NOTES: Thanks as always to the_wordbutler for cleaning up my words.
"Where do you want me to put this stuff?" Clint asked, a duffel bag balanced on each shoulder full of Natasha's clothes and shoes.
"Just wherever," Natasha answered before he disappeared into Steve's bedroom.
Steve's bedroom. The place where she would be sleeping for the next week.
She wished she'd had a camera handy when she'd told Clint where he'd be helping her move some of her belongings to while her quarters were rebuilt. She'd shrugged at the shock and on his face and reminded him that he was the one who'd encouraged her to accept help.
Help in this case being a week-long stay in Steve's quarters while he was out doing press for the one-year anniversary of the Battle of New York with Tony, Phil, and Thor. Well, to be clear: Tony, Steve, and Thor were the ones doing press; Phil was babysitting. Natasha and Clint were still kept away from as many major press events as possible. And Bruce was more than happy to have The Other Guy as an excuse to skip out on these kind of things..
"Will you put that shit down?" Clint demanded as he walked back into the common room from the bedroom. "You're not supposed to be lifting anything."
She waved him off. "It's not that heavy."
"I don't care if it's a box of feathers, put it down." Natasha waited until he was close enough to her before she dropped it—onto his toes. She knew the light box full of shirts wouldn't do any harm through Clint's combat boots, but it was the thought that counted.
"Oh, we're going to play it like that, are we? Game on, Romanoff." With that, he spun on his heel and marched back to the bedroom with her box of clothing.
"I think that's everything," Bruce declared as he entered the quarters. "The rest is ready for the movers to put in temporary storage."
Natasha nodded at him. "What are you wanting for lunch? I promised to pay in food."
"Indian sounds good."
She rolled the thought around in her head for a moment before agreeing. "I don't think that will give me heartburn too badly. Let's do it."
"From the place on Sixth?"
"Yeah, just get us the usual."
Before he could pull out his phone to place the order, Clint strode into the room whistling a tune. It took Natasha a second to realize what was different, but then her eyes fell on his waist and the elastic that was there: he was wearing a pair of her maternity pants. "Barton," she threatened, her voice low and dangerous, "take those off. Now."
He smirked. "It's been a while since you ordered me out of a pair of pants. This is a nice flashback." He grabbed the elastic band, pulled it away from his body, and let it go. It snapped loudly against his taut stomach, and he leveled a challenging look her direction.
"I can still murder you," she replied.
Bruce threw his hands up in a gesture of self-defense. "I don't want to be a witness to a felony. I'll just have your share of the food sent up when it gets here." With that, he left for the safety of anywhere that wasn't near Natasha.
"Clint?" she growled.
"Natasha?" he mocked in return.
"Take them off."
"Are you going to behave like a good little pregnant woman should and quit trying to lift stuff or do other things you shouldn't?"
"Fine," she sighed.
"Thank you," he said, turning to reenter Steve's bedroom.
Natasha followed him. She looked around the room while he exchanged her pants for his own. "Where am I going to put all my stuff?"
"I was kind of wondering why you brought up every single clothing item."
"Not all of them." He turned to give her a look. "I didn't bring my formal stuff or the things I know don't fit anymore. You try having a body that gets bigger by the day and then planning three week's worth of wardrobe around it."
"This might help," Clint said as he pulled a piece of paper taped to a closet door and began to silently read it.
"Was that addressed to you?" Natasha asked.
"Nope."
"Then give it here." He held it away from her, but surrendered the note when she gave him a quick slap to the ear.
Her name was on the front of the folded sheet, and she instantly recognized the fast-moving, looped handwriting as belonging to Steve. She unfolded the paper to read the message within.
I left the top two drawers in the dresser free, as is the right half of the closet. (I don't know why Tony built me so much room for clothes. I don't have that many.) There's some food in the fridge. Help yourself before it goes bad. We're scheduled to return in eight days (which I'm sure you already knew.) Please don't worry bout being cleared out before we get back. Make yourself comfortable. –SR
Natasha walked over to the closet and opened the right side to find nothing but empty hangers. As she turned to grab some pants from the bed, Clint opened the other half of the closet doors. "Quit snooping," she ordered.
"Please, like you're not going to go digging through this place with a fine-tooth comb."
She'd be a liar if she said the thought hadn't crossed her mind. And even though she was a master of deception, she knew Clint would never believe her if she told him she had no intention of doing such a thing.
Clint let loose a disgruntled huff as he pulled two items from the inhabited half of Steve's closet. "Dammit, I owe Bruce money," he proclaimed as he looked at the pairs of jeans he held in each hand.
"For what?"
"I bet him that Rogers didn't own anything made of denim." He inspected them closely. "Oh, c'mon, they still have the tags on them; that shouldn't count."
"Pepper made him buy them when she took him shopping a few weeks after he moved in here. She said it was like having her childhood dream of owning her own life-sized Ken doll come true."
Clint's gaze turned sharply at her and there was a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Does that mean Rogers doesn't have any junk? Is that why he's like a Ken doll? Spending that long in the ice had to do something to 'em."
Natasha rolled her eyes. "You know that's not true. Not after the group decontamination shower we had to all take together after the attack on the harbor."
He shuddered in reply. "Thor was a little too enthusiastic about that." He paused before his eyes fell to something to Natasha's left. "Of course, I could gain some more evidence to prove or disprove my theory by looking in here," he said as he moved to dig through the drawers of Steve's end table next to the bed.
Natasha smacked her left palm against his chest as he tried to pass. "Leave it," she said, her tone making it clear she wasn't kidding around.
"I'm just trying to have a little fun."
"He's volunteering to put up with me. You're not going to be mean to him. I'll do enough of that on my own without really trying." Natasha watched a quick flash of something dark cross Clint's face. "What?"
He shrugged. "We've spent years hearing stories from Phil about how great the almighty Captain America is. And then he showed up, and he actually was that person. And now you're moving in here—"
"For a week, and only because he won't be here."
"—and he's gonna act like the father to your kid—"
"Haven't agreed to that."
"I just." He paused to shrug. "It was the three of us for so long—you, me, and Phil. And now?" He shook his head. "It's just changing."
Natasha stepped up in front of him and rested her hands on his cheeks. She kept them there for a moment before using her nails to claw down the sides of his face. She smirked as he hissed in pain. "You're being an idiot."
"Ugh, did you draw blood?" he asked, patting his cheeks. "Jesus, you psychopath."
"Lighten up, you're acting like a maudlin old woman."
"Compared to other things you've called me, that's almost a compliment."
She rolled her eyes as JARVIS notified them that their lunch was delivered to the common floor's kitchen. "Go get our food."
"When was I assigned to be your slave exactly?"
"When you brought me over to SHIELD. Now go."
"You go get it."
"Clint, you yelled at me ten minutes ago for lifting things."
He shrugged. "Food doesn't count."
The next six days went by quickly. There were two fights in that time, and with Phil out, Natasha was the point person on comms. From the safety of SHIELD headquarters, she called tactics, filled out paperwork, and handled organization of clean-up crews.
When she wasn't busy with SHIELD duties, she found herself studying the life of one Steve Rogers. She sat in the rooms of his quarters just observing, measuring him up to see if his famous honor was high enough to meet the standards of taking care of her daughter. Natasha knew it was, knew he was far more honorable than her, so what right did she have to judge? But there was a peace that came to studying someone's life, a familiarity that she felt at ease with.
From all her observations she was reaffirmed of things she already knew. Steve led a simple life. The only technological extravagance that he ever asked of Tony was a digital system he used for some of his drawings and paintings.
He didn't have much of his old life with him anymore. Yes, there was a vintage flair to his furniture and appliances, but with the exception of his trusty shield, there were no actual remnants from before his time in the ice. Natasha knew that he'd given a lot of his things to Phil as "Congratulations on not actually being dead" presents. She wondered if he did that because it hurt too much to look at the faces of friends who were gone or because he wanted to push it away in order to focus on his future.
She also decided that even though Steve Rogers was the epitome of being a "good man", he was still a man. There was an entire drawer in his kitchen devoted to various forms of jerky. Despite not being able to ever get drunk again, there was still beer in the fridge. His version of cleaning included stuffing things underneath the bed or couch cushions to give the appearance of tidiness. And for some reason, this was what set Natasha most at ease.
At the end of day six, she had planned on starting to pack her things up. Even though he'd said she didn't need to worry about rushing out, Natasha knew how nice it felt to come back to your own place after extended time away, especially when that time away included lots of press and non-stop Stark. So, yes, that was her plan.
Her plan failed.
Her day hadn't stopped. She thankfully ate dinner before leaving headquarters. Because when she returned to Steve's quarters, what was only supposed to be a quick power nap before dealing with more paperwork turned into flat-out sleep.
Sleep that was interrupted around three in the morning by the sound of footsteps. On instinct, she grabbed the pistol on the nightstand, hid it under the covers, and waited for the steps to grow closer. When the intruder entered the bedroom, she bolted upright and took aim.
She immediately regretted moving so quickly when the intruder split into two wavering shadows.
"Natasha—it's me," it spoke, arms quickly raised. "JARVIS, lights on forty percent."
In the soft illumination, she saw that it was indeed Steve. She waited for her double vision to settle, but kept the gun on him. "You aren't supposed to be back yet."
"Our event in Tokyo was cancelled. I sent you a message about it. I just thought you didn't feel like answering."
She switched the hold on her gun from her right hand to her left and then blindly fumbled behind her for her phone. Once she confirmed his story, she clicked the safety on her weapon back into place and put it back on the nightstand. She then gave her head a quick shake in hopes of dismissing the remnants of her dizziness.
"You okay?" Steve asked quietly, still standing in the entrance to his bedroom.
"I just sat up too quickly. I'll be fine in a second."
"Lay back down," he ordered as moved around to her side of the bed. "Get your feet out from under the covers." She followed his orders more out of habit than anything else. He quickly grabbed the pillow from his side of the bed as well as the seat and back cushions from the armchair situated between the dresser and the full-length mirror. He stacked the objects into a fluffy tower and then gently placed her feet on top of them so they were elevated above her heart. "Don't move," he said before slipping back out to the main area of his quarters. He returned a moment later with a glass of water in each hand. He extended one to her before swigging a drink from the other. She felt his eyes study her as a minute passed by. "Better?" he asked.
She nodded. "Thanks. Although by doing this, you've busted yourself on your cleaning habits," she said as she pointed to the now-exposed trio of socks lying on the cushion-free chair.
He gave her a grin. "Like you honestly didn't figure that out already. You've had, what, six days in here? I'd be shocked if I have any secrets left from you."
Natasha felt a sting of guilt at his words. "Your journals," she answered quietly.
"My what?"
"You art journals," she said with a bit more volume. "I didn't look through those. Your studio was my favorite room to sit in—there's something oddly comforting about the scent of pencil shavings. But I saw your sketchbooks and journals in there. I didn't look through them. I know the difference between gathering information and stripping someone completely of their privacy."
A look she couldn't quite identify crossed over his face before he nodded and gave a solemn, "Thanks." He ran a hand over his tired face. "Go back to sleep. I didn't want to wake you up. I'm just going to change, and then I'll go sleep on the couch."
She rolled her eyes at him. "That's stupid. I'm not whale-sized yet; there's room for you in the bed."
"I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable."
"You're going to make me feel that way if I end up depriving you of a mattress after what you've had to endure for the last week." She raised her right hand in the air. "I solemnly swear not to jump your bones in the middle of the night. Not without your permission, at least." He shook his head at her. "C'mon, Rogers, look at me. I'm fat, my feet are stuck up in the air so I don't pass out from sitting up—really, I'm not that dangerous."
"You were pointing a gun at me five minutes ago."
She shrugged. "It was dark."
"Does that mean I run the risk of it happening again when I turn the lights out?"
"Only if you snore."
He huffed a quick and silent laugh. "No, I think we're good on that one." Steve moved to the dresser and on instinct pulled open the top drawer, which was now filled with Natasha's underwear. He quickly shut the drawer and muttered an apology. "That's usually where my t-shirts are." He bent over and pulled out the bottom drawer. Once he retrieved a shirt and pair of pajama pants, he slipped into the bathroom.
While he was occupied, Natasha pulled his pillow out from the bottom of the stack underneath her feet and placed it on the other side of the bed. She kicked the chair cushions off the bed, slid her feet back beneath the covers, and rolled over onto her left side.
When Steve emerged from the bathroom, he replaced the cushions on the chair and crawled under the covers with a weary sigh. "JARVIS, kill the lights please."
Once the room was pitched into darkness, Steve rolled onto his side with his back to Natasha. She shook her head at how close he was to the edge of the mattress. "You're going to fall off the edge if you're not careful."
He scooted his way closer to her by a few inches before stilling once more. She was almost asleep again when he called her name. "If I start shivering, get out of the bed as fast as you can."
"Okay," she replied slowly.
With a huff, he rolled onto his back. "That," he said pointing to the lamp on his nightstand, "is the third one I've had since I moved in here. Every now and then I get nightmares about the ice. I start shivering, and even though I know it's a dream, I still try and fight my way out of it." He paused to look at her in the darkness. "If I start to shiver, get out of the way. I know how much of a punch I can pack, and I know I can't control myself when I get like that."
"Does this happen often?"
"Maybe once every couple of months," he shrugged.
She nodded. "I'll do that as long as you promise to wake me up if I start crying and speaking Russian in my sleep."
"Promise." He rolled back over on his side. "G'night."
Natasha awoke to the smell of coffee and tried to snuggle back down in the covers for a minute before giving in and facing the day. She followed her nose out to the kitchen where Steve, coffee mug in hand, was inspecting his refrigerator.
"Not much in there," she commented as she crossed the open common area to sit on a bar stool at the kitchen counter. "Restocking that was on my list of things to do today before I got out of your hair."
"You're not in my hair," he said. "Hope I didn't wake you up."
"Not you. Someone else decided I should get my day started," she answered while rubbing a hand on her stomach.
"Yeah?"
Natasha nodded and grabbed for a banana. "She started moving a few days ago. Well, she was probably moving before then, but I finally noticed it." She caught his fingers tighten against the coffee mug, and she gave him a small smile. "You wouldn't be able to feel anything." His eyes dropped and his cheeks turned a faint pink at having his thoughts read. "Clint tried for an hour the other night. Too early."
"What's it feel like?"
She shrugged. "Flutters." The impossibly girlish word felt foreign and heavy on her tongue, but she lacked a better description.
"Did you handle that okay?"
Natasha snickered at the question, which was a valid one to ask. "Actually, this milestone didn't faze me as much," she answered, her eyes turning towards her stomach. "Now that I know about her genetic makeup, things are definitely less scary. Being five weeks out from when she could technically survive outside of me helps, too," she added softly. She gave a quick shake of her head and looked back up at Steve. "I'm sure I'll go back to freaking out when it comes closer for her to be born. I should probably start issuing blanket apologies now."
"I'm sure the rest of us will be a collective nervous wreck, too," he chuckled. He finished his coffee and went to wash the mug in the sink. "I was thinking about a run; want to join me?"
Her shoulders sank. "I'd love to, but running is starting to get tricky. My center of gravity is starting to shift, and it's pissing me off. I don't want to slow you down. I'm sure you need to run off some stress after doing press for the last week."
He nodded. "My least favorite thing in the world."
"Was it that awful?"
"Answering the same ten questions over and over again? Being surrounded by people acting fake? Being around Tony in schmooze mode for six straight days?" He shrugged. "Actually, I'm kind of used to it by now." He paused before adding, "They asked where you've been."
Natasha delayed her response by taking another bite of her banana. She didn't pay much attention to what the gossip and news reporters had to say about the Avengers, mostly since it was a mound of lies, but she'd heard pieces of people speculating about her absence from the team. "What did you tell them?"
"Stuck to the company line: we don't comment on the whereabouts and duties of our teammates for security purposes."
"Did they buy that?"
He shrugged. "We'll see. You haven't had any trouble have you?"
She shook her head. "No one knows who I am when I walk around the city. And they certainly aren't expecting me to be pregnant, so that's one upside to getting big."
Half of his mouth kicked up into a small grin. "I was afraid of mentioning it, but you have gone from looking like you ate a big breakfast to distinctly pregnant."
"I can still fit into a good portion of my regular pants, thank you."
He held his hands up in self-defense. "I didn't say you looked bad or anything." His eyes swept across the space between them. "There're fourteen things within your reach that you could use to kill me, aren't there?"
She inspected the space for herself. "Sixteen. And that's if I decided I needed to use a weapon at all."
He smiled. "I'm going to go run, but, hey." He waited until she returned his eye contact. "If it makes you uncomfortable to be here when I'm home, then okay. But if you don't want to move your stuff again, then stay. Please."
She pushed down the tightening feeling in her chest, and instead focused on being better at accepting offers to make her life easier and more comfortable. "I suppose we could try it for a day or two."