#god punished me for quitting my starbucks job <- joke

[gnomebud]

i would be so powerful if all of my favorite beverages did not make me terribly anxious for 12 hours and also unable to sleep

[softbiker]

Steve Rogers Oneshot

Warnings: language, attempted sexual assault and harassment, mentions of past sexual assault and harassment - do not read if these situations are triggering for you.

Word count: 6.1k - am I capable of writing anything short anymore???

A/N: HI I’M FINALLY BACK AND POSTING SOMETHING FOR THE FIRST TIME IN ALMOST 3 MONTHS WOW. This story continues the Agent 14 series (so definitely check that out in my masterlist if you’re not familiar!) and...it’s something I’ve had on my mind for a while. I just needed to get it out. I hope that you like it and please share what you think! Feedback is appreciated!

When her phone starts buzzing, she’s mid-swing at the faded sandbag hanging from the ceiling. 

She’s glad to have the place to herself - the dusty air and stale silence more of a comfort. A bead of sweat slides down her temple, itching past her ear, and her finger scratches at the spot absently, coming away salty wet. There’s sweat slicking her scalp, too; she feels it under the tight twist of her braids, heat trapped beneath the strands. Her dirty little basement gym - faded posters lining the walls, advertising fights long finished, flickering bulbs hanging from the ceiling, stained linoleum - is quiet in the mornings. A kind of quiet that is all too rare in the city, in her life. 

Sure, it was nice of Sam to continue inviting her on their morning runs - she has every intention of taking him up on his offer, when she finally gets off the opening shift at work. She sees his 4 a.m. offers a couple times a week, shooting back a quick response that she’s already up, heading in to open the cafe. He finds it all so funny; calls her “Agent Barista”, and endearingly teases her about her rigorous coffee training at the SHIELD Academy. 

Okay but real talk, 14 - what’s your top secret mission down at Starbucks? Pinged her phone as she brushed her teeth and concealed undereye circles with strategic swipes of makeup. 

Key word in your question is “top secret”, Wilson. As in, tell you but I’d have to kill you. You know the drill. 

Another ping. Yeah, yeah. Y’all agents talk a good game, but I know for a fact 41 can be bought with a box of See’s candies. Just gotta figure out your weakness. 

Good luck. 

No luck needed. I’ll bring a couple sweaty super soldiers your way around 8:30, you’re welcome. 

With a wrapped hand, she flicks one swinging braid back over her shoulder, turning to her duffel bag for her phone. It’s buried under a spare pair of socks and a sports bra she forgot to wash, still buzzing as she grasps it and flips the screen upwards in her hand. 

Unknown caller. 

She’d bet every cent to her name that she could guess who was on the other end of the line. Tongue pressed against her teeth, she dismisses the call and drops her phone back in her bag. Fury can wait. 

Turning back to the sandbag, she sucks a quick breath through her nose, curling power in her lean shoulders, and then unleashes a furious combination of jabs and kicks on the beaten plastic. Grunts and harsh pants slip past her lips, fists slinging blow after punishing blow, her weight held bouncing on the balls of her feet. The sandbag is a stoic opponent, taking her fists and feet without so much as a groan of protest, swinging back only a few inches on the chain even as she whips around high for a roundhouse kick. Growling, she rocks her weight back on her heels, before leaping forward off one leg to drive her knee into the bag with bruising force. More to herself than the bag, she thinks, glancing down at the tender skin on her bare knee, stinging from the impact. She leans an elbow against the bag and drops her head, swiping at the baby hairs along her forehead. 

The phone buzzes again, insistent and muffled, and she lets her head drop back with a heavy sigh, eyes closed. 

“Shut up,” she mutters, eyes narrowing in a nasty glare at the offending noise. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

She whirls at the sound, fists raised - she hadn’t even heard him enter. 

Steve has the good grace to look sheepish as he approaches from a shadowed staircase in the corner of the room, his hands raised in surrender. Not many people have had the sheer dumb luck - and misfortune - of sneaking up on her, and the part of her brain not whiplashed by adrenaline grudgingly admires him for it. 

“Morning, Captain,” 14 sighs, her hands falling to her hips, rolling her neck against the tension in her shoulders. 

“Morning,” he smiles. He’s trimmed back the beard, she notices, closer to the sharp line of his jaw. Dust motes swirl around his golden head like fairy dust as he passes through the puddles of light cast from the weak overhead bulbs. It strikes her then, the unassuming slope of his shoulders, a little shuffle in his gait, not quite lifting his feet from the ground. Not a strut, no stalking or preening like the SHIELD boys she came up at the Academy with, eager to throw their weight around. Somehow, despite his height, he manages to duck his head, to look up at her under a fringe of enviable dark lashes. Disarming and soft, a wayward blond strand falling over his forehead, he tucks his hands into his pockets, standing just a few feet away from her. He nods at the hanging sandbag behind her. 

“Gave that thing quite a beating,” he says, tilting a dark eyebrow. She shrugs one shoulder. 

“Looked at me funny,” she quips back, still catching her breath from the last bout. Her tongue swipes at a drop of sweat on her upper lip. Sniffing, she turns her gaze down to the wrapping on her hands. “I don’t recall inviting you, Rogers - I thought this was a private session.” 

“Sorry for intruding,” he says, scrunching his nose and swiping at the errant lock of hair hanging before his eyes. With a jerk of his chin, he gestures towards her gym bag, where her phone has gone blessedly silent. “Fury had a feeling you would, um, how does Sam say it…’shady button’ him?” 

She snorts in spite of herself, just managing to slap a hand over her mouth before her laugh becomes obnoxious. Even in the dim light of the fluorescents, she can see the high flush creeping up those scruffy cheeks. Steve rubs the back of his neck, a familiar embarrassment curling in his belly; it’s a joke the team plays sometimes, and he gets it, he really does. Gotta laugh at your CO sometimes - it brings the team together; so he drops little phrases here and there, incongruous slang with his pleated slacks and old-fashioned manners. Even things that Sam says - the word “fam”, or adding “ass” as a suffix to virtually any word - from Steve’s mouth, they’re suddenly enough to have the team rolling with laughter, Tony red-faced, Wanda close to tears. The tips of his ears burn, and he always acts put out, lowers his stern father brows, but if there’s one thing he learned as a Brooklyn-born punk, it’s how to take his punches.

“Oh, I’m sorry - I’m sorry,” 14 says, hand still half-covering the silly grin tugging at her mouth. “It just sounded so funny coming from you. It was like-”

“Kinda like if your dad were saying it?” Steve purses his lips, tilts his head to the side.

“Oh god…yes, that’s exactly it.” It ignites a fresh burst of giggles, though she scrunches her nose and shakes her head at the image. “Uh, just do us both a favor and don’t say that again.” 

“I don’t think you can restrict Captain America’s freedom of speech.” He lifts his eyebrows, playful, considering. The slope of his nose casts a long shadow across his cheek, skin like Irish cream. She rolls her eyes, turning away to her duffel bag, using her teeth to tug at the wrappings on her hands. 

“So. You’re Nick’s new personal assistant or something?” Dropping to the bench, she rummages through her gym bag and takes a long gulp from her water bottle. She swipes at her phone screen - 3 missed calls now. 

Steve shrugs. 

“I volunteered,” he says simply, large knuckles still visible where they stay curled in his pockets. “Thought…hoped I might have better luck.”

She licks her lower lip, chasing a coveted drop of water. It’s not as though she’s tired of the job - it varies so much, from one day to the next, that it makes boredom impossible. No, it’s not the job, she’s just…tired. Of what, or why, she can’t really say. Steve is patient. He doesn’t say anymore, just waits, standing a few feet away and shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his soft eyes watchful. Her fingers go to her shoulders, massaging the oncoming ache in her muscles. 

“What’s the mission?” 

  **********                                                                                      

“You need some help there, punk?” Bucky leans a hip against the doorframe, arms crossed over his beloved NASA hoodie, an amused twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. Across the room, Steve frowns at him in the mirror. 

“Never really got the hang of these damned things,” Steve huffs, fingers losing the knot on his bowtie and sighing again as the cloth falls loose from the crisp collar of his shirt. Hands falling to his narrow hips, he turns to Bucky, wearing a look of defeat rarely seen on Steve Rogers. 

Wordlessly, Bucky shuffles across the carpet and begins to knot the offending fabric, fingers of metal and flesh looping one strand over the other and back again. Chin lifted, brows furrowed, a marble bust of martyrdom, Steve is ever stoic while he works. 

“Thought you were gonna shave for this,” Bucky comments, his voice quiet, not lifting his eyes from the tie. Steve makes a dissenting noise from his throat. 

“Yeah, well, the beard makes it easier to keep a low profile,” he says, a hand reaching up to rub his whiskers absentmindedly. “And besides, I’m sort of attached to it now.” 

Bucky chuckles, a smile dimpling his own scruffy cheeks. 

“Know what you mean - God, but nobody looked like this when we were kids, ya know?” He steps back, finished with the tie, and gives Steve an appraising nod, pursing his lips. “Not too bad, Rogers, not too bad.” 

Raising a dubious brow, Steve turns back to the mirror, tugging at the sleeves and adjusting his shoulders in the tux. Strictly white tie - totally out of his element, but sometimes duty comes with a dress code. He wedges a thick finger between the starched white collar and his own tender skin. 

“In this get up?” Steve shakes his head. “Never did get used to wearing a monkey suit.” 

Tongue in his cheek, Bucky grins. 

“Have you seen yourself in your uniform?” 

Steve flings a fist back behind him, grinning triumphantly when his hit lands in Bucky’s gut; a metal fist swings in retaliation, but Steve manages to sidestep, his hands raised in quick surrender. 

“Hey, not too rough,” he says, tamping down a mischievous smile. “Tony will have my head if I ruin another one of these.” 

“Tony could buy you one for every day of the week,” Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

A knock on the doorframe makes them both turn. 

It’s been years now, since he met Natasha - wind whipping up familiar curls on the deck of the helicarrier, a watchful smile, wolves’ teeth hidden under a lamb-soft face. Even later, when he learned to trust her, he always found himself surprised at her startling contrasts, the ease with which she managed to be two things at once; ally and spy, friend then enemy then family. In truth, she was testing him. They both knew. Years of probing, disguised as teasing and sarcasm and near-insubordination - assessing his strength, his weakness, the man behind the shield. And after all this time, it was his steadiness at each of her own turns that pacified her, let her learn to lean on him in return. 

She smiles in the doorway now, her bright hair swept sleek behind her ears, revealing diamond teardrop earrings, probably on loan from Tony’s collection. The tips of her hair just brush her pale, bare shoulders, revealed by the strapless neckline of her jumpsuit. Black was always her signature color - never dull, though, because with Nat black is a spectrum, a rainbow refracted through her prism: intimidating, alluring, powerful, subtle. 

“You clean up good, Rogers,” she smirks, her hands tucked into her pockets as she gives him a look of approval. “Keeping the beard, though?” 

Steve’s hand idly brushes against his trimmed whiskers.

“It’s grown on me,” he admits. “And besides, I’ve got too much of a baby face without it.” 

“Some girls like that.” 

“Some guys like that,” Bucky adds, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, well,” Steve rubs the back of his neck, willing down the flush that crept up at his friends’ praise. “I’m not supposed to be the bait tonight.” 

“No, I guess that’s my job.” Another voice appears behind Nat, her head peaking around Nat’s shoulder as she steps forward to share the space in the doorway. 

Unbidden, Steve feels his mouth fall open. He always thought she was beautiful, from the first time he saw her, no makeup and the sleeves of her sweater splashed with coffee and mocha sauce; this morning, in the dusty half-light of the basement gym, sweat gleaming on her forehead and arms. But he wasn’t prepared to see her like this, glowing in his doorway, draped in a pink silk slip that exposed one of her thighs. She’d let her hair loose from it’s tight braids, her makeup bringing a dewy sheen to her cheeks - she looked…fresh, blooming like a rose. A clean swipe of red across her lips, almost an afterthought, as if she couldn’t be bothered to make more effort than that. Steve swipes his suddenly sweaty palms against his thighs and clears his throat. 

“Um, wow,” he says, wincing at his own voice, which nearly gave an embarrassingly pubescent crack. “I mean, you…uh, you look great.”

“Better than great,” Bucky pipes up, the amused tilt to his mouth the only hint that he enjoys Steve’s embarrassment. “She looks beautiful.” 

Nat nods in agreement. 

“The dress is perfect for you - is it one of Stark’s?” she asks. 14 shakes her head, modestly gesturing to the gown with her hand. 

“I’ve had it for a little while actually, I just couldn’t pass it up,” she sighs. “Just haven’t had the chance to wear it.” 

“Well, we’re finally gonna put some miles on it,” Natasha smiles, her eyes cutting to Steve, who has clamped his jaw shut to prevent himself from saying more. “We all ready? Happy’s pulling the car around.” 

14 nods, a shy smile tilting her mouth as she spares a glance at Steve before moving to follow Nat down the hall. She turns, and he sees that the cut of her dress falls low against the small of her back - almost low enough to glimpse the sweet dimples at the base of her spine. When they’re out of the doorway, he feels Bucky’s eyes on him - he’s perched on the edge of the bed, chewing his lip, one eyebrow lifted in an all-knowing look. He opens his mouth to speak but Steve lifts a hand. 

“Don’t,” Steve cuts him off. “I know what you’re gonna say Buck, but just- don’t.”

Bucky lifts his hands in surrender, standing from the bed and walking over to where Steve still stands in the middle of his room. 

“Fine, I won’t say a damn word,” Bucky sighs, shuffling across the thick carpet. He slaps his friend on the shoulder, gripping Steve with a firm hand. “Except you better move your ass instead of standing there like a dud - didn’t I tell you not to keep a lady waiting, Rogers?” 

 **********                                                                                         

Sam had whistled playfully as she glided out of the elevator on Steve’s arm, his eyebrows lifting halfway up his forehead. 

“Damn, girl - almost didn’t recognize you without your apron,” he winked, his gap-toothed grin charming as ever. 

“Didn’t match my shoes,” she winked back, flicking her hair over her shoulder. It sent a wave of her perfume drifting upwards; something bright and sweet, neroli, he thought, or orange blossom - maybe a hint of coconut. He had licked his lips without thinking; he’d like to smell it again, just to be sure. 

Here, in this stuffy ballroom across town, with eager officials and bourgeois brats trying to rub elbows with Captain America, he finds the smell much less appealing. Sweat and ambition, excess and greed, all covered in layers of atelier cologne (eau de aristocratie) and - well, Bucky heard enough of his socialist soapbox speeches back in the day, and his views certainly haven’t changed much. 

Still, he makes polite small talk with his admirers, rubs elbows, accepts drinks, all the while keeping one eye on the far corner of the room. It’s quiet, secluded, an overstuffed chaise with a soft cover tucked away from the buzz of the main dance floor. She’s perched there, ankles coquettishly crossed, the side slit of her dress revealing one leg and her glittering open-toed shoes; she leans on one arm, tilting her head towards the target, charming smile drawing up her lips as she hangs on his every word. Or pretends to, anyway. The target seems not to know the difference: Robbie Sinclair, a middle-aged man with the tanned smile of a Kennedy, salt and pepper hair slicked back from his face with a boyish cowlick escaping near the front, grins confidently as he talks to her. Steve watches him preen and puff his chest, spreading his legs to take up far more space than he needs. He stretches one arm along the back of the couch, leaning closer than appropriate, but she doesn’t move away. 

He doesn’t like this, any of it. To be fair, he’d never been a big fan of the espionage facet of his job; much to Nat’s chagrin, subtlety and subterfuge were not Steve’s strong suits. If he had his way, they’d come in swinging and arrest this creep (and his insider-trading Wall Street buddies, too). But shooting from the hip wouldn’t work here, not when they still needed hard evidence on this guy, something more substantial than rumors - heavy as those rumors might be, words like “human trafficking” and “slavery” coming up in his SHIELD files. He understood the necessity, and so did 14. 

Still, bringing her here and dangling her like a worm on a hook, hoping this asshole would take the bait…his stomach churned, whiskey bubbling unpleasantly at the thought. Steve angles his body around a chatty senator, trying to maintain his view on the corner. Sinclair looks about ready to take a bite, his head bent close to 14’s, sly smirk plastered on his face as he whispers something in her ear. Did her fist tighten around her glass? He can’t quite tell from this distance; he knows his own fingers are white-knuckled on his third whiskey. Or was it the fourth? 

In a blink, a stumble, a minute trapped in choked small talk with Miss New York (during which he wondered if her real teeth were filed down like a shark’s underneath that crown-winning smile like Sam told him), he’s lost her. 

A snowy static of panic whites out his brain, and his heart picks up against his ribcage as he all but shoves the beauty queen out of his way, his vision tunneling on the now-empty chaise in the corner. Where did she go? Where would she go? Barely managing subtlety know, he ducks his head, speaking to the comm device in his ear. 

“Natasha. Do you have eyes on them?” 

“…no, I was doing a sweep of the terrace outside,” she answers a moment later. “Did you lose them?”

Steve turns a circle where he stands, sharp eyes scanning each face and failing to find the one he wants to see. 

“They’re gone, I’ve lost visual.” He tries to keep his voice down, his tone tight and clipped. Through a break in the crowd, he thinks he catches a glimpse of her dress, but when he looks again it’s the wrong color, the wrong dress, the wrong woman-

“Alright, I’m heading back inside - I’ll go up the stairs to the next floor, see if they went up that way.” 

“Okay, I’ll take this floor,” Steve says, already making a beeline for the open doors of the ballroom, his tight-laced dress shoes clicking a solitary echo in the cavernous hallway just outside. Past the doors, and the gazes of nosy party-goers, he doubles his pace - the stiff starched tux protesting against the movement. 

They’re not tucked into the alcoves along this hallway, and he deliberates a moment where the hall forks in opposite directions, before darting to the left and continuing his clipped jog. In a small part of his brain, he knows he shouldn’t be this concerned about her. 14 was an agent - a highly trained, highly skilled agent; he’d worked with her enough by now to know firsthand how well she could handle herself. But the other part of him couldn’t shake the way Sinclair had looked at her - the way every man in the room had looked at her when she walked in, circling and waiting for their chance to close in. Not to mention the less-than-sterling reputation of Robbie Sinclair, who, aside from the trafficking conspiracy that put SHIELD on his scent, had a handful of secretaries threaten him with harassment suits, before they were quietly paid to keep their mouths shut. 

He comes to a dead end, a dancing nymph statue (far too baroque for his taste) mocking him with her tambourine against her hip. Doubling back, he curses under his breath and runs through the building schematics in his head, wondering where they could have slipped away to so quickly. 

“Natasha? Any luck?” 

“Negative. You?”

“No.” Steve clenches his fists and tries to force his heart back down from where it’s climbed up into his throat. His teeth grind together, jaw locked tight, holding in a frustrated growl. Unprompted, a wave of worst-case scenarios floods his mind - 14 dragged away by thugs, knocked unconscious, bleeding and gagged, unable to call for help. She’s a good agent. A good soldier. She can handle this. Try as he might to force them away, the tide of panic swells over and over inside him, the voice of his intuition telling him something must have gone wrong-

Behind him, an elevator dings. 

Steve turns to see the ancient metalwork door rattle open, Agent 14 stumbling out half a moment later. 

He blinks. She’s lost her shoes - no, she’s carrying them, the straps dangling from one hand. The side slit of her dress looks higher, and he notices the frayed edges along the top where the fabric has ripped. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair mussed, and she takes labored, panting breaths as she leans against the wall. 

It takes him a while to understand what he’s looking at. As his panic starts to ebb, something different, something wounded and green threatens to perch in its place, at the sight of her so disheveled, with swollen lips and rumpled clothes. He says nothing; he has nothing to say, shocked as he is by the bitter taste of his own thoughts, wondering if a rendezvous with Sinclair was worth the information she might have gained. 

It’s not until she starts sniffling that he notices the tears running down her cheeks.

The realization stops him cold, strangles the dark seed of doubt just starting to sprout in his heart, and fills him with shame and guilt. He takes a step forward. She’s not looking at him. 

“…14? Are you okay?” he asks, his voice hushed. “Are you hurt?” There were no visible wounds that he could see, though she had limped a little when coming out of the elevator. 

She nods, sniffing again.

“I’m-I’m fine,” she says, her voice scraping in her throat, barely holding back a sob. Squeezing her eyes shut, she presses a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent tears. 

In two steps he’s at her side, though unsure of what to do, what would be appropriate, what she wants or needs. Were they…friends? Acquaintances? Colleagues? Do work friends hug, comfort each other? 

“Can you tell me what happened?” he ventures softly, still not touching her, not crowding. He holds back a few inches, waiting, his hands feeling empty and heavy at his sides. “Do you want to?”

She nods, but it takes a few moments before she has regained her composure enough to lower her hand from her mouth and take a few rattling breaths, preparing to speak. 

“He…h-he,” she stutters over a sob, like a child who’s cried too hard for too long. “He grabbed me and-and was kissing me, and then he tried,” she’s interrupted by a hiccup and a shaky sigh. “He tried to…to…” 

She raises her eyes to his, tears welling up again, and shakes her head. She can’t say it, won’t say it - it is too much. It will make it real. 

For his part, Steve barely restrains himself from blacking out with rage. His jaw is so tight he can feel his teeth nearly crack from the strain, fists curled but unsatisfied with not being wrapped around Sinclair’s neck. How dare he? How dare anyone? When he gets his hands on this goddamned son of a bitch, he’ll-

His vengeful train of thought is interrupted when she collapses against his chest with a sob, gripping the lapels of his jacket for support. On instinct he wraps his arms around her, caging her in, his chin resting on top of her head. 

“I’m sorry - I’m so sorry,” he whispers as he hushes her and holds her, wishing there was more he could do, more he could say. He holds himself back from other platitudes, from it’s okay, and everything’s alright - he knows it’s not true. 

She shakes and cries and rides out the storm in his arms, full of anger and fear and shame and helplessness; all the while, he stands silent and solid, murmuring soothing words his mother might have said - in another life, when someone held him, protected him. 

Neither of them knows how much time has passed when her sobs become less violent, when her breathing calms, but she doesn’t step away. Her head doesn’t move from its place on his chest, and he makes no sign of wanting it to. Gently, slowly, he rocks her in his embrace, one hand smoothing over her back. 

After a while, she speaks. 

“I’m so tired,” she whispers. From this angle, he can see her blink slowly, tear tracks drying on her cheeks. He nods.

“You’re coming down from the adrenaline - that’s normal,” he murmurs, letting her weight sag against him, wondering if he’ll need to carry her.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Not like that…that’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?” 

She doesn’t answer, not right away; her breathing has settled into an easier rhythm, less frenzied and panting. Her fingers slide from their place at his chest to rest around his waist. 

“When I was in high school, there was this guy.” Her voice startles him when she finally speaks again, she’s been silent for so long. He makes a noise to let her know he’s listening before she goes on. “He was…I don’t know. Popular, I guess. Cute. Football player. Advanced classes. All the girls liked him.” She takes a shuddering breath before forging ahead. “And-and I guess he liked me because he couldn’t leave alone for a single fucking minute.

“God, it was constant. He’d grab my ass, or say dirty things about me to other guys…sometimes it wasn’t even sexual, it was like…he’d squeeze my waist or pinch the fat on the back of my arms and comment about my weight.” She sniffs, and Steve tightens his arms around her, not speaking. “One time, between classes, he grabbed me by the hips and bent me backwards over a desk - he wouldn’t let go, and he was just laughing…and no one said anything, none of the guys or my friends or anybody.” 

Steve frowns, feeling impotent and frustrated. “I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head again. 

“The worst thing is I just put up with it. I didn’t say anything…I didn’t think, I didn’t know-” she huffs a bitter laugh. “I guess I just thought it was flirting. Like I should’ve been flattered by it.” 

“You shouldn’t - you don’t have to take that,” Steve says, fighting to control his tone. “Not from anyone.” 

“I know that now,” she says. “But I was just a kid…nobody told me. Nobody helped me.”

He opens his mouth, tries to think of something to say, but she goes on.

“And nobody told me that it never gets better, it never changes.” He can feel how tightly her fists are clenched at his sides. “No one told me that this would be the rest of my fucking life. First it was him, and old men at the gas station where I got snacks after school, and truck loads of frat boys following me home. Jesus even the damn milk guy at the café calls me ’sexy’ and won’t leave me alone.” She sniffles again, voice tightening with anguish. “I’m tired, I’m so tired - I’m so fucking sick of all of it…of-of just being a thing, I’m tired of being looked at, and-” She tries to swallow back her sob, but it crests and stutters in her lungs, taking over her voice once again as she presses her face impossibly closer. 

It breaks his heart and stokes his rage, the helpless, hopeless weight of her bitter words. Here he is, over a century old, and still watching people fight the same battles; battles to be heard, to be seen, to be treated like humans. He’d seen it all his life, women like his mother, like Peggy, spines of steel and hearts made of diamonds, resisting a world that would grind them down and make them small. He wishes his shield were wider, stronger. He wishes he could protect them from this. 

“I can’t tell you it’s okay,” he murmurs. “Because it’s not. It’s not okay, I’m so sorry.” She squeezes his waist gratefully and nods her head a little. “But you…you don’t ever have to feel alone in this, okay?” He leans back a little, prompting her to lift her head, to meet her tear-bright eyes. “You’re not alone. I promise.” 

It’s not enough. It’s not over. But today, for now, it feels like something. 

 **********                                                                                             

Natasha pages Happy, who pulls the car around to the front of the building. She says nothing as 14 limps down the front steps, shoes in hand, one arm linked with Steve’s and wearing his jacket, the too-long sleeves covering her hands. Nat’s eyes slide up to his - their silent exchange lasts moments, microseconds; her lips pinch tightly and her elegant white fists curl tight. 

Happy holds the door, offering a hand as 14 drops inside, folding her legs and wrapping her torn skirt as tight as she can around the exposed length of her legs. Nat glances at the open door of the car and steps away, angling her back to the patient Happy. She juts her chin at Steve. 

“You need a hand, Rogers?” He knows the look in her eyes is mirrored in his own - the look of a boxer stepping in the ring, of a lion sighting prey, a shark scenting blood.

Steve shakes his head, a hand reaching up to loosen his tie. 

“No, it’s alright. You go on with 14.”

Happy peaks his head around. 

“You don’t want me to wait for you, Cap?” he frowns. “I can keep the car running.”

Steve glances over Nat’s shoulder at the town car, where 14 has curled up in the backseat, and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. 

“Nah. I need to have a word with Mr. Sinclair.”

  **********                                                                                        

The arrest doesn’t make the front page. Or any page of the papers, in fact. Robbie Sinclair wakes in a hospital bed, in SHIELD custody, and ready to make deals with anyone who will bargain - provided his security detail keeps him well away from the Avengers and their Captain. 

When the file crosses his desk, courtesy of Natasha, he notices the long list of names Sinclair has provided them with - powerful men, Wall Street and Capitol Hill’s finest, who found their positions one dirty handshake at a time. It would take some time to build a case against them all, find sufficient evidence for arrests, but SHIELD was up for the task. There’s a note in the back of the file, a small article someone has attached with a paperclip. 

‘Executive’s Secretaries Speak Out’ reads the headline, with the subtext ‘Sinclair accused of sexual harassment, assault’. It appears a few women who had crossed his path were tired of being silenced; they had banded together, sharing pain and courage, to finally see him brought to justice. And combined with the charges SHIELD was bringing against him, it was unlikely he’d step foot outside of a prison for the next couple of decades. 

It’s a start. 

A few days later, Steve rises before the sun, a creature of habit. He takes his run alone, listening to a podcast that Sam had recommended. By 5:30, he’s stretching at the bench in front of the tower, before making his way down the street to the coffee shop. 

She does a double take when she sees him, surprise and (he hopes) excitement creeping up in her smile. There’s only a couple of baristas in the store at this time - they haven’t hit their peak yet - and she’s wiping down the bar in front of the espresso machines by herself. 

“Morning, Cap,” she smiles. There are tired little circles under her eyes. She looks beautiful. “You want your usual?” 

“Hmmm,” he pretends to think, narrowing his eyes at the menu. “Actually…how about you surprise me.” 

She raises her brows, a little impressed. “You sure? Anything goes?”

“Anything - I promise I’ll try it.” 

“Alright,” she smirks, mischievous and much too eager, and she turns away from the espresso machines to the blenders behind her. 

Milk, syrup, ice - other ingredients he can’t see or identify, all thrown into the pitcher and blended. She leans against the counter as the machine whirs loudly, a cheeky smile dimpling her cheeks. Just as the machine stops, the bell above the door chimes, both of them turning to look. 

A small, wiry, white-haired man backs his way into the store, pulling a dolly stacked high with milk crates. He looks around, making sure he’s not backing into anyone, and catches sight of her behind the counter. Steve doesn’t like the look of his smile, or the way 14 ducks back down to her blender, her shoulders inching upwards.  

“Morning, sweetheart,” the man says, a bit too loud, rattling the crates on his dolly as he wheels around tables, towards the back of house. 

“Morning,” 14 replies coolly, not looking up from where she’s carefully lining Steve’s cup with mocha sauce. She doesn’t say anything more, keeping her head down as she pours out the drink and reaches for a canister of whipped cream. Steve’s eyes cut between them, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. 

The milk man hustles back through the store with an empty dolly, on his way to collect the next load of crates, and 14 sighs a little when the bell chimes on his way out. She’s just turning around to hand Steve his drink, when she notices that the café is empty - he must have slipped out as well. 

“Hey, pal,” Steve claps a hand on the man’s shoulder, consciously withholding his full force. “I was wondering - you usually deliver the milk here?”

“Yeah,” the man huffs, a little confused, and in a hurry to unload his crates. He squints, the rising sun in his eyes. “Why?” 

“Oh, I just wanted to talk to you for a second, that’s all,” Steve smiles. His hand doesn’t move from it’s place on the man’s shoulder. 

When he comes back inside, his towering, chocolate-swirled beverage is waiting at the end of the bar. 14 is waiting, too, arms crossed, one hip propped up against the counter. She tilts her head to one side. 

“Do I wanna know?” she asks. Steve shrugs. 

“Nothing to know,” he says, shuffling up to the bar to claim his drink and stare at it, incredulous and amused. “Now what on earth is this thing, a milkshake?” 

She rolls her eyes.

“It’s called a frappucino, old man,” she grins. “Drink up - you promised.”