#series: more than words | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thereoncewasagirlnamedjane · 1 month ago

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MORE THAN WORDS (1).

PAIRING — writer!steve rogers x librarian f!reader

CONTENTS — miniseries; alternate universe—modern setting/library/small town; second chances at love; angst with happy ending [*tw: grief, mourning, illness, character deaths]; eventual fluff; book spine poetry (kind of).

SERIES SUMMARY — It’s been five years and he’s lost his way. Steve Rogers has taken a hiatus from his writing career and moves to the small town of Westview to escape the memories of a love lost. He unexpectedly finds a kindred spirit in the local librarian, and something compels him to begin communicating with you using the only way he knows how—by using the spines of your books.

WORD COUNT — 4.9k

NOTES — please note this is a repost of my old work, and that i’m not playing around with those warnings. i wrote this as a response to my own experience with grief, and it’s not always pretty. if you are experiencing the same thing, as we all inevitably do, please know you are not alone. reach out to your loved ones; tomorrow is never guaranteed, after all. take care <3

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Her absence was like the sky, spread over everything. —C. S. LEWIS, “A GRIEF OBSERVED”

Four years in Westview and Steve hasn’t once gone inside the library he passes every day on his morning walk. For the most part, he doesn’t even look up from the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, hoping to avoid the curious stares and tight smiles from his neighbours.

Despite the fact that it’s been a while since he moved here, he’s still kind of the topic of the day among those who live nearby. Apparently, it’s quite rare that they get new long-term residents around here. Usually, it’s the other way around—people are typically on their way out more than they’re on their way in.

But today, the library—with its concrete walls and large double wooden doors—looks like something straight out of a Victorian fairy tale. He tries to will his feet to move forward, to keep walking just as he’s always done, but it calls to him.

It’s the part of him that yearns for his old life, he knows. When was the last time he wrote something that wasn’t just a stream of why me, why her—why, why, why’s? When was the last time he even picked up a book, let alone try to write one?

Or perhaps it’s the fact that it’s been so long since it all went south and he’s got nothing to show for it. If anyone were to ask him what he’s been up to the last five years, he wouldn’t have anything to say. It’s like he’s been living on auto-pilot, sitting behind the wheel but having no recollection of the journey.

Despite it all, how comfortable he’s grown in his solitude and sadness, he misses the enthusiasm for the things he used to enjoy before Peggy had died.

Steve slowly ascends the concrete steps, unsure, his hand hesitating for just a few seconds on the door handle before he grasps it tightly and pushes, stepping out of the winter and into a familiar setting.

It’s much larger than he expected. There’s even a grand spiral staircase leading up to a second floor, a few people already here, their noses buried between pages, not even looking up when he enters and disrupts the peace.

He hasn’t really had much interaction with anyone from Westview, besides his chatty next-door neighbour. Steve looks around, shoulders tensing at being in a crowd, but as he stands there and takes in the sight of the fully-stocked shelves, the smell of old ink and aged paper, he remembers that nobody here knows who the hell he is.

So Steve takes his time as he explores the shelves and different departments, letting the leather-bound titles and flowing prose soothe his tired soul. But even here, in his element, Steve feels a familiar dread creeping up his neck.

It threatens to choke him, drown him, because Peggy would have liked it here.

He pictures his late wife, with her perfectly coiffed hair and her lips painted red, dragging one manicured finger down the page or along the spines on the shelves.

Maybe they could have bought a vacation home here, just to get away from New York every now and then when city life became too much. Maybe they could have been one of those gross, sickly sweet couples who sat out on the front porch on sunny days, waving at passersby while holding hands.

Maybe Steve could have built a porch swing, all the while Peggy loomed over his shoulder, teasingly asking him if he needed a hand. He would hand the tools over and she would effortlessly show him how it was done. They would have a guest room at the front of the house reserved exclusively for Bucky and his cat.

Maybe another room for a nursery, with the walls painted yellow and large stuffed animals in the corner.

All those possibilities, now lost.

Steve is not the man he used to be, after all.

By no means did he consider himself a saint before Peggy’s accident, but apparently catastrophe like that doesn’t just change your life—it changes you.

People used to describe him as friendly, maybe even kind. He finds, however, that he doesn’t have the strength to be kind or friendly anymore. Angry and bitter have become his default setting, his friends and family tiptoe and walk on eggshells around him despite their concern.

But for a long time, he thought he was doing just fine, all things considered. At that point, it had been over a year since Peggy was taken from him, and even though it was still devastating, Steve thought he was managing.

He was getting out of bed. He was showering. He was cooking. Life had continued, even though he really hadn’t wanted it to.

But then he went to game night, his first one without Peggy.

He and his friends held one every month, and even after the funeral the invitation would always be extended to him. After skipping more than a few, Steve decided it was time. Spending time with his friends would be good for him. Surrounding himself with the people he loves and people who love him, how could that possibly be a bad thing?

It was Clint who opened the door when Steve knocked, looking surprise but happy nonetheless.

“Steve! Come on in, we just cracked open the wine. Pizza will be here in a minute,” Clint raised an arm, reaching out to loop it around Steve’s shoulders as he stepped over the threshold.

As Steve ventured further into the house, he was greeted by his friends. Bucky, his best friend since childhood, was already lounging comfortably on the couch, a glass of wine half-empty in his hand. Sam was sitting on the other side, nursing a large bowl of popcorn.

Natasha sat on the smaller couch opposite them, belly swollen in her sixth month of pregnancy. Clint took his spot next to her, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of her head. She reached out a hand for Steve, smiling, pulling him by the arm until he was close enough to be kissed on the cheek.

Steve tried to return the gesture with some semblance of genuineness, but he couldn’t do anything about the bitterness that burned its way up his throat and raged through his chest.

He was happy for the Bartons; they’d been trying to get pregnant for years. But it reminded him of something he could no longer have—something he didn’t seem to want anymore, not without the only person he ever pictured having it with.

It was moment like these when those poisonous thoughts would invade his mind, like having two sides of him constantly warring with each other in his head. The one that had come to hate the world and everything it in, and always seemed to get the last word.

Your friends are allowed to be happy.

How dare they, when I’m so miserable?

You don’t know how they’re feeling when you’re not around.

I don’t care.

Of course you care.

Do I?

And he would feel such an immense guilt afterwards. His friends had come together to do everything they could to keep what remained of his life from falling apart, and he wouldn’t have made it this far without them.

Despite knowing this, however, it didn’t stop the thoughts from spiralling. While it is certainly a tragic thing to lose a friend, it was another entirely to lose your spouse, your partner.

Unfortunately for Steve, while all grief is valid, not all of it is the same.

It was also becoming too frustrating to watch Sam and Bucky tiptoe around each other, much like Steve and Peggy had done in their youth. Steve met Peggy in high school, when she came around in year ten on a foreign exchange program before her family ultimately decided to stay in America, spending years pining after her like a lovesick puppy.

He was always afraid that taking their relationship to the next level meant sacrificing the friendship he wasn’t prepared to lose, and thus they spent years pretending they were just friends. It was long after college before he could even muster up the courage to admit how he really felt about her.

And now, Bucky was doing the same thing. He and Sam pretended like it wasn’t glaringly obvious they had feelings for each other, like they didn’t desperately want to be together. For reasons Steve couldn’t fathom, however, they refused to take that first step.

It was so rich, because Bucky had been the one to pester Steve about being honest with his feelings. Yet, he couldn’t even take his own damn advice.

With all these thoughts swirling in his head, Steve wasn’t paying attention to the game. When Natasha gently reminded him that it was his turn, like a rubber band that had been pulled too tight, he suddenly snapped.

All those shameful feelings he swore never to voice came spilling out, and before he knew it, he was shouting.

When Clint approached, his voice low and his hands out in a placating gesture, the dam really broke. Swear words and insults were hurled at his best friends while they looked back at him, stricken, in horror. Bucky got up from his spot on the couch to try and calm him down, but Steve wouldn’t have any of it.

“Fuck off! All of you! Does it even matter to you that she’s dead?” And of course, he knew deep down that it did. They all pushed down their grief because they knew it would upset him further, and not once had he ever asked after them. He wasn’t being fair, but the pain lapsed his judgment. “Of course it doesn’t, not like it does for me!”

And as soon as the words left his lips, Steve did the one thing he promised he would never do in front of company: he wept.

For the first time since the funeral, in over a year, Steve sank back into his seat and sobbed into his hands like a child.

All he wanted was to go back. He wanted so desperately to just be happy again, to stop being so fucking exhausted from being sad all the time, and for that silent rage building up inside of him to just go away.

How was it possible that the world continued to spin, like nothing had ever happened, while he was still trying to pick up the fragmented pieces of a life that would no longer come to be?

Nothing paused for him, even though Steve felt like he deserved at least some time to catch his break. It was monumental, the way Peggy had been taken from him so suddenly—a fucking car accident—like a kick to the chest that knocked all the air out of him.

And now, no matter how hard he tried, his lungs burned with the effort of trying to fill them again, each breath filled with fire and fury.

Out of breath, he was running and trying to catch him, but he was always falling behind. Being left behind.

He’s never felt so alone, even surrounded by people.

“I’m sorry,” Steve finally croaked, his voice cracking as he reached out for whoever was closest to him. It was Natasha, and she reached out for him too. “I’m so sorry.”

Sam had then, quietly, timidly, suggested that Steve get out of the apartment for a while. Out of that apartment, especially.

The thought was horrifying, and Steve balked at the mere suggestion. But later, after Bucky took him home that night, insisting he was in no condition to drive, he began to see Sam’s point.

The walls of the Carter-Rogers home were steeped in absence. Steve couldn’t go anywhere without being reminded that there was something, someone, missing. There were things that hadn’t been moved in months, an entire year, because they were the last things Peggy had touched.

One of her shirts was casually tossed over the back of the couch, which used to drive Steve absolutely crazy.

A bottle of her favourite bourbon sat untouched on the kitchen counter, dust settling over the glass.

Books that she never got to finish rested on the nightstand, next to the now permanently empty side of the bed.

Bucky and Sam had tried to help him clear out some things a few weeks after the funeral, but whenever they reached for something—Peggy’s favourite sweater, some of her trinkets that littered the shelves, or an old apron that she always forgot to put on because she was too excited to try a new recipe—Steve had to stop them.

“You can’t” he would say in a small voice, one that didn’t sound like it even belonged to him. “Not that, please.”

His friends would then just put whatever it was back down, walk over and sit with him. Nothing got done that day, in the end, or any day that came after. Steve just leaned into Bucky’s embrace under Sam’s protective watch.

“I can’t do this,” Steve whispered into the still apartment, the same one that he had always hinted to his wife was much too small for two, but now seemed way too big for just one person.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” Bucky said, voice thick with emotions of his own, “but you’re not alone. You know that, right?”

So, with his friends’ help, Steve left Brooklyn behind. Luckily, he had some royalty money stashed away to keep the apartment under his name while he was gone. He couldn’t bear the thought of packing away his and Peggy’s life, reducing it to a series of boxes, and placing them in storage. Sam promised he would go by occasionally to make sure the place was taken care of.

Steve wanted to go somewhere quiet, maybe a bit isolated, where nobody would know him or his history. Natasha had suggested Westview, a small town just over the river in New Jersey. It turns out to be the best possible hiding place.

But it’s been four years since then and nothing has changed.

Well, maybe one thing.

The anger has mostly faded away into a dull but constant ache in his chest, numbed only because his body has seemingly grown used to the pain. Steve still keeps to himself, never engaging with anyone except for his friends from New York when they visit, and maybe that giant heap of muscle who lives next door.

A bit nosy, that one, but in a way that’s difficult to dislike—much to Steve’s dismay. Although, now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t heard or seen his neighbour in a while now. A long while.

But that’s one of the strangest things about grief. People get so caught up in their own, they sometimes fail to recognize another person’s suffering even when it’s happening right in front of them. Or maybe they do, but in an act of self-preservation, they instead opt to pretend like they haven’t seen anything.

Steve is transported back to the present by the sound of a throat clearing behind him. Not expecting the intrusion, he lets out a small yelp and practically jumps three feet into the air.

When he turns, he sees you standing there holding an armful of books, eyes bright even under the soft lighting. He looks behind you to see the door you emerged from, the one with a name plastered on it in embossed gold letters, the one that tells him you’re the librarian.

Before he can say or do anything else, you raise a finger to your lips and shush him. You actually shush him, but instead of getting annoyed as he normally might have done, his first thought surprises him.

Gosh, you’re pretty. Very much so.

When he pictured the mistress of the Westview Library, he pictured someone much older—maybe complete with a ratty old knit cardigan and glasses hanging off a bead necklace.

You are most certainly not what he was expecting. When was the last time he found someone attractive? When was the last time he paid enough attention to even notice?

“Hello, stranger,” you say, and despite your low volume, the sound of your voice seems to reverberate in the aisle as clear as a bell. He can clearly tell you’re younger, but there’s something peculiar about your gaze on him. Your eyes seem to hold a wisdom much older than your actual years, especially when your lips curve upward into a small, almost knowing, smile.

You gesture to the shelf behind him and he steps out of your way silently, quickly.

Steve realizes then, as he watches you from the corner of his eye, that he recognizes that look. It’s in the way your smile doesn’t reach the rest of your face, in the way dark circles show underneath your eyes even though you tried to cover them up with makeup. It’s in the way your clothes seem to be hanging off you, as if they’re a few sizes too large.

It’s something he knows well. It’s the same look reflected back at him every morning when it looks in the mirror.

Sadness.

Grief.

Steve looks away from you then, suddenly uncomfortable, as if he’s just caught you in some sort of compromising position.

How strange. He used to complain all the time that people were so frustrating, but it was made abundantly clearer in the way they shrink back in the face of someone else’s pain. Yet here he is, avoiding your eyes when though he knows exactly what it feels like.

But he’s a stranger. When he himself was in the thick of it, still trying to swim his way through, nothing anyone said or did could make him feel better. Instead, it only served to make him angrier.

Steve is still lost, still doesn’t have any of the answers he thought could take the ache away. So, what could he possibly do for you in this moment?

Anything, he can practically hear Peggy’s voice in his ear. It threatens to pull him under again. A part of him has to wonder if he’s remembering his wife’s tone of voice right.

It’s only been five years since she died. He’d known her since he was just a boy. How can he be forgetting already? He desperately tries to hold onto those memories, ones of Peggy’s laugh, her smile, her warm brown eyes, but he feels them slipping through his fingers like loose, dry sand.

Another part of him is reminded that, if Peggy were still here, she would do something. A hand on your arm, a kind smile, a cleverly worded question—anything, because she would be able to see that you weren’t alright.

It was one of the reasons Steve fell in love with her. Peggy had such a big heart. What would she say right now?

But by the time he opens his eyes again, before he can think of something, before he can even try to bring a small part of his wife back into the world, you are gone.

He can hear the squeaking wheels of your cart getting further and further away. Steve sighs in disappointment and maybe even a little relief, his heart thudding with the slight adrenaline at the thought of human connection. He tries to shake it off as he turns back toward the shelves.

Alone again, he manages to pull himself together to resume his search for his next read, but his eyes linger on a particular title that seems to jump out at him.

Book Girl by Sarah Clarkson

He’s never read it, never heard of it, nor does he think it’s really his kind of book with its cutesy cover with the loopy font—someone probably took it from the romance section before changing their minds and leaving it here—but the writer in him gets an idea.

But he hesitates, long enough for his mind to talk him out of it.

What was he trying to do, anyway? What if he just made you uncomfortable? He didn’t want to be that guy, and he just discovered this place—he didn’t want to do anything that could result in him being kicked out or banned for life. So stop being a creep, Steve.

Trying to remain unbothered, Steve heads to the front desk to sign up for a card. He doesn’t have any books with him right now, but for next time maybe. Bucky at least would be happy to hear he’s making some progress and finally venturing out of his apartment.

The girl at the desk, a young brunette by the name of Wanda, as her name tag proudly indicates, cheerfully gets all the paperwork sorted out and hands him his card—shiny and free of any scratches or dings, like a permission slip to begin anew.

Swallowing down a lump of emotion, he quickly stuffs it into an empty slot in his wallet, not making any further eye contact as Wanda bids him goodbye and he walks out the doors.

Steve almost bumps into someone on his way out, and when he turns, he sees a rather large stranger lurking by the entrance. He’s about to shuffle away and mind his own business, but then he takes a closer look and realizes it’s not a stranger at all.

“Thor?”

The man in question looks up, and Steve’s neighbour is near unrecognizable.

Thor has always been tall and physically fit, all lean muscle and bulging biceps. However, he’s now gained quite a bit of weight. His hair, usually long and pulled back in a neat ponytail, was almost always shiny and glowy in a way that made Steve a little bit jealous.

Now it’s dull and matted, looking like it hasn’t been washed in weeks. His beard has fully grown out now, crumbs of something or another tangled in the long hairs.

“Steven!” Thor booms with a grin, but something isn’t right. Steve watches nervously as Thor stumbles around on the steps of the library, clearly more than a little inebriated. Even though he’s smiling, Steve can’t see his usual cheerful disposition; his eyes no longer twinkle with good humour and unspoken mischief. “How are you, my friend?”

“Fine,” Steve brushes off the question, having more than a few of his own. “What… What are you doing? Where have you been?”

“Oh, out and about,” Thor laughs, the sound hollow and cold. “I’m not like you, you see. I enjoy the fresh outdoors.”

Steve bristles, but opts not to take offence. It wasn’t untrue, after all.

And before he can offer to take Thor home, his neighbour suddenly begins pounding on the doors to the library with one large fist. Steve springs into action, grabbing his arm and gently pulling him back.

“What are you doing?” Steve hisses.

“I have to talk to her,” Thor mumbles miserably, his voice wobbly in a way that sounds like he might burst into tears. “I have to tell her I’m sorry.”

Steve is sympathetic, but he doesn’t think Thor is in any state to be near anyone right now. Not to mention, he could use a shower before any kind of social call.

“Let’s just get you home first,” he offers and takes Thor’s arm. He’s sympathetic, but whoever Thor needs to talk to can wait until he sleeps off an inevitable hangover. Or at least until he’s had a shower.

Thor doesn’t fight him, simply following along like a sulking child being led home by his mother. When they arrive back at the apartments, Thor doesn’t have his keys and the super is currently out. Steve leaves a message with the building concierge that Thor will be in his apartment while they wait for the building manager to get back with the master key.

Steve lets Thor inside his unit, allowing him to slump down onto the couch. Thor finally allows a few stray tears loose now that he’s not in public. Not knowing else what to say or do, Steve just sits next to him for a while.

“What happened?” Steve finally asks, not exactly out of curiosity, but out of concern.

“He died,” Thor croaks out, cracking a wry smile, his broken voice thick with sadness.

“I’m sorry,” Steve feels his heart plummet into the pits of his stomach. “Who did?”

“How do you go on?” Thor asks, changing the subject, his bloodshot eyes glancing down at the wedding band on Steve’s left ring finger. It was a subject they had never broached, but Thor always seemed to know nonetheless.

He had always been friendly, since the very first day Steve moved into the building, even when some of the other residents remained wary.

“Steve’s cool, Mrs. Thompson,” he would say to the elderly woman who lived upstairs and insisted on complaining that she didn’t like having strangers near her home. “He’s quiet, doesn’t throw lavish parties, no loud dogs—the whole package!”

“Goodness, Odinson, you can’t measure a man by those standards—” Mrs. Thompson would try to object, but Thor would then lean in to whisper conspiratorially.

“Even you have to admit, ma’am, he’s not all that bad to look at either. Amiright?” And with one final wink, Mrs. Thompson would then scurry away with her head bowed low and her cheeks rosy.

Thor always knew when Steve didn’t want to chat, which was more often than not, just nodding with understanding before disappearing into his own unit. He would say nothing, even though Steve knew Thor could hear him on the occasions he woke up in the middle of the night in tears.

They would simply stand next to each other waiting for the elevator or in front of the mailboxes, making small talk like it hadn’t happened.

Thor has been a dream of a neighbour since day one. Steve, on the other hand, feels like he’s let his sadness turn him into… well, not necessarily a bad person, but not exactly a good one either.

How could this have been happening right next door and he be so oblivious to the whole thing?

How do you go on?

Steve doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t know what to say to provide some semblance of comfort. Such an answer doesn’t really exist, he knows from experience. He sighs, looking down as he fiddles with the ring around his finger.

“One day at a time,” is what he goes with. He gets up from the couch to grab two beers from the fridge, popping the lids off with bottle opener and setting them down on the coffee table. Steve settles back into his seat, waiting for Thor to reach forward to take one. He does. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

It’s quiet for a few moments, then the nod of Thor’s head is so subtle that Steve almost misses it.

And then, a few hours later, Steve is back at the library. He’s slightly out of breath because there’s only a few minutes before closing time. He strides in like a man on a mission, quickly browsing the shelves and scanning through the spines. There isn’t a lot of time, so it can’t be quite as sophisticated as he wants, but he quickly grabs a few that will work.

Before he can chicken out again, Steve heads to the front desk with the books tucked under his arm. Wanda is still there, her eyes lighting up in recognition when he approaches.

“You’re back!” She says with a smile, glancing down at the titles he’s placed on the desk. Before she can start checking them out for him, he pulls them back slightly.

“There was… a woman, earlier,” and he wants to kick himself as soon as the words are out.

“A woman?” Wanda asks, her eyebrows pulling together in the middle.

“She works here,” and then he remembers the sign on the door. “The librarian.”

“Oh, yes… I can go get her—”

“No,” he stops her before she can take off, finally pushing the stack of books toward her. “Could you just make sure she gets these?”

She looks down at the covers, still looking a little confused but she nods anyway. “Sure, Mr. Rogers.”

“Steve,” he corrects her, mostly out of instinct. Before Wanda can say anything else, he heads for the doors again. As he leaves, he looks over his shoulder, not really sure what he’s looking for. Maybe next time, he’ll find out.

Meanwhile, Wanda stares after the man named Steve before looking down curiously at the titles he left behind. She flips through them, wondering why he brought them all the way to the front desk and didn’t take them with him. Not to mention, he wanted you to have them?

It didn’t make a lot of sense. Besides, she knows you’re going to demand that she go and put them back before clocking out.

But regardless, she does what she’s asked. As she goes to stack them in a corner, waiting for you to inevitably wander out from your office or return from wherever you were shelving books, realization dawns on her.

She slowly rearranges the titles back into their correct order, watching as the words and puzzle pieces finally click into place.

Book Girl by Sarah Clarkson Nobody Will Tell You This But Me by Bess Kalb It’s OK That You’re Not OK by Megan Devine In Fact by Lee Gutkind It’s a Long Way Down by Ian Canon

It’s a message.

to be continued.

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