A/N: So sorry about the wait on this one! I've been struggling for real with ideas on new imagines, but hopefully with the start of the new year I'll get lots of new inspiration!
Thanks for the patience!
Winnie
Words: 3K
The creation of the Avengers team is something you remember fondly. Just having enrolled in college, studying journalism and public relations, the images of the superheroes were blasted on every digital screen and printed page from Santa Monica to Timbuctoo. The crew intrigued you: so much so that you based all of your final projects throughout all four years on them and their issues. Of course, all of the issues you'd seen were simply external. You never would've imagined that those papers and theories would've landed you an interview in Tony Stark's main office in upstate NYC. And from there, one year out of graduate school, a fancy office with a view overlooking the entire city. Tony Stark saw something in you that no one else did. He saw potential. And more importantly, based on your skills and knack for smoothing over problems, you'd be able to handle the PR nightmare that is the Avengers team.
Now you see everything. The issues these people have are enough to keep you up at night with stress and dodging press chaos during the day. And when you thought Ultron was bad enough (try being the one to explain that it'd all been a mess made by Stark himself), Civil War came around and blew all your bullshit expectations out of the water.
Thank god that's all over. Now, three years later, everything seems to be settling back into the routine. Team Cap is back home—training for another apocalypse, no less, and this last World War against a purple grape alien has given you even MORE superheroes to keep track of (you wish that Quill guy would be as easy to work with as Dr. Strange).
Anyway, this is all to say that the Avengers owe a hell of a lot to you. You might not be the one plastered on every TV screen, but you're the voice at the backs of their minds, the words printed on the page from the press to the people, and the glue that keeps their crazy asses together.
You suppose that sort of makes you a different breed of superhero.
Mid-April and the rain showers never seem to cease. The green grass around the hidden compound is sloshy with thick mud. The boots of training agents splatter as they jog in timed circles. In the middle of the field a combat zone is fenced off where enhanced humans spar in the storm. You stand at your windowed wall with a phone to your ear watching the world spin around you.
"...Like I said before, Mr. Rogers' comments are in no way affiliated with any official Avengers beliefs or opinions." You shift your weight from one heel to the other as the storm clouds shift and let a bit of sunlight fall over the building. The glittering white grey hardwood of your office sparkles like the crystal of your custom glass desk.
Someone knocks at your closed office door. Wrapping up the official phone call you hang up the line and walk back to your desk. Glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose you let FRIDAY usher your guest inside—assuming it's the intern finally back with your lunch.
Instead of a nerdy, lanky intern boy standing in the doorway, though, there's a tall beefy man named Steve. He's wearing a pair of new khakis and a snug button down shirt. He's the epitome of someone's golfing, goofy grandpa: only in a sexy fresh-outta-grad-school hunky package.
Despite his looks, you're still annoyed. "What the hell were you thinking, Steve?" You smack a palm on your desk.
Steve blinks, holding up a sack of food. "I saw the intern on his way to the cafeteria. I thought I'd bring you some food....?"
"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.
Never mind all that: feelings and attraction for the Captain. You have a job to do, you know. There's a lot to do around here: and fantasizing about Steve is not on your to-do list today. Just like every other day since you've met him all those years ago, you'll push away those pesky thoughts until you get home and far, far away from the job.
Friday, after your appointment on Thursday and dinner with your mother, you come back to the compound renewed. Piles of paperwork have been littered on your desk in the forty eight hours since you've last arrived. Sighing, you pull up your electronic planner and start to organize. First on your list is to call TIME Magazine to schedule a time for that phone-interview with Steve. Then there are the emails you have to read: replying to the legit ones and tossing the spam from money suckers and gossip columns. Then comes lunch, where you hardly eat due to the amount of things you have left to do, and finally the last few hours of the day.
"FRIDAY, can you pull up the transcript from yesterday's meeting that I missed?" You finally allow yourself to relax into your seat—pulling out a granola bar and your bottle of iced coffee. Spinning in the office chair you wait for Friday to reply to your command.
"Yes." Your laptop screen twinkles. "Is there anything in particular I can direct you towards in the transcript? It was a lengthy meeting: nearly three hours."
"No, no. I'm just going to skim and make sure Tony went over the points I left for him. Besides, I need to stay in the loop. I can't be missing things." You pull yourself back to attention and start reading over the transcript. Thankfully one of FRIDAY's skills is as a transcriber for all meetings and conversations in the professional setting. No longer is there a need for a typist in the corner jotting down everything's that's been said. FRIDAY does it all.
Surprisingly, it looks like Tony Stark stayed on track with the meeting composed of him, Steve, Bucky, Banner, Nat, and a guest star: Director Coulson. You really are bummed you missed seeing the friendly SHIELD guy. He's a real sweetheart.
Your eyes sort of gloss over as they glide down the screen. Steve gets his wrist slapped at one point by Coulson for his political comment, making you chuckle as you imagine the ashamed look on his face, and then the sight of your name sticks out like a sore thumb on the paper.
Director Coulson: You're lucky Y/N was there to clean up your mess for you, Steve, or we'd have a lot more trouble than we already do.
Captain Rogers: I know, I know.
Mr. Stark: Yeah, Rogers. You're lucky you have Y/N.
Captain Rogers: Why are you making that face? Stop making that face. It's making me uncomfortable.
Mr. Stark: Oh? Oh is it uncomfortable when I talk about Y/N? How about when I talk about her and move my eyebrows around like this?
Director Coulson: I don't understand.
Sargent Barnes: No one told you?
Agent Romanoff: *laughs*
Captain Rogers: Seriously, guys: stop it.
Sargent Barnes: You're blushing, man.
Director Coulson: Is this still about Ms. Y/L/N...?
Mr. Stark: Steve has a crush on her.
Your eyes widen to saucers. Dropping your granola bar, you scramble to scroll farther down the screen. You have to see the rest of this scene: you have to know if this is all just some big joke.
Please be real, you silently beg.
Captain Rogers: Tony! I never said—
Mr. Stark: You didn't have to say anything, Spangles. Everyone knows.
Captain Rogers: No! Stop it. Nat, this isn't funny.
Agent Romanoff: Oh it's hysterical!
Director Coulson: Ah, I understand now.
Captain Rogers: No, you don't. Because there's nothing to understand. I don't have feelings for Y/N or—or anyone else for that matter.
A frown spreads across your face while an embarrassed, deep blue feeling radiates from your chest. Never the less, you're still going to read the rest of the conversation because by the looks of it, the topic stays on your name for a few lines longer.
Sargent Barnes: Fucking liar.
Agent Romanoff: He's in denial.
Captain Rogers: No—no I'm... I'm not!
Director Coulson: Okay, okay you guys. Let's give poor Steve here a break and maybe get back to the meeting...
Dr. Banner: *whispers discreetly to Agent Romanoff causing her to laugh*
Captain Rogers: Hey! Stop it, you guys.
Sargent Barnes: Damn, you're whiny as hell. Why don't you just ask her out?
Captain Rogers: Because, Bucky, I...
Mr. Stark: Because that would require Cappie to have balls, and he doesn't apparently.
Agent Romanoff: It's not that crazy that you like her, Steve. Admit it: she's gorgeous.
Captain Rogers: Of course she is.
Agent Romanoff: And smart.
Captain Rogers: Everyone knows that.
Sargent Barnes: Yeah, just like everyone knows that you're in love with her.
Captain Rogers: Alright, listen here asshole...
Mr. Stark: You know what? Nat's really opened my eyes here. And I agree: Y/N's beautiful, she's smart, she's successful, sometimes funny... and now that Pepper and I are over for good this time, I might just have to ask her out myself.
Captain Rogers: What?
Mr. Stark: You heard me, Steve. If you're not gonna ask her out, then I'm gonna do it.
Sargent Barnes: Yikes.
You cringe at the thought of going out on a date with your boss and mentor Stark. That'd just be... ugh. But really you know he never would: he's a friend, nothing else. And you know he still loves Pepper. So why would he suggest it to Steve? Is it to tease him? Mock you? You're not entirely sure.
Captain Rogers: That's highly unprofessional.
Mr. Stark: So? When have I been one to follow the rules?
Captain Rogers: She'd never say yes.
Mr. Stark: Are you sure about that, Stevie? I've heard I'm quite the charmer when I want something, and I might just wanna take that woman out on a date.
Captain Rogers: Don't be ridiculous.
Mr. Stark: What's so ridiculous about that?
Captain Rogers: You're just saying that to get a rise out of me.
Mr. Stark: Why would that get a rise out of you? Unless you...? What? Like her, perhaps?
Agent Romanoff: Just admit it, Steve. We can all move on after you say it.
Captain Rogers: Fine—okay. I admit it. I hate the idea of you going out with Y/N because I have feelings for her. I—Y/N—I think I... you know what, that's all I'm gonna say about it.
Director Coulson: Wow.
Captain Rogers: I'm getting some water. I'll be back in five, you guys.
Mr. Stark: Okay, now that he's gone, what were you two whispering about over there Bruce?
Dr. Banner: I was reminding Natasha that I programmed FRIDAY to transcribe all of these meetings per Y/N's request three months ago. So a copy of this conversation is going to be sent straight to Y/N's computer.
Sargent Barnes: Oh my god. This just got so much better.
Mr. Stark: Hear that, Y/N? Capsicle likes you. I know you've got bigger balls than he does, so you might have to be the one to make the move.
Director Coulson: This is definitely not what I imagined happening when I flew in to town this morning.
Captain Rogers: Okay, are we ready to actually talk business now?
Mr. Stark: Oh, I think so.
You hardly care about what any of the other topics transcribed are about. You shut the laptop and roll away from the desk—standing and pacing around the floor in front of the big window. Staring out at the misty scene you catch a glimpse of a jogging trio: Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, and Steve Rogers. They race laps around a small pond and throw insults at each other that you're much too far up to hear.
Scrambling around your desk you knock over pencil cups and papers. Finally you find your phone sitting there on the charger. It takes an extra few seconds for your shaking fingers to click on Steve's contact name.
Back at the window, you watch as Steve falters in his steady jog. He pulls out his phone from his back pocket, light mist already painting his skin, and he hesitates before setting it against his ear. Bucky and Sam pause a few yards ahead to wait for him to catch up.
"Hello?"
You stop biting your fingernail for a moment to reply. "Steve, hi. It's me—Y/N."
Steve's chuckle radiates from the phone. "I know. I saw your name on the screen."
"Oh right, right." You glance backwards at your shut computer before quickly looking back to Steve out there. He doesn't seem to realize you're staring at him. Bucky spots you though. He jabs Sam and points it out and quietly starts to fill him in on what happened at yesterday's meeting. You can tell Sam finds it hysterical by how hard he's laughing.
"Did I get myself in trouble again?" Steve asks jokingly. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
You shiver, nervous, and pull your sweater tighter. "No, no. Not exactly." You take a deep breath.
"What can I help you with then, doll?"
You can't stop grinning now. This is the best moment of your life. You're about to ask out the man of your dreams, and you know for a fact that he's not going to turn you down. Nothing could be better.
"Well, actually, I have a question for you."
"Go for it."
Smiling, you finally spit it out in one breath. "Do you wanna go out with me?"
There's silence. Steve's pause must mean confusion. So you elaborate.
"On a date, I mean." You smile down at his standing reflection in the glass—waiting for him to smile and say...
"Oh, umm... I see." He glances around quickly—blond hair ruffling in the breeze. "I'm sorry, Y/N, but uh... but I just don't see that being a good idea."
Shit. So much for best moment of your life. The words jam you in the head until you realize you can't form any real words with your lips: you've been smoothing over Avenger mistakes for years. And now, faced with one you've made yourself, you don't know what to do.
"Okay. I'm sorry. Forget I said anything. Bye, Steve." Then that's it. Like the most awkward, regretful, broken-hearted girl in the world you pull the phone away with tears in your eyes.
Then it's back to work, never noticing how Steve puts away the phone and immediately looks up to your office window: seeing you walk away with the biggest knot of regret sitting dead on his chest.
He's just made another big mistake. This one, though, he's not sure you can solve for him.