Title: 720 Hours & 43,200 Minutes
Disclaimer: I don't own BlackCap.
Music: Demons by Imagine Dragons
HOLDING HANDS
The first time it happens, it's in the flurry of a mission in a six storey warehouse and Steve grabs Natasha's hand and pulls her around. She goes with him, her body twirling into him, his shield protecting them both from the wave of fire that rushes by seconds later. He doesn't think too much of it, there isn't time to. But his hand imprints the memory of her hand against his like one of those body-comfort mattresses. They share a look and as if in synchronisation, they leap over the barrier to the lower floor together.
The second time Natasha punches Johnny Storm – sending him sprawling to the floor, Steve grins happily at that – with her already injured hand. Steve's purses his mouth into a hard line after Storm left, he can see the increased tension surge up her arm and shoulder. Natasha broke her hand in battle, leaving her on edge and more prone to inflicting bodily harm. She allows him to re-wrap her fist in the cream bandages and he bends to place a kiss on her open palm. Her fingers twitch, the pads brushing his cheek, only for a second. He's acutely aware that reprimanding her for that will mean he'll take a swing to the face also.
'Storm's an idiot' he says, needlessly, her wounded hand still cradled in his.
It's comforting, easy, warm, and Natasha's eyes are soft. She's showing him gratitude without uttering a word.
The time that Steve actually stops and thinks about it, a Senator's daughter in a gala room is cornering him. He gets nervous, embarrassed and he –
Natasha appears at his side as if answered by prayer and she smiles at the other woman. She slips her hand into his, interlacing their fingers, and he looks down, blushing. It's intimate. Her dark navy painted nails are blatant next to his pale tanned vulnerable skin. Her other hand reaches to play with the button of Steve's suit jacket. The young woman looks between them and leaves hurriedly, emitting a small scoff.
'Thanks'
'Next time a pretty girl snags you…'
'Do you count?'
Steve shuts his eyes and breathes in, cringing. Mouth filter! Engage it, Rogers. He opens his eyes. Natasha squeezes his hand, one precise movement, and then releases it, bringing his wrist up and places a glass of champagne in it instead she carefully took from an attendant with a tray.
Holding hands. It's evolved into their thing.
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