Legal Affairs [Steve Rogers x Reader]

Chapter I: Opening Statements

Rumor had it that someone finally bought the big house a few streets away. Your heart clenched a bit when you first hear word of it.

The house is one of the biggest and fanciest in the whole suburb, and it's a staggering difference from the trashy neighborhood just a few bus stops away, the one where you've lived in all your life. It's modern, but not in the all-white-and-boxy kind of way. If you're remembering your high school art history book correctly, there are a few nods to classic architecture. You're not sure, but you'd probably bet on it. Art history was one of your favorite classes.

You remember walking past it on your way to school, a time not so distant, really, when your mother was still around and you could daydream about buying it and having your own family.

Today, as you ring the doorbell, you kiss that dream goodbye. It's bittersweet, seeing the house finally turn into a home and knowing it isn't your doing. This is the Rogers' house, now.

Steve Rogers, the man that gave you a call yesterday, is a Junior Partner in one of the most important law firms in the city, you've heard. He has to be rich, if he can afford to buy a place like this. You hope that means you'll get a higher salary than you're used to, if this interview goes well. Unless he got rich by not paying his employees, that is. You've dealt with a couple of those upper class parasites before, in this neighborhood.

Then, the mahogany door opens, snapping you out of your thoughts. The man who opens the door is not what you were expecting.

For starters, he isn't that old. He's older than you, maybe in his mid thirties, but you'd imagined someone closer to his fifties. You have to squint to block the sunlight and crane your neck to look up at him, because the man is a giant, six foot four at least, and his shoulders are almost as wide as the doorway. His hair is neatly coiffed, the sunlight revealing golden strands that look almost brunette in the shade. A thick but perfectly trimmed beard adorns his strong jawline, softening the looks of his otherwise sharper traits. His eyes are light blue, like clear waters, and a few wrinkles make their appearance at the corners when he squints to avoid the sunlight.

You catch yourself before you ogle him for too long. This man is married, and a potential employer, not someone to lust over. So, you clear your throat and smile. "Good morning." you offer your hand, "I'm here for the interview."

There's a moment of silence from the man. "You're early." he tells you. As he shakes your hand, you hum in confirmation and nod. You have a habit of being early to interviews, not as much as to avoid inconveniencing people, but enough to show you're dedicated. The man clears his throat. "Alright. Come on in."

He steps back and opens the door wider, observing you as you step into the house, looking around with awe written in your eyes. "You have a beautiful home, Mr Rogers." you compliment, turning back to watch him close the door. And it really is. The insides are even better than you'd imagined, with tall ceilings and enough natural light to make the brand new but vintage looking furniture like a museum exhibition piece. The curtains are cream colored, a beautiful contrast to the mahogany frame of the windows they're draping. The floor, also a mahogany parquet, looks barely stepped on, and the rug in the foyer is made out of wool that looks so soft you could probably sleep comfortably on it.

"It's just Steve." he waves you off, but you know that you will never call him that, not even to yourself. That would be crossing a line, and you have a feeling you're gonna need to be strict with boundaries around this man. For the time, though, you just tell him your name.

He leads you to the living room, gesturing for you to make yourself at home. You're careful as you take a seat on the far end of the leather couch. "Can I get you anything? Water, juice, coffee? We may have some tea, too. Peggy is British." he offers with a small smile.

Peggy must be his wife, the one you had expected would welcome you in. Since you started working in this upper class neighborhood, you've noticed that women often try their best to keep their husbands away from you, despite you being sixteen at the time. You shake your head. "I'm alright, thank you."

"Alright, then." he nods, sitting down on the armchair in front of the sofa you're sitting on, a wooden table with some crystal ornaments and a manila folder on top of it separating the two of you. He sits with his back straight, elbows propped on the armrests. He's looking at you with furrowed eyebrows and slightly squinted eyes, like he's cataloguing every single detail for further inspection, and you're starting to feel self conscious about your simple t-shirt and denim shorts even though it's at least eighty degrees outside. You have no problem believing this guy is a hotshot lawyer in the city. He could probably break you in thirty seconds on the stand without raising his voice a decibel.

"I heard quite the fuss about you around." he tells you, cocking his head to the side. You just nod. You could act surprised, but you're not that convincing an actress. Besides, you'd guess a man like him appreciates confidence.

He doesn't quite smile, but one corner of his lips twitches upwards just a little. "You have quite a reputation for someone your age."

You feel the urge to roll your eyes. People your age tend to be in college, yes, but you do deserve your reputation. You've worked your ass off for years, before you'd even graduated high school. But professionalism is your greatest strength, so you stay composed. "You expected me to be older." you deadpan, linking your hands on your lap and straightening your spine. Mister Rogers' eyebrows jut out a fraction of an inch, like he's surprised you've noticed it. So, you explain. "You were expecting the housekeeper, but you assumed I was someone else when you opened the door."

At that, he grins, an almost boyish expression on such a stern face, and nods. "You're right." he admits, "But I honestly care more about your skills than I do your age."

That makes you nod. He continues. "Me and my wife both work in the city. We don't have enough time or energy to keep things tidy around here, and we're both very particular about our spaces."

He pauses and looks at you, waiting for your reaction. Hell, you think, he really must think you're an amateur if he expects you to be worried about your employers' preferences. As if you haven't heard the most outlandish requests. He seems satisfied with your lack of reaction, because he continues. "We'll go over the details later. If it's possible, we'd like you to come in on alternate days. Of course, you'll be offered a generous and negotiable pay for your work."

As he speaks, he slides the folder closer to you. You open it and skim through the contract that he probably drafted himself. Despite the legal jargon, you get the most important points. The hours are fairly reasonable, just enough for you to have time to take take of your own home and family. When you reach the end, you suppress the urge to cheer at the numbers on the bottom of the page.

"That's fine with me." you say instead.

"Wonderful, then." he smiles, patting his hand on his knee, "Is there anything you'd like to ask?"

You hesitate to respond to that. There is one question you've been wondering about since you received the call. It's none of your business, you know, but you want to make sure that this house is in good hands. If you could, you would give it the life it deserves. Since it's out of your control, like most things in your life are, you have to at least make sure that someone else will do it justice. Just this time, you think to yourself, you could let your curiosity win over your professionalism. "Why did you and your wife come here, if you both work in the city?" you decide to ask after a long moment of silence, looking down at the table before chancing a glance at the man's face.

Instead of the offended, stay-out-of-our-business look you would have expected, Mister Rogers breaks into a legitimate smile, one that makes him look like life has been breathed into him.

With a dreamy, almost murmured tone, he responds to your question. "We're trying for a baby."