"Irony of all ironies, Captain America is allergic to apples.".
“Steve?” he turns to find Dawn standing in the kitchen doorway, a pie tin in her hands. “You okay? You were just…standing there.”
“Was watchin' the fireworks,” he explains, holding out a hand and tugging her over when she takes it, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest and pointing out the window to the admittedly impressive Cony Island firework display. “Bucky and I used to go every year when I was up to it.”
“It’s amazing. No matter how many times I've seen fireworks, it’s always different,” she muses. “how was the party?”
“The usual zoo.”
“So, press crawling everywhere, fans screaming and fainting, and Tony attempting and failing to get smashing drunk?”
“Sounds about right.”
“I’m sorry you had to spend your birthday of all days playing the dancing monkey for the teeming masses,” she remarks sincerely.
“It really isn't; we made plans.”
“And since when do either of our plans pan out?” he chuckles against her hair as a particularly energetic set of red, white, and blue fireworks explode in mid-air.
“Good point,” Dawn agrees wryly, pulling forward slightly and turning in his arms. “Invasions, evil villain attacks, strange magic artifacts going missing, apocalypse number Goddess only knows how many,” she lists off.
“Maybe we’re cursed?”
“Nah, it’s just a constant of my life: Tuesdays, birthdays, and the month of May. But at least I get free stuff out of it. One of the girls I had to check on today works at a diner and they had pies. I happen to be on good terms with the owner since we helped stop the diner from going smush a couple years ago.”
“That explains the pie tin at least. What kind?”
“What kind does only every store and restaurant in America sell on the Fourth of July?” she responds; Steve eyes the tin warily. “What? What’s with the suspicious look?”
“It’s apple pie isn't it?”
“Why Steven Rogers, I do declare your detective skills to be at least average,” Dawn teases in an over-the-top Southern Belle voice.
“I know you mean well but…”
“But what? You don’t like apple pie?”
“Wouldn't know,” he admits, “was allergic to apples as a kid.”
“Wait a minute,” she takes a step back, looking him in the eye, “I thought Project: Rebirth took care of all your health issues?”
“That’s what Bucky thought too: we were in England for maybe a week, near the countryside, and he found an orchard. Tossed me an apple; I touched it and broke out into a rash. Neither of us decided to see what would happen if I took a bite.”
“So you mean to tell me that irony of all ironies, Captain America
is allergic to apples? The man who stands for every good American value, including, but not limited to, baseball and apple pie
, is allergic
?” she needles, trying and failing to hold back her laughter.
“Yes, Dawn,” he sighs, stepping towards her, “I’m allergic to apples.”
“I’m sorry; I know I probably shouldn't be finding this as funny as I do. I’ll just give the pie to Tony or Jane or something.” She chuckles.
“Maybe later,” Steve suggests, taking another step forward until he’s close enough to bend his head for a kiss; Dawn melts against him, back pressing against the full-length glass window. Her arm flails to the side, waving around until she manages to set the pie tin down on the nearby counter.
“Sure,” she agrees breathlessly when they both come up for air, “later is good.”