Captain America and Bucky Barnes Imagines

80. STEVE: Yes, Ma'am (1)

"Not about that," you gripe. Sighing, you wave him inside. "I hope you at least got me fries because you owe me a hell of a lot after that phone call I just had to make for you."

Steve grimaces—blue eyes guiltily dropping to the floor. "Is this about what I said yesterday to the paparazzi...?"

"Of course it is, Steve. How many times have I told you that you can't go around telling everyone your political opinions? I understand you're not exactly fond of what's going on politically right now, none of us are, but you can't talk about it. Not when you've got the whole world looking at this team for guidance." You snatch the brown sack from his hand. "We have to look impartial."

"I am impartial," Steve argues. He flops down into your other office chair across from your desk. He kicks his legs up on the ottoman. "I just don't like politicians."

"Well, they're under our protection too, like it or not." You grab a fry and chew on it lazily while Steve silently waits for you to go on. "Anyway, I dealt with it."

His award winning smile takes your breath away. "Thanks, Y/N."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," you mutter—trying not to blush. His gratitude shouldn't flatter you but it does. It's hard to deny the fact that much of what this man says has an effect on you.

Steve, unaware of your thoughts about how nice he looks in those tight pants, leans over the desk to 'borrow' one of your fries. Chewing, he asks, "What time is that meeting tomorrow?"

You sigh. "Noon. But I won't be there."

Steve blinks. "What do you mean? You're always at the meetings." If you didn't know any better you'd say he sounded a bit disappointed at your lack of upcoming attendance.

"There's a first time for everything, I guess." You shrug and pick apart the pieces of your sandwich. Its turkey and provolone on rye: one of your favorites from the cafeteria, actually. It was probably just a lucky guess on Steve's end. "I've got a doctor's appointment."

Steve's eyebrows furrow. "Why? Are you sick? Hurt?" His blue eyes widen slightly as they rake over your body hidden behind the cream cashmere.

"I'm fine, Steve," you laugh lightly. Your words and soft smile draws his gaze back up to your face. "Just a regular thing; nothing to be worried about."

"Oh. Well, good luck anyway." Steve leans back in his chair sort of awkwardly. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands or his eyes as you finish eating. It's only when your phone begins to ring does he get the idea to leave. "Sorry, sorry—I'm distracting you." He catapults up from the chair on sturdy feet.

You open your mouth to say something about maybe him staying before remembering that this is your workday: not a playdate. You close your lips and smile meekly. "Sorry, Steve. I'll see you around though. Probably Friday?"

He chuckles while backing out of the room. "Unless I decide to go and say something stupid to the press again, then it may be sooner."

You groan, "For the sake of my sanity and our friendship, please don't."

"Yes, ma'am." Steve's smirk is the last thing you see before he disappears out the doorway. Then it's closed again and you're faced with the reality of having to answer the chippering telephone—delving right back into your workday when you'd much rather be daydreaming about Steve.

It's not your fault he's the most attractive, gentlemanly man in the world. It's in his DNA to be a total sweetie, and the way his body looks these days has ALL the women salivating. His handsome face plastered on every tabloid cover and CNN segment has him fresh on the minds of everyone in the country, and his everlasting presence around every corner of the compound you turn down has him churning in your head, too.