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anobscurename · 4 years

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ocean eyes – chris evans

previous part: PART X — masterlist

concept: you and chris attend a last minute vegas wedding of his close, personal friend. may contain a majority of the cast of the avengers. the slowest of slow burns. part eleven of many.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 5,3k

warnings: angst, jealousy, really sappy romance shit

author's note: here's a long one to make up for the fact that i didn't upload all of yesterday :) this one really messed me up, please let me know what you think :)

Chris Evans wore rejection exceptionally well.

When he returned from New York, it was like nothing had happened, nothing had changed – and you didn't know how to feel about that. A big part of you was relieved that things had returned to normal almost instantaneously. But a small, dark part of you – hidden very well in the recesses of your mind – had wanted him to be as hurt as you still were.

But there he was, bursting into your room, smile on his face.

You hadn't woken up yet, but the sound of the door being flung open had you springing up and already had a pillow clutched in your hand, ready for an attack – which you received, but not from who you'd expect.

Dodger, hot on Chris' heels, leapt onto you with a happy yowl and began the vigorous task of slobbering the ever loving shit out of you. You attempted to push him away, fighting to get the pillow between you to prevent getting drenched by dog saliva. But you were sluggish and Dodger was not, easily manoeuvring around you to attack once more.

Fighting a fit of laughter, you peered around your pillow at Chris. He stood in the doorway, hands in pockets, grinning stupidly.

"Christopher, get your attack dog off of me!"

He chuckled. "Get out of bed!"

You groaned. "It's a Saturday, Chris. I'm allowed to sleep in."

"Not today. Come on, get up!" He clapped. "We have a big day ahead of us."

Your eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What's got you so chipper?"

"Two things," he said, making his way to you. He promptly threw the covers off of you, causing you to yelp and tuck your bare legs to your chest. "Hey, didn't we discuss more pants being worn around the house...?"

"Two. Things?" You ground out the prompt from behind grit teeth. Dodger pawed at your legs.

"One, I got the part."

You beamed, irritation dissipating. "That's great! I'm really proud of you, Evans."

He smiled briefly, before hollowing his cheeks and letting out a singular piercing whistle. You winced, but Dodger immediately stopped his antics and returned to Chris' side, bounding happily alongside him as they both moved to exit.

"And? What's the second thing?" You called out to him.

"Pack your things, wear something nice. We're going to Vegas, baby."

———————

"Vegas?!" You had immediately hopped out of bed at the very casual name drop. "As in Las Vegas?"

"Of course," Chris shrugged, pouring some freshly brewed coffee into his favourite mug. It was one he'd stolen from the set of Knives Out; you were well acquainted with it.

"May I ask why?"

"We're going to a wedding."

"A wedding?!" Your voice was shrill. You were becoming increasingly more annoyed with how non-chalant he was being, answering your questions with the bare minimum.

"Well, it's more of a renewal of vows. They've been married for a while."

"Can I ask who?"

"Oh, man," he groaned inwardly. "Why do you insist on ruining every single surprise? Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Christopher."

"He's a good friend of mine, you may know him. It was a very spur-of-the-moment thing. You're my plus one, so please," he tossed you a discarded sweater you had left over the back of a nearby chair, "start packing. It's a four hour drive, maybe less if there's no traffic."

In a last ditch effort to let him know how crazy this all sounded, you gestured to Dodger, who was happily gnawing at his favourite toothmarked chew toy. "What about Dodge?"

"He's coming with us. Obviously."

And that was all he was willing to tell you. Your efforts to pry more information was met with hums and long, eye contact charged sips of coffee, and the occasional knowing cheeky smile.

Eventually, you gave up. "Fine," you huffed. "I'll go pack."

———————

When you'd first seen the car, you had to do a double take.

Chris was not a flashy person, but this car – was there any other word for it other than flashy?

"It's just a rental," Chris chuckled at your expression, strutting past you with a duffel bag in hand. He was being... strange, somehow. Something wasn't quite right, but he seemed fine, so you followed him to the sleek cranberry red convertible parked in the driveway. "I thought to myself: if we're going to Vegas, we're going to do it right."

He tossed the bag into the back, taking care to not hit Dodger who was already happily seated. He helped you with yours, before holding your door open for you.

The sun had already warmed the seats, and while you clicked the seatbelt in, Chris all but parkoured into the car.

His strong limbs moved easily, muscles flexing as he hoisted him up and over the door. The car bounced slightly when he landed, key already inching towards the ignition.

"You know, they put doors on the car for a reason," you said, digging in your bag for your sunglasses. If you were to be sat in that car for four hours, baking in the sun, you'd surely need them. You could already feel your arms, bare in the tank top you'd favoured in the Californian heat, heating up in spite of the sunscreen you'd slathered yourself in.

"Where's the fun in that?"

Chris had had a permanent smile on his face, ever since he'd all but kicked your door down to drag you to Vegas.

"What's going on with you?"

He seemed almost taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"You're being... weird."

"You're being weird," he retorted, somewhat childishly. In spite of having your eyes hidden, he didn't miss your eye roll. Propping his hand on your headrest, he turned to look at Dodger, who was happily panting in the backseat, tucked between the bags. "Everybody strapped in?"

Dodger barked in response, and you couldn't help but giggle.

"Brilliant."

The car turned over smoothly, engine roaring to life, and as you ripped down the driveway, Chris whooped.

He turned to you, the biggest, goofiest smile on his face. "Vegas, baby!"

———————

With the wind in your hair, any chill being quickly chased away by the heat of the sun, you found yourself smiling. You tore across Interstate 15, now in the open span of the desert.

Chris' excitement was infectious. Any conversation attempts were immediately drowned out, so you had settled on a playlist. Wailing at the top of your lungs, you sang along to many a Disney and Queen song you had playing through the aux chord, volume cranked to the maximum to be heard over the roar of road and engine.

Dodger – tongue waving happily in the wind – sometimes howled along. Being there, sat next to Chris in the open air, you felt carefree. There was only you, and him, and Dodger, and the ease of the roadtrip.

Chris reached over to adjust the rearview mirror, managing to catch your reflection in it. He paused, eyes darting between you and the road.

Your head was thrown back, lips stretched into a smile while you belted along to the third replay of Bohemian Rhapsody, hair tossed to the wind. The sight was enough to make his heart dissolve.

"Eyes on the road!" You laughed, yelling at him as the car began it's slight tilt into the other lane.

Quickly pulling the vehicle back on track, laugh strained, Chris fixed the rearview again to have eyes on Dodger – who seemed entirely unconcerned with the troubles of his owner.

"You hungry?" You fought to be heard over the music and whistling wind.

He leaned closer to you, now absorbed entirely with the road. "What?!"

"Are you hungry?!"

He shrugged, pulling himself back into his seat. "I could eat!"

You'd stopped at a gas station earlier, and had managed to gather some supplies for the long drive ahead. From the grocery bag at your feet, you pulled out Chris' sandwich, managing to tear open the packaging out of the wind's reach.

You held it out to him, but instead of taking it from you like you intended, he ducked his head and took a monstrous bite, teeth lightly grazing your fingertips.

The shiver that ran down your spine was immediately overcome when he pulled away – only for the slice of ham to follow him back up. It hung from his lips, flapping in the wind, slapping at his face.

He was grinning when he turned to look at you, sunglasses having fallen slightly down the bridge of his nose to reveal his eyes. They were alive with humour and so blue in the sunlight. His mouth was full of sandwich and ham when he flashed his pearly whites, and, with expert movement and tongue work, he scooped the ham into his mouth. He moaned in mock ecstasy.

"You're such a dork!" You shouted over the wind, once you'd overcome the hysterics and he'd finished his mouthful of ham.

"I'm so what?" He yelled back, feigning haven't heard you. "Sexy?! My God, you're right!"

In your distraction, Dodger had snatched the sandwich from your hand, earning him shocked gasps from both of you.

"Dodger!" You scolded, but the sandwich was done by the time you whirled around to look at him. He barked, content, and licked a wet stripe to your face.

"Yeah, that's right, bud! You tell her!"

———————

You slowed down once you reached the city limits of Vegas to take in the sights. Not that there was much to see.

The glitz and glam so often portrayed on the silver screen was replaced by a seediness that you simply could not reconcile with all that you had been expecting. Hollywood really had the audacity to lie to you like that, you supposed.

It almost made you wonder who would want to have their wedding here. But there was also a charm to it, if you didn't look too closely.

Several Elvises (Elvi?) were sharing a cigarette outside a club, while showgirls strutted down the gum caked sidewalks, feathers ruffling in the breeze and the sway of their ten inch heels.

They waved when you drove past, and Dodger gave them a thrilled yap. He had never seen something that big with feathers before, and you almost had to grab his collar before he chased them down.

After seeing so many multithemed casinos – especially the closer you got to the city center – that it became monotonous, your illusion of glitz and glamour was restored when Chris pulled the car up outside the Bellagio.

"You're kidding," you breathed.

He chuckled. "Not good enough?"

"Too good enough," you practically stuttered.

Chris shut the engine off before clambering out of the car, thankfully using the door this time. He stretched, muscles stiff from the long ride.

"Everyone at the wedding is staying here. The reception's going to be held in the ballroom, but if you don't want to..."

"No!" You said quickly. And then, softer: "I'd love to stay here, I'm just... trying to... you know?"

All you could do was gesture aimlessly, but Chris did know. There was a time once where lavish hotels and spontaneous trips across the country were very new to him.

"Well, good," he said while handing the keys over to the valet, slipping him a good tip and a grateful smile. That smile stayed, changing into something softer and more genuine when he turned back to you. "Because the reservation is already booked and it'll be a bitch cancelling it now."

He helped you out of the car, your legs shaky from both sitting for so long and the delight of getting the chance to spend the night at the freaking Grand Bellagio Hotel & Casino.

Once he was certain you weren't going to keel over, he put the seat forward to let a very excited Dodger out. Obedient as always, Dodger remained by Chris' side as he retrieved the bags.

Giving a friendly wave to the valet – arm barely weighed down by the duffel bag curled in his hand – Chris led you and Dodge into the foyer.

Inside was just as beautiful as the outside, if not more. You were suddenly feeling lightheaded, taking in the opulence it was furnished in. You felt out of place, standing there, road weary in your rumpled denim shorts and spaghetti strap tank. Especially when you caught sight of it – the trademark Bellagio fountain. Water climbed the sky, only to fall back down in a heavy shower, sparkling in the hotel lights. It was magnificent and you were suddenly feeling so small, so–

"Afternoon, ma'am. Reservation under the name Evans?"

Chris' low voice practically boomed in the quiet of the front desk, breaking the spell. It unnerved you how hyper aware you were of his every action.

The process of checking in was mundane, but soon, key cards in hand, Chris was guiding you towards the elevator, Dodger in tow. You didn't know whether to be relieved or crestfallen that Chris had booked separate rooms – still conjoining, for Dodger's benefit. You decided you were relieved. It was much easier to puzzle through relief than to dwell on the pain in your chest.

Against Chris' insistence, a bellboy took your bags for you. And it was while you were waiting for the elevator that you met the groom.

"Well, I'll be damned," you heard a familiar voice say. Not familiar because you knew it personally, but familiar because you had heard it many times before, often while seated in a cinema seat. "Christopher Evans, as I live and breathe."

"Always with the theatrics, Downey," Chris grinned. They hugged, clapping each other on the backs.

Robert wore a large smile and an incredibly well tailored suit.

Dodger let out a deafening bark, tail blurring in the speed of his wag. He practically pounced on the man, causing Robert to laugh, petting him. "Easy, boy." Absentmindedly, but no less sincere, Robert continued, hands buried in Dodger's fur while he addressed the two of you. "I'm so glad you could make it. I know it was a very last minute, spur of the moment type thing. It really means a lot."

"Who else is here?"

Robert straightened, brushing some dog hair off his sleeve. "Hemsworth was stuck in Australia, but that was fine, given the short notice. Tom also couldn't find a flight–"

"Holland or Hiddleston?"

"Hiddleston. We managed to get the kid. Thankfully he had been filming in L.A. for the past few months. I couldn't imagine this day without him..."

And then he saw you.

You had thought you had run your capacity for getting starstruck well and truly into the ground, and it was only typical of Robert Downey Jr. to prove you wrong. You stood there, speechless, mouth agape.

"Holy shit," you whispered when you finally found your voice again.

You hoped he hadn't heard you, but he had, and, tipping his sunglasses down to take you in, he beamed. "And who do we have here?"

"Robert, this is–"

"{Your full name}. It's so lovely to meet you," you gushed, fervently shaking his extended hand. "Really, it's an honour. I love you 3000. I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that. I just can't believe it's you. I'm sorry, I'm going to let go of your hand now."

Robert smirked at your enthused outburst. He glanced at Chris. "Where did you find this one?"

"It's not like that, Rob. She's just a friend."

Attention back to you, Robert pushed his glasses back up with one practiced finger. "Well, just a friend. It's great to have you here, celebrating this day with Susan and I. I like the whole... 80's vibe you have going on. You're really taking this revival seriously."

Your confusion was shortlived.

As soon as you and Chris had said goodbye to Robert to shower the roadtrip away and get ready for the wedding, you caught your reflection in the elevator mirror.

And... to put it mildly, it was a sight to behold. You instantly knew what he had meant by "80's vibe."

Your hair was a mess, tousled and wind swept to rest atop your head at new voluminous heights. Your sunglasses – which you hadn't given much thought to, having slid them up and out of your eyes – were tangled lopsidedly in a precarious perch.

You looked insane. You had met Robert Downey Jr. while looking like an inmate at Arkham, and the cold slither of mortification overcame you.

"How. Could. You. Not. Tell. Me?!" You punctuated every word with a slap to Chris' muscle bound arm, and although they were light and didn't hurt, he shied away from you all while chuckling smugly. "How could you not tell me?!"

He kept his eyes on the screen displaying number of floors you flew past as he shrugged. "I didn't see anything wrong."

"What do you mean, Chris?! Look at me! I have Farah Fawcett hair!" You gestured wildly at the birdsnest.

He did as you requested, and turned to you. "You look beautiful," he said simply. "I didn't see anything wrong."

———————

The ceremony took place at A Little White Chapel – a little over a ten minute drive away from the Bellagio – and was nothing short of sweet.

You had felt a little self conscious, wearing the baby blue summer dress you had found sitting in the back of your closet untouched for a little over six months. Chris could sense you apprehension.

You had been picking at a tiny loose thread in the hem of the skirt when he leaned down to you.

"How many times do I have to say it?" He sighed, reassurance tinted in his voice. "You look fine."

You gave him a small smile. "Maybe just once more?"

"You look–"

And then he was practically knocked over by the barrelling tackle hug Anthony greeted him with. Breath knocked out of him, Chris grinned as he hugged Anthony back.

"There she is," Mackie opened his arms to you too once him and Chris broke apart and Chris turned to greet Sebastian who had been standing back, hands in his pockets, watching the sneak attack in amusement.

You giggled, hugging him tightly. "How've you been?"

"Oh, you know," he shrugged. He moved back slightly for you to give Sebastian an affectionate greeting kiss on the cheek. "Same old, same old. Work, work, work. Almost pulled my arm out of its socket throwing that shield. How the hell did you manage to do that for so long, Chris?"

The kiss did not go unnoticed to Chris. He was staring at you intently, eyes stormy, before being snapped out of it by Anthony. Storm subsiding, he smiled easily. "You just gotta work for it harder, I guess."

"Oh, is that right?" Anthony arched his brow, and soon they were play wrestling in their expensive suits.

"Should we break them up?"

"Nah," Sebastian waved your suggestion off. "Let them fight it out." He caught sight of someone and sucked in a sharp breath, eyes twinkling in glee. "Or better yet..."

"Boys, boys," a voice lilted out, mock scorn laced into the words. It was husky yet feminine, an exotic but distinct combination. "Where are your manners? We're at a wedding."

The boys instantly broke apart to see Scarlett approach. She was frowning in mock disappointment... but that quickly dissolved. She grinned, throwing her arms around them.

You couldn't believe it. It was a whole Avengers reunion.

"And you must be {your name}."

You returned her smile, holding out your hand to shake. She disregarded it, instead opting to give you the same treatment she gave her friends. Your heart warmed.

"I've heard so much about you," she said while you hugged.

"Only good things, I hope," you muttered shyly.

"Only the best. The boys won't shut up about you. Heard you turned a few heads at Vulpecula the other night," she winked. "Hope you're giving this one a hard time. He needs it every now and then."

The person in question arched a teasing – if not inquisitive – brow. "Don't be giving her any ideas. It's hard enough as is."

The double entendre was caught by everyone in your little reunion circle, and Chris' face flushed. "What I meant was–"

"Oh, we know what you meant," Anthony winked.

Something caught Sebastian's attention. Or rather, someone. He tapped Anthony on the shoulder, never peeling his gaze away from the new arrival. "Eyes up. Holland just entered the building."

Sure enough, Tom Holland had just arrived, Elizabeth Olsen at his side listening intently to everything he was saying. By the looks of it, they were catching up.

"You got the juice box ready?" Anthony asked.

Sebastian opened his blazer to display a juice box seated comfortably in the inner breast pocket. "Locked and loaded, baby."

"Let's go torment the kid."

And they were off, half hearted goodbyes mumbled upon their exit.

Their voices were inaudible, but from what you could tell, they were teasing Tom, offering him the children's beverage. He was taking it exceptionally well, laughing it off, while Lizzie said hello to the duo.

"The funny thing about them is that they're more like kids than Tom is," Scarlett mused, watching the scene play out.

"No, the funny thing is, is that I was ready to fight Sebastian for that juice box," you murmured under your breath.

That earned you a soft chortle from Scarlett, and something close to pride bloomed in your chest.

"Oh, I see Mark! I better go say hi before I miss him again. He keeps getting pulled into conversations and I can never get a word in." Scarlett slid easily past, but not before turning to say goodbye. "You two, grab some seats, I'll try and join you in a bit. If I don't catch you again, I'll see you at the reception..."

And then she disappeared, the only sign she'd ever been there was the trace of expensive perfume and a glimpse of her red dress and golden hair.

"I love her."

Chris bellowed out a laugh at your honesty, the completely earnest look in your eyes. "Yeah, Scarlett's great. One of my closest friends."

"Are you trying to make me jealous?" The new voice was the one you had encountered before – the one that had you self consciously checking your hair.

Chris ducked down once again, finishing his previously cut off reassurance in your ear. "You look fine."

Robert handed you a champagne flute each, ones he had plucked from a passing waiter's tray. "Because if so, it's working."

"I only have eyes for you, Downey," Chris raised his glass to Robert in subtle cheers. "You know that."

"I'm spoken for," Robert gasped, scandalized. Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he whispered: "But just say the word, I'll cancel the wedding and we can elope."

"I doubt Susan would appreciate that."

Robert waved off Chris' weak protest. "We've been married fifteen years today, I think she's sick of me by now. Christopher Downey. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

"Robert Evans," you challenged.

"Perfect," Robert grinned. "It's settled. I'll bring the car around, we'll run away together. {Your name}, you'll officiate and we'll all live happily ever after. Agreed?"

He stuck his hand out for Chris to shake. Having to switch his glass to a different hand to grasp Robert's, Chris pulled Robert closer to him. Concern creased his brow. "But seriously, Robert. How are you feeling?"

The sincerity in which he looked at Chris in that moment, he could say anything and you'd believe it. But his answer was so simple. "I've never been happier a day in my life. I love her. Always have, always will."

And judging by the way he looked at her when she came down the aisle, you knew it was true. He was glowing, gazing at her like the very first time he had married her.

He looked at her the way an immortal would describe Galileo's first look to the Milky Way.

And if you hadn't been so entranced by the splendour of it all, that look that Robert had would seem familiar. Because right beside you, Chris was looking at you.

He was looking at you in that exact same way.

———————

"Is that Mel Gibson? Is that Mel Gibson. Christopher Robert Evans, you tell me right now: is that Mel Gibson? Is that Mel Gibson I see before me? Pinch me. Holy fucking shit it is motherfucking Mel Gibson. I'm in the same room as Braveheart."

Chris was watching you with complete adoration, a dopey smile on his face.

This had been going on for a while – it was so strange for you to be in a room of familiar faces you'd never met before, and although you'd served many a drink to the famous, it was one night at a time and there was at least a quick escape to the break room should you require a moment to gather yourself. You felt almost... naked in this room full of familiar strangers.

"You should go say hi."

"To Mel Gibson?" You blanched.

"Yeah, why not?"

"It's Mel Gibson," you said flatly, as if that was the answer to all the questions anyone had ever asked in the universe, ever.

"Okay, first, he's just Mel. You don't have to keep saying his full name." Chris handed you a wine glass. He continued as he poured some wine into it from one of the reception tables in the ballroom. "And second, Mel's great. We've had dinner together at Downey's a few times. Go," he pushed you gently towards where Gibson stood. "It'll be fine."

You threw back the wine and took one step forward, before immediately backtracking. "NononoIcan't–"

And then Chris had his arm around your shoulders guiding you over to where Mel stood, intent on giving you an introduction. "Yes, you can," he cajoled, trying his very hardest not to snigger at your mood swings.

"Look how cute they are," Anthony sighed.

Sebastian groaned. "Stop it."

"You're just upset because I'm going to win."

"There's nothing to–" Seb cut off, having spotted Holland at the bar. "Minor alert. Shall we?"

"Fuck yes, we shall."

———————

You had been speaking to Mel Gibson for a little over an hour at that point.

After the introduction, Chris had left you to your devices, going around the reception dinner and saying hi to everyone he knew, shaking hands with people he didn't.

And when he returned to where he had left you, he didn't know whether to be surprised or not to find you still there.

Mel found you quite entertaining once you'd surpassed the initial fangirling. You were so young and full of life. He listened to your babbling, interjecting when appropriate and imparting little hints of wisdom, here and there. And that's how you'd stayed, for an hour at least.

"{Your name}, can I borrow you for a minute?" Chris' voice was soft, polite. Giving you every opportunity to say no.

In spite of how entertained Mel was by you, once Chris had arrived, he'd already started looking for a different conversation partner. It wasn't something you took offense to – it was a wedding, after all, with so many people around. You couldn't hog all of his time. So you excused yourself from him, thanking him, before hooking your arm in Chris'.

You'd expected him to lead you back to the table, but you were surprised to find yourself being led to the dancefloor instead.

It was the first dance.

Robert, dapper in his suit, led a splendid Susan onto the floor, and the gathering crowd clapped and cheered. The violins and piano were struck, and the married couple began their hypnotic waltz.

"No need to thank me just yet," Chris murmured into your hair, eyes on the couple gliding across the floor.

Not wanting to disrupt the spell the dance had cast, you were slow in your response. "Thank you for what?"

"You looked like you needed saving." With every word, you could feel his hot breath fanning your hair, and those goddamn goosebumps were back.

"If anything, it was Mel who needed saving."

The waltz came to an end with a passionate kiss, and then the dancefloor was open to everyone.

"This one goes out to Robert and Susan," you heard a woman – Scarlett – say into the microphone. She had made her way on stage, and was looking at the renewly weds with unadulterated affection. "They begged and begged me to sing here tonight, and I finally agreed. As long as I was allowed to pick the song. So here is Let Me Love You Like A Woman, originally performed by Lana Del Rey."

"We couldn't get Lana!" Robert yelled from his seat at the table. The guests laughed, and you even found yourself giggling a little.

"Fuck you, Downey," Scarlett chuckled.

The band struck up the opening chords to the slow, beautifully peaceful melody. Without hesitation, Chris pulled you to the dancefloor, and turned to capture you in his arms. His hand rested against the small of your back – so perfectly fitting into the natural bow of your spine, it was like he was made to hold you like this – his other holding yours to his chest.

"Were you jealous?" He could see you were joking, he could see it in your eyes.

"Of Mel?" Chris scoffed. "No."

You continued your slow dance, relishing in the feel of having Chris close to you again, his body firm against yours, warming you through to your core. Your head rested on his chest, eyes closed, letting Scarlett's voice lull you into a gentle rythym. Her voice was so calming, that when Chris spoke, you had nearly forgotten where you were.

"But of Sebastian? Yes."

You could hear how hard it was for him to admit, the strain in his voice near palpable. But the surprise the admission drew from you caused you to shoot your head up to look at him incredulously. You could almost think he was joking, how ridiculous it sounded, but one look at his face and you knew he wasn't.

"Sebastian?" You repeated in disbelief. "Sebastian Stan?"

"I saw you kiss him."

He sounded so crushed, you found yourself hurting.

"That was nothing. That was a hello."

His next words were harsh, a subdued rage in the depths of the blue of his eyes. "Maybe the next time you feel nothing for a person, don't kiss them," he bit out. It was like he had been hoarding all the pain and resentment he had felt, and it finally spilled forth. "It sends the wrong message."

And then he was gone, ripping away from you, cold air filling the empty vacuum where he once stood.

———————

"I saw you and Chris out there, you looked..."

Anthony had been speaking while approaching you, but as soon as he saw your face, his tone changed. "Hey... Hey, what's wrong?"

You were sitting at your table, head propped in your hand, trying hard to mask your misery, but ultimately failing.

"It's that obvious, huh?" You sniffled.

Anthony dropped into the chair beside you – the seating arrangement proclaiming it belonging to Chris Evans – and immediately pulled you into his arms.

You looked a little like a mess, eyes watering enough to smudge your mascara, but you didn't cry. To be frank, you were incapable of crying. You were too confused to cry.

"Please tell me you're like this because of the wonderful union between Robert and Susan Downey, and not because of something Chris did."

You laughed softly into Anthony's shoulder before withdrawing. "I just... I don't know what happened."

"Walk me through it."

"He was... He was so happy earlier. Which I found strange, of course, because he was being too happy. I'd never seen him like that, even when he really was happy. It was like he was fake happy. And we were fine. We were..."

"Happy?" Anthony suggested when you trailed off.

"Exactly," you took a deep gulp of wine. "But then, now, on the dancefloor..."

One read of your face, and Anthony guessed what happened. And he didn't press further, instead offering you the only explanation he could. As Chris' friend. As yours, too.

"We are in the profession of pretense, {your name}. We're wonderful liars when we need to be, especially to ourselves. And the thing about Chris... Well, he can't lie to himself for very long."

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