Years of intensive training had left Natasha Romanoff with the ability to go from deep sleep to wakefulness in an instant. No half aware fuzziness for her. One moment she was dreaming and the next she was ready to begin her day.
Today was no exception, her eyes popping open as her mind kicked into gear. Almost instantly, she became aware that something was…wrong.
The ceiling above her was painted a soft, off-white and the walls a warm beige. Blue curtains fluttered by the open windows (she never left her windows open), through which she could see a maple tree, leaves turned fiery reds and oranges by the changing seasons. There was a sturdy dresser against one wall and an armchair by the window and she could see a blue & white checked comforter covering her body.
She recognized none of this.
But it was her body that disturbed her most. Nothing hurt, but, after a lifetime, one knew how their body should feel. At present, nothing seemed right and she moved her hands under the comforter, physically feeling her body.
Broad, smooth chest. Thick, powerful biceps. Hard, flat stomach with a light treasure trail leading to the waistline of a pair of cotton pants. Swallowing, she slid her fingers past the elastic band…yup, that was a dick.
Natasha yanked her hand back, kicking her legs free of the blanket and rolling to her feet. There was a small wall mirror mounted above the dresser and she caught sight of her reflection.
"Well, fuck," she muttered, looking at the familiar features of Steve Rogers.
This was both interesting and distressing.
It took only moments for her to realize what had (more than likely) happened.
Yesterday, Natasha had been sipping coffee in the break room, watching with amusement as Steve constructed an enormous ham sandwich. Bruce, practically vibrating with excitement, had popped in and practically dragged them down to his lab to show them his latest experiment, an attempt to develop computer assisted mind to mind communication. It had many practical battlefield applications…if it worked.
Bruce thought he'd finally worked out the kinks and pointed them toward two chimps wearing odd headsets.
Fortunately, when Bruce's strange machine exploded, emitting an odd, blue pulse, the animals had not been harmed. The pulse dissipated quickly, not penetrating the bank of computers Bruce stood behind and doing no noticeable damage to Steve and Natasha.
After a few dozen tests, they'd been released, feeling fine. She still felt fine, just in the wrong body.
Heaving a beleaguered sigh, she shook her head, wondering if she could kick Banner's Hulked out ass in Rogers' body. The strength she could feel coursing through Cap's muscles was…exhilarating.
Simple deduction told her that, if she was in Rogers' body, he must be in hers. In her Manhattan penthouse.
This must be Cap's Brooklyn home. She'd never been here before, but she was aware that Fury had arranged a house for him not too far from where Steve had grown up. It seemed to have made the time lost man feel less adrift, having a place of his own to get away from S.H.E.I.L.D. HQ.
Deciding on her course of action, Natasha stepped toward a door she rightly assumed was a closet. She blinked at the neatly hung oxford and plaid shirts, the unfortunate, pleated trousers. She located the one pair of blue jeans, tossing them onto the bed as she moved to the dresser. In short order, she found a white t-shirt, socks and a pair of boxers.
In another situation, she would have spent a few moments perusing Rogers' body, as it was rather fabulous. She did note that little (and she used that term ironically) Steve was as impressive as the rest of him. Instead, she was businesslike in dropping the pale blue pajama pants and stepping into the boxers and socks before donning the jeans and t-shirt. Three pairs of shoes (sneakers, boots and dress) were lined up neatly under the side of the bed. Natasha chose the boots, then ran her fingers through Rogers's hair as she left the room.
The bathroom was as neat as the bedroom, as were the kitchen and living room. She grabbed the brown leather jacket from its hook and scooped the wallet and keys from the small table beside the door.
As she descended the stairs, she glanced back to look at the house. It was a well-kept brownstone beside a tiny park with a few trees and a neat patch of grass. A few women sat on a bench, young children playing nearby. One of them waved at her…at Steve.
Natasha returned the gesture, turning toward where Rogers' motorcycle was parked. Before she reached it, she was Intercepted by a tiny, elderly woman.
"Good morning, Steve," she said with a warm smile.
Shit. "Morning, Ma'am."
She patted Natasha's leather clad forearm. "Now, dear, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Rose?" Her white hair was curly and she looked like every grandmother Natasha saw on TV. "It just wanted to thank you for your help the other day. Those air conditioners are so heavy!"
"They are," Natasha agreed, then tried to answer as she thought Steve would have. "It was no trouble, Ma'am. I'm sorry, but I have to run. Emergency at the office."
Rose nodded and gave her another pat. "You go on, dear. I'm making some oatmeal cookies. My granddaughter, Sophie, I told you about her, will drop some by later."
With that, she tottered off, leaving Natasha to mount the powerful, specially modified motorcycle. Rogers had let Stark tinker with the vehicle and she could tell it was far more powerful than it had been when it left the factory floor. She felt the wind chapping her cheeks as she gunned the engine, flying through the streets toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
Though it was a Saturday morning, New York was never without traffic. It took a while for her to reach her building and, when she entered the lobby, she gave the doorman a curt nod.
Rogers had never been to her place before, but she walked with confidence and purpose. If you looked like you believed you belonged, people tended not to question you. This was no exception to that rule and she reached the elevator without incident. Opening the small, concealed keypad, she punched in the security code that would allow the lift to make the long trip to her penthouse.
Once there, she entered yet another code, now understanding Rogers' distaste for tiny cell phones. His fingers were not made for manipulating micro buttons. Stark was running a pool on how many cell phones Steve and Thor would each destroy.
Entering her apartment, she looked around, noting that nothing seemed out of place. Her home, with its clean lines and black leather modern aesthetic, was as different from Steve's house (décor by L.L. Bean) as possible. She strode through the vast space of the living room and down a short hall, pushing open the heavy double doors that led into her bedroom.
Natasha remembered coming home the night before, eating a light dinner before stripping and tumbling into bed.
It was extremely odd, seeing herself lying in her bed, clearly tense under the graphite colored comforter. Her hands clenched at the cover and her lips repeatedly mouthed the words, "This is a very strange dream. Time to wake up, Steve!"
Over and over.
Clearly, Rogers wasn't taking this Freaky Friday body-swap thing well at all.
"Rogers," she said gruffly, giving the base of the bed a light kick. "Snap out of it!"
He stopped mumbling and opened his eyes (her eyes, damn, this was weird!) and gaped. It was obvious he was feeling the same sense of head twisting wrongness and displacement that she had.
"What…How…Is this…?"
"Yeah, this is happening and yeah, it's all kinds of fucked up," she replied briskly, slapping him on the leg. "Get Up, get dresses and let's go see about making Banner fix us."
TBC…..
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