t come today.” Bucky’s quiet comment is amplified by the fact that they’re alone, standing face to face in an elevator, leaned up on the walls of opposite sides. 

With how his breath catches in his throat, Steve is grateful they aren’t close. He should have expected Bucky to spring something like this on him as soon as he chose to tag along with Steve to the hotel, claiming he needed to grab his forgotten sunglasses from their suite while Steve rooted around for his own forgotten honors cord. 

That’s left them on their own to make their way back down to the lobby where Erskine and the others are waiting. Sam and Natasha are supposed to meet them at the arena where the ceremony is being held, which means Steve has nothing to distract him until they get there.

Bucky is still staring at him expectantly, obviously waiting for a response to his remark. 

Steve bites at the inside of his cheek before giving him one. “He couldn’t get the time off. I don’t mind.” Both of those statements are true, but Steve's stomach still twists into a knot that’s the same shape as a lie. 

He really isn’t mad that Thor’s schedule couldn’t clear for him to come to the ceremony, but that’s part of the issue at hand here. Steve doesn’t mind at all. In fact, he’s almost relieved he isn’t going to have to deal with his fiance today. He barely cares about it because he’s so hyper aware of who is here with him— and he doesn’t mean Erskine and Fury. 

Bucky is still staring at him, but his expression is now unreadable. Steve lowers his gaze and keeps it on the hem of his robe, cap clutched tight in his hand. He worked hard to get here. He can’t allow himself to be distracted by a handsome man, especially not when he himself is a taken man. 

Steve closes his eyes and counts the seconds it takes for the elevator to reach the first floor. Considering their suite is on the 12th, it’s a relief when the bell finally dings. 

Although Bucky’s hum matches the pitch of the sound, he doesn’t speak again as they push off their respective walls and begin heading over to where Erskine and Fury are standing by the lobby doors. Steve tries his hardest not to wonder when or if Bucky will next speak to him again. 

Christ, he needs to get his head on straight. He’s about to walk across a stage and get his diploma. He shouldn’t be worrying about whether or not he and Bucky are on speaking terms. 

“Steven,” Erskine calls as soon as he sees them approaching. “James. The limousine has just pulled up. Are you sure you have everything you need this time?”

“Yes, sir.” Steve nods sheepishly, straightening the cords hanging around his neck and doing a mental check to make sure they’re all there. 

Bucky matches the motion with his own bob of the head and slides on his sunglasses with a suave smile. With the confidence he always carries himself with, he almost looks like a movie star. Steve curses himself for the thought. “I’d say we’re good to go, Doc.”

“Excellent.” 

Erskine waits for Fury to hold the door open for them all before exiting, leaving Nick to take up the rear as usual as they all pile into the backseat of the limousine Dugan is commandeering. Steve finds himself sandwiched between Bucky and Fury, which is just the cherry on top to his already tumultuous morning. 

He tries to stifle his sigh, not wanting either of the men surrounding him to pick up on his tension. Today is a celebration. He’s supposed to be happy. Hopefully he’ll be feeling more of that when he gets to see Nat and Sam— oh God. He’s going to have to introduce Bucky to them, isn’t he?

If he weren’t halfway shoved up against Bucky’s side, Steve would groan. Nat and Sam have both already heard half a dozen horror stories about James Barnes. Now that Bucky is here to charm them in person, Steve is never going to live it down. 

Hopefully they’ll be able to put that off until after Steve gets his diploma. Is it too late to run away?

-

If it wasn’t too late to run away at the hotel, it’s definitely too late to run away now that they’re at the venue. Thankfully, Erskine and Bucky had gone to find somewhere to sit while Fury escorted Steve through the crowd of students to his own seat on the floor— and as luck would have it, they’ve been organized in alphabetical order, so Natasha’s assigned chair is only two seats down from Steve’s, meaning he gets to see her and Sam sooner rather than later. 

Even with a cap perched on top of her head, her bright red hair is impossible to miss, as is the immediate exclamation of his name once she sees him. “Steve!”

She’s shoving towards him a second later, throwing herself at him so fast that Steve only noticed Sam trailing behind her when he looks over her shoulder during the tight hug he’s pulled into. 

Sam’s smile is wide, his arms spreading open in the same way once Steve is freed up from Natasha’s grasp to give him a hug as well. “Hey, Rogers. Long time no see.”

“Hey, Sammy.” Steve can admit he holds on a bit longer than he usually would, but he hasn’t gotten to see Sam in a while. Going from seeing him every night to once every few weeks between transcontinental phone calls isn’t easy. “Missed you guys.”

“We missed you too, man.” Sam pats him on the back and squeezes him tighter for a second before letting up, leaning back to look at him properly. “You ready for your big day?”

“My first in a long list of many,” Steve mutters. Everything to do with the wedding, the ball, coronation, his damn birthday— he’s not going to be off the hook once graduation is over. “I’m just glad I’ll get to be here to see you get your certificate tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, my class isn’t nearly as big as yours, so don’t worry about it taking too long,” Sam jokes, though Steve can tell he’s just as proud as Steve is himself about making it through his program. “Erskine said our flight is scheduled to leave at three tomorrow, right?”

Steve nods. Now that they’re almost finished with all this graduation business, Sam and Natasha have been given the clearance to visit Vengea and stay in the palace until Steve’s birthday. Steve is pretty sure that’s Erskine’s attempt at humoring him, which he’s grateful for. He doesn’t know how the hell he’d get through all of this without his friends around. The closer the wedding comes, the more apprehensive he gets. 

Not a good sign towards a happy marriage, is it?

“Speaking of schedules, we may want to take our seats, Mr. Wilson,” Fury cuts in. “I believe the ceremony is set to begin in ten minutes.”

“Oh, right.” Sam taps Steve on the shoulder once more, then does the same to Natasha’s cap, to which she responds to with an eye roll. “It okay if I sit with you and Dr. Erskine?”

“Of course. We have a seat saved for you already.” Fury points to where Steve can now see Erskine and Bucky sitting on the sidelines. Were they given prime seating just because they’re royalty? “Lord Barnes and Dr. Erskine will be glad to have the company.”

“Lord Barnes?” Natasha asks incredulously. She whips her head towards Steve. “You brought him?”

“It wasn’t my choice!” Steve defends, looking to Sam for support only to find the man wearing the same gobsmacked yet slightly gleeful expression. Great. They’re going to milk this, aren’t they? 

Of course they are. “I’m gonna give him the shovel talk. Tell him exactly what’ll happen if he tries any more tricks to steal your throne.”

“No, you’re not,” Steve hisses, interrupting Sam’s threats with a scowl. Bucky’s his competition, not his goddamn boyfriend. “You’re not going to talk to him at all, Samuel.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.” 

Fury snorts and begins steering Sam away, much to Steve’s chagrin. His distress only deepens when Sam turns and gives him a wicked grin over his shoulder. 

Don’t you dare, Steve mouths, but Sam only shrugs and turns away again. 

With so much distance between them, all Steve can do is slump into his seat with a defeated sigh and try not to peek over at Erskine and the others as they no doubt make their introductions between Bucky and Sam. 

Does he want them to get along? He can’t decide. He knows Sam would never betray him for a guy he met two seconds ago, but still. The thought of Bucky becoming acquainted with the people in his life feels oddly intimate. Hell, Sam and Nat are going to be meeting Bucky before they do Thor. Steve can’t decide how he feels about that either. 

“Don’t worry about Barnes.” Natasha’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “Sam’ll go easy on him for now.”

“What?” Steve shakes his head both to clear it and to go against Natasha’s teasing remark. “I wasn’t worried about Bucky.”

“And yet you’re no longer calling him James,” Natasha points out with a small smile that Steve wishes weren’t so knowing. “It sounds like you two have gotten to know each other a little better than anticipated.”

“He’s still annoying,” Steve says, overly aware of how petulant he sounds. “And an asshole.“

Natasha huffs and crosses her legs, leaning forward with an elbow braced on her knee to support the hand she has tucked under her chin. “I’m sure Sam will be fine. He just wants to see what all the fuss is about.”

“There is no fuss,” Steve says under his breath, though based off of the smirk Natasha sends his way, he’s done nothing but prove her point. “I wasn’t the one who decided he was coming. Erskin just didn’t want to leave him back at the palace without us there.”

“What, you think he’s going to try and stage a coup? Overthrow the crown before you even get to it?”

Steve glares at her. “I wouldn’t put it past him.” She knows most of what else he’s done, even if Steve hasn’t told her about the whole closet thing just yet. Or the stable incident. He meant it when he said he wouldn’t lie to her again, but for some reason, he feels the need to keep those moments secret for the time being. 

“He doesn’t look that threatening,” Natasha muses, eyes drifting over to where the others are sitting. She must make eye contact with someone because she smiles and waves. It better not have been at Bucky. “He looks more boy-next-door than he does evil mastermind.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” Steve should know. He’s spent enough time thinking about Bucky’s looks and trying not to be deceived by him. Again. “Cover up the chin dimple and you might change your mind.” 

The stupid cleft in Bucky’s chin is probably where half of his charm comes from, though that doesn’t take away from the whole sparkling grey eyes and dark, wavy hair thing Bucky has going for him on top of it. Steve really needs to stop thinking about this, doesn’t he?

Whatever Natasha might have to say about Steve’s appraisal of Bucky’s most appealing facial features is nipped in the bud when one of the two people assigned to take the seats between them finally shows up to take their place. Steve leans back and slouches down in the hopes that no one will see his relieved sigh, but he knows it’s inevitable that all eyes will be on him as soon as he approaches that stage. 

The press has calmed down since their initial discovery of his status, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make the front pages of every tabloid in the country if he does something stupid. The fact that Bucky is one of the people who is going to be watching him today adds more weight to the pressure on Steve’s chest than he’d like to admit. 

Why'd he have to tag along to the ceremony? He couldn’t have waited at the hotel? Fury would have been happy to let him, and even if Erskine would disapprove, it wouldn’t have been the same as leaving him unattended in the palace. Does that mean he wanted to come?

Steve risks sneaking a peek over towards their group trying to gauge what expression Bucky is wearing only to find the man already looking right back at him, a small smile playing at his lips. 

What the hell? Steve tears his eyes away so fast it has to be obvious that Bucky has him flustered, but he doesn’t have the time to unpack that, not with the dead finally approaching the microphone in order to announce the order of speeches they’ll be addressing the audience with. Valedictorian, salutatorian, student body president, that sort of thing. Steve is grateful that for once he isn’t being deemed important enough to speak. 

They’re back to the way things were for the next little while, it seems. 

-

Because Steve and Natasha’s last names fall upon the latter half of the alphabet, it takes a while for them to be signalled by the ushers to stand up and walk towards the stage where they’ll be standing in a line until the announcer reads off their full names. 

It takes so long that Steve’s ass is practically numb when they do finally start walking. It’s only for the benefit of any paparazzi that may be lurking somewhere in the crowd that he keeps a straight face. He doesn’t recognize most of the names being called, but the amount of applause that Gilmore Hodge gets when it’s his turn to collect his diploma is deafening. 

Figures. He’s a different sort of famous than Steve is on this campus, and with how much posing he does on his way off the stage, he definitely enjoys the attention a lot more. Is it conceited or Steve to hope he doesn’t have too many people clapping for him? The support would be nice, but he doesn’t think he wants it from strangers who don’t give a damn about him getting his degree.

Will Bucky clap for him? Will he mean it if he does?

Steve closes his eyes and tries to discreetly wipe his sweaty palms off against his robe. He doesn’t need to be asking himself that question right now. And in any case, he’ll get his answer for that first question soon enough. 

“ Christine Palmer,” the announcer lists. The young woman whose name has just been called steps onto the stage with a bright smile. The space she leaves behind is quickly filled by the next person in line, leaving Steve to take a step forward. 

They’re on the Ps now. There can’t be that many Qs, which means the Rs are coming up soon. 

He turns his head back and catches Natasha’s soft smile with his own worried gaze. Natasha steps out to the side and slides a hand up his arm without hesitation. 

“We got this,” she whispers, ignoring the curious look the people in between them shoot their way. “We’re in this together.”

“Even after we get our diplomas?” Steve jokes weakly.

“For good, Rogers. You aren’t getting rid of me or Sam that easy. Not even if you end up living on a different continent.” She holds her pinky finger out. 

Steve hooks it with his own and returns her smile the best he can. She and Sam will always be his best friends. That much he knows for sure. 

That certainty still doesn’t keep his heart from doing jumping jacks in his chest as soon as his name rings out around the arena. It’s the first time in a while he’s thought about his inhaler, but he knows his asthma isn’t what has his breathing so tight. It’s the anxiety.

And there’s nothing he can do to solve that problem except try and get this over with. All he needs to do is keep on walking, just like his mother taught him. It’s a miracle he doesn’t faceplant as soon as he moved forward, but months of lessons with Erskine serve him well even in these moments meant to be shared with those who still walk a normal path of life. Compared to his first time being announced in the palace, this should be a walk in the park. 

It’s hard to tell how many people are clapping for him with the amount of blood roaring in his ears, but as Steve searches for familiar faces across from the stage, he first finds one that he wasn’t expecting. 

It’s not Erskine or Sam or even Fury that his gaze lands on, though all three of the men look to be ecstatic, smiling ear to ear and standing for the duration of time it takes for Steve to cross the stage, diploma now in hand. 

Steve expected that. They’ve done nothing but support him these last few months— and when it comes to Sam, much longer— but what Steve wasn’t expecting was for Bucky to be standing up beside Sam wearing a grin that matches the rest of their expressions. 

He looks happy. More than that, he looks proud , which Steve should probably find downright ridiculous or maybe even hypocritical considering what Bucky and his uncle have done to try and undermine his every move since their first interaction. There’s been more than one instance involving manipulation and malicious intent between them, but that’s not what Steve is seeing from Bucky right now.  

All he sees is the way Bucky's smile sticks out to him through the crowd. It’s so bright that Steve finds it almost difficult to look away from, but the booming sound of Natasha’s own name being announced does the trick to snap him out of whatever brief spell Bucky’s distant kindness had put him under. 

That’s all this is, Steve tells himself. Another side effect of all that natural charm Lord Barnes seems to hold. It’s nothing. Right?

He doesn’t allow himself to take another look at the area where Erskine and the others are located even after he and Natasha are led back to their seats and left to wait through the rest of the program. Once it’s over, they’ll be able to move their tassels and throw up their caps, but for now, Steve’s main focus is trying not to grip his diploma so hard that he damages it before he can even have it framed. 

The most intimidating part of today is over, and yet Steve can’t help but feel like something even bigger is ahead. 

Why did Bucky have to look at him that way? It’s like he knows exactly what move he needs to make to throw Steve off before Steve has even realized he’s in danger of becoming unbalanced. That power is both a talent and a threat. No wonder Bucky was the one chosen to come after the crown. 

That’s what Bucky is here for, Steve reminds himself. He’s not here for Steve. He’s only with them because he’s meant to stay at the palace, and he’s only at the palace because he wants what Steve has and Erskine doesn’t want to let him get it. 

Bucky isn’t Steve’s friend. He’s barely an acquaintance, because what does Steve know about him really outside of his more obvious qualities of being a smug yet suave bastard?

Not your friend, Steve repeats in his mind, trying to phrase the thought in a firm tone. Not your buddy. Just some guy who wants more power than he has . Remember that .

Though he isn’t looking in their direction, Steve is almost positive Bucky is staring at him if the goosebumps that prickle at his arms are anything to go off of. He’s always being watched these days, but being watched by Bucky…

Not your friend. He’s nothing. Keep it that way. The voice in Steve’s head is beginning to sound suspiciously like Erskine. 

Good. Maybe that will help him learn his lesson a little faster. 

-

Once the ceremony is officially at its close, Steve really can’t get out of there fast enough. He’s never liked crowds, which has made growing up in the city interesting to say the least— but if there’s one thing being a born and raised New Yorker is good for, it’s getting the hang of silently escaping a throng of other people. 

That skill comes in handy now. It’s necessary, in fact. Graduation celebrations always whip people up into a bit of a frenzy, which is why Steve is more relieved than insulted when Fury takes it upon himself to wade in and begin using his special security skills to pull him and Natasha out. 

That’s a bit difficult even for a seasoned agent like him thanks to just how many of Steve’s former classmates have suddenly decided that he’s worthy of their time. Since standing from his seat, he’s been invited to at least five graduation parties, none of which whose host sounded remotely familiar. 

Rejecting people who are asking for photos is the real hard part, but one beat of eye contact with Fury has done the trick to deter the last few people who have come up looking to pose with the prince. So much for no paparazzi. 

There are a few people who he does stop for once he recognizes them as having had classes together or a few friends in common. Not nearly as many as the people who he has to pass up on, but it’s nice getting to say goodbye to some of the classmates he’d liked and who had liked him enough, even when he was invisible to most. 

Getting back some of that invisibility might actually be nice right now if it would help get them out of this crowd any quicker. Natasha might be small enough to duck between people’s shoulders without jostling them too much, but Steve would only be shoving people around if he tried that himself. 

“We’re going to use the side door,” Fury tells him and Natasha both. “It leads to the gardens, but there will be less people out there while we wait for Mr. Dugan to return with the limousine. I believe Dr. Erskine went with him after the ceremony to make a phone call from the car about our dinner reservations.”

“Sounds like a plan, boss,” is all Natasha responds with before she’s off, slinking her way through the crowd, as agile as an alley cat. 

Steve sighs and looks over the heads of those around him, waiting for her to pop out on the opposite side. It’s times like this that make him actually miss being so small, though being tall does give him a much better vantage point than he would have had before.  

Unfortunately, he’s not so sure that he likes what he’s having to see right now. 

He has to fight to keep his tone light. “Who’s that girl with Bucky?”

“Ah.” Fury makes no attempt to hide his own amusement. “That would be Miss Mayweather. I believe Lord Barnes ran into her while at the vending machine and struck up a conversation with her sometime before the ceremony.”

The way Miss Mayweather looks at Bucky is nothing short of enchanted. Is that how Steve had looked when they first danced together? He hopes not. It’s humiliating to even consider. 

Fury had said that Bucky is good with the ladies and the gentlemen alike, so it looks like Steve isn’t alone in being swept up by the charm that is Bucky Barnes’ curls and cleft chin. It looks like the poor girl is being thoroughly wooed, and all Bucky has done so far is chat her up. 

Steve isn’t jealous. He refuses to be. 

“He works fast,” is all he can come up with to say. It’s true. Objectively speaking. Not from personal experience or anything. “Figures he found himself an American girlfriend on his first day stateside.”

“Oh, Lord Barnes doesn’t do girlfriends.” Nick scoffs out that last word like it’s part of some inside joke Steve isn’t sure he wants to understand. “Or boyfriends for that matter. He has flings. Casual entanglement. Dates, but very attractive ones.” He pauses, then ventures to ask, “Have you two been talking much since your little… closet conundrum?”

“There was no conundrum,” Steve complains, face heating at the fact that Fury of all people is the one making that implication. At least he isn’t asking about the stables incident. That situation was much more emotionally charged than anything else. “And we acknowledge each other. Occasionally.”

Fury claps him on the shoulder right as they reach the edge of the crowd, giving them a much clearer look at Bucky and his new friend leaning up against the wall by the exit. 

“Well, what is today if not a special occasion? Let’s get you and the good Lord Barnes to safety. Wouldn’t want the cameras to catch any of the conundrums that might pop up.”

Steve would snap back again about no conundrums existing, but he doesn’t want to jinx them. He and Bucky aren’t always the most predictable pair when left to their own devices, he can admit, but maybe Miss Mayweather hanging around will help calm them down. 

Maybe. Steve eyes her as he gets closer. He wouldn’t count on it. They should probably stay away from closets for the rest of this trip. And stables. And elevators. Definitely dance floors, too. 

He grits his teeth and follows Fury over to the rest of their group, gladder than he’ll willingly admit that Natasha and Sam have chosen to stand away from Bucky. Steve intentionally positions himself with his back to the couple. 

“There he is. Graduate number two!” Sam’s grin is so infectious that it’s impossible for Steve not to smile back no matter how much Bucky and the presence of his new friend are getting under his skin. 

“You’ll be graduate number three pretty soon,” he tosses back, letting Sam pull him into a hug that Natasha wedges herself into before too long. “We’ve almost made it.”

“Good to know the last four years haven’t all been a waste,” Natasha says, muffled into Sam’s bicep. “Your palace hiring any personal stylists?”

“Or personal pilots?” Sam adds on. 

Steve snorts. “You’ll have to talk to Dr. Erskine about that, but I’m not going to say no.” 

He’d do anything to bring them with him wherever he goes, but he also doesn’t want them to think he’s buying their entire futures for them. They all had to work hard to get here. 

Once hems been released from their hug, Steve turns to Sam and poses a question of his own. “You mind playing personal photographer for a second instead? I want to take a couple pictures in my robe.” 

“To send to loverboy?” Sam teases. 

Steve doesn’t think he’s imagining the way that comment makes Bucky glance towards them for a moment. Interesting. He hands Sam the camera with a bashful smile and waits until after the photo has been taken to test his theory. “Thor does love his photography. He’s a professional at it, you know. Always taking pictures of beautiful things.”

“Is that right?” 

Steve’s scowl in response to the sound of Bucky’s smug tone is practically a reflex at this point. His plan to piss Bucky off by bringing up Thor is backfiring, it seems. 

Bucky has his arm around his new friend now, his smile loose and easy where Steve’s own jaw is clenched tight. “It’s a shame he isn’t here to see you, then.” 

He says that with his eyes first locked with the girl he’s currently wrapped around, but then as soon as she lowers her head to laugh, his gaze flicks up to land on Steve. Steve frowns. Who is Bucky really talking to right now?

Their staring contest doesn’t last much longer before Bucky clears his throat and gestures to his companion. “Forgive my momentary lapse in manners. Connie, this is Steve. Steve, this is Connie.”

Is Bucky crazy? Why is he introducing Steve to his daye like they’re friends? Still, Steve can remember his own manners. Unlike some people. He smiles and nods to Connie, who smiles back at him. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. He’s lying through his teeth, and with the way Bucky’s smile tilts, the other man can definitely tell. 

His tone is laced with amusement when he next speaks. “Connie and her friend are divers on the Columbia swim team.” 

Is Steve supposed to care about that?

“I was only here to watch my cousin graduate,” Connie tells them. “But I have to say, I never thought I’d meet a Cambridge man out in the wild.”

Bucky chuckles and squeezes her in by the shoulders. “Says the Ivy League med student.”

All things considered, Connie seems to be a perfectly lovely person, which makes it a lot harder to be irritated at her. Steve supposes it’s not her fault she’s fallen for Bucky’s charm. That makes Steve feel slightly guilty for interrupting, but he can’t just sit here while Bucky flaunts the accomplishments of a woman he just met in their faces. 

“Thor is an Olympic swimmer,” he blurts out, ignoring the raised eyebrows he gets from both Natasha and Sam. 

Bucky only lifts one eyebrow on his own end. “Connie is in the Peace Corp.”

“Thor spent four months in the desert studying astronomical anomalies,” Steve counters, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“He spent the summer stargazing?” Bucky hums. “That’s cute.”

Just as Steve opens his mouth to respond with something he hasn’t yet come up with in his head, Natasha cuts in with a hand smacking against Steve’s bicep and an exasperated look aimed at Bucky, who only smiles innocently back. Asshole. 

“Connie, how would you like to come with me to the ladies room while these gentlemen finish their dick-measuring contest?”

“I’d love to.” 

Connie laughs, but Steve doesn’t find the remark particularly funny. He does not want to think about that part of Bucky’s body. Not even a little. 

Sam isn’t laughing either, but Steve can tell he wants to. As for Fury—

“I should go call Dr. Erskine,” he excuses himself, face perfectly straight as he plucks Steve’s diploma from his hands, presumably to keep it safe. Steve lets him take it. 

“I think I’ll go and find the vending machines,” Sam adds on, a touch too quickly. 

Steve narrows his eyes at him. He’s leaving him with Bucky? Traitors . All of them. He glares at him, but Sam and Fury have no intentions of staying. They’re off to go chase their respective excuses before Steve can protest being ditched. 

He’s alone with Bucky now. Great. At least it isn’t an elevator or a closet this time. This is probably the safest location, actually. What trouble can they get up to with so many people around?

Bucky breaks the tense silence that’s settled over them after only a few seconds have passed. Always moving his mouth, isn’t he? 

“It was a beautiful ceremony. Thor would have loved to be here if he could, I’m sure.” 

So now he doesn’t have a problem talking about Thor? Does he ever stop being so confusing?

“He’s a busy man,” Steve grits out.

“And a very handsome one,” Bucky notes. A spark of annoyance flickers in the pit of Steve’s stomach. Is he jealous of Thor or Bucky? “You two make such a lovely couple.”

The emphasis Bucky puts on the word such snuffs out the annoyance, the comment catching Steve so off guard that he stumbles over finding an answer. The one he lands on comes out more bashful than biting. “Yeah, we do. Thank you.“

Bucky nods and takes a step closer, tilting his chin down like he’s telling Steve a secret. “It’s a shame you’re not attracted to him.”

Steve mirrors the motions of Bucky’s head almost unconsciously, his mouth moving before his brain can catch up. That’s becoming a pattern when Bucky is around. He doesn’t mean to say it, but he’s just so caught up in himself every time Bucky is near him that it slips out.

“I know, it—“ He freezes. “You— I didn’t mean to—“

Bucky winks and begins walking away. He planned this, didn’t he? “I better go see if Erskine expects us to change before dinner. You’re keeping the robe on, right?”

“ Get back here!” Steve hisses, not wanting to make a spectacle of himself by shouting while still surrounded by strangers, any amount of which could be carrying a camera that’ll get him splashed back on the tabloid covers. “James Barnes, you come back here right now!”

He doesn’t, of course. It looks like he’s done with respecting Steve’s wishes. Steve’s not sure if getting him to admit he’s not attracted to his own future husband is better or worse than Bucky ignoring him. 

Fury seems to have wandered off somewhere outside to take his phone call. Steve somehow doubts Bucky is actually trying to find the man, but if Bucky is going to head out there, Steve is going to follow. This is one conversation Bucky is not getting the last word for. 

Steve ends up having to halfway chase Bucky out the doors, and he doesn’t stop there, because why wouldn’t Bucky make this more difficult than it has to be? The garden outside has a section of hedges that have been pruned into a maze-like pattern. Steve is already feeling more than a little lost when he heads into it, but that’s where Bucky has gone, and Steve isn’t going to give up on catching him now. 

It takes a little speed walking and a few brief moments of outright jogging before Steve finally reaches him, short of breath and even shorter in temper with how uncomfortable it is to have to run in a goddamn graduation gown. 

In comparison, Bucky looks as cool as a cucumber where he’s stopped in a clearing, standing in front of the fountain set up at the center and wearing a serene expression. Steve could choke him. He’s still debating whether or not he wants to chuck his cap at him when Bucky turns towards him. 

He’s smirking again. Maybe Steve should punch him instead? That’s one way to get him to shut up. 

“You need something, your Highness?”

“You can’t just say something like that and walk away,” Steve snaps, taking a few steps closer. Bucky doesn’t move back. He doesn’t budge at all. Why is Steve so drawn to him even when he’s being a dick. “I’ll have you know I am very attracted to Thor.”

“Being able to acknowledge someone is attractive and being attracted to them isn’t the same thing,” Bucky points out. “Thor is a very attractive man. You’d have to have a good reason not to be attracted to him.”

“Well, I am attracted to him. So you don’t have to worry about my reasons .”

Bucky does take a step back now, turning on his heel and beginning to circle around to the other side of the fountain. “Who said I’m worried?”

“Thor is kind, and smart, and we are perfect for each other,” Steve insists, all too aware that he sounds like he’s parroting off claims that come from someone else because when it comes down to it, he is. But like hell is he going to tell Bucky that he picked his fiance out from a slideshow of suitors on a TV just because he sounded like the easiest to marry. “Thor understands me.”

That much is true, at least in some ways. Thor understands Steve’s duty to the throne, because he has duties of his own, to his family. 

“Understands you?” Bucky snorts, shaking his head when Steve catches up and matches his pace to walk beside him. “That’s the bare minimum for a relationship, sweetheart. Where’s the passion, huh? I didn’t hear you mention true love.”

That’s because there isn’t any, Steve thinks, but he isn't going to say that out loud now that his brain-to-mouth filter is finally working again. Bucky calling him sweetheart is more sarcastic than it is genuinely sweet, but it still takes Steve a second to process. 

They keep walking side by side. Steve doesn’t want to stop and think about why Bucky calling him that makes him feel like he’s just run ten miles. The only thing he can think to do to keep himself from being seen straight through is mimic Bucky’s aloof attitude, so, in true Bucky fashion, Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

“You are so jealous.”

That gets Bucky to stop dead in his tracks. “Excuse me?”

Steve is proud that he doesn’t falter even when Bucky turns to face him. “You heard me.”

If Bucky has been shaken by Steve’s confrontation, he doesn’t show it. He sounds as collected as ever when he speaks. “I was just making sure I heard you right. So, I’m jealous, am I?”

“That’s right.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows at him like Steve is being ridiculous. Is he? “Right, because you’re the one whose got nothing to prove? Why, pray tell, would I be jealous of Thor?” He follows up the rhetorical questions with a laugh. “That poor bastard has to spend the rest of his life married to you.”

The only sound that fills the stretch of silence that settles between them is that of the fountain’s merry trickling. It’s completely at odds with the mood of their conversation. Both of them have stopped moving, and standing face to face with Bucky in silence is so overwhelming that Steve can’t just do nothing. 

So he breaks the silence in the first way he can think of: smacking Bucky in the arm with his graduation cap. Bucky is lucky it isn’t in the head. 

Is it a childish reaction? Yes. Completely unbecoming of a future prince? Absolutely. But Steve doesn’t feel like a prince when he’s around Bucky. To tell the truth, Bucky makes him feel everything all at once. What else is there for Steve to do but explode?

Though there admittedly is one feeling that outweighs the others at the current moment. 

“I loathe you.” 

Steve isn’t sure why he chooses loathe of all words, but hate doesn’t quite feel right.

He’s surprised when Bucky’s reaction is to smack him back without hesitation, using the program he must’ve been given for the ceremony. He gasps and stumbles back a singular step that Bucky makes up for by stepping forward. 

“I loathe you,” Bucky repeats lowly. “ Punk.”

“I loathed you first!” Steve leans in and punctuates that last word with a jab of his finger against Bucky’s chest. “ Jerk.”

Bucky purses his lips, staring into Steve’s eyes— his own looking greyer than ever— like he’s waiting for him to figure something out. Their faces are even closer now than they were in the closet. Steve sucks on his teeth and breaks their gazes to look sideways. 

When he looks back up, Bucky’s eyes are still on him, his expression serious. He looks like he’s gearing up towards something, no doubt something that’ll succeed in him getting the last word in. 

As it turns out, that last word is merely proverbial. 

Out of all the things Steve was expecting him to do to get it in, pulling him in by the nape of the neck and kissing him square on the lips wasn’t even on the list. 

Looks like there’s more than one way to shut him up. 

Chapter Text

Steve might be able to chalk the way his arms wrap around Bucky’s neck up to a reflexive attempt to save his balance, but there isn’t really any excuse for the motion his foot follows after Bucky has pressed their mouths together. It’s no wonder Steve has to cling to Bucky to keep from falling over— standing on one leg will do that to you.

After twenty-four years of being on this earth and dreaming about this day, it finally happens. Steve’s foot pops into a kiss for the first time, and the person behind it is Bucky fucking Barnes. 

The universe must either hate Steve or have a sick sense of humor. Maybe both. 

That’s not to say the kiss Steve has been pulled into isn’t pleasant. Removing the situation and the suitor, it’s a good kiss. Bucky is a good kisser and he knows just the level at which to place his hands on Steve’s waist to keep him from feeling like he’s being treated as some sort of damsel in distress. With the fountain going in the background and the hedges leaving them so secluded, one could even say it’s magical. 

But one won’t be saying that because this kiss isn’t supposed to be happening at all. 

It takes longer than Steve would like to admit for the realization of what they’re doing to fully sink in. And it is a they effort at this point, because after the first few seconds of Bucky’s lips on him, Steve had begun to participate in the exchange more eagerly than any engaged man should with someone who isn’t his fiancé. Turns out, Bucky’s charm is even more overwhelming up close, and with the position they’re currently in, it’d be hard to get much more up close and personal so long as they’re keeping their clothes on. 

Steve is suddenly grateful for the coverage the robe provides him with. He knows he probably shouldn’t feel so scandalized by a measly kiss— it’s not like he’s never done more— but this is Bucky. This is Bucky and this is Steve, and it isn’t fair to Thor that Steve is kissing the man who is trying to steal his throne before he’s even kissed the man he’s supposed to be marrying next month. 

He breaks free of the kiss with a gasp that only adds to the lightheadedness that hits him as soon as their lips are separated. He’d take a step back if he weren’t still feeling so dizzy, but as things are, the only thing he can to is sputter in Bucky’s face with hands slid down to grip tightly at the broad lines of his shoulders. 

“Wha— I— What is wrong with you?” he manages to get out after the first few tries. His voice comes out higher than he’d like to acknowledge, but with the stress he’s now under, he’d say it’s justified. “You can’t just go around kissing people! Especially engaged people!”

Bucky really does have to be some sort of crazy to respond in the way he does, smiling that same crooked smile at Steve that he always pulls out in lieu of a real response as if he hasn’t just turned Steve's entire world upside down with a few presses of his mouth. 

“You enjoyed it, didn’t you?” His tone is knowing and Steve despises him even more than usual for being right. “You wanna do it again, sweetheart?”

“ We aren’t doing anything!” Steve snaps, shoving back from Bucky’s body and lowering his traitor of a foot down so hard that it probably looks like he’s stomping it. He’s so frustrated he might as well be. 

Bucky hums and takes a step forward, but makes no move to touch Steve again. Somehow, that’s even more enticing than if he were to have tried to embrace him. “That wasn’t an answer to my question. Either one of them.”

“Well, I… no.” Steve thinks his answer is firm, but Bucky only laughs. 

“No, you didn’t enjoy it? Haven’t heard a complaint like that before, but maybe that’s just a sign we should try again. See if I can make it better for you the second time around.”

“Stop trying to confuse me,” Steve insists, crossing his arms over his chest like that’ll keep him from feeling like Bucky is seeing straight through him. 

Snorting, Bucky slouches down and crosses his own arms in a mimicry of Steve’s own stance. How is it he knows exactly how to get under Steve’s skin even when he’s trying to charm him with sweet words and that stupid, crooked grin? “What’s confusing about a kiss? It wasn’t your first one, was it? I didn’t peg you as that much of a goody two-shoes, your Highness.”

It’s the usage of his title that snaps Steve back to reality enough to start moving, scrambling to brush by Bucky around the edge of the fountain with his head held high in an attempt to act as if all of this mess hasn’t shaken him to his core. When in doubt, pretend you’re above it. That’s what Peggy is always saying. 

“You’re just trying to make me like you so I won’t want to marry Thor and you’ll be back on track to get the crown,” he says imperiously. 

His hopes that Bucky will feel as shaken as he does upon hearing the blunt summary of his obvious plan are quickly dashed when Bucky merely shrugs and begins to idly follow along behind him as Steve continues to pace in circles around the fountain. 

“Maybe I am.”

The seemingly honest statement is enough to get Steve to slow down, which turns out to be nothing more than a ploy for Bucky to catch up with him and spin him around with hands placed back on his waist. Steve squeaks in surprise at the sudden grip, but he makes no attempt to fight it.

“Or maybe,” Bucky murmurs, nuzzling closer once more, “I just like kissing pretty blonde boys in gardens.”

“You stay away from me, Barnes,” Steve breathes, well-aware that the rebuttal comes off hilariously weak with the way he’s allowed Bucky to place him in yet another compromising hold. “I won’t fall for your tricks again.”

That claim becomes increasingly ironic when Steve twists around in an attempt to get away before Bucky can plant another one on him, misjudging the strength it takes for Bucky to release his grip and tearing himself away with a strength that only serves to send them both toppling over and down into the basin of the fountain. 

Bucky yelps at the shock that comes with unexpectedly landing on his ass in cold water, which Steve counts as a win even if everything else about this little conundrum (as Fury would put it) has been a disaster. Bucky has been ruffling Steve’s feathers since they first met. Serves him right that he’s stuck in this damn fountain too. 

The fountain is deep enough for them to both be soaked up to their shoulders by the time all of their splashing and sputtering has calmed down, Steve left to snatch up his graduation cap from the water’s surface before it can float any closer to the man who is behind all this mess in the first place. Steve might have been the one to take them down, but it was Bucky who kissed him first.

Trying to preserve some sense of dignity, Steve inhales and sits up as straight as he can while stuck in the middle of a fountain while wearing a now sopping wet robe. At least Bucky’s suit is in the same state. 

“You alright?” Bucky asks, his hair still annoyingly perfect considering where they’re sitting. Steve considers splashing him in the face just to mess it up, but he thinks better of it, because—

“I have a great idea,” he says, glaring at Bucky and ignoring his question. Does Steve look alright? They’re  practically swimming in a fountain. Erskine is going to kill them. 

Bucky doesn’t look all that concerned. In fact, the way he rolls his eyes suggests he’s found some sort of amusement in all this, the asshole. “And what is this brilliant idea of yours, your Highness?”

“Why don’t you go underwater and I’ll count to a million while you stay there?”

He isn’t expecting Bucky to laugh at the barb so easily, but if the events of the last half hour have taught him anything, it’s that Bucky Barnes is not a predictable man. Steve scowls and shoves up out of the water, intentionally smacking his hand down hard enough to send another spray of water in Bucky’s direction. 

Maybe hate should have been the word he used after all. 

Any dignity Steve had been trying to preserve amongst the hedges quickly disappears once he exits the gardens only to find Erskine and Fury waiting by the building with Sam. All three of them shift to different expressions once they note his soaking wet state— Sam’s being amusement, Fury’s scrutiny, and Erskine’s outright shock. Those expressions only grow more incredulous once Bucky shows up not ten seconds after, still wringing out one of his socks. 

Sam watches Steve try and squeeze out the edge of his own robe from a careful distance. “Do I even want to know?”

“I don’t think so,” Steve mutters, locking gazes with him in a silent communication of later. Erskine already looks like he’s ready to blow a gasket. He doesn’t need to hear about the kiss just yet. Or maybe ever. 

“You might want to tell the driver to put some towels down in the limo,” Bucky informs Fury as he slips his shoe back on after dumping out the water that’d been accumulated in it into the grass. 

Fury looks decidedly unimpressed at the instructions, but steps away to presumably inform Dugan of the fact that two of his passengers will be getting into the car more moisturized than expected. 

Steve turns to the side just to avoid the intense eye contact Erskine is attempting to make with him. His avoidance must be obvious, because Erskine audibly huffs before making a remark that’s equally as obvious as to who it’s targeted towards. 

“It looks like dinner will have to wait. I do believe most dining establishments frown upon their patrons dripping all over the place regardless of whether or not they have a reservation.”

Steve outright closes his eyes now. Erskine hasn’t said it, but Steve can practically hear the echoed question of didn’t I teach you better than this? His disapproval couldn’t be more clear. Steve can’t really blame him. He should have known better than to let Bucky push his buttons again. 

And Mr. Button-pusher isn’t done riling Steve up just yet, it seems. 

“Room service it is, then.” Bucky looks at Steve with a sheepish smile that Steve knows damn well is just for show. “Wanna split an order of mozzarella sticks?”

Yeah, Steve is pretty sure loathe wasn’t a strong enough word. 

-

It's no surprise to Steve that Erskine winds up knocking at his door later that evening. He's been expecting the older man to come calling ever since they got back to the hotel, which happened much sooner than originally planned thanks to what Sam so helpfully deemed the fountain fallout — to go along with the closet conundrum, Steve supposes. 

Connie had made the executive decision to hitch a ride back to her hotel with whatever friend she had come to see walk the stage in the first place, and although Steve had seen her laugh and slip Bucky a piece of paper with her phone number on it, he feels vindicated in the fact that he knows Bucky most likely won’t call her. 

Dinner tonight had ended up being room service, but Steve had taken his far, far away from Bucky and had chosen to split his entrée with Sam instead, who had headed back to the apartment almost an hour ago in order to get a good night’s rest before his own graduation ceremony tomorrow. Natasha had left not long after him to attend a party for a friend from the fashion program Steve didn’t know, which has left him alone with no excuse as to why Erskine shouldn’t barge in and tear him a new one. 

Of course, because it’s Erskine, he goes about things much more gracefully than that. Even when it comes to berating Steve for improper behavior, he’s a gentleman. He even gives Steve the opportunity to defend himself before he begins his lecture   

“Would you care to explain yourself?” he inquires, stepping into the room Steve has been given in their suite and waiting for Steve to shut the door behind him before he takes a seat on the sofa in the corner. “I assume you’re already aware of what I’ve come to discuss.”

Steve sighs, shoulders slumping as he moves to take his own seat on the end of his bed. “Yes,” he says quietly, hands folding in his lap. “I know why you’re here, sir.”

And no, he doesn’t have much to offer in terms of an explanation that wouldn’t upset the older man even more. There’s no way he can tell him about the kiss, not when the fountain incident alone is garnering this much scrutiny. 

Erskine sighs too now, pushing his glasses up on his nose so he can fix Steve with a steady look through the lenses. “Steve,” he murmurs, and that’s how Steve knows he’s really in for it tonight. Erskine almost never calls him Steve— it’s always Steven or dear boy or something else as equally stuffy and endearing. “When are you going to begin acting responsibly?”

That simple question hits Steve like a punch to the gut. He knows Erskine isn’t trying to be cruel, and he isn’t even overreacting, it’s just—

“I’m sorry,” Steve says softly, but Erskine isn’t done. He’s just begun, from the looks of it. 

“I know today was a very big day for you, but this behavior is not something that can be ignored regardless of the occasion. Hiding in a closet with a man who is not your betrothed, coming out of a fountain only a few days later with that same man— who is not only not your betrothed, but actively trying to take your throne!”

“I didn’t plan for either of those things to happen,” Steve cuts in, because he needs Erskine to know that. “I know it isn’t an excuse, but sometimes I just … lose it when he’s around.”

“That is the issue at hand here.” Erskine rubs his fingers over his temple like having to have this conversation is giving him a headache. Steve can relate. “You can’t afford to lose it, especially once you take charge of the kingdom. You’re supposed to find it so everyone else can keep what they have. Can you grasp that concept?”

Steve is quiet for a moment before he finally answers, words stilted with the heaviness of the emotions he’s attempting to hold back. If he can’t afford to lose it, he better start putting his practice in now. 

“The concept is grasped. It’s the execution that’s flawed.”

Erskine smiles, and though the tilt of his mouth is melancholy, Steve can tell he means what he says next. “We are all flawed, my boy. There isn’t any shame in the fact that you are still learning, but you need to be careful as well. The closer we get to your wedding, the more eyes will be upon you.”

And the more Bucky will likely try and pull some more moves, Steve thinks darkly. Bucky is smart, but Steve is too— and as persistent as he is, Steve’s own stubbornness makes for an even match. 

“I understand, doctor.” 

And Steve really does. No matter how hurt or down on himself he may be at the thought of disappointing the older man and the countless number of people who have their faith in him, he also knows the caution comes from a place of genuine concern. No one wants Steve to succeed more than Abraham Erskine. 

Erskine’s smile shifts into something slightly looser, a brief look of relief crossing his features before he pulls back on his usual mask of composure as he stands. “I’ll let you get some rest. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

“Right.” Steve exhales heavily and stands in order to show Erskine to the door. All two steps it takes to get there, anyways. “Sam’s ceremony. Then the parade.”

Erskine’s expression is sympathetic. “If I could have scheduled something more convenient for us all, I would have, but this parade is an annual event. Moving it would have simply been unacceptable.”

Steve waves off the explanation with a tired smile of his own. It’s been a big day, and it’s going to be an even bigger one tomorrow. “It’s okay. Traditions are important. I just graduated college, remember? I’m used to running on nothing but caffeine for days at a time.” Upon Erskine’s slightly worried glance as he steps out of the room, Steve is quick to add on a reassurance. “I’ll do my best not to collapse in the middle of town. Promise.”

“That’d be for the best. The prince passing out might scare the children.” Erskine nods to him before moving to shut the door. “Goodnight, Steven.”

“Goodnight, Dr. Erskine,” Steve responds. 

Erskine is gone for all of two seconds before Steve walks over to the door and flips the lock shut, pausing for a moment to stare at the window and deciding to lock the door that leads out to the balcony as well. Just for good measure. The last thing he needs is for Bucky to accidentally on purpose somehow wander into his room in the middle of the night and ask if he wants to do a Sleeping Beauty reenactment. 

Be careful, Erskine had told him. This is what careful looks like tonight.

Steve lets out a sigh that’s so aggravated it may as well be a groan and flops back onto the bed, this time settling flat on his back to stare at the ceiling. Knowing that Bucky is only a few rooms over, possibly even laying in the same position… it’s maddening. Bucky makes Steve mad almost every time they interact, but this is different. There are so many questions and thoughts flying around Steve’s head it’s damn near impossible to think straight.

Why did Bucky have to kiss him today? If they had met under different circumstances, what would things be like? What does it mean that Steve’s foot popped for Bucky? Does he have to tell Thor about this? How is he supposed to deal with living in the palace with Bucky until the wedding?

Reaching above his head, Steve snags a pillow and pulls it down to shove over his face. He considers screaming into it until he remembers what Dr. Erskine had told him. Steve can’t afford to lose it. Yelling into the hotel linens definitely counts as losing it, so he settles on laying there in silence instead. 

The quiet is good. The rest of his life is so noisy now that savoring these quiet moments is necessary.

I loathe him , he thinks, repeating it on loop in his mind until the phrase sounds virtually meaningless. 

He tries out I hate him just for size, but somehow, even after today’s events, it still doesn’t feel right.  

-

Steve has never been much of a parade person. 

Having grown up in New York City, encountering and attending them had been unavoidable. Sarah had taken him to more than a few when he was a boy, but the older he got, he found himself more content to watch them on the television than he did the thought of going to them in person. 

For him, parades were something he and his mother participated in together. With her gone, there was just no reason for him to bother with them anymore past judging the floats on Thanksgiving with Sam’s sister from the couch in the Wilson’s family living room. Until now, that is. 

In Steve’s experience so far, Vengea appears to be a particularly festive nation. First came the Independence Day ball and now comes the Harvest Day parade. Steve hasn’t yet asked what they’re supposed to be harvesting. It’s been a busy past 48 hours and that business isn’t going to be stopping anytime soon. 

All things considered, riding around the Capitol in a convertible isn’t the worst job in the world. It’s not like Steve is stuck walking the entire parade route on foot and Erskine had even given him a pair of sunglasses to wear just to disguise how tired his eyes are from the flight over here. Still, Steve can’t help but grouch over how stiff the white collared shirt and blue slacks are that Peggy had laid out for him to wear in his chambers. 

He’d do anything to swap them out for his pajamas and swap this damn car out for the comfort of his bed. He might even let Bucky kiss him again. 

Not that that would be a hardship, a very unhelpful part of his brain supplies. Steve shuts it down immediately. He’s already tired enough. Replaying the moment at the fountain with Bucky has already proven to be exhausting, which is the last thing he needs to put himself through right now. Smiling and waving at the cheering crowds as they pass by is going to be difficult enough to pass off as genuine.

“How are you feeling, your Highness?” The question Fury poses as he finishes checking to make sure the car Steve is set to ride in is secure makes it much harder for Steve to forget about his misery. 

He doesn’t want to think about the answer, but this is Fury. Being anything less than honest won’t fly. “To tell the truth? Not that great.”

Fury snorts and shuts the hood of the convertible, giving Steve one of those looks that Steve always finds hard to read with only one eye available to scrutinize the emotion behind. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t suffer along the way,” Steve mutters, making sure Fury has gone to fetch Erskine before he makes the comment towards himself. 

Erskine isn’t mad at him necessarily, but Steve is still trying to be on his best behavior to make up for the mess with Bucky the other day. Keeping his complaints to a minimum— or at least to himself— is the least he can do. 

Don’t lose it. You can’t afford to. 

“We should leave soon.” Erskine’s voice floats out from the foyer even before he comes into view, following Fury out the front doors of the palace to where Steve and the car are both waiting. Dugan is trailing not far behind them. “We wouldn’t want to be late.”

Steve stands up straighter as the three men come close enough to join him. “You’ll be accompanying me on the ride then, Doctor?”

With a small smile and a short nod, Erskine waits for Fury to open the back door of the convertible before sliding inside. He pats the seat beside him once he’s situated. “Mr. Fury and Mr. Dugan will take the driver and passenger seats while the two of us take the back.”

“By the way,” Fury adds on when Steve moves to take his assigned seat. “I ran into Miss Romanoff inside and was asked to pass along a message.”

“Oh?” Steve perks up slightly at that. It’s a relief having Sam and Nat in Vengea with him now. He’ll take every reminder he can get that they’re here. “What is it?”

“She and Mr. Wilson will be standing outside the bookshop on Main Street. I’ll point it out before we go by. They wanted you to be able to spot them during the parade.”

Steve smiles and smooths his hands down his thighs, nerves slightly settled for the time being. “Thanks, Nick.” It’s nice to know that there’ll be some familiar faces in the crowd cheering for him and actually meaning it. 

“Shall we be on our way, Doctor?” Dum-Dum asks, keys already turning in the ignition. 

“Yes, Mr. Dugan. We shall indeed.”

With Erskine’s say-so, that’s that. The car is moving, and though they’re going slow, Steve still takes the opportunity to draw in a few deep breaths before they hit a stretch of road where the people will have begun to gather. All he has to do to get through this is smile and wave for half an hour. He’ll be fine. 

Parades are supposed to be fun, in any case, and so long as the car is moving, it’s not like Bucky can approach them even if he were to show his face today. What could possibly go wrong?

-

Steve would like to say that he isn’t surprised at just how right the parade goes, but after the time he’s had these past few weeks, he has to admit that the smooth sailing of today’s events was rather refreshing.

Of course, that isn’t to say things had gone perfectly according to plan, but when it comes to Steve, do they ever? He’s just glad that he didn't manage to mess things up even after he decided to jump out of the car and chase that little girl down in order to help her. 

Erskine and Fury hadn’t been happy about the impulsive act until they understood the reason why Steve had asked for the car to stop, which Steve can’t blame them for. It probably wasn’t the safest move, running after that girl, but what else was he supposed to do when he saw all those older boys picking on her?

Steve may not have had braids to pull on or dresses to make fun of when he was a kid, but he’s no stranger to being the subject of a few bullies’ attention. Seeing that little girl in such a familiar situation had caught his eye even through all the smiling people and waving flags. He couldn’t just sit there. He had to do something. Every Vengean is one of his subjects, no matter how small, and if there’s one thing Steve knows, it’s that he wants to be the sort of ruler who looks out for his people. 

And if he happened to see a bit of himself in how she tried to square off against those boys even though she was outsized and outnumbered, that was only even more of a reason for him to go over there. Erskine’s confusion had come second to his own desire to help, but isn’t that exactly the sort of thing Erskine has been helping him prepare for?

Even if you can’t help, you have to show the citizens you care, he’d told Steve. That girl was someone Steve could help, so that’s exactly what he had done. Once they saw the prince approaching the circle they’d formed around her, the boys had been quick to disband and even quicker to look ashamed without Steve even having to say a word.

 All he’d had to do was raise his eyebrows and give them his best Disappointed Sarah Rogers’ impression. He knows better than anyone just how effective that look is when it comes to silently scolding little boys. They aren’t bad kids, he knows. Just bored and stupid in the way that most children with too much time on their hands are— and as he’d discovered, those children had more time on their hands than most. 

Fury had approached him from behind while he was still bent down and trying to coax the girl into speaking to him, laying a hand on his shoulder and waiting until he stood back up to murmur, “ They’re all from the local orphanage.”

That’d hit Steve somewhere deep. All of those kids were a little like him, then, except they’d lost their families even younger. 

He’d crouched down and taken the girl’s hand, offering her his most comforting smile. “How would you feel about being a princess for today?” Looking around at the rest of the kids still surrounding him, he’d addressed them as well. “We can all be a part of the parade.”

Somehow, that had been what got the girl to unfreeze and finally whisper something back to him. “Will you hold my hand when we go down the street?”

Squeezing her fingers, Steve had nodded and answered her question just as softly as she’d asked it. “Whatever you want, your Highness.”

He hadn’t exactly had tiaras or crowns he could hand out, but with how much imagination those kids had, they hadn’t needed them to play pretend. Upon Steve’s instructions, he and a few of the others had walked hand in hand down the street at the center of the parade, following behind the convertible still carrying Erskine all the while.

Erskine hadn’t looked nearly as annoyed as Steve had expected him to. In fact, he’d almost looked proud to see Steve leading those kids down the road, though according to most of their lessons on how a prince is supposed to behave in public, jumping out of the car in the middle of an event isn’t what one would call good royal form. 

When it came down to it, though, Steve wasn’t sure he cared what Erskine or the others thought of his impromptu behavior. The decision had been spur of the moment, but even besides that, Steve didn’t regret doing it, especially not after he found out just how alike he and those kids were. 

Having someone telling them to believe in themselves, treating them like they were special, making sure they felt seen— that’s everything Steve ever wished that he could have gotten from his own father. His mother had done her best to give it to him, but these kids don’t have her. They don’t have anything. 

Steve is looking to change that. 

Since coming over here, he hasn’t had as much free time available to paint as he normally would like, but that’s what happens when you’re preparing to become king at the same time you’re planning a wedding. The palace staff has made sure he has plenty of artistic resources at his disposal, and though tonight is the first time Steve is actually putting them to use, he finds himself slipping into a creative headspace just as easily as ever. 

The weather is nice enough tonight for him to be able to have his easel set up out on the balcony, the back of his canvas facing the landscape he’s currently doing his best to capture through paint. Vengea truly is a beautiful place. 

By the time Erskine comes out there to find him, the sunlight has begun to dim enough for Steve to be considering going back inside for tonight, though the look on Erskine’s face tells him that that’ll have to wait a little while longer. 

He doesn’t look angry or unhappy like he had the other night when he came to Steve’s door at the hotel seeking an explanation for what had happened with Bucky. He looks quite the opposite, as a matter of fact, so pleased that he’s even humming as he sits down on the patio chair beside Steve’s own makeshift painting station. 

“Today went quite well, didn’t it?”

Steve sets his brush down to give Erskine his full attention. “Yes,” he says honestly, glad to hear that Erskine agrees with how he’s felt ever since he first helped that little girl down the street. “I think it did.”

He thinks back to not only that little girl, but also the grinning faces of Sam and Natasha he had spotted in town. He even thinks of Bucky, who he’d seen but hadn’t spoken to, standing only a few feet down from Steve’s friends wearing a smile of his own as the convertible had passed him despite his uncle standing beside him looking decidedly unimpressed by Steve’s appearance in the parade.

“You were very good with the children earlier. I’m surprised. You never had any siblings. Neither did either of your parents.”

Steve is a bit surprised himself at how naturally handling the kids in that context had come to him. After working at the community center back in Brooklyn, he’d thought that he just wasn’t one for being able to manage children, but today had been easier than he’d ever thought possible. Today was good. 

“I know what it’s like to lose both parents,” he eventually says in response to Erskine’s comment. “Even if I wasn’t quite that young.” 

And he isn’t the only one around here who can relate to that, he realizes. Bucky can too, can’t he? He and Steve haven’t had a reason to talk about it directly, but Pierce had mentioned something during his Parliament speech about Bucky’s mother and father having passed on before they could finish raising him.

It’s not something Steve can ask about. The two of them don’t talk about such things, but it is something that makes Steve’s heart ache to think about. It’s not just sympathy. It’s empathy. He and Bucky apparently share more than a couple of traits in common. 

They’re both stubborn as hell. Both have a soft spot for kids with no one to take care of them. Both are prone to acting impulsively.

As hard as Steve has been trying, he hasn’t stopped thinking about the kiss since it happened. He hasn’t told anyone about it, either— not Sam, not Nat. Definitely not Erskine or Thor. It’s their secret as of right now. 

He clears his throat and brings himself back to the conversation at hand. He does have a few things he’s been wanting to bring up to Erskine. When better than right now? “I was thinking about what Gabe mentioned at dinner about the orphanage needing repairs. If we were to help them fix it up, that would be one solution, but I don’t think it’s the most effective one we have to offer.”

Erskine leans forward, seemingly intrigued. “What do you propose?”

Here goes nothing. “As members of the upper class in Vengea, we have plenty of resources at our disposal, including living accommodations that would be much better suited for housing children in need than a singular building in town that barely gives them enough space to sleep, let alone grow up properly. How many lodges and villas do we have readily available to allow them to stay in during the winter and summer months?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer. He already knows. “More than enough. I think it would be a worthwhile investment for us to oversee that these children are better cared for. And that begins with making sure they have someplace safe and sound where they can sleep at night.”

Steve’s speech— which he can admit he ran through earlier in his bathroom mirror more than once— is met with a stretch of silence that lasts so long that he almost thinks he should take everything he’s just said back. But that’s not what Sarah Rogers raised him to do when he believes in something, so he doesn’t. He stands his ground and waits for the older man to speak. 

Erskine’s tone is thoughtful when he finally responds, but Steve thinks he detects a hint of pride in there as well. “With a bit of polishing and some more detail added, your plan is a good one. But convincing Parliament of such a thing won’t be an easy task. You will have to be prepared to fight for your ideas to be heard, let alone considered.”

“I know,” Steve says honestly. He would expect nothing less.

He’s seen them meet once already, which was more than enough to show him just how much work this’ll be to convince them to approve of— but maybe this will help him win some approval from them for himself. If they see how seriously he’s taking the betterment of this kingdom, maybe they’ll be able to trust him as a ruler a little more.

He got through his thesis and through graduation. With those accomplishments and all of his lessons under his belt, he should be able to take care of this without having to flee the country. 

“Whatever help you may need, I will be glad to offer.”

Steve accepts the pat Erskine places on his shoulder with a bashful duck of his head. One important person approved of his idea. Now he just needs to get the rest on board. “And I’ll take all the help I can get. Thank you, Dr. Erskine. Really.”

He stays out on the balcony even after Erskine excuses himself and heads indoors, presumably showing himself out of Steve’s chambers on his own. The sky is too dark now to keep painting, but the dim horizon provided by the stretch of time between twilight and dusk is perfect for thinking. 

Steve has a lot to think about tonight, but doesn’t he always? His lessons, the wedding, coronation, and now his project for Parliament. 

Then there’s Bucky, who has caused a cascade of problems in Steve’s life all on his own. The dance. The foot-stomping. The closet, the elevator, and most recently, the fountain. How is it that he and Steve have known each other for such a short time yet Bucky has somehow managed to make sure that he’s almost always on Steve’s mind? 

It’s infuriating, amongst other things. Sam and Natasha must be sick of hearing Bucky’s name by now. Hell, Steve is sick of having to think about it himself. 

After a few more minutes of thought that quicks turns into brooding, Steve sighs and begins collecting his painting supplies to carry inside. Life lately has been one big day after another. 

He’ll need to be well rested to tackle the one that comes tomorrow. Off to bed it is.

Chapter Text

Erskine is right about the Parliament members being stuffy old bastards, even if he hadn’t used that exact descriptor when helping prepare Steve for his scheduled meeting with the four most prominent members. 

They’re standoffish, to put it nicely— and if Steve is being honest, they’re kind of snobs. Then again, what can he expect from a group made up of mostly rich old men who haven’t seen a personal struggle in the last three decades? 

They might be pretentious and pompous and more than a little intimidating, but there’s just one thing they’re underestimating, and that’s that their new prince is just as stubborn as they are snobby. 

The meeting ends up being held in the privacy of Erskine’s office rather than on the Parliament floor, which Steve is grateful for. Pitching his idea to even a few of the members is daunting enough even without having to do so in a space that large. He hasn’t officially been in those chambers to begin with, but considering the catastrophe he’d overheard when spying on them through the grate, he’s much more comfortable in the office. 

There are no powdered wigs or black robes involved. Everyone is still dressed sharply, but the lack of banging gavels helps Steve relax, even if it’s only minutely. Thankfully this meeting doesn’t require him to expunge all the details of his plan (some of which he hasn’t come up with just yet), but rather is meant to offer the members a summary of what possibilities seeing the suggestion through could hold. 

It’s pretty straightforward, in Steve’s opinion. The orphanage they have isn’t properly suited to house so many children in. The palace has access to more places of living than they could ever possibly need, and though some of the members don’t look too thrilled at the thought of having to give up some of the lodges and villas they use as their holiday homes, Steve is quick to remind them that this isn’t about them. It’s about the children and what they need. 

He does exactly what his mother and Erskine have taught him to do. He stands his ground, and just like with his thesis defense— it works. 

Steve has never been the best at giving speeches, but the closing statements he makes for his argument are heavy hitting even to his own ears. 

“Every citizen should feel welcome and safe in Venea. This is their home. Letting these children stay in a spare house or two is the least we can do.” Then, looking at Erskine, who has been standing faithfully by his side this entire time— “Dr. Erskine approves of the plan and I intend to see it through. Now, gentlemen, I don’t think this mission is beyond your power to help accomplish. Do you?”

-

Those words are still echoing around Steve’s mind even when he runs into Bucky in the hall nearly three hours after the meeting has ended. Steve is no stranger to overthinking things he’s said in the past, but this is one of the few times where he’s thinking about it with pride rather than panic or insecurity. 

It went well today. He’s on a bit of a streak, isn’t he? Maybe the universe has finally decided to balance his luck back out after the fountain.

Or maybe Bucky just hasn’t had another chance to throw things off since then. 

Steve would like to think that the way he eyes Bucky when he spots him walking in the opposite direction down the hall comes from wariness, but who is he kidding? The guy has kissed him already and they’re both still standing. It’s not the end of the world if Steve stares at him a little longer than necessary in order to check out the glasses he’s wearing.

He’s never seen Bucky wear them before, but they must be meant for reading if the book he’s holding is anything to go off of, not to mention the fact that he’s just come out of the library. Suddenly the pinched expression and perpetual squint Steve has noticed him bearing when seeing him flip through pages in the garden make sense. The glasses are simply black frames, not unlike the ones Steve owns himself as a backup pair to the lenses Coulson had snapped during their makeover. 

So Bucky wears glasses. He saw Steve wearing his own that night in the kitchens after the mess at the stables, so he knows that Steve does too. Another thing they have in common. Has he ever seen a photo of Steve from… before?

When Bucky notices who he’s walking past, he stops and tucks his book under his arm, pushing his glasses up over his forehead to rest in his hair. It’s terribly attractive in an academic sort of way that Steve doesn’t have time to sort through before Bucky is speaking to him with a surprisingly genuine smile. 

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

That wasn’t a question Steve was expecting to hear from Bucky. Steve blinks, but doesn’t see any reason not to answer the question honestly. “Just back to my room. Why, are you thinking of trying to crash my bachelor’s party tonight?”

Joking around with Bucky in such a lighthearted manner isn’t something Steve has done since the day they first danced, but if Bucky is playing nice for now, Steve supposes he can do the same. Just to avoid another spectacle.

“Why, are you inviting me?” Bucky tosses back without heat, though his smile is slightly stiffer than before for a reason Steve isn’t quite sure of. “I have obligations elsewhere, I’m afraid. Dinner plans. But I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since the parade and I just wanted to tell you…” 

He pauses and shifts on his feet to face Steve more clearly, Steve mirroring the motion but keeping a safe amount of distance between them. They don’t need anymore conundrums to add to the list, and history has shown that any less than three feet in between them will almost always lead to something happening will get Steve in trouble.

“Tell me what?” Steve is curious.

“I was impressed with what you did the other day. With the kids,” Bucky clarifies, as if Steve didn’t already know what he was referring to. He isn’t nearly as flustered as Steve is by the blatant compliment, but this is the first Steve has seen him even slightly ruffled, eyes averted and smile almost bordering on the edge of shy rather than smug for once in his life. “And I heard about the children’s center as well. That’s some pretty great work you’re doing.”

“Oh.” Steve clears his throat and looks down, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like that’ll do anything to stop the redness that’s creeping down from his cheeks to his collar. He can’t help it. Praise always gets him a little gooey, especially when it comes from good-looking guys. “Thanks. It’s for a good cause, you know? Anyone would want to help those kids.”

Bucky tilts his head and hims in acknowledgement. “True. But not everyone would actually see it through.”

Steve guesses he can’t argue against that after seeing just how much bluster it had taken for the Parliament members he’d met with try and come up with a real reason as to why they shouldn’t make bettering the living conditions for parentless children in their kingdom a top priority. Still, no one likes a braggart. 

“Thanks,” he says again just to keep it simple. 

“I’ll leave you to your party, then.” Bucky nods at him and turns to continue down the hall, but Steve’s mouth starts moving before his feet can. 

“It’s not really a party,” he blurts out. Bucky hasn’t asked for any of the details for how he plans to spend the evening, but, Steve reasons, he doesn’t want Bucky thinking he has a bunch of strippers in his room or something. Yeah. That’s definitely why he’s explaining himself. “Me, Natasha, and Sam are just going to stay in and probably get drunk off champagne.”

Bucky laughs and gives him an appraising look, probably trying to picture what he looks like when he’s tipsy. That’s what Steve is doing for him. It would be insane to invite Bucky along, but that doesn’t mean Steve can’t imagine what the darker-haired man would be like while buzzed. Is he an emotional drunk like Sam? A quiet one like Natasha? An affectionate one like Steve?

Steve’s thoughts of reddened lips wrapping around the neck of a bottle are soon interrupted. 

“I should go get ready for dinner.” Bucky sounds slightly regretful to leave, but he still takes a step forward that Steve somehow feels echoed in his heartbeat. 

“What, did you fly out Connie for the weekend or something?” He tries out a joke of his own, but there isn’t enough humor behind it for it to truly be funny. He finds the thought of Bucky having a date lined up, girl, boy, or otherwise oddly constricting on his chest. 

But Bucky shakes his head, pulling his glasses off and sliding them into his shirt pocket. Steve tries and fails to ignore the way his bangs flop down on his forehead as a result. “It’s just my uncle.”

Piece is too peculiar of a man for it to be pleasant to think of him in most contexts, but this mention is strangely relieving. Steve doesn’t envy Bucky having to dine with him tonight, but if it means he isn’t spending the evening trying to sweep someone off their feet…

“I’ll let you go.” 

If Bucky notices how abrupt Steve’s decision to end their conversation is, he doesn’t comment. He simply smiles at him one last time and continues heading down the hallway, leaving Steve behind to wait until he’s turned the corner to lean against a wall and slide down until his ass is on the floor and his elbows are braced on his knees. 

What the hell is going on with him? Bucky is nice to him for two seconds and what, Steve’s heart forgets everything else that has happened between them?

Except for the kiss. Nothing can make him forget about that, it seems. 

“God damn you Bucky Barnes,” he curses, muffled into the palms he has pressed over his face. It’s only after he removes them that he notices a familiar red-headed figure standing at the end of the hallway in the direction of his room. 

Natasha’s arms are crossed and her brows raised. Steve winces as she begins walking towards him, the languid pace she takes more menacing than it has any right to be while she’s wearing slippers and sweatpants in preparation for their upcoming plans. “You’ll never guess who I just passed coming from this direction,” she says, dry tone making it clear she can see straight through the act he hasn’t even had the time to put on yet. 

“I’m not talking about him before I’ve gotten at least three drinks in me.”

Shrugging, Natasha holds out a hand to help him up. “I guess we better get started as soon as possible. Something tells me you’ve got a lot to say.”

“You don’t even know the half of it,” he sighs, taking her hand and accepting the gentle punch she lays on his arm once he’s standing. He deserves it. He probably needs a lot more than a playful punch to knock some sense to him when it comes to Bucky.

Natasha pats him on the back as they begin the walk towards his room that he should have completed at least ten minutes ago. “Spilling secrets is what alcohol is for.”

“You want me to spill anything, you better be prepared to clean up the mess that follows.”

“Now that is what Sam is for.”

-

Practice makes perfect is a phrase that Steve has come to learn may as well be a lie, or maybe just something that isn’t applicable to him as a person. 

He’s been practicing with this stupid bow and arrow for weeks now, and where has it gotten him? He still can barely hit the target with a regular arrow, let alone get a flaming one through a hoop without setting some innocent bystander on fire. 

That’s a lesson he’d learned not fifteen minutes ago when Clint had— for some crazy reason— decided it would be a good idea for Steve to try firing a lit arrow for the first time. He had missed the target, of course, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t managed to hit something— unfortunately, that something had actually been his future husband, who now has a hole singed in what used to be a very nice coat because of Steve’s terrible archery skills. 

Steve feels terrible about it. Thor took the time to fly in all the way from Asgard just to spend a few days with him and what does Steve do when he gets here? He damages the man’s outerwear. 

As usual, Thor was a great sport about it all, brushing the accident off with a hearty laugh and a brush of ashes off what remained of the fabric. “The distressed look is all the rage nowadays anyways,” he’d said, sending Steve such a bright smile that Steve had only begun feeling even worse. 

He still hasn’t told Thor about the fountain. He hasn’t told Erskine either, and he’d only told Natasha and Sam a few nights before after being plied with a full bottle of champagne hoarded all to himself. It’s a tricky situation. On one hand, Steve isn’t sure he should feel obligated to tell Thor at all considering that their relationship isn’t exactly real, let alone romantic. On the other hand, they’re engaged to be married. They’ve both agreed to that, even if it is more for status stability than anything else. 

They need to set better boundaries, but that would involve them actually sitting down and having a talk, which isn’t something they do very often. Thor doesn’t love Steve. That much Steve is sure of. But he could one day, which makes the question of whether Steve could ever love him pretty important. 

All of this deep thinking isn’t doing much to help him improve his aim. It’s dangerous to shoot anything while distracted, he knows— which is exactly why he lowers his bow when he locks eyes with Bucky from across the garden. 

He’s where he almost always is when spending time out here, sat on one of the stone benches in the rose section with a book propped between his spread legs and an apple in hand. At least he’s wearing pants today. Seeing his legs in shorts with Thor so close might send Steve rather than the arrows up into flames.  

Bucky doesn’t wave at him, but he does lift his brows and a corner of his mouth up enough for Steve to accept it as an acknowledgement. Steve feels frozen in place on his own end, not wanting to move lest his body language reveal something that he doesn’t want everyone out here to find out. 

Is he going to feel like he’s walking on eggshells until the wedding? Is he going to have to feel this way even after?

It takes a second for Steve to shake himself out of the trance he’s fallen into. It’s no use for him to try and shoot like this unless he wants the next hole he puts to be through someone’s stomach. Sighing, he gestures for Sam to come over and tells Clint to take a break. Having been out here all morning watching Steve’s pathetic endeavors, Clint has no qualms with complying. 

Sam walks up, leaving Natasha and Thor behind where all three have been standing in the shade watching Steve shoot. Or try to at least. They all seem to be getting along pretty well. Not even knowing Steve has been kissed by someone else recently has put a strain on how great they think Thor is, which makes sense. It isn’t Thor who is at fault in that situation, is it?

“What’s up, man?”

Steve doesn’t say anything just yet. He turns, making sure Sam’s body shrouds him from Thor’s view before he speaks. “Look over at the bench.”

It doesn’t take long for Sam to spot what Steve wants him to. “Ah.” With his back to the two spectators on the sideline, Sam doesn’t have to make an effort to conceal his staring, but Steve can’t bring himself to look back over at Bucky and his book. “You want me to chase him off or something? Just tell me who to shoo and where to shoo them and they shall soon be shone.”

The thing is, if Steve did want Sam to chase Bucky off, that would make this a whole lot easier. But he doesn’t. That’s the problem, one that he soon has to confess to. 

“I actually was wondering if you could distract Thor so I could talk to Bucky alone. Just for a second.”

Sam is staring at Steve now instead. “About what?”

Steve isn’t sure of what, to tell the truth. There’s nothing specific he and Bucky need to discuss, but Steve also sort of wants to see whether or not the other night in the hallway was a fluke. Bucky being nice to him was unexpected. Steve is curious to see whether or not it’ll continue, and the only way to gauge his behavior is to make sure their next interaction is one-on-one. 

Thor being so close by would certainly complicate that process. It’s not as if Steve is planning on letting Bucky pull anything or wanting to pull something himself. He just wants to… test the waters. 

“I’ll tell you about it later,” he promises Sam, because he inevitably will spill every detail to him and Natasha at some point in the near future. It’s just what they do. “I won’t take too long.”

Sam exhales after a moment and nods slowly. “Okay. But don’t ditch us, alright? I know you and Thor aren’t exactly a loved-up couple but the guy did fly out here just to see you and he leaves the day after tomorrow to bring his parents over for the wedding, you know.”

Steve does know. He also knows he’s a little too relieved that Thor’s visits are always so short, but that’s a problem they can confront later. So is his sense of impending doom over the wedding’s closeness. 

“I’ll be twenty minutes at most. Maybe you can take him up to the kitchens? I’ll meet you there for lunch once Clint gets back and I can tell him the lesson is over?” And hopefully get a few words in with Bucky between those times. 

“Yeah, man. You’ve got it.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

Whatever story Sam tells Thor and Natasha about heading up to lunch without him is sold easily to the first party and seen straight through by the second based off of the look she shoots Steve before they turn to head back into the palace. Another problem he’ll just have to confront later. For now, he’s stuck having to figure out how to get Bucky to come over here, because there’s no way in hell Steve is approaching him no matter how nice the man is being. Steve still has his pride to consider. 

Luckily, that feat is a whole lot easier to accomplish than he first thought, because before too long, Bucky is pushing off the bench and heading in Steve’s direction all on his own. He’s whistling as he walks, exuding an air of nonchalance that Steve wishes he could embody— but as things are, he’s stuck frozen in place once more with his fingers curled around the bow so tightly it’s a miracle it doesn’t crack. 

“They left you out here all by your lonesome?” Bucky sounds cheerful. Should Steve be suspicious about that? 

He settles on responding with a half shrug, hefting the bow up to keep his hands busy. Bucky looks ridiculously good in that blue button down, skin even tanner than usual in contrast to the light fabric and his eyes so grey that they’re almost silver. It’s distracting. They’re both lucky Steve doesn’t have an arrow on him right now. 

“Would you like some help with that thing?“

“What?”

Bucky’s smile is indulgent. That is definitely suspicious. He nods to the bow still clutched in Steve’s hands. “I’m no expert archer or anything, but I’ve shot an arrow or two in my day. It’s more about the positioning than the aim, when it comes down to it.”

Bucky wants to… help him?

With how hopeless he’s been at this so far, who is Steve to deny any assistance being offered?

Steve nods, then immediately regrets his decision when Bucky comes closer, sliding in behind him to help him shift into a more proper stance. After so mant months of lessons in what it takes to be a prince, Steve should be used to being poked and prodded and pushed around, but this isn’t Erskine or Peggy or even Frank touching him. It’s Bucky. 

With the dance they’d shared during the day they first met and the spontaneous embrace at the fountain in mind, Bucky’s hands being placed on Steve’s waist aren’t exactly a new sensation, but something about it in this context is different. Everything between them has been different since that kiss, it feels like. 

Bucky reaches an arm around Steve’s side to present him with an arrow he must have picked up from Clint’s abandoned quiver. “Here.” Steve takes it and notches it into place. That he knows how to do. Everything else… “Take your stance and I’ll help fix it.”

Steve does as he’s told, feeling even clumsier than usual with the heady knowledge of Bucky being so close. The warmth of his body fades for a moment as he steps away only to raise a hand and place it on Steve once more, guiding his elbow to a lower position. 

“Elbow down, just a bit. No, not that much,” he says lowly, finishing with a laugh when Steve, in an overeager gesture, drops it down a good five inches. Bucky steps in again to slot back behind him and better angle the bow once Steve’s arms are where he wants them. “That’s it. Good.”

Steve tries to keep the exhale he lets out quiet, not wanting Bucky to hear how his breath hitches at the praise. 

The fact that Bucky’s next words are murmured almost directly into his ear doesn’t do much to help even it out. “Now use your mouth as an anchor.“

“Excuse me?” Steve’s voice comes out slightly strangled, but why shouldn’t it when Bucky is talking about his mouth while they’re practically pressed together, front to back?

Bucky is thinking about his mouth? In what context? 

“Touch your mouth.” That instruction doesn’t make things much clearer, but Bucky, despite not being an expert at this, is a pretty good teacher. A hands on one as well. While Steve is still reeling from how husky that second comment— command — sounded, Bucky uses a hand to gently guide the hand Steve has the bowstring pulled back with up towards his lips. “With your fingers.” 

Somehow, that clarification only has Steve’s heart beating faster. Or maybe that stems more from the way Bucky’s own fingers brush the sensitive skin of Steve’s inner wrist. Steve loathes himself for the way the sensation makes him shiver, the weight of skin-on-skin contact only intensified when Bucky uses his free hand to grip Steve’s opposite shoulder, left bare by his polo sleeve having been pushed up earlier to deal with the head of the midday sun. 

“Relax.”

Easier said than done, Barnes. 

“Breathe in.” Bucky somehow makes those two words sound more sultry than they should. “Focus.” 

Also easier said than done. Bucky is staring at him. Steve can feel it, but he doesn’t dare turn to try and read his expression. 

“Release.”

Steve’s arrow soars forward immediately. A breath leaves Steve’s lips soon after his arrow has left the bow once he sees how surely it’s moving. His shot isn’t perfect or anywhere close to a bullseye, but it does land within the rings of the target. 

That’s something. It’s better than any of the other attempts Steve has made in the past few weeks. 

He’s smiling so wide at the accomplishment that it feels like his face could split in two, leaving the question Bucky asks him with a very clear answer. 

“How did that feel?”

Steve’s laugh is likely too loud for the lack of distance between them, but he doesn’t hold it back as it bubbles up in his chest. Why should he? This is a sign of progress, for more than one thing. “Wonderful.”

It’s almost as if his body is drawn to Bucky’s on some magnetic level, because every time they share a close proximity, Steve can’t seem to keep himself from moving in even closer. Now, his shoulder is pushed up against Bucky's chest where Bucky has positioned himself sideways to help with the bow, and at this angle, it would just be so easy to lean in repeat what they’d done at the fountain, this time with him as the initiator. 

He almost does. He’s thinking about it, face tilted just enough for their gazes to connect. It feels like his heartbeat is synced up with Bucky’s breathing, picking up and passing the pace when Bucky’s tongue darts out and sweeps across his lower lip in a path Steve briefly entertains following with his own. 

They’re so close that he could, easily. He wants to, he realizes. He might. 

And then the moment is shattered, passing by just out of reach like they’re two planets in orbit around a star that have just barely avoided a collision. It’s Bucky who breaks it, pulling back with a sudden clear of his throat. This is now the second time Steve has seen him with his feathers ruffled. It might even be cute if Steve weren’t so confused. He should be relieved. Bucky just helped him avoid another catastrophe, apparently because he has to go. 

As for where he’s going—

“I won’t waste too much more of your time. I really should go back to my room and begin packing my things.”

“What?” Steve frowns. “Are you going on a trip or something?”

Bucky laughs, slightly incredulous. “Steve, I don’t live at the palace. Staying here has been a trip for me the entire time.”

It’s such an obvious statement when Bucky says it, especially considering Steve has been fighting against the notion that Bucky belonged in the palace or on the throne, but it’s strange to actually think about it. Bucky has been here almost the entire time Steve has himself. There have been only a few days he’s spent in the palace where Bucky wasn’t around, and now he’s just… leaving? Why does the thought of him being gone feel so wrong?

“Oh,” is all he can think to say. Leaving. Bucky is— “You’re leaving? When?”

Bucky winces like this isn't going the way he wanted, but Steve doesn’t understand why he’s going in the first place. The wedding isn’t happening for a few more days. There’s still time for him to— for them to—

Steve cuts that thought off. He doesn’t know what there is for them to do that wouldn’t go against everything he’s been fighting for these past two months. There’s still time, but all they could possibly do together is waste it. 

That still leaves the question as to why Bucky has chosen now as the moment to go. Did Steve do something wrong? Is this his fault?

As if he can sense what Steve is thinking— he probably can, the damn mind reader— Bucky gives Steve a small smile and a pat on the shoulder before stepping back. “Don’t worry, I’m going to bow out gracefully. It’s what we’ve all been waiting for, don’t you think?”

Steve can’t think at all when Bucky’s around. That’s what’s made this thing between them that isn’t supposed to be there so infuriating. Intoxicating. Bucky got Steve’s foot to pop and now he’s just running away? He’s giving up the throne? He’s giving up on Steve?

That’s an over exaggeration of things, unfair to them both. Steve knows that, but that doesn’t make him feel it any less. 

He can only manage to get out a singular word, but it’s the one that’s necessary for this sort of situation. “Goodbye.”

Bucky holds out a hand. When Steve takes it to shake, he finds himself not wanting to let go after, but he knows he has to. Clint will be back soon enough. Sam and Natasha are waiting for him. Thor is expecting him to come in, but where is Steve? Outside, hand in hand with a man that he’s considered his enemy for almost the entire time he’s known him.

And yet, he still doesn’t want to let go. 

He’s seriously considering making a dash to the stables so Bucky won’t see him break, but then Bucky is speaking back up in an uncharacteristically tentative tone. 

“Steve. Could I see you one last time before I go?”

“Buck…” Steve whispers, the nickname slipping out with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two men that are normally at each other's throats. He wants to say yes more than anything, but with the wedding happening so soon he can barely go anywhere without being watched. “If someone sees us… I’m watched like a hawk. If it isn’t the servants, it’s the press.”

Whatever else he may be feeling right now, Bucky is still himself enough to flash Steve with one of his trademark crooked grins.

 “I’ll find a way, your Highness. Promise.”

And though Steve has vowed not to trust James Barnes ever again, he can’t help but believe that this is one promise that he’ll keep. 

-

It’s not surprising that Steve doesn’t get even a second to himself until much later that night. By the time he’s able to grab a few moments alone in his room, it’s dark outside, which makes Steve finally begin to doubt that Bucky will make good on his promise to come see him after all. 

He’s just retreated into his bathroom and begun staring in the mirror, debating on whether or not to take his contacts out and call it a day when there’s a gentle knock on the door. 

There’s only two people who would be forward enough to see themselves into Steve’s chamber uninvited. Steve is probably a little too relieved that neither one of them are his fiance. 

“You can come in,” he calls, grabbing his toothbrush instead of his saline solution for now. “I’m decent. Just about to brush my teeth.”

As he predicted, the person who opens the door bears a familiar face. Natasha has her hair up and makeup off, giving Steve’s own state of dress a casual once-over as she leans in the doorway. It is sort of suspicious that Steve is still fully dressed while in his room when it’s bordering on midnight, isn’t it? 

Natasha somehow sounds more knowing than suspicious when she speaks. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to come watch a movie with me and Sam downstairs but it looks like you might be headed out somewhere.”

Steve glances down at the gray cable knit sweater he has on. He can’t bring himself to lift his eyes up any further lest Natasha notice the guilt behind them. He’s not supposed to lie to her, but maybe if he just twists the truth a little… “I don’t have any set plans.” 

That’s true. He doesn’t even know if Bucky is going to show up at all. 

“That’s funny,” Natasha muses, crossing her arms as Steve stuffs his toothbrush in his mouth and begins brushing in order to have an excuse not to keep talking. “Because when I came in here, I could have sworn I saw Bucky outside your window.”

“What?” Steve’s gasp comes out garbled. He hurriedly spits his toothpaste in the sink and turns to face her. “He’s here?”

With a hum, Natasha lifts her hand and lazily twirls a finger back in the direction of Steve’s balcony. “Pretty sure he was picking up pebbles to throw. Go look out there, loverboy. I think Prince Charming is about to try and play Romeo. Isn’t that romantic?”

Normally, Steve would scowl at the teasing, but tonight all he can do is rush past her to go see for himself. 

He finds that she’s right, as usual. That is definitely Bucky standing down there tossing small stones up towards the window Steve is standing behind— and now, smiling at him through. Bucky was telling the truth. He did find a way. 

A horribly corny and cliché sort of way, but still a way nonetheless. 

He’s also whistling a tune Steve can’t quite make out from this distance. Why is he always whistling? It’s enough to drive a man mad. 

If the whistling wouldn’t be enough to make Steve go wild, the way Bucky looks in that leather jacket would certainly contribute. He seems to be trying to play into the bad-boy shtick that comes with convincing Steve to sneak out, though the fact he has the coat layered over a turtleneck still makes him look more dapper than dangerous. 

Steve makes quick work of flicking open the latch to his window so he can push it open and whisper-shout the obvious question out of it. 

“Buck. What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

Bucky clears his throat dramatically, a serious expression overshadowing the smile he’d broken out into upon getting Steve’s attention. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, with hair so fine,” he begins solemnly. “Come out your window. Climb down that vine.”

“Really, Barnes?” 

Steve rolls his eyes at Bucky’s theatric, but he also can’t stop himself from laughing a little as well. Bucky might still be an charming asshole and a cocky bastard, but he’s sort of stupid too. For the first time, Steve finds himself more endeared than annoyed. 

He’ll humor the guy. That’s what any good king would do, right? “The feat you ask, dear sir, is not easy. And l won't respond to that line,” Steve informs him, making sure to match his dramatics, only breaking his impromptu role with a grin he can’t hold back at the very end. “For it’s far too cheesy.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to roll his eyes, reaching forward and tugging on the vine he’d mentioned before that grows down the edge of the balcony. “I’ll give you a moment to decide, your Majesty.”

They both already know what Steve’s decision is going to be, but Steve still pulls his head back inside and gives Natasha a sheepish look where he’d forgotten she was still standing behind him. There’s no way of explaining himself out of what she’s just overheard. 

Luckily, it looks like he won’t have to. She huffs and gives him an exasperated look. “Well? What did the good Lord Barnes want?”

Steve is completely honest this time. “He wants me to climb down the vine.”

“Well? Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Steve confesses, surer of that answer than he has been of any other in the past two months. “But I shouldn’t. It’s a recipe for disaster, and—“

“Steve.” Natasha sounds even more exasperated than she looks now. “Since when are you adverse to doing something impulsive? You’re about to get married to a man you barely know. The time to do shit like this is now . While you still can.” She chucks a jacket at him after grabbing it from the end of his bed, smirking when it hits him in the face. “Go take a stroll in the moonlight with your almost-Prince Charming.”

Well, that settles that. If he has Natasha’s support in the matter, there’s nothing stopping him from doing what he wants. 

After slipping into the jacket, he takes one last second to pull her in for a quick hug, squeezing her tighter than she would normally allow. “Tell Sam I’ll spill everything to you guys over breakfast.”

“I’ll cover for you while you’re gone, Cinderella.” Natasha presses a light kiss to his cheek before shoving him back towards the window. “Now go. Don’t do anything too dangerous.”

“No promises.”

Steve eyes the vine skeptically as he shimmies his way over the balcony railing, grateful that he at least doesn’t have to truly climb out the window like some sort of teenager in a bad movie. Perks of living in a palace. The drop from the balcony to the grass is only about twenty-five feet, but he still has to take a few deep breaths before he braces his weight on the vine and begins his descent. 

It’s slow going. “This really is more romantic in books, you know,” he grits out once he’s far down enough for Bucky to hear him without having to shout. “I think my foot is stuck.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll catch you if you fa—“

And then, because timing is always so ironically impeccable between them, Steve does fall, and does so without warning. Bucky has to finish that sentence flat on his back in the grass with Steve still sprawled out on top of him. 

“Or at least let you land on me.” Bucky groans, the breath having been knocked out of him causing his voice to come out as a strained wheeze that makes Steve wish he’d grabbed his spare inhaler. “ Oof. You’re heavier than you look, you know that?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologizes, sitting up once he’s sure he hasn’t broken any bones and rolling off of Bucky’s body so he can do the same to him, patting his hands over Buckt’s chest, arms, and stomach to make sure everything feels right. “Did I hurt you?”

Bucky, ever the asshole, has to of course play off Steve’s concern as him being forward. Steve would probably be more concerned if Bucky didn’t take the opportunity. “I’m used to it by now. Don’t worry.” Steve can see the whiteness of his teeth glint in the moonlight when he grins. “But if you’re looking for an excuse to feel me up some more—“

“Bucky.”

“Okay, okay.” Buckys sits up too now, brushing himself off before standing and offering Steve a hand to pull him up. “C’mon, Steve-o. It’s my last night! We gotta get moving before it’s over.”

“Why?” A little thrill goes through Steve’s chest when Bucky doesn’t let go of his hand immediately, instead using it to pull him along behind him. “Where are we going?”

Bucky squeezes his hand, grin widening. “You’ll see. Just wait.”

That answer should be foreboding, but all Steve can feel is a nervous mix of curiosity and excitement rush through him as they make their way through the shadows, moving towards the forest that lines the east side of the palace walls. 

Natasha is right. With his future so close, all Steve can do tonight is live in the moment, and if that means trusting Bucky and his mystery plan… so be it. 

He squeezes Bucky’s hand back and allows himself to be tugged along even further. “Lead the way, Lord Barnes.”

“Your wish is my command, your Highness.”

Chapter Text

Their first stop of the night for Bucky’s still unexplained plan ends up being at the stables. 

When Bucky hands Steve the reins to Lucky’s bridle, it’s with a small smile that makes Steve roll his eyes, but smile back nonetheless. There’s no malice behind Bucky’s actions today, so Steve supposes he can be a good sport about his choice in horses. Steve is still a bit nervous to ride Lucky again, especially in the dark when neither of them are supposed to be out here together, but before he can work himself up too much, Bucky is clicking his tongue and Lucky is following the sound without a moment of hesitation as they head towards the trees. 

Looks like Bucky has a way of charming animals as well as people. Figures. Steve has to wonder if Bucky is a cat or dog guy— having grown up in the cramped space of the city, Steve himself hasn’t had the chance to entertain the thought of owning a pet before, but Bucky seems like he’d be good with one. Steve has already seen him wrangle a chicken. Is he good with kids too?

Although he’s explored a vast majority of the royal property both inside and outside of the palace during his time in Vengea, Steve has to admit he hasn’t gone this far out before. He’s only ever seen Bucky in the gardens when it comes to spending time outdoors, but watching the ease with which Bucky navigates his way through the much less-tamed space of the forest, he’s at least scouted the area out prior to bringing Steve along. 

How much time had he spent pulling this plan together? Steve’s heart flutters at the implication that comes with Bucky having formed such a detailed plan for their outing. 

Their first and final outing, he has to remind himself. Bucky is leaving after this. Steve likely won’t see him until after he’s married. Maybe not ever again. That thought drops his heart rate right back down. 

The forest isn’t what qualifies as true wilderness, even if Steve doubts a city dweller like him would be comfortable clawing his way through on his own. There’s a path that’s easy enough to follow, the land almost completely flat save for a singular hill at the very end of their ride that blocks Steve’s view of their destination until Bucky halts his horse at the very top and announces their arrival. 

“We’re here, your Highness. You need a hand getting down?”

Steve leads Lucky forward the last few steps it takes to bring them to a stopping position next to Bucky and his steed, peering down at the picturesque view that’s now spread out in front of them. He blinks and lowers his reins, still taking it all in as Bucky slides out of his saddle to stand on the grass beside him. 

It’s a… lake? Maybe a pond. It’s not large enough to be a lake, Steve doesn’t think, but it’s lovely either way, the water still, calm, and reflecting the light of the moon so much it almost looks silver in the same way Bucky’s eyes so often do as well. The far edge of it is edged with a thicker line of trees than what they just came from while the side of the shore they’re currently on is backed by a clearing that provides the perfect setting for the moonlight picnic Bucky evidently has planned. That much is made clear by the basket and blanket Steve can already see spread out and waiting for them not ten feet away. 

So he was right. He smiles to himself. Bucky did put a lot of effort into tonight. 

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice breaks through Steve’s silent amazement. “You need a hand getting down?” Bucky asks that question the second time around now standing much closer, holding a hand out for Steve to take as he dismounts. 

As much as Steve appreciates the offer of assistance, he does know how to get off a horse by his damn self. Still… if Bucky is trying to be polite, who is Steve to deny him?

“And they say chivalry is dead,” he says lightly, trying to play off the sensation that sweeps through him when Bucky places a steading hand at the small of his back while helping him down to the ground. 

“Says the prince.” Bucky winks at him once they’re both standing, spinning around immediately after to grab the reins for his horse to begin leading it towards a nearby tree to presumably tie it for however long they’re going to be out here. Steve follows behind him to do the same with Lucky. 

Even if chivalry is dead, you’re still kind of cute, he thinks, but doesn’t dare to say it out loud. Bucky is the one who likes doling out cheesy lines like that, not Steve. 

Besides, Steve wouldn’t dare interrupt the speech Bucky launches into to finally explain their plans for the evening. He looks excited. That’s cute too.

What happened to Steve finding every expression from this man irritating as hell? 

“I figured we both already had dinner, so I really only packed desserts,” Bucky informs him, placing his hand on the small of Steve’s back again to lead him forward towards the blanket that’s spread out underneath the picnic basket Bucky is currently going over the contents of. Steve is pretty sure it’s just an excuse to touch him. He’s also pretty sure he doesn’t mind. “But I made sure to whip up a bunch of options just in case my assumption that you’re an apple pie guy is wrong.”

Made sure to whip up. Steve looks sideways at Bucky, watching carefully as they both make themselves comfortable on the blanket and Bucky begins to unpack the basket of the desserts he’s just mentioned. And apparently, made. “You made all this stuff yourself?”

Bucky baked for him?

“Don’t sound so shocked. You already tried that crème brûlée I made for Erskine. I’m not half bad in the kitchen, you know.” Bucky’s tone is mockingly offended, but the smile he aims at Steve betrays his true emotion. 

“I know, I just… didn’t expect you to do all this.” For me, he means. 

“Well, I’m not exactly a Michelin chef and this ain’t exactly a five star hotel, but I figured you’d be okay with it. Unless you’re planning on going all princess and the pea on me? I did pack an extra blanket if your royal behind needs some extra cushion.”

Even when he’s being nice, Bucky still knows how to make sure some of his assholeish tendencies shine through. Steve squints at him and shakes his head, thankful that the lack of sunlight will hide just how much he flushes at the remark. Royal behind. Jesus. Bucky is a menace sometimes. Most of the time. 

“I grew up sleeping on a mattress provided by the world’s stingiest landlord,” he responds drily, accepting the glass Bucky hands him and allowing him to top it off with the wine he hadn’t noticed was in the basket until now. Bucky really thought of everything, didn’t he? “I promise, I’ll be fine with a couple of rocks under us.”

Bucky clinks their glasses together in a mock toast once he’s poured a healthy amount of wine into his own. “Alright then, tough guy. You want to start things off with cookies or some pie?”

Steve eyes the container of chocolate chip cookies Bucky has placed beside them then thinks back to Bucky calling him an apple pie guy. He’d been correct in that assumption. Apple is Steve’s favorite kind of pie, which Steve is slightly surprised Bucky had gotten right. It also makes this choice pretty easy. 

“Pie,” he decides. 

Bucky grins and passes him a plate. “You got it, your Highness.”

The first forkful of pie Steve takes is so heavenly that he can’t even be too humiliated by the noise he makes once the taste has exploded in his mouth. It’s close to an outright moan, but something this delicious deserves nothing less. He makes sure to lick the fork clean of every crumb before going back in for another, not pausing even when he hears Bucky huff out a laugh. 

“You really are the All-American boy, huh?” When Steve frowns at him, Bucky clarifies what he’s getting at. “Blonde hair, blue eyes, apple pie and sunshine…”

“It’s night,” Steve points out between bites. “And you’re the one who decided to take me on a picnic.”

“I know, sunshine ,” is all Bucky says. The smirk he gives Steve is cryptic, but Stege is pretty sure that was meant to be a compliment of sorts. 

Sunshine is a nickname he can live with, even if it isn’t quite as nice as sweetheart . Bucky is yet to have called him that since the fountain. Steve’s resolve is frayed enough around the edges for him to admit that he sort of wants to hear it again. 

He wants a lot of things to happen again. This might be his last chance to have them. 

To keep himself from doing something stupid like leaning over and kissing Bucky square on the lips, Steve settles for stuffing his face with more of the desserts Bucky has packed. It’s probably not attractive seeing Steve chow down a brownie in three bites total, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. He only needs four bites to finish his own. 

If Bucky notices Steve’s odd behavior— which he definitely does, knowing him— he’s still feeling kind enough tonight to not point it out. Steve is actually pretty sure that the casual conversation they slip into somewhere in between finishing the brownies and moving on to the cookies is Bucky’s way of trying to calm him down. It works pretty well. 

Steve never would have thought that the James Barnes he first became acquainted with would ever care enough to ask about where he grew up or what he was like as a kid, but the more they talk, the more Steve realizes that he’s just beginning to understand who Bucky is beyond his title and their fight for the crown. He feels like he’s barely scratched the surface, and now they’re so close to the end of their competition, he somehow also feels like he’s been cheated of something he isn’t quite sure of. He should be happy Bucky is dropping out before they’ve reached the finish line, and yet…

And yet. 

He knows he’s been right about some of Bucky’s traits this entire time. Bucky is an asshole and a smug bastard, but he isn’t nearly as cocky or arrogant as Steve had thought he would be at his core. He was wrong about some things too. Bucky isn’t selfish or totally unreasonable. He can be about as stubborn as Steve is himself, but he’s also surprisingly gentle and generous once you get to know him underneath the surface of the mask he’s been shaped into wearing by his uncle. 

Bucky doesn’t refer to Pierce as Uncle Alexander during their conversation. He only ever says my uncle or calls him Pierce in the same way Steve does in his head. It’s a purposeful detachment, Steve thinks. The more he and Bucky talk about growing up and their families, the surer of that he becomes.  

“I always wanted siblings,” Bucky is saying, swirling the last remnants of wine around the bottom of his glass as he speaks. “My mother said she thought I would have been a good big brother.”

Steve can see that being true. Bucky is always teasing, yet protective at times. That’s what a big brother is, isn’t it? It’s what Sam is to Sarah. Bucky would have been good with little sisters. 

“I actually have a lot of little cousins, but they’re on my father’s side of the family, so I don’t get to see them much.” Bucky shrugs in response to the way Steve tilts his head in confusion. “Pierce was the one who took me in when my folks passed. After I moved out to live with him, there weren’t many visits scheduled with the others, and after so many years of not being in contact… I don’t know. I just feel like it’d be weird to go randomly knocking on their doors. It’s not like they know me anymore.”

“I get that,” Steve says softly. 

He does. Most people he knows would say something like it’s family! and encourage Bucky to go through with it no matter how alienated he feels, but Steve isn’t most people. He and Bucky grew up with a different sort of idea of what family is. It’s part of why it’d been so hard for Steve to accept the reality of his father’s heritage to begin with. 

“I don’t have any living family left that I know of,” he admits, mostly to get the attention off of Bucky after the man had made such an important admission to him. The darker haired man looks a little overwhelmed at saying all that out loud. Steve gets that too. “But my Natasha, Sam, even Erskine…” Even you, he doesn’t add on. “They’re enough. There’s the family you’re born into and then there’s the family you choose, you know?”

He’s reaching over and setting his hand on top of Bucky’s before he can think better of it, sweeping his thumb over the back of it in a comforting motion that only makes what he’s said come across even heavier. 

Way to lighten things up, Rogers. 

He can’t beat himself up over that for too long, not when Bucky is speaking back up in that same low, wistful tone. “To tell you the truth, I think the only reason I would have gone through with all this throne business is because of Pierce. He’s been pushing it on me for a while now. Said it was what my father told him he wanted for me.”

It’s obvious that Bucky isn’t sure of how much he believes that. Steve is quiet for a long moment, overly aware of the fact that their hands are still touching. 

“I think what he would have wanted most of all is for you to choose what you want, Buck,” he whispers. 

Bucky seems to admire his father just as much as Steve grew up idolizing Joseph. George Barnes was likely a good man. Steve doesn’t feel like he’s lying by saying what he’s just said. Isn’t that what every parent is supposed to want for their child? 

Bucky’s eyes shine like liquid mercury when he lifts them to lock with Steve’s. “I could say the same for you.”

What a pair they make. The two of them, having spend almost their entire relationship wrestling towards the same goal when neither of them are sure they want it in the first place— or in Steve’s case, want to give up what it would require for him to get there. 

Marriages and monarchy aside… Steve is just glad they have tonight to themselves. One last picnic in the moonlight before their lives go different ways. 

“So,” Bucky eventually says, breaking both the silence and stare that have quickly become stifling between them. “Art school in New York City. Tell me what that was like?”

Bucky is a lot better at making light conversation than Steve is, that’s for sure. 

“I mean, it’s not, you know, Cambridge or anything,” he begins bashfully, heart skipping a beat when Bucky hums and places the hand not already under Steve’s over top of it, absentmindedly playing with the cuff of his sweater as he listens to Steve go on about just how much walking and biking it takes to get around SHIELD’s campus. 

Even when Steve starts talking about searching for good studio spaces and how fascinating he found certain parts of his art history classes, Bucky doesn’t look bored. Steve isn’t used to that. Most people outside of his inner circle don’t take his chosen major seriously, but that’s something Steve is used to. He’s mostly made his peace with it. When in his life have people ever taken his goals seriously? His Ma was right, telling him he’d have to fight for what he dreamed. 

It’s only after he’s been explaining the painful reality of carting canvases around for about five minutes that Steve thinks to stop and pose Bucky with a variation of his own initial question. 

“Enough about me. What about you? What’d you study when you were in school?” 

They’re not partaking in the same sort of boasting competition as they had while squabbling after Steve’s graduation ceremony, so Bucky merely shrugs where Steve expects him to begin bragging. “Literature and philosophy. I know it’s not for everyone, but I’ve always liked thinking about that sort of stuff, and my uncle approved of it well enough.”

“Look at us,” Steve jokes. “Just a couple of creatives.”

Bucky snorts and shakes his head. “You’re the creative one. I’m no author, but being able to talk myself and circles and stomach hours of reading at a time had me considering law school pretty seriously.”

“A lord, a lawyer, a scholar, and a soldier.” Steve will use the excuse of the night sky hanging above him to explain why he has stars in his eyes when he next looks at Bucky. “How many lives have you lived, Bucky Barnes?”

“Not many of them that were my own,” Bucky answers, so quietly that Steve might have missed it if they weren’t sitting so close. “Besides, what about you?”

“What about me?” Steve asks, just as quietly. 

Bucky puts off answering until after he’s kicked out his legs to lay propped up on an elbow, tracing the back of Steve’s hand with lazy fingers. With Steve still sitting up, it leaves him in a lower position— and yet Steve still somehow feels a million times smaller in the face of the fact that Bucky has chosen to be with him tonight. 

“Art student. Prince. Fiance. Future king. You’ve got plenty of lives still left in you.”

I wish at least one of them would leave me with you.

“You forgot ‘skinny, asthmatic punk’. That was high school Steve, though.” Steve tucks his feet under his thighs, sitting criss-cross applesauce. The All-American apple pie boy , as Bucky had called him. “I wasn’t always so… you know. I might look like a quarterback now, but if I’d tried playing sports back then, I probably wouldn’t be standing today.”

Just as Steve had realized that Bucky might not be well-versed in what American football is, Bucky raps their knuckles together with a grin. “I always thought I’d make a good linebacker, but I was more into baseball and boxing than anything.” His smile turms slightly rueful. “I might’ve kept playing longer than I did if I hadn’t hurt my shoulder, and my uncle never really approved of the boxing. Said fighting wasn’t a hobby fit for our status or whatever.”

Steve pulls a face. That sounds exactly like something Pierce would say. “What’d he expect you to be playing? Croquet?”

“Hey, not all snobby athletics are bad. I happen to appreciate a good polo match.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean, Rogers?”

“You can’t figure it out, Cambridge man?” Steve is thankful that they’re so far from the palace, because the laugh he lets out when Bucky reaches over and pokes him in the side is so loud Bucky ends up shushing him on instinct. 

“You’re going to disturb the peace of your subjects!” he hisses, clearly launching into yet another one of the bits he loves playing. “You’ll be Lucky if you don’t scare the horses away.”

Steve slaps a hand over his mouth just for show, his words muffled behind it as he rolls his eyes at Bucky’s (terrible) pun. “If anything, I’ll draw out the paparazzi. I’m sure they’d love to create some alliterate headlines revolving around the words Prince and picnic.”

Bucky hums and flops onto his back, leaving Steve to lie down beside him. He makes sure to keep a safe amount of distance between their mouths, but how much damage can be done by allowing their hands to keep touching? 

“I never took journalism in school, but I bet I could give them a few ideas,” Bucky murmurs. “Get the nation in an uproar.” He doesn’t sound like he means it. A week ago, Steve would have assumed the worst, taken the remark to mean otherwise— but now?

He turns his head until his face is perpendicular to Bucky’s side profile, the line of his nose a sloping silhouette against the moonlight. “I told you all about my favorite classes. What about you?”

“Astronomy.” Bucky’s answer comes quicker than Steve was expecting, but Bucky seems to be sure in his choice. “I only took it as an elective during my last semester, but it was fun. I liked it a lot.” He points a finger from the hand not currently curled around Steve’s own up at the sky towards a cluster of stars that Steve soon finds out are anything but random. “The main reason I liked it was because it was a blend of more than one subject I liked. The science was a big part of the curriculum, of course, but we learned a lot about constellations as well. So many stars have stories behind them, and most of those stories contain a message.”

“Perfect for a philosophy and lit student, then.” Steve isn’t even trying to tease when he asks that. He can see that Bucky’s fascination with the subject is genuine.

Bucky nods and slowly turns his head until he can smile at Steve with their faces only a foot and a half apart. The distance between them suddenly feels much smaller. “Have you ever tried painting the sky at night?”

Steve pauses to think before he responds. “I have. But the sky is a lot different at night in the city. There’s so many bright lights on all the time, then the helicopters and planes that are constantly moving around… it makes it hard to focus on. It’s not like it is here.”

Vengea sometimes still feels like a completely new world. The time is different. The sky is different. The people are different. Steve is different. 

The silence that passes between them is easy this time. Slow. They don’t do much moving past turning their faces back up towards the stars while they continue avoiding acknowledging the fact that their hands are still clasped together. But Bucky isn’t letting go, so neither is Steve. Why should they? How many hours do they have left to do this before they’ll be forced to part completely?

Steve closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing for a few moments. With one less sense to focus on, his mind fixates on the warmth of Bucky’s skin against his own. 

The lull in their conversation gives Steve a chance to try and check himself back into reality, which is somewhere he isn’t sure he wants to go. Wandering off into the woods with Bucky is much more enjoyable than having to spend every waking moment worrying about what’s going to happen tomorrow, or the day after, or forever, for that matter. They both deserve a break, don’t they?

Steve shouldn’t let himself have this, he knows. No matter what Natasha said about him being impulsive, Steve knows what he’s really being right now is stupid. This isn’t a smart decision, but Steve is so tired of always trying to be perfect. 

Letting himself have this tonight is better than him actually losing it during one of the important moments coming up, he reasons. 

Logic has nothing to do with why he’s lying outside in the middle of the night next to the man he’d sworn only days ago was his mortal enemy and he knows it, but who is he kidding? He’s here because he wants to be. Because Steve Rogers has always been a hopeless romantic and Bucky Barnes is the person who had made his foot pop. 

“Tell me your greatest desires.”

Steve’s entire body stills as Bucky’s voice breaks the spell they’d fallen under for a period of time that’s length he isn’t sure of. “What?”

“Tell me your greatest desires,” Bucky repeats, rolling towards him to prop himself back up on his elbow like he’d done earlier. He doesn’t leave Steve’s hand abandoned for long, fitting his fingers to curl around Steve’s own in a gesture that stupidly reminds Steve of the thumb war games he used to play with other kids when he was younger. 

There’s a joke in there to be made about Steve ruling a kingdom and Bucky having been a soldier, but Steve keeps it to himself in lieu of answering Bucky’s questions— or meeting it with a question of his own, at least. 

“Why?”

As usual, Bucky has an answer prepared. “Because I want to know.”

Well, he’s being honest. Steve will give him that, even if the question is still sort of odd. 

“Why don’t you go first while I think?” He presses into Bucky’s skin with the pad of his thumb and a soft smile. “Tell me a secret?”

“Isn’t that the same?” Bucky prods, mirroring the motion. 

“Almost.” Steve tilts his head. “Anyone can see through to your desires if they try hard enough, but no one truly knows what’s in your heart unless you let them.” Frankly, Steve isn’t sure that he knows what’s going on in his own heart at the moment. All he knows is that he doesn’t want Bucky to pull away. 

Things are so peaceful between them right now. Steve wishes it could always be this way. Does that count as one of his desires? Does Bucky feel the same way?

“Why don't you tell me something normal first, then?”

“Um…” Steve blows out a slow breath while he thinks. He’s never been good at this sort of spur-of-the-moment introspection. “I don’t know. I think I’ve seen The Wizard of Oz over thirty times? It was one of the only movies we owned on tape so when I was home alone in the summer or couldn’t go outside, I’d just pop it in and watch it.“ He laughs a bit self consciously. “It’s not the most modern choice, I know, but we couldn’t exactly afford all the new Disney movies. I, uh. I still dream in black and white sometimes because of it, and I’ve gotta tell you, for an artist? It’s more like a nightmare.”

Bucky laughs, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes give away the affection behind it. “If you’re Dorothy then what does that make me? The Tin Man?”

“No, I know you’ve got a heart already.” Steve says that before he even realizes the weight it holds, adding on a second statement soon after to lessen it. “You’d be the Scarecrow, because I’m not so sure about you having a brain.”

“Oh, come on, Dorothy.”

“I’m from Brooklyn, not Kansas, Buck. That’s about as far away from a farm as you can get.”

“I guess it’s my turn now.” Bucky purses his lips, but doesn’t have to take nearly as long to settle on a response as Steve had. “I used to pretend I was sick when I had a test in school.”

“Oh, come on,” Steve parrots Bucky’s own complaint back at him. “We all did that. That’s not a real answer.“

Bucky scoffs and lightly flicks his thumb nail over Steve’s skin. “Okay, Mr. Smartmouth. Well… hmmm. Sometimes I think I’m so sick of plums that I never want to eat another one in my life,” he tries again. “Horrible confession for someone who was trying to take the crown, I know. I’m truly a traitor to all native born Vengeans.”

“Is that why you’re eating apples all the time?”

He raises his brows. “How often have you been watching me eat apples?”

I watch you all the time. Another thing Steve thinks but doesn’t dare say out loud. Bucky’s ego doesn’t need that boost anyway. 

“I like apples too,” he says instead, as if that weren’t already made clear by the slice of pie he’d devoured during their picnic. “I’m also deathly afraid of caves. Probably because I grew up in the city. I’ve never actually been in one, but they seem terrifying.”

“That’s how I feel about skyscrapers,” Bucky admits, going along with Steve's decision to begin trading secrets without protest. “I’ve been in plenty of fancy buildings but you couldn’t pay me to go into one that tall.”

“I can’t imagine working in one,” Steve agrees. “But then again, I never thought I’d be living in a palace either.”

“Steve Rogers, from Rags to Riches. Anyone ever think of that for an article title?”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t flipping through every magazine with my face on it after the press figured out who I was.”

Bucky takes the accusation again without protest— or denial, Steve notes. “That’s one secret I’m not spilling.” Bucky claps a hand over his chest in a dramatic motion. “I’m taking it to the grave. Cross my heart, hope to die.”

“Surely if the king orders you to tell him, you’ll give in.”

“Hey, you’re not king just yet.” Bucky moves his knee up until it’s nudging the outside of Steve’s thigh. It’s an obviously lighthearted gesture that shouldn’t make Steve have to swallow harder than usual, but it does nonetheless. “Gotta wait a little longer.”

Not long enough. 

“I thought we were sharing secrets,” he says hoarsely, having to clear his throat before he can get the words out of his suddenly-thickened throat. “Now you’re just hoarding them away.”

“Fine. You can have one more.“ Bucky’s fingers curl around Steve’s own in what Steve first assumes to be a squeeze but ends up being a tightened hold. Bucky’s eyes are fixed on him with the same sudden intensity as he whispers his next secret into the small amount of space left between them. “I haven’t danced with you since the day we met.”

Steve frowns. “That’s a fact, Buck,” he reminds him. “Not a secret.”

“The secret is…” Bucky laughs and looks away from Steve for a split second before returning his gaze to Steve’s face as he finishes his confession, his expression open and honest in a way that has Steve’s heart doing a funny flip in his chest and laughing along out of reflex. “I wanted to that day. And I still want to now.”

Steve’s next breath catches in his throat. “Oh.”

Does that mean what he thinks it does? Bucky really did want to dance with him on that day. He hadn’t approached Steve purely out of obligation to his uncle’s plan. And by saying that he still wants to take Steve up on that second dance they hadn’t been able to get to before… 

He still wants Steve. They both want each other. At least there’s one thing they can agree on. Wouldn’t Erskine be proud? 

Somehow, Steve doubts this is what the older man had meant when he asked Steve to make an effort to get along with Lord Barnes, but Erskine isn’t here right now. It isn’t Prince Rogers or Lord Barnes that are out here tonight either. 

It’s just Steve and Bucky left to sway with each other in the dark, no music or fancy clothing involved. This isn’t a ball. It’s something private. All they need is the moonlight and each other to make this moment perfect. 

The water of the pond is so still in comparison to the rate at which Steve’s heart is beating in his chest. He doesn’t know why it’s doing that— he’s calm and content where he stands, arms circled around Bucky’s back with his head tucked against his hair. Their slow swaying is a pretty sorry excuse for a dance, but the dancing isn’t really the point, is it?

Wanting is the point, and they both want so much. Things they can’t have. Things they could have if things were different. 

What Steve wants more than anything at the current moment, he thinks, is to stay like this forever. He knows they can’t, but God, does he want to. 

When Bucky eventually begins to hum, it sparks a feeling of fondness so strong im Steve that he has to huff, turning his face in against Bucky’s neck and pressing his smile against the warm stretch of skin he finds there. It isn’t a real kiss, but it’s close enough. 

The words Bucky murmurs out into his hair with a hand cupped around the nape of his neck feel like a kiss of their own. “I’ll keep your secrets as long as you keep mine.” He exhales then, guiding Steve’s head back far enough so that he can press a real kiss to his forehead. “‘til the end of the line.”

The underlying meaning of that promise is made clear by the kiss with which Bucky seals it in. The secrets spoken between them aren’t the only ones that Bucky is talking about, or even the main one— the two of them are a secret all unto themselves. No one else can ever know what’s between them or what they are to each other. Steve can’t even bring himself to articulate those things to Bucky out loud, but that’s probably for the best. 

Having to let this go is already going to hurt enough when tomorrow comes. 

“Your secrets are safe with me,” he whispers, bringing up a hand to cup Bucky’s cheek. He isn’t brave enough to pull him in for a kiss, but there’s an air of understanding between them. 

If he could, he would. They both would, and even if they can’t, the 

Bucky squeezes his hand over the back of Steve’s neck and pulls Steve’s head back down to tuck against his neck, the vibration of his quiet humming as he picks it up again sending something warm down to the pit of Steve’s stomach. 

Their secrets aren’t the only things that are safe here. Despite the near constant presence of at least one security personnel Steve has become accustomed to, in Bucky’s arms is the safest Steve has felt in weeks. 

That feeling carries over even after their ‘dance’ comes to an end, Bucky keeping their fingers tangled together as he leads Steve back over to the blanket a few minutes later and only letting go in order to pull out the extra blanket he had mentioned earlier. He looks at Steve before he spreads it out, patting the spot beside him expectantly. “C’mere and let me teach you a thing or two about stargazing.”

Laying on top of a blanket with Bucky is one thing, but getting under one with him is even riskier business. Still, Steve is getting a little chilly, and stargazing is an innocent activity. 

It only takes a cock of Bucky’s eyebrow for Steve to give in, crawling under the blanket to situate himself in Bucky’s directed spot. He isn’t sure of how to make himself comfortable, but luckily, Bucky takes care of they for him by being the one to pull him closer, sliding an arm around Steve’s shoulders and leaning his own back up against the trunk of the tree behind them so that Steve can in turn lean into his side. 

It’s a pretty cozy setup, only made better by the low sound of Bucky’s voice as he points out the first constellation he recognizes and begins informing Steve of its lore. 

To tell the truth, it’s a little hard to concentrate on stargazing when Steve’s gaze keeps drifting down to Bucky’s face, but the sky will be there for Steve to look at tomorrow. Bucky will only be here tonight. 

Even if tonight is the only night they’ll get together, it’s been a good one.

Chapter Text

Steve doesn’t dream that night— at least not that he can remember— but that doesn’t stop him from thinking he’s in a dream whenever he does finally wake up. How else would he explain being curled up next to Bucky in the middle of the woods?

Come to think of it, Steve does have the vague memory of Bucky’s thumb tracing circles against the nape of his neck. It must have made him so sleepy that he nodded off during their stargazing session. And then what? Bucky just let them stay out here all night?

Christ, he’s never going to hear the end of this from Natasha. Is it too late to run away entirely?

Surprisingly, he and Bucky haven’t shifted much during the past few hours. Bucky is still leaned halfway up against the tree with one arm wrapped around Steve’s shoulders to tuck him snug against his side and the other reached down between them so that their fingers are intertwined. The quilt they’d been covering up with has slipped down so that it’s only covering their laps, but their shared body heat keeps the embrace warm. 

Steve could almost fall back asleep. He’s seriously considering it when Bucky finally speaks up, voice raspy in a way that makes Steve perk right up. 

“‘Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Hello?” Steve wants to blame his awkwardness on the fact that he’s just woken up but if he’s telling the truth, he knows it’s got more to do with all of the secrets and other intimate moments the two of them had shared the night before. 

Baring your soul in the dark is one thing, but now that the daylight is beginning to peek through the trees, Steve finds himself feeling a little more cautious. He and Bucky getting along is still a new phenomenon, but the smile Bucky is beaming down at him helps Steve relax a little.

Only a little, though, because— 

“We stayed out all night?” Bucky hums in response to Steve’s question, eyes crinkling up at the side as he watches him yawn only to end the gesture by snapping his jaw shut when the realization fully hits him. “ We stayed out all night? ”

Bucky chuckles, though Steve isn’t sure what’s so funny about the fact that Steve could very possibly get locked in a tower until his wedding if Erskine were to find out about this little… outing. “Loosen up, pal. We’re still on the palace grounds. Not like you went AWOL or anything.” He tugs on a strand of Steve’s hair far too affectionately for someone who Steve thought he hated only a few days ago. “We can get you back in time for breakfast, I’m sure.”

“How much experience do you have sneaking princes in and out of their rooms, huh?”

Bucky’s smile turns into a smirk, fingers squeezing Steve’s tighter as he leans a little closer and whispers his next words like he’s about to confess another secret. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Steve would. He really would. He’d like to know everything about Bucky if he could, but wasn’t that the whole point of seizing the moment last night? He can’t. Their time left together is quickly running out, and if this morning is going to be one of his last chances to do this or anything else with Bucky Barnes, maybe seizing the day is something he seriously needs to consider doing as well. 

Carpe diem, and all that. 

They haven’t kissed since the fountain. They’ve held hands, they’ve danced, they’ve cuddled— but they haven’t kissed. That’s the one line they haven’t crossed again. 

‘Til the end of the line. That’s what Bucky had said last night. 

This is the end of the line for them, isn’t it? These last few moments of privacy with each other, stolen away before Bucky will have to leave and Steve will have to get married. They’ve both made their beds and their promises. They have to honor them now even if it means letting whatever strange thing that's blossoming between them go.

But a kiss could be their final shared secret, couldn’t it? Seal everything in before they send each other off and on their way to whatever future is waiting?

Bucky just called him Sleeping Beauty. She got her kiss.

Steve wants his too. 

“Buck?” Steve knows he isn’t being subtle about staring at Bucky’s lips, head tilted back against Bucky’s shoulder to look up at him with large eyes that ask a silent question, one he doesn’t know if he can bring himself to ask out loud. 

“Yeah?” 

“I—“ Steve has to clear his throat and try again. “I—“ His second attempt isn’t any more successful, but that may only be because he’s distracted from seeing it through by a spot of movement that he catches in his peripheral vision happening out on the far edge of the pond. His head whips up so fast he’s surprised it doesn’t snap. “What the hell?”

“What?” Bucky is looking in the same direction now, gaze fixed on— well, Steve isn’t exactly sure of what he’s seeing here, but there are enough context clues for him to form a conclusion that leaves him feeling like his stomach has just been dropped from a roller coaster. 

“Is that… There’s a man in that boat.”

“What?” Bucky repeats. 

“Do you see that? There’s a man over there.” Steve is suddenly hit with a very uneasy feeling. Was that boat there last night? How did he not notice it until now? And who is that guy?

As usual, Bucky has some sort of answer to offer. “He’s probably just some fisherman, I guess. Or maybe one of the gardeners?”

“What does a gardener need with a goddamn video camera?”

“What?” Bucky sounds just as confused as Steve is, but Steve isn’t going to fall for that trick again when he’s pretty sure being tricked is what landed him here to begin with. 

His temper flares up at the same time he shoves off the ground and out of Bucky’s arms to stand, face hot and his words even more heated. “You’re really low, Barnes.”

“ What?” Bucky now sounds less confused and more offended. He stands as well, taking a step towards Steve only for Steve to take two steps back. “Steve, no. I have no idea who that man is.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t hire him,” Steve seethes, hands balled into fists at his sides like that’ll make him forget he’d just been holding Bucky’s not two minutes ago. “You know, it’s really a shame that he didn’t get juicier stuff last night, you jerk!”

“Steve.” Bucky is very clearly trying to remain calm, but the tense energy crackling between them is like a livewire that’s already been tripped on Steve’s own end. “I have nothing to do with this. I swear to you.”

Steve scoffs and turns his back on the darker haired man in order to stride over towards where their horses are still tied. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Did what they shared last night mean anything to Bucky?

“Steve, please. Come on. Will you just stop for a second and listen to me?”

Steve’s anger burns out any of his usual hesitation when he mounts Lucky, glaring down at Bucky from his perch atop the saddle. “No, I don’t think I will.” Not when all Bucky seems to do is lie and leave Steve at a loss every time he thinks he can trust him. 

“That is not my boat or my paparazzi!” Bucky throws up his hands at the same time Steve pulls back on his reins to begin leading Lucky back towards the stables. “Steve!”

“Have a nice life, James.”

“Steve!” Bucky calls again, but it’s too late. Steve is already gone, heading back to the castle and whatever fate waits there for him once that footage of him and Bucky hits the press. 

Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than how this feels.

-

As Steve had been both dreading and expecting, Erskine is already waiting for him in his chambers by the time he makes it up there from the stables. 

Steve swears under his breath as he takes in his cracked open door, pausing to take a deep breath and straighten up his clothes as much as is possible after having spent all night in them outside. There’s not much saving face he can do here, but the least he can do is make sure he doesn’t track grass and leaves into his room before they kick him out of the palace for being such a failure of a prince. 

Maybe that’s a pessimistic outlook, but what reason does he have for optimism right now?

It isn’t only Erskine who he finds standing beside his bed when he enters his chambers. Natasha and Sam are there as well, as are Nick and Peggy. So this is an all hands on deck sort of situation, then. Great. 

Fury cuts in and says something before anyone else can, picking up the remote for the TV and turning the volume up. “You should listen to this before we begin our discussion, your Highness.”

What is this, an intervention? It’s not like Steve’s addicted to Bucky or— well, actually, maybe he is. How else could he have been so blind to his deception?

Though apparently the public is finding the plot twist quite shocking as well. The reporter doing the segment about it on the television screen sounds almost gleeful to be delivering such a scoop. If there’s one consistent thing Steve can count on, it’s for the press to come up with clever captions and headlines to describe his suffering. 

“ And here’s that royal exclusive I promised. According to a source very close to the palace, after generations of boring royals who never misbehaved, Vengea finally has a world-class scandal under its belt!”

Oh, God. Steve feels like he might have a heart attack. 

“ This just proves we should have brought in an American ages ago. Will Thor, son of Odin, still want to marry into such a messy situation? Or will Lord James Barnes be the new king?”

Natasha makes a sound in the back of her throat that sounds somewhere in between outrage and a cat hacking up a hairball. Steve is teetering on the edge of upchucking himself. 

“It’s out of the frying pan and into the fire for Prince Steve. Keep your eggs sunny side up until our next update!”

The sad little beep the TV makes when Fury clicks the remote to turn it back off is pretty close to how Steve’s own emotions feel like they’re about to shut down. He doesn’t even know what to say. The whole world has just born witness to not only his humiliation, but also his heartbreak. 

“I’d like to tell that reporter where she can shove her eggs,” Natasha mutters, arms crossed and expression just as stony as everyone else’s in the room. “Right up her—“

“Why don’t we give Steve and Dr. Erskine a moment alone?” Sam interrupts before Natasha can complete her graphic threatening, placing an arm around her shoulders to steer her towards the door. He shoots Steve a worried glance and is sure to pause and pat him on the back as he passes by him. “I’ll talk to you later man. It’s gonna be alright.”

“Thanks,” Steve manages to say. He’s not sure he believes that, but it’s good to know he’s still got a few people on his team. 

“I’ve tightened security around the perimeter of the grounds,” Fury informs him on his way out. Then, slightly more gruffly, “That man should have never made it inside. I apologize for the oversight.”

Steve winces and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s not on you that I was out there when I wasn’t supposed to be.” For once, Steve is the one who is blunt and brutally honest towards Fury, who only nods in acknowledgement to Steve’s point before he leaves with Peggy close behind him. 

Dr. Erskine is silent even after the door quietly clicks shut, which only serves to make Steve even more nervous. He can’t make himself look the man in the eye. This is even worse than how he’d felt having that talk with him in the hotel room after he and Bucky had shown up at the limo dripping from the catastrophe at the fountain. 

Eventually, Erskine does speak, and even though it’s only a singular word, it makes Steve’s shoulders slump marginally. “Sit.” Erskine points towards the bed.

Steve obeys immediately. This is one order he can not fuck up. Bucky can’t get him to break this simple rule. 

To Steve’s surprise, Erskine’s response to the situation is just as simple as his command— a singular word, accompanied by a raised eyebrow and clearing of the throat. “So?”

“I…” Steve swallows and stares down at where his hands are knotted in his lap. He still can’t look at the older man. “I got played,” he whispers after a few more moments of trying to come up with an explanation that’s both honest and easy enough to get out without crying. “I thought I understood what he wanted.”

I thought he wanted me more than the crown, he doesn’t say, because that would definitely end in him crying. 

“I know you told me to be more careful. I just…”

“You are still young, Steven,” Erskine breaks in gently, stepping closer and laying a hand on Steve’s shoulder that makes him finally lift his head to connect their gazes. Erskine is smiling faintly. “You have just as much heart as you do intelligence. Sometimes we follow our heart when we should be following our head, but having a big heart does not mean you will be a bad king. Far from it, as a matter of fact.”

Erskine doesn’t sound angry, but still— Steve apologizes. “I’m sorry.” Last night ended up making today very inconvenient for them all. “I guess I’m just still trying to find… balance. Between my head and heart.”

“You’ll get there one day, my boy. It’s something all great leaders have to work towards at some point.” Erskine squeezes his shoulder with a sigh and another smile. “It’s better to be a king with too much heart than one with too little.”

“I’ve really made a mess of things this time, haven’t I?” The TV is still off but Steve gestures towards it regardless to reference the reporter who was just plastered across the screen a few minutes ago. “Thor’s probably packing his bags already.”

Steve couldn’t blame him for that. He knows he shouldn’t be hoping for it either. With Bucky and his uncle back to playing games to one-up Steve on his way to the throne, this marriage is now more important than ever. 

“Thor is an understanding man. It is part of why we picked him, is it not? The best thing you can do right now is talk to him. Be honest about what happened. Communicate, Steven.” Erskine sighs a second time and steps back. “That is what makes a partnership work. Even those that are not marriages.”

“How soon do you think I should go do that?” Steve’s had his flings with the respective fights that come along with that, sure, but nothing like this. Does Thor want space? Time? Or would that only make it worse?

“Ultimately, the decision is up to you.” Erskine tips his head to the side with a wry twist of his lips. “But I do happen to know that he is currently out on the balcony that connects to the library, if you were wanting to approach him now.”

Erskine doesn’t say it blatantly, but Steve can read between the lines. He needs to go to Thor now, while the fuck up is still relatively fresh.

“Thank you, Dr. Erskine,” he says genuinely. He glances towards his closet and then down at the sweater he’s been wearing since last night. “I, uh. I think I’ll just get changed and then be on my way for that conversation.”

“Come to my study sometime later so we can discuss how we’ll be moving forward from this… story,” Erskine orders while walking towards the door, tone so business-like Steve can barely find it in himself to be embarrassed. Fixing royal mistakes and messes is Abraham Erskine’s expertise for a reason. “And if you see any more cameras before then? Do me a favor and just outright hide .”

Okay, so maybe Steve still has some room to be embarrassed. Despite the fact his heart still feels like it's been trampled on and his cheeks are now flushed, Steve laughs and ducks his head. “Switch in strategy. Got it.” 

Maybe if he’d tried that from the start, they wouldn’t be in this situation. Not all cowardice is uncalled for no matter what his mother said. 

She’d be equal parts amused and enraged on his behalf if she knew about these run-ins with Bucky Steve has had, he’s sure. That woman was always a believer in true love, but it seems that what he and Bucky could have had wasn’t cut out to fill that hole. 

True love. It’s a funny concept for Steve to think about when he’s about to go beg for an apology from his own fiance. Fake as their relationship may be, seeing other people— and getting caught spending the night with them especially— isn’t something they’ve negotiated. 

Partners , Erskine had called them. Partners can be for business, for pleasure, for love— anything each individual wants. Business partners. That seems like a better way to describe it. They’re each getting something out of this arrangement, but the lack of communication they’ve had with each other surrounding their expectations of how their soon-to-be marriage will work is proving to be very counterproductive, not only for the security of the country and the royal family's reputation, but also Steve’s sanity.

He sighs and closes his eyes, holding the heels of his hands against the lids for a few long seconds before he finally pushes off the mattress and moves to find some clean clothes. 

If he’s about to go get his engagement broken off, he may as well look presentable. 

-

“I’m sorry.”

The words fly out of Steve's as soon as he’s made it out onto the balcony to find where Thor is leaning up against one of the pillars, arms folded against his chest. 

He looks more pensive than he does pissed, which is probably a good sign. Right? 

He’s also wearing a cardigan and his hair down, which Steve hasn’t seen before. Normally they’re both in crisp collared shirts or something similarly preppy, but today, Steve feels almost out of place in his button down. Thor looks more relaxed than Steve would expect given the circumstances. Almost unguarded. Is that supposed to be metaphorical?

“I’m so, so sorry,” Steve emphasizes after Thor responds to the first round of apology with only a silent lift of his brows. 

“That makes sense,” Thor muses, tone devoid of any tells that would tip Steve off as to how he's really feeling. “I suppose this confirms my suspicions that the footage shown on the news this morning wasn’t doctored.”

Steve’s own arms are tucked over his chest now, heart aching behind the hold that brings him very little security. “No,” he whispers, painfully aware that every ounce of shame he's feeling is deserved. “It was real.”

“Ah.”

“Thor, I promise nothing happened. Nothing.” Steve’s essentially pleading at this point. “I swear to you.”

“Yes, Steven, but you also promised you were going to pledge yourself to me when you put that ring on.” Thor’s glance down at the ring Steve had carefully chosen to slip on before leaving his room is so strong it’s practically a glare. “Soon, you’re supposed to swear your vows to me— to your country. And yet, even as we are on the verge of doing those very things, you still chose to traipse off into the forest with James Barnes!”

“I know,” Steve whispers. There’s nothing else he can say to that. Thor is right in everything he’s just said. 

Thor sighs and runs a hand through his hair to push it out of his face, taking a brief moment to collect himself before continuing. “I believe you that nothing happened, but that isn’t the problem, Steve. The problem is you still went with him. Willingly .”

“I did.”

“I don’t think you understand that I am an extremely eligible bachelor back in Asgard.” Thor huffs and gestures to himself. “I don’t mean that in a conceited way, but the facts are the facts. I have got plenty of friends, lovely ladies amongst them, and… I still think this marriage is a good idea despite that.”

“You do?” Steve shouldn’t be confused that such a handsome, extremely eligible bachelor still wants to marry him. He should be thrilled, but after what he’s just put Thor through… “Why?”

Thor doesn’t give him a verbal answer to that question, though his response does revolve around both of their mouths moving— towards each other, that is. Thor is leaning forward and pulling Steve in by the shoulders so fast that Steve’s head spins.

And that’s where the motion of his reaction ends. 

His feet remain firmly planted on the ground despite the force behind Thor’s spontaneous kiss. Neither one pops or even twitches. 

Thor is kissing him like he has a point to prove, and although Steve doesn’t think this was what he was intending, this has confirmed a few things about this relationship in what appears to be both of their minds. 

It’s an objectively satisfactory kiss when looking at it through a physical lense, but the emotional aspect is lacking. Steve finds himself agreeing with the sentiment behind the second sigh Thor lets out whenever their lips finally pull apart. 

“So?”

Steve blinks. “Uh.”

“Nothing, right?”

Why does Thor sound like he already knows the answer to that? “Nothing,” Steve admits. “I really want to say yes, but there’s just… no spark.” He groans and thunks his head against one of Thor’s solid shoulders. Maybe he just needs to knock some sense into his stupid self. “I’m sorry.”

Thor chuckles and pats Steve on the back. “No more apologies. I noticed the same thing.”

“Really?” Steve brings his head back up, eyes wide. “You too?”

“Me too,” Thor confirms, almost sheepishly. “I mean, it was a very pleasurable exchange. You are an excellent kisser.”

“So are you,” Steve offers, embarrassment staved off only by how endearing Thor’s ever-present politeness is. Only Thor Odinson could be sweet about telling someone their kiss was a letdown.

“But as you said, there was no spark. No fireworks on my end either, I’m afraid.”

No fireworks. No foot pop. At least they’re being honest about it now. 

The universe is a funny thing, isn’t it? Steve foot popped for Bucky Barnes of all people, who sprung that kiss on him at the worst possible moment, but for Thor— the kindest, loveliest man who should be the perfect match for him according to everything on paper— there’s nothing. 

Jesus. Maybe the crown comes with a family curse. 

“Now what are we going to do?” 

Thor shrugs and looks to the side. “What all leaders do. We’ll work together and figure something out.” He gives Steve a small smile and gently grips him around the back of his neck in a way that somehow feels like it brings them even closer than the kiss they’ve just shared. “You chose me and I accepted. An Asgardian never backs out on his word. Tomorrow, if you still agree, we will stand up together in a church and say ‘I do’. We will be married and you are going to be an amazing King of Vengea. One I will be honored to support and one I have no doubt that your father would have been proud of.”

The kiss Steve plants on Thor’s cheek is much more comfortable than the one before it, as is the hug Thor soon pulls him into after. There’s nothing forced or unnatural about their burgeoning friendship no matter the state of their romantic lives. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For everything.”

As they stand there in a silent embrace for a few more moments, Steve thinks back to what Erskine had said the day an arranged marriage was first suggested. Maybe he and Thor can grow fond of each other in their own way after all. 

Fondness may not be the same thing as love, but at least it won’t carry the same sting as betrayal. 

Chapter Text

Steve would say that the night before the wedding is spent with him getting that much-needed beauty rest Natasha had ordered him to, but the truth is that he’s barely slept a wink since he crawled under the covers of his too-big bed eight hours ago. 

The anticipation that’s arisen from what the entire country knows is supposed to happen today has made it impossible to fall asleep. He couldn’t even keep his eyes shut half of the night, too busy staring up at the ceiling, wide-awake and wondering how it is he’d ended up in this position. A few months ago, he’d merely been another college student struggling to get by in the city, and now? 

Now he’s a prince. Soon, he'll be someone’s husband, and after that… he’ll be king. Sometimes it still feels like that wild reality won’t ever fully sink in. 

Not that he hasn’t had plenty of time to marinate in the thought of it, having been lying in bed with his eyes open for as long as he has. He’s lost track of time, unsure of when the sky outside slipped from dark, to dawn, to morning, but the light shining in through his windows is an undeniable signal that it’ll soon be time for him to get up and get this show on the road. Because that’s what today is, isn’t it? 

A show. A spectacle meant to prove that he’s worthy of the crown. 

Steve has to try his very hardest not to wonder if a certain grey-eyed someone will be watching the ceremony. 

“I’m getting married today,” he eventually whispers to himself just to break the stifling silence that’s been settled over the room since Sam and Natasha left him alone last night.

It’s jarring to hear that statement out loud even when it’s coming from his own mouth. It doesn’t make dragging himself out of bed any easier either, but his self-discipline doesn’t end up being what pushes him to finally do so. Rather, it’s Peggy Carter doing her best to pound down his bedroom door with one of her perfectly manicured fists. 

Her tone is unusually chipper for the message she delivers, but Steve supposes today is a celebration in most people’s minds. “Your Highness, we are running very late. We have a team of stylists waiting to help get you ready.”

The sulky part of Steve that’s still irritated about his lack of sleep wants to snip something back about royalty never being late and everyone else just being early, but Erskine’s etiquette training taught him better than that. Besides, it isn’t Peggy’s mood that’s out of place for today’s events. It’s his. 

“I’ll be up in a moment,” he calls back despite the fact that he makes no move to roll over or kick off the covers, let alone sit or stand up. “Do I need to get dressed?”

“A robe will suffice until your suit is brought in,” Peggy informs him. “I believe Mr. Coulson has it on his schedule that he’d like for you to bathe while he and his team set up in your room.”

“ Who?” There’s no way Steve heard that name right, but before he can ask for further clarification, Peggy’s heels are clicking back down the hall in a fading pattern that suggests she’s gone to fetch the aforementioned stylists. 

All Steve can say is that Sam and Natasha better be allowed to sit in on this process. He barely made it through his last makeover on his own without having a breakdown, and today he needs all the support he can get. 

God, he wishes his mother could be here with him. Not even just for himself. Sarah was always a hopeless romantic— hell, that’s where Steve got it from— and Steve knows she would have done anything if it meant she could be here to watch her son walk down the aisle. Nothing would make her happier. 

At least he doesn’t think so. There’s always the chance that she would have seen straight through his nerves today and been the one to point out that this isn’t how a groom is supposed to feel about his own wedding. Would she be happy with his choice to stay with Thor? Would she understand why he chose his duty over the foolish desires of his heart?

Once, when Steve was much younger, he had asked her why she had fallen in love with his father, a curious child wanting to know more about the parents he never got to see interact with each other outside of the rare stories Sarah sometimes let slip. 

“ Being in love is about being yourself, only with someone else,” she’d told him with a smile that was equal parts sad and sentimental. 

Steve lays in bed for a few seconds longer and turns those words over in his mind right alongside the ones Erskine had told him about knowing the difference of when to follow his heart versus his head. 

He’d followed his heart that night he let Bucky bring him to the forest for that picnic and look where it had gotten him. 

Sighing, he resolves to finally stop stewing in his own self pity and pushes his blankets off, sitting up with a yawn and a stretch of his arms above his head so satisfying that there’s an audible crack when he tilts his neck to the side. He doesn’t feel the greatest, but that’s what the stylists are for. They’ll be able to whip him into a proper shape for the wedding. 

He’s just made it across the room to grab his robe from its hook on the back of the bathroom door and wrapped it around himself when there’s another sharp rap of knuckles on the door that Peggy had just visited. 

“It’s unlocked,” Steve calls to whoever is behind it. 

When the door swings open to reveal just who that person is, Steve’s jaw practically hits the floor in shock. 

Turns out he hadn’t misheard Peggy the first time. 

Coulson? That’s who Erskine hired for today?

Actually, the decision is kind of fitting in a full-circle sort of way. It was Phil who helped get him here to begin with, even if part of his contribution came through selling Steve’s secret to the public. It’s not like that matter much now anyways after everything else Steve has been through since then. 

“Ah, the lovely Prince Steven! How wonderful it is to see you again!” Phil’s smile is so bright that any bad blood between them that may have lingered immediately dissipates when the man steps across the threshold into Steve’s room. 

“Uh… Hey, Phil.” Steve’s eyes flick to Natasha and Sam, who are only a few steps behind the man and the two assistants he’s brought with him. “Morning, guys.”

“Good morning, loverboy.” Natasha glances over at his unmade bed and lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. “I see we have a lot of work to do.”

“We?“ Steve repeats.

Natasha’s smile is sly as she follows Coulson into the room and makes herself at home on the bench at the end of his bed. “We’re here to supervise.”

“And by that, she means we’re here to sit in and keep you company until we have to go get ready,” Sam adds on with a grin. 

“Oh.” Steve can only manage a small, halfhearted smile in return, but their presence does genuinely settle him, even if only a little. “You’re okay with this?”

Phil shrugs, waving off the question as he continues to unpack his kit and point his assistants around while they work on unloading what looks to be a mini salon setup right in Steve’s room. “It’s your day, my boy! All I ask is that you let me work my magic on you once more. I promise you. It will be a masterpiece even greater than the one before.”

“I have no doubt in your skills, Phil.”

“Enough chit-chat,” Natasha cuts in. “Go wash up. Take a bubble bath. Relax.”

“We’ll take care of the rest,” Phil promises, passing him a bottle of something purple and pushing him towards the bathroom. “Use this in the water. Make sure there’s plenty of steam! We want you glowing for the cameras.“

“And your future husband,” one of the assistant chirps.

Steve’s stomach churns. It’s probably a good thing he hasn't had his breakfast yet, otherwise it might be making an appearance on the floor. “Just knock when you’re ready for me to start finishing up,” he says, his words sounding distant even to his own ears. 

The bathroom door latching shut behind him loosens a breath that he hadn’t even known was stuck in his chest. It leaves him in the form of a heavy exhale, the sudden return to solitude both terrifying and comforting at once. He’s alone with his thoughts once more. 

The bottle Phil gave him ends up being filled with a silky liquid that smells pleasantly of lavender and forms a frothy layer on top of the water once Steve has the tub filled up high enough for him to slip off his robe and pajamas to step inside. It’s oddly calming to the senses, which is or probably why Phil gave it to him in the first place. 

Steve closes his eyes and leans his head back, shoulders slumping down lower and lower under the water until his face is just above the surface. 

The thought of drowning himself in here does cross his mind— as a joke, but one he knows most definitely should not be repeated out loud. Maybe he should have done that weeks ago in that goddamn fountain after he and Bucky fell inside. It would have saved him a lot of trouble, or at least some heartache. 

Not even lavender scented bubbles can fix that, but that isn’t what this bath is about. It’s about getting him ready for the biggest day in his life thus far. 

And even if he walks down that aisle with a heavy heart, at least he’ll smell good when he gets to the altar. 

-

Coulson lets him sit and stew in his bath for nearly half an hour before he knocks on the door to inform Steve that he’ll be expecting him to come out in fifteen minutes. Steve is given express instructions to leave the combing and drying of his hair to his stylists, which he can’t complain about. 

Phil really meant it when he said his team would take care of the rest. He even puts Steve’s contacts in for him, though that’s mostly because he’s insisted on not letting Steve’s fingers anywhere near his face during this entire process. Something about amateur hands ruining his canvas . 

At least no one tied him to his chair with silk scarves this time. Steve nearly snorts at the memory of Erskine doing exactly that during one of their early lessons, but refrains due to the mascara wand Phil has poised right next to his eye. 

Steve had passed on the eyeliner that’d been offered to him much to Phil’s disappointment (the interjection “you’re no fun” had been made at one point) but a little lip tint, powder, and mascara is all that really feels necessary. 

The suit Sam had left to fetch a few minutes ago is fancy enough as far as Steve is concerned— the only other extra thing he’s allowed Phil to add onto his treatment today outside the general plucking and powdering is the special hairspray that the older man had suggested when Steve said something about wanting to look a little more blonde. 

Even that had been sort of a compromise proposed against Phil’s desire to try and perm his hair for the ceremony. Steve had refused that along with the spikes and swirls that Phil had tried to sway him into experimenting with instead. The normal blown back, slightly parted style that Steve usually wore was good enough for other events, so why wouldn’t it be for this one?

Phil had seemed so disappointed by that request and the refusal of the eyeliner that Steve had finally given in and accepted a singular one of Phil’s lavish ideas. And thus, the glitter hairspray had been broken out. 

It’s a pretty tame product compared to some of the others Steve has seen in Phil’s bag, but subtle is exactly what Steve is going for here. The spray had looked a little intimidating coming out of the can, but in the end settled down into a fine dusting of gold over top of Steve’s already golden locks in a way that makes them shine in the sunlight even brighter than usual. It’s only really noticeable when up close, but Steve likes it more than he thought he would. 

It surprisingly doesn’t spread much either, which is a miracle, because Steve is pretty sure Natasha would have killed him for the decision if it ended up making his suit look like a kindergartener’s arts and crafts project. 

She’s taken over the task of dressing him for the day. Steve knows better than to argue against it, though he is pretty relieved to see Sam return to the room with the suit in its bag sooner rather than later. Natasha can get pretty intense when she’s working, but there’s no one else Steve would trust more to be his fashion consultant on his wedding day. 

“A present for Prince Charming,” Sam teases as he presents them with the hanger. 

Natasha snatches it away immediately and hangs it up on the back of one of Steve’s closet doors, unzipping the bag while Steve very carefully rolls his eyes so as to not smudge his mascara. 

“Is this your way of making fun of my color scheme?”

Sam snorts and plops down on the small sofa across from where Steve is still sitting in Coulson’s styling chair. “With you and Thor both looking like you do, it isn’t exactly shocking that you went with gold and blue. So no.”

“We helped you pick this outfit, if you don’t remember.”

Steve grunts and glances down at his lap. The clear manicure Coulson’s assistant gave him has to be almost dried by now. “I think I blocked that whole ordeal out, actually.”

“All I remember is the incident with the mirror,” Sam offers, smirking at the glare Steve tosses at him. The memory of Steve trying on a suit so tight during his fittings that one of the buttons popped off and shattered a closeby mirror is not one that needs to be brought up right now. “I’m just messing around, man. We’re both in your wedding party. I like the color scheme just fine.”

“ You don’t have to wear all those damn tassels,” Steve mutters under his breath. It’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes now, but it’s easy for him to brush the remark off when he gets to wear a nice, normal navy blue number. 

Steve doesn’t dislike the sky blue color of his own coat— it matches his eyes quite nicely, actually— but the collare, tassels, and sash that come attached to it are a different matter. His wedding outfit is easily the most ornate (and most stuffy ) thing he’s worn since becoming a prince, but Erskine did tell him that traditions surrounding royal weddings are very important. 

He isn’t allowed to ditch any parts of it, either. He’d asked. 

“I’m sure you’ll look very dashing in all those tassels if you’re ready to get dressed.” Natasha beckons him over with a finger, nails painted a perfect shade of blue to match the dress she’ll be putting on pretty soon. “C’mon and at least put the pants on. We have a schedule to stick to. You still have to eat.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” Steve says honestly, looking to Coulson for permission before he stands and heads over towards Natasha. 

She hums and tilts her head. “You’re at least eating a banana before Sam and I head out. Even if we have to force-feed you.”

Steve laughs, though he knows that Natasha no doubt has every intention of following through on that threat. “What am I, your dancing monkey?” He feels more like a Barbie doll than anything with how done up he is. 

“Monkey prince, frog prince, what’s the difference?” Natasha shoots back dismissively. She slips the white pants that go with his outfit off of the hanger and hands them to him. “Go put these on.” She quirks an eyebrow with a smirk. “I didn’t see a garter anywhere in the bag, so it looks like you and Thor will just have to go without.”

“At least the jacket counts as something blue,” Sam calls from the sofa. 

“Pretty sure my dad’s pin counts as something old,” Steve mutters. “The shoes are new. I’m not sure I have anything borrowed.”

“That’s an easy fix.” At first, Steve isn’t sure of what Natasha is getting at until she reaches up and unclasps her necklace from around her neck.

Steve swallows, his throat suddenly thick with emotion even before Natasha steps closer to loop the chain around his neck instead. “Nat, you don’t have to—“ 

She shakes her head. “Don’t argue with your maid of honor, Rogers.”

Natasha wears that necklace every damn day. She has since before Steve even met her. Steve doesn’t know the exact origin of it, but he suspects it has something to do with the sister she rarely mentions. 

The fact that she’s willing to let him wear it today means more than she’ll acknowledge out loud, but that doesn’t mean Steve can’t show his gratitude for the gesture. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, touching the arrow charm where it rests against his sternum. It’s a bit ironic that arrows are a symbol of tradition not only when it comes to the wedding, but his future coronation as well. 

One other wedding tradition comes to mind as the sudden image of Steve tossing his bouquet at Bucky comes to mind. That would be true irony. Bucky probably won’t come today, but if he did, hitting the bastard square in the face with Steve’s wedding bouquet would be a fitting way to end the ceremony. 

Steve almost wants to laugh at the fantasy even though he doesn’t really find it all that funny. 

Before he can embellish it any further, Natasha is cutting their sappy moment short with a clear of her throat and a gentle shove to Steve’s shoulder. “We’ve got to finish getting you ready. Go on. Scoot.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

-

Unlike the parade and the convertible that had been provided for his transport, Steve is put in an actual carriage for the ride over to the chapel. This really is shaping up to be a fairytale wedding. 

All that’s missing is the happily ever after. 

Sam, Natasha, and Thor are already waiting at the church ahead of him since they’re his best man, maid of honor, and groom respectively. Steve met Thor’s own best man and maid of honor the other day— giving them each both of those options was one wedding tradition Erskine was willing to let them break— so the only one left alone in this situation is… Steve. 

Erskine is also at the chapel already, having insisted upon going over early to make sure everything would be in order before Steve arrives. Steve trusts him to make everything about the ceremony perfect. He’d trust Erskine with anything. That’s why he’d asked the older man if he would be willing to walk him down the aisle. 

He’s the closest thing to a father figure Steve has left, after all. And they had begun the process of turning him into a prince together. It’s only right that they take these last steps side by side as well. 

Erskine had been surprisingly emotional about responding to Steve’s request. The way his eyes had shone behind the lenses of his glasses only made Steve get that much more choked up while asking. He’s plenty used to being a crybaby, but seeing Erskine, who is normally so reserved and put together, crack when asked to fill the role that they both know Steve’s father should have if fate hadn’t been so cruel…

Steve has to wonder again as the carriage continues down the road if his parents would be proud of him if they were able to see where he stands today. Or where he will be standing in a very short time, anyways. 

He’d like to think that they would be. Erskine’s lessons have made him more confident. He’s gaining more experience in using the skills he’s been taught by the day. He’s got his degree. He’s helping people. He even met a guy who made his foot pop. 

The only catch with that claim is that that guy isn’t the one that he’s about to marry. 

Steve is marrying Thor today, which means he needs to stop thinking about Bucky. That’s easier said than done, though. The memory of Bucky smiling down at him on that blanket and asking him to dance with him again isn’t something that’s easy to shake. 

In fact, Steve is still working on shoving it to the back of his mind when the carriage rolls to a stop and the door is cracked open by none other than Nick Fury himself. He’s dressed in a deep navy suit that’s so dark it’s not far off from his usual uniform of all-black attire, but the smile he’s wearing is much lighter than the semi-permanent frown he’s prone to sporting. 

“Step right out, Mr. Rogers. We should get you inside before the press gets any crazier.”

Peering past Nick’s shoulder, Steve can see just how crazy they’re already going. The amount of cameras flashing as soon as his feet touch the ground is almost blinding. 

“We have plenty of security in place,” Fury promises him upon seeing Steve’s slightly terrified expression. That terror stems from more than just the cameras, but there’s only so much Fury and his team can do to control how Steve is feeling. “I’ll wait with you inside until Dr. Erskine is finished making sure things are one hundred percent ready.”

“Thank you,” Steve exhales. 

Fury hums as they begin to climb up the front steps of the chapel entrance. “Just doing my job.”

“Still. I’d, uh. I’d like to thank you for everything you’ve done to keep me safe.” They come to a stop in the lobby. The doors to the sanctuary are still shut, which Steve assumes means they have a bit of time left before things will begin, so he turns to Fury with his shoulders slumped in and his chin ducked down. “I know I haven’t always made that easy for you. Not just in the beginning, but… the other night too.”

“I would expect nothing less from a Rogers. The heart does things for reasons that reason cannot understand.” Fury chuckles when Steve gives him a confused look. Those aren’t words he would expect to come from Fury’s mouth, and as he soon finds out, that’s because they belong to someone else. “That’s exactly what your father told me after the first time he gave me the slip to go see your mother.”

“So you’re saying being a fool runs in the family?” 

Fury shakes his head with another small smile. “I’m saying that sometimes even those destined to rule may not be able to control where their heart tries to lead them.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Steve mutters. He moves to turn so that he’s facing the doors, but Fury stops him with a hand laid on his shoulder before he can. When they make eye contact, Steve can see that Fury is back to being his usual serious self. 

What he says still ends up being very surprising. “I need to give you one last bit of reason before you go up to that altar, your Highness.”

Steve frowns, yet again confused as to what Fury is getting at. “What?“

“Lord Barnes wasn’t involved in setting you up at the pond. I know you don’t believe him, so believe me.”

The thing is, Steve does. Fury is one of the most brutally honest people Steve knows, second only to Natasha. He’s the one who keeps Steve safe. He wouldn’t lie about something as big as this. 

There’s still a part of Steve that just can’t take the claim at face value, so he has to ask— “You’re sure?”

Fury is kind enough not to acknowledge how choked up Steve’s question comes out. “The maids know everything that goes on around the palace, and when one of those maids is Peggy Carter’s cousin… so do we.”

“And she didn’t think this was worth mentioning to me herself?”

Whatever Fury’s response may have been to that is cut off by the loud sound of organ music beginning to play. 

Talk about bad timing. 

That music is the signal for him to get ready to start moving. Erskine finally entering the lobby through a side door makes that even clearer. There isn’t any time to fill Erskine in on the information Steve has just been given, and even if there were, would it matter?

The doors open. Steve isn’t sure of what else to do other than follow Erskine’s lead, accepting the bouquet he’s handed and linking their arms together as they both begin to move forward. 

Steve’s head feels like it’s spinning even faster with every step he takes. He’s pretty sure Erskine is whispering some last few words of encouragement to him, but he can’t make them out through the jumbled mess of his own thoughts. 

Bucky wasn’t lying. 

Bucky was telling the truth. 

Bucky didn’t set Steve up. 

Bucky meant everything he said and did that night, which means… Steve isn’t sure of what it means. All he knows is that he meant everything too.

So why is Steve going through with this wedding when he’ll never be able to really mean the vows he’s about to make to Thor? Bucky said “until the end of the line” and if he wasn’t lying about anything else, then that must have been him telling the truth too. 

Steve can’t make what would essentially be that same promise to someone else. Not when the only person he wants to make it to is Bucky.

Bucky, who isn’t even here today as far as Steve can tell. 

Steve stops dead in his tracks, his feet suddenly feeling just as heavy as his heart where he now stands in the middle of the aisle, face to face with a crowd of expectation guests that are growing increasingly restless at this interruption. He can hear someone whisper ‘ is this part of the plan?’ to the person beside them when the organ music comes to a pause. 

“Steven?” Erskine murmurs through clenched teeth. “Are you alright?”

“I…” Steve falters. 

He can’t do this. Not anymore. Not to himself, not to Bucky, not to Thor.

“I think I need a minute or two.”

With that, Steve hands his bouquet back before turning around and hurrying back down the aisle until he reaches the lobby and can burst his way out the doors. 

Chapter Text

Steve has absolutely no idea where he’s going when he runs back down the aisle, ignoring the trail of shocked murmurs he leaves behind in the wake of his sudden departure. All he knows is that he needs to get out of there. 

He feels like he can’t breathe, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the running or the weight of all those stupid tassels or even his asthma. His heart has been jerked around so much in these last few days that the only place for it to go right now is up his throat, forcing his breaths to come out in a heaving gasps that he has to do his best to control in front of the press as he slips around the side of the building to head towards the back. 

The cameras won’t be able to get to him there. Steve would probably be planning on using the peace and quiet to cry if he didn’t know Coulson would kill him for ruining all his hard work— but then again, there are about half a dozen members of the palace staff who will no doubt want to get to him first after the stunt he just pulled. That’s not even mentioning Parliament. and Pierce. 

Christ, what has Steve gotten himself into now?

All he can do is trust that Erskine will be able to come up with some excuse for his behavior. As bad as Steve would normally feel about relying on the older man to clean up his mess, that’s just what he is right now. A mess. 

Maybe Pierce was right. Steve isn’t fit to rule after all. He’s already lost in his own emotions. Where the hell could he lead all these people except right over the edge with him?

The stone of the stairs out back is cold enough to be grounding when he collapses on them and buries his head in his hands. It’s not a wise move to be sitting anywhere near the ground in white pants, he knows, but that’s about the least of his worries at the present moment. 

The information Fury slipped him a few minutes ago has his head spinning even while the rest of his body sits stationary on the steps. 

Bucky wasn’t lying about that reporter at the pond. He didn’t plan for those pictures of them to be taken. His privacy had been breached just as much as Steve’s had that morning, and in his anger, Steve hadn’t believed any of his attempts to convince him of the truth. 

They both had let each other down that day, and now… Now Thor and half the elites of Europe are sitting inside the church waiting for Steve to come back and say his ‘I do’. 

Is it too late? It certainly feels like it. Steve doesn’t even know how to articulate what it is exactly that he’s too late for, but it feels like something special has just slipped through his fingertips. 

Bucky has to be gone by now. Steve is the one who drove him off with his disbelief. 

It’s difficult to remember how to breathe normally. Steve spends the next few minutes trying his hardest to collect himself and just calm down enough to even consider standing back up. His success in the matter is very limited. He remains curled up on his chosen step with his head ducked down and shoulders hunched in on themselves, wishing more than anything that it’d help him disappear in the way he wants to. 

It doesn’t work. That position is the exact one Erskine finds him in when he finally makes his way behind the church not long after Steve’s breath has taken a turn towards the shuddering pattern of barely repressed sobs. 

“Oh, my dear boy.” The palpable sympathy in Erskine’s voice only serves to make Steve feel even smaller. He doesn’t deserve to be comforted through this failure when he’s the one who is letting everyone down. “Steven…”

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” he croaks, forcing the faint words up through his still too-tight throat. “I’m so sorry. I just… I just need a minute.”

“Steven.”

Steve ignores the repetition of his name in favor of trying to stand. “I can do this,” he says, aiming for a firm tone that he’s not sure he achieves to pass off as convincing even to his own ears. “I can do this.” 

Erskine sighs and comes closer, laying a hand on Steve’s shoulder and pressing down. “No.”

The sheer amount of understanding infused into that singular word is enough to make Steve crumple all over again. He sits back down on the step, feeling utterly defeated. Maybe even destroyed. 

“I can’t do this,” he admits, so soft and ashamed that he’s surprised Erskine is able to pick up on it at all. 

But based on the sigh the older man lets out from where he leans against the stone railing lining the staircase, he does. “I know.”

“Then why aren’t you angry?” Steve demands, the frustration finally winning over to allow him to look up and face his mentor directly, searching for any traces of the emotions he’s expecting in his expression. “I’ve failed you. I’ve failed everyone.”

“You’ve failed no one,” Erskine interrupts. “If anything, we are the ones who have failed you.”

Steve’s eyebrows draw together. “I don’t… I don’t know what that means.”

“Steven, listen to me. We all have our choices to make. Duty over love, responsibility over romance— that’s what most Rogers have done in the past. That is what has been drummed into them for generations.” Erskine raises a weathered hand to silence the self deprecating interruption he must be able to sense is about to come on Steve’s end. “But you and your father? You both were— are— different. You are a Rogers, but that only means you are your father’s son as well, just as much as you are your mothers. You need to make your own choices. Your own mistakes. There’ll be plenty of them, believe me. God knows your father chose your mother when it came down to it, and it may not have worked out in the end for them, but it was his decision.” Erskine’s voice grows softer than the rest of his passionate lecture with his final few statements. “If you want to go back inside that church and get married, you can. Or you can walk away and go follow your heart. Whatever choice you make… let it be one that comes from you and no one else.“

There are so many but what about and what if questions that Steve wants to ask, but he finds that there’s one thing more than any other that he really wants to do right now. And in the spirit of Erskine’s speech, he leaps up and does it without hesitation. 

The hug he pulls Erskine into is only a singular step on the path to follow his heart Erskine just mentioned, but it’s one worth lingering on in Steve’s opinion. 

“Thank you,” he whispers fiercely. “For everything you’ve taught me.” And so, so much more.

“It’s been my honor. And I certainly hope it will continue to be in the future.” Erskine hugs him back tighter than Steve is expecting from a man who is normally so reserved in his affection. “You are a good man, Steven Rogers. I could not be prouder.”

-

“Excuse me.” 

It’s almost comical, how wide eyed the usher gets when Steve brushes past him to walk back through the doors leading to the sanctuary he’d run out of not fifteen minutes before. Erskine lingers in the entrance even after Steve makes his way through, striding down the aisle with a confidence that had been lacking the first go around. 

Thor is still standing at the other end of it, flanked by Sam, Natasha, and his own respective best man and maid of honor. All of them— including the priest— look rather confused. 

The crowd of people sitting in the pews are more restless about their confusion. Steve can hear most of them whispering to each other as he passes; (valid) questions as to what the hell is going on and predictions as to what his excuse is going to be. 

Steve ignores all of them save for one person, walking right up to the altar and standing face to face with the man he’s supposed to marry and placing both hands on his broad shoulders. 

“Steve?” Thor murmurs. “What—“

“Everyone deserves the chance to find true love, right?” Steve cuts in. 

Thor tilts his head with a blink. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Including us?”

Realization is dawning on Thor’s face, a slow smile breaking out across his handsome features. He places his hands on Steve’s shoulders as well now and leans their foreheads together. “Thank you,” he breathes, soft enough so that no one else can hear it. “For saving me from doing the proper thing for once in my life. Now all I have to do is inform my father.”

Steve smiles back and slides his hands up to cup Thor’s face instead. “You never know,” he murmurs in return. “Maybe this will be what proves to him that you’re worthy.” He has to learn up on his toes to be able to press a kiss to Thor’s cheek. “You, Thor Odinson, are one of the worthiest men I have ever met.”

“Shall I just…” Thor lets him go to jerk a thumb over his shoulder. 

Steve nods. “I’ll handle the announcement. It is my kingdom, after all.”

Thor steps to the side with his thumb pointing upward and an encouraging smile flashed in Steve’s direction as he turns to face the crowd head on. It’s scary as hell standing in front of so many expectant people, but a real leader is transparent about their rulings, right? His subjects deserve to know what’s happening. 

“Welcome,” he begins. “I know all of you came here wanting to watch a wedding, but a few minutes ago I realized that the biggest reason I was getting married was because of a law, and that doesn’t seem like a good enough reason.” He takes a deep breath and braces himself. Here comes the big guns. “I also realized that I was only getting married because it was what others were expecting. But it isn’t them who is having to bear the weight of that decision, and for that reason… I won’t be getting married today.”

The gasps that come from the crowd are expected, as is the smug expression that Pierce is wearing as he stands up and scoffs in immediate judgment.

Steve tries to go on before he can make an interjection. “I know that I’m asking a lot from you by making this choice. The price of the people’s trust is high. It comes at a cost, and so does ruling without someone by my side. But the reality is… I do have people by my side. My friends,” he turns to smile first at Sam and Natasha, and then towards the back of the chapel where Erskine is standing. “The people who are like my family. The people who have been loyal to this country for longer than I knew it even existed. I’m willing to pay that price, and if I’m the only one willing to chip in, then so be it.” He raises his chin up higher. “But I’m willing to bet I’m not.”

“This is blasphemous!” Pierce exclaims to the man beside him. 

Steve ignores him once more. He has a speech to see through. “I ask the members of Parliament to think about your own families and friends. Your neighbors. your leaders. Ask yourselves if this… falsity for the sake of following a law written a century ago is what Vengea really stands for. I believe I will be a great king. I understand Vengea tl be a land that combines the beauty of the past with all the best hope of the future. I feel in my heart and soul that I can rule Vengea.” He throws up his hands with a wry smile. “I love Venfea. Do you think I would be at this wedding if I didn’t? I stand here, ready to take my place as your prince, and hopefully one day soon, your king. Without a husband or anyone else who would be forced into helping me lead.”

The next remark Pierce makes is loud enough for the entire chapel to hear, aimed directly towards Steve himself. “Are you sure you're ready for the world to see you as you really are?” He laughs, looking around like he wants others to join in. No one does. “What a waste. How many months have we waited for you to be ready to rule? How much more can you take from Vengea? You have overstayed your welcome.” He jabs a finger in Steve’s direction before turning to address the rest of the room. “Every time this charming young man opens his mouth, he demonstrates a contempt for the customs of our country that any ruler would never dare display. The law clearly states that he cannot rule on his own at this stage.” His smile and tone turn sickeningly sweet. “Fortunately, there is another heir willing to take the throne immediately.”

“No,” a voice comes from the back of the room. “There is not.”

Steve is pretty sure his jaw isn’t the only one that drops upon realizing who it is that has just burst in to make that announcement. 

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Bucky states, taking a slow step forward from where he stands next to Erskine in the entrance. “And I decline. As a matter of face, I refuse to be king.”

Although they’re both men of royal blood, in this moment, Bucky looks like Prince Charming leapt from the pages of a storybook into real life. His hair is windswept and his cheeks flushed for reasons Steve isn’t sure of, eyes so bright with passion that Steve can see them shining from where their gazes are locked across the room. Not to mention, his timing is impeccable. 

Steve doesn’t know how or why Bucky got here, but he’s glad as hell that he showed up. Not just because of the way he’s put Pierce in his place, either. 

He’s here. He came back. He came back for Steve .

“Ladies and gentlemen, we already have the perfect candidate standing in front of us. It is Steve Rogers who should have the crown.” Bucky glares at his uncle, but doesn’t bother addressing him directly. “He is bright and he is caring, but more importantly, he has a vision that will take Vengea forward. If the Parliament were astute in that mission, they would name him king. Tradition be damned.” His gaze flicks back towards Steve, a small smile playing at his lips that somehow feels personal despite the fact that everyone in the room can see it. “Listen to him. He’ll lead us forward into the 21st century.” Then, smile turning crooked because of course Bucky can’t resist the opportunity to make a smart mouthed remark to save his life— “Besides, just think about how lovely he’ll look on our postage stamp. Let’s hear it for Prince Steve, future king of Vengea!”

Leave it to Bucky to end his speech with a couple of lousy lines. Steve could complain about it, but considering Bucky is also currently leading a cheer and a round of applause from the crowd on his behalf, he won't be doing that. 

However, it appears as if Pierce is more than willing to do it himself. 

“ Lovely on a postage stamp? You would let his good looks cause you to throw your crown away— don’t you walk away from me, boy! You have a duty to Vengea! A duty to me!”

The soft expression Bucky’s wearing while he and Steve continue their staring context quickly hardens at the sound of Pierce’s outburst, and before Steve has time to react to anything Bucky has said since his arrival, Bucky is turning on his heel and making his exit with Pierce chasing after him all the while. 

The guards move to shut the doors behind him on what appears to be Erskine’s whispered request, much to Steve’s disappointment. But as much as he wants to go after Bucky, he has some business to finish up in here first. 

The crowd is in even more disarray than they had been before. 

“What on Earth is happening here?” Steve can hear someone in the first few rows ask. “If Barnes has declined and Parliament still considers Rogers unfit, who is next in line?”

“Steven. Steven.“ Erskine has to hiss Steve’s name twice before he finally turns around, frowning at the fact he hadn’t noticed the older man creeping his way up to the front until he was directly behind him. What he says next is masked by the clearing of his throat. 

“What?” Steve frowns even further. Was there a message underneath that cough?

Erskine sighs and abandons subtlety in order to state his advice in plain words. “Make a motion. The prime minister is in the front row.”

“Make a mo— oh .” Steve spins back around and raises his voice so he can be heard above all of the restless chatter. “I move to abolish the marriage law as it applies to any future rulers of Vengea!” 

His declaration is met by a sudden silence. 

With at least fifty pairs of widened, curious eyes on him, Steve stands his ground and continues. “Will anyone second my motion?” Please, he thinks but doesn’t say. 

When his question is met with more silence, Erskine speaks back up behind him with an encouraging whisper. “Keep eye contact with them. Stare them down.”

Steve does just that, eyes roaming around the room and settling on multiple faces that he recognizes from being introduced to the Parliament members.  

It takes almost two minutes of staring before Steve zeroes in on a target that ends up breaking much sooner than any of the others. Steve doesn’t remember his name, but he’s a shorter, sandy-haired man with an easy smile that Steve is beyond relieved to see break out across his face. 

“I second the motion,” the man announces. At the disbelieving looks most of his peers shoot him for speaking out, he shrugs and looks around. “It’s time we had a new tradition. I like change. How else are we supposed to move forward?”

“Everett is right,” a different man calls up from a few rows behind him. “It’s high time that we revise some of the old laws.”

The prime minister looks slightly skeptical, but he shrugs too after a few moments of quiet consideration. “Seeing as Mr. Ross has seconded the motion– all those in favor of abolishing the marriage rule say ‘aye’.”

It’s not quite the speak now or forever hold your peace moment Steve was expecting to come out of today’s events, but he’ll take it gladly. Even if things don’t end up ruling in his favor, at least he took the opportunity to stand up for himself.

He holds his breath as silence settles over the room once more until out of the stillness–

“Aye.” 

Surprisingly it isn’t Mr. Ross that responds first. It’s a woman on the other side of the aisle that stands as she makes her declaration. 

Soon after, a second woman stands. “Aye.”

It doesn’t take much longer for the chapel to fill with the sound of so many ‘ayes’ that it almost sounds like an echo. Steve smiles when he spots a man elbowing his companion who has just uttered the word and reminding him that neither of them are even in Parliament.

Maybe their vote doesn’t matter on paper in this situation, but Steve having the support even of people who aren’t in power means everything. 

As for those who are in power, the prime minister clears his throat and raises his voice to make a declaration of his own. “The ayes have it!”

The cheering that follows that decision is even louder than the one that Bucky had led a few minutes before. Steve turns to look at where Thor, Sam, Natasha, and Erskine are all crowded together off to the side and finds all of them wearing a smile almost as bright as his own.

“Congratulations, your Highness!” Natasha calls above the ruckus. Thor gives him a thumbs up from beside her while Sam continues clapping with a wide grin. “You rule. Now go get your fairy-tale ending!”

By that Steve knows she’s telling him to go after Bucky. She doesn’t need to tell him twice.
Saying that he’s been waiting to find someone like Bucky for his entire life might be an exaggeration, but with how much time they’ve both spent thinking the opportunity to see what they could have together had passed, Steve doesn’t want to wait another minute to show him they were wrong. 

Steve has spent the past week trying not to admit to himself that Bucky was his right person at the wrong time. 

But now.

The right time is now. 

For the second time that day, Steve runs out of the chapel, but this time, he knows exactly what he’s going to do.

-

As it turns out, great minds think alike. 

Steve’s hunch that Bucky chose the same hiding spot as him is proven correct when he rounds the corner out back and finds the darker haired man sitting in almost the exact same spot Steve had sat in earlier. He isn’t as stooped down as Steve was, but rather staring ahead into the garden at what appears to be nothing in particular, expression painfully conflicted. 

Why is it they’re always meeting each other in gardens? 

Steve tries to approach quietly, but Bucky must hear him nonetheless, because he looks up at him with a small smile and asks, “How was it?”

“It was okay.” That’s an understatement, but Steve doesn’t want to boast when Bucky is in front of him looking so lost. “I, uh. I’m just happy my portrait is gonna end up next to my dad’s, you know?”

Bucky hums and bumps their shoulders together when Steve sits down on the step beside him, close enough for their arms to brush even before Bucky moves closer. “I was gonna ask…” He drags the question out, then tilts his head towards Steve, raising his eyebrows. “But maybe I should wait until after coronation so I can formally request an audience with the king?”

Steve rolls his eyes and bumps Bucky back. It should be strange how easy things are between them so soon after… everything, but it feels just as natural as breathing. “We both know you aren’t capable of keeping your mouth shut for that long, so go ahead and say whatever it is you’re thinking, Barnes.”

“I think we should be practicing our formalities before your big day.” Steve isn’t sure of what Bucky means until Bucky stands and hops down the last few steps on the staircase until he’s kneeling in front of Steve, one knee on the ground and the other bent up so he can brace his clasped hands upon it. “Your Highness.”

If he weren’t so curious about what Bucky is about to ask, Steve might laugh. But he is curious, so he plays into Bucky’s behavior. “What is your dilemma, young sir?” he tries to joke lightly.

Bucky is smiling, but it’s more tentative than Steve is used to seeing from him. “You are, as a matter of fact.”

“Me? Why whatever for?”

“You see…” Bucky begins so slowly that Steve isn’t sure whether or not they’re messing around anymore. He really hopes Bucky’s next words aren’t a joke. “I am in love with the king-to-be and I am here to inquire if he would be so gracious as to forgive me so that someday, he may be able to love me in return.”

Steve is blown away. 

Please don’t let this be part of the joke.

He’s been hoping that Bucky felt the same as him ever since Fury told him the truth about what happened at the pond, but having Bucky say it so blatantly is a better confirmation than he could have ever imagined. He’s asking for Steve to love him when he already does. 

Because Steve is still Steve, he can’t think of anything to say so he of course goes with the stupidest option possible. “Do you have a chicken for my table?”

It’s a credit to how well Bucky understands him that he doesn’t get upset at Steve’s clumsy response to such a heartfelt confession. He laughs and shakes his head. “No, no. I’m afraid my kitchen is fresh out of chickens, but I do know how to shine shoes and take out the trash if need be.” Then, softer, “I know you can get by on your own, Steve, or at least without me. But what I’m trying to say is… you don’t have to. If you want me, you have me, in whatever way that may be.”

If this is one of his dreams, Steve doesn’t ever want to wake up. “Buck…”

Before Steve can follow that up with another stupid remark, Buckt is grabbing Steve’s hands to tangle them with his own before he moves one up to grip at the spot between his shoulder and neck. “It’s like I told you. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

Steve leans forward. “I loathe you,” he whispers. “I love you.”

Bucky squeezes his hand. “That’s good to hear, sweetheart.” He pulls Steve up until they’re both standing and nuzzles their faces together, letting go of Steve’s hand in favor of using both of his own to loop around his waist. “Say it again?”

“Which one?” 

Bucky’s lips are so close that Steve can feel their breath mingling together. “Both.”

“I loathe you.” Steve loops his arms around Bucky’s neck. “I love you.”

Steve is happy to discover that his foot popping during their first kiss wasn’t a fluke. It does the exact same thing during the second one– and then both do, because Bucky is lifting him up by the waist and spinning him around until they’re smiling into each other's mouths. 

By the time they break free from the embrace, Steve is breathless and dizzy for a much better reason than he had been earlier. “I think I’m gonna have to wait a while before I can even think about getting married again.”

Bucky laughs again, deep and full bellied with a joy that Steve basks in entirely. “I can be patient. Not like I’m planning on going anywhere.” He raises a hand and strokes Steve’s cheek before kissing him so tenderly that Steve would melt if not for the fact that he knows they’ll have to go face the music (and the crowd) soon. “Not without you.”

“You won’t have to, Buck. Because I’m with you ‘til the end of the line too.”

Chapter Text

Despite Erskine’s exasperation with him, Steve does end up sending Pierce an invitation to his coronation, more out of spite than politeness.