"Did you say Maria's wearing a suit?" Tony's voice rose a couple of octaves shooting, like his eyebrows, into his hairline. "Why couldn't you? We're all men, we understand suits!"
Natasha sighed. Her arms were somewhere beyond her shoulder-blades, aching. Trying to do this alone had been a big mistake. The bridal shop had told her this was the easiest to enter and exit. She should ask for her money back.
She tried to brace herself on the cupboard walls, to shimmy the thing over her hips. Nothing was working right. Even the bear Lila had provided to help her out was judging her form its perch on the sock shelf. She wished for Laura – but she had sped out of the room to change a bawling Nathaniel. She wished for Clint – who had left about forty minutes earlier on a snack-mission.
"You know how to take off a dress, Tony?" Steve was saying. He caught her eye in the vanity mirror and smirked. "Well, just reverse that. For a self-proclaimed 'genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist', you really are asinine."
Natasha sighed, supposing she would have to ask these morons for assistance. No, not morons, she scolded herself. They were at least present with her. She was hot and bothered, and angry at the dress not them.
"I don't appreciate your level of sass, Captain."
Lights flickered overhead. She should have reversed her position – stayed in the bedroom and put the men in the cupboard. The space wasn't oppressive, but nor was it tranquil. She considered giving up and attending her wedding in her pyjamas.
"How about I come take a look?" The voice she had been hoping for joined the merry chorus. Clint was squeezing through the gap, holding a glass of water aloft.
"Where have you been?" She accepted it and pulled him into the room.
"Harry Potter needed assistance."
Natasha didn't deign to answer that; Clint was an idiot. He had previously nicknamed Maria Natasha's 'Chosen One'. He would hold entire conversations just referring to her as the 'Chosen One'. After beginning to read the Harry Potter series to his children, he had been overjoyed to rediscover there was another name for the 'Chosen One'. As far as he was concerned, he only mentioned it to Lila and Cooper the once, but alas, their enthusiasm had made the reference 'Harry Potter' stick. Neither Natasha nor Maria believed that for a moment.
Clint positioned himself underneath Lila's bear, and now both watched her with unrecognisable expressions, until she pulled up her skirts for him to hold. She was engaged in strapping a pistol to her garter, when the garter snapped and the gun fell, bouncing out the door.
Steve picked it up, and sent her another look through the vanity.
"Harry Potter said no weapons at the wedding, Nat."
Oh, God, Clint's fandom-thrills were catching!
"Specifically, no weapons on you." Clint told her, before she could argue. "Come on, hand them over. I know you have more."
It was Tony's hand that reached in to take the shuriken she pulled from her bra.
"It's your special day, Nat; we'll have your back. Look, I made this microscopic flare…" He detailed his miniature tux-hidden weapons as Clint handed them her stash. "We have you covered."
"We even have a Plan B location in case this one is discovered." Steve offered.
Natasha ignored the warm fizz in her belly, instead asking "Will one of you get, Sam? He came to the fitting; he knows how the train works."
Sam Wilson was delivered into the room with little fuss. He flirted with her a little, adjusting the dress, before positioning Clint under the back end of her skirt so as he could achieve the 'perfect angle' for the train. It was a little light relief to Natasha's otherwise harrowing clothing experience.
"Wow, the girl in the shop made it look so easy, but this is hard." Sam's astonishment was definitely something to be scoffed at, and Natasha allowed herself a little giggle.
"That's what she said!" Clint was an ass. Natasha tried not to bash him, for she had signed that contract, they all had. No Injuries at the Wedding – she would do well to remember all the rules on Maria's list.
"Fucker." Sam glowered, and having no such restraint, lifted her skirts to kick his shins. He then turned the conversation back to her. "Are you doing your own hair and make-up?"
"No," She squeaked as he attended to the train with a little more vigour, trying to push a safety pin into her skin. "Thor's doing my hair. Laura's on make-up."
"Thor?"
She popped her head out from behind the door to look for him, and found the Norse God preening in a corner by the window. Light bounced into his own hair, sparkling enticingly.
"I have a thousand Earth years' experience." He advised, winking to Natasha.
She retreated into the wardrobe as the Steve and Tony began to question him. Attaching the final pin, and recalling Clint from under the skirts, Sam pulled back to admire his work.
"I really do like this dress."
"Thanks." Natasha examined herself in the long mirror, not dissatisfied with what she saw. She sent him a mischievous grin. "You can borrow it after this if you like?"
"All we need now is a third pair of hands to adjust the corset. Steve? You're ancient, you must know how these things work." Sam chose to ignore her.
Steve entered the closet. It really was beginning to be a tight-squeeze.
"Is this the closest you've been to boobs in a century?" Sam joshed Steve, after advising him to hold up the front of her corset. Natasha kept her fingers inside its ribs, feeling for breathing room. She pecked Steve's cheek, silencing his answer.
"No, there was another time he groped me."
She only half expected Clint's sharp bark.
"What?!"
Steve's reflexes were not to be scoffed at, and he went with: "Oh please, if you think that's how Captain America gropes women..!"
She coughed out a laugh, wheezing when Sam pulled too hard on the corset strings in his jollity.
"FRIDAY, I do hope you are recording this conversation." Tony's mirth was only marginally disguised by his disgust. He tapped at his Starkpad and held it up between the open door and wall.
"I'm coming out now." Natasha told him, swatting the device away. She revelled for a moment, feeling fresh air on her skin and natural light filtering into her vision.
"Of the closet? Nat, you did that years ago!" Anyone who thought Steve Rogers was an upstanding gentleman, had clearly never met him. He was ruining her solace.
A/N: this work was originally posted on my AO3 account on 20.12.17