He was weary going to sleep, because for all he knew, he could wake again and find another seventy years had passed and he would be just as clueless as before. Everything changed so quickly. Dozing off for even a minute could mean he missed something else, among the stacks of books he had been reading. The Vietnam War, Star Wars, Bob Dylan, the Berlin Wall, the AIDS epidemic – it was like being in that school desk again, only the taunting was replaced by an uncomfortable silence, and he wasn't sure if he preferred the latter.

The only person good to him was Natasha. He hated bothering her, but she was always kind, whereas Tony was too abrasive and Bruce was too absorbed in whatever work he was doing, and Clint was busy himself and had a sharper edge to him. Natasha had a gentle side to her. She would take time to explain things to him.

Whenever she was around, his body calmed but his mind tensed, because she reminded him of that agent he knew just a few months before – seven decades before – and he couldn't bear the thought of going through that once more. Just in case, he stayed away, because in his chest he feared if he fell asleep, he'd lose her too.

She was a wonderful model, with gorgeous curves and hair that swept around her face and her perfectly pointed chin. Piercing eyes made him vulnerable, but also caused her to behave differently, like she was treading on thin ice, and like he was ready to collapse. They reassured him and tore him apart, rendering it almost impossible to approach her with a request, but she always readily answered.

It was fall when he finally asked her to pose for him. A questioning complexion flashed across her face.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I draw." He shrugged. "I find it relaxing."

Whenever she smiled at him, his heart fluttered and his mind fogged over until he was smiling himself, and without realizing it they were joking like they had been friends for years and that whatever happened tomorrow couldn't tear them apart.

"How am I turning out, Captain?" she asked him one evening as he drew her sitting down with her legs crossed and a glass between her fingers.

"Just fine."

She always marveled at his sketches afterward.

"Just fine? These are gorgeous, Steve."

"They're all right."

"All right?"

"I can't quite capture what really makes you beautiful..."

He became flustered much easier than she did. It was apparent as his face became a light hue of red and her lips and eyebrows softened, processing what he said and formulating a response.

"Beautiful?" She grinned sarcastically. "Really?"

It was challenging to tell if she was flattered or annoyed. "Beautiful."

She lightly swatted his head. "You're too good for you're own good, you know that?"

Of course he did, but he kept quiet.

Her body was smooth, even more alluring when he could feel and touch and draw out tiny gasps as they nestled together under the dim light of the lamp at his bedside. He teased her, kissing the skin of her neck and continually moving his hands up and down, up and down, so he could memorize every detail about her, from the perfume she wore to the way her eyes closed when she was in bliss.

"God, Steve."

She had done this before. He hadn't.

"You're doing fine," she murmured to him when he suddenly stopped.

"I don't know if I should continue."

"Why shouldn't you?"

Because it meant losing her one day, it meant sleeping alone again, it meant living in a world once more when no one cared about an old man's struggles and he was by himself. He sighed, making her skin grow warm as he did, and he rolled off of her to curl up on the side of his bed.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He was in love with her, didn't she understand?

"I'm not feeling too good."

Slowly, her hands caressed him as she pressed a kiss to his cheek, round and round in small circles on his skin, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake. "Get better soon then."

"What for?"

"I don't like seeing you sick."

He had been sick since the day she first entered his life.

Natasha was an incredible cook, even if she didn't like to admit it, and after the nights they spent together she'd make him breakfast and then they'd pretend like nothing had ever happened. Sometimes Steve wasn't sure if the nights were real, or if they were some elaborate fantasy come to life in his dreams, but whenever she made him breakfast and kiss the top of his head, he'd soak the moment up and let him cherish it for a little bit.

"Why are you so scared of me?" she asked one morning.

"I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"What makes you say I am?"

A tight smile tugged on her lips. Two of her fingers walked along the table. "Something tells me you are."

"I'm not."

"Whenever you're ready to tell me, you can."

The urge had sprung upon him when they were alone together and she rambled about how much she loved the night sky, but he always swallowed it down and made sure to never let her know. His kisses were weakness enough; he didn't need anything more.

After another night of sketchpads and unfulfilled lust, they lay together on the floor of his apartment, holding each others hand tightly as their minds reeled and eyes drooped with sleepiness. It had been a warm day, and both of them had stripped to nothing but their underclothes, and they stayed there in thoughtful silence until she finally licked her lips and glanced over at him.

"If you had something on your mind that you wanted to say to me, you'd say it to me, right?"

He paused. "Depends on what I have to say."

Just say it already! his mind screamed, but he shoved the notion aside. Natasha only nodded, void of any expression.

"You know," he started after a long beat, "sometimes I think..." A heavy sigh escaped him. "Sometimes I think I might..."

"Yeah?"

He couldn't say it.

She left him early in the morning like usual, and as she parted, he grabbed onto her wrist and asked her, "You'll come back, right?"

"Of course I will."

He didn't know how to tell her he loved her any other way.