Skinny Steve AU
It started with a piece of apple pie and a napkin. Angie was in serious danger of being crushed under the weight of the lunch rush when the skinny guy showed up. Blonde and pale, he looked like he needed food more than anyone else here, but he was the only one who didn’t complain when she told him it’d be a minute. His smile was soft and his eyes were kind.
It was his hands she noticed next, when she brought his drink. His body looked ready to topple at the slightest breeze, but his hands were careful and sure as he sketched on a napkin. He saw her studying the drawing, color blooming in that too-pale face as he tried to cover it up. She stopped him, told him it was good and didn’t lie.
She bullied the cook into throwing some extra fries on his plate because good God was he thin, and nice, and a fellow creative. Also, she was Italian, and feeding people was an innate instinct. He’d made impressive progress on the sketch by the time she dropped off his food. She learned that his name was Steve, and he was in advertising, though it was hardly his dream job. She started to say there was no shame in that, at least he was putting his talents to use. Then someone asked for a refill and someone else had a cold sandwich that wasn’t supposed to be cold, and she had to go off and replace her real smile with a fake one.
Angie brought him apple pie along with the bill, on the house. He argued and she ignored, told him that all this fuss would only make her life difficult. She had a million other customers (only a slight exaggeration), and he wanted to whine over a little piece of pie?
“Just say thank you already, Sketch.”
Steve’s eyebrows rose, the smile turning a bit toward a smirk. “Thank you. Really. Sketch is way better than Shrimp.”
He tried to slip the money for the pie in with the bill. When that didn’t work, he said he’d have to come back another time, clear his conscience by actually paying for a slice. He was terribly shy about it, stumbling over his words. It was kind of adorable. When he left, the napkin was still there, the drawing completed. Angie discretely pocketed it and returned to the army of rude customers threatening to tear down the L&L walls. She spent the rest of her very long shift being cheered by the possibility that shy, skinny Sketch might become a regular.
***
He did, thankfully. It took a week, but Steve came back, avoiding the lunch rush this time. Bit by bit, meal by meal. Angie got him talking in full, coherent sentences, with almost no stuttering. And when he eased up on that shyness which was both painful and endearing, Angie learned that he could be quite the smartass.
Angie liked to people watch, turn the customers into characters, create their stories in her head. The rude fatheads, their stories tended to end with cars driving off cliffs, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Sketch would listen to these whispered ramblings with that sweet smile of his as if Angie’s crazy plots were more entertaining than any radio show. Soon enough he was actively participating, sharing his own speculations. It shouldn’t have surprised her, artists liked to people watch too.
She’d forget the actual comment later. They’d been spinning a yarn about someone and though Steve rarely added to the more gossip or anger-fueled tales Angie sometimes fell into, this particular customer was exceptionally high on the jerk scale. Steve said something mildly wicked, at least by his standards. Angie would’ve remembered the jibe if not for all the other more important information that came after. Regardless, he’d said something that highlighted his ability to be a smartass, and Angie was pretty sure she meant to call him that, a smartass. She’d called him a punk instead, and his eyes went dark. All of him went a little dark, and that scared Angie more than she wanted to admit.
It took three lunches, two dinners, and four fights over him finishing his damn burger, he needed food for God’s sake, before she learned about Bucky. His best friend who’d gone off to war and never came back and called him a punk entirely too often.
She’d heard him talk of the war before. So much shame and anger held in such a small frame. He blamed himself for Bucky, seemed to blame himself every time someone mentioned a lost friend or father or husband. Angie wished she’d known that before mentioning the cousin who’d come back with a bad arm and a worse head. There was no point telling him that it wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t less of a man, or responsible for the deaths of other men. If she tried telling him that he’d served in his own way, that designing all those recruitment posters was damn important…well, Steve disagreed.
So Angie avoided war talk when possible. It hurt too much to see Steve engulfed in a sadness she couldn’t pull him from. Steve, Sketch, he was usually real good about pulling Angie out of her own bad headspace. Whenever she told him of a bad audition, there’d be a silly drawing waiting for her after he left, her tip resting upon it. Probably didn’t make sense that she came to treasure those sketches more than the cash.
Oh, and Steve was a good tipper, especially knowing that most of his money went to rent and doctor visits. He was sneaky, too. Sometimes he actually managed to pay for that free food she absolutely refused to let him pay for.
He walked her home after late shifts, nearly always. Angie was too kind to point out that if they were mugged, Steve would more than likely be worse off than her. Still, she liked having him there, even if she did hate herself on the extra cold nights, when his breath came steamy and ragged and she worried that his care towards her would land him in the hospital. Again.
His first meeting with Miriam was a thing to remember. Kept insisting that he didn’t have any…intentions, besides seeing her to her door. Angie believed him both amused and, she would admit later, slightly disappointed that she did.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be satisfied with seeing her to the staircase, because you won’t be going any further, and you certainly won’t be doing anything more satisfying in my building.”
Steve had reverted back to that nervous stutter, fumbling through denials and explanations until Miriam cut him off.
“The rules here are absolute, no men above the first floor. No matter how,” she’d paused, giving Steve a hard look, “malnourished they may be.”
After that night, Angie often found herself wishing she could sneak Steve up the fire escape and across the ledge without killing him.
The days passed. Plates left half-full, portraits drawn on cheap paper napkins, endless reminders that she would make it to Broadway, that he would be there with bells on, even if that meant getting trampled by all her other adoring fans.
All that people watching she did with and without him, Angie knew Steve was sweet on her. It would’ve been obvious even if the girls didn’t tease her about it relentlessly, taking every chance to announce that her boyfriend was here again.
Her Ma would have a small coronary, seeing how thin Steve was. Feed him until it came back up, then repeat the process. Her brothers would have a field day. Hell, her brothers could’ve easily been on that long list of bullies who tormented Steve over the years. But she’d deal with them when necessary, it wasn’t like she had to bring him home right away. Especially since he hadn’t made his move yet.
Angie would’ve done something already, not at all above asking for what she wanted. She just really, really wanted to see Steve make that move. It would be sweet and funny, probably a little disastrous, and the entertainer in her wanted to be entertained by it.
Still, patience only stretched so far, and she planned to have a talk with him the next time he came in.
The brunette with the red hat and great legs just happened to come in first.
***
To say things got complicated, that would be an understatement.
Angie knew, absolutely knew, Steve was sweet on her. And she was pretty damn sure the feeling was mutual. She was also completely certain they were both head over heels for Peggy Carter.
She introduced them the first time they crossed paths at the diner. It was just the friendly thing to do. Because English was nice (and smart and gorgeous), but a bit closed off. Sketch was the nicest guy she’d ever met, but he’d choke on his own tongue before starting a conversation with English. Also, he was practically drooling over the woman. He was being polite about it and all, but Angie didn’t wanna have to wipe the evidence off his table later, so it only made sense to make introductions.
“Sketch, get over here, quit lurkin in that booth on your own. English, this is Sketch. Sketch, English.”
And so it began.
She’d grown used to glancing up in anticipation every time the L&L door opened, hoping to see Steve. Now she couldn’t decide who she wanted to see more, him or Peggy. Not that Peggy was really an option.
She was pretty sure Steve knew, suspected at least, that her preferences were more…diverse than most. It wasn’t something she could say aloud, not even to him, and he wasn’t the type to pry, but she thought he knew. She wondered sometimes about Bucky, wondered if they shared that in common but again, it wasn’t a thing you just up and talked about over eggs and toast.
Speaking of talking, that was something of a trick with Peggy. Where Steve was an open book, Peggy, well, Peggy was something else. She was guarded, there was no other word for it. Angie lived for the thrill of catching her in unguarded moments, earning a smile or a new piece of information. She’d feel guilty afterward, like she’d done something to hurt Steve. Then she’d think about setting them up. They were two of her most favorite people, and she knew English would like Sketch if she gave him a chance, and they’d look good together, even if Peggy was taller than Steve. Most people were, there was just nothing to be done for it. And if Angie didn’t have her shot with Peggy, which of course she didn’t, well…
Peggy, guarded, secretive Peggy, it took her awhile to really see Steve. Not that Angie could blame her. He was so damn shy and, Angie admitted, she did have a way of monopolizing Peggy’s time. Still, she wanted Peggy to know Steve the way she did, and that started to happen a few weeks after Angie first called him over.
Those drawings Steve did at the Automat weren’t all for fun. Sometimes he came in with his sketchbook, warning Angie with that sweet smile of his that he couldn’t chat or people watch today. He had to finish some ad campaign for some company or other, and all he had time for was his art supplies and a cup of coffee.
On one of those days, he was hunched over a corner booth, scribbling furiously. Peggy was there too, and Angie tried not to notice how he’d sometimes glance between them before ducking his head to refocus on his sketchbook. She was serving English a second cup of tea when a kid, maybe six or seven, slipped out of the next booth over and approached Steve. The kid liked drawing too. Thought he wasn’t very good though, and did it take Steve very long to get good at drawing?
The boy’s mom was quick to scold, don’t bother the poor man and all that, but Steve waved her off like there was no bother at all, like he didn’t have a deadline looming. He sat with the boy for half an hour, sacrificed many blank pages. And when the kid’s mom came up slightly short on her bill, Steve paid the difference.
“Is he always like that?” Peggy asked as they watched the kid wave a goodbye to Steve while the mother thanked him for the fifth time in less than a minute.
“Yeah,” Angie said, not having to ask what Peggy meant. She saw it in her eyes then, that Peggy was beginning to understand about Steve, the way she did.
She’d never been so proud or happy or sad in all her life.
They became three friends after that, slowly, not just Angie and the two friends she was sweet on. Who were also sweet on each other. It was all too convoluted to dwell on, but it was good. Even if Peggy was a bit of a liar.
“She doesn’t work at the phone company,” Angie would say at least once a week when Peggy would run out on her and Steve, citing some phone related catastrophe.
“No, no she doesn’t.”
So Peggy had secrets. So did she. So did Steve. So did anybody interesting enough to know. Angie was just happy to know her. And Steve. The two of them were almost embarrassing, the way they’d cheer her on after bad auditions. She joked about taking them both on as press agents. They’d tell the world how amazing she was, and they’d all ride off into a Hollywood sunset together.
Not that she was the only one in need of a boost. Peggy, who lied about working at the phone company, clearly wasn’t lying about the fathead idiots she was forced to clean up after. And when he wasn’t racing deadlines or giving free art lessons to kids, Steve dreamed of making it into a gallery, maybe opening one of his own. If only it could be that easy.
On one particularly bad night, Angie had been thrown off the stage ten seconds into her song, Steve had been laughed out of the building when he tried selling one of his pieces to a semi-prominent art dealer, and Peggy had gone by Marge all day while taking extra torment from some jerk named Thompson who she and Steve were always threatening to hit. All three of them were being miserable and pathetic, and there was only one thing for it.
Angie was supposed to close that night. Instead of walking home with Steve and Peggy, as had become custom, she stayed late, coaxed them into doing the same. The diner didn’t serve the hard stuff, but Angie maybe might’ve possibly been friends with a fellow waitress who was just a bit of a lush, who kept just a bit of hard stuff stashed away in her locker. Making a mental note to replace the bottle, Angie poured drinks at the counter, brought out the remnants of that day’s pastries, and toasted her friends.
“What a group we make, huh? The starving, misunderstood artist, starving, misunderstood actress, and starving, misunderstood…telephone operator.”
Angie would admit she’d laughed too hard at that, but it broke the mood, dammit, and helped set a better one. She learned much that night. For one thing, her frail best friend Sketch could drink her under the table. Counter, in this case. She and English had both been adamant that he not drink too much, especially when he brazenly declared that he couldn’t get drunk. As it turned out though, her skinny little Sketch was right. As he told it, years of constant and differing medications had somehow made him damn near immune to booze. Who knew?
She also learned that Peggy Carter loved to dance, nearly busting a gut when Peggy cajoled Steve into standing on her feet for a few songs as the radio played low in the background. Angie took her own turn with Peg, fast and slow dances, the two of them teasing Steve until he joined in. It was an absolute mess, the three of them dancing like idiots, stopping to sip drinks and nibble on pie, then starting again. Angie was calling Steve her Apple Pie Guy by the end of the night. She was very drunk then, and intent on recounting every detail of their first meeting for Peggy. In spite of his new nickname, Angie had vague memories of Steve helping Peg clean up the diner. She had no recollection at all of getting home, but learned the next day that it’d involved English scaling the fire escape while Steve distracted Miss Fry, begging to see Angie because he just couldn’t believe that his sweet dollface had broken it off.
Angie threw up the next morning, went into work with a killer headache, and slapped Steve’s arm for the dollface comment. She also counted that night as one of the best in her entire life.
***
Angie was dreaming about Steve and Peggy. Daydreaming, sure, but it still counted. New face at the diner today, particularly rude and handsy. She was in the back getting his food, but not really. Really, she was at her first big premiere, Sketch and English on each arm. English was even more gorgeous than usual in a dark blue dress that highlighted everything that deserved highlighting. Sketch was drowning in his tux, but still managed to do that thing he did that made her stomach flip pleasantly. English was whispering in her ear about an after party and dancing. Sketch, the quiet, unassuming smartass leaned in close to her other ear, describing what could happen after the after party.
It was a nice image, distracted her from all the groping. She just had to wipe it clean from her mind so it wouldn’t show on her face when she came back out front, to where Steve was dining. Dining and glaring at Mr. Hands. Steeling herself, Angie exited the kitchen, resisted the urge to spit in Hands’s food, and pasted on a fake smile. She shouldn’t have bothered, it was gone in an instant anyway. Just like Steve and Hands. She was swearing to herself before the cook opened his mouth.
“Yo Angie! You’re boyfriend’s pullin his hero act, and I ain’t gonna be the one to wash the blood off the wall again, you get me?”
Angie only half heard him. How many times? How many damn times did she have to tell him not to break his sweet, skinny little neck for her?
“Hey Angie, I’m talkin to you! Your boyfriend makes a mess or chokes on his teeth out there, I ain’t—”
“Yes, Richie, I got it, thanks!”
Richie muttered something rude that Angie didn’t quite hear as she deposited Hands’s grub on the nearest flat service. She didn’t bother correcting him about the boyfriend thing this time.
She made it through the alley exit just in time to see Steve get punched in the face, with Hands advancing for anther strike. Ignoring Hands’s leer and Steve’s order to go back inside (as if Steve Rogers could ever order her around), she got between them, pasting on that smile again. She tried, really tried, to be diplomatic about it. But Steve kept going on about showing the lady some respect, and Hands said something about showing her something else. He pawed at her. Steve threw a punch that he caught, then Angie threw a punch that he didn’t.
It got a little crazy after that.
Hands pushed her and called her a rotten name. Steve lost it completely and tried tackling Hands to the ground. Then Angie jumped in to try and help Steve and wound up jumping on Hands’s back, pummeling whatever part of him she could reach. She heard the tear of fabric. Then the clack of heels, which didn’t really make sense until Hands turned around and gave Angie, still on his back, a perfect view of Peggy Carter at the mouth of the alleyway, stalking towards them.
It got way crazier after that.
Angie somehow got thrown off Hands and into Steve, who caught her with a wheezing breath. She thought she’d broken some of his ribs, but didn’t have time to dwell on it. Because English, well, shit. She was a blur of dark hair and red skirt and fists and high heels stepping on Hands’s hands. Angie might’ve caught a “How dare you?” and a “Bloody bastard!” in between, but it all happened very fast and her heart was in her ears, and so was Steve’s harsh breathing.
And then it was over. Hands was half running, half limping away, with Peggy explaining the very specific, very violent things she would do if he ever so much as looked at her friends again.
There was a moment of relative silence, just ragged breathing and the constant noise of the city. Then Peggy was rushing forward, hands all over both of them, checking for injuries. Even being sore as hell with a rip in her uniform didn’t make that part unpleasant. Especially when she realized that Peggy might be paying a little extra attention to the extra bit of leg revealed by that tear.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, could she have been wrong all these weeks about not having a shot?
“I arrive late for tea one bloody day and this is what the two of you get up to?”
Angie glanced at Steve, with his split lip and swelling eye she was just now noticing. She forced her chin to stay up, her eyes to meet Peggy’s, as he spoke.
“We,” he said, pausing as he struggled for breath. “We had him on the ropes.”
Angie rolled her eyes. He was so stupid sometimes, but she couldn’t help mimicking his smirk. “Totally. We softened him up for you.”
At Peggy’s raised eyebrow, Steve hurriedly explained what Hands had done to her, as if it were the worst crime in the world. Which it must’ve been, judging by the way Peggy eyed the spot where she’d last seen him, as if willing him to reappear so she could hurt him some more. Which reminded her.
“Phone company, huh English? That what they teach you during training week?” Peggy looked flustered for half a second, something Angie was quite proud of.
“I’ll have you know that it takes much more than a week’s training to excel at the phone company. It’s very serious, complicated work.”
“At the phone company.”
“Yes, Angie. Can we not discuss this later? You both look like frightful messes.”
“And you look perfect, as usual.”
Steve was getting better with the sweet talk. And he wasn’t wrong. She’d just beat a man twice her size, and there wasn’t a hair out of place. “He’s right. For once,” Angie added, ignoring the teasing glare Steve leveled her with. Peggy looked flustered again, for slightly longer this time. This was turning into the best fight Angie had ever been in.
“Oh, do be quiet you bloody fools. And don’t you dare scare me that way again!”
And then Peggy pulled them both into a hug, and Angie was hugging Steve and Peg at the same time, and it was sort of the best thing ever until she realized she was bleeding on Peggy’s skirt.
“It’s red anyway, no one will see,” Peggy said after the hug was broken, as if she was quite used to dealing with this problem. Before Angie could call her on that, Peggy was demanding that they get inside and get cleaned up.
Which was how Angie ended up walking out of that dingy alleyway that smelled of grease and rotting food with Steve and Peggy on either arm, and an entirely not-fake smile on her face.