It's just silly Steve Rogers fluff based on my favorite joke this holiday...
Summary: Steve has his own tradition the night before the Fourth.
Entirely, utterly stupid, and I don't care because it made me smile. Enjoy! WC ~1k
"What the hell is all this?" you screech at Steve, finding an eleventh gallon bag of cookies tucked in a basket at the bottom of the pantry. "Why do you have a metric ton of...what? Sugar cookies? Cutouts, snickerdoodles, thumbprints? My god, what are you doing? Running your own bake sale?"
Steve's eyes shift guiltily from where you stand to the fridge and back.
You drop the bag of peanut butter chocolate chip treats and step backward to open the french doors.
"What's in here, Steve?"
"Nothing," he rushes.
"What's in the fridge, Steve?!"
He jumps to push the door shut before you can peak in. "It's not a big deal, ok? You don't wanna see."
This is starting to feel like the end of the movie Seven. What's in the cold box?! What's in the box, man?
Steve might be clearly ashamed and hoping you give up, but he uses no force to stop you. His bright blue eyes simply plead for your understanding.
Crammed into the tallest shelf are five--count 'em, five giant pitchers of...milk.
It's not store containers though; they're the type you make your own drinks in.
"Wha...."
You look at Steve, confused.
"It's a joke," he starts to explain.
"Are you taking a milk bath for your supple skin?" you snip.
"No. In the compound," Steve tsks back. "You know, like Santa. Ha-ha, leave out milk and cookies for the patron saint of Independence Day, ha-ha...or whatever."
He looks at his feet.
"So they give you the milk and cookies on the Third."
"I--uh--I wait until the compound closes and people go home, and then I collect the stuff from all the little break rooms and waiting areas. Employees' children come in to specifically to set up the plates."
He rolls his hands around as if that settles things.
"It's cute."
"So you bag up hundreds of cookies from fifty rooms in the building, pour glass after glass of milk into pitchers, and then hoard them like the freaking Cookie Monster in the apartment...You know you don't have to consume all of this, right?"
Steve balks at the mere suggestion. He's appalled.
How. Dare.
"What? I'm not gonna throw them away. That's such a waste! The kids would be so disappointed."
"Then you share them, Steve. You put them somewhere the adults can help you finish them off. You do not eat twenty-five pounds of butter and sugar and flour in one single day."
He shrugs, defiant in his plucking of one full gallon bag back from the pantry and reaching past you for a pitcher.
"I'll run a little extra," he mutters with a pouting lip. "I need the calories."
That's the last, laughable thing the big guy says before shutting himself in a room, snacks in hand.
Well, you think, it's oddly fitting that the patron saint of America is a glutton.
A/N: Look. I warned you it was stupid. I also warned you that I did not care BWAHAHAHA
