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carlyinromeTITLE: Trouble with the Curve (The Spring Formal Remix)
RATING: PG-13
FANDOMS: MCU, The Avengers
CHARACTERS: Lady!Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Sam Wilson
PAIRINGS: Steve Rogers/Lady!Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff/Sam Wilson, Lady!Tony Stark & Natasha Romanoff, Sam Wilson & Steve Rogers
SUMMARY: Spring formal is coming up, and Steve Rogers and Toni Stark are conspicuously without dates. Luckily, they have Sam and Natasha, friends who know what’s good for them.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for navaan for Remix Me 2016, based on their story, Learning Curve.
Natasha deals tarot. She sits cross-legged on Toni’s bed, lays down the knight of cups.
“What does that mean?” Toni demands.
“Someone romantic, charming—”
“Me twice,” Toni says.
“—a knight in shining armor coming into your life to sweep you off your feet.”
Toni frowns. “I like my feet on the ground.”
“Is that why you’ve been building rockets instead of going to Comp?”
“Shut up.” She picks up the card, studies it. “How did you even learn to do this?”
Natasha smiles her secret smile. “I have many talents.”
Toni rolls her eyes. “You learned it off the Internet.”
Natasha shrugs. “Google-fu is a talent.”
Toni sighs dramatically. “I have nothing to wear to this stupid mixer.” She perks. “Let's go shopping.”
Natasha's interest is piqued. Toni has great taste and an American Express black card.
“Yes,” she says.
***
Steve squints over his Western Civ homework, trying to focus amongst the chaos of a dozen frat guys playing beer pong.
A shout goes up as a sophomore chugs, and Steve frowns, slams his book shut.
“Why did I join a fraternity?” he asks.
Sam pulls himself out of the cavernous depths of the ancient, broke down sofa in front of the big screen. He mutes the game and comes to sit by Steve.
“Brotherhood,” he says. “The eponymous fraternity.” He pauses. “Sorority girls.”
Steve starts to open his book again, but Sam closes it.
“Speaking of,” Sam says.
Steve sighs. “Don't start.”
“Speaking of!” Sam says louder. “You have got to find a date to the spring formal. You must.”
“Must I?”
“It's for your health,” Sam says. “Keep up this crap any longer, you're going to stress yourself into a heart attack.”
“What crap?” Steve asks, but he knows what he's going to hear.
Sam claps a hand on Steve's shoulder. “Steven,” he says, “you need to get laid.”
Steve huffs out a sigh. He pushes off Sam’s hand on his shoulder, stands, collects his book.
“Goodnight, Sam,” he says.
Sam follows him up the stairs. “Man, I know you don't want to hear it, but Peggy was forever ago.”
That stings. Before the pain can really root itself, Sam adds, “Plus, it’s not like you don't have your eye on someone.”
Steve can feel himself coloring. “What?”
“Dark hair, trust fund, 34-24-36?”
“You know her measurements?”
“It's a gift,” Sam says. “Stop changing the subject. You are 100% hot for Toni Stark.”
“I—” Steve says, but that's as much of a defense as he can mount.
“I'm just sayin’, man,” Sam says. “It does a body good.”
***
Toni examines her reflection in the 360˚ mirror. The dress is black and red and tighter than a surgeon’s glove. Toni tosses her hair around a bit, pouts in the mirror.
“You look like a high-priced prostitute,” Natasha says from the overstuffed pouf situated just behind the mirrors. She scrunches her nose. “Maybe not that high-priced.”
Toni looks over her shoulder. “Jealousy looks good on you,” she says. Then: “I look like a fucking lady.”
Natasha rises from the pouf, pushes Toni aside. Her dress is dusky pink and more conservative, but no less stunning. She runs her fingers through her hair, positions her red curls over her shoulders. Poses. Natasha smiles at her reflection, and then her eyes flicker to Toni’s reflection.
“So you have a dress,” Natasha says. She turns around, faces her friend. “You know what you need now?”
“Shoes,” Toni says.
“A date.”
Toni rolls her eyes. “Sure. You know what else I need? A big rock around my neck. You know, something else to drag me down.”
“Dramatic.”
“Me? Never.”
***
Sam waits for Natasha to get out of Psych, leaning against the wall outside the lecture hall. When class ends, students stream out, girls giving him the eye; Sam raises his eyebrows, smiles, but doesn’t follow any of them.
“Flirt!” Natasha says when she sees him.
Sam can’t help himself. He can’t play cool. He grins, and follows Natasha as she walks past.
“You know I only have eyes for you, Red,” he says.
They go to the meal hall. Sam loads a tray high with food; Natasha selects a coffee and a croissant, and the two of them find an empty booth in a hidden corner by the computer lab.
Sam shovels spaghetti into his mouth. “When should I pick you up on Friday?”
Natasha raises her eyebrows. “What? Are we going somewhere?”
“I hear there’s a dance,” Sam says. “A spring formal.”
Natasha studies her manicure. “I haven’t been invited.”
Sam’s mouth twists as he tries to keep himself from grinning. “Natasha Romanoff,” he says. “Will you go to the dance with me?”
“Thank you,” Natasha says. “I will. You can pick me up at eight.”
Sam unleashes his grin. He douses his fries in ketchup and digs in. “How is Operation Stoni going?”
“I hate those portmanteau couple names,” Natasha says. “Anyway, she is ... resistant.”
“Steve, too,” Sam says. “Why can’t they see they’re perfect for each other?”
“They’re stubborn,” Natasha says. “And not as smart as us.”
Sam leans across the table to kiss her. “No,” he says. “No, they are not.”
***
Toni has a water bottle full of whiskey in her handbag, but it's a sorority dance, so she is drinking panty droppers, a sweet pink drink with a little kick. The whiskey is for the after party, three a.m. in someone's apartment, sex behind the couch and tops off in the hot tub. Toni is working on her PhD in party harder than the ones in engineering and physics, probably because nineteen years old is a ridiculous time to be working on a PhD in anything that doesn't involve jello shots.
Normally Natasha would be egging Toni on by insisting that, since she is Russian, she can drink any spoiled rich bitch under the table, but the plan is in motion.
“Maybe pace yourself,” she suggests, deftly removing a still full shot glass from Toni's hand.
“Thank you, mother,” Toni says, but she doesn't fight when Natasha hands the shot to a pledge. “Any other cotillion advice?”
“Always press your petticoat,” Natasha says, “forks on the right, spoons on the left.”
Toni snorts. “Petticoats,” she says. “I'm not even wearing underwear.”
“Slut.”
Toni fakes offense. “Like this dress needs panty lines.”
Natasha doesn't come up with a comeback, because her eyes are across the room where Sam and Steve have just entered, looking so handsome in their button downs rolled up to bare their forearms. Natasha nods her head toward Toni, and Sam nods. He throws his arm around Steve's shoulders, steers him to where the girls have taken up residence at the punch bowl.
“Miss Stark,” Steve says.
Toni studies her manicure. “Rogers.”
“You two are adorable,” Sam says. The DJ spins something bass heavy and up tempo, and Sam grabs Natasha's hand. “Let's dance.”
They leave for the dance floor, sidling in among the crush of bodies. Steve looks after them for a moment before clearing his throat nervously and saying, “Would you like to—?”
Toni studies him a moment, pressing her red lips together.
“My dance card has a few slots open,” she says, and lets him lead her to the floor.
The bass thumps; Steve can feel it throbbing behind his breastbone. Toni tosses her head, her dark curls bouncing in time with the movement of her hips, and Steve feels his mouth go dry. He realizes after a moment that he's on the dance floor standing still, and tries to move, but it's like he's forgotten how. Toni looks at him, rolls her eyes. She takes his hands and presses them to her hips. Steve lets Toni's rhythm take him over; soon they're dancing in time with one another, in time with the music. Toni moves against him, rocking her hips and swaying in a slithery, sensual way, like a cobra entranced by a snake charmer. But if it's anyone who's entranced, it's Steve; he can't take his eyes off her. His senses are keen, and all trained on her: he counts the freckles across the bridge of her nose and smells the expensive perfume-soldering iron scent of her. Her eyes are raw cacao brown and rimmed with shimmery shadow, and Steve is intensely aware of when they land on him.
“I—” he says. “You—”
“Let's get some air,” Toni says.
The bass from the speakers can still be heard when they leave the ballroom and walk through the hotel’s hallways to the elevator, but Steve experiences it like being pulled from a dream. Toni is still with him, though, walking slightly ahead of him. He watches her hips sway beneath the tight material of her dress; he notices for the first time, under the hall’s cold fluorescents, that her skin is shimmery. It's probably some sort of makeup, he thinks, but in this time and place it makes her look ethereal.
They reach the elevator. Toni turns to him. “Where do you want to go?” she asks, and all Steve knows is that he wants to go with her.
He doesn't answer. Steve steps toward her, closing the distance between them. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her.
They break off, inches apart, and Steve is surprised to find Toni smiling.
She shakes her head and says, “What took you so long?”
“What does that mean?” Toni demands.
“Someone romantic, charming—”
“Me twice,” Toni says.
“—a knight in shining armor coming into your life to sweep you off your feet.”
Toni frowns. “I like my feet on the ground.”
“Is that why you’ve been building rockets instead of going to Comp?”
“Shut up.” She picks up the card, studies it. “How did you even learn to do this?”
Natasha smiles her secret smile. “I have many talents.”
Toni rolls her eyes. “You learned it off the Internet.”
Natasha shrugs. “Google-fu is a talent.”
Toni sighs dramatically. “I have nothing to wear to this stupid mixer.” She perks. “Let's go shopping.”
Natasha's interest is piqued. Toni has great taste and an American Express black card.
“Yes,” she says.
***
Steve squints over his Western Civ homework, trying to focus amongst the chaos of a dozen frat guys playing beer pong.
A shout goes up as a sophomore chugs, and Steve frowns, slams his book shut.
“Why did I join a fraternity?” he asks.
Sam pulls himself out of the cavernous depths of the ancient, broke down sofa in front of the big screen. He mutes the game and comes to sit by Steve.
“Brotherhood,” he says. “The eponymous fraternity.” He pauses. “Sorority girls.”
Steve starts to open his book again, but Sam closes it.
“Speaking of,” Sam says.
Steve sighs. “Don't start.”
“Speaking of!” Sam says louder. “You have got to find a date to the spring formal. You must.”
“Must I?”
“It's for your health,” Sam says. “Keep up this crap any longer, you're going to stress yourself into a heart attack.”
“What crap?” Steve asks, but he knows what he's going to hear.
Sam claps a hand on Steve's shoulder. “Steven,” he says, “you need to get laid.”
Steve huffs out a sigh. He pushes off Sam’s hand on his shoulder, stands, collects his book.
“Goodnight, Sam,” he says.
Sam follows him up the stairs. “Man, I know you don't want to hear it, but Peggy was forever ago.”
That stings. Before the pain can really root itself, Sam adds, “Plus, it’s not like you don't have your eye on someone.”
Steve can feel himself coloring. “What?”
“Dark hair, trust fund, 34-24-36?”
“You know her measurements?”
“It's a gift,” Sam says. “Stop changing the subject. You are 100% hot for Toni Stark.”
“I—” Steve says, but that's as much of a defense as he can mount.
“I'm just sayin’, man,” Sam says. “It does a body good.”
***
Toni examines her reflection in the 360˚ mirror. The dress is black and red and tighter than a surgeon’s glove. Toni tosses her hair around a bit, pouts in the mirror.
“You look like a high-priced prostitute,” Natasha says from the overstuffed pouf situated just behind the mirrors. She scrunches her nose. “Maybe not that high-priced.”
Toni looks over her shoulder. “Jealousy looks good on you,” she says. Then: “I look like a fucking lady.”
Natasha rises from the pouf, pushes Toni aside. Her dress is dusky pink and more conservative, but no less stunning. She runs her fingers through her hair, positions her red curls over her shoulders. Poses. Natasha smiles at her reflection, and then her eyes flicker to Toni’s reflection.
“So you have a dress,” Natasha says. She turns around, faces her friend. “You know what you need now?”
“Shoes,” Toni says.
“A date.”
Toni rolls her eyes. “Sure. You know what else I need? A big rock around my neck. You know, something else to drag me down.”
“Dramatic.”
“Me? Never.”
***
Sam waits for Natasha to get out of Psych, leaning against the wall outside the lecture hall. When class ends, students stream out, girls giving him the eye; Sam raises his eyebrows, smiles, but doesn’t follow any of them.
“Flirt!” Natasha says when she sees him.
Sam can’t help himself. He can’t play cool. He grins, and follows Natasha as she walks past.
“You know I only have eyes for you, Red,” he says.
They go to the meal hall. Sam loads a tray high with food; Natasha selects a coffee and a croissant, and the two of them find an empty booth in a hidden corner by the computer lab.
Sam shovels spaghetti into his mouth. “When should I pick you up on Friday?”
Natasha raises her eyebrows. “What? Are we going somewhere?”
“I hear there’s a dance,” Sam says. “A spring formal.”
Natasha studies her manicure. “I haven’t been invited.”
Sam’s mouth twists as he tries to keep himself from grinning. “Natasha Romanoff,” he says. “Will you go to the dance with me?”
“Thank you,” Natasha says. “I will. You can pick me up at eight.”
Sam unleashes his grin. He douses his fries in ketchup and digs in. “How is Operation Stoni going?”
“I hate those portmanteau couple names,” Natasha says. “Anyway, she is ... resistant.”
“Steve, too,” Sam says. “Why can’t they see they’re perfect for each other?”
“They’re stubborn,” Natasha says. “And not as smart as us.”
Sam leans across the table to kiss her. “No,” he says. “No, they are not.”
***
Toni has a water bottle full of whiskey in her handbag, but it's a sorority dance, so she is drinking panty droppers, a sweet pink drink with a little kick. The whiskey is for the after party, three a.m. in someone's apartment, sex behind the couch and tops off in the hot tub. Toni is working on her PhD in party harder than the ones in engineering and physics, probably because nineteen years old is a ridiculous time to be working on a PhD in anything that doesn't involve jello shots.
Normally Natasha would be egging Toni on by insisting that, since she is Russian, she can drink any spoiled rich bitch under the table, but the plan is in motion.
“Maybe pace yourself,” she suggests, deftly removing a still full shot glass from Toni's hand.
“Thank you, mother,” Toni says, but she doesn't fight when Natasha hands the shot to a pledge. “Any other cotillion advice?”
“Always press your petticoat,” Natasha says, “forks on the right, spoons on the left.”
Toni snorts. “Petticoats,” she says. “I'm not even wearing underwear.”
“Slut.”
Toni fakes offense. “Like this dress needs panty lines.”
Natasha doesn't come up with a comeback, because her eyes are across the room where Sam and Steve have just entered, looking so handsome in their button downs rolled up to bare their forearms. Natasha nods her head toward Toni, and Sam nods. He throws his arm around Steve's shoulders, steers him to where the girls have taken up residence at the punch bowl.
“Miss Stark,” Steve says.
Toni studies her manicure. “Rogers.”
“You two are adorable,” Sam says. The DJ spins something bass heavy and up tempo, and Sam grabs Natasha's hand. “Let's dance.”
They leave for the dance floor, sidling in among the crush of bodies. Steve looks after them for a moment before clearing his throat nervously and saying, “Would you like to—?”
Toni studies him a moment, pressing her red lips together.
“My dance card has a few slots open,” she says, and lets him lead her to the floor.
The bass thumps; Steve can feel it throbbing behind his breastbone. Toni tosses her head, her dark curls bouncing in time with the movement of her hips, and Steve feels his mouth go dry. He realizes after a moment that he's on the dance floor standing still, and tries to move, but it's like he's forgotten how. Toni looks at him, rolls her eyes. She takes his hands and presses them to her hips. Steve lets Toni's rhythm take him over; soon they're dancing in time with one another, in time with the music. Toni moves against him, rocking her hips and swaying in a slithery, sensual way, like a cobra entranced by a snake charmer. But if it's anyone who's entranced, it's Steve; he can't take his eyes off her. His senses are keen, and all trained on her: he counts the freckles across the bridge of her nose and smells the expensive perfume-soldering iron scent of her. Her eyes are raw cacao brown and rimmed with shimmery shadow, and Steve is intensely aware of when they land on him.
“I—” he says. “You—”
“Let's get some air,” Toni says.
The bass from the speakers can still be heard when they leave the ballroom and walk through the hotel’s hallways to the elevator, but Steve experiences it like being pulled from a dream. Toni is still with him, though, walking slightly ahead of him. He watches her hips sway beneath the tight material of her dress; he notices for the first time, under the hall’s cold fluorescents, that her skin is shimmery. It's probably some sort of makeup, he thinks, but in this time and place it makes her look ethereal.
They reach the elevator. Toni turns to him. “Where do you want to go?” she asks, and all Steve knows is that he wants to go with her.
He doesn't answer. Steve steps toward her, closing the distance between them. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her.
They break off, inches apart, and Steve is surprised to find Toni smiling.
She shakes her head and says, “What took you so long?”
