Chapter Text
Affirmation
You've never asked before, not of anyone. What if the answer was no? Worse, what if they were annoyed and decided you were too needy, to desperate, too much? If they weren't going to say it, you weren't going to prompt them. Mostly, they didn't say it.
You didn't ask Steve, either. He does say it, though, at least once a day when he's able to - when he's home, or isn't in such deep cover he can't have a phone. It's the last thing he says at night, curled up around your little spoon, your head tucked up against the base of his throat, your back to his chest so you can feel it rumbling through you like a little earthquake. He says it over the phone when he's away on a mission or just at the compound, voice soft, floating down the line like a leaf on a stream.
He says it without words, a hug from behind, a kiss to your temple, a hip check while you're standing in the big communal kitchen listening to Tony and Rhodey bicker (Rhodey’s right. Rhodey's always right and Tony just argues to hear himself.) It's him taking your hand, lips quirked, after he's heard the third version of Shostakovich's Waltz #2 leak from your earbuds (you keep it low, but he can pick up almost anything above a 2) and figures you want to dance. It's the way he still has to count out a waltz, but does it anyway.
It's Steve personally calling a newspaper publisher, getting hung up on because they didn't believe he was, like, him, then getting an AI PR rep to call back through official channels, after their online edition ran a picture of the two of you at a gallery in the city, one so small neither of you expected to be noticed. You hadn't bothered to be cautious, and the pic showed his hand curled around your hip, your heads bent together. Blatant it might have been, but a solid 90% of commenters insisted you and Steve were just friends, obviously (“my god how could anyone infer romance from that pose?”). Or no, you were his assistant, just professionally cuddled up to Captain America (“it's true I saw her in the background of an avengers event pic talking to Pepper Potts, so obviously she works with them”). Or no, you were just a random art lover, and Steve was kindly explaining something about the piece in front of you - which launched a tangent about whether the commenters would tolerate mansplaining from Captain America, and if putting his arm around a stranger was creepy. You were semi-gratified to see a reasonable consensus of no for the first and yes for the second, and more hurt than you'd admit to anyone by the much-larger consensus that Steve would definitely never have a woman who looked like you. But around the fourth time you refreshed the page to torture yourself with new comments, the story disappeared, and Nat told you later that Steve had used his Captain-America-Is-Disappointed voice to tell the publisher that if they ever ran an unauthorized pic, ever published your name or information, ever allowed personal comments, Steve would personally make sure that no publication owned by their group would be allowed into an Avengers event or interview ever again. (Nat then took great pleasure in describing his Captain-America-Will-Rip-Off-Your-Head-And-Shit-Down-Your-Neck voice when the publisher proved to be a little recalcitrant).
That led to the second time he suggested you move in together, into one of the single-family homes for AI personnel that Tony was building on the other side of the lake. The two of you could have it designed just for yourselves, with anything you'd want. “You could have a pantry,” he’d crooned right into your ear as he held you stretched out on top of him. “A big, big pantry. Full Wilder,” and honestly, that was him saying it just as obviously as if he used the words, because how else would he have paid attention to your 30-minute info dump about Laura Ingalls Wilder's custom-made pantry? “A cold cellar too,” he added, and you could have married him right then just for remembering.
So you know he does. You don't have to ask. But because you know, you can.
He's sitting on the couch, watching teams he doesn't actually care about (you asked him how he felt about the Dodgers these days; he made an uncategorizable noise, but he watches every game), and makes a quizzical sound when you clamber into his lap, straddling him and resting your head on his shoulder. “You okay there, pretty girl?” he asks, more amused than concerned, arms already wrapping around you.
You nod and nuzzle in. “D’you lumme?”
He huffs a laugh, and squeezes tight. “Yeah. I lummu.”