STEVE ROGERS WAS RUNNING LATE, which was horrible because he was never late. Ever since he learned to walk, he was described by his parents to be a very morning person (given how often he woke their entire household at five or six o'clock in the morning with his cries), and he had carried this trait even when he went to school and, eventually, to work.

Now... now, this was a problem; because it was his damn alarm's fault for not waking him up on time! Oh god, she was going to murder him once she realizes he's still not in his desk at 8 o'clock sharp with her daily unsweetened, cinnamon, light soy lattes. Well, in his defense, it's not even his fault, okay? (even though he technically slept through three alarms since 6 a.m.).

Alright, so maybe it was a bit his fault. But, only because if his boss wasn't so cranky enough to make him work late every night for the past three weeks he would've woken up on time and get her the exact order she wanted on time without being—

BEEP! BEEP!

Crap. He slept through it again.

Opening his closet, he grabs an outfit from one of its four other copies from the hangar, he figured it was efficient to save time and, besides, it's not like people actually care what he wears to work. It still follows the dress code, is the defense he's prepared to say every time. Albeit, wearing suits and ties everyday to work isn't exactly the usual outfit "artists" like him wear—he fully knows that, of course, he's 25 but not dead, but he just needed to deal with it like everything he's dealt with so far in the past three years.

Steve checks his watch. 7:58.

"I have two minutes," he says to himself, hurriedly grabbing his bag, phone, protein bar, and races out the street towards the direction of Starbucks. Whipping through the busy crowd of New Yorkers and stagnant cars, he finally arrived without (thankfully) having a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead.

There was a long line of customers but he casually walked past them towards the counter. The friendly, warm smile of a familiar blonde greets him enthusiastically. "Steve, good morning!"

Steve returns the smile as she waves him over, handing him two cups of coffee. "Here you go. Your regular lattes," her blue eyes twinkling as she gazes at him.

"Literally saved my life, thank you," he says politely, not missing the way her cheeks turn a shade of rosy pink.

"Anytime," she could only say with a dreamy sigh, her eyes not once leaving his figure until he exits the coffee shop's front door. Of course, Steve knows that too, and he's flattered really; but for the sake of his career and his will to stay alive in New York, he knows it'd be best to pretend that he doesn't.

He doesn't bother looking at his watch anymore because he knows he's already late. After long painful minutes of running, bumping into passersby, getting slammed by the elevator doors, he finally arrives at his desired floor of S.H.I.E.L.D Publishing.

"Cutting it close," Maria, the kind lobbyist, chided, while a phone was pressed to her ear.

Steve tilts his head as if to say he can't believe it either. "I guess there's a first time for everything."

"She's going to kill you."

Of course, he knows that. "Thank you, Captain Obvious—"

He crashes into someone else.

And feels the warm gush of something sickeningly sweet drip down his chest.

"Oh, shit!"

The words were already out of his mouth before he could hold it in. There was a common eruption of gasps from the people around him. Who could blame them? He was known to be the man with the virgin mouth; hence, the running joke among his co-workers to watch their 'language' around him.

And hearing him say this? Wow, it must've made their day.

"Uh, sorry." One of his coworkers—Jack? Joe?—says nonchalantly, even trying hard to contain his laughter. "Language, Rogers."

Steve looks down at the big, brown splat of a mess over his formerly clean, white polo. He groans inwardly. There's no way to make this stain unnoticeable now even with his suit jacket. Usually, he brings a spare shirt to work everyday for these kinds of casualties but since he was running late, it slipped his mind.

"You know you could just take off your shirt and wear the jacket and nobody would mind." One of his co-workers, Skye, teases him.

Steve shoots her a sarcastic smile, already used to her antics. "Thanks, I'll think about it."

She blew him a flying kiss to rile him up even more and Steve had to roll his eyes in response.

Then he spots Sam Wilson slumped up on his chair in his workspace. Perfect. Placing down the coffees on his desk, he takes off his jacket and goes over to Sam; not waiting for him to look up and see him, he immediately says, "I need the shirt off your back. Literally."

Sam doesn't even bat an eye at his command. "Well, good morning to you two, brother," he says coolly, crossing his arms as he grins at his state, "Tough morning?"

"Come on, Sam, I really need your shirt."

"You're kidding, right?" Sam gives him a look, sarcastically laughing, "why would I wear your latte-stained XS shirt?"

Steve purses his lips. He's desperate enough to make him an offer he knows Sam can't refuse, "Yankees, Boston, this Tuesday. Two company seats for your shirt and you have five seconds to decide."

The grin drops from Sam's face as he realizes that he was, in fact, serious. "Oh, so you're not kidding, huh."

"Nope."

"Damn."

"Five, four, three, two, one—"

"Alright, give me that shirt."

Steve didn't want to admit it out loud but Sam was actually one of the few people here whom he was comfortable around. Ever since he arrived in the city three years ago—and coming from provincial land of farms and cattle—he was utterly lost and confused as how can one survive in something as big as New York. It was a challenge he wanted to take for himself despite his parents' wishes against it. He needed to discover something on his own.

And Sam, even through his, sometimes, stupid and nonsensical ways, helped him climbed up that ladder into becoming a full-breed city folk. And now, he was currently working for one of the most hated people in the cityscape as a pitstop in his journey to become a successful artist in New York. If he told his past self that he'd be doing this for the next three years of his life, he wouldn't believe it himself.

Yet unfortunately, here he was.

Looking at the closest mirror in his boss's office, he hastily fixes his tie and smoothens his (Sam's) shirt, before putting back on his suit jacket.

Just in time for the door to swing open and walk in, the she-devil herself, her one-of-a-kind tyrant of a boss, Natasha Romanoff.

Her rich red curls were tied up in a slicked-neat, high ponytail; in contrast to her sharp, green eyes. Of course, his boss was an attractive woman—everyone knows that, hell some of the people in this building even so much tried to hit on her on their first day (a big mistake, that is)—but that attractiveness takes a backseat the second she opens her mouth. Now, no matter how great she looks, everyone just simply sees her as their very own 'Cruela De Vil'.

And, hey, Steve was always one for trying to see the best in people even when they're seemingly the worst, but for the past three years he'd spent being her assistant, he was close to giving up. Natasha Romanoff was just innately a witch; there was just no other explanation for it.

The sound of her heels clicking against the office floors were enough to snap Steve out of his daze and hand her the coffee. "Morning, boss. You have a conference call in thirty minutes."

Natasha only bothered to look up from her phone for a split-second to grab the coffee from his grasp, but not bothering to mutter anything close to a 'thank you'—not that Steve was expecting anything, she's been like this ever since he started working for her.

"Yes, about the marketing of the spring collection. I know." Natasha echoes, sauntering towards her desk.

Steve follows closely behind. "And a staff meeting at 9 a.m.," he adds, fixing the cuff of his right sleeve.

"Did you call, um... ugh," Natasha grunts in frustration, trying to remember something off the top of her head. "What's her last name? The one with the... with the weird hands."

"Wanda."

"Wanda, right."

"Yes, I did call her. I told her that if she doesn't submit her designs on time, you won't include it on the spring collection, as well as giving her a release date."

This month was more hectic than usual because the upcoming pieces for the publication's layout were supposed to be confirmed this week, which was why Steve had been working late for the past weeks and had, not surprisingly, taken a toll on him.

Natasha, on the other hand, has no social life whatsoever so her life basically resides within the four corners of this room. She's an insane workaholic, and it should be an admirable trait except that alongside with that, she's just, you know, insane. Insanely rude, terrible; in the way that makes him dream about her getting hit by a cab or something.

"Also, your immigration lawyer just called," he adds, and the entire time he's been talking she still hadn't give him a spare glance, just busying herself into the pile of papers strewn across her desk, "he said that it's imperative that you give him a call—"

Yet her response comes like an automated machine. "Cancel the call, push the meeting to tomorrow, and keep the lawyer on the sheets. Oh! And get a hold of PR, have them start drafting a press release. Nick is doing Oprah."

Steve can't sound more apathetic when he says, "Wow, nicely done."

And she almost rolls her eyes at his dead-ass tone, calling him out on it. "If I want your praise, I will ask for it."

Good, because he can't be any less eager to give her any. Despite the bizarre morning incident of being late and spilling coffee on himself, it was just another regular day at work.

He's already a foot outside the door when he hears his name being called again. "Steve."

"Yeah?"

"Um... who is, uh, Sharon?"

His eyes immediately widened.

Oh, crap.

"And why does she want me to... call her?" Natasha arches an eyebrow, showing him the coffee that she asked him to order for her. Steve hadn't noticed it earlier since he was in a rush to not get his ass fired, but now that he's looking at it as clear as day, indeed, there were numbers and words written on the cup.

Call me!!! (212) 555-0132
Sharon

Natasha was waiting for an answer, and she didn't seem pissed, which was a good sign; but she didn't seem that amused either, which was a not-so-good sign.

And Steve had a gift for the arts, but he hadn't mastered the art of lying yet. Being grilled in a situation such as this, he was reduced to the same provincial boy he was before arriving in New York.

So, he settles for a safe, honest answer. "Well, that was originally my cup."

"And I'm drinking your coffee, why?"

Natasha Romanoff can be terrifying when she needs to. Even after years of being his boss, he's still walking on eggshells around her inside the office.

"Because your coffee spilled," he admits.

She only nods, and takes a slow, careful agonizing sip from the cup. Steve's eyes awkwardly darts around her office because he isn't exactly sure what he's supposed to do right now. Was he dismissed? Is he even allowed to move an inch or would that mean his death?

"So, you drink unsweetened cinnamon light soy lattes?" she asks after, tilting her head at him suspiciously.

He nods, "I do."

"Hmm."

"It's like Christmas in a cup."

Natasha huffs out a short laugh, yet to his ears, it sounded far from genuine. Almost in a disbelieving way. As if she heard the most ridiculous thing in her life. "Is that a coincidence?"

Steve purses his lips, nodding along as he begins to ramble on, "Incredibly, it is. I mean, I wouldn't possibly drink the same coffee that you drink just in case yours spilled. That would be, uh—pathetic." The phone rings just in time and he's thankful for the save, walking over to pick it up. "Morning. Miss Romanoff's office."

A pause.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Natasha shake her head at him before turning her chair around.

"Hey, Brock." Steve greets him on the other end, and Natasha motions at the door with her hand. "Actually, we're headed to your office right now. Yeah."

He hangs up.

"Why are we headed to Brock's office?"

Natasha only clicks her tongue in response.

Steve does the same, already getting the answer to her question. Which is no answer, really. It used to annoy him at first because he felt like he wouldn't be able to do his job properly if he didn't understand what was going on; he needed to know the full scale of the picture. But the longer he's working for Natasha Romanoff, the sooner he realized that trying to know everything was giving him more headaches than solutions.

And it's not like his boss was the most open person in the world; even over the course of three years, they hadn't really talked to each other. To him, she was just his boss. To her, he was just an assistant. She didn't know anything about him, and he was perfectly content with that.

Besides, the only reason he was putting up with this ridiculous job is because he knows it's going to be worth it in the end; it won't be long till his artworks and pieces can finally be included in the collection they've been publishing for a while now.

As soon as Steve walks out of her office, he pulls out his phone to send a message to their office discord server.

The witch is on her broom!

And every single one of his friends and co-workers immediately went back to work, just as Natasha emerged from her office.

Steve catches up to her side, "So, have you finished going through the sketchbook I gave you?"

"Uh, I saw a few pages. I wasn't that impressed," she says bluntly. "Besides, who even submits their art pieces on paper anymore? Everything is processed digitally now."

"Everything doesn't have to be digital, it's art, even Picasso used oil paint to grease his hands and sculpt a masterpiece. It's what makes art authentic."

"Well, they're not Picasso."

He bits his tongue, somewhat offended, "Can I say something?"

"No."

"I've seen thousands of art pieces and art works, and this is the only one I've ever given you. There's an incredible masterpiece in there. The kind of art that you used to auction and to sponsor and publish." Steve reasons. It surprises him that he's able to talk so smoothly and confidently when just a moment ago, he was scared that Natasha might hit him for giving her his coffee.

Yet, of course, she's the wicked witch of the office so she only responds with, "Uh, wrong." They pass by Sam Wilson and her eyes land on his brown stained shirt, and she immediately smells the same scent of the drink in her hands. "And I do think you order the same coffee as I do just in case you spill, which is, in fact, pathetic."

"Or impressive," he counters.

"I'd be impressed if you didn't spill it in the first place." Finally reaching Brock's office, she reminds him. "Now, remember, you're just a prop in here."

Steve sighs, slightly annoyed but not surprised. "Won't say a word," he complies. He pushes the door open and puts on a polite smile, seeing Brock Rumlow.

"Ah! Our fearless leader and her liege. Please, come in." He greets the both of them, and Natasha was already scanning his office, especially the paintings on the wall.

"Oh, beautiful breakfront. Is it new?" she asks, pointing at one painting in particular.

"It is an English Regency Egyptian Revival, built in the 1800s but, yes, it is new to my office." Brock replies with a hint of sarcasm.

Natasha notices it and forces a smile. "Witty."

Steve whispers to her, "See? I told you digital was overrated."

"Shut up," she says through gritted teeth. Then, taking everyone in this room off guard, she suddenly drops a bomb on them. "Brock, I'm letting you go."

He wasn't the one in referral yet Steve felt his entire body go rigid. That was sudden and so, so, unexpected. He shoots Natasha a look of confusion, yet she was looking entirely at Brock alone.

Even Brock wasn't getting it at first. "Pardon?"

"I asked you over a dozen times to get Nick to do Oprah, and you didn't do it. You're fired." Natasha says it so casually that makes Steve want to choke himself for witnessing all of this in the first place.

His eyes dart between Brock and Natasha ever so uncomfortably that he wanted the floor to eat him up. What was he supposed to do or say? Was he even allowed to say something for the sake of his co-worker keeping his job? Or for the sake of him keeping his job?

So, he settles for shutting the door as quietly as possible instead.

Brock smiles nervously, and a bit frustratingly. "I already told you that it's impossible. Nick Fury hasn't done an interview in twenty years. He disappeared off the face of the fucking planet."

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. Swearing was never a good thing, especially if one does it in front of their boss. Oh dear, this wasn't going to end well.

"Well, that is interesting because I just got off the phone with him, and you know what? He's in."

"Excuse me?"

"You didn't even call him, did you?"

Brock's suddenly losing his words. "But..."

Natasha's first impression of Brock was he was a lazy, superficial office dick, but she's given him enough chances to prove that he's not all that. Unfortunately, she's come to the realization that this is all he is.

"I know, I know. Nick can be a little scary to deal with. For you. Now, I will give you two months to find another job, and then you can tell everyone that you resigned. Okay?"

Then without saying another word, she walks out of the room with Steve following nearby, leaving Brock gaping open like a fish in utter disbelief.

"What's his twenty?" she asks.

Steve looks back. "Well, he's pacing. He has crazy eyes."

"Don't do it, Brock. Don't do it." Natasha mutters to herself.

Then they can hear his footsteps drawing nearer by the second, getting louder and angrier and—

"You poisonous bitch!"

Such a shame, he did it.

"You can't fire me, Romanoff!" He continues his outburst, which garnered a lot of attention from the people working in the entire floor. They watched the scene unfold in great detail, which Natasha knows will be the talk of the office gossip for the entire week because they just love talking behind other people's backs.

"You don't think I see what you're doing here? Sandbagging me on this Oprah thing just so that you can look good to the board? Because you are threatened by me!"

Steve awkwardly went over to sit by his desk, crossing his arms quite self-consciously at this ridiculous predicament they were in. Everyone was watching, and Brock wasn't holding back. But Natasha was very much handling this all well, like she always does—and maybe that in some point she does deserve it—but, still, Steve can't help but feel bad for her. Slightly.

And from the looks on everyone's faces right now, Sam, in particular, they were inwardly cringing at the scene just as he was.

"And you are a monster!"

"Brock, stop." Natasha says calmly, yet they could tell that every word she utters is laced with venom, which just makes her all the more terrifying.

Yet Rumlow wasn't threatened by her at all. Or they guessed, not anymore. Steve wasn't sure if this was him being brave or just being stupid, because there was no way in hell he would be able to keep his job after what he's doing.

"Just because you have no semblance of a life outside of this office you think that you can treat all of us like your own personal slaves! You know what? I feel sorry for you. Because you know what you're going to have on your deathbed? Nothing and no one." Rumlow finishes off with a satisfied smile, yet everyone apart from him was mirroring the entire opposite.

Steve keeps his head low, rubbing his eyes tiredly already. "Oh, dear..." he says to himself.

It was way too early for this kind of shit.

Natasha takes a very deep breath, as if she's trying to calm herself down. Yet Steve could practically see the steam gushing out of her ears.

"Listen carefully, Brock. I didn't fire you because I felt threatened. No. I fired you because you're lazy, entitled, incompetent, and you spend more time jacking off and cheating on your wife than you do in your office," she snaps.

Snickers erupted from the people watching, and Brock's face was slowly turning red both from wrath and humiliation.

"And if you say another word, Steve here is gonna have you thrown out on your ass, okay?"

His ears immediately perks up at the mention of his name. Of course, he always has to get dragged into the middle of everything.

Brock opens his mouth to speak but Natasha cuts him off, sounding more impatient and pissed off. "Another word and you're going out of here with an armed escort. Steve will film it in his little camera phone and he will put it on Youtube," she threatens.

"Or Tiktok," Steve pipes in.

"Or Tiktok, exactly. Is that what you want?"

Brock remains silent.

"Didn't think so." Natasha flashes him a cocky smile, very satisfied at the look on his face right now. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Steve stands up and follows her again. He was basically her tail, which proved to be difficult sometimes because even in her heels, she walks ridiculously fast, it's a crazy skill.

"Have security take his breakfront out of his office and put it in my conference room."

"Will do."

"And I need you around this weekend to help me review his files and his manuscript."

Steve almost stops short. "This weekend?"

She furrows her eyebrows, also stopping to a halt. "You have a problem with that?"

"No. I just... it's my grandmother's 90th birthday, so I was just gonna go home and—"

But she walks out on him before he can even finish explaining.

Steve presses his lips, raising his voice at her retreating figure. "It's fine. I'll cancel it! You're actually saving me for a weekend of misery, anyway." Of course, his boss pays no attention and just continues walking away from him. "It's a good talk, yeah."

He sighs again.

He swears to God, just when he thinks he can't hate this woman more than he already has, she proves him wrong with every passing day.

.・゜-: ✧ :- 

a/n:

and here's a dash of ryan reynolds in this movie just because

also,, this chapter is dedicated to betty white. 

an icon. a legend. rip queen.