#agent 41

Like before, he had worried a little about their agent with the biggest sweet tooth. Poor thing, 41 had nearly had a breakdown last time, and Steve thought she might hate him forever. It was probably a close call. But she made it through the first time around, and February is only 28 days anyway. Well, 29 this year. 

She took it like a champ. Met his announcement with quirked brows and an amused glance in Clint’s direction, but no more wailing and gnashing of teeth than the rest of the team. Bucky had watched them over his steaming mug of coffee, secret smile around his mouth. 

“You know,” 28 piped up from across the island. “It might be a good idea to cut back on caffeine, too. It is an addictive substance.”

Bucky’s eyes had twitched, big knuckles flexing as his hand tightened on the mug.

“Come back with a warrant,” he grumbled. 41 giggled behind her hand and patted his shoulder. Steve just rolled his eyes.

Fast forward a few weeks, just over halfway through this little challenge, and he has to admit that she’s really leaned into the healthy lifestyle. More so than last time; in fact, she’s the one in the kitchen, night after night, iPad poised with a healthy recipe from Pinterest. Everything she’s made has been damn good - he always goes back for seconds. And she’s the first to volunteer to go for grocery runs for the team, dashing off to Whole Foods and the farmer’s market, a triumphant return with a beaming smile and arms full of lush, colorful produce. 

Feeling accomplished, and not a little proud of his leadership skills, Steve decides they’ve earned a little treat. Just a little one. 

Modern coffee and Steve Rogers have struck a deal - he’ll pipe down about price margins and inflation, as long as they continue to deliver strong, kick-you-in-the-teeth flavor. He loves a mean cup of joe, bitingly bitter, with only the occasional splash of milk to soften the harsh taste in his mouth. Coffee was scarce during the war, desperate rationing pared down the drink to little more than brown water, drunk from a helmet while he crouched down next to Buck in a foxhole. He’ll dig a little further in his wallet for something stronger than that. 

He’s familiar with the Starbucks down the block from the tower, having stopped in several times after runs with Bucky and Sam; they haven’t been in a while - a part of his health initiative includes less eating out and more making their own food and drinks. But it’s just coffee. And coffee has plenty of health benefits - he was just reading an article this morning about studies on the preventative effects of caffeine in dementia patients. Not that his brain cells are likely to be affected, but still.

Coffee it is.

41’s eyes light up when they walk in the door, a chorus of “Hello!” and “Welcome to Starbucks!” greeting them from behind the bar. She can smell the syrup in the air, blenders whirring double chocolatey chip frappuccinos with extra mocha drizzle and - what did the menu say? A…caramel ribbon crunch? Yum.

Steve Rogers is a purist in terms of coffee. The concept of frappuccinos and white chocolate mochas makes him want to roll his eyes a little. But he doesn’t make the rules - and hey, the people who invented this are raking in profits, so it looks like they’ve got the right idea. 

Clint’s got his arms around 41 from behind, his chin propped on top of the beanie he knitted her, both of them swaying a little as they glance over the menu. Steve knows Clint is a coffee-addict, too - he’ll probably order straight espresso. 41 loves her lattes, the sweet-flavored ones of course, but she’s done so well cutting out sugar. He trusts her. She’ll be fine. 

It’s just the three of them, with a list of coffee orders to bring back for the team. The cafe doesn’t seem too busy, so he doesn’t feel like an asshole when he shuffles up to the register, pulling up the list on his phone. 

“Be with you in just a second, okay?” 

His head pops up and he notices her standing there, smiling over her shoulder as she preps a new batch of coffee to brew. He nods, a little smile - “sure” - and slides one hand in his pocket while she finishes. She’s efficient and fast, measuring the grounds into the basket, sliding the urn into place and pressing the right button. He notices the way her hair swings, twisted up into a big butterfly clip at the back of her head, the ends falling like a ponytail, longer strands hanging next to her face. 

And then she’s twisting back around and popping up at the register, a nose-scrunching smile and a “What can I get started for you today?”

Blink.

“Um, I’ve got a list-” He fumbles for his phone again. “Sorry, it’s quite a few drinks.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” she nods. Smile still curling up her cheeks - he can’t quite tell if she’s wearing makeup or if that glow is just natural. 

“O-okay,” he clears his throat, swipes at the notes app on his phone. “So first, a tall dry cappuccino with an extra shot-”

He gets through Sam, Bucky, Nat, Wanda, and 28’s orders, before sliding his phone back in his pocket, puffing a harsh breath past his lips. 

“What else can I get for ya?” The barista leans a hip against the counter, tilting her head, smiling eyes still watching him. There’s just something about that look - like she’s in on a joke and he’s still waiting for the punchline. 

“For me…uh,” he shrugs, falling back on a standby. “An Americano, with a little bit of milk and cinnamon, please.” 

That makes her smile deepen, and he would really love to be let in on the joke, but she just nods and repeats the drink, tapping the buttons on her screen. 

“Okay - anything else?” 

“Oh, and whatever they’re having.” 

Over his shoulder, he nods Clint and 41 forward, their hands linked as they slide up to the register. With a smile and a quick greeting, Clint goes for a triple shot, double cupped, one Stevia. Pretty standard - whenever he’s not sharing sweets with his sweetheart, Clint tends towards strong flavors. For Christmas, 41 bought him a bag of something called Death Wish coffee - he brewed it all within a week. 

When it’s her turn, 41 grins at the girl behind the counter, standard sweet and friendly. She leans close to the register and tilts her eyebrow as she orders. 

“I’ll have a spinach milkshake,” she hums. “Venti, please. Oh! With extra whip.” 

Spinach milkshake, huh? Steve’s ears prick up, a little bubble of pride floating up in his chest. He knew if she just gave it her best shot, she’d get used to it. 

The barista grins back at her, and Steve does not at all notice the dimple in her cheek. 

“You got it, girl,” she winks. 

Steve pays, leaving a generous tip in the jar by the register, as the girl flits away from the computer to help prep their drinks herself. She smiles and chats with 41 over the espresso machines, her hands wicked fast between steaming milk and pulling espresso, lining up the finished drinks in the little cardboard tray at the end of the bar. Under her apron, she’s wearing a pair of baggy overalls and for a moment a memory sweeps up in him - factory girls and borrowed boots and rolled up sleeves. A victory smile, that’s for sure. Standing next to Clint at the counter, he pretends not to watch. 

She’s got the trays loaded up, all except one, and turns around to the counter behind her, pouring cold milk and some kind of green powder into a blender. Must be 41’s drink - she’s busied herself at the counter writing everyone’s names on the tops of their cups, adorned with little hearts. Characteristically cute. 

The blender whirs loudly, and as she reaches for a cup and lid the barista meets his eyes over the machines. It startles him, that guilty thump in his ribs, like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. Her smile stays glued in place as she turns back to the blender, fetching the pitcher and neatly filling the cup with the creamy, green drink, before dropping the pitcher in the sink to rinse. She flips the metal canister in her hand, shaking it a few times, before swirling up a veritable mountain of whipped cream on top. 

Steve sighs one of his long-suffering sighs, his eyes flitting up to the ceiling before he catches the look of excitement on 41’s face, already peeling the wrapper from a straw as the pretty barista snaps the plastic lid over the cup. Well…what can some whipped cream really hurt? At least it’s a healthy drink…she called it a ‘spinach milkshake’ and he has no idea what the ingredients would be in that, but the bright green color has him sold on some marginal health benefits. She’s earned a little dollop of cream. 

“Here you go, babe,” the barista grins as she hands over the drink to an eager 41, who immediately scoops her finger under the dome lid and pops a little whipped cream into her mouth. 

“Mmmm,” she smiles, dreamy. “You did great.”

“Oh, thanks,” the girl laughs back, now wiping down her counters with a rag, cleaning up any of her milk and coffee spills. 

“Seriously,” 41 insists, between slurps through her straw. “You’re, like, my new favorite person.” 

“Hey, now,” Clint hip-checks her as he reaches around to grab the drink carriers. He offers the barista a smile. “Thanks, kid, it looks great.” 

“Oh, it’s no problem,” she insists, sliding away her steaming pitchers and milk jugs. 

They’re turning to leave, all drinks accounted for, and the girl gives Steve one last smile as she turns to restock the cups next to the espresso machines. He sips his Americano - good, bold, perfect combination of milk and cinnamon. 

“Steve?” 41 is slurping at her…spinach thing, Clint holding the door open with his back, hands occupied with the drink trays. Steve licks his lips. 

“Excuse me, miss?” Starbucks employees have their names on their aprons, right? He remembers that being a thing.

She turns back, bright-eyed, expectant. 

“Yes, Captain?” The smile twitches at the corners of her mouth. “Anything else I can help you with?” 

He opens his mouth, starts to say yes, not surprised she recognized him but willing to hope-

His eyes slide down to the top of her apron, corners adorned with colorful, cute little pins, black name tag fixed to the top left corner. A neat cursive scroll spells the word ‘Fourteen’ in stark white chalk. 

Oh. 

His mouth shuts. 

41 gives an exuberant wave as she grabs his elbow and all but drags him out the door. The grip around his drink tightens when he almost stumbles over her behind him. 

“Thanks, see you next time!” 41 grins. 

Without breaking his gaze, the barista leans against the counter and winks, waving her fingers at them.