Chapter Text
Natasha was struggling. She glared at the flowers on display as if they had personally offended her.
Sunlight seeped through the shop’s large windows, making Natasha squint. She was glad for the old woman, a few steps over, who took her time in choosing several potted succulents and kept the shop owner busy. It gave Natasha time to overanalyze on her own.
Would it be weird to bring flowers to a friend? Is that what she wants you to be? A friend?
Natasha didn’t know the answer to any of these questions. Worse yet, she wasn’t sure what flowers to pick.
You had mentioned that lilies were your favorite. Just a couple of weeks ago, when you were each holding an ice cream and taking Brooklyn for a walk in the park. You had pointed out the white and pink flowers to Natasha, explaining excitedly that they could be found in many other colors. Natasha listened intently, nodding along and storing the new information about you like a prized possession.
And today, was your birthday.
Natasha had never bought a birthday gift before, or any proper gift for that matter. She remembered empty present boxes under a fake Christmas tree and a pretend family. She had given Clint a bottle of vodka once, a day after Thanksgiving. Not much else.
But still she wished to buy something for you today. Natasha felt a foreign warmth blossom in her chest when she thought of making you a little happier with a surprise.
She extended a hand, picking up a single pale pink lily. Its petals were long and flecked with darker spots—a beautiful flower.
After a beat or two of debate, with the other plants of the flower shop looming over her in anticipation, Natasha decided that it suited you.
She walked out of the shop with a six-flower bouquet in her hands. The lilies were carefully wrapped with a red ribbon Natasha had personally chosen. Her heart pounded anxiously, and despite it, a lingering smile played on the redhead’s lips; a giddy thing that crinkled the corners of her eyes as the anticipation stirred in her stomach.
Just short of reaching her apartment complex, Natasha passed by a store she hadn’t noticed before. The colorful sign just above the glass doors caught her eye. It read Marnie’s hand-knit plushies.
Natasha tilted her head and furrowed her brows as she stared. She had memorized the layout of her street; this was new.
Curiosity got the best of her, and since it was still early in the afternoon, she pushed open the doors. The place smelled of strawberries and had a welcoming warmth to it—even if Natasha felt entirely out of place among the kids dragging their mothers through the newly opened store.
A kind-looking woman with greying curly hair and glasses resting low on her nose stood by the counter. She had a fond smile on her lips, and Natasha presumed this was Marnie.
Holding your flowers close to her chest, Natasha wandered further into the store. Her black leather jacket and Dr. Martens stood out amidst pastel colored plushies and children’s laughter.
She felt like she’d stepped into a memory she never had.
Natasha shook her head, feeling silly for wandering into the store, and decided she should leave immediately. She wasn’t made for soft things.
That is, until, just as she was about to push open the glass doors again, her eyes landed on a plushie sitting by itself on the corner of a shelf. Black yarn formed its body, a small tongue lolled out of its mouth, and one of its ears flopped to the side.
Perfect.
»»——⧗——««
The elevator doors slid open. Natasha was greeted by the familiar yellow light of the hallway and the distant sound of the TV from the old lady across the hall, whom she always forgot the name of.
It took some self-encouragement for Natasha’s feet to move, to carry her to you. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so apprehensive; you were, after all, not a stranger anymore. Dare she say, much on the contrary.
Natasha felt a warmth creep into her cheeks at the fleeting thought of being someone intimate with you.
She held the bouquet in one hand and a blue and pink paper bag in the other.
Fighting aliens had her less anxious than the probability of her chosen gifts being a total failure.
Nonetheless, Natasha hooked the paper bag around her wrist and raised her knuckles to the wood.
She hadn’t even finished knocking on your apartment door, and you were already pulling it open for her.
“Natasha!” You greeted her with the enthusiasm only you could have. You had a kitchen rag slung over your shoulder and a wide smile stretching your lips.
Your house smelled of chocolate and scented candles. The familiar fairy lights hung in the living room made Natasha’s heart skip a beat. Sometimes your home felt more like home than her own.
“Were you waiting for me?” Natasha raised a brow at you, her voice dropping to something sultry and teasing, like she wasn’t holding a bouquet she spent way too long picking out.
You rolled your eyes halfheartedly, smile turning bashful. “Of course, get in.”
She did so obediently, and you closed the door behind her. Natasha didn’t know how to feel about you being so certain she would come to see you today. Being predictable was a dangerous thing. But then again, so were you and everything you made her feel.
Natasha cleared her throat; her hand holding the bouquet became slick with perspiration. She wasn’t good at this, not one bit. “Happy… Birthday.” It sounded almost like a question as she extended the carefully chosen flowers and the paper bag to you.
A breathless chuckle escaped you, and Natasha hoped it was a good thing. And maybe it was, because you were looking at her as if she’d hung the moon in the sky. Eyes all soft and unguarded. “You… got me a gift?”
Natasha’s lips hovered open for a moment. She shrugged gently. “Yeah-” she hesitated for a beat, afraid of what her heart might spill. “-You deserve it.”
Your fingers brushed hers as you took the gifts. You looked at the lilies as if Natasha had just gotten down on one knee and given you a ring. You traced a soft petal with your thumb. “You remembered.” It was a whisper, more to yourself than to her.
Instantly, Natasha felt her cheeks go aflame. She glanced down at her boots with a lighthearted scoff. “I have a good memory.” She tried to play it cool and failed. Her voice dripped with barely hidden affection.
Next, you opened the paper bag. Natasha held her breath as you pulled out the plushie she’d bought. She gripped the ends of her jacket and felt silly for being so excited just to see your reaction.
Your chin dropped in excitement and surprise as soon as you saw it. “Oh my god!” With comically wide eyes, you glanced between Natasha and the hand-knit dog that resembled Brooklyn to an almost perfect degree. “No way!”
Natasha chuckled, her smile becoming as soft as you made her feel. “I know, right?” She exhaled, feeling privileged for being the cause of your happiness. She could get used to it.
“Brooklyn,” you called, and the dog got up from his bed in the living room, prancing over with his long legs and tousled black fur.
“Look, baby, it’s you.” You crouched down, allowing him to smell the plushie. His dark nose poked the fabric curiously.
A high-pitched “aww” escaped your lips when Brooklyn wagged his tail approvingly. You scratched behind his ear and placed a quick kiss on his damp nose.
You stood up suddenly then, holding both the flowers and the plushie in one hand, while throwing the other around Natasha’s shoulders and pulling her into a hug.
It came as a surprise, and Natasha had to bite back a gasp. She found herself being pressed against you, smelling your perfume and feeling the warmth of your body against hers.
Your grip on her was tight and decisive. You nuzzled against her shoulder.
“Thank you, Nat. I loved it so much.”
You spoke near her ear, tender voice sending instant shivers down Natasha’s spine. Slowly, she brought her arms around you, hands pressing on your shoulder blades and keeping you close to her.
“You deserve the best day,” Natasha whispered easily. She meant every word.
You pulled back with a smile, brushing your touch down her arm until you laced your fingers with Natasha’s. “I was just about to bake chocolate cookies. Would be much quicker if we did it together,” you shrugged, cheeks reddening. “We can choose a movie to watch later.”
Natasha felt her stomach drop, cold shivers raising the hairs at the back of her neck. “I- I don't…” She tried coming up with an excuse on the spot, but the way your smile began to fall filled her with guilt. She settled for the truth; “I can’t cook.”
There was an unreadable expression on your face, brows pulled together gently.
“I never learned, I mean.” Natasha fidgeted with your fingers, keeping her gaze on your joined hands. “Never got the chance to.”
You let go of her hand, and Natasha almost panicked. Until she felt your touch under her chin, raising her gaze so her eyes would meet yours again.
Your lips were cherry red, Natasha noticed. It wasn’t often you used lipstick, but it suited you. Natasha wondered, in the back of her mind, how many kisses it would take for the color to fade.
She caught herself a little too late. You’d noticed her half-lidded eyes locked on your mouth, noticed how she fell forward just the tiniest bit.
Your thumb brushed the side of Natasha’s mouth in an invitation you knew, deep down, that she wouldn’t take.
“It’s alright,” you promised, voice all low and intimate. “I can teach you, we’ll do it together.”
»»——⧗——««
Flour, brown sugar, and chocolate chips made a mess of your kitchen. It was a more chaotic picture than what it normally became whenever you decided to play baker, but you didn’t mind it in the slightest.
Dirty bowls were piling up on your sink, and spilled flour decorated your countertops. Brooklyn lay on the kitchen floor, his tail wagging nonstop, and the dark fur around his muzzle stained with cookie dough.
An old radio, courtesy of your grandmother, rested by the open window and brought the melody of Golden Brown to your apartment.
You had tasked Natasha with mixing the ingredients while you put the measured cups of flour, baking soda, and brown sugar into the bowl. She looked at you with a gaze that read excitement and insecurity in equal measures.
You admired Natasha so much, sometimes you forgot she was just human.
Right here, standing in the middle of your kitchen, with a flour stain across her cheek, holding a bowl full of cookie dough in her arms, and with her waist swaying side by side following the song’s melody, Natasha looked like something from a pretty dream.
There was a vulnerability, an easiness, in her that you had seen very few times before. Her walls were wholly down for once. For you.
She caught you staring, you knew. Because she glanced up at you, and her smile turned into a teasing smirk.
But you didn’t care, because the sun coming through the window caught her hair just right, and she had a twinkle in her eyes that felt hypnotizing.
There are moments that you know you’re going to miss while you’re still living them. And this was one of them.
“So, what now?” Natasha asked with poorly contained excitement. This was a big deal for her; she’d never made cookies before.
Sharing this first time with her was the best birthday gift for you.
“Now, we put them in a pan.” You took a pan from the cabinet, applied the non-sticking spray, and bumped your shoulder into Natasha’s as you stood beside her.
The domesticity of it all felt precious when you had her by your side. “Take a spoonful of the dough and shape the cookies how you want.”
Natasha had a concentrated furrow to her brows as she carefully put the cookies in the pan. She sometimes bit her tongue as she adjusted the circular shape of a cookie.
Your heart tried to leap out of your chest as you stared at her. You held a spoon too, intent on helping her, but found yourself frozen, caught in a trance.
Your gaze followed the outline of her profile, her nose, her lips as they were kissed by the sun, the glint of her earrings.
Now you realized, as you gazed upon her, this is the kind of beauty that poets write so much about.
In the mundane and simple—walks in the park, watching movies together, baking cookies—Natasha became someone who infatuated you.
You didn’t fall for the spy, the assassin, or the Avenger. You fell for the woman who made the simple become extraordinary.
A strand of her red hair escaped from behind her ear and caught on her eyelashes. Natasha mumbled something in Russian under her breath. Her hands were busy.
You reached over like it was second nature. Your fingers brushed her cheek, and Natasha went suddenly still under your touch.
Slow and tender, you pushed her hair back behind her ear.
She gulped. You saw the heavy movement of her throat. Natasha shifted her gaze to you, her breath shallow and all too aware of how close you were standing.
“See? I told you we could do it together,” you expressed in a breath, a dreamy smile catching on your lips.
A shaky, soft chuckle escaped Natasha. She hesitated, and then, “You did most of the work.”
You hummed, shook your head, “Together.”
You held a pause, averting your eyes to the end of Natasha’s braid by her shoulder as your voice changed to something timid; “Thank you for today. I would’ve been alone otherwise.”
You were so close. Warm and present. It wouldn’t take much for Natasha to lean in and-
She closed her eyes, turning her head forward again, away from you. Her heart was loud in her ears.
Natasha opened her eyes and stared down at the perfectly round cookies ready to go in the oven.
She didn’t catch the way you looked at her. The way you gripped the edge of the kitchen counter to keep your love for her from bleeding through the cracks of your composure.
Still, Natasha took your hand in her own. Her thumb brushed your knuckles in what felt like an apology and a confession all the same.
“Always.” She promised.
Your gaze was too gentle, your touch too warm. Your kiss would taste sweeter than brown sugar and chocolate, she knew. Natasha could almost feel it in the specks of sugar stuck on the corner of her lips. A kind of sweet that wasn’t made for someone like her, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise.
If only your sweetness could fix everything that has tainted Natasha’s life, all the sins that follow her like shadows, maybe this wouldn’t need to be the eighth reason not to kiss you.