DISCLAIMER: I TAKE NO CLAIM TO ANY CHARACTERS MENTIONED. ALL PROPERTIES BELONG TO MARVEL COMICS.
She can think of a number of ways to make this less boring, not that he'd agree to any of them.
They're sitting on the damp stone floor of a sealed cell, miles underground. Their breaths steam in the cold. Not the worst place Natasha's ever been trapped in, though she isn't exactly keen on staying here any longer than she has to, seeing as they don't exactly have an unlimited supply of oxygen. It's stupid, so stupid, that they're even here in the first place, but hey. SHIELD never vouched for the reliability of its sources.
There's nothing she hates more than shoddy intel.
Her head is throbbing from a deep gash that'll probably need stitches. Steve keeps asking if she's okay, and god, how she wishes he wouldn't.
She picks up a rusted coin from the ground beside her. How it got there, Natasha can only begin to guess. Maybe from the pocket of the dilapidated skeleton slumped within arm's reach. Steve had taken one look at the bones and plopped himself in the opposite corner. The pussy.
Natasha holds up the coin. "Most you ever lost on a coin toss?"
Steve looks up from intently studying his fingernails. "What?"
Natasha rolls her eyes. "Call it." She flips the coin with her thumb as Steve says, "Heads."
It's tails. Steve lifts and lowers one shoulder, unbothered.
Natasha huffs and tilts her head back against the wall. She looks over at the skeleton again, curling her tongue on a gibe about how it and Steve were probably the same age.
He must know her too well by now, because he says, "I like to think I look a little better than he does."
"That's an understatement." Natasha smirks, because it's so predictable how his ears redden, visible even the dim glow from her dying SHIELD-issue flashlight.
"Y'know, I don't remember hearing anything about this in my job description," Steve says quickly. "Dying in underground cells, I mean." He's changing the subject, obviously, but Natasha lets it slide.
"There's a lot of things SHIELD hasn't told you," she says matter-of-factly.
"Stark said something similar, once."
"Hm. He would know."
Steve inclines his head curiously, silently questioning the weight in her voice.
Natasha shakes her head. He's been thrust into this world—her world—and there's just so damn much he doesn't know; and she's not talking about pop culture references here. And while she's more than happy to leave stacks of movies at his front door, telling him about SHIELD's horrors isn't a task she's up for. She will not be the one who erases the innocence from those blue eyes.
Her head is killing her.
"You okay?" He's right next to her, a hand burning like fire on her arm.
She blinks. Whoa, there, Romanoff.
"I'm fine," she says crisply.
"You looked a little…off there for a second. Does your head still hurt?" His voice is too soft, too concerned, and it makes her so furious. She wants to hit something because how dare he—in their line of work—now—
"You can't do that," she says calmly.
His turn to blink. "I can't…"
"Talk to me like that."
Steve frowns and Natasha can see that he has no idea what she's talking about. But she doesn't care, because this has been coming for a while now. He's too warm with her, too kind. Too quick to meet her eyes and smile in meetings. Too quick to touch her with soft hands that—
"I can't ask if you're okay?"
She closes her eyes. "Just go back to your corner, Rogers. I have a copy of No Country for Old Men at home. I'll give it to you when we get out of here."
Steve looks utterly flabbergasted, and damn if it isn't satisfying.
They sit quietly alone for hours. There's little chance of them getting out of this one, Natasha realizes. The lone door is heavy stone that not even Steve could budge, and they can't get a damn signal to call for help this far underground, though they try both every half hour. SHIELD will come looking for them, sure, but not before the oxygen in the cell runs out.
Abruptly, Steve stands and crosses the cell, fumbling a bit as he sits down next to her. She shifts away, closer to the skeleton. Natasha can't see him in the darkness—her flashlight died an hour ago—but she can feel him looking at her. She doesn't look back.
"There has to be a way out of here." It sounds like he wanted to say something else.
"I'd kiss you if you found one," she says.
Steve breathes in sharply and Natasha winces; glad he can't see her face because she can feel it twisted with some emotion she can't name.
There's a long, uncomfortable silence. She feels the need to say something, which is unusual, especially around him. They've never been the type to fill silences with desultory conversation. But words tug at Natasha's tongue now, soft ones. Things she needs to say before the oxygen in this damn cell runs out.
But he beats her to it.
"Natasha, he says hoarsely, "I…there's a lot of things that—"
"I know," Natasha says, because she doesn't think she can bear it if he says anything else. "I know."
He moves closer after a long moment. They're shoulder to shoulder now. She wants to—
"I think the skeleton looks like Rollins."
It's a wonder his laugh doesn't light up the room. "It does."
They sit like that for what seems like forever. Steve dozes off at some point, and after a moment Natasha allows her head to rest on his shoulder. He must not be as asleep as she'd thought, because he shifts and rests a hand on her knee.
She should tell him to move it, but she doesn't. She should take her head off his shoulder but she doesn't. You're a child, Romanoff.
"This isn't so bad," Steve says softly.
She didn't think she would die like this. "No," Natasha says, "Not bad at all."
Plot? What's plot? This was random, but at least I posted! Hopefully, I'll be able to write more this year. Comments and reviews are appreciated!