Work Text:
7:10 PM
Tony flung himself out of the elevator and waved his arms, signalling for quiet. Heads turned, hands stilled, and a sudden hush descended as dozens of people paused their work. Clint and Sam snapped to attention.
“Natasha just texted.” Tony grabbed the stitch in his side, gulping air. “Steve’s on his way. ETA five minutes.”
There was one frozen instant of perfect silence.
Then Clint hopped onto the nearest table, cupped both hands around his mouth, and bellowed, “CODE BLUE. Everybody scatter, go, go, go!”
Chaos reigned as musicians, florists, caterers, couriers, security staff, and minions of all description scrambled to finish their tasks and run for the exits. Sam clapped Tony on the back and gave him an encouraging smile before he slipped into the stairwell. Clint stayed on the table, directing the evacuation, until the last intern disappeared into the elevator.
“Good luck!” Clint shouted at Tony, giving him a double thumbs-up. He dove through the french doors onto the patio, shot a grappling arrow onto an overhanging balcony, and ziplined out of sight.
Tony pressed a hand to his chest and reminded himself to breathe. This was fine, this was good, everything was going according to plan. He could do this. He could--
The elevator doors opened. Steve stepped out, took in the ballroom, and did a double-take. “Tony?”
“Uh.” Tony spun in a circle and spread his arms like a stage magician. “Surprise?”
Earlier that day...
8:43 AM
Tony woke up slowly and with great reluctance.
He cracked an eye and glanced at his nightstand, which had not magically generated a cup of hot coffee while he slept. Tony gave it a betrayed glare.
Tony shuffled into the kitchen. The coffeemaker was already burbling promisingly. It was programmed to run as soon as Tony was mostly vertical, so the the smell of coffee could drag him, Pepé Le Pew-style, back into the land of the living.
Steve was already gone, curse his supersoldier sleeping habits. Tony had a hazy memory of Steve in basketball shorts and a two-sizes-too-small t-shirt leaning down to kiss his forehead before he left for his morning run at the usual obscenely early time. A dreamy smile crossed Tony’s face. Steve.
The coffee machine beeped. Tony waited for something to happen.
Right. Cups.
As Tony poured, he realized he had forgotten something. Something from yesterday, a thought he'd had. Something important.
Tony furrowed his brow.
Tony drank more coffee.
Tony snapped his fingers. "Wedding."
9:04 AM
Tony burst into the kitchen on the communal floor, mug in one hand and coffee pot in the other, and zeroed in on Clint, the room’s only occupant. "You, with me. I need minions."
Clint didn’t look up from his box of Lucky Charms. He fished out a horseshoe marshmallow, laid his spoon flat on the table, and balanced the marshmallow on the handle. "You have robots for that, Stark. Open up."
Tony opened his mouth, Clint slapped the bowl of the spoon, and the marshmallow flew in a perfect arc onto Tony's tongue.
Tony crunched it down and continued. "Need people minions, not bot minions. I can't trust DUM-E with wedding planning, he has terrible taste in music and his favorite color is chartreuse, it would be a disaster."
Clint stared. “Who's getting married? Who's letting you plan their wedding?”
“Me and Steve,” Tony said, affronted. “And I’m going to plan an amazing wedding, thank you very much--”
“Oh, are you guys an item now?” Clint asked innocently. “I had wondered, what with the hand-holding and the shmoopy nicknames and the screwing all over the tower--”
“--It’s going to be the wedding of the century and you should be honored, really, to be drafted into the planning process--”
“--And then there was that time Steve came out live on public television, when was that again? Oh, right, yesterday--”
“--But we need to get started now, because the wedding’s tonight and I haven’t, strictly speaking, made any arrangements yet.”
At that, Clint actually set down his cereal. “You’re getting married.”
“Yep.”
“Tonight.”
“Yep.”
“And Steve agreed to this?”
“He doesn’t know yet,” Tony said airily. “It’s a surprise.”
“Holy shit,” Clint’s eyes were huge and round. “Did you get Steve pregnant?”
Tony choked on his coffee. “What? How--why--what? How would that even happen?”
“Hey, you’re the one planning to ambush him with a shotgun wedding.” Clint moved his bowl of Lucky Charms out of the range of Tony’s coffee spray. “It’s a reasonable question.”
“Steve’s not pregnant!” Tony shouted. Was he? He couldn’t be. They hadn’t been gender-swapped lately. What about that alien fertility ray? No, that had been at least seven months ago.
Steve wasn’t pregnant.
Probably.
“I’m not ready to be a father,” Tony blurted, clutching his hair with both hands.
“I’m not drunk enough for this conversation.” Clint opened the liquor cabinet and examined its contents with a critical eye. “What kind of booze goes best with marshmallows?”
9:25 AM
Two bowls of tequila-infused cereal later (or “super-duper Lucky Charms” as Clint called them), Clint was the most enthusiastic wedding planning minion Tony could have hoped for.
“You need ice sculptures.” Clint whacked the counter with his spoon for emphasis, leaving a splatter of high-proof milk behind. “Ice sculptures are classy shit.”
Tony nodded without looking away from the five screens he had projected in front of him. It turned out weddings were complicated. Fortunately, Tony was used to compressed project cycles. “Ice sculptures, got it. Of what?”
“Swans,” Clint continued decisively. “You need swans. They’re pissy motherfuckers, but they look graceful as hell.”
“Swans,” Tony confirmed. “What else?”
“Fancy suits?”
“Got those already.” The Avengers had attended a gala raising funds for the reconstruction of New York a few months back, and Tony had made sure everyone had suitable clothes. If Steve’s tux had been the only one hand-stitched by a petite Italian grandmother who just happened to be the best seamstress in the tri-state area, and if Tony had supplied Steve’s measurements based on a high-tech body scan to ensure a perfect fit, well, that was between Tony, JARVIS, and Madame Isabella.
Clint shoved more cereal in his mouth. “Flowers!”
“What kind?”
“Fuck if I know. Big ones. Smelly. Smelly in a good way,” Clint amended.
“Ease up on the super-duper Lucky Charms, Katniss, your specificity is suffering.”
“Right.” Clint took a swig of coffee directly from the pot. His eyes refocused. “Steve likes ferns.”
“Ferns aren’t flowers.”
“Close enough.”
Tony shrugged and added it to the list. “What else?”
“Photographer?”
“JARVIS has that covered.”
“Food?”
“Food. Cake! Wedding cake!”
“Wedding cakes, plural,” Clint corrected. “Especially if Thor’s coming.”
“Oh, right--”
“Invitations,” they chorused.
9:38 AM
Thor was in London, shacked up with his astrophysicist girlfriend and her research assistant. Some day Tony would get around to assembling a personalized, state-of-the-art research lab to bribe Foster into moving to the Tower, and she would come trailing Tony’s brawniest teammate behind her like a giant blond duckling. Until then, Tony kept in touch with Thor via video calls and Snapchat. (Tony had bought Darcy a porsche as a thank you for teaching Thor how to use Snapchat, and he considered it money well spent.)
“Friend Anthony!” Thor’s face wobbled and steadied on the call projection as he brought his phone closer. Tony discreetly turned the volume down by 75%. Thor had never really picked up on the concept of an inside voice. “It is wonderful as always to see your face!”
“Thor!” Clint shouted, waving with his free hand. He was doing a headstand on the kitchen counter, still ferrying spoonfuls of cereal to his upside-down mouth. Surprisingly little milk had gone up his nose so far. “Hi, Thor!”
“Hey, big guy, I have some news,” Tony said. “Steve and I are getting married.”
“FANTASTIC!” Thor roared so loudly the connection fuzzed into static for a moment. “Love between brothers-in-arms is truly worthy of celebration! May your union be long and fruitful! Such mighty warriors as you and the Captain shall bear fierce children!”
“Why does everyone--how does pregnancy even work on Asgard? No, don’t answer that,” Tony said hastily. “The wedding is tonight. Can you make it? With Jane and Darcy, of course.”
“We had planned a marathon of Dog Cops, but for such a joyous occasion we will gladly postpone!”
“Great, I’ll send a quinjet to your location.”
“Hi, Thor!” Clint wobbled and fell off the counter, taking his bowl, the box of cereal, and a waffle iron with him. “I’m okay!” he shouted cheerfully from the floor.
“Is Clinton injured?” Thor boomed, face creasing in concern.
“Nah, he’s fine, he just can’t hold his super-duper Lucky Charms.” Tony nudged Clint’s leg with one foot, to no apparent effect. “I should’ve cut him off after his third bowl. I’m honestly not sure if the tequila or the sugar high is the bigger problem. You all right there, buddy?”
“Hi, Thor!”
9:52 AM
Tony sent Clint to hand-deliver wedding invitations to the Avengers currently in residence in the hopes that moving around would help Clint sober up. It was going to be a short walk, since the only Tower residents not already in on the planning process were Natasha and Bruce, but it kept Clint busy while Tony called Rhodey.
Rhodey’s reaction was less enthusiastic than Thor’s (to be fair, no one was as enthusiastic as Thor). Tony had hoped for a little less swearing, but honestly, he couldn’t say he had expected anything else.
“Rhodey.” Tony gave the camera his best wounded look. “Rhodey, sugarplum, I can’t believe you’re not coming to my wedding, what kind of BFF are you?”
“Tony, you asshole, I am halfway across the world right now. I can’t just tell my CO that I need to take a day off and fly to New York because my best friend has gone off the deep end and decided to get married on ten hours’ notice. I’m already going to have to make up some excuse for leaving the formal banquet where I’m supposed to be chatting up a delegation of Bangladeshi generals right now to go hide in the goddamn bathroom and talk to your stupid ass. Congratulations, by the way,” Rhodey added.
“Thank you.”
“You will never, ever do better.”
“I know,” Tony agreed, unabashed. “What will you be doing in ten hours?”
“Well, that’ll be six in the morning here, so I would love to say I’ll be sleeping, but I’m guessing I’ll be watching your wedding on my laptop.”
“I’ll have U hold up a tablet with your video call, it’ll be like you’re really here. Front-row seat and everything.”
Rhodey shook his head, trying and failing to hide a smile. “My hotel minibar had better have champagne.”
“I’ll have some delivered.”
10:07 AM
Natasha slapped the square of paper down on the kitchen counter like it was an arrest warrant. “What is this?”
“A wedding invitation, what does it look like?” Tony was damn proud of the wedding invitations he’d had JARVIS fabricate. They had holograms, gilt edging, and more security features than a US Treasury note. Granted there were only two of them, one for Natasha and one for Bruce, but that was no reason to skimp on quality.
Clint trailed in behind Natasha, his walk only slightly unsteady. “Invitations delivered! JARVIS said Bruce was still asleep, so I put his under his door.”
“Perfect.”
“How many drinks have you had?” Natasha demanded.
“None,” Tony said defensively. “I can’t be drunk on my wedding day, Steve would kill me.”
“When did you last sleep?”
“Last night. JARVIS, how many hours did I sleep last night?”
“Seven and a half. As unlikely as it may seem, Agent Romanov, Sir’s judgment is currently unimpaired.”
Tony nearly pointed at Natasha in triumph, then thought better of it. He liked his fingers just fine where they were. “See? Not drunk. Not exhausted. Getting married. Please don’t tell Steve, I haven’t proposed yet.”
Natasha’s face was unreadable. Tony and Clint both waited anxiously.
Finally, her eyes narrowed. “I walk Steve down the aisle.”
“Absolutely.”
“Sam gets to be the flower girl.”
“Delightful.”
“If you freak out at the last minute and leave Steve standing at the altar, I will hunt you down and break your kneecaps.”
“Understood.”
Natasha nodded sharply. “I’ll intercept Steve when he comes back, get him out of the Tower, and keep him occupied for the afternoon.”
“Perfect.” Tony pulled up the afternoon’s schedule, rapidly updating estimated delivery times as order confirmations arrived. “Have him back by seven, I’ll propose at quarter after, ceremony’s at eight.”
Natasha surprised him by leaning in to kiss his cheek before she headed out the door. “Congratulations,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t fuck it up.”
“I won’t fuck it up.” Oh God, he was going to fuck it up.
“Nah, you won’t,” Clint said cheerfully, slinging an arm over Tony’s shoulder. “This is gonna be the best damn wedding ever. And I’m helping! ‘Cause we’re bros!”
They fist-bumped. Clint wobbled a little.
“Have some more coffee,” Tony advised. He pulled up a new screen. “What about music?”
11:43 AM
The Tower had a ballroom on the twentieth level, a huge, high-ceilinged room surrounded by french doors and ringed with a circular patio. Tony moved his planning committee (which had expanded to include an overjoyed Happy and a few senior members of the Tower security team) to the ballroom as soon as the first wave of deliveries arrived.
When Sam Wilson walked in, a team of florists were arranging ferns, tulips, and roses into bouquets with the kind of efficient precision Sam associated with firearm assembly drills. He dodged a squad of security guards dragging in a massive banquet table, stared briefly up at the ceiling where Clint was crawling from rafter to rafter, shooting arrows trailing red, white, and blue streamers, and headed for the corner where Tony was standing in front of five holoscreens, muttering rapidly to JARVIS.
“Hey, Tony.” Sam said. “I got a text from Clint telling me to bring my best suit and get to the Tower ASAP. Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m marrying Steve,” Tony said, as though it should have been self-evident. He was only giving Sam about 12% of his attention; most of the remainder was devoted to writing an algorithm to find high-quality catering services within a convenient distance that would be able to fulfill same-day rush orders. “You’re going to be the flower girl.”
“Okay,” Sam said slowly. “That’s great. I’m a big fan of flowers. You tell Steve you’re doing this?”
“Not yet, proposal isn’t until after seven. Shit, it’s not seven yet, is it?” Tony frantically checked the time. “Jesus, Wilson, don’t scare me like that. I haven’t even made Steve’s ring yet.”
“Right, sorry.” Sam took several steps back. “I’m, uh, just gonna go talk to Bruce for a little bit.”
“Mmm,” Tony said absently.
12:19 PM
Thirty seconds after Bruce walked into the ballroom, he managed to maneuver Tony into a quiet corner and sit him down with a cup of soothing herbal tea. Tony blinked down at his mug suspiciously, not entirely sure when it had appeared in his hands.
“Seriously, how do you do that?” Tony demanded. “It’s like hypnosis.”
“Tell me about what you’re doing right now,” Bruce said calmly.
“You got your invitation, right? Then what’s to tell? There’s a wedding, I’m planning it, I’m really very busy, I should probably get back to--”
Bruce gave him a look. Tony gave up and sipped his tea. It was annoyingly good.
“Is it necessary to do it all in one day?”
“Bruce, I’ve been behind every step of this relationship.” Tony set his mug down and spun it in a slow circle, watching the liquid wobble up the sides. “I’m supposed to be a futurist, for God’s sake. I don’t want to play catch-up anymore. And I just--I want to be married to Steve. I don’t want to wait.”
Bruce listened quietly, his eyes attentive and serious. He ran the edge of one long sleeve over his glasses to clear off a smudge while he thought. “Okay,” he said eventually. “What do you need help with?”
Bruce was the best. “Food. You’re good at food, and we’re going to need a lot of it. Cakes, too. At least a dozen cakes.”
Bruce opened his mouth, probably about to say something sensible about how impossible it was to get a dozen wedding cakes on such short notice, then closed it and just nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Bruce was his favorite.
12:50 PM
Bruce took Sam and Clint with him to scour the city for catering and cake options. Tony retreated into the relative calm of his workshop, took a deep breath, and called Pepper.
She answered her phone on the first ring. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Her voice was exasperated but amused; perfect. She clearly approved. Tony couldn’t stop the goofy grin from spreading across his face. “Congratulations will be smugly accepted. Be my best man?”
“Of course. Are you really doing this tonight? There’s a 24-hour waiting period for marriage licenses.”
“I know,” Tony said. “That’s part of why I called. I need you to bribe a judge.”
“You mean you need me to ask a friend at the courthouse what the process is for getting an expedited marriage license,” Pepper said in her if-I-am-called-to-testify-about-this-I-had-better-not-have-to-perjure-myself-I-swear-to-God-Tony voice. He was very familiar with that voice.
“Yes, that’s what I said. Isn’t that what I said?”
3:06 PM
Tony stayed in his workshop for two hours to make Steve’s ring.
By the time he emerged, the ballroom was unrecognizable. Decorations were up, tables were in place, and the flowers--
“What the fuck?”
Clint turned on his heel and rubbed a hand over the back of his head, surveying the scene. “Okay, this looks bad.”
Tony gawped at the floral wreckage covering the ballroom floor. A few neatly assembled bouquets were placed on tables, but the majority of the flowers were scattered haphazardly across the ballroom, petals and ferns littering the polished wooden floor. “What happened to the flowers?”
“Ah,” Bruce said. “The bots came up a little early--”
“The bots?” Tony looked around belatedly and spotted U, DUM-E, and Butterfingers skulking by the bandstand. Butterfingers was facing the wall and crouched low to the floor, looking like a puppy in time-out. “How did they get up here? JARVIS!”
“They were invited to the wedding, Sir,” JARVIS said primly. “Since you yourself issued the invitation, I assumed their presence on this floor was permitted, and did not block their elevator access.”
“And once they were here,” Bruce continued, “We had to give them something to do, because they were really excited and wanted to help. So we asked them to put the bouquets on the tables, and Butterfingers tried really hard, but, well.”
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I get the picture.”
“We can salvage this,” Clint said decisively. “We were going to use a carpet for the aisle walk, right? So we sweep this into a line, pick out the rose stems with thorns, and make it into a garden path instead.”
“Huh,” Tony said. “That’s actually a good idea.”
Clint rolled his eyes. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
While Bruce and Clint went to get brooms, Tony crossed the room and crouched in front of his bots. “Hey, I’m not mad. Okay, guys? But no more helping.”
DUM-E raised his arm and made hopeful sweeping gestures.
“No more helping.”
3:42 PM
“Okay,” Sam said, clapping his hands together. “Good news first. We got cakes.”
“I can see that,” Tony said. It took three long tables pushed together to hold all the cakes Bruce, Sam, and Clint had managed to source. Employees from rival bakeries were trading glares and covetous glances as they all set up their cake stands and unloaded their best offerings.
“So, cakes acquired. Plenty of cakes.” Sam paused. “You did say you wanted a lot of cake.”
Tony nodded slowly. “I did say that.”
“Most of them are wedding cakes,” Sam said, only his overly-careful tone of voice indicating that they were now in the bad news portion of the conversation. “Some of them are--”
“Golf cakes,” Tony interrupted. “I distinctly see novelty golf cake.” The golf cake was five feet tall, including the marzipan windmill, and had nine separate holes represented; it was hard to miss.
“Just one,” Sam said. “One really, really delicious novelty golf cake. Do you like hazelnut buttercream? Because that golf cake has hazelnut buttercream that would make a hardened gastronomer weep.”
“I don’t not like hazelnut buttercream.” Tony was feeling a little shell-shocked. “Why is there a novelty golf cake at my wedding?”
“Because when you want seventeen cakes in five hours, you’re limited to what’s already been made. We went with quantity and quality over, uh, thematic consistency. We only got these ones by throwing hefty bribes at the intended recipients. Not everyone was willing to sell, so we took the best of what we could get.”
One of the other cakes had clearly started life as an anniversary cake. It now read “HAPPY 0th ANNIVERSARY, Tony and Sven!” with the names in different handwriting.
Tony wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but Sam looked at him and winced.
“Just--here.” Sam edged up to the golf cake, checked to make sure no bakery assistants were watching, and surreptitiously sliced a corner off the 4th hole. “Try this.”
It really was very good hazelnut buttercream.
5:07 PM
“You’re an idiot,” Maria Hill told him. Tony didn’t even know how she’d gotten in; he’d been talking to the brass band conductor about the song schedule, and when he turned around she had been standing two feet behind him, cool and implacable while he jumped a foot in the air.
“Do SHIELD agents have some kind of standing orders to sneak up on everyone instead of saying hello like normal people? And excuse you, I’m a genius.”
“You’re also an idiot. Do you know how many rumors there are about a secret Avenger wedding happening tonight? Half the paparazzi in the city are descending on the Tower right now.”
“And the fact that it’s half the paparazzi in the city and not half the paparazzi in the country is testament to my genius,” Tony countered. “My timeline is so fast even the tabloids can’t keep up. If I’d announced this in advance it would have meant months of siege warfare.”
Hill shook her head. “You should have brought me in at the start. From now on, I’ll be handling tonight’s security personally. I’ve already dealt with three infiltrators in the catering and delivery staff and two interns who attempted to sell pictures to the New York Post.”
Tony’s eyebrows rose. “Hill, I take back at least 50% of the mean things I’ve said about you.”
“Have you been talking shit about me behind my back, Stark?”
“God, no, I’m not suicidal. I only say mean things about you to your face.”
Hill nodded, satisfied. “You’re also paying me an extremely competitive security consultation fee.”
“Naturally.”
6:35 PM
“But they were supposed to be swans!”
“Listen,” the woman said. She uncrossed her arms long enough to jab a pen at the clipboard she was carrying. “I get an order for swans, I send swans. I didn’t get an order for swans. I got an order for, and I’m quoting here, ‘All the birds you got. Put a hawk in there. Caw caw, motherfucker.’ See?”
Tony buried his face in his hands. “Goddammit, Clint.”
“You asked for birds. Okay? So that’s what you got.” She stepped back and waved at the line of ice sculptures her crew was moving onto the patio. “There’s a swan in there, sure. Also a hawk, two doves, a turkey--”
“Who makes ice-sculptures of turkeys?” Tony blurted. “How is that even an ice-sculpture option?”
“José made that turkey,” the woman said, hands going to her hips. She stepped right up into his space, seeming not to care that Tony was half a foot taller, fifty pounds heavier, and a superhero. “He makes damn good turkeys. Usually for Thanksgiving parties, but hey, it’s your wedding, you want turkeys, you get turkeys, and José’s are the best in the business. Okay?”
Tony deflated. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Mollified, the woman handed him the clipboard. “Sign here, please.”
7:09 PM
ROGERS EN ROUTE TO BALLROOM. ETA 7:15
7:15 PM
“Tony?”
“Uh. Surprise?”
Steve scanned the ballroom, his gaze passing over the decorations, tables, and bandstand before locking on the row of cakes. “What is this?”
“It’s a wedding! Our wedding, I mean. If you, you know.” Tony waved a hand vaguely between the two of them.
Did that count as a proposal? Probably not. Tony wasn’t an expert, but he was pretty sure proposals were supposed to be verbal, not gestured.
“Tony?” Steve said, in his careful my-boyfriend-hasn’t-slept-in-three-days-and-I-must-talk-him-out-of-doing-potentially-hazardous-science voice. Tony was very familiar with that voice, too.
“Yeah, babe?”
“Remember what we said yesterday about panicking?”
“No panicking,” Tony parroted.
“That’s right.” Steve’s eyes swept the ballroom again, lingering on the red, white, and blue bunting hanging from every ceiling beam, the turkey ice sculpture melting gently on the patio, and the seventeen wedding cakes lined up against one wall. “I don’t want to make assumptions, sweetheart, but I think you might be panicking.”
Tony considered, then held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Little bit?”
“C’mere,” Steve said, and then Tony was wrapped in a giant, warm Steve hug. Tony burrowed deep into Steve’s chest and let his spine melt.
“Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” Steve kissed the top of his head. “Better?”
“Yes.” Tony pulled back enough to look Steve in the eye. “I love you. Wanna get married?” There, a verbal proposal. Achievement unlocked.
“I love you, too. You know I’m not going to leave even if we’re not married, right?”
“Yeah, I know. But if we got married, we’d be married. And. There’s cake.”
Steve’s lips curved, and Tony felt an enormous wave of relief, because he had known all day, as much as he had tried not to think about it, that Steve might say no. There was always the chance that this night would end with Tony forced to laugh off the whole thing as just another of his elaborate, ill-advised schemes, one in a long line of entertaining relationship fuck-ups with Tony Stark at the center. They would still have eaten the food and had a party and Steve would still have been his boyfriend the next day, but it would have hurt like a motherfucker, and he would have had to grit his teeth and smirk his way through like it didn’t, and he would’ve had only himself to blame.
But if Steve were going to say no he wouldn’t be smiling at Tony like that, open and soft. That smile was as good as a yes.
“I can see that. There’s a lot of cake. Why is there so much cake?”
Tony shrugged. “Thor’s coming.”
“Ah, of course.” Steve leaned down and kissed him, just a soft brush of lips, more tantalizing than satisfying. A promise. “Do you have rings?”
“What do you take me for?” Tony said. “Of course I have rings. I understand weddings. I know how to wed.”
“I’m glad one of us does,” Steve said, grinning like did when he was about to jump out of a plane without a parachute. Tony found it bizarrely comforting. “Yeah, Tony. Let’s get married.”
7:34 PM
The tuxedo fit Steve like a dream. Of course it did, he’d worn it before, but he had still been nervous, for some reason, that this time it wouldn’t, now that it was his wedding suit.
He had a wedding suit. He was getting married. The thought kept fizzing into pleasant static in his head. Every time he remembered Tony’s rambling surprise proposal, he felt a new surge of dizzy affection. Steve had never been so happy to be ambushed.
Steve was standing in front of a mirror holding his bow tie, trying to remember the complicated knot that Tony usually tied for him, when Pepper knocked on the open doorframe.
“How are you holding up?”
“Fine. A little nervous,” he admitted. He was a lot nervous. The tie wrinkled as his hands clenched, and he forced himself to relax before he mangled it beyond repair.
“Allow me?” Pepper took the tie from his fingers and looped it around his neck, working with serene confidence. She tugged the ends, making minute adjustments until it lay perfectly level and flat. “You’ll be good to Tony, won’t you.”
It was definitely not a question. Steve straightened to military attention and gave Pepper his firmest nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You won’t hurt him, will you.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good.” Pepper released the bowtie and smoothed Steve’s lapels. “Welcome to the family.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Call me Pepper,” she said, and kissed his cheek.
8:02 PM
Later, Steve only remembered the ceremony itself in snippets.
Natasha held his hand in her elbow as they walked behind Sam. They padded over a soft, fragrant carpet of leaves and petals, and Steve knew that from now on, the smell of ferns and roses would always bring him back to this moment.
Tony was waiting at the podium, gorgeous as always in stark black and white and looking more sober than Steve had ever seen him. It was intimidating, until Tony craned his neck to look around Sam and visibly lightened at seeing Steve. Steve’s stomach settled. He could handle this; Tony would be right there by his side.
Steve couldn’t resist murmuring “on your left” as he passed Sam to take his place at the podium. Sam gave him a look that told him it was only Sam’s respect for this solemn occasion that saved Steve from a swift kick to the shins.
He was so distracted that he didn’t even notice who the officiant was until he was face-to-face with Phil Coulson, impeccably dressed as always and wearing his most avuncular benign smile.
“Captain Rogers,” Coulson acknowledged.
“Phil,” Steve said, just to watch Coulson subtly light up at the reminder that he was on a first-name basis with Captain America.
Tony rolled his eyes and Steve elbowed him, mouthing be nice.
I’m always nice, Tony mouthed back. His hand turned palm up and Steve took it automatically, Tony’s fingers slotting between his.
Coulson’s calm voice gave a speech about duty and heroism and love triumphing over long odds. Steve couldn’t focus long enough to catch more than fragments. Steve concentrated on the warmth and pressure of Tony’s hand in his. If they were both gripping a little too tightly, if their palms were clammy with nerves, well, nobody else would know.
Happy and Thor wept openly throughout the ceremony. DUM-E sat beside them and dabbed a lacy handkerchief to his camera lens once every seventeen seconds. Steve concentrated on breathing evenly, listening for his cue.
“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” Steve said, more quietly than he had expected. He knew how to project to the rafters, if he was on stage performing or in the middle of a skirmish, but he wasn’t being Captain America, and it wouldn’t have been right to use his stage voice for this. This was a moment for Steve Rogers.
“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” Tony said, firm and sure. His hand squeezed hard on Steve’s.
“Rings?” Coulson prompted, when Steve and Tony showed no signs of letting go or moving or doing anything, really, except staring deeply into each other’s eyes. (They were going to get so much shit for that later, Steve knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn.)
Tony slid a simple gold band onto Steve’s finger. The solid, cool weight of it was startling.
Natasha passed Steve a blue velvet ring box. Steve opened it and sucked in a quick breath; the ring, solid platinum with a square-cut ruby, was very familiar and completely unexpected. Natasha winked at him.
Tony’s eyebrows rose questioningly as Steve slid the ring onto his hand. Tell you later, Steve mouthed.
Coulson blinked once and cleared his throat, an unprecedented display of emotion. "I now pronounce you--"
A faint hollar rose from the elevator bank at the back of the ballroom. "Hey, somebody here order fifty pizzas?"
"--husband and husband," Coulson finished, smoothly ignoring the interruption other than to give Clint the faintest of meaningful glares. Clint slunk out of his seat to go intercept the pizza delivery guy. “You may now kiss--”
Tony didn’t wait for Coulson to finish, just grabbed Steve’s shoulders and leaned backwards until Steve dipped him into a dramatic back-bend kiss. Natasha immediately let out a piercing wolf-whistle.
Steve was so busy kissing Tony he forgot to blush.
8:54 PM
Tony dragged Steve into a curtained alcove as the rest of the guests lined up by the buffet tables. “When did you get this?” Tony asked, tapping his new ring. “Here I thought I was ahead of the game for once.”
“You were,” Steve assured him. “Visiting a jeweler’s was part of Natasha’s distraction itinerary from this morning. She said she was shopping for earrings, but in hindsight she steered me towards men’s rings. And after yesterday, well.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish at being so transparent. “I guess marriage was on my mind. I couldn’t look at what they had without thinking about which one I would pick for you. I didn’t buy it, but Natasha noticed which ring I was eyeing. She must have gotten it after she sent me out to get bagels. Pretty sure she picked my pocket to pay for it.”
“You know, I can’t be surprised at this point that Natasha knows my ring size off the top of her head, but I’m going to go ahead and be a little disturbed by it.”
“Sensible,” Steve agreed, straight-faced. He ran his thumb over his own ring. “Did you make this?”
“Yes,” Tony said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” Steve said. He meant it. It was as straightforward as a ring could get: no distractions, digressions, or diversions. This was Tony at his most sincere, and that made the simple gold band breathtaking.
Which didn’t mean the plain exterior was all there was to it. Steve knew Tony well enough to add, “What does it do?”
Tony’s smile went sly. “It’s got an emergency beacon inside. It’s completely inert as long as the ring is intact, so you won’t have to worry about it showing up on scans or giving away your position, but if you bend or break the ring it’ll activate the signal. JARVIS will know exactly where you are within half a second. I got a matching necklace chain, I figure you can wear it under your suit in the field. That way if you find trouble without me, you can always call for backup.”
Steve didn’t trust himself to speak. For just a second, he remembered being trapped alone in unrelenting darkness, metal creaking all around him, icy water rushing in. He spun the ring gently with his thumb, careful with the soft metal. It would take barely any effort to snap it.
“I’m not taking any risks with you.” Tony met his eyes, and for once his face was dead serious. “You will never be lost again.”
Steve hoped whoever did Tony’s laundry knew how to get snot and tear stains out of a tuxedo jacket, because Steve was leaving a real mess on Tony’s shoulder.
9:18 PM
The buffet tables had offerings from at least a dozen restaurants all lined up side-by-side. Steve grabbed servings of lasagna, pad thai, and pulled-pork tacos to start.
“Pepper gave me the shovel talk,” Steve said, stealing a piece of California roll off of Tony’s plate. “Did anyone give you the shovel talk?”
Tony slid his plate further away, angling his chopsticks defensively. “Sam told me that I was doing fine and that he thought we’d be really happy together while Natasha stood behind his shoulder cleaning her fingernails with a giant knife, so. Kind of?”
“That’s sweet,” Steve said fondly.
9:54 PM
Thor hurled the empty cake stand out through the open patio doors. It bounced once and rolled into the infinity pool.
“ANOTHER!” Thor boomed. Crumbs and ganache liberally coated his hands and cheeks. A tiny meringue golf ball was lodged firmly in his beard.
Steve watched the cake tiers sink to the bottom of the pool. A trail of bright green frosting bubbled up in its wake. “I thought we trained him out of doing that.”
“He’s in the grips of a sugar rush that could kill a mortal man,” Tony said. “I think crosscultural table etiquette is currently beyond his reach.”
“We should’ve cut him off after his third cake. Did you get a chance to try that one?”
“Oh, yeah. Great hazelnut buttercream.”
10:27 PM
Tony had hired an honest-to-goodness brass band to play dance music after dinner. They had started out playing old standards that Steve had first heard in dance halls. It was strange but good to dance to the music of his youth, here in the future with the husband his younger self would never have dreamed he could have.
Later in the evening, the music took a distinct shift.
“Is it just me, or is this a modern song?” Steve asked, twirling Tony under one arm. They had developed a hybrid dance style that was 40% swing (Steve), 40% grinding (Tony), and 20% flailing (both of them, no matter how much Tony insisted it was at least 17% due to Steve’s two left feet).
“This appears to be...a brass cover of Bitch Better Have My Money.” Tony shot a dark look at Darcy, who was lounging by the tuba player, legs crossed, her raised foot swaying to the music. She caught Tony’s eye and saluted with her champagne flute, completely unrepentant. “Darcy must have corrupted them.”
“Did the original version have this many trombone solos?”
11:46 PM
The penthouse elevator doors closed on a chorus of whoops and catcalls from the guests who were sober enough to notice the newlyweds retiring for the night. Steve buried his red face against Tony’s neck while Tony cackled.
"So.” Tony tucked his hands into his pockets, elaborately casual. “That happened."
“Yep.” Steve couldn’t stop grinning. It was like his face had forgotten how to form any other expression. He’d have to expand his cowl to cover his mouth from now on; no villain would be intimidated by the dopey smile Steve saw mirrored on the gleaming elevator walls. "It was perfect."
Tony threw an arm over Steve’s shoulders, exposing an inviting triangle of bare torso as his untucked dress shirt rode up on one side. Looking at that skin was giving Steve some enthusiastic ideas about how to get rid of the rest of Tony’s tuxedo. “Well, of course it was. I designed it.”
Steve snorted and Tony snickered again. They’d only had one glass of champagne each, and for Steve even that might as well have been water, but they were both punch-drunk. It felt like the giddy adrenaline come-down after combat, but without the distraction of scrapes or bruises, although there was a tender ache behind Steve’s breastbone that intensified every time he saw the ring on his hand.
Steve hooked a foot around Tony’s calf, tugging him closer. “Happy wedding day, sweetheart.”
“Happy wedding day, hubby.”
“Tony.”
“Not a fan of hubby? I can do better. Hubbster? Superspouse? Legally-bonded beloved?”
Steve offered Tony something better to do with his mouth, and there was a long period with no conversation other than blasphemies and each other’s names.
1:32 AM
“You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“What?”
“Nevermind, forget I asked.”