Work Text:
The text comes on a Wednesday afternoon.
Hi, Pepper. It’s Steve Rogers. I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor. Please let me know if there’s a good time to call you.
Pepper is in the back of a company car—because that’s where she lives now, it seems, shuttling back and forth from one appearance to the next.
Now’s fine, if you’re free, she writes back. She isn’t sure what kind of favour she could possibly do for Captain America, but her curiosity is piqued.
Her phone rings.
“Hi, Steve.”
“Hi. Sorry to ambush you.”
“It’s no problem, how can I help?”
“Well, it’s—I—so.” He takes a deep breath. “My friend, Peggy Carter, she told me about your shopping trip.”
“Oh! How is Peggy?”
“She’s fine, she’s great, yeah. Happy with the new clothes. I think it made her feel a little more like herself.”
“I’m glad.”
“That’s—kind of why I’m calling. I thought maybe you could give me some style advice.”
“Oh,” says Pepper, surprised. “Well, I could… sure. Did you want me to recommend some stores, or go with you, or…?”
“I don’t—whatever you think would…” He sounds deeply uncomfortable with either option.
“Let’s meet for coffee? We can go from there.”
“That sounds fine,” says Steve gratefully. “Thank you.”
*
Over coffee, Steve explains his difficulty: the only clothes he has are the ones SHIELD provided him, which were plainly chosen with the goal of making a man from 1945 feel comfortable. “I get a lot of looks,” he tells her.
Pepper doesn’t doubt it, though she’s willing to bet that he’s mistaken about the nature of the looks. Steve is even more handsome in person than he is on film, which is saying something.
But what’s even more striking is that he’s a very engaged listener. She never gets the sense that he’s just waiting for his turn to speak.
“Email me your measurements,” she tells him. “I’ll have my shopping service pick out a few things, and you can just pay them directly for whatever you keep.”
Steve looks at her with faint suspicion. “Do you get charged for that?”
Pepper remembers Tony telling a story about Steve counting out coins to pay for his share of a group takeout order. At the time, she’d thought he was exaggerating for comedic effect. Now, she’s not so sure.
“I have an account, so it’s a flat rate,” she assures him. “I’d pay it anyhow.”
She slides a sheet of paper across the table: a chart for taking measurements, with instructions. The accompanying line illustration looks like a paper doll.
He skims the instructions briefly before meeting her eyes again. “Okay,” he says. “Thank you.”
*
That evening, Pepper receives an email. Steve apparently has access to a scanner: he’s filled out the chart by hand, and sent it to her as a PDF. It’s mildly inconvenient, as Pepper has to copy out all of the numbers to send to her shopper. (His waist-to-shoulder ratio is ridiculous.)
However, the hand-drawn addition of a Captain America costume to the figure on the chart is charming enough to make up for it—especially the word balloon that has Cap declaring, This is what happened the last time I tried to choose my own clothes!
*
Pepper isn’t sure what she expected Steve Rogers’ apartment to be, but the reality is a little bit sad. It feels… temporary, like a hotel or a hospital. A liminal space.
He’s lined up the contents of his small closet on the bed for her inspection. She can see what he means about the clothes. The pants are high-waisted, with unflattering pleats; the shirts are boxy, in colours that don’t suit his skin tones, and prints that make him look like a picnic blanket.
“I’d put you in solid colours or muted patterns,” Pepper offers, pointing to one of the shirts. “Such a strong check on such a big canvas, it’s not…”
He nods emphatically.
She adds the contents of her shopping bags to the collection: jeans and khakis, t-shirts, henleys, button-downs, a pullover, a cardigan, a jacket. A pair of brown motorcycle boots, lightly distressed. She goes over the various possible combinations, and how to dress an outfit up or down.
“Try everything on before you decide. It should all fit, but the shirts may have to be taken in a little. Have you been to a tailor before?”
“You know I was born in 1918, right?”
“Fair enough.”
She hands him a soft grey t-shirt, and he immediately pulls off the shirt he’s wearing without an ounce of self-consciousness.
Pepper wills herself not to stare. Or burst into flames.
The t-shirt is appealingly snug, highlighting his broad shoulders and trim waist. “You don’t think this is too tight?” he asks, smoothing one hand absently over his washboard stomach.
Pepper is fairly certain that whoever originally pioneered the t-shirt as fashion rather than underwear had Steve Rogers’ exact proportions in mind.
“No, it’s a good fit.” She manages to sound credibly disinterested. “That’s what you should be looking for.”
Steve shrugs, and takes the shirt off.
When his hands move to his belt buckle, Pepper says, “I’ll give you a minute,” and flees to the living room.
*
Steve comes out wearing dark jeans and a cabled sweater. “I’m sorry if that was rude,” he tells her.
Pepper plays innocent. “If what was rude?”
He gives her a look.
“It’s fine. Don’t mind me, I’m just a little—” The word old-fashioned dies on her lips. “Shy,” she finishes, even though she’s nothing of the kind.
“I spent six weeks in a lab when I first got here. You can only get told to strip so many times before you stop waiting to be asked.”
“I’m not offended. But you should at least hold out until I buy you dinner.”
He grins. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“How do you like the clothes?”
A shrug. “Everything seems to fit. Does it look right?”
In point of fact, it looks as though he’s just about to get his picture taken for the fall catalogue. Out loud, however, Pepper says only, “I think so.”
“And I can wear this for going out?”
“After work drinks, yes. Formal banquet, no.”
“Great. Thank you.”
He previews a couple more ensembles for Pepper’s approval. She has to remind him not to tuck his t-shirt into his jeans, but aside from that, he seems to be comfortable with the upgrade. He winds up keeping most of the clothes, and insists on paying her for them immediately, in cash, including a tip for the shopper.
Then he walks her to her car, even though it’s still light outside.
Just before they reach the car, he asks, “Do men still send flowers after a date?”
He looks so earnest that Pepper has to resist the urge to hug him.
“Depends. Was it a good date?”
Steve suddenly becomes very interested in his shoes. “Hasn’t happened yet.”
All at once, it comes clear:
Steve has been fine with wearing the clothes SHIELD provided him until now.
He didn’t ask for her help updating his wardrobe because he suddenly cares about what everyone thinks.
He asked for her help because he cares what Peggy Carter thinks.
“It’s not mandatory,” says Pepper carefully, “but it’s a nice gesture.”
“Roses?”
“They’re fine. Kind of outdated. A mixed bouquet is more…”
He frowns, his jaw tightening. Pepper wonders if this is what Tony means when he refers to Steve’s fuck-you-I’m-Captain-America face.
“Roses are fine,” she repeats.
“The house where she grew up had a rose garden.” It’s a banal observation, but he looks mortified to have let it slip.
“It sounds like you know what she likes,” says Pepper.
He nods thoughtfully.
“Whatever you decide, don’t go to the supermarket—the flowers are cheaper, but they’re not as nice. Actually, get Tony to take you wherever he goes. He’s good at flowers.”
“Thanks.” He hesitates a moment, then asks, “Do you find it hard to stay friends with him?”
“No. I mean, a little, sometimes. He can be… a lot. But—and I know this probably sounds weird, but—he’s still one of my best friends. And we’re a good team. We’ve worked together a long time. I can’t imagine my life without him now.”
“That’s not weird.”
It’s tempting to ask about Peggy, but she doesn’t. If he wanted her to know, he’d tell her.
As she drives off, Pepper thinks about the men she’s known who have claimed to be old-fashioned—usually to justify some unpleasant behaviour, or to avoid self-reflection.
Steve Rogers, a stranger in a strange land, has every reason to use his age as an excuse to stop growing. But he doesn’t.
*
A few days later, Tony texts her: Rogers just told me that you are, direct quote, “a class act.”
That’s nice to hear, she writes back. Same goes for him. You two should hang out more.
Counterpoint: you and I should hang out more. Dinner tonight?
Maybe. I’ll let you know.
Later that afternoon, a modestly-sized flower arrangement arrives at Pepper’s office: a colourful flutter of alstroemeria. She suspects Tony, until she reads the card:
Hopefully not too old-fashioned for your taste. Thanks again for your help. S.R.
Pepper smiles, quite certain that, wherever she is, Peggy Carter is enjoying her dozen roses.