Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Weeks after the “Pie Incident”, as it quickly became known around the school, and the most you’d heard about the Avengers was on the evening news.

You’d reported back to the Professor about how the meeting went. He’d simply listened to you with that enigmatic smile, and dismissed you back to your adjunct duties. No earth-shattering pronouncements, no “I am so disappointed in you” looks - nothing. As if all you’d done was run an errand. Well, actually, that may have been all that you did for him. Oh well.

So, imagine your surprise, one Saturday morning as you were grading papers and folding laundry (taking advantage of the laundry room at the school - your studio didn’t come with its own washer and dryer, and screw constantly getting quarters for the laundromat) in the spacious media room when your phone started buzzing. Looking over at it, the screen flashed Private Number. Yeah, there was no way you were going to pick that up. Probably bill collectors. Or wrong number. Hopefully the latter - you didn’t want to think about your student loans. The phone buzzed again - and, intrigued, you looked over at the screen. And then blanched.

Evil Betty Crocker - we need you. In route. XOXO

It was fruitless to wonder how he’d gotten your number. And only one person would call you ‘Evil Betty Crocker.’ He WAS Tony Stark, after all. Before you could even shoot off a text about what was even happening, you heard the roar of an engine outside of the media room window. And then the squeals of impressed kids.

Oh lord.

Tony’s signature orange Audi pulled up to the front of the school, and your next series of internal questions revolved entirely around how in the Sam Hill had he known you were going to be at the school and you know what, the less you think about this, the better.

“Dude! How do you know Tony Stark?!” Bobby Drake was nearly beside himself, his breath frosting in his excitement. His chest was heaving in exertion - kid must’ve run all the way to come get you.

“Ohmigod, right?!” Behind him was the mile a minute Jubilation Lee, popping her gum and resplendent in day glo pink and yellow. “He totally asked for you, eff y eye,” she said, winding a strand of gum around her finger. “Are you guys dating? Because that’d be kinda weird but kinda hot?” Her dark brown eyes glittered as she humored the possibilities. “Maybe more hot if he bought you all of the things all of the time. Could he buy you a mall? Could he buy you a mall and then you give the mall to me?”

“I don’t really know Tony, Bobby, and no, we’re not dating, Ju-ju bee,” you said, continuing to fold your shirts, trying hard not to laugh. “I just went to the Tower because the Professor asked me to.” Not like it was a secret on campus, though you figured only a few of the X-Men probably knew the real reason why you of all people were picked to go. And, if they did know, they weren’t spilling the beans.

“Then why is he here? Like, Tony Stark doesn’t just make house calls,” she pressed, leaning over the coffee table in front of the couch you were sitting on. Noticing that she was trying to sneak a peek at the papers, you discreetly pushed them out of the way.

“Because I’ve done some long, hard, soul-searching, and I’ve decided that I can’t live without Evil Betty Crocker in my life.”

Oh, that snark. That sass. And you were not having it. Not right now. Not when your laundry was splayed out across the couch, including a few of your more “delicate” items.

“Tonytonytonytonytonytony STARK! OHMIGOD. I’m Jubilation Lee and it is so totally sweet, like, mad crazy awesome, that I’m totally standing in front of you! Do you really have the hots for Miz (last name)?”Jubilee bounded over to the older man, literally almost bouncing by his side. Bobby Drake stood frozen (how appropriate) by the door, jaw hung open. Well, the hero worship had surprised you a little. Iron Man vs. the Wolverine? No contest, you thought with a wry smile. Maybe it was the “stupid amounts of money” thing that made ‘em flip.

“Frankly, my Miss Lee, I do give a damn and I need my Scarlett by my side.” Tony managed to disengage himself from Jubilee’s brightly colored clutches, and pushing his shades up his nose, reached into his jacket pocket and produced a bill. “A hundred bucks to blow on a movie, popcorn, whatever, if you give me and Miss Scarlett here a moment.”

“Who’s Scarlett?” asked Jubilee and Bobby, in unison.

Tony gave a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Kids. Don’t you teach ‘em anything in this school? No movie nights?” He waved the bill at them again. “Going once, going twice - hundred bucks to amscray.”

“You can’t just bribe the students!” you said, indignant.

“Oh, he totes can and he just did. I’m outie!” Jubilee grabbed Bobby by the arm, and dragged him out of the room. As she rounded the bend to exit, she looked over her shoulder and gave you a massive, cartoonish wink.

…If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear the whole thing was planned. With a long sigh, you finished folding the current shirt in your hands and set it down.

“Really. Gone with the Wind. That’s the best you can do?”

“All right, then, Steel Magnolia.” He made a great show of sitting down on the couch, sliding next to you, pausing to carelessly cross his legs. “But now that we’re alone…” Could have possibly been any more slimy as he said that? Yeessh. Though he was “underdressed” at the moment, you knew that had to have been a Tom Ford jacket over a what appeared to be a Bruce Lee t-shirt. And jeans that probably cost more than a month’s rent. Realistically, you mused as you looked him over, his entire outfit could have paid your rent for about 6 months. You also reminded yourself that you were looking at his outfit and not checking him out.

“You’d make a tempest in a tea cup,” you sighed, trying to control your drawl. You were at the school, so swearing was verboten.

He just beamed. “Can I walk around recording you for a week? Please? You’ll be my little Foghorn Leghorn.”

“Stark.” There was warning in your voice. “I haven’t heard from you or the rest of your team in ages, and you suddenly just show up at the school because you ‘need me’? Explain.”

“Only if you wear these.” He dangled a bit of sheer fabric from a fingertip. Recognizing it as a particularly scandalous, exceedingly lacy thong, you snatched it from him and shoved it under a pile of clothes.

“I kid, I kid. Though I would like to see you in something a little less. Or more. Can you get one of those X uniforms on loan? Yowza.”

“Uh-huh.” You knew you looked a hot mess right now. Your hair was still up from your shower, you wore a pair of yoga pants that were so old they had holes in them, and a “Xavier’s School for the Gifted” tank top that you maybe had “borrowed indefinitely” from Remy LeBeau’s laundry hamper. Not like he would notice; he never wore the thing and that’s what he got for never doing his own laundry anyway. You’d never tell anyone that you sniffed it for like 5 minutes after you first picked it up. The man was walking sex.

“All joking aside, Evil Betty, I have a mission for you.”

“Which couldn’t possibly be in any kind of relation to the whole reason why I came to whatever you wanna call that building in New York.”

“I never flat out refused,” and he reached across you -oh, hello there, delectable cologne and notes of expensive coffee-, grabbing the first paper from the stack of them. “Who misspells their own ‘code’ name? Seriously? This is our future? C’mon.”

You snatched the paper out of his hand, and put it back on the stack. You wouldn’t dare tell him you wondered the same thing.

“You’re being particularly dodgy, and I have things to do.”

“Okay, okay, Scarlett, don’t get your petticoats in a bunch. I do actually need your help. Or rather, Steve does.”

Just the mention of Steve’s name was enough to make your brain short. Tony must’ve figured that out, because the grin on his face was like the cat who ate the canary.

“…I’m listening,” you said.

“Okay, so it is honestly adorable. Steve, the big lug, has been trying to catch up on all he’s missed since he went into deep freeze. Keeps a little notebook and everything - charming. So we’ve been taking him to eat all over town, and he has a slice of that pie, and the next thing you know, his internet browser history is nothing but Southern food.”

Your mind imploded into a long squeal. “…And?”

“You know as well as I do, though I would never openly bad mouth this wonderful city and wonderful state and anything above the Mason-Dixie line, you can’t get the same sort of stuff here as you can where you’re from. And though I’m generous, we can’t have old Stars and Stripes jetting off to swamp country because he wants authentic crawfish. Do you suck the heads, by the way?”

Your nostrils flared as you took a deep breath. “It depends on who you are, but no, I don’t suck heads.”

“Your boyfriend must be so disappointed.”

Legitimately, you did walk right into that one.

“Gatdammit.” You placed your face in your palms. So much for not swearing at school. At least none of the students (or faculty) were around to hear it.

“Ooo, Teacher said a swear. Do you get spanked for that?”

“Stark, I’m about a good minute away from being on you like white on rice, so you better be getting to your point real quick.” His expression was like a child’s on Christmas, and, fumbling with his watch, he pressed a button. The watch spat back at you, “I’m about a good minute away from being on you like white on rice,” the drawl and annoyance magnified in your own voice played back to you.

“I can’t believe I got that. Amazing. Please, please, please, PLEASE let me record you for a week.”

You sighed, and dramatically threw your head back onto the couch, slumping into its well-worn cushions. Clearly, there was no winning this.

“Real talk: I’d love for you to come by and cook something for him. He’s had a rough week, with this whole new modern world thing and being sent right into action, and I bet you can make something that will put a little spangle back in that banner of his.”

“That didn’t even make sense.”

“Spangle – banner. Star spangled banner. To be fair, it sounded better in my head. But can you do this for me? For Steve? For truth, justice, and the American way?”

You turned your head to look at him. And under all of the snark, there was the faintest glimmer of sincerity in his eyes, bolstered by the colors pouring off of his body. And on that day, you learned that Tony Stark did indeed have a heart.

And it was for Steve, aka Dreamy McDreamerson.

“All right,” you said, peeling yourself off of the couch. “But I’m putting on some pants that don’t have holes in them.”

“I don’t think of them as holes; I think of them as ‘easy access.’”

You’re pretty sure no one could fault you for walloping Tony Stark with a throw pillow.

Chapter Text

AC/DC was still ringing in your ears as you followed Tony into the Tower. He waltzed (could he do anything but?) into the kitchen, waving an arm around the room in a grandiose gesture. “Fabulous, is it not?”

“Yeah, it’s somethin’ all right,” you said, setting your bag down on one of the couches. You’d changed into jeans and comfortable shoes, but kept on the tank top. No way you were parting with that. 

It was the kitchen of your dreams. It was massive - but not so much that it was intimidating. So much space. And that fridge! Even the school didn’t have a kitchen nearly as nice as this one - and it served far more people. You started going through the drawers and cabinets as he kept talking - 

“So, I haven’t turned down the offer, but, to be honest, Stella, we need to spend some quality time with you. Make sure that you can be trusted. Believe it or not, I’ve been chatting with Charlie, and he raised some salient points about you and how you could help us. Like a student exchange program – we get you, we get your abilities, and you learn how the Avengers work.” 

“Stella?”

“Now I see where your students get their woeful ignorance from,” he lamented with a dramatic eye roll. “A Streetcar Named Desire. Marlon Brando screaming in the street. ‘HEY STEEEELLLLLLAAAAAAAA!’”

“Wow, okay, sorry for not remembering a movie that I caught once in the middle of the night like five years ago,” you groused. “Just because you’re from the South doesn’t mean that you consume media only set in the South.”

“But you have seen it.” The smugness on his face was thick. 

“…Shut your mouth.”

Your mind was trying to process what Tony was saying - before the ‘Stella’ thing had derailed you. Had the Professor sent you to be an Avenger? Why would he do that, when you didn’t make the cut to be an X-Man? And on top of that, again, why not send someone with actual battle experience to join up? None of this made sense – ah, that would be perfect!

You pulled out a large pot, checking out your reflection, before you started searching for the lid for it. Tony had a point - you couldn’t blame him for being suspicious. You still hadn’t told him what your powers were, after all. And, to be fair, you figured at this point, they already knew, so why say anything about it? Tony had to have known – otherwise there’d be nothing to talk to the Professor about. 

 “I should just drug you and take all of your cookware.” Your voice was muffled as you kept digging the cabinets. As much as you may have wanted to continue to verbally spar with Tony, you were a gal on a mission. “Got any shrimp?”

“What?”

“Shrimp. I need shrimp - with the shells still on. Have to have the shells so I can make shrimp stock. Garlic, onion, cayenne pepper, long grain brown rice, actually, no, make that short grain brown rice - ” you stopped, looking at Tony. His expression was lost. 

You sighed. “I’ll make a list.”

++++++++++

You give me fever, love I can't explain,
Fire uncontained, what is this, girl?
I try to fight, but I never win,
Seems I just give in to your embrace.

You couldn’t help but to move your shoulders to the thumping bass of the song. Tony had returned (although you doubted he actually went himself) with everything you asked for - and then promptly vanished. Where, you didn’t know, and you didn’t bother to ask. It’d be nice to have him out of your hair while you worked your magic.

Upon request, JARVIS pulled up your iTunes library, and you were set to go. So here you were, standing at the kitchen counter, chopping and rocking out. You couldn’t cook without music, and the bass line of the song went straight to your hips. 

But oh, you try so hard not to say,
Oh, all the things you do to me, and girl, oh,
Oh, my love can't be concealed, girl, you know the deal,
Baby, stay with me tonight.

By “oh, all the things you do to me,” you’d joined in, adding olive oil to a waiting pot on the stove. With your back turned to the bar, you gyrated in tune to the song, rolling your hips in a move that wouldn't have been out of place on a pole. Hey, when you got it, you got it - and when you turned around, Steve Rogers in all of his infinite glory was looking at you, amused, from across the bar.

You froze.

“I’m sorry, (Your name). I tried to get your attention, but I don’t think you heard me over the music and the noise.” He gave you a knowing, but kind, look.

Steve Rogers just saw you gyrating pretty sinfully and singing horrifically off tune - someone just vanish you off of the planet, please. The bass continued, and as much as you wanted to halt your treacherous hips, you couldn’t stop moving. Little awkward, rocking out from the navel down, trying to keep your expression neutral and your eyes on his. He was dressed in a white shirt and khakis, brown bomber jacket slung over a nearby chair. 

To get a rise out of him, you started to turkey-neck along with the song, making your expression playfully deadly serious. He seemed confused for a moment, before realizing that you were messing with him. He smiled (and angels sang and the ocean turned into cotton candy), and you grinned. 

“It’s good to see you again,” he started, looking over the bar at the kitchen counter top. You’d already chopped the onion, sausage, and celery - a head of garlic sat next to the cutting board, waiting to be peeled. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Nope,” you said. 

He gave you a slightly indignant look. “I learned a few things about cooking in the army. I can help out. Really.”

“Nope.”

He looked at you, setting his jaw in a way that made you want to kiss him until you suffocated and then he would give you CPR and you’d start kissing all over again, but there was no way he was getting in the kitchen. Not while you were in there. Not while you were cooking for him. 

Steve strode from around the bar, making his way into the kitchen, and you picked up a wooden spoon. Brandishing it at him, you stood your ground. “You come any closer, Rogers, and I’ll pop you.”

He looked at you, brows raised, smile incredulous, before he inched his way into the kitchen. Quick as a wink, you popped his shoulder lightly with the spoon.

“Hey!” 

“Told you.”

He looked at you, made a step closer into the kitchen. And you popped him again, on his opposite shoulder. Taking the hint, he backed out of the kitchen, hands raised in surrender.  

“Them’s the rules - out of my kitchen while I’m cooking,” you said jovially, adding the chopped items to the pot. They struck with a sizzle, filling the spacious kitchen their rich scent. Steve took in a deep sniff of appreciation, and settled himself on the bar, content, for the moment, to watch you.

“So, I heard you liked the pie,” you started, as you stirred the pot with the same wooden spoon (because Captain America did not have germs. No five second rule applied to anything dropped on his body - wow, you need to stop that train of thought before it even left the station). “Tony sent me a text, and not even 10 minutes later turns up on the doorstep of the school, drives me here, and gives me some sort of story about how you were too shy to ask me to cook something.” 

Steve looked faintly guilty. “I’m sorry, (Your name). There’s a lot that’s changed from before,” his smile took on a sentimental note, “and while I can find a lot of stuff here, it’s not quite the same. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a ton of good stuff out there, but it feels like it’s missing something. And I started thinking about what you said about culture the last time you were here, and, I got curious about sweet potato pie, and I kept going from there.”

“Steve Rogers, are you telling me you researched Southern food?” You already knew that he had, but you wanted to hear it spill from those glorious lips.

“I did,” and there wasn’t a trace of guilt in his face, just that sunbeam smile. “I didn’t tell Tony to bring you here, though. He did that all on his own. How did Tony know what I was looking at on the internet?”

“Probably got JARVIS to pull up your browser history,” and you turned the heat off. Steve looked confused. Wanting to nip a technology discussion in the bud (so not your area of expertise), you looked at the head of garlic. A light bulb went off in your head. 

“I just figured out what you could help me with,” and you grabbed the head of garlic. “Wash your hands.” He looked quizzically at you, but went to the sink. As he washed his hands, you passed the head of garlic and the cutting board over the bar, before taking the seat next to him. And you maybe scooted the chair a little closer to his. Cracking open the head of garlic, you took in a deep whiff of its pungent aroma, and, as if on cue, the song changed from the heavy funk of “Stay with Me Tonight” to the slow groove of L.T.D.’s “Love Ballad.” 

Aaaawwwwkkkwwwaarrrrddddd.

Chapter Text

You did your best to ignore it.

Though it was hard - the song was amazing, and Jeffery Osborne sang each word with conviction. Well, maybe you could talk over it. It was far less explicit than “Stay with Me Tonight.” But it was totally a baby making song and you knew it.

“Do you know how to peel garlic?” you asked as Steve came round the bar. He settled himself into the chair next to you, and this close, you could practically feel the heat coming off of those shoulders. And get a better whiff of him - that clean, ‘I sweat diamonds’ scent of his.

“I can’t say that I’ve done it before, but I’m sure it can’t be any harder than peeling potatoes,” and that look of his almost made you slide off your stool. Right. Okay then.

“It’s not that hard,” you said, ignoring the way your voice cracked. “See, let me show you.” You broke a clove off, hooked a nail under the translucent skin, and peeled. “Easy, right? Maybe a little easier if you have fingernails,” and you waggled your fingers at him.

“Easy enough,” he said. Breaking off a few more cloves (because there was never such a thing as too much garlic), you handed them to him. Your fingers brushed against his, and you had to fight to ignore the thrill that coursed up your hand. You were not in 6th grade anymore - you were an adult; you had bills and everything. This couldn’t get to you.

As he started peeling, his face set in a serious expression, giving all of his attention to peeling a clove just right, you thought you were going to lose it. How could a human being be this perfect? Quiet draped over the two of you, Jeffrey singing softly in the background:

Lovin' you gave me something new

That I've never felt, never dreamed of

Something's changed though it's not the Feeling I had before,

Oh, it's much much more …

....There’s no way that Steve could tell that this was a baby making song.

Maybe he was focused more on peeling garlic than actively listening. You really should ask JARVIS to play something else. But dammit, it was a good song.

“Who is this?” Steve asked, his focus still on the clove of garlic in his hand.

You felt your face grow hot. “Jeffery Osborne,” you said, with a faint laugh. “Well, technically, it’s L.T.D., the group he was with at the time. From the 1970s.”

Steve was quiet as he set the clove aside, pausing before he picked up another one. “He has a nice voice,” he said, and looked at you with a smile.

Did he just…?

He did not just.

Did he know that by complimenting the song, that automatically meant in your frazzled brain that he wanted to go make some babies with you?

Lovers come and then lovers go

That's what folks say, don't they know

They're not there, when you love me, hold me and say, okay

And what we have is much more than they could see

“It’s kind of sad,” he said, thoughtfully. “But it’s not entirely sad, either.” He looked at you for reassurance that he was understanding the song correctly. You smiled, picking up another clove to peel.

“It kind of is,” you agreed, “But that’s what makes it good. He’s talking about discovering something for the first time, something that most people tend to take for granted. And reassuring himself what he’s found is still good. I guess if you wanted to be negative, you could say he was trying to convince himself that his love will last, but if you want to be positive, he’s singing about how wonderful this new experience is.”

“I think I like the positive reading better. Something I can get behind,” and when he looked at you again, you were pretty sure that you might pass out. There was a hint of sadness in those baby blues, and my god did you want to pry into his aura and find out the name of the person who put that sorrow in his eyes so you could go beat them up. Thankfully, though, the song had ended, and before the next one could start, you lightly nudged Steve with your elbow. “I’ll put on something more upbeat. JARVIS, could you access my ‘Wonderful’ playlist?”

“Of course,” came the AI’s dulcet tones.

“ ‘Wonderful’?” Steve set down the cloves in his hand next to the neat pile of peeled ones next to your hand.

“My Stevie Wonder playlist. I take it no one’s told you about him yet?”

“Y’know, to be honest, (your name), if they had, it’s slipped my mind. So much to catch up on,” he looked at you, sheepish.

“Well, then let me give you a crash course,” and just as you finished, the jazzy harmonica of ‘Fingertips ’ started. You waited, watching Steve’s face for a reaction. Of course, it probably helped that you had the music at a reasonable level, and not at Tony Stark deafening “You will hear this in your nightmares.” The playlist was set up in chronological order, starting with Wonder’s earliest work – and you figured that would work out well. Instrumentally, the music coming out of the early 1960s wasn’t too jarring from what Steve may have been familiar with in the 1930s and 1940s.

He sat for a moment, and he began nodding his head to the beat, his smile widening, his hand drumming along on his thigh. “He isn’t bad,” he said, a light in his eyes. “He’s playing the harmonica, right? When is this from?”

“Yup - and 1960s, I believe. Early part of his career with Motown. When he was ‘Little Stevie Wonder.’ I think he was 12 years old at the time? Somewhere abouts in there.”

“12? Really?” Steve swiveled in his chair to “face” the music, a new appreciation in his eyes. “I mean, he sounds young, but then when the music starts…” He was quiet again, taking it in.

“That’s why they advertised him as a prodigy,” you said, smiling. “Not that it was a lie, by any means, trust me.” Watching Steve’s delighted face, it was hard for you to concentrate on the garlic. Well, it wasn’t going to chop itself, and you couldn’t waste Steve’s hard work. Pulling the chopping board and cloves of garlic back over the bar into the kitchen, you started chopping. “I had the same reaction when I first heard him. Motown really knew what they were doing. For a while, anyway.”

Turning away from the music, he gave you a baffled look. “Motown? Who’s that?”

You laughed. “Oh, Steve, I’ve got so much to tell you…”

Chapter Text

By the time your playlist brought you out of the 1960s and into the 1970s pure funk clavinet of “Talking Book,” you’d given Steve a crash course in Motown (and the Motown Sound), the Funk Brothers, (without whom, there wouldn’t have BEEN a Motown sound, thank you very much), the polished glam of the Supremes, a little bit of the tragedy of Marvin Gaye, and finally, Stevie Wonder himself.

“You mean to tell me he plays all of those instruments and he’s been blind almost from birth?” Steve was agog, watching you, then turning to “watch” the music. He’d been going back and forth like this for the last two hours, sometimes stopping you mid-sentence so he could better hear a particular musical phrase. You nodded as you added a bit more garlic powder to the pot; the food was just about done. 

“Yes indeed. ‘Innervisions’ is pretty much all him. That’s what we’re listening to now, by the way.” Apparently Steve was not immune to the clavinet, even though it marked a drastic shift in the sound of the music. He’d been softly drumming his fingers along to it on the bar top. Not bad for someone that was still getting acclimated to a brave new world. 

“Remember how I said he had issues with Motown? A lot of the reason was because he wanted to push his music in a new direction. He saw a lot of injustice in the world, and wanted to sing about it, and Motown, in those years, did its best to stay out of politics in favor of a cross-over market. This album has a lot of meaning  - see, listen,” and you were quiet, letting the song fill the room. 

Powers keep on lyin'
While your people keep on dyin'
World keep on turnin'
'Cause it won't be too long

Steve’s listening face, you had decided, when he was genuinely interested, was pretty grave. You could see the gears turning in his mind; watch him process what he was listening to, try to figure out how he felt about it. Maybe it was a dick move to point out the verse about the powers that be as liars, since, you know, he’d been in the military and actually watched people die.  He’d been asleep during the Vietnam years - the open condemnation of the government may have been jarring. Maybe he hadn’t had a crash course in what he’d missed yet. Or at least the details – broad overviews and dates tended to miss political and societal nuances. Thank god that the next verse turned it around: 

I'm so glad that he let me try it again
'Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin
I'm so glad that I know more than I knew then
Gonna keep on tryin'
Till I reach my highest ground

“Wow. Just…wow. Is he…is he still alive?” Steve’s face was so hopeful that you wanted to hug him. 

“Yup; hasn’t toured in a while, though.” You sprinkled thyme into the pot, and inhaled deeply. It was getting there - reaching over, you added more cayenne to it. 

“I’d like to see him. In concert, I mean.”

“Mention it to Tony, and I’m sure if and when Wonder tours again, he will set you up,” you chuckled, dipping a spoon into the pot. “Here, try this,” and you held out the spoon to him. He leaned over the bar, holding a hand under the dripping spoon. He took a tentative sip, and his eyes lit up before he started coughing. You laughed, taking the spoon from him and setting it down.

“Too spicy?”

In the midst of coughing, he shook his head no. “Just caught me by surprise. Wow, that’s good! You know,” he said, laughing now, “This entire time, I didn’t even ask what you were making. Guess I was distracted.” He jerked his head in the direction of the music – which, to be fair, seemed to be coming from everywhere. You’d have to compliment Tony on his sound system.

“Shrimp and sausage jambalaya, specialty of Louisiana,” you said, with a grin. “Remy gave me this particular recipe. Whenever he bothers to cook at the school, it’s standing room only. The man’s got a gift.” 

“Remy? Who’s he?”

“He goes by ‘Gambit.’ He has an accent heavier than mine - way swamp-rat-y,” you laughed. “He’s from Louisiana. Us Southerners have to stick together, you know. There’s me, Anna - she usually goes by ‘Rogue’, by the way— she’s from Mississippi, and Sam; he’s from Kentucky.”

“You guys sound like a pretty close knit family,” his tone was wistful. “It must be nice.”

“Oh, we get on each other’s nerves and not everyone gets along. Logan and Scott are always hissin’ and pissin’ at each other. All of the small time bickering goes out the window, though, when it comes to what the Professor thinks the future could be for mutants. it’s a wonderful thing. Makes gettin’ along easier when you have something bigger in sight, you know?”

“…Yeah, I think I do, (your name).” And damn him and that smile. Seems like he wasn’t going to give you hell over your drawl or your… ‘colorful’ expressions. Lucky for you that there was food cooking, and as dreamy as he was, you weren’t going to run the risk of messing this up. You gave the pot one final stir for good measure, sampled the food, and nodded to yourself. “Well, are you ready to eat?” 

He grinned at you. “I’ll get the bowls.”

++++++++

For a while there, you weren’t sure if you’d actually made enough for the two of you. 

Something about his super soldier body meant that he burned through food quicker than a house full of teenage boys, and you refilled bowl after bowl for him. He burned through a pitcher of water as well, waving your constant questions of if it was too spicy away.

“I like the spice - Thai can be spicy too, but this is different.”

“Cayenne packs a slow burn,” you grinned, refilling your own water glass. You’d made a pitcher of sweet tea as well (because how could you not), but after the first bowl, apparently Steve had decided that only water took the burn out of the jambalaya. 

“Good different, though, (your name),” and he cleaned his third bowl. Looking up at you, he had a shy smile on his face. 

“Want more?”

He grinned and nodded. 

In the end, though, he’d tapped out at 4 bowls to your one, and there was about a serving and a half left in the pot. Steve, like a true gentleman, cleared the table and was in the process of washing the dishes as you spooned out the leftovers into a tupperware.

It amused you to no end that someone like Tony Stark would have tupperware. 

“How was it?” you asked as you put the tupperware in the fridge. “And I’m putting this on the second shelf behind this stack of Mountain Dew cans. Who in the world drinks that crap?”

“Clint. I think he lives off of that and those peanut butter cup candies. He has strange eating habits. I once saw him eat an entire bag of marshmallows and a tube of cookie dough while he was watching a movie. I know you get candy at the movies, but I didn’t think that someone would just eat a bag of marshmallows. He could’ve at least baked the cookies.” 

You shuddered as you pushed the cans aside to make room for the Tupperware. It was tempting to write a note specifying that the food was for Steve, but as cluttered as the fridge was, you figured you’d have to know exactly where something was in there to get it. And since Steve was the only person that knew what you made and where you’d stashed it, you figured it’d be safe. 

“The food was great, (your name). I haven’t eaten that well in ages. Don’t tell Tony I said that, though. I think I’d hurt his feelings if I said something bad about all the places he’s taken me. But there’s nothing like homemade, right?” He looked over his shoulder at you, and you nodded. He was drying his hands off on a dish towel, and you resisted the urge to stare at the way his hands slipped in and out of the cloth. So many possibilities.

“That, I can heartily agree with.” Walking out of the kitchen, you flopped down on one of the living room couches, stretching out your legs. Steve sat down next to you, leaning back. Somehow he managed to avoid knocking into your legs. 

He was quiet for a moment, listening to the music. He then craned his head down, looking at your sprawled form. “By the way…why did you pick this dish? If Tony did what you said, there must’ve been a million things I looked at over these last few weeks.” 

This close to the edge of sleep from overeating, warm, and feeling safe, you were spurred you to speak honestly. 

“Well, I picked it because it means a lot to me - not only because I got the recipe from Remy, but because I grew up on it….because it’s one of those dishes that a state is famous for. You can’t say ‘jambalaya’ and not think of Louisiana. Louisiana is the south, but not the ‘south’ as well. It’s been this melting pot of people and cultures for so many centuries; it’s such a remarkable state – been on some hard times, but it keeps going…To me, that’s…something special. Unique. It’s food that warms you up, spiritually and physically. I wanted to make you something that felt like home. That you could remember me by.” 

You stopped, realizing that you were rambling. And not only that, you’d basically taken the opportunity to confess how you felt about Steve. And it didn’t make any kind of sense. You barely knew the man. Yeah, he was stupid cute, but you lived with a school full of stupid cute men. Walking sex bomb explosion Remy. Logan. Piotr. Kurt, in his blue, fuzzy, dashing way. You even had moments when you did a double-take at Scott (though you would never tell anyone; though you were pretty sure Jean knew and thought it was hilarious). And it wasn’t just that Steve was stupid nice – because, well, you knew stupid nice men, too. Hank McCoy was the first name that came to mind; you’d never met a more gentle, kind, and considerate person in your entire life. 

So what was it about Steve?

Maybe his inherent goodness – it made you want to be better, too - and what made things worse was that it was all sincere. Your mutation allowed you to ‘read’ the auras of others - sense their emotions in shades of color. Despite the good-naturedness that Steve generally radiated (his base color to you appeared to be an endless ocean of blue) you could see the deeper blue flickers of sorrow, the navy of loss, and it was beyond your reach to ask to help him. So you did what you could - cook from the heart. Let his feelings guide you into what he needed. And in the process, bond with him, even though he had no idea that you were. Stupid mutation. Stupid you losing control and being overwhelmed by his Steve-ness that you let it control you. The music and food seemed to have helped, though – the sadness were still there, but there was also a lightness, a strand of warmer blue, the sky on the edge of the sea on a clear day within him that let you know he was at peace – and growing comfortable with you.

Something was still bothering him – and as tempting as it was to just…reach in, curl your power around him and make him tell you, you realized it’d be a horrible violation of trust. He’d tell you, if it was meant for you to know, in time. Tony had been right – one pie didn’t win you their good graces. Only time spent around you, seeing you for you, would do that. 

With all the doubts you had in your own ability, looking at him smile at you, seeing how your words meant something to him…watching as his blue began to melt into a warm green, you not only could see him warming up to you, you could feel it as well. Green within the aura usually meant friendship - though, like anything else, the colors were specific to the individual.

“Thanks, (your name).”

“Don’t mention it! Call me if you see another dish that catches your eye. Or you want to talk Motown.” 

With a solemn nod, he tilted his head back on the couch, and you settled in further, letting the music surround the two of you.

++++++++++++

Mid way through the next week, you were sitting at home, flipping through the channels, procrastinating on grading papers, (Jesus lord they never ended) when your phone buzzed. Leaning over, you glanced at the screen. It was a local area code, but you didn’t recognize the number. Well, if it was important, they’d leave a message. 

In a few moments, the phone buzzed. Huh. Hopefully it wasn’t another Stark trick - though it wasn’t like the last one was so bad. Thinking about Steve’s grateful face warmed you all the way down to your toes. Pressing the phone to your ear, your smile widened as you heard Steve’s voice.

“Hello, (your name) - I wanted to thank you again for cooking for me. I’d been having a time of it, and your food and the music really helped me out.”

In the background, you could hear indiscriminate yelling.

“-she was over here and you ate it all and didn’t leave me any-!”

“First come, first serve, Legolas! Spangles, are you talking to Scarlett?”

“Tell her she needs to come back and make more because some ASSHOLE ATE IT ALL!”

“My house, my rules, my food!”

Steve sighed. “Anyway, I wanted to know if, you know, maybe if you had some free time, that you’d like to bring over some more Motown music for me? Tony says he can pull it all up, but to be honest, I like the stories you tell with the music.” 

A crashing of glass in the background, and a small explosion (there was no way you could spend any time at Xavier’s school and not know what an explosion sounded like) - “What in the world?! Look, (your name), I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go - give me a call? Tony, put that down!” 

You replayed the voicemail five times just to make sure that you’d heard everything correctly - and vowed that you’d never delete it. 

Chapter Text

You tried hard not to believe in things like “fate”, or “kismet”, or even “coincidence,” but it was really hard to think of anything else when not even two weeks later, you heard on the radio that Stevie Wonder was back on tour. And not just any tour, but performing the whole of “Songs in the Key of Life.” Before you could even reach your phone to call Steve, your phone was ringing.

“Hey, (your name), did you hear?” Steve sounded downright thrilled. 

“I was just about to call you,” you said, laughing, “I  just heard it on the radio. I thought I’d ask you if you wanted to go.”

He laughed. “You beat me to the punch; I wanted to ask you to come with me. Tony apparently has some pull with Madison Square Garden, and got me tickets. Do you have any plans Saturday night?”

“If you call grading papers and avoiding Scott plans.”

He chuckled, and you could see him making that little scoff face. “Well, keep your dance card open for me. I’d like to take you to the show.”

“I think I can manage that, although I’m sure Scott will be distraught that he has no one’s lesson plan to decimate.”

He laughed now. “I’ll see you Saturday night, then. I figured you could come to the Tower - bring an overnight bag…”

There was a moment of silence. Maybe not entirely silent; you made a noise that was something between a snort, a squeal, and a playful gasp.

Struggling to compose yourself, you chirruped in your heaviest drawl, “Why, I declare, Steve Rogers, are you trying to make me a dishonest woman?!”

“I didn’t mean it like that, (your name)!” Steve stammered. “I meant that, you know, it might be a long concert, and it’d probably be easier to stay at the Tower, there’s so many extra rooms, we don’t have to sleep in the same one!” His words were spilling over one another, before they dissolved into your raucous laughter. 

“Steve, bless your heart! I’m kidding. I think spending the night would be a good idea; I’m a fair piece away from the Tower as it is and trying to get back that time of night would be a nightmare. Quick question, though - wouldn’t it start a mess of gossip if I spent the night, regardless of where?” You leaned up against the wall, looking up at the colorful scarves draped across the ceiling. The last thing you needed was for it to be plastered all over the media that some random chick spent the night over at the Avengers Tower. Jubliee alone would have a field day with it.

“Oh, yeah, that - actually, everyone seems to be out - Bruce is at a conference, Tony’s in California, Thor’s back on Asgard for now, and Clint and Natasha are on a mission. I guess it got up the ladder that I needed some more R n’ R.” You weren’t one hundred percent sure, but it sure sounded like there was a little bitterness in Steve’s voice. You’d have to ask about that later.

“…Doesn’t it seem a little convenient that’s how things worked out?”

“I say let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.” It was clear that you weren’t the only person that thought it was a little too convenient that no one would be around, but hey, maybe he had a point. Sometimes things just lined up that way.

“Fair enough,” you replied, focusing back to the state of your bedroom. “So…”

“I’ll see you Saturday afternoon around 6?” His tone was all over the place - a combination of hope and uncertainty. You, however, were still focused on the fact you’d more than likely be spending the night. Wow.

“Sounds good, actually.”

“Great!” Relief was plain in his voice. “I’ll see you then, (your name).”

It was only when you hung up that you realized that A. This could be considered a date, B. Did Steve Rogers just ask you out on a date? C. DID STEVE ROGERS JUST ASK YOU OUT ON A DATE.

Your resounding screams made your neighbors call the cops, and you had to spend an hour explaining why you’d kept screaming like that when no one was trying to murder you.

++++++

Okay, okay, this isn’t a date. It isn’t a date, you kept telling yourself as you were walking through the expansive foyer of the Avengers Tower. JARVIS had let you in, expressing in his usual sonorous tones that not only was he pleased to see you again, but that Steve was waiting for you.

No pressure at all, JARVIS. Nope. Not a single one.

It’s just a concert,  you reminded yourself. 

But it was a concert to see an amazing performer with an equally amazing guy. Ha, and they were both named ‘Steve’ - what were the odds. 

You’d decided on a maxi-dress – casual, but not too casual, flattering but not screaming, “Look at ME.” Some light make up, application of your favorite perfume, a few cute accessories, and strappy flat sandals, and you were good to go. Comfortable, but not hobo comfortable. As you took the elevator up, you smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles in the front of your dress. 

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped into the large living room of the Tower. To think, the first time you showed up here, you were in pretty much the same position - a giant bundle of nerves. At least this go round was for a slightly better reason. As you let your gaze drift out the window, you turned at the sound of footsteps behind you.

“Hey, (your name), right on time!” 

Steve looked fantastic in a plain white button down and dark wash jeans. He’d worn a pair of glasses (because clearly that’s how disguises worked), and his eyes quickly darted over your dress back to your face. 

“You look good, (your name) – I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed up.”

“Just goes to show that even an old barn looks good with a fresh coat of paint,” you replied, beaming at him. 

“I thought calling a woman a ‘barn’ was an insult.”

You were going to retort that it was just an expression, but the playful light in his eyes and set to his mouth let you know he was joking. Well, look at that. Steve’s sly sense of humor had struck again. Though you longed to elbow him, smack him playfully, you were terrified that the nerves you felt were weakening your control over your powers. Without trying, you were “open” enough to read the waves of his aura - his baseline placid blue, looping into the deep emerald of friendship, a streak of goldenrod yellow of joy, and…was that a hint of pink? Nope. Nope. Nope. You were not going to go down that road. Not even going to humor the idea that maybe, just maybe, Steve might be getting a bit of a crush on you. Already, you could feel yourself grow warm, responding the possibility, wanting to coax it along, wrap it within your own feelings…

You bit the inside of your cheek, the pain shocking you back into the real world and its somewhat duller colors. “Better’n my saying ‘lipstick on a pig.’ Now, that’s an insult,” you said, taking the risk and lightly slapping his shoulder. He smiled at you, rubbing where you hit him in mock injury. 

“You hit like a cement block!” He rolled his shoulder back, bouncing it up and down with a fake grimace. “I’d hate to be on the end of one of your punches.”

“Oh, if I’m touching you, it wouldn’t be to hit you,” and, realizing what you said, your cheeks flamed. You weren’t alone - the tips of Steve’s ears grew pink, and he coughed, masking a small laugh. 

“Well, now that I’ve made an ass out of myself,” you started, face still on fire, “I think we’re all set to go.” 

Standing next to you, he offered you his arm. Without a second thought, you took it, linking yours in his. He smiled down at you, and pulled you a bit closer. It was a simple gesture – not possessive, not too forward. And it fit  perfectly. 

“Sounds good.” 

Chapter Text

Only the music could have taken your attention away from Steve. 

Hands down, it was the best concert that you’d ever been to. It was non-stop music for nearly 3 hours – Wonder moving flawlessly from one instrument to another, swaying with absolute joy at what he was doing. When the starting notes of “Love’s in Need of Love” blossomed in the concert hall, you caught Steve looking at the stage reverently. Your smile only got wider as the night went on. 

During “Sir Duke,” when Wonder cued the audience to participate, Steve had surprised you by singing along with the audience, clapping his hands enthusiastically. Half way through, though, he’d stopped, turning to take in the audience. Everyone was singing – all of the voices blending together so that they sounded singular. The audience was diverse – black, white, red, yellow, brown, young, old – and you watched Steve’s expression cycle through amazement, wonder, and, then, pride. 

It was a beautiful moment. 

When the concert was finally over (the encore itself was nearly an hour long), your face hurt from smiling and your palms stung from clapping. Steve looked just as winded, but there was a sparkle in his eyes that kept you going. As the people drained out of the venue, you spotted the official merchandise vendors, and grabbing Steve’s hand, dragged him over to one of the booths. Standing in front of the booth, you pointed to the t-shirts.

“Which one do you want?”

“Oh, (your name), you can’t.” 

“I can and I will. Which one?”

Giving you a “you’re impossible” look, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That one,” and he pointed to a modest black shirt with the tour name and dates on it. “Can I get that one,” you asked the vendor, fishing for your wallet.

“And that one,” added Steve, pointing to a woman’s cut version of the same shirt. “You get me a shirt, the least I can do is get you one.” He was pulling out  his wallet now, the folded leather fitting snugly in his palms.

“Steve, you got the tickets,” you started to protest, and before you could stop the poor vendor, Steve had your shirt in his hands, handing it to you. “Technically, Tony got the tickets. Least I could do.”

“You’re the worst,” you said, smiling, fighting the warmth in your cheeks as you hugged it to you. Move over, Remy’s tank top; Mama’s got a new favorite. 

“Nah. That’d be Tony.” 

“Be nice, or I’ll tell him you said that.” 

You paid for his shirt, and handed it to him. He grinned, and held it up, reading the dates on it. You were pretty sure your face was going to be stuck in that smile. 

+++++++

The ride back to the Tower, the two of you were quiet, enjoying the silence after the roar of the concert. Though Steve was still, his eyes were dancing – bright with emotion, a grin set firmly across his face. When the two of you got off at the Tower, he got out first, holding his hand out. You took it with ease - and then, your ankle caught on the side of the cab door (how does this even happen to you?!) and with a sickening snap, there went the strap of your left sandal. And there you went, tumbling into his arms. 

“Whoa, there, (your name), you okay?” His arms closed around you, helping you to steady yourself.

“Sonuavbitch!” you mourned, twisting in his arms to look down at your foot. Your ankle was fine, your sandal, however, was not. And you really liked this pair, too. “Looks like I gotta write this pair off.” Then you looked up - realizing that he hadn’t let go. Though there was concern in his eyes, when he looked back at you, there was that boyish charm. Realizing that you were trying to take care of your shoe, his smile was shy, and reluctantly, his arms loosened around you. 

“Nice catch. Again,” you murmured, your fingers curled within the sleeves of his shirt. Had his eyes been that blue? Once you looked into his face, into those eyes, it was difficult to pull your attention away. 

Rearranging the voluminous folds of your dress, you knelt on the sidewalk, taking off your mangled sandal. While you were undoing the straps of the right one, Steve scooted closer to you, before squatting, his back to you. You looked over at him.

“Steve, honey, what are you doing?” 

“Gonna give you a piggy back. You can’t walk barefoot on the concrete. There’s glass.” 

You looked at his back, and then at the remaining five feet to the door of the Avengers Tower. “Steve, it’s not even a minute walk back to the Tower. I think I can manage.”

“Nope. Come on.” He waved at his back.

Well, if the man was offering…

Shuffling your dress around your knees, juggling your sandals and your shirt (his was draped over his shoulder), you clambered onto his back as best as you could. His hands hooked solidly under your thighs, and for a twinkling, your control over your powers wavered. Your entire world became the feel of his strong hands under your thighs, right under your rear, the warmth of his back against your chest, and you had to stop your head from spinning. Thank God for small miracles - even though your maxi dress left your arms and a good part of your chest bare, there was no direct skin to skin contact - and by the time you looped your arms around his neck, you’d gotten things back under control. He hefted you up with ease (super soldiers), and stood. 

“You on tight?”

“I think I’m good,” and you resisted the urge to bury your face into the side of his neck. You settled on resting your cheek against his right shoulder. “Head ‘em up, move ‘em out!” and you pointed your arm forward in a “charge!” motion. Chuckling, Steve started walking towards the Tower.

“Good Evening, Captain Rogers, (Your name). I take it that the concert went well?” purred JARVIS. 

“It was fantastic!” replied Steve. 

“(Your Name), do you require additional assistance?” 

Apparently JARVIS could see you. So, so weird. 

“JARVIS has a good point, Steve - we’re in the Tower, you can put me down now.”

“Oh, I’m not sure - there could be all sorts of cracks and uneven tile that you could hurt yourself on.” His voice was droll, and you lightly smacked him on the shoulder, squirming against his back. Unable to help himself, he started laughing, and gently lowered you to the floor. As your toes came into contact with the cool tile, it was hard not to close your eyes and lose yourself in his incredible warmth. Slowly, you let your arms slip from around his neck.

The two of you stood in a pleasant silence for a few moments, you, dragging a bare foot against the tile, him, lightly bouncing his fist against his thigh.

“So,” the two of you said at the same time, and you both started laughing. 

“You first,” he said.

“I was going to ask where I was going to sleep?”

“I can show you.” His voice was even, but that little boy smile of his seemed to have the slights bit of maybe not so innocent intent behind it that made your eyes goggle a bit. Gotta keep it under control. “Not too far from mine, actually,” he looked at you over his shoulder, his face the picture of innocence.

Oh, he had to be fucking with you. 

“Coming?” He started walking. You dashed to catch up to him, before falling into a comfortable stride next to him. The two of you were quiet - and without the dull roar of Tony’s music, the Tower was eerily still.

Walking you to your door, he finally broke the silence. “(Your name), tonight was absolutely amazing. I’ve seen a show or two, but that…that was…something else. I wouldn’t have believed anything if I hadn’t seen it. And…you know, seeing everyone there…you’d never think that there was a bad thing in the world. And for a while, there wasn’t. Thank you. Thank you for introducing me to the music, thank you for coming with me.” He leaned down, and, as gentle as spring rain, pressed his lips to your left cheek. 

You had to pride yourself on your self-control; you didn’t end up screaming for five minutes this time. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him and gave him a big hug. His settled around your lower back, and for long moments, there was nothing but him and the dark amber of his cologne. 

“You’re welcome, Steve.”

You leaned back in his arms, and the two of you were face to face. His eyes searched your face, landing on your lips, before going back up to your own. With a nervous chuckle, you stood closer to him, standing on your tiptoes, to kiss his cheek in return.

“That’s it,” you laughed, “You don’t get to give me another one. Otherwise we’ll be here all night!” 

“Fine, fine,” he held up his hands in a deferential gesture. Your guard down, he swiftly leaned in and gave you a kiss on your right cheek. “Didn’t say anything about evening it out, though.”

All you could do was laugh - he’d gotten you there. “Good night, Steve.”

“ ‘Night, (your name). Breakfast tomorrow?” There was that hopeful note in his voice again, and you leaned against the door to your room. 

“What do I look like, a cook? Get outta here with that.”

He paused, his face somber. “No. You look…like a gorgeous woman that I’ve had the pleasure of spending a lovely evening with.” The somber expression folded into a dazzling smile, and as he turned to walk down the hallway, he gave you a wave over his shoulder. 

This time, you waited until you were in your room and you had the pillow in your face before you started screaming.