Title: Books Over Brawn

Paring: Steve Rogers (Captain America) X Reader

Warnings: social anxiety, fears and phobias, dancing and parties, libraries etc

Spoilers: no! I avidly avoid canon deaths and ignore them at all costs!

Author's note: This fic just hit me on the back of the head, thrust me forward and into a puddle in front of my laptop because I live for people with quiet/unassuming jobs going with people who have great jobs and a great story (aka myself and every fiction character maybe ever).

I actually pre-wrote this because I have to get my wisdom teeth out today (all four out in the dentist's chair) and well, apart from being super uber nervous, I didn't want to deprive my readers and fellow fic lovers of some prime fanfic I concocted for you. Please wish me luck!

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Dating was a terrible, most honestly horrible thing for you to do. It involved leaving your apartment, dressing up to impress someone you were most likely never to see again, and going out into the loud, foul-smelling world to have a night doing what others called 'socialising'. You had never enjoyed it. Not even as a teen, or a child, not since your mother not-so-quietly confessed over coffee to her friend that you were adopted. The same situation happened three years later when in the middle of the city your father had been attacked by a man with a strange mask, leaving your mother and yourself to go on without him.

It had been exactly three months since you had politely declined your last date (a school-teacher who taught shop in a rough neighbourhood) and to be quite frank, you had to admit that you preferred being alone in your home on a Friday evening with a cup of tea, a good book and a new season of your show waiting for you on Netflix. It meant no awful people trying their best to feel you up under the table like it was the fourth date or acceptable, it meant no date whinging and making you pay in full for the check.

You were happy. And that's exactly how you liked being.

It wasn't too hard to maintain being a librarian. All it meant was rejecting flirtations and keeping your nose away from the daylight because anything could happen out in the streets. People who came into the James Buchanan Barnes Memorial Library weren't there to make trouble, oh no. Granted, you offered free WiFi, but your library was the proud owner of the largest collection of archived files for both the first and second world war in the country, but your library had a good reputation and was well loved. Many a day your library would be teeming with ancestry-seekers and teen romance novels alike, and it brought a flutter to your heart.

It was in libraries where people could come together and be calm. Be kind. Nobody started a fight in the library, not like the people who tore up the city and called themselves heroes. It wasn't that you didn't like the Avengers, no, you looked up to them like any person. They were spotlight people, and that was the one place you couldn't help but feel most vulnerable in.

There was one noticeable face who would come in and read during opening hours. She always wore shades, though inside and a hoodie to shield her face even more. Maybe it was because of the catastrophe which happened overseas, or her own sensitivity to the public eye, you had no idea. All you knew was that Wanda Maximoff was an exceptional patron. Never harmed a book. Always had manners for you and those around her. The ideal library-goer.

But it was on one day, early on a Thursday morning during your emptying of the after-hour returns chute that altered your life. The usual DVDs scanned back into circulation without a hitch, the same with a handful of returned CDs. But it was when you picked up a heavy tome that you caught sight of a small piece of paper slipping loose from the pages.

"What's this?" you murmur. It's a blue post-it note, and scrawled in messy cursive are ten numbers, and a note, call. I believe you shall match well. "Who - who -," you answer your own question, scanning the book into circulation. The computer shows the list of those who had borrowed it, and you raise your eyebrows. "Why would Wanda Maximoff give me someone's phone number?"

The day stretches on like toffee stuck between teeth, and gradually, the day turns into a week. Yet the post-it note stays safely pinned to the notice board above the coffee machine. You don't seem to see your favourite patron any more, and your realise why.

"You're lucky I have no life," you half-grumble.

It's lunch break, and your fellow librarian has taken over for half an hour. Usually you would eat your lunch and bird watch from the window. But now, your eyes are trained on the screen of your phone, carefully dialling the numbers printed on the paper.

A deep, baritone voice answers. "Hello, Steve here."

Your eyes widen. Your thumb acts before you do, and you're left staring at the end call screen.

Steve Rogers. Captain America. You just called Captain America!

Your heart doesn't cease it's panic until you're well and truly asleep, tucked into your bed in your apartment.

It isn't until a week later, on your annual day off your eye catches the phone like it did. Sitting there on the counter as you stir your tea, you can't help but feel your pulse increase at what you had done. He probably thought you were a prank caller, for Pete's sake!

Your fingers trace the screen, and swiftly, the screen turns to dial.

"Hello, Steve," he answers.

You clear your throat. "Uh, um, hi. My name's ________, I'm a libr- Wanda Maximoff gave me your number," you stammer.

There's a line of static, and a chuckle. "Gee, that kid should stop giving this thing away, it's not lottery numbers. What did she make you do for it?" Steve Roger's voice is crackly and stiff behind the line, but you can picture his eyes.

"Nothing!" you blurt, "Nothing, I swear," you vow, and add, "I'm sorry to bother you, but rather than her intended matchmaking, I'm actually calling to ask how she is." you confess. Partly true. "She hasn't come back visit me at my job on a while and I can't help but be worried, you know. Because of her - your - profession."

The voice of Steve Rogers clears his throat. "No, no, she's fine, just on a mission. If you like, I'll tell her you called ... ________, was it?"

You feel your face heat up into a mighty blush, "Yes, that's my name. Sorry to bother you, Captain."

"No bother at all," he promises. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. It was lovely talking with you, _________."

The phone is silent by your ear. The air is empty. Lips bare of words. Your tea cup, lukewarm and untouched, and all you can think about is most defiantly not the Pushing Daisies marathon you were going to have -- but his words.

It was lovely talking with you.

The next time you see Wanda Maximoff, she sheds her shades, and hands you a yellow slip of paper. You're standing behind the main desk today, and usually, this would not be a place the Scarlet Witch would revel (even a little of her) identity. But here she is, and she has a small smile on her face. Which, if you know anything about anything, means trouble.

"You have to come with me," she instructs. The paper is simple; a small logo of the Avengers, and the words printed neatly beneath: annual charity gala evening. "I know you called Steve, he said you have a pretty voice."

You laugh. "Miss Maximoff, I'm - I'm just a librarian. I don't think we mousy shrinking violet types are welcome at public things like that."

"Please, just call me Wanda," she shakes her head, and adds, "You need to be Steve Roger's date. I can see something beautiful to happen between the pair of you, you have to know." You bite your lip, unsure. "I know you've never met him, but you will like him. He is a wonderful man and you will have fun."

You take a deep breath. "It's just ... I'm not that great at social things. Dates. New people. People, in general." your confession is quiet, almost nearly under your breath.

"You will be fine, I know it," Wanda assures you. Her eyes are welcoming, a warm brown which you can see a reflection of yourself in. "Do you trust me, ________?"

The dress is snug, but not in a horrible way. It's such a way your work clothes and ill-fitting pyjamas cannot achieve. The neckline is modest, yet flirtatious, and your arms are covered by a pretty shawl which you find yourself gaping at, from the hand-crafted patterns. It's a beautiful outfit, matched well with shoes you're comfortable with. You feel beautiful.

Yet, there's something in your throat that's stuck.

"Why me?" you ask the Maximoff twin who dragged you into her superhero circle. "I'm a regular person, just like anyone, I guess. I'm not special, I can't do things like you, or even -," you clench your fists, and take a deep breath. "You could pick anyone to have given the number of Captain America to."

Wanda rolls her eyes. "I had a feeling that you would benefit equally as much as he would from meeting. It's no big deal, just dance, talk and have fun, _______. It won't be hard."

Your mind battles you, but you keep fight within your mind, and from your tongue.

"Now, let's go," Wanda's arm is linked with yours, and before you know it, you're leaving her room, and walking into the larger area where the music was pumping.

All the while, your mind is racing, rolling around thoughts that had been dormant and safely tucked away for a while, now out and rampaging in your head. Even though you're clad in finery and beautiful makeup, you are still the little girl at heart who found out her parents were not her own, and that she was just a child found on the street. A cardboard box baby. A mistake. You were someone who had no real parents, and only a mother left living a life without her husband, and you, off where you were safe in books -

"Wanda, who's your friend? She looks nice," a white-haired man with a friendly smile appeared beside the pair of you. He wore a blue suit, with a silver embroidered pocket square. "What's your name?"

"Buzz off, brother," Wanda frowns. "Go find another girl to be silly with."

You feel your cheeks darken as she steers you away. Everything is too loud, and too flashy, and too everything for you, yet your legs keep walking, and finally, your eyes focus on someone standing by a potted ficus. He's taller than you, and wearing a tuxedo that you can tell he's uncomfortable in. His eyes, blue and clear, wander the crowds, nursing a glass close to his chest. Two friends stand to his sides, one talking, the other listening, yet he isn't.

"Steve," Wanda beams, gestures to the blonde. "This is the girl I gave your number to."

His face transforms. "________! I remember, you're, uh, a librarian, right?" His eyes are bright, like blue crystals, and his smile warms your palms and heart. "Can I get you a drink?"

Wanda shakes her head. "No you can't. I will. You two talk." At this, she leaves you there.

Your chest is empty, and so are the words you had memorised to speak, and all you can do is stare. Like an ordinary person would -

"You're a librarian, huh? What one are you at, I'm guessing you're in the city," the man you recognise to be Falcon, or Sam Wilson asks you over his flute of champagne.

You nod, tucking a strand of hair that isn't out of place. "Yes, I work just inside the city surrounds, at the James Buchanan Barnes Memorial Library."

The man beside Steve Rogers freezes. "They named a library after me?"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, because you're a big nerd, Barnes."

Your eyes widen. "Oh my goodness, I didn't recognise - you're the man who - I've an entire archive dedicate to the Howling Commandos in my library, practically the largest database the public can access in all of America," you gush, "Sorry, I'm a big fan of your life story, Mr. Barnes, Mr. Rogers," you blush.

Bucky waves a gloved hand. "Don't apologise, _______. You're pretty cool yourself."

"It's quite the coincidence that you work there," he starts, and handing his glass to Bucky, Steve leaves his place by the wall to stand by your side. "Don't get me wrong, I like parties, but I have a feeling we both would enjoy it better if we took this outside."

"I'd have to agree with that, Captain," you almost barely whisper.