He looks down at me, two meters of pure perfection.
I stare back at him, one and a half meters coved in puke.
I wish the ground would suddenly open under me.
Why I have to bring myself into these awkward situations, this time in front of a freaking Avenger, I have no idea, but I make a promise to myself to never ever arrange public dates again. Not in this decade, perhaps in Afterlife, where nobody will remember one of the most awkward scenarios of my life.
Captain Steve Rogers does not move until I do, his body shifts the same time mine starts shaking. Even though his shoulders are stiff, he seems fine whatsoever. I reckon his stomach must be really tough due to what he has seen throughout his career, because he does not even bat an eye at the sight of—.
Wait.
He is an Avenger.
He is not only an Avenger, but he also happens to be America's most famous war hero. The guy I have been learning about in school. The guy who saved this world many times. New York. Washington. Sokovia. Just a few of many places he has been too and saved many people from dying at the hands out evil forces.
And I managed to vomit all over his shoes.
Realization hits me all over again and now that my thoughts are a little bit clearer I can fully take in what I just caused.
I feel my whole body flush in shame and my stomach threatens me one more occasion, but this time I am able to hold it back. Holy shit, one more round of nausea would certainly not make my pain any easier. In fact, I do not think I will ever be able to get over this disastrous night.
My head is all over the place, mainly by the alcohol I managed to drink while waiting for my date who has not showed up yet and I highly doubt he will; and most importantly because my anxiety hits me in waves now, having escaped from the prison of the back of my mind.
All of this happens in a couple of seconds, no matter how much it feels like a lifetime has passed. Perhaps it has, I am just still too busy feeling sorry for myself.
As I catch the silence in the atmosphere, I start to ramble like a maniac, chanting the same pathetic word over and over again. Maybe he does not say a word because he wants for me to get out of breath, but blood rushes to my ears, to my face and I cannot stop.
I just need to get out of this situation, preferably right now, and my inner instincts are urging me to run, as fast as possible. The other, humbler, more embarrassed part of me insist on making up to him. Maybe I could scrub his shoes—and the jeans, oh my God.
It is too much maybe, way too much perhaps. I have had nothing done yet, but I am on full panic mode.
What am I supposed to do right now?
God, I should get someone. I need to clean this mess up.
"I'm—I'm so terribly sorry," I repeat over and over again, my tone of voice is hushed and pathetic. My stomach is spinning like an old washing machine. "I did not mean to; I swear to God I did not mean to!"
His eyebrows furrow in silent confusion, however, his gaze still does not contain any form of anger or Hell, even disgust. Guilt washes over me in waves, interacting with nausea, embarrassment and alcohol quite funny.
"This is indeed a surprise," he ends up saying to me after one more second of awkward silence. I swear I see the ghost of a suppressed smile on his lips, but it disappears so quickly I am not even sure that is what I caught. If I wear in his shoes—oh, little baby Jesus, not again. "Don't worry about it, I will just find the bathroom and get a cleaner on the way."
Some people come by wrinkling their noses at the smell and clear sight of vomit all over the floor of the entrance. Some even stare at me as if they have never seen such a scandalous act at a bar. Do they know that people actually come here to drink alcohol?
Oh, yeah, they do. But normal people go to the toilet if they need to puke. Normal people most likely do not just let it all out or do not drink alcohol at all, if they cannot take it. What the fuck was on my mind when I made this stupid ass decision in the first place? Only my past self knows as she is showing her middle finger to me.
Have I told you before how much I want to die right now? Most likely not enough, because at this point I am still very much alive. Perhaps, if I pretend to pass out, he will just leave me there and I would not have to stand his blue orbs eyeing mine.
I know he has heard my apologies and decided to be overall too nice. So I attempt one more time and he waits patiently. "I live—. "
My first try of speaking fails as I realize it comes out more as a slur than normal, collected speaking. My mouth feels sour, the back of my throat itches and I have no idea where this sweating comes from but it spreads from the palm of my hands to all over my body. A calming shower would mean lot to me now.
I give it another go. "I live—two streets away."
He blinks in surprise. I see on his face that he is trying his best to understand my fucked up drunk logic. I realize I should probably continue if I do not want him to think I am completely nuts. I guess my accident does not help the situation.
"I think I have—a pair of shoes," I mutter barely audible. The music washes away my words so I have to repeat again. "I think—I think I have a p-pair of shoes. Those are from my ex, might be your s-size."
I want to bury my face in my hands while silently praying to the Lord that my breath has not been as bad as I am sure it is now.
I know he will not tell me to piss of no matter how much I wish he would. I reckon he is a complete gentleman, based on what I heard about him, but given the fact that he is Captain Steve Rogers, I highly doubt he would come to my place to wear my ex's shoes after I appeared out of nowhere and threw up all over his shoes. Oh, why do I have to be so cringe worthy?
His irises are very blue as I raise up my head to meet his observation. Now my vision is not a spinning blur, even though my balance is still not the best. I see him very clearly now, in the glory of a leather jacket with a white shirt underneath. Those magazines never lied when they stated that he is an example of male perfection—his lips are asymmetric, yet so full and alongside with his baby blue eyes he is pretty much angelic to me. Well, I guess to half of the woman population he is considered a very attractive masculine Greek god sent from Heaven to bless our soul with the sight of him. While I never actually paid attention to him on the news, now I do give in and agree on a hundred percent.
Wait, what the fuck? I should not be even considering him in the way I just did. I blame stupid, too drunk female hormones.
Have so self-respect, Bunny. You do not even know each other.
I get lost for a flash of seconds, studying him like a statue. Then, when he notices that I am actually capable of being moved away without letting out the leftover of whatever has remained in my stomach, he carefully guides me out of the place.
I wish I could wash my face.
The fresh summer air blows onto my face, tinkling my skin. I suddenly remember why my clothes are sticking to my body. If anyone, I should be the one rushing home to take a long, warm shower. I am convinced I will still smell like vomit.
"I live close anyway," he states calmly. "No problem. I guess, worst things could've happened today."
I do not wish to know what are the worst things he is referring to.
I thought he was coming along with me, but he makes me stop just a few meters away from the bar. He squeezes my shoulder in a gesture that is supposed to be reassuring. My stomach turns with guilt and I lean against a cool wall.
I let out a heavy sigh. My eyes close automatically as I fight the urge to fall asleep in the middle of an open road.
"Wait for me here please," the Captain insists in an almost protective manner. I squeeze out a low yes, nothing else I could do. "I'll return in a sec. Don't do anything reckless."
As if I could.
What does he mean? I will not be running on the streets like this, for sure. I will not be running anywhere in this state.
In fact, I highly doubt I could walk now.
Perhaps I should call Riley, if I called her she would take me home, but I do not want to disturb her date. At least for her it seems to flow alright and I cannot be so selfish to always put myself at the center of her attention. She has wasted enough time of her own freedom to my constant mental breakdowns and anxiety issues. I could be selfless, for a change.
Yes, but then, I am fucked.
"Here," he says all of the sudden, somewhere near to me, his strong Brooklyn accent is more hearable now. "Drink this."
He presses the cool glass against my face and I let out a low moan. "No."
"You'll thank me later," Captain notes matter-of-factly.
I will my eyelids up, only to realize that he is much closer than I have indicated. Captain Steve Rogers is kneeling in front of me and I thank my luck that there are not much people on the street to witness this. I have no idea why he stays to help me, he could just leave and I would not question why. I am not used to people being so caring, especially not complete strangers.
He came from another time, I come to the conclusion. Must be it. In his time, fellas would never leave a drunk woman on the streets all alone. Now, I highly doubt in his time women like me got drunk at all. Different century, we have got more privilege and so much more possibilities of making mistakes like this.
I lower my eyes to his shoes and I am relieved that he is no longer wearing it.
He has flip-flops on. How the hell has he gone home so fast?
Captain America actually lives close by?
He follows my gaze, his expression clear and collected, still not angry, still not mean. He could scream at me and I would take that better. This undeniably compassionate behavior towards strangers shakes me to the core. He seems just like what I have heard of him. I would love to get to know him, even though I am well aware that it is way too much to ask and would mean no good for either of us. I should be grateful that he is helping now. When he leaves I will have a memory and let it stay this way. It will be fun to tell my grandchildren, that I met Captain America once. I always preferred him over Tony Stark, any day.
I wonder how well alcohol influences my thoughts. It makes me sappy and way too emotional.
I accept the glass he places in my hand and I raise it to my face as I take a sip. I have the temptation to pour it all over my sweating body.
"Wish I could do the same to your dress," he considers and then shrugs. "Do you feel like vomiting?"
A laugh escapes me. I do not mean it that much. "No."
"Great," he says clapping his hands and then he offers one for me till I adjust to my fucked up balance. Then he lets me go as fast as I went in for the touch. "Now that you won't vomit on my carpet, just come with me, please."
I furrow my eyebrows. What is he implying?
He is taking me to his place? Why?
What. The. Ever. Loving. Shit.
My face flushes. "I'm covered in vomit, Captain."
He nods. "That's why."
I cannot read him. He is impossible—I have no idea why he tries to help me.
Perhaps, it is because I do not see myself from the outside. I must look awful, but I will not dwell on this anymore.
"You aren't even mad?" I voice my inner thoughts shakily. I am so ashamed; I cannot stop fidgeting with the ring I have on my finger. I have to make my hands as busy as possible, the movement soothes my anxiety.
Normally, I would have just stayed silence, but I am still rather tipsy and after all of the fucked up shit I managed to swallow today, I honestly do not give a fuck.
He shakes his head and shrugs, "No."
"Why?"
I cannot stop staring at those lines on his forehead which appear when a question I have not meant to ask leaves my mouth. If I would not look irrationally more stupid, I would slap myself in the face.
I let out a deep breath, the alcohol leaves me more with every passing second and as I get soberer, I regret drinking even more.
Fuck it, jumping off a bridge would do as well.
He gestures me to follow him and I obey without a word. I think I owe him that much—I think I owe him way too much for his patience.
"Now, I cannot get drunk anymore, but I used to be able to" Captain says nostalgically. "And I had named Bucky, he—he liked to party. I got some experience with drunk people is all."
James Buchanan Barnes. I know him from Smithsonian.
I do not ask any more questions. I know it is a very sensitive subject to him. He has lost so many people to the war.
To my greatest surprise, I see his intention to keep the conversation going. I reckon he does not want to have an awkward one, after all. I feel awkward enough, anyway. "I was sitting at home, actually. I'm rarely home lately and I was wondering what to do. Not that I don't like modern technology, but—I am not near to normal people."
He talks to me and I am wondering even more. I cannot stop my brain; it is functions by itself, working on ruining everything. I am overthinking again.
He does not take me far away; we actually only walk a few meters together. Just like I thought, he lives three buildings from the Raven.
I have not known that he lives so close. It makes my chest area feel warm and my heart flutter. Sometimes I act like a teenager, especially when around ridiculously good looking Greek gods. He is very much how I imagined Hercules to look like.
I sigh. "It must be weird. Being in a new century."
"That I am used to," he replies quickly. His voice is deep, calm and ever-so-sweet. "The lifestyle I'm always used to. It's just—It's different."
"You don't have to explain," I say to him with what I imagine must be a kind smile.
He stays quiet and I am afraid he is going to be closed from now on. I never meant to get into his business, perhaps I should keep my mouth shut. Then he stops and grins at me.
"Did not expect wise words from a drunk girl who puked on my shoes."
I do not hesitate. "I did not expect kindness from a stranger. You were supposed to tell me to go impregnate myself."
He waves with his hand. "That's not my style, as they say lately."
Hahaha—shit!
Suddenly I realize he does not know my name at all. He opens the front door for me and I walk in, with him by my side to show the way. The Captain does not continue our conversation throughout our way up, but he does speak up when we reach the top roof. "Please don't tell anyone I live here. I actually asked everyone I know to stay quiet about it."
And he does not even know me. But I can imagine his need for privacy, with people staring at him wherever he goes and the media following him soon after, so I do not mean to invade it. He was so compassionate, so much like an ordinary human being the whole word refused to believe him to be. Once he was just Steve Rogers and there was no Captain.
"I promise," I say without breaking the eye contact with him. I am not stunned that I see hesitation in his eyes even I have trust issues and I do not even work as a superhero. I am a perfectly normal, perfectly boring engineer. Before he lets me into his home, I offer him my hand gently, this time more collected and silently forgetting about being covered in food I ate today. "My name's Bunny."
This time he frowns clearly. He does not even try to hide it. "Bunny?"
"Yes," I reply quickly. "It's Aurora, actually. I prefer Bunny, though."
He accepts my hand and smiles. I think this is his most honest smile. "Okay, Bunny. I'm Steve."
I look at the front door of his flat questioningly.
His smile turns into a grin, showing me all of his perfect teeth. "Let's get you some dry clothes. And like I said, please don't puke on my carpet. Natasha just got it dry-cleaned and she would kill me."
Steve is actually having fun at my embarrassment. I find myself not minding at all.
"Natasha keeps some of her clothes here," he explains at my not-so-indiscreet question of why he keeps women clothing at his place. It just ran out of my mouth and I do not think after our incident that this is what I should be ashamed of the most. Tonight, I have been terrible decisions already, what is one for a thousand many? "In case her apartment is not safe."
"But why does she live there if she knows other people know about it?"
His face darkens, but his eyes are still smiling. "Nobody dares to pay her a visit, is all."
I nod, understandingly. I would never mess with the Black Widow.
I have not gone crazy, after all.
Steve lets me borrow a plain white shirt and jeans, shows me the way to his bathroom and I change silently, not daring to meet my eyes in the mirror across the room.
A/N: Thank you for reading this!:)
Here, you have the second chapter. It's much more like a filler chapter, not much action happening, but our heroes get to know each other and it is definitely the beggining of their relationship.
I'd like to thank everyone who followed/favorited the story the past few days and I also would thank EvilChocholateBar for writing a review. :) Yes, the idea of the name really came from that Falloutboy song. I also happen to have a cherry blossom tatto, so twice the inspiration!
Thank you again for reading. If you'd like to, please leave a review.
xx, Nessa.