Title: Day Over Dawn

Paring: Steve Rogers (Captain America) X Reader

Warnings: insecurities and fluff

Spoilers: none

Sequel: yes, to Books Before Brawn

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When you were younger, you'd seen your mother dating in the many years following the death of your father. She would come home crying, laughing, drunk or sober, it wouldn't matter. It would still make you feel something warm in your chest, something that made you wish that she would stay faithful to a memory, rather than a stranger. Maybe it was this which brought your caution to dating, to social interactions, you weren't sure, but there it was, ingrained into you. 

And here you were, sitting with an arm around you, watching a movie on Steve Rogers' couch. He was watching Star Trek intently, completely mesmerised with the cinematography and CGI like a child. He was so into the flick that he wasn't aware that your gaze rested not on the handsome Captain Kirk's face, but on your hands, which sat on your lap, cradling each other. It was with your hands, holding each other like the moon holds the sun, like peace holds chaos, you felt a flicker of fear light itself aflame within your chest. 

It had been six months of little dates, visits to the cinema, picnics in the park, greeting the people who were in charge of his schedule and superhero team, and yet, it still felt like something was off. It wasn't that you felt like an interruption in his life. Oh no, it was almost like you were the fifth finger, found and re-sewn back onto his palm, fitting into a place you never knew you could exist. That was fine. You heard chatter from the newspapers and the general rumour mill of the internet that he was dating a librarian, someone too mousy, a shrinking violet-type woman. But you knew that was what you were, there was no hard feelings reading it in the headlines of Vogue. 

What it felt was wrong was something completely different. Somewhere, in some part of your mind, you felt like you didn't know Steve Rogers, the entire Steve Rogers, whom which Bucky was coming to remember. It felt wrong, only knowing half of someone, and not finding the gall to ask more. 

"Hi Christopher, I'm Nero," the character on screen deadpans. 

Beside you, Steve chuckles, and glances to you. "Hey, _______, this is - are you alright?" he grabs the remote from the coffee table before you two, and pausing the movie, stops to get a good look of you. "Talk to me, is something wrong?" 

You go to shake your head, but before you know it, you've gathered your purse and exited the apartment, before the first tear can be shed.

The library is silent. It always is at the closing hour, everyone who would loiter finding themselves away and elsewhere from the salvation of the books. Granted, there were a few latecomers checking their emails at the free computers, and a child and parent checking out their storybooks for the week, but it was very nearly silent. 

Just as you thought that, the doors swung inward, revealing a red-clad woman you were well-acquainted with. Like always, Wanda Maximoff had a glint in her eye that wasn't of trouble but her adventurous spirit, hair flowing in the lightest of breezes, and otherwise, appearing to be a model straight out of a catalogue. Her gaze found you at once, and instead of her smile, her lips fixed themselves into a firm line. 

"I have heard that you ran from Steve the other day," she starts, placing her hands on the counter behind which you stand. "He did not send me, I'm here on my own to make sure you're alright." She adds, "So, my friend, are you alright?" 

You take a breath, short and stout, but she reads your mind in your body's external language before you can speak it. 

"I am not surprised the fault in the relationship is not you," she smirks, crossing behind the counter to gather your form in an embrace. "Seeing as I've never experienced what you are going through now, I would suggest...maybe talking to Steve about it?" she puts out there.

You shrug a shoulder. "I ran out in the middle of Star Trek, Wanda, and didn't say a word. He probably thinks I'm a freak by now." You lament, voice tiny so not to interfere with the peace of those with little time left in the library. "I - I feel like such a basket case. Why couldn't I be afraid of clowns like a normal person, not relationships?" 

Wanda rolls her eyes. "Maybe what you're afraid of isn't proximity, but...ah!" Her eyes light up, there is someone home, and the cogs are turning, working, "Maybe what you're afraid of is Steve Rogers. Captain America, himself."

You pause, your breath caught. "Excuse me?" 

She grabs a flyer, and on the back of it, doodles a poorly-drawn caricature of a human body, and a body within it. "You know how Steve Rogers was not always a muscle man of 6"2?" she prompts. "Maybe you are afraid of falling for someone you do not understand all of, and because it was such a long time ago, you're afraid to ask about the Steve Rogers who was 5"4, and sickly." She hints. "And when I say maybe, I mean yes in entirety. I read your mind, and that is the truth, _______." 

You swallow. The world might have been spinning around before, but now it is whirring and you can only focus on the oddly-drawn picture on the back of a yoga class brochure. Steve Rogers, in entirety. Yes.

"Okay. What do you think I should do?" 

Wanda shakes her head. "Here's the plan..."

It was a Sunday when you found yourself closing your regular time at midday, and descending down to the archives below to do your sorting. Even though there needed to be a clearance card for people to come to read the files, take notes for their history courses and personal reasons, you still had to come and sort out what had been put away incorrectly. It was so strange that people would put the Margaret Carter files within the Pinky Pinkerton section, and vice versa with Dum Dum Dugan. 

But it was when you heard a pair of footsteps descending down the staircase when your blood ran cold. You had double-checked that the doors had been locked, and there were no windows that opened up in the main area. Even though you knew there was no way an intruder could have made their way in, you grabbed the nearest thing nearby, a stapler, as to arm yourself. 

"________?" The voice of Steve Rogers calls your name, and before you know it, you see his legs and torso, and angelic face lit up like a holy Avenger under the cheap flickering LED lights. "Wanda opened the door for me. I came to talk." 

You lower the stapler, trying to read his eyes. "Hey, Steve." 

He caught sight of the stapler in your grip, but didn't question your weapon of choice. "I know you ran the other week when we were watching Star Trek and as much as Tony joked it was the choice of movie, I think it's something deeper than that." he starts off. "I don't know much about modern relationships, but if this is going too fast -," 

"I have never heard you talk about yourself before the serum," You cut him off. Steve stands there, a speechless man, one degree from being a wax model in a wax model museum. "I've never seen photographs, or heard any stories, and I've known you for half a year, and I have a better chance of learning about your life down here in these old boxes than from yourself." You feel like a weight has been lifted from your lips, your chest, your heart, and no longer drag you down. "Steve, talk to me." 

Steve nods. "I know. It was a miracle I was able to survive the serum, let alone be allowed to take it. I was a sick kid, ______, that's all there is to it. I was always down with something, had asthma, and this ear was hard of hearing," he gestures to the side of his head. "I'm sorry if you felt like we weren't connecting." he adds, and takes a deep breath. "It's been a while since I've connected with someone like you and I, and I don't want to lose that."

"I feel the same," you breathe, and before you know it, the stapler has fallen from your grip, and you're straddled around his waist like a girl in a romance novel, and you're kissing. "I...I..." the words die on your lips.

"I love you too," Steve whispers, and leans in to kiss once more.