A Whole Lot of Love

Welcome To New York City!

You climb the stairs of the subway station and hurry across the road, waving a thank you at the car that lets you pass. Avengers Tower looms over threateningly, and you look up at the tower, squinting against the cold. You tap your nose; its gone numb in the October cold. Evidently Nick Fury had called your friend Charles, and Charles had told Erik, and they had called you. Apparently your skill set would be very valuable to the Avengers Initiative, no matter how much you protested. You turned your music up in your ears and head to the door of the tower. You were only here because you'd been promised that Charles was going to pay for you to go the the new musical, Dear Evan Hansen. You'd promised to get him a playbill. 

                     "Yeah, yeah. There's going to be a pass in your hotel room for you to get into the tower. Don't forget it, otherwise, you won't be able to get in."

You opened the sleek glass door of the tower and noted the building's special properties. It was something you'd expect from a government facility. Reinforced glass, armored plating on the metal framework. It was built to withstand an attack, which it had, many times. You pause at the door to rub your hands together, cursing yourself for forgetting your gloves back in your hotel room. You hadn't realized you'd left them until you were walking down the steps to the subway, and by then, if you you went back, you'd be late. Actually, you'd be on time, but you had a habit of being very late, so you always tried to get somewhere early, knowing that there was a very large chance something was going to go wrong. You brush the cold off your coat and walk to the long glass  desk that has 'information counter' written on a large sign suspended above it. The man behind is probably trained, and through the glass you see a gun holster on his belt. But he isn't very intimidating, seeing as the glass backing of the computer reveals he's playing Galaga. He pauses it and looks up when you walk over.

                    "Hi, I'm Y/N, I have a pass for the tower?" He nods and looks back to his game.

                   "Scan your pass on the panel by the elevator, it'll give you full access to the tower."

                    "Thanks." You roll your eyes at his obvious boredom, place your headphones back onto your ears, and head to the elevator, digging in your satchel for your pass. You push aside your sketch pad, then your pencil case, then your wallet. You curse and pat down your pockets. You're standing by the elevator when it dings open, and you keep your head down, still searching for your pass. You had to have it! You could've sworn you'd put it in your bag when you left the hotel. Maybe you hadn't. Either way, you didn't have it. Shame. You don't notice the four men staring at you, in your maroon coat and matching thigh-high boots, you black denim pants barely visible because of the length of the coat. A crocheted scarf wrapped around your neck, you thick, waistlength Y/H/C loose and unkempt in a way that suggested you hadn't had the time to do anything with it. You really hadn't, seeing as you accidentally set your alarm for the wrong time as was woken up five minutes before the train you were taking was scheduled to leave. Your winged eyeliner and red lipstick had been done on the subway. You're muttering curses under your breath, and one of them clears his throat. Only, you don't hear it because your headphones are blasting Macklemore's Glorious. 

           "Ma'am?" Again you don't look up. 

           "If she's going to do this all the time, she shouldn't be on the team. It's not...it's not polite."

           "Oh, shut up, Stevie, I think it's cute, besides, she can do what she wants."

           "Guys, stop bickering like the old folks you are and let's go, the Halloween Party's tonight and Tony's gonna gripe if we're late. And we're supposed to bring this chick." T'challa steps foward, pushing his way through Steve, Bucky, and Sam's arguement and taps you on your shoulder. Your head snaps up and you instantly reach up to pause your music and push your headphones so that they hang around your neck. 

            "Are you Y/N?" This dude had an accent you couldn't place. Ugandan, maybe? Everyone's staring at you now, and you resist the urge to put your headphones back on and walk out of this God-forsaken building.

             "Yeah, yeah I am. Sorry about the headphones, I don't do well in loud and crowded places, I've got this sensory overload thing. Music helps." Bucky snorts and knocks his shoulder into Steve. And that's when you realize that the guy who tapped you on your shoulder was King T'challa of Wakanda.

               "See, ya punk? You can't just assume that someone's being rude just because they're listening to music." Steve looks at you, a little panicked, and you narrow your eyes at him. 

               "No worries, I've been treated worse." You stick your hand out. "Just as long as it doesn't become a habit." He nods and grins, shakes your hand. "I'm Steve. Sorry about that. What were you listening to?"

               "Macklemore, actually. He's a pretty good rapper, and he isn't vulgar in most of his songs. I can dig that." Sam speaks up from his spot with his arms wrapped around T'challa. 

               "Macklemore's okay. Eminem is one of the better white rappers, personally."

              You shake your head as you shake Bucky's hand. "Eminem's voice is too nasally for me,  I don't really like the higher pitches when someone's rapping." Sam disentangles himself to shake your hand. "I'm willing to bet that you also like Twenty One Pilots." You snatch your hand back and point your finger at him. "You bet your close-minded butt, I do. I also like Broadway, jazz, techno-pop, Christina Auguliara, hip hop, pop, and nearly every other genre you can name." Bucky pipes up.

           "Queen?" You spin and point at him, though you're grinning now. "Yes, Queen! Another One Bites the Dust would be my theme song if  I were in a superhero movie. That, or Led Zeppelin's Immigrant Song." He breaks into a grin and shimmies his hips. "Same! Sam, did I use that right?" Sam sighs and nods. "Yeah, you used that right." T'challa steps foward and shakes your hand before Steve speaks up.

              "Your friend Charles called ahead and said you'd probably lose your pass, so we had F.R.I.D.A.Y. alert us when you came in so we could take you up."

             "Thanks. I swear, I thought I put it in a bag when I left my hotel. Guess not, sorry."

             "No worries," Sam says as he waves his hand over the panel beside the elevator. "It's an honor to escort you to the top." He half bows you into the elevator, adding a semi-sarcastic mi'lady to the end. 

            "Thanks, Bird Boy."

The sound of Bucky's laughter follows you as you step into the elevator. They all follow you, and Steve asks if you like any music from the forties, and you visibly light up. You launch into an animated conversation with him about the Andrews Sisters and why Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy was a masterpiece. The other three are looking at you as though you're the best thing since ever. You didn't notice when T'challa whispers to Sam, "She'll fit right in."