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chapter four
THE MAN BEHIND
THE SHIELD
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THE SCENT OF ROASTING coffee beans fills the café, perking Ceres up more than an actual mug of the stuff ever could. An easygoing jazz playlist streams from the speakers— low enough to not be too distracting, but still slightly audible over the indistinct chatter from the customers at their tables.

The day has been unexpectedly busy. Ceres isn't supposed to be working today, but she'd agreed to come in for an eight a.m. shift to cover for an ill coworker. She'd gotten home from bartending at almost five. Somehow, she's not as tired as she should be, for it seems that the two hours of sleep she'd gotten after working at the bar last night had acted as a power nap.

She's definitely more awake than Jada, who almost falls asleep standing up. The teenager jolts awake when the coffee machine beeps to signal a pot has been filled. She rubs at her drooping eyes and starts filling a ceramic mug with the rich, brown liquid— their strongest brew.

Ceres wrinkles her nose when Jada takes a sip without adding anything to the beverage. Jada's brown face contorts in disgust as well, but she swallows without spitting it out into the sink. It's a trick she's always used to keep herself alert. Even if a single sip isn't enough to shock her brain awake with caffeine, the strong and bitter taste definitely is.

"It's disgusting," Jada states with a wistful stare at the container of sugar. "Perfect."

Even if she'd been at risk of falling asleep on her feet like Jada had been, there's no way that Ceres isn't taking her coffee without a generous amount of creamer and sugar. Sometimes she'll treat herself to a bit of foam with cinnamon sprinkled on top. Maybe it's because she'd once seen Ilyas try to do what Jada had just done and then he'd immediately thrown up, but she's never had any desire to try that tactic— no matter how many times Jada has sworn by it.

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" Ceres asks as she menially stacks ceramic mugs.

"School doesn't start until after Labor Day," Jada reminds her. "Has it really been that long since you graduated that you don't remember?"

Ceres deflects the question of time by telling the truth. "I didn't go to school in the U.S. I finished all of it in Nepal."

Jada looks surprised for a moment. Ceres doesn't reveal too much about her personal life— mostly because, once you start putting the pieces together, it doesn't make sense for a typical timeline. This sliver of honesty is a treat that's rare enough for Jada to soak up earnestly. She pauses with the plain coffee inches from her lips, clearly weighing on whether or not she should prod further.

"When did you move here?" she questions hesitantly. Her voice is the complete opposite of the teasing tone she'd taken on earlier, now replaced with a careful, soft edge like she's treading on broken glass.

"In my twenties," Ceres replies vaguely.

"But aren't you still in your twenties?"

The older woman gives her a sly smile. "Didn't anyone tell you not to ask a lady her age?"

Jada's expression turns sheepish, realizing her curiosity has gotten the better of her again. She averts her gaze and mutters, "Sorry," before taking a long sip of her drink.

The bell above the door jingles, signaling the arrival of a customer and the end of the short break from the chaos that has dominated the coffee shop today. Both of them turn toward it. Jada chokes on her coffee and breaks out into a coughing fit while Ceres's insides do an acrobatic leap at the sight of Steve Rogers returning to the shop.

Think Coffee isn't a very well-known location, tucked between a bookstore and a pharmacy, so they usually float by thanks to their loyal regulars and the occasional influx of customers when the café gets media attention for being cute, quaint, and serving delicious food and drinks. She'd expected Steve to be many of the one-time customers she encounters in a day; most being people whose usual coffee shop had too long of a line or who were just passing by the area.

"Never mind about being tired," Jada says once she recovers, setting her mug onto the counter. "I'm wide awake."

Ceres wonders if the girl realizes that the area around their station isn't soundproof and that Steve can probably hear her. Nevertheless, she ignores Jada's too-wide smile and steps up to the register. "Hi again. What can I get for you?"

"Actually, I... just wanted to talk to you," Steve admits, briefly turning his gaze toward his shoes.

Jada's elbow digs into Ceres's ribs. If she keeps doing that, there's going to be a permanent bruise there.

Ceres plants her hands on the shorter girl's shoulders and hisses, "Go clean up table four— they just left," before turning back to Steve and plastering a neutral expression onto her face. "Oh? Was the order wrong? I can issue a refund—"

"No, no," he quickly cuts in, his ice-blue eyes almost wide at the suggestion that she'd done anything incorrectly. "No, the coffee was great, thank you. I, uh... I just wanted to apologize for staring. I realized it as soon as I walked out the door. You were there the day the Chitauri invaded, weren't you? In Midtown?"

Ceres briefly wracks her brain to see if she recognizes the name Chitauri from her encounters with time-travel and aliens, but it doesn't ring any bells. The memory of those vile creatures churns her gut. She remembers how the flesh of the one she'd melted had reeked, the scent invading her nostrils even months later, causing her nose to scrunch.

"Yeah," she answers. Her eyes flicker to his face. He wears an expression of understanding, like he knows why her eyes had just gone distant. This is a man out of time; of course he knows what it's like to find himself momentarily trapped in the past. "Thank you, by the way. For saving me. I wanted to say something before, but I know the mention of that battle must be hard for you."

Ceres would've survived the chunk of concrete that had nearly crushed her, but he doesn't know that, and to not express thanks would come across as callous. The last thing she wants is to seem ungrateful for him doing his job.

"Of course," Steve says, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. It's a smirk that seems almost boyish and out-of-place on such a muscular man. "Were you okay? Any serious injuries?"

Ceres shakes her head. "I was fine." Her reply must've been too quick because a crease has formed between his brows, so she quickly rectifies it by adding, "Thanks to you."

She observes several things at that moment. One, Steve glances down at his shoes for the third time since their conversation began. It's almost like he's nervous, but that goes against everything she'd witnessed during the battle— when he'd radiated confidence and authority as he directed her away from the thick of the carnage. Two, the tips of his ears look... pink? This is not a man used to receiving compliments. He seems almost... embarrassed.

"Let me make you a coffee," Ceres offers.

"I don't want to be any trouble—" Steve starts, but she shakes his head before he can finish the thought.

"It's on the house. Large Americano, right?"

The man briefly hesitates with his mouth partially open like he wants to object but can't find a respectful way to do so when Ceres is already grabbing the cup. He eventually gives in with a nod. When Ceres looks up from where she jots the order down, she notices Jada giving them a heart symbol over her head with her hands. She waves the girl away, causing Steve to turn around to see what she's motioning toward, but Jada has already tried (and failed) to act natural.

"Be right back," Ceres says before Steve can question what just happened.

Mentally cursing Jada (and then immediately feeling guilty for doing so to a seventeen-year-old), she starts on the Americano by muscle memory. Speaking to Steve Rogers feels different than speaking to Captain America. As Cap, he seems larger than life, a super soldier, a legend. But here, in the coffee shop, he's blushing after a simple thank-you from someone he'd helped.

He's already surprising her. Ceres finds herself wishing to learn more about the man behind the shield, to peer behind what the media paints him as and see who he really is. Did he like Americanos back in the 40s? Did they even exist back then? Ceres had been too young to drink coffee, nor did she live in the States yet, so she wouldn't know. Why does he not think he deserves words of gratitude?

She finishes the order in record time and slides the coffee to him, complete with a chocolate croissant on a small plate. It looks dwarfed in his large hands when he takes the plate and mug.

"Thank you..." His eyes drift to the name tag on her apron. "Ceres."

Jada gestures for Steve to sit at the table she'd just finished cleaning. When he gives her a polite nod and accepts the seat, she has a moment of panic and doesn't know how to respond, so she bows and then immediately sprints behind the counter, ducking under the coffee machine with her knees pulled up to her chest.

"I can't believe I just bowed to Captain America," she says, her brown eyes wide. "Do you think he noticed?"

Ceres's gaze flickers to the blond man. He seems amused as he takes a bite of the croissant and digs through a bag that she hadn't even noticed he'd been carrying. Pulling out what looks like a notebook, a pencil, and an eraser, he sets the items on the table and gets to work while munching on the pastry.

"I think he thought it was funny," Ceres assures her.

Jada buries her face into her knees so her curly ponytail brushes the machine, groaning, "Just let me die here. I can never show my face again."

"Don't be so dramatic," Ceres says, grabbing the teenager's arm and hauling her to her feet, though Jada tries to stop her by pulling down her dead weight. "You're going to make old Mrs. Ruby live the rest of her days without the special brew you make her?"

Jada kicks at a stray ice cube with her worn-out sneakers. "No."

"That's what I thought. You can live to see another day."

The younger girl rubs at the spot where Ceres had held her wrist and pulled her up with a single forearm. "You're stronger than you look."

Ceres pretends she hadn't heard. Superhuman strength isn't on her list of abilities, but her years of world-saving with the X-Men had kept her more physically fit than the average person, even if she hasn't been in-action for over a decade.

There's a lull that allows them to shift priorities. Jada holds her own behind the counter, cleaning equipment and fulfilling orders, while Ceres flutters around the small dining area to collect empty dishes. Her years of experience allow her to gracefully carry precariously stacked plates and mugs with ease. She pauses near Steve's table and eyes his vacant dishes.

"Can I take these out of your way?" she asks, gesturing toward them with her free hand.

Steve looks up from his paper with a slight start as if he'd been so focused on his work that he hadn't noticed her approach. Now that she's closer, Ceres can see that it's a sketchpad. He's been adding touches to a half-finished drawing of Central Park. It's different from the one she knows. This sketch depicts a run-down version of the historical site, littered with dust patches surrounding tufts of dying grass and rusted ironwork.

"Yes, thank you," he replies, handing his empty mug and plate to Ceres. She adds them to her growing stack.

"You're a fantastic artist," Ceres tells him earnestly. "That's Central Park, right?"

Steve nods, and again, his pale cheeks turn florid at the compliment. "Yeah, or at least how I remember it. It was in much worse shape back then." A chasm forms between his brows as he regards his pencil sketch. She can see the moment that flashbacks cloud his vision, turning his drawing into a real-life image through his eyes. "A lot has changed."

She nods even if he doesn't see it. Thanks to her curse, she knows that firsthand. But it's not like she can just tell him that she was cursed by a witch and has been stuck in her 27-year-old self's body for the past 47 years, so she holds her tongue.

"Have you always liked drawing?" Ceres questions instead.

Steve repeats his earlier nod and blinks, his gaze clearing as his mind is redirected to the present. "Ever since I was a kid. I was always sick, so I couldn't go outside with the other boys my age. There wasn't much else to do... you know, no... internet."

He says the last word carefully like he's afraid of mispronouncing it. The term is clearly still foreign on his tongue, and Ceres can't blame him. She can't imagine waking up one day and learning that most people carry the world in a small device that fits in their pocket. She considers herself lucky that she'd lived through those rapid advances in technology.

"Hey, if it makes you feel any better, that's a pretty recent thing," she tells him, shifting her grip on the dishes. "I didn't grow up with the world wide web at my fingertips like it is now. But you seem like a quick learner— you'll catch up to speed on things just fine."

"I hope so." Steve gives her one of his infamous lopsided grins. "You're easy to talk to. Most people only care about what makes me Captain America; I haven't talked about my childhood since... well, since the forties."

Ceres returns his smile. "Well, I'm very interested in what makes you Steve Rogers."

"I could tell you more, but I'm afraid I don't have enough money to keep buying coffees."

"What if I say your only form of payment can be a conversation during my lunch break?"

Steve quickly shakes his head. "No, I couldn't take advantage of a small business like that."

"It's fine, I promise." She's already planning ways to borrow Ilyas's leftover cash. Or maybe take is the correct word. Not that he would mind or even notice— as long as he has enough to keep a steady supply of alcohol, cat food, and those atrocious cigarettes, he'll be fine. "Or I could even give you a senior discount."

He huffs a laugh at the reminder of his old age, his shoulders releasing some of their tension. "Alright. But I still get to leave a tip."

"Deal." Ceres holds out a hand. Steve shakes it, and that's it. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Rogers."

"You can just call me Steve."

"Okay, Steve. My lunch breaks are usually at twelve-thirty— make sure you arrive ready for coffee and a croissant."

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As the rubbing alcohol causes shivers to erupt down her spine from the coldness of the liquid, Ceres begins to wonder if this was a bad idea.

"Stop moving," Ilyas says as he tosses out the cloth. "I thought you'd be chill for this."

"I'm trying," she argues through gritted teeth. "I'm just nervous."

Ilyas picks up a disposable razor and starts shaving the fine hairs on her chest, his brow furrowed in concentration and a section of black hair falling into his face. "Well stop being nervous. I've been a tattoo artist for twenty-eight years. You really think I'm going to mess up?"

Ceres bites the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from admitting her actual fear— that he's going to draw some obscene image on her skin in permanent ink instead of what she's asking for. She would not be surprised if she looked down and saw a penis once it was complete.

Because after all she's been through, she's definitely not afraid of a tattoo gun, and she refuses to let Ilyas assume so and make fun of her for it. She's perfectly fine with needles. It's just the person that's holding the needle that a tiny bit of her doesn't trust.

Ilyas seems to notice her fidgeting, because he stops the preparation process and leans an elbow on the black leather chair with a sigh. "Cer, come on. I'm not going to mess it up or write 'I love Magneto' on your skin. I'm glad that you asked me to do this, and I hope you know that I'm living vicariously through you right now."

The rare sliver of sincerity leaves Ceres touched. It's true that she wouldn't trust anyone other than Ilyas to give her a tattoo. If he messes up, he can heal the mistake in seconds. But it's not like he would mess up; he hasn't made a single error the entire time he's had this job. It's part of what makes him such a successful artist. That, and also the fact that people want to go to him since he's a mutant and well-established in the tattoo industry.

The irony is that Ilyas himself doesn't have any tattoos. He can't have them— his skin cells regenerate too quickly, causing any design to disappear within moments. It's the same with piercings or any other body-altering process. Instead, he has to make a living giving others the things he'll never be able to get himself.

"Alright," Ilyas says, grabbing the stencil paper. "Show me your boobs."

Ceres rolls her eyes and removes her tank top, leaving her in just her black bra, which she also unclasps and sets aside. She doesn't feel a shred of embarrassment. She and Ilyas have been through hell and back together, and after being roommates for so long, there's nothing they haven't already seen. Most things others might consider lewd have lost their novelty. Plus, they're the only ones in Ilyas's tattoo parlor considering it's after-hours, so she doesn't have to worry about anyone walking in and seeing her topless.

Ilyas dampens the skin just below her breasts with a cloth and then sticks the transfer paper onto her chest. When he peels it off, there's a purple-blue image of a sun there, its circle hollow and with geometric rays peeking out from it.

"Ready?" he asks.

Ceres opens her mouth to respond, but Ilyas starts his tracework before she can make a sound. It starts as a sharp sting that zaps along her nerves down to her feet and back up again. Since there isn't much fat in the area to ease the pain, it's enough to make her wince and look somewhere else for a distraction.

She settles on the silver moon pendant that's dangling around Ilyas's neck. It matches Ceres's sun necklace, a cheesy yet meaningful sign that they're in this together— "this" meaning "life." Life and all its challenges, all of its brightest moments, and all of its darkest. All of the moments where Ilyas makes Ceres want to punch him. All of the moments where Ceres makes Ilyas want to set the apartment on fire. They may argue, but they'll always come back to one another.

Plus, the necklaces were made by Erik Lehnsherr himself after he'd owed them a favor, and since they were created by a man who can manipulate metal with just a thought, they'll never break or rust. Just like Ceres and Ilyas themselves, their pendants will withstand the tests of time.

"Alright, the curve of the dick is almost done."

"Ilyas."

He knows exactly how to ruin a moment, even if he doesn't realize it's happening. Maybe it's one of his powers and she doesn't know about it. That would explain a multitude of things throughout the decades.

The stinging pain has gotten easier to tolerate the longer the needle touches her skin. Now it's just a minor discomfort, a small series of pricks on her chest that leave her entire body tense. Her muscles have begun to ache from how tightly she's been clenching them.

"Just kidding. I'm done with the line work, and it's actually a ballsack."

"I will beat you with your own tattoo gun," Ceres threatens with narrowed eyes.

"Good thing I'll just heal." Ilyas smirks and begins filling in the rays of the sun with ink.

They spend the rest of the process in silence except for the classic rock playing from the speakers in the tattoo parlor. Ilyas's private room is small, making the music seem louder, electric guitars and heavy drums filling her ears. AC/DC's "Back in Black" distracts her as she sings the rest of the song in her head. It's strange to remember when that song was released, and now it's a classic.

The tattoo isn't large, and luckily, she's not getting the entire circle filled in, so it doesn't take long for him to finish. Soon the buzzing of the tattoo gun that she'd learned to drown out becomes absent when he clicks it off. Ceres blinks and glances down at the mark on her lower chest. The black ink is slightly rimmed by red skin, irritated from the needle pricking into it, but the design is absolutely beautiful. It's perfectly simple like Ceres had wanted and yet stunning.

She'd chosen a sun for multiple reasons. The first is obvious: because of her solar manipulation powers. The celestial being is a part of everything she does, its rays living inside of her as entwined with her body as the blood running through her veins. Second, she'd wanted it as a reminder. The sun will always rise. No matter how dark it gets, either in the world or in her own head, there will always be another day. Another opportunity to push forward and make things better.

"It's perfect," she breathes, slightly in awe of the fact that she'd actually let him tattoo her skin.

"Of course it is— I did it." Ilyas applies ointment to the fresh tattoo before beginning to dress it with bandages and tape. "I'll tell you when you can take these off, and then you have to wash it with some antibacterial soap. We sell a tattoo aftercare salve that I can swipe for you. The only thing you don't have to worry about is it fading from the sun."

Ceres huffs a laugh. "I was worried you were going to tell me to put on some sunblock."

"Hey, most of this is repetitive because I tell it to my clients every day, but I'm not that dumb."

They share a grin. It's times like these when Ceres is glad that Charles had shoved them together for all eternity— like the sun and the moon, they'll always be around.

______

a/n:

i am in love with ceres's tiddy tattoo and i will shout that to the ends of the earth. here is what it looks like:

HAWT

the steve and ceres friendship has officially begun!! don't you just love when they're acquaintances <<3333

also, i have given jada her own section in the pinterest board for this series because she's fantastic and i love her. writing her character is so much fun and i hope you guys like her, too!!

as always, thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed the chapter💛💛

—kristyn

gorgeous beautiful spectacular amazing breathtaking brilliant gif banner by vividparacosm 💛🤍 be prepared to see it at the end of every chapter even though it's already in the intro because it's so GOOD

( word count: 4.0k )