THE WORST THING ABOUT SPENDING a vacation is having to pack, and considering that it's been three years since he's last been in his hometown, he isn't quite sure what to expect once he gets there; making it all the more difficult to decide which things to pack, and how many clothes to bring.

"Wait, so you're actually serious about this?"

Steve sighs, "Surprisingly, I am."

"About her?"

He exhales a short breath. "That, I'm not sure what you mean."

He hears Sam laughing again from the other end. "Oh, man. I mean, somehow I've always known that you're going to have to settle down with some girl but, really, Natasha Romanoff?"

Steve presses his phone between his ear and his shoulder, and starts to fold up his shirts. He learned a technique from Tiktok about folding clothes neatly for traveling, and it's been handy ever since. "I know. It's complicated. She has me wrapped around her finger."

"I can see that."

He places the folded shirts inside his bag before walking over to his drawer to grab his underwear. "This job is just important to me, you know? I can't walk away now."

"Hey, man, I'm not judging you. I can't say that I'd do the same, but you're you, you know? Your gut's bigger than America itself."

"Yeah?" He pauses, tossing his boxers straight into his bag. He contemplates between two of his plaid shirts that he found at the back of his closet, one smelled like soap while the other smelled like a brand new car; for reasons he doesn't know why. He chooses the former. "So you don't think I'm crazy for going through with this?"

"Oh, no. You're crazy, definitely. But I can understand why." Sam adds, snickering, "And besides, it's not like this is a complete loss for you."

"What do you mean?" he asks, distractedly.

"Come on, you're marrying Natasha Romanoff. I mean, that woman's crazy, for sure, but y'all can't deny that she's a solid ten in the looks department."

Steve half-snorts, "Yeah, sure, if you're into those who walk all over you in her six-inch lucifer heels, be my guest."

"Oh, right, because you're one of those who still believes that what's on the inside is important." Sam retorts.

"Well, it counts." Steve remarks, sitting down on the side of his bed. "And as far as I can see from the three years I've spent with Natasha Romanoff, she has no inside. She's one-dimensional."

"I thought you're the guy who always looks for the best in people?"

"I was. I mean, I still am. But Natasha's a whole other being that I can't comprehend anymore."

Sam snickers, concluding, "You still got it bad for her."

"What?"

"Just admit that you still dream about her every night. Sweet Steve has a crush on the charming Miss Romanoff—"

"It was not a crush. I just thought she looked pretty." Steve chastises, leaning back on his headboard as he stares up at the ceiling. "Of course, that was before I realized that looks can actually be deceiving."

"You're damn right about that." Sam agrees, earning a chuckle from him as he shakes his head. "But, I don't know, maybe she's one of those villains that they make movies about to justify why they treat people like shit."

Steve's chuckle turns into a harder laugh. "Maybe. I wouldn't get my hopes up."

"You know what they say, Rogers, there's a thin line between love and hate." Sam teases.

Steve scoffs, getting up from his bed. "Now, that's something like thirteen year old girls living in their head would say. Anyway, I got to go and finish packing now."

"Sure, man. Have a good weekend in Ireland. And, hey, tell the missus if she can give us all an added bonus as a souvenir to the wedding?"

"You're a jackass."

"Always."

He hangs up, trying not to think about what Sam had just said.

So, he instead looks at the remaining things scattered across his bed and tries to figure out a way how to fit all of these in his duffle bag. Out of all of them, his eyes hover over his sketchbook, the very same sketchbook which contained the pieces that Natasha had rejected earlier at work.

Sighing, he packed it along with the rest, figuring he can change her mind during their Ireland weekend getaway.

.・゜-: ✧ :-

Their first flight was seemingly normal. So far. Natasha was fairly quiet and less annoying. She mostly spent her time typing on her laptop while Steve relayed instructions about their supposed immigration interview on Monday.

"So, these are the questions that INS is gonna ask us. Now, the good news is, I know everything about you. But the bad news is that you have four days to learn all this stuff about me. So, you should... you know, probably get studying."

She swiftly swipes the binder away from him without saying a word. Silence ensues as she skims over the document, eyes assessing him dubiously, "You know all the answers to these questions about me?"

"Scary, isn't it?"

"A little bit." She reckons, testing it out. "What am I allergic to?"

"Kiwi." He answers without missing a beat. "And a full spectrum of human emotion."

"Oh, that's... that's funny." She says flatly, putting up a sarcastic smile. "Umm... oh, here's a good one." He couldn't possibly know the answer to this question. "Do I have any scars?"

"Do you?"

"I'm glad to know that you don't know."

"So you do have one?"

"I am not telling you."

"Not wanting to answer pretty much means yes."

"That's what stupid people say."

"Where is it? Ankle? Leg? Back? Butt?"

Her gaze settles on him, flashing a sarcastic smile, "You know, it's exciting for me to experience you like this."

"Thank you." He ignores her flat remark. "You could at least tell me if you have one or not, because you know we'd be in trouble if I don't answer that correctly."

"No, I'm not telling you."

Steve rolls his eyes at her stubbornness.

She changes the subject at hand. "We're done with that question. We're done with that. Let's skip ahead. Oh, here's one. Whose place do we stay at, yours or mine? That's easy. Mine."

His face scrunches. "And why wouldn't we stay at my place?"

"Because I live in Central Park, West," she answers like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"So?"

"And you probably live in some squalid little studio apartment with stacks of Captain America trading cards and bobbleheads."

Steve clenches his jaw in annoyance, but bites his tongue to not say anything else in response to that. This woman's really pushing him to his limits, and he wanted nothing more than to tell her off. Just once. But he's better than that, having more self-control.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. We are beginning our descent into Dublin." An attendant announced through the intercom.

Confusion fills her features. "Dublin? I thought we were going to Connacht."

"We are," he says.

"How are we getting to Connacht?"

The next thing she knew, they were being directed to another plane. This time—more cramped up and much more annoying—to Connacht. And when they arrived, she was actually expecting to land in some nice, legal airport lobby but, no, to her shock, they were let off on an open hangar.

He notices something, eyebrows knitting together in disbelief. "Why are you still wearing heels?" 

Natasha gives him a look. "Your problem?"

Steve starts putting on his jacket. "I thought you said you were going to change on the plane."

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind."

He huffs an irritated sigh at her stubbornness. "Where we're going to isn't a place for designer heels. Nobody cares if you're wearing Valentino or whatever."

She continues to ignore him, nonchalantly putting on her gloves, trench coat, and pair of shades. Steve rolls his eyes at her appearance. "You look ridiculous, Natasha. You'll be sticking out like a sore thumb if you don't lose the shades and gloves."

"What? I'm cold."

"And yet you're wearing your hundred inch heels."

"Why do you care?"

Steve gives up, raising his hands in surrender. "Fine, suit yourself. But don't blame me if your feet gets chopped off or something." He says, passing by her seat and grabbing their luggage from the upper shelf.

He hands Natasha one of her Louis Vuitton bags. "Here."

She peers at him through her shades. "Excuse me?"

"Here in Ireland, I'm not your assistant. I'm your fiancé, remember? So if you want this to work, we have to start acting like we're actually in love," he deadpans.

Natasha gapes at him. "Well, yeah, but—"

Steve cuts her off by placing her bag on her lap before she could object. "Now, come on. You're going to meet your future mother-in-law."

She grumbles under her breath. 

He doesn't even try to hear out what she's mumbling.

Looking out the window, he sees his family right on time to pick them up, waving enthusiastically and holding up their pickup signs that say, WELCOME HOME STEVE! <3

Steve takes a deep breath. Oh, dear. "All right, here we go."

Time to put their acting skills to use.

.・゜-: ✧ :- 

a/n:

teehee let's just imagine that connacht is some distant island in ireland (or is it???)

i actually found out that steve's parents in the comics are irish immigrants so i had to make this fic comic accurate than movie accurate

i'm sorry if this is a short chapter lol