Disclaimer: None of it is mine; just playing.
Author's note: Thank you SO MUCH for your warm and positive feedback; I can't tell you how much it means to me. I know this story requires a bit of a leap of faith, and I am so grateful you took it for me.
Steve spends his Tuesday afternoon wandering around the West Village. It's a cool day for June, so for once he feels as invisible as he's meant to, wearing his conspicuously inconspicuous hoodie and sunglasses for stealth. (That's the thing about going public with his identity—even though he gets you look like Captain America way more often than anything else, it still makes him anxious.)
Part of him thinks he shouldn't be here; that he's overstepping a boundary or invading Rachel's privacy, somehow. After all, she didn't ask him to walk her home. But the rest of him is unfamiliar with the area, and just… wanted to be able to picture it properly. He still thinks of it as Little Bohemia, and it's good for him to see what Rachel's neighborhood is actually like, so he doesn't have to worry about whether or not she's safe.
It's not like he expects to run into her; he just wants to know a little more.
Really.
(At any rate, it feels a little more productive than checking in on the same loop of consignment shops and second-hand stores throughout the five boroughs for new-old items from his past, which is how he's spent many a weekday in the last few months.)
When he was younger, he always avoided everything on the Hudson below the Meatpacking District; the street grid there was, and still is, different than the rest of the city, and he always got lost. Going over the bridge into Manhattan was a rare enough adventure—not being able to find his way back, scrawny as he'd been, had been a little too much for him to handle.
It's different, now. The niceness of the neighborhood, with its tree-lined streets and brownstones, no longer intimidates him. Said streets are a little easier to navigate now, even though they're not parallel—he can find north instinctually these days. He's big enough that no one bothers him.
But most importantly, every sidewalk seems to sing with possibility. Any one of the windows above him could be hers.
God, she had him laughing about Bucky yesterday.
He passes bodegas and laundromats, indulging in fantasies of mediocrity. The idea of Rachel just living a life here, cleaning her clothes or picking up a bottle of water and a bagel… it's so ordinary. Soothingly so, when he has no other way of thinking of her than as Billie on stage, or as the beautiful girl—woman—across the restaurant table.
For all his time selling war bonds backed by a whole chorus of dancing girls, he's never been comfortable around actresses. It always felt like the magic was ruined for him; he was there when they put on their makeup and false lashes and falser smiles. Some of them were missing their sweethearts overseas, and others were looking to be the next Judy Garland, but none of them went on that stage as themselves. It made him nervous; he could never tell if they were actually as worldly as they seemed, or if they were just that good at pretending.
Rachel Berry seems like the most genuine person he's ever met. It's either the greatest of masks of the most earnest of truths, and he can't get over the feeling of wanting to know her.
He wonders what she must think of him.
Rachel is just a little bit beside herself.
Her life… her life feels like a dream.
And she doesn't even mean that in a whimsical, metaphorical way. Literally, she dreamed this once. She'd dreamed that she was playing Fanny Brice—an old standby of hers—but when she'd gone to the stage door after the show, Captain Rogers was waiting there, wearing his dress uniform just like he had at the press conference where he'd revealed his identity a few months after Portal Day. You were incredible, he said in the dream. I'm a big fan of yours.
I'm a big fan of yours,she'd returned, and then… well, and then the two of them had spent the day antiquing and she remembers there was something very important about going to see the circus, which is ridiculous because Rachel hates circuses in her waking hours—they promote animal cruelty and cheap showmanship—but in the dream it had seemed critical. But thus is the way of dreams, and she'd woken up and moved on.
Until it came true.
She's always called herself slightly psychic, but this is a bit much even for her. After all, Neil Patrick Harris has never actually called her up to ask if she'd babysit his twins, despite her most fervid dreaming; in what world would Captain America want to have coffee with her?
She spent the whole walk home pinching herself.
He's just so—he's so—
He is at once nothing and everything like she imagined he'd be. She'd anticipated the stoic disposition, but it comes off as polite, not—not serious. Just mindful. Pensive, maybe. And he's fun to be around, like… like he's happy to have a reason to be happy. Her cast mates tease and complain because she talks about him so much, but she can't help but be consumed by the mystery of him. She's an actress. A student of the human condition, if you will. He's been her hero since she was old enough to fear the monsters under her bed, and she doesn't think it's so terrible to want to get to know him better.
And lord knows he's not bad to look at. The neatly parted hair, his blue eyes, and that body…
And then there's the other part. The part where he's been in the audience every night for almost a week. For her. And, yes, for the rest of the cast, and probably for nostalgia as well, but…
That means something to her. His attentiveness to the arts, his appreciation for her, his support. Maybe he didn't come to see the show for her, at least not at first, but he's staying, and she's never met anyone like that before who didn't have an ulterior motive.
She can easily see herself getting addicted to this feeling.
That night, an usher comes to find Steve during intermission and tells him Miss Berry has invited him backstage after the show. The elderly couple sitting to his right give him these envious, curious looks, and he shrugs sheepishly.
"We're, ah, we're old friends." He really cannot stand the way they're staring at him. "Would you like me to introduce you?"
Which is how he finds himself giving Mr. and Mrs. DeWitt an impromptu tour of the dressing rooms after the final curtain.
"…And, um, this door is Rachel's," he concludes weakly, before giving a light knock. "Rachel?"
The door opens almost immediately, as if she'd been poised behind it, waiting for him. Her grin is massive; her hair is down and curling into damp ringlets—like she just took a fast shower—and she's wearing this deep purple silk robe… thing… that shows enough thigh that Steve has to make a conscious effort to keep his eyes on her face.
He clears his throat and takes a step back so she can see they have company. "Um, Rachel, these are my new friends Harold and Prudence. They… really wanted to meet you."
The readiness with which she snaps into her accommodating starlet persona is fascinating to him. She graciously invites these strangers into her dressing room, signs their playbills, and endures two anecdotes about their grandchildren while Steve tries not to make a nuisance of himself. Glancing around the room, he notices that the page of her notebook he signed has been torn out, his autograph and inscription taped onto her lit mirror.
He just about manages to regain control of his facial muscles by the time Rachel flags down a passing dresser and asks her to please escort the DeWitts outside.
"Sorry," Steve mumbles as they leave. "They heard me get invited back here and I just thought…"
"It's fine," Rachel assures him. "To be honest, it's still kind of a thrill to know that people want to meet me. It doesn't always feel real."
"I wanted to meet you," he feels the need to remind her, and she smiles.
"That doesn't quite feel real, either."
The corners of his mouth turn up without permission once more. "So, why the invitation tonight?"
"Oh, I wanted you to meet a few of the cast members—but then, we've been held up. Most of them will be outside signing by now, but you can meet Jesse, at least." She chuckles. "He takes longer to get ready than I do."
She takes his hand without warning, pulling him back out into the hallway. She's still only wearing her little robe thing, and he can't help but be fazed by how casually and confidently she walks around the theater. He's never had that kind of self-assurance.
"Won't you get cold?" he hears himself ask as she leads him past several doors.
"What? Oh," she laughs, when she realizes what he's talking about. "Normally I would, but I think there's something wrong with the air conditioning in my dressing room; I've been overheating all night."
Steve's still processing that—trying to figure out if there was some sort of hidden clue he was meant to pick up on—when she brings them to a stop and knocks firmly on her costar's door. It opens a second later.
"Rachel," the actor greets smoothly, opening his door just wide enough so that he could lean against the jamb. "Visiting before I've finished my moisturizing routine? You know we have rules about that."
"Believe it or not," Rachel says, amused, "some things are more important than your face. And anyway, there's someone I want you to meet. Steve, this is our Val, Jesse St. James. Jesse, this is Captain Steve Rogers."
"It's an honor to meet you, sir," Jesse says, a smirk lingering in his tone even as he holds out a hand. "We were beginning to think she'd made you up."
"A hundred percent real," Steve affirms, discovering an instant dislike for this overconfident man who gets to kiss Rachel every night. And if his handshake is a little firmer than he usually allows for civilians… well, he's done worse.
As Jesse cradles his right hand to his chest, massaging it lightly, he adds, "You're not as tall as I pictured you."
"Jesse!" Rachel reprimands, swatting at his shoulder.
"Actually, I get that a lot," Steve admits, more for Rachel's benefit. "That and that they thought my nose was smaller."
"Heard that one before," Rachel grumbles.
To Steve's surprise, Jesse's attention snaps to Rachel immediately. "None of that. They said that about Barbra, too; the media is fickle, but you are lovely."
"What, uh, he said," Steve adds fumblingly, a second after he thinks he should've, but now he can't stop staring at Rachel's face, trying to find a flaw. "But—do people really say that about you? You're—you look—I mean, I've seen women who—but you're so—"
He feels like he's in the back of a car with Peggy again, and it's all he can do to keep himself from saying dame.
"I think I covered that with lovely," Jesse says, sounding like he's holding back laughter, "but your way has a certain charm."
"I'm not trying to compete with you," Steve snaps, losing his patience. "I just don't understand how anyone could—"
He's cut off by Rachel, who breaks down suddenly into a spectacular coughing fit. She frowns, bracing herself against the wall with one hand while she uses the other to cover her mouth.
Once it's passed, she looks up at Jesse and says, "We didn't mean to keep you. You should finish getting dressed; we've kept the fans waiting long enough."
"Unless you intend to go out in that," Jesse retorts, giving her bare legs and silky robe a lingering once-over, "you should get dressed too."
"Point taken. Steve?"
He blinks at her expectant expression. "I'll, um, walk you back to your room. Nice meeting you," he adds to Jesse as an afterthought, though he's not sure if it was.
"And you," Jesse says. They're halfway down the hall when he calls out, "Oh, and Rachel?"
"Yes?"
"Most people would just clear their throat to end an awkward conversation. More subtle."
She gives him half a smile. "Go big or go home, right?"
He laughs as he closes his dressing room door.
"So that was Jesse," she summarizes unnecessarily as she leads Steve back to her room.
"He's… quite a character," he says, for lack of anything better.
She chuckles. "You have to be, in this business. Theater is a haven for weirdos, geeks and the socially inept."
"You seem pretty normal to me."
"Steve Rogers, that just may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," she smiles as she pauses in front of her gold star. "So, I guess this is me. Do you… want to stick around while I sign?"
"I probably shouldn't. I don't want to, um—be a distraction."
"You should probably go back through the house, then; if you leave through the back door they'll think you're someone important."
"Aren't I?"
"Of course you are; that's the problem. Do you remember where the door into the theater is? Stage left?"
"I'll find it."
She hesitates before asking one last question. "You still have my number, right?"
The napkin she wrote it on is still folded neatly in his pocket. He can feel himself blushing; not for the first time, he wishes the serum had cured him of that. "I do. I'm just not very good at… cell phones."
"That's okay," she chuckles. "I'll see you tomorrow night?"
"Yeah. Well, I'll be in the audience, so I don't know if you'll see me, but I'll see you," he stutters. Embarrassed at his inability to keep cool, he takes a deep breath and summarizes: "Yes, tomorrow."
Only he doesn't see her tomorrow. Because as he's ushered to his seat the following evening, he notices a little piece of paper nestled into the centerfold of his program: This evening, the part of Billie will be played by Harmony Lindsay-Pearce.
He can't imagine what Rachel would need an understudy for; she was fine yesterday. He saw her. They talked.
The first act passes in a blur. He tries to focus on the music, when it comes, but the scenes in between seem inconsequential—he shifts in his seat and fretting, turning over potential clues in his head. She'd coughed. She'd mentioned she felt warm.
He spends intermission debating whether or not he should call her.
He spends act two wondering what on earth he'd say if he did.
(It's silly, and she doesn't need him, except maybe it isn't and what if she does?)
Halfway to the A train he gives up, takes out his phone, digs the napkin out of his pocket and fumblingly dials.
"…Hello?" a weak, stuffed-up voice answers after a few rings.
"Um, hey, Rachel?"
"This is she. May I ask who's calling, please?" she asks, and he can actually hear her dizziness. His lips twist in sympathy.
"Oh, sorry, it's, um—Steve. Rogers." The ensuing silence lasts for so long that he clears his throat and asks, "Rachel? Are you… there?"
"Yes hi," she says quickly, and he breathes a sigh of relief.
"Is everything alright?"
"Why wouldn't things be alright?" she asks, her voice curiously high-pitched.
"Well, I mean… you're not here. And I was just wondering if you were okay."
"Oh, I'm fine," she says, though it comes out more like I'b fide, "I just have a bit of a cold. Not so under the weather that I couldn't perform—I wanted to come in—but I was told not to risk my voice."
He chuckles at her stubbornness; somehow he's sure that conversation didn't go quite as smoothly as she's describing. "It was—um. I missed you during the show."
"You did? That's really—wait. Was Harmony okay?" Rachel asks, tone suddenly shifting from touched to neurotic.
"She was! It was good—different—but… um. She's no you," he admits, squirming a little at how he sounds. His toes curl nervously in his shoes, flexing out his anxiety. "But are you sure you're alright? Do you need anything?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know, soup?"
There's another long pause, then: "Are you for real?"
"Last I checked," he says, blushing when she laughs weakly into the phone.
"Captain America wants to get me soup because I don't feel well," she reiterates.
"You have to admit, it does sound like something I would do," he says, daring to joke; his confidence builds when she laughs again.
After another pause, she ventures, "Thank you for checking up on me."
"Is that a no to the soup? I don't mind."
"Steve—"
"Feed a cold, starve a fever. That's what they say, right?" If he had a nickel for every time Bucky said that to him, handing over the larger share of food because Steve was ill…
"Thank you, but I'm fine. Jesse came over earlier and made me oatmeal."
"Oh."
To his surprise, she chuckles again. "You really don't like him, do you?"
"I… I didn't like Tony Stark when I first met him either. Anything's possible."
"Just wait until I tell him you compared him to Tony Stark; he'll have a field day." Her laughter peters into a coughing fit, and Steve frowns into his phone.
"I should let you go. Let you rest. I, um. I hope you feel better."
"You want me to feel better, you just show up at the theater tomorrow, okay?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
But he does. Miss it.
Because that night, he's woken up after a mere hour of sleep when JARVIS chimes, "Captain Rogers? Call coming in for you from Stark Tower."
It takes a second for the meaning of that to sink in. Groaning, Steve lifts himself from his bed and stumbles to the screen array set up next to his bookcase. "Put it through."
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," Tony says as the video comes to life. "I'd say hope I didn't wake you, but that would be a lie. You're so cute when you're all rumpled."
"Speak of the devil," Steve mutters. "I was talking about you earlier."
"About how much you appreciate my good looks and dashing charm?"
"About how much I used to dislike you, actually."
"Used to? I'm touched. Look at me. I might be blushing."
"Is there a point to this call, Mr. Stark?"
"Now I'm Mr. Stark again? See, I thought we were making progress. Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed."
"Tony."
He sobers. "You're gonna have to get over here; a situation's developing and we're being flown out on the helicarrier in an hour."
Steve wipes at his face, trying to wake himself up. "Who all is coming?"
"Everybody but Thor; Bruce is with me, and Maxwell Smart and 99 are already with Fury."
"Wait. Who? What about Clint and Natasha?"
"I just said they're with Fury; don't you listen?"
"Couldn't Bruce have called me?" Steve groans.
"He could have, but where's the fun in that? Take your bike; you don't have time to wait for a train. You can suit up when you get here."
The streets aren't empty, not even at this hour—the city barely slept in his day, and now it's more of an insomniac than ever. But even with the light pollution hiding the stars, an eerie peace pervades New York at night. Not a quiet, but a lull.
He tries not to let it bother him, as he rides towards the Brooklyn Bridge, but he can't help but think it: he doesn't know when he'll be back, and for the first time, there's someone that might miss him.
He's not sure if it's better or worse if she will.
Rachel has a number of pre-show rituals.
She knows it's silly and superstitious, but then so is theater—and actually, some of her best friendships at NYADA started when she found people running through the same embarrassing little routines that she had. It had opened up the door to a whole new world for her: one of confident self-deprecation, where she could acknowledge who she was without having to be ashamed. Others have outgrown their habits, but she holds onto them, even now.
Which is how, after she has done a few basic yoga poses and had her mug of warm water with honey and lemon and sung red leather, yellow leather up and down her scales, she finds herself peering through the curtain at stage right. Just as she's always done, to make sure that nothing's gone terribly wrong in the audience.
Tonight's the first night where something has.
"He's not here," she says aloud, to whomever is close enough to hear her. Which turns out to be Lillian, their assistant stage manager.
"Who's not?"
"Steve Rogers. He's not here."
Lillian smiles kindly, as Rachel knows she always does when she's trying not to roll her eyes. "Of course he's not here, Rach; don't you watch the news?"
She doesn't, actually. She keeps up with current events, of course, but she does it online—she finds news channels to be hyperbolic, sensationalist and filled with negative energy. She's learned, over time, to avoid things that encourage her anxiety, and she always feels like a suspicious hypochondriac after watching an hour of cable news.
Now, however, she's thinking that might have to change.
Rachel looks around wildly. "How long until places?"
"Five, but with the overture you really have more like seven. I'm not holding the show for you, though, understood?"
"Right, of course, thank you," she says, but she's already halfway to the green room, where she knows they have a TV with a remote that works.
She spends her last moments before curtain watching CNN on mute. It looks like something out of science fiction: the Avengers, a partially decimated city, a giant killer robot. It's hard not to flash back to Portal Day; it all seems so fresh. But even though it's not New York and she's not in it, this fight she's witnessing (god, she doesn't even know where in the world they are) seems almost harder to take.
It's just… incredibly upsetting, watching Steve try and defend himself by ducking behind a shield that seems no thicker than her fingernail.
She tries to think back to her childhood, when she could sit through five Captain America movies in a row without getting bored or scared. To her, that costume meant invulnerability, and power, and surety. No fall was too high, no explosion too big, no situation too perilous. He'd always make it through; that was his job. That was what the helmet and shield meant.
Now all she can think is that's Steve under there.
That night, she sings through My Funny Valentine with a lump in her throat no amount of swallowing could alleviate.
The worst part is that she thinks it may be the best she's ever done it.
A/N There might be more of a delay before the next chapter, because I'm working now and it seriously cuts into my writing time, but there is definitely more to come!
