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It’s not that America doesn’t like Frida. Quite the opposite, really. She loves her.
Her tiny sister has the chubbiest little cheeks she’s ever seen and the cutests gummy smile a baby could have.
But that’s the problem, isn't it?
Frida is perfect .
She’s soft and small and precious, and Stephen looks at her like she’s the most precious thing in the universe. He holds her with careful hands, whispers to her in that gentle voice America never even knew he had. He presses kisses to the top of her fuzzy little head and lets her grip his finger in her tiny hands like she’s got the whole world in her grasp.
America can’t help but stare, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Stephen has never looked at her like that.
Not that she expects him to, obviously. She’s not a baby, and doesn’t need to be coddled or held or anything like that. She’s tough. She survived losing her moms and has endured the hardships that come with hopping across universes with no one but herself to rely on.
But still…
There’s something ugly curling in her chest when she sees them together. And it’s not just seeing Frida and Stephen together. The same reaction happens when she sees Loki fussing over his little princess. It’s something tight and bitter and awful, because America wants to remember what it was like to be that small. To be held like that. To be loved like that. She remembers her mothers’ hands on her face, their laughter, the way they used to hum lullabies in soft voices.
The memories come for her, one after another, overwhelming her with grief so strong she has no idea what to do with it. It’s not something she can run away from. Everywhere she looks there is something to remind America of the new member of the household, the lucky one with both parents at her side. A pacifier here, a baby blanket over there, a tiny sock where there shouldn’t be one…
What else can America do but shut herself away in her room?
Only an hour passes in miserable silence until Stephen comes to find her with a soft knock to her door. When she doesn’t answer, it clicks open.
“Hey,” Stephen says as he pokes his head in. His face is lined with the exhaustion that troubles all new parents, but his tone is as gentle as always. “You okay? You’ve been quiet today.”
America scoffs, flipping a page in her book without actually reading it. Venom has been pooling in her throat all afternoon and, now that she has Stephen to herself, it infects her words.
“Didn’t think you’d notice. Thought you were too busy with her .”
That earns a confused frown, and Stephen steps into the room. “America–”
“No, it’s fine,” she cuts him off, snapping the book shut. “You’ve got a new kid now. I get it.” Her tone comes out a lot harsher than she means, but she can’t stop herself. The hurt has already cracked wide open. “She’s your actual blood, right? That’s what matters. She’s yours, and I’m just–”
A lump forms in her throat, forbidding her from spitting out another word. Which, looking back, is for the best.
Stephen looks absolutely stunned, speechless for a long moment. Then, he sighs, somewhat defeated. “America, that’s not true. You know that’s not true.”
America keeps her eyes fixed on the book in her lap, fingers gripping the cover so tightly it’s a miracle it doesn’t tear. She can feel the sting in her eyes, the burn in her chest. She doesn’t want to cry over this, but her vision blurs with tears anyway.
“I know things have been different lately. I know we haven’t been spending time together like we used to either.”
She scoffs.
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, kid,” Stephen presses on. “You’re my kid too. Not by blood, no, but that doesn’t change a damn thing.”
She shakes her head, blinking up at the ceiling in a desperate attempt to keep her tears at bay.
“You say that, but it’s not the same,” America whispers, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “It never will be.”
No immediate answer comes this time. Stephen is quiet, and America hates it, hates that the silence feels like agreement. But then, suddenly, she feels the mattress shift. Stephen doesn’t hesitate as he plops beside her and pulls her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest. It’s warm. And safe. And sure and steady and home .
“It is different,” Stephen finally admits. “But not in the way you think. I don’t love Frida any more than I love you, but I do love her differently because she’s a baby. She needs things from me that you don’t. And you… You’re strong and independent and so damn brave. I don’t tell you enough how proud I am of you.”
America squeezes her eyes shut and, slowly, allows herself to sink into the embrace. Her shoulders shake as tears begin to slip free, but Stephen does not waver. He just holds her tighter, pressing a hand to the back of her head.
“I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you weren’t mine,” he murmurs. “Because you are, America. You always will be.”
That does it. The last of her resistance crumbles under the weight of those words, and the floodgates burst open. America grips Stephen’s shirt in tight fists as quiet sobs rack her frame, burying her face against his shoulder.
Stephen just keeps holding her, his hand smoothing over her hair in slow, steady strokes. He doesn’t tell her to stop or shush her or tell her that everything is fine. Because it’s not. And for once, America doesn’t feel like she has to pretend that it is.
“...I miss my moms,” she sobs, over and over again as she pours out the misery in her heart.
Minutes pass before the sobs ease into sniffles and, eventually, she pulls back, wiping her face roughly with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Oh… I think I got snot on your robes,” she mutters.
Stephen chuckles. “I’ve had worse. I’ll survive.”
She sniffs again and glances away, embarrassed. “...Sorry for snapping at you, Dad.”
“You don’t have to apologise,” he assures her. “I should’ve noticed sooner.”
Feeling a little awkward now that the worst of the storm has passed, America shrugs. “It’s dumb anyway. I shouldn’t be jealous of a baby.”
“Hey, no, it’s not dumb,” Stephen says firmly. “You lost something huge, America. It’s okay to miss them and to want them again.”
Her throat tightens at that but, this time, she manages a small nod.
Stephen gives her shoulder a squeeze. “I can’t bring your moms back right now. I really wish I could. But, until we find them, you’re not alone, okay? You’ve got me and Wong and Loki and Frida. You’ve got this whole weird little family that’s not going anywhere.”
“Yeah,” America says with a huff that is half a laugh, half a sigh. “I guess I do.”
Stephen nudges her. “You know, Frida’s still too small for bedtime stories. But you’re not.”
“Ha! I might be a little old, though. Are you seriously offering to read to me?”
With a smirk, Stephen winks at her.
“I’m offering to let you pick the book while I read dramatically.”
That summons a real laugh, soft and genuine. She considers for a moment before tossing her book at him. “Fine. But if you’re gonna do a dramatic reading, you better commit .”
He catches it easily, flipping it open with a knowing smile. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re in for a performance.”
As America settles back against the pillows, listening to Stephen’s awful theatrical narration, the ache in her chest lessens just a little. It doesn’t disappear completely, and she doesn’t expect it to.
For now, in this moment, she is content. She believes him. She is not alone.