Old Hearts

(K plus, Captain America/Reader Insert)

"Give a man a mask and he will show you his true self."

-Oscar Wilde

You always prefer to be out on your own on the fourth of July.

There's an entire plethora of reasons why, all of which sounded perfectly reasonable in your head and perfectly ridiculous when you said them out loud, so this year you've just feigned a migraine and slipped out onto the streets of DC alone. The air's so hot it brings to mind the primal, before-time of swamps and things with overlarge, glowing eyes, the land that had been here before the US of A had stamped its flag over everything.

You are one of the few people without red-white-and-blue somewhere on your person, your Muggle clothes (for want of a better word) actually making you stand out more than the people draped in stars and stripes. You walk until you find one of the quieter bars, which is still of course loud as hell, take a seat at the counter itself and order your usual before turning, resting your elbows on the bar surface and watching the other occupants of the twilit, sweaty room.

This is the main reason why you enjoy solitude on this particular night so much. It's the best night to people-spot, you've found; patriotism brings out both the best and worst with people, and that's even without the alcohol. Your eyes settle on a couple swaddled in a flag, kissing hungrily in a booth as their third wheel friend fiddles with her phone and downs another scotch. There's another reason why you're not out with other people; the irrational fear of being left out.

You take another sip of your drink and your eyes shift to a loud group of raucous teenagers, this probably being their first night out. You can't help but smirk over the rim of your glass at their naivety, their excitement of fake IDs paying off and getting them more booze than their slight bodies can probably hold. One of them brings up the idea of going back to their college and doing a keg stand, which is met by a round of cheering.

"They're going to get themselves killed if they're not careful," a voice says to your right, and you turn to the side.

"Give them tonight," you smile, "they're young, after all. Bouncing back's in their nature." You take in the speaker- tall and toned, he looked like the sort of man to be on the cover of Men's Health if it weren't for the fact he seemed to be trying to hide all the chiselled muscle and jawline with dark clothes. He must be boiling, you think, although there isn't a speck of sweat on his smooth and even skin.

"Guess you're right," he replies with a crooked smile to match yours, and you hope the blush growing on your cheeks doesn't show in the gloom. "I'm just glad I'm not the only one drinking alone tonight."

"Embrace it," you suggest, "that, or you can buy me another drink. Number one way to get me on your good side, actually."

"Well, when you put it like that," he laughs, handing a folded-over bill to the bartender and shifting up so he's sat next to you. Up close, he looks familiar, but you can't quite place where. "My name's Ste-"

"No!" you exclaim, "don't tell me your name."

His brows lower as your glass is replaced. "Why not?"

"Because I'm enjoying the anonymity," you shrug, "besides, it's almost tomorrow and, at this time of night, names don't matter much anyway."

"Alright then," he nods, "what brings you out tonight?"

"A charming individual such as myself needs to try and mingle with as many common people as possible," you say with mock-haughtiness, which garners another laugh. "Nah, it's just that there's nothing on TV tonight and besides, I like the atmosphere even if I'm not a part of it. What about you?"

He spins his beer bottle round in his hand. "It's… my birthday, actually."

You gawp at him. "You have got to be kidding me."

He places a hand on his heart. "God's truth," he grins, and you snicker. "I don't have any friends in town, and I didn't want to intrude on the others."

"Well," you say, "happy birthday, tall and handsome stranger."

You clink your drinks together.

"Thanks," he says, "although I'm not quite sure about the handsome."

"Please," you scoff, "let's not pretend, here. You're as attractive as I am average."

His eyes twinkle. "Now, there I have to disagree."

"You flatter me, sir. That must suck, though. Being alone on your birthday and Independence Day."

"No need to rub it in," he teases you, and you nudge him with your elbow lightly. "I'm fine, really. I've had worse."

"I feel like I should get you a present, or something. Only I'm kind of broke right now, and I'd be surprised if there's any store left open."

"There's no need," he says, "really. It's enough that you want to."

"Jeez," you say, "stop being so nice. See, now I have to do something, just to make me feel better." You take him by the hand and drag him out of the bar, onto the street outside which is lit by the synthetically beautiful amber glow of streetlamps. "That wasn't it, by the way. That was just me getting claustrophobic."

"It's cooler out here anyway," he says, and you notice that you are still holding hands. "It's nice, actually."

"Best day of the year," you say, and he chuckles. "Listen. Do me a favor and call one of your friends tomorrow, yeah? Make 'em buy you a cake."

"They're not really my friends," he mumbles, "more… work colleagues. I used to have friends," he adds hurriedly, "but they're not around anymore."

"That sucks," you say, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I'm fine."

"You done putting a dampener on my evening now?" you ask with a smirk, and he rolls his eyes with the same crooked smile.

"Just about."

"Oh," you say, "I've figured out what to get you for your birthday, you beautiful lonely man."

You can definitely see his blush. "What's that?" he asks, and you rest your hands on his shoulders and kiss him, very lightly and very gently, as though he might break.

He's hesitant, at first- you guess this is the first time he's done this in a very long time- but his lips, soft and warm, open to yours and a steady hand rests on your back as you close your eyes and lean into him, accompanied by the symphony of muffled music and drunken yelling. It's the sort of kiss that makes everything seem beautiful, from the gum-speckled sidewalk to the dense, heavy air itself. It's the sort of kiss that feels pure, that it would be wrong to follow up with anything else, like catching someone's eye on the street and sharing a smile, like the book you read just once because to do so again would spoil it. It is in itself a complete and perfect thing.

He tastes like strawberry lip balm, like innocence itself, and you smile against his smile. "What?" he murmurs, and the moment is gone, never to be seen again.

"Nothing," you reply, "just… you." You inhale as he exhales, perfect harmony achieved.

Someone whoops as they whizz past on a skateboard, flag tied around their shoulders like a cape and fireworks exploding in each hand. Yep, that beautiful moment's definitely gone now.

You press your lips to his cheek and break away. "Happy birthday, stranger."

"Thanks. I kind of feel like I'm never going to see you again," he says, and you lift a shoulder.

"That's the way I like it."

"Well," he says, "I hope you're happy with… with whatever it is you do."

"You too. And you're a nice guy, by the way. I'm sure those work colleagues would feel blessed if you call them your friends."

"You haven't met them," he says drily, and you pat his shoulder.

"We're all just people," you tell him, "some of us might look different to others-" you take one last look at his admirable physique, "-but we all have the same bones. It was lovely meeting you."

"You too," he says earnestly, "and really, thank you. For everything."

"Well," you say, "you did buy me a drink."

A/N and thus I begin the Civilian Files, which I will probably regret in a couple months, but hey ho. I emplan /emto do a new story every month, whether that be a oneshot or ficlet, never more than 4-5 chapters, about OCs and the Avengers co themselves. The age rating will vary depending on the story, hence why I'll include it at the top of each chapter, from K+ all the way up to M, and a complete mixed bag of funny, messed up and on occasion, sad, so be prepared for tone changes.

If there's an overriding theme of the Files, it's the same one I tried to keep to doing the other Civilian Chronicles: you don't have to be a superhero to be interesting, or brave, or whatever. You don't have to be Thor to be worthy of lifting the hammer.

NEXT: "A month after Ultron and leaving the team, and Tony was still having nightmares about the death of the Avengers being on his hands."