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On his day-offs, Steve Rogers was a man full of disguises.
When they first started, it was the baseball cap and thick-rimmed glasses. He liked it, it was simple, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone would notice. How could one not when his face was the one plastered in old war propaganda, in the museums commemorating his achievements, and even flashes on the telly when you walk past the local electronics store.
Hence, it wasn’t a surprise when the tabloids posted a photo of him in his disguise, waiting at a crosswalk on a cold night.
‘ Captain America spotted on a midnight stroll ’ came the next morning. It was taken after he was done walking you home, thankful they didn’t catch a glimpse of you.
“So capsicle, where were you off to last night?” Tony greeted him at breakfast, offending paper in hand. He unrolled it, opening and making a show of reading, displaying the front page for all seated to see. “Nice reading glasses, wasn’t aware you needed them.”
Striding into the room, Natasha came and snatched the tabloid. She gave it a critical eye, judging, before turning towards him.
“Hmm, recycling disguises, Rogers? I’m disappointed.”
Steve just groaned in reply.
The second time it happened, he had gone to the Black Widow herself for advice. He had expected sound advice coming from a former KGB spy who spent her paycheck on hair, but all he got was a stick-on mustache. Something about ‘needing to blend in rather than pointing the obvious’ .
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Steve, but at least it’s better than that nerd get-up,” she smirked.
You had liked it. Giggling every time he kissed you, the fibres tickling your lips. He had ‘a caterpillar’ on his upper lip as you called it. And Steve had learned to get used to the itch.
But it wasn’t long before his new look was the star in barbershops.
‘Captain America’s new look takes the world by storm.’ They had caught him again in another paparazzi shot. Tony had teased him for days after.
He couldn’t shake it off easily, constantly reminded of it when he walked the streets. Seeing them on screens when he’s channel-surfing. Even when he’s training new recruits, his vision filled with a sea of unshaved cadets, their hairy upper lips a prominent fixture.
He knew he had to do something when Bucky and Sam came in one day sporting twin mustaches.
He discarded the strip of fibre in the bin. Reminding to pay Natasha a visit.
The third time he decided, he seeked out the help of Scott Lang, who was a master in keeping out of sight during his burglary days. Scott had given him a black beanie and told him to grow out his facial hair.
The beanie hid his golden locks and the beard made him look rugged. You loved it, your thighs quivered when it was him and you in the four walls of your room. Uncontrollable groans as he went down. ‘Beard burn’ you had called it. Whatever it was, he loved the sounds you let out.
Four months . That’s how long the disguise lasted. His longest disguise to date.
Before he became a trend.
‘Captain America is the new style icon.’ The internet sleuths found out where he got it too. ‘The sale of Walmart beanies skyrocketed by 70% thanks to Captain America.’
Tony had bought everyone in the compound a black beanie for Christmas, including the receptionist.
“Our grandpa’s a trendsetter, who knew,” he announced. Steve had smacked the back of Tony’s head with the beanie before retiring the disguise.
Now, sitting in The Sleeping Cat , Steve had opted for aviators and a Nasa baseball cap. He still kept his beard after your pleads, and he liked the look, he admits. It was back to basics for him and this was one of the only places where he was safe from prying eyes. Afterall, it was in this very café where he had met you.
The Sleeping Cat was a quaint little thing, a hole in the wall in a quiet part of the city. Not many knew of its existence, the entrance obscure, a blink and you’ll miss it. Which made it all the more perfect for him. The baristas knew him and minded their own business, offering him a smile every time he visited. ‘You’re safe with us’ they seem to say.
He could say the same about the patrons. Most that frequented were regulars like him, they seemed the same, looking for a place to get away from the overbearing world. They seemed to share an understanding, paying him no mind as if he was just another man they passed on the streets. And that’s how he preferred it.
Just a boy from Brooklyn.
Ding!
The chime of the door pulled him out of his thoughts. Facing the door, he saw you, smiling as you came through.
This was the best part of his days.
You had met Steve Rogers at the most unexpected of times.
Terminated from your previous job at a small gallery, dumped by an ex-boyfriend after a 2 year relationship, you were at an utmost low. To escape your roommates —in case of pitying or prying, but if you were honest with yourself, it was to escape your own humiliation— you left the apartment on weekdays under the guise of going to work. In reality, you were at The Sleeping Cat applying for jobs on your laptop.
It was during one of the afternoon hours when you felt a tap on your shoulder.
Turning to your left, you were greeted by a pair of startling blues. They were bright but worn as if they’ve seen too many. Looking at the bigger picture, you took him in. Hair hidden under a cap, a sharp jaw and an equally sharp nose, and if you looked closely, you thought you could spot a few moles on his cheeks. He looked familiar, but you couldn’t put a finger to it.
Eyes fleeting to his lips, you realized he was actually talking.
“Huh?”
“I was wondering if this seat’s taken?” He smiled, gesturing towards the empty seat opposite. He was clearly amused.
“Yeah, sure, sure,” you nodded, making room for his things.
The following days, it became a routine and an arrangement. You would be at the café as early as the owner would allow, laptop in hand. While he would come in the afternoons in a different jacket each day, a sketchbook in hand. You would be propped up, sending application after application, praying for luck. While he would quietly sit, churning sketch after sketch, in a relaxed demeanour.
Sometimes you would peek over your screen and watch him draw for a few minutes, lost in his strokes. When you look up, you’ll find his eyes locked with yours, and you’ll immediately reimmerse yourself behind the screen, embarrassed.
It was a comfortable routine. You came to expect him everyday. And on the days that he didn’t make it, you felt a bit forlorn looking at the empty seat. You both didn’t talk much, yet you were getting comfortable in his presence.
Until one day, he broke the silence.
“So, what is it that you do?”
You stared, dumbfounded. Looking around there wasn’t anyone nearby.
“Were you talking to me?” you asked.
“Yes,” he chuckled. “It’s just that you’re always on your computer…” he trailed off.
“I’m an assistant curator at an art gallery— or, er, used to be,” you explained. “Long story short, I lost my job and now I’m looking for a new one, that’s why I’m here.”
He seemed to ruminate before replying, “So you know a thing or two about art?”
You both started a new routine; one with a lot of communicating. He would ask you about your mundane weekends and interests and in turn, you would ask about his. Except, he was anything but mundane.
On the days he was absent, you learned Steve was away on a lot of ‘business trips’. When he returned, he had never failed to present you with a souvenir. From matryoshkas to sarongs, it was always a surprise accompanied by a tale.
“The pattern on the sarong is called a batik , and it’s amazing how they’re drawn using wax like a liquid crayon. It’s an interesting art form.”
Outside of your little routine, he was an enigma. You barely knew about the Steve outside of The Sleeping Cat . Sometimes he threw the names ‘Bucky’ and ‘Sam’ a lot —out of exhaustion— without giving away anything, remaining tight-lipped. While his mysteriousness should’ve been a cause of concern, you couldn’t help but gravitate towards him, wanting to peel more of his layers, like the shell of a matryoshka.
The routine went on for a few more weeks, with calls of interviews and business trips in between. Before you received a phone call.
“I got a job! At the Whitney!” you squealed, shaking his shoulders over the table, oblivious to the other patrons. Steve endured it, smiling.
“Congratulations,” he said when you’ve calmed down. “I guess this is the last time I’ll be seeing you?”
You froze, high coming down, realization settling in. After a few weeks of secret meetings, of getting to know him, of having lunch together, of sharing laughs, you’ve come to see Steve as a good friend. And maybe, there was the birth of something more .
“Let’s exchange numbers,” you said, opening your phone. “This way, maybe we can hang out again. Have lunch sometimes?”
“I’d like that.” He smiled.
And the rest was history.
Making your way towards The Sleeping Cat , you amused yourself with past memories. Memories from almost over a year ago.
Steve had come to give a speech at the opening ceremony of an exhibition at the Whitney. Your first exhibition as a curator. An exhibition on art from the war times. When they had announced his title, a loud ‘oh’ was the only thing you could muster.
The ‘ding’ of the bell resounded, announcing your arrival. Heading in, you saw a head perked up, beaming, baseball cap securing his golden locks and aviators hiding his mesmerizing blues.
This was the best part of your days.
But maybe, you were getting a little tired.
If someone were to ask you months ago if you were happy and content with your relationship, you would’ve replied with a swift yes in a heartbeat. No hesitation, no reservations, no doubt. Now, sitting in the same cafe, the same one you frequent on dates, the same one you both met in, you weren’t sure of the answer anymore.
As Steve gets up to order for you both, your eyes wander to his sketchpad. It was filled with sketches of random objects; the flower on the table, the pastries on display, sometimes the patrons of the cafe, and occasionally, you .
“You’re my favourite subject, so far.”
It was not for the lack of love or the lack of affection. Steve was the most loving; loyal in so many ways, gentle when asked, and protective to a fault. Maybe the protectiveness was the cause of it all.
Staring at Steve’s back, your mind shifted to a memory from the past week, when your roommate pulled you aside from a get-together at the ice rink.
“Hey,” she called your name, taking a hold of your elbow. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Sure, what’s up?” you followed her, leading you to the sides.
Her eyes conveyed her worry. It amplified with the chewing of her bottom lip, a nervous tick.
“Are you and Steve… okay?” she asked, her brows perked. “I’m not sure if you notice, but today, it’s full of couples.”
You looked towards your group of friends. There was your roommate’s girlfriend tying her skates, your other roommate and her boyfriend talking to another couple —their friends— and they were all holding their significant other’s hand. Oh.
“I don’t want to throw you out of the loop, but there would probably be a lot of double skating involved today,” she said, widening her eyes, looking comical. “Do you want me to talk to Steve? Maybe I could convince him to come, y’know?”
Out of your two roommates, she was the only one who knew of your paramour. Having walked in on you and Steve making out on the couch. She was sworn into secrecy, with the promise of autographs from all the Avengers.
“Look, it’s okay,” you assured her. “I can handle skating alone, and you know why he can’t really come here with us,” you shrugged.
“Okay, but aren’t you tired? Of all this sneaking around? Don’t you want to shout to the whole world ‘I’m fucking Captain America!’” she flailed.
You shushed her, muffling her mouth with your gloved hand.
Part of the secret was how Steven Rogers was an engineered superhero. A superhero with many enemies, leading him to fear for his loved ones, and that included you.
You went into the relationship whole-heartedly knowing the challenges; discreet rendezvous, kisses in the dark, minimal contact in public. You were his secret and he was yours. It was for your own good, wasn’t it?
“What’s got your little head wrapped up?” Steve’s voice startled you, bringing you back to the café. On the table, two cups of coffee and a slice of cake was served.
“Hmm? Oh, just thinking about this party the museum’s throwing this weekend,” you took your cup, blowing, contemplating your next words.“Say, how about you and I, I don’t know, go as dates?”
Steve crunched his brows. “You know that’s a hard thing for me to do, especially with your colleagues around.”
“I know! But maybe… maybe, you can go in one of your disguises this time? Remember that one time we went to Central Park?”
Steve exhaled, he remembered that afternoon. It was the one-off that you both ventured on a date in the outdoors.
Decked in his beanie, casually strolling through Central Park with you beside him. Although he was still wary, keeping his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to hold your hand.
No one had recognized him; not the ice-cream man, not the kids running around, not the mothers pushing strollers. No one.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
You leaned forward, pecking him on the lips multiple times. “Thank you!”
“You sure this looks convincing?”
“Trust me, punk. Grade A assassin here, thank you very much,” Bucky boasted while fixing the wig on his scalp, untangling the unruly strands.
Steve had sought Bucky for help, with the belief that assassins were good at hiding in plain sight (and maybe, he just didn’t want to go to Natasha twice). Bucky was also his most trusted confidant and he knew about you, Steve trusted him not to tell. But now looking at himself in the opposite mirror, he wasn’t so sure of that anymore.
Long dangly tresses hung on the sides of his face parting in the middle, a trimmed beard leaving a bit of goatee, and to finish it off, Bucky dressed him in a checkered shirt consisting of random coloured squares. He looked like he just stepped out of the 60’s.
“Oh, wear these,” Bucky handed him a pair of large wire-framed glasses. “Done.”
Steve took a look in the mirror. A seedy pimp was the first thought that crossed his mind.
“Thanks Buck, I owe you one.”
“Sure Stevie, just bring me around next time on one of your dates, I’d like to meet her,” Bucky winked. “Or make it double.” He wagged his brows. “Like old times.”
Steve snorted.
“Okay, I got—“ Steve’s words halted when an alarm blared overhead. It demanded their attention.
“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, your presence is required in Prep Room six,” called the disembodied voice. “There’s been a breach of extraterrestrial energy in the airspace of Sweden.”
Steve exited and rushed through the hallways, Bucky following close behind. He made it through the living quarters, trudging to the training wing before entering one of the many prep rooms.
“Nice costume, Cap. Halloween already?” Sam quipped. Almost everyone was present, they were equally amused.
Before anyone else could follow, Tony strided in immediately, grumbling. “Okay team, there’s been an E.T synthezoid putting holes in the ozone layer. I’ll fill you all in the quinjet. Suit up and meet me at the hangover in 10.”
Everybody gathered their equipment and hurried to leave, passing by him. Before Tony could, he took notice of Steve and did a double take. And then a third.
“What’s with the pimp daddy get-up, Capsicle?”
Steve huffed, ignoring the jab. “I have something that I need to attend. How important am I in this, Tony?”
“We need all hands on deck. We don’t really know what we’re up against, Fury’s still running recon,” Tony explained, squaring his shoulders. “Whatever it is you have, Cap. It can wait. Lives are at stake here.” With that, he left, not standing by for a response.
“Darn it,” Steve cursed, removing the glasses and the wig.
He left the prep room with his shield in hand. With one hand, he shot a text to you. He’ll make it up next time.
Loverboy [6:30 PM]: Emergency mission
Loverboy [6:30 PM]: Can’t make it, sorry
You switched the screen off, sighing. Around you, the party was in full swing. Invitees mingling with refreshments in hand, discussing the pieces on display tonight, and bidding on the pieces they find exquisite. Hors d’oeuvres and champagne were being served, brought around by servers on silver platters. You’ve been munching on them non-stop, grabbing one every time a server comes your way, needing something to occupy you.
Surrounding you, you’d see the occasional couple walking around, enjoying their time. The palms of their hands locked in each other’s as they navigate together, rarely straying afar.
You clenched your hand, reminded of how empty it felt.
It was inevitable, you were warned of this, you were told to expect this. Dating a superhero meant that he was never solely yours. You were sharing your boyfriend with someone, except that someone was the world.
“Hiiii!” a shrill voice broke your thought, calling you by name. A blonde woman, followed by a brunette emerged from the gathering of art-goers, headed towards you. “It’s been a long while!”
“Hey! Yeah, it’s been awhile,” you waved, recognizing the two.
When they reached you, you were aware of the slight tension in the air, leaving the three of you standing awkwardly. After all, these two were your ex-colleagues and you didn’t exactly leave the previous gallery on good terms. Tonight was a night with masks, it seemed.
“So, how are you two doing?” you decided to get it over with.
“We’re fine, everyone’s fine! But how are you? We heard you worked here now, pretty impressive,” the brunette —Claire— winked at you. You laughed.
“Yeah, it’s so nice seeing you again, and at the Whitney? The pay must be good, you know what I’m saying?” Hilda chimed, knocking her elbows with yours. You didn’t appreciate it but you endured.
“Say, what are you doing over here far away? Why not you join us over there,” Hilda pointed, towards a mounted canvas at the end of the hall. It was occupied by two men in a discussion among themselves. “Chat a bit to catch up, a bit of art philosophical debate in between. What do you say?”
You contemplated her offer, not wanting to seem pretentious, but thought about the false flattery and ego-stroking that would sure ensue in their company. The thought of it drained you.
“It’s okay,” you waved them off nervously. “I have to call my boyfriend sooner, gotta check up on him and let him know I’m... alright.” You held up your phone, playing on convincing.
“Oh? He isn’t here tonight?” Claire seemed to feign worry.
“No, he got caught up with something. He’s a busy man,” you cooked up an excuse. No one could know.
“Okay… In that case, we’ll leave you to it. Maybe we’ll bump into each other sooner.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you guys soon.”
They waved before backing away into the mass of patrons. You let out a breath you didn’t know you held in.
While the interaction was unexpected, this was what you had to deal with when it came to the question of your relationship. The excuses, they became second nature to you. The lies. The deceit . Anything to protect Steve’s identity, and inadvertently, you.
Throughout the night, you mingled with any clients interested in a work of art, all the while stepping out of Hilda and Claire’s line of sight. You didn’t wish a repeat of the earlier evening.
When the crowd started dwindling, signalling the end of the night, you were relieved of your duties. You headed straight for the restrooms after, one getaway before leaving. You huddled yourself in a cubicle, locking it shut.
Seconds in, you heard the creak of the restroom door followed by the clicks of heels.
“Can you believe it? Someone like that got the chance of working here.”
You recognized the nasally tone. It was Claire.
“Yeah? Not like she deserves it. I mean look at her? Demure, slow. It’s like talking to a mouse. I bet she’s a prude too.” That was Hilda.
The gushing of the faucet muffled their voices, but their sharp words were clear as day, your ear catching every snark and hiss.
“And when she was talking about her boyfriend? He probably doesn’t even exist, it was just to get off our backs,” Hilda paused. “Last time I heard, her boyfriend dumped her. So, I guess she’s creating imaginary ones now.”
They both cackled.
By now, you knew they were talking about you. Their words didn’t hurt as much, you knew the colour of their hearts beneath the masks. But was that how people viewed your hidden relationship? A facade? A farce?
Once the door clicked shut, and the tapping of their heels faded, you left the restroom, heart feeling heavier.
(y/n) [6:45 PM]: stay safe stevie ! remember to hydrate
(y/n) [6:46 PM]: punch those meanies
(y/n) [6:46 PM]: (`⌒*) ⍟ -(`⌒´Q)
Steve chuckled when he turned on his phone, amused at your texts. You always sent him good luck messages every time he went off for missions. Although he didn’t seem to get the emoticons that you sent, even after being taught by Peter Parker. He just didn’t get them.
Steve dialed your number, sitting on the edge of the bed as he dried his washed hair. Beeps ringed before you picked up, your smooth lilt permeating the speakers.
“Hello? Stevie?”
Steve smiled, missing the caress of your voice after a day filled with explosions and cries.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he greeted. “How’s my girl been?”
“Great, now that you called,” you teased. “But are ‘you’ fine?” you emphasized .
On the other end of the line, you mirrored his position, sitting on one corner of the bed. Picking the newspaper in your lap, you observed the front page: ‘Avengers saves the Arctic!’
“Same old, same old,” his voice carries. “Listen, about yesterday—“
“It’s okay,” you interrupted him, other hand gripping the newspaper. “You have to protect the Earth and that also means me. You don’t have to apologize, I knew what I signed up for.”
Did you? Or was it now a hollow statement to convince yourself ?
“I still want to make up for it, my girl deserves that much,” he responded.
You slowly unclenched the paper. It left Steve’s form crinkled.
“If you want to sooo bad,” you exaggerated. “There’s a Valentines charity ball for our arts program in three weeks time. You think you could make it this time?”
“You know no promises, but I plan to, even if I have to do everyone’s laundry for a week.” You heard rustling on the other line. “What’s the exact date? I’ll put it on my calendar.”
“The 16th.” Scratchy scribbling filled your ear, the sound loud in the silence.
“Done. Can’t wait to see you all dolled up, sweetheart.”
“Me too, baby,” you said. “At least put on a nice moustache this time.”
He laughed, your heart felt lighter. To him, it was probably nothing, but to you, it was a form of reassurance. A reassurance that what you had was real.
“Steve, you got a moment?”
The aforementioned man turned around, taking a glance over his shoulder. Sharon Carter slowed to a stop, a small smile on her face. As always, she carried an air of superiority, matching that of Steve’s wavelength. Yet today, it seemed dim.
“I think we need to talk, you have time for coffee?”
Glancing at his watch, he nodded. “Sure, Sharon. Lead the way.”
She took them outside of S.H.I.E.L.D and into the chilly air of DC, navigating through streets and crowds while huddling in their coats. They chatted, breaths puffing as they caught up, the familiar scenes passing by.
He hadn’t been in DC in awhile, it felt good to be back.
“We’re here.”
Sharon headed in first, holding the door for him. He thanked her. They ordered and got seated. A smile was shared, strained as it seemed.
“Better just rip the band-aid off,” Sharon sighed. “I miss us.”
“Sharon—“
“Please, hear me out first,” she insisted, showing her palm. “We probably shouldn’t have done what we’ve done after Aunt Peggy’s funeral. I just lost someone I looked up to the most, and you lost the woman that you loved. We were both grieving. It wasn’t fair to the both of us.”
“While I do miss us, I know that it wasn’t meant to be,” she continued, shooting a sombre smile. “I understand that now. I guess, what I wanted was closure.”
Her hand quivered on the table between them. Steve clasped his over hers, offering to soothe.
“I don’t regret what happened in Germany. While yes, it should have not happened, it was what we thought we needed at that time. We both lost someone we held dear,” Steve explained, hoping his words reached her. “None of it was a mistake, Sharon. You’re still someone I trust and hold dear, remember that.”
Steve clutched her hand tighter, running his thumb over her knuckles in circular motions, attempting to calm and show understanding.
In his efforts, unknown to the two, the shutter of a camera went off across the street.
Something felt off. Everything that could go wrong, went wrong. At first, you thought it was your own anxious mind running.
You woke up late on a work day, burned your eggs and toast, accidentally wore unmatching socks, and your roommate was acting weird. All jittery when you entered the hall, stammering her words, and performing this bizarre dance when you walked past the living room. You gave her no mind when you passed the threshold and slammed the door, phone gripped in hand.
Loverboy [6:00 AM]: Good morning, dear
Loverboy [6:01 AM]: [image]
A photo of Steve, sweaty after a run showed on the screen. He was smiling, shirt stained and clinging to his chest. You had taught him how to take selfies.
You [7:20 AM]: morning, handsome
You [7:20 AM]: 😍😍😍
The morning texts were the best part of your morning commute. It made the arduous and packed journey worthwhile. Even when you almost tripped at the doors, it couldn’t take away your joy.
You made it just in time and clocked in, meeting clients and discussions with artists throughout the day. It was uneventful, although the bad luck seemed to have followed when you spilled your coffee on the concrete.
It was when you left the museum that your day took a turn for the worst.
On the ride home, the man opposite you was reading a newspaper. Nothing unusual, but at a glance, you thought you saw a familiar face printed on the corner. Before you could take a closer look, the man folded it in half and got off.
A few minutes later, you arrived at your stop, exiting the station with the fast-paced crowd. That’s when you were bombarded.
Lining the streets, your vision was filled with the scattering of a crowd of papers. Every face you saw was plastered in them.
‘The Good Captain In Love?’
‘A Superhero & A Civilian Romance?’
‘Captain America’s Girl? Mysterious Woman Sighted’
The sight of them left you in a panic, your anxiety spiking through the roof. Your world started spinning, everything —buildings, trees, faces— blending altogether. Everywhere your eyes deflected, a headline invaded your sight, imprinting itself on your retinas. Had they found out?
Composing yourself, you headed towards the nearest news stall, mind boggled with too many questions and not enough answers. How? Why? When?
Only, it wasn’t your face they were publishing.
‘“Oh Captain, My Captain” America in love? Spotted last week in DC was Captain Steven Rogers with a mysterious lady. They seemed to be cozy with each other, an eyewitness told Us Weekly. Story on Page 11.’
The photograph showcased Steve with a blonde woman, sitting in a café with their hands clasped on the table. Your heart shattered at the sight, remembering how empty yours have felt lately.
Was he purposely out with this woman in public? What did that mean for you? Why were you shadowed?
“Are you and Steve… okay?”
“She’s creating imaginary ones now.”
“Aren’t you tired? Of all this sneaking around?”
“You know that’s a hard thing for me to do.”
“Hey lady, you gonna pay for that?”
You were shaken out of your stupor. Looking down, you were clutching the magazine too hard, ripping the image of Steve and the woman in half, right in the middle where their hands met.
You apologized to the man and paid for the magazine. Immediately discarding it in the next trash bin you saw.
“So… you and Sharon?” Sam had asked him after training.
“What?”
“You, and, Sharon,” Sam emphasized, pronouncing each syllable. “Are together. Man, when were you gonna tell me? I thought it was over.”
Steve froze before replying, “Because it is. A long time ago.”
“Well, this seems to say otherwise.”
Sam showed him his phone, the screen displaying an article; ‘Captain America’s Girl Revealed. A Family Affair That Transcends Time.’ On top of the article was a photo of him and Sharon at the cafe in DC, his hand atop of hers on the table. A zoomed in version of their hands were provided, fueling the tabloid’s narrative.
Steve paled at the sight. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was his fears manifested; his anonymity taken, his privacy invaded, but his worst fear was putting his loved ones in danger. And if it was due to their association with him, it would leave him racked with guilt.
While the tabloids were wrong, he knew that Sharon could defend for herself. You on the other hand…
His heart rate rose, a new wave of anxiety spiked. Steve wondered if you’ve seen this. No, you must’ve seen this.
Fishing for his phone, Steve quickly dialed your number, anxiously waiting for the beeping to end.
‘The number you’ve dialed is not—‘
“Damn it!”
His outburst surprised Sam, shocking him. Sam gave him a look, inquisitive.
“Sorry Sam, I have to run.”
He left, heart in his throat.
When Steve arrived at your apartment, he was almost out of breath. He was still anxious, the ride here not doing much to his addled mind. But he was determined.
Rapidly knocking on your front door, Steve composed himself. When it opened, he was met with the sight of your roommate -- the one that he has never met before.
“Ca-Captain America?” she yelped, shocked to see him on the doorstep.
“Is your roommate in?” he steeled.
“Which one—”
“Steve,” a voice interrupted.
The door pulled further, widening the entrance. Steve was met with your familiar roommate. She was tense, arms locked across her chest, eyes full of fury. Steve detected something else in them; worry.
“You fucked up,” she said. He winced.
“I know,” he admitted. “And I’m here to make things right. Can I please see her?”
She sighed, stepping in, nodding towards your room.
Steve hastily walked in, stopping in front of your door. He knocked thrice, signalling you, before turning the knob. It was unlocked. The room was dark when he entered, every source of light switched off, except for your curtains.
Sitting on the edge of the bed was you, figure illuminated by the street lights against pitch black darkness. When he stepped in closer, you looked up, eyes meeting his.
Steve turned on the lights and closed the door. He took a good look at you; hair frazzled, eyes bloodshot and dry, nose red. You were the image of heartbreak.
“Are you ashamed of me?” you asked, eyes locked with his.
“What? No, I—“
“Is it because I’m not strong?” you cut him off. “I know she’s Peggy’s niece… a-and I know how much you loved her. She was your first love.”
“She and I, it’s all in the past. She moved on and lived her life, and I… did too.”
“But did you really, Steve? Move on?” you whispered, getting up. You stood in front of him. Steve could see how puffed your eyes were from crying. “Or was I just… a rebound?”
“No. No, you were never a rebound,” he took hold of your forearms. “I care for you, too much.”
“Then why?!” you shrieked, shocking Steve. “Why the secrets? Why the hiding? Steve, you’ve never even introduced me to your friends. Shouldn’t they know?”
“I wanted to protect you!”
“Protect me from what?!” you roared, eyes full of fury. “The Avengers? If they knew about me, they would protect me. Don’t you think so?”
Steve had no words to that, his mind a jumbled mess.
“I’m… beginning to think that you’re embarrassed with me,” you sighed. “We’ve never been on a date publicly, as each other. We’ve never held hands in public. I want you to meet my friends. I want to introduce you to them, and maybe soon, I want you to meet my family.”
“B-but, I’m tired, Steve. Tired of all the hiding. Of all the sneaking around. I want to tell the world that I’m in love with Steve Rogers, not Captain America,” you sighed, shedding a few tears.
You waited for his reply, only to be disappointed.
“You know I can’t do that.”
You saw red. All you saw was red.
You started pushing him, swatting him in the chest. Steve didn’t fight back, letting you unleash your anger, your disappointment. He took your hits, letting you release your pent up emotions. He began backing away when you started advancing, back against the door.
“Get out! Get out!” you screeched, pushing him.
When he unlocked the door and crossed, you immediately shut the door in his face. Steve heard sobbing from inside, his heart shattering at the sounds.
“This way, Captain,” your roommate approached him, showing him to the door.
Steve relented, shame flooding him. He fucked up.
You stopped visiting The Sleeping Cat, wanting to avoid him at all costs. You blocked his number. You immersed yourself in your work, prepping for the upcoming charity gala.
Sometimes you find yourself thinking about him when sleep proved to be difficult. It’s when you’re laying at night that you missed him the most.
But it was for the best, you reasoned. For you and him.
The Avengers PR had pushed for a fix-it, publishing a story that spoke a truth. ‘Just Friends: Romantic Allegations Proved False’ . Steve had hoped you’d seen it.
He called you every day but found himself blocked from everything. He still tried, hoping you’d come around one day. He came by The Sleeping Cat every other day, sitting in the same spot, hoping to catch you.
But you never came.
You clasped the necklace in place, admiring how it sat on your clavicle through the mirror. You took a step back and took yourself in, smiling at what you saw. It didn’t reach your eyes.
Today was the day of the Valentines gala and you weren’t feeling particularly giddy about it.
Opening your phone, you stared at the one contact that stood out, finger hovering over his name. That name used to give you so many feelings, but today it was a reminder that you were going alone, again.
Sighing, you threw it in your purse and left. Another lonely night, and on an even celebrating love.
Days turned into weeks, and soon, before he knew it, the day of your Valentines gala arrived.
Steve stared at the calendar. The heart-shaped doodle he drew called out to him, reminding him of fond memories. Fond memories that seemed like a distant dream. But then, he went back to last week, and it all came crashing.
He had hurt you. While thinking he was protecting you, he hadn’t realized he was inadvertently pushing you away. He had no one to blame but himself.
He loved you. No, still loves you. You grounded him, gave him the normalcy that he craved. Reminded him of a distant time before he was Captain America.
You made him feel like the boy from Brooklyn again.
While he was ruminating in his feelings, Steve was caught off-guard when the door burst open with Tony Stark coming through. From his peripheral, he could see Bucky and Sam peeking through the frame.
“Heard from the Manchurian Candidate that someone has a case of the achy breaky heart,” Tony said, smug.
“Leave me alone, Tony. I’m not in the mood,” he grumbled, setting down the calendar.
“And leave you wallowing like shit while your girl is out there probably equally miserable? I know a thing or two about women, Rogers, and it’s that they don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Tony snapped his fingers and from behind, Sam came in with a tuxedo in hand.
“Thought you might need this,” Sam said.
Bucky came out behind him, with a brush and can of hairspray. “And I still know how to do hair.”
“And I have friends in places,” Tony quipped. “I can get you in.”
Steve was surprised. His friends had surprised him. You would’ve loved them. He was left speechless.
“What are you waiting for, Cap? Suit up.” Tony winked.
Swirling the glass of rosé, your gaze fell towards the dance floor. An upbeat song was being played as people flocked near the middle, letting their bodies take charge for the night. You saw your former co-workers among the throng, hands thrown around their significant others, having the time of their lives.
The gala was in full swing, if the crowd and chatter was any indication. Red and roses were the main theme, with a red carpet stretching from the grand staircase towards the main hall and roses lining every corner and wall. Taking it all in, you were proud to see your ideas visualized and work came to fruition.
You sipped your rosé, enjoying every bit of the gala as you could. From the sidelines, you spoke with a few potential clients and art collectors. Their presence made you feel your importance, and if you dared say it, a little less lonely.
It was during one of your little chats that you didn’t realize when the hall suddenly fell quiet. You turned around when you felt a tap on your shoulder.
“Hi folks, mind if I crash your party?”
Steve smiled at Tony’s antics. They both had arrived at the gallery dressed in their best, and with Tony’s connections, they were granted access.
Stepping down the grand staircase, Steve felt all eyes on him. He paid them no mind, the thought of you the only occupant of his racing mind. Gazing over the crowd, Steve spotted you to the side, occupied in a chatter.
Taking deliberate steps, Steve soon found himself behind you. He admired your gown and hair, it entranced him. You still hadn’t registered his presence, even when your partner had ceased chatting and was now staring at him.
With a tap on your shoulder, he was taken away as immediately as you spun around. Steve took in your whole image; your dolled-up face, your intricate dress, your styled hair. It left him floored.
You always did manage to take his breath away. Was this what he had been missing out all this time?
Taking your unoccupied hand, Steve pressed a small kiss before meeting your eyes.
“May I have this dance?”
Giving away your drink, you took his hand as he pulled your towards the centre, taking space among the crowd. A slow number started, and before you realized, you were swept in a slow dance. It didn’t take long before you felt the sensation of his two left feet.
“Sorry, a hundred years and you’d think I’d know how to dance,” he said.
A small smile lightened your face. Steve savoured it all he could. Gulping, he took the first step.
“I’m... sorry for what I’ve done. I realize now that you were right,” he started. “I thought I was protecting you, but now I see that all it did was push you away. You have all the rights to be mad at me. I was being an idiot, a selfish one. I didn’t think about how you felt about it.”
You winced. Steve had stepped on your toes again. He murmured an apology, resorting to swaying instead.
“Can we start again? No more hiding. No more disguises,” he breathed, keeping his eyes locked on yours. “ We can meet your friends, you can meet mine. Bucky’s been pestering me to bring you to the compound, he wants to meet you.”
You laughed. How Steve had missed the tune.
“How can I make it up to you? How do you want to take the first step? A picnic at Central Park? Dinner at the compound? A trip to the beach?”
You seemed to contemplate, a thoughtful look on your face. You both failed to realize all the eyes on you two.
“How about now?”
“Right here? Right now?” he asked.
“Yes, right here, right now,” you said, determined.
Without hesitation — no more — Steve dived in, planting a kiss on your wine-coloured lips for the whole world to see. Your first kiss in public , yet it felt as if it was only the two of you there, lost in the moment.
You both didn’t notice the gasping crowd nor the clicks of cameras from photographers nor the booming laughter of Tony Stark. You both only felt the other in your orbit, and that was all that mattered.
“Can you put that down? You’ve been staring at it for the past hour.”
You pouted, setting the frame on the side table, where it has been designated since its publication.
“I can’t help it, I think it’s a good shot. Don’t you think so, Alpine?” you petted the snowy white cat lazing on the arm of the sofa. Its’ purrs intensified.
“Dinner’s ready!” Bucky shouted.
You and Steve left the room, joining the others in the dining room for dinner. On the side table, the framed article sat neatly, showcasing the tale of the famed occurrence that took place at a charity gala.
‘America’s Girl: The Modern Woman of The Captain’s Dreams.’
Fin.