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The one thing Natasha admires most about Steve is his genuinity.
But that didn't come easy.
After everyone had moved in and gotten settled, at first he was completely avoidant of her. Causal head-on meetings in the hall resulted in a polite head nod, accompanied by a respectful "ma'am". Oh, Natasha thought, he was sweet. But she hated being treated like she was something to be noticed and not confidently counted on, or obtained. No, that had to stop.
And so she did: making complete, irrational head-way into Steve's clock-work morning routine. He was always the first one up just before the thick, smoky clouds of New York broke into dawn—Natasha always groaned and hit her alarm at the very idea of existing this early. It had to be a least 5 am. But the man was relentless, never sleeping in, his strong barefoot walkings by her room in obvious determination not to be heard. Natasha, for the first few days, just did a bit of reconnaissance on the curious solider. She stuck to the corners, the walls, twisting herself around bends and listening carefully to every breath, every mumbled word, and every old tune he whistled. Completely collective in her ability, she never worried about being spotted or seen. In fact, she'd never seen someone look so oblivious in the morning. He seemed to be in his own little world, riddled with long-forgotten jingles and causally sung crooners from someone's great grandfather's old radio…
Soon, she knew where he would be at pretty much any instant of the early morning just by the sound, or lack thereof, his voice. It was a weird quirk—something that Natasha wasn't even sure Steve noticed about himself—but when he was alone, he'd just start to whistle. Then it'd grow into a vibrating hum—and finally, words. It was always low, and pen drop quiet. Sometimes the Auburn haired spy found that her natural, resting intake of breathing to be too loud and she'd miss it. Though, he tended to usually cling to the same song for about a week.
"Have you seen the well-to-do? Up 'nd down Park Avenue…" He sang on Monday, passing her door.
"On that famous thoroughfare, with their noses in the air? High hats and arrowed collars…" Tuesday, reading the paper.
"White spats, and lots of dollars…spending every dime…for a 'wonderful time…" Wednesday, folding laundry.
"Dressed up like a million dollar trouper…" Thursday, whilst jogging along the crowds of Upper Manhattan, as she tagged effortlessly behind.
"Trying hard to look like Gary Cooper…super duper…" Friday, shaving with his straight razor.
In the night, Natasha would pull out her laptop, and causally search in the random bits of lyrics she would hear, just for the fun of it. She was curious by nature. And she loved classic music, so…why not? Often, the search produced nothing—whether the song was too obscure, or Steve had misheard the proper lyrics, she wasn't sure. But when she did find it, it made Steve's voice sound all the more right. All the more…endearing. Natasha nearly recoiled at the idea of getting close to more men; dishonest, droll, sexualizing bastards… it left a bad taste in her mouth. But with Rogers…she couldn't put a finger on it.
Maybe she'd try to get to know him in a different way.
A full week of listening went by whilst Natasha decided to do more than just play her little game of hide and go stalk. She had grown bored—and wanted to test herself. So, one morning, she walked straight out her room, and lay down on the floor next to Steve, completely over-taking his push-ups, crunches, and his reading of the newspaper by inserting herself every step of the way, more persistent than the shadow under his feet. Soon, though often more silent, mutual company, they became so used to each other that Steve often forgot that Natasha was ever a prickly subject for him in the first place. He was never too terribly smooth with women, and just looking into Natasha's strong glances and calculating eyes left his chest feeling tight and cold—the faintest scent of an air-carrier on the deck's breeze that sparked the image of bright red lip stick on another woman's lips, who seemed to disappear just yesterday into his memories, his subconsciousness—that caused him to drop his stare, to pull away…
Natasha never understood why he never spoke directly to her. At least, more than causally. He'd ask how her day was, if she wanted anything to drink before they started stretching. In the heat of battle, anything goes, but in the cool, clear movements and rapid breathing between them, not a word was spoken. It just never needed to be. He'd nod his head expectantly, she's turn her smile into a half wishful, half cautious crescent, and off they'd go with their exercises. Maybe the passive silence was something they both appreciated from time to time when no words really needed to be spoken. This continued for a few weeks before Natasha worried she'd never break the ice.
Oh, maybe she shouldn't phrase it that way.
Now his smile is always the very first she's greeted by in the morning. His soft, sleepy blue eyes that seem to resonate with compassion wholly concerned with how your night went, how your morning is—so unlike Tony, who not only curses the morning, but only cares if you made the coffee yet.
Occasionally, when she didn't have the determined nerve to exert herself to death, she found herself sitting near the edge of the living room…. just listening to him. It wasn't that he had too good of a voice, but it was so completely different than anything she had ever experienced before. It was soft, and slow, and often repeated…but he wasn't that bad, really. She almost laughed at the idea of Captain America, Brave Solider of World War 2 singing in the shower.
"I get a thrill…from being with you dear… though you have fooled me before…" Steve's voice slowly sailed through the air, under his breath, as he stood in the spacious kitchen, he coughed slightly before continuing…"Da—dahh-dah…when you knock on my door…"
Something finally clicked in her groggy, morning mashed brain. That was it!
"You like to sing, huh?" Natasha's voice slid through the quiet air that same morning as she was eavesdropping, causing Steve to nearly bang his head on the stove as he was bringing out a frying pan.
"Whoa," He spun around to face her, winded. "Miss—," He slightly winced as he reached up to tentatively touch his hand to his head, "how long have you been there?"
Natasha laughed, moving some of her red hair out of her eyes as she dared a step forward. "You really don't pay attention, do you?"
Steve rearranged his expression into somewhere between shock and laughter. "Maybe not in the morning, no. I mean, can't a villain give a guy a second to make an omelet?" He produced a white egg from his fist and cracked it expertly. "I'm sorry Miss—Do you want one?"
"I'm fine," Natasha narrowly smiled, nearly on the balls of her heels. "You didn't answer my question, though."
Steve froze, a blond rose raised. "Excuse me?"
"I asked if you liked to sing. You're almost always humming something around here in the morning."
"—In the morning?" Steve gawked, his blue eyes wide. "You're admitting to what, following me?"
Natasha nodded earnestly for a second, her eyes curious to his reaction. If he was anything like Clint, he'd be furious. If he was anything like Bruce, he'd be stammering. And if he was anything like Tony—Well, Natasha didn't even want to think about what his morning routine was, considering that morning to Stark consisted of the earliest part of the afternoon that he happened to wake up too.
"Gosh," The solider blinked again, before flipping the pan and stirring the yoke. "Wow. You're really something else, Miss Romanoff. I had no idea."
"So do you?"
Steve thought for a second, his blue eyes soft under the breaking sun-rays, he flickered them uncomfortably towards the fridge, his fingers suddenly knocking themselves together silently, the jolt of them in some silent tune to some unheard swing band. "It's nothing I was brought up to like, I assure you. But it just…kinda came with the job, I suppose. I liked to listen to it sure enough."
Natasha smoothly turned, reaching for a glass in the high cabinets. "I see. And what song were you just singing now?"
"Ah—that. God," Steve laughed again, a distant look in his eyes. "That song…I think it's by Bing Crosby. It's called "Fool Me Some More". As you've probably heard, I've forgotten a lot of the words…though, I don't suppose most people here know who he is—" Steve stumbled for a moment, "was—now a-days."
"Bing Crosby? Are you kidding? Of course I know who Crosby is! He's one of the most famous singers of the past!" Natasha's eyes lit up, thankful that ohjesuschristfinallySOMEONE had an actual taste in music beyond mindless screaming into a microphone.
Steve's smiled seemed waver for a second before catching itself back into shape over the sudden passion in the spy's voice. "Well, that's awful nice to hear. He was definitely going places," Steve stirred again before he added, "At least before all of this rock and roll nonsense,"
Natasha smirked, picturing Tony Stark swaggering around with his "Black Sabbath" long sleeve shirt. "Yup. You really missed quite a period of musical controversy. What with Elvis's hips shimming and all—if you had had a daughter by then Steve, she'd be throwing her panties to that guy without even a second thought."
Steve sealed the faint blush that steeled over the bridge of his nose, brushing away the idea of ever having kids…or even kissing…his throat felt strangely tight as he swallowed…Natasha's serious eyes suddenly reminding him of another serious set of eyes…beautiful, smart, and waiting…
"He played the guitar with his hips?" Steve questioned, lightening his own tone for Natasha's sake.
She laughed again, her red hair sliding back. It was the most relaxed he had ever seen her. "I'll show you sometime, if you like."
"I would," Steve nodded, a warm smile on his lips. He was just reaching back for the handle when—
"God, I am so sorry," Natasha suddenly admitted, wrapping her arms around herself before settling them defensively across her chest. She leaned again the granite counter, her face taunt. "I'm usually so good at this kind of thing—"She waved her hand around in an expanded gesture as if beckoning Steve to look to an invisible showcase of conversational accomplishments. "But this was just terrible of me to start things off by."
It took Steve a second to keep up. Women, really, in any generation, just threw him.
"I—I'm sorry? Wait, you're sorry?"
"It hurts you, doesn't it?" Natasha looked at him dead on, the weight of her brilliant green eyes all but swamping over his blue. "To…talk about the—your past."
Steve bit into his grin, keeping it steady, his face straight. "It's fine, really. Don't beat yourself up Miss—"
"Please drop that crap, it's Natasha. And yeah, no, that was stupid of me. To bring up music and the past for our very first conversation together,"
"Well, if I may be so frank Miss—Natasha. You've completely put me in a spin here. Nearly three weeks go by—I can't think of thing to say to you, and I feel like a complete fool, because here you are, generous enough to keep me company. And you come waltzing in here, scare the livin' day lights outta me, talking about Bing Crosby—and now, I just—I—"
"Your egg is burning," Natasha pointed with a flicker of her emerald eyes.
Steve quickly spun around, tending to the charred remains of his breakfast.
"It's nice. To—to talk to someone, I mean." Steve said, staring down into the pan. "About things I know. I didn't expect it—ever. And to have it come from you, the person I've felt so foolish about this whole time. It's even better, you know? Relieving, in a sense."
Natasha felt the shell of her eyes lighten ever so slightly. "Most men find me quite the opposite."
Steve tossed a confused glance behind him to her amused look. "Really? Well, I don't see why. I guess if ya don't have anything to hide, no one should fear you."
Natasha's smile widen ever so carefully. "And you're the picture of innocence then, Mr. America?"
Steve swallowed, and flicked off the stove slowly. "No…" He said, keeping her eye. "But I mean…you've watched me, haven't you? Then, you should know my secrets. I've pretty open, out here." He wanted to motion to himself, to the gravity of his ineptitude, his fish out of water life. "You'll never have to watch your back around me, is all."
Natasha's brows lower considerably. Her narrow, pixie like face reading him over with consideration. She then brought out her hand to shake his. "Well, Captain. I hope you'll expect the same from me."
Used to handshakes, Steve easily slid into her grip, her hand surprisingly cold, and unsurprisingly strong. He had seen how hard she'd trained herself—and, if he had to be honest, it seemed like she worked harder than most of his team back in the training grounds for the War. "It's Steve, if you don't mind, Natasha. Or do you prefer 'Nat'?"
Natasha blew out a bit of air to stir the Auburn curls around her slender frame, as if Steve had just told her a joke. "I don't really prefer any special nick-name," she clicked her tongue over the c's, the slightest hint of her Russian heritage escaping. "But I guess Nat's fine. Between me and you." She locked intensely with Steve's unpresuming blue eyes. "In private."
"I got it Nat—Stark will never get his paws over our secret," Steve winked at her humorously. Natasha really felt it was pretty smooth that a man could pull of a decent wink. Asshole Stark being one. And Rogers wasn't half bad for number two. She'd have to keep the logged so she could tease Clint about it later.
"Would you care for some burnt egg-a-la-mode, Natasha?" Steve chuckled, expanding the pan towards her.
Natasha's green eyes sharpened delicately, her lips into that same smirk. "A cook and a singer—wow. Don't tell me you can dance, too?"
Steve's blue crystal eyes seemed to fade a little, but he merely shrugged, dumping the waste into the metal trash can. Natasha suddenly felt herself nibbling at her lip, reading the signs of a tact-less question. Captain America had no secrets?
Right.
"I really just prefer to enjoy the music, rather than beat it out my body like some sweat monkey."
"What a perfect image of the post great depression area, Mister America," Natasha purred.
Steve's smile returned a little less mournful than before. "Actually, I was referring to the way people 'dance' now," He raised his fingers up into air quotation marks over the word 'dance'.
Natasha nearly yelled out her agreement, "Isn't it just the most degrading idea ever?"
Steve sighed, "To think music used to have such class,"
Natasha stayed somber for a moment before her green eyes opened wide.
"I think…I have something relativity modern that you might actually enjoy…I'll be right back."
~*~ A few minutes later...~*~
"American Pie?" Steve's blue eyes cooled over into gentle mockery when Natasha came back with a gleaming disc, and told him the name of the song. "Really Natasha—I've heard all the Captain America jokes to last me a life time."
"Nooo," She pursed her lips into the word, pushing a shoulder into the soldier's muscular chest. "I mean it—listen to this song. I think you'd really like it. Don Mclean wasn't so bad."
Steve studied the small record for a second. "Well…it'll certainly easier than carrying around than a reel-to-reel."
"Come on, come on," Nat said, chiefly taking his arm and matching down towards her own backpack. "I'm going to show you how to use a CD Player…"
In his room, later that night, Steve studied the sparkling, mirror imaged- disc before shutting it softly into the round, smooth record player. He didn't like putting those ragging cords to his ears, but he forced the headphones in anyway, and closed his eyes. The CD crackled, and chirped, before spinning to life...Steve could feel the warmth of the machine started to boil in his hand like a heart-beat…
The song began to play…
~*~ Early The Next Morning...~*~
"So, did you like it?" Natasha slinked out earlier than usual the next morning, sliding into a sunbathed deck chair that held her body vertical with rubber, white laces. She still had on her own pajamas of a black tank top and baggy cloth pants.
Steve stepped out into the sunlight with a small smile, shaking his head. In his hands he held the handles to two cups of coffee.
Natasha eyed him coyly with surprise, changing her method of conversation, "Well, well, well Mr. America. I see you've caught on to me finally."
Steve sank down into the chair beside her, handing over a cup. "Hey, I'm catching up okay." Steve stretched, eyes wincing at the building sunlight. "Fool me twice Nat," he winked at her.
A short pause followed, easy between them as they admired the twinkling of metal on heat that weaved through the buildings.
"So?" Nat persisted, her voice bright.
"It's…a little fast," Steve kept his expression neutral, straining to keep some secrets away from Natasha's interrogating ways. "But…I guess everything feel fasts, compared to uh, back then."
"I'm so taking that as a yes, Mr. America,"
"Whatever you prefer Nat," Steve replied, trying not to grin like an idiot at the doll. He liked how she was warming up to him—he liked talking about music with her, and celebrities that were printed fresh in his mind like the morning headlines. She was always a little distant, closed off. And, like most women, she had her moments of disappearing. But still…this was certainly nice. And it wasn't like he being the perfect guy either. It still caught him off guard when she suddenly laughed, or the way she placed her weight on one hip, a thin eyebrow raised. His throat would go dry…but not over Natasha…Heavens no…but Steve could swear that just beyond her voice…if she'd talk a little bit slower…a little bit lighter…there she'd be…
Peg…I should be talking about these things with you…dancing…with you…
Steve looked into the sky. Was it going to rain today? He felt it should.
Natasha leaned back in the chair, letting the morning sunrise over the glossing buildings be the first to caress her skin. Steve copied her without closing his eyes—but slowly, ever so carefully; he drowned out the new world and ventured into one of the only ageless vehicles he had left. God, he missed her. But yet…here he was. Sharing a sunrise with a former post-Soviet Spy.
How times have changed. Steve sorely rubbed his wrist, and breathing deeply out, glancing out of corner of his eye at Natasha, the rise and fall of her chest…the way her hair flickered. He still caused little shards of ice to pin and needle Steve's heart to death. But he had to keep going. People were still trying to show him a good time. Well, why couldn't he be a good sport all the same?
He opened his mouth, and softly sang, just under the rustle in Nat's ears, unsure if she could hear him:
"Along, a long time ago…I can still remember how that…music used to make me smile…"
Natasha allowed her mouth to blossom into a full, genuine smile, reaching out into the sun, after what seemed years of disallowance…