I'd rather be happy than dignified

In the luxurious common space of the Avengers Tower – a Tower, which, despite you knowing exactly how many floors it had, never ceased to surprise you with a floor dedicated to something you hadn’t thought of before – there was plenty of space and hidden corners for private conversations. Plenty of space to escape the prying eyes, and by miracle of engineering and architecture, to the noise of the party as well.

But you were not hiding. Not really.

You were only getting a breather; and you were observing.

You were not one for the spotlight and tonight wasn’t your night anyway – it was the Avengers’ night. It was an opportunity for them to let loose and celebrate, deservingly so. It was the night of the world living to see another day; and if there was someone who deserved the credit for it, it was the heroes who swooped in to battle yet another potential world-ending event and won.

It had apparently been Tony’s idea to host the party for all the Avengers Initiative employees to celebrate the victory, because that was what it was – a victory of all of you. A victory built upon the shoulders of the many who held the Initiative together and tried their best to support those who shielded the world from things that made less brave and less super people quake in their boots. You appreciated that it was not only the heroes whose faces were all over the news being acknowledged. A party for all was a sweet sentiment. And while many still believed Tony was nothing but a billionaire playboy who had randomly stumbled into a suit of armour and decided to call himself a hero, you had to admit that for all his flaws, it was not surprising to you that the impulse came from him.

Because despite all, Tony was a genuinely good man.

They all were: good people.

And you knew because you had seen them face physical pain, you had seen them struggling to stand up or even lift their arm to drink, seen them fighting demons that haunted their bedside in the med bay, seen them hanging by a thread on the precipice of death. Not once they had as much as shouted at you; and well, if they ever had, you’d forgive them in a heartbeat – if for nothing else that for the fact that the loud exchange of words tended to happen rarely and mostly when they were on the other side of things. When they had brought their friends in bleeding, themselves scared out of their mind, and later the day and night found them watching over their loved one like guardian angels, even as they were barely keeping upright themselves.

You had seen them tortured by guilt, you had seen them curse and cry; you had seen them kind and soft despite how much violence everyone knew they were capable of, that immense power humming in every cell of their body, ready to be released in the name of righteousness and protection.

They were good people; that was why the people who helped to keep the Initiative together were still here. Sure, one could barely deny money played a role too; but you had seen people walk away, saying no money was worth this.

But people… good people always were. That was what you were celebrating tonight, after all.

The party was getting a little overwhelming however; and even as you had done your part of showing up, the one reason why you still lingered was that you were not hiding, but observing. 

Keeping an eye out.

You hadn’t had more than one glass of champagne throughout the night for that exact purpose.

You weren’t on call. It was not something you were obliged to do; but you were. Because parties, even in good company, tended to get a bit wild as the levels of alcohol in people’s system gradually rose.

Accidents happened. People stumbled. Hit their head on their way down. Cut their hands on shards of glass, twisted their ankle in high heels. Got enough to drink to nearly pass out.

Taking an elevator a few floors down to the medical to patch the poor hypothetical guy or gal up was the least you could do and it would be your pleasure, actually. Hell, if these were the only injuries the Avengers and agents got during missions, your job would be a piece of cake.

It wasn’t always. But it was worth it. Always. For all the people you had had to watch leave this world, seeing people on their way to recover and be happy to indulge in life again was the greatest reward.

Like Tony Stark in competition with a team of analysts, solving crazy math puzzles like the geniuses they all were, somehow turning it into a drinking game, loud cheers audible from the other side of the enormous space.

Like Bucky Barnes twirling Natasha Romanoff in the middle of the dancefloor, a grin relaxed like you had never seen before on his lips, eyes shining, dancing like no one was watching except everyone was watching, because it was like a scene from Dancing with the Stars coming to life if they had ever been set in the forties.

Like Doctor Banner flocked by interns from the science department, answering their questions patiently and with a smile as he nursed what was his fourth beer of the evening.

Like Sam Wilson cursing with laugher in his voice as he got his ass kicked in billiard by Clint Barton, complaining loudly about stupid ideas and getting into a competition with what was the world’s most famous marksman. Like Wanda smiling softly as she was trying to explain not the game but the appeal of it to Vision, who was counting the odds of Sam winning, the number getting worse with every ball Clint hit with deadly precision.

Like Thor, on Earth once again to assist his Midgardian friends, now crowded by avid listeners, curious about the stories the demigod had to share since his life has been over a thousand years long already, his laughter like a clap thunder, a cloud of warmth, sincerity and joy surrounding him.

Like Steve Rogers whom you had gotten a few glimpses of, relaxed and in high spirits even as he was making it his mission to talk to everyone who wanted a piece of him. He had been somewhat lingering near Thor for most of the evening, perhaps feeling welcomed thanks to the shared life experience; an alien, be it from outer space or out of time.

Like Thor, Steve too radiated warmth, even if guarded one, always a little bit on alert, on top of things, ready to come to someone’s rescue, sincere and fierce and loyal. The softest smile had appeared on his lips when he had spotted you, his gaze, albeit subtly, flickering all over your figure. Heat had flushed your cheeks under his brief but pleasant inspection, only you were too distracted to care, too busy admiring the criminally fitting outfit of a midnight blue shirt whose sleeves he rolled up and a pair of simple slacks. He should not be allowed to look so damn handsome, but he did; he always did. It was a little unfair, really.

It was even more unfair that you had lost sight of him a while ago. Because if you were being honest, you had had your silly hopes that he would come to say hello.

While you weren’t awfully close, you were what one might call professional friends. He had always been cordial, his smile somehow soft at its edges, his touch reassuring and warm when he had thanked you for taking such good care of his best friend barely the second day after you had got hired. He had even made a point of bringing you coffee, sometimes with pastry too, and sharing it with you at some of your night shifts when he himself apparently couldn’t sleep.

There might be something there between you, you had debated yourself every once in a while. A gaze lingering for too long. A little touch here or there, perfectly innocent and friendly, just lasting a moment too long, much to your delight. Just a smidge of flirty without pressure in your conversations sometimes.

But you weren’t sure where you two stood – so you never pushed or even attempted more, dead set on being the consummate professional you could and needed to be to deserve your place in the Initiative.

Even if every damn time, Steve Rogers and his stupidly handsome smiles and unbearably tender touches made you weak in the knees, all knowledge of medicine as well as the English language disappearing from your head as if it had never been there in the first place.

You still remembered with startling clarity just how hard you had had to focus on not getting too starry-eyed when he had asked you to call him by his first name; or how softly your name rolled off his tongue when he tested it out after you had told him the same. The sensation, much to your chagrin and giddiness, returned every single time he called you either your name or Doc, something about his voice making you shiver and chasing a surge of heat into your abdomen as if he had just called you his sweetheart or a good girl in a husky whisper right next to your ear, his lips brushing your earlobe.

There might be something there, you thought at times.

And then there were days like today, when you realized you merely had a ridiculously intense crush on the man and were keeping your hopes up for nothing and that he was only being nice, perhaps trying to express gratitude for you doing what was your goddamn job in the first place.

It was a little pathetic of you, really.

If you were being brutally honest with yourself, altruism was maybe only fifty percent of the reason why you were still here at the party. Another twenty percent was that you had put quite some time into getting ready, your dress, make-up and hairdo an exciting change from your everyday routine; you felt good in your skin and you wanted to relish in that feeling a while longer. The last thirty percent of your reason to still be at the party was beyond reason; Steve himself.

Steve who hadn’t bothered to come and say hello the one day you were all dolled-up nearly to the max. You hadn’t done that for him, thank you very much, but the idea of him seeing you and maybe, just maybe liking what he saw quite a lot… that was headier than the wine some of your companions were drinking in gallons, a little too loud now and little too overwhelming, and it was so not worth it the wait as there came nothing and truly, would it kill him to spend five goddamn minutes-

Okay. Okay. You needed to stop. You were acting like a silly goose and petulant child, a little too frustrated over that, you were aware. Not to mention that rationally, you knew all sort of emergencies could happen and he was Captain America, he was a busy man and to think-

You heard the sudden ruckus on your left the very moment you caught the glimpse of a large form in your peripheral vision.

A second later, you came face to face with Steve Rogers himself, a whispered but hearty curse on his lips, his body less than a foot from yours – and his arms caging you against the wall you were leaning onto, his startled expression accentuated by the bright blue of his irises boring into your own, wide with surprise.

Surprise at seeing him.

At having him so close that you would swear you could feel the heat radiating off his body on your bare skin and through the fabric of your dress alike.

And at him swearing under his breath.

His gaze fell on the floor for a brief moment, your breasts most definitely in his field of vision even as he seemed oblivious to it, his lips, seemingly plush and begging for a kiss from such little distance, barely moving as he muttered absently, yet unexpectedly loud.

“Well, that was ungraceful, Rogers.”

Your lips parted mutely as you tried to come up with a response to that, a polite dismissal of what was but a fact; but Steve looked up again, meeting your gaze, his stunning blues with just the sweetest speckle of green rendering you not only speechless but also mindless. And as if your brain and heart weren’t stunned enough already by the display of sheer beauty right in front of you, when you drew a startled breath, your senses were instantly wrapped in the scent of his cologne mixed with something you by now associated with Steve. The chances of you forming a coherent thought, let alone voicing it, were around zero.

And then that star-spangled beautiful bastard smiled, his eyes lighting up as if he could tell all you saw and wanted to see was him and he was very happy about that and you forgot how to even breathe.

Which was absurd because breathing was an autonomous function of your body and the currently vacant grey matter of your brain had zero control over that, but then again hearts didn’t tend to skip a beat unless a person had an arrhythmia and you were sure you didn’t have one of those and yet here you were, your heart all but stammering because you were cornered by the mass that was Steve Rogers and the sheer largeness of his tickled you in ways and in places you were not to mention in a polite company.

Honestly, being cornered by a person so huge and powerful should be intimidating.

It wasn’t.

Because Steve Rogers was good people; and if there was one person to fit the definition of a gentle giant, it was him. Especially with a smile that was… very cute and bordering of goofy. He looked like he didn’t have a single mean bone in his body and you knew for a fact he didn’t – and it wasn’t just because you had seen most of those in his x-rays.

“Hi Doc. I was looking for you,” he said as if it explained why he was still caging you between his huge arms, your gaze flickering to the poor fabric of his shirt barely keeping together while trying to accommodate his biceps.

You gulped, trying to gather your thoughts.

Steve was always courteous. Friendly. A bit affectionate with his touch; but in sound mind, he would never let himself be so close unless he was on the stretcher and you were examining him. And usually, he wouldn’t be this ungraceful indeed. And he would not be beaming like--- okay, maybe he was beaming like that sometimes, but not all these together.

Which meant two possible causes of his behaviour: he had suffered a head trauma, which was unlikely, given the fact you had personally checked him after the Earth-saving mission, or he was intoxicated.

The best-known toxin known to humanity was alcohol. Alcohol which would have no effect on Steve’s supersoldier metabolism, unless Tony and Bruce had been messing abound in their lab… or Thor was visiting.

You had heard the tales of the Asgardian mead aging for thousands of years and not meant for mere mortals like yourself, but boy had you not quite expected it to be true – or that the drink would have such an effect on Steve.

Who was still grinning at you, expectant.

“Hi,” you pipped out at last, causing his grin to widen and then soften, his gaze roaming your face with genuine and sweet interest that made your heart flutter. “Uhm, why were you look-“

“You’re the prettiest girl in the world, I swear.”

‘-ing for me’ got stuck in your throat as the painfully sincere words rolled off his tongue, stunning you speechless once more, hope exploding in your chest so suddenly it made you breathless, pulse shooting up sky-high.

And then you fell down on the cold hard ground when Steve blinked, as if he was slightly dizzy.

Because he was drunk.

The reminder was like a slap to your face, sobering you up fast even as you only had had one glass of champagne.

Drunk people said a lot of things. And while you knew that In vino veritas was often true, you were not quite sure what happened with the Latin proverb when Asgardian mead and a supersoldier were involved.

For all you knew, Steve could simply be an affectionate drunk and he might tell you he loved you in the next second and then walk away to tell the same thing to five other people. Which meant you really weren’t all that special-

His handsome features twisted in a frown at your silence, realization passing over his face.

“In the entire universe, I mean!” he blurted out.

You blinked. Licked your suddenly dry lips; Steve’s gaze flickered down at the minute movement.

The traitorous white-hot want swooped in your belly and had you grasp at the hem of your dress just to hold onto something.

Steve smiled again as he met your gaze, a tinge of pink in his cheeks you suspected was more shyness than alcohol. “And… I know that looks are not all that matters, but… you’re just so beautiful I have to say it. But you’re also smart. And cute when you smile. And competent! And so nice… even when you look like you want to smack us over the head when we pull stupid s-… stuff.”

You mean like right now? you wanted to ask. Or like when you nearly get your arm ripped off when you try to catch a car hanging off a cliff, because that was plenty stupid, but I guess I can accept that since you were also trying to someone’s life, like you always do, you beautiful golden-hearted DRUNK dumbass-

You stared at him, unable to form a single syllable as your mind and heart raced alike, a heavy blend of affection and ache settling in your chest.

Good God, you swore every word falling from Steve lips was like a caress and stab to the gut at the same time.

How you wished he meant that.

How you wished he’d tell you any of that when he was sober, when you knew he knew what he was saying and why and you could believe him.

Beautiful.

Competent.

Cute.

Smart.

That starry look in his eyes would be enough to light up the sky of your life.

And it might all as well be a mirage. If you’d reach your hand out for that light, it might explode into a pile of stardust and disappear.

Steve, uncharacteristically oblivious to your inner turmoil, pursed his lips a bit and continued.

“You’re so kind, never yelling… and so careful, always making sure it doesn’t hurt. And you smell really nice, doll, you know that? I can’t get you outta my head, always thinking of you, and you look so, so soft,” his voice fell into a murmur.

His gaze lowered as one of his arms shifted, slowly enough for you to move away; but instead you stood frozen and watched, almost as if hypnotized, as his fingers neared your bare skin, brushing over where the strip of your dress laid over your collarbone, following the fabric, the heat of his touch seeping through, like a shot of pure ecstasy straight to your veins.

He snapped his hand back so fast he nearly smacked himself and you in the process, placing his hand where it had been before, his body another inch closer, suffocating you, sweet and torturous and so entirely unfair.

“No-- shit, don’t touch even if you w— I’m sorry, doll. That was rude of me.”

Yeah, it really was, especially since you stopped and all I want is for you to touch me, you wanted to whisper, feeling a familiar burn of tears in your eyes and that stupid prickly sensation in the base of your nose.

You should be laughing it off. You were sure everyone else would – hell, drunk Steve was an event in itself, might be a spectacle to some, a funny story to tell--- hey, you remember the time you got smashed and talked non-sense?

But you felt like everything but laughing.

That non-sense was your dream coming true. And it was not real and he had touched you like you wished he would have touched you, sweet-talked you like you wished he would have sweet-talked you. Looked at you, as you wished he would have looked at you, because his gaze was affection personified.

And you were a second from combustion. From the desire to ask him to touch you again and keep going, moving from the soft unwittingly territory to a purposeful touch trailing elsewhere, everywhere, from the instinctive impulse to beg him pathetically to want you like you wanted him, to lo--- and combust from the suffocating onslaught of emotion raging in your pounding head and heart alike.

You wanted to believe him, achingly so; wanted him to do anything to clue you that he meant it even when not inebriated.

And yes, Steve never said things he didn’t mean, at least not in your experience, but he also never got drunk and he had never said anything about liking you before either. Yes, he was always very polite and cordial… and yes, his eyes were always so warm and kind and he was smiling when he saw you in the hallway and he sometimes brought you coffee and sometimes you talked, but that was barely a testimony to romantic feelings and-

“-and you’re just the prettiest, even when you’re frowning like that, Doc,” he whispered again, intimately so, shivers you tried so hard to supress rushing down your spine, pleasant warmth curling in your core regardless.

“Steve, you-” Fuck, his face lit up when you said his name, and it was such a vicious attack on your poor heart- “You’ve been drinking-“

One corner of his lips rose higher and he had the decency to look a little bashful.

“Maybe a little… but it’s still the truth. The most beautiful in the whole universe, and I would know. I know space. I helped to stop an alien invasion two days ago.”

You couldn’t but smile at that, despite it all. He seemed rather adorably proud of that. Rightfully so.

“That’s true. Thank you for that-“

“Anything for you, doll.”

Just like that; the most tender caress and a brutal slap.

‘Anything for you, doll,’ he had said, as if all he wanted was your heart, but he went for the jugular instead.

So casual. So brutally sincere.

Anything for you.

You’d let him get away with murder if he’d say it just one more time with and that was the problem; because more and more, it seemed like the only victim of his spree would be your heart.

Jesus Lord Almighty, what had I ever done to have what might actually be the most handsome and most sweetest man in the whole universe whom I have a stupid crush on and a whole lot of feelings for, to speak to me in such hoarse and soft voice and speak THOSE words and have him smell so good and be so close and so warm and so tempting, when he probably doesn’t even know WHAT he’s saying-

“Right. Uhm. That. As, uhm… as for the previous thing, I… I’m pretty sure there are competitions for that and I never won any of those, so maybe-“

Steve straightened a bit, his eyes flashing with something determined and focused, a hint of a very composed Captain mode which should be good news, but instead was a sight alluring to your hindbrain all the more.

If he had hinted he liked you competent, he had no idea what him acting like the captain he was made you feel.

“Have you participated in any?” he asked in such seriousness you couldn’t even consider not answering the question.

“Uhm… no, but I probably wouldn’t even-“

“Well, there you go. I know where my vote would go, no hesitation.”

“Right,” you choked out, realizing the absurdity of this discussion and the situation as a whole.

You needed to end this.

You needed to cut Steve off before he could say or do anything else he’d be incredibly embarrassed about later.

And you needed space to process this and breathe and then probably finally cry, because this was the closest you had ever come to you wish coming true and it was all the more heart-breaking to know it was nothing but an illusion brought on by the stupid Asgardian liquor.

The next time Thor got hurt, you were going to leave him bleed the hell out-

Well, you wouldn’t, but wasn’t that a tempting thought. One that also offered a much-appreciated distraction, helping you ground yourself at least a fraction, even as you still searched for the right words.

It was a funny thing, being cornered in a quiet corner of a party still happening nearby, and find yourself in what seemed to be an absolutely still and raging silence.

“You think I’m lying.”

You blinked, Steve’s face coming back into focus, his voice a stunned accusation and a statement at once.

You almost felt guilty. Almost.

“I-“

“I mean it, so very much,” he whispered earnestly, observant eyes flickering all over your features, his breath hitching in horror as he, you assumed, finally took note of your glassy eyes, his hands twitching by your side. “Oh no, please don’t cry, doll. I’d never want to make you cry, wanna to treat you right, make you smile every day… I…”

He retreated at last, dejected, arms falling to his sides; it was only when you took a deep breath a second later that you realized you hadn’t dared to breathe properly before, worried your chest might brush his, sending your body into a frenzy.

Steve was watching you with worry etched into his features, his undivided attention on you as his head tilted to side just slightly as if he was assessing your state.

Or as if he could see straight into your heart and soul.

“It makes you sad that you think I’m lying?”

The words not louder than a whisper and threaded with careful hope were like a punch to your solar plexus.

Lips twitching, gaze falling to the ground, you felt the entirety of your being heat up with the embarrassment and pure horror of being so thoroughly seen, by a very drunk supersoldier with too much wits for everyone’s good.

He stepped closer once more, his hand reluctantly brushing and enclosing yours when you didn’t immediately pull back.

Words, you admonished yourself, use your words, you idiot, you’re a goddamn grown woman with a degree of a medical doctor, not a schoolgirl or a blushing virgin or a complete IDIOT and-

“I’m so sorry, Doc... I don’t- I don’t know what to do to get you to belie-” his voice trailed off mid-word, his eyes lighting up with a sudden idea. “Come with me… if you trust me at least a little.”

And the thing was, emotional turmoil or not, when bright-eyed Steve Rogers took you by the hand, who were you not to follow him?

You’d follow him anywhere, because you knew he would never lead you towards the path of hurt, not intentionally.

So you followed. With a risk of having your heart broken, with a promise to have it mended and cradled by a pair of giant, gentle hands.

You were surprised and grateful that as he led you, people weren’t staring, mostly too invested in their own conversations or activities. Still, there was a small crowd formed by the doors with no other way than through – and Steve, the gentleman he was, made sure to keep his hand close, on your lower back, just in case you or someone else stumbled into one another.

Funny, truly, how that was exactly what you had been looking out for before; before Steve stumbled right in front of you and turned your evening and possibly life upside down.

Funny how his hand felt like a brand on your back, warm and all kinds of right.

You shuddered lightly when you left the room, feeling the draft of the fresh air; you shuddered again when Steve’s hand remained where it was, his thumb drawing a soothing circle there, an unnecessary but pleasant touch that made him curse under his breath as if he hadn’t intended to do it. You thought you heard him mutter ‘no handy hands’, but the words seemed so absurd you weren’t sure. He let go.

He enveloped your hand with his instead. And you let him.

Whatever he wanted to show you, to do, you decided to trust him more than a little, because despite it all, you’d trust this man with your life; and for a moment, your fragile heart whispered you could indulge in the sensation alone – your hand in his. The warmth and the certainty he held your hand with, the gentleness and a bit of sweat; he seemed excited about your destination, but also nervous.

It was a curious case, his hands, you had noticed a few times before. For all the miracles the serum coursing his veins was capable of – mending tissues, closing up bullet wounds, rebuilding bones and muscles faster than you thought possible and without a scar – Steve’s hands carried signs of a man working and fighting with his hands.

His knuckles were littered by constellations of tiny scars.

His palm, while soft in touch, had a few callouses.

You would have thought the problem was simply that they were appearing on his hands so often the serum didn’t have the time to heal those; but you had seen Steve, on the miraculous occasion of him actually taking the time to recover after getting shot to the thigh which equalled in days without training, without punching, without holding the shield. And still, even then; the scars and the callouses remained.

It made you wonder.

Much had been written on human body’s healing mechanisms, on cellular regulation, on processes our body ran without interventions, directed by different systems. Science spoke of the main brain, located in one’s skull; about another brain in one’s gut, funnily making the saying about trusting one’s gut true. And then there was another brain scattered all over, a body’s directory on a cellular level which just might be responsible for the state of Steve’s hands – or perhaps that was just a divine power beyond your comprehension. And that directory said no. No, this one thing was not to heal. This one thing was to serve as a reminder of who this man was.

A man who fought so others could live in peace. A man who protected those who couldn’t protect themselves. A man who’d bleed, over and over, from his knuckles and more, just so someone else didn’t have to live a single day of pain.

This man had a fiery power humming in his veins and enormous capacity for violence should it be needed – and now, he chose to lead you tenderly, smiling at you with a soft crinkle in his eyes.

It was only when he squeezed your hand that you realized what had brought on that kind of smile; lost in your musings, you had caressed his knuckles as if to sooth the pain.

You didn’t have time to dwell on that, however. Because you were pausing in front of a door in the residential part of the Tower – where had you only taken the elevator ride? – and then Steve was leading you further, with a deep breath and slight hesitance on both your and his part.

It was a hesitance well-earned For one, it felt like an invasion of his privacy. For two, the implication of actions less than virtuous as you were for first time ever to enter his apartment, after midnight after a successful party no less, was right there.

If his thoughts stumbled towards the same path as your, he didn’t let it show much.

When he left you standing in the cosy living room area adjoint to the spacious well-equipped kitchen with a plea for you to stay there, belly swooping at the sweet smile he gave you as he glanced at you over his shoulder, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, suddenly empty of his; what to do with your eyes now that he retreated into what must have been his bedroom, the thought alone having your already racing heart nearly escape your ribcage.

You didn’t want to snoop or look around too much, as curious as you were, thinking about how he wouldn’t have led you here when sober – but your gaze flickered around on instinct, finding little things that made you smile. A tall bookshelf nearly filled to the brim; a plant here and there, thriving and flourishing; a few pieces of art you found strangely familiar on the walls. On the shelves, photos of his friends that spoke of affection one had for true family, two pictures of him alone at a waterfall and at a seaside with lush greenery all around that made you think of a distant memory of his family having come from Ireland.

The space was clean but lived in; a part of you, one that had wondered every once in a while if the man out of time truly felt at home in this century, smiled.

And then he was back; the tinge of pink from earlier back in his cheeks, his gaze, while still full of stars, less certain and all the more open and vulnerable.

“Just… look,” he whispered warmly, a book – a sketchbook, you realized with a startled skip of your heart – pressed into your hand. “…please.”

You gulped, even as something in your belly swirled with excitement.

It was obvious he was giving away his heart for you to judge – something incredibly personal. If the fact that he had brought this thing from his bedroom wasn’t a clue enough, the fact it was clearly a book of his artistic creations would have been.

You knew Steve draw.

The first time you learned, you were in the ER with Steve sitting on the bed with four different bones broken in his wrist and hand, the rare display of pain in his features turning murderous when Bucky uttered something about an artist’s hand. You had paid extra extra attention to treating him and helping him recover, doing everything possible so he wouldn’t lose his fine touch.

He admitted to you later on he did like to draw; things, people, animals, anything that caught his eye. You had never seen his sketches though.

You were about to now though, for some reason.

With reverence fitting to holding something dear to Steve in your hands, you opened the sketchbook.

It truly spoke of the late hour and your emotional turmoil that the idea hadn’t even crossed your mind until you did so, that you hadn’t connected the dots, the realization and careful hope rising in your chest like a tsunami upon seeing the first drawing.

Things. People. Anything that caught his eye.

He had drawn you.

Because you had caught his eye.

Your hands stilled upon the sight and so did your breathing; because the sight stole all air from your lungs.

It wasn’t just the subject; it was the overwhelming feeling of humanity and deep connection to something one was overcome with when stunned by true art.

When Steve had said he drew, you hadn’t been sure what to imagine. But you certainly hadn’t imagined he was that good.

Or that you would ever be a part of his sketchbook in the first place.

Or that you could be depicted in what could only be described as tender beauty.

Like you were the prettiest girl in the world.

You lifted your gaze with herculean effort as you wished to never stop looking at something so otherworldly gorgeous.

“Steve…”

One corner of his lips rose in a careful smile, his gaze falling back to the sketchbook, wordlessly prompting you to turn the page.

You didn’t. Not right away. You just… wanted to look for a while longer, your heart in your throat, tears once again prickling in your eyes.

Only this time there was no stopping them. Not when you turned the page and there you were, again, almost eternal in the most mundane of moments, a chart in your hand, talking to what you knew with certainty was Natasha; her figure as if blurred, emphasis on… you.

And again.

And again.

Page after page, turned with reverence and growing dizzying sweet heaviness in your chest, you. Various scenes from your life, different expressions, from different angles, smiling and in thought, perfectly put together or clearly exhausted in mind and body.

So many different drawings with one commonality.

There was this strange, breathtaking glow to you.

You were nothing short of beautiful; drawn every bit like you were the prettiest maybe not in the whole universe, but in the eye of the beholder without a single doubt.

You weren’t sure at which point your hands started to shake with the overwhelming affection and just pure feeling of something, or when the tears spilled over.

But when you reached the end of the sketchbook, lingering with your watery gaze at the last picture, Steve gently pried the book from your hands, laying it on the coffee table. You nearly grabbed after it again just to go through it once more.

His eyes were an open book of their own, however; a profound apology for some reason, caution and curiosity.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry, Doc. I’m sorry.”

You merely breathed in against the suffocating feeling in your ribcage, carefully wiping away the few tears that escaped.

“I keep trying to… to capture just how completely breathtaking you are-“

A laughter-sob tore from your throat, a half-desperate sound that hurt, and then there was a flash of pure horror on Steve’s handsome face.

“…are you scared of me?”

The pitiful sound you had made before found its way out again, your hand coming up to cover your mouth in apology, before you let it fall down as you blinked away tears.

What an insane, completely non-sensical question he was asking.

You were feeling a whole lot of feelings you weren’t sure you could contain a minute longer, but fear was most definitely not one of them.

“Why would I be scared?” you asked breathlessly, Steve’s cheeks turning redder by the minute, the tips of his ears an almost unhealthy shade.

“…I s’pose it’s a bit creepy… didn’t ask you if I could draw you,” he muttered, actually shuffling his foot as if deeply ashamed – but also strangely and entirely rightfully proud.

Jesus Lord Almighty, what had you done to be faced with this – what had you deserved to be a muse to talented man like this, standing here and offering you what truly was his heart right on his sleeve. What had you done to have to find words in face of onslaught of affection and realisation that nearly made every single cell of your body tremble, made you feel like you lost the ground under your feet and it was a great thing?

“It’s… okay, I think.”

‘Okay’ did not encompass a fraction of how you felt.

And yet Steve smiled.

Oh, the way he smiled.  

“So you believe me now, doll?”

It was a logical question. Rational. You were quite rational at times.

The prove of his truth had just laid in your hands; images softly written into the matter of your brain and etched into your heart, a perfectly solid prove of if nothing else, then of Steve’s words being everything but a sudden infatuation born out of alcohol strong enough to smite his system.

And yet.

Yet, with the ground lost under your feet, uncertainty tickled your brain in the worst possible way. He wouldn’t have shown you. He would have never told you, unless he had been drunk. Maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe all this was was something… something else than you wished for him to feel. Something else than falling in love, like you had been with him.

Because you had been – falling in love with him. You knew as much; a mere crush had never felt like this. Your heart had been foolish enough to truly have fallen for him. That was why rational had flied out of the window a long time ago.

You didn’t say a word – you couldn’t come up with one, let alone form it, to say yes or no, or anything in between.

But Steve Rogers was a smart man. He had proven so times and times again.

The determination that flashed in his eyes was almost violent, a pyre he’d burn in one of those days; but his hands, those stupid huge artistic hands, cradled yours with gentleness, squeezing with lightness with just an edge of clumsiness that could only mean genuine affection.

“I’ll find you. Super sober,” he declared, gaze flickering to your throat as you gulped, terrified and yet deeply content at being seen so thoroughly. “Will tell you all this again and more.”

“You sure?” you pipped out, already convinced, perhaps knowing all along, just afraid to take the leap.

“Damn sure. But if I do… if I ask you out and try not make a fool of myself. Again, I mean,” he added, sheepishly so, teeth worrying over his lip, his next words so, so soft and hopeful. “Will you say yes?”

You observed his glimmering eyes, brimming with sincerity, his face an open book as worry passed over at you taking literal two seconds to answer.

“Yes, I will.”

And Steve smiled.

Oh the way he smiled.

You had thought you knew Steve’s smile was like when a sun came out, but the smile he graced you with now – that was a smile that could heal the world if he only wanted to try.

Before you could indulge in the sight and begin to process all of what had just happened, your heart stammering in its fullness, you lost the ground under your feet once more.

You were in the air. Spinning.

And you were laughing and so was Steve, holding you tight to his front and simply spinning out of sheer delight, the display of joy so pure and unabashed it made your heartstrings hum with the sweetest song.

Once you landed again, placed on the ground with utmost care even as Steve himself seemed to be struggling to catch his own balance, his arms released you, the warmth of his hands reappearing, cradling your face, eyes sparkling with a lot more than effects of thousand-year-old alcohol. He observed you wordlessly, an emotion on his face you had trouble grasping as he tenderly – albeit slightly clumsily – caressed your cheek, pursing his lips.

Temptingly and adorably so.

“What is it, Steve?” you breathed out, worried that speaking louder than a whisper would break the blessing of a spell that had fallen upon you.

He continued to look at you, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, gaze following the motion until it flickered down to your lips, the funny swoop your stomach feeling all kinds of wonderful.

“I… I really wanna kiss you…” he whispered, a delicious shudder caressing your spine at the undeniable husk in his voice. “But I wanna remember it in the smallest detail. Have to wait… and have to deserve it. Treat you right.”

God, this man.

If he only knew how much hearing that made you want to kiss him right here and now. The way he said it; not like it was an external obligation, a written law, but as if it was a much mightier rule. The standard he personally held himself to.

You’d kiss him on the lips right there, the urge almost too powerful, heart fluttering like wings of a hummingbird and a hammer against your sternum all the same. And yet… you wanted him to remember too. For himself. For you.

Perhaps you’d remember the kiss twenty years down the line; a beautiful memory shared.

And perhaps you were getting a bit ahead of yourself, but you did see his point. In remembering; not his worthiness.

If there was one man worthy of everything on this Earth as you lived and breathed, it was Steve Rogers.

But did you want to kiss him…

Your hand shook a little when it moved from where you had been holding onto his shoulder for balance, cradling the side of his neck instead, thumb brushing over his jaw; you nearly melted when he nuzzled into the touch without subtlety, his eyes earning a new spark.

“How about this then,” was the rhetorical question that spilled from your lips before they touched his cheek, his breath catching, his arms flexing unwittingly as to keep you there for a bit before you stepped back from your tiptoes.

Despite his wordless protest against you moving away, Steve was beaming, his eyes so impossibly soft.

One of his hands remained on your face, the other one reaching to touch his cheek where your lipstick, much to your giddy delight, left the faintest imprint.

If another tear spilled over on your cheek, you weren’t ashamed.

“I’m going to sweep you of your feet, sweetheart,” Steve declared with gravity of a vow only Captain America – only Steve Rogers – could make. “Just you wait.”

And oh, waiting felt like an impossible task at the moment – with Steve’s touch still warm on your skin, your lips still tingling – but it would be something worth waiting for.

You had hoped, thinking that fruitlessly so, for months. You could wait a little while longer.

“I can’t wait, Steve.”

He tilted his head, shifting the tinniest bit to press a kiss to your palm, smiling when it was your turn to have your breath stuck in your chest at the tender affection, and then his hands moved, an arm around your waist, his hand taking yours and lifting it up a bit, almost as if-

“Let’s have a little taste then?” he suggested, his smile oh so contagious. “Dance with me?”

You had never thought the word ‘here?’ could mean yes, but here you were speaking it and meaning exactly that. Then again, you had already established you tended to forget how English worked when Steve Rogers was in your vicinity.

And damn was he close, close enough to make you twice the more grateful for his arms steading you, so close and yet respectful to a fault.

He frowned self-deprecatingly at your question, humour dancing in his irises along with delight. “Yeah, here. I… might have too two left feet left for the actual dance floor now.”

He had a point, you had to admit again.

And truly.

When Steve Rogers held you in his arms, already swinging you to a rhythm only he could hear, in his living room after midnight, who were you to say no?

He smiled again when you followed his lead, a few random tunes humming within his chest so you could hear his music too.

And you… your heart was singing a song too, in tune with his, and with hopes brighter than the shiniest of stars. Stars which Steve would, if the way he was watching you slow dance with him was anything to go by, hang to the skies if you had only just asked him.

The bouquet of roses delivered to your doorstep first thing in the morning when most of the Tower was still asleep, along with your to-go coffee order and a handwritten note, was but a promise that that was exactly what Steve would do.

To the prettiest girl in the world who I hope will take mercy on the clumsy fool she danced with last night. I shall come find you today to ask you a question, Doc. I hope that’s okay.

And I hope you’ll say yes.

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

There we go! Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed, I always appreciate lots and lots when you let me know💕