Saving Steve (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter 2 - Just Watching

"I'm telling you Bee," you say, grimacing as your right arm cramps beneath the weight of the pizza boxes. "One second Henry was about to beat the living daylight out of Tom, then the next he was there. Right there."

Blair shoots you a side-eyed glance as she uses her hip to open the back door of the shelter, her arms equally as burdened by pizza boxes. You follow her through, tagging along at her heels.

"I told you that you shouldn't have stayed here alone last night," she scolds. "You could have been hurt. Or worse."

"Expelled," you quip, wiggling your eyebrows.

"Yeah ha-ha very funny nerd," says Blair. "But I'm being serious."

You scoff and roll your eyes. With a frown, Blair marches ahead in indignation, setting her pizza boxes down roughly on the front counter. In truth, you're not interested in re-visiting your experience with Henry. But you know you're friend is only worried about you.

"Bee, I'm sorry," you plead setting down your pizza then wrapping your arms around her shoulders in a friendly embrace. "But - you don't understand. This guy was...massive. And he threw Henry out the door with one hand like it was nothing. You know how big Henry is!"

"You got lucky," Blair answers, her tone agitated. "What if he had been a creep? You know what? No. I don't even want to think about it."

The excited buzz of children hovering near the desk distracts you both from the conversation at hand. Sunday night pizza is always popular.

"Shall we?" you ask.

Blair nods and gestures for the first of those waiting to step up. Soon enough the entire room is buzzing once more as families swarm and kids chatter loudly.

You're about halfway through serving when the atmosphere changes. It grows heavier. Your skin begins to tingle, and the hair on your arms raises. Goosebumps and a strange sensation of being watched sends a shiver down your spine. You've felt this before. It's never been a good thing.

Looking up from the serving line you skim the room, bouncing from person to person across the crowded space. But you see nothing out of the ordinary. 

After a few moments you wonder if you're being paranoid.

Until you feel it again. This time you're certain. 

Someone here is watching you. 

Whipping up your head, your heart lurches the moment you spot just who, exactly, has their gaze trained on you.

It's those blue eyes. Sitting in a chair much too small for his frame near the door. Hunched over, hood pulled up tight around his bearded face.

Your heart skips as you feel an anxious heat spreading through your stomach. His gaze is magnetic. And that unsettles you. For the last few years you've lived your life in a constant state of hypervigilance. Keeping others at arm's length, pushing people away when they get too close. But this gaze - these eyes - they draw you in. And you're helpless to fight against them. Like the tides against the moon - forever pulling, yet finding themselves crashing upon the sand despite their protest.

Just as you feel yourself beginning to drown in their depths, the blue eyes look away, freeing you from their enchantment. They scour the room while their owner remains seated. Quiet. Nearly invisible among the chaos despite his size. 

Just...watching.

"Blair!" you whisper, elbowing her and causing her to nearly drop a plate.

"Hey, watch it!" she says, handing the plate to the woman before her. "What's your deal?" she asks.

"It's him!" you say, trying to keep your voice down.

"Who?" Blair says, not really listening to you as she cuts another slice and plates it.

"The guy! The guy from last night!" you whisper urgently.

That gets her attention.

"Wait, what? Where?" she asks.

"Sitting in the chair near the door," you answer, focusing on plating additional slices, and doing everything you can not to look him for fear you might stop breathing.

"Blonde? Sweatshirt? Desperately in need of a shower and a shave?" Blair says with a smirk.

"Rude," you say. "But yes."

You watch Blair from the corner of her eye as she subtly glances at the large man.

"Wow, you were right. That's a big boy," she says. "He looks pretty fit though. And young. Weird."

You nod. You had noticed the same last night. 

"Maybe...maybe I should go talk to him," you say quietly, chancing another glance at the man who continues to watch the room with militaristic precision and focus. "I suppose I owe him a thank you."

As you watch the man, you feel Blair's eyes on you. So you turn to find her staring at you with an intrigued grin.

"What?" you ask.

"Oh nothing. You just look like a teenager with a crush on the quarterback."

You sputter for a moment, unable to make words as Blair simply laughs while she plates slice after slice, handing them out to those in the serving line.

Annoyed, and embarrassed at being caught staring at the man, you keep your head down and re-focus on serving. But as you do, you can't help but keep a subtle eye on the mysterious man sitting near the door. He never comes up for food. And he watches the crowd for the entirety of the hour. 

As the room calms and folks begin to leave you notice he is more relaxed, holding in his hands what looks like a black notebook. He sits more leisurely, leaning back in his chair and writing something inside it. Scratching things out frequently - erasing and re-writing. 

But his eyes frequently dart towards the door of the shelter as he looks out the windows. Occasionally he even leans forward in his chair, scanning the darkened streets outside. Once, you seem him tense and pull his hood tighter around his face as a car drives by, but as it passes he loosens up and returns to his incessant writing.

"I wonder what he's doing," you mumble as Blair finishes trashing the empty pizza boxes.

"I don't know," Blair mumbles. "But he seems paranoid. It's kind of weird," she says. 

Slowly tearing up the empty cardboard pizza box in your hands, you can't pull your eyes from the man, watching as his pencil dances along the pages of his notebook. He intimidates you - that much is certain. But not because of his size or his obvious strength.

Because of his overt benevolence. 

You watch, astonished, as he rolls his delicate wooden pencil through strong fingers, pondering something on the page before him. With a simple twitch of his thumb he could break it in half, splintering its fragile wooden fragments. And yet it floats, lighter than air, upon his hand.

"Come on Y/n, let's get the blankets."

You tear your gaze from the man who is fully absorbed in whatever he's writing to follow Blair into the office. Minutes later Liam arrives early to help, and you're glad he's here. Between the three of you check-in and bed assignment will go quickly. And smoothly. No one makes trouble with Liam around. His neck tattoos and chronic RBF tend to fend off any troublemakers. Quite ironic considering Liam is the gentlest, kindest soul you've ever known. 

The three of you finish preparations and head back out to the main hall. Your eyes immediately look to the door, hoping to once more fall into the depths of his azure stare. But all you see is an empty chair as an unexpected surge of regret rolls through you. Regret in not seizing the opportunity to speak with him. To thank him. 

With a frown, you push your disappointment away.

Maybe...maybe he'll come back again.