Mr. Evans II- Chris Evans AU Chapter Two
Teacher!Chris Evans x Student!Reader
Warnings: Explicit language, heartbreak, angst, MILD SMUT, a little bit of infidelity
Disclaimers: I don’t condone relationships of this kind, this is for entertainment purposes only.
He’s looking at you and you’re looking at him and all you can think is god, his voice is sexy.
Your dad looks between you two, brows raised.
“You two know eachother?” He asks, bewildered.
You barely hear him, too taken by Mr. Evans’ intense aqua gaze on you and how good that nickname still sounded and looked coming out of those oh-so kissable lips.
“Hey, Chr-Mr. Evans,” you correct yourself in a soft whisper, unable to conjure much else in response.
His name felt so unfamiliar in your own mouth, and yet, your tongue welcomed it with such vigor, wrapping around each syllable, each sound like it’d never get to do so again.
You finally tear your eyes away from his, turning to your dad. “Mr. Evans was my English teacher.”
He beams, pleased beyond your comprehension. “What a small world we live in! Funny how I’m marrying your teacher’s aunt isn’t it?”
You can’t help it when your brows raise to your hairline. “His aunt?”
Ah, so that’s where the familiarity in the eyes came from…
You can see it now, their similar features.
Kennedy interjects, gripping your father’s arm with a grin. “Yeah. Chris’ mom is my sister. He’s been really great through all of this, too. He even helped repaint the house.”
At this, your stomach falls. Your face goes stone hard as you fight the urge to turn your gaze to him because you knew if you did you would explode. Betrayal burns low in your belly and you hold back the impulse to lash out on Mr. Evans, clenching your fists.
Instead, you look at your dad with an icy stare. “Are you fucking kidding me, dad?”
His face falls, the color draining. “Y/n, please not here.”
But you don’t care. Your heart aches and your stomach churns with anger. Seeing him move on and try to repaint over your mother’s memory- this wasn’t how you expected it to go. You wanted him to be happy, yes, but not if it meant he’d be erasing everything about your mother and her legacy. Everything but that.
But what really bothered you was that Mr. Evans, of all people, had helped do such a thing. Just thinking about how he had helped erase your mother’s memory made you want to barf. Now that was a sting you weren’t quite sure you could ever recover from.
You step up to your father, chin held high. “With all due respect, father, I will talk my mind wherever and whenever I damn well please. As far as I’m concerned, you are not removing her entirely from our lives like she never even existed.” You smirk. “Luckily, I’m here now. And I’m gonna be your daily goddamn reminder of that.”
“Y/n can you please-“ your father grips your arm in his but you feel utterly repugnance for his touch right now.
“No, dad!” You hiss, ripping your arm from his touch. “She loved this house, and you knew that! Why would you let her-” you point aggressively at Kennedy. “Come in and change our house. My house. Mom’s house?!” Without realizing tears have trickled done your cheeks. Of anger or hurt, you don’t know.
You wipe at them furiously. Fuck, you hated this and you were not planning on crying on your first day here. Pathetic little girl.
Despite your blurry vision, you manage to preserve your snark, looking around at you. “Congrats on the engagement, guys,” you spit disgracefully before your gaze lands on Mr. Evans who watches you with an unreadable expression. That fucking wall again.
You just wish you could read him like one of his books but that wall- it was damn near unpenetrable.
“You know what? Screw this. I’m jetlagged and quite frankly your faces are boring. I’m headed to bed.” You look at your father and Kennedy, tone satirically lazy. “My room is still there, right?”
Your father clenches his jaw, clearly wanting to say something else before Kennedy squeezes his arm in warning, offering him a small smile. He visibly relaxes and a firm nod of his head is your only response.
You can’t help it when you scoff, rolling your eyes as you spin on your heel to walk up to your room. “Fuck’s sake,” you mumble under your breath incredulously.
Not even a few minutes after you’ve begun settling into your room, does a knock come at your door. You sigh, not necessarily wanting to speak or even see anyone right now.
“Whoever it is, I’d appreciate it if you’d kindly fuck-!” you call out before being abruptly cut off as the person opens the door, striding in any way.
“Still got that potty mouth, I see.”
You freeze at the sound of that voice. That voice…a shiver travels through your spine like a small ripple travels in water.
You immediately pause your unpacking, gaze immediately snapping to his. “W-what’re you doing here?” you fight against the lump in your throat, swallowing tightly.
He licks his lips, watching you from his stance near the door with his strong arms crossed across his now even broader chest. His gaze is undecipherable and you feel at a huge disadvantage not knowing what the hell it is he’s thinking.
Nothing much has changed, apparently.
“I didn’t know,” is what he says once he finally breaks the insufferable silence.
You huff at him, going back to your unpacking merely to seem unbothered.
He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Y/n,” he begins seriously.
Your insides instantly melt at hearing his voice embrace your name once again after all this time and out of pure damn instinct, your movements freeze and your gaze jumps to him. Fuck.
His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t move away an inch. “I just-,” he licks his lips. “If I had known how much it meant to you- I mean….I-I wouldn’t have- I hate seeing you cry,” he whispers sincerely- as if that is all he is allowed to say.
And you believe him, dammit, you do.
But you’re not the same naive girl from before and he needed to know that. He needed to know that you’d grown up and that he was a part of your past. Not your present and he sure as hell was not a part of your future. Not the one you had planned, anyway.
“Okay,” you retort nonchalantly, not even sparing him a glance. “Do you mind closing the door on your way out? Thanks.”
You hear the shuffle of feet then the closing of the door and then silence.
Finally feeling like you can relax, you release a small sigh, looking up.
A strangled, small, startled gasp escapes your lips and you force your hand down from jumping to your racing heart.
In the few seconds you’ve kept your head down, he’s stridden over to you with incredible stealth and is currently towering over you so closely, you can smell him again. In fact, he’s so close that from this angle, the tip of your nose brushes against his firm t-shirt-clad chest. Was he working out more? Your stomach clenches and your lips part in shock.
He gazes down at you with a spark of emotion in his eyes. “You’re back.”
It’s as if he can’t believe it.
You peer up at him, once again trying to read him. Was that…pride? Curiosity? Longing? It was hard to tell.
“I wanted to be here for the wedding,” you confess quietly before chuckling dryly. “But I might just end up leaving earlier than planned.”
At this, he jerks. It’s small, minuscule even, but you catch it before he regains composure.
“Aunt Kennedy is a really kind woman and she loves your dad. Give her a chance,” he responds calmly. “I know it’s hard for you to watch this happen right now, but everyone deserves happiness.”
You look him in the eye, your heart clenching. ”I assume that includes my mom too,” is all you answer despite wanting to say “And what about me? Us?”
His gaze saddens dramatically. Still, it’s a controlled emotion– not a crack in the wall. Merely a door he’s opened because he’s allowing you a glimpse into what’s simmering beneath. “I-”
“I know,” you cut him off. “I know that I have no right to stop them from marrying and finding happiness because my mother never got to live her happiness thoroughly. I don’t care that they’re getting married, frankly. What I won’t allow is having my mother’s memory destroyed.”
He licks his lips. “Sweetheart, I get that. I really do and I respect it, too. But-” he hesitates. “Why does it matter so much that we repainted?”
You sigh. “One of my fondest memories is painting this house with my mother. It was one of the things that made it ours. Home. Purple isn’t a common color in this neighborhood in case you haven’t noticed. And my mom- she absolutely abhorred blue.” Your lips quirk up lightly. “Thought it was too sad of a color.”
When you look up at him, he’s even closer, glancing down at you like he couldn’t get enough of having you close. Inspecting you too.
“You’ve changed.” It’s not a question and you wonder how this is all still happening right now. How you had him in front of you, talking to you like you’d been long lost friends who’d had a rough patch but still somehow found your way to one another again.
“Have I?” you decide to play coy, remaining planted in your spot as if to let him know you weren’t intimidated by him even though you were quite literally shiting your pants right now.
How your body was reacting to his proximity was freaking you out even though you should have been used to it. It infuriated you that even after all this time he was able to do this to you. To cause such internalized emotions to whirl around you and force you to suppress them.
He nods, his fingers twitching beside him as he scans your face closely. “You have.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to control your fast-beating heart to no particular avail. “So have you.”
He smirks softly. “Have I?”
You nod in response like he had earlier, weirdly enjoying this new back-and-forth banter.
It was as if this new energy between you from your time apart was fresh and new and clean- and suddenly you could feed off eachother like never before. But still, the weight of what you refused to discuss hung over your heads like some unreachable, unbearable burden.
And there was an air of maturity and even an entitlement that came with that. Alongside it, all these old emotions you’d suppressed over the last two years ferociously fighting to break out of you.
It was all too complicated.
“You have. And it’s not just the hair,” you jest, giggling lightly at your own little joke.
God, he smelled good. And looked so good. And-
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers like it’s hard to find his voice and you can see his hand slowly rising to touch your face. “Still such a firecracker-” he pauses to chuckle with sad endearment, his gaze twisting into a confused frown. “But…different somehow. And I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
His words are enough to make your limbs tremble with delight and you can’t help it when you’re taken aback by his bluntness. You hadn’t expected him to be so upfront with his thoughts right away.
He still thought you were beautiful…
In your time apart it is true that you’d hardened your heart. Truth be told, after the heartbreak he brought you, you couldn’t bear another heartbreak. It’d kill you. So you decided to put up a wall of your own.
His fingers are two centimeters from your face and your skin immediately buzzes with exciting liveliness, anxiously, desperately, seeking his touch on your skin. Wanting- no. Needing it more than anything.
You ached for him to touch you like he had before. To light the same fire within you that you knew could never be put out. To hold you so close to him, entangle himself with you so intricately, you wouldn’t be able to tell when you started and he ended.
But nothing is as it was before. And it wouldn’t be fair for you to act like it was.
“Then don’t,” you mumble and just before he can fully press his fingers to your face, you swiftly step away from him, rounding your bed and acting like you’re so much more interested in unpacking even though your heart is fucking racing in your chest.
The silence that settles between you two is tense and horrible, the air filled with so many questions about what had gone on in the past two years you hadn’t seen eachother, but neither of you is brave enough to act on your curiosities.
So you say the first thing that comes to mind without looking up.
He quirks a brow at you. “Who is who?”
He’s acting coy- baiting you to get a reaction, you can tell. It was a game you weren’t all too eager to play, to be honest. So you stop unpacking, looking up at him straight in the eye.
“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” you retort sassily.
He doesn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Why do you care?”
You hide your embarrassment with nonchalance, shrugging. “I don’t. I was just curious.”
He chuckles mockingly. “You know…curiosity killed the cat.”
“But satisfaction brought it back,” you quip, glancing at him.
He laughs that beautiful laugh that made your insides quiver, skillfully avoiding your gaze (and your question).
And rather than stand around awkwardly, he opts to spin on his heels and look around your room. He does this with such a high degree of casualness and familiarity that it boils your blood for some reason. He prods and pokes as if you aren’t standing right there with him, looking at the band posters and books.
“Interesting…” he hums before laughing under his breath as he holds up a Queen vinyl record with a raised brow. “You’ve got some taste, sweetheart.”
You snort, trying to hide how bothered you really were. “Yeah, says the guy who listens to Frank Sinatra.”
He freezes for a only a split second but you catch it once more. What? Did he not think you’d remember?
“Touché,” he retorts under his breath, flipping through one of your books.
Something about the way he carried himself in your space like it was his too- even after all the time that has gone by without you even seeing eachother- made you so utterly pissed.
“Can you-” you sigh, trying to refrain from letting your petulant side slip.
“Why are you here, Mr. Evans?” you ask point-blank, unable to see why he was choosing to stick around you despite your weird and awkward situation. You’re also not seeing a point in beating around the bush.
He doesn’t respond at first, merely looks at you with that same unreadable expression you hated so much.
“I had found out about your father and Aunt Kennedy only when they were already engaged. It came as a shock to us all. I don’t want you to think I planned any of this in some weird, creepy strategy to-“ he inhales sharply, smiling wryly. “…you know what I mean.”
You shrug. “I didn’t think it was either way.”
He clears his throat. “Good, because I have no reason to do that, you know?”
Sharp pain inevitably shoots through you at this and you can’t help but laugh dryly. “Of course you don’t. I hadn’t expected this either, for the record. If you were shocked, imagine how much of a sneak-up this was on me.”
“Well, that’s because you left.” It comes out of his mouth too fast and there’s something ever so slightly strained in it.
You reel back immediately, brows raised. Is he accusing you of something? And is that hurt you hear in his voice?
You don’t get time to voice these questions before he’s completely backpedaling, freaking out because he’s said and shown too much.
“Anyway, I think it’s about high time I head back downstairs. Get some rest, sweetheart.”
Before you can even fully process what you’re doing, you throw yourself in between him and the door, blocking his path. Peering up at him, you try to ignore how close you two are and how softly your chests are brushing.
“Answer honestly. Do you hate me?” you whisper so softly, you’re sure he has to strain to hear what you’re saying.
His face immediately twists into a sad grimace- tender and vulnerable- as he looks down at you. His eyes are utterly entrancing, your lips only a few inches apart. Slowly, his hand reaches up to touch you again.
Your flinch is tiny, a twitch at best, but he notices. His grimace deepens and he slowly retracts his hand, letting it drop stiffly beside him.
He gradually steps back and you’re terrified he won’t answer your question before he talks again, his voice soft and earnest.
“I thought you would know by now.”
He smiles. “I could never hate you, sweetheart. Even if I tried.”
You sleep for hours, too exhausted to even change out of your clothes before you tumble onto your bed and pass out.
You really must’ve been jetlagged because with all the thoughts racing through your head after what’s just occurred with Chris, you’d think it would have been impossible to fall asleep in the first place.
It’s all so confusing and weirdly coincidental. Like really, what are the odds of this happening? And maybe in a moment of insanity, you can’t help but think what if this is destiny?
But it isn’t long before another thought overrides that one and you grow scared when it strikes you right in the gut. This would mean that you’d have to see a lot more of him. Especially since it’s the week of the wedding.
Something in you curls and you don’t know whether it’s in excitement or fear. Probably both.
You stay in bed a while longer, unable to go downstairs in fear of awkwardness and having to face more guests with a fake smile plastered on your face. Your thoughts kept going back to Mr. Evans and all the questions that were left unspoken between you two, so you decide to distract yourself.
Talking with Margo and catching her up on everything seemed as a good place to start at as any.
And she -as you’d expected- freaks out after you tell her Mr. Evans is related to Kennedy and you have to take your phone off your ear momentarily due to her shrill screams.
“Margo, seriously. Calm down, it’s not that big a deal,” you lie right through your teeth, getting off your bed and putting your phone on speaker as pull your hair into a messy bun.
She laughs maniacally. “What the hell do you mean, baby girl!? Do you even realize how gaga you were about eachother just a few years ago? It’s crazy that your teacher crush is now practically apart of your family.”
You scoff, blushing madly as you pull your heels off. “I was not gaga about Mr. Evans, Margo. It was just a schoolgirl crush.”
She hums unconvincingly. “Yeah, sure. It’s not like it was clear as day on both your faces that you loved eachother.” A pause. “…not to mention the fact that you both went on to have a relationship afterward.”
You freeze, eyes as wide as saucers. “W-what?”
She laughs breezily. “Oh please, Y/n. You’ve been my best friend since childhood, you really think you could hide something that big from me? Nuh-uh, babygirl. It was written all over your face when I even brought him up, too. But even more telling were the looks you gave eachother. That’s when I knew.”
You swallow harshly, slowly reaching for your makeup wipes, almost like you didn’t know whether you should be acting like this wasn’t completely unexpected or not. “We gave eachother looks?”
She snickers. “Did you ever! Hate to break it to you, hun, but the look of two people in love is practically impossible to hide.” She sighs, voice lowering. “I’ll admit, at first I was offended you hadn’t told me but then I remembered those looks. You were wrapped up in your own little world and I knew telling me would mean letting someone else in that world. You weren’t ready for that and neither was he.”
You’ve ceased everything you’re doing, your mouth trembling and tears already gathering in your eyes. You have no idea what to say or even do right now. Hearing someone else say this out loud…it was electrifying in a horrific way.
After a few seconds of this, she finally speaks up again. “Y/n?”
You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry,” is all you can say in a shaky whisper.
She clicks her tongue. “It’s fine, really! I just- I know it’s not because you didn’t trust me with it. I mean I could see you practically dying to tell me. It must’ve been hard not being able to talk to anyone about what you felt, right?” Her tone is soft, comforting.
You sag with relief. “God, you have no idea. It doesn’t matter anymore though,” you straighten out.
“Because it’s been over for a long time. In fact, we hadn’t even labeled what ‘it’ was,” you laugh dryly.
She’s silent for a second before responding in a matter-of-fact tone. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”
That strikes you for some reason and you remember what you’d told him that day at his house when you were pointlessly and foolishly begging him to keep loving you. “What we feel is real. This- us, we’re real. You know we are.”
And yet- You huff, a sardonically sad smile spread limply on your face.
“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what that means, Margo.”
Your talk with Margo had carried on far into the night, and you’d caught up with her life, not wanting to think anymore about Mr. Evans and everything that was going on with the wedding and your father.
She had met a guy a few years ago- Todd. He was a nice dude. Kinda nerdy, totally not her normal type. But he treated her like she deserved, loved her endlessly and she did so too. You envied her happiness, truthfully. But you were also really excited for her.
You tell her about Daniel and the problems you had been having, practically screaming about how complicated it all was and how you “just wish you could fuck him”.
Margo, who had never shied away from sex and all its conversation glory, explained that once you found someone you truly loved– it was magical to become one with them physically. Heightened everything about sex– the pleasure, was an obvious one, but the intensity with which you experienced that pleasure, on the other hand, wasn’t that obvious.
That also really stuck with you. Was it really? Would it feel like that with Daniel? What was holding you back from just going ahead and doing it? You loved Daniel so shouldn’t it be easy to want that with him?
I don’t know. Maybe I’m making it too complicated. Maybe I should just go for it.
After you’d finished talking to her, you’d changed out of your clothes into your PJs- a simple tank top and cotton shorts and once you thought it was late enough into the night that you wouldn’t bump into anyone, headed downstairs for some food.
All this emotional turmoil makes one hungry.
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