12 Days of Christmas || Seb and Chris One Shots

A Christmas Secret || Chris Evans

On the fourth prompt of Christmas, we proudly give to thee... Chris playing piano.

The room is full of people that wouldn't give you a second glance. Those who look at the tray and not the person behind it, don't even mutter a thank you, as if you're not even there. Invisible to those drinking the night away.

There are a pair of eyes on you though. Blue ones. Slightly hooded from the drink, a toothpick from somewhere balancing on his bottom lip. You look around, trying to spot any canapés he could have snatched it from. You can imagine the wood splintering as he chews, scratching slightly at his mouth.

You don't see any, eyes drawn to a couple of men hovering around a tray of champagne, one louder than the other. Like teenagers, sharing whispers and laughing at secrets. You knew them, but they didn't know you. Recognised you from previous events, sure, polite enough to say please and thank you and tipped pretty well at the end of an evening, too.

Them, you liked.

"Good evening." You recognise the voice in an instant and it steals the ability for you to do anything considered normal. Breath stopping short of your mouth, drying at your throat. You try to smile but think it's more of a pout.

Lost to the indigo shine of his suit, following the shape of his black lapels as they're tight to his chest, framing a white shirt. The entire look finished with a tie pulled tight into a bow and a pocket square with a curled point.

"Hey, uh, hello. Sir." You think he can hear your heart beat against your chest or at least it's all you can hear.

You watch him almost curl a finger into his mouth, the tip soothing his lip as another is stretched towards his ear. His beard shaped perfectly, trimmed at his neck and any strays at his cheeks gone.

"What do you have?" Chris Evans asks but he's not looking at the food.

"Oh, there are, uh, these are Pea and Mint Croustades." You just about manage, tripping over your words as if you'd never spoken.

"Are they nice?"

"I'm not sure, sir. No one's hardly touched them."

"More for me, then."

His hand hovers slightly at your waist, fingers ghosting at the stiffness of your shirt. The fabric moving slightly, enough for it to tickle at skin and your breath skips, heart even louder now.

He smiles at you but you only see darkness. Stormy eyes shadowed by long almost black lashes. Freckles like dots of ink at the bridge of his nose, disappearing under the thick beard of brown once they've marked his cheeks.

Then he's lost to the crowd of people and you're back to holding a tray of food no one wants to eat. Too busy catching up with friends, celebrating one of Marvel's many anniversaries. A Christmas reunion.

You see him watching you sometimes, eating other people's canapés and licking at his lips when he's done. Even when you force your own eyes away, flashing a smile to someone who's close enough to try what you have to offer, his gaze is fixed solely on you.

He comes by again after socialising, fingers tapping at the glass of his flute as he speaks. Like there was somewhere he'd rather be, would prefer to talk to someone else entirely.

"These still the same?"

"Yes, sir." His jaw clenched at the title, eyes twitching slightly. "I can see what else we might have in the kitchen."

"I wouldn't want to trouble you."

"It's no trouble." You smile, turning to walk away from him. Moving through the crowds of people as if you weren't there. Invisible to everyone but him.