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Steve believed himself alone.
In the world, yes, well, that was a given. But also on the ground floor of the common room, surrounded by shades and whispers of the precious joviality—from Thor’s rambunctious awe at the novelty of it all (“And this little metal box plays music? How marvelous!) to Rhodey’s famed flirtations with ear worm tales of his glory days (“Boom, you looking for this?”)—Steve never felt more at home. Though there would always be some tucked-away part of him that longed for the steadiness of Brooklyn, Steve cherished moments shared in silence over shawarma just as much. These laments were common subjects of thought, he found, during the depths of his 3-am quest for alcohol. Liquor, he could stomach most. He wasn’t the goody-two-shoes Tony so often teased him about (foul language was another thing, Steve frowned upon that greatly, of course).
Prowling the cold floors of the spacious Avengers tower in the beams of twilight was not a decision unique to Steve Rogers, though. Decked in pajamas all too docile for the wildfire of a woman standing before him, Natasha Romanoff tiptoed to the pantry, her footsteps entirely silenced. In the moonlight, Steve couldn’t help but admire how her lithe body appeared stalking the room, armed visibly with comfort and familiarity—Steve noticed her ease in every step she took, the relaxation of her shoulders. An intimate and intimidating thought: Steve found he could look at her forever. He was quick to drive it away.
“So I’m not replaceable, then.” Nat said after a pregnant pause (in which Steve spent the silence in admiration). Steve didn’t register the meaning of the pun; he was besotted with the teasing gleam in Natasha’s bright eyes, the crook of her mouth in a smirk.
“What?” asked Steve, his voice hoarse with disuse and thirst (of liquid and of… something else).
“Your spying skills could use some work, Rogers.” Nat huffed, victorious as her shuffling through the cupboards yielded a bountiful supply of liquor. She grabbed the bottles and turned fully towards him, expectantly. Oh, Steve reminded himself. We’re having a conversation.
Despite his years, Steve was not immune to the flustered awkwardness of being alone with a girl. Lack of experience and lack of awareness of the twentieth century could do that to a person.
Something took control of him, possessed Steve to say, “I could use some training.”
Nat made a noncommittal noise and searched about for some shot glasses. “I take it you needed a drink?”
“Desperately.”
Nat smiled. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”
Steve took a step forward, then pulled up a chair. Clint was a light sleeper; all the chairs and rooms were soundproofed. (“It’s like we’re all parents,” Rhodes had complained. “Tiptoeing around this ‘lil youngster.”) Steve and Nat would be safe from disturbances, tucked away into this little corner of whatever they were doing.
They got to pouring, glass after glass. Their movements were clumsier, leaving entire drops on the table as Steve and Nat knocked back more shots, as if in a silent contest. It seemed they’d reached a stalemate when the conversation died down a bit. As the two settled into something of a comfortable silence, throats hoarse from half-finished rants and increasingly incoherent sentences as the alcohol settled into their bodies and tinged their cheeks red, Steve found himself ever the observer.
Nat was far away, the bliss of the liquor still traceable in the glass clarity of her eyes and the silky sheen of sweat on flaming cheeks. Lost in memories, or past moments, or thoughts Steve suspected were mutual experiences. Steve found solace in observance, taking note of the wildfire of her hair, which Steve expected would be dulled from the bleak darkness of the night but, as Steve was quickly learning, Natasha defied all expectations, all experience. She was a new, flighty thing Steve found himself endlessly curious about.
He wondered about the brilliant mind he knew Nat kept somewhat locked away, revealing and keeping secrets of all shapes and sizes. She was smarter than anyone gave her credit for, which made her absolutely invaluable (an untouchable asset, in everyone’s eyes). But she so clearly was, to Steve, so much more.
“Where’d you go?” asked Steve, breaking the silence when it was clear Nat had escaped from the flashback. She blinked quickly, shielding some wetness on her eyeline beneath the back of her hand, dabbing quickly.
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.
“No, no, I didn’t mean— it’s alright to—“
Natasha laughed, a hearty sound of bells and richness and loudness that was so unapologetically her. Steve had the urge to smile, too.
“It happens sometimes,” said Nat, her tone very flippant and unconcerned. “The alcohol and nighttime. Makes for a terrible inconvenience.”
“I bet.”
“Yeah…”
There they went again, trailing off. Gosh, thought Steve. What am I even saying?
“I love it here,” Steve admitted.
“‘Cause I’m here? Quite the charmer, you.”
Steve blushed. “I love tonight, for sure. Also just the Tower in general—it feels so—“
“I get it,” said Nat. “I’m faraway, all the time, but also anchored at the same time.”
Steve agreed, more than he knew how to say. It was such a freeing feeling, something to chase away the darkness, the loneliness.
“Home,” Steve said. “It’s like we’re home.”
Nat grinned at that. It faded as soon as it appeared, though, and Steve was worried he said something wrong. That she’d retreated into herself.
“I never thought I could have one of those,” Nat said, and it sounded like a confession. Something she hadn’t really wanted to say. She looked startled by herself, an apology on the tip of her tongue—
“A home?” asked Steve.
Nat tilted her head, as if surprised he understood, or at least wanted to. “Yeah,” she said. “A home, a family, a life that wasn’t just…”
The Red Room, Steve guessed. It was a touchy subject, one the other Avengers, save Clint, knew to avoid bringing up in conversation. Nat was initiating, and the remnants of the alcohol was giving Steve somewhat of a burst of liquid courage through his bloodstream, and Nat was inviting him in. It was exhilarating.
Steve still was at odds about what to say. How to respond, how not to pry when the curiosity was overwhelming. Luckily, Nat perhaps sensed this dilemma and elaborated:
“Whatever they raised us to be,” Nat began, choosing her words carefully. “I guess I didn’t have the impression it would be something deserving of friends, people who… cared, you know?”
Steve did know. Steve believed that Bucky was that lifeline for him, built on that unshakable vow, to be there with each other ‘til the end of the line. Steve dissected the words she used, internally frowning at her self-identification of an object. Whatever, something. And Steve knew for a fact that the childhood Nat had been subjected to, had so gracefully survived, was not a raising at all.
“You are someone, Nat. You shouldn’t objectify yourself any longer; you’re not defined by what they taught you, what you learned when you were that young. You’re loved by all of us.”
By me, were the words on the tip of his tongue. Nat stared, surprised and grateful. She smiled, nodding her understanding. “And you’ve all helped me learn that. Grow. Be someone, away from those times.” Nat reached out, taking Steve’s hand in hers. God, did she know how loud his heart was pounding, the rushing of blood in his ears? He hoped not; he was also preoccupied with the warmth of her touch.
Nat’s gaze was piercing and unavoidable; Steve found he couldn’t look away and would never bring himself to. There they sat, losing each other in themselves, frozen in time yet Steve never felt warmer. The leftover bottles of alcohol sat unfinished on the glass table, and only when the sun began to peek through, enveloping the room with the radiance of an early morning, did the two break their gaze, yet still touching.
“Look at us insomniacs go,” Nat joked. “Chasing the night away.”
Steve laughed. “Guess we’d better turn in for the… morning?”
Nat doubled over in laughter as she made to clear the table. Steve, ever the charming gentleman, brought the endless sprawl of glasses to the sink, beginning to wash them.
“Hey, how do you think Tony will react if we add water to fill this up?” Nat asked, spinning a half-full vodka bottle in her hand.
Steve chuckled. “I think Clint would take the blame. And there’d be a lot of swearing.”
“I could see that, honestly,” said Nat. “Will you grace us all with a reminder of your posh distaste of foul language?”
“Hey!” said Steve. “Probably, though.”
“Figured.”
There were two glasses left, and a bottle that could do with a bit more H2O. Steve and Nat looked at each other cheekily.
“One more shot?” asked Steve.
“For good measure, obviously” was Nat’s reply.
“Obviously.”
A few hours later, they would be woken up (beside each other) by shouts from the pantry and sloshing of half-vodka-half-water: “What the fuck is this?”
Steve and Nat would hide their childish laughter before bounding downstairs together (noticeably hand-in-hand).
“Language!” said Steve.