Chapter Text
It starts, like many wonderful things, with a risk taken.
You’d moved to New York on fourteen years worth of birthday money and a dream. You’d scrambled at first, sure, but wasn’t that part of the glamour? Most new New Yorkers (say that ten times fast…) have to deliver pizza or bus tables or play guitar on the streets while they chase their dreams. Whether it be Broadway or Wall Street, few folks get off easy their first year or two in the job market.
Which is why it feels miraculous when you get an interview with Stark Industries. It’s entry-level, but they pay fantastic, even for New York, and you’d rather bring coffee to billionaires and scientists all day than wait tables in a loud restaurant where no one cares if you’re having a bad day. At least Stark Industries offers health insurance.
“It’s a great stepping stone in the industry,” the hiring manager tells you as he’s shaking your hand. The welcome packet tucked under your arm is thicker than some of your textbooks had been. “Plenty of opportunities for professional development. HR will be in touch within the week to set up your employee benefits package.”
Most of it flies over your head, like a lot of information seems to do lately. The position pays enough to comfortably cover your rent, and the 10am start time doesn’t hurt. Plus, you can’t help but be a little excited at the prospect of working under some of the greatest heroes the universe has to offer.
The first few weeks are uneventful. You keep your head down, follow the training seminars as close as you can, try not to leave your water bottle behind in the conference room. It’s a pretty typical admin job, though undoubtedly the most interesting you’ve ever had. It’s hard not to think about the fact that you could run into one of the Avengers in the hallway one of these days. Hopefully you won’t do anything too embarrassing. You’re one of the younger people in the office, after all, and you can hear your mom’s voice in the back of your head reminding you to keep it together, don’t let them think you’re weak.
A few of your own rules join the mix: don’t let anyone get too close. don’t seem too eager, too friendly, too weird. don’t try to fit in because there’s no point.
At night, you walk home to your (thankfully close by) apartment. You’d been able to find a studio at a decent price, though the neighborhood doesn’t feel the friendliest. You speed-walk down the street most evenings, but the sun is usually sinking by the time you’re crossing your doorstep. Then there are the upstairs neighbors who think 2am is the right time to rearrange the living room. Not to mention your own lack of furniture, partially because it’s expensive, but also because bringing real furniture to the third floor is difficult even with an elevator. Besides, you have what you need, even if it’s mostly the bare minimum. Stark Industries has a rampant internal promotion system, according to your welcome packet.
Your box of comfort items stays tucked at the back of your closet, but you can’t help but mentally inventory it from your bed some nights: soft blanket, softer plushie, a few coloring books and crayons, and a couple pieces of gear that bring warmth to your cheeks if you think about it too hard. All items that tempt a corner of your mind that you’ve been too afraid to explore since moving here alone. You’re a professional now, after all. You keep the box put away and try to let your imagination be enough.
It’s been about a month when the inevitable happens. When thinking about your first Avengers encounter, you’d imagined being seated at some quarterly meeting or teambuilding session while Tony Stark or Bruce Banner delivers a speech behind a podium.
You certainly don’t expect to run into Captain America.
You especially don’t expect to literally run into him.
“Woah, ‘scuse me—“ comes the voice over your head as you round the corner, but it’s too late. Your feet are carrying you as quick as they can, because it’s the last ten minutes of your lunch break and you’d gotten so lost in the book you’d been reading that you’d forgotten to actually eat. Your only thought is your lunch box in the staff fridge, not whoever could be rounding the corner.
It’s unfortunate for you that it’s Steve Rogers, and it’s unfortunate for both of you that he’s carrying an open thermos of (thankfully lukewarm) coffee. That fact doesn’t help your feelings much as your book clatters to the floor and the coffee splashes all over your front. It’s thanks to a steadying hand on your elbow that you don’t fall from the impact.
“I’m so sorry,” you sputter before he can say anything else, daring a glance up at his face. You’re expecting annoyance, maybe even amusement at your clumsiness, but the first thing you notice is his brow creased in concern. “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t see you, I know I should’ve been paying better attention —“
“Hey, easy, it’s alright,” he assures, seemingly expecting the flurry of repeated apologies about to leap off your tongue. He leans down and grabs your book off the floor, dusting it off before handing it to you. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I should’ve had a lid on this mug. Is your shirt…?”
You tug the offending fabric away from your skin, wincing at the dampness soaking through. He shares your frown, though he almost looks like he feels guiltier. “It’s okay,” you say quickly, scrambling to tug your shirt down despite the awful stickiness against your chest and belly. “I can, um, grab my coat from my locker, it’s no big deal.”
“No, hey, wait a second,” he cuts in, a hand hovering over your shoulder like he wants to keep you from bolting. “I have some old Young Avengers Initiative sweatshirts in my office, just gathering dust from the last storage clean out. Let me get you something dry to wear.”
“I-I don’t—“ you start, shaking your head, but the way he beckons you with one hand makes your feet follow him anyways.
“I’m Steve, by the way,” he says as you walk, like he’s your next-door neighbor and not a national hero working in the same building. “What’s your name?”
You mumble it quiet enough that you’re not sure he’ll catch it, but he smiles and nods like he has no trouble hearing. “Which department do you work for?”
The question makes your eyes widen as you remember what you’d been doing in the first place, and your head twists around to look for a clock. “Wait, my break is almost over,” you say, almost panicked as you scramble for your phone to check the time. “I’ll get written up.”
“Don’t worry,” Steve says immediately, and even though you’d usually huff at that advice, something in his tone soothes the anxiety rising in your chest. “I’ll walk with you and let your supervisor know what happened. Let me get you a dry shirt, though, yeah? Good thing I hadn’t refilled my cup since this morning, or else I’d be walking you down to the medbay for burns.”
You crack a smile despite yourself, your nerves fizzling down to something manageable. You follow Steve to his office, which you hadn’t even realized was on this floor, nodding and humming in response to his questions. Despite the obvious warmth in his whole demeanor, shyness still keeps you from finding much to say, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Here, try this one.” He hands you a red and blue sweatshirt with Stark Industries Youth Outreach printed on the front, thick enough to protect against your chilly walk home later in the evening. He ushers you into a small adjacent bathroom to change, ignoring your protests that you can just dig something out of your locker (you don’t actually have anything, but that’s beside the point). You emerge with your old shirt in a plastic bag he’d given you, feeling very much like an elementary school kid after falling in a puddle on the playground. At least this donated sweatshirt is new and only one size too big.
“Comfy?” he smiles when you walk out, looking genuinely pleased when you nod. “C’mon, I’ll walk you back.”
True to his word, he walks right up to your supervisor (who looks ready to start scolding until he sees who’s behind you) and explains what happened, leaving out the part where you’d been rushing around a corner like an overexcited kid. Your cheeks are still warm, but the smile Steve gives you is genuine.
“I’ll see you,” he says kindly, and it sounds like a promise in a way that makes your chest feel full. The sweatshirt sleeves hang over your fingertips, and as your supervisor strolls by your desk, you almost expect to get a dress code reminder anyways. But he just nods as he passes, seemingly softened by Steve Rogers’ lingering energy.
When it’s time to pack up for the night, you can’t help but wonder if he’d felt as much like a strong adult figure as you’d felt like a silly little kid in that moment. If he had, it hadn’t seemed to bother him, or even inconvenienced his certainly packed schedule. You rub the fabric of the sweatshirt sleeve between your fingers as you take the elevator downstairs, mind already starting to wander towards the stress of figuring out what to have for dinner.
And between you and yourself, you hope it isn’t long at all before you see Steve again.