Title: but you say you're just a friend
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,700
Characters: Steve/Natasha
Prompt: "Teachers au where steve is an art teacher and Natasha is an English teacher (most common lol) and the usual flirting here and there"
Summary: [au] There's no subtle reason for him to bring her breakfast every morning and chill out in her classroom during morning announcements.
For: the anon that prompted it
A/N: What is flirting? Because I don't think it's what I wrote.
... ...
He shows up five minutes into her first period class with a cup of coffee from Starbucks in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in a pastry bag in the other, and she can feel all of her students just watching them as he sets them on the corner of her desk.
God, this man is such an idiot. Adorable, of course, but an idiot—because of course everyone's going to think they're dating when he keeps pulling shit like this. Everyone knows that Steve doesn't even have a first period class this semester, so he actually doesn't have to be on campus for another hour. Besides, it's not like the art classroom is that close to the English department. There's no subtle reason for him to bring her breakfast every morning (knowing the specifics of her drink order, mind you) and chill out in her classroom during morning announcements. She'd chop all of the gossip circulating about them "secretly dating" up to teenage boredom, but shit. She'd assume things if she was in their shoes, too.
And it's not like the students are the only ones talking.
But Steve isn't bothered by what people will say, and neither is she, so whatever. She's not going to say no to hot coffee and a warm breakfast every morning.
She gives him a smile, leans back in her chair as he makes himself comfortable on the stool next to her desk. "How do your parents like Rome?" she asks.
He mentioned it at lunch yesterday, how he was dropping his parents off at the airport after dismissal for their anniversary trip. She's only met them a handful of times whenever he brings them to school functions, but it's apparently enough for them to remember her. Steve delivers her a card and a batch of cookies from them on Christmas every year.
"They already love it, of course," he answers with a chuckle. "They sent me a selfie at the airport gift shop as soon as they landed."
Natasha grins. "It's still hilarious that your parents know just as much as you when it comes to using smartphones."
"I'm fine with smartphones," he scoffs. But his lips twitch in a smile she knows he's not trying very hard to hide, so it's not like he's actually offended by her comment.
"Your autocorrect would like to disagree." She arches an eyebrow. "Or maybe your fingers are just too fat to handle a touchscreen keyboard."
He hums in contemplation, brings a hand up and flexes his fingers out, and, shit. It's a good thing he's got his back to the rest of her class, because the smirk he gives her is… Well, let's just say that she totally understands why Darcy thinks they're fucking on the sly, considering this is hardly the first time he's made those eyes at her.
"I think my fingers are fine," he says.
There're a few coughs from her students, a few amused murmurs. Of course they'd catch onto the innuendo.
"Goodbye, Mr. Rogers," she replies, opening her laptop.
Steve laughs. "See you later, Nat."
... ...
She has a free period for her fifth period this semester, which is pretty great, because she can take her time during lunch and then only has one class left to instruct until dismissal. Usually she'll take this time to get her personal stuff sorted, because if she didn't do it now, there would be no time for her to sit down and actually find out when she can schedule appointments to the doctor's or to get her car checked or whatever, especially this time of year. She teaches all seniors and right now she's proofreading everyone's college essays.
Today, though, she eats lunch with Maria in the woman's classroom, and then doesn't really feel like going back to her own once the bell rings.
The social studies department and the fine arts electives share a building, so she has to pass by the art room, anyway, on her way out. The door is propped open, and she only really means to walk by and wave, but Steve is rummaging through a bin of paintbrushes and not paying attention, so she decides to invite herself in. He does it all the time, so it's fine.
Wanda beams at Natasha when she sees her. Natasha smiles and tries not to roll her eyes.
(The girl is sweet – the sweetest, actually – and yeah, Natasha has a soft spot about a mile wide for the girl. She knows Steve does, too. Maybe that's why Wanda seems so invested in their relationship.)
"Hi, Ms. Romanoff," she greets cheekily as she ties her smock into place.
Steve's head snaps up. Natasha winks at Wanda (because that's become their thing, somehow) and then turns a smile at Steve. "Hey," she says.
"Nat," he says, placing his hands on his hips. She hates when he does that, because it's terribly distracting, seeing the ratio of his shoulders to his waist so pointedly like this. She's half-convinced he does it for that exact reason, but she's also half-convinced that the guy doesn't realize just how attractive he is, so. "Come by to paint with us?"
"Oh, no," she laughs. "My artistic ability is nonexistent."
He grins. "It can't be that bad."
"I don't know. Did Van Gogh do a lot of work with stick figures?"
He presses his lips together, eyes sparkling. "Not really, no—but da Vinci had a pretty impressive stick figure run."
She finds herself laughing. "Noted," she says, sitting herself on the corner of his desk. He's done it in her classroom dozens of times and she's never done it once, but it still feels like the most natural thing to her, making herself comfortable in his space.
He closes one eye, holds up his brush like she's seen artists in movies do, when they're trying to focus on something they're about to paint, and she laughs again.
"You can't draw me like one of your French girls," she tells him, and she catches the way his eyes glance over her. (She wants to know what he's picturing.)
"No, I suppose I can't," he admits, folding his arms over his chest. "You're not French, after all."
She smirks. "No," she admits with a tilt of her head, "but I am Russian—and trust me, we're much more fun than people think." He blinks, and she holds his gaze for a second longer before scooting off of his desk and back onto her feet, already heading for the door. "Catch you later, Steve," she calls over her shoulder, heels clicking against the linoleum.
... ...
She hangs back in her classroom after the dismissal bell because she has three more periods of tests to grade and she'd rather get as much of it done while she actually has the energy to, instead of getting home, getting herself comfortable and then throwing all of her paperwork in her fireplace. Not that her students would mind, but still.
She doesn't realize how much time has passed until she hears a soft hum trailing down the hallway and looks up as Steve passes her classroom. She usually keeps the door closed during the school day, but she props it open after school hours because her room tends to get stuffy when the janitors have switched off the AC. Steve furrows his eyebrows at her and walks in. Her blouse is untucked and halfway unbuttoned, and she her bun is mostly unraveled, but she doesn't feel self-conscious about him seeing her like this, so whatever.
"Have you been here this whole time?" he asks, glancing at his wristwatch. "It's a quarter to seven."
"Is it?" She rubs a hand over her face. "I guess time flies when you're neck-deep in red ink and practice essay tests."
He chuckles a little, but his concerned expression doesn't fade. "You should get home, Natasha." He sits down on the edge of her desk, tilts his head so she'll look in his eyes. "Get some rest. I'm sure you made enough progress in your editing to call it night."
She nods a bit and then cracks a smile. "It's ironic how much essay-editing I do now considering how much I hated reviewing my classmates' work when I was in school."
"Well, then there's a chance you might be in the wrong business," he says, and she lets out a laugh. He grins. "Do you want a ride?"
She presses her lips together. She should say no, but honestly? She's exhausted. The last thing she wants is to drive home right now. Her car will be fine in the lot overnight, and she knows Steve wouldn't offer to drive her home if he didn't plan on being her a ride in the morning, too, so she nods, and he helps her clean up her desk before they leave.
They pick up food from the drive-thru, since neither of them feels like cooking, and he walks her to her door because he's terribly old-fashioned like that.
"I owe you," she tells him.
He shakes his head. "It's okay." She holds his gaze and he smiles softly. "You'd do the same for me."
She's not sure, really, what comes over her, but she steps closer and sets a hand on his arm, and he leans in closer without any hesitation as she stretches up a little and presses a kiss to his cheek. Her lips linger for a beat longer, but neither of them moves away.
"Goodnight, Steve," she says after a moment.
He stares down at her under the dim glow of her porch light. "Goodnight, Natasha."
... ...
Clint is smirking way too smugly when he sees her in the passenger seat of Steve's car the next morning as Steve pulls into his parking stall, and she ignores him as she grabs her bags from the backseat. Steve grabs his own bag, too, and then hands over her Starbucks before grabbing his own cup and locking his doors. She doesn't feel as bad about him having to wake up earlier than usual to pick her up, because he had already promised to meet with a few of students in his classroom before first period to discuss their projects.
"I'll see you later," he tells her, and then lifts a hand up in greeting to Clint before heading towards the front steps.
Clint falls into step beside her as they walk towards their building. "What the hell was that about?" he drawls, one eyebrow arched.
She shrugs. "He gave me a ride to school."
"Your car was in the lot overnight." He sounds way too amused by this. "You went home with him, didn't you?"
"He dropped me off at my home, yes," she says, voice nonchalant. Clint knows what to say to get a reaction out of her and she's not giving him the satisfaction. "And before you try to insinuate it, no, he didn't spend the night. He has a lot more class than you."
"Yeah, Laura would agree." She looks at him. He's still grinning, the asshole. "Twenty bucks says that you'll sleep with him by the winter dance."
She rolls her eyes. "Forty bucks says you're a terrible friend. And Steve doesn't just sleep with people. You know that."
"Okay, sixty bucks says you'll go on a date with him before the winter dance—and then sleep with him."
"Can you even afford to give up sixty bucks?"
"Not at all," he says with a laugh. "So it's a good thing I'm winning this bet."
She shakes her head. She definitely needs better friends.
... ...
It's Friday, and her kids have been busting their asses all week with the practice tests and essay prompts she keeps assigning, so she figures she can let them get away with not doing any work in her class. They're great kids and work hard, and their workloads are no doubt doubling with finals a few weeks away. They deserve the break.
She can feel eyes on her, though, as she's reading through the e-mail that Nick sent about the school dance tomorrow. Most of the kids have moved the desks around and huddled together towards the back of her room, but Wanda's still sitting at her usual desk in the front row with Peter sitting next to her, his skateboard flipped over on top of the desk as she draws on the underside with multicolored Sharpies. They're not staring at Natasha, really, and they're not leaning together and whispering, but Natasha still knows that they're talking about her. She probably already knows about what, too. She obviously has them for this period, and she knows that they both have Steve for art. It's not hard to connect the dots.
Wanda meets her eyes, presses her lips together and smiles cutely, and Natasha swears the girl is actually going to ask something.
But then there's a knock, and she turns to see Steve grinning at her through the little window. She grins and nods and he lets himself in. Wanda nudges Peter with her foot and Peter chuckles softly and shakes his head, turning his attention back to his camera.
"Don't you have a class to teach?" she jokes. She knows he had to take his mom to a doctor's appointment earlier this morning and has a sub until the end of this period.
He glances around her classroom, waves to a few of the students that say hi to him. "Don't you?" he retorts, turning back to her with one eyebrow arched.
She shrugs a shoulder. He has a point.
"Anyway, I'm just being a delivery man for my mom again," he admits, setting down a box on her desk. It's tied closed with a red ribbon and has a card tucked underneath, her name scrawled across the top (in his handwriting, she notes). "Personal-sized apple pie," he explains. "I may or may not have let it slip that your birthday was this weekend."
"It's your birthday this weekend?" Peter asks, raising both eyebrows. "Spending it with someone special?"
She squints her eyes at him a little and he does it right back, then grins, looking very much like a boy who got caught red-handed and likes it.
"I have a date with my couch and my fireplace and a really, really great nap, thanks for asking," she answers. Wanda giggles without looking up from her artwork.
"Sounds like a grand time." Steve takes a few steps back, hand finding the doorknob behind him as he holds Natasha's gaze, still smiling. "I'll catch you later, Nat. Enjoy your pie!"
Natasha grins, moving her pie so that it's not so close to the edge of her desk, and looks up to find Wanda beaming at her. God, she hates how much of a schoolgirl she feels right now, but then Peter snaps a picture of Wanda before she can try and hide like she always does, and he's laughing as she snaps his name and swats at his arm.
(Okay, she doesn't hate this feeling quite as much as she pretends. But no one needs to know that.)
... ...
She reads the card later, when she gets home and drops her bag and coat onto the couch and goes to make room for her pie in the fridge.
You might already have plans, but I have a few ideas on how to spend your birthday. Maybe you want to trade notes? —Steve
... ...
Monday morning, Natasha stops by the art room and finds that Clint and Tony are there, too, the three of them standing around Steve's desk as they talk about God knows what—something (adorably) stupid, judging by how hard the three of them are laughing.
"Oh, good," Natasha says as she waltzes in. She slips a crumpled bill from her skirt pocket and tucks it into Clint's hand, leans over the desk and presses a kiss to Steve's cheek.
"Son of a bitch," Tony laughs, and then swipes the twenty from Clint's hand and waves it at her. "I think you owe him two more of these."
"No, it's just the one. There was a date, but that happened the morning after." Then she turns to Steve again. He smiles at her, amused. "See you for lunch?"
"Sounds like a date."