A/N: No one could have noticed but I think I went out for quite some time. Sorry for the short, boring chapter but I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 3: The Morning Hour is a better adviser than the dark evening.
Steve could not sleep that night. He would usually go to the training room to destroy some punching bags but he opted to set up his canvass and draw something. However, he was just staring at the white sheet, unable to get an idea.
"Pssst... hey..." a voice interrupted. His eyes travelled to the door and thanks to his enhanced abilities, he could make out the silhouette of a woman. Natasha, in fact.
"Hey," he replied. She walked towards him and stopped halfway, folding her arms and showing a frown.
"Can't sleep?"
Steve just nodded. His hand was twirling the brush like a baton, not knowing its use at that moment. "Thinking about a lot of things."
"You know, there's an old saying," Natasha started. "The morning hour is a better adviser than the dark evening."
Steve just nodded at her.
"If you can't understand English, that basically means 'try to sleep', grandpa," the spy said with a smirk.
"Well, that was deep," he answered with sass.
"What are you painting?" the girl asked. He liked the fact that she was not attempting to run behind him and see his empty canvass.
"Nothing special," he answered with a soft smile. "Just the usual trees, flowers and mountains," he lied.
"I see," she answered. He quite knew that the woman was not satisfied with his generic answer but he appreciated her not crossing any lines. "Nope, Rogers, you're still not good at it." She went nearer and grabbed her arm.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to make you sleep," she said simply.
"What?"
"A lullaby will do. If not, I can knock you out," the Black Widow said. They both entered Steve's bedroom. She patted the soft bed: a silent order for him to hit the sheets. He gave a smirk before going to bed.
He lied on his stomach, looking at the white ceiling. He looked at his side, and saw Natasha sitting on the stool beside him, looking at the little bits and pieces on his bedside table (there was only an old alarm clock on it). "How about you, Natasha? Aren't you going to sleep?"
She shrugged. "The last time I slept beside you, you were complaining about your bones," she said.
He blushed. The last time Natasha requested to sleep beside him, he tried not to move a lot so he felt his bones stiffen the next morning. However, he found himself saying, "I don't mind. Come on. I know that you can't sleep too."
"Thanks, Captain Obvious," she responded, jumping like a cat on the top of the bed, hitting Steve's stomach with her foot in the process. She placed an arm over his chest and murmured, "Rogers, just follow my wisdom and try to sleep. Think about stuff in the morning."
"Yeah. Thanks, Philosopher Romanoff," he answered, giving a pat on her hand before closing his eyes. He could feel Natasha's warm breath beside him and that made him feel comfortable, like a soft wind singing to him to sleep. He did fell asleep.
The thing is, Steve Rogers was not really used to long hours of sleeping (he already had the longest nap someone could ever had) so he found himself awake at 4 in the morning. However, unlike the artistic block earlier, his mind was swimming in ideas. He did his best to pull away from Natasha, which was apparently difficult because he was too excited to put paint on canvass.
He managed to tiptoe out of the room, stopping a bit as he saw the spy stir. He sat on the stool in front of his blank canvass and took a pencil to start the outline of his latest hidden masterpiece (no one really saw his paintings, except for Natasha when she's persistent).
"The morning hour is a better adviser than the dark evening," he repeated under his breath with a smile as he looked at his sketch in satisfaction. It was time to put color on the canvass. With a small smile, he dipped his brush in his red paint, trying to capture the same perfect shade of his partner's hair.
Steve went back to bed before the sun rose. He woke up and went to the room where he left the canvass to dry and saw Natasha staring at the painting, her arms folded and her lips pursed. For a moment, he was nervous. Was his painting horrible?
"Good morning, Steve," she mumbled, still looking at the painting as though she was a legitimate art critic. She was looking at a painting of herself, standing under the night sky, her red hair as the focus of the artwork.
"'Morning," he replied with a yawn.
"What's this?"
"Well, you said that the morning looks more beautiful than the dark evening," he replied.
"I said, 'the morning hour is a better adviser than the dark evening.' Did you clean your ears?"
Steve just rolled his eyes. Of course he knew what Natasha said. But he just said, "Well, you are my morning adviser." He did not know how he did it but he noticed the subtle changes of Natasha's facial features. He probably said something right.