Chapter Text
His entrance is normal enough.
The bell above the door chimes as he steps him. You greet him as he does the double-take that’s customary for every new customer. The building is unassuming from the outside- brick with a simple sign reading Winnie’s Bookstore, but the inside is another story.
He takes it in. Chandeliers instead of regular lightbulbs, glowing soft yellow. Dark mahogany bookshelves, made of real wood and ornately carved, matching the discount table up front and the counter you stand behind. Posted on the outside of each shelf is a sheet of cream-colored paper with the genre written on it in neat, polite cursive.
When he gets over the shock, he returns your greeting, and promptly disappears into the maze of shelves. Normal behavior, right?
But he’s wearing a hat and sunglasses, indoors. And he’s absolutely, positively shredded, muscles evident even in his loose jeans and zip-up hoodie. They flex with each step he takes, and dear God even his steps are unique, wide-legged and confident and purposeful.
And that beard…
It’s achingly, painfully, glaringly obvious that he’s Captain America.
Captain America is in your bookstore.
Well, not your bookstore, it’s Winnie’s son’s bookstore, but you’ve been here long enough to know it as your own. It’s become a second home to you, and now there’s an Avenger in it.
You’re in awe, should you be in awe? He’s a fucking superhero, of course you should be in awe. You could tweet about this right now, text all of your friends. This could be your crazy New York moment, like how one of your friends ran into a Broadway star while getting coffee, and it could be a whirlwind encounter. Your heart rate spikes up up up, and then steadily falls back down when you start to wonder.
Do all of the Avengers try so desperately to be inconspicuous, or is it just him?
It’s a little bit sad.
You’ve lost sight of him and don’t try to find him. You move from behind the counter to the shelves, intending to see if any of them are disorganized or have books that are out of place. There’s only a few other customers tonight, just regulars, and they’ll call your name when they’re ready to check out.
There’s a self-help book wedged in one of the science fiction shelves. It’s a little bit annoying, since the self-help section is literally one row behind the science fiction section, but you take it out anyways and go to put it back where it belongs.
What type of books does Captain America read? Who even knew that he read? All of the history books published about him detail his height and his military service and his miraculous return from the ice. Nothing about hobbies, which is the same type of sad as him having to wear a disguise to a bookstore.
You have a few of those history books in stock, and you pray that he doesn’t stumble upon them.
Captain America is in the self-help section.
You try to think of him as a normal customer, devoid of a name, but your mind won’t let you do it. What is his real name, anyway? Something that starts with an S, maybe-
He jolts when he hears your footsteps in the aisle, turning at you with enough speed and ferocity to leave you stunned. The book nearly slips from your hands.
“Sorry,” Captain America says sheepishly. He brings a hand up to his head, maybe to run it through his hair, but then he remembers the hat and settles for adjusting his sunglasses instead. “I didn’t see you there.”
You’ve heard his voice dozens of times before in commercials and press releases and even one time in person when he came to give a brief speech at your university, that was so dull and convoluted that you fell asleep listening to it.
You wouldn’t fall asleep listening to him now. His voice is lovely. Like honey, the kind that comes in those cute plastic bears. Deep and simultaneously light, sweet.
“It’s okay!” You smile at him awkwardly and find the book’s proper spot, neatly shelving it back where it belongs. “Can I help you find anything?”
He inhales as a distraction while he considers it. “No- or wait, actually, yeah.”
Oh god, you were expecting him to say no! Still, you adjust the neck of your lanyard, and the ghost of his eyes that you can make out behind the sunglasses follow your movements. “What are you looking for?”
Definitely not self-help. Captain America is perfect, bioengineered to be perfect.
“Um, just something kind of lighthearted. Easy reading?”
He says the words like he’s never actually said them before, like he’s only heard people say it and he’s trying it out for himself for the first time.
You don’t question it. “Sure. If you want easy reading, I would consider romance. I can take you to that section and recommend some books that you may like-?”
You leave it open-ended, maybe more for yourself than for him. The thought of trying to recommend cheesy romance novels to a literal superhero is nerve-wracking. What if you accidentally embarrass yourself, somehow expose yourself as a voracious reader of all things trashy, including poorly-written romance that falls into his category of lighthearted, easy reading?
Please say no thanks.
“I would like that.” He gives you a flighty smile, which quickly flickers back out. There’s a slight crease between his eyebrows that the glasses don’t hide. “If you don’t mind.”
It’s your job, so you definitely don’t mind bringing him to the romance section of the store, a huge expanse of shelves taking up nearly as much space as two genres combined. Winnie loved her romance novels.
The store is quiet and Captain America’s footsteps are thundering in your ears, or maybe that’s just your own heartbeat.
You pick up two novels, both recent releases, climbing high on all the bestseller lists, and turn back to face him. One has a pale blue cover with a lit candle puffing smoke in the shape of a heart, and the other is a stock-photo sunset with the silhouettes of two people almost-kissing plastered over it.
“This one is about, uh,” you hold up the blue one and try to remember what it was about, “these people that have been dating on-and-off since high school. But they keep on getting back together, and keep on sparking an old flame, or something.”
Captain America smiles again. “And the other one?”
You hold it out. “Okay, I love this one. These two people both go on this cruise, but it turns out that it’s a couples’ cruise. So since they’re the only single people on the whole ship, they keep on getting paired up in all of the activities, and then they just, you know, fall in love.”
He takes both books from you, and holy cow his hands are huge , and studies them. He even turns them over to read the blurbs on the back.
You get the urge to say something. “They both have happy endings, by the way.”
Captain America looks up from the books. Despite yourself, you continue.
“And, um, if I’m being honest? They’re pretty trashy. They dedicate pages to describing each kiss, and in the cruise one the author uses the same metaphor five times. But they’re great to read, and they’re a lot of fun, and they don’t take anything too seriously. So I recommend them.”
The smile on Captain America’s face doesn’t leave. Could you put that on a resume, that you made a superhero smile?
He waits patiently for you to realize that you’re rambling, and then waits for you to stop rambling. “That’s exactly what I was looking for,” he says in his lovely honey voice. “I’ll take both of them.”
You come to your senses, just a little bit.
“ Great! I can find some more that you would like, or you can keep on browsing, if you want.”
“I’ll just take these two for now.”
For now.
If Captain America ever decides to step foot in your bookstore again, you hope it’s during your shift.
***
You’re young.
Steve notices this with an acute weariness, suddenly feeling all of those seventy-something years spent in the ice pile onto his bones.
You can’t be much older than Peter. As you scan the barcodes on the backs of the books you recommended and package them, he watches your hands. They move deftly and look smooth, not calloused or scarred or bruised like Peter’s have inevitably become. Your fingernails are painted hot pink. Steve hasn’t realized until now that he has a strange affinity for hot pink.
For a second, your eyes flicker up to him, and he immediately shifts to staring at the little bookmark display on the counter. Only later does he remember the sunglasses.
“The bottom row is all free,” you say, gesturing to the display.
He focuses on the bottom row on bookmarks as you take his money and open up the cash register. They’re made of cheap cardstock, unlike the smooth plastic of the ones that actually cost something, and have all types of nonsensical designs on them. Smiling pandas, a stripy orange cat wearing a cowboy hat, a worm sitting on a stack of books, a cartoon giraffe with a t-shirt that reads I LOVE BOOKS.
“I really like the cat one,” you add, and hold out his change. Steve takes it from you and also the bag you put his books in.
He takes the cat bookmark.
You smile, and you probably give the same smile out to every customer, but it feels good to receive it anyway. “Have a good night!”
“You too,” he says, and tucks the bookmark into the bag and the change into his pocket.
Before he leaves, he memorizes the name on the tag of your lanyard. If this whole reading thing works out, if it does provide a respite from the rest of his life the way the team therapist said it would, if the books you called “trashy” are able to help him even a little bit, he’ll come back to this shop. During your shift, if he can make it.
It’s nice to be helped by someone who doesn’t recognize him.