Letters to the Sun - S.R.
Type: standalone mostly fluffy one-shot, (mutual) pining with a side of idiots in love
Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 8500
Summary: You’re in love with Steve. You’re in love with your closest friend.
Sometimes, you think he knows, or at least has some idea of the profoundness of your affections. Sometimes, despite your doubts and insecurities, you think he might like you more than a friend too.
And so, for this Valentine’s Day, you decide to act. Knowing your voice might fail you, you revert to penwomanship.
You did not expect it to fail you too.
A/N: There is it, my submission to @mercurial-chuckles 's lovely event of Vivifying Valentine's Atelier. I slightly modified the prompt, but it's there towards the end 🥰 I hope our lovey host will enjoy and so will you all! Cute divider by @firefly-graphics 💕
Warnings: mention of a gunshot wound (Steve) and a concussion (reader), allusions to Steve's PTSD, some self-deprecation and sprinkles of humour, mentions of alcohol, Steve being Steve, like one f-bomb, PINING
Dear Steve,
You must be wondering – what could I possibly want to send you a letter for, besides a formal resignation from my position. Do not fret – this is not it. Do not freak out. Or do.
Maybe, though, this is a resignation of sorts.
I’m resigning. I am giving up.
I am resigning from working so hard on trying to resist you – it’s been far too futile. A Sisyphus pushing the stone uphill; all in vain because there is no winning. The only win is to give in and hope you feel the same.
I am giving up the fight. I’m giving up my heart, to you, and I trust you with it, like I trusted you with secrets I trusted no one else with. Like I trust you with my life.
I might not be an Avenger or much of a fighter at all – there is a notion in you possibly trusting me with your life, an utterly ridiculous one and for a good reason. I am not strong. Not even half as you. But I promise: if you trust me with your heart, I will protect it with all I am.
With love and hope,
Yours
You reread the letter and gulp. Then reread it again. The more your gaze passes over each word, the stupider, heavier, sappier and over-the-top it seems. Completely ridiculous. Entirely foolish.
You huff and crumble the poor paper – an expensive one, a nice one, cream-coloured and thick, suited for meaningful words and matters of heart – and throw it to the trashcan at the opposite side of the room.
You miss.
The sad caricature of a love letter and the perfect parody of a ball of paper rolls for dramatic effect.
Just like the stupid stone in the Sisyphus myth which you thought, for some reason, should be mentioned in a confession of love and months of fruitless pining after the man who had become your closest friend. As if loving Steve was a never-ending chore meant to torture you.
Maybe it does, just a little bit; but the pain is not for Steve to know.
All the more for the fact that despite the torture, you keep doing it, your heart stubborn like the man who owns it is in matters of justice for all, the little man first and foremost.
You missed the trashcan just like you missed when trying to pour your feelings into a letter you hoped to give to Steve on Valentine’s Day, at last.
Ah well. The night is growing shorter, but is still young.
You will try again after taking a shower.
It’s not like this was your first failed attempt; the pile of unfinished and scraped letters is ever-growing, it seems.
That’s alright, you try to coax yourself, rising from your desk, neck cracking after the tens and tens of minutes crouched over every single word you tried to write in a writing better than your usual chicken scribble. Or maybe it’s the frustration making your head weigh a ton, straining your muscles, one failure after another.
That’s alright, you sooth yourself as you shed your clothes and wish you could shed your skin and insecurities all the same, the traitorous thoughts and anxieties perhaps being the true hinders that keep your penwomanship back.
You’ll get there. It’s alright. You have time.
It’s still a week till Valentine’s.
Just before you step into the shower, you decide to reroute – to learn from your mistakes this time, you go back and collect the letter from where it didn’t reach the trash and st it on your desk next to the clean sheet of paper, ready to be filled with all that fills your heart.
Dearest Steve,
I know this must feel silly – putting words onto a paper – but it is what I feel I should do. Writing a true love letter. A lovely, old-fashioned thing – a bit like you-
You crumble the paper fast, grinding the word silly between your teeth.
There is a piece of old-fashion in your man, in your beloved. An old-fashioned gentleman with ideals he knows are as good as unattainable, but will keep trying to reach for them anyway and make the world a better place. He’s old-fashioned in his love life too, you gathered, taking his time when dating – but that is just another thing to swoon at, more so since your experience with men is usually the opposite.
To jump into bed as soon as possible.
To touch to grope and fuck before the two to-be lovers could touch each other’s hearts.
Stupid. Shallow. Empty.
Not Steve though.
He’s slow in his approach, you think, a man to pine as much as a man to pine after. It’s one of the many things that drew you in, luring you into the sweet trap of his proximity and sincerity, the cage door snapping shut as soon as you began to fall for him, steps back impossible, stumbling forward the only and the most alluring option.
Yes, Steve can be old-fashioned, a true gentleman to open doors and ease your strains – but to call him that without context, the written word robbed of the affection you’d pour into your voice if you were able, would be a mistake.
You begin your letter anew.
Dearest Steve,
I feel a little silly, putting words onto a paper instead of speaking them face to face, but I often find my voice failing me in your presence when I want to say something of meaning.
As someone, whose soul might be old in the best sense of the word, and with the kindest heart I know, with mischief without malice, I thought that perhaps, despite how silly it might be, you would not laugh at me.
I am writing you with a secret. A secret only very few people know, but is very dear to my heart. And it’s you.
You, my sweet secret, are what’s hidden in my heart. You are my heart. With your every step my heart beats fierce, with every word and touch, my heart hums in a quiet, gentle song.
My secret is my love. I am in love with you and I love you. Do with this secret as you please – it’s yours to keep now or to speak out loud and act upon. I merely hope it will build a bridge between us, rather than a wall.
Sincerely,
Yours
Your frown at the letter, not quite satisfied. There’s so much more you want to say, so little you managed to fit onto the page and while it for once lacks the terrible number of metaphors, the words feel empty.
Unworthy.
Steve, on the other hand, is worthy of everything.
You know this in your heart, in your very soul – and if one could ever doubt it, you remember that one party when all of the company got drunk and tried to lift Thor’s hammer.
You saw Steve tilt it a fraction, the briefest shock on his face that the ‘only the one who is worthy shall possess the power’ could include him; and that is what has only proved the point of the very universe whispering to him and you and all.
And if that wasn’t enough, the fact he moved it no further, wished not to rob his friend of the feeling of uniqueness, would alone make him worthy.
You crumble another expensive, silky-smooth paper, smudging the ink, angry at your inability to put into words the magnitude of your feelings.
Before your next attempt, you close your eyes and breathe; you breathe what you wish was Steve, holding you in his arms, close to his chest, his vigorous heart beating calmly against your cheek, his lips tender on top of your head, his embrace warm and gentle, not minding that the bliss and secure feeling he elicits in your chest makes a few tears gather in your eyes and seep into his t-shirt. You breathe in and smell the echo of his aftershave, musk and him, the ghost of his fingers, rough but oh so careful, threading through your hair.
You breathe and you let the feeling consume you inside out, crawl through your veins straight into your heart where its home is, pushing it into every cell and tissue of you with every slow beat of the most important and most vulnerable muscle in your body.
You lick the non-existent taste of his lips on yours, breathe once more, and open your eyes.
Where the other balls of paper flew straight towards the trash, this one is clean for now; tabula rasa literal, a new opportunity.
You began writing, letters flowing over the page, a little rivulets of your affection frantic and imperfect, but your own to share, and with a feeling so acute your eyes almost burn with tears.
Dearest Steve,
my Sun and my Moon. I feel like to all, you are a man spangled by stars; pardon the pun, you know my affinity to them. But to me, you are so much more. You are everything. A cosmic wonder, the most beautiful glitch in the universe full of celestial bodies.
You are the Sun. You are the warmth I wish to great each morning with, burn in it at noon and be reborn in the golden hour of the afternoon.
You are the Moon. You are the serenity and quiet of the night I welcome, for like your arms, they feel safe.
You are the Earth. You are where I wish to put roots and tangle and bloom together, to become something new and full of life together, a careful care to each branch and leaf and blossom, supporting what looks like it might break and letting go of what’s better left behind so we could grow further, closer to the sun and the moon in beautiful, unperfect harmony-
You whimper, setting – no, throwing – the pen aside, covering your face with your hands and screaming into the silence of your palms.
What is even this one? Attempts at metaphors of times and space, referring to Steve’s designation, comparing him to celestial bodies as if you just wanted him for his body, speaking of creating new life as if you couldn’t wait to be bedded and bred, comparing him to a glitch in the universe and spacetime, as if you wanted to rub in his face all the times when he has opened his heart to you about what he missed about the past?
Unacceptable.
To have him think, even if for a moment, that you are mocking him, insulting him, that you think him less for nostalgia and missing what was and perhaps still is his home? You’d break your hand before writing it and meaning it.
Which is a rather dramatic thought, you suppose – way too dramatic and that of poets and romantic heroes in the true sense of the late 18th century, ready to throw themselves off the cliff to drown in the eternal love for the one they could not have. To consider breaking your hand, as little as the action might seem in comparison to drowning, is dramatic, an aftershock of having started two letters, finishing none, missing the trash can once and just failing the third letter of the night.
The Valentine’s Day is in two days.
You have nothing to show. Nothing usable. Nothing but a pile of bad metaphors as well as bluntness, purple prose and confessions that lack the magnitude of your sentiment that’s been gathering for over a whirlwind of two years, filling your chest so richly that your ribcage might burst at its seams.
You grab after the poor cream-smooth stationery and attack it with fervour with the hands that failed you, another sad ball flying towards the trash can. It lands inside for once.
The satisfaction of scoring a point but missing the mark completely where it matters has your heavy head fall on the top of your desk.
It falls hard enough that the pain echoes in your skull and you whip your head back with a curse on your lips, rubbing the spot on your forehead gently as you lean backwards as if it could make up for the hit.
You end up tipping the chair backwards – and this time, the impact vibrates through your whole body.
You don’t remember how you got to the hospital, but you do remember waking up with one hand stiff and cold even under the covers and the other endlessly warm even though it’s on top on the comforter.
You do remember waking up to Steve sharing the warmth of his skin with the very hand.
He explains how he literally broke down your door when you hadn’t answered his calls, the tips of his ears as red as his lips, turned downwards in worry, but tempting all the more. He asks if you remember what happened.
He’s watching you earnestly, eyes the softest blue with a speckle of green you do want to plunge into and drown in, awaiting your answer, so genuinely clueless.
He looks like he could be in love with you too.
For just a moment, for a few delirious beats of your heart, you let yourself believe it.
You don’t mention the letters.
You do admit – for a big part simply because you want to show him you’re feeling better, that you do remember, that it’s not so serious, and because you wish to erase the crease on his forehead and if your lips cannot kiss it away, you let them form words so they could do the job at least – how it happened, physically speaking.
He’s staring at you for a beat, silent, awed and stunned with horror and doubt at once.
You do not waver, because you know you speak the truth.
You reciprocate his stare, hoping your possible heart eyes showing when being able to look at his face for a prolonged period of time, could be blamed on your concussion.
And then he laughs.
It’s sun and it’s a rainbow after the most electrifying of storms and you realize you were so so wrong to think his frown was more kissable than his laugh.
He carefully wraps his arms around you when you sit up enough for him to do so, holds you tight, and laugh-whispers:
Only you.
The two words sound so fond you wish he’d say it over and over, with the same affection that burns in your stomach, in your brain, in your lungs and in your stupid heart; or that you’d turn deaf so you’d never hear him speak it again if he doesn’t mean it the way you crave.
The gentle, protective, but unrelenting squeeze of your body in his arms feels just like his gaze appeared and his words sounded, even if for a fleeting moment – like he could love you too.
You allow yourself to melt into his embrace and into him, and believe.
Must be the concussion taking its toll.
He’s full of contradictions, your Steve.
He is not yours in ownership, not yours in terms of a relationship either – but your heart has already claimed him, so you suppose you can be forgiven for thinking of him such. He’s a keeper; one you wish you’d belong to and one you wish to keep.
He’s full of contradictions, but instead of crashing in harsh contrasts, they blend together like paint on artist’s pallet to create the whole, mesmerizing image of who he is.
All hard muscle and the softest of hearts.
Brutal fists and the softest of hands; you’d know.
Fierce spirit and the gentlest of souls.
A man who had been frozen for seventy damn years yet whose touch is the warmest you’ve ever felt, its tendrils reaching all the way to your heart, through skin and tissue and bone. His smile is the sun itself, sweet hesitance of the morning, brightness and humour of the midday, the secret and softness of the golden hour; you want to trace its shape with your fingertips and wish to taste his ‘I love you’ with your mouth. He’s the Moon and you’re the sea, inevitable gravity pulling you close whenever you try to wash away your feeling, affections rising away like a tide instead.
There’s a reason why you’ve tried to liken him to the celestial bodies on the Milky Way and beyond.
But the fact is that no matter hard how you had been trying, failure was the only thing you did with success.
There is no letter to give, no courage to speak up what the pen in your hand could not put into words, leaving no hope for your mouth to form instead.
The Valentine’s Day passes, the evening bringing Galentine’s Day, accepting the men of the Avengers as well.
Perhaps it’s the sympathy of those of the friend group that are coupled up, to have moved their romantic plans for another time, spending the 14th in the company of friends and games and chatter and food and alcohol.
You know Natasha knows; she knows almost all.
You also think she knows you know she’s been trying to get you drunk, probably to make you profess your undying love for Steve, preferably to Steve.
The joke is on her. You don’t drink much ever, but have made up a simple lame excuse of having decided to stick strictly to alcohol-free February, something you read people in central Europe did. Stark googles it. Finds out it’s real and they actually call it a Dry February.
You’re sure it’s Bucky who mutters something about a Dry-spell February, while Sam, inebriated from his drinking game against the Black Widow herself, straightens on the sofa and asks about who started talking about dry humping and whether you’re playing Never Have I Ever.
Never have I ever confessed my love for the most loveable man on Earth.
You confess none.
You go to bed before they do start playing.
You stay the night at the Tower, not driving home nor letting anyone to drive you.
And it doesn’t click until the next day when you meet Steve in the communal kitchen, his lips twitching gently when he sees you wearing the most ridiculous Avengers merch pyjamas Natasha could find in the late evening; you guess that for a night, you just wanted to sleep home.
And spending the night in the Tower, where Steve decided to sleep for the night too, was sleeping much closer to home than your empty apartment could ever offer.
Steve, my beloved,
Roses are all colours. But your eyes are deep blue with the prettiest drop of green that makes you unique and you.
I wish I could jump and drown in your colours to make my world yours to make the world ours.
Sincerely, and entirely
Yours.
You’re at loss. Prose has failed you and so you’ve reverted to poetry.
The result is… tragicomically disastrous. The words that are supposed to feel light and lyrical sound heavy like reciting a thesaurus, the ones you work with for simplicity result in but a nursery rhyme.
You’ve tried to reread some of the books Steve has borrowed or even gifted you, for inspiration. You happen to love poetry, in fact, and so you have naively thought with how well-read you are, words will come easy. After all, one of the keys to good writing is reading.
What no one told you was just how hard it was to rhyme in a less than predictable ways, how to resign on rhymes in certain times so it seems like artistic intent and cleverness rather than giving up, and how to set together verses when even full sentences fail to capture how much you feel.
You decide after the first few tries – those on normal paper rather than on the expensive letter one, you know better by now – that poetry is not the way. You decide to come back to the welcoming arms of prose.
You do not get to start another letter than night, however.
You get a phone call instead.
One of the dreaded ones.
You take a cab almost half-dressed, and three halves scared to death.
You get to the medical at the Tower before they roll him out of the surgery, running straight into Natasha with tears in your eyes.
There are tears in her eyes too; you’d crashed into her before she had the chance to tell you she has several bruised and two cracked ribs.
Most people get to think Steve Rogers an embodiment of red and white and blue and see him in these very colours; you have the privilege to get to see him like a human being and see him in colours that make your stomach twist in tight knots and tears spring anew.
Red. There had to be so much red when they rolled him in the surgery, abdomen hit with the nastiest of weapons. A wound disguised as clean and simple, if one could ever call a gunshot wound that. A single bullet that splintered into quarter smaller ones upon embedding in the flesh, an explosion of mass tearing what would have killed a non-enhanced human on the spot.
Steve is an extraordinary human being in many ways, but today, you’re thanking any higher power there is for the serum coursing his veins and remind yourself to lay flowers on Doctor Erskine’s grave.
Serum or not, it’s still been a touch and go for a while, adding two little heart attacks to your name when the alarms blared, inviting extra hands to the operating theatre during complications.
The red is all gone but inside where it’s supposed to be.
You only see red in a rather shallow cut over Steve’s brow.
There’s blue and black all over though – bruises changing colour in front of your eyes, blending into greens and yellows if you blink for too long, eyelids growing heavy as you guard Steve’s bedside, the colours all too sharp against his skin so pale in might as well be white to complete the trinity of patriotism most people associate with him.
It’s been days.
The sofa that’s been present in every Avengers level hospital room is a lifesaver and not a coincidence; there’s always someone dutifully watching over their friend or partner, losing appetite as well as sleep, the latter making for inevitable unvoluntary naps one falls for when in a place as comfortable as this.
People come and go, switching worrying about Steve still not waking up, reassuring you and themselves that it is normal given the extent of his injuries, reproaching him for being an idiot and taking a bullet meant for someone else – and scolding you for staying in the room at all times, safe for bathroom breaks.
It’s the Avengers’ fault really though, that you are able to stay, something you are grateful for.
They’re the boss. If they truly wanted you to leave, they could just order you to go back to work rather than giving you a personal time off, bringing food and drinks and books to read to Steve until your voice grows hoarse, and your laptop to deal with matters that need tending without too much delay.
You type a letter into a word document and end up deleting it, because it’s stupid and impersonal and despite Steve’s condition slowly improving, there is no telling if he’ll ever be able to read it.
You write another to a folded piece of paper you’ve been using as a bookmark anyway, when you reach the end of the story and cry, not over the plot, but over managing to recite a whole damn book without Steve’s condition improving enough to show off his lovely blues, even if the white of his eyes would probably be bloodshot, to once again complete the trinity of colours that makes him Captain America and are really just colours that brought him to the hospital bed in the first place.
Coincidentally, you cannot really be mad, however – those colours also happen to be what tied his fate with yours, bringing him to you to love him and weep for him.
He wakes up on April’s Fools.
You cry rivers and nearly punch him when he learns the date and one of his first words after what happened, are the others okay and are you okay, are him trying to make a joke.
You’re not sure you catch the punchline.
You’re sure his tired grin is the most beautiful thing in the whole damn world.
And you’re just as sure that your heart is far too gone loving him, all the more just for being alive.
Dearest Steve,
Please. Let me bleed my blood. Let Tony, Nat, Bucky bleed theirs when it comes to it, instead of catching the brunt of impact. I know you well enough to know it is not quite in your nature, but I still wish you read my plea and take it to heart. It’s a precious thing, your heart. You are precious.
Please, let us bleed our blood and let us bleed it for you. How funny a thing that would be – it would work wonders. If my blood was what was coursing through your veins, you’d be much more careful with it, wouldn’t you? That is the thing that’s in your nature, isn’t it? Being so careful with others. But you yourself must be careful too.
For you are cared about.
For you are loved.
You are loved all the same, whether you are selfless or get selfish, whether you are good or not feeling good enough. Whether you are laughing or crying, whether you stand tall and carry the weight of the world on your shoulders or you feel yourself breaking under it.
You are cared about. You are loved. You are ours and we are yours. Sometimes, you must let us feel the pain of it for a change and carry the weight with you – for I know you’d never give it up completely.
Let us bleed for you, for a change. And heal.
Pleading, aching and praying, sincerely and entirely
Yours.
Steve’s puppy eyes are a weapon with a lasting effect. That expression of his is so etched into your mind – pleading, oftentimes guilty and sometimes doing the guilting at the same time – that when he asks you, even if only over a text, you simply cannot say no.
If you had the defences built out of a sound mind, you would have refused – but you don’t.
No, Steve Rogers, the beautiful bastard, always leaves you defenceless, already having made it through the cavalries and infantries guarding your heart.
That’s how you find yourself in his arms again, heartstrings pulled at achingly, gaze locked almost as close as your bodies.
He’s still not hundred perfect fit – even as he is very fine, like always – so while he cannot go lead the troops and fight for a better world with his fists, it has been decided he can make himself useful by representing and chitchatting with important people. And do so on one of the fancy galas he prefers to avoid like a plague and would normally rather jump out of a plane for than attended.
There will be dancing, he said when he had been – as you realized later – slowly softening you around the edges the whole evening you had been texting. I need to practise. Help? 🥺
You curse whoever has taught him to use that emoji which evokes the exact expressions you know he makes writing that text; you are fairly certain it was you and it’s come to bite you in the ass.
Now your heart is racing as Steve’s hand rests gently but firmly on your back, maddeningly respectful and full of warmth and friendship, even as his eyes are the softest blue with an unspoken promise of deeper affections.
“Are you sure you should be even doing this?” you question quietly as he twirls you around in rhythm of a waltz that has no right being so romantic. You wonder if he’d chosen it, or if Natasha had, having confirmed to you that no, she could not be the one to help Steve since she was just heading to another assignment. “Should you even be up and running?”
His smile is as sweet as honey and for a moment, you forget yourself and stare, wondering if that’s what his lips taste like too.
“I’m not running. We’re dancing.”
You try to set a firmly unimpressed deadpan expression. You’re sure it has zero effect. Steve’s blues crinkling at the edges confirm your suspicion.
“I mean it, Steve. I know you’d like us to all remember it as if it were just a flesh wound, but the flesh that was hit was really damn deep.”
The cold shudder rushing through your body is soothed by Steve’s arm embracing you closer, his thigh pressing firmly against yours as if he knew his touch usually distracts you enough to make you forget things.
Your heart does stumble and your feet nearly do too, but it does not work. Not this time. The pale face looking damn near lifeless resting on the pillow for days and days with no end haunts you, day and night; and Steve’s voice is quieter, more intimate, after you whisper that he really scared you.
“I know I did… I’m sorry,” he says sincerely and you know, undeniably, that you’d let him get away with murder, with anything really. Anything but his actual death. That, you’d never forgive him. “And thank you for being there. That meant a lot. I… it was a little cold.”
Your breath hitches, your eyes burning just a bit, hearing the unspoken words written in his confession.
When it’s cold, when he says it was like that, you know what it means: nightmares. Nightmares and flashbacks to the icy cold of the ocean, limbs immobile, crushed under tons of water, and loneliness that runs deeper than the marrow of his bones.
Steve rarely says things he doesn’t mean; but when he says this, you understand then just how profoundly he feels grateful for not having woken up alone.
The simple ‘always’ slips from your lips, easy and natural. As if it’s not a declaration of love on its own.
As if the brief haunted shadow in Steve’s eyes doesn’t dissolve into something warmer and full of wonder upon hearing it.
As if his fingers don’t twitch on your back and you are not acutely aware that the music is still playing but you barely hear it anymore, your feet having stilled, your chests brushing with every breath, gaze flickering dangerously from his eyes to the inviting pinkish red of his parted lips.
Your breath hitches when you catch yourself and force your gaze back to meet his, only to find him distracted from looking into your eyes by the quick dart of your tongue over your suddenly dry lips.
Your name spoken softly is no louder than a breath, yet feels louder than the music that seems to have faded into nothingness far away outside your bubble, air thick and headily sweet, pulsing with every frantic beat of your heart.
His StarkWatch vibrates.
It’s the reality calling.
It must want its two favourite idiots back; one lost to the dream already, the other on the verge of a promise they probably don’t even mean.
Steve ignores the incoming message, but you’ve already flinched, the bubble having burst, and so you answer the call.
For both of you.
You clear your throat and slowly, feeling all of you ache sharply, you untangle from his hold, first having grown tighter then falling completely limp.
You smile reassuringly, not showing teeth because you feel their bite in your chest where your heart is supposed to beat for you and not him.
What a farce of a concept.
“You should probably check that out, Cap. They need you,” you say, choosing not to see the way his expression seems to fall for it’s all but your mind playing tricks on you to sooth the sharpened heartstrings cutting into your veins. “And we both know you’re plenty prepared to dance with whomever you deem worthy tomorrow.”
Steve opens his mouth, no sound coming out, the regret and something akin to pain flashing in his eyes so distinctly you’re sure that you can’t have imagined.
And like a sucker, you rush to brush your fingers over the invisible wound, because if you only could, you’d make sure Steve Rogers does not know a single day of pain.
“We’re still on for our Takeout Tuesday?”
His smile is small but warm like a cosy winter evening by a fireplace you never got to experience.
“You got it. Always.”
You’ve got me, the last word whispers, the unfair promise spoken out loud now.
“Good.”
You hug him briefly before you can change your mind, before you can make it awkward with your best friend who knows you better than anyone in the whole damn world, and you pretend your eyes and the bridge of your nose don’t burn when his embrace lingers, his cheek brushing your head where he gently leans in, an almost deliberate stroke of his fingers where he holds you.
You’re already stepping back when the words stumble out, slow and sure and yet somehow frantic.
“Hey, uhm, I was wondering… with the AI celebrating Labour Day by giving everyone a day off and a long weekend… still don’t have any plans?”
You blink, surprised by the question – mostly because you know Steve knows you barely make any plans. At least he has enough courtesy not to make you feel lame when you truthfully answer that you don’t.
“Yeah, me neither… and it’s been a while since we had a movie night? I could cook too – or we could, together. If you’d like.”
He sounds unsure, looking a little small despite his huge frame and you gulp, goosebumps rising all over, because you feel sorry. You’re so sorry it’s become awkward already, leaving him uncertain about something as sweetly innocent as asking for an evening between friends; all because of one silly moment of what could have been a lead-up to a kiss.
Though is it all what he’s asking for?
His fingers fix his hair almost nervously and so yours itch to do it for him, his feet shuffle a bit and he truly does look like he’s feeling too small for his large body – or maybe too large to be contained even the great mass of flesh holding the most beautiful soul you’ve ever known. There’s a hint of pink in his cheeks that could easily be just the exertion of the waltz and all the dances you’ve dance before that, only now catching up to him.
It still does sound quite like a date night without saying so.
Well. If it turns out it’s not, you can lick your wounds later. You’d already decided your answer months and months before he asked.
“Sounds great, Steve. I’d like that.”
The joyful crinkle in his eye somehow fails to light up his face more than the shy, barely there smile he gives in response.
You reciprocate the smile, glad he simply bid you goodbye instead of saying ‘it’s a date then’.
Though are you?
Dear Steve,
Please, you must forgive me – I can no longer keep silent for I have been so for far too long. I must speak my accusations even as it hurts me.
You, my beloved, are a criminal. And a smooth one at that.
The list of your crimes, your rap sheet if you will, is an extensive one.
I speak not of your signature disobedience of authority or falsifying your records to earn your place in the army to begin with, I mean not to blame you for choosing to take down an entire intelligence organisation at the first sign of corruption in its ranks, nor rising to fight the whole damn governments over an farce of an international agreement. None of these crimes I would ever hold against you – they came from a good place and of noble intentions, from following your personal true north which I admire and harmonize with.
No.
Your crime, my dear Sir, is that you are a thief. An incredibly sneaky one, a true criminal strategic mastermind, relying on the fact no jury would ever convict you. For if you coax me into giving willingly, do you truly thieve, little by little, over and over?
You walk into a room and you steal all my attention, you smile and you take my breath away. You touch me, a mere squeeze of a hand in support and you rob me of my heart, and in your gentleness, you carefully steal away my soul.
All of this loot lies at your feet, you cradle it with your hands without your knowledge, and yet I know you will never give it back. I cannot tell if that is what I’d wish for anyway.
Instead, I suppose, I merely ask of you to take care of it and should I ever be so bold, I ask if you could give some of yours in return. So we could be thick as thieves together, you possessing all I am and me cherishing anything of you that you are willing to let me take. Two little thieves, stealing each other’s breath and returning it, lips to lips, locked away for life in a kiss.
Perhaps, if you are a criminal, I am a criminal too. I surely do plead guilty of loving you.
What of you, my darling? How do you plead?
Most sincerely, and entirely
Yours.
P.S., for I must add to the ever-growing list: Your eyes are, truly, criminally blue, the hint of green in them the royal jewels you’ve heisted so recklessly. I wish to see the beauty every day in the sharp light of the rising sun and in the soothing reflection of the rising moon.
In your endless search through poetry, having been trying to find words to express your affections for Steve, you came over a peculiar case of a poem whose author could not have assumed the power it would hold over an entire nation almost two centuries later.
Having died young, Mácha wrote a true love letter to romantic way of life. Of love short and fierce and wild, of a wanderer coming to a place of a love whose story did not die with its lovers. That poem is called Máj.
May had perhaps always been, as spring is, a time of all love blooming; but two little nations in the heart of Europe, you have learned, carry on a tradition born out of associating May with love in particular. For them, the first of May is the time to kiss your lover under a blooming cherry tree, to strengthen and maintain your love.
Late evening, on the first of May— / The twilit May—the time of love, reads the first verses of the best-known part of the poem; and how fitting it feels seal the envelope at last at the very evening, hands shaky, your steps and every move unsure when Steve rings the bell.
An evening in his company is familiar.
The evening is one of the strangest you have ever lived.
There’s a gentle hug and laughs and smiles, but the embrace puts you on the edge instead of soothing you.
The laugh is short and quiet, smile forced and unsure. For your part anyway.
The food smells delicious, Steve’s touch is certain but delicate to still you when you stir the sauce too frantically, your anxiety not rubbing off on him but noticed.
You know he’s noticed, because he watches you. He watches and he sees and despite his best efforts, he seems clueless as how to help you relax.
You do not hold it against him; but every second he watches, every second he sees, you fall further down the spiral of overthinking your life choices.
It feels like every word you have poured into your failed letters is written on your skin for him to read.
It feels like the one you wrote tonight might as well be scripted over your forehead and yet you display it for him more than your eyes, your gaze lowered to the food for you cannot bare his own.
When he leads you to the couch after you’re done eating, the desert still cooling, he politely doesn’t ask about the box on the coffee table.
He does not ask you what movie you’d like to put on either.
He holds your hand like it’s a precious artifact that could break under his touch; he cradles it in both of his, as if it was a baby bird who’s not learned how to fly yet and must be protected at all costs.
“I… I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” you respond, voice thick and emptier than a void, earning a curious tilt of his head and a squeeze to your hand.
It’s not a lie though; because it’s you, not him.
What a perfect line to lead with as you are about to break up with your friend.
What a perfect line to lead with to ruin this friendship.
You do not say it out loud, for you cannot find your voice; that is why you have chosen to write a letter instead.
Two dozens of them and then some.
You counted them all.
Because you kept them all too, sad little balls of paper, creamy, silky smooth and the most ordinary, cheapest one you could find, straightened and carrying the scars of having been crumbled.
“Not to call you out, but you’ve been on the edge all night, sweetheart,” he says, the endearment so soft you can’t but forgive him for denying that calling you out is exactly what he’s doing. But you’d let him get away with murder, this smooth criminal – you’ve already established as much. “Talk to me. You can tell me anything… you know that, right? I… I just want to be here for you.”
The words are gentle like a caress and as sharp as a knife to your throat – so close you cannot breathe in without cutting your skin on the blade.
And so you don’t.
You raise your eyes from the midnight blue of his button-up where a dust of flour has lingered and meet the infinite kindness written in his eyes like constellation on a clear day’s skies.
I just want to be here for you.
As a friend.
As anything you wish.
Always.
You gulp, gaze falling to your joined hands, the warmth seeping through to your very bones; you slip your hand away.
Your heart is a thunderstorm in the silence of your living room; if fills your throat and your head sharply, mind misted over with pouring rain and nearly blinding you as you watch your hands reach for the box and pull out two envelopes with a sigh of a resigned and carefully hopeful okay.
Two envelopes.
One, cream-smooth and almost golden, precious and thin. One short letter.
Another one, ordinary white smudged with ink, heavy and thick, unclosed for there are too many sheets of paper, once having been crumbled. Almost too many letters to count; and yet you remember writing every single one.
You feel Steve’s gaze boring into every feature of your face, watching closely, grasping at straws to help him understand.
Late evening, on the first of May— The twilit May—the time of love - ---
You don’t think you’d come across the poem before you started writing. You have not thus shared it with him and yet it echoes in your head like cacophony along with his always.
It is now or never; it is now for it’s too late to go back already.
You hand him the thin envelope, fingers cold and trembling brushing over his warmth.
The other envelope you lay into his lap when he doesn’t say a word to question your actions or strange behaviour anymore.
He opens the letter with delicacy his large hands have no right being capable of; he opens the letter with the artist’s touch, even as the words awaiting him are all but art.
And he reads.
Dear Steve,
I love you.
I love you so much words seem to fail me whenever I try to express it in other than these three simple words.
But I do, love you – enough to never stop trying.
Sincerely, and entirely
Yours.
The silence that follows as he reads over and over is so loud the empty sound must be reaching three floors up; your heart is thundering so heavily they must hear it all across the city at the Tower.
Steve is still, completely.
With your gaze lowered to his chest, you realise he has stopped breathing too, a beautiful statue of a titan frozen in time.
When does move, it’s the tinniest motion of his head and you feel his gaze shift, a burning brand, from the words you have scribbled to your face, his hand carefully landing on the thicker envelope.
“Are… are those-“
“Yup,” you choke out, the tip of the blade having been to your throat seemingly cutting closer to your windpipe.
Then again, Steve, ever the gentleman, rasps as well. How kind of him to not leave you suffering alone without a proper voice.
“And you--- are you-”
Are in love with me?
Yes. Yes, you are.
You’re not sure that is exactly what he was about to ask but you respond anyway.
“Yes.”
He releases you from the scrutiny of his gaze with a deep sigh that cuts deep; but at least you are free to look up at his face, just in time to see his eyelids slip shut, having finished reading the lame completely uncalled-for letter for what must have been the twentieth time.
Yes.
What a perfect word to ruin this friendship.
You can hear the foundations it stood upon cracking.
And you cannot stand it. You scramble frantically to salvage what you can, because you cannot, you cannot lose him.
You’d let him get away with murder, but not his death.
Not him leaving.
Tears burn in your eyes and pour like acid down your throat, but you speak anyway, because if you cannot find your voice now, you might as well remain silent forever.
“Uhm, yeah, okay, I’m--- this…. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry-”
Steve winces, eyes snapping open so fast you’re reminded that for all the humanity of his that you love, he is a superhuman too.
His blues shine bright, the letter dropping to his lap to join the other witnesses to your failure and before you can process that the emotion in Steve’s eyes is on the edge of panic, the blue is all you can see and you’re drowning.
He’s always been a hero; he’s not letting you drown.
His hands are gripping yours, as urgent as his voice.
“No! Don’t you---- No,”he softens his words and his grasp alike, thumb brushing over your wrist carefully and--- yes. He is a thief.
He is stealing your breath again and the emotion in his gaze diluting the panic with sweetness is… nothing short of dream come true. It’s also something you have seen him look at you with countless times and you cannot comprehend how you have not seen before.
“No, this… all this is perfect. You are perfect.”
You’re waiting for the ‘but’ even as the understanding that it’s not coming slowly trickles into your ribcage and fills your chest, heart beating despite and for it.
For you.
For him.
He watches you with the softest intent.
He’s the sun at the golden hour, gentle and warm and instead of saying goodbye with grandeur, he’s opening the gates to something even tenderer walking it, the soothing secrets of the night.
When you whisper his name, a question, one syllable pleading for reassurance, one of his hands releases yours and slides under your chin, tipping your face just a bit higher to make you look directly into the sun and feel the warmth caressing your skin, cradling your cheek.
He looks at you as if you are the Sun and he’s the Earth in your orbit and the gravity pulling you to each other is everything but a glitch in the universe. It’s everything right.
“I wasn’t sure,” he whispers, distance erased inch by inch, still light years away and almost touching, “I thought… I thought maybe… that I was just seeing what I wished so much to see and if I told you, it would…”
Your heart is threatening to jump out of your ribcage, but all that escapes your chest is a choked laugh, gaze falling, a little self-conscious, as it feels like instead of speaking his truth, he’s reading your mind.
“Yeah… I know how that feels.”
“Yeah?”
There’s a little smile on his face, a shy little thing, the first sunbeam breaking through the morning fog that’s gathered in your eyes, and it’s the most beautiful sight.
You can’t speak anymore and so you nod; he might not see it, but still holding your face so gently, he certainly feels it. You know he does.
His thumb strokes your cheek, so tender, his lips hovering an inch too far, brushing over the corner of your mouth.
As if he’s asking permission; yet no question falls from his lips.
Instead:
“I love you too. And I’m sincerely, entirely yours.”
And then he’s kissing you.
By god and all the universe, Steve is kissing you and you understand that the foundations of your friendships were never meant to crumble entirely.
Instead, they are being repaired with golden threads of love pouring into the cracks to create something new and breathtaking and precious.
He’s kissing you. He’s pulling you in to hold you close as if nothing is close enough.
And you know that every word you’ve written – no matter how corny, how simple, how wrong it has felt – was true. And yet could never be enough.
No wonder the words have been failing you.
Kissing Steve, at last, is a joyful explosion of bright colours and the serenity of coming home after the longest journey, sweet like honey and tart with the meal you have prepared together, his touch is a touch of celestial bodies poured into your veins instead of blood; he holds you in the tenderest embrace, respectful and old-fashioned and protective, the way his fingers brush over the column of your neck tickling and raising the most pleasant goosebumps and there’s about as much of oxygen left as in the vacuum of space and it’s silly to say you do not care, but you truly don’t; not when his lips detach for just a moment and then they are back because you are not alone in this, you’re not; he’s stolen your heart but you have stolen his, two little thieves locked away for life in an eternal kiss, sharing the most sacred secret that might have not been so to anyone but yourselves:
That you do love one another and indeed belong to each other.
Entirely and sincerely, indeed.
Steve Rogers masterlist
Complete masterlist
Hello lovely readers! Thank you for reaching this part. If you did so and have something nice to say, if you have the time and energy to share and send this fic further to the maze of tumblr, I'll be grateful 🥰interaction is life and love.
I hope April has been gentle with you so far 💕
And if you haven't already, go check out @mercurial-chuckles 🩷 (As you can see, I took the maximum word count to the heart's content seriously 🤭 bless)
