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Natasha was used to the cold, yes. Being shoved into the snow with one’s class and only enough supplies for one girl tended to accustom a person to the feeling of a bone-deep iciness. This did not mean, however, that she particularly enjoyed it.
Any break she had from SHIELD ops was spent on laying a beach off the grid someplace, only the scar on her exposed abdomen to remind her she was anything but a wealthy white tourist. But needs must.
This time Natasha was stationed in Belarus, some 40 miles from Russia. Being so close to the motherland made her itch, so she focused on the view through her scope. It was a simple op, in and out, and she’d be back at the compound with Steve and maybe that fat stray he’d been feeding (what was her name? Liho, she decided) in no time. All she had to do was wait.
Some hours later—approximately four mental run throughs of the movements to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake—she caught a movement through the lens. Her target, presumably on his way out of the embassy to head home, did not look up. Natasha had arranged for this. She called and cancelled the lunch order he made at the local Greek restaurant, knowing full well that a hungry man on his way to dinner does not look up. Careless of him. Natasha smirked. A little press of the trigger here, a dart embedded in his neck there and the deed was done.
The Quinjet flight and subsequent elevator ride up to her and Steve’s floor was unending, but all was worth it when she entered the toasty 77 degree apartment, still shivering a tad as she slipped off her boots. Steve stirred in bed, then quietly flipped the edge of the duvet up to accommodate her. “How was it?” He probed drowsily.
“Freezing,” Natasha whispered, drawing closer into his boiler-like imprint in the mattress and pressing her cold toes into his leg—his resounding shriek quirked her mouth up, an utter balm. “Better now, though.” Steve was warm.