Sometimes he catches himself watching her when he's not supposed to.
He notices little things about her, like the way she purses her lips when they're in a compromising situation, or the way her eyes flicker with amusement whenever she makes him blush. When she speaks to him, he finds himself staring into her eyes, counting the specks of green and hazel subtly mingling together and wondering how they manage to do so. Sometimes, he finds himself picturing her in his mind – her figure, the curve of her hips, her rare laughs – and he wonders how the world could have come together to create something as breathtaking as she was. Her lips fascinate him; they're thick, thicker than he's ever seen on another woman before, and always pressed together. He had wondered what they'd feel pressed against his; if they'd be chapped and rough or plump and moist; if they'd linger over his or quickly pull away.
(Of course, he doesn't wonder as much now. Now he just wonders how he'll get her to do it again.)
Her hair is the most wonderful thing. It's not as dark as it used to be, now highlighted by spending too much time outdoors. No matter what she does, it's always perfectly in place. He itches to sneak into her room while she's asleep at night, just to watch her – to observe her breath, to see her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks when she wakes. Whenever he imagines her sleeping her mouth is always slightly open, her face smooth and relaxed as she breathes. Mostly, though, he imagines being beside her, seeing her hair splayed across his pillow like a halo as she lies next to him, glowing luminescent as her chest rises and falls in time with his. Sometimes he thinks about her when he's supposed to be sleeping, and dreams of how her body would feel, pressed against his in the late hours of the night. And when sleeping seems impossible, he sits up and pictures her in his mind – sketches her. He leaves his palette untouched; even with the spectrum of colours he's meticulously collected, he'd never be able to capture her magnificence; never come close to replicating the beautiful enigma that was her.
He watches her when she's in action. She's graceful, but lethal; ruthless and efficient but always elegant and so beautifully deadly, not unlike the spider she was named after. He doesn't understand how her every move is never out of place, how she never slips up, how her strikes and kicks always look so perfectly choreographed. She is as swift as water surging down a river, but then her head snaps up and her bright locks fall in her face and he sees the flame that she really is. Sometimes, she (unintentionally) distracts him when they're on a mission together. Sometimes, he's too busy watching that he forgets the opponents he has to face as well. (Although, it's taken him more than a few times to remember that he's capable of moving his limbs when he sees her do it so effortlessly.)
He remembers the playful glint in her eyes when they spar, that look that's beckoning him to come closer, to tangle himself in her web of sweet poison. Physically, he's untangled himself every single time they've trained together. Mentally, he's not as strong.
She had always been so reserved before, so when she opens up to him – only slightly – he's surprised at how much he truly likes her – the real her. He likes the way she throws her head back when he's lucky enough to catch her laugh, and the roll of her eyes whenever she makes a reference and he's blank. He's got a list of all the movies she's mentioned to him: Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, The Matrix, but has never made a move to watch any of them. Sometimes she gets so exasperated that she breaks into his apartment and sits him down on the couch with the DVD player running and some beer, and tells him to stay, Rogers.
(But he doesn't mind, really. In fact, he loves it when she does that.)
Most importantly, he loves the way she relaxes slightly whenever he stands behind her. He loves how her body curls into his when they're behind his shield, their faces so close that he can feel her hot breath on his lips. He loves that she pretends to be his when they're in public, despite it being for a mission. He loves how her hands gently trail his muscles when she's patching him up; how his blood rushes to his head and how his heart thumps a little faster and that if he doesn't remind himself, he'll probably forget how to breathe.
Sometimes, he catches himself sneaking glances at her when he's not supposed to.
He hopes she doesn't notice.
-o-o-o-
But sometimes, he catches her glancing back.
Sometimes he wonders if it's all deliberate – if she knows that his chest would threaten to burst whenever her fingers linger at his skin, or when she stands so close that he can feel the heat radiating off her body. He wonders if she takes every other opponent down because she knows that he's watching, if she kicks her legs higher because she knows he's admiring them.
He wonders if she likes it. He wonders if the reason why her body is always so close to his is because she edges closer, or if they're always so tightly pressed together when they're in cover because she pushes her lithe frame to fit into his. There must be a reason why she always glances at him first when she's posed a question by Fury, or why the only person she teases (somewhat) is him.
He remembers the day they walked around a mall together, pretending to be a couple to hide from SHIELD. He remembers the way she smiled at him, the way her arm easily linked around his. He remembers her calling him her fiancé.
He remembers the way he forgot everything he was taught – the way warmth crept up his torso and filled him with ecstasy when she pulled him towards her. He remembers how her fingers tangled in his hair, the feeling of her soft yet firm hands against his neck when she kissed him.
But then he remembers that she's Natasha Romanoff, and that she doesn't do crushes, or deliberate flirting. She's the untouchable and unreachable puzzle that just happens to be beautifully stoic. She's Natasha Romanoff, and she's cold and indifferent for a reason.
So he forgets about it, because he has to.
-o-o-o-
Sometimes she catches him glancing at her.
She wishes she didn't have to like it as much as she actually does.
fin.