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thebearer · 1 year ago

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making the bed |carmen berzatto x reader| part one

prompt: carmen's stressed. food critics, a newborn baby, balancing work life and married life and now dad life; he's bound to break, everyone knows it. but no one ever thought he'd lash out on you.

or, part one of the devastation fic. based off this ask from the other day. two more parts to come.

contains: mega angst. mega angst, with no resolution in this part. hurt, no comfort (in this chapter, will be later in part 3). mean!carmen, very mean. mom!reader x dad!carmen with newborn teddy. fighting, language, carmen says mean stuff he doesn't mean. past mentions of trauma, family trauma, mikey mentioned. very angsty and a little heavy, please read at your own discretion. word count- 3.5k+.

"Are you ok?"

Carmen now understood why that phrase used to send Donna into such a blind rage, lips pursing and jaw clenching more and more every time he heard it. First at work, then with you, it felt never ending.

It was beginning to feel like critic season with how many were coming in, snooty and demanding to be impressed. It couldn't have come at a worst time, right in the middle of busy season with the start of the holidays. Days at The Bear were filled with frantic panic, running around, making sure everything was perfect, accounted for, and Carmen always had the sinking feeling it wasn't- that he'd forgotten something, messed something up.

It wasn't rare for him to work himself up like this, a normal that you always warned him about, but he'd always had a solitude. As long as he'd known you, he'd had a place to go, to unwind, to let himself rest and reset with you. And he still did, it was just shared now with a newborn.

Dorothea Michelle. Teddy, for short. The light of his life, yours too. Nearly two months old with a set of lungs that sounded much louder, much more developed than that. Nights were long, sleepless, spent trying to lull Teddy back to sleep, awake even if he wasn't up with her. Carmen couldn't allow himself the selfishness to relax, to rewind, to "take it easy" like everyone told him to. At work, he was the boss; at home, he was a dad.

"Fuck, fuck," Carmen's sleepy stare was broken by a lick of bubbling heat, the lamb's roux popping with the high heat, splashing all over Carmen's chef whites.

"Jeff, c'mon," Tina clicked, shaking her head, moving the pan to lower heat. "What're you doin'?"

Carmen grit his teeth, snatching a rag off the stainless steel counter tops, scrubbing the burgundy stain, huffing when it only spread the stain.

"What happened?" Sydney turned, looking from the burnt sauce to Carmen's stained chef shirt. "Oh,"

"Do we have a spare coat?" Carmen huffed, throwing the rag down with a firm smack against the counter.

"I don't think so, Carm." Sydney shook her head. "You took the last ones home with you two days ago. The wine-"

"-I know, Chef, I know." Carmen snapped, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I-I can't fuckin' serve the critics lookin' like this. With shit all over me- fuck."

"Hey, easy, easy," Richie turned the corner, his hands held up. "What's goin' on?"

"Jeff got sauce over him. He doesn't have any clean clothes." Tina muttered, irritated that she had to fix his mess, more irritated that he wasn't taking care of himself. You have a baby, Jeff, you need to rest and take some time, she'd told him. Carmen only waved her off.

"Okay, okay, hey, that's no problem." Richie's voice raised, lifting over Carmen's. "You go home and change, get your spare, check on my beautiful goddaughter, and then come back with your A game. Yes?"

Carmen didn't even humor him with a snarky remark, yanking his coat off and stomping towards the office to grab his things. Richie and Tina looked at each other, shaking their head gently.

"Kids runnin' thin, T." Richie muttered with a sigh. "He's gonna break. It's gonna be bad."

"Yeah, he is. Gonna wear himself out before then." Tina shook her head. "Jeff needs a vacation." They both jumped at the slamming of the backdoor, Carmen's angry exit shaking the foundation.

"Needs to be fuckin' medicated. Fuckin' lunatic." Richie scoffed, rolling his eyes at Carmen's dramatics.

The drive home was filled with silence, Carmen's iron grip on the wheel, tearing through the traffic towards the house- his house, his home.

Home, but it didn't provide the same comfort that it usually did. Carmen's shoulders still stayed tense, buzzing with rage, not dissipating when he thought of you, or of Teddy, knowing you'd both be there, excited to see him.

You jumped at the sound of the car door slamming, peeking out the window to see Carmen's parked next to yours, furiously stomping up the front steps. You frowned, grabbing the baby monitor, walking towards the front door.

Carmen nearly hit you with how fiercely he flung the door open. "Woah," You reached for the door, stopping it before he could flick it shut. "Carm, don't slam it. Teddy's asleep. I just got her down." You frowned at him, shutting it slowly.

Carmen looked at you but didn't speak, looking through you with a rage that had your spine tingling before he finally broke his gaze, stomping towards the laundry room. "Carm? What’re you doing home? Don’t you have dinner soon?" You hesitated slightly, lingering in the doorway with an uncertainty you hadn’t felt with Carmen before.

Carmen didn’t answer, his jaw still ground tight while he rummaged through the clean clothes, carelessly unfolding and shifting the folded clothes.

"Carmen," You said more firmly, caching his gaze. He didn't speak still, just stared at you- through you. "Are you ok?" You lifted a brow, features softening in worry.

Carmen paused, eyes closing, shoulders tensing in agitation. Are you ok? His ears rang, a familiar rage that he hadn't felt in years bubbling up deep in his chest. Frustrated and blinding and rampant, heat rushing through his veins, pulling himself further and further from reality into someplace different- someplace darker in his mind.

"What's wrong?" You pressed, he could barely hear it, ears ringing at your question. "Did something happen? Did the critic come-"

"-Where's my chef whites?" Carmen barked, cutting you off, his chest tightening more and more with every heavy heave of his chest. You flinched at his tone.

"Uh, I-I haven't seen the whites. I washed your white tee-"

“-You what? Y-You what?” Carmen spat, eye widening with a wild, raged glint in his eye. Your stomach flipped and fell with fear, stepping back instinctively.

“I-I washed your tee, Carm, that’s all that you left in the laundry basket-”

"-Are you fucking kidding me?" Carmen boomed, his head spinning, body buzzing with rage. Your breath hitched, frozen in fear at the anger in his tone, the roar of his voice bouncing off the walls, echoing through your ears in a painful drum.

Carmen moved, snatching the dirty clothes basket, dumping it into the ground with a shake until the dirty chef coat fell on top. He gripped the basket, flinging it across the room with a hard throw. The final push to his bad mood that sent him right over the edge, crashing into a pit of blinding fury, aggravation, breaking him from the inside out.

"Fuck!" Carmen roared, his voice shaking the walls, your breath leaving your lungs in a trembling exhale of fear. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! This is- This is- Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

You tensed in shock, gripping the baby monitor in fear, maybe surprise, as it started to buzz to life with Teddy's startled whimpers. Her small cries pulled you out of your frozen state, something deeper than fear replacing the ache in your stomach.

"Carmen-" You gaped, voice wobbling with uncertainty, taking slow shuffled steps towards the stairs. “Carmen, calm-calm down. Ok? Calm down.”

“Calm down? You want me to fuckin’ calm down?” Carmen sneered, an angry red flush blossoming in splotchy deep hues up his neck, towards his cheeks. “You don’t do shit, nothin’ that I fuckin’ ask for! Just sit around all fuckin’ day an-and I’m supposed to calm down?”

“Carmen,” Your voice wobbled, throat tight with tears, hurt and fear strangling your words. “I-You didn’t ask me to wash them. I-I didn’t know. They weren’t in the hamper-”

“-I shouldn’t have to ask you to wash them!” Carmen roared, eyes so wide you thought they might pop right out of his head, neck vein protruding on exemplifying his rage. “You know what I’m going through! You know how much fuckin’ stress I’m under! I go to that-that shit hole, an-and work my fuckin’ ass off so you don’t have to! Then I come home, and I-I can’t even get a second of peace!”

“Stop,” You hiss, finally regaining your composure, his words fully sinking into you now, feeling the full effect of them. “I-I just had a baby. I’m still on maternity leave taking care of a baby- our baby, and I’m tired too. But I’m not yelling at you-”

“-Oh, right. Right.” Carmen laughs sarcastically, humorless as he runs his hand down his face. It felt mocking, left you feeling small and too vulnerable for your liking. “Because in between your napping an-and feeding, you couldn’t stick a fucking jacket in the wash, right? You’re so busy.”

“What is wrong with you?” You snap, hoping he can’t hear the tears in your voice, the way your voice shakes with emotion.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me?” Carmen scoffs, throwing his hands out. “I get no fuckin' sleep, go work my fuckin' ass off, a-and then I come home so I can go back and work my ass off some more, and-and you can’t do one simple fuckin’ thing? You can’t help me out? And then you wanna know what’s wrong with me? When you sit on your ass all fuckin’ day-”

Teddy’s piercing wail pulls you out of your shocked trance, nose and throat burning with hurt filled tears you refuse to shed. Instead, you turn, climbing the stairs on shaky legs, the sound of Teddy’s cries growing louder and louder. Anchovy watches you from the top of the stairs, sensing the tension, your upset, sliding against your leg as if to comfort you.

Carmen scoffs, hands buzzing and trembling with rage, the ringing in his ears growing louder and louder with each of your footsteps on the stairs and down the hall. He can barely hear Teddy’s sobs, hands threading through his hair, pulling at his scalp. He sees you walk towards the bedroom, quickly, hugging Teddy to your chest.

“Oh, don’t go fuckin’ do it now!” Carmen roared, your ignoring him only infuriating him further. “It won’t be ready in time now. I’ll just look like a fuckin’ idiot for the critic tonight! Not that you care! Why would you, huh? I-I mean just our livelihood, just our fuckin’ income!”

You swallowed back your tears, head tilting towards the ceiling, hands shaking with every shove of your things into the overnight bag. Just enough to get you through the night, the next day. A few essentials, Teddy’s spare onesies, a charger, your wallet- you stopped mid-shove of your items into the weekender bag, the sun’s rays catching in your wedding ring. Your heart fell, more and more, you weren’t sure how that was even possible.

Carmen’s furious voice was still booming from downstairs, ringing and shaking in his furious fit. Richie and Sugar both warned you about Carmen’s tantrums, brought them up to embarrass him, tease him about it until he was red faced and hissing hushed threats at them. You never, never in your wildest dreams thought you’d be on the receiving end of one.

You jumped, another slam of something Carmen had thrown, maybe hit in a fit of rage, causing Teddy to wail louder, Anchovy skittering nervously away. Tears leaked out of your eyes, twisting the ring off your finger, setting it on Carmen’s bedside table. Pulling the carrier out of the closet, Anchovy got in much easier than usual, which you were thankful for.

Carmen was gripping the marble of the countertop when he heard you again, walking from the bottom of the stairs, quick steps towards the door to the garage, Teddy’s voice nearly hoarse from her crying. You kept your head high, tunnel-visioned towards your car, ignoring his heavy breathing and frantic pacing.

“Wha-What are you doin’?” Carmen’s voice was softer now, still with a jagged edge that was cutting and harsh. The car door opened, the baby carrier hooked into the car seat.

“Hey, wha- what are you- where’re you goin’? What’re you doin’?” Carmen’s heart dropped in a damning rush of hour, stumbling on heavy legs towards the garage. You ignored him, shushing Teddy gently, running a calming hand over her wet cheek, trying to coax her paci into her mouth.

“Baby, no-no, no. Hey, no, I-I- What-” Carmen’s chest felt tight, mind numbing and racing, stuttering nervously. You reached for your bag, his hand reaching to grab the strap. “Whe-Where’re you-”

“-Don’t touch me.” You hissed, teeth bared, eyes shining with tears. Carmen flinched, pulling his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove. “Don’t you dare fucking touch me.” You sneered, pinning him with a watery glare that had his stomach turning in sickening fear.

“Baby, hey, w-wait-C’mon, d-don’t-You don’t, you don’t need to do this, ok? I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Carmen choked out the words, frantic and unsure, his hands shaking when they ghosted over you back just for a moment. Wanting to touch you, to hold you, to grab you and keep you from leaving, but too scared to. Instead, he grabbed the car door you flung open, holding it when you tried to yank it closed.

“Let go.” You hissed, sniffling back wet, snotty tears of fury and hurt.

“Please, don’t-do-don’t do this. Please, baby, I-I’m sorry.” Carmen begged, blue eyes deepening with the burning red hues of tears, bloodshot and lashes wet. “Don’t-Don’t do this-”

“-I didn’t do this.” You sneered, leaving Carmen flinching at your words. “Don’t you dare try to say this was me. After how you just talked to me? The shit you said to me in there? You think I’m going to stay?” Your voice cracked with emotion, lips pressing together to keep a cry in.

“No, no, no, no, no, baby, please. Please, ju-just come inside. Come inside, please? Please, don’t-”

“You don’t get to talk to me like that. To say that kinda stuff to me. That hurt, Carmen. That was mean.” You glared at him, tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes. “I don’t care if you’re stressed. I don’t care what’s going on- nothing, and I mean nothing, warrants you talking to me like that. Just because you fucked up, because you forgot to ask me to do it, because you’re stressed out- I don’t care what it is. You don’t talk to me like that, say those things when I’ve been home all day taking care of my ch- our child.” You nod back towards the sniffling baby, whimpering and crying half heartedly, her little eyelids drooping with sleep that was interrupted.

Carmen felt sick, his knees tightening in fear, he was sure they might give out, that he might fall to the ground right there. Looking at the tiny baby, lip jutted and shaking in the mirror hooked on the back of the seat, then back at you, eyes red-rimmed and glaring at him with a hurt filled anger.

“Don’t-” Carmen’s chest shook, a white-knuckled grip on the door.

Your own hand curled around the door’s inner handle, yanking it away from him. “Move,” You hissed, pulling again.

Carmen wasn’t sure why he let it go, why he let you shut it, locking the door in case he tried to open it again. Why he let you pull out of the driveway, why he didn’t stop you, why he didn’t run after you, only taking soft shuffles down the drive like a zombie as you drove away. Standing in the drive, Carmen swallowed down the spit that pooled in his mouth, stomach churning, sure he was going to be sick.

He managed to trudge back to the garage, mind racing and far away, the ringing in his ears dulling but still deafening. It felt like he was in a dream- a nightmare, a hallucinating trance that felt like a sick, sick dream- Carmen was hoping it was. That he’d wake up and find you next to him asleep. That he could hug you, pull you into him, nose buried in your neck, still warm from your slumber.

As the sun began to sink low into the sky, minutes turning into hours that Carmen sat motionless in the garage, staring in a trancelike state, he realized that this wasn’t a dream or a nightmare. No this was his reality, a horrific reality that he’d made into his own. Carmen sat, eyes trained on the concrete of the garage, voice racing and blending in his mind- his words, yours, Teddy’s cries, Natalie and Richie’s, flashbacks of his mother screaming fits.

He didn’t move, frozen in chilling, eerie fear. What ifs and terrifying possible scenarios, consequences to his own actions that left him feeling sick, hands trembling. A spiraling of fears that only drug him deeper and deeper with every haunting replay of his outburst. Even the flashing of headlights turning into the driveway, filling the garage with light, didn’t pull him from his trance.

“The fuck is he- Cousin!” Richie roared, laying on the horn. Carmen didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge that he heard it, only stared. Richie frowned, turning the car off, throwing the door open.

“Cousin? Carm? What-What are you doin’? Dinner service started an hour ago. Syd is freakin’ the fuck out.” Richie threw his hands up, walking towards the man who still didn’t move. Richie’s heart skipped, flashbacks of Mikey flooding into his vision, parallels of the two brothers blurring before him.

“Yo, Carm, you-you good?” Richie stepped into the garage, his spine tingling with icy fear. It was quiet, an eerie, unsettling quiet. “Cousin, hey, what-what’s wrong?”

Carmen's chest rose and fell, tighter and tighter. He was suffocating, head spinning and mind racing so fast he felt light headed. He could barely hear Richie’s voice over the noise in his head, Richie’s hand shaking his shoulder finally breaking his trance enough to meet his eyes, rounded in fear filled question.

“Carmen, what’s wrong? Is it- Don’t fuckin’ tell me it’s the baby. What the fuck is goin’ on-”

“-She left.” Carmen’s voice shook, raspy and scared. His tongue still felt too thick, head still spinning. He wasn’t even sure he said it, Richie’s widening eyes the only thing confirming that he had said it.

“What? Who-Who left? Who?” Richie looked around, like the clues might be there, sure that Carmen wasn’t talking about you. No, he wouldn’t- he couldn’t. Not you.

Carmen’s breath hitched, a strangling of a sob caught in his throat, running his hand over his face. Richie didn’t miss the way it trembled, shaking even as it rested over his eyes. Your car was gone, the house too quiet, no baby Teddy crying, nothing but silence was left.

Richie’s heartbeat crawled into a rapid, scared pace. “Why? Wh-Why would she-” Richie looked at Carmen, eyes wide but still, reading his expression. “No. No, Cousin, no. What-What did you do? Carmen,” Richie grabbed both his shoulders, shaking him lightly until he met his gaze. “What did you do?”

Carmen’s face began to crack, behind his eyes, Richie could see flashbacks of something- something he didn’t know what, but whatever it was, it was painful. That was evident by the fear that glossed over Carmen’s eyes, realization and horror. Carmen’s shoulders shook, frame rocking with a sob he tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Deep cries, guttural sobs breaking out of his frame, heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, fingers curled and clenched around his greasy curls in agony.

The damning realization flooded over him, that you’d left.

You’d left, you’d taken Teddy, taken Anchovy- you’d left because he’d driven you away. His angry outburst, petulant, mean, hurtful- he’d been so cruel to you. You. His wife, the love of his life, mother of his child, the one person who loved him endlessly without stipulations or boundaries, the one person who truly understood him.

And he’d driven you away.

He wished he could blame his mom, his dad, his family for fucking him up so severely, maybe Mikey, even, for leaving him the shit show that was the restaurant, making his anxieties worse and fuse shorter. But sitting in the empty garage, Richie standing above him in silent shock, his sobs and angry sniffles echoing off the cement floor, Carmen knew he had no one to blame but himself.

He’d fucked up. Really fucked up. Fucked up in a way that made all the other times look obsolete.

Carmen had fucked up, and for once, he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t avoid it, ignore it, deflect it like other times. Half hearted apologies and promises of change wouldn’t work, you weren’t here for him to even try to give them to you, and he didn’t know where you went.

Carmen wasn’t sure where you went, how to fix this, why he’d done what he did, and a million other things that raced through his mind. What he did know, sitting in the too quiet garage, chest stuttering with heaving cries, was that he’d do anything.

Anything, to get you back home. To make it right. To fix this and make it up to you.

He wasn’t sure how, but he’d give up everything. Anything. His restaurant, his dreams, his hopes, his life, at this point, to make it up to you.

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thereoncewasagirlnamedjane · 1 month ago

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BLOSSOM & BLOOM (1/12)

PAIRING | Steve Rogers x Florist f!Reader

TAGS/WARNINGS | fake dating, fluff, mild angst, mild language, some spoilers for Thor: Love and Thunder??, TW: mentions of character deaths and funerals, non-linear storytelling, and a friendly reminder that this story is not at all canon-compliant.

CHAPTER SUMMARY | On the anniversary of the day you met, bonds of friendship are strengthened in the fires of romantic adversity.

WORD COUNT | 5.3k

NOTES | I honestly wasn’t gonna post this yet, but I feel like it’s been so long since I posted the masterlist and I was also stressing over how many rewrites this chapter has undergone. So, I’m posting to prevent myself from overthinking this any further. I hope you enjoy; it’s also better if you don’t look up the redacted flower meanings because I will reveal them later <3

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚ SERIES M.LIST | | STEVE ROGERS M.LIST ˚⋆｡˚ ⋆

I do not do taglists. Please follow my sideblog @ficsbyjane for notifications whenever I post.

[1/12] The Proposal: ↳ an Avengers Tower gathering.

BLOSSOM & BLOOM, Rooftop Greenhouse E 40th St / Lexington Ave, NY — present day

Everything feels like a hollow version of itself tonight.

No matter what kind of day you’d been having, the greenhouse is where you go to unwind, to lift your spirits. The flowers around you seem to droop, however, mirroring your mood as you push around a half-melted pint of Ben & Jerry’s in its carton.

Strawberry cheesecake, non-dairy—because if your dumb, lactose intolerant ass is going to finish the entire thing anyway, you’d rather not add gastrointestinal distress to your growing list of problems.

You sit among the lush greenery, the stars blinking lazily at you in the inky black sky beyond the glass walls of your personal conservatory, but you pay little attention.

Notifications ping your phone, lying face down on a workbench that’s littered with incomplete bouquets and a few other lone blossoms. You don’t bother flipping it over, don’t have the courage to check whether it’s from one of them.

Instead, every so often you put down the ice cream to pick up some stray lily or solitary rose, trying to bundle them together into something presentable. Nothing turns out the way you want, and so you ultimately give up.

You try to summon the enthusiasm, grasping the handles of your gardening shears and moving the delicate, fern-like foliage of a nearby aquilegia plant out of the way so you can snip off the finished flowers.

It does little to cheer you up this time, the spent blossoms falling onto the table, all shrivelled up like your heart.

“So stupid,” you whisper, not really sure whether you mean yourself or someone else. In reality though, you don’t have anyone to blame but yourself.

The abandoned flowers sit accusingly before you, and you know you should care more. About the plants, the shop, the emails containing special orders for all sort of special occasions—all the things that used to bring you joy, enough that you made it your life’s work.

But you’ve spent your entire life trying to make everybody else happy, surely you were allowed to take just a few hours in the night for yourself?

Violet is at your parents’ house in Chelsea, your shop is closed for the day, and there are no more personal events in your calendar to worry about. You might not get a chance like this again.

So, you stare up into the sky and try not to think about all the reasons why the things you used to love are making you miserable now. Maybe they remind you that caring hurts, and lord knows you’ve had enough of that to last a while.

Still, your heart rewinds, showing you memories of all those staged dates. With hindsight, it was such a terrible idea, because you already loved him then.

But at the time? It was so tempting, so deliciously sweet, because you already loved him then.

You let yourself remember that very first night, sitting next to him on a bar stool in the party room at the Avengers Tower. You turned in the seat just enough so that your knees were knocking against his, bodies angled towards each other.

Even now, you can’t get it out of your head. The way he smiled, contagious. The way his eyes crinkled so warmly at the corners, devastating.

Your own laughter felt real and genuine in a way you hadn’t done in the longest time, and looking back, maybe that was the point when you stopped being able to tell where the pretending ended and the truth began.

Your time together began to blend. Holding hands because someone from the team might be watching, and then not letting go because—well, you couldn't speak for him, but you didn’t want to.

Murmured sweet nothings exaggerated for an audience of spies and superheroes turned into long, serious talks about nothing… and then about everything.

What seemed so straightforward at first became a maze of feelings you thought you’d been prepared to navigate, but your traitorous heart constantly turned corners you weren’t expecting.

You think of how you’ve actually fallen asleep playing his voice in your head, replaying moments that should have felt hollow and empty—but because he was the one with you, they didn’t.

And then it all came crashing down. You had known it would, quite spectacularly in fact, but you didn’t think it would happen like this.

You’d stood among the pews next to him in that church, watching as friends and loved ones paid their respects to the late Jane Foster, wondering what kind of fraud you were.

“I’m grateful you’re here, my friends,” Thor had given you a small smile, his eyes shining with sadness, your throat threatening to close up when his large hand landed heavy and warm on your shoulder, “I cannot tell you what it means.”

You remember Wanda, her expression a portrait of loss and sorrow even as Vision stood so close, their shoulders bumped. You knew who she was thinking about, a brother lost in battle. She’d confided in you about Pietro before, especially after you shared that you’d lost a brother of your own.

Tony shushed a fussy newborn Morgan, rocking her in his arms as Pepper rummaged through her purse for a packet of tissues, her eyes red and her nose running. He then handed you the tiny little bundle of joy, the baby nestling comfortably in the crook of your elbow, as Tony turned to help his wife.

Bruce was in the front row next to Thor when he returned from greeting guests, shoulders hunched and his hands clasped together in his lap like he didn’t know what to do or say. Bruce was a quiet man, but every now and then he reached out to pat his friend on the back, as though he remembered a conversation he had with you about showing affection if he couldn’t speak it.

Natasha and Yelena reached for each other, their hands coming together in the row in front of you. The sisters leaned against one another, their eyes downcast as Dr. Foster’s casket was covered in white flowers and carried out of the church. As they turned to watch the procession, their eyes met yours and they smiled. They reached for you with their free hands, and you met them halfway, your fingers trembling.

And the reality of the charade began to sink in.

You’d forgotten what it was like, having friends. Good ones. After your brother and sister-in-law passed, devastating your family and fracturing it seemingly beyond repair, your priorities shifted dramatically.

The shop used to be number one, and then your pitiful personal life. But now you’ve adopted your brother’s orphaned child, who needs you more than ever, even if parenthood was never a choice you would’ve made before everything changed.

As a result, your social life (and your love life, for that matter) fell to the wayside. Your parents, although you knew they meant well, kept insisting that you couldn’t do this alone.

Maybe it would be better if your niece went to live with them instead, they’d suggested. Or at least, it would assuage their fears if you’d just settled down with someone.

You acknowledged that being a single parent would be hard, but there must have been a reason your brother, with whom you weren’t particularly close, decided to leave Violet in your care. Your mom and dad weren’t necessarily bad parents, but they weren’t always the most nurturing or supportive.

Did you want that for Violet? After all, your parents didn’t seem to understand that what you needed wasn’t a spouse or unsolicited opinions about what you could or couldn’t do.

What you need is for them to see your grief, to acknowledge that you are trying, and to tell you that is enough.

And the Avengers, who started out as Steve’s friends, had eventually become yours too. When did it become so easy to visit the Tower for a chat with any one of them, so reassuring to see all those familiar faces at whatever event Steve led you into, and so instinctual to pick up the phone at any given time when you were bored and needed someone to talk to?

Unlike your family, they never judged—well, maybe a tiny bit—but they nevertheless welcomed you into their little group like you were always a part of them. Never mind that there was nothing particularly super about you, a civilian who just so happened to cross paths with them years ago.

All you did was grow flowers, but somehow they made it feel like you might as well be sprouting magic from your fingertips.

The initial lie began so innocently, but it threatens to choke you now. The more you got to know them, the more they accepted you, the more your discomfort grew.

You were being surrounded by sincerity, and it only served to make your own deception seem more glaring and cruel by the minute.

And so you ran.

Steve had reached for you, because of course he would. You remember the tug of his hand when you tried to pull away, the warmth of his grasp not matching the cold truth you were always too afraid to face: the two of you were never really together, no matter how real it might have felt.

You close your eyes, trying to shut out the replay of events but the images persist. That final day, him watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read as you retreated.

“I don’t know how to be what you need anymore,” you’d said, holding back tears because you had no right to cry. You were the one bailing on him, after all. Steve hadn’t done anything wrong.

Was that anger you saw in his face? No, not anger. Hurt? Disappointment? You wish you knew. You wish you could have stayed.

Will you ever see him again?

You pull your knees up to your chest, hugging them tightly and trying to squeeze out the doubt that’s settled there like an unwelcome guest. You did the right thing, you tell yourself, even if it doesn’t feel like it—even if it feels like it might shred your heart to pieces.

Even so, your fingers itch to send him a message. Just one. Something to make sure he’s okay… or maybe you just want to make sure you haven’t been erased—some assurance that, even though the relationship wasn’t real, not all of it was a total sham.

Eventually, it gets so late that even inside the greenhouse gets a little chilly. You have to get up early to pick up Violet from your parents’ house in Chelsea, and then prepare yourself for the inevitable verbal smack-down waiting for you there when they realize you and Steve have “broken up”.

With a sigh, you gather the now empty ice cream carton, along with the trimmings and loose petals you picked off the flower stems earlier. You begin heading down the six flights of stairs, past your second floor apartment, and back into the shop to throw away the trash.

Blossom & Bloom is dark and still, the sign of the door flipped over to announce that you’re closed, but a flash of movement outside catches your attention. You freeze, watching as a tall shadow drifts across the front window, checking the time to see it’s well past midnight. Who on earth would come by now?

The shadow crosses again, deliberate, not the random movement of a passerby. Your stomach flips as the motion sensor lights above the door flick on, revealing a familiar silhouette framed by the light of a nearby street lamp.

It can’t be him, standing there looking like he’s just stepped off a vintage war poster. It’s too soon. And it’s also too late.

Nonetheless, you’re propelled towards the door by a mixture of fear and longing. He raises a hand as if to knock, only stopping when he sees you through the glass. Slowly, you unlock and open the door.

“It’s late,” you murmur, even though those are a far cry from the words you’ve longed to tell him. Still, you keep your tone firm and even, as if you weren’t just drowning your sorrows in the most cliched way possible.

You hide partially behind the door, as though it might protect you from… you don’t know what. Steve would never do anything to hurt you, not knowingly anyway.

And you’re not his “girlfriend” anymore—you never were, you correct mentally—so then why is he looking at you like that?

“You’ve been trying to tell me something,” Steve says, sounding slightly out of breath. He doesn't seem angry, hurt, or disappointed at all. In fact, he looks almost… happy.

Your face heats as you turn away, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re lying,” he breathes, like he’s still catching his breath, sounding suspiciously like he ran all the way here from the Tower. “Your heart rate just sped up.”

“What?” You whirl around with wide eyes, incredulous. “Well, stop listening!”

“No,” he grins, cheeky, as though the last two weeks of silence haven’t happened. Like you didn’t run out of Dr. Foster’s funeral and left him high and dry, no doubt fumbling for explanations to his very confused team.

You look straight up into his eyes, searching for signs that this might be an illusion, a delusion, but all you can see is true blue.

It’s such a rarity in your world, the one of flowers, but even though you know this well, you find yourself searching for signs of it ever since you met him. Signs of Steve—reassuring, steadfast, and more beautiful than anything that’s ever bloomed between these walls.

More than the tiny, almost microscopic petals of the brunnera plants that blossom just after winter’s final frost. More than the dreamy delphinium spires that sway in the humid breeze at the height of summer. More than the lobelia hummingbird havens that grow in full splendour during the spring and fall.

Those cerulean orbs soften the longer you hesitate. Despite how you’d left things, Steve smiles so kindly, so gently, it makes you ache.

Hope. Sweet, treacherous hope swells in your chest, because he takes another step forward. He gathers your hands in his, impossibly slow, characteristically tender, and closes the gap just enough to press his forehead to yours.

You swallow a gasp and close your eyes, afraid he’ll see right through you, that he might find the love you’ve been too scared to speak but have been written all over your face all this time.

“I… I can’t…”

And because it’s Steve, he makes it all better with just a few choice words: “What if I promise to say it back?”

Your eyes snap open, and that little seedling—the one that had been planted between you the day you met all those years ago, the one that had been biding its time, just waiting for the perfect conditions before it could sprout—suddenly chooses that moment to spring out of the earth and bloom in full colour.

Steve seems to sense the change. He takes a breath.

And you, a leap of faith.

❀ Aquilegia┆columbine┆lion’s herb SYMBOLIZES: courage.

THE AVENGERS TOWER, Party Hall 200 Park Ave, NY — May 4, 20XX

Steve normally looks forward to a quiet night in with the team.

It’s nice just being with friends, the responsibilities of his shield forgotten upstairs in his room, and to put down the weight of the world that rest on his shoulders—albeit temporarily.

Lately, however, he’s been going around with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He pauses before turning corners now, carefully poking his head out first to check if the coast is clear, avoiding the members of his team like they’re the plague.

Because Romanoff seems to have a never ending list of people she thought he should ask out on a date, Tony will not stop mentioning some former client from his time at Stark Industries, and Sam keeps going on about a girl from the VA who’d be “perfect” for him.

And unfortunately, Steve seems to be running out of excuses now that the ones he’s already given them—he isn’t ready; Avenging is a full-time job; or, honestly, dating is just the last thing on his mind right now—don’t seem to be good enough anymore.

If their Captain won’t go out and get a damn life, then they’ll get one for him.

Steve takes a deep, stabilizing breath before stepping into the party hall, dreading all the dodging he’s going to have to do tonight. If only they’d focus that energy into keeping the Tower neat and organized, he’d have a much easier time.

Well, at least the place looks nice.

Because Tony never misses an opportunity to throw a party (and spend some hard earned dough), the Tower is decorated to the nines for the anniversary of the Battle of New York.

“Or, as I like to call it, the day we kicked a god’s ass,” Tony smirked when he made the announcement a few weeks ago.

There is a champagne tower in the corner, a full spread of hors d’oeuvres laid out on tables lined with cloths that probably costs more than the average rent, and the floors are so shiny Steve can see his own reflection in the tiles.

The opulence of the room makes it hard to believe that just a handful of years ago, Loki and his alien army had nearly destroyed the city. There are no signs of that destruction now, even though at the time the damage had seemed so insurmountable.

Blossom & Bloom, the flower shop just a few blocks away, is looking brand new as well. The cartoonish Steve-shaped holes in the wall and broken glass window have long since been repaired and perfectly replaced—once again courtesy of Tony’s more than sizeable bank account.

It just goes to show how far one can go, and how quickly, with the right amount of green. And he’s not talking about the Hulk.

Although, maybe the Hulk too. Tony has definitely threatened to release the big guy if contractors didn’t cooperate.

Speaking of the flower shop, Steve sighs with relief when he sees you by the refreshment table. He bypasses the team, giving them a casual wave as he approaches your side, the only person in the room who won’t give him a hard time for being, as Sam likes to put it, “single as fuck”.

“Jesus,” he breathes when he is finally in the safe zone, “did Tony leave any flowers for the rest of New York?”

“I think he plans to buy them all eventually,” you laugh, piling food high onto your plate, while Steve nods at the abundant bouquets scattered around the room. “Though, I’m definitely not going to complain about the business.”

“Sorry, that’s not what I mean. They’re nice,” Steve says, leaning over to admire the brilliant red-orange blossoms that bleed into a bright yellow at their centres. They smell faintly of liquorice, perfectly arranged among clusters of glossy green leaves. “What are they?”

“Rosa foetida,” you pronounce in Latin with a flourish of your hand, the fork you’re holding almost stabbing him in the eye. God, you are such a nerd, and yet Steve can’t help but smile. “The Austrian copper rose. Aren’t they stunning?”

Steve doesn’t say anything back though, just plucks a mini quiche off your plate and shoves it nervously into his mouth. You look up when you get silence in return, rolling your eyes when you see him engaged in a staring contest, the usual battle of wits, with Natasha and Sam.

Poor guy. Doesn’t he know he doesn’t stand a chance?

“Still avoiding the others, then?” You ask, and he mutters something unintelligible with his mouth full. “You know, the solution is very simple, Rogers.”

“An’ wha’s that?” Steve mumbles, somehow managing not to spray you with crumbs in the process.

“Get yourself a girlfriend,” you say matter-of-factly, and you hear him scoff. “Sorry, or a boyfriend. I don’t actually know what you’re into.”

“Like it’s that simple,” he says after he swallows.

”Okay, first, I want it noted for the record that you didn’t deny the boyfriend thing,” you grin triumphantly and he rolls his eyes, signalling for the bartender and quietly ordering a glass of whiskey for himself and a Diet Coke for you.

The life he leads isn’t an easy one, even before he spent the better part of a century frozen at the bottom of the ocean—before the war, even.

A frail, sickly boy spending most of his nights in bed, battling scarlet fever or painful stomach ulcers, didn’t exactly scream relationship material. People rarely even looked at him back then, and when they did, it was almost always platonic… or simply because they wanted to impress his best friend.

And then seventy years later, a hyper focused super soldier with little else on his mind but the next mission, the next global threat, or the next existential crisis that would always take precedence over date night or meeting the parents, doesn’t sound much better either.

“And second, when you look like that,” you gesture to his entire body with a pair of mini tongs, smirking when Steve averts his eyes shyly, his cheeks reddening, “it kind of is that simple.”

Fine, he will admit it, the effects of the serum certainly gets him noticed. As inexperienced as he was, Steve isn’t completely oblivious. He has no problem turning heads now, you’re right, and he’d be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t enjoy some of the attention.

Still, anyone of substance, any person he could ever see himself really falling for, would want more than he would ever dare to offer.

“And you’re sweet or whatever, I guess that’s always a bonus,” you add teasingly before taking a big gulp of your soda. “Anyone with half a brain would jump at the chance to date you, so what’s the problem?”

The problem is, he can’t promise he won’t ever need to leave at the drop of a hat. He can’t even promise that he’ll always have the chance to call or get in touch first, or that he would come back from every single mission safe and sound.

“Just doesn’t seem fair, is all,” Steve shrugs after explaining, “especially not to someone I’m supposed to care about.”

“Wow,” you smile at him and Steve bristles. Not because he’s uncomfortable, per se, but because there’s something different about that smile in particular.

Every now and then, you get this strange look on your face, something unfathomable and unreadable, missing all the usual playfulness and slight sarcasm. The most preposterous idea pops into his head sometimes, that maybe you only ever wear that look around him.

But just as quickly as it happened, the moment’s over and you reverted back to your usual self, “you are such a sap. It’s adorable.”

“Shut up,” Steve rolls his eyes again, knowing how much you enjoy poking fun, so he doesn’t take the comment personally. “So, how’d it go with your parents?”

“Ugh,” you wince, the memory evidently not so pleasant, “don’t remind me.”

“They’re still giving you a hard time, huh?” Steve asks as the both of you head over to the bar to sit, you awkwardly balancing your mountain of food as you go.

“Evidently, Violet needs a father,” you scoff, changing your voice to mimic who he assumes is your mother. You shake your head before speaking normally again, “never mind how often I try to remind them she already has one.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve frowns, his fingers toying with the rim of his glass. You don’t talk about your late brother very often and he doesn’t ask, knowing it’s a sore subject. By now, he’s heard more than a handful of times that your parents keep insisting you find someone to settle down with, even though you’ve made it perfectly clear that it wasn’t a priority.

“It’s whatever,” you shrug, casually dismissing the matter with a wave of your hand. Steve can tell that isn’t the case, judging from the way you heave the biggest sigh, your food untouched for now, “it’s fine.”

“I think you’re doing great,” Steve says, and he isn’t just saying it. Not everyone is capable of stepping up the way you did, adopting your orphaned niece and deciding to raise her on your own. “Violet’s a good kid, and she’s lucky to have you.”

“Yeah,” you agree, your annoyance melting away to be replaced with a small, affectionate smile, “I’m the lucky one, though.”

“How come you didn’t just bring her along?” Steve asks, already missing ten-year-old Violet’s youthful enthusiasm and charm, even if she does occasionally make him feel like a recently-excavated dinosaur.

“It’s apparently uncool to be hanging out with her aunt now,” you joked although he can see the slight twinge of angst in your eyes, “besides, she lost all interest in attending when I told her Thor wouldn’t be here.”

“Hurtful,” he jokes, pretending to sulk into his glass. You pat his shoulder in a placating gesture, and when he looks up he sees the rest of the Avengers huddled together. He’s sure they’re scheming right now, coming up with all sorts of ways to get him out of the Tower and lure him into an unsuspecting date.

He doesn’t know why it comes to him right then, but the idea hits him like a freight train. The rational part of his brain tells him to shut the hell up, because it is a terrible idea and you’ll probably smack him for even suggesting it.

The other side, the seldom seen irrational Steve—although, was it particularly rational to lie his way into the army, take an experimental super serum, punch his way through WWII, and then crash land a plane into the Arctic?— is blurting it before he can stop himself.

Because if his friends are going to scheme anyway, why not play at their game and scheme right back?

“You could do it,” he says. “Be my girlfriend.”

Your fork pauses in mid-air above your plate, and you look at him like he’s just sprouted a second head.

“Not like that,” he rushes to explain. Your features twist into one of mock offence, and he quickly backpedals, “No, that’s not what I mean—listen, you’re great, I just—hear me out, okay?”

All he needs is a date to a handful of special occasions dotting his calendar over the next few months, just long enough to convince his well-intentioned but annoying as hell friends that he is, in fact, doing just fine in the dating department.

And it somewhat makes sense! Because you and him have been friends for ages now—how many years has it been now?—and Steve wouldn’t decide to date just anybody at this point. He does spend a lot of time at your shop, with Violet, and it isn’t strange for any one of them to see you around the Tower making a delivery or stopping by for a visit.

When the time comes, the two of you would “break up” amicably and go back to being just friends—no harm, no foul. He would feign just enough disappointment that the team would be too sympathetic, too sorry to see you go, that they would hopefully stop pestering him about his love life for the foreseeable future.

If nothing else, it will buy him at least a few months of peace, and god knows he could use some of that.

“What do you think?” Steve asks, hopeful. You press the back of your hand to his forehead, looking even more puzzled.

“I think you’ve gone crazy, Steven,” you mutter, while he tuts and bats your hand away, “did you get hit in the head on your last mission?”

“Think about it, it’s a win-win for both of us,” and even though you are still a bit hesitant, Steve can see the wheels starting to spin in your head. “You help me get these jackasses off my back—”

“Steve—” you admonish.

“—and I’ll help you ward off your parents for a little bit,” he continues, undeterred. And the plus side? Steve does genuinely enjoy your company, even if you can be such a smartass sometimes.

He recalls the day you met, during the Battle of New York, and maybe it isn’t exactly one for the storybooks, the both of you have come such a long way since then.

Most importantly, you deserve better than having to rush into a relationship with some random guy you’d meet on a dating app—which is the direction you’re headed if your parents have anything to say about it.

And because you are friends now, and because Steve knows you are much sweeter and more agreeable when you aren’t faced with the mortal peril of an alien invasion, your shoulders are already slumping in resignation. You won’t turn him away in his hour of need, he knows, not when he’s come to you so many times to vent about his nosy teammates.

“Just for a few months?” You ask slowly, already starting to come around, just as tempted by the idea of silence. And your parents wouldn’t have anything to complain about if you’re dating Captain America.

Well, maybe his dangerous job, but you take some, you lose some.

“That’s it,” he promises.

“And we don’t involve Violet in this,” you point a finger at him and he’s already nodding. Lying to his friends is one thing, but lying to your niece is a whole other. He won’t ever ask that of you anyway. “As far as she’ll ever know, we’re just friends.”

“Of course, we’ll come up with something,” he readily agrees, because of all people, his team know how complicated the superhero dating life can be, even without kids involved.

Steve prepares to shake your hand to seal the deal, but stops short just in case anyone’s watching.

“Might as well start selling it, Cap,” you say with a sigh, grabbing his hand anyway and lacing your fingers between his, much more intimately than he’d intended. You lift your fork with your other hand, feeding him a bite from your plate.

Steve has no choice but to open his mouth and accept the stuffed mushroom, feeling warm all of a sudden even though he’s not wearing a jacket and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. It’s made worse when he hears the surprised squawks of his friends from across the room.

“Hang on a minute.” Surprisingly, Bruce is the one who starts.

“Hey, what the hell?” Tony mutters, pointing an accusing finger in your direction.

“When did that happen?” Sam demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh my god, is that why he’s always at the flower shop?” Pepper watches with wide eyes, lowering her champagne flute with interest.

“So, he was working up the guts to ask her out this entire time?” Clint snickers, and even though it isn’t true, Steve blushes like it is.

The only one who remains silent is Natasha, her eyes seeming to glow despite the dim lighting. Steve is determined not to look at her, lest he gave himself away. He keeps his eyes squarely on you, trying to stay centred.

“My god, we really need to work on your poker face,” you tell him, throwing your head back and laughing at the sight of his pink cheeks. “Is this how you always react to holding hands?”

“Shut up,” he manages between a tightly clenched jaw, his blood rushing all the way up to the tips of his ears. You continue giggling into your plate of food before Steve finally gives in to your infectious laughter, a small smile tugging at his own lips.

It will be fine, he tells himself. This is you, after all, his best and only friend outside the Avengers; your friendship is strong enough to survive whatever comes at you. Besides, he’s going to do his absolute damnedest to make sure you, and Violet for that matter, emerge from this unscathed.

That’s right, he repeats as he silently promises to protect you, whether it’s from aliens, his friends, or even himself.

Nothing can possibly go wrong.

❀ Rosa foetida┆Austrian copper rose SYMBOLIZES: friendship; █████████.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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#series: blossom & bloom #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x f!reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers angst #steve rogers series #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x asian!reader #tw: minor character death #tw: funerals

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