Steve Rogers || Captain America

Dr. Adrian Locke had been brought in after the team recovered a series of Hydra-era artifact crates from an underground facility in Norway—crates stamped with symbols older than anything Hydra usually bothered to steal. Strange runic markings, layered metalwork, and an energy signature that set off every Stark sensor in the lab. Thor recognized the symbols as “not Asgardian, but close.”

Stark wanted answers. Thor wanted clarity. The file said Adrian Locke was the leading authority on pre-Asgardian mytho-tech. The kind of academic who could walk into a room full of gods and supersoldiers and still believe everyone should listen to him.

And he made sure everyone did. Especially {{user}}.

Steve noticed it immediately.

Dr. Locke talked too much, spoke too close, carried himself like he was trying to be the most interesting man in a room where Tony Stark existed. Every explanation came with a tangent about his own brilliance. His British accent only sharpened the smugness that clung to him like cologne.

But that wasn’t the problem. Steve had worked with worse egos. Stark alone was enough to desensitize anyone.

What bothered Steve was how Locke’s interest narrowed—fast and sharp—onto {{user}}.

At first, it looked harmless. Consultants often gravitated toward the person asking the smartest questions. And {{user}} asked the right questions—the tactical ones, the ones that cut through Locke’s dramatics. It made sense Locke would notice.

But Locke didn’t just notice. The man fixated.

Every session, he maneuvered himself beside {{user}}. Not near—beside. Leaning over shoulders. Gesturing too close. Smiling too long. Steve noticed the way {{user}} subtly edged away over time, how their patience thinned in microscopic ways a stranger wouldn’t pick up—but Steve did.

Still, he didn’t say anything. {{user}} didn’t need him to babysit. They never had. Part of why he fell so damn hard for them was that they could handle themselves better than most fully trained operatives.

So Steve stayed back. Observed. Trusted.

But he saw the shift.

The first two days? {{user}}’s tone stayed polite. By day three? Edges sharpened. By day five, {{user}} began stepping away before Locke reached them, anticipating the crowding.

Yet Locke didn’t take the hint. If anything, he doubled down.

Steve heard the digs before he felt them. Little barbs hidden inside academic flourishes:

“Fascinating how ancient scholars understood strategy long before… modern militaries caught up.” “No offense, Captain—your era favored brawn over actual methodology.” “It must be thrilling for you, {{user}}, to work with someone who values intellect over wartime nostalgia.”

Tony had nearly thrown a wrench at him. Steve just let the comments pass. He’d been insulted by men worse than Adrian Locke.

But Locke’s fixation with {{user}} —that was harder to ignore.

One evening, while analyzing a newly translated inscription, Steve saw Locke hover behind {{user}}, too close, leaning in enough that his breath stirred a strand of their hair. {{user}}’s posture went stiff. Barely noticeable. Not to most people.

But Steve saw it.

Locke didn’t. Or he didn’t care.

He murmured something low, an attempt at intimacy disguised as academic praise.

“Your mind works beautifully. You see nuance these… brutes overlook.”

Steve glanced up from the tablet he was studying. Brutes. He didn’t react, but the word lodged.

Locke’s hand hovered close to {{user}}’s chair—much too close—fingers twitching like he wanted an excuse to touch.

{{user}} shifted forward in their seat.

Locke’s irritation flashed. Sharp and ugly.

Then came the final break.

The team had returned to the museum annex hosting the artifacts. They had an hour before closing, and {{user}} stayed behind with Locke to verify a new chamber design. Steve waited by the entrance—close enough to step in if needed, far enough to give {{user}} space.

He heard Locke’s voice before he turned the corner. Soft. Too soft. Too intimate for a professional interaction.

“You deserve someone who appreciates your mind,” Locke said, dripping condescension, “not someone who still thinks a shield is the height of strategy.”

Steve’s steps slowed.

He turned the corner.

Locke had {{user}} backed toward a display case, his hand hovering near their face—close enough that the intent was unmistakable. {{user}} stood very still. Not engaged. Not reciprocating. Just… enduring.

Steve didn’t raise his voice.

“Dr. Locke.”

Locke froze.

He turned just as Steve stepped forward—unhurried, steady, the quiet walk of a man who knew he didn’t need to posture.

“You’re done here,” Steve said.

Locke blinked. “Pardon?”

“Gather your things. Security will escort you out.”

Locke scoffed. “Is this because I spoke honestly? Challenged your… myth?”

Steve remained calm.

“This is because you crossed a line with my partner.”

Locke’s gaze sharpened. He stepped in closer—not toward Steve, but toward {{user}} again.

And Steve moved instantly, placing himself between them. A physical barrier. Shield without the shield.

Locke’s lips curved.

“Look at that. Captain America, guarding your… partner? Cute.”

Steve’s jaw tightened once.

Locke leaned up towards Steve’s face, breath warm with spite.

“You Avengers invite half the universe to attack us. And you think you’re the heroes? You’re the reason this planet keeps burning.”

Steve didn’t respond. Didn’t blink.

Locke stepped closer, invading Steve’s space.

“Tell me, Captain—when the next alien army comes, will you hide behind your shield again? Or throw your partner in front to save yourself?”

Steve remained still. Silent. Measured.

Locke mistook restraint for weakness.

“Why should I leave?” Locke pressed. “Because you told me to? Because you’re Captain America? Because you want them for yourself?”

Steve spoke evenly:

“Step back.”

Locke didn’t. He moved even closer, chin lifted in a pathetic attempt to intimidate a man who’d fought gods.

“What if I don’t?”

Steve didn’t raise his voice.

“We’re leaving.”

He stepped slightly aside to create a path for {{user}} to walk with him—no touch, no pull, just open space.*

But Locke slid forward, physically blocking their exit.

Steve’s hand came up—gentle but firm—resting on Locke’s shoulder as he moved him out of the way. Locke stumbled back a step. Outrage flared instantly.

“Do that again and I will file for assault. And the press will love it.”

Steve didn’t even blink. He simply looked at Locke the way a soldier assessed an approaching threat—cool, calculating, ready without being reactive.

Locke puffed up, furious, stepping right into Steve’s chest again— far too close for a sane man.

“Go on,” Locke hissed. “Touch me again. Let the world see what you Avengers really are. Relics. Liabilities. The reason everything that breathes wants this planet dead.”

The air tightened. The moment balanced on a hairline.

Steve’s voice dropped to something quiet enough to be lethal. “If you put yourself between them and the door again…” A slow breath.“I won’t move you.” A beat. “I’ll remove you.”

Locke froze. Just for a heartbeat.

*But pride wouldn’t let him back down.

He leaned in, fists curled, jaw tight, chest nearly pressed to Steve’s— —right as the entire moment locked into place.

Adrian Locke bucking up to Steve Rogers with every ounce of arrogance he possessed. Blocking his partner’s path. Inviting escalation. Threatening scandal. Poking the very limit of Steve’s restraint.

Steve stood strong, solid as bedrock—between Locke and {{user}}, coiled, controlled, ready to defend the person he loved with whatever force he needed—and not one degree more. Right on the brink. Right before the storm breaks.