It had been a long three weeks since Natasha and Steve had holed up in the cabin, on the run from remnants of Hydra, and Hawkeye. They settled into a routine, though Black Widow admonished herself during this time as she had not so easily fallen into it.
Steve was a natural - coming from a simpler time of the 1940s and roughing it on the front lines of WWII, he seemed perfectly at home sans any technology or modern advancements. Natasha, on the other hand, had struggled to keep herself busy and found herself cleaning and re-cleaning her guns as Steve went about the daily business of chopping wood and starting a fire in the lone fireplace of the one-room cabin.
She was in the middle of cleaning the sights on one when a flash of sunlight broke through the misty haze of the morning. Looking at him, she idly played with the contours of her gun. He modestly wore a tank undershirt as he took the hard, sharp metal of his shield and expertly split a log, the sinews of his muscles left little to the imagination as it plainly showed his figure beneath moistened cloth from mild exertion and the damp mountain air of their hideout. Clutching his waist was a pair of sensible khakis he apparently kept in the bag on his motorcycle. Why exactly he carried a pair of pants around gave her momentary pause before she kept on with her unabashed leering.
His blonde hair was matted with sweat and moisture as he stoically split another log effortlessly, the warped glass of the window playing with his visage to her eyes. And as if he felt her eyes upon him, he stopped mid rise of the shield, and turned, meeting her gaze. Her cheeks flushed a deep red, matching the fiery crown the curls of her hair formed around her face. Without modern comforts, her hair had succumbed to nature and now furiously curled in the dampness of the air, a halo of red framing her face.
She smiled meekly, and waved at him idiotically. One corner of his mouth perked up into a lopsided smile.
"Don't come in...don't come in..." she thought to herself, cheeks still burning unencumbered from being caught looking at him.
But he had taken her wave as an invitation and gently put his shield down, gathered the split logs and booted through the front door.
"Did you need something, Nat?"
It was a line she had become accustomed to hearing from him, as he had patiently been waiting on her hand and foot due to her ineptness.
"Uhhh...no," she responded lamely, "...aren't you cold?"
His entry into the cabin had rushed in a breeze of cool air with him, causing her cheeks to deepen into an even deeper red.
He laughed genuinely, a playful lilting of the notes as his blue eyes creased at their corners, "Nah, this is nothing compared to being frozen for a few decades."
She placed the gun she had been cleaning down, carefully onto the table in front of her, "Sorry, that was a bit mindless of me."
Smirking, he walked over to the fireplace and deposited the fresh firewood in the metal basket. She couldn't help but watch him, his long legs allowing him graceful and methodical movement - so unlike the sharp albeit frantic movements of her own petite body.
As if he sensed her feeling of ineptitude, he sat next to her, looking at the gun on the table, "These things have gotten so complicated," he said, motioning vaguely in her direction, maybe to the gun. But a sense of double entendre was lingering in the air at his words.
It was her turn to smirk, "Is that why you've decided to not use them anymore?"
"I'm not slow, and I enjoy a challenge, why don't you show me how it works?"
Narrowing her eyes a bit, Natasha wasn't sure if they were talking about the gun still, but she obliged, reaching one slender, well manicured hand out at the metal contraption, when his larger hand rested on hers.
"That's not what I meant." He said plainly.
She panicked.
Eyes wide, she looked at him worriedly, "Wha-?"
He lowered his lashes, long and blonde at the tips but darker and ruddy at their roots, and then looked at her.
Without saying a word, he lifted his other hand to her cheek, still flushed and now burning more fiercely as her nerves took a hold of her, he stroked the pale skin affectionately. She was caught in his gaze, unaccustomed to him touching her like this.
Neither of them blinked, they just stared at one another, refusing to breathe. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath until she let it all out in one slow near-whimper and the spell was broken.
He lowered his hand back to the couch.
"I'm sorry," He said, and almost ashamed. She could see in his eyes, blinking now, that he meant it.
She couldn't respond. She didn't.
And her silence wedged between them, causing him to get up and go back outside, calling behind him, "Let me know when you're hungry. I'll start a fire."
Natasha had never been a woman scared of her own desires, but she was terrified. She and Steve had developed a well fought for friendship. Covertly, she had let the rumors circulate that she and Hawkeye were an item, even having him give gifts she bought herself. In truth, they were best friends, and she trusted him to keep her secret. If people thought she was already involved with someone, then no one would be so bold as to try to engage her.
Her cheek tingled of its own volition, reminding her of Steve's touch. He was the last person she thought would even think to cross that line.
The thought of Clint caused her to involuntarily reach up to touch the small pendant necklace Hawkeye gave her as a gift - a singular arrow connected to a chain at tip and quill.
But they were on the run from Hawkeye. He shot at her. He had become so singularly minded that she didn't even recognize him anymore.
Without her permission, her gaze returned to look through the glass pane window at Steve. And she couldn't help but wonder if she had been in denial this entire time...
That night was a particularly cold one, and after quelling the awkwardness between the two with jokes over meals and plans on what to do with the shambles of Hydra once they found they unraveled the mess they were in, things returned to a tentative normal.
Cocooned in blankets and quilts, with a roaring fire at her feet, Natasha was still shivering.
She rustled, sitting up in the lone cot like bed in the cabin and she could see Steve's prostrate figure asleep on the couch.
But she knew better.
"Sorry," she whispered over to him, knowing full well that the serum had not only enhanced his physical prowess but also his senses, and that he was quite the light sleeper.
"It's okay. Are you cold? I hear you shaking." He stirred, sitting up and looking back at her, the flickering firelight dancing across his well chiseled face and flirting shimmers in his cropped, blond hair.
"There aren't any more blankets. I'll endure." She offered him a smile that quickly left her lips as he stood up, clad in nothing but his tank and boxer briefs. Envious of his durability and tolerance for the cold, she chided herself - after all, she was the 'Russian.'
