MCU (c) Marvel Studios
He was a handsome man, there was no denying that. Strong jaw, broad shoulders, bulging biceps and pecs, and lovely blue eyes (if the recent pictures were to be believed). Captain America was back, and he just defeated the Norse god Loki and his Chitauri army (with the help of Iron Man, Hawkeye, the Hulk and Thor). He was currently living in Brooklyn, New York. Natasha didn't really care for the city. It was loud and busy, swarming with people packed in like sardines, pushing and shoving as they walked down the street with concerns only for their own lives. It was not dissimilar to Moscow, but Natasha always felt that the Russians understood personal space better than the Americans.
The one thing that vexed her about Brooklyn (and New York), was the vibrancy. It was something that Russian cities lacked thanks to years under communist rule (and she'd also argue under tsarist rule as well. Russians were gluttons for pain, suffering and misery), the once brilliant vibrancy that was still present in the onion domes of the Orthodox churches wasn't present in modern buildings but in Brooklyn (and New York), it was there. It bothered her and made her understand why so many were willing to risk their lives to escape the oppressive nature of Russian communism for the scintillating glory of American capitalism. Of course, she would never say that. She was Black Widow, a proud Russian and loyal to her country. She would execute her mission without fail. Her handler had once joked that she's like a missile: seduce and destroy. She had given him a blithe smile, inwardly smirking as he gulped down his panic. She looked up from the picture in her hand of her target and swore when she realized he was standing there, knocking on the window of her dance studio. He knocked again. "Hello? Hello, is this place open?" he asked, cupping his hands around his eyes to peer inside the darken studio.
Sighing, she walked over to the door, unlocked it and stepped out onto the street. "We aren't open. We don't open until six." She gestured to the sign on the window with the days and hours of operation.
"Oh." He flushed. "I uh… was hoping to sign up." He shook out his foot (the left one). "I think I suffer from two left feet." He smiled. She rolled her eyes. Americans. "It uh… was a joke."
"Not a very good one," she said. His shoulders slumped, and he looked like she had just kicked his puppy. "Come back at six and I can sign you up for classes," she said. He rested his arm on the glass directly above he head, leaning in a bit with an easy smile on his lips. He didn't say anything, eyes looking her over. She arched a brow and he glanced away (she noted his ears turned pink). This "seduce and destroy" mission could be easier than she thought — especially if he was this easy to read and to manipulate — so she decided to play back. "Private lessons are okay with you?" she asked, trailing her index finger down his well define pec. A smirk spread across her face a little when he swallowed hard enough for his Adam's apple to visible bob.
"Y-Yeah…" he said, tugging at the collar of his shirt. She wondered if he dressed like an old man out of for desire for something familiar or if he just had bad fashion sense. He nodded. "Private lessons sound great." He grinned.
"See you and six then," she said and gave him a wink before slipping back into her studio. He lingered outside the door for a little bit, hands in his pockets as he scuffed the sidewalk before he moved on. Back behind the desk, she pulled out the file on Captain America again. "Oh." His name was Steven Grant Rogers (he went by Steve) and was born July 4th, 1918. It was just so… American.
"That him?" Dmitri asked; she glanced up at her handler. Rat face, lanky and (in her opinion) didn't have two brain cells to rub together. "He doesn't look so bad. You can take him." Dmitri opened a bag of chips and began to eat.
"He's America's super soldier," she said, tossing the file on to the desk. Dmitri continued to munch away on his snack. "Eliminating him won't be easy."
"Sure, it will," Dmitri said around a mouthful of chips. "You get him in bed, screw his brains out and then smother him." She arched a brow as she glared at him. Dmitri paled. "Th-That is what you do right?"
"Idiot." She grabbed the bag of chips. "And don't eat while hovering over me. Remember you're the janitor." She plucked a chip from the bag and ate it, the corners of her lips curling up when she saw Dmitri pale a little bit. "Get going, start cleaning." She pointed the broom in the shadowy corner to her right. Dmitri sighed and went to start cleaning the already spotless studio.
Evening started to set in around six. The shadows lengthening and the street lamps turning on, bathing the sidewalk in a sickening orange glow. She stuck to the back alleys, following the mental map she made of Brooklyn. Cats yowled behind dumpsters, she even heard rats skittering about in the giant metal containers. In a few alleys she passed she saw a hooker and her john getting it on. She skipped around the puddles that reflected the light of the buildings and swallowed the shadows of the alleyway. Cars rumbled down the street, louder than what it sounded like during the day, in the distance a police siren blared. Though night, the city was still abuzz with activity; New York was truly the city that never slept.
She trotted down an alley, stopping at the end to make sure the coast was clear before stepping out. She walked with a purpose down the street, pulling out a thin hair stick and winding her long red hair around it before securing it in a bun. His apartment building was a few stories high, brick and had the feeling of age about it. Rogers' apartment was on the third floor and the window was on the left side of the building. Ducking back into the shadows she made her way around it and glanced at her watch. He should be halfway to the dance studio by now and soon he'll realize she stood him up. Looking at the window, she took a few steps back and ran at the building, jumping onto the rim of the dumpster, then to the first window where she used her momentum to launch herself up to the next. She scrabbled a bit, the smooth brick not allowing any purchase for her feet. Grunting, she pulled herself up, hanging in a crouch beneath the second window. The light was on, and she watched the shadow behind the curtains move.
The person turned their back to the window and she sprung, launching herself to the upper railing and then to the fire escape. His window was the next one on the escape relay. Climbing the ladder, she reached the window and pressed her ear against the glass. Silence. Smirking, she pulled a knife out and undid the latch and opened the window a little. Skilled fingers patted around the windowsill to make sure she wouldn't trip any security system. That would be bad. Finding none, she opened the window further and slipped in, closing it again with a soft barely heard thump. She stood in the room for a minute to let her eyes adjust to the dark apartment. A crackle in her ear jarred her senses. "Widow?" it was Dmitri. "Widow are you in?"
"I'm in? Status?"
"He's here, knocking on the door."
"Good." She chewed her lip. "Let him come in and sign up for classes," she said.
"Affirmative."
Silence returned, and she calculated how long she had to set her bugs before Rogers came home. She pulled out the little bag of teeny tiny cameras. She opened the window again and stuck the transmitter on the outer underside of the windowsill. Closing the window again, she went around his apartment, putting bugs in the nooks and crannies of his bare apartment. There was hardly a personal touch to be found. It was all manufactured, as if someone figured this is what he would like and put in here. Beige and muted natural tones, with some 40s memorabilia here and there. She opened his fridge, frowning when she saw how bare it was. She headed to his bedroom.
It was spartan. A bed, with a nightstand and a desk lamp on it. She used the nightstand as a launching point to get to the corner and put a bug in juncture of the ceiling and two walls. Doing a back flip, she landed on the other side of the bed and looked at the items on it. An old fashion alarm clock, a three-picture frame with a young woman, a young man with slick back hair and a group of soldiers in a variety of military uniforms from American GIs, British infantry and Free French. An old army issued compass sat in the middle of the three-picture frame. She picked it up, making a surprised sound when she found it still worked and she noted the picture of the woman in the frame was the same in the compass. She closed it, setting it down and opened the drawer. A bible, a rosary and another thin book. Pulling out the thin book, she flipped through it, eyes widening at the drawings. The drawings stopped about half way through and she swore at the final image. He had sketched her and with such detail, considering they only talked for a few minutes. "Bozhe moy." Snapping the book close she put it back and placed a camera on the underside of the nightstand's lip. She went into the bathroom, securing a camera beneath his medicine cabinet, and then taking a needle thin waterproof camera and inserting into the shower head. She turned the water on to make sure the camera wouldn't be pushed out by the stream.
Satisfied, she turned the water off, and went back to placing the cameras around his apartment. Setting the last camera, she heard the door open to his apartment. Dmitri hadn't told her that Rogers left yet. "Hello?" a woman's voice called out into the darkness. Natasha ducked behind the couch as the intruder came in. "Captain Rogers are you home?" she asked. "My name is Agent 13, Director Fury assigned me to protect you."
Shit. The window that lead to the fire escape was a few paces to her left, but if she moved Agent 13 would see her. She had to leave before Rogers came home. Agent 13 walked further into the dark apartment, the light from the hallway illuminating the entranceway. Swallowing, she pulled out a sting. She had the element of surprise and Agent 13 would be too stunned to react. Readying herself to fling her sting at the other spy, she froze when another shadow darkened the door way and the lights came on. "Kate?" Rogers had come back.
Fucking Dmitri. She ground her teeth, wondering what Dmitri was doing and why he didn't alert her that Rogers had left the studio. She slipped her sting back into her belt and pressed herself closer to the couch. There was no way in hell she'd be able to make it to the window unnoticed. Rogers' enhanced senses would spot her no matter how fast she moved. Hopefully, he'll escort Agent 13 out of the apartment. "Captain Rogers," Agent 13 said, sounding surprised. "What… what are you doing here?"
"I live here," he said, "what are you doing here?"
"I uh…" Agent 13 swallowed.
"How did you get into my apartment? I don't remember giving you a key."
"Well, the thing is… I… shit, this isn't supposed to go like this." Agent 13 holstered her gun and ran her hand through her hair. "Can we talk… outside Captain?"
"No." Rogers folded his arms over his chest. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, the leather of his jacket strained against his flexed biceps and shoulder muscles. She wondered why this man's physique was getting to her. She had seen handsome men before, but none quiet like him. "I want to know what you're doing in my apartment with a gun."
"Please, Captain Rogers, let's take this outside," Agent 13 said. "I promise to explain everything but, let's go outside."
Go outside, go outside, go outside! Natasha bit her cheek hard enough to taste blood, but eventually Rogers sighed and agreed, heading out of the apartment with Agent 13. The lights stayed on, but the door closed to a crack. Fucking Dmitri. She bolted for the window, opening it and slipping out onto the fire escape. Closing the window, she checked the transmitter, turned it on and jumped down to the next level, and then the next. She landed in a dumpster, grimacing at whatever garbage she landed in (it was sticky and had the sour stink of an old energy drink), before scrambling out and running down the alleyway.
It pleased her to no end when Dmitri jerked, his bag of chips falling to the floor as he stood up, tripping over his own feet and some papers fluttering to the floor. "Widow!" he sounded surprised, shocked even. "You're back."
"Glad you noticed," she said, sashaying into the room as she plucked a slimy banana peel from her hair and dropped it into the trash and picked up his bag of chips and setting it on the table. "I see you're enjoying American food."
"Uh… yeah," he said, coloring rising to his cheeks. "How… did you set the bugs?" he asked, eyes darting to the computer on the desk. She arched a brow. "Why uh… what happened?" he asked gesturing to her ruined catsuit. She gave him a blithe smile, enjoying the way he cowered at the sight.
"There have been some complications," she said, pushing pass him and tapping the computer keys until the images of the cameras she planted came up. She watched Rogers wander around his apartment as if he was lost and dejected. A man out of time, she thought with a frown (she almost felt bad for him, knowing the feeling of being disconnected from a culture and time) as she watched him go to his bedroom and grab his sketchbook. He flopped onto the couch, flipping to the page with her drawing and began to work. She tapped a few more keys, the cameras zooming in on him; his face was a mask of concentrating. "Ones you would've known if you were paying attention."
"Widow?"
"Why didn't you tell me Rogers left?" she asked, Rogers looked up and glanced. She wondered if he could hear the electrical hum of the cameras. If he could, that would be something they'd have to factor in. "Or that Shield is watching him?" Rogers went back to his drawing after a few seconds.
"I uh…"
"Do I need to tell Stalyenko about this, Dmitri?" she asked, watching as Rogers stood up and made a pot of tea. He drummed his fingers on the countertop as he waited for the water to boil. He poured the water over the tea bag and added milk and two teaspoons of sugar before going back to the couch. He ignored the sketchbook, holding the cup in both hands, elbows resting on his knees. He looked pensive, as if he's thinking about his new life. She stood up, turning her back on the computer. "You fucked up Dmitri."
"I'm… Romanova… I'm—"
"You are my handler," she said, poking him in the chest. "That means, you gather intelligence, scout out the locations I'm supposed to go to, do detail background checks on the people involved in my mission, and watch my back." She pressed her finger into the hollow of Dmitri's throat, he whimpered as he tried to squirm away from the painful pressure. She smirked, enjoying his suffering. "Failure in any part of your duties will result in my capture or death, and then the Red Room will be very, very angry."
"Yes… Romanova… I…" he gasped, scared to touch her in an effort to relieve the pressure on his throat. "I understand."
"Do you?" she asked, pushing him away. "Who does Shield have assigned to protect him?"
"Uhm…"
She rolled her eyes and tapped a few keys on the screen, an image of a blonde woman appeared with a deadpan expression on her average face. "Sharon Carter, aka Agent 13. Born in Richmond, Virginia to Harrison and Amanda Carter, on June 25, 1979. She joined Shield when she was twenty and quickly rose through the ranks. She is one of their best field agents and was assigned as Captain Rogers protection shortly after the Battle of New York." She tapped another set of keys, bringing up Captain Rogers' information. "Steven Grant Rogers, aka Captain America — among other aliases, but Captain America is his most well known — was born in Brooklyn, New York to Sarah and Joseph Rogers on July 4, 1918. His father died in May of that year from mustard gas while serving in WWI. His mother later died when he was eighteen of tuberculosis. When he was twenty-four he was selected for Project: Rebirth and received Dr. Abraham Erskine's super solider serum. In 1945—"
"I know the history, Romanova!" Dmitri said. She snapped the lid of the laptop close. "I don't understand why you are bringing up their biographies. You have the information and—"
"You didn't do your job, Dmitri! You didn't give me Carter's information, only Rogers' and not that. Just a picture and where he lived. You didn't tell me he left the studio, just that he arrived. Your sole job is to keep me alive and give me information and if I need it, to extract me from a dangerous situation."
"This is my first assignment and—"
"Excuses get spies killed," she hissed "First assignment, hundredth assignment. A handler is a vital partner to the spy in the field. We have our job, gather information, eliminate our target. Our handler does the research we don't have time to do. Our handler scouts the locations we don't have time to scout. They handle things. Hence you are a handler."
"I'm sorry—"
"Apologies get spies killed too." She rubbed her temples. "I should call Stalyenko and get you replaced." She looked at him, folding her arms beneath her bosom. "But Rogers has already seen your face and if I swap you out now, things could get harry and I'm not looking forward to that." She watched Dmitri swallow, his shoulders relaxing a little. "But I expect better from you Dmitri. Much better. Otherwise I will tell Stalyenko about you and I will let him deal with you."
"Yes, Romanova," he said. She smiled, patting his cheek and handing him back his bag of chips. "Thank you."
"Monitor him, while I go take a shower," she said as she lifted the laptop lid again and walked further in the back of the studio.
The water hissed, hot and scalding, from the shower head and turning her skin pink. It was luxuriating, bathing in such hot water. She ran her fingers through her hair, scrubbing her scalp with her nails. Her cat suit was ruined; she had spares. The shampoo was something subtle, fresh linen or morning breeze. She worked it into a thick lather before rinsing her hair again and applying more shampoo, wanting to get the stink of old energy drink out of her hair. The Red Room taught her to never use scents for her every day routine. People remember scents and scents lingered in a room long after someone left. In shorts, scents could get you caught.
She figured Madame B would make an exception for not wanting to smell like sour energy drink. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back into the hot stream and worked the shampoo lather out of her red locks. She checked her hair again, and then added the conditioner and washed the rest of her body. The soap was some lotion containing one, and she ran her hands over her lithe form. Her fingers touching all her secret places. She wondered what Rogers' hands would feel like along her body; touching her with reverence and devotion. It had been a while since a man touched her — since anyone touched her like that really — and she was almost starved for such caresses. Of course, men made her flinch internally. She was only fourteen when she had her first man. The Red Room felt that in order to be proper seductresses they had to be broken in. That experience turned her off from men. Katerina, another Black Widow hopeful, showed her what touches should feel like, how to coax such pleasure and intimacy.
Natasha closed her eyes, tears leaking from beneath her lids as she remembered driving the knife into Katerina's gut during the battle royale. She learned then that love was for children. Since then, she guarded her heart: even with her dear husband Alexi she was guarded. Love was for children and sex was a weapon. The only one that came close to cracking that mantra was James, but their tryst was short lived as Department X took him away and she never saw him again.
But Rogers… there was something about Rogers. Maybe it's because she saw the sketch of her in his sketchbook or maybe it was because he tried to flirt only to realize he was out of his depth with her. He had this innocence, a little lost lamb aura about him. It could just be because he was her target and getting into his pants was the fastest way to complete her objective. Still, she would be a fool to deny that he was devilishly handsome. She dragged her hand down her body, fingers slipping between her legs to tease the sensitive flesh. A whimper escaped her throat, her hips rolling as she delved her fingers deeper into her core, thumb pressing against her sensitive nub. A gasp escaped her throat as she imagined what those plush lips felt like against her neck, imagined his hands trailing over her body and touching her most intimate places. She wondered what his face looked like twisted in ecstasy. She slammed her hand against the wall and swore. "Love's for children," she growled. She would not be compromised. Couldn't afford to be compromised. She had a mission and she had a flawless record and she'd be damned if she fucked it up now.
Ignoring the warming ache between her legs as she pulled her fingers from herself, she finished washing (scrubbing until her skin was raw to get rid of that dumpster stink) and got out of the shower. The towel was plush, smelling of laundry soap and fabric softener. She ran it along her body, wringing out her hair and slipped into her pajamas. Her reflection in the mirror stared back and she sighed. The woman in the glass looked worn and tired, the life of a Russian super spy wearing on her tattered soul. Taking a cotton ball, she applied the make up remover and began to scrub at her face until all the ugly blemishes and freckles and rough spots appeared. The girl behind the mask of Black Widow, a girl with a stolen childhood. Abused, broken, remolded into a weapon with no purpose, no place in the world, caked in the blood of innocents and foes alike. Her ledger was dripping red, saturated with the stuff. She and James were the crown jewels of the Russian Intelligence apparatus.
Staring back at her true face, she wondered if she could have led a different life. If Ivan had never found her and taken her away from her rundown and broken home. If he had never raised her in the Red Room, a scared frightened girl with big dreams of being a prima ballerina in the Russian ballet. She wondered what her life would have been like if things had been different. Would she be a wife? Making borscht for her husband. Would she be a mother? Her hand fell to her stomach, her broken ruined womb where no child would grow. Tears stung angry and hot at the corner of her eyes. A child trumped a mission, and the Red Room couldn't have that. So, they took it away from her, without even her consent. Apart of the graduation ceremony, they had told her, so she could take her place as Black Widow.
"Romanova?" Dmitri asked, knocking on the door. "You almost done in there?"
"I am," she said, putting some moisturizer on her face and gathering up her dirty catsuit. She opened the door and dumped the soiled garment in his hands. "Clean it for me please?" she asked, giving him a little smile. Swallowing, he nodded and stepped aside, and she went back to the monitoring station. Rogers wasn't in his living room or kitchen. He was in his bathroom, brushing his teeth, wearing a t-shirt and boxers. She arched a brow, appreciating the view of his comely ass. He spat and rinsed, wiping his face with a towel and staring at his reflection. She frowned, recognizing that look he had for she had just seen it on her own face: tired, worn, dejected, wondering if this life they led was even worth it. He washed his hands and ran his damp fingers through his hair. He left the bathroom and she looked at the bedroom camera, watching him sit on the bed and pull out his bible.
"He's religious," she muttered, watching him read a few chapters, rubbing the beads of the rosary between his thumb and index finger, before putting it back into the drawer of the nightstand and crawling into bed. He lay on his side, staring at the pictures. She watched him touch the middle picture and then kiss two fingers and press it against the lips of the woman. She read his lips: goodnight Peggy, was what he had said before he closed his eyes and went to sleep. She wondered who Peggy was. An hour later, Dmitri came back over, holding a mug of coffee.
"You should get some sleep Romanova," he said, sipping his coffee. "I'll watch him."
"Alright," she said, getting up. She put her hand on his shoulder briefly before heading off to bed, her mind abuzz with questions about Captain Steve Rogers.
Sleep never came easy to her. She tossed and turned, muttering in her sleep, as her body curled and uncurled. She sat up with a gasp, the night and the silence pressing in around her. Shadows drifted in the corners, shades of her memories, demons of her past. Closing her eyes, she shook her head, biting her lip and digging her nails into her thighs to ground herself in reality. When she opened her eyes, the darkness greeted her, void of the phantoms of her mind. Sleep would elude her for the rest of the night, so she got up and slipped her robe on. On cat silent feet, she went to the monitoring station, Dmitri gone. Rolling her eyes and making mental to scold him later, she got some fresh coffee and sat down in the chair to watch Rogers' sleep.
Only he wasn't sleeping. He was tossing and turning, gripping his pillow tight enough she was afraid he'd rip it. His face contorted in a painful grimace and if she leaned in close she could see sweat beading at his hairline. A heartbeat later, he sat up with a gasp, chest rising and falling. She watched him drag a hand down his face as he flopped back against his pillow; she noted the sweat stain around the collar of his t-shirt. Sympathy coiled in her chest or maybe it was empathy, for she understood all too well what it was like to be unable to sleep. Sipping her coffee, she ran a hand through her hair, watching him toss and turn as he tried to find a comfortable position but, in the end, gave up. She watched him get dress in sweats and an underarmor shirt before leaving his apartment. Frowning, she sat here watching the monitors for a little bit before getting breakfast and doing her own morning work out routine.
Dressed in yoga pants, fuzzy socks, a sports bra and tank top, she plopped in front of the monitors with a bowl of cereal. Rogers had returned and was getting into the shower. She gave a low whistle, admiring the contours of his muscles, the miles of creamy skin that ran down — unblemished — his back. She smirked at the sight of his ass, round as a peach and tight as a drum head. He turned the water in and waited a few minutes until steam billowed out over the top before stepping in. She turned the sound on, hearing the hiss of the water. The frontal view of his body was just as good as the backside. Bulging pecs and biceps, a tight eight back of abs and he was well endowed. Pleasure pooled in her groin as she easily imaged him hard and wanting. He started washing. "Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance. Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance. Rah rah ah-ah-ah! Ro mah ro-mah-mah. Gaga oh-la-la! Want your bad romance!"
She stopped mid bite and stared, surprised he was singing Lady Gaga. Not only that but he was singing verbatim and at the perfect pitch. He even danced, moving his hips and shoulders to the imagined beat as he lathered his hair and scrubbed his body. He paused only to rinse his face. She resumed her breakfast, smirking over the fact that she knew that Captain America sang in the shower. Smiling, she watched him finish his shower, dry and dress (in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt)a. He made himself breakfast: six eggs, an entire pound of bacon, four slices of toast (with butter) and a tall glass of milk. He sat down at the dinette table (that looked too small for his large meal and his equally large frame). He turned on the tv and worked with a methodic steadiness through his breakfast. He even mopped up the bacon grease and egg yolk with his last slice of bread and down the glass of milk in three large swallows. Rogers gave a new meaning to eating like a horse. She set her empty cereal bowl next to her coffee cup as she watched him clean the dishes.
"Morning, Romanova," Dmitri said around a yawn as he came over to her.
"Dmitri," she said, watching Rogers return to his room. He opened his closet and pulled out a button-down shirt, which he put on as if he was on autopilot. He brushed his teeth, shaved, and left his apartment.
"Wonder where he's going," Dmitri asked as she stood up and pulled on a light jacket, pulling off her fuzzy socks and putting on a pair of slip-on flats.
"Here, idiot," she said as she gathered her hair into a ponytail. "Probably going to demand why I wasn't here yesterday and wanting his private lesson I promised him."
"But this is just a cover… we aren't actually a dance studio," Dmitri said. She glared at him, applying some red chapstick to her lips and mascara. She had no time to put her face on, but she figured it was better this way, letting him see her natural (or as natural as she would let anyone see her).
She exited the back and looked around the studio before turning on the lights and pulling out a stereo and sweeping down the floor in preparation for her only student (though she planned to get more, a good cover had a grain of truth after all). She watched the people walk pass the studio, it was only eight in the morning, but New York still buzzed with activity. People still packed the sidewalk, pressed in light sardines. A few people came in and she signed them up for lessons. She smiled at one mother with her twin girls dressed in tutus and a promise to show them how to be ballerinas that afternoon. It hurt though, realizing those girls wanted to learn ballet in the purest of innocence, that they'll never be killers with the grace of a swan. An elderly couple came in, wanting to learn to the salsa and several young couples came in asking for tango lessons. Several more, little girls and a few boys signed up for afternoon ballet lessons.
It was ten o'clock by the time Rogers came back with an almost finished hot dog in hand. She wrinkled her nose, surprised he could eat one of those street sold hot dogs. Smiling, she exited the studio and leaned against the window. The blue of his shirt brought out his eyes and lightened his hair. She caught several women (and a handful of men) glance at him as they walked passed them on the street. "Hey, strange," she said, her easy smile widening. "Fancy seeing you here."
His eyes widened, and he shoved the rest of his hot dog into his mouth, mustard and a bit of relish on the corner of his mouth. He swallowed and sucked the ketchup off his thumb. "Hi." He looked at the brightly lit interior of the dance studio. "You open? For real?"
"For real." She tapped the corner of her mouth. "You got a little something here."
"Oh?" he glanced at his faint reflection in the glass and wiped off the mustard and relish. "Thanks."
"No problem." She ran her tongue along her teeth. An airplane droned over head and he looked up, squinting against the early summer sun. Cars honked and the babble of voices seemed to increase in volume, as if the cacophony of the city was personally offended by the silence between them.
"So are you gonna explain to me why you were closed last night," he said, putting his hands on his hips. It showed off his narrow waist and she had to snap her eyes up to his face: it was rude to stare after all. She took a step closer to him, tilting her head up to better look into his eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said. A light breeze came up, bringing the sour scents of the streets and noxious fumes of car exhaust, but beneath it all was cedar and cypress. He clearly had some cologne and the smell made her skin tingle. "We're pretty new and I had to buy various CDs for the lessons and some skirts." She bit her nail, inwardly smirking when his eyes fell to it.
"Oh." He nodded in understanding. "Makes sense. You're uh—"
"Janitor. Second cousin once removed. His mother wanted me to show him how to run a proper business."
"Yeah, he uh… had me sign up for lessons." He flushed and glanced at his feet. "Lessons are still private?"
"For you" — she smiled, taking another step forward to narrow the gap between them, he swallowed again, color rising to his cheeks — "always."
"Good, good… I'll uh… be back later then for the lesson." He gave her a shy smile and took a few steps back. She grabbed his hand. It was large and strong with rough clauses on his fingers and palm.
"Wait," she said. "There's nobody here and well, we can do a lesson now." She let go of his hand, clasping her hands behind her back. "If you aren't busy that is."
He puffed his cheeks out in a sigh, watching the people and cars go by them. Another breeze came and ruffled his blond hair; he folded his arms and his biceps strained against the cotton of his shirt. "Alright," he said after a while, turning to face her with a little smile. "I'll accept your lesson."
"Excellent," she said, opening the door to the studio. He walked in and she followed, the sounds of the city becoming muted and the smell of floor polish and dry wall filled her nose. She pointed to th coat rack and told him to take his shoes off as she went to get a binder with a sign in sheet and a pen. She watched him sign his name: Steve G. Rogers. "Welcome, Steve," she said as she snapped the binder closer. "I'm Natasha, and I'll be your instructor today."
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