Steve Rogers Imagines

Steve's Night Out

// hello, lovely folks who still read my book. it's been over a year since i updated it but quarantine boredom got to me so i wrote this piece. my writing style has definitely changed since last year so if anyone is reading this please feel free to give me your criticisms. other than that i hope you're well and um enjoy! //

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There's a special place in hell for Tony Stark.

It's the fourth time the phrase has entered his head, but it hasn't lost the fire behind it. He's the country's national treasure; a walking history book. For that reason only, he's had to shake hands with politicians who he'd rather shove off a roof.

And yet, this is possibly the most stressful thing Steve's ever dealt with. Wading through debris and garbage in the aftermath of a mission would be more preferable at this point.

The event room around him is gilded to the tee. Every table is draped in the finest cloth, the silverware sparkling in the light of the chandeliers, the plates filled with the highest quality catering. Extravagant centrepieces explode from the centre of the tables, white orchids and white hydrangeas and white lilies spilling out from crystal vases. Some type of curly branch winds up toward the ceiling, breaking up the overwhelming glare of white.

In the beginning, he tried to position himself just so, hoping the floral arrangement would hide him. Sitting down only served to make him an easy target, though, where any of the sharks could circle his table and feast upon him at will.

Glancing down at the scotch in his hand, he wonders how many more metaphors he can make before he has to cut himself off.

His current strategy is to keep moving, keeping himself between them with large, immovable objects. He learned his lesson with George Kadinskee, who shoved a table and chairs out of the way to get to him. It's like being in a furniture store or a car dealership, watching the newsreporters discreetly chase after him.

It's all rather pathetic (and childish) of him, but he didn't become a soldier to get hounded by news reps. And yet, here he was at a Banner Health function on a Friday evening, dressed in one of his finest suits, waiting for the earth to swallow him up.

He really just wants to go home to his dog and a documentary.

"Captain Rogers!" a voice calls from behind him.

Allotting himself a wince and a sip of his drink in preparation, he sucks in a breath and straightens his spine. It's a good thing, too, because when he turns around he needs to cling to all the composure he can.

"Y/N," he greets, taking another sip to wet his dry mouth, "what are you doing here?"

Y/N raises an eyebrow at his tone but doesn't comment on it.

"Doctor Banner invited me. He said that SHEILD could use some... younger representation."

It's his turn to shoot her a look.

"Are you calling me old?"

"I think the polite term is 'experienced' now," she responds with that low, pretty laugh of hers.

He doesn't choke on his drink, but it's a damn near thing. "I'm sorry I'm late, though," she continues, saving him from responding, "I had to get cleaned up and get all..." she trails off, waving a hand over her ensemble.

Clinging to the life-raft of shop talk she's handed him, he asks her about new cases, relieved when he catches the glint in her eyes, that bright flicker of discussing something she loves. Work talk saves him from making the inevitable 'you look nice' comment, which would be a paltry choice of words. She looks absolutely gorgeous, wearing a royal purple gown with a deep vee neckline. The material looks soft to the touch, the rich colour complementing the russet shade of her hair. She normally wears it up, but it's nice to see it down. His eyes follow the soft curls to the waist of her dress, where a section of thin lace does little to cover her pale skin, before the rest of the skirt continues down.