Two Tulips
Pairing: Steve x Reader
Word Count: 1,400
Warnings: Light touches on PTSD. Inappropriate joking.
Summary: Reader was a bit of a local badass during the attack on New York. Steve wants to say thanks.
A/N: A short drabble (hahahahaha) based on this ask. Why am I into the idea of Steve Rogers liking girls who put him on blast? IDK, he’s an angel.
“Jesus, throw a strike already. Give your defense a chance.”
You grumble at the television caddy-cornered into the ceiling above your hospital bed, grateful that at least it is tiny enough and far enough away to spare you from most of the up close action as the Mets bomb another game against the Phillies.
“They needed to pull him last inning. He’s tired.”
And the unbidden voice from just outside your room causes you to flinch, causes your heart rate to skyrocket, the machine monitoring your vitals to temporarily pick up pace. Your eyes narrow as you turn your head toward the man in the door.
“You are lucky I’m on so much pain medication,” you say, “that would’ve hurt.”
“I’m sorry. Can I come in?”
You don’t answer as you watch him. Tall and broad enough to take up most of the doorway. After a moment’s pause he steps inside anyway, his heavy boots thudding against the linoleum. He looks like a photograph, all muscled red, white and blue. A star is emblazoned across his chest. His dark blonde hair is neatly coiffed and his eyes are a clear, startling blue.
You know him. But you don’t.
There was buzz of the Avengers touring the hospital. Visiting with the victims who still remained after the Chitauri attack. You’d ignored it. Buried your frustration into a tanking baseball team and wished you had a beer. Not that you were a fan of the taste. It was the gesture that counted.
You eye the man beside your bed now and frown, “Are you lost? I think they have the costume parties downstairs.”
He raises his eyebrows in surprise. His hands are clasped before him, his thumbs fidgeting as he tentatively speaks your name. You give him the barest nod of confirmation, and he looks temporarily relieved.
“I’m in the right place, then, I believe,” he says, “How are you?”
And the question, to you at least, is so bizarre that you merely watch him bluster in the silence.
“Maybe I should introduce myself,” he says, “I’m-”
“I know who you are,” you answer, cutting him off with a wave of your hand, “Mister America. Captain, sir. Whatever they call you.”
“Steve,” he says, “Steve Rogers.”
You hum in acknowledgement, “Right. Everyone wants to thank you for saving our city. But I have a feeling our city wouldn’t have needed saving had you all been living somewhere else.”
Your words take him by surprise. Make him take a step back away from your bed. You’re certain no one has spoken to Steve Rogers in such a manner since the attack. Maybe ever.
“Here’s a thought,” you add, “how about a team move to Atlanta or Philadelphia? Bring the baddies there. Do your city a real favor and give us a better shot at winning our division.”
And you don’t mean to sound so bitter. Or maybe you do. Maybe your only goal is to have Steve Rogers leave you to suffer alone in grumpy silence.
But he doesn’t. He’s quiet for a long moment. And then, full circle, his words surprise you.
“Or maybe we could just localize efforts over Yankee Stadium next time. Clench the Subway Series, at least.”
You don’t want to. You really don’t. But your mouth betrays you. Curves into a smile. He returns it. His teeth are perfect, white and straight.
“Heard you were pretty brave that day,” he says. And your smile vanishes.
Images flash, unbidden into your mind. Faces riddled with panic as you ushered as many as you could into the small sandwich shop where you’d been having coffee. You’d shouted through the smoke, choked on the ash and dragged injured people to safety as you watched your city fall apart. You’d felt blind terror as you had only seconds to dodge an airborne taxi, hurtling through the sky and straight for you.
You’d stopped counting what was broken or fractured or bruised on your body. You’d stopped wondering how many weren’t as lucky.
You frown at Steve Rogers now, pull down your veil of cynicism once again.
“Yeah? Well if you heard it from the nurses, just know they were all taking bets on whether or not you enhance your suit. In certain places. And they all agreed they needed to see you in person to find out.”
You detect a faint flush on his cheeks at that, but he doesn’t indulge you.
“What if I were told by reporters?” He presses.
“Sensationalist news. I know modern television is still a pretty new concept to someone your age. But trust me, they love stuff like this. Just don’t ask me to take a picture with you. I’m not sure the public could handle it.”
“And what if I watched it myself? Everyone has a camera these days.”
“Do you? Who taught you how to use it?”
Steve Rogers laughs. Short and abrupt. Like a punch to the stomach. He kicks out the stool from beside your bed, takes a seat and shakes his head, “You know, I had a friend who would love you, busting my chops like this.”
“Had?” You ask, noticing the tense.
“Perils of being my age,” he answers with a shrug. But you don’t miss the very brief human and faraway look flash across his eyes.
When he speaks again, his words are soft, concerned, “I know you probably saw some things that day that scare you. Now that you’ve had time to process it all. That you aren’t running off adrenaline. And I want you to know that it’s alright. That we all feel that way. So if you need anything…
“What I need is to get out of here. Not some sycophantic lecture on the importance of mental health from Captain America,” but you think about that look, and your tone is softer, and you add, “It’s a nice gesture. But I’m fine. I’ll be fine. So there. Civic duty done.”
You almost pity Steve Rogers’ goodwill gesture gone so wrong. You almost laugh. But he remains there, seated beside you, gives you a long look before asking, “What do you like to do? When you do get out of here, what is it you’re looking forward to?”
And it’s almost painfully genuine, the question. Real curiosity.
“You’re going off script,” you tease.
His blue eyes search yours. His mouth twitches.
“I’d like to breathe in something other than disinfectant, first of all,” you say, “Maybe walk in the park. See the flowers.”
“Which ones?”
“Hydrangeas. The blue ones at Mumford Gate. They’re my favorite.”
Steve nods. Crosses his arms in front of him and says, “I prefer the tulips.”
Your laughter comes out as an unbidden snort, “You would.”
And he looks surprised. Delighted that he’s caused it, but confused as to why. He raises a brow in question. Drops his arms.
“Tulips try too hard,” you say, “pretty to look at, but annoyingly perfect and impractical.”
He tilts his head back. Barks a laugh, “See, you think that, but they saved a lot of people’s ass during the war. Kept a lot of people from dying,” his eyes find yours again. He grins, “They may be pretty to look at, but don’t count them out in a fight.”
Something about his tone prickles heat up your neck. You break his gaze. Look resolutely ahead, “Just reinforces my point,” you say, “they try too hard.”
There’s a long stretch of silence, a fidgeting of your own thumbs before Steve says finally, softly, “You’ll feel normal again. Maybe not today. But. Eventually. And maybe not the same normal as before. But a new one.”
You swallow. Stare at the wall in front of you and nod.
It’s the closest you can get to thanks.
Smell is the first sense you register the following day. Honeyed and sweet, it pulls you from a deep, restful sleep, nudges your eyes open to the veritable garden that has taken over your room.
Tulips of all shades fill the tiny space. Perch on the table, the desk, the chair. Vibrant reds and pinks and oranges and yellows. You take a deep breath, your mouth fixes into a smile.
You barely register the nurse in the background, fussing over such a display normally being against protocol. How it was insisted upon anyway.
And you don’t have to ask by who. Because you know. She hands you a card. A simple, undecorated ivory bifold.
“A glutton for punishment,” you murmur to yourself as you flip it open.
The handwriting is neat. A looped hybrid between print and cursive.
So you can breathe something other than disinfectant.
And so you can show me the hydrangeas yourself, once you’re free.
Don’t try too hard to say no.
Steve
Yo, this is so cute I actually cannot. I love Steve when someone else is…picking on him? Taking some of the wind out of his sails? I can’t think of the right phrase (other than “putting him on blast” like in the AN), but I love this. So good.
Published
Maker's Breath 