Chapter Text
Maybe he’s old-fashioned after all. Because it’s late, even by his standards, and he should be asleep.
He pushes the blanket away from him, stabs at it with his legs until it’s a jumbled bunch devoid of form and function. Something about the weight suffocating him. He gets up from the bed, is greeted with darkness as he looks around the room. It’s late. He considers the TV for a moment. Not that he watches TV much anyway. The dead silence of the room is disconcerting and he throws himself back on the bed.
Because it is haunting him. Not how Natasha’s unbelievably soft lips felt on his. Not the way she didn’t even hesitate. Not how close they were, not how her hands felt on his neck. No, what’s haunting him is how readily he kissed her back. What’s haunting him is the deafening emptiness in his ears as the rest of the world seemed to drown out for that brief moment. How terrifying and intense it was. How he felt the moment she pulled back.
He isn’t trying to relive those seconds. He isn’t trying to stifle it out of his mind either. But it’s there, like a broken record playing the same song over and over until he knows the ins and outs of it.
He takes a deep breath, sighs to himself, and forces his eyes shut. They haven’t talked about it since her quip during their escape. It’s not like he can just bring it up. And why will he? Their lives were on the line. She did, they did, whatever needed doing. And she has probably long forgotten the incident.
He reaches for the music player Natasha gifted him, and stays awake listening to songs he doesn’t recognize, at least until Natasha’s devilish charms carry him off into a dreamworld that is far too simple, far too realistic for comfort.
But it’s not the kiss, is it? He wants to blame her. If she hadn’t been so… her. But it isn’t her fault. Somewhere between the gunshots and explosions, and the whole dilemma of what the avengers really are, Natasha has come to mean so much more to him. Much more than he’s willing to admit. Even to himself.
The avengers don’t need Shield. The Stark tower in New York becomes the Avengers tower. The team get back together. Their mission isn’t over. Hydra is still at large. The world is still as much of a mess as it was when they started. So they take it upon themselves to right those wrongs. And then some other. Like they owe the world anything at all. But maybe, that’s how they feel. The years of guilt weighing down on their shoulders, smothering every breath, constraining every beat of the heart. Stark and his legacy. Steve and his war. Banner and the other guy. Thor and his brawls. Clint and his targets. And Natasha. Natasha and a lifetime of mystery concealed behind the steely gaze of her eyes.
It’s a Wednesday. The avengers are back mid-day after tearing apart another one of Hydra’s hideouts. A regular outing, no surprises.
It’s late. The team have all gone back to their little bubbles. New York City is humming along as it always does. It’s one of those things that Steve thinks he can never quite get used to. He looks out at the ocean of lights below him, a thin sheet of extra-hard glass separating him from the chilly air outside.
“What’s keeping you up past your bedtime?”
Steve turns to the familiar voice. Natasha is standing by the door, her hands tucked into the pouch of her hoodie. Even in the dimly lit room, Steve can discern the light smirk playing on her lips.
“I could ask you the same,” he says, and turns back to the window.
Natasha walks over softly, her steps not making a single sound in the silent night, and she sits down on the couch beside him. He doesn’t look away from the window, but he can feel her eyes on him, and he knows she’s trying to read him. She doesn’t say anything for quite a while, leaning back on the couch to join him in gazing outside. He’s beginning to forget she’s even around, when, “You okay?” she asks, and Steve looks at her.
Her expression is guarded, not exactly empty, but a little blank. It makes him want to ask her the same question. Steve shrugs instead, turns his gaze back to the city. She looks at him carefully, like she’s not convinced with his reaction, and Steve shifts in his seat because he knows it. There’s a time for everything. And Natasha, perceptive as she is, knows now is not the time to push him on whatever is on his mind.
“You dance?” she asks then.
“What?” Steve is still trying to catch up with the sudden change in topic.
“Hey, Jarvis. Can you play us something? Surprise me,” she says, and Jarvis nearly immediately starts a song Steve doesn’t recognize. He looks at the hand she’s holding out for him.
“I – I don’t know,” Steve says, struggling to get the words out. “I haven’t danced in a long time, and – we might wake the others,” he adds, and she chuckles.
“Really, Rogers? That’s your excuse?” That is his excuse, because he can’t come up with anything better if she suddenly asks him to dance out of nowhere. He smiles nervously, trying hard to find a way to back it up, and hoping the dim lighting would keep her from seeing the color rising on his cheeks.
“I’m willing to overlook your poor dancing skills, and no-one outside this room can hear us,” she says, and Steve is still hesitating. Natasha smiles, so soft and easy, Steve feels his heart leap for a split second.
“Come on, Cap. The song won’t last forever.” She’s already up, waiting for him to take her hand and lead her out to the open floor. And in a moment of courage overpowering his hesitation, he does exactly that.
They dance, and Natasha is terribly good at it. Not that it surprises Steve, she seems to be good at practically anything and everything. He fumbles more than he wants to, but she doesn’t mention it, so he doesn’t mind. And he thinks she really is enjoying herself. So he tries to do the same.
Steve’s photographic memory isn’t just good for mapping directions or remembering faces. It’s also helpful in remembering the way Natasha’s nose scrunches up just a hint when Clint gets on her nerves. It captures the way she bites back a smirk when she’s teasing Steve, betrayed by the twitch of a cheek when he starts blushing. It remembers the way her gaze focuses and her face changes when they’re knee-deep in a mission. It cements the rare times she smiles so soft in a way that only someone who has smiled rough can. It captures her in a way Steve is certain his sketches never can.
And under the dim light of the room, Steve let’s himself be captivated by her. Lets himself believe, lets himself live. Traces her smile on the canvas of his mind, writes her name over and over until the rest of the world is fading out.
She lets him lead, but really it’s him following her. Her face is calm and content, and Steve is going to take her at face-value. He has come to know Natasha as more than a Shield agent. She’s a friend. And a damn good one too. Even if it is hard to figure out what exactly is going on in her head most times, he knows her well. And yet, she still surprises him. He still wants to know more.
The music slows in tempo gradually, and the two are now moving to a slow rhythm. She has rested her head lightly on his chest, and he is acutely aware of how close they are.
But she’s right. The song won’t last forever.
They hold on for a brief moment after the last notes fade away. Steve steps back as she removes her hand from his shoulder. She still has that easy smile on her face, and Steve mirrors her calm.
“You weren’t too bad, although I do think there are certain areas for improvement,” she says, her smile widening and her voice taking on a mock serious tone.
“I’ll make sure to get in some practice before next time,” he says.
“I look forward to it.” Steve suddenly realizes he said next time, can’t bring himself to counter it, not that he wants to anyway. “Get some sleep, Steve,” she says, gives his hand a gentle squeeze, then turns back to soundlessly leave the room.
And to his small surprise, there is a next time. In fact, there are several next times. Steve doesn’t know who took initiative after that one night. It doesn’t matter. He has something to look forward to after long missions. On empty nights. And when they don’t dance, they sit in each other’s silence. And when they don’t sit in each other’s silence, they talk, about nothing and everything, Natasha makes up way too many inside jokes at his expense. Steve doesn’t mind. And she always, always gives his hand a little squeeze before she leaves, never says goodnight; and he’s always crafting forbidden dreams as he watches her go.
She seems to understand him much more than the other way around. Dancing becomes an outlet for him, an escape even; it’s easier not to worry about what Hydra is up-to, or where his best friend is. He can focus on the song in his ears instead of the echo of gunshots, breathe in her scent instead of the vile trace of blood and metal, and hold Nat close instead of his shield.
Things start to fall into place again. But Steve should know better. Should know by now not to take things for granted.