Your favourite pretty blond comes in every day to get a cup of good ol' joe. You flirt on occasion; mostly you, because your suit of armour – which people boringly call an apron – and his smiles give you confidence.
When the band of dumb goons picks your damn workplace to attack, your confidence flies out of the window. Well. Good thing that the resident Avenger heroes save the day including the one in his all-American star-spangled glory.
Prompt: "You can't mask thatass. I'd know it anywhere."
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Warnings: Hostage situation, violence, non-consensual drug use/injected, hospitals, slightly crack-ish humour (?) and some fluff
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A Cup of Truth
Here's a thing: Steve Rogers had a lot of fight in him. Before or after injected with the serum, no matter his shirt size, no matter if he could swing his fists effectively or not, he would punch bullies in their face.
When it came to people close to his heart, that rule amplified tenfold. No one touched the people he cared for. And while he would not necessarily call all of them friends, he would go rabid should any harm come their way.
To be fair, the list of 'his people' who were still alive wasn't long; he could almost count them on the fingers of one hand. Tony. Natasha. Clint. Thor. Bruce. Probably Fury. Really, his circle was a bit monotonous, people who could protect themselves just fine at most times, but simultaneously with high-risk job of being the first defence line for the world's greatest threats.
And then there was you.
You, with your inviting smile whenever he appeared at your counter at the café he had discovered during his endless walks.
You, handing him a drink different to his usual 'boring' cup of joe once a week, because that was the deal you had offered and Steve, caught in his curiosity about today's world and your adorable challenging expression, agreed.
You, with your pretty eyes, irises twinkling at his attempts at flirting, no matter how awkward and out-of-time they sounded, graciously returning the favour... if he was reading the situation right.
You, always grinning wide when discovering a doodle he had left on his napkin, taking it with you back to the counter.
You, blissfully unaware of his double life, genuine in your demeanour, dealing with plain old Steve Rogers, and perfectly safe; at least as safe as one could be on Manhattan.
You in a headlock, as five rogue SHIELD agents decided to crash into the café you worked at of all the damn places, choosing it with deadly precision and nearly driving the poor Captain America into a cardiac arrest.
Not that you had any idea your life mattered to the proclaimed Star-Spangled Man more than anyone else's. You were the exception to the rule; you were the precious outsider Steve caught feelings for, the one that was not supposed to learn about his other persona for at least a while longer and sure as hell was not supposed to get herself in a mess like this one.
Steve stood frozen as Natasha had two men at gunpoint, Clint fighting another, the last one having been already knocked down by Steve himself. The only injured people were the few customers, scarce at the hour, and the employees; some bruises and insignificant bleeding wounds between all of them.
The worst problem still remained; Perez had his arm around your neck, visibly squeezing your windpipe at least partly if the colour of your face – one stained in tears and Steve could kill at the moment, kill with no remorse – was anything to go by.
He gripped his shield tighter, staring the man down with his jaw clenched and his heart beating its way out of his chest, the syringe at your carotid scaring him more than the reduced airflow to your lungs.
"It's over, Perez! Let her- let the woman go," Steve howled, knees slightly bend in posture allowing him to spring forward at any second, to throw his weapon, to punch the living daylight of the bastard that not only betrayed SHIELD, but put his hands on you.
Big, big mistake. He really shouldn't have done that.
"I like her exactly where she is, Cap," Perez snarled, a wicked smile on his bloody lips, only his eyes giving away a fraction of his fear. "Move and she gets a ticket straight to hell."
Perez was outnumbered and he knew it; even if he managed to escape, they would find him easily with Tony Stark's system of surveillance. Yet, he tightened his grip and with you involuntarily acting like a human shield for him, he started backing away, gaze flickering between the three present Avengers.
Natasha's right arm twitched as if she wanted to shoot him on spot – but she didn't want to risk leaving the other two without the threat of immediate death for even a second.
And then several things happened at once; Clint knocked his opponent down with the construction of his bow; Perez who saw it lost his nerve and swiftly slammed the needle into your neck, piercing your skin easily, as easily as Steve's panicked shout ripped from his throat.
The next second, an arrow was sticking from Perez' shoulder as he jerked back with a cry of pain and Clint put another arrow through his hand, adding one to his thigh for a good measure. Two gunshot sounded in the background, Natasha's aim as unmistakable as ever.
Perez fell to the ground with a scream, not even reaching for the gun in his holster before Steve was there to knock him out with a brutal hit straight to his face with his vibranium shield. The crack sounding at the impact was like music to Steve's ears, the blood spurting from Perez' nose a pleasant visual.
Yet, it didn't feel half as satisfactory as Steve hoped as you had stumbled and toppled over your own feet. He barely managed to slow down your fall, gloved palm shooting up under the spot between your shoulder blades, his other hand holding your shoulder. He supported your enfeebled weight as you practically lied over the unconscious man.
Steve didn't bother paying attention to his surroundings, knowing that the noise around him was Romanoff and Barton apprehending the remaining thugs. Instead, his gaze scanned you head to toe, focusing on your face and neck when he couldn't find any other injury.
You were pale, eyes misted, unfocused, skin worryingly cold to his touch.
"Hey-- hey! Can you hear me?" Steve demanded urgently, lightly patting your cheek.
At that, your pupils zeroed on him, wide with disbelief, and to his immense shock, a lazy smile spread on your lips.
"Steve?" you breathed out his name and blood crystalized in his veins, his heart, already panicking, speeding up. How did you know his name? Perhaps the drug, the whatever liquid in the syringe was taking effect and you were turning delirious? Shit, they needed a doctor-- "You're the pretty blond. Steve. My flirty Steve... my hero. Everyone's hero."
Steve's horror escalated with each word. Good news: you were still breathing and apparently quite lucid, even if your speech was more of a mumble. Bad news: his secret identity just blew up.
Luckily, he considered the good news much more important; and lucid he would like to keep you, so he shot Natasha and Clint a meaningful glare, wordlessly asking them to call help. He wasn't sure whether it registered because both of the spies were staring at him wide-eyed as the woman in his arms just outed him like the café's regular... one that flirted with her, no less.
Steve cleared his throat, focusing on his mission – to keep you talking. There was no much point in denying it, was it?
"Eh... yeah, it's me. How-how did you know? I wear a mask-"
"Muscly... real muscly... and that ass," you muttered and Steve nearly choked on his spit, certain that he just turned red all over, including the area you pointed out.
Wait, did that mean that you had been checking him out?
So not important right now.
"Oh, uhm- how are you feeling? We have to-"
"You can't mask that ass. I'd know it anywhere," you continued babbling as if you hadn't heard him and Steve gulped, feeling his teammates, who still hadn't called a doctor, what the actual hell- watching you with interest. "...could bounce a penny off it... no, that ain't right, a quarter off of it, that's it... Dream of it sometimes... biting-"
Clint coughed loudly to cover his laughter, finally springing into action after that uncomfortable remark that gave Steve quite a visual he wasn't sure how he felt about just yet.
"Alright, as amusing as this is, we should get her some medical attention..."
Steve only took his eyes off of you for a moment, shooting Barton a look that screamed 'You think?!'
"I want to touch it... please lemme touch it—just once," you pleaded quietly, swaying even in your practically horizontal position, straining your neck to catch a glimpse of the object of your interest. "The best I've even seen-"
"I think it's ethanol she got injected with..." Natasha announced, sniffing the syringe with disgust in her voice. "High concentration."
And Steve felt like he just got hit by Thor's hammer... in his head. Seriously?
"...alcohol?" he asked, dumbstruck and utterly relieved, the heavy weight in his stomach lifting a bit. "You think she's merely... drunk?"
"Well, alcohol straight to the bloodstream is seriously nasty on its own, S-"
"Alcohol nasty, yesss. And this really hurts," your voice interrupted Natasha and Steve's heart clenched uncomfortably when the surprised grimace appeared on your face, your eyes indeed clouding in pain, looking up at him, doe-eyed, so vulnerable and trusting.
"Hey, no sad Steeb! Your eyes pretty too. Little pictures you draw... so suuuper cute. I like your hair. You came in the day, wind blew, so messy-- like bed hair, wanna try top that-- I betcha I can do better-"
"Sounds drunk enough to you?" Natasha hummed casually and Steve didn't even have to look at her to know she was smirking, while he was both fretting over your state and blushing to the roots of his hair because of your blunt compliments and unfiltered fantasies.
You turned your head slowly to Nat as she spoke, a crooked grin curling up your lips. "Hey, you're pretty too-"
Much to Steve's annoyance, the Russian spy had the audacity to chuckle and wink at you.
"Why thank you-"
"But prefer blonds," you babbled again, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "He's real nice. His biceps are like... huge. Bigger than my head-- ow, my head... spi-spinning- I think-? Whoa— oh... "
Steve called out your name in panic as you went limp in his arms, your body pliant, folding like a house of cards.
"I like her," Clint noted as he jogged to Steve's side, kneeling to take your pulse on the unharmed carotid with a furrow to his brows. "The medics are on their way, she'll hold on until then."
Steve sighed in relief when Clint nodded in affirmation again, feeling your heart still beating.
Steve's grip on your tightened, hand sliding behind your head to cradle it gently rather than letting it dangle in such unnatural angle. He manoeuvred it so your cheek rested against his chest, his newly free hand sneaking under your knees so he could lift you with ease as he stood up.
"Nice, Rogers. Keep going like this, squads with weights, and you'll keep that exceptional ass of yours in shape," Natasha teased him, but when he turned to glare at her, she gave him a soft smile and beckoned towards your nearly motionless body. "She'll be okay. Let's go get her some help."
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Your head was pounding. The right side of your neck was itchy as hell and felt extremely stiff. The beeping sounding in your ears was a thing from nightmares, echoing in your aching skull.
You felt like shit and honestly, you could cry when you tried to open your eyes and the sharp light hit them, making you swiftly close them again.
A realization slowly crept at you that there was a presence of an intrusive smell too, making you want to puke— or was that just the brutal hangover? Because you felt unbelievably hungover on top of everything. The world seemed to be spinning even behind your closed eyelids and you couldn't but groan, deciding to only curse the universe mentally since your throat resembled a Sahara Desert.
"Oh, hey gorgeous," a female voice greeted you from your left and you snapped your eyes open with a startle, staring with shock at the beautiful redhead sitting by your bedside.
For few long seconds, you wondered if you died and went to heaven, because there was a non-descript angelic-like creature watching over you. You quickly brushed that thought aside, because there was no way Heaven looked like a hospital room and provided you with such shitty sensations attacking your poor body.
So you asked the only logical question, ignoring the dryness of your mouth which soon cause you to cough.
"...who are you?"
A plastic cup with a heavenly cold liquid landed in front of you, the straw sticking from it directed to your lips as the stunning woman frowned discontentedly.
"Oh, you don't remember?" she asked, seemingly hurt. "My heart is breaking! You told me I was pretty."
You blinked slowly, finally adjusting to the light, finally able to talk without pain (that much pain, that was) and your head started pounding some more, embarrassment filling every fibre of your being.
What the- oh god, you had really got drunk, hadn't you, and now you had a total blackout on what you had been up to in your questionable state.
"Eeeer... I did? I mean, you are... but-"
"But you prefer blonds, yeah, I know," the mysterious woman finished your sentence to her liking and your eyes went wide. How did she- and who was she again, sitting in your hospital room like that? Had you really got so smashed that you didn't remember her when you should have? When had you met? Shit, your mind was so foggy... "And you think Steve's a bit prettier. And his ass is the best you've ever seen, so I get it..."
"The hell?!" you squealed in utter horror, sitting up straight as the words registered, a flash of blue, red and white flickering in the back of your mind, followed by a sharp stung in your temples. A nauseatingly strong pain resembling an intense cramp – only like ten times worse – shot up your neck as you moved so quickly, ripping a startled yelp from your throat.
A hazy image of the café you worked at blended into a picture Steve's beautiful eyes – did this woman know your regular, your handsome flirty blond regular? –, sensation of gentle hands cradling your jaw, a sting in your neck—
"You need to be careful with how much you move. Your neck took quite a hit, they had to perform a surgery on you, you got a transfusion. They worried about your brain too. They've been monitoring you for four days now and this is the first time you're awake," your stranger explained patiently, voice full of compassion.
Your hand involuntarily rose to massage the incriminated place, still unsure of what the woman was talking about, the images in your brain confusing the hell out of you. You still had no idea who she was, but her face was starting to feel a bit familiar – you assumed that whatever had happened, she had been there too, possibly helping you.
And there was something in her green eyes, cautious yet somewhat calming, making it easy to trust her for some inexplicable reason.
"Steve's gonna be pissed at me for missing it," she added and grinned. "I made him leave to take care of himself before he could actually start taking roots in here. He's been worried too. A lot."
The amount of question marks in your head just doubled, but at the same time, your heart fluttered. Steve had visited you? Often, apparently? That was really, really sweet of him. The thought of him guarding you – and didn't he have a physique of a bodyguard, once mentioning he was in private security when asked –, brought a dreamy smile to your face.
Perhaps it wasn't only about flirting for him either...?
"Keep looking so lovestruck and I might forgive him that he hasn't mention you before. Though I guess I can't blame him, wanting to keep— anyway. I'm Natasha. Nice to meet you," she extended her hand towards you at last and you automatically accepted it, telling her your name in return.
Even though that was probably beside the point seeing as she had been found at your bedside in a hospital.
"Hi, Natasha. Nice to meet you too... I think."
The redhead burst out into a quiet laughter at your hesitance. "Fair enough. After Steve comes back and explains what exactly happened – because it's not quite my place to tell you –, call me back for the good details. It's fun to make him blush."
Despite just only having met this woman, you decided that you kinda liked her and nodded in acceptance of her offer. Steve might be sweet – perhaps even sweet on you it seemed – but some harmless teasing could never hurt. Not when it apparently had something to do with his glorious ass.
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Here's a thing: Steve Rogers had a lot of fight in him. Before injected with the serum or after, no matter his shirt size, no matter if he could swing his fists effectively or not, he would fight for what mattered.
His teammates and friends certainly fell into the category. The somewhat relationship he had been trying to build with you was right there with them, definitely worth fighting for.
So, after revealing his identity – an action which become inevitable at that point, really – he had a delicate confession to make and a bold question to ask in an almost shy voice. He still asked it, because he would be damned if he gave up on you.
You said yes, your confession about certain harboured feelings matching his.
You said yes, you would like to go out with him very much, because you liked him too.
And no, it wasn't just because he owned the best backside you had ever seen. Steve Rogers was, according to you, quite memorable and worth fighting for in general too.
(Steve, over time, might have developed a bit of a love-hate relationship with the fact you were getting along with Natasha so well. It was good news and bad news at the same time, seeing as it often resulted in the two of you teaming up against him. Once again, the good news won him over... because he simply loved how easily you fit into his world and how surprisingly well he fit into yours.)