Words: 3.8K

Warnings: Language and family-related tension with an abusive/verbally demeaning father-figure

A/N: I wrote this because I have a bit of experience with the crappy-dad thing, so I was feeling thoughtful and decided to start a couple of imagines that mean a lot to me. Thankfully I no longer live in a negative environment. This is in no way a true story (although I wish I could say Steve Rogers was my boyfriend). That being said, I may be writing more stories like this later because I have a lot of strong inspirations with story lines like this. We'll see.

If anyone is going through anything like this at their home currently please feel free to reach out to me: or to talk about anything. I'm always here! And I've been through, and survived, similar things.

Lots of love,

Winnie

It was late April when I got my sister's wedding invitation in the mail. If Steve hadn't been sitting right beside me when I'd opened it I would've thrown it away before he could see. I would've planned to go by myself or not go at all: burying the invite at the bottom of the trash bin so that Steve wouldn't ever know that he'd been invited, too. But that's not how it happened: not even close. Steve saw the invitation and how it glittered on the edges with gold. He smiled, elated that his name was printed there too, and then immediately started planning our trip to Maine. Within the hour our flights were booked. I did my best to remind him that this may not go as well as he plans: my family is... well, they're different. But Steve shook his head and gave me a warm smile. He wanted to meet them, he claimed. It'd been almost a year we've been together and he's never even seen their faces. It's about time, we both agreed, but I couldn't help but feel nauseous deep down inside. I tried to tell him; I tried to warn him what walking into that house would be like, but no words would come. I supposed that he'd eventually see. And if he still wanted to be with me after what he'd seen, well, I know that he was the one for me.

So Steve and I fly out to Maine one night in July. We arrive in the early hours of the morning the next day with our heavy bags in our arms and under our eyes: mine from stress and his from choosing work over sleep.

The steps leading up to my childhood home are rickety and peeling white paint. The home itself is beautiful: built of masonry stone of cherry red. The pillars are tall and white. Flowerboxes bloom with rosemary and mint leaves to perfume the air. Those broken, molding stairs are the only real indication of what lies inside those beautiful walls.

"I know you said your dad was an attorney, but this is..." Steve stops in front of the doorbell. "This is beautiful."

I never really elaborated on how much money I'd been lucky enough to have as a kid. I suppose it didn't really matter very much in the end: I was still miserable.

"I don't think this is a good idea," I tell Steve before taking him by the hand. I sort of start tugging him backwards. "Let's stay at a hotel instead."

"What?" Steve laughs lightly. "Hon, don't be silly. Your mom invited us here. Your sister's staying here too, and so is your brother. It'll be fun!" His smile falters slightly when he sees the very real strain on my face. He takes both of my hands in his. "What is it, babe? What's worrying you?" His blue eyes flutter all over my face. "Is it me not liking them? Or them not liking me?"

"No, it's not—it's not that." I almost want to laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea of them not liking Steve, the righteous and brave Captain America. "It's..." I hesitate, but eventually admit, "It's my dad."

"You said he was difficult, but that's fine."

I let out a sigh. "That was me being generous." Steve watches my face patiently while I go on. "He can be really cruel sometimes, Steve. I just don't want him to say anything that'll upset you." I close a bit more of the distance between us until I can almost rest my cheek against his chest. "It's hard for me to not get upset and I've known the guy my whole life. It's part of the reason I hardly ever come home anymore."

Steve thoughtfully nods. "Okay. I'll keep that in mind." His thumb reaches up to lovingly stroke my cheek. "I promise not to get offended."

My eyes flutter shut as Steve softly kisses my lips. It'll probably be our last one for the weekend knowing how my mother feels about PDA.

"I love you," Steve mumbles against my cheek.

I smile—squeezing his hands harder and feeling comforted in the process. "I love you, too."

"Not as much as I love you," Steve finishes by saying: his habit that's been going since the first night he uttered those three little words. He kisses me once more before stepping back and away. "Come on—let's do this." I laugh as he takes on the same tone of voice with me that he does with his team before a mission. He winks at me when he reaches out to push the ringer.

The muffled chiming noises from the inside are accompanied by the barking of a small dog and a woman's hurried feet. It's not long before my mom's at the door with a bright smile on her flawlessly makeup patted face. She reaches out her arms for a hug: first for me and then for Steve. She's babbling on and on about how much she's missed me while we walk inside. The dog, a little white fluffy thing named Maurice, barks and nibbles at my feet. I stoop down to pick him up while Steve chats up my mom about the exterior of the house and the plane ride.

From the spiraling staircase my younger sister Taylor appears. Dressed in a peachy pink sundress and perfect hair in curls she jogs down to meet me. We hug, the dog squished in between, before she pulls me back by the shoulders. "Let me look at you! The only way I get to see you nowadays is on a computer screen."

"You're sounding more and more like mom every day," I chuckle. Maurice barks and begs to be let down. He scatters out between Taylor's feet.

"You brought a white dress, right? You got the memo?"

I nod. "I got the memo, sis." She's doing one of those trendy weddings where everyone wears white. It's supposed to make for really neat pictures, apparently.

"Thank god." Taylor grins. Then she must remember that I've brought a friend, because she pushes past me towards Steve. "Oh hello there! You must be Captain America."

I roll my eyes but Steve only smiles. "Yes, ma'am. But please: call me Steve."

"Oh! Ma'am! Not even Chris calls me ma'am," Taylor comments on her fiancé while lovingly shaking Steve's hand. She gawks at him, not even hiding it, and laughs girlishly. She makes a fool of herself by whisper shouting over her shoulder to me (in the exact opposite of a discreet manner), "He's soooo hot!" Then fans herself with a diamond studded left hand.

My brother, Nick, comes downstairs next. He and Steve have a friendly, overly brotherly introduction before they start taking our things upstairs. We'll stay in my childhood room apparently. Taylor and her fiancé get the guest suite. I try not to look too mortified about my outdated band posters and movie franchise memorabilia that are still littered everywhere. My mother has a hard time letting material things go.

"They're really nice," Steve says of my family while we get ready for dinner that night. We've just spent the day with my brother and his wife while they drove us around town. Then my mom met us for lunch before having to help Taylor at the bakery: finalizing the purchase for the cake. Steve and I went to that, too. Now its supper and we're supposed to get cleaned up before my dad gets home.

"They are," I agree. I stand in front of my full body mirror and fidget with the ends of my hair. "But you haven't met my dad yet." I glance back at Steve who readies in the bathroom doorway.

Steve sighs, "Honey, you keep stressing about this. But I hardly believe it could go bad after as great as the rest of the day has been. Your mom is an angel and your sister is a doll: Nick's pretty much a taller version of Sam and even his wife is super sweet. Everyone's amazing." He ducks his head into the bowl of the sink to splash some clean water on his newly shaven face.

"Everyone but my dad, that is," I mutter so low that not even Steve hears.

For dinner I'm dressed in a white, summery blouse and light skinny jeans. Steve's got on a sky blue shirt that brings out his eyes. He holds my hand as we leave the bedroom upstairs on our journey to the mainland. Down the stairs we walk, each step resonating in my heart like a prick of a needle. I'm dreading this moment. This moment—the one where I have to sit at a table with my father and Steve—is one that I've been terrified of since the day we decided to be together.

The dining room table is already full of food—and people—when we arrive. The long oak masterpiece is set up with Taylor, Chris, and Nick's wife Monica on one side. Nick has the head of the table next to his wife and then there are two seats empty on his right on mom's side of the table. She sits near the other end. My father is poised at the head of the table. He's holding a glass of red wine when I see him. He brings it up to take a sip—eyes boring straight through me when I come close enough for those hazel orbs to scrutinize and seethe.

"Y/N." My dad sets down his wine glass and the echo of the ringing follows my name.

I stand next to him right above my seat. "Dad."

My father doesn't bother to stand. He smiles at Steve and offers a hand. "Nice to finally meet you, Steve. My name is Matt, but you can call me sir." What is delivered with a smile and a friendly gesture is certainly no joke. Steve subtly glances to me quickly, almost as if checking to see how he should perceive this, and I swallow stiffly.

"Yes, sir. Good to finally meet you," Steve's words are smooth as butter and just as sweet as whipped cream. "Thank you for welcoming me into your home."

"Of course." My father's words are much tenser than Steve's. He gestures for the two of us to finally take a seat, which we of course do.

The spread laid out in front of us is nothing short of grand. My mom's cooked up two dozen deviled eggs, a roasted lemongrass chicken, charred asparagus, bakery fresh French bread, garlic fingerling potatoes, and a strawberry balsamic green salad. The smells are warm and inviting unlike the distant way my father stares at the wall as everyone starts to eat. He doesn't engage in any of the conversation; conversation that is now dry and brittle since he's been welcomed home from work. What once was cozy and warm is hollower and cold. Steve must notice it, too, because he's quieter and more unsure of himself than he was before.

"So, Steve, tell us how you and Y/N first met," my mother prompts Steve in the middle of the meal. She's cutting through a piece of chicken lamely while smiling at my boyfriend. Her kind eyes radiate enough warmth to get him to fully return the gesture.

"We met through a mutual friend, actually." Steve smiles over at me. "I have this friend Sharon and they knew each other through work..."

Before Steve can get anywhere exciting with the story my dad is interrupting. "Are you still a file clerk?"

I hold onto my fork a smidge tighter. "No." I clear my throat and then add, "Because I was never a file clerk: I'm an assistant to the director of SHIELD..."

"A coffee fetcher. Got it. So you're essentially playing the part of a paid intern." My dad takes a bite of his potatoes before downing another mouthful of expensive red wine. "You know, Steve, Nick here already had three hundred thousand dollars in investments for his company by the time he was twenty two." My dad makes a gesture down the table towards my older brother. Steve doesn't really know how to react to this announcement, especially since it's clear that it's going to lead to an insult about me. His eyes dart from Steve back to me. "You'll be twenty five this year, won't you honey?"

As much as it pains me, I nod. "Yes." I keep my eyes down on my plate.

"A twenty five year old file clerk," my dad hums the rude phrase thoughtfully. He goes back to eating without another word.

Awkward tension hangs silently in the air. My cheeks burn red, but I hide it by lifting up my glass of wine. I take a drink—feeling Steve's eyes on me all the while. I can see the realization starting to dawn in his eyes. Oh, if Steve thinks this is bad... he has no idea what's coming his way, I silently say.

Taylor, bless her sweet heart, jumps to try and salvage the situation. "Y/N tells me that you guys are going on a trip for your first anniversary. Where are you thinking about going?"

Steve looks over at me with a smile, telling me to take this one. We've been pestered all day long with questions: taking turns.

"We're not entirely sure yet," I say. "We're thinking probably Paris or Rome."

"Or both," Steve chuckles lightly.

"Or that," I agree.

"So you must make pretty good money saving the world then, Steve," my dad decides to stick his nose into the conversation again. "Because there's no way Y/N could afford a trip like that on her own."

"Matthew," my mother mutters discreetly towards his side.

My dad excuses her with a flick of his hand. "No, no, Claire—it's a good question." His eyes bore into mine across the table. "We have to make sure that our daughter's not embarrassingly financially drained when Steve's moved on."

I take a dangerously long breath. Steve's hand has suddenly reached out to hold onto my leg under the table.

"That's assuming that he would, honey. They look so happy together—I can't imagine that he would," my mom tries to keep her voice uppity and sweet as she says. She smiles at me. I can't bring myself to do it back.

"Oh I hope to god he doesn't," my dad scoffs. This conversation with all eight of us has now become a blistering insult party with one. "It's taken her long enough to settle down with someone seriously. It's that obnoxious personality of hers that scares the men away. Taylor's only twenty and she'll be married before Y/N's even gotten a ring."

"I don't need a ring. I don't need anything, actually. I'm perfectly fine. And I sure as hell was fine before without a man," I somehow manage to keep my voice even as I reply back to my dad's insults.

"It's not the man that you need," my dad goes on. "It's the stability. You're unstable, Y/N. We've always known it to be true. Moving to New York, getting a job as a file clerk, sleeping around..."

"Sleeping...?!" I don't finish my shocked outburst—I stop myself. I bite my tongue and turn my face towards the food. "Can we just change the subject, please?" Steve's fingers are leaving a bruising grip on my thigh. I keep him restrained by holding the back of his hand. I won't let him say anything: I won't let him get in the middle of this never ending feud between my dad and me.

Metal clatters as my dad dramatically tosses his fork onto the plate. The noise makes poor Monica jolt. Not my siblings and I—this noise is nothing compared to the crashes, screams, and slams that we grew up hearing every night.

"Fine. You want to change the subject? What would you rather talk about, Y/N? Give me a subject that won't come back to you being an absolute, goddamn mess and we'll try it out."

Steve's mouth opens to speak.

"Steve, please." I squeeze his hand and he silences. He stares down at me. I can see the rage burning behind his bright blue eyes. He's leaving permanent marks on my thigh now, unknowingly of course, as he tries to restrain himself.

"Dad, come on," Nick tries to reason with our father. He is the favorite child, after all. I was bitter about it for a long time during our childhood but now I realize that being Satan's favorite might not be the best gift. "Let up on her. This is the only time we get to see her anymore."

"And whose fucking fault is that?"

The question from my father is supposed to be rhetorical—the answer, of course, being a selfish me. But I can't help but respond in a different way. "Yours."

I predict his reaction before it happens. He's buzzed but nearing drunk: he's going to lash out again. It comes in the form of a tossed plate. The white porcelain flips across the table my way—food and glassware coming after it. Wine spills and silverware catapult in every direction. I don't move, hardly even flinch, and sort of brace myself for the debris to fall. But Steve's grip on my leg moves to yank me onto his lap. I stumble into his side just in time for the thrown plate to shatter in a million glassy shards against the wooden planks of my seat.

"Get out of my house," my dad growls. "You're a selfish, spoiled brat who grew up to be a lazy whore and you were never welcomed here." He rises up from his chair to point down at me. Steve catapults to a stand—towering in the space between my father and me. The table rests between them but the distance is riddled with animosity. They're the same height but Steve's clearly stronger—wider and built like a Greek god. For some reason though my dad isn't intimidated: not yet, anyway. Maybe he's too used to being the bully and not having anyone stand up to him that he isn't sure how to play the scared-victim game.

"Please, Matthew! She just got here—she never comes home," my mom starts to beg. She rises to her feet, too. Everyone else just watches. Actually, Nick's now standing. My big brother comes over slowly, like a referee to a wrestling match, just in case there's a fight he has to pull apart... again.

"She never did and she never will," my dad growls. His pale hands are bundled in fists. Steve notices and tightens his grip on my arm. He keeps me behind him. The feeling of having someone stand between my enraged father and me is new.

"Dad!" Taylor almost sounds like she's going to cry. Maybe she is: maybe we're ruining her perfect wedding family reunion.

"I mean it!" my dad's scream makes everyone blink. Everyone but Steve, actually. He keeps staring down my dad with intense steel-blue eyes. My dad then tries to move enough so that he can see past Steve at me. Steve repositions himself, still glaring. "Let me talk to my daughter, boy."

Steve's head shake is stiff. "That's not going to happen."

My dad purses his lips while the rest of us hold our breath. The only person who's ever challenged my father so directly was me; and I paid for it in the end.

"Fine." My dad grits his teeth. "If you won't let me speak to my own child, then I'll tell you both now," he pauses to narrow his eyes again, "If she ever dares to step foot into my house again, I'll..."

"I'd advise you not to make any threats." Steve's voice is darker and heavier than I've ever heard. His chest is puffed and arms thick with bulging veins as he steps closer to the table to say, "I'm very close right now to breaking every moral code I've ever held just for the sake of seeing your head smashed through that window over there." Steve takes a long breath before going on. "One more word about Y/N and you'll be lucky to see the inside of a hospital tomorrow morning." He grips my hand harder. "Sir." The last word is uttered with more contempt than I even knew Steve was capable of spewing.

Steve glares down my father for another fifteen seconds: maybe waiting to see if he'll get to kick his ass in the end. But my dad stays silent. Rooted at the head of the table he wordlessly stands.

"Come on, hon." I gently tug Steve by the arm. He's solid as a statue in front of me. "Babe," I hear my voice waver. Steve's head whips back towards me. Softness fills his eyes as he sees me. "Please."

Steve nods. He walks me away from the table towards the stairs. He purposely walks on the side of the dining room as we leave: blocking my family's view of me.

It's not until we get into my bedroom do I breathe again. I collapse onto the bed with my head in my hands and my lungs struggling to take in enough air. I'm not crying, but I might here soon.

Steve's dropped down onto the bed beside me. He's got his arms snug around me until I'm cocooned in his warm chest. He makes sweet little hushing noises in my ear while the tears start to fall.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he mutters into my hair.

I pull away and wipe my face. Sniffling, I say, "No—I'm the one who's sorry. I brought you here."

Steve's shaking his head. He grabs my face with both hands. His thumbs smear away my tears in the process. "It's okay, doll. You tried to tell me. I should've listened." He rests his forehead up to mine and then we both fall silent for a while. We take in the presence of each other as we stew on what's just been done.

"I'm so scared." I can't stop my mouth as it admits.

Steve peers at me behind those long black lashes. "Did he ever hit you?"

I swallow. "All the time."

Steve closes his eyes again. "Babe, I'm so sorry..." His nose brushes against mine as he disbelivingly shakes his head. "I wasn't gonna let him put his hands on you again. Never again, doll."

I sit back in Steve's embrace. "That's not what scares me," I say.

Steve blinks. "What is it then, hon?"

My mouth feels too dry to speak. My eyes dart down to my wine-stained blouse sleeves. A mess was made after the plate was thrown, and most of it ended up on my clothes. "I'm afraid of what you're thinking." My eyes cascade up until all Steve can see is the width of my dark pupils. "I'm scared that you'll start thinking differently about... me."

"Oh god, no." Steve heaves a long sigh. "No—come 'ere—no way." He wraps me up in his arms again until I'm dragged into his lap. "This in no way changes a single thing about you. I'm still here for you. I'm still going to keep you safe." He draws my chin up towards him with a finger. "And I still love you endlessly, Y/N."

I smile softly. "I love you too, Steve." My voice is but a whisper.

Steve leans closer until he can kiss my smile. "Not as much as I love you."