Marvel Imagines

Steve Rogers-Misdirection

Staring at a computer screen for hours on end gave you quite the headache and by the middle of the first week, you were running out on the desk job. Whether you wound up at the training room or wandering the city, it didn't matter because it was far better than filing a bunch of papers with print so tiny it seemed almost nonexistent.

You looked at the clock.

Half an hour.

You'd already spent 30 precious minutes of your time sitting behind a slab of wood and the early morning coffee pot was barely making its rounds before it saw the elevator doors closing on your satisfied expression—which twisted into a look of dreadful reluctance when it moved down a floor and opened to reveal none other than Steve Rogers himself. His face hardened at once and it turned you into a guilty squirming mess as he entered the elevator. Neither of you had anything to say although just about a thousand no good words kept popping into your head, straining to get past your lips and make themselves known.

You were struggling so hard to keep from insulting him with that hot temper of yours that when the elevator lurched to a stop and the lights began to flicker, a loud "Fuck!" escaped and ballooned in the still air. Steve, gripping the handrail to steady himself, threw you a sharp look that you ignored.

"This is such a coincidence." You mumbled, a huge swell of panic enveloping your chest and making you gasp for air.

"Y/N, are you alright?" Steve asked from the far side of the elevator.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."

In a sudden spurt of anxiety, you punched the doors, wincing as your knuckles stung on impact. Steve hissed and you could feel the heat rolling off of his body as he moved to your side.

"The hell did you do that for?" He demanded.

"It's hot in here." You snapped and drew your hand away from him as he tried to take it in his own.

"You punching the door isn't gonna make it any cooler."

"I'll do what I want, Captain Douchebag, piss off."

"And where did that get you?" Steve continued, his voice deepening with rage. He moved closer and this time, you had nowhere to go, his large body trapping you in the corner of the elevator. "Where does you doing what YOU want instead of what you're TOLD to do ever get you?"

"Steve—"

"Your name on a bunch of insubordination forms, you behind a desk, your hand probably broken, you six feet under the ground because you can't follow a simple order!"

The last few words he'd practically yelled and you were squeezing your eyes shut, your chest heaving and your bottom lip being gnawed between your teeth as he swiftly moved back to his corner.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Y/N." Steve apologized, his voice soft.

You watched as his blue eyes shot to the ground in shame and his brows created a V in his forehead.

"I didn't mean to yell."

You released a shaky breath and peeled yourself away from the wall, reeling in surprise that Steve had actually yelled at you.

It was a little satisfying, though you'd hardly admit it. With all the trouble you'd get into, you always despised when he wouldn't answer you, barely look at you to make it clear he was angry.

"It's okay. You're okay." You muttered.

"No, I'm not."

"What do you mean?"

Steve let out a huff of frustration.

"I mean, I'm not okay. Not when I'm around you. And I...Y/N."

Your name coming out of his mouth as low and fine as silk made your knees weak with longing. If hearing him say your name like that made you tremble, you were in a world of trouble when your back hit the railing and his hands slipped lightly over your waist. His thumbs brushed the strip of skin exposed by the lifting of your button up and you could feel his breath, warm against your cheeks. The pressure of his eyes on you was unbearable, pinning you helplessly in place as he lifted a hand to cup your jaw.