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Tony’s parties are always more than they seem to be. Usually, they’re just a ploy to gather as many of his friends—acquaintances moreso, really—into one space for as long as he possibly can.
Steve watches the party goers from his perch at the bar, attempting to study them. Sam is here; he looks good, dressed much more business casual than Steve is. He can see Tony talking with Thor, Rhodey, and Bruce—about what, he couldn’t tell you, but it seems to be a very engaged conversation by the way both Thor’s and Tony’s hands are moving. Steve takes his glass and drinks, keeping his gaze moving from over the rim of it.
There are plenty of people here that he doesn’t recognize, even though practically everyone here knows him. That’s one of the things he’s never quite been able to shake off as odd after coming out of the ice. He’s always been a public figure, a celebrity, really, but in the 21st century, it’s stranger to be this way. He’s no longer going around punching his way through Nazi Germany, and somehow, that’s the hardest part of his current life.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard.” Natasha’s voice will always be easy to pick out. Steve could have his eyes closed and he’d know who was talking to him immediately.
He turns his gaze as the widow shifts to his side, placing herself gracefully on the stool beside him. Natasha gives him her all-knowing smile, the one that’s calculated and performative. Steve’s mouth twitches as he drinks from his glass again, tipping his head back. He downs the rest of the beer in one go, before he sets the cup down onto the bar counter behind him.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Steve mumbles, inclining his head to her in greeting.
Natasha rolls her eyes at him, but there’s a fondness in the action. She leans back into the counter, elbows propped up on the glass. To someone on the outside looking in on them, it might look like Natasha is trying to flaunt at him—chest pushed out, legs crossed at the knees, hair brushed over the shoulder. Back in the beginning, right after Steve took the serum and became Captain America, that’s exactly how women tried to flirt him into their beds.
Natasha isn’t like that. This is her natural prowess, but it’s not to draw men into her bed—it’s to draw them into her web.
Steve, unfortunately, is just a man. And Natasha has always been beautiful.
He keeps his gaze fixed on hers , head tilted slightly. Natasha’s smile twitches at the corner, an eyebrow raised.
“No one worth talking to?” She murmurs, glancing towards the giant room surrounding them.
Steve follows suit, glancing out, before he shrugs. “Most people come to me if they want to talk.”
She laughs, head dropping forward a bit as she does. Slowly, Natasha turns around in the stool and crosses her arms over the counter, motioning at the bartender with her chin.
“Pint of Guinness.” The bartender nods and moves down the length of the bar to the taps.
Steve moves, following suit, crossing his arms over the counter as he leans forward. “Figured you’d rather go for vodka.”
Natasha’s smile grows even more amused, mirth dancing in her eyes as she gives him a playful look. “Как это типично для тебя, Роджерс.” (How stereotypical of you, Rogers.)
He doesn’t understand a single word. Unfortunately, Steve’s only fluent in English, German, and French. He’s been working on Spanish—but he hasn’t learned a lick of Russian.
Steve simply grins, tucking his chin against his chest a bit, head still tilted at an angle to view Natasha at. The bartender comes back with Natasha’s glass, setting it in front of her without much fanfare. She thanks him as she picks the pint glass up, taking a big gulp. She chugs down half of it before she sets the glass back down to the counter, turning her head some to peer at Steve once more.
“You think you could beat Thor at a drinking contest?”
Steve thinks. Thor’s always talked about Asgardian wine and how it seems to dull in comparison to Earth’s alcohols, so, really, he hasn’t got a clue.
“Don’t know,” he admits honestly, shrugging a shoulder. “You’d have to tell him to bring some of that Asgardian wine around—we’d be able to duke it out then.”
Natasha grins at him, chuckling under her breath. She grabs her pint glass and takes another drink. When she’s finished, she pushes the glass over to Steve as she slides off of her stool. “I’ll mention it to him. Maybe at the next party Tony throws, Thor will bring some with him.”
She pats Steve’s shoulder as she walks by, the ghost of a smirk on her face. Steve watches from the corner of his eyes as Natasha moves away, headed off in the direction Clint is in. For a few moments, he stays like that, watching Natasha’s movements, before he shifts his gaze back to the pint glass she left behind.
His breath hitches just slightly, eyes darkening at the sight of the lipstick stain Natasha left on the rim of it. Steve glances, checking either side and towards the bartender, before he grabs the glass and slowly brings it to his lips. He drinks the remaining Guinness, tasting Natasha the entire time.