Avengers Imagines

Burn Marks (1/2)

[A/N: Just pretend everyone's alive and living well and nothing has gone to shit. Except the very specific things that go to shit as the plot progresses. Thank you!]

[A/N 2 — Return of the A/N: At some point during reading this, you might wonder why I have written Steve the way I have and it's simply because that version of him is the hottest I find for some reason. I'm aware I need therapy.]

Habit is a fickle thing. It is not necessary for survival, often times it is not even something actively developed. Habit is a course of action taken repeatedly for an extended period of time until it sticks in the subconscious mind without rhyme or reason.

It was this habit that had landed you into throwing a birthday party for a significant other you had ended things with after nearly a decade, not even four weeks after the fact.

You hadn't realised it while booking the venue, choosing the decoration or deciding on the cake. It was only when you were texting Steve to finalize a dress code that your thumbs froze. In the end, invitations did go out, for a party with no dress code.

You wanted to follow through. It would make you the bigger person. This was the high road, or whatever.

They said it was not possible to fall out of love, or in love more than once — a myriad of stringent rules around an emotion that was supposed to set you free. In defiance of at least one of them, you had watched yourself lose affection for Steve years before the estrangement. It had been easy falling for those striking blue eyes, cheekbones so high they threatened to fall buildings — although to preserve that emotion for someone whose mind was mostly reminiscing days gone by was intricate.

Things got better when Bucky came back. Not for long enough to give you any kind of hope; you thought fondly of those memories nonetheless.

A serpent uncoiled in your chest when he finally showed up. Albeit a little late, but he had saved you from becoming a spectacle; and the evening a flimsy charade for winning him back.

He wore a shirt in a specific shade of blue — a shade you had once told him enhanced his eyes the best, but not a shirt you had any involvement in purchasing. You looked down at your own sheath dress. Admittedly, you had bought it for yourself but only after Steve had told you how the boat neckline made him want to never move his hand from your shoulder.

The silk fabric became ants and you wanted to claw it off your body, skin and all.

From the pocket of his pants hung a compass — the compass. Why he had chosen to carry it along for the occasion lord only knew, but it was put there with intention, with one end of the chain looped around his belt and the other continued around his hip out of your sight.

An artless urge to set it alight flashed in your veins. Of course you had known about the compass — the significance it held in Steve's life — it was the only remaining connection he had to his past and you respected it as such, the bare minimum you could do for his pain.

You also remembered the night those feelings drastically and irredeemably changed. It was toward the very end, you were awoken by light burning into your eyes. It couldn't be morning yet, it was too early. You rolled over to see Steve sitting up, the compass open in his hand, his eyes searching for what you could never tell. With him, it was a losing game.

To this day, you told yourself you would have gone right back to sleep had he not noticed. You remembered, in the moment, praying for him to not notice. Yet his eyes shifted and he motioned for you to join him.

“See her? Know who she is?” On his lips was a smile you had grown unfamiliar to long ago. Trying your best to mirror it, you patiently waited for him to continue. The woman in the picture was Peggy Carter, of course you were aware as he had told you several times, but Steve liked telling his stories and there was no reason to take that away from him.

“That's Peggy Carter. Dr Peggy Carter, mind you.” Steve looked at you faintly, not seeing. You squeezed his palm, gently at first but it felt inadequate. He did not return the gesture. “She was the first woman I ever loved. She was the only woman I'll ever love.”

Sleep evaporated entirely from your eyes. You turned to look at the clock, it was 2 a.m. Why was he telling you this at 2 a.m.? Why was he telling you this at all?

A waiter crossed, carrying a tray of champagne flutes, one of which you picked and consumed in its entirety. Shaking the tension off your shoulders, you braced yourself for what was about to happen.

“Thank you for inviting me. This place looks wonderful.”

Natasha was the first to sniff out when your relationship with Steve had become mostly performative. She had asked you if there was someone you liked, someone you could start over with. There was a name that rushed to your lips with such rapid pace, you sealed them and stowed it away in depths unknown. It was wrong. It was unfaithful. That was the first and last time that thought had occurred.

Loki tried again. “I'm sorry, perhaps I spoke too low. I'm grateful for the invitation. I've been having an excellent time.”

Had you invited him? You couldn't remember. How long does a buried thought stay buried?

It took a while to sort through your thoughts and in that time, you found Steve standing in front of you, visibly dragged in by bucky.

“Oh, hey, um, hi.” Your voice faltered but you took pride in the fact that it did not fail you all together. “I was getting worried you wouldn't show up at all.”

“Not like I had a choice.” Steve laughed and was promptly swatted on the arm by Bucky. “She put together this whole thing for you, least you can do is be grateful.”

He then turned to you with a certain degree of compassion. “So, do you have cake?”

You smiled at bucky, obligated. The man had saved you so many times, with nothing to gain from the endeavor, there was no way for you to pay him back. Except maybe point him toward the cake. “Right over there. Chocolate.”

Steve barely tried to follow the direction of your outstretched hand. “Seriously, (Y/N), chocolate? You know I don't like that.”

But you didn't. In fact, he had chocolate cake for his birthday last year and, you were almost positive, had chided you for not having it the year before.

You maintained a tight smile, your eyes threatening betrayal at any moment. Bucky saved you from burning, yet again, this time move blatantly than the last. “You're a jerk, you know that?”

A genuine smile had a chance to cross your lips, one that brought with it little glimpses of teeth and crinkles on the corner of your eyes. Stepping forward, you proceeded to do what would easily be constructed as a hug except a hug has the tacit element of affection.

You merely acknowledged Steve's presence with physical proximity, with one hand on his shoulder and your chin on the other. “I'm glad you are here.”

The sentiment was not meant for Steve in the slightest. Your eyes, and each thought behind them, were locked on the man who had tried to hold conversation with you earlier —now stood behind Steve, speaking with someone he shared not a lot in common barring mutual defenestration.

Your words reached Loki, immediately driving his conversation to a halt. His heart lept ahead of him, unsure if his ears were playing a game of betrayal until he turned in your direction and all his fears were allayed.

Loki nodded in response and earth was restored beneath your feet. You were no longer in freefall, fighting for purchase. Left with no reason, obligation or intention to address Steve, you concerned yourself with Bucky. “Let's get you that cake.”

Although, you would have benefited to know all that this little moment of solace had given you was about to be snatched away, no matter the course of action you chose to take.