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Like everyone else, Nat has moods. Sam has become somewhat of an expert in reading them. It’s not an ability he could list on a resume, but he’s more proud of it than most talents he could. He knows people tend to think she’s always cool and aloof and more than a little bit scary, but he knows better. She can be light and in love with the world, mischievous in that funny way she has which leads to some of the more amusing pranks around the tower. Maybe she’s not as emotionally obvious as most people, but he can tell by the curve of her smile, the curve of her spine, the softness around her eyes. Some are the kind that have her irritated and snapping at anyone who crosses her, or heading to the gym to punch things because she just has to hit something and the bad guys are quiet at the time. Then there is the other kind. The kind that has her looking into her morning cup of coffee just a little too long. Has her shoulders slanting down almost imperceptibly, her normally fidgety fingers smoothing their way in slow circles across nearby surfaces. This is the kind he likes least, yet feels vaguely guilty for taking a certain kind of enjoyment in since this is the time she lets him get close enough to help.
It started out slowly, but he’s learned to be patient. Not that it was easy at first. He cared about her immediately, wanted to go up to her and give her a hug when she looked like she needed it, but he knew she wouldn’t have accepted it. Instead, after watching her closely for a few months once she’d returned from whatever journey she needed to take following the whole dissolution of S.H.I.E.L.D. situation, the first thing he did on one of her blue days was just to buy her a pair of super comfy fleece pajamas. He left them outside her door with a note that simply read, “Because fuzzy pajama day. - Sam.” She didn’t say anything to him, but he caught her eyeing him carefully the following morning.
After that, it became something of a pattern. When she had one of those days, he did some little thing to show her he noticed. He cared. He went out and bought her favorite coffee drink and handed it to her silently, the words “Because fru fru coffee day” scrawled onto the cup, and he was certain she brightened a bit.
He had Jarvis send her a file full of Monty Python movies. The file was titled “Because stupid humor day.”
He left an intricate coloring book and a box of new crayons at her door. Inscribed in the front cover were the words, “Because adulting.”
He sent her a series of pictures showing Thor fighting with modern technology to her phone- he particularly loved the one of him shaking Mjolnir at the microwave that was still smoking after burning his popcorn. All he wrote was, “Because Schadenfreude.” It makes him ridiculously happy, making her smile. He doesn’t want anything from her aside from friendship, and he suspects she knows that- or at least she’s starting to believe it, and that’s why she opens up.
Which is why he’s standing outside of her door at 8:12 pm on a random Thursday, holding two bottles of nail polish and a cup of vanilla spice tea. He’s seen her drinking it before, so she must like it. He has a few other things tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, but he doesn’t want her to see them yet. He takes a steadying breath and knocks, a tendril of nerves curling its way up his spine. He’s never tried this direct of an approach before, but after months of her not throwing any of his little gestures back in his face he’s hopeful. He knocks lightly, and then waits. He knows she can check the security camera so she’ll know it’s him, and she’ll ignore him if she sees fit. She’s not at all the type to let him in unless she really wants to. He waits for a few seconds that feel like hours, but then the door cracks open.
“Yes?” She asks, opening the door just far enough that her face is visible. Her expression is one most would consider unreadable, but Sam isn’t most people.
He holds up his offerings and smiles, quirking one brow up. He doesn’t need words. Or at least he doesn’t trust himself to choose the wrong ones.
“Because making a mess?” She tries for joking, but her tone falls flat.
Sam watches her for a moment. She wants him to come in, he can see it. But she’s also in that place he knows well. The one where he takes a certain kind of pleasure in a blue mood. Where he wants to wallow in his own darkness, to savor it like biting down on a sore tooth. She both wants someone to make her feel better, and for everyone to leave her alone.
“I’ll have you know that I once dated a nail tech. I’ve got this shit,” he promises, his voice full of ‘I dare you to find out.’ “Plus I heard Bittersweet Symphony earlier and now I’m in a Cruel Intentions kind of mood, and I’m not watching anything else that even vaguely references not-quite-sibling romance around Thor. Not after the Star Wars incident and the unnecessary meta about Loki…” He shudders dramatically and gives her his best puppy dog eyes. Which, for the record, are awesome.
She half-laughs and opens the door, rolling her eyes. “Fine, but only because I love Buffy in a fucked up role.” She makes her way over to her couch and tucks her feet underneath her in one corner, leaving him to follow.
Sam smiles when he notices that she’s wearing the fuzzy pajamas he bought her a few months ago. Minions totallys suit her. “Jarvis, Cruel Intentions please. And don’t let Thor know it exists. Ever.”
“Deleting Cruel Intentions from Thor’s access,” Jarvis states as the large screen across from the couch lights up and the opening begins to roll.
Sam sets the tea and polish colors on the coffee table in front of the couch and seats himself on the center cushion. “Color?”
“You’re not getting anywhere near me with that shade of blue,” Nat says, eyeing the robin’s egg shade with a look of vague disgust. “The grey is cool though,” she admits, nodding at the deep metallic slate.
“Thought so,” Sam agrees, picking up the tea and handing it to her. He explicitly doesn’t do anything like ask her how her day is, or what’s wrong. Which is probably why she relaxes a bit. He does a little mental fist bump with himself and shakes the bottle while she takes a sip. “Left hand,” he requests, holding out his own palm up. That way she can finish her tea.
She sets her hand in his, giving him a dubious sort of look.
“Oh ye of little faith,” he tuts, examining her hand. As he expected, it’s polish free. Sometimes she has fake nails on, but lately she’s been leaving them alone. It looks like it’s been a while since she’s had a manicure, which works for him. He reaches into his hoodie and pulls out a bottle of cuticle oil, some hand lotion, a nail file and a cuticle stick and sets them on the table.
She gives him an impressed look. “Seriously?”
“I wasn’t lying about that nail tech,” he shrugs. “Now shut up and watch the fucked-upness not happen to us for once,” he grins.
She looks like she’s barely resisting sticking her tongue out at him, but she wriggles into the couch a bit more and leaves him to it.
As the movie goes on she glances at him from time to time, her expression gradually becoming less...spy-like for lack of a better term. By the time he’s finished with her hands, including what he’s been told is an excellent massage, and propped her feet up onto a throw pillow so he can do those as well, she’s a sleepy sort of plaint in a way he’s never seen her. He’s thrilled.
They keep up a light running commentary during the movie, arguing over silly things like if that little spit string during the infamous kiss was staged or not. Sam finds that he’s having more fun than he expected, really. He knows Nat can be funny, that she has a razor sharp wit, and she’s more than a little bit frightening. He’s worked hard to have her trust him, but to find that she actually likes him- that they can get in a food fight with the popcorn he made once he was finished with her feet- that she can laugh hard enough that she snorts- it’s more than he even hoped for.
By the time Annette is driving off in Sebastian’s convertible, Nat is cocooned into a blanket with her head leaning on Sam’s shoulder. “Best ending ever,” she says, making no move to get up.
“The dude died,” Sam points out.
“Yeah, but for once it wasn’t the girl,” Nat counters with a yawn.
“Huh. That’s...yeah, that’s sad but true,” he admits. “Bedtime?”
She tenses slightly.
“For you, woman. No offense, but I’m not interested in you like that,” he says, ruffling her hair.
“I’m not sure if I should be offended or not,” she replies, relaxing again.
“Your choice I guess,” he shrugs. “I guess I just have a thing for blondes right now,” he adds significantly, getting up so he can scoop her off the couch and carry her into the bedroom.
“He should be so lucky,” she mumbles as Sam sets her down and kisses her forehead.
Sam’s stomach does a little flip. He hadn’t exactly been planning on revealing that bit of information, but if it makes her feel less guarded around him he supposes it’s worth it. “We’ll save that little conversation for next time.” He pauses. “You can always ask me over. If you want.” He hopes she will. He knows she has Clint, but everyone needs more than one good friend.
“Maybe. Or maybe you can just stop over when...yeah,” she finishes. Sam gets it. Asking for what you need can be harder than saving the word.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “‘Night.” He turns out the light as he leaves and heads back to his own quarters, smiling as he goes.