Work Text:
It’s all a little ‘While You Were Sleeping’ to you, this absurd crush you have on the handsome lawyer that periodically shows up at the coffee shop.
Part of the problem is that you’re shy. Excruciatingly shy, which is usually not a problem at work, because the bombastic shop owner Thor loves to take orders during your morning shifts. Everyone jokes that he’s the real Thor, with his golden hair and muscles, and Thor plays it up. ‘Bean Charge’ has a resident black cat named Loki, lightning themed decor and drinks, and Thor’s crowning glory, a food section named, what else? Meal Near.
Thor’s a really great boss, really protective. The last place he’d worked had some regulars that harassed the staff so badly that he’s given all of you the choice of using aliases on your nametags. That means you work with ‘Lady Sif,’ ‘Fandral,’ ‘Heimdall,’ and ‘Frigga’ as the typical morning crew. Your own nametag reads ‘Valkyrie,’ but everyone calls you ‘Val.’ The previous Valkyrie drops by sometimes (for fun, she calls herself Brunhilde, if anyone asks) to tell the rest of you about her job working as personal security for some uber rich CEO.
For some reason, Thor always disappears into the back when she shows up, and it was during one of those times that you first met Steve. You fill in as the order-taker when Thor’s not around, so there you were, looking up at the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. He’d been wearing a silver-gray suit with a blue shirt that perfectly matched his eyes, and most of all, he seemed to exude an aura of kindness you found really attractive.
“What can I get for you?”
“I like to ask the barista what the shop specialty is, when I try a new place,” he’d said, smiling kindly at you.
“Right now we’re featuring Caramelstruck, an iced caramel latte with lightning bolts of caramel on the sides of the cup,” you had said, noting with your typical intuition that it might be a bit too fancy for his tastes. “A simpler option to try would be our Red Valkyrie, a warm red velvet latte. It goes very well with the white chocolate hoofprint cookies.”
“That sounds great; I have a little time before my client shows up.” As he’d handed you his card, Steve had said, “Is that your favorite?”
You’d frozen in confusion, and Steve (he still hasn’t told you his last name countless visits later, and you’re pretty sure that’s because he knows you’d use it out of deference, if you knew what it was) had just nodded toward your nametag.
“Oh,” you’d said vacantly as you handed his card back (you go back over this moment in your mind on bad days and worse nights). “Right.”
“I’ll guess that it isn’t, then,” he’d said, offering you a respectful nod before heading away from the counter. No one was in line behind him, so you’d tidied up the register area and surreptitiously watched him pick up his drink and go sit at a two top. At least none of your coworkers had noticed you forget how to be a person in the face of male beauty?
Except for Loki, but the cat always meowed his snark at the lot of you. It was part of his princely charm.
The next time Steve came in was more than a month later. The shop was pretty busy, and you’d been the one making his order. He’d opted for a very simple drink, but because Thor was in one of his moods, you were supposed to ask if each person wanted shaved white chocolate on their drinks in honor of a really early snow. You’d held the cup up and called out a name, and there he was, Steve in the suit (blue this time, oh my god).
You’d blurted out, “Do you want shaved?”
Steve had looked at you.
You had looked at Steve, knowing any attempt you’d make at fixing things would go badly.
“I’d say something like, ‘only if you have a steady hand,’ but something tells me that might make the moment more awkward,” he had said.
“Shaved chocolate,” you’d whispered, and he had smiled.
“I’d love some. Thank you.”
Ever since, Steve makes eye contact with you when he gets in line, and you dearly wish you knew whether that means he thinks his particular presence makes you stupid, or what. He’s always really kind about it, though, and the ribbing that your coworkers had started up back in November has died down to a disgruntled rumble.
You don’t understand why they’re so grumpy. Everyone has ‘their’ customers, the ones happy to see them in particular, and it never really means anything. In the six months since Steve first came into the shop, you’d made ‘kindred spirit’ connections with 2 other customers! Sure, you spend more time thinking about Steve than you do about Hal the Flat White Connoisseur, but who wouldn’t?
***
It’s Valentine’s Day, and you hope you’ll see Ruby, the retiree. You’d persuaded Thor to get Ruby Chocolate, a pink variation that you’re offering to shave into people’s coffees. ‘Can I shave some you into your coffee?’ is going to be simply delightful.
You have five minutes left on your shift when you look up and catch sight of Steve walking in. As usual, he’s got a briefcase, but unusually, he’s also carrying a long, thin canvas bag with something boxy in it. When he looks for you, the two of you make eye contact right away-- but this time, after his smile, he looks uncomfortable for some reason. You wonder what’s up, but you have a job to finish up doing, so you refocus.
You get the ‘Steve’ cup started and see that it’s the Red Valkyrie, one of the more popular drinks during your shift, given the day.
“Shaved chocolate in your cup?” you offer Steve, and he nods, his attention taken up by something or someone behind you. You feel a little twinge of disappointment-- if your coworkers are going to tease you about this man, the least they could do is not distract him when he shows up!
You maintain your pleasant expression, though, and when you hand him his cup, Steve takes it with a little finger swipe against your hand. You freeze still, unable to avoid enjoying the little frisson of excitement.
“I can clock you out, Val, if you have plans this fine evening!” Thor booms behind you. Steve takes his drink and steps away, and you whirl around, eyes wide.
“Did you have to announce-- I mean, I don’t, I don’t have plans, but--”
“That is welcome news, I think,” Thor says gently, nodding over your shoulder. When you look, Steve is settling down at a table by the window, laying out his odd package in behind his coffee cup. He takes a sip; the sweet smile crossing his face gives you mixed feelings. By all rights he ought to be meeting a young woman here, or if he isn’t, that smile should belong to that young woman, a recollection of their time together-- but you dearly wish you could prompt him to look like that.
“Val?”
You startle again, realizing that Heimdall is trying to take over your station, and you’re in the way.
“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble, stepping back and untying your apron.
“I foresee you forgetting this whole incident in short order,” he teases you. Heimdall has really leaned into the archetype, he’s always prophesying and joking about what he Sees.
“Right, because I’ll be jostling with my fellow man as I mount the multiperson chariot,” you shoot back before heading into the back. You don’t mind taking the bus, but some days it’s more stressful than not. Holidays tend to be like that. People are rushing to be somewhere by a certain time, and they can always somehow sense that there’s not much fight in you. Since starting at this job, you’ve felt a lot more empowered to stand up for yourself, though. Working at a place that exhorts you to ‘be in charge’ of your own life, with a boss that treats you like a valued partner probably has a lot to do with it.
Thor would argue that it’s also about the ‘lightning energy of caffeine,’ but he’s definitely touched by the Aesir, or something.
You freshen up a little bit in the mirror before you leave the back. You’d worn a cute outfit today, mostly to declaw the nosy comments of some of the patrons, who'd wanted to know if you have a date later. Frigga had warned you yesterday: if you’re in regular clothes, they’ll lament about your prospects, but if you’re already dressed up, they just assume the best.
Steve’s still at his table when you walk out, but now there’s a long, ribboned box in the place where the canvas bag had been. You smile warmly at him on your way to the door, and to your surprise, he calls out to you and gets up to come over.
“Will you sit with me a minute?”
“I--” You’re speechless.
“Please?”
His smile is so charming that you nod shyly. Steve pulls out a chair for you (!), and once you’re seated, he rubs at his beard and looks down at the table.
“I wanted to thank you for being a smiling, welcoming face when I come in. I have to admit I’ve looked forward to seeing you, whether or not that’s appropriate,” he says quietly.
“That’s one of the things we try to do, actually-- give people the sense that they’re stopping by to get coffee from people they trust, friends, even,” you tell him.
For some reason, that doesn’t hit the way you expected. Steve winces a little, then nods. When he looks at your face again, though, he seems to realize he’s concerned you.
“That’s a good thing, don’t get me wrong. I meant me, I’m inappropriate.”
The warm look on his face is doing things to your insides, and it does not help that your coworkers at the counter are doing their level best to watch you without looking like they are.
“I can’t imagine what that would even look like,” you say, attempting to reassure Steve. You can and have, many times, and your blood heats up just remembering some of them.
“It looks a little like this,” Steve tells you, and he reaches over and removes the lid from the long rectangular box. Inside the box are red long-stem roses, a whole lot of them. You gasp, and he says, “I got you twelve roses. Five for each month I should have asked you out, and seven more for the time I’m hoping to pick you up for dinner tomorrow.”
You’d been reaching out a tentative hand toward the flowers, but as soon as he says ‘should have asked you out,’ they’re forgotten as you stare at the sheepish smile on his handsome face.
“Really?” you whisper, stunned. You’re standing on the precipice of joy, but it’s hard to let yourself drop without being absolutely sure.
“Really. I wanted to thank you, by the way. I work with some people who have been really beaten down by an unjust system, the kind of system full of people who look and sound like me. As you can imagine, it’s hard for them to relax and be honest at the law office.” Steve traces a droplet of coffee on the table, his jaw clenching. It’s easy to think that he’s picturing some of that injustice, and just witnessing this opens your heart even more towards him. “I’ve started to bring new clients here instead, for that first meeting. It’s done a world of good for that level of trust, and part of that is the atmosphere you and your coworkers have created.”
“Yes,” you say, the word breathy but somehow still too loud. You close your eyes tightly and try not to spontaneously combust from everything that’s happening right now. “Yes to the date, yes to you being the person I was hoping you were. And yes, I just said that out loud!”
You open your eyes to see Steve smiling, joyful, just like you are.
“That has to be the best first conversation I’ve had at this table since I started bringing clients here.” The two of you laugh, and it’s easy, despite the pressure you feel to get every part of this right. “Do you mind if I ask for your number? I assume you’d rather meet me or have me pick you up for dinner, instead of giving the peanut gallery more to rib you about.”
“Yes, good idea,” you say, digging your phone out and opening it up to contacts in as calm a manner as you can manage. “You realize this means you’ll have to tell me your last name, finally? I have my theories about why you kept that back.”
He actually rubs his neck in chagrin, at this. “You caught me. I’ll text you with it later--”
“Steve!” you interrupt, frustrated. “It’s about respect!”
The warmth in his eyes intensifies, at this. “I get it. I have a bit of a reputation-- nothing bad, I promise. Name recognition, that’s all.” Your eyes widen at this, but you nod. Before you can say anything else, his watch beeps, and so does his phone. Steve holds it up. “Duty calls.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you, truly,” you say, standing up. That’s when you remember the roses, and you’re struck by their beauty in the box for a long minute, during which Steve just watches you. You catch his scrutiny from the corner of your eye, and let out a little embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, these are simply stunning. Thank you again.”
“You seem like exactly the person I was hoping you’d be too,” Steve says, standing up. “This meeting will be a few hours, I’ll make sure to send you a message by seven tonight.”
He offers you a respectful nod and walks out. You’re left with the twelve most beautiful roses you’ve ever seen, a heart full of possibilities, and an obnoxiously nosy group of coworkers who rush over as soon as Steve’s suited figure turns the street corner and walks out of view.
***
Steve is as good as his word-- he sends you a message with a few upscale restaurant options (complete with links to their websites, which you feel is a pro move, but not a player one). He signs his name ‘Steve Rogers,’ which definitely sounds familiar.
Even though you know he’s expecting you to do it, you still feel a little icky googling his name. You know some people go as far as scanning years of social media and ordering up criminal backgrounds on their dates, and you were never that person. The search pops up-- and there are pages of results. And yes, you’ve heard of him.
Steve Rogers is one of the country’s preeminent humanitarian lawyers. He’s just got done arguing a case in front of the Supreme Court. And you have a date with him tomorrow.