Happy Thanksgiving, Steve.

Steve put the worn mailbox key into the lock of the old dented brass mailbox, his name scrawled in pen on a slip of paper behind the tiny glass window. It was a daily reminder to him that his apartment was only his as long as he paid the rent. The landlord somehow didn't seem to care that he was Steve Rogers, like it seemed everyone else did. But then again, his landlord was some multistate corporation who only bothered him when the rent was due. Lucky for his floor, Rogers was a handy guy and fixed many of his neighbor's small jobs when they needed it, instead of calling the building superintendent. By doing so, the glamor of Captain America wore off and he was just Steve Rogers who lived down the hall.

There was mostly junk in his mailbox and nothing for Bucky, who had taken up residence in his apartment. Steve envied his best friend's anonymity but after being a ghost for fifty years, it would take a while for the marketing fiends to find him. Not sure what you'd try to sell to a Brooklyn born former Russian assassin with a bit of a brainwashing issue and PTSD, Steve thought. Pulling out advertisements and solicitations in handfuls, his fingers touched a thick envelope of very smooth paper. It felt opulent just by its texture. Rogers speculated it was from Stark, or at least Pepper, who had more social grace than her fiancé.

Dumping the junk mail in the trashcan in the tiny lobby, which more an entrance hall to the older building, he examined the envelope. In precise calligraphic script, his name was written expertly with flawless black ink. The paper had the sheen of a living thing. A smirk formed in the corner of his mouth as Rogers regarded the thick envelope; Tony always had a flair for the dramatic.

Breaking the seal on the opposite side, he pulled out a thick vellum card of warm orange gilt with autumn leaves beautifully cascading across the paper. A matching reply card and separating tissue also tumbled out. Stooping to pick them up from the cracked white subway tile floor, Cap wondered silently if this was a wedding invitation or some sort of black tie affair. He recalled his mother gushing about some parish member having such stationary printed up for their wedding and how extraordinary it was! How "high class" it seemed and how did they ever afford it! That memory brought a frown to his brow, how much glitz and glamor America seemed to need these days for its 'entertainment'.

Forgetting the memory, knowing it would only make him angry, he looked at the invitation after picking up the reply card and tissue. In the same elegant, hand written script, it read:

"The honor of your presence is requested for a Thanksgiving celebratory dinner to honour our friends and the many thanks we have to share.

Two pm, Avengers Tower

Top Floor.

Attire Comfortable,"

Steve glanced at the reply card and its pre-stamped addressed envelope, all the same beautiful orange and gold flake. There was a place to indicate if he was coming and who his "plus one" would be.

Plus one? he pondered. Well, of course Bucky since he didn't get his own invitation would be his plus one. In the back of his mind, Cap thought it was a bit of a rub to James not to have his own invite.

Unexpectedly, his cell phone rang in his pocket. He was used to them now, but it didn't mean he liked them. "Rogers." was his curt answer.

"Steve! Did you get your invitation yet?" It was Black Widow. Her voice purred and sounded vaguely like bubbly champagne.

Smiling at her warm tone, "Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I am reading it right now."

"So who's your plus one?" she asked quickly. Steve could hear the noise of traffic and non-English speakers in the background. Who knows where she was, especially after Washington D.C.

"I… Well. Bucky… I guess." Steve replied hesitantly, "He didn't get his own invite."

"Oh." She sounded suddenly deflated, "Well, that's too bad Stark didn't include James."

"Why? Are you trying to set me up again?" Steve sighed wearily into the telephone. Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, while holding the invitation, he could smell the faint odor of Pepper's perfume. Boy did that woman have style. Thank goodness Tony found her, Cap thought waiting for Widow's reply.

"Me? Now what would ever give you that impression?" she mocked him with feigned innocence. In his imagination, he could see her best false flatter expression, eyes batting and hand to her chest.

"Natasha-" Steve began but then was interrupted by a stream of what he figured were Russian expletives.

"Sorry. Gotta go. Think about that plus one!" she said quickly and hung up.

Steve stared at his now quiet phone and replied, "Who said I was even going at all?"