Chapter Text
The next day, Annie arrived at Avengers Tower at 8:00 a.m., laptop in a tattered tote bag and yesterday’s eyeliner smudged just enough to count as intentional. She and Pepper had agreed to bring her start date forward—four days of radio silence from the Avengers' social media was four too many. Still, the lack of follow-up after her tweet had the internet in a frenzy.
Her alerts had been pinging all morning.
Some of it was background noise: a thirst-trap photoshoot of Captain America going viral again (“America’s Ass” had its own trending hashtag), an old science interview with Bruce re-surfacing thanks to a meme about “hot nerds,” and reposted memes from Spider-Man’s official account that he’d apparently stockpiled like an doomsday prepper.
But buried under the harmless chaos were less pleasant things: armchair analysts declaring the Avengers out of touch; conspiracy theorists suggesting Hulk was one bad day away from wrecking Queens; debates about Spider-Man’s vigilante status; and one particularly awful thread arguing that Black Widow should be monitored “for public safety.”
Not all of it was bad. But enough of it was.
Annie pulled off her sunglasses as she stepped into the foyer. Miss Wilson at reception greeted her with a smile—polite, bordering on nervous—and handed over a sleek new security badge. Annie clipped it to her blazer like armor and made for the elevator.
“Good morning, Ms Marion,” Friday chimed from overhead as the lift doors slid shut. “Did you sleep well?”
Annie arched an eyebrow at the ceiling. “Did Mr Stark tell you to butter me up?”
Friday hesitated a second too long. “...Would you like to hear today’s media brief instead?”
She smirked, thumbing open her phone as another alert buzzed in her hand. "It's alright, Friday, I'm on top of it."
The elevator opened onto the Avengers’ communal floor.
Annie stepped into the heart of the Avengers' tower, where the team’s common floor stretched wide and open beneath glass-panelled ceilings. Natural light spilled across the room, catching in the sleek edges of the furniture and bouncing off the quiet hum of Stark tech embedded in the walls. The whole place had that strange tension between hypermodern and homey—like someone had dropped a luxury apartment into a sci-fi lab, then lived in it for five years.
To her left, the kitchen gleamed—oversized and industrial, but dotted with signs of very human chaos. A half-empty carton of orange juice sat beside a row of used, mismatched mugs. Someone had left toast in the toaster. A bag of protein powder balanced precariously on top of the fridge, next to a jar labeled in electric blue sharpie: “DO NOT TOUCH. LOOKING AT YOU, CLINT.”
Beyond the kitchen, the lounge area stretched out in staggered levels of leather couches, scattered blankets, and a massive, wall-mounted screen that looked more like a mission control interface than a television. One of Tony’s old AI voice-activated remotes sat on the coffee table, beside what Annie suspected was a prototype of something—small, beeping softly, and glowing a faint, suspicious blue. She skirted around it carefully.
The walls bore traces of life lived fast and hard. Scorch marks from energy blasts, patched-up holes where a shield had bounced too hard. There was a dent in the far metal pillar where Thor had evidently flung Mjölnir at a Roomba. Next to it, someone had painted a crude lightning bolt with white-out and signed it “⚡God of Blunder.”
Annie walked slowly, her boots silent against the brushed steel flooring. A quiet breeze stirred from the open balcony ahead, where sunlight poured over a view of Manhattan so wide it made her feel like the city belonged to them. The glass doors were smudged with fingerprints. She smiled faintly—Steve would hate that.
On a side table, a chessboard lay mid-game. Black and white pieces frozen mid-strategy, a cup of cold tea abandoned beside it. She could see Wanda’s red scarf hanging from the back of a chair, and next to it, an old, faded hoodie—Bruce’s.
This was the kind of place that could feel like a monument, if it weren’t so full of people. Laughter echoed faintly down the hall, someone yelling, "I swear if you drank the last soda again—!"
A crash echoed down the hall, followed by Peter’s frantic apology and Bucky’s muttered Russian curse. She exhaled, the sound lost beneath the ever-present hum of this living, breathing tower. The chaos was inevitable; the question was whether she could turn the noise into harmony, or at least something close to it. She thought about the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air—Vision’s idea of emotional regulation—and couldn’t decide if it was a hopeful gesture or a subtle warning. Here, in this cathedral of superheroes, was all the evidence needed to prove that superheroes were just...human.
“Ms. Marion,” Friday’s voice chimed again, this time more directly above. “Mr. Stark has asked me to offer you a coffee and breakfast. He is currently waiting on the rooftop.”
Annie blinked. “He does know I’m not a therapy patient, right?”
“He says he’s trying ‘a softer touch.’”
She snorted and kept walking. “Terrifying.”
Her phone buzzed again. Another meme from the Spider-Man burner account. Another tweet tagging @IronManOfficial: Let Tony Tweet 2K25. Annie rolled her eyes and scrolled to the next notification. Someone had just shared a TikTok remix of Steve Rogers’ meatloaf recipe.
Her phone kept buzzing.
And Annie, caffeine-deprived but determined, walked toward the chaos like she was born for it.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing the quiet stretch of the rooftop garden. Morning light spilled across the city skyline, glinting off glass panels and casting golden halos over potted citrus trees and sleek benches. Stark Tower’s rooftop was probably designed for quiet reflection or billionaire brooding, but today it smelled like espresso and something suspiciously close to freshly baked pastries.
Annie stepped out, squinting in the sun. Tony Stark was already seated, feet kicked up, dark sunglasses perched on his nose. A second coffee cup steamed invitingly across from him, three separate pastries dusted with icing sugar enticingly beside it.
“You’re late,” he said.
“It’s 8:02,” Annie replied, claiming the chair and tugging her laptop from her tote bag. “And I wasn’t aware this was a scheduled breakfast date.”
“Everything in this tower is scheduled. You’ll learn that when the Hulk has his 3 p.m. meditation or Steve’s chicken marinates for twelve hours too long.” Tony took a sip from his tiny, too-fancy espresso cup. “Besides, I made you breakfast.”
Annie eyed the plate of fruit and pastries. “You mean you told someone else to make breakfast.”
“That’s delegation. It’s a leadership skill. And Steve loves to cook, anyway!”
She popped a raspberry in her mouth and let him have it. For now. She did file away the tidbit about Steve, plans already forming for how to use the information in a new campaign. In fact...
She opened her notes app and began to compose an email.
Tony leaned back in his chair and peered at her over the rim of his sunglasses. “So. About my tweets.”
Annie didn’t look up from her screen. “What about them?”
“Freedom of speech. That little constitutional gem? Ringing any bells?”
“Oh, that.” Annie tapped through a few alerts, sipping her coffee. “I believe freedom of speech doesn’t guarantee freedom from consequences. Or… PR disasters.”
Tony pulled a dramatic face. “You’ve silenced me.”
“You’ve been temporarily restricted from yelling into the void. You’ll live.”
“You don’t understand what you’re doing to the world by cutting off the supply of my brain-to-mouth genius.”
“The world has adjusted admirably. And, frankly, I think Peter’s fake meme account is funnier than you’ve been in months.”
Tony scowled. “That traitor.”
Annie smirked, finally setting her mug down. “He made a gif loop of you getting hit by one of your own drones and captioned it When Your Ego Catches Up. It’s at 84k likes.”
He groaned. “Okay. Okay, I’ve suffered. I’ve repented. Tell me what it takes. Do I have to bribe you? Beg? Stage a sad billionaire photoshoot in grayscale? Because I make a very convincing sad billionaire, and in grayscale...? My power is limitless." She didn't reply, so Stark dug deeper, leaning forward as if to threaten her with the prospect. "I can make it happen today; grayscale photos on your desk by 2pm. Hand on heart-or...arc reactor, even." He pressed one hand to his arc reactor, and Annie had to fight down a grin.
She tapped her fingers against the table thoughtfully. “Well…”
Tony perked up. “Well?”
“There is a way,” she said slowly.
His sunglasses slid slightly down his nose.
“You… may post,” Annie said, with the weight of a grand, ancient pronouncement. “On social media.”
Tony bolted upright. “Seriously?!”
“If,” she said, drawing it out like a villain in a Bond movie, “you send every post to me for approval first. No exceptions. No loopholes. No ‘accidental’ retweets of Elon Musk.”
Tony looked betrayed. “That’s censorship.”
“That’s professionalism.”
“It’s like letting someone else write my autobiography.”
“Better than you accidentally starting a war with the Latverian ambassador over a meme.”
“I liked that meme.”
“I’m sure you did. And the press liked to throw you into the fire to see how you burned."
Tony glared, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms like a sulking teenager. “Fine. But I’m using emojis. And GIFs. And at least one hashtag per post.”
Annie stood, brushing off her blazer. “Only if you use them correctly, and yes, there is a correct way to use the eggplant emoji. You’re on probation, Stark.”
He watched her head for the elevator, raising his voice after her. “This is dictatorship, you know!”
Annie turned just before the doors closed, holding up her coffee like a toast.
“This is PR.”
Back in the elevator, Annie adjusted her blazer and smoothed the front of her slacks. Today, she was dressed properly—heels instead of Pikachu slippers, hair up, lipstick on. She wasn’t about to give anyone an inch, least of all Tony Stark.
She made her way to the common floor, dodging a Roomba, two bickering interns, and the unmistakable smell of burning… something. Vision passed her in the hallway, humming softly and holding a tray of tiny succulents. She didn’t ask.
Instead, she veered left, toward the kitchen.
There he was. Steve Rogers. The man, the myth, the meatloaf.
He stood at the counter in a crisp white T-shirt tucked into suspiciously high-waisted jeans. A dish towel was slung over one shoulder, and he was frowning at a mixing bowl like it had personally offended him.
Annie cleared her throat gently.
“Captain.”
He looked up, startled, and then relaxed when he saw her.
“Morning, Ms Marion.”
“I have a pitch for you” she said, setting her laptop on the island counter.
Steve glanced back down at the bowl. “Is it about this banana bread? Because I’m starting to think the recipe lied.”
“It’s about all banana breads. And cupcakes. And casseroles. And your grandmother’s buttermilk pancakes, if you’ve got the recipe.”
He tilted his head, bemused but intrigued.
“I want to launch a home baking series,” Annie continued enticingly. “Low-stress, good lighting, cozy vibes. Just you, a kitchen, and maybe the occasional surprise guest. No capes, no speeches, just… Steve Rogers being painfully wholesome with an apron that says something ridiculous.”
He blinked. “Like what?”
She smirked. “I was thinking ‘Bake America Great Again’.”
He made a face.
“Too much?” she said, biting back a laugh. “Okay, fine, we’ll workshop the title. But the angle is simple: everyone knows you as the guy with the shield. I want them to meet the man who folds egg whites like his life depends on it.”
He leaned a hip against the counter, arms folding across his chest, clearly mulling it over. “You think people would watch that?”
“Steve,” she said, deadpan. “The internet thirsts over your grocery lists. We’re just leaning in.”
He exhaled through his nose, clearly both flattered and mildly horrified. “I'm not sure I’m camera-ready. And...how did you even know I like to bake?!”
“Stark told me," she smirked.
Steve closed his eyes in frustration. "Remind me never to make him his favourite brookie ever again."
"You’re fine,” she reassured. “More than fine. You can do this. You’re polite, you don’t overshare, and you once ended a press conference by thanking everyone’s moms.”
His ears pinked. “That was one time.”
“Exactly. It’s adorable. And in PR, adorable is priceless.”
He sighed, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll do it. But I’m choosing the first recipe.”
“You have a deal,” Annie said, sticking out her hand.
Steve shook it with a laugh. “You’re good at this.”
Annie lifted her coffee in salute. “I’m a nightmare in the kitchen and a tyrant in the media. But I have a vision. Trust me.”
She turned on her heel, pulling out her phone as she walked. Behind her, Steve mumbled something about whether he still had that apron with the cartoon ducks.
Annie found Peter in the lounge next, hunched over the coffee table with his phone and a half-eaten granola bar, oblivious to the world except the glow of his screen and the meme he was probably about to post.
“Hey, Webhead,” she said, arms folded.
Peter startled so hard he nearly flung his phone across the room. “Oh my God—I wasn’t—! It’s not what it looks like!”
Annie raised a single, unimpressed brow, and glanced at his screen. “Really? Because it looks like you’re trying to tweet a meme comparing a state senator to a Roomba with rabies.”
Peter flushed scarlet. “It’s a little funny.”
She gave half a smirk. “It’s deeply funny,” she admitted, sitting across from him. “It’s also a PR disaster waiting to happen. Especially coming from Spider-Man’s verified account. And what happened to not hacking into the accounts? Or posting without my permission?"
Peter winced. “You only told Friday to stop Tony from hacking them," Peter revealed, making Annie laugh. Then his eyes widened, and he winced, "and anyway, this senator's the one who tried to shut down the soup kitchen in Queens. That’s not—like—okay, right?”
“No, it’s not. But torching him online with a gif of a screaming robot-possum doesn’t make him look bad. It makes us look unhinged. You looking bad makes the whole team looks bad.”
Peter’s shoulders slumped. “I just… people need to know. They trust the suit more than they trust politicians. And if I don’t say anything—”
“Then say something that makes them care without starting a meme war,” Annie said, gentler now. “You have a voice. Use it to amplify what matters. Post about the kitchen itself. Show what it does. Spotlight the people it helps.”
Peter looked down at his phone, chewing his bottom lip. “You think that’ll work?”
“I think you have a better chance at rallying people behind a solution than dunking on a guy whose legal team would love to drag Spider-Man into a slander lawsuit.”
He groaned and flopped backwards over the couch arm dramatically. “Why is adulting so hard?”
“Because it comes with consequences and fewer snacks,” Annie said. “But if you play it right, you get to be the guy who helps fix things.”
Peter peeked up at her. “Can I at least send you the meme? Just… for morale?”
Annie held out her hand. “Only if it comes with a full draft of the new post, and we organise a fundraiser to keep Queens fed.”
He sighed, handing over his phone. “Fine. But I’m still putting laser eyes on the senator in the group chat.”
“Go wild,” she said, already editing the caption. “Just keep Spider-Man out of it.”
@official_neighbourhood_spidermeme (Verified): New post pending. Community first. Clown memes later. #FeedQueens #SpideySupports
@H3r0W4tch3r : Bold of the PR manager to come for Spider-Man's meme account like that. #Respect #SpideySupportsWhat?
@ JJJ_Bugle (Verified) : WHAT THE HELL IS SPIDER-MAN DOING NOW? WAKE UP, PEOPLE. #Menace #SomeoneStopSpider-Man
@DisneyHatesMe_Unverified: SPIDEYBOY NOT YOU TOO #SpideyGate2025 #OnceWereMemes #ThisIsWorseThanWolverineDyingAgain #Whoops #SpoilerAlert sorry @CanadianRage [Image Description: a gif of Deadpool smashing his head through a wall that cycles repeatedly]
@CanadianRage: @DisneyHatesMe_Unverified stop hacking into my account to unblock you.
@DisneyHatesMe_Unverified: don't you leave me too @CanadianRage [this user could not be found]
@ao3unofficial: i 'm not in queens but spiderman could feed me any day of the week #thirstpost
When Annie gave Peter back his phone, he was too busy buzzing with ideas for how to develop his fundraiser for Queens to worry about making memes.
Annie shut her laptop with a soft sigh as the sky outside deepened from bright blue to dusky pink. The endless stream of notifications paused—just for a moment—leaving her alone with the low hum of the Tower’s evening.
Her phone buzzed quietly.
A message from Pepper: “You’re doing great. Don’t forget to breathe.”
Annie smiled faintly, fingers hovering over the keyboard before she slipped the phone into her pocket. Tomorrow promised more chaos, more noise, more battles to tame.
But for now, she let herself lean back in the chair, eyes drifting to the city lights sparkling far below. The Avengers might be a storm—but maybe, just maybe, she could be the calm at its centre.
@Avengers_PR_Queen (Verified): After a hard day's work, it's nice to wind down with a view like this. [Image Description: The sun setting over the New York skyline] #ChaosAndCalm #SuperheroesNeverSleep #AvengersDamageControl
@ConspiracyBros: SKRULL INVASION IMMINENT #SWORDDidIt
@WittyMemeLord: #ChaosAndCalm? More like #ChaosForever but nice try. #SocialMediaJail #FreeTonyStark
@StarkIndustries (Verified): Congrats on your first day, Annie. A joy to have you on the team! #CrisisAverted #GoodLuckAnnie #PrayForHer
@TonyStarkOfficial (Verified) : You mean my view, right? (Okay, maybe shared. Fine, fine.) #ThisPostWasApprovedByAnnieMarion
@RoombaNemesis (Verified): good to have you annie #GoodLuckAnnie #HawkeyeOut
@StarkStockWatcher: if Annie can stabilise PR for more than 48 hours I'm buying her a fruit basket and a jet. #GoodLuckAnnie
@alienswilleatu: That sunset’s a coded message from the Kree. #GoodLuckAnnie #OpenYourEyes
@RoombaNemesis (Verified): nevermind i just saw thor sneeze a door off its hinges good luck annie #GoodLuckAnnie
@OfficialThor (Verified): THE SKY WEEPS FOR THY VALOUR, LADY ANNIE #GoodLuckAnnie #WarriorOfTweets
@SuperheroFanBlog: I KNEW IT. Day 1 of watching Annie single-handedly hold the universe together with duct tape. #GoodLuckAnnie #ThankGodForPR
#GoodLuckAnnie was trending barely thirty seconds after she'd hit post.