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You set the plate of cookies on the coffee table in front of Steve after dinner, along with a glass half full of milk, and a cheerful, “Here you go, the yearly offering.”
Steve looks up from his sketchpad and frowns at the cookies. “The yearly what now?”
You smack Clint’s hand as he reaches for a cookie. “Stop that, they’re Captain America cookies.”
“Captain America cookies?” says Natasha flatly, looking up from her book.
You stare at the rest of them. “Seriously? No one in PR has told you guys about this yet?”
“Nooo,” says Steve slowly, still focused on the cookies. “But now I’m afraid to ask.”
You sigh. “Fine. There’s been this meme for the last, I don’t know, five years or so. On July 4th Eve, good patriotic little boys and girls leave out cookies and milk for Captain America, who will come by their houses after they go to sleep and leave behind truth, liberty, justice, and the American way.”
You motion to the cookies and milk in front of Steve, as if the rest is self-explanatory.
Bucky, somewhere on the couches, begins to snort with amusement.
“July 4th Eve,” says Steve, skeptical.
“Look, I did not make this up,” you say.
“She didn’t,” says Natasha, scrolling on her phone. “It’s a thing.”
“No shit,” says Sam, delighted. “Hand that over, lemme see.”
“Kiddo,” says Tony, possibly even more delighted, which also passes for devious. “Please, please tell me you did this growing up.”
You’re about to say no…
But then you see the stricken look on Steve’s face.
And the way Bucky is still snickering behind him.
And Clint already pulling out his phone.
“Every year,” you say, as wistful and pitiful as you can manage. “Sugar cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. Oreo cookies. The most American cookies I could find, except that one year I was totally obsessed with biscotti. I guess they’re not American enough, though, because you never came.”
Steve’s eyes narrow, as if he senses that Someone is Mocking Patriotism. Well, you’ve got two choices now: either pull it back, or… lay it on thicker.
Bucky’s laid out on the couch, biting a pillow to keep from laughing. Sam’s texting hard on his phone, grinning like mad. And Clint? He’s filming this on his phone.
Really, it’s not like you have a choice here.
“I’m just thinking of all those little boys and girls out there, trying so hard to be the best possible patriotic Americans that they can be,” you say earnestly, folding your hands together, like you’re pleading. “Think of the children, Steve. Third, second, first generation Americans, who have grown up knowing that Captain America believes in them and wants them to know about justice and liberty. All their truths super self-evident. So many little American babies, hoping and wishing that they’ll get a visit from Captain America, who will give them the confidence to know… okay, yeah, I can’t do this,” you admit, giving up as laughter overtakes you.
Steve shakes his head slowly. “You almost got me.”
“Oh, seriously?” you groan.
“Another minute, I might have caved,” says Steve, reaching for a cookie.
But when you reach for one, too, he pulls the plate away. “Nope. My cookies. You’re not Captain America.”
“Spoilsport,” you sigh, and go to get the rest of the cookies from the kitchen.
*
You are deep asleep in your bed, so deep you’re not even dreaming. When:
“WHO’S STRONG AND BRAVE, HERE TO SAVE THE AMERICAN WAY?” blasts the music at top volume.
You sit straight up in bed and scream, flailing your arms before someone switches on the overhead lights, and then you stare, mouth open in shock.
Steve’s wearing his Captain America uniform, and before you can say a word, he throws a cloth bundle at you.
“Get a move on, solider,” he says briskly.
“Oh my God,” you groan. “Did I miss an alert, I am so sorry—”
“Not that,” says Cap, motioning to the bundle in your lap.
Which has unraveled, and now you can see that it’s an actual costume. Red and white and blue with sequins, like some old-fashioned showgirl costume.
Like…
“CARRY THE FLAG SHORE TO SHORE FOR AMERICA!” sings the recording.
Your mouth drops open. “Are you serious? Steve, did you break into the Smithsonian to steal another costume again?”
“Tony had it,” says Steve, without further explanation, and oh man, are you glad he does not elaborate.
“Um,” you say.
“We have forty-five minutes to get to Delacroix,” continues Steve. “And you are officially my fourth of July elf.”
“Elf.”
“Well, I could call you my chorus girl, but…”
You stare at him, still half asleep, not entirely sure you’re not dreaming.
“Tony also told me to tell you, and I quote—” Steve looks like he’s going to enjoy this next thing: “Put on the suit.”
You blink. “I do not understand that reference.”
Steve just grins back at you, like he is enjoying himself thoroughly.
“Shake a leg, chorus girl,” says Steve. “I’ve got a date with some cookies.”
*
The Quinjet makes it to Delacroix in 35 minutes flat. Nick Fury is going to have words for the pair of you, because you’re technically not supposed to go into super-sonic when it’s not for a mission, but whatever, it’s fun.
The chorus girl outfit is decidedly not fun. You feel like an idiot, but Steve just grins and gives you a thumbs up, and doesn’t even try objectifying you like you know Clint would (in a jokey, wolf-whistle sort of way). Natasha would smile and offer a compliment, and Bucky…
Well. He’d probably stop talking for a few minutes and then go back to pretending that he doesn’t see you as anything but a field partner.
Anyway, the trip is good, Steve gives you a little more training on flying the Quinjet, which is probably the cover for using the super-sonic, and he lands the jet outside Sarah Wilson’s house just before midnight. (After all, it’s not just you who needs practice time in the jet, which only bounces a few times and doesn’t even knock over any trees.)
“Carry these,” Steve tells you, handing you two small gift bags, one red and one blue, both overflowing with patriotic paraphernalia: toys, glow sticks, coloring books, and the like. You roll your eyes and carry them.
“How are we getting in?” you ask as Steve heads for the house. “Like, shouldn’t we go in through the fireplace or something? Or is that too close to breaking and entering? ‘Cause that would be super un-American of you.”
Steve pulls a key out from one of his utility belt pockets. You snort.
“Did you steal that from Sam?”
“No,” says Steve, and unlocks the front door. “He gave it to me.”
“Wait,” you say, realizing, “is the rest of the team in on this?”
Steve grins at you. “Who do you think suggested you should be my elf?”
He goes into the house, but you stay on the porch for a moment, letting it sink in.
“Those shits,” you breathe, and follow him.
It’s quiet, but you and Steve are good at quiet. There’s a plate of peanut butter cookies on the kitchen table, along with a glass of milk and a hand-drawn note in crayon. FOR CAPTAIN AMERICA HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVE CASS AND AJ WILSON. You grin and reach for a cookie—
“Nope,” says Steve firmly, pushing your hand away. “You’re not Captain America.”
Your mouth drops open. “I’m an elf, I should get cookies.”
“You’re leaving the rewards,” says Steve through a mouth full of cookie, and you scowl while you set the bags down next to the plate.
Steve munches on the cookies all the way back to the Quinjet, and finishes them somewhere over Missouri. You don’t get a bite, but you do get a solid fifteen minutes on the controls, so maybe it evens out.
You don’t even like peanut butter cookies. Whatever. Stupid Captain America.
You arrive at the farm outside Waverly, Iowa, shortly after midnight. There’s lights on in the farmhouse, though they switch off as Steve lands the jet.
This time, he clips a tree.
It’s quiet when you both slip into the house – Clint having given Steve his key, too – but a nightlight glows from the stairwell, which is probably where the giggles are coming from. Steve grins at you, finger on his lips, and you nod, trying not to laugh.
The way Steve’s voice booms is so on brand, you almost can’t hold back the laughter at all.
“Well, my patriotic little elf, I think we’ve just found the most American children in the state!”
The giggles get even louder, and are accompanied by fervent shhhhhhing.
“I think you’re right, Captain America, sir!” you say, raising your voice a little bit. “And those cookies look delicious!”
“They really do, Elf, they really do,” agrees Steve, scooping up a handful of the thumbprint cookies. “Raspberry and blueberry thumbprints with white-chocolate stripes are my favorite.”
You reach for one – but Steve shakes his head and pulls them away. “All right, Elf, time to recite the Patriotic Promise—”
“The what?” you mouth at him.
“I, Captain America, defender of FREEDOM and LIBERTY hold this truth to be self-evident, that this house is home to the best Americans in the entire state of Iowa!” says Steve.
Cooper and Lila aren’t even bothering to contain their laughter now. One of them is probably kicking the wall, judging from the knocking sounds.
“We the people in order to form a more perfect union establish that this household should always contain justice, tranquility, and…”
Steve loses the thread for a moment. Or maybe is overcome by patriotic fervor, you’re really not sure which.
“And continual success in the pursuit of happiness?” you suggest.
“And continual success in the pursuit of happiness!” yells Steve, giving you a thumbs up.
The laughter is joyful, the shushing is half-hearted, and Steve glows at you. You leave two more giftbags full of patriotic silliness, and take a picture with your phone to send to Clint.
This is the best night ever.
Right up until Steve takes every damn cookie and doesn’t let you have a single one.
“Captain America cookies,” he tells you, and he’s practically walking on air back to the Quinjet.
You are gonna kill him.
*
“You know it’s my birthday today,” says Steve, halfway between Waverly and San Francisco.
The Quinjet’s on autopilot, and you’re both stretched out in the back of the jet, because it’s the middle of the night and in a perfect world, you’d both be sleeping.
But no, you had to go and troll Steve Rogers, because you forgot that Steve Rogers invented trolling, and now you’re 30,000 feet above Wyoming on your way to San Francisco to deliver a gift bag of silly patriotic toys, and you’re not even going to get cookies in exchange.
If Tumblr wasn’t already a trash fire (and proud of it), you’d turn it into one.
“Oh my gosh, Steve,” you say, deadpan. “You’re kidding. I had no idea that you were born of the Fourth of July. That was absolutely never in any history textbook I ever had, ever.”
Steve throws a wadded-up piece of paper at you; you pick it up and throw it back. “Most people thought it was a publicity stunt.”
“No way. It’s so corny, it had to be real, you know?”
It’s quiet for a while, except for the sound of Steve throwing the paper ball up in the air and catching it again. You close your eyes and think about falling asleep, sure that Steve will wake you up when you land.
“Sometimes I hate being Captain America.”
For a moment, you think you’ve dreamed Steve speaking. You turn your head to look at him, and he’s still throwing the paper ball up in the air, catching it when it falls back down. He’s taken off the cowl and the shield is stowed in its locker; his belt is on the table behind you and he’s undone some of the fastenings over his chest, so the suit is a little looser around his torso.
“Symbol of America, so patriotic he was born on the fourth of July,” continues Steve, with that deep voice he uses when he’s making fun of something official. He scoffs. “Even the Howlies didn’t believe it, until Bucky told ‘em it was true.”
You shrink a little bit into yourself; it’s not like you were much better, with your so corny, it had to be real. “Steve, I—”
“It’s fine,” says Steve quickly, but he doesn’t look at you, and he throws the paper ball a little higher, as if he’s throwing out the bitterness and aggression at the same time. “I’m used to it. And it’s not like I make a big deal of it anymore. Hard to celebrate being a hundred when I don’t look or feel it, you know? Anyway, Clint really would try to put a hundred candles on the cake, and Dum-E would drown all of us before I had a chance to blow them out.”
You chuckle.
“There was a kid we knew in school – Jacob Feinstein. Born on the 25th of December, and he’d get so angry with people who said he was born on Christmas Day, because he was Jewish, right? Wasn’t Christmas to him, it was just his birthday. But to everyone else…” Steve shrugs. “I’m not any more patriotic than the next person because of the day I was born, no more than Jacob was less Jewish. I’m a scrappy little punk from Brooklyn who’s more socialist than patriot.”
Steve throws the paper ball again. “That was the hardest part of the USO tour. The adults all expected me to be this… patriotic figure-head, you know? Every one of ‘em would come up to talk to me, expecting me to spout whatever bullshit they believed, because they’re all good Americans, right? I gotta think the same way they do. And sometimes I did, but the type of person who goes to those shows wasn’t usually the type of person I agreed with.
“The kids, though. They didn’t care about the politics. They just wanted to know if I was really holding up all those girls and how heavy was the shield and if they could hold it too. This one kid – Idaho, I think – I hand it to him. Not this one, it was the prop one. Barely weighed a thing. His eyes get real big, and he says, I thought it was heavier. You hold it like it’s heavier. And I said, ‘It is.’ And after that, it was a lot easier. Because they knew I wasn’t Captain America, I was just Steve Rogers from Brooklyn playing a character they knew from the comics they were already reading. And I talked to them like that, like I was Steve Rogers from Brooklyn playing a character named Captain America, and you know, it didn’t change, when I woke up after the ice.”
You smile, thinking of the times you’ve seen Steve with kids, because it’s true; the kids all want to hold the shield, are surprised when he can lift them up above his head. He talks to them like he’s a friend who happens to be a bit bigger, like the shield’s just a prop, like his uniform’s just a costume. The adults, they all want to know his opinion as if he’s the last word on all things American.
“You ever see those PSAs I did for the schools?”
The change of focus catches you off-guard. “Online, sure; they were after my time.”
“Same thing all over again. It’s Steve Rogers playing a character everyone thinks they know. Pretty sure that’s why all the kids make fun of them. I can’t even blame them, I’d do the same thing.
“But those kids we meet in the Make-A-Wishes. And the ones wearing the shield on their shirts, and hanging around to watch us take off in the Quinjet. Those kids. They know it’s just a costume. They know I’m Steve Rogers first, even if everyone else forgets.”
“I’m sorry I forgot.”
He twists to look at you. “You didn’t, though. Those kids know I’m playing a character, but they never make me feel like I don’t deserve to be. Sometimes I’m not sure I should be carrying the shield. But those kids make me really want to try.”
You smile at him. “I like that.”
He smiles back. “My mom was a nurse. First responder, they’d say now. But I just knew, when I was a kid, that I hated her going to work and leaving me alone when I wasn’t feeling well. Or if I just wanted her around, because I missed her. But she went to the hospital, every day, because that was her job. And I was proud of her, I knew it was a good thing, what she did. But sometimes, I wished she’d care about me more than she cared about strangers. Even though I knew she loved me more than anyone else on the planet. The Wilson and Barton kids, and Cassie Lang… maybe they feel different, maybe not. Except their dads and uncle are usually in a lot more danger a lot more often than my mother ever was.”
You think, but don’t say: Sarah Rogers’ job still killed her in the end.
“So if I can do this one thing for them,” continues Steve. “Something to make them laugh, to give them a really good memory… use Captain America to let ‘em know I see them and not just that they’re a hero’s kid… well. That can’t be a bad thing.”
You smile up at the top of the jet, letting that sink in.
Except.
“You’re wrong about one thing, though.”
Steve twists on his cot to look at you. “Oh? What’s that?”
“It’s not your hundredth birthday. You’re only ninety-ni—owwww!”
You yelp as Steve casually reaches over and knocks the latch holding up the cot, and you tumble to the floor, both of you laughing as you throw bits of wadded-up paper at each other’s heads.
It’s about twenty minutes later when Steve lands the Quinjet in the street next to Scott Lang’s house in San Francisco. It’s a quiet, pretty little street, and instead of a key under the front mat, you find a lock-breaking kit with your name on it.
“Great, you can earn your keep, Elf,” says Steve lightly, and you stick your tongue out at him and open the unlocked door.
“That seems very unsafe,” says Steve dryly.
“Yeah, but really funny if I’d locked it for him first,” you say smugly, dropping the kit on the table inside the door. “Anyway, only an idiot would break into an Avenger’s house in the middle of the night.”
“What’s that make us?” asks Steve, with a grin.
It’s dark in the house, and you think Cassie’s probably already asleep, a suspicion borne out when you find the note on the kitchen table.
Sorry guys, tried to stay awake but she conked out at 10.30. She decorated everything herself. Do me a favor, take a selfie and send it to me so I can prove it wasn’t me eating them? See you next week.
Scott
The cookies are amazing. They’re sugar cookie men and women, each one decorated to resemble a different Avenger. There’s even a cookie Nick Fury, and a cookie Pepper, and a cookie Maria Hill.
Steve picks up the Captain America cookie, laughing, and you take a picture quickly. Not a selfie, but it’ll work.
“We gotta take these back with us,” says Steve, munching on one of his legs, like a heathen who doesn’t realize the heads should be eaten first.
“I’ll go find some plastic wrap or something,” you say, and rummage in the drawers until you find a piece of foil.
“Hey, wait,” says Steve before you can cover the plate. He reaches over and snatches Cookie!You.
“Seriously, Steve?” you groan – but then he hands you the cookie.
“Go on,” he says, through the rest of Cookie!Him. “They’re really good.”
You break into a grin. “Really?”
“Well,” says Steve, “you earned it, cookie elf.”
You grin and look happily at your cookie. It’s too heavy on the icing in some places and the squiggles are lopsided and you don’t actually have orange on your costume but you don’t even care. Cassie Lang made you a cookie. Life is amazing.
“Also eating you would just be weird,” continues Steve.
“Yeah,” you agree cheerfully, dropping the gift bag for Cassie on the table and following Steve back out the door, making sure the knob locks automatically behind you. “Cassie Lang is my favorite.”
You as a cookie! You are gonna protect that girl through thick and thin.
The Quinjet takes off and Steve sets the course for home. You have lost all track of time, but there’s a cot back there with your name on it, and you can sleep in. You are the Cookie Elf, you have earned a late morning. And also a cookie.
It’s a gorgeous night, so many stars above the summertime clouds. You’re exhausted and you want to eat your cookie and you also don’t because it’s you. And Steve’s right, it would be weird.
Can you keep a cookie forever? You’ll have to look it up.
“Gonna be perfect for fireworks tomorrow,” says Steve, coming back to lay on the cot across from yours. He sounds so perfectly satisfied and full of cookies. “Well. Later today, I guess is more accurate.”
“Hey, Steve?”
“Hmm?”
“Happy birthday.”
Steve folds his hands on his stomach and smiles. “The best,” he agrees.