Little Wars ☆ Steve Rogers

08

Maisie couldn't recall a time that Tony had almost mistaken her name when he'd been actually looking at her, or if he was stooped down low to kiss her, or if he had handfuls of her curves. He only mistook her when he was distracted in conversations like now, in the workshop. He'd also called Maisie "Dum-E" once, while asking for her to hand him a screwdriver, so she was certain the mix-ups had nothing to do with real similarities.

Tony raised his eyebrows at her question, a slightly delayed response, finally looking away from the screens. "Did you finally look at a map? You barely knew which state Malibu was in last time."

"Yeah," Maisie said.

"Well, I'm never embarrassed," he said. "And nobody cares if you use the wrong fork at dinner."

"What do you mean?" Maisie said. "The wrong fork? Have I been doing that?"

She wracked her brain to recall the dates he'd been taking her on all week. She'd barely been home at all, walking home from work to get ready before Tony came to pick her up. She hadn't slept in her own bed all week. So it all felt blurred, like one long evening. But she was sure there hadn't been multiple forks.

"It was a joke, buttercup. When have I ever taken you somewhere with multiple forks?"

"Is that on purpose? You think I'd use the wrong one?"

"You can use whichever fork your heart desires," he said. "But I'd keep cameras off you the same way I do here. That's why we've been going strictly to one fork restaurants."

"Oh, okay." Maisie swung her feet lightly, bouncing the backs of her dusty-pink loafers off the legs of the stool. She internally debated whether to tell Tony that her concern was her body, not her lack of status and wealth. Or, at least, her body had been her only concern until he'd suggested a new potential insecurity.

She weighed her options as Tony returned to his work, unconcerned. She'd googled the weather in February, and while it wouldn't be hot yet, it also wouldn't be puffy coat season, as it was here. "What about the weather?" she asked. "I wouldn't have to wear a bikini or anything, right? 'Cause it's still kinda cold there, right?"

"Are you asking me if I'm planning on forcing you into the freezing ocean?" Tony asked. "No, I'm not. If you come, bring something I can rip off in a hot tub, though." He leaned down to rummage through a drawer in the counter below him.

"So, I wouldn't be, like, in public with my stomach showing?"

"No, buttercup," he said, coming back up with a blowtorch in hand. "Why? You're worried about the scar?"

Maisie blinked. She hadn't even considered the surgical scar, about four inches long, which ran vertically above her belly button. It was about six months old, healed but still tinged pink at the edges. Tony was the first person, other than doctors, nurses, and herself, to ever see it. So, it hadn't yet crossed her mind to feel insecure about it until now.

"Yeah," she answered.

"Don't be," Tony said, flicking the blow torch on and reaching for a piece of metal, some part of a machine. "A doctor could get rid of it easy, though. If it bothers you. Not that it should."

Part of her was at least relieved he didn't guess her original concern. If he'd said You're worried about the pudge? she was certain she would have excused herself to retrieve her big puffy coat from Bruce's lab, zipped it all the way up, and insisted that no one ever perceive her again.