Archive of Our Own

Steve stares at the omelet in his skillet, sprinkling in some pepper jack cheese. He hesitates for a moment, takes a careful look around the room, and scoops up a handful and dumps it in. Perhaps the best thing about living in the tower is that there is never a shortage of food in the kitchen. It doesn't help that he's become addicted to pepper jack ever since Clint made nachos.

Someone hums a song as they enter the kitchen, and Steve doesn't bother turning around after he identifies the beat. He can tell that it's Tony; nobody else would sing ZZ Top under their breath.

"You people and your running and being in shape," Tony says, looking at Steve's running shoes with a shake of his head. He snags a spoon from the drawer and takes a scoop of omelet. "Ohhh, so good."

"You want one?"

"Nah, I had about six donuts a half hour ago. Here for the coffee."

Steve snorts. "I strongly recommend you come on the run with me, then."

"Har har," Tony says, rolling his eyes. "I'm on my feet most of the day so I get plenty of exercise, thank you very much." He starts up the Keurig and leans against the counter, watching as Steve plates his omelet and sets it on the table next to his orange juice. Tony joins him after sprinkling some sugar in his coffee cup.

"Oh, before I forget - don't make plans on the 29th."

"What's up?"

"Pepper's arranged a charity gala for the company," Tony says, leaning across the kitchen table to grab Steve's phone. Steve peers over and sees him punching in the event in Steve's calendar. "No date required, but be prepared to dance a lot."

"Dance?"

"Yep," Tony says, and he holds up his arms in an impression of a waltz. "Fancy dancing."

Steve tries his best not to stare because he's trying to fathom in what universe would Tony believe that Steve knows how to ballroom dance. He figured the topic would never even come up - had hoped, really, for obvious reasons. He sinks down in his chair, staring at his omelet.

"Right," he says. "Fancy."

Luckily for him, his phone buzzes in Tony's hand, who hands it over.

Steve winces when Tony pokes his forehead. "What?"

"Who's that?"

"Why?"

"Because you have the sappiest smile on your face," Tony says.

Steve touches his lips as if he's double checking Tony's claim, then looks at Sam's name in his phone. Oh.

"I think someone found their date," Tony sings.

Steve shoves eggs in his mouth to avoid answering. (He needs the protein for his run, after all.)

*

There hasn't been any sort of hint that Sam is interested in anything beyond friendship.

Yes, they go running almost every morning and have breakfast afterward more often than not. Sure, when someone asks how Steve's doing, it's typically followed by "And how's Sam?" They might make dinner for each other once a week. Or catch a movie on the weekends. Or pass out on each other's couch when they're too lazy to drive home. Or hug when Sam's had too much whiskey. Nice, platonic hugs, of course. Typical best friend behavior.

All right, Steve probably isn't the right person to ask about this sort of thing.

"I don't know how to dance," Steve tells Natasha that afternoon in the gym as he blocks her side kick. She easily springs to her feet, her expression blank as she looks for her next target. "Are you listening to me?"

Natasha blows her hair out of her eyes and bends her knees. "You don't know how to dance, right. You worrying about Stark's thing?"

"No, that other time we'll have to ballroom dance."

"Oh, I get sassy Steve today."

"I am every day; I just choose not to voice it sometimes."

"Shocker," Natasha says, then considers, tightening her ponytail. "I could teach you how to. Dance, that is."

"You know how - never mind. Really?"

"Sure. It'll be fun." She aims for his calf and he manages to back flip out of the way. "You realize that your fighting style is essentially gymnastics, right? You're good on your feet, so this seems to be -" she taps her temple " - some psychological aspect."

Steve stares at her. "Are you analyzing me?"

Natasha shrugs. "I call it like I see it."

Steve makes a face. "Thanks, Dr. Romanoff."

"So, you going to bring a date?"

"I don't know, are you?" Steve shoots back.

"I'm not the one who is interested in someone else."

Steve eyes her. She eyes him right back, then goes to grab a water bottle from the mini fridge.

"What does that mean?"

Natasha looks like she's barely managing to refrain from rolling her eyes. "Don't play dumb; it's not a good look on you. You want to take Sam, right?"

"What? No," Steve says, careful to not break eye contact; Natasha can sense weakness like a shark.

Natasha just takes a sip of her water.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Natasha takes another sip.

"Stop that."

Natasha caps her bottle, leaning against the fridge. "He'd say yes, you know. If you asked him."

"Really?"

Natasha smiles at that, and Steve knows the jig is up.

"Fine," he says. "I guess I wouldn't be incredibly upset if he came with me."

"Then learn to dance and ask him," Natasha says, putting her half empty bottle back in the fridge.

"Would I actually have to dance if I go?" Steve says, proud that his voice didn't waver into a whine.

Now Natasha does roll her eyes. "Go shower, change, and meet me on my floor. Just wear what you'd wear for a workout session."

Steve looks down at his track pants and t-shirt. "Now?"

"I'm sorry, do you have important plans?"

Steve sighs, but goes to obey. Saying no to Natasha isn't really an option.

*

Natasha has already showered and changed by the time he gets to her floor. She's barefoot, so Steve slips off his shoes, too. Probably for the best because it won't hurt as much if he ends up stomping all over her.

"Lesson one," Natasha begins, flopping on the couch and patting the seat next to her. "Sit."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "This seems to be the exact opposite of what we should do."

"Silence. JARVIS, stream Shall We Dance?"

Perplexed, Steve sits next to her. Shall We Dance turns out to be a movie about a man, bored with his life, who seeks out ballroom dancing lessons. He keeps the lessons a secret from his wife, who suspects him of cheating. Steve finds him completely unsympathetic. "Are we supposed to feel anything for this main character?" he asks, just in case.

Natasha shrugs. "Probably. Not important, though."

"What is important?"

Natasha gives him a mysterious smile and doesn't answer. Steve sighs and slides down on the couch, watching as clueless, clumsy guys stumble across the dance floor.

Past halfway through, Natasha starts giving him little side glances. He frowns back at her each time, but she doesn't make eye contact. He understands the smirk on her lips when one of the dance instructors says:

"The rumba is the vertical expression of a horizontal wish. You have to hold her, like the skin on her thigh is your reason for living. Let her go, like your heart's being ripped from your chest. Throw her back, like you're going to have your way with her right here on the dance floor. And then finish, like she's ruined you for life."

Steve glares at her. "You're the worst. Is this literally the only reason why you're making me watch it?"

"Just trying to get you in the mood for Sam."

Steve shifts slightly. "All I know is that you are officially not teaching me that one."

"We'll see," Natasha says, crossing her legs. "We shall see."

Steve turns back to the screen and watches the happy endings all around. "Please tell me that there's not nothing else you want to taunt me with?"

Natasha shakes her head and pulls him to his feet. "Warn us if anyone comes this way."

Steve blinks at her until he realizes she's talking to JARVIS.

As you wish.

"Let's start with the waltz," Natasha says. "It's the most simple of the ballroom dances - how much do you know about it?"

"I know how it should look," Steve says.

Natasha stands behind him. "Move your feet a few inches apart."

He does so and lets Natasha pose him by putting one hand on his chest and the other on his back, forcing him to straighten. "Shoulders back," she says. "Good. Okay, the waltz is a three beats per measure dance, so we're going to count with each step. Start like this -" and she mimics the moves.

He feels stupid doing it by himself, but he complies. Once he's gotten that down, Natasha stops him, stepping in front of him.

"Let's start together."

"Okay," Steve says. He takes her left hand, pauses, and places his other hand on her shoulder blade. "Right?"

Natasha frowns. "Do I smell repugnant?"

"What? No. You smell like strawberries and - what is that?"

"Jasmine," Natasha says, clearly amused.

"Of course," Steve says dryly.

"And are you allergic to strawberries and jasmine?"

"Uh," Steve says, at a loss, "no?"

"Then why are you holding me like you are?" She pulls him a little closer. "There. Ready?"

Steve's mouth twitches. "Uh huh," he says, swallowing back a laugh.

"Steve."

"Okay," Steve says, taking a deep breath. "No laughing. I'm done, I swear."

Natasha stands still for a moment, letting Steve get used to the position. Despite his best attempts, Steve fidgets, staring at Natasha's small feet.

"You can jump out of airplanes without a parachute, but you can't learn to dance with me?"

"I'd rather be Felix Baumgartner right now, actually," Steve says.

Natasha mutters something under her breath; it doesn't sound complimentary. "Relax, all right? Or else people will think they're dancing with a mannequin."

"That would probably be a better partner," Steve says, but luckily he doesn't feel like he's about to laugh anymore.

"Oh, shut up," Natasha says, getting back on track. "Just remember those steps - I'm going to lead; as the lead position, I'm going to step forward when you step backward."

"Okay, I can do that," Steve says, then promptly steps on Natasha's foot. He gives a wry grin. "Oops."

Natasha winces, then laughs. "Never go toe-to-toe. Point your right foot between my feet and position your body a little to the left. Right, perfect. Now, you step backward with your right foot first. Like -" Natasha maneuvers him "- that."

"Oh," Steve says with surprise. "That's not so bad."

"Steve, that's just the first basic move."

Steve wrinkles his nose. "I thought teachers were supposed to be encouraging."

"Take your left foot now and go to the side," Natasha says. "I'll follow with my right foot."

Steve nods and obeys to each count, and slowly Natasha is able to urge him into the correct movements. Steve primarily looks over her right shoulder, but his eyes drift over to Natasha's every now and then to make sure that Natasha looks like she's approving of his steps.

"Is this really all it is?" Steve asks after a few turns. "It's a little boring."

"No, but it's a good start."

"It's just so stiff," Steve says. He pulls back and shakes out his arms as if they've frozen.

"What, you want to add back handsprings or vaults?"

"Could we?" Steve says. He's only half-kidding.

"I don't think that would look appropriate in a tux."

Steve grimaces. "I've never even worn one. Tony's making us go to a fitting - can't they just take my measurements from my dress uniform?"

"They're not the same type of fit, but nice try."

Steve sighs. "Okay, what next?"

"Let's try the twinkle."

"The twinkle," Steve echoes, deadpan.

"I don't make up the names," Natasha says; he thinks he hears a shade of defensiveness.

"All right," Steve says with an exhale. "Twinkle me, Nat."

Natasha's annoyance is nearly palpable, but it's worth it for the expression on her face.

*

After that, Steve spends some of his free time watching YouTube dancing videos. He triple checks the locks on his door, as none of his teammates understand the concept of privacy with the exception of Bruce. He also thinks about checking the lock on his window, as Natasha has casually slipped inside before despite the fact that he's on the thirtieth floor (once holding both a bowl of popcorn and a handle of vodka). Another time he walked out of the shower to see her painting her nails on his couch - he swears she came down from the vent, but she simply screwed the cap back on her nail polish and smirked when he asked.

As Natasha is the one teaching him anyway, he doesn't bother to check the rest of the room.

He didn't realize how complicated it all was - the amount of different moves is intimidating. It's enough to bring down his confidence level, and Natasha sees it on his face at their next session.

Natasha sighs. "You'll only look stupid if they drag you out there and you don't know what to do. There's no one else here but me, and I'm not laughing at you. Now stop being a baby and learn the damn foxtrot."

Steve cracks a grin at that. "Fine, fine."

"Good man."

Natasha asks JARVIS to play Witchcraft, and again requests that he warn them if someone is coming, Steve recognizes the artist as Frank Sinatra. Natasha holds out her arms expectantly.

"What's the difference between this and the waltz?" Steve asks once they're in position.

"The beats," Natasha says. "The waltz is 3/4, while the foxtrot is 4/4. Listen to the song and see if you can hear it."

"All right," Steve says, focusing. He can't hear it, but he simply shrugs, assuming it'll come around once he's had more practice.

"The forward and backward steps are taken slowly, while our sidesteps are a little faster," Natasha says with a devilish smile. She turns him to the side in a promenade, then spins him around. Surprised, Steve stumbles a little and steps on Natasha's toes.

"Ow!" Natasha kicks Steve's shin, then grimaces. "Ow."

"Well, you didn't tell me you were going to do that!" Steve says defensively, rubbing his shin.

Natasha actually bursts out laughing; to his recollection, it's the first time he's ever seen her do that. He'd be proud that he was the cause, if not for the fact that it's at his expense. "You can anticipate in half a second when someone's going to throw a grenade at you, but not when I spin you."

"The difference is I'm not going to die by doing the foxtrot," Steve says, but he's smiling, too. "Or I hope not. Okay, do that again."

He has to admit that he's having somewhat of a good time now that he (sort of) knows what he's doing - it's been a long time since he's smiled so much in a short period of time. He even catches Natasha singing under her breath every now and then; it's tempting to tease her because she can't carry a tune, but he's not one to ruin anyone's fun.

"This is easy," Steve says, giving her a playful smile.

"Easy, of course," Natasha says, her voice as dry as the Sahara. "Want to try a feather finish?"

Steve groans. "These names. Okay -"

"Don't say it. Don't you say it -"

"Feather me, Nat."

It's Natasha's turn to groan.

*

"So - you doing anything fun this month?"

Sam doesn't usually like to talk on their runs - I prefer to use my breath to focus on not being lapped by you a thousand times - but with Steve keeping pace by his side, he seems willing to talk today.

"This month? I dunno - kind of a spur of the moment guy, as you know good and well."

"Ah."

Sam gives him a weird look. "Why?"

"Just making conversation."

"You're freaking me out, man," Sam says, slowing to a stop. He waves a hand in front of Steve's face. "You haven't blinked in about twenty seconds."

"Blinking is overrated," Steve hears himself say. Sam chews on his bottom lip. For the first time since Steve has met him, he looks slightly uncertain.

"Right," he says, drawing the word out. He looks like he's about to continue, but he looks behind Steve, smiling.

Steve frowns, then feels a tug on his leg. It's a little boy with shaggy brown hair, maybe five years old. Steve turns to him, ready for the attention; kids are always the first to notice him, but it's all right in the end, really, as for the most part, they're the most accepting and they just want to play and talk to him. The boy starts signing frantically, his proficiency incredible considering his age. Steve's ASL is rusty, so he only catches a few words every sentence, but it's enough to know that he's talking about new toys his mother just bought for him. Steve holds back the mother with a raised hand, seeing her embarrassed expression out of the corner of his eye. Show me, he says. The boy beams and runs to his mother, taking a bag out of her hand and running back. He tugs out three toy cars and plops down on the grass. Steve joins him, stretching out his legs and taking one of the cars the boy hands him. Sam sits down once the boy tugs at Sam's shoe laces.

What's your name? Steve asks.

The boy finger spells Bradley, then places a second car in Sam's hand. He goes about driving his own car along Steve's shin. Steve humors him by pretending to race, then runs his car on Bradley's nose. Bradley makes a face, but he looks pleased, poking at Steve's calf and refocusing on his car. He drives it along Sam's arm next, dodging Sam's fingers acting as road blocks.

Steve notices Bradley's wearing socks with Steve's shield on them, along with Hulk shoelaces. He's Falcon, Steve says, nodding at Sam, and Bradley beams, turning so he's sitting cross legged in front of Sam instead. Steve leans back on his hands, content to simply watch for a few minutes before Bradley's mother takes his hand and tugs him to his feet.

Time to go, she says. Bradley frowns but gives them both a hug and waves goodbye.

You forgot your cars, Steve says before they can leave; he holds out the three cars to the mother.

Bradley shakes his head and only takes one. Those two are for you, he says, pointing at them.

"How do you say 'thank you'?" Sam asks, and Steve holds a flat hand to his chin and extends it in Bradley's direction.

The mother returns the gesture and picks her son up with a smile, Bradley's hands moving a mile a minute as they walk away.

Sam gives Steve a look he can't decipher. "I didn't know you knew sign language."

Steve lifts a shoulder. "I had hearing problems when I was a kid, so my mom taught me just in case they got worse. I haven't used it since I was about ten, though." He smiles slightly at the thought, at his mother kissing his hair when he got a word right, or her tugging him against her side and praising him when he was able to converse in full sentences for the first time. He can remember her soft touch and the pride he felt deep in his chest.

"Huh," Sam says, that look still on his face. Steve starts slightly, shifting his weight under the scrutiny.

"Want breakfast?" Steve asks, for lack of anything better to say.

"Sure," Sam says slowly, and Steve wonders what it is he's missing.

*

Steve wakes up the next morning to Natasha inches away from his face.

"You mind?" he mutters.

"Your alarm is going off in two minutes anyway," she says. "Isn't this a better way to wake up?"

Steve shuts his eyes. "No."

"Rumba? Rumba?"

"No. Never."

"Tango?"

Steve opens one eye and squints at her. "Will it give me a desire to have my way with him right on the dance floor?"

"Come on, step out of your comfort zone a little."

Steve sighs and sits up. "I thought that's what I've been doing all along?"

Natasha pokes his shoulder. "Up, up. First shower, then you get to make breakfast. I'd like waffles, please."

Steve pushes himself out of bed. "I think Clint still has some Eggos left in the freezer," he teases, avoiding Natasha's punch.

"If a Belgian waffle is not in front of me in thirty minutes, I'll start using your shield in....unconventional ways."

"I don't even want to ask that means," Steve mumbles, pulling off his shirt and grabbing fresh clothes.

"Thirty minutes," Natasha says, and she gives his bare side one more pinch before ducking out.

Natasha gets her waffle (with strawberries, of course, which she munches on lazily before throwing the crowns in his lap) and Steve eats a few bacon and egg sandwiches. Clint and Thor amble in around nine and demand their own breakfasts; Natasha glances over them briefly as she nibbles on another strawberry. Steve tells them no, but after their matching pouts, he ends up cooking Thor the biggest omelet he's ever seen as Clint requests a spicy breakfast burrito.

"Sap," Natasha says, her lips curving up just slightly enough for him to know that she understands how she also benefits from his generosity.

"You won't get any more food from me, then," Steve says, and Clint hisses and huddles around his burrito as if Steve has threatened him instead.

"Gifts are to be appreciated," Thor says, which clearly translates to if you take food privileges away from me I will rip you apart with my hammer.

"Yes, they are," Natasha says, scooting behind Clint's chair. "Have a nice meal, gents."

"Wait, where are you guys going?" Clint asks as Steve goes to follow her.

"Classified," Natasha says, and Steve smirks at Clint's disgruntled expression.

"Are you sure the rumba is a no? We need more flair," Natasha says as they step out of the elevator and close her door behind her. "Something more...sensual."

"Sensual."

"You never do anything halfway. You're always full steam ahead, so why stop now?" Natasha stretches her arms casually, but she can't pull it off properly: her lips twitch.

"I see what you're doing," Steve says, pointing at her. "Trying to appeal to my - you know."

Natasha shrugs. "Determined nature? Desire to be the best you can be?"

"It's actually be all that you can be."

She ignores that (probably rightfully so) and simply holds out her arms. "Embrace me."

"I'll throw you out a window, maybe," Steve mutters, but he obeys, positioning himself in waltz formation.

"Nope. Lower your hand."

Steve hesitates. "How low?"

Natasha takes his hand and places it just above the small of her back. "Don't think too much - you trust me, right?"

"Of course," Steve says, quickly enough that Natasha stiffens, her eyes slightly wide.

She clears her throat and pushes the casual expression back on her face, but Steve doesn't miss her fingers tightening around him. "Feel my weight, then; you have to trust that I know where I'm going and I know how to take you with me. Feel where I'm going between the moves. It's all about balance."

"I know a thing or two about balance," Steve says, and needless to say, this is the easiest lesson he's had so far. He's spent months on balance, on perfecting every single movement to his exact purpose. It clearly works, because Natasha is relaxed and smiling when she playfully asks Steve to dip her.

"Yeah, maybe not that much," Natasha says when he dips her so low that her hair brushes the ground. He pretends to drop her, laughing.

"You never said how low."

She manages to slip between his legs and jump on his back. "If you don't want to do the rumba, you wimp, I'm ready to go for a run. You in?"

Steve wraps his arms around her legs and hoists her higher. "Always. Three dances is enough to know, right?"

"I'd say so," Natasha says, wrapping her arms around his neck while he carries her to the elevator. "You know, it's getting quite aggravating to even bother asking about you know who."

"I'm...getting around to it," Steve says as the elevator closes behind them. "Hit the button, will you?"

She jabs it with her toe. "If you don't, he might have another plans."

"He doesn't, I asked."

"I swear, Steve..."

"You're the one who keeps trying to set me up with people - you ask him for me."

"I am without a doubt not doing that."

"So if I give you a note that says do you like me? check yes or no, you won't deliver it? That's rude."

"I don't even want to think about it," Natasha sighs. "Anyway, your fitting is tomorrow, right?

"Yeah," Steve says, enduring yet another Natasha pinch.

"Do you know what style you're getting?"

"Um. Tux style?"

Natasha tightens her grip. "Tux style."

"Aren't they all the same?"

"...the same."

"Like a suit, but with a bowtie?"

"No, there are definitely different types. Labels, pockets, fabric, vents -"

"What?"

"How about I come with you and help you out?"

Steve figures Tony's a pro at tuxes and will be more than enough help, but he'd like her there, anyway. "Okay."

"You have to pick my dress, though."

"Uh," Steve says. "What?"

Natasha nods, wiggling her toes. "It'll be fun."

Steve sighs. That phrase out of her mouth has become slightly daunting.

*

Tony pays for all of their tuxes despite Steve's fervent protests. Steve tries to sneak to the counter to pay, but Tony grabs him by the collar and yanks him backwards.

"What do you think I am, an amateur?" he says. "They're already paid for, Cap. Now go to the tailor. Shoo."

The tailor's eyes had lit up when they had walked in, but luckily, Daniel turned professional once the fitting began.

"I'm thinking single breasted, of course," Natasha tells Daniel. "How many buttons do you want, Steve?"

Steve stares at her blankly. "How many - does it matter?"

Natasha's mouth twitches as she squeezes his hand. "Let's do one?"

Daniel agrees, and neither of them ask Steve any more questions (to his relief), so he simply stands there and lets himself be moved and measured. He's been through this before, after all - although his USO outfit isn't comparable by any means.

Behind them, Thor and Clint are arguing about colors.

"You can't wear an orange tux unless you're Lloyd Christmas," Clint says.

Thor frowns. "Who?"

Clint wordlessly pulls up and image on his phone and shows it to Thor. Thor grins, but Clint shakes his head before Thor can say anything. "Don't wear the blue one, either."

"The black is so dull," Thor says.

"If you really want color, get a cummerbund," Tony says. "Pay homage to your noble cape and get a red one. Clint can get purple, and Cap can get -"

"No," Steve interrupts.

"- one with a nice red, white, and blue star," Tony continues.

Daniel is shaking his head in exasperation, but he chuckles. "You're finished," he says, patting Steve's shoulder. Steve hops down and Thor takes his place, who looks much more enthusiastic about the experience now.

"Get whatever color you want," Steve says, and Thor squeezes his shoulder for the briefest of moments before letting go.

"My turn," Natasha says, taking Steve's hat and tugging it on his head.

"What -" Clint begins, but Natasha simply pushes Steve out of the store.

"See you," she calls over her shoulder, zipping up her coat.

"Where are we going?" Steve says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"You're picking out my dress, remember?"

Steve chews on his lip. "You really trust me to do that?"

Natasha scoffs. "You're probably the only male I'd trust to do it."

He follows her into a small boutique, and willingly lets Natasha push him into a chair. He taps his knees with his fingers as he waits.

Natasha first steps out in a one shoulder green dress. She holds up her hands in a well? type expression.

Steve gives her a thumbs up. "You look great. Really great."

"So I'll put that on the yes pile."

Steve tilts his head. "Pile? I like that one; can't I just pick it?"

"Oh, Steve," Natasha says, shaking her head. She doesn't bother to elaborate as she steps back into the dressing room. A good idea, because he most likely wouldn't understand her explanation anyway, so he shrugs and settles back down in his seat.

Then she steps out in a strapless pink dress. The skirt makes her look graceful and exotic, although he wonders how she's not afraid that the dress will fall down without any straps.

"That one is good, too," he says. "Very glamorous. Very...chic?" He's pretty sure that's an appropriate word.

Natasha nods and hangs it up next to the green one.

Then a purple one with straps.

Steve nods fervently. "Yes."

Natasha gives him an annoyed look and adds it to the others.

When Steve only wows her next selection, Natasha puts her hands on her hips.

"You are of no help - I thought you said you were always honest."

"I am - I can't help that you look good in all of them."

"Pick one."

"Fine - um. What do the others look like again?"

Natasha sighs and points to them on their hangers.

"The pink one," Steve says, then pauses. "You won't trip on the back, right? It's really long."

Natasha waves a hand. "Fuchsia it is; I don't care what Anne Shirley says about redheads and pink."

"Who?"

"Not important. Now, jewelry. Earrings: studs? Hoops?"

Steve thinks. "I like dangly ones?"

To her credit, Natasha doesn't give him an exasperated expression at his terminology. "All right. Necklace?"

Steve looks at Natasha's dress. "Do you need one? There's already a lot going on with the material, right?"

Natasha gives him an approving look, nodding. He mentally pats himself on the back. "I agree; it would be overkill. Shoes?"

Steve considers. "Silver?"

"Hmm. Like these? Keep them simple to focus on the dress."

Steve gives her a bewildered look. "You can dance in those?"

"Please," Natasha drawls. "I've fought in heels taller than this."

Not a surprise, Steve thinks. "Okay, yeah. I like those. If you do."

She disappears back in the dressing room, this time adding the shoes. She gives a little spin, the tail end of the dress billowing around her. Examining her shoes against the fabric, she nods. "I can work with this."

"I did good?"

She strokes his hair like he's a puppy. "You did good."

*

Sam invites Steve to dinner at his place two days later - not that it's a big deal, as it's something they do all the time, but Steve still makes sure his shirt is perfectly ironed and his jeans well fitted. (Natasha said they made his ass look perky. She also got pushed away when she grabbed such ass to prove her point.)

Still, Steve takes care to roll his sleeves up to his forearms, as he's seen Sam eye them every now and then.

As expected, Sam plays casual when he answers the door, but his eyes drift carefully over Steve's shirt.

"Yo," Sam says. "I'm starving, so hurry up."

"Right," Steve says as his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and checks his messages.

Steve frowns.

Steve shakes his head slowly. Okay...

Steve quickly locks the screen and shoves his phone in his pocket, grumbling under his breath. "What are you making?" he asks.

"My dad's seafood bisque. Shrimp, crab, scallops, the works."

"I've never had those," Steve admits.

Sam's jaw drops. "What? Any of them?"

"They weren't exactly everywhere during the Depression or war," Steve says. "I think I was allergic to them, anyway."

"This needs to be remedied immediately," Sam says, pulling out a pot and skillet. "What a travesty."

Steve leans against the counter, looking at the ingredients. "What's the difference between bisque, soup, and stew anyway?"

"Stop talking and throw the shrimp in the skillet, then peel the tails off," Sam orders, pointing to the stove top. "You're hurting my soul."

Steve takes the butter from Sam and heats it up in the skillet. Sam goes about combining cream of mushroom, tomato soup, and half-n-half, mixing it all together on low heat.

"Hold on, just gotta grab some spices," Sam says, leaning over Steve's shoulder to reach into the cabinet. There's a pause, then Steve feels breath on the back of his neck, through his hair. He stills, because he's pretty confident that Sam just smelled him - slowly, too.

"Uh," Steve says.

"I got Old Bay, paprika, cayenne, and thyme," Sam says, like nothing happened. "That good?"

"Whatever you say," Steve says, keeping his voice carefully level, turning the shrimp over. He looks at Sam at of the corner of his eye, but Sam is simply whistling as he mixes the bisque with a whisk. Steve nearly slices his finger off because he's not paying attention so he wrenches his gaze back on the skillet.

Sam's just another mission. Steve's a tactician, right? This should be easy.

(He chickens out.

The bisque is amazing, though.)

*

Steve finds himself on a rare off day (from missions and dancing), so he and Clint end up sprawled on the couch with two huge plates of nachos on their laps by mid afternoon.

"Can't...reach...remote," Clint says, flexing the fingers on one hand while holding a tortilla chip covered in cheese and jalapeños with the other. "Send help."

Steve leans down and kicks it Clint's way. Clint stares at it on the ground.

"Eh," he says. "Don't care enough. What are we watching, anyway?"

"Something about cars, I think," Steve says, but he's been more focused on the nachos and running dance moves through his mind. When his phone beeps, he tilts his body to the side and lets it fall out of his pocket.

"Maybe he's hinting at something," Natasha says out of nowhere; Steve doesn't even flinch. "Maybe he wants to take you home to mom?"

"Huh?" Clint surfaces from the chips. "Who?"

"Go away, Clint," Natasha says.

Clint rolls off the couch mumbling under his breath; the words are even more illegible with the chips in his mouth.

"You are just sad," Natasha says when Clint's gone. She snags a chip. "Where's the Steve that fought Nazis, hmm? The rebel? The royal pain in the -"

" - I'll let you know when I find him."

"Dummkopf," Natasha mumbles.

Steve makes a face. "I speak German, you know."

"I know," Natasha says. "That was the point."

"Anyway," Steve says, "I'm pretty sure he sniffed me."

"Sniffed you," Natasha repeats. "Like how?"

"Like -" he turns her around and smells her hair "- that."

"I wouldn't call that a sniff," Natasha says. "I'd say a nice inhale. Did you know that sense of smell impacts attraction?"

"I did not."

"For instance, lavender is one of the most powerful scents and is known for its therapeutic properties such as relieving tension and reducing headaches."

Steve closes his eyes briefly. "Why do you know this?"

Natasha taps away at her phone; he just resists looking to see who she's texting. "It would be a good way to attract a mate is what I'm saying."

Steve groans. "Please don't ever say mate like that again. That's horrifying."

"Vertical expression of a horizontal wish," Natasha sings, quoting Shall We Dance.

Her phone and the plate of nachos go flying when he tackles her.

*

(When he goes to bed later that night, he finds lavender shampoo on his bed.

He retaliates by pouring Thor's strawberry syrup in Natasha's pillowcase.)

*

(...he starts using the shampoo.)

*

The tux is ready the next week. Natasha brings it over along with her dress; she's also carrying a bag which, at closer inspection, is holding her high heel shoes as well as his own.

"Put them on," she says, tossing them his way and laying his tux across the back of his chair. "Time to see what you're made of."

Steve stares at the shoes, then Natasha's feet.

Natasha, following his gaze, says, "You haven't stepped on my feet in a long time. Don't overthink it."

She steps into his bathroom to change while he doesn't bother to move out of the living room. He leaves off the bow tie (it itches) and ties his shoes, getting in a few practice steps before Natasha is finished. He's proud that he doesn't stumble once.

Natasha has swept her hair in a loose ponytail over one shoulder, and he grins at her.

"You look beautiful."

Natasha starts, just slightly enough for him to notice; she looks at his face with a critical eye. She's not frowning, per se, but her eyebrows are creased, as if she doesn't know how to process the word. It lasts only a moment before she gives him a small, sincere smile, one that automatically makes his own lips curl upward. "You're not too bad yourself - if you were fully dressed."

Steve looks down at his clothes. "What?"

She stares pointedly at his collar.

Steve makes a face. "That has nothing to do with practice - hey!"

Before he can blink, Natasha has his bow tie in one hand and grabs him by the lapel with the other. "Stay still," she says, tying it with precision. When she finishes, she steps behind him and turns him around so they face the mirror. She rests her chin on his shoulder. "There we go - look how pretty you are."

Steve looks, first at Natasha watching him in the mirror - he's not sure why he has the need to have her confirmation, but it's comforting in a way that he hasn't quite figured out. She nods when he meets her eyes, so he takes a breath and turns back to his reflection. It's strange, really, why he's reading so much into this considering everything else he's had to do in his life. Natasha's hugging him just a little, her fond expression unfamiliar but certainly not unwelcome, and he feels his body relax. He's standing straight, confident, wearing a content look on his face that he hasn't seen in a long time. "Maybe I can actually pull this off."

"Of course you can," Natasha says, twirling him around. Her smirk is back, but he can easily see the pleased expression underneath. He wonders if her expressions have become more open or if he's gotten better at reading her face. "You've had my help."

He rolls his eyes at her, stepping into the now familiar waltz position. "Of course."

He takes time to adjust; Natasha is taller with her heels on, and his left hand is now on her smooth, bare shoulder.

"You have warm hands," Natasha says. "Sam'll like that."

Steve pinches her. "All right, I get your point. I'll ask him tomorrow."

She mimes a motion of stepping on his foot with her heel. "I should hope so - you've only got five days left. Living life on the edge there?"

"That's how I've always done it."

"Lord help you," she murmurs.

*

Steve can do this. Natasha's right: He fought in a war. He took down a government agency trying to kill him. He's survived rheumatic and scarlet fever and anemia and asthma and about a million bouts with pneumonia in a weak, tiny body. All he has to do is open his mouth and say a few words.

It's Sam's turn to pick where to eat after their run, so they end up at his favorite diner. Steve orders pancakes and alternates between rapidly shoving them in his mouth or going minutes without taking a bite.

"...now my cousins won't stop calling me Uncle Sam; it's getting really annoying."

Steve should respond to that, a stupid joke or something, but instead suddenly asks, "Do you know how to ballroom dance?" He jabs a blueberry with his fork.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Interesting change of topic? I do, actually. My mama enrolled me in classes when I was seven, so yeah. Had a little tux and bow tie and everything - I was adorable."

"Does adult you have a tux?"

"No, why?"

"Well - there's this charity event. That Tony's company is holding? That requires tuxes and dancing. Yeah."

Sam leans back in his chair and links his fingers on his lap. "That so," he drawls.

"Yeah."

Sam waits. Steve twitches.

"Sounds nice," Sam eventually says.

"Yeah."

Sam looks at him pointedly. Steve taps his fingertips against his glass.

"All righty then."

"Just thought I'd mention it," Steve says, quite lamely.

"Okay," Sam says, taking a bite of bacon, the picture of nonchalance. "So anyway -"

"Want to come?" Steve interrupts. He stabs the blueberry again, turning it to mush.

"Come to it in general?" Sam asks, smirking, and Sam is a bastard.

"No - not in general."

"What ever do you mean, then?"

Steve pretends to act like he's deep in thought. "If you wanted, you could get there at the same time as me."

"That's very generous of you."

"And leave together, too."

"Ah."

"I'll probably be hungry so maybe get something to eat together afterward."

Sam bursts out laughing. "I haven't used this word in about twenty years, but you are such a dork."

"Is it working?"

"God."

"Yes?"

"God."

"Invoking deities isn't an answer, you know."

Sam massages his temples, but he's smiling. "Fine, okay? Fine. Just stop with the innocent bumbling puppy thing - we both know you're a little shit."

Steve grins back. "You got it."

After they go their separate ways, Steve pulls his phone out of his pocket.

A second, then:

Steve's face hurts from grinning.

*

He and Sam don't see each other for the next few days by unspoken agreement; Steve gets the strange feeling of a husband and wife waiting until they see each other at the alter. (He rubs his temples; his thoughts have begun to take bizarre turns. He blames Natasha.)

The night before the gala, he gets:

Steve's in the garage within a minute, at Sam's door in seven. Sam answers his knock already wearing the tux; he takes a step back so Steve can come inside and raises his arms.

"What do you think?"

Steve nods. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, that. Just - yes," Steve says, his brain filter making a quick exit. "Would probably look better out of it, though."

Sam slides off the bow tie in one smooth motion, and Steve's mouth goes dry.

"Would also be better if you were closer to me, too."

Sam cups his face. "You," Sam says, kissing his lips, "are," kisses his nose, "a," kisses his cheek, "dork," kisses his lips again.

"You love it," Steve says, shivering slightly.

"I kind of do," Sam says, running his fingers through Steve's hair. "You smell different."

"You did smell me the other day, then," Steve says, tilting his head to bare his neck.

"Mm. Can't help it, you smell good," Sam says, taking Steve's offer and brushes his lips against Steve's neck. "I like this better, though."

The thought of never telling Natasha that bit of information crosses his mind, but is quickly run out by the thought that Sam's mouth is now his new favorite thing. "Apparently lavender is one of the most powerful scents and is known for its therapeutic properties such as relieving tension and reducing headaches."

"Oh my God, Steve. You used science as a reason to change your shampoo. To lavender. To attract someone. You are such a dorky shit, you know that?" He yanks at Steve's shirt, then wraps his finger around Steve's bicep. "And your tight little shirts, Lord. You're a menace to society."

Steve's grin is cheeky. "Did they help?"

"Dorky shit," Sam repeats, but he lets Steve work on unbuttoning his shirt. "So, what other therapeutic properties does lavender have?"

"I can make some up," Steve offers, now pulling Sam's jacket off. "Any suggestions?"

Sam pushes him until his knees hit the couch. "You can kiss me. Not fair that Natasha got one and I didn't."

"She may have said that everyone needs practice," Steve hears himself saying before he can rethink the words.

"I know."

Steve blinks. "She told you?"

"Yep," Sam says, settling on Steve's lap, "she told me. Hinted that I should be the one to help you practice."

"Why didn't you say so," Steve says, and wants to continue, but Sam's lips brushing his ever so softly is a bit distracting.

"Just be quiet," Sam says with a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He runs his fingers through Steve's hair again, tugging at the ends. "Quiet."

Steve can do that.

*

Steve tugs at the bow tie, staring at the mirror in the lobby. "Too tight."

"That's too tight? You remember your uniform, right? The one that's painted on?"

"At least it's armor that's painted on, not - this."

"Stop messing with it; it's lopsided now," Sam says, reaching over to straighten it. "There you go. Do I look okay?"

"Absolutely not," Steve says, and he smooths out Sam's pocket square, letting his hand linger on Sam's chest. His mind immediately travels to a different headspace, but he forces himself back to the present. "That's better."

"Excuse me, there shall be no boob squeezing tonight," Tony says. He looks at Pepper, who rolls her eyes. "Well, not during the gala. Afterward is fair game."

"Thanks for your approval," Sam says.

"All right, then," Tony says, clapping. He bows to Pepper. "I believe we shall get this started."

Natasha's wearing her pink dress and looks just as at home in that as she would in a t-shirt. Her hair is again in the loose ponytail over her shoulder, but now she has curls framing her face along with her earrings. Clint fidgets next to her, pulling at the sleeves of his tux. Without looking, Natasha slaps his hands away. "Bruce? Would you like to dance with me?"

Bruce looks like he's about to decline, but a "yes" slips out of his mouth at Natasha's expression. She holds out her hands and he twirls her.

"They can't be cuter than us; it's a rule," Sam says. His hand casually finds Steve's as they follow Bruce and Natasha. They stare at each other for a moment before Sam takes the lead position. "Good?"

"Yes," Steve says, taking some time to adjust to Sam's larger hands and his broad back. "Very good."

It's a bit of a challenge at first, with Steve trying to work his way through the size difference between Sam and Natasha, but they eventually settle into a rhythm.

Next to them, Pepper's face is buried in Tony's neck, who strokes her hair gently with a fond smile. Clint and Maria Hill are snickering across the room as they spin, while Bruce and Natasha move fluidly with each other.

Steve can't believe he was so concerned about this, it's easy now that he's here, with Sam; he smiles at Sam and Sam smiles back. It's a smile that he's seen on Sam's face whenever they've hung out, and again Steve wants to ask him why didn't you tell me, you jerk, but he has no room to talk as he didn't say anything, either. (In his defense, he has had little experience in this area - which is not the case with Sam - so he is less culpable.)

"You're thinking too much," Sam says, and Steve wrinkles his nose.

Eventually they drift to other partners; first Pepper takes Sam's hand and pulls him away, with Tony taking Sam's place. Steve braces himself for Tony's teasing, but Tony just pats his shoulder.

"Seems like a good guy," he says.

Steve feels the dorky smile on his face. "Yeah, he is."

"He's making me look like a schmuck, though."

"What?" Steve turns to watch as Sam lifts Pepper off her feet and twirls her.

"I'd need the Iron Man suit to do that with you," Tony says, then his eyes light up. "Wait -"

"No," Pepper calls out.

"Damn her hearing," Tony says, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Aren't you used to that by now?"

"You'd think."

After a few songs, they switch, Pepper's pleased, slightly flushed face smiling at him. With the heels, she's about as tall as he is.

"How do you even do that?" Steve says, staring at her shoes - they're taller than Natasha's.

"Practice," Pepper laughs. "Lots and lots of practice."

Thor's after her (who does lift him up; Steve nearly faceplants in surprise when he's set down), then Maria (who could use some lessons with Natasha), then Clint (who moves like his tux has personally offended him).

Eventually, Natasha tugs him away from Jane Foster.

He bows. "Ma'am."

She curtseys in reply. "Sir."

He allows her to spin him once before pulling him back in.

"See, not so bad," Natasha says, her eyes following Sam with Pepper again.

"It's not," Steve agrees. He takes lead this time. "Thank you for your help, by the way. It would have been ugly without you."

"No problem," Natasha says. "Pretty sure this worked out well in your favor in the end, didn't it?"

"A tad," Steve says, tapping out a beat on her shoulder.

"For me, too," Natasha says. She clears her throat.

"For you, what?"

"Worked out well, that is. It was fun."

"Ah, Natalia Alianovna Romanoff, you like spending time with me. Admit it."

"Not so loud," Natasha grumbles, but her smile gives her away.

Steve leaves it at that, resting his cheek on the top of her head. He's pretty sure he hears sap, but she doesn't move. When the song ends he kisses her temple, links her hands with Thor's, and moves on -

and Sam intercepts him. "Mine," he says. Then: "I think Clint broke one of my toes."

"I think Thor broke my fingers," Steve says, flexing them.

"I'll be careful, then," Sam says, rolling his eyes, but he does take Steve's hands gently.

"This isn't how I imagined dancing with Peggy," Steve says after a few minutes, but to his surprise, the sadness that would usually accompany that type of thought is gone.

"How did you?"

"Like -" Steve releases Sam's hands and links them behind Sam's neck. " - this."

"Ah, prom style," Sam says, letting his hands rest on Steve's waist. "This is certainly better than high school."

"Yeah? How did that go?"

"Well," Sam begins, "her name was Vanessa, and she ignored me half the night."

Steve blinks. "What? Who could ignore you?"

"Charmer. Anyway, during the last dance, she kisses me. Which I wasn't expecting at all, due to, you know, her not acknowledging my presence most of the time. She bit my lip so hard that it bled, then when she tasted it she freaked out and spit it back at me. Turns out she just wanted to make this other dude jealous. So I leave with a bloody face, went back to a friend's place, and drank until we passed out."

"Ouch..."

"So I'll say this is infinitely better."

"Yeah," Steve says, then, feeling brave, licks his lips slowly and adds with a sly grin: "I'll only bite when you ask."

Sam swallows. "When does this end again?"

"Maybe they won't notice if we slip out," Steve says, examining every possible exit. (He finds seventeen; it's a skill.)

Natasha, who is now dancing with Jane, makes kissy faces behind Sam's back. He refrains from sticking his tongue out at her.

He has her to thank for this, after all.