For chalantness. You wrote me a beautiful fic that I still can't get over, so here is my sad attempt on returning your kindness. Doubles as an entry for romanogersweek day 1: life partners. Because I'm cheap that way.
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all about you
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"My apartment flooded," Steve says. There are holes on Sam's jeans. Natasha plays fiddly with the straw of her drink. The radio in the diner blasts a song she doesn't recognize. The place is surprisingly empty. But then again, 24/7 diners probably don't actually mean 24/7. It's 2 am. The lady behind the counter has been glaring at them, like their presence offend her somehow. Natasha snatches one of Steve's curly fries. He pushes the plate closer to her absentmindedly. "I got like, water everywhere."
"That sucks man," Sam comments. His burger is half eaten. He has the top bun separate from the rest of it as he sprinkles the meat with chili sauce. The reason he likes this diner so much is because they serve good chili sauce. (Sam says there's a difference). Natasha thinks he's being obnoxious. He is also sitting in front of her and in perfect kicking distance. "Are they fixing it? My old building manager refused to pay for anything. That's why I got my own house now."
"Yeah, they're working on it," Steve answers. He leans against his chair and drapes an arm across the back of hers. Natasha watches Sam watches the movement. Sam doesn't comment. She's not sure what to think. "But they said it's going to take a while."
Sam snorts. "Why you chose to live there is beyond me."
Ever since the Fury incident, Steve has elected to move to an old building that is probably older than Captain America himself. Natasha knows it's because he loves the tenants. Most of them are his age. Well, his real age. It must be fun to play with his playmates for once. She resists the urge to cackle. By the way Steve presses his leg insistently to hers under the table and gives her an annoyed frown, he knows exactly what she's thinking about. She raises an eyebrow at him. It's his fault for being a goddamn cliché.
"I might have to crash at the Avengers facility for a week or so," Steve admits to Sam finally, dipping a fry in ketchup. "The pipes are worse than they thought. But the rent is good, so I shouldn't be protesting."
"I'd over a place for you to stay but my sister is in town," Sam says. He puts the bun back on his burger and takes a bite. Natasha watches in satisfaction as he scrambles for water.
Steve winces in sympathy, tossing Sam the water bottle. "Yeah I know, it's okay. Thanks a lot though Sam."
What proceeds to make her say these words, she'll never know. She blames it on exhaustion. They just got back from a week long mission, after all. A car passes by outside. Its light reflects on the table surface. She tilts her head up towards Steve and considers him. "You can stay with me."
Natasha feels the weight of Sam's gaze. To Steve's credit, he doesn't show any surprise. Steve merely nods, and she feels his fingers playing against the tip of her ponytail. He doesn't ask if she's sure; she wouldn't have offered if she wasn't. "Okay," he tells her. He gives her a small smile. "I'll grab my things first."
She turns away and kicks Sam underneath the table. Sam's eyes scream betrayal, but he's the one who was being pretentious. Natasha drinks her smoothie.
.
Look. It's perfectly normal to offer your 'boyfriend' to live with you when his apartment flooded, right?
Yeah, see. That – it's a new development which started with a lot of cursing (to be fair, the cursing was a lot more on her part) and secret make out sessions. They haven't even told anyone yet. She knows Sam suspects something, but Sam's too decent to say anything.
It's just.
Three months is still new, she doesn't want to jinx it.
Or so she tells Steve.
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"That's Liho," Natasha says.
Steve raises his hand to wave awkwardly at the black cat. The duffle bag is resting next to his feet, and the cat is sniffing it curiously. Liho is a stray cat, so he pretty much fends for himself. All Natasha has to do is put out some food and leave a slight crack on her window during the long days when she's not home. "Hi Liho, how are you?"
Liho trudges away to hide behind the shoe rack, tail high in the air, unimpressed.
Natasha rolls her eyes at Steve. "Now you're just being an ass."
Steve has the decency to grin. His blasé attitude doesn't fool her. She caught him sweeping his eyes around her apartment more than once. She has never exactly invited him here, before. A quick visit when he picks her up for missions, sure. But she has never let him linger. Not him or anyone else. The both of them mostly spend their time at his place. It's reasonable that he's curious. She pushes down the urge to pull the plug on this one. Instead, she clenches her fist inside the pocket of her hoodie and gestures at him to follow her. "Come on; let's get you set up for the night."
They tread down the hallway to her bedroom. The walls are barren, a stark difference than his decorated ones. She doesn't bother with a guest room because she has never foreseen anyone staying at her place before. She always kicks Clint out after five minutes. Clint says she's a hermit, but he hates her cat, so he never makes any attempt to stay longer either way.
Natasha turns on her bedroom light and they both blink against the sudden brightness. She wouldn't call her room messy, per se, but she feels suddenly self-conscious at the chair near the window where she piles up all her clothes recklessly. It's ridiculous. She shouldn't feel— it's ridiculous. Other than the chair, there are only her unmade bed and a small dresser with books on top of it. It looks boring.
Steve still doesn't comment. He just turns his head to press a kiss against her forehead before retreating to change his clothes in the bathroom. She glares at his back. She doesn't know why she believes he has something to say about all this, but she'd rather that he just spit it out and get it over with.
Natasha changes into sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt and curls herself underneath the warm blanket. She blindly reaches out for a book on the dresser, within an arm's reach in the small room, and gets Brave New World in between her fingers. She turns the pages, not really registering anything as she listens to the sound of water running in her bathroom. Finally, the water is off, and there is a second of pause before she hears the door opening and Steve's footsteps on the hardwood floor. He stands on the doorway of her bedroom. She looks up from her book.
"I can take the couch," he says. The small smile that she has spotted since the diner is still present on his face.
"Don't make me drag you here," she replies, and scoots over to give him more room. "The couch is lumpy – I don't want you to whine about your back tomorrow."
That is not something he will likely do and they know it. He puts his duffle bag on the floor. He's still smiling. It's starting to annoy her. She turns on her side and closes her eyes. "Get the lights, will you?"
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She wakes up because her left arm fell asleep with a heavy weight on top of it and she is pressed against something very warm. She blinks herself awake, slowly. It takes her a few seconds to reorient herself. When she does, she studies the figure besides her. Steve has an arm slung around her middle and half his face buried in his pillow. The sun peeks shyly through the cracks of the blinds. Her left arm is sandwinched between him and the bed. His lips are parted and there is a healthy flush on his cheeks. He seems very tired. His blond hair is tousled and she knows at some point he must have ran his fingers through it. She resists the urge to trace his cheekbones. Instead, she carefully retracts her arm - which isn't easy, since he's a dead weight, but she has done her fair share of manhandling him so that's not a problem, and slips her feet into the slippers on the floor.
She makes her way to the living room and opens the curtains. Dust flies from the window sills and she scrunches her nose in distaste. She hasn't been home for a while. She decides she's going to deal with that later. It's not usual for them to have the weekend off.
Her fridge is empty. She realizes she has been staring at it for whoever knows how long and she slams the door shut. She tries the kitchen shelves, but they are empty too. She starts to wonder how she has lived this long. Steve's kitchen is always well-stocked, and whenever she stays over they would spend the morning having breakfast in bed. She glances at the clock. Judging by Steve's internal clock, he would be awake in twenty minutes. She calculates the time; she could go to the minimarket to get some eggs and bread before he's awake -
"What are you doing?"
She freezes - he's the only one who could sneak up to her and she's not sure how she feels about that. "Breakfast," she says. She doesn't look at him as he approaches her, busying herself with the task of getting something to drink. She has water. She can work with that. She gets a glass out and fills it with tap water.
He stands behind her. His breath ghosts over her neck and his hands hover over her hips. She resists the urge to shiver. "Oh? What are we having?"
She feels - she turns to give him a smirk. She hopes it reaches her eyes. "Water."
His forehead crinkles with amusement and he leans over to kiss her as if he can't help himself. He sneaks his arms around her waist and she touches the short hair at the nape of his neck. He kisses her breathless. He's usually good at that - at chasing her every thought away. Now though, she can't quite get herself to relax. He notices, of course. He pulls away to look at her. His fingers slowly massage a knot on her back. She leans into the touch.
"What's on your mind?" He asks. She's angry at herself for letting her frustration bleed through. He's not supposed to notice.
She plays coy. "I was just thinking of how long it has been since we almost broke your bed."
Another person, she doesn't know what they're going to say to that. But him- he just gives her a tiny understanding nod. "Okay," he says. "You don't want to talk about it yet." He presses another chaste kiss to the corner of her lips and it's ridiculous how much she wants to - she wants to.
"Let's get some croissants," he whispers. His eyes are so bright that it hurts. Then he grins. "You're buying, right?"
She can't help her exasperated sigh. But - The tension in her chest loosens a bit anyway. "Chivalry is dead after all."
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The thing is: she wants this - between them, to last.
She has never wanted anything this much before. She has always lived her entire life preparing herself for things to be wrenched out suddenly from her grasps. She has always lived with the knowledge that she doesn't deserve good things. And Steve is good. He deserves better than her.
She needs to earn her keeps.
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She gets some groceries while Steve goes to the art store next door. Her stomach is still warm and full from the latte and croissant she ate earlier. She stands in front of the spice aisle and feels an unreasonable sort of helplessness. She thinks – at least, she has salt and pepper at home. What does she know? She never cooks.
She always settles on instant food or take-outs because they are – quite reasonably, more convenient for her lifestyle. She is an expert for salad though. But—
Salad won't be enough for his metabolism. With how fast his body burns food, he needs something more fulfilling. She chews on her bottom lip. She can make spaghetti, probably. Spaghetti it is. Natasha puts together the ingredients she thinks she's going to need and dumps them into the cart. She stops on her way to the cashier. She hesitates, but then she grabs some boxes of dumplings and frozen food too. Just in case.
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Whenever they stay at his place, it's easy to hide her cluelessness about – normal domestic things. He always cooks, and she just has to pretend to help by grabbing the things he asks her for. Here, in her apartment, it's not as easy to pretend.
Steve leans against the kitchen counter, arms spread wide on the counter for support. "Are you sure you don't want me to help you?"
"I'm fine," she snaps, and immediately regrets it when he frowns. She cuts the pasta box open. "Just, feed Liho will you?"
He hums, squeezing her shoulder. "Alright."
Natasha starts to boil the water and she hears Steve calling Liho's name. The cat won't come, and she knows it. Liho hates strangers.
It surprises her when she hears a meow.
She stops her movement to peer over her shoulder. She can't see, because the sofa is blocking her view and Steve is crouching behind it. He's murmuring things to the cat, and Liho is chattering back at him. Natasha ignores the pang in her chest and goes back to the task in hand.
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"I forgot to stir the pasta."
"Sorry?"
"I forgot to stir the pasta," Natasha repeats, covering her eyes with one hand. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment. That's a rookie mistake. She can't believe – Spaghetti. Simple spaghetti. Now it's all in a messy clump– worst is, she's pretty sure she boiled it wrong, or something, because some part of the clump is still hard and inedible. How do you boil something wrong?
She is not cut out for this.
His fingers touch the palm covering her eyes lightly. "Nat," he chuckles. "Come on."
"Shut up."
"Natasha, it's not so bad."
But it is bad. It is bad because – he deserves home-cooked food, dammit. He deserves someone who could give him that, what did he tell her – that once? When they were still SHIELD agents? Family and stability. Those are the things he looks for in life. She had scoffed at him then, and he had shrugged, but she can't exactly brush it off now, can she?
When she still refuses to say anything or move her hand from her eyes, he brushes his lips on her jaw. She finally slides her hand down just so she can glare at him. He leans forward and grins. "Hi," he says. The kitchen is a mess in the background, but right now her vision zeroes right to his amused smile and she lets herself relax.
"Hi," Natasha says.
"It's not bad, Nat," Steve says. Just to prove his point he reaches out to pick out some pasta from the clump, put it in his mouth, and chew it. He licks his lips. "See? It's good."
He's ridiculous. He is. "You shouldn't eat that."
"Why?" He grabs a small bowl and a fork from the dishwasher. "I like it, I swear."
"Steve."
She pushes the pasta container into the trash before he can scoop some pasta to his bowl.
"Natasha," he says, his eyes are wide in surprise. "That was –"
She ignores him and crosses the narrow kitchen to open the freezer. The cool air blasts her face. "Let's just fry some dumplings."
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"Nat," Steve says, he has his sketchbook open on the coffee table for an art class assignment. He has started taking those a few months ago. Different pencils - which frankly Natasha thinks have no difference whatsoever, either way, are scattered next to him and his open laptop on the floor. He is leaning against her legs as she sits on the couch, idly changing the table channels. "Where's the laundry in your building?"
Her fingers pause. "Why?"
He tilts his head to raise an eyebrow at her. "To do laundry, of course." Smartass.
She hasn't thought about that. Laundry. She sits up straighter. "I'll do that," she says, and her reaction might be a little - out of sorts, but she doesn't care care.
Steve frowns. "You don't have to."
She puts the remote on the table. "It's okay, I don't have anything to do. You can just," she gestures vaguely to his art materials. "Finish your thing."
He watches her. "Fine," he says, finally. He smiles. "Thanks, Nat. At least let me throw it in the drier later, how about that?"
She gives him a smile herself, and if it comes out as a little self-satisfied, well.
There is no way for her to screw up laundry.
That is to say, until he stands in front of her an hour later.
She looks up.
"Look," Natasha says. It's time for a serious conversation. She puts her magazine down on the couch. "I don't think this is working out."
"Your laundry routine? Yes it isn't," Steve is still holding his ruined shirt. There are blue splotches all over the formerly white shirt. He looks scandalized. "Why don't you separate your colored clothes when you wash them?"
Natasha shrugs. "I only wear blacks."
Steve's face pinches. It's funny. He does that sometimes, unconsciously. "Please don't tell me that was a reference to Batman."
Well, it was a reference to Batman. She is proud of him for knowing that. But it doesn't mean it wasn't true. She mostly wears black. Except for her blue underwear, anyway. It truly doesn't matter because she doesn't do her own laundry much. She throws away blood stained clothes and sends the rest of them to the laundry place down the street. She has a good deal with the owner as long as it's Wednesday afternoon. She also stayed at hotels a lot; this staying at one place thing is new to her. So to say, mixing what little white clothes (which is almost non-existent, mission stains are difficult to clean) with her other ones have never caused her problem before.
But - of course. Her way just has to be the wrong way. She folds her knees.
"Steve," she says, and repeats: "I don't think this is working out."
He stills. She refuses to look at him.
"What do you mean, Nat?"
His voice is very quiet.
"I mean, this - us," she stares straight into his eyes, now, because she is better than this. Which, turns out to be all the wrong move. Of course. His eyes are always earnest. And right now they're trying to seize her up, gauging her reactions. They're also - he's - there are fear, worry, and the slightest bit of panic he's trying to mask. She nearly stops talking. She doesn't want to be the reason for those - and while she knows that he cares about her, very much so, she is still surprised at those emotions. But this needs to be said, and if she doesn't do it now she's afraid she's going to lose the courage to say it ever. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea. We should just break it off."
Suddenly he kneels in front of her. His ruined white shirt has been discarded thoughtlessly aside. He captures her ankles with warm fingers hesitantly. There is something about the gesture, as if he needs to ground himself, and it clogs up her throat. Natasha - she needs to go through this. She has to, for him. "Natasha, Natasha. Tell me what's wrong, please."
She manages the best poker face she can muster. "There's nothing wrong."
He scrunches his eyes shut. "Is this because - you were fine, at the diner, and then you offered -," he pauses to take a breath. Blue eyes peek from under his eyelids. "I know I should have asked if you were sure to offer me a place to stay, but I was so happy and I didn't. I'm sorry. Is this because it's moving too fast for you? I can always stay at the Avengers facility. I'll be out of your hair, I promise. Just - tell me what's wrong so we can fix it."
Oh that is just cheap. He's playing dirty. (It's also amazing, his ability to blame himself for the things that are obviously not his mistake). She glares, but it falters. She settles on curling her toes. "Not everything is about you."
Her way of living, it isn't built for two. It never is. He needs to know that; what he's getting himself into. What he better stay away from.
"No," he agrees; voice still calm but with that early edge of stubbornness that she has gotten to know so well. "It's about us. So can you please tell me what's on your mind?"
Her nostrils flare. "What about what's not on my mind?"
"Anything," he says, but she's already on a roll.
She holds up her fingers, "What's not on my mind, is first, how to clean the damn carpet. Sorry, Rogers, I don't know how to get the stain out of the stupid carpet in your guest room." She folds a finger, as if she's ticking a checklist. He stays quiet. "Second, I have no idea which brand is better to clean your kitchen sink," she folds another finger. "I can't even cook spaghetti properly and I," she clenches her hand into a fist. "Have been doing the goddamn laundry wrong, apparently."
He looks baffled. "What's wrong with those?" He asks, as if he truly doesn't understand the obvious problem.
She narrows her eyes. "Don't do that, don't play oblivious."
"I'm not playing oblivious," he says, slowly as if he doesn't want to upset her even more. "I don't understand what – those have to do with anything, or why you're upset about them."
"God, Rogers," she snaps, frustrated. "Stop being so damn blind."
His hands are still around her ankles, pressure points. She wants to lean into him, but she doesn't. "Explain it to me, then. What do you think I'm not seeing?"
"We're not, here, you and I," she says. "We're not meant to be."
"That's not you," he argues. "You don't believe in what's supposed to be and what isn't – "
"Because you don't care," she says, lowly and increasingly pissed off. "You don't care that you're never going to be fully happy, that you deserve better than this."
"Natasha," he says. "I love you." She shouldn't be – surprised, but, she is. Her eyes widened. They've never said it out loud before. He smiles ruefully at her. "Now are you going to let me talk?"
She is still processing the chain of events in her mind when he moves to sit next to her. They're not touching now, but they're very close.
"You know that I was not in a good place, after everything," he says, glancing at her from the corner of his eyes. "But then there you were, and you keep showing me – how to live, and you make me happy, and – I realized that, perhaps things are going to be okay after all."
"Steve."
"So I don't know what has gotten into your head, when you say that I deserve better, because you're – without you, who knows where I would be right now. You're more than enough. And I don't – " The corner of his lips tug up into a small grin. "I don't know why you're caught up with – the fact that you don't know how to cook spaghetti, or do the laundry, but I'm going to take a leap here and say that I don't care. It doesn't matter, because they're unimportant. You're you, Nat. I don't love you for your excellent cooking skill or – something, I love you because you're you. And I don't need anything else."
Her breath hitches, but she –
"Fuck you," she says, and if her voice cracks in the end he doesn't mention it. "What the hell is someone supposed to say to that, Rogers?"
Steve laughs, but she can still see the worry in his eyes. "We're ok?"
She nods.
"Good," he sinks back on the couch, relief so apparent on his face. "You almost gave me a heart attack."
She squints. "I don't think it's humanly possible for you."
"Felt like it, anyway," he lifts his legs so that they're on the couch and press them close to hers.
"I'm not going to, you know," She scrunches her nose and tucks her feet underneath his. "Cook for you, or anything. Ever."
Steve gives her a wide grin and presses a palm on his chest with a mocking gesture. "How are we going to eat, then?"
"Take-outs," she deadpans.
He shakes his head and laughs. "We're going to eat take-outs for the rest of our lives?"
Did he just say—
They both freeze when the words register. She stares at him. There's a split second when she thinks he's going to – laugh it off, but then he clenches his jaw in stubborn determination and just looks at her. There is—he's—
She echoes, slowly: "The rest of our lives?"
"I mean," he says, trying desperately for casual and failing splendidly. Her heart beats ridiculously fast and she feels warm all over. "You're it for me. I don't see myself going anywhere. Partners, right?"
"Well we won't be if you keep slacking off in the gym," she says.
"Maybe that's why my uniform won't fit anymore."
She nods solemnly. "You're gaining weight, Rogers."
"I should have cut back on the spaghetti."
She scowls. "Asshole."
He smirks, and she knows that he's never going to let this go. She wants to –
She wants to kiss him.
It's the easiest thing to do.
So she does.
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Later, they're tangled up between the sheets and his heartbeat is strong and steady under her ear. Her eyes are heavy and he is drawing patterns on the skin of her back. She is trying to guess what they are. So far, she has guessed a tree, a cat, and a turtle. She failed to guess Monalisa because Steve is also a pretentious asshole.
She presses a finger to his chest and draws a symbol of her own.
He sounds breathless. "Yeah?"
She hides her smile in the crook of his neck. "Yeah."
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End.
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mytumblr: romanovajames ; come cry with me about the new civil war trailer.
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