#ficsofpagesoflauren

You’ve seen Steve one-on-one both inside and outside of work throughout the last month. 

He comes to play with the animals, preparing to adopt one and bonding with each one to find the one that connects with him the most. At first, you thought he and Major would be a perfect match. German Shepherds are intelligent, able to follow commands well and they look like a suitable pair. However, the canine is still on the aloof side, and you’ve realized that Steve needs a dog with a kinder demeanor. 

The smaller dogs are a little too intimidated by him. Despite playing, they can’t quite keep up with his wide strides as he joins you for daily walks and playtime is underlined with aggression as the little dogs try to assert some semblance of dominance over him. 

Cats are even more withdrawn, not complimenting Steve’s need for a softer, sociable companion. You laughed as he attempted to engage with them using various feathered toys and a laser pointer and failed in nearly every attempt.

“She likes you,” you remark as he sits on the floor with Willow, smiling as the golden retriever pup playfully nips at his palm. 

“I think I like her too,” he agrees with a nod. 

The clock beeps on cue, earning some whines and howls from the animals as the work day comes to a close. You begin to cover the carriers and get everyone settled for the night. As you turn to look at the puppies, Steve is putting Willow in her kennel and giving her a few more pets before shutting the door. 

You finish closing up, setting the alarm and locking up the shelter. 

“Can I join you for dinner tonight?” Steve wonders, feet tacked onto the sidewalk next to the front door.

Smiling, you nod.

- - -

Seated by the window in the diner, you place an order with the waitress before she clears away the menus. Steve is people watching on the street and you hate to disturb his peace, but the question is gnawing at you.

“I wanted to ask you something.” 

His head twists quickly to look at you, eyes attentive as he gestures for you to proceed with your question.

“Is this…” The beginning of the question begins to sound silly in your mind. It’s so high school, but you have to know. “Are we on a date?” 

You bite your lip, waiting as he purses his lips in thought. 

“Would it be bad if this was a date?”

“No,” you answer, probably a little too quickly. You stumble over your words as you try to recover from your eager response. It’s always been a pitfall of your personality; you can’t keep your ideas in for the life of you and they come out so impulsively. It’s why you decided to work with animals, unlike your sister. If you had her job, the kids at the preschool would know your business, then their parents and the entirety of Barber, for that matter. 

Your nerves show as you rip the wrapper of your straw to miniscule pieces, even more humiliated as you fail completely at saving face. 

Well, I’ve bungled another one.

Your forwardness hasn’t paid off in the past, men would often head for the hills once hearing you expressed any thought that what you felt with them was more than a mere enjoyment of their company. The moment you told them you liked them or, in this case, called an outing a “date”, it was game over.

Your wrapper is smithereens on the table, your proverbial white flag as you prepare yourself to be let down “easy” yet again. You don’t meet his eyes; you can’t bear another look of uncomfortable sympathy as another man rejects you. 

As your hands begin to retract into your lap, Steve catches them in one of his. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you flowers before taking you to dinner.” 

Blinking in disbelief and confusion, you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. 

“What?”

“It’s a date,” he laughs. “I should’ve bought you flowers. Actually, I’m overdue for flowers. Our first date was the picnic in the park.” 

“Oh, that doesn’t have to be a ‘date’...” you begin.

His fingers loosen around yours. “Do you not want to count that?”

No, no, you panic, gripping him tighter. “No,” you shake your head. When you detect the disappointment in his face, you begin to backpedal, “No, I mean, I don’t not want to call that a date. We can call it a date, our first one, if you want.” You take in his face again, not finding anything. “Or…we don’t have to.”

“Okay, how about this,” he laughs, bringing his other hand up. He laces your fingers together, palms warm against yours. “This is our first date. And I’ll bring you flowers in the morning.” 

With how much your brain likes to think, you try to go through the catalog of time you’ve spent with him. An errand here, a dog walk there, a dog bath here, and the picnic. You try to think which of those encounters you started wanting to see him day after day after day until the end of days. 

Truth is, it was the moment he walked into the shelter the first time. 

Squeezing your fingers, you add your voice to your silent affirmation. 

- - - - - 

“Would you like to come in?” you ask, “This is a date, after all.” 

Lump in his throat, Steve has trouble finding his voice. He nods and places his hand on the small of your back as you go up the stairs. 

The space is small but the open, shared area between the kitchen and living space removes any feelings of claustrophobia. 

There’s a kitchen table with two chairs. He can see which one you use by the faded spot where you’ve gripped the top of it to pull it out. It faces the front window; fitting for you to want to take in the sunshine before getting started with your day. 

The living space has a small bookshelf with sets of novels, along with some trinkets and photos. Under the TV in the stand is a basket full of crochet supplies, a half-finished fluffy blanket spilling out of the top. He figures it’s for the animals downstairs in preparation for the winter. 

“Do you want some wine?” you offer. “Or if you’re in a crazy mood, I have some vodka.” 

“Damn,” Steve laughs. “I’m good for now.” 

“Okay,” you say, grabbing two drinking glasses. You take out your pitcher from the fridge and begin to pour water in both of them. “Water’s important, though.” 

“That’s true.” 

You hand one glass to him before leading him to the couch, turning on the TV. There’s a rerun of a late night sitcom playing, so you lower the volume and get comfy.

“What do you like to watch?” 

“Last time I watched TV, I was into Beevis & Butt-Head.” 

“Ew,” your face grimaces at weird, gross teenage-boy humor. “Sorry. Not that I was much better. One Tree Hill was my entire personality in high school.” 

“What’s that?”

Steve watches in amusement as your head turns to look at him faster than a .22 caliber bullet. “You don’t know?”

He shakes his head. “I have a feeling I’m about to find out.” 

And you’re off, spewing names and descriptions in every direction and he’s taking it all in like a mission log. His mind conjures up a relation chart, connecting the two main male leads as half brothers and their respective friends and love interests. 

“It’s so high school drama, but I couldn’t get enough of it.” 

“Can we watch an episode?” 

His heart leaps when your eyes light up.

- - -

With three episodes of One Tree Hill watched, you pause the show. 

“Interesting so far,” Steve remarks, though you notice his face is expressionless, the fronts of his eyes glistening with a slight glaze. 

“You don’t have to watch it anymore if you don’t want to.” 

“Thank you,” he laughs. “I did mean that, it was interesting. It’s just…”

“So high school?”

“Yep.” 

“That’s fair,” you say, stretching. As your muscles relax, you recline against the back of the couch. Feeling eyes on you, you look up at Steve. 

He’s looking at you oddly; you can’t figure out what he’s thinking or what he wants.

“Ste–?”

You don’t get to finish, not when he takes your face in his hands and kisses you feverishly. 

Oh, that’s why he was looking at me…

You can’t recall if anyone has ever kissed you this way, something that seems to put your body on autopilot as you lay back across the cushions with him settling on top of you, pressing his weight onto your body while his hands begin to wander down your sides. 

It’s dizzying, overwhelming as he reaches for the hem of your shirt. Your hands find the front of his chest, pressing against him to get his attention, but not enough to push him away. 

“I need to slow down,” you speak up.

“Sorry,” he pants. “It’s been…not that I’m eager to only do this, but…” He trails off, looking away from you to find the right words. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this way about someone.” 

“Me too,” you say. “The last time I dated someone was a long time ago. Just been me and the animals since then.” 

The two of you share a laugh at your shared dry spells. Around you, the air buzzes with the eager electricity of desire. 

You swallow your nerves and muster the courage to ask if he thinks the two of you would be more comfortable in the bedroom. He doesn’t answer, but instead gets up from his position above you before holding out his hand. 

Standing with him, you place your hand in his, accepting his kiss when he leans in for another one. 

With a little tug, you take him to the little corridor past the bathroom and the washer and dryer and lead him into the bedroom. You let go of his hand to turn on your bedside lamp. There’s no need to turn back and look at him when his hands come around your waist and pull your body close to his. His face finds the crook of your neck, lips pressing kisses there that ignite your body. 

His hands begin to wander, cupping your chest and gliding down your front to pin your hip back to keep you flush against him. 

Your lungs struggle, body overstimulated with all the contact against your back while your front screams for more. The clothing begins to feel stifling and you yank his hands off of you to take your shirt off to discard it on the floor. Turning to face Steve again, he’s acting before you can. 

He grips your hips again, falling back onto your mattress heavily and taking you with him. His hands guide you to straddle his hips, your groin positioned just above the growing tent in his pants. 

You feel one hand trailing up your back as he begins to undo the clasp of your bra. As he busies himself with that, you begin to pull at the hem of his shirt, bringing it up until he has to pause his act to take it off all the way. Tossing the shirt to the floor, you reach up with your other hand and unhook your bra all the way. 

“I had a handle on it,” Steve jokes, sitting up and burying his face between your breasts. 

He takes your nipple between his lips, suckling and wiping your brain of any witty comebacks so you settle for an, “Mhm.” You try to add a tone of sarcasm, but it’s hard to know how it came out as your head spins. 

Your hands find their way into his hair, gripping the short strands between your fingers as much as you can as you begin to grind your hips against him. 

The world spins as he flips you onto your back, your knees still around his waist until he stands back and unbuttons his pants. You follow his lead, reaching down and popping the button. Before you can shimmy out of the waistband, your hands are swatted away and replaced with his. 

Thumbs hooking into the sides of your underwear, those are removed too, leaving you bare in front of him. His eyes are fiery when he meets yours, holding your gaze and waiting for any sign to stop. Hands on your knees, he spreads your legs and exposes your center. His eyes catch the shine of arousal in the soft light from your lamp, mouth watering in anticipation. 

Lowering himself to his knees, he pulls you slightly closer to the edge of the bed, the perfect spot for him to lean forward and press his tongue between your lower lips. 

It draws a gasp from you, then a sound of pure arousal as he pleases you. A hand drifts up again, stimulating your breast with tugs and flicks at your nipples. The hunger behind his mouth and desperation from his hand goes straight to your head. He works you to the end and through it, sending you flying over the edge and keeping you floating until he’s satisfied. 

He stands over you, boxers off and stroking his length as he pushes you to the middle of the bed. His eyes don’t leave yours as he grabs a pillow to stuff beneath your hips and brings your knees around your hips. 

When he slides in, it’s an easy glide and the both of you have to take a moment to process the sensation. He fills you up, giving a delicious pain that makes your thighs quiver. You grip his cock so tightly, soft around him that his toes curl in bliss. 

“You okay?” he checks.

“Yes,” you respond. He’s concerned at how choked you sound.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I just…” you exhale, “I need you.” 

He obliges, withdrawing his hips and propelling them forward. He finds a rhythm, building up a steady, satisfying pattern that has you holding him tighter and crying out for him in desperation. It spurs him on further when you begin begging; you don’t need to, he’s so willing to give you everything you need. 

A string of expletives falls out of your mouth and he delivers a series of steady, forceful thrusts, resisting the loss of stamina as he finds himself finishing sooner than anticipated. He leans forward and keeps up, sucking at the skin of your neck and toying with your nipples again. When your hands fly to the comforter and your body tenses beneath his, he reaches down to stroke your clit and carry out your orgasm as long as you can bear it. 

When you shrink away from him, he slows down and eventually stops, fingers grazing over the outside of your thigh as his lips find your cheek.

“You okay?” he mumbles against your skin. 

“Mmm,” you hum in acknowledgement. 

He flips you over again, nestling you into his side so that he can keep you close as you both navigate the fog of post-coital bliss. 

- - - - -

You stumble into the living area using your fingers to undo a knot in your hair. You can smell toast and eggs, along with coffee. On your dining table is a bouquet of fresh flowers. 

Steve is dressed, transferring the eggs from the frying pan to one of two plates. 

“I hoped you wouldn’t be awake yet,” he says when he sees you. “Wanted to give you breakfast in bed.” 

“It’s okay,” you wave him off, “I don’t like getting crumbs in my bed.” 

“Fair enough,” he shrugs. “The couch then?” 

He brings the plates while you bring the coffee. The first few minutes are silent but not awkward. Just enjoyment of each other’s company as you start the day after spending the night together. 

“I was thinking,” Steve says, “I think Willow would be a really great dog to adopt.” 

You finish chewing your bite of toast before bumping his shoulder. “If you just wanted to adopt the dog, you didn’t have to do this whole ruse of taking me on a date and sleeping with me.” 

You’re pulled into his lap and smothered with kisses as the two of you laugh.

– - - - -

Steve splits his time between your place and the cabin. He doesn’t like leaving the family he semi-uprooted by his arrival, but the cabin also wasn’t puppy-proofed yet. Willow lived with you as Ari made sure everything was dog-friendly and dog-conscious. That included padding around the family furnishings and banisters that he spent precious time restoring. It would be removed when Willow was no longer teething. 

Being in less than three months with you awoke the part of him that he had hidden away. He was safe enough to share about himself and he did it so easily around you. Anyone else needed to build his trust, but as long as you would have him, he was yours. 

He holds you tighter as he gets pulled from sleep, hearing pinging from a device on the other side of the room.

Wait. He knows that sound. 

Eyes opening, he slowly unwraps his arms from around you to avoid disturbing you. He steps lightly as he rises from the bed and finds his pants, reaching into the front pocket to pull out the pager he keeps on him. 

Walking to the window, he angles the device so the screen catches the moonlight and he can see the letters scrolling across.

MISSION GOING SOUTH. BACKUP NEEDED.

His heart drops. They wouldn’t page him if they didn’t need him. He knows Bucky wouldn’t allow it. He can only imagine what the team is going through right now, how desperate they must be in order to page a teammate that was discharged because the missions consumed him. 

He looks at you, still fast asleep in the bed, then back at the pager as the message plays again. 

Putting his legs through his pants, he hesitates before replying. 

En route. Send coordinates.

Steve finds his shirt and puts it on. He opens the drawer in your bedside table and pulls out a notepad and pen. 

I’m sorry but I have to go. Take care of Willow until I come back. 

He peels the note off the pad and folds it before writing your name on it. After propping it against the base of your lamp, he stops and takes in the image of you asleep. 

He could just undress and get back under the covers. He wants to. He wants to pretend he never heard the pager and just go on the way he has with you for the past two months. But if he did, he wouldn’t sleep a wink knowing he left his team to suffer, or worse.

Leaning down, he presses a kiss into your forehead, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s a soldier. 

As he leaves, he ignores the tugging in his chest, stretching like elastic that’s ready to snap and bring him back to you at any moment. Down the street, back to the cabin, he boxes up the memories of you and locks them away. 

------

The rapping at his door startles Ransom, making his neck strain as he pulls his head up from the cushiony surface of his pillow.

His temples sting and ache as he rolls over in his bed, the curtains still drawn to prevent as much sunlight from coming in as possible.

The mattress squeaks under his weight as he shifts to sit up and he groans as the blood rushes unpleasantly to his forehead, the resulting throbbing sensation making him groan in complaint.

“Hugh Drysdale, open this god-forsaken door immediately!”

Recognizing the stern voice with a slight tremble, Ransom’s head rolls back in irritation.

It’s far too early for this, he grouchily thinks to himself.

His grandfather knocks again, louder and faster this time. The younger man feels his teeth grit in irritation and he throws the covers off his legs and violently swipes up his robe that hangs from the frame at the foot of the bed. Pulling the silky material over his shoulders, he aggressively ties the string around his waist before pulling the door open.

His eyes sting from the sunlight pouring into the hallway of the boarding house he’s renting a suite in, the pain making him flinch away dramatically.

“Hell and the Devil confound it,” Ransom whines like a child.

“Oh, come off it, boy,” his grandfather gripes, nudging the door further open with the head of his cane. The motion forces Ransom to step backward to avoid getting his toes caught underneath the wood.

Harlan cries out in disgust as he enters the suite, waving his hand to clear the repulsing odor of alcohol and sex from his nose. The door clicks closed and he grabs the center edges of the curtains, pulling them apart and letting light in despite his grandson’s protesting.

“Heaven and Earth,” Harlan sighs in relief as he pushes the window open, breathing in the fresh air that floods into the space. “You’d think something in here died,” he wrinkles his nose as the smell slowly dissipates and looks around.

“On the contrary,” Ransom presses his fingers into his eyelids, “I feel as though I am dying with the bloody sunlight coming in.”

“As I said before, come off it,” the older man commands, folding his hands over the head of his cane and tapping the ground with it.

The sound is familiar from Ransom’s childhood, something that signaled he needed to give his grandfather his full attention.

However, Ransom is no longer a child, so he pays it no mind.

That doesn’t stop Harlan from trying again by clearing his throat.

Shaking his head and shrugging with his hand, Ransom wonders sarcastically if he should call for some tea.

“This is not the time for your sarcasm, boy--”

“Stop calling me that,” Ransom protests, annoyance clear in his voice.

“If you want me to stop calling you a boy, then I suggest you start acting like a man,” Harlan replies.

“Look around you, grandfather,” Ransom opens his arms and gestures to the room. “This is me being a man. I live on my own, do as I please, with no one to answer to--”

“I’m certain you know what I mean,” his grandfather interrupts, tapping his cane against the floor again. “A man doesn’t live in a suite in a boarding house. A man doesn’t gamble away his grandfather’s money. A man doesn’t visit the brothels--”

“Then enlighten me, dear grandfather,” Ransom requests in fake curiosity. “What does a man do by your standards?”

“A man gets married.”

Scoffing and rolling his eyes, Ransom sits in the lounging chair in the corner of the room, propping his feet onto the ottoman.

Harlan continues, “He is head of a household. He takes some damn responsibility!”

“Grandfather, it is so unlike you to use such vulgar language,” the younger man feigns offense, knowing fully well he has used worse language across his lifetime compared to him.

Pointing a warning finger at him, the gentleman cuts to the quick, “You will listen here, boy,” he puts more force into the way he addresses his 28-year-old grandson, “You’re eight and twenty, old enough to take a wide and set up your nursery. I will no longer provide for this wretched lifestyle you lead.”

That captures Ransom’s full attention, wiping all dismissal of his grandfather’s words off of his face. Harlan can see it--anyone with eyes could, frankly--he was scared.

“Grandfather, what are you implying?” he wonders, sitting up and placing his feet on the floor. He’s listening intently, now.

“If you are not married by the end of this year, you’ll not get a single penny from me, or your parents.”

He rises to his feet. “You cannot do that!”

“As God is my witness!” Harlan counters, tapping his cane on the floor as a judge pounds his gavel and matching Ransom’s volume. “Not a single pound or shilling!”

“Grandfather, please,” Ransom implores pathetically. “Marriage is so odious, there’s no woman in the world who has kept my interest for more than a week--”

“Then I suggest you start cleaning yourself up to help you find a suitable lady to court and take on as your wife,” the older man states with finality. “And I suggest you do it fast. My mind is made up.”

The two of them stand in silence, Harlan letting his words sink in and Ransom slowly absorbing them.

Clearing his throat and adjusting his coat, the gentleman excuses himself, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He makes his way to the door and opens it, the creaking sound seeming to jar his grandson.

“Grandfather,” he says, sounding like a child. “Why?”

Sighing and taking his hand off the doorknob, he folds them over the top of his cane again, “I have my reasons, and there are many.”

He pauses, sifting through them, trying to decide which one he should mention now. “When I agreed to finance your bachelor lifestyle, fund this suite, and provide you with an allowance...this way of life,” he looks around once more, wrinkling his nose. “This is not what I agreed to. I never expected you to continue down this road for this long. You’re nearly thirty years old, for God’s sake!”

Harlan points out the obvious with his explanation. “It’s time for you to take some responsibility and fully realize your adulthood.”

Ransom is silent for a moment, before speaking, “Is there no way--”

“None,” Harlan shakes his head firmly. “You marry by the end of the year or your generous inheritance goes elsewhere. By the way you’ve been living, it would just go to waste in your possession.”

With that, Harlan tips his hat and leaves the room.

Slumping back into the seat, Ransom kicks the ottoman in a burst of rage. He regrets it shortly after, however, because now his feet have nowhere to rest but the cold, hardwood floor.

He props his elbows on the arm of the chair, pressing his fingertips into his temple in frustration.

His grandfather created a losing game for him. If Ransom continued to do what he wanted, he would stand to have nothing next year.

If he married--the mere thought of it makes him shudder.

He’ll admit, he likes women. He likes them in his bed, moaning his name; on their knees, worshipping him; in his lap, fawning over him.

Conversing with them can be stimulating, but after a while, it grows so dull. To be fair, it’s the same with men, too.

In general, people are rather boring.

Find a suitable woman, his grandfather had said.

A woman who would please him in bed, keep to herself but be interesting enough when he was forced to talk to her. That would be an ideal woman. The perfect wife.

Where in Hell is he going to find her?

At breakfast, your father calls to you from his seat where he lounges for the afternoon, “My lotus blossom, you have a letter.”

Gasping eagerly, you place your novel on the table and get up from the sofa, walking as calmly as you can to him where he holds it out for you to take. Your mother places her teacup down and watches you intently, waiting to see what message is in store for you.

It’s a beautiful envelope with a red wax seal to keep the flap shut. It feels surreal in your hands--before being out to society, you would get invitations but your parents would withhold them from you, saying it was not the time for you yet.

You had heard the words “perhaps next year,” plenty of times. Little did you know that last year was finally an instance where that phrase was true.

Back in your seat, you break the seal, opening the envelope and pulling out the invitation.

“I’ve been invited to the Forsters’ ball!” you inform your parents excitedly.

Your mother lets out a sound of exclamation, her face lighting up and she reaches for the piece of paper.

“Well, I should hope so,” your father scoffs. “They are some of my best customers.”

You laugh as you hand the invitation to your mother, “Father, I believe everyone in London is your best customer. You’re the most prominent silk trader in town.”

“Well,” he dismisses, spooning another heap of jam onto his toast, “all the more reason for me to believe you should be extended more invitations for such affairs.”

You purse your lips, silently taking a bite of your own breakfast. The toasted bread is a little on the tough side, you couldn’t wait until the cook would prepare a fresh loaf. As you take a bite and chew, you consider how long it’s been since the season started.

You count the weeks, wondering how many balls and parties and dinners have passed that you were not invited to.

How many hosts did not want you there.

“Of course, there’s nothing to fret about, lotus,” your father quickly adds, “There’s still plenty of time in the season. And perhaps you’ll make acquaintances at the Forsters’ ball which will lead to more invitations!”

Despite his intention to encourage you, you can’t help but continue to worry. You’ve waited so long to be out in society, you’re quite late compared to your peers and have had so few interactions with people outside of the household. The only exceptions to that are the late Mrs. Thrombey and the men of the Rogers family.

The Commodore has been a pleasant guest for the most part, though you don’t get many opportunities to speak to him. Granted, part of it is your mother trying to prevent the house staff from gossiping. But, the majority of the reason is your father.

He’s always so eager to speak to him about anything in the world. You figure it’s him finally having someone who can resemble a son; you’re not offended, though.

In your spare time, when your mother is occupied with other things or when it is late at night and your father is in his study, you’d sit with him. He taught you nearly everything there is to know about silk distribution, maintaining a business, and communicating with buyers. With the demand for silk slowly growing, so was his business. He got busier and busier as the years went on, and you followed along, silently observing from the shadows.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you had considered that you were the best option to take over the business when your father was ready to retire. There were some obstacles to overcome; you are a woman and there was still more you had to learn, but it could be done. Perhaps you would read more--

“My dear,” your mother speaks, jarring you from your thoughts. “Be sure to have your reply ready. We’ll send a footman to the Forsters’ as soon as you’ve written it.”

Now, there are more important things to focus your attention on; the thing that your mother is so hyper-fixated on that you are nearly not permitted to think of anything else: finding a husband.

And hopefully, the Forsters’ ball would be the start of it.

Nodding, you gather the letter and envelope, bunching your skirt in your hands as you excitedly run out of the dining room before your mother can scold you.

As you make your way up the stairs, you nearly run into another body at the top.

“Oh!” you exclaim, stepping back to give him space, but gravely overestimating how much room you have behind you. You gasp as you feel yourself falling backward, arms flailing as you try to find something to grab onto.

Commodore Rogers catches you instead, large hands coming around your waist and pulling you with him as he steps back into the hallway so that you have room to steady yourself. Your palms and the letter slap onto his chest as you clumsily try to find your balance.

You mean to look at him out of politeness when you thank him, but the words die in your throat as your eyes meet his.

“Are you alright?” he checks, voice soft so as not to startle you.

“Oh,” you say again, eyes wide and lost in his cerulean gaze. Blinking, you gather yourself and shake your head. “Yes, thank you, Commodore,” you answer his question and step back.

The two of you stare for a silent moment and it’s hard to think with your heart hammering in your chest.

Then, his stomach grumbles.

He laughs, looking down bashfully while you giggle in amusement.

“I believe you are overdue for breakfast, Commodore.”

“You’d be correct, Miss Lascar.”

Curtsying, you sidestep around him, “Well, I’ll leave you to it. There’s plenty of food to go around. And I’m sure my father will be pleased to see how well-rested you look.”

“Thank you, Miss. Good morning.”

He turns to descend the stairs and you stand tacked in your place, watching the golden head of his hair disappear below. Pursing your lips, you feel the rough texture of the paper in your hands and remember your task.

You continue down the hall, enter your room, and sit at your writing desk to confirm your attendance to the ball.

Two Weeks Later

The carriage ride home from the Forsters’ ball is rickety, but you’re grateful for it nonetheless. You sigh in relief at the sight of your home coming into view. It’s far too early in the morning--you’re not sure what time, exactly.

The sky is just beginning to turn a lighter shade of blue, but as you look up and see the clouds hanging above, you know it will be overcast later on in the day.

You do your best to step lightly despite your aching feet and keep your shoulders up despite your exhaustion. The night was long, filled with delicious foods and wines, standing for long hours and even a fair share of dances.

You step carefully as you pass the Commodore’s room, making your way down the corridor until you reach your bedroom.

“Sleep well, my dear,” your mother whispered, catching your attention in the middle of blissful thoughts of lying underneath your sheets.

Remembering yourself, you turn back to her, taking her hands and pressing your forehead to hers. “You too, mother.”

Facing your door again, you find your handmaid placing a cup of tea on your vanity.

“Chamomile and ginger, miss,” Rosie says with an enthusiastic smile, which is impressive given the time. She must be tired. “The master of the house said it should prevent you from getting sick.”

You manage to chuckle at your father being so overbearing, even when you aren’t home. “I doubt going to a ball will make me ill,” you say, sitting in front of the mirror and taking a sip.

“Is it to your liking, miss?”

“Rosie,” you sigh, “You know you’re the best at making tea for me.”

Her smile turns pleased and she gently places her hands on your shoulders to ensure you’re in an optimal position for her to get you ready for bed.

“Hold still, please, miss,” she requests quietly, reaching for your earrings. When she removes them, she meets your gaze in the mirror. “Will you tell me about your evening, miss?”

With the excitement in her eyes, you consider lying to her, conjuring up a fascinating story in the moment about how you made countless amounts of friends and danced with dozens of men.

Your sigh gives you away and her face shifts to one of concern.

“Miss?”

“I can’t say it was particularly stimulating,” you reveal, choosing to be honest. “Three men asked me to dance, which was lovely. Though, only in the way that nobody stepped on my toes or my dress.”

She takes off your necklace next, eyes still flicking to look at your face in the mirror to indicate she’s still listening.

“And it was easy to tell they did not want to dance with me.”

“Oh, miss,” she sighs and shakes her head, placing your necklace into your jewelry box before closing it, “You cannot make such an assumption.”

“But I can,” you insist as she begins to remove the pins in your hair. “There was some conversation, but they were not listening much. The number of times I had to repeat myself…” you trail off. “Not to mention how once the dance was over they all but disappeared.”

She looks thoughtful as she wrestles a particularly stubborn pin buried between some strands of hair, but when she finally pulls it out, she looks triumphant. Then, she meets your gaze again. “Surely, you made some new acquaintances, though, miss?”

“You are far too optimistic, Rosetta,” you laugh sadly, using her proper name so that she knows you do not mean to joke. “I was invisible the entire night.”

There were only three instances where you were acknowledged by others: when Mrs. Forster greeted you upon entry, when another young lady accidentally bumped into you, and when Mrs. Forster saw you off at the end of the ball. You recount these as the last of the pins are removed, your scalp tingling and relaxing after your hair was pulled every which way to look presentable.

“For a young lady participating in the social season,” you begin bitterly, your voice becoming watery as tears sting your eyes, “I’m hardly socializing. Not that I do not want to, but because it seems no one wants to engage with me.”

Rosie is silent, picking up your hairbrush and beginning to run it through the tangles.

“If I may be so bold to request to speak freely, miss,” she requests, continuing when you say nothing, “I believe you surpass all the ladies in beauty and they mean to act so coldly to you because of that.”

“What do you mean?” your face scrunches up in confusion. You look nothing like anyone else in London. Your skin is a different tone, your eyes a different shape. Even your hair stands out; where the epitome of beauty is blonde like sunshine with curls, your hair is dark as a night sky, slick and straight.

Rosie seems to know what you’re thinking, “Nobody else looks like you, miss. At least, no one who is out in society. Your features are unique and difficult to miss, but that does not mean you are not beautiful. In my opinion, it warrants a second glance. And your skin is radiant and smooth, such beauty that would make any lady in any ballroom envious. Your hair may not have curls like theirs, but it is so plentiful and healthy and shiny…”

You smile as she gushes about you, unable to prevent yourself.

“Not to mention, miss, I’ve been working in this household for years, and your mother’s face has not changed at all compared to the other ladies of her age. Neither has your father’s. I reckon in ten years’ time, you will be the same.”

You laugh at that, a sense of gratitude washing over you when she places a hand on your shoulder. Covering it with your own, you give it a squeeze.

“Perhaps last night was just others seeing you for the first time and not knowing how to react,” she posits as she resumes brushing your hair. “The longer the season goes and the more they see you, the more they will begin to see just how lovely you are, miss. And who knows?” she shrugs, “The other ladies may then want to imitate you because so many men will fall at your feet.”

With your hair finally detangled, Rosie picks up a ribbon and places it at the edge of the table within reach.

“Besides,” she smiles as she weaves your hair into a long braid at the back of your head, “It’s not like you won’t get any attention from any man at all. Not with the Commodore here.”

You mean to ask her more, but a yawn takes over your mouth, drawing your attention to how tired you are.

“Alright, miss,” Rosie says quietly as she ties the ribbon around the end of your braid. “Time to get you into your nightgown and into bed.”

Undressing is quick with her help, which you thank her for as you walk around the side of your bed and lie down. She helps you pull the covers up to your shoulders, patting the sheets down to make sure you’re cocooned comfortably.

“Sleep well, miss. I’ll be back in a few hours just to check on you in case you get hungry or need anything.”

“Thank you, Rosie,” you reply drowsily, words slightly incoherent as your face presses into the pillow. “You get some rest as well.”

You hear her footsteps recede before the door creaks open quietly and shuts softly.

As you drift to sleep, Rosie’s comment about the Commodore echoes in your mind.

Perhaps that was the only wish you had for the past evening: you wished he was there with you. With a friend at your side, you would not have been so alone. Perhaps then, you would not have been invisible.

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Ransom tag: @jeremyrennermakesmesmile

Steve tag: @twittytelly

After dinner, Ari and his wife helped set up Ari’s old bedroom to be Steve’s for the duration of his stay.

“You’re welcome as long as you need to stay,” Ari reassured. “Absolutely no rush for you to get back on your feet. Sounds like you’ve been through hell.”

While they all tried to get to know him, they understood that there were some things that weren't yet ready to be spoken about. Nobody pushed him, and Steve shared what he was able to. 

Settling under the covers with a sigh, Steve rolls his shoulders back to relax his muscles. He places his palms on top of the flannel sheet, the fibers sticking to the clammy skin. With a swipe of his hand, he tries to get rid of the moisture, but it just causes more to come to the surface. 

Steve decides to clench his fists instead but reminds himself to keep his face relaxed to try and go to sleep. 

The visions behind his eyelids are relentless; as one washes away, another comes to replace it. Resigned, he opens his eyes and looks out the window.

The moon is full, surrounded by gray wispy clouds gliding across the sky, carried by a silent wind. Sighing again, Steve shifts around to make himself comfortable. Cheek pressed against the pillow, he realizes the nightmares started when he began his journey back home. 

On missions, sleep was precious and time was a commodity. To any normal person, sleep is a time of respite from day-to-day life, filled with fantastically pleasant images or even nothingness as the body recovers from the exhausting burden of living. To Steve and his team, it was a short burst of rest, a hard reset before getting right back to business.

Always on the move, there was never any time for demons or terrible memories to catch up to him. But now, with all the time in the world, he’s a sitting duck and those dark thoughts are poised, ready for the kill. 

Steve watches as the moon moves across the sky like a screensaver, keeping everything that haunts him at bay. As the sky turns a shade lighter, he gets up and rifles through his clothes, scattered between his bags and dresser. 

Dressing in some joggers, a pullover, and grabbing his running shoes, Steve quietly makes his way through the living room and out the front door. After he nudges his feet into the shoes, he takes off, running down the beaten path through the woods. 

- - -

“There you are!” Marcella greets Steve as enters the cabin. “How many eggs do you want?”

He’s met with the rich smells of American breakfast foods and gurgling of the coffee maker. With a blink, he smiles. 

It sounds and smells like home.

“I’ll take four, over medium, please.”

“Coming right up!” 

“Were you able to sleep at all?” Ari asks, looking pointedly at him as he loads bread into the toaster.

“Ah,” Steve exhales awkwardly, trying to find the right words. “Not quite. But not because I was uncomfortable.” 

“Understandable,” Bunny says, looking up from the stove. “New place, it’s an adjustment. But it looks like you were able to get some exercise in.” 

“Yeah, I was.”

“The forest path is great for that! There are a few here, you’ll never get bored. Oh, pancakes, by the way?”

“They’re chocolate chip today,” Marcella adds.

“Oh, yes, please. I’ll have two.” 

“Oh, hear that, Ari?” Marcella turns to her son, “Looks like you could learn about balanced meals from Steve.”

Steve snorts as Ari’s eyes narrow at his mother.

“Bunny, I’ll have four pancakes, please,” he says pointedly. 

“Yes, dear,” she laughs.

“Help yourself to some coffee, if you’d like. Sugar’s next to the machine and milk’s still in the fridge.” 

Steve takes up the offer, grabbing one of the mugs lined up on the counter. There are four, and he smiles to himself again. 

“Um,” he begins. “Thank you, for bringing out a mug for me.” 

Everyone exchanges pleasantly surprised looks at each other before looking back at Steve. Ari pipes up, “How could we not? You’re family.” 

They return to their respective tasks: Ari wraps up the bread and places it back in the basket; Bunny flips a pancake onto a serving platter and pours more batter into the pan; and Marcella turns over one of the eggs she’s making for Steve. 

With both parents passed on and his team somewhere out in the world doing who-knows-what, Steve entered Barber feeling isolated from everyone. 

But here, in this kitchen, with a seat at the table, a plate of pancakes and eggs coming his way, and a mug for coffee, there’s a sense of safety. Not quite in the way that someone is watching his six or looking from a vantage point, but in the simplicity of being thought of and cared for. 

- - - - -

“You need fresh air.”

Steve hums in confusion as he turns to Marcella.

“Did my Albie some good when he would have nightmares.”

“How did you–”

“I’ve seen that look before; it’s the same as his when he couldn’t sleep well the previous night.” 

A sense of bewilderment falls over Steve as he realizes she’s not even looking at him, rather maintaining her focus on her current knitting project. 

“I–”

“There’s a park not too far that we would go to and sit on the bench under the willow tree. It’s nice to be under the shade. I’ll tell them where you went, just be back by dinner or else we’ll launch a search party.” 

Knowing an indirect command when he hears one, Steve finds himself getting up and grabbing a jacket before heading out.

“Bring a hat and wear sunscreen!” 

- - - - -

Baseball cap tucked tight onto his head, Steve’s knee bounces sitting underneath the swaying fronds of an old willow tree. 

He’s not a fool, he can see how this would be serene and calming, but the tension in his muscles don’t seem to release. The fresh air is invigorating and a wonderful contrast to stale atmospheres in hideouts and home bases used solely for shelter. 

As he concentrates harder on relaxing, he’s interrupted.

“Hi, Steve.”

Turning to the source of the voice, he finds you standing in a sundress and wide-brim hat, picnic basket tucked into your elbow. 

He greets you in return. “Having a picnic?”

“Yeah, couldn’t let the sunshine go to waste. How are you enjoying your day?”

“It’s here and there.” 

“I understand,” you nod. “Well, if you don’t have plans, I was going to set up not too far from here. I have plenty of food and snacks; I was just going to relax for the rest of the afternoon. You’re welcome to join me, or not, if you’d rather stay here.”

His response is almost a knee-jerk reaction, agreeing to join you. He’s not quite sure where that comes from but you don’t seem to pay attention to it. Instead, you bid him to follow you to a sunny patch of grass. Setting the basket down, you take out a blanket and begin to unfold it. 

As the blanket begins to grow larger, Steve realizes how useless he’s being and grabs the other end, helping you open it up and keep it flat on the grass. It’s not too large, but it’s enough for two people to comfortably sit without invading each other’s space.

He watches as you kneel and bring the basket onto the blanket, beginning to take out a container of bright red strawberries and sliced kiwis. When you look up at him after taking out a covered platter, he feels his body tighten in social anxiety.

“Would you like to sit?” you offer, seeming to repeat your invitation from earlier. 

“Oh, yeah,” he stammers, crouching down and trying to get into a comfortable position. He wriggles around for a moment and hears a snort from you as he settles on sitting on his bottom with his legs extended, hands positioned back to support his upper half. “What?”

“Nothing,” you smile, “When was the last time you went on a picnic?”

“I have to think about that one.”

And he does. It’s not an automatic memory retrieval, not like remembering Bucky’s blindside or how to navigate a smoke screen. He ventures deep into the annals of his brain, almost like an archive room with thousands of dusty files and the smell of old paper. 

Childhood memories are like faded pictures; he can see the indistinct figures of Bucky as a child, running with other boys whose faces he can’t remember. He thinks he laughed in that moment, but he doesn’t know what they were playing. He can see the picnic tables and detect the faint aroma of coals on a grill. There’s brightly colored candy on the brown and green grass, girls screaming as a boy chases them with a lizard. 

“I don’t know how old I was,” Steve shrugs. “Maybe seven or eight. I think it was for a birthday party. But it wasn’t like this, there were picnic tables, like something you’d reserve at a park.” 

“Ah,” you nod. “I really like coming here on a sunny day, there’s lots of space for a nice little picnic to have a snack outside, maybe read a book.” 

Humming in agreement, Steve doesn’t know what to say. It’s been ages since he had a conversation about anything other than work. Whenever an interaction extends beyond the weather and one’s state of being, he’s lost. 

A happy jingle begins to come into earshot and a few kids nearby scream in delight, making you giggle as Steve startles at the sounds. Aggressively pushing down his response to rush to the rescue, he realizes most of the park goers attention has been captured by an ice cream truck. Parents hold their children back from running headlong into the parking lot to be the first in line, waiting as the brightly colored vehicle finds a spot and parks. 

Once settled, the large window on the side opens up and a deep voice bellows, “Ice cream!” Kids surge forward, racing to get into line before each other. The man in the truck begins to direct them, making sure everyone is being fair and nice to each other. Once the line is orderly, he begins to take orders. 

“Would you like something?”

“Usually I wait until the line shortens,” you reply.

“But then all the good stuff might be gone by then,” he argues. 

You huff in a laugh, “Good point. I’ll have a scoop of cookie dough in a cone, please.” 

Watching him get up and jog over to the line, you laugh at the comic image of him taking a spot behind a boy who can’t be much older than five. He sticks out among the other patrons, the only adult as the kids ahead of him crane their heads to look at the man in the truck and get on their toes to reach for their cones and cups. 

You grab a strawberry and bite into it, unable to stop yourself from thinking how he seems to try so hard at being just a normal person despite looking anything but. He showed up in Barber out of nowhere, which isn’t unusual, but someone of his stature and gait when he moves sticks out. 

Barber has always been a quieter place to live, nobody has any particular rush. You’re used to the occasional person or group stopping in on their way to somewhere else, but even they don’t have the same rigidity Steve has. Slow life in a slow town means leisure walks and headaches for city dwellers; you could imagine a New Yorker hating the sidewalks here filled with slow pedestrians. 

You don’t know much about him, only recalling he referred to himself as a “veteran.” With no visible malady, you can imagine the more invisible troubles that plague someone like him, who has likely seen things you can’t even begin to imagine. 

To go from that to Barber is an adjustment that would possibly take years to complete. As you put together a bite with a cracker, piece of cheese and some honey, you watch as he steps up to the window, laughing at a joke from the ice cream vendor. 

You chew as he pays and takes a cup and a cone, nodding in thanks to the man in the truck before heading back to you. As he returns, you finish chewing and dust off your hands before reaching out to take your cone from him.

“Thank you,” you smile. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh don’t worry about it,” he replies, waving her off. “Thank you for inviting me to join you, you didn’t need to.” 

As the afternoon continues, the two of you spend time talking the time away. The sun moves across the sky without either of your attention on it, until it begins to descend behind the treeline. 

“I’m so sorry,” you start, feeling bashful, “I didn’t mean to take up your entire afternoon.” 

Steve smiles, mostly to himself, “Don’t be sorry, there’s nothing else I had planned for today.” And I can’t remember the last time I felt this way.

He leaves out the latter part of his thoughts, feeling his body physically reacting to the pounding of his memories from before his career as they scream to escape from their prison. His heart aches as it opens up, the muscle forming shapes it hasn’t in a long time. It makes his breath catch in his throat, ignites the tips of his fingertips. 

Your hand covers his, a gesture that douses the heat on his skin. He knows it’s meant to be friendly, but his brain screams to turn his hand over and grasp yours. He wonders how your fingers would feel between his, wants to know the warmth of your palm against his own. 

“Are you okay?” you check, ducking your head slightly to look into his eyes. There’s some concern in your expression and he does his best to brush off any trail of a wandering mind. 

“Yeah,” Steve clears his throat. “Can I walk you home?”

- - -

The breeze wisps around, lifting your hair and lapping at your skin. It’s a nice cool down after being in the sun. One by one, the street lamps turn on, bathing the streets in a soft yellow glow. 

You steal a shy glance at Steve as he looks around to take in the scene. The contours of his face are shrouded in shadow, bringing out the structure of his face. From the moment he stepped into the shelter, your knees nearly went weak, butterflies tickling in your stomach and fluttering down to your legs. The butterflies come back, wings flapping aggressively as you admire his features.

When his face gives a telltale tic, you look away quickly and he asks if there’s something wrong.

“No,” you answer a little too quickly. The shelter and your front door is only a few steps away, so you change the subject. “This is me.” 

“Convenient,” Steve remarks.

“Very,” you laugh. “I had a lot of fun today. It was nice to spend time with you. We should do it again sometime. If you want. You don’t have to, I just thought–” 

It happens quickly; Steve cups your jaw, tilting your head upwards to receive a kiss he presses into your lips. 

Pressing his forehead against yours, he feels your face rush with heat, his own skin tingling from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

You give a giddy laugh. “Seeing you.” Your eyes widen and lips purse, as if you spoke out of turn. “At least, I hope that’s what you’re getting at.” 

Steve laughs, straight from his belly and his memories continue to pound at the walls of the fortress containing them. 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m getting at.” 

He kisses you one more time, and watches as you unlock the door and give him one more wave before the door shuts behind you.

Staring up at the sky, the stars shine, multitudes more than visible in a big city. He remembers nights in remote areas while on missions, the cold ground beneath his back as he attempted to get sleep. 

The image of your hand in his flashes across his memory, warming his body. 

Then, the walls crumble, and the memories come forward.

------

Ari blinks mutely at the stranger-who’s-not-actually-a-stranger sitting in his armchair, where he made himself comfortable without permission. With the information that was just revealed to him, he’s a little more possessive of every molecule in the cabin. 

His mother had opened the door, then stole everyone’s attention with her shocked gasp and the shrill sound of glass hitting the floor. Ari had rushed in and his wife, asleep on the couch, woke up and surveyed the surroundings. 

Soon enough, everyone was baffled by the appearance of a man named Steve Rogers claiming to be Albert Levinson’s half-brother.

As Ari continues to stew over everything he just learned, his wife pipes up, “Give him a moment.” 

“I’m going to need several moments,” he adds quickly, his voice dripping with his confusion. “You’re going to waltz in here and tell me that my dad’s father,” Ari begins, using hand gestures to help him keep track of all the people he’s about to mention, “My grandpa Alexander–whose last name is actually Rogers–left my grandmother Andrea Levinson and ran off with some other woman and had you?”

“That’s correct,” Steve says bluntly.

“And that makes you,” Ari points an incredulous finger at him, “My dad’s half-brother, and my half-uncle.”

“Correct again. Except, ‘half-uncle’ is a little odd to say because I’m about twenty years younger than your father. I’m probably only a few years older than you.”

“No,” Ari denies immediately, getting up from his spot next to his wife. “Nope, this is a dream. This is some crazy, twisted reality that I’ve been trapped in–”

“Ari, dear,” Bunny sighs, “This isn’t a dream, I promise. And…that’s kind of how family trees work.”

“And he’s not wrong,” Marcella adds plainly.

All eyes shift to her.

“You knew?!” Ari shouts, earning a stern look from him mother, which he quickly counters with an apology. “But…mom, why didn’t you tell me?” he whines. 

The women in the room roll their eyes and Bunny turns to Steve as Marcella begins to explain the matter to her son. “I apologize for my husband’s behavior. As you can tell, this news is quite a shock to him.” 

“I can’t say I blame him,” Steve shrugs. 

She mirrors his gesture, then offers him something to drink. 

“If it wouldn’t trouble you to get some water, I’d appreciate it.” 

“Not a bother at all,” she waves him off before getting up, walking past the other two in the room and drawing Steve’s attention to them. 

“...Your father and I just didn’t think it was so important. They lived such separate lives, anyway. And think about it, what does this change, after all? You still have this house, you have your wife, you have me.” 

“I just can’t imagine leaving,” he sighs, eyes drifting to his wife in the kitchen, standing on her toes to grab a glass all the way in the back of the cupboard. 

He’s told her many times to stop that out of worry she’d overextend the delicate tendons of her ankles. Went as far as building a step stool she doesn’t even use; he huffs a laugh to himself as he watches her move to the fridge and take out the water pitcher. The liquid sloshes with the movement and swaying of the various fruits she had put to make it just a little bit more refreshing. 

Strawberries, mint, and watermelon in his water; her hands in his; holes in his shirts with constantly fresh stitches; the prospect of filling frames with pictures of a growing family; she was home to him. How could he ever think about abandoning it? 

The idea that his grandfather did something he can’t begin to understand, that’s what sits in his stomach and tangles up his insides. 

Steve didn’t do that. He was just the product of it. 

His eyes follow his wife as she walks back into the living area, handing him a glass of water.

“Thank you,” he says softly, taking a sip before his eyes meet Ari’s. 

“Do you have a place to stay?” Ari asks.

“I was going to shack up at the inn after this.” 

“No need,” Ari shakes his head. “We have plenty of room here.” 

“Are you sure?” Steve chuckles slightly, “I think I broke your brain when I walked in and told my story. Seems like staying over would rock the boat even more.” 

The air in the cabin suddenly lightens, tension fading away as everyone laughs.

“On the contrary, what better way to get to know your family than by staying with us?” 

Steve shrugs and smiles, “Well, I guess I better get my things then.” 

Ari offers his help and the two men begin to bring Steve’s bags into the cabin. There isn’t much, about three pieces of baggage to bring in.

When they shut the door and appear to get settled, Marcella pipes up, “Oh good, you’re done.”

“Mama, what are you doing?” he asks, watching as she settles the strap of her purse on her shoulder. 

“I’m ready to go to town to get my nails done.” 

“Ma, I told you this morning–”

“Right, you have some silly little project to work on and my lovely daughter-in-law is cooking for the week.”

“I don’t think fixing a leak in the sink is–”

“Yeah, that one,” she waves him off, “Anyway, as I was saying, I wasn’t asking you to bring me. Steve has a car.” 

“Ma, he’s a guest–”

She scoffs, “Oh, please, he’s family, and it would give him a chance to explore the town a bit. Doesn’t that sound great, Steve?”

Mute from being put on the spot, Steve takes a moment to process before agreeing to do it. 

“See? Everyone’s happy!” Marcella chastises Ari.

She makes her way out the front door and the men hear a snort from the kitchen. 

Bunny pauses and looks up from the vegetables she’s chopping, “Welcome to the family, Steve.”

- - - 

After dropping Marcella off at the salon, Steve found a spot under a tree to park in. 

Stepping out of the car, the main avenue of the town looked familiar and foreign at the same time. 

It was a typical American small town busy road: cars parked along the sidewalk, wide streets and walkways, stores directly next door to one another, hustle and bustle. Every American knows it, and it’s likely non-Americans know it too. 

But when was the last time Steve saw one for himself? 

It wasn’t that long ago, but it feels like it was. 

Before the jet rides to quickly get from place to place. Before the case files and research. Before commlinks and codes. Before sleepless nights planning missions and long days carrying them out. Days would turn into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. 

He’s given so much of his life and focus into it that he doesn’t remember life where he wasn’t doing it. He knows there was something before it because every adult has memories of growing up, being a child, and going to high school. 

In Steve’s brain, those recollections are locked away in a corner of his brain he locked away to be able to do his job. 

The things he was afraid of as a kid, the insecurities that held him back as a teenager, the innocence everyone has before becoming an adult; he lost touch with all of it, lost touch with himself.  

It had gone too far on the last mission. His friend sent him home with the promise the team would be okay without him. 

The voice of a conversing family draws him out of his dazed state, catching a glimpse of two kids skipping while their parents gently caution them. 

Sighing, Steve moves onto the sidewalk and begins to walk down the street. When a door swings open, he sees the brief image of his walk: stiff, arms swinging in tight control and calculated steps as if he’s back at boot camp. 

Slowing his pace, he thinks about how to appear more casual; he is, after all, a civilian now. 

Relax, Rogers, he can hear Natasha say. No, seriously. We’re supposed to be walking through the mall, not running to the drill sergeant’s back and call.

He lets his shoulders deflate, shoves his hands in his pockets, and tries to find a comfortable pattern of steps. 

While he can’t be certain, Steve has that nagging feeling that he looks like an idiot. 

Pursing his lips, he decides to distract himself by looking at the various window displays along the sidewalk. There’s a certain small town comfort that comes from the bright colors and fun arrangements that are meant to attract customers. Different phrases like “fun in the sun” emulate the summer air, while silly props like turtle-shaped inner tubes evoke a type of nostalgia that most people are lucky to have when thinking of their long breaks from school.

Steve knows in the dark annals of his mind, those memories are there. 

Before he can deep dive into retrieving them while staring at a flamingo pool floatie, he’s interrupted by a parent pulling his son out from a nearby store. 

“Why can’t I have him now?!”

“If you can do your chores consistently for a month, we’ll talk about it. Puppies aren’t toys. They’re a responsibility, like your chores. And you keep putting those off.”

The conversation fades as Steve draws closer to the door the pair just exited, peering into the window. 

A handful of dogs of all ages yip and bark, some playing by themselves while others tumble around and bite each other softly. Their kennels line one wall, while the other wall is filled with two housings; one for a molly cat and a litter of kittens and another empty one, the door slightly ajar. 

Intrigued, Steve pushes the door open. 

The dogs all perk up at his entrance, some standing and wagging their tails, ears high with attention, while others bark at him. 

A woman rushes in from the back, a slightly resigned look on her face. 

“C’mon you all,” you sigh, “You know that’s not the right way to greet somebody, especially if you wanna get adopted.” 

Standing in front of some of the kennels, you stick your hands through the bars to nudge some chewing toys towards the more excited canines before turning to the other wall to attend to the kittens. 

“Sorry, Mocha, let me put this down and your kitties can keep feeding.”

As you pull down a makeshift shade to block the front of the kennel, Steve realizes the missing feline from the other cubby is perched on your shoulder, tail swinging in satisfaction as it maintains perfect balance as you walk around.

“Hi, I’m so sorry,” you greet him, “Some of the puppies are still in training. And Major over there is a rescue; he’s been through it, so he’s still warming up.” 

He follows your gesture towards a large German Shepherd standing on his hind legs. 

Reaching up, you remove the cat from your shoulder and laugh when it hooks its claws into your shirt.

“Shadow, we have a guest,” you giggle, and Steve feels a lump in his throat. Negotiating the claws out of the fabric, you rest Shadow onto your arm. “This cat’s been here for a while. He’s followed me since he was a kitten, and he’s got this beautiful black coat, so I figured ‘Shadow’ was a great name. Isn’t he lovely?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, “I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Oops, leave it to me to introduce the cat before myself,” you joke, tapping your forehead to point out your forgetfulness. You offer your hand as you give him your name. “It’s nice to meet you. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I don’t think I’ve seen you before?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have,” he waves you off, “I just got here today.” 

“Well, welcome to Barber. What brings you to town?”

“Some long lost family.”

“Which one?” you ask, interest piqued. Then, your eyes widen bashfully, “Sorry, that was so invasive.”

“No, it’s alright,” Steve smiles, “I, um…do you know the Levinsons?”

“Oh Ari and Marcella! And Ari’s wife, of course. Yes, I love them. Marcella came in once and nearly snuck one of the kittens out in her jacket. Not that she was stealing from me, but she wanted to try to get it past her son. He wasn’t having it; though I think he would benefit from a kitten. He’s so gruff–oh my God, I talked way too much.”

The blond laughs and you think you might swoon. Setting Shadow down to wander around the shelter, you try to keep things professional. “So, what brings you in? Just here for some puppy therapy, looking around?”

“Well, if Ari doesn’t want a kitten in the cabin, I imagine he wouldn’t want a puppy,” Steve begins, looking at the dogs. “But I hear they’re good for…um…”

He pauses and you keep your posture, looking at him attentively as he tries to find his words.

“I’ve heard that adopting an animal could be good for a returning veteran.”

“Oh,” you comment, “Yes! I mean, that’s easy for me to say because I run the shelter; but really it’s easy to recommend a pet to anyone who is considering it. A father and son were just in here and the only thing that stopped me was the fact that the father was saying his son doesn’t tend to his chores. But I think with the right guidance, his son could be a good dog companion.

“In your case, though, I would say it could help you feel more adjusted. You’ll have something to do and a friend who will love you unconditionally. But, seeing that you just got to Barber…”

“It’s probably best to wait before I make a decision,” Steve finishes for you.

“Exactly,” you smile, “We’re on the same page.”

A few beats of silence pass over the two of you before you break it. “Would you like to still look around? You’re welcome to. I’m sure the dogs would be happy to interact with someone other than me.” 

Taking you up on your offer, Steve accepts the bowl of treats you hand him and listens attentively as you specify that each puppy only gets one treat. “And don’t fall for the puppy eyes. You laugh now and think I’m joking but these guys are good at what they do.” 

Approaching the first kennel, the chubby puppy with round ears perks up and yips, excited for an interaction. A rush of happiness fills Steve’s chest, helping him relax as he wedges two fingers between the bar to give the little guy a couple head scratches. Then, he reaches down into the bowl, holding the treat for the puppy to bite.

The puppy chews and Steve catches a glance at his description: suspected to be a mix of a Bernese Mountain Dog and a Boxer, the puppy is a boy with a lot of energy. He’s only a few months old and was found wandering in the grocery store and begging for scraps at the deli. 

“Well, your name makes sense, Salami,” Steve mutters, making eye contact and, sure enough, as you predicted, he’s begging for more treats. “Damn, she wasn’t kidding. I bet those guys at the deli gave you every scrap they could find before bringing you here.”

“Oh they did,” you respond from behind the counter. Looking up from your paperwork, your gaze switches between Steve and Salami. “You should’ve seen him. You think he has a soft tummy now, he was a complete pot belly when he was done over there.” 

The two of you share a laugh as Steve tries to conjure the image in his head. 

Every puppy has an anecdote to go with it, he finds out as he continues through the shelter. Some are happier than others, and it shows in your face as you tell the stories. Some even make your voice clog with emotion and you have to take a deep breath. 

“Sorry,” you sigh, “That’s what, the fifth time? Gosh, I have got to get it together.”

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” he reassures you, then quickly changes the conversation to focus on the last puppy. “What about Willow? Anything about her?”

“She’s the sweetest little thing. She’s got to be some golden retriever mix, I just can’t put my finger on the other breed. But, anyway, she found by Ari, your…?”

“Nephew.”

“Your nephew–” You start to go with it, until it registers that Ari and Steve appear to be the same age. Your voice catches as the gears turn in your head.

“Long story, I’ll tell you after this one.”

“Got it,” you agree. “Anyway, Ari brought her in. She was hiding under a pile of lumber that he was about to deliver. Apparently she led him on a wild chase around the lumber yard. When he brought her in, he was all sweaty and grumpy.”

“I think he’s always grumpy.”

“Seems like it. I don’t know how his wife and mother deal with it. But, yeah, that’s Willow’s story. I figured since she was found in the lumber yard, I should name her after a type of tree. I also thought about just naming her ‘Timber’ or something but I liked Willow.”

“I like it, too,” Steve says, looking back at the puppy. When his eyes meet hers, he realizes she never stopped looking at him while he was speaking to you. 

She gives him a dopey smile, tongue hanging out as she pants in excitement at the sight of him. 

“Looks like you two are having a moment,” you remark.

It all falls away at the sound of his phone ringing, causing a cacophony of barks and howls to arise.

You try to calm the dogs down as Steve clumsily finds a surface to put the snack bowl down while answering the phone.

“Hi Steve!” Marcella trills on the other line. “I’m all ready to go!”

“Oh, okay, Marcella, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“Okay see you soon!”

The call ends there and you’re still trying to get the dogs to settle. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think my ringer was on.”

“That’s okay, it happens,” you brush him off. “I’m glad to have met you! Hope to see you around. Or hope you come back for Willow.”

“Yeah, it was great to meet you too.” He lingers for a moment, wanting to say more but no words seem to be right. “Actually, before I go, could I take a picture of Willow?”

“Sure, do you want to hold her?”

His face shows his nerves before he can express them, so you quickly retract your statement and turn to bring her out of her kennel.

Propping her up in your arms, you do your best to get her to look towards Steve’s phone.

“Oh, you can smile, too. You’re in it.”

“Oh, okay!”

Your smile is bright, radiating a warmth that Steve doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. 

When the picture is taken and it’s truly time for him to go, the memory of that grin makes it difficult to leave. 

As Steve walks down the avenue, he types a message to Bucky.

Life in Barber is off to an interesting start. Met the sister-in-law, the nephew, and the niece-in-law. But I think my favorite is Willow (picture coming)

After sending the picture of you and the puppy, he sees Bucky immediately start typing, his response brief but effective.

Who’s the girl? 👀

She runs the shelter.

Anyone of interest?

Steve takes a moment to come up with a reply, triggering Bucky’s impatience.

Or maybe not yet.

But she seems like your type, so I think it would be a person of interest. 

Rolling his eyes, Steve types a message simple enough to end the conversation there:

Maybe. 

------------------

Already adorned in cords and stoles, you stand at the side of the stage, waiting for Dean Desdimone to call your name as a fellow student takes their moment to shine and walk across the stage. 

This was it. June 10th. A long-awaited date. No more evenings spent away from Ivy. No more running around town trying to get from one place to another on time. 

Was pain still present? Of course. Years spent toiling to make ends meet, keeping yourself alive and able to care for your daughter, juggling studying and grief. It’s hard to forget any of the events that brought you to where you are today. It’s even harder to believe you made it. 

The graduate coordinator senses your emotions. “How are you feeling?” she asks, lowering her clipboard. She’s a year below you, part of the student coalition that helped organize this entire event. 

“Nervous,” you admit.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve worked so hard for this moment,” she soothes. “So many people have walked across that stage before you, and now it’s your turn. You deserve this. After all that hard work you put in, all your effort, it can be hard to remember that it’s for you.”

Your lip trembles and your eyes water. 

All this time you had told yourself it was for Ivy. And it was; you’ll start a career, keep a roof over her head and finally stand on your own two feet. 

But you did this for yourself, too. You did it to survive, to live. 

Ivy doesn’t know it, but she’d be proud. Your aunt is proud, Winnie is proud. And you know, deep in your soul, wherever he is, Troy is proud too. 

“The past four years leading up to this one moment for you,” she continues, “Take it. It’s your turn.” 

You thank her as your name is called, stepping onto the stage. The audience claps politely, but you hear two hollers above everything else: Winnie and your aunt, both holding Ivy above their heads. You smile at them and wave before turning to the assembly line of your professors. 

You shake each of their hands before reaching the man at the end. His hand is warm in yours, electrifying your nerves and time stands still. 

“Congratulations,” Andy tells you. 

Despite knowing he’s said it to every student before you and will say it to every student after you, you can sense there’s something different when he says it to you. 

God, if only you could kiss him right now. 

You settle for thanking him before going down the steps of the stage and standing in front of a university backdrop for a photo. When you return to your seat, you watch him in his regalia, anticipating what tomorrow evening will bring. 

You may have waited a long time to graduate, but this day comes only second to June 11th. 

As the last of your classmates sit down after walking, the dean encourages everyone to give a round of applause as you move your tassel from the right to the left. 

“Before we end, I’d like to invite Professor Andrew Barber to stand.”

Your head tilts curiously. 

“Professor Barber has only spent a short time at the university but has made a lasting impact as a District Attorney. We are deeply saddened that he will be leaving our institution…”

Your classmates erupt in shocked whispers; nobody knew. Not even you. 

“...though we wish him the best of luck on all his future endeavors.” 

There’s another round of applause and Andy ducks his head before sitting back down. As the ceremony ends, you set your curiosity aside, finding your aunt, Winnie, and Ivy and heading out to celebrate. 

- - - - -

Your foot shakes as you wait on the living room floor while your daughter plays on her mat.  

Ivy’s bag is packed. She has plenty of toys. Your jacket is on the arm of the couch, ready to be picked up when Andy arrives. You brushed your teeth and put mints in your purse. 

Reaching up, you check if your earrings match. Then, you run your fingers along the chain of your necklace, adjusting it so that the charm is in front and the clasp is behind your neck. 

You look down at your nails to make sure they’re presentable. 

Acceptable, you think to yourself. You should’ve gotten a manicure. 

The last time you went on a date, you were pregnant. Troy took you to see the Christmas lights, the two of you bundled up as a flurry of snowflakes fell. It was the final evening before the city would take down the decorations. 

Two days later, he fell. 

Despite knowing he would want you to be happy, waiting for another man to pick you up to wine and dine you still feels strange. You can’t deny your attraction to Andy, but you can’t bury the emotional baggage from your lost love. 

The doorbell rings, jarring you from your thoughts. Your heart leaps, propelling you up from your seat to open the door. 

Andy stands in one of his staple suits; you remember him lecturing about public school policies in this exact outfit. 

In his left hand, he holds up a bouquet of flowers. 

“For my girls,” he smiles. 

The colors are bright, a wonderful array of roses, peonies, and daffodils, perfect for summertime. You don’t miss the pointed leaves complementing the blossoms, the very same crawling vines that you named your daughter after. The daffodils stand out too; they’re Troy’s birth flower.

Your heart skips a beat and you’re speechless. 

“Sorry, is it too much?” Andy wonders, lowering his hand. 

“No!” you say a little too loudly. “Sorry, no, they’re wonderful.”

Taking the bundle from him, you invite him inside as you find a vase to fill with water. As you unwrap the stems, you hear Andy behind you talking to Ivy. 

“Hey, baby bear.” 

“Hi, Deedee!” 

They play together, Andy reclining on his side to be eye-level with the toddler, propping himself up with his elbow. 

When the flowers are arranged and settled nicely in the vase, you turn around and rest your back against the counter just to watch them. 

You and Ivy have come so far. It was an exciting time to be freshly graduated and ready to search for a job.

It was exciting to have a new beginning with Andy. 

As if knowing you were thinking about him, he looks up and raises his eyebrows with a smile, “You ready?”

You nod, turning off the lights and beginning to gather your and Ivy’s things. As you put on your coat, you look at the bouquet of flowers.

“Do we have time to make a quick stop before we go to the restaurant?”

Andy picks up Ivy and props her on his hip. “Of course, where to?”

You pluck a daffodil from the vase. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

- - - - - 

Opening the car door, Andy waits as you unclip Ivy from her car seat. Once she’s free, he picks her up and shuts the door before walking around the back of the car to open your door. He offers his hand to help you climb out and you thank him, still holding the daffodil in your hand. 

He follows you down the path between the gravestones before you stop at one. When he stands next to you, he realizes who you wanted to introduce him to.

Troy Benjamin Abernathy

Beloved Son, Friend, Partner, and Father

It all seems to hit Andy so suddenly. Despite knowing that he was very much real (how else would Ivy be in the world?) Troy had been his invisible entity in his mind. Faceless, figureless, voiceless. 

He sees the birthdate and the date of his death–he’s not that much younger than Andy and he died so recently, just as Andy and Laurie finalized their divorce. If he thought hard enough, he could go back to that very day, feeling that sense of finality while, across the city, Troy was suffering from the invisible injury that claimed his life.

“Ivy,” you reach for her. 

He hands her off and steps back, listening at a respectful distance.

“Say ‘hi daddy,’” you whisper.

“Hi dada,” Ivy says, waving to the tombstone. 

“Hey, bubby,” you greet him too. “I’m sorry we haven’t visited in a long time, I know we missed Ivy’s birthday. Things have been so crazy, especially with finals and finishing up the semester at the end of May. But I did it, I graduated from law school. I started looking for jobs…it’s scary to apply. But I know you’d be telling me to go for it, so I’ve been sending out applications left and right. 

“Ivy’s doing good, aren’t you, baby?” you ask her. She giggles and you continue, “She’s beginning to climb up and down the couch and the jungle gym at daycare. I’m gonna sign her up for gymnastics like we talked about. And I promise for her belated birthday gift, I’ll get her a pair of sneakers like you wanted.” 

You sigh and sniffle, taking a moment to wipe your eyes. 

“We’re doing okay–more than okay. And we’re not alone.” 

Andy’s heart stops. You’re looking at him, then motioning for him to come closer. Standing next to you, his eyes are fixed on the grave as you speak again.

“This is Andy, he was my professor. He’s a lawyer…he saved our little family.” 

He doesn’t know the exact feeling that comes over him. His chest burns, feeling almost like it was cut open and his heart is on fire. At the same time, he could fly, move mountains, jump into space and ricochet off the moon right back to you. 

He’s transported back to his phone call with his brother when he criticized him for being an idiot. 

Ari’s words echo in his mind. 

When you know, you know.

“I wish you two could meet,” you continue, voice somber. “He’s a good man and…” you lock eyes with Andy, “He makes me happy. He takes care of Ivy, I–”

You stop yourself, laughing softly. 

“There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss you, Troy. But I just want you to know we’re okay. I hope you’re okay wherever you are. I love you, bubby.”

You crouch down, placing the daffodil on the granite. 

“We’ll be back another time, Troy,” you tell him. “Say ‘bye daddy.’”

“Bye-bye dada,” Ivy waves again. 

You look at Andy. “Are you ready?” you ask quietly. 

“Yeah,” he nods.

Propping Ivy up a little more, you begin down the path and Andy lingers for a moment, eyes still fixed on the stone. 

“I’m not trying to replace you, I hope you know that,” Andy addresses Troy. “But I…I love Y/N and Ivy.”

He swallows once as his heart squeezes. 

“I promise I’ll take care of them…of your girls. I’ll keep them safe and warm. And I’ll never let Ivy forget you,” he swears. 

His phone vibrates with an alert; the reservation time at the restaurant is coming close. 

“Rest easy, Troy.” 

With a nod, he retreats back to his car where you wait. 

He apologizes as he pressed the unlock button on the key fob. 

“No worries,” you smile and shake your head. “Everything okay?”

Looking at Ivy, he mumbles “yes,” but knows his voice gives away how occupied his mind is. He runs a finger over her little cheek and she smiles at him. He returns the smile and looks at you.

Your eyes are curious and concerned, but he reassures you with a caress on your cheek before kissing your temple. 

“Let’s go eat dinner.”

- - - 

The restaurant is busy at the height of the dinner rush, white noise of overlapping conversations and cutlery hitting plates filling your ears as you enter. It’s one of the most expensive Italian restaurants in the state of Massachusetts, typically booked out months in advance. You never dreamed of eating at this place, but here you are. 

Andy leads you to the maitre’d podium.

“Hi, I have a table for two and a toddler under ‘Andrew Barber.’”

The man looks at the list before looking back at Andy, “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no reservation under that name.”

“What?” 

Taking out his phone, Andy scrolls through before showing the man what’s on the screen.

“Sir, that reservation is for July 11th. Today is June 11th.” 

Dejected, Andy turns back to you. “I fucked up–oh, shit. Christ!”

He covers his mouth and shuts his eyes tightly, embarrassed over his mistake and swearing in front of Ivy. 

You step to the side by the window to move out of the way of other patrons trying to approach the maitre’d. 

“We can always come back; after all, we have a reservation,” you shrug.

“Yeah, but…this was supposed to be special.”

He pouts, looking adorable as he does so. Tucking your fingers under his chin, you brush your thumb over his bottom lip. 

Giving him a reassuring smile, you look outside the window and plan your next move, eyes settling on a pizza parlor across the street. 

“You know, pizza sounds really good right now.” 

He still looks disappointed and unsure, so you kiss his cheek. His muscles relax at your touch, a hand landing on the small of your back, seeking your comfort.

“Hey, it’s still Italian,” you tease.

Smiling, he agrees, ushering the two of you out of the restaurant and across the street. 

- - - - -

After being turned away from a restaurant due to a mistake and walking into a pizza parlor with no available tables, you and Andy decide to order a pizza to go and retreat back to his apartment. 

He went first, opening the door and bringing the pizzas in before returning to help you with Ivy and her things. 

“It’s been a while since my son needed a high chair,” he remarks, pointing out the lack of proper equipment for your daughter. 

“That’s okay, she can sit in my lap.” 

As you get her settled, you hear Andy puttering around the kitchen, grabbing plates and glasses and bringing them to the table. Then, he goes back and calls your name, waving a long-stemmed wine glass at you. 

“Did you…?”

You smile, “I’ll have a glass, yes.” 

“White or red?” 

Telling him your preference, you open the smaller box of garlic bread you ordered for Ivy. She gleefully claps her hands and tells you she’s hungry, smiling when you tear off a piece and cut it into bite-sized pieces for her. 

“Good job, baby,” you whisper encouragingly as she uses her hands to feed herself. 

“Momma,” she mumbles with her mouth full, offering you a piece. 

“Oh, thank you, sweet girl,” you coo, making an exaggerated eating sound. As you chew, you tease her by pretending to eat her hand, taking her little digits between pursed lips so as to not accidentally bite her. 

Laughter bubbles from her mouth as she pulls her hand away then looks up and smiles at Andy as he places a glass of wine in front of you. 

She reaches up towards him, but instead of biting, he kisses her hand with a loud smacking sound and she nearly falls out of your lap as she laughs. 

He sits, opening the larger box with the pizza and taking your plate to serve you. Then, he serves himself and sighs. 

“Well, it’s not black truffle gnocchi or squid ink pasta, but…” he begins.

“It’s perfect,” you smile. Picking up your glass, you raise it to him. “Thanks for tonight.”

He raises his glass too, “On the contrary, this dinner is for you and Ivy.” 

“It wouldn’t be happening without you.” 

“Well,” he looks away, somewhat defeated as he chuckles. “To us, then.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” You clink your glass with his and take a sip. 

Setting your glasses down, the three of you lapse into silence as you begin eating. 

“So…” you start, setting down a half-eaten slice of pizza. “You resigned?”

Andy opens his hand in a half-shrug. “Well, I just wanted to cover my bases.”

“What do you mean?”

“Despite Boston being a metropolitan city, it still has its small circles,” he explains. “If anyone were to see us together while I was still associated at the university…I don’t know.”

You cut up more pieces of bread for Ivy, along with a piece of your pizza with the toppings plucked off as your ears heat up. “Please don’t tell me you gave up a career at a prestigious university for me…”

“Oh no, don’t be silly,” he smiles. “You and Ivy were only eighty percent of the decision.” 

Smiling and huffing through your nose, you purse your lips and look at him. “And the other twenty percent?”

He clears his throat, takes a sip of wine, and sets his glass down before revealing what he calls a “rather secretive plan”: “I’ve been closing in on a deal to buy an office space just outside Springfield. It’s closer to where my ma and brother live. And your friend.” 

At the mention of your friend, your eyes narrow. It almost sounds like he’s pitching something to you, trying to persuade you towards something. 

But, if you were honest, he could ask you to run from one end of the country and back Forrest Gump style and you’d say yes (and keep Ivy in a wearable baby carrier strapped to your chest). 

On the other hand, your heart sinks. He’s moving away.

“I’d follow in my father and brother’s footsteps; have my own business.” His eyes pointedly drift down to your daughter as she continues to eat. 

She giggles once and you crane your neck to look at her. Her gaze is on him and she waves. 

He returns the wave, never taking his eyes off her. “The case with you and Troy’s parents just got me thinking…there’s probably a lot of families who need someone to go to bat for them.” 

Your chest swells, your heart with it. 

“There’s more, but we can talk about it later.” 

You nod, pursing your lips and turning your attention back to your meal. 

After losing Troy, you had hoped Andy would stay. Now, having heard his plans, you weren’t sure he would.

Your bites are slow and concentrated as you ponder your emotions and reprimand yourself for entertaining such a silly little fantasy of falling in love with your professor. 

– - - - -

“You sure it’s not a bother?”

“Teddy,” Andy laughs, “for the seventh time, it’s okay.” 

“Okay, sorry,” you say bashfully, looking down before taking a seat on his sofa. 

Ivy had fallen asleep shortly after dessert–some ice cream from Andy’s freezer–and Andy had offered his bed for her to sleep while the two of you continued the evening. 

Wine glass in his hand, he stands beside the couch and rifles through some records before settling on one and putting it in the record player. Jazz music fills the room until he softens it to a gentle white noise. 

“What are you thinking about?” he pries as he takes a seat next to you. 

“Nothing,” you dismiss.

“C’mon, Ted,” he urges, “You’ve had that look ever since dinner.”

Your hand comes up to press into your cheek as if you could check your face that way. 

“It’s really nothing,” you insist. “It’s silly.” 

Andy, never one to give up so easily, continues to prod despite your dismissal. He does it silently this time, leaning close to you and quirking an eyebrow up to silently tell you he’s not giving up.

“Okay,” you concede, sighing as he smiles victoriously, eager to hear the thoughts that are so loud in your head, but still beyond earshot. “I just…I wasn’t expecting you to leave.”

His spine straightens, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

You avoid his gaze as you elaborate. “Well, I wish you hadn’t insisted on taking me out tonight if you were going to leave in the near future.”

There’s a part of you that wants to be angry with him; you feel led on, the foolish bright-eyed student that fell for her professor because of his pretty eyes and kind face.

Andy timidly places his hand on your knee, “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

“You’re going to Springfield, I—”

“I should’ve talked about this with you sooner,” he shakes his head at himself.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he begins with a laugh, “Every lawyer needs a paralegal at their office.”

You echo your previous question; though you know what he’s insinuating, you’re aghast at the offer.

“I know it’s a lot to ask you and it’s a lot to consider—”

“Andy,” you interrupt. “I…I don’t know.”

You stand and begin to pace.

“I just, I can’t afford to move to Springfield just yet. Maybe if I kept working at the DA’s office for a little bit, then maybe—I don’t know, maybe in a year…?”

“Ted.”

He reaches out for your arm, a gentle hand wrapping around your elbow to grab your attention. His heart tugs at the flustered look on your face, smiling at your deep thought.

With one tug, he pulls you into his lap and chuckles at the expression of surprise on your face. “Hey,” he mumbles, touching his forehead to yours.

“Hi,” you reply, the volume of your voice matching his.

“I knew it would be a lot to ask,” he says again. “And I know what I’m about to ask you is even crazier, but I have to say it.

“I’m supposed to be the pragmatic one in my family. My dad, my brother, even my ma sometimes…they feel so many strong emotions and run with them. I used to be that way, too. After I left home to go to college, things changed. I became this…analytical machine that processed information and left little room for my feelings, especially my happiness. I loved my ex at one point, I’m sure, but the way I felt about her…” He trails off briefly, shaking his head as his eyes distantly look forward.

“It’s nothing--nowhere close to how I feel about you and Ivy.”

“What are you saying?”

“I love you,” he admits freely with a small laugh.

You knew it. Deep down, you knew. How could you not, with your own feelings mirroring his, some strange cosmic string tying you together, or maybe an invisible hand pushing the two of you together?

Blinking, you laugh too. “I love you, too.”

His hand gently runs over your cheek, then the other one comes to the other side of your face. He just looks, admiring you as you smile. 

Beyond your face, there’s something else about you. Something that makes him feel young again; like he was at seventeen, teaching Ari how to drive when their father wasn’t looking. Like when his worries only consisted of his mother embarrassing him at the next school function or whether his brother was getting bullied. 

Something that makes him feel bright and warm, the way he felt when he was twelve and his mom kept him home while he was sick. She propped him up in front of the fire, wrapped in layers of ancestral knitted blankets from Barbers and Levinsons before he was ever born. She made chicken noodle soup and read his textbooks to him, doting on him to make sure his body was well enough to recover. 

After everything he’s been through–leaving home, his father’s death, his mother’s illness, the near-death and miraculous restoration of his relationship with his brother, the divorce–he was certain his life had settled into a standard of suffering, one pain numbing to make room for the next until it consumed him with no hope of going back. 

The moment he saw you walk in on the first day of class, he found it hard to take his eyes off you. 

He’s a lawyer, he knows how to form a decent first impression on someone upon an initial, brief glance. 

So many faces run through the archives of his memories and he can sort each one of them into near-perfect categories. They all blur eventually, forgotten like the details of cereal boxes in the grocery store; eventually, you pick out one distinct feature and know which is which, who is who. 

When you walked in, he could tell you were frazzled but hardworking. He’d had students like that before; those who were working so intensely to an impossible extent that sometimes when he learned details of their lives, he was astonished they could succeed in the face of adversity. 

Andy would know a lot about those kinds of students. He was one of them. On his own at eighteen, shortly before his brother’s sixteenth birthday. Reclused by grief, he kept to himself. He was quiet but always knew the answers. Though he had to prove himself to mentors and superiors, he never had to prove himself to his professors. 

He spends semesters and years silently rooting for those students. Each one of them was always discouraged. When they met Andy’s gaze, they looked at him with exhaustion and the unanswerable question of When will I be out of my misery?

You didn’t have that look. You looked at him with passion for the course work and uncertainty about your competence. You looked at him with understanding and analysis, something every good law student should have. 

But above all, you looked at him with the promise to yourself that one day, things would get better as long as you kept doing what you were doing. You didn’t wonder when you would be out of your misery; you were prepared to do anything to get out of it yourself. 

And Andy, a man who so long was complacent in his misery, could not stop looking at you.

You were sharp as a knife with your answers, both in class and on exams. You were compassionate and bright, one of the only few people who laughed at his occasional jokes (he’s sure you did it out of pity). You were sweet and almost too polite whenever you emailed him. 

He learned more and more about you with each class, even more so when you first brought Ivy. With each day, his glances turned into stirrings; they turned into feelings, which grew and grew until they evolved into their current state: something so powerful that it’s painful. 

He loves you so much that it hurts. He loves you because you’re bathed in hope and brightness and everything warm in the world. 

Maybe it was selfish, the way he began to love you. He needed something to get him out, something to wake him up. You were just that: sunshine peeking through the curtains, birds chirping outside a window to gently draw someone out of sleep. But he wanted to give you everything he had and he still does. He doesn’t know what he would do if you rejected him now. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he sighs.

You hum a laugh, holding his wrist to keep his hand on your face. “You’re not so bad yourself, Barber.” 

“Teddy…Y/N…I–”

“I want to go to Springfield with you, Andy.”

No. That’s too good to be true.

“What?”

“Ivy and I…we’ll go to Springfield with you.”

All at once, his world changes. He realizes he’s a better version of himself; a better son, a better brother, a better lawyer, a better father…because of you.

Maybe a little bit of Ari but that doesn’t need to be addressed right now. 

With the sudden shift, his heart swells, and tears come to his eyes. He laughs in surprise at your response and humor at his reaction.

Blinking, one droplet runs down his cheek as he continues to laugh, bringing your face closer and kissing your lips. 

“I’ve never been happier in my entire life,” he says to you, half-crying, half-laughing.

“Are you sure you’re happy?” you tease, wiping away the tears with your thumbs. 

“Yes,” he kisses you again. “I’m so sure.”

The two of you don’t stay up late, turning in shortly after your discussion. 

He looks at you at the other side of his bed, donned in one of his shirts, a pair of his shorts, a set of his socks warming your feet. Watching the way your back rises and falls as you breathe, in perfect synchronization with Ivy, he’s content. It felt so much like a dream that he couldn’t even sleep.

What fool stays up all night to watch his girl sleep? He wonders to himself. 

Your eyes open and meet his, then crinkle at the corners as you smile.

He smiles back. I’m that fool.

- - - - - 

Andy props Jacob’s head onto a pillow as he naps on the couch in his brother’s new cabin. Not everything is quite in place yet, but he’s made a lot of progress since the last time he visited, finishing the overall structure and adding in crucial pieces of furniture. 

It was a long drive for everyone; they left early and got to the cabin right as his mother and sister-in-law finished preparing lunch for their arrival. Everyone ate well and afternoon laziness came over them, his son, in particular, lapsing into a food coma. 

Stepping out onto the porch, Andy takes in the summer air. There’s nothing close to the feeling of it–the sensation is nostalgic and comforting, along with the anticipation of watching fireworks later that night. 

To his right, he can hear an ax go through wood and the giggles of two women. As he rounds the corner, Ivy sits between her mother and her friend. Her belly is slightly swollen; they all shouted in excitement when they saw her.  

His girlfriend–he gets so giddy when he thinks of you as his girlfriend–teases her friend about her husband as she unabashedly stares at him chopping wood in preparation for the barbecue tonight. 

Andy clears his throat.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says when all heads turn towards him.

“Deedee!” Ivy cheers, reaching for him.

“Hey, baby bear.” He picks her up and props her on his hip. “I was wondering if I could steal my girls for a few minutes.” 

“Oh, of course, I don’t mind,” his sister-in-law smiles.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Teddy teases, “You have a lot of entertainment.”

“Oh stop it,” she giggles, a soft, swift kick with her bare foot hitting her friend’s knee.

You take Andy’s hand as you continue laughing with her. He leads you into the woods and you can hear her whooping at her husband. 

“Those two are perfect for each other,” you say, looking over your shoulder as Ari makes a show of flipping his hair as your friend claps and laughs. He leaps over the railing onto the porch and presses a kiss to her lips before sitting down next to her and placing his hand on her belly. 

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.” Andy squeezes your hand. 

“How could I not?” you sigh. “It’s so calm out here. Nice little escape from the city.” 

You pause, getting on your toes and kissing his cheek. 

“We both needed this.”

He nods. “I agree.” 

“So is this the part where you reveal you’re actually a psychopath and Jacob is waiting in the forest with a cast iron pan to hit me–”

“You have got to stop listening to all those true crime podcasts,” he shakes his head as the two of you laugh. “But no, I wanted to show you this.” 

He stops right in front of the family oak tree, smiling as he sees the initials of his ancestors, parents, brother, and sister-in-law. 

“Brings a whole new meaning to the word ‘family tree,’” you remark, separating from him and tracing a set of initials with your fingers. 

“Yeah, this tree has been around for generations,” he looks up, admiring the lofty branches and leaves. “I never got to add my initials yet, but I figure now would be a good time.”  

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a knife he borrowed from his brother.

“Can I put your initials next to mine?” he asks. “And Ivy’s?”

You smile and reach for Ivy. She doesn’t part from him easily, but she settles into your hold regardless. 

“Seems like you need both hands if you need to carve in that many initials,” you tell him as you nod. “Don’t forget to add Jacob’s too.” 

Andy can’t control the smile that comes over his face.

It takes a while, but when he’s done carving, he takes a step back. 

He admires the work he’s done as his eyes scan over the trunk once more. His parents’ initials are up a little higher, their placement slightly shifted as the tree continued to grow. 

Ari will add his baby’s initials soon enough, and Andy hopes that in time, he can add one more set of initials, too. 

But for now, with you and Ivy next to him and Jacob back in the cabin, he has everything he could ask for. 

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