Chapter Text
You’ve gone through distinct phases celebrating Valentine’s Day. Elementary school meant innocent, paper folds in shoe boxes from everyone in your class, reading too far into a superhero cartoon card that your crush had to give you because their mom said it was the nice thing to do (still: you kept that one for ten years.) In high school, you were hopeful but outwardly ambivalent; it was uncool to care too much. Chocolate roses, a first kiss. In college, there were sweet years where you managed a companion and there were sour years, when you drank and you drank and you drank and you shouted through living room dance parties to Robyn and Carly Rae and Bey with your best friends and you were so tired that when you got home you could only cry for so long before falling asleep.
Now, it sneaks up on you in the middle of a work week, and you pretend to have forgotten all about it. Pink and red in every drug store, mountains of fresh roses at the grocer filling the produce section with sweetness, a rush of images to the brain: Paris, starlight, soft soft sheets, lipstick stains, an Ella Fitzgerald song somewhere in the back of your mind. You remind yourself it’s a capitalist nightmare and you don’t have to participate. The awareness is grounding, you think. You’ve spent enough of your years looking and wishing. It’s another day and it passes you by. You decide to sit with a coffee on the way home and read something frivolous, hoping to avoid the restaurant date crowd and the inevitable slough of sticky rom-coms tempting from Netflix.
“Consumer America,” you say, perfectly tired, looking at the candy display on the counter at your favorite coffee stop. The cupcakes left in the case are all garishly blush, little doilies and paper cupids everywhere. The barista chuckles.
“Any holiday that appreciates love and kindness can’t be all bad,” he says with a shrug. “What can I get you? Something for your Valentine?”
“Yes. My valentine is me,” you say firmly, shifting your gaze to look him in the face. You hadn’t expected him to be looking at you the way he was. The young black man is very handsome, grin wide and bright but his eyes challenging.
“That right? Something festive, then?” He asks, his arms folded tight over his apron. The sound system is playing Dean Martin and he’s noticeably swaying to it. His tag has his name (Sam) surrounded in little red heart stickers. “We’ve got specials on specials for special folks.” You roll your eyes involuntarily.
“How about a regular latte and maybe change the radio station,” you say through a sigh, more sadness there than you intended, and certainly less strength. Sam hums, your demeanor not affecting his in the least. You can’t help but feel he’s sizing you up. “What?”
“I take it you’re not up for the Lonely Hearts challenge, then?” He asks as if it’s a joke.
“Excuse me?”
“The Lonely Hearts challenge. We advertised it on our Facebook page,” he says. “You a Lonely Heart?”
“Do I look like a fucking Lonely Heart, Sam?” You ask in a deadpan. You almost hope he’s willing to be honest with you; of course the answer is yes, you super-do.
“I don’t know. I’m not here to judge,” he says, blessedly. “What’s your name?”
“Y/N.”
“Okay, Y/N. The rules are simple. Your drink’s on the house if you join any other single patron. Nothing funny, just company,” he clarifies. “It’s not speed dating. Just join somebody who’s alone. Also alone,” he adds, significantly. You narrow your eyes at him and he seems to be holding a smile back just behind his eyes. “You don’t have to play if you’ve got somewhere to be. But making a new friend isn’t the worst way to spend an evening.” The idea is sweet. You have to admit you’d love to play this kind of game any other day of the year. The expectations of something like this today, however, make you a little anxious.
“I brought a book,” you retort lamely, gesturing vaguely to the paperback tucked under your arm. Sam shrugs.
“And I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from the shirtless Greek billionaire and his jaded but lovely personal assistant. Suit yourself,” he says with a smirk, turning to the espresso machine.
“He’s not Greek,” you grumble, but you know he can’t hear. You can tell he thinks you’ll change your mind and you are resolved not to just to spite him (and frankly everything else about this holiday.) But curiosity gets the better of you as you look around the cafe. There are two young women chatting with each other and you can’t help but wonder if they were Lonely Hearts just moments before. A well-built blonde man is sitting alone in a table that faces the window, doodling idly. One man is folded over himself and a laptop in the corner, long dark hair falling in his eyes and shining in the light of his monitor as he types away furiously. A beautiful woman is sitting at a table at the other end of the bar, taking turns gazing into her cup and surveying the rest of the patrons. Sam is sliding a plate with two heart cookies to you when you turn back to him. You frown.
“I didn’t order this,” you say pointedly. He nods.
“A gesture of goodwill,” he says. “I’m not in the habit of forcing anybody to play games. Not very festive of me,” he says.
“Thanks,” you find yourself saying. You hope you’re not blushing; you wouldn’t want to admit this is the nicest part of your holiday so far. “Are they all playing?” You ask him, hoping not to sound too curious. One patron in particular has caught your eye and it can’t hurt to ask, right?
“Everybody at a red tablecloth,” he says, and it does not escape you that all but the two empty pink tables have red cloths, so you can’t start your own and hope for the best. “Wanna make a friend? Or sit quietly across from a stranger and read your steamy novel?” He waggles his eyebrows and you huff with exasperation. “Save five bucks…” He reminds you in sing-song. You’re smiling in spite of yourself and you finally concede with a nod, covering your face with one hand. His laugh is triumphant as pulls the milk from the steamer to pour a swirling heart design into the foam.
“You really love this holiday, don’t you?” You ask, shaking your head as you pick up your drink and treats. He holds up his hands: guilty.
“Call me Cupid,” he laughs heartily and you can’t help but forgive him. “Where should I send the arrow, Y/N?” You scan the room again.
“The blonde artist,” you reply. (GO TO CHAPTER 2: Steve)
“The brooding writer,” you decide. (GO TO CHAPTER 3: Bucky.)
“The mysterious redhead,” you say. (GO TO CHAPTER 4: Natasha.)
“I’m staying right here, Cupid.” (GO TO CHAPTER 5: Sam.)