I highly doubt this will see the light of day on ao3, mostly because it's incomplete and I don't have the motivation to return to it, but have another excerpt below from my blackhill teacher au.
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Lastly, there’s Maria, who looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here, and an empty seat beside her. That’ll be her cue.
She moves to the other end of the table, steeling herself for their potential night ahead. She notes that Maria’s hair is out of its usual tight bun, instead it falls in soft waves, the ends brushing the top of her shoulders. It makes her look softer, under the warm light of the restaurant.
“Hi,” Natasha says, slotting into the empty seat. Maria’s eyes flick up from her half-drunk beer bottle, her expression unreadable.
“Hi,” she says back, and Natasha counts that as a win.
Sam and Bucky also wave at her as she sits down, and suddenly the evening doesn’t seem as bad as it did a few minutes ago.
“Did I miss much?” Natasha asks in a whisper. She steals an unopened beer from the middle of the table. There’s no bottle opener in sight, so she angles it against the side of the table, slamming down the palm of her hand. The cap comes off with a clean pop.
Maria’s silent for a moment as she eyes her party trick, and out of the corner of her eye, Nat’s sure she sees the other woman smirk.
“Not much, unless you include the overwhelming amount of testosterone in the room.” Natasha smiles at the jab, taking a sip of her beer.
“It’s not usually like this,” she says, with a shrug. “Wanda and Darcy are a lot of fun.” When they’re here, lingers on her tongue. She plasters on a smile, “At least we’ll have four of us now. But the boys, they’re not so bad after a while.”
Maria merely hums, looking unconvinced. Natasha doesn’t blame her, the men are loud, almost obnoxiously so tonight. She’s glad to be at the other end of the table.
The waitstaff come around and take their orders shortly after this, almost as if they’d come to the same conclusion.
“Steve mentioned you studied at the University of Chicago?” Nat inquires, while they wait for their food.
“I did,” Maria answers curtly. It’s a clear shutdown of the conversation, but Natasha who’s never been a fan of uncomfortable silences, continues to probe. “History major, right?” Nat asks, to which Maria nods. “What was your focus?” Maria sighs softly, and levels Nat with a look that says do you really want to get into this? Natasha leans forward, resting her head in her hand, and finds that she surprisingly does.
“Europe and its Empires,” Maria answers, a bashful looking expression appears on her face. “The Roman Empire was my ancient history focus–” she never finishes her sentence, because Natasha chooses that moment to loudly scoff.
“What?” Maria questions defensively, crossing her arms, “what’s wrong with the Roman Empire?” Natasha smirks, before she shakes her head. There’s nothing wrong with the Roman Empire, she’s just having a hard time picturing strait-laced, practical Maria Hill devoting years to studying a time period filled with gladiators, kings and corruption.
“Nothing, I was just surprised,” Nat says, taking a large swig of her beer.
Maria continues to look at her for a moment, but it’s not with a glare like she suspected, rather there’s a look of amusement on her face. “So, what about you? What was your major?” Maria questions. Natasha rolls her eyes at this, “Literature, obviously.” “Obviously,” Maria mimics, clearly teasing. Natasha laughs, before continuing, “I focused on Russian literature, for my thesis.”
Maria hums, reflecting over her answer with a smile. It’s so different to her own reaction moments earlier, it’s as if Maria expected nothing less. Like Russian literature and Natasha make sense. She suddenly feels flushed, but Natasha chalks it up to feeling seen. She takes another sip of her beer to try to eradicate the feeling.
“So, teaching?” Maria asks, filling the silence. She doesn’t even have to finish her train of thought for Natasha to know what she’s referring to.
Was this always the path for you? Would you have chosen differently, given the circumstances?
She knows this, because she’s asked herself these questions too.
At that moment, the waitstaff return, holding baskets full of freshly cooked shawarma. There’s a heavy aroma in the air, of paprika, cumin and the sweet tang of cinnamon. Her mouth is practically watering.
Natasha shrugs, “A story for another time, maybe.”
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