(Please note: This is set after Avengers 1. Coulson is alive, and I am disregarding all the sequels to Avengers. This multi-chapter work is pure fluff and indulgence, and I won't continue it through movies subsequent to Avengers 1.)

Please know that I don't own the Marvel franchise, just my original characters. Also, please note that any magazines mentioned in this fic are entirely fictional, but any photographers mentioned are real people and very wonderful, you should totally check out their work.)

*There are mentions of slightly irresponsible drinking throughout this fic. Please note that while food and water do help you metabolize alcohol better (and you should NEVER drink on an empty stomach), the only thing that can sober you up is time! Do not take the (even slightly) irresponsible actions of characters in this fic as responsible ways to drink or appropriate behaviors while drinking.*

Extended summary: It's no secret that the Avengers have a hard time with things like "PR" and "responsibilities." It's gotten to be such a liability that Fury has decided to outsource someone who can shed some light on the Avengers in a new, yet tasteful way. Enter the downtrodden photographer Faith, who can't seem to figure out how to get her life together, yet is somehow supposed to capture the domestic lives of The Avengers. Steve/OC, domestic!Avengers.

ALSO: I pictured Faith as Alona Tal.


Get a hold of yourself, Faith. You can do this.

Okay, so maybe she can't. But she's damned well going to try anyway.

Her shoes smack the concrete on the sidewalk as she runs her hand through her hair, pulling her messy waves back into a loose bun with the rubber band on her wrist. It's out of the way now, making it easier for her to breathe. Breathing is important, she reminds herself.

She takes in a deep breath, pulling her shoulders back as she opens the door to OVEREXPOSED magazine's massive building.

Everything's fine lines, white leather, and clean chrome, sparkling in the sunlight coming through the glass wall that looks out onto the busy street. There's a seating area in one corner, and a large reception desk in the other corner.

Faith heads towards the desk, locking her eyes on the immaculate secretary, who looks up to her, clearly bored.

"Hello, welcome to Overexposed. How can I help you?" She asks in a monotone voice, inspecting the polish on her nails.

"Hi, my name is Faith Owens. I'm here to drop off a portfolio. Can you direct me to the right person to leave this with?" Faith asks, gripping her bag in her hands, where a folder of photos is safely tucked away.

"I can take those for you," She says, holding out one hand without looking up. Faith feels her stomach drop, because she knows where this is going.

"I'd really like to drop this off with someone, though," Faith says. The secretary rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers impatiently.

"Look, you can give it to me, or go home. No one has time for your amateur, back alley photography," she says, still not bothering to look up. Faith sighed and hands her the portfolio in her bag, knowing what was going to happen as soon as she left.

"Thank you, have a good day," the secretary says, and it's the clearest dismissal. Faith nods and leaves, pausing once she's outside the glass doors to watch through the glass as the secretary stuffs her portfolio into a trashcan under the desk.


Faith is moping. There's no other way to describe it. She's sitting at a bar in the middle of a Thursday afternoon, sipping whiskey and wondering if she should give up on civilized life and move to rural Scotland.

"I don't know about Scotland, the weather gets kind of finicky this time of year," A smooth voice says from next to her. Faith is confused for a few seconds before she makes the connection that she was thinking out loud, which she tends to do after two glasses of Fireball.

Faith turns to look, surprised to see a beautiful woman on the stool next to her. She's got red hair and a friendly smirk on her face. She's dressed in a leather jacket in jeans, somehow managing to rock it in a way Faith never could master. Faith looks down to her T-shirt with a hole in the neck and ratty canvas jacket, her jeans with a large hole in the knee, and feels suddenly self-conscious.

"I guess if I bought an insulated tent things would be okay," Faith shrugged, downing the rest of her whiskey in a single move, motioning to the bartender for another round.

"True, but might I suggest Iceland? It's winter there right now, so that's unfortunate, but you can see the aurora borealis, which makes up for losing a couple toes," The redhead says as she knocks back a shot of vodka in one swallow. The bartender sets down another finger of Fireball and a glass of water in front of Faith, and she gives him a smile of thanks. Bartenders are especially great when they look after their customers like that.

"Oh, god, don't remind me of beautiful things I need to photograph before I die," Faith says, drinking her third glass of whiskey a little slower than the first few. She's a pretty hard lightweight, and she usually tries to pace herself when she drinks, which is why she tends to favor this bar, where the bartender will cut you off before you get plastered. Buzzed is good, drunk is not.

"Oh, are you a photographer? That's pretty neat. What kind of subjects interest you?" The woman asks, sounding genuinely interested in something that a solid fifth of the New York City population does.

"I'm not paparazzi or anything, my interest is purely Fine Art. I kind of dabble in different types, but my favorite is street photography. Y'know, candids," Faith says. The woman nods her head, satisfied with Faith's answer.

"So, just wondering, but why are you drinking, frankly awful, cinnamon Whiskey in the middle of a Thursday afternoon?" She asks.

"Well, I handed in my portfolio to a magazine I've been reading religiously since I was twelve, and got to watch their secretary throw it in the trash. Also, I like Fireball," Faith says, and she debates damning the whole idea of pacing herself in favor of getting so drunk she can't remember what time zone she's in. She decides after a moment her liver is more important instead.

"That's rough," The woman says, and makes no move to apologize or offer some sort of uplifting positive side. It makes Faith like her more, the woman is funny in a subtle way, comforting by not being overbearing, and so far the first person to come up and talk to her in a solid month.

"Like sandpaper on concrete. It's so upsetting to see someone take all the work that you've been putting into the dark room for months and months, and literally throw it into a trash can," Faith says, and once again debates getting completely shit-faced. She once again holds out on the excuse of preserving the life span of her liver.

The woman nods, but says nothing. They drink in silence for a few minutes, and it's nice to not be pressed for conversation, to take time as it comes and breathe. Everything seems a little bit more okay when there's nice company and alcohol in her veins.

"I'm Natasha. Call me Nat," The woman says after a while, holding out her hand.

"Faith," She says, reaching out to shake her hand.

They share a friendly smile and continue to politely chat for a while, staying away from topics like work and personal things, and it's pleasant. It's nice in ways that Faith can't begin to comprehend. Friendship is something that has never come easy to her, she's usually too absent, too unaware, too clueless to do the whole 'friendship' thing properly.

But this is easier, somehow, because Nat is purposely driving the conversation, steering it to topics that are easy and mindless, so that it feels effortless but also uplifting. Faith is impressed at how long they talk, for almost two hours, and by the end of it, Faith knows so many mindless facts about Nat that she could write a book, make an art project with it all.

They talk until it's dark outside, and the bar begins to fill with people actually out to socialize. Faith looks around and seems to know their friendly chat has come to a close. She can't help but feel disappointed, this is the first conversation she's had in months that wasn't incredibly taxing or horrifically boring.

"Well, I have some things I need to take care of, but it was nice to meet you. How about we meet same time next week?" Nat asks as she takes her jacket and slides it on, smiling at Faith.

"Yeah, that actually sounds great," Faith says, smiling back at her. Socializing is healthy, she reminds herself. They smile at each other and say goodbye as they head separate ways when leaving the bar. Faith walks home happy and just barely buzzed, as Nat filled her with water and bar food after the fourth finger of Fireball.

Faith can't help but feel like she's done something right today, even though she's just been shot down by her dream magazine. Friends are important, she reminds herself. They're important.