Marvel one shots!!

Dad!steve Son!tony

Word count: 5532!!!

Summery: imagine Steve is found by Howard early on and therefore around for Tony as he grows up. as a result he thinks of Tony as the son he never had and is very protective of him, and gives Bucky a hard time when he finds out he likes him

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6 months

The  baby is crying again, wailing as if the world's about to end, and Steve groans tiredly, pulling his pillow over his face. He wonders—trying not to judge 'cause he knows raising eight children can't be easy—how long it'll be this time around until someone comes to calm it, or if the little boy's going to be working himself into a right state all night. It wouldn't be the first time.

Maybe Steve should go wake Bucky, if the noise from next door hasn't done that yet. Bucky's always been good with children, what with having three sisters himself, and the McCreary kids know him already from the occasional afternoon of babysitting when both parents are out working. Steve and Bucky even have a key to their neighbours' apartment, for emergencies just like this one, but something doesn't feel right.

Because the McCrearys haven't lived downstairs for years now, they have all moved back upstate, which means—

Steve's eyes snap open, and he shoots upright, stumbling out of bed into an unfamiliar room, memories washing over him in a dizzying, nearly overwhelming wave; Bucky leaving for basic, Peggy, Operation Rebirth, the Red Skull's facility, the Commandos, the ugliness of war, Bucky falling, crashing the plane, freezing water, darkness.

And then nothing. Steve wobbles where he's standing, knees suddenly weak, and has to grab on to the dresser to steady himself. Panting heavily, he takes in his surroundings; old, cleary expensive furniture, dark curtains on the windows and around the bed, Oriental carpets, freshly cut flowers in a crystal vase on the desk.

Wherever he is, Steve surmises, it's probably not with the enemy. Unless lulling him into a false sense of security is what they're trying to do—in which case they're really pulling out all the stops—but that seems unlikely.

And then there's the baby, still crying. Slowly, on unsteady legs, Steve makes his way over to the door, and out into the hall. It's not difficult to follow the increasingly distressed sounds into the nursery, though that's where Steve hesitates, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

But, as if sensing his presence, the baby renews its efforts. Steve, grimacing at the impressive volume it manages to achieve with its tiny set of lungs, steps closer to the crib, fingers curling around the bars as he peeks inside.

The baby blinks back up at Steve with big brown eyes, lashes clumped together with tears, small hands clenched into fists, stubby legs kicking aimlessly, and chubby cheeks red from exertion. It looks absolutely miserable, despite quieting down some, and Steve is lowering his hand into the crib to smooth back its hair before he's even made the conscious decision to do so.

"Hello," Steve whispers quietly, carefully brushing some of the tears away from its cheeks.

Giving a sniffle, the baby latches on to Steve's hand, then whines unhappily, hiccuping wetly.

"I don't know how to, you know," Steve explains helplessly, making something that vaguely resembles a cradling, rocking motion with his free arm. The baby is less than impressed with that, though, and takes a noisy, stuttering breath. Steve's eyes widen in alarm. "Oh, no. No, ssh, no. Here, c'mon, it's all right."

Very gingerly, Steve slides one hand under the baby's back, cups its neck with the other, and slowly lifts the squirmy bundle out of the crib, and against his chest. "There, ssh. That's better, isn't it?"