Work Text:
There’s a standard line bandied around by the younger agents of S.H.I.E.L.D, mostly by the women; some of the men, also. It’s really, really bandied around by the office staff who don’t have quite the same reputation for toughness to maintain, and treat it as a badge of honour to let people know who they’re ogling. Because who wouldn’t want a closer examination of those glorious pecs, those strong arms? It’s taken as a given, like is the sky blue? Who doesn’t want to hug Captain America?
Natasha Romanov, for one. Actually.
She can work with the man, and she respects him OK, which is not that common, but the hell is she going to like him. And she’s got her reasons, which she enumerates inside her head sometimes, because it’s that or go pick a fight with him.
For firstly, he’s a shining clean example of American jingoism, the pretty side of might is right, and she’s seen far too much of the way the world works to be able to take that without wanting to punch him out.
For secondly, he’s a figurehead of the pop culture she learnt the way you study for a test, with a certain sure beating if you scored anything less than 100%. That, and her pitch perfect American drawl will always be a part of her.
For thirdly, he’s got a Thing about rescuing civilians, obsessively and always. And she’s got nothing against civvies, but not when it compromises the mission objectives, and she’s fed up with coping with Steve breaking formation to take care of his little side efforts.
For fourthly, because he’s got a Thing about rescuing his team mates, and he’s messed up more than a few of her interrogations because he thought she was in trouble. She wasn’t.
For fifthly, because the one time in her life she actually needed rescuing, there was no one around to care.
For sixthly, because he’s always singing to himself, just on the edge of hearing, and it’s driving her crazy. It’s months before she wakes in the middle of the night and realises that he’s humming the same songs as the man who trained her. This does not make her like him more.
***
There’s a well subscribed betting pool on the results of their weekly sparring sessions. Steve is strong, but she is agile; they’re both fast. She is comfortable betting on her long term prospects.
***
The single officers’ quarters at S.H.I.E.L.D. are spartan, and Natasha likes it that way. They’d given her her room all those years ago, when Hawkeye first brought her in, and Coulson had spent days just sitting with her, as she paced and banged the walls and lashed him with her tongue. She could have moved out, she could have, she’s not a prisoner or anything (anymore), but she likes it in her room, or at least despises it less than anywhere else. She has as much space as she once shared with three other girls, and considers it princely. She keeps it bare and clean, her few personal items stored in a footlocker, ready to grab or leave as ever might be needed. The elaborate dresses and make up she needs for her undercover work are stored in the ready room with her weapons; they’re not her. The only ornament on the wall is a golden icon, St Basil the Fool for Christ, which had been owned by her father, then lost, and somehow found again by her partner. She tells herself that she could just walk away and leave it if she had to.
She’s chilling out with a paperback when there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” she says, figuring it’ll be Hawkeye wanting to go out for a beer, but it’s not, it’s Captain Rogers and he’s got… a bunch of flowers in his hands?
“Hi there,” he ducks his head under the door lintel and comes in. “I got you some daisies. For your room.”
She puts her book down and looks at him like he’s crazy. He looks awkwardly around for somewhere to put them, then gives up and pulls out her desk chair. “Mind if I sit?”
“Would it make a difference if I did?”
“Of course it would. Look, Specialist Romanov, this is a bit of an awkward conversation to have… Are we good?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The relationship between us - working relationship I mean. Sometimes I get the feeling there’s a, a coolness between us. And I just want you to know that I respect you, and your work, and if there’s something I can do to fix things, to let me know.”
“Rogers,” she says, “it’s fine. Now can I finish my book?”
For seventhly, Steve Rogers has never in his life had to think hard about what he thinks. He’s never had to consider sides, to sift ideology from evidence and choose. He’s never had to do horrible things with survival on the line. He has no ledger to wipe clean.
***
If Coulson and Barton hadn’t been on the other side of the world dealing with the other half of the human trafficking mission, she would have climbed into bed with one or both of them, and let them hold her until she fell asleep. She’s never told Coulson that what she really likes isn’t the feel of arms around her, but the way that he and Barton smell. She has told Hawkeye, but he’s as messed in the head as she is, so that’s alright.
Which means that at 3 in the morning, when she’s cleaned up after her latest job and really wants to crawl into a puppy pile, she’s in the common room watching Coulson’s dreadful reality tv channel and mainlining vodka. The break room door opens and she studiously ignores the figure tiptoeing in and grabbing a beer from the fridge.
Rogers stands in silence behind the couch while the ads cycle through: pop tarts, exercise machines, ‘conversation’ phone lines… All she can hear is the sound of him swallowing beer. Then Supernanny comes on and Natasha starts to cry.
Steve sits on the couch next to her and puts his arm around her, saying Shh-shh-shh. “They were little girls…”she says.
For eighthly…
There are seven good reasons that Natasha doesn’t like Steve. The one reason she does like him is that he smells right.