He's happy for them.
Really, he is. They're his teammates, his best friends, and he's happy to see them so happy. He sees the way her eyes light up when he talks to her and the way he sneaks glances at her when he thinks no one else is looking. He knows they're in love and he's truly happy for them.
They shouldn't be, though. They're assassins, spies, and violating every policy S.H.I.E.L.D. has on dating coworkers. They're trained to kill without second thought and to never, ever show real emotion. Love isn't in their job description.
But Steve stands here on the beach, watching as Natasha says her vows in an uncharacteristic yet stunning white gown, and he can see the look in her eyes and he knows she's in love.
He knows because he's seen that look before.
And he tries to focus on the ceremony, tries to pay attention for his best friends' sake, but he can't help wondering what it would be like if it was him getting married.
The ceremony would probably be more traditional, in a church in New York instead of a remote island (because of course the wedding has to be a secret, everythinghas to be a secret). He wonders if she would look at him the same way Natasha looks at Clint, as though she knows everything about him, every last dark and dirty detail, and still thinks he's amazing.
He knows she would look jaw-droppingly, breathtakingly flawless, and he would stare, caught in her beauty. He'd be too busy thinking about the fact that she would soon be his, only his, and that they would share the rest of their lives together, to notice anything else.
And afterwards, they would dance.
"Do you, Clint Barton, take Natasha Romanoff to be your wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; and promise to be faithful until death do you part?"
It's not fair, he wants to shout.
It's not.
"I do."
He doesn't shout it, of course. He thinks it, though, bitterly and resentfully. He doesn't want to think it, doesn't want to ruin their day with his petty jealousy, but the thought keeps creeping back, sitting on his shoulder and whispering terrible things in his ear.
"And do you, Natasha Romanoff, take Clint Barton to be your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; and promise to be faithful until death do you part?"
That should be you, it says.
You're the selfless one. You'd never hurt an innocent person.
They're assassins. They hurt innocent people for a living.
Why do they get a happy ending? Why not you?
"I do."
It's not fair and he knows it. He wants to shout it at anyone and everyone that it's not not not fair for him to be so giving and get nothing in return, for him to sacrifice all that he had – his life, his love, his everything– for the greater good, only to stand as a groomsman instead of at the altar.
"Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Applause breaks out from the very few people that managed to make it to the ceremony, and he smiles and joins in because he's happy for them. He loves them both and loves seeing them so happy together. He's not jealous.
His love story was one that could've been but wouldn't.
But theirs doesn't have to be, and so he claps Clint on the back and hugs Natasha and wishes them both all the best.
He's happy for them.
He just wishes he could be happy for himself.
Author's Note
This was a lot better in my head, I swear.
Thanks for reading!