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Steve Rogers stands at the head of the conference room with the smudge of dry erase marker on his hand and a bullet point list of names on the whiteboard behind him. You know he must be talking about something important because he’s got one hand on his hip, the other holding up his weight against the table. His features are stern, his brows forming a low line as he speaks, but you can’t hear a word of it.
No— you’re too focused on the way his hair lifts away from his face, combed back and reminiscent of his youth in the Army. Formal and dated, but it’s light and airy and begging to be messied through the tips of his fingers. It’s darker than when you first met him, a shade away from the perfect blonde painted on posters at the Smithsonian, of the Captain America in the wartime movies. His cheekbones are high, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and his lips— lips so full and pink, you watch every shape they take with each word he speaks.
But it’s his eyes that take you under. Ocean blue so effortless in their current, they draw you in with the belly of an undertow and you know without hesitation you would drown gladly if he would just look at you a moment longer. Allow you the privilege of water to your lungs.
Steve Rogers is just simply… gorgeous.
He straightens his back, his lips pressing into a short pout and he’s no longer speaking, you realize. His brows narrow, his gaze fixating on you and his lips move again. They take the shape of your name and you’re so lost on the way his mouth curves around your syllables you don’t realize how quiet the room has become.
Steve shifts then, a smile pressing on his cheeks; the right corner of his lips curve ever so slightly higher than the other as he lets his chin fall to his chest. He shakes his head, shoulders bouncing subtly. He’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. The sunlight from the open window casts in and touches over his skin, illuminating him in an ethereal glow as if he wasn’t already built of the heavens themselves. He starts to laugh to himself and you bite on the edge of your lip to keep yourself from mirroring his grin.
“You still with us, Y/n?” Steve’s voice breaks through and it’s like whiplash as you’re suddenly jolted from your trance.
You spring up in your chair, brushing a hand over your hair to push down the loose ends that had sprung up in your daydreaming slouch. Your heart beats terribly as you look around the room to find the other agents watching you with a curious look in their eyes. Only Sam Wilson wears a devious smirk and he manages a wink at you before you can kick his shin under the table. He grunts, leaning down to massage the muscle and narrows his eyes at you in warning. You bare your teeth.
Then, embarrassed, you turn back to Steve. “Sorry. I’m here.”
Steve doesn’t take any offense as he simply waves you off and returns to the debrief as if nothing had happened at all. The marker squeaks as he rights another name on the list, circling it three times until the color begins to fade to a subtle grey. It’s not the first set of words you’ve exchanged with Steve, but it still feels like you’ve just taken a dive out of the quinjet. It feels that way any time he so much as acknowledges your existence.
Most of the agents you know straighten their spine when he walks by. They put more weight on the machine or run a little faster around the track. They’re eager to impress him, to appeal to the well decorated war hero and earn their rank in his presence. They idolize Captain America, may even be a little afraid of him.
But it’s the man behind the shield that scares you the most.
It’s the way he smiles to himself when he doesn’t think anyone is watching, how he sometimes hides it behind the wall of his coffee mug but the lines by his eyes still give him away. It’s how he jogs a little to catch the door before it can close, just so he can hold it open for you as you walk by. It’s because he’s an impossible man built of unparalleled strength and power and he still blushes when Natasha teases him, still draws in his little notebook on the bench down by the lake, still has the same compassion and selflessness he carried in his youth.
It’s not Captain America you see when you look at him. It’s Steve Rogers.
You only realize you stopped paying attention again when the room starts to clear out and you look across the table to find Sam’s lips pursed together in a knowing look. You nearly kick his shin again before he jumps up away from your reach and quickly skirts out of the room.
“Here’s the highlights,” Steve chuckles, sliding a folder down the table to you.
You reach out and catch it before it can slide off the end. You open the folder and quickly browse through the bullet notes Steve must have written for himself. The most you can gather while you’re not distracted by the near cursive delicacy of Steve’s handwriting is that there’s a new arms dealer taking root near Philadelphia.
“Don’t worry too much about it,” Steve adds as he finishes gathering the rest of the reports. “I’ll fill you in if Fury ends up putting you on assignment. I know you’re usually more of the search and rescue type than stakeouts and organized crime, so I doubt you’ll end up with the case anyway. Fury just thought we should make everyone aware if we have a new Kingpin on our hands.”
You nod, your lips parted just slightly. You didn’t know Steve had any idea what you did within SHIELD, let alone your area of specialty. Sure, you were Natasha’s primary point of contact when she dug up the information that eventually led him to find Bucky Barnes in Bucharest, but you don’t expect he knew that.
“Thanks, Captain Rogers,” you say, the waver in your voice giving way to the nerves shaking under his gaze.
“Hey, come on. It’s Steve.” That charismatic charm returns to his face as a smile etches up into his cheeks. It’s genuine and a little shy and made entirely of the scrawny kid in Brooklyn that your heart starts to beat tenfold.
“Thanks… Steve,” you try again and at the sound of his name in your voice, he manages to smile a little wider.
The room falls silent around you and for a moment, you find yourself drifting into the shades of blue in his eyes, unable to form another word as long as you’re lost in the waters. Rising and flowing. Pulled by the current and drifting out to sea. Steve doesn’t make an effort to turn away and you nearly forget to breathe entirely, water filling your lungs, when you hear a short knock on the door.
In the doorway, a woman stands wearing a visitor pass around her neck, the tag hanging near her waist where taunt skin peaks through the top of her jeans. She’s stunning – the kind of beautiful one only sees airbrushed in magazines, but there she is, under harsh florescent conference room lighting, and she looks like she was born of Olympus.
“Ready, Steve?” she calls sweetly and your heart drops through the floor.
He gives her a short nod as he crosses the room to her, drawn to her as if his body moves of its own accord. Her hand touches his forearm; perfectly manicured as her fingertips press into the muscle and they grin at one another as if you weren’t there at all. You try not to let your heart fracture, but you could feel the edges begin to crumble.
“Hey,” Steve says, grabbing your attention. He grins, laughing so sweetly is starts to mends the fractures in your heart. “Don’t get too lost in that head of yours, alright? I’ll see you around. Have a good night, Y/n.”
He says it so sincerely that you can’t help but smile, even with this impossibly beautiful woman on his arm.
“You too, Capt— Steve.”
The woman tugs eagerly on his arm and he gives you a final wave before they disappear from the room. When the silence takes over again, there’s a near buzzing in your ears. Mocking you. Taunting you.
Steve Rogers is a daytime fantasy – a man you know you have no unearthly chance with. So, you settle to admire him from your distance where it’s safe and protected and your heart can’t be broken. At least not any more than it already had. You try not to allow yourself to want more.
But still— it creeps in.
***
You don’t know why you bother going to Carter’s show. You can barely hear yourself think over the thump of the loudspeakers and the base resonates deep into your chest; an unsettling vibration in time with the electronic beats from Carter’s turn table.
You glance up at him from your position at the bar and he doesn’t so much as glance in your direction. He’s too busy catering to the group of women at the center of the dance floor. You have half a mind to be jealous before you remind yourself that it’s not Carter’s attention you really care for anyway.
Carter was the DJ at the party Tony had thrown for a very reluctant Bruce Banner the previous week. You met him at the bar during his break and he offered to buy your next round, not realizing how plainly you’d been staring at Steve Rogers from across the crowd for most of the night. Carter was nice enough and you were still pining over an Adonis way too out of your league to so much as notice your existence, so you halfheartedly agreed when he asked you to come see his set.
As you adjust your stance against the bar, wincing at the tug of the sticky club floor against your shoes, you find yourself regretting your decision to come. You signal the bartender for another whiskey on ice as you set the empty glass on the counter. There’s more than just a slight buzz in your head and you’re thankful that even SHEILD Agents get a day off every once in a while.
Another hour goes by and Carter is far too enamored with the woman shouting up song requests from the dance floor, so you set some cash on the bar and leave. It makes you question why you even bothered with him, but then an image of Steve crosses your mind and you remember. You can’t get that man out of your head and it’s starting to feel borderline pathetic.
The wind hits you worse than a brick wall and it takes a moment to adjust your eyes to the darkness. The club had colorful strobe lights and neon signs hanging on the walls so it’s almost jarring to be surrounded by the quiet comfort of brick walls and a starless night. When the door closes behind you, you can still hear the vague thump of the music through the cracks. You rub at your temples.
It takes a few steps towards the subway before you realize how many drinks the bartender had replaced before you found the nerve to leave. Your ankles wobble a little on your heels and you quickly grab onto the banister at the end of a brownstone’s stoop. Your vision starts to double, swaying in circles, and you clench your eyes tight enough to see the stars missing from the sky.
“Y/n?” a voice calls from across the road. “Is that you?”
You look up, but the figure it too far away. All you can see is a vague outline of a man as he quickly jogs across the street, holding up a hand to an oncoming car to block his path. You chuckle to yourself. What little patience he must have to demand a moving vehicle to break for him.
When he approaches, his hands quickly easing you upright and holding you steady, the air nearly leaves your lungs entirely.
Steve Rogers has his hands cupped on the sides of your face; his brows furrowed in concentration as his eyes roam over your exposed skin. His lower lip is tugged between his teeth, full and pink, as he slowly returns to your gaze. There’s concern in his eyes, you realize – a beautiful drop of caution amongst the rippling tide of blue.
“M’okay,” you tell him and you wince at how slurred your voice comes out.
He sighs, relief pressing a smile to his lips. There’s a slight indent from where his teeth had been. “Having a good night, huh?”
You think about lying to him—perhaps, telling him about Carter and the promise of his early rise to fame. You think about pretending like Carter was interested in you for more than a quick distraction at Bruce’s party and that he hadn’t forgotten that he invited you to his show tonight. You wonder if maybe Steve will care at all.
Maybe he won’t. Maybe, you should tell him that it’s been miserable and all you want is a cone of ice cream piled high enough that it would be statistically impossible to eat the whole thing before it melts all over your hand. Maybe, you should tell him that you want him to come with you, that you think about him all the damn time, that he’s so unfairly pretty that you can barely think when he’s around. Maybe—
“Y/n?” Steve chuckles, tapping you sweetly on your forehead. “You’re zoning out again.”
You groan, throwing your arms in the air dramatically. “It’s not my fault. You’re just—you’re just so—”
Steve raises an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”
You start to pace, a little off balanced, but Steve is never too far away and you can sense him watching your every step, ready to catch you if you start to fall. The alcohol has long made its way to your head and you can feel the warmth of it burning in your skin. It’s comforting and freeing and a momentary thought crosses your mind to stop talking but you push it aside.
“You’re just— so gorgeous!” you practically shout. “I can– I can barely say anything to your face because—look at your face, Steve! You’re gorgeous!”
He starts to laugh. His arms fold over his chest as his head falls and you realize then that he thinks you’re teasing him, that you are not so impossibly serious you can feel the intensity of it down in your bones. He presses himself off from the wall he’d been leaning against and reaches for you.
“Alright doll,” Steve grins. “Let’s get you home.”
You jump out from his grasp and he gives you a strange look. You pout your lips, feeling mildly childish but he wasn’t listening to you.
“You’re infuriating, you know that?” you quip and Steve can’t help the smile that won’t seem to leave his cheeks. It starts to ache.
“Me?” he challenges teasingly. “Why?”
“Because you did this to me, Steve,” you reply sternly through your drunken haze. “You made me feel this way.”
Steve pauses. “What way?”
“This way!” you tell him though you offer no further explanation.
Steve doesn’t seem to understand, but he gives you a short nod as if he does and he starts to guide you towards the taxi you hadn’t noticed he’d flagged down. The weight of your body starts to feel too heavy for your bones and you sink into the back seat with ease. Steve climbs in behind you and instructs the driver as he carefully adjusts your seatbelt for you.
The alcohol lulls you easily to sleep. You barely register the shoulder you lean upon or the hand gently brushing the hair from your eyes. It blends into the distance along with the blur of bright city lights as you drive home.
***
You feel the pulse of a blinding headache before you even dare to open your eyes. You groan, turning over on your bed, covering your eyes with your forearm to block the stream of sunlight in from your windows.
When you finally allow yourself to face the light, you’re surprised to find a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on your nightstand stable. You don’t recall having the energy to put it there the night before and—well, you don’t recall much of anything after you fell asleep in the cab next to Steve.
Wait.
Steve.
“Shitshitshit–” You quickly throw the blankets off the side of the bed, only to find you’re dressed in a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt. The breeze of the AC unit hits your exposed skin and goosebumps begin to prickle on your thigh. You groan, a heat of embarrassment burning through your chest as you stumble into the hallway.
As if on cue, you find Steve standing in the kitchen pouring his coffee. He smiles as he sees you emerge from your bedroom and he raises the cup for you, setting it on the counter. Reluctantly, you follow the intoxicating smell until your hands are wrapped around the base of the mug and you offer him a short nod.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he grins, taking a sip from his own mug as he leans against the counter.
“Humiliated,” you grumble. You miss the way Steve’s smile falters slightly, his brows narrowing in concern. “I’m so sorry, Steve. I don’t even know what to say.”
“Nothing,” he says quickly. “It was nothing. I just got you home is all. You were pretty entertaining before that. Wanda was the one who got you to bed, helped you change… if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Oh,” you reply, though it doesn’t seem to lessen the weight on your chest. You sigh. “I imagine your girlfriend wasn’t too happy about you having to deal my drunken mess last night.”
“Girlfriend?” Steve raises an eyebrow.
You shrug. “Yeah, the uh… Aphrodite incarnate from the debrief last week…”
Steve laughs, a wash of relief on his face though you still feel tight as stone. He sets his mug on the counter. “Lainy’s not my girlfriend. She works for the VA. She was helping me with a speech the mayor roped me into giving on for Veteran’s Day. She’s just a friend… trust me.”
Steve shifts in his position, his smile softening as he looks at you. You can’t help but feel examined under his gaze and you’re certain you look absolutely terrible. You don’t have to look in a mirror to know your cheeks are imprinted with the pillow case folds, your hair is uncombed and disheveled, and there’s dark circles under your eyes. Not exactly the picture of beauty, and still—Steve won't stop looking at you.
“There’s been someone else, anyway,” he says simply and you try not to let it show when your heart clenches.
“Oh, that’s um… that’s nice.” It’s halfhearted and barely believable, but you say the words anyway because you know it’s the right thing to do. You know there was never a chance in this world that Steve Rogers – carved from the marble of the Gods – would so much as look in your direction. You know this. Still, it hurts.
“Yeah,” Steve sighs dreamily. “She’s incredible. I can’t stop smiling when she’s in the room and it’s becoming a real pain for me, you know. It’s like everyone can see how enamored I am except her, but I wasn’t sure how to talk to her before. I didn’t know if I was crossing a line or making assumptions or abusing my rank, but I think I’ve got an idea of how she feels now. I think she likes me, too, so maybe it’s worth a shot, right?”
You nod through the sharp clench of your jaw. It burns terribly and you can’t even bring yourself to look at him. Instead, your gaze fixates on the countertop, counting the lines and scratches in the surface.
“I mean,” Steve pauses, “she’s— she’s just so—gorgeous.”
Your eyes snap up to Steve’s and he’s grinning impossibly wide, but all you can feel is the drop in your stomach. You barely notice how the lines form so sweetly by his eyes, light brightening through the ocean blue waves, sun reflecting on the water’s crest. You don’t see how adoringly he watches for your reaction, his growing anticipation as he bites on the edge of his lip, still unable to ease his smile for even a minute.
“Are you making fun of me?” you ask slowly, nervously, but he shakes his head.
“Quite the opposite actually.” Steve reaches for your hand and you watch, stunned, as your fingers effortlessly mold into his, like liquid to one another, perfectly made. He sighs, almost as if the feeling itself is made of relief in his body. “I like you, Y/n. I really like you. And I’d- I’d like to take you out. On a date. If you’d- uh- if you’d let me.”
You blink, certain you must still be asleep.
“Please say something before you get lost in your head again,” Steve begs and you can hear the nerves in his voice. He’s still smiling at you, but there’s a hesitation there, an anticipation. The lines on his forehead are more pronounced. His gaze flickers quickly between your eyes and to your intertwined hands. He’s actually… nervous.
“Y-yeah. Okay.” It’s all you can say. Your heads spinning too quickly for anything else and you know it had much more to do with Steve’s hand wrapped in yours than the wicked hangover you’re currently nursing.
“Great!” He leans in and quicker than you have a moment to process, presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. It’s warm and soft and lighter than air, but it lingers. It takes the breath from your lungs and you barely notice as he lets go of your hand. “Eight tonight, okay? I’ve got a place in mind. Best Rocky Road ice cream you’ve ever had, I swear it on my life.”
You laugh, nodding along. You’d happily sit on the couch in the living room with him if he asked. You’d follow him to the ends of the Earth. Still—all you can do is nod helplessly. Your cheeks start to ache and you realize it’s from how long you’d been smiling. You touch your fingertips to the worn muscle and Steve watches with such pride on his face, it catches you by surprise.
“Eight,” you confirm and it makes Steve’s eye light up.
Somehow, he’s more beautiful this way. Nervous and sweet and adoring.
And still— gorgeous.