She doesn't know when it became a thing. She doesn't recall the moment it happened, the moment she let herself get pulled into a routine. She doesn't remember when he became such a vital part of it either. She used to be able to sleep well – or as well as having nightmares every other night allowed – before this whole …. well whatever this was.
And now that he's not here, now that he's out on a mission – the first time without her – she realizes just how much her world has come to revolve around his presence.
They're more than partners and they're more than friends, but she knows they're in the strange grey area between what is friendship and what is more. She can't be in love with him, because love is for children. Their relationship is kind of undefinable and she knows she's not ready to define it.
She's not sure she wants to define what his absence means to her either.
For what feels like the thousandth time, she rolls in bed, unable to move to what is usually his side. She remembers how, at first, when she'd slept next to him, she'd known how uncomfortable he'd been. She'd wondered briefly if she was the first one he'd shared a bed with. She'd even considered asking him if she should leave, but when his arm had reached for her, she'd allowed herself to be tucked against him. His arm it seemed, like his shield, had kept the enemies, the nightmares, at bay.
Now, not for the first time tonight, she misses his warmth, the way he makes her feel so small yet, even when asleep, makes her feel special.
Perhaps that is what she appreciates the most about Steve Rogers. She's known men most of her life, and she can't say that she's been very lucky. Most have treated her like an object, a toy to be played with. She can't recall when someone has truly valued her for herself, not her skills or her body. Before, it was just Clint because he was, in a way, just like her. But now with Steve, it's different.
He's different.
His ability to see the good in everything and everyone, to inspire trust because of who he is, is something she can never do, can never achieve. In a way, she envies him, almost to the point of jealousy. Yet, with his all-around goodness and generosity, she can only bring herself to admire him.
She knows he would never admit to being an exemplary person, that he would only justify his actions as his duty.
She hopes his behavior towards her was never considered as a mere duty.
Finally giving up, partly because she knows that sleep will continue to evade her and partly because the sun is coming up anyways, she gets up, padding across the bedroom silently, like a ghost, and crosses to the living room.
She decides to make herself coffee and goes to the window as she waits for the machine to beep, and almost imagines that she can hear his motorcycle on the street far below. She knows of course that despite her incredible abilities, even she couldn't distinguish the sound of his engine through the sounds of New York.
When finally her living room fills with the delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee, she pours herself a mug, adding what she knows is an unhealthy amount of sugar. Taking an experimental sip, she swears it doesn't taste the same as when he makes it.
She sighs. She really doesn't know when he started occupying so much of her thoughts. She used to judge those silly giggling girls whose lives were solely focused on their guy. And he's not even her guy.
Even she snorts at that.
It's too early to go to the communal floor, where she knows she'll be the only one, each of the Avengers either sleeping, or like their captain, on a mission. So instead, she downs her coffee, changes from the too large t-shirt that isn't her own and heads up to the gym.
She's debating between boxing or target practice. Sparring is out of question, because she'd need a partner, and well, her partner's gone. She more or less doesn't really have a choice.
Of course she knows that she'll hit every single one of the bull's-eye put in her way. Still, she enjoys the feeling of her hand guns at five in the morning and besides, everybody needs practice.
An hour later, every sheet of paper is holed and her cartridges are all empty. She's hungry anyway, so she grabs her towel, not because she's sweaty, but because as a spy, she's learned not to leave anything behind. She thinks just how much they are alike on that front. Of course, his pristine cleanliness comes from his military training.
She decides to go to the communal floor instead of her floor, not because it's better equipped to prepare breakfast – there are no extravagances at Stark Tower, or as they call it nowadays, Avengers Tower – but because she knows that in less than an hour, she'll have at least one companion.
She tries to make the pancakes like he does, but he's never told her of his secret ingredient. Or maybe it's the fact that he prepares them for her that makes them taste so darn good.
"Morning."
Not glancing up and away from her batter, she raises a hand to salute Bruce, who's always the one to come in after them. He sits at the island, newspaper in hand.
"Want some pancakes?"
"Sure. Thanks."
Once she's given him his plate, she sets up her own, and they eat in a semi awkward silence. He knows not to ask about Steve, because he's perhaps the only one who's noticed their incredible chemistry. He's probably the one who spends the most time with only the two of them, whenever he joins them in the morning. He sometimes wonders if they know how compatible they are. As their teammate and friend, he can only hope they will stumble upon the discovery.
They finish their breakfast quickly, exchanging some details about the prototypes Tony and he are working on. She understands most of it, but she's not a scientist, so she nods at the parts that don't make any sense to her. Usually, Steve is there to support her when Bruce speaks English, but really doesn't.
It doesn't take much longer before the kitchen is once again clean and deserted, waiting for its next occupants.
Two weeks go by. Her days are much like most, consisting of roaming the tower in search of something to do other than shoot paper targets and kick a few boxing bags. She answers the occasional call from S.H.I.E.L.D, attends one or two meetings, but she finds herself with time to spare. She misses the feeling of having her mind focused on a mission, on a goal. Because her mind is free, it somehow manages to circle back to his baby blues.
They don't hear from him. She tries to get feedback from Fury, using her status as his partner as leverage, but it's no use. He won't tell her anything. She even tried to hack his file, but she only got basic information, things he'd already told her before leaving. She pretends she doesn't worry and she knows that it's pointless because he's more than capable of handling himself and if he needed help, he would have called by now.
What she doesn't know is that Tony, Bruce, Pepper, Maria and Clint – especially Clint – have begun to notice the purple bags under her eyes, how she seems to function on autopilot day in day out. Clint has tried to talk to her, but she won't say anything. He knows better than to pester her but her lack of answer is an answer in itself.
Even Thor, on the one occasion he's seen her between trips to and from Asgard, has noticed how Lady Natasha appears to be missing something.
They all thread carefully because Black Widows are deadly, and she is no exception to that rule. They try not to mention Steve, because by now, they've kind of figured out he's most likely the cause to her gloom. She hates it how he's sort of become a weakness. She isn't supposed to have any.
She now foregoes sleep entirely, because she hasn't been able to get more than half an hour of rest per day. It's not healthy but she's had worst. Still, because infiltrating is one of her specialties, and because JARVIS is uncommonly accommodating, she allows herself into his apartment, and his bed, to crash.
She lies between the sheets, surrounded by his clean soapy smell, stealing his pillow just because she can. It almost makes her smile.
She's exhausted and she knows it. When she trains, she pushes herself perhaps more than is necessary, in the vain hope that sleep will claim her at the end of the day. She closes her eyes but doesn't expect to surrender to sleep – she's after all not one to surrender – but she does anyway, because despite the serum and the Red Room, she's still human.
She is awakened a few hours later by a strong pair of arms encircling her waist. She doesn't turn to face him, simply repositions herself so her back is glued to his chest. She vaguely registers the mattress shift beneath her, and gently, a pair of warm soft lips makes contact with the skin on her neck, just below her left ear. Despite her half asleep state, she can't help but shiver.
They settle for the night as if this was a common occurrence between them, him kissing her and her letting him. They let the room become silent until all there is left to listen to is the noise outside the window and the faint rush of air that is their breathing.
Only when he whispers softly, almost too softly, that he missed her, so much, does she turn to face him. They are barely an inch apart and she uses this moment to take in his every features. His eyes have haunted her for two weeks now, so she lingers on them and is surprised to see the emotions within. Emotions she is undeserving of.
She suddenly realizes that he is closer to her, and just before his lips make contact with hers, he stops. She can see that he is asking permission and it is precisely because he is considerate enough to ask that she moves the rest of the way.