Chapter Text
A Smile Is Always the Best Form Of Introduction
Word Count: 3.4k
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Chapter 1 :
“Oh, you can’t be serious, Pirate,” Tony Stark exclaimed, his voice dripping with disbelief as he ran a frustrated hand through his tousled hair. He pivoted sharply to confront the one-eyed man, an expression of exasperation etched across his face. He placed a small, intricate trinket—a piece of technology no doubt forged from his own genius—down on the polished lab table beside him. From my vantage point at the top of the small staircase that led down to the sleek glass doors of Stark’s high-tech lab, I was all too aware of the tension reverberating in the air.
“It’s an order, Stark. Not a request,” Nick Fury replied tersely, his voice firm. The weight of authority in his tone was unmistakable. “It’s already been decided, and you have no final say in this matter.” Fury’s patience was thinning, evident in the slight narrowing of his one good eye as he stared at Stark, who seemed to be relishing every moment of this disagreement.
Inside me, a storm was brewing. I had to suppress an overwhelming urge to storm down those steps, bursting into the lab, and deliver a pointed rebuttal to Stark’s arrogance. He acted as though my presence here was an unwelcome intrusion, as if I had chosen to be part of this situation rather than being thrust into it against my will. The sheer magnitude of Stark’s tower was astounding—an architectural marvel filled with state-of-the-art technology—yet he wielded it like a fortress, as if my being there were a personal affront.
“Right,” Tony scoffed, rolling his eyes with dramatic flair. “How do you expect him to be an Avenger without becoming a liability? Sure, he’s trained at S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy, and he might have excelled in his training, but that doesn’t translate to effectiveness here. We function as a cohesive unit; we’re not running a charity for misfits. I’ve heard more than enough tales about his bad attitude and refusal to collaborate with his peers. He is the absolute last person I would want on my team. Honestly, I’d prefer Branes over him any day.” Stark's voice escalated, echoing off the polished surfaces of the lab, his frustration palpable as he launched into his tirade.
For a man who prided himself on being secretive and valuing his privacy, he certainly had a loud voice. I was standing just outside the glass doors to his high-tech lab, yet he spoke with such disregard for the fact that I was listening in. It felt as if he wanted me to overhear his criticisms of me, basking in his irritation at my presence.
“Tsk, tsk,” I clicked my teeth in irritation as I spun on my heel, ready to retreat. “I don't have time for this nonsense.” I opted to wait for Fury by the elevator instead, where I could escape this uncomfortable situation.
“Who are you?” a deep voice called out from behind me.
I turned to find myself face-to-face with a striking figure—a tall blonde man with a broad, muscular build that suggested strength and resiliency. Surveying me from his impressive height, his posture slightly tense, as if he were gauging whether I posed any threat to him.
“None of your business,” I snapped back, already weary of being in this snooty, sterile building. Stark’s earlier words still stung, and my desire to be here fizzled under my annoyance.
“I’m assuming you’re here with Fury,” he said, lowering his gaze to the S.H.I.E.L.D. badge clipped to the front pocket of my pants. “He did mention that we’d be getting a new member, but considering how he described you, I was expecting someone a bit bulkier and more muscular.” His eyes roamed over me, taking stock as if I were an athlete at a competition.
“Not everyone’s built like a vintage 1950s lumberjack, okay? Did you have a specific reason for striking up this little chat, or were you just planning to critique my physique as if we were in a bodybuilding contest?” My annoyance bubbled to the surface, and rather than waiting around to endure more of this conversation, I stepped inside the elevator and pressed the button for the main floor, where our meeting with Tony had initially been commenced.
As the elevator came to a stop on the main floor, I stepped out. When I first arrived, I hadn't had the chance to look around and explore the vast open space. Entering the area, I noticed a large kitchen with marble colors, black-and-white accents, and brown accents that made the space feel even larger than it was. A long kitchen island occupied most of the kitchen, yet it allowed for easy maneuvering, with black cabinet bases and brown countertops. Along one wall, there was also a built-in bar next to the cabinets.
Turning around to look into the living room, I was struck by its size—much larger than the kitchen. The floor was covered in marble-brown tiles, and vast windows stretched across the walls, creating an expansive atmosphere. In the center of the room, a chocolate-brown circular rug was surrounded by a grey L-shaped couch, two red leather accent chairs, and two small matching red leather ottomans. A rustic brown wooden coffee table complemented the rug's color and tied the space together.
Enthralled by the sleek, high-tech ambiance of the space, I barely registered the sound of the elevator doors sliding open. It wasn't until I heard Fury's voice that I realized he had exited alongside Tony.
“I'll be heading out now. You have the majority, if not all, your important belongings,” Fury instructed, his tone brisk yet authoritative. “I'll send the rest later once I'm back at headquarters.”
As he prepared to step into the elevator again, he turned back to face me. “Tony will show you to your accommodations,” he added, ensuring his gaze flickered between Tony and me, as if to reinforce that this unconventional billionaire would follow through on the promise made in their earlier discussion.
It was evident, even before I arrived at this impressive facility, that Fury held a deep-seated skepticism towards Tony Stark. The tension between them was palpable; it was clear that Fury was wary of this man with his quick wit and larger-than-life persona, indicating a profound lack of trust in the eccentric billionaire.
As the elevator doors slid shut behind Nick Fury, I shifted my focus to Tony Stark, who was leaning against the sleek kitchen island with a grimace etched across his chiseled features. It was a look that spoke volumes, as if he had just emerged from an intense showdown and wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.
“So…what is your name, kid?” Stark asked, pouring himself a generous shot of amber whiskey. He didn’t even bother to make eye contact; his gaze fixed instead on the amber liquid swirling in the glass.
“It ain't kid, I know that’s for sure, and if you keep calling me that, I might just set this whole place on fire. I have no reservations about ending up in prison,” I shot back, my voice dripping with defiance as I settled into one of the plush red chairs. I reclined back, attempting to appear relaxed, yet my eyes remained firmly trained on Stark and the rest of the opulent room, taking in the modern decor and gleaming technology.
“You keep up that attitude, and you’ll be living on the streets,” Stark replied, his tone a mix of sarcasm and annoyance. He slammed the shot glass onto the island with a loud crack, the sound echoing in the spacious loft. I watched as his eye twitched in frustration, clearly not used to being challenged.
“And if you keep glaring at me like that,” I retorted, my voice steady but sharp, “I’ll make sure to gouge out one of your eyes. You’ll end up looking like Fury, but at least we'll know the truth about what happened to yours. Maybe I’ll even send it to your girlfriend or display it in a glass case for your fellow Avengers to see as a rather grim reminder.” I stood up, feeling a surge of adrenaline, already fed up with the antics of the day and those surrounding me. As I walked towards Stark, I noticed him straighten, a challenge in his stance, ready to meet me.
“JARVIS, can you summon the Avengers to the kitchen?” he commanded after a tense minute of our standoff.
“Of course, sir,” replied JARVIS, the AI home system, in his unmistakably refined British accent.
A smirk crept onto my face as I stayed resolute, even as he called for backup. It struck me as amusing that someone like Tony Stark felt the need to summon others for a little confrontation with “little ol’ me.” “Is the big bad Iron Man intimidated by a mere teenager?” I teased, enjoying the way his expression twisted further into a mixture of frustration and irritation.
Ignoring my playful jibes, Stark stood firm, his piercing gaze locked onto me without wavering for a moment. His posture was tense, every muscle coiled as he assessed my intentions, as if bracing for any sudden move I might make. I could sense the energy shift in the room, a charged silence building between us. But before I could deliver another cutting remark, the sound of footsteps echoed as the Avengers entered the kitchen area.
“Tony, you called for us?” came a familiar voice, warm yet authoritative—Captain America himself.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Captain America,” I replied, turning my attention to the assembled heroes. I kept my focus squarely on Steve Rogers, embodying the essence of heroic resilience. “This is quite the welcoming committee you’ve assembled here for little ol’ me,” I said, purposefully thickening my Southern drawl, my tone dripping with mock sincerity.
As I surveyed the room, I caught glimpses of a few suppressed smiles among the group. One of those guilty of stifling laughter was none other than Black Widow—Natasha Romanoff—a stunning woman whose long, wavy red hair cascaded around her shoulders, framing her strikingly fair complexion. A force to be reckoned with, she was one of the fiercest Avengers, alongside Hawkeye—both mere mortals with no advanced technology or superpowers yet able to hold their own against threats beyond this world. Their dynamic was one of the many things I admired about the Avengers, and, in my opinion, their grit made them all the more formidable.
Just as I was about to indulge in my admiration for the formidable trio of Black Widow, Hawkeye, and James Barnes—who at one time was known as the Winter Soldier—I was abruptly pulled back to reality by the sharp sound of my phone chiming. Glancing down at the sleek screen in my hand, I noticed a new message from Nick Fury. The anticipation of what he might have to say added a flutter of tension to the moment, momentarily overshadowing the excitement of being in the company of such legendary heroes.
- The rest of your belongings should have been delivered now
- kk
- also just to keep you updated
- I might've started a verbal altercation with Battery Pack
- He called down his minions
I texted, already dreading the following thread of texts from him.
- Are you serious right now
- I just left, not even 30 minutes ago, and you're already causing trouble
- You’d better get yourself together, this is your last chance
- If you get kicked out, you'll be going to federal prison!!!
- SHEILD is already at my throat for vouching for you, don't make me look bad for it
- I know, I know
- I'll play nice, okay…
I texted back before pocketing my phone.
As I looked up, I noticed the weary, suspicious expressions of the Avengers. “Don't worry, your panties, it's just my stuff getting delivered. No need to worry your head,” I taunted as I made my way towards the elevator. “Don't bother helping, it's only a box and a bag,” I said, addressing them, not bothering to turn around and loom at them. As the elevators closed, I heard them start discussing me…
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“Tony, I understand this order came straight from Fury, but I really don’t want him here,” Captain Rogers said, his voice laced with a blend of discomfort and frustration. He glanced from Tony to his assembled team, his brow furrowed as if he were grappling with the absurdity of the current situation.
“You think I’m happy about this, Steve?” Tony snapped back, his voice sharp and tinged with exasperation. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, the weariness of the day weighing heavily on him. “I’d give anything for this kid not to be here, but Fury’s made his stance painfully clear. He insists on having the final say in this matter, and there's nothing I can do to change it,” he continued, pouring himself another shot of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the glass like his swirling thoughts.
Natasha, rising gracefully from her spot on the couch, interjected with a calm yet authoritative tone. “Listen, he came from the academy, and despite being immature and hotheaded, we all know Fury’s judgment is usually spot-on. There must be a compelling reason for him to be so adamant about having the kid stay with us. For now, we need to evaluate him ourselves in a real-world context—he’ll be observing us, learning how we operate.”
With a resigned sigh, Tony relayed his decision, “Fine. Romanoff, Barnes, and Rogers—give him a thorough tour of the facility. Once that’s wrapped up, take him to the training room. Put him through a test or something to see what he’s made of, I guess.” The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with the uncertainty of what this unpredictably young recruit could bring to their already balanced team dynamics.
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As I stepped back out of the elevator, heavy box in one hand and an equally weighty duffel bag slung over my shoulder, I couldn’t help but feel the palpable tension hanging in the air. It was clear to me that they had been discussing me just moments before, their murmurs fading into silence as I approached. But with the burden of my belongings weighing me down, I had little patience for their whispers.
“So, where exactly do I put my stuff?” I asked, my voice cutting through the silence.
“Uhh... give me a second, kid, and we’ll sort out your sleeping arrangements… I guess,” Stark replied, his tone gruff and dismissive, as he waved his hand in an apparent attempt to brush me off.
A surge of anger flared within me. I was being thrust into this unexpected situation without a say, and while I could somewhat understand Stark's reluctance, his lack of basic decency stung. It was infuriating; I had thought better of him, but it seemed I was mistaken. “OH MY FUCKIN’ GOD. Do you ever think before you open that damn mouth of yours? LIKE HOLY HELL. How many times do I have to remind you that my name isn’t ‘kid’? Stop addressing me like that, you self-centered bastard,” I shouted, my frustration spilling over. The echo of my shouts bounced off the walls of the large room, momentarily silencing the rest of the room.
With an effort, I dropped the box, letting it land heavily on the floor. At least it contained my precious collection of books—my lifeline—and not anything fragile. I took a brief moment to rejoice silently in that fact. I took a deep breath, trying to rein in my anger; I knew that losing control wouldn’t help my case.
“My name is Y/N,” I stated, locking my gaze on Stark, eyes brimming with annoyance and perhaps even a flicker of hatred, a testament to the discord between us.
“Do you have a last name, Y/N?” Natasha Romanoff interjected, her melodic voice pulling my attention away from Stark. Her presence was commanding, yet wonderfully calming.
“Yes, ma’am, it’s Cooper. And should I refer to you as Ms. Romanoff, or do you have another preference?” I asked, my voice a bit steadier now, the simmering anger morphing into a more respectful tone as I addressed the stunning woman, Natasha Romanoff. Despite my frustrations with Stark, I found no fault in her. Our past interactions, although limited, had been nothing short of pleasant, and I felt a strange obligation to mirror her kindness.
“Just call me Natasha,” she replied with a warm smile that lit up her striking features.
“Alright then. And should I address the two of you as well? Would you prefer I call you Barnes?” I inquired, shifting my gaze towards James Barnes, better known as Bucky. His brooding expression seemed to soften as he registered my politeness, a stark contrast to my earlier outburst directed at Stark. “--And what about you, Maximoff, ma’am?” I asked, turning my attention to Wanda Maximoff, the enigmatic woman known as The Scarlet Witch, who regarded me with a slight smile, adding to the unexpected warmth of the moment.
“Just call me Wanda,” Wanda said with a warm smile.
“Barnes,” he responded, his voice deep and gravelly, his brooding brown hair slightly tousled as he looked away.
“Barnes, take him to his room. It’s on your floor,” Stark instructed, his voice carrying an air of authority.
As if he had been expecting the command, Barnes turned and strode purposefully down the corridor. I quickly scrambled to gather my box, carefully balancing it to avoid any mishaps, before racing to catch up to him. We continued down the polished marble floor until we arrived at a second set of elevators, distinct from the first, which only transported guests from the bustling main lobby to the living room area.
As we waited for the elevator, Barnes broke the silence. “You know, for someone as young as Peter—what is he, barely eighteen?—You sure have quite the colorful vocabulary,” he stated, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Oh my god, did I just hear a joke from you? Fury is going to lose it when I tell him! He always described you as a menacing, silent sentinel, but look at us, bantering like old friends,” I joked, nudging him playfully with my elbow. I couldn’t help but laugh a little at the way his expression twisted into mild disapproval.
After a brief pause, he continued, “At some point this week, I’ll take you down to the training area to assess your skills. You were top of your class at the academy, after all.” As we stepped off the elevator, he led me down the corridor, passing numerous doors that I assumed belonged to other Avengers.
“Awesome! Maybe you'll even spar with me,” I said, my excitement bubbling over. The thought of witnessing The Winter Soldier in action was electrifying.
“That’s not going to happen,” he replied with a bemused snort, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “Now, let’s get your things settled.” He reached out with his metal arm and lifted my box effortlessly, using his other hand to open the door to my room. He placed the box down gently beside a sturdy brown dresser that looked as if it had seen better days.
As I stepped into the room, I couldn’t ignore how stark and uninspiring it felt. The walls were a dull beige, and the furniture was basic at best. “Do you think I’d be able to paint the room? Maybe even swap out the bed and dresser for something a bit more…personal?” I asked, glancing around as I shuffled further inside, finally dropping my duffel bag onto the firm mattress, which felt like it could use a softer touch.
“I don’t see why not. Clint pretty much transformed his entire space. It’s unrecognizable now,” Barnes responded, his tone suggesting he could appreciate a good makeover.
“Great! So… what’s it like working with the Avengers?” I asked curiously as I settled onto the bed, still feeling the firm resistance beneath me.
“Yeah, it’s good work. It’s a far cry from what I was doing before all this,” Barnes replied enigmatically. After a brief moment of contemplation, he added, “But enough with the questions. If you need anything, just ask JARVIS. If he’s not helpful, seek one of us out.” With that, he turned and exited the room, clicking the door closed behind him, leaving me in my new, albeit bare, surroundings.
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See you in the next chapter 😙👋