NOTES: This fic is for the Romanogers Challenge on tumblr. I chose the prompt "Steve Discovers Natasha's Flat." This is meant to take place between The Avengers and Captain America 2: The Winter Soldier. Thanks for the_wordbutler for the beta.
Steve awoke with a moan, but stilled when he realized he was in a new environment. The bed he was in was fluffy, almost ridiculously so. The sheets, covers, and absurd number of pillows were all white. At least, they used to be.
"Yeah, you're going to owe me new bedding," a familiar voice said.
The mattress dipped as Natasha sat on the edge of the bed. A year of working together, and Steve still found himself occasionally surprised at how easily she could read him.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Like I was run over by a tank," he groaned. He tried to sit up; it didn't work. Steve flopped back down among the ridiculous pillows with a grunt. "What happened?"
"Apparently, if you shoot a super soldier with a tranquilizer strong enough to take down a herd of elephants, he'll actually be knocked out for a while."
That explained why everything felt fuzzy. There seemed to be a small delay between his brain telling his body to move and the action happening. "The hostages?" he asked.
"Last few should be released from medical care this afternoon," Natasha answered. "The rest have already been reunited with family."
"What did Fury say about things?"
"Exactly what you'd expect. That we didn't need to know about extra commandos defending the hostages. He said we handled things just fine."
Steve snorted. "Of course not, because why be well-informed before going into a hostage situation?"
"Apparently, it was going to cost at least one country some credibility, so he kept it under wraps."
"And that doesn't piss you off?" Steve asked.
Natasha shrugged. "We got the job done. What does it matter?"
He shook his head and tried to sit up for a second time. He felt her eyes on him as he moved, but she never stepped closer to offer assistance. "How did you haul me up here?"
"Rumlow helped."
"And now we both know where you live?" he questioned with a smile.
"You know one of the places I live, but, yeah, I'm definitely going to have to move out of here."
"God forbid we know any of your secrets," he muttered. "Can't have that at all."
"You don't want to know my secrets."
She turned and left the bedroom after that, the tone of her voice nearly as cold as the ice that had imprisoned Steve for decades. Even though they'd been working together for a year, she seemed to know everything about him, but he still knew barely anything about her. She'd play with him every now and then, telling stories from her past. But rarely did he believe every word that came out of her mouth, even if there was some nugget of truth buried deep in the tale.
He heard the faucet running, and a moment later, she came back into the bedroom to offer him a glass of water. Greedily, he drank it down. "Thanks," he said as he placed it on the nightstand.
She tsked at him for that, and slid a coaster under the glass. "Trying to leave rings on my furniture? Very impolite guest."
"Sorry," he apologized. All she did in return was smirk. He looked down at himself and saw that he was in dressed in the shirt he wore under his gear and a pair of boxer-briefs. "Mind if I shower?"
"As long as you don't care about smelling girly."
"I've had worse happen to me," he replied. Gingerly, he stood from the bed and was pleased when everything only slightly tilted and swirled around him.
He stood under the spray for as long as he thought he could without draining the hot water tank. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he went back into the bedroom to find that the bed sheets he dirtied with soot and a little bit of blood had been replaced and that Natasha had left a clean pair of boxers, a t-shirt that would mostly fit him, and a pair of athletic shorts on top of the bedspread. He wasn't about to ask where they came from.
Steve dressed and followed the sound of the television to find Natasha sitting in the living room. She sat curled up in an oversized chair eating a bowl of cereal while watching what looked to be some old, campy horror movie. He couldn't help but stare at her for a minute and wonder if this—the woman wearing and oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, toenails painted bright pink—was the real Natasha or just another cover.
"There's food in the fridge, help yourself," she said without turning her attention away from the movie.
When he opened the refrigerator, he immediately spotted a cardboard box from his favorite pizza place. No one in D.C. could do pizza justice like New York City did, but this place was the best in the area. Steve smiled when he opened the lid and saw that half of the pie still remained. He briefly considered looking for a plate—if only to snoop through her cabinets—but instead just grabbed some paper towels and brought the box out into the living room.
"Mind if I finish this off?" Steve asked. Her only answer was to blink. Normally, he'd want a better response than that, but his stomach was rumbling, so he dove in.
As he ate, his eyes flicked around the room, taking in details. It was a small apartment, only the one bedroom. There wasn't much to see in terms of décor, no art hanging anywhere. The walls were varying shades of gray, the kitchen cabinets were white, and the countertops were a light-colored wood. It was all minimal. Not in a way that looked like no one ever lived here, just that the occupant didn't require much to survive. What amenities he could see—a coffee maker, an iPod dock, and appliances—were all top of the line. Just like her bedroom, which also didn't offer any decoration to be seen. What was in her home was only what she needed, and she made sure it was of very high quality if it was around her. For once, Steve didn't find something surprising when it came to Natasha Romanoff.
She got out of her chair, and Steve listened as she rinsed out her bowl and set it in the sink. When she returned, she plopped onto the couch next to him and stole the uneaten slice of pizza from his hand. She smiled coyly at him as she took a bite.
Natasha was trouble. He'd sensed that the first time they met on the Helicarrier. He didn't want to compare her to Peggy, but it was easy to do. They were both fiercely independent, extremely capable, stubborn as hell, and gorgeous. He definitely had a type.
He also was apparently staring too long at Natasha, because she reached up and flicked him in the forehead. "Don't be weird," she instructed.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered as they went back to finishing the pizza and their movie.