Fella Done Me Wrong
Based on Anonymous Prompt: Hi !! May I request a 40's!Steve x reader where the reader is the singer in a bar and Steve just can't keep his eyes off of her and when she's sung, she starts to serve and it's like the "how did a girl like you end up in a dump like this" -fella done me wrong" scene from AoU? I'm rambling but I hope you understand and have a lovely day!
A/N: I’m realizing now that a lot of these prompts are from MAY and I’m just now getting to them and I am so, so sorry for that. This got really angsty, like way angstier than I thought was possible, but I had fun writing in a more poetic style. Pretty different from my normal fluff, so let me know what you think!
Tagging @pleasecallmecaptain, @mattymattymerduck, @writingbarnes, @kissofvenom922, @b-orderline, @shamvictoria11, and @callingmrsbarnes.
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Soldiers pass in and out of the bar every day. You rarely see the same face twice. On principle, you never think about why that could possibly be. If you can keep your mind from wandering, you just might be able to sleep at night.
But on this particular night, there’s one face that you just barely recognize. One face that you feel as if you’ve seen before, an almost familiar face in the ever-changing crowd you’ve come to inhabit.
His eyes follow your every movement as you croon out a few songs, helping everyone in the small, moth-eaten bar to forget about the war going on all around them, if only for a few hours. You sing the same set of standards you do every night, a selection of upbeat dance classics and melancholy torch songs, but it’s different tonight. It’s different because you’re singing to him.
After your set is done, you step down and move back behind the bar. The joint’s perpetually understaffed, and you pitching in means free drinks to drown your sorrow in at the end of the night.
The man approaches slowly, in a self-conscious way that you’re not used to seeing. Men that look like him, they’re normally all swagger and bravado, eager to tell you tales of bravery and derring-do. The way he moves is different, as if he doesn’t quite believe he belongs. You feel a surge of affection for the man that surprises you. You hadn’t realize your jaded heart had the capacity for such innocence.
“How goes it, soldier?” you say, a well-worn smile spreading across your perfectly glossed red lips.
“I’ve seen better days,” he replies, sitting down before you. Other soldiers crowd the bar around him, attempting to flag you down, but you pay them no attention. It’s almost as if the rest of the world has melted away and it’s just the two of you, alone in the bar.
“Haven’t we all?” you say, sliding a drink across the bar. “On the house. Or rather, on me.”
“Thank you,” he replies, picking up the glass. He brings it to his lips and they briefly kiss the rim before he sets the glass back down, the drink untouched. “So how did a nice girl like you wind up working in a dump like this?”
A low, throaty chuckle escapes you. You can’t help it; you’ve heard all the variations of the line. But there’s something in his voice that puts a stop to your laughter, a candor and a genuine curiosity. And for once in your life, you give an honest answer.
“Fella done me wrong,” you reply as your eyes meet him. He raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, silently asking for more, but you offer nothing more. You hold his gaze as he shifts his glass from hand to hand.
“You got a lousy taste in men,” he replies and you let out another laugh, sharper this time.
“Don’t I know it,” you say, grabbing a tattered rag and wiping the bar down in front of you. Your voice is bitter, betrays more than you’d like.
“What kind of man leaves a girl in the middle of a war?” he asks and you decide you’ve had enough of the charade.
“The kind you fall madly in love with,” you say simply. “The kind that becomes your entire world and convinces you to follow him across an ocean. The kind that marches out with his regiment and never comes back. The kind that you always knew would break your heart.” The loud bustle of the bar only seems to highlight the silence that hangs between the two of you like an ugly storm cloud.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his hand inching forward as if he wants to take yours. “Which regiment?”
“107th,” you say mechanically, the number seared into your mind.
“We got ‘em back,” he says and your heart flutters at the hope in his voice. Hope that some would call naiveté. “They were POWs and we took the facility. We freed the-”
“I know,” you respond, finally forcing yourself to pour drinks for the rest of the thirsty soldiers. “His fellow soldiers, they were the ones who came and found me, told me how he went down fighting.”
He doesn’t respond, and you know there’s nothing for him to say. You slide the drinks over the bar and you’re met with a round of cheers. You force a smile onto your face, one you’ve practiced in front of the mirror. It’s too broad, too tight. But you’re not quite sure what a real smile looks like anymore.
“Why haven’t you gone home?” he asks.
“Home?” you repeat wistfully. He lets out a half-hearted laugh and you know he feels the same longing you do. “Where’s home for you?”
“Brooklyn.” It clicks into place for you. You’ve seen his deep, soulful eyes, that optimistic smile of his, albeit on a much scrawnier frame. You remember him staring up at you from the audience at a couple of the shows you played in the neighborhood.
“You were that scrawny kid, the one that always took on the bigger guy, always got kicked out of the bar, usually in the middle of my set. What are you doing over here?”
“Well ma’am,” he replies. “You might not have heard, but there’s a war on.” There’s something about the way he says that makes you laugh. Not the way you laughed before. Lighter, clearer, higher. The way you used to laugh.
“Well, for that, I’ll grant you something many men have asked for, but none have received,” you say, wiping your hands on a towel.
“What’s that?”
“A dance. If you’re up to it.” He offers you a hand and you make your way around the bar. He leads you to the center of the floor, placing one hand on your waist. Against your better judgement, you slide forward and lay your head gingerly on his chest. You listen to the steady beat of his heart as he threads his fingers through yours. It’s been a while since you’ve been this close to anyone.
He sways back and forth to the music and you follow his lead, although your movements are dictated by the constant, reassuring thumps in his chest. The band stops and starts a new song, but you make no move to leave and neither does he. You stay that way, wrapped in each others’ arms until people finally start to trickled out and the morning light is just about kissing the horizon.
“It’s been quite a night, Brooklyn,” you smile.
“Steve,” he says. You nod, but you don’t offer your name in response. “My unit moves on today. We were just passing through.”
“I figured as much,” you say. You still haven’t let go of his hand.
“Think we’ll ever meet again?” he asks. The blend of hope and doubt in his voice very nearly break what’s left of your heart. And so you match his honesty with your own.
“I’d like nothing more,” you say. “But I don’t believe in making promises I can’t keep.” He nods and raises your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your hands reach up of their own accord, pulling his face down toward you. You press your lips against his cheek and let him go. He turns away and retreats into the dawn-streaked streets.
Soldiers pass in and out of the bar every day. You don’t see Steve again, not for the rest of the war and not when you return to the States and decide to make your home in Brooklyn. On principle, you never think about why that could possibly be. If you can keep him out of your thoughts, you just might be able to sleep at night.