There's so much about the 21st century that is different and alien, well, more alien than the Chitauri, that Steve feels an itch under his skin that dictates he escape and but good. Lucky for him and—according to Tony ("Seriously, Gramps, you're about two frown wrinkles away from curmudgeon")—the rest of the team, Clint had point-blank refused to leave his brownstone, and no amount of cajoling (Tony), manipulation (Nat), curry (Bruce), or puppy eyes (seriously, Thor) would ever change that. Of course, for Steve, that made dealing with his wildly inappropriate and likely unrequited love for Clint all the more difficult to shoulder.

So, this isn't the first time Steve's crashed on Clint's couch nor is it the fifth (hell, it's not even fifth time this month). Maybe Steve should be more worried that the more his crush intensifies the more times he scrunches himself up on Clint's too- short, too lumpy couch, but that's not what's concerning him right now. No, what's concerning him is this: "Here comes the air plane… No, no air plane? How about the choo-choo… chugga chugga chugga chugga whoo wh – aw, baby, no."

Baby? Steve drops his bag and his shield by the front door and, walking on the balls of his feet as though traversing a land mine field, makes his way to the kitchen.

To clarify, Steve's already resigned himself to this hopeless crush thing he has on the archer. There's no way Steve—always just a 4F in 1A packaging—could ever be good enough for anyone (the only one who ever really saw him was Bucky, and, well, Bucky's gone). Steve had counted it a success that his stupid crush was just that, but he was wrong. When he rounds the corner to find Clinton Francis Barton, World's Greatest Marksmen, going toe-to-toe with a one-toothed, blue-eyed, pink-bowed, red-headed baby? Well, his hopeless crush warms into something new, and before Clint can even say, "'Sup, Cap," Steve says, "I love you."

Clint stops moving, and the baby takes advantage of his stillness to grab his hand and start banging it (with the spoon still full of food) on the table. Clint, spurred into action, gently grabs her wrist with his other hand and disengages her grip. The spoon is completely empty, which is to say both the baby and Clint are now covered in pureed carrots, so he leaves her to do with it as she will. Steve watches Clint watching the baby put the spoon in her mouth to chew. The silence that otherwise fills the room makes Steve's arm hairs rise, his fingers itch for something to do to break the tension. It's Clint who talks first.

"Steve."

And, oh, Clint's probably expecting a response. "Y-yes?"

"Did you just tell me you love me? While I'm covered in baby food?" Steve's only answer is the flush of embarrassment that suffuses his face. "Because, I'm pretty sure you could have picked a better time, like, say, tonight during the movie, after I've managed to take a shower, maybe done the whole yawn-and-stretch to put my arm around your shoulders so you can look at me with those baby blues, and I could kiss you? Yeah, that sounds much better."

"You're going to kiss me?" Smooth, Rogers, real smooth.

"Not now I'm not. Carrots are flat nasty at the best of times, and pureed to death, nuked to lukewarm—and in my hair, thank you—is not conducive to sexy-sexy make-out times."

Steve swallows and tries to appear cool while he thinks of a witty rejoinder, but looking like he's with it is nearly impossible when he's wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. His voice is a squeak when he says, "Then, no."

"No, what?"

"No, I did not just tell you that I love you."

"Good." Clint produces another spoon from somewhere (Steve will laugh at him later when he sees that Clint has a whole arsenal of them in his shirt pocket) and starts feeding the baby again. For a minute or so, Steve worries that he's not going to know what to do with himself now that his big secret is out and there's a very real potential for "sexy-sexy make-out times" in his future, but then he realizes that Clint's feeding a baby.

"Uh, Clint?"

The baby feints left, and the spoon leaves behind a smear of orange on her cheek. Clint swears under his breath. "Yeah, Steve."

"You think you could introduce me to your friend here?"

"My frien – You mean Bonnie?"

"I think it's safe to say that, as the only two other people in this room are you and I, then, yeah, I mean Bonnie."

"Smart ass." Steve gasps and puts his hand over his heart, feigning indignation. "Save it, Rogers. You're not offended." He sticks the spoon back in the jar of food then gestures at Steve with the whole thing. "Steve, this is Bonnie-lass. Her mom lives below me, and has been known to cook a mean casserole for the odd super hero or two. Bonnie's daddy had an accident at work, so Bonnie's mom asked me to watch the princess while she takes care of him at the hospital. Bonnie, this old codger is Steve, and he has the worst timing in the entire world."

"Thanks, Barton." Clint doesn't answer, mind and body once again turned to the task of feeding Bonnie the Spoon Dodger. Steve snorts, and Bonnie turns her head to smile at him.

"What's wrong, Hawkeye, the – "

"Yeah, yeah, 'World's Greatest blah blah can't feed a baby her frickin' carrots, the Earth is doomed.' Hilarious, that's what you are, frickin' hilarious."

Steve rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything… Until Clint tries and fails again, this time decorating his own cheek with carrots. Steve pushes himself off the doorjamb. "Barton, you're just embarrassing yourself."

"Oh? And I suppose being a super soldier gives you hidden baby-feeding skills, huh?"

"Just move, asshole." Bowing out of the way, Clint moves so that Steve can take over. Steve doesn't immediately pick up a fresh spoon or the jar of food. Instead, he sits down and smiles at Bonnie. "Hi, princess, I'm Steve." She giggles and kicks her legs, her hands opening and closing. "Can you play peek-a-boo?"

"Steve, Cap, she's seven months old."

"Can it, Barton. Who's the expert here?"

"But, really, man, how – I'll be damned."

Steve would turn to smirk at the other man, but he's far too interested in making Bonnie laugh at him. He covers his eyes. "Where's Bonnie? Where's Bonnie?" Bonnie flaps her hands at Steve, occasionally gaining purchase on one of his thumbs or fingers. Steve always rewards her success by lowering his hands and exclaiming, "Oh! There she is!" He plays with her for a little longer, an uncharacteristically silent Clint watching them. After a few minutes pass and Bonnie's giggles have turned into full-blown belly laughs, Steve deems her ready. He wipes her down once more before he wrestles her out of her harness. He settles the baby on his hip, bracing her back against his forearm. Finally, he tucks the hand closer to his body under his armpit and gently grips the wrist of her other hand, leaving one of his hands free to feed her while still preventing her from grabbing at the spoon. He holds a spoonful of food almost to her mouth. She tries to tug her hands free to grab it, but when she can't, she leans her head forward as far as she can, lips parted, until all Steve has to do is move the utensil a fraction of an inch to feed her. He touches his nose to hers, grinning when she giggles.

It only takes a bit longer for Steve and Bonnie to work their way to the bottom of the jar of food. The only noises in the room are Bonnie's happy eating sounds and the click of the spoon on the lip of the jar. When he's finished, Steve drops the spoon back in the jar for a final time, then lifts Bonnie high above his head, careful not to press on her tummy lest she undo all of their hard work by throwing up all over him. "Good job, darling, not a bit spilled."

"You know, it's completely unfair."

Steve stands, readjusting so that Bonnie's back is pressed to his chest, and faces the archer. "What, that you can't hit anything but the broadside of a baby's cheek?"

"Oh, har har, hilariouser and hilariouser."

Steve smirks. "Tell you what, Clint, because I'm such a stand up guy, I've got a consolation prize for you."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"You, pal, get to change this little dame's diaper." Steve holds Bonnie out, leaving Clint no choice but to take her from him. Clint immediately snarls his nose up and keeps the baby at arm's length.

"Gee, golly, Cap, that's awfully nice of you."

"I aim to please."

Clint maneuvers Bonnie so that he can peer at Steve. "You do at that." There's nothing that Steve can say to that so he just smiles, wondering if he should put his hands in his pockets or on his hips or behind his back or, really, just anywhere, so long as he's not just standing there, hands still held out where he offered the baby to Clint. He's about to settle for crossing his arms over his chest when Clint, who goes from holding Bonne like she's radioactive to standing in Steve's space, baby now pressed between them, says, "Steve," and Steve finds that his hands have settled on Clint's deltoids.

"Yeah?"

Clint reaches a hand up to Steve's neck so that he can pull Steve closer. "I love you, too." Steve could tell Clint that a dirty diaper totally trumps pureed carrots, but he's suddenly too busy, what with Clint's lips pressed to his and all. And, before there's any scandal or accusations that they'd play tonsil hockey in front of a helpless seven month-old, it isn't a sexy, open-mouthed kiss, and it doesn't last long. What it is, though, is a perfect moment, one like he hasn't had since Bucky.

Steve draws back from Clint and is so pleased to see the same goofy grin staring back at him. He quite readily admits to himself that he could stand here and look into this man's eyes for the rest of the night, if not for his life. Naturally, Bonnie had other opinions.

"Ow!" Clint lets go of Steve's neck and grabs his own nose. "Woman, your claws are vicious! All right, all right! I'll change your diaper." He heads out of the kitchen, toward her diaper bag, and mumbles, "Jesus, am I bleeding? Steve! I'm bleeding!"

~~X~~

The rest of the evening with Bonnie and Clint is pretty much the best time Steve's had since coming out of the ice. Steve cannot honestly remember a time when he's laughed more, and that doesn't include watching Clint clean and dress his war wound with as much care as he would post-Avengers battle. Even now, the sight of Bonnie and Clint—who'd crawled on his hands and knees—playing tag still threatens to send Steve into fits of laughter that he has to stifle. Clint had propped up in his papasan about an hour ago, bottle warmed, and snuggled the baby close while she fed for the last time. They're both asleep now, Bonnie with her arms and legs tucked under her body, Clint with about a thousand pillows and blankets to support him and catch Bonnie, just in case. Clint's head is lolled to the side, and Steve can just make out a puddle of drool spreading over the sleeping man's shirt. Steve himself had been the one to answer Clint's Starkphone when it had vibrated with a call from Mrs. Agee. Mr. Agee was out of surgery, pins holding his foot together, and Mrs. Agee was on her way home. She is due any moment, and Steve is doing his best to lay out his sketches so that he can encapsulate this day forever. He's putting the finishing touches on a picture of Clint, doing a one-handed handstand, with Bonnie using his armpit hair to lever herself to her feet.

There's so much that has changed while Steve was in the ice, but with this day full of laughter, kisses, and I-love-yous, there's just enough that hasn't that makes Steve thankful that some things never will.

5