Summary: You spot him across the room late on a Tuesday night, bent over a glass of amber liquid.
A/N: I really fucking love his eyes okay?
Warnings: First meetings, Steve and Connie are separated in this, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, getting together.
You spot him late on a Tuesday night, between the spirals of cigarette smoke and sweaty, writhing bodies on the dance floor. He’s bent over the bar, nursing a glass of amber whiskey in his hands, looking all the world like a man whose entire life has crumbled beneath his feet. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who he is or more pointedly, what he is but you still watch for a long time anyway.
The man sticks out like a sore thumb, the mop of blond hair on his head like a fucking flare saying he doesn’t belong. His suit doesn’t help, not that he’s the only one around here with one, but its crisp and ironed, glossy brown shoes on his feet and you knew what you’d find beneath it, the badge and gun strapped to his belt.
DEA don’t typically hang out in these kinds of bars, usually they have just enough money to be sensible, not to take risks that could get them in shit. This man especially, doesn’t look like the type to just wander in here and you’re right, a sense of vindication settling in your chest when one Javier Peña sidles up next to him, clapping him on the back and muttering low in his ear, a tight smile pulling at his lips.
Of course…Javier Peña was always the exception and that made this man his partner, poor bastard. You’d had him once, some of the best sex of your life, not that it was much of a standard at that point. Still, all it had taken was a handful of hours to know the man was a flame that burned anyone who got too close to touch.
Peña doesn’t stay but the gringo does.
You aren’t the type to introduce yourself, to get involved with someone who already looks like they’ve taken the beating of their life. Keeping to yourself, studying hard and earning a pittance of change as a bartender was the life you led, was all you had in the wings and there wasn’t space for mistakes like this.
Except you can’t stop looking at his eyes.
He’d glanced up briefly when his partner left, waving him off and you shouldn’t have been able to see them from across the room, but there was no hiding eyes like those. Bright blue and glassy as the sea, they’d shined in the dim lights of the bar, practically sparkling in a way that made your breath catch.
You weren’t given to flight of fancy, had never been so shallow as to rely on looks to guide your intuition on a person and that was just it, they’d also been so achingly kind. Peña’s partner or not, the man was good and there wasn’t much of that left around here, not when it came to men in positions of power, men who could make a difference.
Really, things were always going to turn out this way.
Getting to your feet, you brush off the inquiring noise of your friends. Tonight, hadn’t been a celebration or even for fun, it’d just been a chance to escape the suffocating confines of your homes and books and jobs. They’d keep an eye on you if this went south, if you were wrong about the gringo DEA and ended up in a pit of regret.
Somehow, you didn’t think so.
Maneuvering your way through the crowd, you take in the acidic scent of sweat, drown in the white noise of shouting, laughing, and obnoxiously loud music because this is you in your element and he was the outsider here, the stranger…you hoped it wouldn’t stay that way.
Coming up next to him at the bar, the gringo doesn’t even look up. It’s an opportunity, a mistake on his part, that you take without question, letting your gaze run over the length of him, the details that had seemed blurry on the other side of the room. He looks tired in only the way a man fighting a mountain can be, the hand curled around his half empty glass shakes just a little and you wonder why Peña left him here like this, why he wouldn’t have dragged him home.
It doesn’t matter, finders’ keepers.
You aren’t here to seduce him, that’s something you decide right away. No, you want to talk, want to pick apart the curiosity of this broken man with the kind eyes and troublesome partner. Then again, maybe it’s the way he almost seems untouchable, his golden hair and cold eyes a strange contrast to the warmth that seems to just be exuding off him.
He lifts his head, a furrow between his brows and looks at you, finally notices someone staring long after it would have been too late, if you were someone to be worried about. It’s easy, when he raises an eyebrow, to smile and it’s genuine, Christ it’s been a long time since you could do that.
“Hi,” you murmur. “You doing okay?”
He blinks and it’s because he’s surprised by the question, how it was phrased. It makes you want to tousle his hair; makes you want to bask in the innocence you find in every line of his face. Not ‘how are you doing tonight?’ not ‘hey there’ not a sultry voice or fluttering eyelashes, nothing but a tone of genuine concern that clearly throws him for a loop.
You’d seen the handful of women who had bothered to approach him earlier, certainly hoping to gain favour by fucking a DEA agent so good he’d be begging for more. The gringo had shook his head, distracted but respectful and that too, was added to the list of things drawing you to him like a moth to a flame.
He hasn’t said anything yet, those bottomless depths assessing you, trying to figure out what the play is so you put out your hand and let your grin soften into something inviting. The gringo is a man and a professional which means it’s all instinct that has been shaking it with a firm grip, his name falling from his lips helplessly, “Steve.”
Steve. Your lips tingle with the urge to trace the sound with your mouth, though it ends up a near constant repetition in your head as you try to match its mundane essence to the man sitting so interestingly in front of you. In the end, you decide it fits.
You offer your own name, and his head dips a little in acknowledgement before his eyes dart away from you, a nervous gesture, so you motion at his drink to draw his attention back to you, already missing those damn eyes, “I’d offer to get you a drink but you’re not even halfway through that one.”
“Right,” he’s trying to connect the dots, it’s obvious as he takes in your words and chews on them for a long moment. Probably a rare occurrence that someone doesn’t sidle up and offer to buy another regardless, doesn’t try to lower his guard with alcohol. “Sorry, I’m not-”
“That’s alright, I’m only looking for conversation.”
Steve looks at you for a long moment, doesn’t trust your words except there is a glint in his eye now, an interest as he tries to figure out your own puzzle pieces and how they fit together. You aren’t speaking Spanish and there is no discernable accent, you’re clearly comfortable in this bar where the regulars come, and you can see the exact moment he thinks to himself; fuck it.
The conversation comes haltingly at first and you meant what you said, mindful of keeping your hands to yourself, not offering a drink even when he reaches the end of his glass. All the while, as you listen to the grit of his voice and watch the weariness in his eyes, you’re overwhelmed by the way Steve is almost shy.
It’s not hard to figure out, observant as you are.
When the conversation stumbles its way into Miami, a place you’ve never been but would love to see one day, he gets into it, hands coming up to explain things and you see it. He’s a man who isn’t used to being lonely because there is a band of pale skin on his ring finger and the edges look a little red, a little rough. Married, recently separated obviously and you wonder who was foolish enough to throw this away, to throw him away.
Summary: Nightmares are a common occurrence for Steve and the only form of comfort you can offer is your presence.
A/N: Apparently, I’m a sucker for a tortured Steve. Who’d a guessed?
Warnings: Nightmares, emotional hurt/comfort, implied/referenced dependency on alcohol, PTSD.
It’s the absence that wakes you.
His absence.
The sheets are cold to the touch betraying the hours you slept on blissfully unaware, and the guilt settles in your stomach like a stone. Without his arms, without his warmth, your skin begins to prickle in the coolness of the night, but you wonder if it isn’t just the emptiness of the room without his beating heart and hushed breath.
Slipping from the bed is a forgone conclusion, though exhaustion drags at your limbs, as though seeking to keep you away. You’re wearing his shirt, an old ratty one with more holes than fabric. It’s worn thin, the softness of it brushing the tops of your thighs with each step like a parody of his touch.
He hasn’t gone far; he rarely does when he’s startled awake by the ghosts haunting him. You pause, blinking rapidly in the dim light of kitchen and your heart positively aches for him. Steve is bent over a glass of whiskey, looking all the world like a man tested and discarded. The bottle is still mostly full but the tremble in his hand gives away just how hard it was to stay that way.
Steve’s eyes are half-closed, expression twisted into something distantly nauseas and you wonder if he’s cold, sitting here all alone in nothing but his boxers…you wonder if he misses his life before all this, before you.
It’s not like you would take it personally, not after the nights just like this and the messier ones too, where tears are streaming over his cheeks, those usually vibrant eyes as dark as the deepest ocean, untouchable. Sometimes you miss the before, the fire that used to live deep inside his chest, that only bubbled over when he was pushed just right, the same fire that had him crossing countries to get revenge on the man who killed his partner.
When you move, you’re grateful that you did not fall asleep with socks, the gentle stick of your bare feet against the wood floors, providing ample warning that he is no longer alone. Steve still flinches, his head still snaps toward you like you might be a threat and it’s been a very long time since you let that hurt you.
Steve meets your eyes, and it takes a couple of seconds, takes you stepping out of the shadows, for the tension to drain from his body. His lips twitch up into an apologetic smile, but his heart isn’t in it, so you offer one of your own instead, as you come to stand next to him.
“Hi baby,” you murmur, lifting a hand to run it through his hair, nails scratching along his scalp. Steve leans into it, eyes fluttering closed in a way that is more cat than man and if this was any other situation, you’d tease him for it. “How are you doing?”
He sighs and it’s a heavy sound, “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“You didn’t,” your hand slides down to rest on the nape of his neck and you use your fingers to tug at the little hairs there, watches the way it makes him shiver.
Steve takes your word for it. When he turns his head to hide his face in your stomach, you know it’s a really bad night, the kind that is quiet, tense, like waiting for a shoe to drop that never does…God, you hope it never does. His arms encircle your waist, finger digging none too gently into your skin but there isn’t a world in which you’d complain, not when his warmth is finally seeping into you and his breath is hot against your stomach.
Glancing at the glass, you find it hasn’t even been touched. There is no smudge where cracked lips tried to sip from it, now moisture clinging to the sides to suggest it’s any less full than it was before and it’s almost enough to make you smile. Steve hasn’t had a problem with drinking, not really, though he seemed to think so. Coming home from Colombia, he’d purged the house of alcohol, something weary and desperate in his eyes like he thought it could be a problem if it was around.
Eventually, he loosened up and indulged maybe once a week. Still, this wasn’t unusual on bad nights, like he wanted to test himself and so far, you’d never seen him actually take a drink at times like this. Not that you would blame him, not really. You’ll have to dump the whiskey down the sink and with anyone else, you might grumble at the waste but it’s no big deal, it’s nothing compared to his peace of mind, the little spark of defiance in his eyes.
He goes a little slack against you, prompting you to sneak a hand between your bodies to grip his chin lightly, gently pushing him away until you can see his tried, drawn face. Offering him another smile, you swipe a thumb beneath his eye where moisture threatens to slip over, “I love you.”
Steve’s smile is a little more genuine this time, “I know.”
“You’re supposed to say it back,” you whisper.
“I know.”
Narrowing your eyes, relief bubbles in your chest at his light-hearted reply. Already, you think it might be possible to drag him back to bed for a few more hours of sleep, “what am I going to do with you?”
Steve tilts his head further back and those eyes aren’t quite so unreadable anymore, their depths growing shallow until he looks more like the man you love, the man you know more than any other. He reaches up, the callous of his finger brushes along your bottom lip, a silent question that is answered when you lean down to kiss him. Steve’s lips are chapped and broken, dehydrated and rough but they’re his, they’re familiar, and they’re perfect.
When Steve pulls away, the haunted look is gone completely, “what are you going to do with me?” he teases. “You already said it…” he kisses you one more time, a brief touch, the hand on your hip squeezing. “Love me.”
I just found a crap Harry Potter fanfiction I wrote in junior high and I'm contemplating whether or not to hide it from the internet or just publish it because it just might be the only piece of contribution to the Harry Potter fandom I've ever written.
