Steve Rogers And Bucky Barnes Images

Across the Cafe

Wantings - Severe anxiety

I wrote this in under an hour, so it's fine be crappy.

Mutual pining, and super softness in this one

He is never one to be confident with girls. Or anyone that is a stranger of that matter. Steve barely got along with Natasha and Bruce when Loki attacked. He has always been awkward. On the shy things of things, even before the serum.

It was just heightened like the rest of him.

And as he looks at you, reading from across the cafe, he knows he will never really talk to you. He can't help but stare, though, watch as you tap your foot and flip the page, letting your hair fall down your shoulders gracefully as the sun beams in.

Absolutely breathtaking, he thinks, not even hearing the laughter bubbling around him from Sam and Bucky as he watches you take a sip from your glass cup. The sun beams right on you perfectly, and he doesn't know whether or not he should draw you, maybe write a note instead of actually speaking.

Steve finally notices the company around him when he tastes the bitter salt in his own cup of coffee, the giggles and chuckles around now breaking into loud cackles and barrels of laughter, Tony now hiding his face as Bruce gives him an apologetic expression. Natasha is only staring, analyzing him as Sam and Bucky slap the other in breathless wheezes.

"You're staring," she says, almost too critical to his heart as she narrows her eyes. "At the girl, have been all week. Just go talk to her."

He scoffs then, shaking his head and looking down at his now ruined coffee to hide the painstakingly obvious blush taking over his cheeks. "Yeah, right." His own doubt eats him up, but he looks up again, over Bucky's shoulder to watch how you look around to meet his eyes. He immediately drops his gaze, swallowing thickly.

Bucky softens when he sees the panic crossing his face, but doesn't turn around. He knows better than to make it obvious that he was looking at someone, now watching as his best friend, Steve Rogers, kills himself over a girl he has been staring at for days on end at the coffee shop.

"Give yourself some slack, punk," he mutters assuringly clasping his shoulder like old times. "No one's judging you."

Steve looks up again, over his shoulder once more, to see you look down at your open book, your smile hidden behind fallen pieces of your hair. And a hella lot of flush creeping up on your cheeks.

You couldn't help but stare at him, smile from across the cafe as he sits with his friends and laughs. Though, he stares, you catch him almost everyday ever since coming here, moving to Manhattan and sitting in the same spot to read as you use the morning time to get fresh air before your afternoon shift at the library.

He was gorgeous. In every aspect. You've seen him pay for everything, watched him walk on the outside of the sidewalk instead of the girl he was with. He was always kind, had a soft gesture to everything, even when he spoke.

But fuck, if the girl wasn't next to him, you would feel a lot better. If the anxiety in you wasn't keeping your mouth shut. If you had just known how to speak up, you would actually walk over and do something about his staring, ask if he wanted something. Maybe even give him your number.

But you've only known silence. The quietness and anxiety that eats you up on ever nerve to the point you take every medication possible, avoid all interactions when needed, and just stay away from people who look like the outgoing personalities such as the man across the cafe.