Title: Little Labors of Love
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,500
Characters: Steve/Natasha
Summary: "You dropped something," she says needlessly, lips tugging into a soft, teasing smile, and he exhales a chuckle. It should be a crime, honestly, for a voice to sound that beautiful.
A/N: Inspired by the newest Age of Ultron trailer.
Little Labors of Love
The city is in ruins, and Natasha feels like her flesh has been ripped open. Nothing about this situation seems like a victory.
But it still is.
They're all exhausted, but they're all alive, too, and they've somehow managed to help humankind evade another hostile takeover, so she considers that a win.
Her muscles ache all over, but she's also in enough pain that she's kind of numb at the same time, unable to bring herself to sit down despite the fact that her knees feel like they'll give in at any second. A quiet has fallen over the ruined city, drowning out the crackling of fires and blaring of sirens and murmurs of distress. It's the kind that always follows events like this – the kind you're not sure you just lived through, that leave you on that dizzying edge of feeling relieved to be alive and yet seconds away from breaking down into hysterics.
She could go either way right now.
"Hey," a voice says, and she turns meet Steve's gaze as he comes to stand beside her, setting a hand on her shoulder. He looks as exhausted as she feels, but she doesn't think she's seen him stop moving, busying himself with aiding civilians.
"I'm alright," she tells him before he can ask the question. He glances over her, surveying her wounds. She places a hand over his. "I promise I'm fine."
She's hurt, yeah, but she doesn't want to be fussed over. Not right now, at least. And when he nods after a moment, she thinks that he understands this, too.
His hand lingers on her shoulder, though, his thumb smoothing over the frayed material of her suit where it's torn, revealing a slice on her skin that's dried with blood and purpling around the edges. She can't even remember when or how she must've gotten it.
She draws a breath, about to offer him another reassurance that they both know won't be very true at all, but then he's gently moving his hand, sliding his fingertips underneath the strap hooked over her shoulder and then tugging at it a little, drawing her attention there. His shield, she realizes, a moment longer than it should've taken her to. She only vaguely remembers picking it up, can't even recall when she must've strapped it to her back. But she does remember using it at least once – pulling it over her head and curling behind it as flames and debris rushed towards her. She's lost count of how many times this shield has saved her life. It's a simple thing, really, but when she sees it, and holds it, she feels safe.
"You dropped something," she says needlessly, lips tugging into a soft, teasing smile, and he exhales a chuckle.
It should be a crime, honestly, for a voice to sound that beautiful.
... ...
Tony throws a party, which isn't all that surprising, but the crowd it draws is, a little. Natasha remembers that late night they spent lounging around his penthouse, blissfully unaware of the madness that was soon to follow, and maybe it's symbolic or whatever, gathering in that same way.
It kind of also feels like they're playing with fate or something. She's still not sure what higher power she believes in, but clearly the universe has a sick sense of humor.
For right now, though, it's peaceful, and when Natasha wakes up on the couch of Tony's living room the next morning, she just stares up at the ceiling and listens to the faint sounds of everyone sleeping elsewhere around her. Sunlight is filtering in through the shutters, casting light onto the scattered beer bottles and wine glasses, and she rolls onto her side as she draws Steve's jacket over her shoulders, trying to burrow herself underneath it. It smells like him – like mint and soap and something strong but sweet, a little like cinnamon but not quite – and she takes a soft breath, her eyes landing on the spot on the floor beside her where Steve had fallen asleep on the plush carpet, a throw pillow tucked under his head.
She just stares at him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. For a moment, she's reminded of Washington, of finding him unconscious on the edge of the water, and of the relief she felt when she was close enough to see that he was still breathing.
(She's been thinking of him like that a lot lately, in these moments where she realizes just how much she needs him.)
After a minute, he begins to stir, blinking himself awake and then squinting against the light.
He takes a moment to stare up at the ceiling, and she can't help but smile, thinking that maybe he's relishing in the quiet the way she had, too.
Then he turns to look in her direction, his expression softening into this beautiful, serene smile as he sees that she's also awake.
"Good morning," he murmurs.
"Good morning," she echoes, lifting a hand to brush aside her hair, and his eyes follow the movement, falling onto his jacket draped over her. He hasn't totally shaken off his sleep just yet, but seeing this makes his eyes glint, amusement and something else crossing his grin.
"I was wondering where I put that," he says, lifting a hand to tug at one of the sleeves.
"Shouldn't leave your stuff lying around," she advises, fingers curling around the material, playfully pulling it from his grasp. "Someone will take it."
"Lesson learned," he replies, and she laughs softly.
... ...
She doesn't really want to get out of bed – not at all, actually – but she catches the time on the clock on the wall and knows she can still make it to brunch with the girls if she starts getting ready now. Not that they won't understand if she did miss it. No one has been subtle about being glad that she and Steve finally got together, and, yeah, she knows it took them long enough, but she liked letting things happen at their own pace. It was the first time she had that luxury of getting to enjoy something, to savor something, and Steve had this way of surprising her yet still making her feel like she had control over everything. It was comforting transition, falling for Steve – like this was where her life was always headed.
(She doesn't believe in fate, but she believes in him. That's close enough.)
Steve stirs beside her as she moves to get up, the hand at her hip trying to tug her closer.
"Steve," she says, feeling herself smile. He chuckles sleepily into his pillow, tracing his finger over her hipbone. It's enough to make her want to forget her plans altogether, but she gets out of bed, anyway, because she really does want to see the girls. It's been a while since they've hung out and Steve knows she's been looking forward to today.
Plus, a few hours apart is nothing. They don't need to spend all of their time together, and she kind of loves how it feels to come home to him.
She heads for the dresser, about to grab a clean bra and pair of underwear and head for the shower, but pauses as she catches sight of the clothes scattered across the floor, and then moves to pick them up. She doesn't think much of it at first, not until she grabs her lace panties and finds herself letting out a belated laugh. It'd been a fleeting thought, her mind giddy from the buzz of the wine and the dizzying kiss Steve had pressed to her lips, but she remembers hearing the stretch of lace and her eyes fluttering open in surprise as Steve – gentle, careful Steve, always so adamant about keeping things tidy – maneuvered her hips up and practically yanked her panties down her legs before tossing them aside.
She'd almost giggled at the realization then, but he'd coaxed a gasp out of her instead, and her thoughts had gone elsewhere.
She lets out a laugh now, gathering their clothes into her arms.
"What's so funny?"
Steve lifts himself up on his elbow, his expression still sleepy but also curious. She smirks a little, dumping their clothes into the hamper, and he chuckles.
"I would've picked those up," he tells her, which, yeah, she knows. He picks up after her all the time.
Instead, she gives him a teasing, unconvinced smile, grabbing a clean bra and pair of underwear from the dresser. Then she takes her panties from the hamper and walks over to their bed, tossing them at his chest before leaning over to give him a kiss.
He turns the material over in his hands, grinning up at her with this wry, boyish grin. "I'll buy you new ones," he promises, and she kisses him again and says, "You better."
... ...
The call had been simple, standard – a quick check-up on suspicious activity in some border town half the world has probably never heard of. Nick had assured her that there was no need in sending both of them there, and that the small team Tony already dispatched would be enough, so they leave the house after barely finishing breakfast, and he kisses her goodbye before they head for two different briefings. She, Bobbi, and Sharon end up in Vegas, and they're in and out within hours, their target apprehended before it's even dark out.
She gets the status update from Tony on the plane ride home, and her body tenses as at the words lost contact.
"What the hell does that mean, Stark?" Bobbi snaps, and Natasha glances out the window as Sharon reaches for her hand, squeezing lightly.
"It means that it's probably just a little hiccup, but they'll be delayed coming home," Tony tells them, almost sounding exasperated, but she knows Tony, and she knows that this is almost as unsettling to him as it is to her.
(It's hard, sometimes, reconciling the self-centered, lonely man he was with the man that Tony is now – the kind that takes being in charge of the lives of others to heart.)
Sam is there to pick them up from the airport when they land, and the car ride home is quiet, the radio on but the volume so low that she can barely hear it.
He drops her off last, pulling into the driveway and switching off the radio completely. He doesn't say anything at first, but she already knows the question he wants to ask, so she leans over the center console to press a kiss to his cheek, giving him a smile. "I'll be alright. He'll be home soon, anyway," she adds, because one of them needs to say it.
Sam nods a little, and waits until she's already inside the house before driving off.
The kitchen is still a disaster from this morning, because Steve likes to go all out when he makes her breakfast on Sundays and then they'd been called into work before they had time to clean up.
It's late, and she should probably get to bed, but she busies herself with cleaning because she's a little too awake right now to lie down. She gathers the dishes from the island and off of the stove, washes and dries them and puts them away, then wets a kitchen towel and starts to wipe down the counters. Then a bit of dust on the shelves catches her eye, so she dusts the kitchen and then the living room, and then vacuums a bit, too, because Steve always vacuums after dusting, for whatever reason. Then she throws a load into the washing machine before emptying the dryer into the laundry basket and dragging it into the living room, turning on the TV to find it still on Food Network from the last time Steve did laundry.
She's washed, dried, and folded two more loads by the time she hears a car coming to a stop in front of the house, almost a quarter to 2:00 in the morning.
Steve looks exhausted when he lets himself in, but as soon as he sees her, he pushes the strap of his bag off of his shoulders and comes around the couch, pulling her onto her feet and into his arms as he presses a soft, languid kiss to her lips.
They part after a moment, his forehead pressing against hers as her eyes fall closed.
"You did laundry?" he asks, sounding breathless and amused, and she lets out a laugh as she punches his shoulder, hitting a tender spot, judging by the way he winces.
"You ass," she whispers. "You just tricked me into cleaning the whole damn place. I hope you know how much you suck."
He kisses her hair, smoothing his hand down her back. "I love you, too."
... ...
She comes home to find them sprawled out on the couch, fast asleep as the credits for The Princess and The Frog are rolling on the television. Steve is sitting with Tatiana in his arms and James curled into his side, blankets and toys spread out across the floor, half-empty cups of juice and a plate of leftover grapes and apple slices on top of the coffee table. She's been trying to get James to be a little more responsible and clean up after himself, and for the most part, it's alright. He's just always on the go and has to be reminded to stop and put away what he'd been playing with before he starts something new, but he doesn't mind doing so and doesn't usually put up a fight about cleaning up whenever they tell him to.
She can probably let it slide this one time, though. She doesn't really have the heart to wake any of them up.
She sets her bag down and steps quietly, gathering toys and depositing them into bins lined up in the corner, then folding the blankets and putting them in the hallway closet. She's walking back into the living room to put the dishes away when she sees James start to stir.
He blinks a few times, looking around dazedly, but then his eyes find her and widen, his expression brightening as he exclaims, "Mommy!"
Her heart swells, even as she laughs and tries to hush him, but Tatiana and Steve are beginning to wake, too, so whatever. He climbs off of the couch and jumps into her arms and she presses a kiss to his cheek.
Then he glances around at the floor, and she can't help but laugh again. "Yeah, I picked up your toys," she tells him.
"Oh," he says, and then frowns. "Sorry I didn't clean up after myself, Mommy."
God, he's adorable. And he looks so much like Steve when he makes that face. It's unfair, really.
"You're fine, kiddo," she reassures, peppering his cheek with kisses. From the couch, Tatiana giggles, and Steve gives them a soft smile, letting out a laugh as she adds, "I'm always picking up after you boys, anyway."