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Natasha certainly didn’t plan on being in a hospital three times in one week. There had only been three instances in her life prior to this (although her birth was the first instance, which was beyond her control and thus shouldn’t count).
“You look like shit. Go home and get some sleep or something.”
“I’m fine,” Natasha says. She stretches a little, wincing as her wounded shoulder pulls with the movement.
“You haven’t slept in what, three days? Seriously, go sleep somewhere. Steve probably won’t even wake up until tomorrow. I know he’s got magical healing powers and all, but dude was wrecked.”
“I saw that part, thanks. I can wait a little longer.”
“You’re making me hurt just by looking at you,” Sam says. “Not to mention you need a serious shower. Give yourself a good sniff and tell me otherwise.”
Natasha glares at him, but Sam just laughs.
“You can’t scare me, I promise. Go. I’ll stay here and wait it out.”
“He’d stay if it were me,” she says, annoyed at the stubborn tone to her voice, but she has to fight back a smile when she realizes what she said is true.
“Yeah, and I’d whack him over the head and take his sorry ass home,” Sam says. “Look, I get wanting to stay with your friend, but the fact is, you’ll probably pass out by the time he wakes up, and then you’ll just look like an idiot.”
Natasha ignores the dig, her brain focusing in on friend.
She has a friend.
Huh.
*
Natasha doesn’t realize that she’s covered in grime until she steps into the shower and begins to wash her hair. Staring at the dirty water as it goes down the drain, she sighs and turns to keep her wounded shoulder dry. Guess one-piece swimsuits are out now, too. Hey, with her line of work? She’s lucky to have only been shot twice.
When she deems herself clean enough, she sits and turns up the heat, letting it pound on her back. It’s strangely comforting, and Natasha finds herself drifting off, only waking when her head hits the wall. She takes a controlled breath, dries herself off, and collapses on her bed without bothering to get dressed.
To her credit, Natasha stays away for eight hours before she’s back at the hospital (fourth time in one week), clean and refreshed. She hears music coming from Steve’s room, but she doesn’t recognize it. Not all too surprising; she doesn’t care much for music.
“Three guesses as to who that is,” Natasha hears Sam say. She frowns at how loud she must have been to warn Sam she was coming.
“Shut up, nobody likes you.”
“Children,” Steve says. His voice is a little gravelly. “Behave.”
“You look better,” Natasha says, ignoring Sam for the moment.
It’s only a little true: Steve’s face is still black and blue, and the way he’s holding himself so stiffly screams that he’s in pain. He squints one eye at her, then smiles; against her will, her lips curl up in response.
“I guess I bring it out in him,” Sam says breezily. Natasha quirks an eyebrow at him.
“Maybe it’s time for a shower for you.” She gives him a pointed look; he stares back at her for a moment before he jumps.
“Yes. Right. Shower. I can do that.”
“Subtle,” Steve says, nodding as Sam scoots past Natasha and out the door.
Instead of taking Sam’s vacant seat, she sits on the bed, careful not to jostle his thigh.
“It’s fine,” he says. He pokes at it. “Doesn’t even hurt.”
Natasha grabs his hand. “Stop with the poking.” A million other things to say run through her head, but she doesn’t dare hear them on her lips. Steve goes quiet, too, looking at her hand holding his.
Finally: “Everyone else made it out okay.”
“Yes. Thanks to you and your attempt at self-sacrifice. Again. You may have a problem; I’d look into it.”
Steve huffs a laugh. “There are worse problems.”
Her free hand curls into a fist at how willing he is to throw his own life away like his life isn’t worth anything. Like he deserves to die while someone like her lives on.
“Hey,” Steve says, and Natasha notices that he’s squeezing her other hand. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re an idiot,” she says, pulling her hand away.
“I’ve been told that,” he says without hesitation, but his eyes still show a hint of concern. For her. It makes her want to look away.
“When are you getting out?” she says, sitting back in her chair.
“They say the day after tomorrow, but I’m leaving tomorrow,” he says, mirroring her in his bed. “‘m fine.”
“Right,” Natasha says. “Fine. Have you seen your face?”
“As long as I can walk, I can leave.”
“Idiot,” she repeats, and she hates how he can smile so easily at her after all this. She may not be able to understand his pain, but she knows it’s there, and she hates that he’s hiding it.
He shouldn’t be allowed to do that.
Steve is still smiling at her, and before she can think about it, Natasha leans over and kisses the tip of his nose. He goes slightly cross-eyed looking at her, mouth dropping open a little, eyebrows furrowed. It’s surprising to her that someone so beloved and revered is blown away by such a simple gesture of affection.
“Go back to sleep,” she says, and he obeys. She pulls her legs up on the chair and wraps her arms around them, watching carefully. This she can do. This she can give him.
(Or, the day that Natasha Romanoff fell in love with platonically kissing Steve Rogers.)
*
True to his word, Steve is released the next day (not that he wouldn’t have left on his own, anyway). Natasha loops one of his arms around her shoulders, lacing her fingers through his own as they walk to Sam’s car, but Steve stops right outside the door.
“Where are we going?”
“Your place,” Sam says, sliding his key in the ignition. “Why, is there somewhere you want to go first?”
Steve looks at the passenger door handle like he doesn’t want to open it, and Natasha understands.
“You want a new apartment.”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “Is the old one - is it -”
“Cleaned? I don’t know, probably not. We could get someone to - ” wash Fury’s blood off of your floors - “take care of it for you.”
“You can stay with me until you get a new place,” Sam says, catching on.
“I’ll help you find it,” Natasha says, pushing Steve in the passenger seat of the car.
“I can find one on my own,” he protests, scrunching his nose at her. It’s painful how endearing it is. She hates that she even thought the word endearing. “I’m a grown man, actually, I’m -”
“Ninety-five,” Natasha finishes as she slides into the backseat. “And while your fashion has certainly improved, I still don’t trust you enough to find something on your own.”
“I don’t either,” Sam chimes in, and Steve rolls his eyes at them both.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “Drop my stuff off and we can go look this afternoon.”
“I don’t think so,” Natasha says as Sam snickers.
“What?” Steve says, looking back and forth between them.
Natasha reaches out and pokes Steve’s side, and he hisses.
“That’s why,” she says, crossing her legs and leaning back in her seat. “We’ll start tomorrow, after you get another night’s rest.”
“I thought you said no poking,” Steve mutters, wincing slightly.
“You can’t poke. I can poke all I want.”
“Heh,” Sam says from the front seat.
*
“This one’s good,” Natasha says, nodding approvingly. “Nice, spacious living room for your new TV -”
“New TV?”
“Tony has one waiting for you. With a copy of Easy Virtue, I believe.”
“Great,” Steve drawls, but Natasha notices him scoping out the living room in more detail.
“It is nice,” she says, more seriously this time. “It’s close to Sam’s place and the Reflecting Pool, and it’s just...nice. It suits you.”
“I’m not sure how to take that,” Steve says.
“You don’t like ‘nice’?”
He scrunches his nose at her again, and she’s tempted to throw something at him because it’s so damn cute it’s painful.
At first, Steve just wants to buy a new couch. My bed is fine, he says when Natasha steers him toward a Mattress Discounters, but he lets himself be led easily enough. She jumps on the nearest king and lies flat on her back.
“Yes,” she says, folding her hands on top of her stomach. “This is amazing. Come here, give it a try.”
Steve juts out his jaw, then shrugs to himself, hopping next to her. “Huh,” he says, a pleased little sound that makes Natasha grin.
“You have to get this,” she tells him as she stares at the ceiling. “It’s perfect. It’s not like a marshmallow; you won’t feel like you’re sinking to the floor on this one. ”
Steve rolls his neck so he’s looking at her, his eyes slightly narrowed. She gives him an innocent look in return. “It’s nice and firm.”
“Fine,” he says after a suspicious pause. “But this is it. And the couch. Just these two things.”
For now, Natasha thinks with a smirk.
*
Natasha's not sure when it happens exactly, but Thursday nights become movie nights. Steve gives her a slightly puzzled look the first time when she shows up unannounced with Rocky.
“What?” she says, slipping past him. “It’s on your list, right?”
“How did you -” Steve begins, but shakes his head. “Never mind. I don’t need to know.”
“A true underdog story. Right up your alley; you’ll probably be tearing up by the end.”
“Will not,” he mumbles, but he lets Natasha put the DVD in the player.
Right away, she can tell that Steve’s into it. He leans forward at the action scenes, smiles and frowns at all the right times. She finds herself watching him out of the corner of her eye more than the movie.
Suddenly, Steve bursts out laughing: it almost startles her; she’s never heard him laugh so openly. “Italian Stallion,” Steve says. “Italian Stallion.”
“What are you, eight?”
He tries to swallow down his laughter, but he only manages to snort instead.
“I can’t even handle you right now. You sound like a dying walrus.”
Steve laughs again and smiles at her, the same one he gave her in the hospital, and Natasha leans up and kisses him in one smooth motion. His smile freezes at first, but then he relaxes, returning the pressure, humming softly against her lips. She pulls away and slides down so that she’s nearly resting on top of him, tangling their bare legs together, her toes poking at his calf. Right now, it seems to make sense. She likes things that make sense.
“You have to love Apollo’s outfit, though. I bet you’d look sexy in it.”
“Would not.”
“Mm, those laced up shoes? Sexy.”
He huffs, pinching her side. “Shut up.”
Steve is quiet the rest of the movie, his fingers tapping absently on her shoulder. He hmms to himself as Rocky and Adrian embrace at the end. “I wasn’t expecting that ending. You said this was an underdog story!”
“It’s a moral victory. I thought you’d like it?”
“I do,” he says, back to tapping her shoulder. “The protagonist always scraping by with the win gets old.”
“Really, King Underdog? How would you know that, Mr. ‘I’ve Only Seen the Wizard of Oz?’”
“Hey, I saw Hoosiers.”
“And?”
“...okay, that was it.”
“There it is.”
He flicks her forehead. She punches his leg.
“Dude.”
“Since when do you say dude?”
“It's new. Did I pull it off?”
”Eh.”
Steve rolls his eyes, but she can tell he’s holding back a grin. Natasha looks at his sad, bare walls. Her walls are bare; his shouldn’t be. Maybe she should get some paint - nothing red, white, or blue, though, God forbid -
“Sam works at the VA, you know.”
Natasha frowns. “All right,” she says slowly, confused.
“I was thinking of going. Sam’s really good; you should hear him. If you ever, well, wanted to come with me.”
Her chest tightens. Pulling herself up, she looks at him, shaking her head. “I’m not a vet.”
“I know,” Steve says. “But - I just figured. I figured you could go anyway.”
“No, thank you.”
Steve opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, but he simply nods. “Let me know if you change your mind,” he says, tugging on a strand of her hair. If anyone else had done it, they would have lost a finger.
“Sure,” she says, reaching over to pull on her shoes. He watches her do so, a little sad, but he doesn’t stop her. “Night.”
“Night,” she hears just before she closes the door.
*
Four days pass and Natasha hears nothing from Steve. She buys a handle of vodka and sips at it, thinking that she should have gone; one meeting would not have been a big deal. Compared to everything else that’s happened, she could sit through one meeting. It could be as simple as tuning everybody out and imagining her rather delightful excursion in Prague when her phone beeps:
hey wanna come beat me up
what?
i’m at the gym come beat me up
…:D
...WAIT NO I CHANGED MY MIND don’t come
too late :D :D
nope i’m going to another gym bye
Natasha grins and grabs her workout bag.
*
Steve’s doing pushups when Natasha arrives, and she waits, watching. She figures that he’s doing it while he wants for her to get there, so she quietly walks up behind him and hops on his back. He doesn’t miss a beat, and she stands on his back until he reaches for her ankle and flips her over.
It’s on.
It’s fun sparring with Steve, mainly because Natasha knows she doesn’t have to hold back. There’s always a tiny, residual fear that she could hurt someone else (Clint), but here, she can flip and punch and kick and strangle all she likes.
Not to mention that he actually takes her seriously. Normally, when she spars with a man, he laughs, or there’s an amused, patronizing expression on his face (Happy). With Steve, his eyes narrow, his mouth tightens, and he watches her like a hawk. No sarcastic well dones when she lands a hit: just a grunt and a more determined expression as Steve squares his shoulders and bares his teeth.
Natasha loves that expression.
She manages to sweep his legs out from under him, and he doesn’t get back up. Stretching his legs, he puts his hands behind his head. “I’m hungry,” he says.
Natasha flops down next to him, mirroring his posture. “You’re always hungry.”
“I burn about fourteen thousand calories a day. Of course I’m always hungry.” He chews on his bottom lip. “I used to live in here. Well, not live live, but you know.”
“Before S.H.I.E.L.D?”
“Nothing else to do,” Steve says. “Unless you count pathetically riding the subway alone and drawing in cafes.”
“You draw?”
“A little.”
She rolls on her front, laying her chin on her crossed arms. “Can I see?”
Steve wipes some sweat off of his face with his forearm. “You actually want to?”
“Yeah, why not?”
He lifts his shoulders. “Dunno. Never really showed it to anyone else before. Peggy saw, I guess. She’s...it.”
The words are heavy; the look on Steve’s face as he thinks about Peggy is indescribable. Unfortunately, her mind is drawing a blank on what to say.
“Anyway,” Steve says, cutting her a break, “If you wanted to, I guess. If you want. To see it.”
“Groovy,” Natasha teases. “How did you learn, anyway?”
“Not much to do in a 1920s orphanage besides baseball or soccer,” Steve says. “You can imagine how well that turned out for me.”
“Mm. So you taught yourself?”
“Yeah. When they weren’t shoving me in dumpsters, anyway.” He sits up and begins untying his shoes.
Natasha stands up with him as he puts his shoes in his bag. His bare toes curl as he pulls out sandals and tosses them on the ground.
“Time for food?” He sniffs, making a face. “After a shower.”
“Sure,” Natasha says, and he smiles at her. She leans in and kisses his temple, sweat and all. He sighs; when she pulls away, his eyes are closed.
She now understands why she loves kissing Steve. She loves that smile he gives her, the one that asks her to kiss him. She loves that he completely stills under her touch and that for a brief moment, he allows himself to become vulnerable and comforted by someone -
and that someone is her.
Natasha has never been that person for anyone.
She thinks she likes it.
*
This Thursday’s movie is Natasha’s choice (thankfully, because last Thursday, Steve had the guts to play Boogie Nights). She brings The Usual Suspects, hating that she can hear Tony’s voice going on and on about Kevin Spacey and that may have influenced her choice, even the slightest bit.
"That got 88% on Rotten Tomatoes," Steve says when Natasha shows him the cover. She gives him a look. "What? I was looking at Crimson Tide, which led to a link to Leaving Las Vegas, which led to that."
“You loser,” she says, and his face softens into that smile just for her that she's quickly becoming fond of.
“Pizza?”
"мне нравится пиццу," she says with a shrug.
Steve tilts his head. "Qu'avez-vous dit?"
They stare at each other for a moment.
“How do you know French?”
A sly grin slides on Steve’s face. “Long story.”
“Bet I can learn French faster than you can learn Russian.”
“Is that a challenge, Romanoff?”
“I believe it may be, Rogers.”
Steve pretends to consider, than nods. “Fine. But pizza first.”
"Pizza it is."
*
Steve starts blinking slowly during dinner, so Natasha isn’t surprised that he starts to drift off about an hour into the movie. She stays upright on her side of the couch, pulling her hair up in a loose bun.
“Stop staring at me,” Steve finally mumbles. “You’re freaking me out.”
“Why, is this the first time that you’ve had someone on your couch?”
“Maybe,” Steve says, and he moves his arm so that there’s space for her to slide in against him.
"Of course it is. Who would want to have sex with you?" She pats his arm to show she’s kidding.
"Lots of people," he says. "I always get free hot dogs from the guy on K Street."
"He cute?"
Steve smirks, but his eyes remain closed. "A little, but he's too old. I draw the line at seventy." His finger somehow finds her lips to shush her, even though he’s not looking at her. "No age jokes."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
“There is a runner that’s pretty cute, though,” Steve says. “I think he smiles at me when I pass him, but he’s running too slowly to really tell for sure.”
“Ah,” Natasha says. “Do you happen to know this runner’s name?”
Steve makes a face at her, and Natasha notices that his face looks even more drawn. Biting her lip, she wonders if she should say something, until she can’t help but ask:
“Bad dreams?”
“I’m fine.”
Natasha grits her teeth; it takes everything in her to open herself up like this, and he simply waves her off. It’s different here, for her. Here is another world. Here is where her words - her thoughts - are kept private and cherished. She wants him to feel the same with her.
"I dream."
"Hmm?" he says to encourage her when she's too quiet. His eyes are open now.
“A number of things. Seeing Fury on that table and hearing the time of death. You on that riverbank. Other...things.”
"Yeah?”
“Things I can’t control. That’s what I dream about.”
Steve rolls over so that he’s facing her.
"Your turn," she says.
Steve blinks. “Your turn was pretty short.”
“That’s the best you’re going to get right now.”
Steve nods, looking strangely honored. She can’t help but scoot closer, and he wraps his arms around her.
“Did you know that one percent of Americans serve in the military?"
It doesn't surprise her, and she tells him so.
"And did you know that twenty percent of suicides in America are military vets, despite only occupying that one percent of the population? I read about it online in this report."
She shakes her head against his chest, but that doesn't surprise her either. He’s silent for a long time, so silent that she wonders if he’s drifted off, but then:
"His name was Jack.”
Steve’s voice is dull, almost rehearsed, but Natasha can hear his heartbeat increasing, his chest rising and falling.
“He had been... off, I guess. For a while. He’d zone out, would sometimes look at you as if he was looking straight through you. Would laugh at a joke a second too late. Would stare at his gun for too long. None of us said anything because we all felt like that, really."
He stops, and Natasha waits patiently.
“After...well, after, I didn’t really know what to do. Just walked around on my own a bit, I think. Then - then I heard this other guy in our battalion. Saying things about how Jack was weak and couldn’t handle it, that he wasn’t a real man, and I swear, I swear to God, Nat, I wanted to kill him at that moment. I really did. This wasn’t an enemy soldier; this was a man in my own battalion. I knew that if I took one step toward him it would have been over for me. ”
“But you didn’t,” Natasha says. “You didn’t, and it’s not over.”
“No, but sometimes I dream I did. And you know what? It feels good. What does that make me?”
Natasha hates that she lets a sardonic laugh slip out. “Steve. You are not the first person who has thought something like that. It doesn’t make you a terrible person. It makes you a person. You hold yourself to higher standards to everyone else, and you know what? I don’t care for it.”
“Don’t hold back,” Steve says, but thankfully he doesn’t sound hurt. Natasha isn’t up to dealing with his hurt feelings over him worrying about something that she has done countless times.
“I’ve done it,” she says. “Thought about killing people. I have killed people, Steve. And not just in battle. What does that make me?”
“It’s not the same,” Steve stammers, but she cuts him off.
“You’re implying that thinking such a thing makes you a horrible person. You have no idea how many times I’ve done it, so what does that make me?”
“You’re not a horrible person,” he says, so quietly that Natasha almost doesn’t hear him. “You’re my friend.”
Natasha leans up to look him straight in the eye. “Then you have no reason to make that assumption of yourself.”
Steve looks back at her, almost resigned, worn around the edges. The expression hurts her; she’s never been a comforter. She’s never seen the point of apologizing for something she wasn’t responsible for. Instead, Natasha leans in and kisses his jaw, and there’s that soft sigh again, like she’s drawing out all of his pain and putting him at ease. They settle in again, matching their breathing, until Natasha can’t help but ask.
“You don't stare at guns too long, do you?"
A long pause. "Not anymore."
Her chest seizes, but she manages to keep her voice steady. "You'll tell me if you do?"
He makes a small noise of assent and shuts his eyes, signaling the end of the conversation. Natasha pulls him close to her and tucks his head under her chin. His hair is soft, and she presses a kiss on the top of his head. He makes a slightly startled sound against her neck. She feels him holding back a little, as if he would crush her, so she pulls him closer. There’s a brief moment when he stills, then exhales, his weight a solid comfort as he relaxes. He’s asleep again almost instantly, so easily, and she realizes that war long ago trained him to sleep whenever he got a moment. She runs her fingers through his hair, frowning at the thought. And yet -
Steve trusts her enough when he’s at his most vulnerable, with his soft t-shirt that’s worn from too many washes and his bare feet. He trusts her enough to surrender himself completely, to let her take watch.
And damn her if she ever disappoints.
(It’s what friends do.)
*
The first time Natasha kisses Steve in front of someone, it has to be Tony Stark.
Tony Fucking Stark.
He stops by one Tuesday night while Steve’s grilling some steaks to "check on the TV." Neither Steve nor Natasha believe him, because it’s the first time they’ve seen him since the HYDRA...mishap, and Tony carefully and swiftly looks them both over - checking for injuries, Natasha recognizes - before dropping his case of beer and a bag on the counter.
“Your neighbor is seriously hot,” Tony says, popping open a bottle. “And the woman I saw in the lobby. And the guy she was with. Is it a rule that you have to be unbelievably attractive to live here? Hey, is that steak?"
“Yes,” Steve says slowly, as if Tony’s an annoyance, but Natasha can see his lips twitching (she’s pleased to note that it’s not her smile). “Would you like some?”
“If I could, doll,” Tony says, hopping onto a stool. “Beer?”
“What did you bring?” Natasha asks, peering into the bag. She pulls out a DVD. “Star Trek?”
“It’s on Cap’s list, isn’t it? Although I wasn't sure which Star Trek you meant, so I played it safe and went original. Not the original series, but the latest movie - mainly so you can see how hilariously bad the TV show was in comparison.”
“How many Star Treks are there? And how did you know that it was on the list?”
“Cap.” Tony raises a patronizing eyebrow. “Everything that is important to know, I know.”
“Steve wanting to watch the remake of a 60s show about space travel is important to know?”
Now the patronizing eyebrow is on her. “Natasha.”
She stares coolly back at him until Tony blinks.
“Not fair,” he mutters, and he sits down at the table, waiting expectantly for Steve to serve the food.
“Don’t help or anything.”
“Okay,” Tony says, drumming his fingers on the table. When his plate is placed in front of him, he devours the steak, closing his eyes and making obscene noises. Natasha and Steve watch him with disgusted expressions, but shrug it off and start eating.
“So,” Tony continues, holding up his fork. “I'd ask why you didn't bother to call me for help during your most recent shenanigans, but I'm sure it's for some noble reason.”
“Well, let’s see,” Steve says, holding up three fingers. “Maybe because first, they tried to kill me in an elevator, second, they tried to gun me down with a plane, and third, they were monitoring all contact so you’d lead them straight to me if I had called?”
“Oh. Well, that's not very noble, just sensible. I'm disappointed.” Tony taps his chin, staring at his phone. “I'll need to find a way to work around that. Like a super special Avengers only hotline.”
Natasha clears her plate and reaches for Steve’s; he smiles at her, that smile, and on instinct, she kisses him. Steve smiles at her again, then stops, his eyes almost comically wide. Natasha frowns, opening her mouth to -
Oh.
To his credit, Steve doesn’t turn red, but he’s not looking in Tony’s direction, either.
“Ah,” Tony says. “Now I see why you didn't call me.”
Natasha straightens her back, tossing her braided hair over her shoulder. A thousand quips come to mind but she swallows them all down, choosing to walk away silently instead. She can beat Tony Stark at many things (like killing him in fourteen different ways with a Q-Tip), but a banter war is not one of them.
Dumping the dishes in the sink (Tony bummed off their dinner; he can wash a few dishes), Natasha heads to the living room to get the movie ready.
Which is still in the kitchen. She shrugs to herself, hopping on the couch to wait.
“It's not like that.” From the living room, Natasha can hear Steve’s quiet voice.
“Hmm? What is it, then?”
She can almost hear the grin he's trying to suppress. "It's...nice."
"Good. Ready for a beer? I’m think it’s time for some Captain Kirk."
A pause. "Wait, that's it?"
"Yeah. Nice is good. Nice is nice. I like nice. Do you expect me to jump up and down screaming while I speed dial Pep to tell her?”
"Well, no, but -"
"Do you want me to dance in the streets a la Clark Gable? I could pull off that mustache."
"Of course not, but -"
"Good. I'm over that. It gives me a headache. Cap, you used to be a scrawny kid with asthma and heart issues who now looks like a Greek god. I have a reactor that keeps shrapnel from slicing up my heart like deli meat. You're telling me this is too much for me to handle?"
"Well - "
"Nothing wrong with taking comfort in a nice, healthy way. Platonic make outs are much better than drowning yourself in the bottle. Understand?"
"Yeah."
"Excellent. There's really not room for another whiny, dramatic person on the team besides me. Pep would probably kill me if I didn't nip this in the bud."
"Uh, what -"
"That's 40s lingo, correct? I hear old people saying it."
Steve sighs.
"You cuddle too, right? Please tell me you cuddle."
"Tony."
“I knew it! That's nauseatingly adorable. I bet you're ticklish.”
Steve doesn't say anything, so Natasha assumes he's rolling his eyes.
“You are! I’m logging that one away...I might actually puke, this is so cute. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone.”
“Ha. Nobody would believe you. Except maybe JARVIS, but you program him, so you're pretty much only believing yourself.”
Tony actually laughs. "I like this you. You're all...sassy. With a much better fashion sense. Not on my level, of course, but you work the whole leather jacket and jeans thing. Now, what you must know first of all about Star Trek is that Spock might be one of the best characters of all time…”
*
As expected, Tony is nearly insufferable during the movie. He’s never been able to keep his mouth shut, and he continues to prove that by jammering away at every scene to explain the subtle nuances, Steve, look at this cinematography, Steve, holy lens flares, Batman!
By the time the movie is over, Natasha’s teeth hurt because of how hard she had been clenching her jaw.
“Right,” Tony says when he notices her glare. “I think I’ll be jetting off, then. You staying behind, Natasha?”
She stands only because she wants to disprove those infuriating waggling eyebrows. “No, I’m leaving as well.”
Tony shrugs into his coat, waiting by the door. Natasha doesn’t move, just gestures her head for him to leave.
“Right,” Tony repeats, winks at Steve. “We should really do this again sometime.”
“Sure,” Steve says. “If you actually call first.”
Tony starts to say something, then stops. “Never mind. My face is numb from all the winking, so just imagine I’m doing it instead.”
“Good bye.”
“Rude,” they hear Tony say as he heads down the hall.
Natasha slips into her shoes and grabs her bag. “He’s not invited anymore.”
“Nope,” Steve agrees, and he stands to walk her to the door.
“Want me to beat you up this weekend?”
He nods. “Sure. Saturday?”
Natasha smiles, and he leans in and kisses her nose. She freezes for the briefest of moments, then pats his cheek, trying her best to keep a bubble of hysterical laughter down. “See you later, friend.”
“Whatever, get out.”
“Bring your sketchbook!” she shouts, and Steve waves a hand at her in acknowledgement, shutting his door.
Natasha grins the whole way home.