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anobscurename · 4 years

Text

ocean eyes – chris evans

previous part: PART XI — masterlist

concept: a collection of happenings. the slowest of slow burns. there will be many more parts. an interview is misinterpreted, leading to some awkwardness.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 1,8k

warnings: angst

author's note: i used the name "lily" in slight reference to lily james (no hate to her) but if you, as the reader, is named lily, feel free to use any other name as hers.

There was something to be said about LAX. Status was practically inconsequential in airports. Everyone was either jetlagged or trying to make their flight in time, and everyone had to wait in neatly organized lines. Sure, some moved faster than others, but it was nice to see that everyone was built the same when it came to airports.

You stood, patiently waiting in the collection area of the arrivals. As patiently as you could, practically bouncing on your heels in anticipation. You didn't know why you were there, really.

Well, you knew. You were there to surprise him.

They had wrapped filming the day before, and he had shot you a quick be home soon :) text last night. But you had never picked him up before, instead opting to stay in the comfort of the apartment with Dodger curled up beside you and a batch of "welcome home" cupcakes cooling, waiting to be iced. He'd find his way back by himself just fine every time, so why the sudden change?

Maybe it was the interview you had caught the night before.

It wasn't as if you'd actively sought it – your friend had sent you a link to it in the early morning hours, followed by a barrage of messages that had your nightstand practically quaking from the vibrations of your phone. Knowing she wouldn't let you be until you checked it out, you squinted to see the bright screen before lowering the brightness enough to let your eyes adjust. Cursing the persistence of your friend, you huffed out a sigh and tapped on the link she had highlighted in numerous exclamation points and a slew of unintelligible yet highly suggestive emojis.

It was him. Chris. The flutter your heart gave at the sight of him was a natural occurence at this point, so it was easy to ignore.

Dodger, whose head was resting heavily on your feet, immediately perked up at the sound of Chris' voice the second the YouTube clip began to play.

It was a snippet from a Jimmy interview – Fallon or Kimmel, your brain was too sluggish to comprehend – uploaded fairly recently. If two months was recent in the grand scheme of things.

"Great to be here again, Jimmy," you heard Chris say as you rubbed the bleariness from your eyes.

"Always a pleasure." Fallon. It was Fallon.

Dodger came crawling up to you, nose sniffing the air, trying to console the sound of Chris' voice without the scent of Chris himself. His wet nose pressed into your cheek and you whined in slight annoyance, giving him a slight nudge. "Down, Dodge. It's just an interview. See?"

You turned the phone to show him, and his ears deflated in understanding. You hid a chuckle, pulling him to you for a cuddle, and he dejectedly flopped down onto your shoulder, curling up beside you. "Don't worry, Dodge," you mumbled, placing a small kiss to the top of the boxer's head. "He'll be home tomorrow."

Chris had been gone longer and longer in recent months. You had returned from Vegas in silence, before, once again, everything was back to false normality. What Anthony had said to you still stuck: he was in the profession of pretense. So you allowed him his pretense, even if it pained you at the prospect of having hurt him.

He had disappeared for a few weeks after Vegas, doing PR – this clip must've been from that junket. He returned for a day, before he had left to shoot his new film for the longest time yet: two months, and counting. Dodger was inconsolable, misery evident in the droop of his ears.

It was strange... Even while filming, Chris had never left Dodger for so long. But you supposed you'd been hired for a reason, and filming must've taken some form of toll on him. Enough to not visit his bud.

You turned your attention back to the interview that had been playing throughout your interaction with the pup and willed yourself to focus.

"–anybody you've had your eye on? Anyone new in your life?"

Chris chuckled, looking down and shuffling in his seat. The question was centered around any romance happening in his life, and by the blush that threatened to creep from his already reddening ears to across his cheeks, you knew that he had been caught.

Caught for what, exactly... The interview now had your full attention, exhaustion exiting your body to be replaced by butterflies that felt as though they were travelling through your very bloodstream.

"Oh, man," he smiled lopsidedly. "Where do I even begin?"

He was trying to avoid the question really, and honestly, you understood why. The rumours that would be spread, you could already see the tabloid headlines the next day. You had to remind yourself that this was an old interview.

"Well, according to our producers, the female viewership on the show skyrockets by 48% everytime you're on, so you need to give me something here. Before they come at me with pitchforks," Fallon laughed.

"Well, there is one. We're close, practically living together, but... I don't know. I don't want to risk it, in case, you know... It ruins things. And that's what she's scared of, which I understand. I just hope she gives it a chance. Fingers crossed."

There was a collective "awww" from the audience and the interview very quickly moved on to publicity for his most recent film, but the blood that was suddenly rushing in your ears drowned it out.

Your breath stuttered, your heart hammered in your chest. Your cheeks ached from the smile that seemed to be stuck there, the moment he had told Fallon.

Some part of you scolded you for thinking that Chris was speaking of you, but it was just too coincidental. What he had said, it applied, right? It was applicable to your situation. Directly. There was room for error, but that was practically minuscule. Dodger shifted in his sleep, almost to punctuate your point.

All rational thought of your previous fears disintegrated with that near absolute admission of his feelings.

You tapped on the icon for messages, and typed out a quick response to your friend so she'd know you'd checked it out. It was a non-committal response, neither denying nor fully accepting what she was implying.

On a whim, you checked the text chain you had with Chris. It wasn't a particularly thrilling text chain, very short and quick replies from when he had a free moment on set, interlaced with heart meltingly adorable pics you managed to grab of Dodger. But upon a quick scroll back, one message caught your eye, dating back a week. One that you hadn't thought much of when you first received it, but that now held so much more meaning.

We wrap in a week, I have something to tell you when I get back

You had expected it to be another film role he'd been going for, or maybe a new Broadway show.

You'd let yourself dream, but never let yourself hope. There was too much at stake. First and foremost, he was your friend, and you'd do anything to not ruin it. Anything but kiss him.

But that night, you dreamed.

And that morning, you hoped.

Maybe that's what had you finding out his flight details from his agent, promising a non-life threatening surprise (he had heard about the incident with the baseball bat, and was more than relieved to hear that you were taking initiative in actively not breaking his client's face – as he reiterated a thousand times over "his face pays the rent! HIS FACE IS WORTH YOUR HOUSE!"), and maybe that's what had you stood there, stomach twisted in knots as you waited.

And then you saw him.

And you were simultaneously utterly calm yet filled with butterflies – a refreshing change from the dull ache you had come to grow accustomed to when looking at him.

What you did next surprised even you.

Breaking free from the rest of the eagerly waiting crowd, you sprinted to him and flung yourself into his arms. They wrapped around you, almost as if he was expecting it, expecting you. He lifted you up and spun you around, his laughter vibrating through his whole body and working its way into yours. Your legs wrapped around his waist as you clung to him, and he chuckled breathlessly in surprise.

"Hey, you," he smiled softly down at you when he'd set you on your feet.

"Hey yourself."

And then you noticed her. You had been so happy to see him, that you didn't see her at first. But now you did. You noticed the woman next to him – the one with her own suitcase, the one watching your display of affection with amusement, the one with a beautiful (in every sense of the word) smile etched on her perfect features.

"{Your name}, this is Lily." Chris slung an affectionate arm over Lily's shoulder, pulling her slightly closer to him. He was still smiling from your surprise greeting, but when he looked at her, the smile shifted into something else. Something more. Something that crushed the hope from your lungs. "My girlfriend."

He had said it himself, that night at Vulpecula: you can't compete where you don't compare, and the fact of the matter was, you simply could not begin to compare to a girlfriend. Particularly one such as Lily.

Pretending to be overwhelmingly happy came easy, if not a little forced, and maybe if they weren't so lovesick, they would have have noticed just how pathetic your attempt was. But they didn't notice, and so you threw your arms around Lily in an excited hug. We are in the profession of pretence, after all. "So lovely to meet you!"

You almost kicked yourself. It sounded nothing like you, your voice strained and pitched a little too high. Red flushed your cheeks, but they didn't notice.

"Lily, this is {your name}. My roommate."

Roommate. Ouch. Pretending it didn't hurt when he called you roommate, not even friend, came a little harder. Chris was the actor in your friendship, it was clear enough to see now.

"Welcome to our home," you managed to get out, voice still strangled. You quickly corrected yourself: "His home. His home that I live in when he's not home."

In an effort to busy yourself and extricate yourself from the growing one-sided awkwardness of the situation, you helped Lily with her bags, leading the couple to where the car was parked.

They regaled you along the way with how they met – living together in the same hotel, meeting in the bar downstairs one night, the park dates they took.

When you asked when, the answer had your hands clenching half moons into your palms, a wave of nausea crashing over you like an icy ocean wave. Two months. Two months, and suddenly, that interview made sense.

The entire drive home, you thanked your lucky stars that you hadn't done something stupid.

Something so incredibly stupid, like hoped.

#chris evans #chris evans/you #chris evans fanfic #chris evans x you #chris evans x reader #chris evans/reader #chris evans angst #chrie evans fluff #dina writes #ocean eyes

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