The Silence Between Us (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Part One

You shouldn't even be here.

It's supposed to be your day off, damn it. The first real one in three weeks of double shifts and overtime. But Margy's kid got sick and you are just the biggest sucker for the kid excuse. So here you are at the hospital—again—on your day off—again—doing the nursing rounds of the pediatric floor—again.

You try not to be bitter—some of these kids are terminal, for Christ's sake—but it's hard to keep a caring and kind attitude after the tenth hour on your feet.

Sick kids, man... they get you right in the heart every time. The staff keeps the halls and rooms in the ward bright. There are always toys and video games, but it's hard to ignore the bags under the parents' eyes, or the laughter that turns to coughing too quickly, or the longing looks the kids give to the world outside their windows.

Of all the kids, Melody is your favorite. She has been since she first came to the ward with bacterial meningitis. Her illness had many complications and, ultimately, left her almost completely deaf. Yet she is a ray of sunshine. Always smiling, always happy.

You wave to her as you walk into the recreation room and revel in the delight on her face. Kids have favorites too and it's nice to be someone's.

[happy] you sign, indicating the smile on her face. You've learned some ASL during Melody's time in the hospital, nothing more than the basics, but the joy on her face the first time you signed to her was addictive.

She beams. [-????-] It's a sign that you don't recognize, so you repeat it back to her the best you can. She fingerspells it, as she always does when you don't know what she means. [A-V-E-N-G-E-R-S]

The Avengers. Not the real ones, of course, just cosplayers who come to the hospital to brighten the kids' day. They're a routine fixture on the pediatric floor. The college student who plays Captain America even asked you out for dinner the last time they were there. Not that you have time for dating.

The cosplayers enter and, as a murmur of excitement ripples through the room, you slip out to take your first break in three hours. The bench outside the front entrance is your favorite. An elderly couple walk by in companionable silence, the wife pushing her husband in a wheelchair. A woman carries sensible heels in her hand as she rushes past. A man in glasses follows, hands in his pockets. There's nothing remarkable about him, but he catches your attention. Something about his face rubs you the wrong way. Everyone who comes to the hospital has a similar expression, like fear and hope combined, but he's passive. Almost... bored.

You take a breath and turn your attention back to the trickle of the fountain, letting the flow of the water lull you into a trance. If you look in the right direction, you can ignore the bustle of the sick and injured. Your friends from home suggested you take a different job, a different hospital, a different city—somewhere that doesn't have the crime rate of Los Angeles. A few years ago, you would have scoffed at the notion. But now... the long hours are wearing on you. Perhaps a change of pace wouldn't be so bad.

A knot forms in your stomach, the tiniest ripple of fear. You look around. Something is wrong, but what?

An explosion rocks the hospital. The shock knocks you to the ground and, through the ringing in your ears, the screams of those running from the hospital reach you. You lift your eyes. You can't focus on the building in front of you, not with your head swimming.

Before you can think, you're on your feet, buffeted by the crowds running out as you stagger toward the entrance. Sirens blare in the distance. The further you get, the more you regain your senses until you're running through the halls, squeezing through disoriented patients, visitors, and staff. You find those that are trapped and direct them toward the exit. It's slow progress, but so far people are only dazed.