Chapter Text
Loki
“Oh my god, will you stop that?” Loki snapped when it finally became too much.
Steve looked up, half-betrayed, half-innocent. “What?”
“The damn nostalgia. It’s literally killing me.”
Kate laughed from where she was sitting beside Steve, looking at old black and white pictures with him. “Lame,” she commented.
Loki scowled and broke his pencil.
He hated when they fucking reminisced about good times. Because—because—it just—wasn’t fair. Five hundred years versus a century, and he had maybe two good memories, and it wasn’t even worth someone wanting to stay with him, and—
He got to his feet while Steve looked at him critically and stalked off.
Because, honestly, fuck ‘em all.
He pretended not to hear Steve say quietly, “Alright, that’s enough for now.”
Billy
“Bucky.”
“What?”
Billy took a deep breath. “Please stop dabbing.”
Bucky fucking dabbed in his direction. “Stop hating.”
“Oh no,” Billy said as Bucky’s eyes lit up.
“Haters gonna hate-hate-hate-hate, baby I’m just gonna shake-shake-shake-shake, I shake it off, I shake it off—”
Billy clapped his hands over his ears.
‘Cause, by god, he loved Bucky, but the 2010s culture had to stop.
Bucky dabbed. Again.
Billy congratulated himself on not abusing his powers to take the dabbing era completely out of this universe.
David
Steve squinted at the TV. “I don’t remember the winter being that picturesque that year,” he said dubiously.
David rubbed his temples. “They don’t have anthologies of primary sources from every single day of World War II.”
Steve hummed, eyes still narrowed. “It’s more important than you’d think. Snow is made for disaster. We had to fuckin’ pay attention to snow. Hey, I think they got the bullets wrong too. That’s not even that hard. How’d they get the bullets wrong?”
“It’s not even a documentary,” David despaired. “They’re not aiming for perfect accuracy.”
Steve shook his head. “The real deal was better.”
“Oh my god.”
Steve ignored him, making a shocked face. “That uniform is OUTRAGEOUSLY against regulations!”
David groaned. “The Howling Commandos’ uniforms were against regulations!”
“Yeah, but we were weird.”
“You pretentious fuck—”
Kate
Kate winced.
“And now,” Bucky continued in the worst French accent known to man, “dinner is served.” He put her plate in front of her with a little flourish.
“Thanks,” she said. “You know, for someone who can speak, like, twenty languages, your accents fucking suck.”
“I don’t speak French.”
Steve said something to him in French, and Bucky frowned, looking betrayed as he clearly understood what Steve said.
“Je m’appelle Bucky,” he said in a bad Southern accent, and it sounded like Jim Apple Bucky, and Steve burst into giggles.
Kate buried her face in her hands.
“Don’t be upset, love,” Bucky offered, switching to terrible British.
“I’m ashamed,” Kate groaned.
“Eat your dinner, Comrade Katie,” Bucky said in a slightly more accurate but still awful Russian accent, and Kate jokingly pushed away her plate.
“I’ve lost my appetite.”
Steve laughed again.
Teddy
“Oh no,” Teddy cried. “Not again. Nope.”
“What?” Steve asked blankly.
“You’re stealing my shoes again!”
Steve glanced at Teddy’s favorite converse, then back at him. “We have the same sized feet?” he pointed out, clearly confused as to why there was a problem in the first place.
“Did no one teach you about, like, privacy?”
Steve blinked slowly. “Not really?”
“Stop stealing my shoes!”
Steve dropped Teddy’s converse, holding up his hands. “Okay. Sorry. They’re just—I like your style.”
“Thanks,” Teddy sighed, deflating a little bit. “I’ll go shopping with you for some shoes this weekend.”
Steve tried not to visibly perk up, and it was kind of adorable.
Tommy
“Would it, like, physically wound you to match your clothes?” Tommy demanded incredulously because, seriously, he’d thought that stripes and plaid had been a joke reserved for movies.
“Do I embarrass you?” Bucky asked, clearly unrepentant.
“Yes, frankly, you do.”
“Aw,” Bucky pouted. “Guess somebody’s not going to the mall.”
“Stripes,” Tommy sputtered, “and plaid.”
“Boo hoo,” Bucky drawled. “Get in the car or I’ll infect you with my fucking awesome fashion sense.”
Tommy gave him the finger.
Fuck these assholes.
Thank god he wasn’t a Young Avenger—he would’ve reduced his cool factor just by association.
America
“Jeez,” America hissed. “Stop that.”
Steve sleepily looked up from his book. “What?”
America scowled, gesturing between him and Bucky. “You two are nauseating.”
Steve looked genuinely confused while Bucky stuck his tongue out at her tauntingly. “I’m just sitting,” he said defensively.
“You are wearing Bucky’s clothes and drinking Bucky’s hot chocolate and cuddling on the couch.” Steve looked startled. “Honestly, viejo, have some decency.”
Steve withdrew his feet from Bucky’s lap, but Bucky caught his ankle. “Let us live, America.”
“You annoy me,” she declared.
“Your face annoys me,” Bucky parroted.
“Your mom annoys me.”
“Your—”
“Enough,” Steve said softly, a quiet, private smile breaking out on his lips.
America tried not to smile back, but dammit. She was weak like that.
She stuck up her chin and tried to sniff indignantly. “Still gross,” she maintained, striding away.