Darcy stood over the kitchen counter, sniffling and doing her best to ignore the tears spilling slowly but steadily over her cheeks. The goddamn onions got her every time, but this sauce was just never right without them; so she chopped and cried, methodically dicing up enough onion for the fucknormous batch of sauce she knew she’d need to feed the edibles black hole that was the Avengers.
Moments later, Tony came strolling into the kitchen, eyes on his tablet, opened the fridge and retrieved a beer–then froze, turning slowly as Darcy sniffled particularly loudly. “Holy shit, Lewis, are you crying?”
“Who’s crying?” Steve asked, coming around the corner with mild concern in his voice–until he took in Darcy’s wet cheeks and his eyebrows lowered thunderously. Whirling on Tony, who still stood in front of the fridge looking lost and awkward, Steve demanded, “What did you say to her, Tony?”
“What did who say to who?” Bruce slipped into the kitchen next, instantly freezing as he first took in the damp-eyed Darcy, fish-mouthing Tony, and glowering Steve. “…What the hell?”
Darcy slapped down her knife. “Oh, come on, what is this, a fucking sitcom?” Making large, obvious gestures with her hands, she went Vanna White on the cutting board full of neatly cubed onion. “Guys! Onions! They get me every time, could you get off your chivalrous high horses already?”