Title: Ninety-Ninth

Paring: Steve Rogers X Reader

Warnings: birthday fluff and cutesy stuff

Spoilers: none!

Author's Note: Basically, the fic nobody requested, but I wrote anyways because I wasn't going to post a Captain America birthday fic, but I didn't want to be that fic writer who didn't write Steve a fluff fic just because they were Australian and don't celebrate the Fourth of July. So I did. Anyways, happy America Day, you guys!

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To say that you'd been planning this ahead of time was an understatement. When Sharon told you that she'd heard that Steve didn't like celebrating his birthday, you made sure to get in there and do it. Namely, do it right. As a receptionist, you had superpowers of your own – to sense when people were thinking of doing things even before they did them, your customer service voice that could divert even the angriest of people from their sinister plans. Working behind a desk was your life, but since moving in with the Captain America, he'd become that title. Apart from all the press on every detail of your lives, and the worry of being targets from enemies of the state/Avengers, it was a daydream come true.

But back to what really matters. Planning the perfect birthday...for months. But it was the day before, and still zilch.

You'd heard from Vision that Steve preferred not to be around loud noises (observing people happened to be a habit of the android he'd never shaken off from his days as JARVIS), and Tony mentioned once over brunch with Pepper that if Steve could go anywhere for his birthday than the Smithsonian he'd buy out a local charity and donate a million dollars to it too. So, that was your plan: no loud noises. No Smithsonian. No lavish things that would make America's golden boy shy away and disappear into the night.

But it still didn't give you many options. It left you staring at your notepad beside the computer at your desk at Stark Tower, frowning over how many times you'd scribbled out the things that you'd ruminated, and then redacted.

"Looks like whatever's causing that is giving you a headache," Natasha gives a small smile, and peers over the desk to see your notepad. "Good. It's not a phone. I would've asked if you were having relationship troubles, but it's more like...Ferris wheel?" The redheaded assassin frowns too. "What are you using that for?"

You shake your head. "Birthday ideas."

"Ah," She nods knowingly. "That backfired on me too. I planned the party in '12, he hated it. Of course, everyone was Ukrainian, or didn't speak English." She laughs, recalling it. "Made for an awkward taxi ride home."

"Well, I'll be sure not to take him to any restaurants like that," you make a note.

Natasha shakes her head. "Oh no, it wasn't a restaurant. It was at an old friend's house."

Saving the day, Dr Bruce Banner enters the foyer, with files in his hands. He often came down with important things to send away to science journal publishers, or letters for his long-distance fiancé Betty in Virginia. When he wasn't being green on missions with your Steve, or hidden away in his lab, he often had afternoon tea with you. He never failed to bring a new exotic tea to share.

"Dr Banner!" you grin, standing to accept the parcel he holds. "If you were turning ninety-nine, and didn't like to celebrate it, what you do to celebrate?"

The scientist frowns, but hands you the files. Pausing, he runs a hand through his curls, and widens his eyes. Struck with an idea, he blurts, "When Betty didn't want to make a big deal about the big three-oh, I bought a bottle of champagne, a rent-a-movie, but we only watched half of The Great Gatsby when power cut off."

Natasha laughs. "Only because you forgot pay."

Bruce shakes his head. "Only because I'd been away on a mission for almost a month! You can't just call up the power company when you're undercover in southern Mongolia."

You nod, considering it. "Might pay my power bill, but that's worthwhile. Thank you, Dr Banner."

At this, FRIDAY alerts you on incoming people to Stark Tower. While it's wonderful having an Avengers base in upstate New York (yes, it was confidential material, and yes, you were in on the know), it was nice being located where you could walk five minutes and buy a coffee, or ten and be home in your studio apartment. But your Irish-lilted AI (and quite frankly, a rival for the position of receptionist when you were rendered useless) alerted you of arrivals, and at this, you shoved the notepad under the desk, away in the draw.

"Hey there, Shellhead, Capsicle," she greets, smirking.

Tony rolls his eyes. "It's normal if I nickname everything I touch, but with you, it's plain mean, Widow." He walks up to her, punching her arm playfully. He's a great man, Mr. Stark. Quite frankly, the man is slightly misunderstood, needs a good night's sleep, and less access to alcohol than he has. But you're not his mother. "_______! How's my favourite paper-pusher?"

You shake your head at the title, "I'm your only paper-pusher." Beside him, Steve stands there, hands in pockets. You wonder if Tony has just dragged him around New York while he looks at cufflinks or something, because he looked kind of down. "You still on for our lunch plans, Steve?" you ask him.

He nods. "Sure thing."

---

When lunch comes around (which takes too long a time from when you last spoke to Steve) you have your food in your lunch bag, brought from home, and head up to the roof level. Tony only allowed the both of you to eat up there when he realised it was the chance to play matchmaker, back when the both of you were just strangers to one another who seemed to get their blush on when near one another. Stark was yet to rescind that privilege, and you both took advantage of it. Eating in a fancy restaurant? Anyone could do that with their boyfriend. But eating on the roof of the Stark Tower? Fan-friggin'-tastic.

"Any talk in your office?" Steve wonders, sitting down on your usual bench. He's got a sandwich, probably bought at the deli down the way.

You shake your head, but then remember, "The old delivery guy, Stan has been replaced. I think his daughter just gave birth, and he's off to New Jersey to meet his grandson."

Steve nods. "That's nice. I'll be sure to tell him congratulations when I see him next time."

Unwrapping your lunch, you nod, and add, "What about you? What's the gossip with the Avengers?" You take a bite of your homemade burrito, and add, "Nothing confidential. I don't want to be fired."

Steve laughs, shuffling closer to you on the bench so your shoulders touch. "I taught Thor and Bucky how the icemaker worked, but it ended up with Buck just putting vodka in it." He chuckles. "I don't think any of the people who've had ice in the last day can drive for at least a week."

You snort, almost spluttering your burrito onto the floor. "Oh gosh! That backfired!"

Steve grins. "It's okay. I might have had something to do with it."

Nuzzling your head into his side to hide your smile, you laugh at that remark. Of course, he did. Everyone believed that Steven Grant Rogers was an angel wrapped up in a flag and American ideals. He sure as hell wasn't. He liked to ride his motorcycle fast, and ignore orders from Fury, and most of all, stand up when people could not for themselves. If anything about the current politics was anything to say for itself, he would fight everyone until there was equality for everyone. It was a good thing you had Pepper and S.H.I.E.L.D. alter his itinerary many times to avoid The White House.

"You coming to mine for dinner tonight?" You ask Steve.

He nods, looking from the New York City skyline to you with the same look in his eyes one might have if at the Grand Canyon for the first time. "Sure. You're cooking, or me?"

You consider it. "I was thinking takeout. How do you feel about pizza?"

Steve beams. "Won't miss it for the world."

---

Dinner goes well, and so does desert (some frozen yoghurt you had stashed in the back of your freezer) and you're asleep by nine, snuggled together on the bed watching one of those movies the TV channels plays by random. But when daybreak breaks over the city, the alarm clock, still set to go off at 7:00AM sharp, plays the daily news broadcast.

"Goo-ood morning New York! It's me, Ralph, here with Sammi for a fantastic, fine Fourth of July Tuesday here in New York. It's going to be a great day of 73, I can tell you – with highs of 83, and some cloud. Here's Sam for the news update –," before Ralph can go on, you slap your hand over the alarm, and turn to face Steve.

His eyes are fluttering open, showing the baby-blues that you love so dearly. "Morning," you whisper, leaning across the sheets close enough to see the few freckles on his skin. "Happy birthday, Stevie."

A small smile stretches on his face, remembering what the date was. "Happy birthday, America," he whispers back, his arms moving to hold you against his bare, warm chest. "I'd bet you've got something planned for me today. I saw you talking with Sharon."

"I talked to a lot of people," you shake your head, and add, "But no. No plans. It's all up to you, Mr. America." You kiss him on the tip of his nose, and then on the cheek. "Unless your plans are to stay in bed and snuggle a while."

Steve grins, and holds you tighter. "Sounds like I'm going with that plan, doll."

You smile, sighing into his chest. To say that you'd been planning this ahead of time was an understatement; it's been in the works for ages. But when it came to it, it wasn't just a date. It wasn't just a birthday. It was Steve's birthday, and if asked, you'd say that Steve was your world. For sure. And how he spent his birthday was completely, and utterly up to him.

"I love you," he grins, going to kiss your cheek.

"I love you too," you smile, and move your head so he catches your lips instead.