Chapter Text
Steve Rogers didn’t mope. He may not have had a lot go right in his life, but he absolutely did not mope when things went south. At least, that’s what he told himself as he sat on his worn couch later that night, brain feeding him flashes of you on Frank’s arm. Blushing and giggling as he whispers a joke in your ear. Your head thrown back in laughter as he spins you on the dance floor. A shy smile flitting across your lips as Frank moves in to kiss you goodnight. A cruel trick, reminding him that no matter how he feels about you, there’s no way you feel the same about him. After all, he was Steve Rogers. And Steve Rogers didn’t ever get the girl. Because when it came down to it, what right did a guy like him have to be happy?
Reaching up, he huffs as he brushes his hair out of his face. He had always been good at burying his feelings deep… especially the positive ones. So why was it proving to be so difficult to get over how he felt about you? Would he regret it if he never told you? If he saw Frank whisking you up the aisle in another gorgeous white dress, would his heart break beyond repair? The more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure it would.
An insistent knock startles Steve out of his fitful sleep on the couch. Grumbling, he gets up off the couch slowly. It’s past midnight, which means that it’s probably Bucky showing up drunk again after a night at the bar.
He opens the door, ready to give his best friend a hard time for waking him. But his words die in his throat when he sees you. You’re curled up in a ball against the door jamb, knees tucked tightly under your chin, shivers wracking your body. Your dress is soaked and your wet hair is half out of it’s braid, sticking to your face and neck. When you look up at him, he’s greeted with tear-stained cheeks and smudged makeup.
“Y/N, what are you doing here?!?” He cries out, helping you to your feet as best he can before ushering you inside. He grabs a well-loved quilt from the back of the couch and tosses it around you: he has to get you warm.
Guiding you into his room, Steve grabs a pair of old pants and a shirt of Bucky’s that he keeps there just in case. Handing them to you, he leaves no room for argument when he speaks.
“You need to get those wet clothes off, Y/N. These’re Buck’s, they should fit you. I’m gonna go, but if you’re not out in 10 minutes I’m comin’ in to check on you.”
Nodding meekly, you turn to strip out of your damp dress and undergarments and slip on the shirt and pants. Using the dress, you do your best to wipe off your ruined makeup. You’d get the stains out later. It didn’t matter right now. Laying your clothes out on the floor to dry, you wrap yourself back in the blanket and slip back into the main room.
Steve is sitting on the couch, fidgeting and looking slightly panicked as his gaze locks on you. Sniffing back the last of your tears, you stumble over to the couch and curl up against him without a word, tears falling freely as you bury your head in his chest.
Panic overtakes you as you wake up. This isn’t your apartment… these aren’t your clothes… what the hell is going on? Did Frank…?
Bolting upright at the last thought, you frantically take stock of your surroundings. You’re on an old couch. There’s light streaming in a small window, hitting a small hand-picked bouquet of flowers on the table. Your heart rate drops when your eyes sweep to the kitchen, landing on Steve. He’s fussing over the stove, but stills and turns around to face you with the brightest smile you’ve ever seen.
“Mornin’ babydoll!” he calls, waving a wooden spoon in your direction. “There’s some clothes for ya in my room, and I got some eggs goin’ for breakfast. Go get changed and then we’ll eat.”
You sway as you stand up from the couch, still a bit stiff from a night on it’s flat cushions. As you head into the room to change, you can’t stop wondering what had gotten into Steve. Flowers? Breakfast? And where had he gotten a clean dress for you?
When you emerge from Steve’s room, he’s humming to himself and plating up some scrambled eggs at the table. Shuffling over to him, your eyes go wide as you take in the sight on the table. Flowers, a pile of hairpins, a comb, a mirror, and one plate of eggs.
“Steve-”
His jaw sets, and you know that look in is eyes. It only means one thing, so you gulp as you brace yourself for a lecture.
“Y/N, sit down and eat the damn eggs,” he asserts. “And while you’re doin’ that, you’re gonna let me braid your hair. ‘Cause you obviously had a shit date last night. I don’t care if you tell me why it was bad or not. But you’re gonna let me make you feel better, ok?”
Sighing, you plop down in the chair he’s pulled out for you. It’s not worth the fight.
As you eat, Steve starts combing the knots out of your hair, gently rubbing your scalp as he does so. When he begins to braid, your thoughts slip back to last night. How awful the date was, and why you just had to get out of there. When he secures the last pin, you reach for the mirror, only to have your hand swatted away.
“I’m not done yet, babydoll,” he reprimands gently, reaching for the small hand-picked violets in the middle of the table that he probably “borrowed” from someone’s window box.
“Steve,” you plead, wringing your hands in your lap. “I don’t need flowers. Come on, stop. I’m not worth all this.”
His hands stop moving, and in a split second he’s kneeling in front of you, grabbing your hands tightly. His heart is beating so fast he’s afraid it will burst out of his chest, and he can feel tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“You listen to me, Y/N, an’ you listen good. You are worth every bit of this, and so much more. You’re the most amazing dame I know. You work hard, an’ still make time for your friends. You go outta your way to help others, even when it’s an inconvenience. Your smile lights up a room brighter than the sun, an’ I swear when I look at ya the world stops spinning. So don’t you ever think you’re not worth anythin’ good, because if I could I’d give you everything this world has to offer.”
As he finishes his speech, you stare at him slack-jawed. You knew Steve was prone to outbursts when he felt strongly about something, but this was new. You can see the moment Steve’s mind fully processes what he’s just said, and his face goes pale. He stays put, though, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s sticking by what he said, or horrified because of it.
So you do the only thing you can: you tell him the truth. Fighting back the emotion threatening to spill out of you, you duck your head.
“Y'know why last night was such shit, Stevie?” You ask, trying to catch his eye. When he refuses to meet your gaze, you gently extract one of your hands from his and cup his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “It was shit because I realized halfway through that I didn’t wanna be on a date with Frank. I wanted to be on a date with you.”
Steve’s eyes go wide, and his breath hitches in his throat as you keep your gaze locked on him. Slowly leaning forward, you give him plenty of time to back away before softly brushing your lips against his.
You pull back when he doesn’t move, afraid you overstepped. But his lips chase after yours, and when he catches them it’s softer and sweeter than any kiss you’ve ever had. You blush as he pulls away, leaning his forehead against yours.
“‘M kinda crazy about you, Steve,” you whisper.
“That’s good,” he hums quietly, “‘cause I’m kinda crazy ‘bout you too, Y/N.”
You sit there for a moment longer, neither one sure what to do next. Clearing your throat slightly, you pull back and shoot Steve a shy smile.
“So, do I ever get to see whatcha did with my hair?” you tease, as Steve breaks out in a brilliant smile that damn near splits his face in half. He stands up and hands you the mirror, and you gasp at your reflection. Your hair is wrapped around your head in beautiful intricate braids, forming a crown strewn with flowers.
“Steve…” you gasp up at him, not sure what to say, eyes wide in wonder.
“You should be treated like a princess, babydoll. An’ maybe… maybe you can let me try to treat you the way you deserve. Maybe I could be your prince?” he hazards.
You laugh, and his face begins to fall. Had that been too cheesy? Bucky always said dames liked that sort of stuff… but you weren’t just any dame.
When you see the concern in his eyes you pull him close, holding his face tenderly between your hands. “I adore you, Stevie,” is all you can say before smiling like an idiot and kissing him again.
Steve Rogers still didn’t think he was good at much. But he knew he could do two things well: braid hair, and love Y/N like she deserved.