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It’s Steve’s fault, honestly, for choosing the movie. It’s Steve’s fault for being so naïve, for thinking anything animated and Disney would be safe.
Of course the only person enjoying this whole situation is the one who can lock himself inside a soundproof laboratory and watch it all play out on his A.I.’s live feeds.
It’s been two weeks.
It feels like two hundred.
“Can you at least let me eat my dinner in peace?” Steve asks exasperatedly right after the waitress delivers their plates. He still doesn’t understand why it’s his duty to get Bucky out of the tower for at least one meal a day so the others have some quiet time just because they happen to be sleeping together.
“But if I don’t keep repeating it, how will we ever find your son?” Bucky retorts, reaching across the table to swipe a curly fry from Steve’s plate.
“Just so you know,” Steve says, lifting the top bun of his burger to add ketchup. “I’m pre-screening everything you watch from now on. Especially if it’s rated G.”
“Buzzkill.” Bucky steals another fry.
“Yeah? Say it again.” Steve frowns. “I dare you.”
“P. Sherman, 42 Wall—”
“I hope you choke on that.”
“Bad Squishy.”
But it’s not Steve’s fault, however, when the Avengers are a man down the next day because Clint’s head has a mysterious midnight encounter with a metal disc…that was totally not made out of Vibranium, the shield was next to his bed while he slept, shut up, Bucky, of course he was sleeping, right next to him, the entire night, so stop insinuating things.
It’s Clint’s fault, honestly, for mentioning the sequel.