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heli0s-writes · 5 years

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III. Heavy With Mood

Summary: You have two very different dates with Steve. At the end of the second, the two of you come to be on the same page. Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader A/N: Modern AU, Teacher reader, Dad/Baker Steve… lots of pining, slow burn, romance. Enjoy!

Slow Like Honey Masterpost

The Last Day of First Grade (yes, it’s special) is a complete blur as all of your students are too restless and overactive to get through much of anything. Your body is so tired from the late nights of making sure everything is in order before summer break. Curriculum pacing just so happened to place two assessments on Monday, which left you and Heather with the task of frantically grading and re-testing any student who missed school. Entering grades and stuffing report cards kept you awake Tuesday night, as well as planning the Last Day festivities. Not to mention during your “break” periods at work, you were pulled into various meetings.

Other classrooms were doing huge events for the Last Day- full of parent involvement and showcasing student work.

You were dead tired. So you planned a pizza party and movie day before early dismissal. Screw the big huzzah. You had thrown two parties this year- Friendsgiving and Winter Solstice Party. The end of the year was going to be simple: Disney and pizza. The kids were beyond pumped for it.

In the morning you teach them how to make their own paper airplanes, decorating the papers together before folding. Then you take them on the playground and they all get a chance to fly them across the blacktop. Jason’s goes the farthest, coasting on a lucky breeze before diving nose-first into the bushes. Mabel’s plane gets caught in a basketball net and you have to poke it free with a snapped-off branch. The kids cheer as you teeter on your tip toes and jump until it comes loose.

By the time the pizza gets delivered, adults and children alike are sweat-glazed and ready for ice-cold juice pouches. You fire up the movie and begin passing out plates while Heather comes around with the pizza.

When you and Heather finally sit down, you breathe a sigh and wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. The kids are intently watching as Dory dreams about her parents and excitedly swims into the anemone. They giggle when she gets stung.

You rearrange your desk to make room for your own plate, moving flower vases and thank-you cards, stacking candy bars and consolidating gift bags. You had planned on reading these randomly, but a certain twine bow catches your attention and the bit of crust you’re chewing on gets stuck stubbornly in your throat.

Pulling the threads apart, you peek into the small gift back where a card sits on top of a stack of very large cookies encased in cellophane. The paper is heavy and rough against your fingers when you pull it out, peering in awe at the watercolor blossoms on the cover. You turn it in your hand, peering at the delicate craftsmanship, wondering which card company made such an exquisite thing but unable to see a label anywhere.

Holy shit. You realize, Steve painted this. You’re awestruck.

On the inside, his handwriting scrawls your first name delicately in black ink. Your heart leaps into your throat, taking place of the chewed crust as you choke a little bit.

Thank you for everything this school year. Sarah and I will be so sad to not have you in our lives… unless you’d like for that to change as much as I do. It is the last day of school, after all…

Please come have dinner with us today. I promise we’ll feed you more than just banana bread and cookies.

Steve

The smile you try to hide persistently thwarts your attempts as you reread the note over and over again, fingers digging into the cellophane wrapping before eating a corner of the top cookie. The raisins and molasses melt against your tongue. The crunch of the oats immediately sweeps over the softness with such deliberate balance you think you might faint.

It’s not your week on carline duty, but you take the students outside during dismissal to see and say thank you to as many parents as you can. Both you and Heather have received more hugs than you can count, and right after lunch, with pizza sauce on their shirts and all- the kids nearly dogpile you as you bend over to pick up a loose fork on the rug. Tears have been in your eyes since.

You hand off Grayson to his mother, Harper to her aunt, and one by one, all the children are gone. Except for, of course, sandy-haired, blue-eyed Sarah, who grips on to your hand and points when her father’s distinct figure peeks out from behind the crowd of parents. When he walks up, they share a smile and Sarah swings your hand in wide semi-circles.

“Are you gonna come have spaghetti with us?” She asks, skipping from you to latch onto her father’s leg. You look around tentatively, waving goodbye to any straggling student you might know. Other teachers glance over at Steve, then avert their eyes quickly.

The Rogers smile at each other and Steve gives Sarah a wink. There go those lovely eyelashes again, fluttering like your heart.

“Well, I do love spaghetti…” You mumble. Sarah giggles excitedly and jumps up with a clap.

“Yay yay yay yay! Daddy lets me make the meatballs and wash the tomatoes. Can you stay for a movie? Can you stay for a sleepover?”

Both you and Steve sputter at her suggestion but Sarah rambles on about what movies they have at home. He mouths an apology and you shake your head with a laugh.

“How about five?” He asks, fiddling with his phone. “I’ll send you our address?”

You nod and he shoots off the text. Then he takes Sarah by the hand and with a small wave and another shy half-glance back behind him, Steve leads her off the curb and into the emptying parking lot.

Wiping the beading sweat from your brow— more nerves than summer sun— you return to your classroom. It was about half-past noon. You have another two hours of cleaning up before you can leave. Heather stands by the door with a smile and swings it open for you. Graciously, she says nothing, only humming a brief tune as you take large strides out of view of your co-workers’ eyes.

—

A familiar wave of panic crashes upon you as you close your car door and step up to the Rogers’ house at four-fifty. It’s a cozy one-story Four Square with a manicured front lawn and tall rose bushes by the steps. The front porch suspends sprawling hanging plants and a swing bench accompanied by two outdoor chairs. Some of Sarah’s outside toys lay scattered by the doormat.

Your finger pushes the bell and you clutch into the bag at your side tightly.

Nothing.

Quickly, you check the address on the text again and step back to get a good look at the numbers to the left of the door. They match. You smooth your dress and try again.

Nothing.

A thousand errant thoughts run cross your mind— he must have given you the wrong address. This is a stranger’s house. It was a trick. He was pulling your leg. Of course he doesn’t like you. Oh god, you have to leave. You’re scrambling from the front steps when the door gets yanked open and Steve is chasing you down.

“Hey!” He calls.

Turning around, you see him apron-clad, trousers on, patterned button up sleeves folded up to his elbows. His hair is in slight disarray and he’s out of breath.

“Is it five already?!” He cries, checking his watch. “I’m sorry, dinner’s not ready—“ A shriek comes from inside the house and Steve whips around to look for it, “Sarah is— come on in, please! She’s very upset with me. I’m sorry. Oh damn it…” He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm and dejectedly leads you inside.

The smell of butter and tomato sauce is so inviting as it pushes past the heavy stiffness that lingers in the house. Something sweet is in the oven, too. The hardwood path to the kitchen is open and decorated with paintings of nature and pictures of Sarah. Just as warm as the bakery is, the Rogers house is even more intimate. It’s also spotless.

“This shouldn’t take too much longer…” Steve sighs before going silent.

He motions for you to have a seat as he resumes his place at the stove, stirring and peeking into the oven. There are half-rolled meatballs on the other side of the counter and Steve starts washing his hands before looking at them disparagingly. After setting your things down, you wander away from the living room and try to find the source of his exasperation, giving him a moment of privacy.

Sarah is in her room, repeatedly hitting a stuffed bear against a luggage bag when you gently knock on the door. She’s bright red and fuming, yellow butterfly dress crumpled at the hem, knee socks rolled down half-way and at uneven lengths. When she sees you, she screams your name and erupts into tears, smothering her face against your thighs.

Carefully, you kneel down and let her lean on your shoulder. Big droplets roll and collect in the hollow of your collarbone.

“Shhh, sweet girl. I know you’re upset.”

“I-I-I d-don’t don’t wanna g-g-go oh-oh-ohhhh!”

You pick her up and pat her back with a little effort. Her legs dangle down nearly to your shins because she’s got her father’s genes and she’s more than half your size at age six. You walk her slowly into the kitchen and upon seeing her father she presses her cheek to your neck and faces away from him. Steve looks pale and sullen as he rolls the last few meatballs between his two palms. Your heart is on the verge of breaking too. Sarah is breathing heavily, hiccuping in-between, rattling like a maraca.

“Sarah, honey. Let me have a look at you.” You set her down and hold out both your hands. She places hers is them and blink slowly, blue eyes swollen pink. “Are you nervous about going to see your mom?” She nods. “I know you’re going to miss your daddy, honey. But it’s only for one month, remember?”

She opens her mouth to cry but you give her a pointed look- one she’s familiar with- and she stops, waiting for you to finish.

“Your mama loves you, and she’s so excited to spend time with you. She’s going to make sure you have lots of fun. You know that our school has a short summer, right? Know why?”

She nods again, the tears temporarily ceasing as you try to divert her fears with facts. “We have a different calendar.” She says.

“Mhm… so… you’ll be back here in thirty days and guess what?” You smile at her.

“What?”

“Then you’ll be in second grade! You’ll be a big girl in second grade where you’ll get your very own locker!”

After a breath, Sarah giggles finally. A small, short tittering before she pouts again. You poke her with a finger and then point to your bags on the dining room chair. “I have an early birthday present for you. Something for your trip. Can you help me get that brown bag?”

Following her to the chair, the two of you sit cross legged on the floor as she pulls out your gift- a light blue mini-polaroid camera. It was something you’d gotten a few years back but had remained mostly unused and gathering dust on your bookshelf. While you were getting ready to come over, you thought about bringing a gift, but a dessert would have been offensive (Steve being a professional baker and all), and a bottle of wine might have been inappropriate (Sarah being six, you being a lightweight).

At the last minute- the camera caught your eye and you figure it would be a good distraction for Sarah to have during her travels. You also recall her birthday being one of the first days of school- making her one of the youngest in her class. It was perfect.

You teach her how to use it, hanging it around her neck and pressing the on button and watch it whirr and buzz to life. You’d also brought her two extra packs of film. She peeks through the viewfinder curiously and points it at you.

“When you’re ready, push the shutter button here.” You lightly move her finger to the dip and sit back. She peeks into the viewfinder for a second, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates. You’re laughing when Sarah clicks it and the flash goes off. Immediately, a small white rectangle ejects from the slot and you tug it out for her. She giggles and looks at the plastic, catching the kitchen light on its surface.

“Now we wait!” You say, playfully slapping it on her head before setting it on the counter, “It only takes a few minutes. But how about we take more pictures after dinner? I think your dad needs help setting the table.”

Sarah walks with you, holding the forks and napkins as you bring the knives. She chooses the pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge and fills up three cups with ice before you pour. Steve quietly arranges the freshly baked meatballs on top of the pile of noodles and sauce with care and sets down three steaming plates on the table.

Sarah walks over to him before he can sit down and climbs into his arms when he kneels. Softly, she whispers “I’m sorry, daddy.” And Steve Rogers’ eyes fill up with tears. You tilt your head back so that your own won’t spill over, either.

Dinner is spent happily, the three of you slurp noodles and sip tea. By the end of it, you’re all so full that a single slice of blueberry pie al a mode has to be shared by three people.

Fifteen minutes into The Little Mermaid, Sarah falls asleep next to you. Little breaths escape her body as Steve scoops her up and takes her down the hall. You’ve been sitting on the recliner- a safe choice so that you don’t assume too much, but Sarah climbed up next to you and snuggled into the space by the armrest. When he returns, Steve moves to the edge of the couch and takes a deep breath. You send him a tentative smile, offering him your hand.

He looks unbelievably tired as he takes it.

“Thank you… Really, I--”

You shake your head, “No, I know it’s hard. My mother raised me on her own— she remarried when I was in high school, but trust me… I was tough. You’re just fine. Really.”

He squeezes your hand and you return the gesture, pushing your nerves down as much as possible. Fish are singing in the background, and the only thing illuminating Steve other than the movie is the lamp in the corner of the room. Slowly, as Sebastian the crab leads the chorus of marine wildlife, Steve laces his fingers in yours.

“I hope this is… um.. okay.” He whispers.

Your eyes are fixed on the T.V. “Mmhm.”

Another few minutes pass. “Can I get you anything else? More pie?”

You smile, “I’m okay. Thank you. Do you want help cleaning up?”

“No. No! I’ll do it.”

You blow a raspberry because there’s two pots, a pasta strainer, and a baking sheet, not to mention all those plates and cups and forks piled up in the sink. “Steve, I will have more pie if you let me help with the dishes.”

He rubs the back of his head. “Okay..” he laughs. “You’ve got a deal.”

Because you say it all the time, and because you swear your brain is just a giant spinning wheel of phrases you use in the classroom, you stupidly blurt. “Dill, pickle?”

He bursts into laughter. The sweetest, most joyful sound you’ve heard all night. Maybe ever. He clutches one hand to his torso and throws his head back. “Dill, pickle!”

Steve walks you to your car at eight-thirty. The two of you had shared another hefty slice of blueberry pie together and spent the last hour on the porch- you on the swing, him on the chair- because your conversations were getting too full and loud with laughter and you were afraid of waking Sarah. Peggy would be landing early to get her, about seven. Both father and daughter needed a good night’s sleep.

He takes leisurely steps next to you, both hands tucked in his pocket, chin to his chest with a smile and you find yourself slowing down to match his pace— not yet wanting the night to end. At the curb, you put your hand on your keys but leave them in your purse for now. He leans against the frame of your car and rubs the flutter sleeve of your summer dress lightly between two fingers.

“This is nice.” Steve says, maybe a little bolder than he should have been, but the entire month has been a series of days leading him up the peak of a terrible roller coaster, which tomorrow morning would plummet him into the longest thirty days of his life so far. He hasn’t seen Peggy since Christmas, only able to avoid her because he begs Marnie to take Sarah each time she visits. But tomorrow, promptly at seven, because Peggy is always prompt, he’ll be handing off his little girl with tears in his eyes and throwing himself into work to take his mind off being without her all summer.

Steve tries to find an anchor in the sorrowful sea. The sleeve of your floral yellow dress seems perfectly capable of keeping him still.

You see the desperate look in his eyes, brimming with sadness, worry, even if the edges of it are alight with joy from your time on the porch together. His comment seems less about your dress and more about the time, you think, but say nothing. Maybe he’s not ready— and you don’t expect him to be because all you know of Steve Rogers is just the tip of his iceberg. The weight of him- his grief, love, his complexities, lie much further beneath that blue.

You float there, too, with your own intricacies. Two icebergs melting slowly in the summer.

“Do you, um.. would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?”

Tomorrow is a teacher workday, and you’ll be in the classroom. He knows that, as he offers. The two choices are either going out to eat during the lunch hour, or him coming into the school to bring you something. You ponder the question for a minute as you memorize the lines of his face. Slowly, you let go of the troubles you’ve kept-- the fear of gossip and rumors. Steve Rogers is sweet. He is caring, he is gentle, loving, strong, respectful. There could be worse men interested in you.

Part of you also knows he would appreciate it, after the morning.

“Yes. I’d really like that.”

“Can I call you when I’m on my way? I’ll bring our daily special if you’re not already sick of my cooking…” He laughs.

“Oh no. Please, feed me more of it!” You respond, rolling your eyes back at the memory of the tangy tomato sauce that had simmered for over an hour. The robust meatballs perfectly paired with the delicate cheese and hand-torn sweet basil sprinkled on top. “Dinner was incredible. I can’t even—Ugh!”

Steve’s hand clutches his torso again as he leans back. “I guess if you hated my cooking we’d have to stop seeing each other.” And suddenly the statement makes both of you stop in your tracks because he’s brought to the forefront the exact kind of thing that you’ve been tiptoeing around all night.

“If that’s... I mean, if that’s okay with you? Us seeing each other?” He rubs the back of his neck bashfully and the two of you stand like teenagers after a first date, still leaning against your car, barely lit by the lights of his front porch.

Inside, Sarah sleeps soundly to the soft melody of a night-time playlist Steve has put on for her. She dreams of a plane ride, her mother’s red lipstick, her father’s watch, the light blue polaroid camera that matches her eyes, and the white plastic picture that she forgot to look at before bed. On the sidewalk outside, her father steps forward, hand cupped underneath her first grade teacher’s chin and places a goodnight kiss to her cheek.

In the morning, your face still sting with the softness of his kiss. Two completely contradictory sensations float over every thought you have- in the shower, brushing your teeth, driving to work, cleaning your classroom. Everywhere you look, you’re invaded with last night’s memory of Steve Rogers’ breath caressing you. The closer it gets to noon, the harder your heart squeezes and pounds.

Seeing each other.

Heather notices your dreamy looks and asks you after the third time you drop a chair and you tell her a white lie—too much wine last night, a hangover. You know inevitably, it’ll be too obvious to hide, with him coming in to eat lunch, but for now you just don’t know how to say it yet:

Seeing each other.

It feels so foreign. You haven’t seen anyone in almost two years. And now suddenly, you’re seeing possibly the most fantastic man to ever grace the Earth. There’s a very real and immediate chance that the both of you are getting caught up in the infatuated period of romanticizing a relationship. You try to ground yourself, but it’s hard when the very ground you stand on trembles at the thought of him. The more you know about him, the more you slip.

He’s been separated and now divorced, he revealed to you last night, for about two years. His whole life is the bakery and Sarah. She dominated the majority of your conversation, a good fixture to keep the mood from straying too far into anything too serious. It kept you from revealing your own baggage, mostly. Not that you had a lot of it. But you never know how people internalize others’ truths.

“You goin’ out for lunch?” Heather asks as she picks up her thermos.

“No, I, uh… I’m having lunch here.” You can hardly believe it’s noon already.

“You ain’t got anythin!” She looks around your desk from the door, and you pinch your lips together.

“S-Steve is b-bringing me something.” You whisper quietly before clapping both your hands over your face. Heather’s gasp makes you peek out from behind your hands and you see that she’s peering down the hall at the sound of footsteps. She ducks out of the door way and stares open-mouthed at you before jerking her thumb to the entrance.

“Girl….!”

You mouth get out to her and she cackles in delight. With a firm wink, she fixes the purse on her hip and struts out of the room, calling, “Well, good afternoon, Mr. Rogers! Y’all have a great lunch, alright?”

Steve enters with a smile and a brown paper bag. He looks just a little more tired than usual, eyes puffier than last night. Instead of crossing the room and holding him, your first instinct, you meet him on the rug and stand on your tiptoes, left hand on his cheek to kiss him chastely on his right. It echoes his gesture from yesterday.

“You’re alright, Steve.” You whisper in his ear.

“Yeah. I’m trying to be.”

He nuzzles his cheek against yours and the two of you stand there before parting. Steve takes out lunch- yogurt, two pressed paninis, a cup of fruit. It’s small talk at first, about his morning and then yours, the steady and predictable grind of work, you looking forward to Friday afternoon when you officially start your summer break. You planned on visiting your family for about a week in July.

You tell him more about your family- your mother raising you and your brother on her own. He was closer to her, staying in town and making a living in the city, starting his own family. Silly stories were shared about both your childhoods- Steve was sickly and often picked on, usually finding himself battered into a pulp in Brooklyn alleyways. You went through a rebellious phase, chain-smoked, skipped school, hitchhiked around town. Neither of you could believe what the other was saying. Him- small?! You- goth?!

Steve roars with laughter. You tell him you may still be in your rebellious phase- not wanting to move back home any time soon.

But, as you predicted, he asks the inevitable.

“So why did you move out here?”

You bite your lip, “For a partner…” you begin, “I moved here with my long term boyfriend, who got into the Ph.D program at the university.”

Steve listens as he finishes the last of his yogurt, wiping the remainder with a cut of cantaloupe.

“I had just finished my Masters and student teaching, was still interviewing for jobs… it uh, it fell apart early on after the move.”

“Why? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Your fruit cup begins to resemble sludge as your fork smashes against the chunks of watermelon and honeydew until they’re disfigured. Steve watches you intently, tilting his head.

“He… wanted to get married. Wanted kids. We’d been together for three years and it was always something we would eventually do— but he just became really convinced about starting a family.”

“And you weren’t ready?”

“Sort of.” You confess. “I had a bit of an awakening after spending a semester student teaching. After a lot of thought about my own childhood, being around all of these children who had such tough lives and required so much from me as their teacher... it came together. I realized I don’t want kids, Steve. That was the-- y’know— that was it.”

The corner of his mouth twitches a bit as he places his hands awkwardly in his lap. It must feel so strange to him, you think as you watch him slowly look around your classroom, disheveled in the middle of stacking desks and rolling up rugs. Everything is cared for here, deliberately put together to foster growth in twenty-five children every year… but he looks at you, and he sees the finality, the seriousness of your revelation: you didn’t want any children of your own.

He stops himself from saying those cliched, callous statements that people offhandedly throw at women who decide they don’t want children. But he can’t help still thinking them. You’re still so young, you might change your mind.

“Oh.” Is all he can summon.

You watch him almost physically recoil and your eyes slip shut, the disappointment settling down your body to gather into a tight knot in your gut. Maybe this was for the best— getting the truth out in the open before the both of you lead each other on too far. He wasn’t a young boy dating for kicks; he was an adult man, with a daughter, who had divorced his wife because she worked too much.

You fall asleep on the couch in front of lesson plans at least three times a week.

The sharp bite of truth mixes on your tongue with the sweet memory of his kiss on your cheek. Any future you might have with Steve Rogers would be as a mother to Sarah. You just admitted to him that you had no desire to be one.

You manage a dry laugh as you begin to gather the trash into the bin next to your foot. This was the downfall of your last relationship, and your very own mother had advised you that any man you might date will want a child sooner or later. Steve, already having one, was ahead of the curve.

“We- uh,” a single chuckle escapes, “We started something we couldn’t finish, huh?”

Steve blinks from his reverie, “No!” he helps, but it’s a futile attempt to salvage your feelings, “No, that’s not.. That’s not what’s happening.”

“Look at you, Steve. You’re leaned so far away from me.”

He does look at himself, and you’re right. Unconsciously, Steve had tilted back so far he looks like he’s just finished pushing himself away from the table. He’s at a loss for words because he doesn’t understand it, he doesn’t know how you can be so wonderful to your students, to his own daughter, right in front of his eyes over and over again… yet, you don’t want to be a mother. He doesn’t understand because being a father has been his greatest joy.

“You would make a great mother!” Steve blurts, “I’ve seen you… with Sarah. With all your students.”

You both wince, because he’s done it. He’s callously thrown that dismissive statement people tend to throw at women who don’t want children. His head is a mess. The complicated thing that was beginning to seem simple in his life has returned to being complicated again. This time, it’s so layered he doesn’t know how to even begin to look at it.

On the one hand, he can fool himself –assuming the relationship works out—and say that technically, Sarah isn’t your child, so you get what you want. But he also knows that any person who doesn’t want children is a person who doesn’t want to pledge their lives to the obligation of a child. Bucky and Natasha have often reminded him of those exact feelings. Furthermore, your not wanting a child was because of your own dedication to other children… to your work.

He’s vaguely reminded of Peggy and her dedication to her work.

His brain feels like how your fruit cup looks: slush.

“Wait.” Steve whispers suddenly, leaning forward. “I’m sorry I said that— I shouldn’t have. I don’t want to be the kind of person who invalidates you.”

He calls your name so softly it almost breaks your heart.

“I really like you. I’m not trying to change your mind. I… I don’t know what to do… but I really like you.” It brings a small smile to your lips.

“I like you too, Steve.”

“I just want to spend more time with you. Can we just .. see where this goes? At the very least, we’ll have this summer together… I…” he pauses, reaching across the table and linking his fingers through yours, like he did yesterday evening. It feels so good, and warm, and you sigh almost contentedly.

Steve takes a breath, “I don’t want this to end.”

That’s it, he thinks. This is him following Bucky’s advice, shooting his shot. This is Steve, laying himself down not knowing what will happen after summer, or even next week, or in five seconds, as he waits for your reply. All he knows is that he told the truth, with every fiber of him, he wants to keep seeing you. He wants to be in the presence of that incredible smile, the big heart, the warm laugh, so pure it lets him forget that he’s thirty-five and divorced.

It’s him, being selfish.

He stares at his shoes and says a prayer before taking the chance to glance across the desk. Your heart bellows in your chest before it drops from the incline. You take the plunge too.

Leaning over your desk, pencils clattering as the cup holder spills over the surface, you press your lips to his and whisper.

“Me neither.”

Next Chapter

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #marvel #mcu #fanfiction #self insert #slow like honey heli0s

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