New romanogers fic. Regency AU (think Marvel characters meet Bridgerton). Likes and comments are so appreciated.
All of the other chapers are available on AO3 — please leave kudos and comments
Chapter 1
The moon shone high in the cool evening, as the wind blew swiftly across the Scottish trees.
The main street was still busy with the comings and goings of carriages and pedestrians still wrapped in their long jackets despite the start of the spring season.
The street further South the town centre was absolutely quiet, though. The local theatre was not as frequented as the primary one that stood proudly in the heart of the city.
Most of the lights inside had been turned off, except for the ones along the hall that led straight to the main room. The air smelt of burning wax and the lingering dust garnered under the seats, and other concealed areas where the cleaner had not bothered to commit fully.
The small orchestra had long been dismissed but it didn’t stop the prima ballerina of the venue to rehearse on stage. She swirled, glided, jumped across the stage with the notes of the symphony playing in her head without fault. She knew the entire soundtrack by heart and didn’t need actual music to immerse herself in the exercise. The wooden floor creaked under her, as always, and she didn’t allow it to pull her out of character.
She stood still in the corner of the stage and took a deep breath. It was the climax, the moment when all the instruments would collide and blend together as one sound. It was when her character, lost in the woods, attempts to escape the sorcerer’s spell.
She sprang forward, one, two, three brisk steps until she leapt high across, her toned legs beautifully splitting apart in the air. Next, she landed on the floor and her heel hit the floor.
She let out a groan of frustration. The long day, on top of the late hour, was beginning to strain. Her breathing, heavier than normal, also indicated her body needed a rest.
She was determined to practise again, though. The sound of the main door opening with its familiar screech caught her attention.
She frowned and walked over to the side, grabbed a towel and wiped it over her sweaty forehead, pulling the red locks of her hair that had fallen loose out of her face in the process.
The silhouette walking in the dim light became clearer as it stepped into the main alley. A slight rush of anger rose at the pit of her stomach and she furrowed her brows in response.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” she commented coolly before walking back to her belongings to pick them up. The visitor walked up closer to the stage, her heavy and velvety dress sweeping elegantly across the worn parquet. “I thought you said you would never step a foot in this forsaken place,” she continued.
“I have not come here to argue with you, Natasha,” the woman answered collectedly.
A smirk came to Natasha’s lips as she turned to face the visitor. Her gaze lingered on her fair and smooth skin hardly affected by the passing of time, her almond-shaped dark brown eyes and her beautiful silky hazel hair nicely wrapped in an intricate updo. In truth, she looked as beautiful and regal as the last time she had seen her eleven months ago.
“Then, what are you here for Melina?” she asked. She received a reproachful frown in response.
“I am still your mother, Natasha, whether you like it or not. You owe me respect.”
Natasha swallowed a sigh and came down the stage to face her matriarch.
“My apologies,” she answered in Russian with the shadow of an ironic grin. “I suppose one loses all manners when shunned from one own’s family.”
The woman cleared her throat, one of her most distinct signs of reprobation.
“I would personally blame your lack of manner on your new…work environment and the company that comes with it,” she slurred the word ‘work’ like it was an insult. Becoming a ballet dancer, and so far from the family estate, was the definition of dishonour. It easily beat the scandal of an elopement and being with child outside marriage in London society. Melina looked around the forlorn-looking theatre with unconcealed judgment then down at her flimsy apparel. “The entirety of this place reeks of depravity.”
“Mother!” Natasha exclaimed, throwing the towel on the nearest seat at the exasperation of a familiar argument. “I am a dancer. I love it…I breathe for it. Why can’t you be happy for me?”
“People talk. A dancer? They might as well call you a harlot. If anyone actually discovered the reason of your absence, your reputation would be forever lost.”
Ten months ago, a month after Natasha had made the decision to pursue her dreams of becoming one day London’s Prima Ballerina, and was consequently scorned by her father — with the silent approval of Melina, and ended up in Scotland instead, she received one final letter from her mother clearly stipulating that she does not use her family name to build her dancing career on. She had insisted it were her father’s requirements if she did not want to face his most Russian wrath. She also added, after a long tirade of how she had almost brought the entire family name and its noble heritage to disrepute, that in the estate and London, and for anyone who would ask, it would be said that she had gone to study Arts across Europe for an indeterminate period of time.
Natasha rolled her eyes. “Maybe it is time that the noble society mentality changes. A woman should be able to embrace any endeavour that she deems fit.”
“Oh, my sweet child,” Melina answered as she brushed her thumb across her daughter’s cheekbone. “I admire your spirit, I really do, but those are thoughts and pursuits of the other sex. If you were a man, everyone who admire your courage and determination. As a woman, you are looked down as reckless and a danger to the sturdy and unbreakable foundations of our society.”
Natasha looked deep into her mother’s eyes, finding for the first time in the longest time, compassion, and perhaps a dash of admiration.
But it only lasted a moment.
“You have already considerably jeopardised your chances of favourable marriage — if one at all.”
She grunted and pulled her face away from her mother’s cupped hand. “You will not find a good match now that you have left the family house unchaperoned and to work. No respectable man will suffer the indignity of the situation, let alone agree to matrimony.”
Natasha swiftly shoved her belongings in the bag as she endured Melina’s speech on marriage, the only one that was more insufferable than the dishonour one.
“Go home, mother,” she said, her back turned to her. “I am not sure I understand why you travelled all the way here to remind me that I am a doomed woman with no future. You know I couldn’t care less about finding a husband.”
She pictured all those annoyingly lords standing stiffly at balls as they surveyed the girls of the season like a buyer would gauge merchandise.
“Then maybe you will care about your sister’s future,” Melina spoke.
Natasha paused. Hearing about her sister was the only thing that made her family salvageable. She turned around to face her mother.
“What about her?” she asked.
Melina concealed a small grin of victory.
“Yelena will be joining the social season for the first and hearsay is that she could very much be the favourite debutante. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you what it means. She could marry up and greatly improve the family’s standing in London.”
The Romanoff family earned its nobility from its Russian-based lineage, but despite the fact her father Alexei had the baron title and a decent estate, it still suffered finances and relations constraints (due to the latter). If Yelena could get a good match, it would benefit and secure her family’s position in London society.
Natasha hated the idea that such responsibility lay on her young sister’s shoulders. It normally would have fallen on her hadn’t she brought chaos and doom over her heritage because of a ‘fancy pastime’.
“So you came all the way here to ask me to keep away from London?”
“Quite the contrary. Yelena cannot start the season without her older sister being around. This would look highly suspicious and could potentially ruin the chances of a good match. People will wonder why you aren’t being part of such a major family affair.”
She crossed her arms. “I can’t go back to London and give up the troupe.”
Melina grinned sheepishly. “Aren’t you the understudy?” she asked.
Natasha shot her a cold look. “Thanks, mother.”
“I meant no offence,” she assured.
“I was the understudy in the main theatre troupe, but not anymore. I dance here every evening.”
Melina pressed her pam against her forehead like she was going faint. The thought of her daughter displaying herself to an audience of voracious men with undoubtedly lusty thoughts and intents and married women internally thanking God for saving them from such a fate made her dizzy. The idea her entire would collapse on this dirty floor kept her standing, however.
“Can’t you take a holiday for the season, tell them you will return in a couple of months? You could even leave earlier, as soon as the wedding is arranged.”
“What’s in it for me?” Natasha asked. “Balls and other social events are so mundane.”
Melina frowned, although she expected no less from this conversation. She, in fact, came up with a very good bargain on her way to Edinburgh.
“You will be free to commit to her dancing career. No more interference from us.”
Natasha snorted. “Please, I don’t hear from you at all already. It’s hardly a good bargain for me.”
“We will give you our blessing, our monetary one at least, and you will be free to visit as often as you wish.”
“I want to hear Father give me his blessing in person,” Natasha said.
That was huge and bold. Bigger and bolder than the stain on the velvet curtain on the stage.
“Oh dear,” Melina hyperventilated. She feared her brazen daughter would come on this condition. Thankfully, she had an entire season to make Alexei cave.
“Deal,” she said.
Natasha smiled triumphantly. The prospect of such a victory made the thought of a strenuous picnic at Lady Montgomery sound oh so delightful.
“I will speak to the director,” Natasha answered and put her coat on. “I suppose you have already sorted the accommodation.”
“Lizzie is standing right outside and Roger is waiting for the carriage.”
“I should be able to depart tomorrow in the early afternoon.”
Melina nodded with unconcealed satisfaction. “I will send Lizzie for you.”
Natasha made her way towards the exit then turned around. “Just so we’re clear, I am mostly doing this for Yelena. She deserves the best and I would hate the idea that I somehow stood in the way to her happiness.”
“I know, dear. I promise you will not regret your trip to London.”
Natasha sort of shrugged nonchalantly and made her way up the alley.
Melina’s entire plan for the family’s success to be complete, of course, was to cling to the hope that her older daughter would find a match that would bring her back to reason.
She would certainly do everything in her power to lock two weddings in the same season.
________________________________________________
At Starbrook Manor, Steve was sorting out the many documents, letters and other paperwork that had piled up over the past weeks. He next folded a missive he had just written, poured the war and stamped the family crest seal on it. As the liquid turned solid, he looked intently at the symbol he had just embossed, pulled into unsolicited reverie.
A knock on the door brought him back to reality, much to his relief, and he smiled at the sight of his mother approaching with a loving smile.
She stood behind him and kissed the top of his head.
“You have been so diligent at sorting out all this paperwork. You picked up on the many businesses with astounding ease and efficiency. Your father would be proud,” Sarah spoke softly. “I know how difficult it must have been to take on all these responsibilities so soon after Joseph passed away.”
Steve had been called from America soon after his father had fallen seriously ill. By the time he arrived in England, the physicist informed him it was only a matter of hours before the Earl would pass. He spent the evening, then the night by his bedside, holding his father’s hand between his palms until his grip turned completely loose.
Earl Joseph Rogers was feverish for most of the time, but when he gained enough consciousness to recognise his only son sitting in the room, he asked him to look after her mother and the family business. He didn’t ask for any promise for he knew his son well enough to know he would dedicate himself entirely to the task and never disappoint. This was how the Earl departed the world peacefully.
Steve did not return to America after that. He had spent the last five years there pursuing personal endeavours, all of which he put aside to commit to his new role. He sorted out shipment and other business all the way from Starbrook Manor. He had been spending the last few weeks travelling back and forth between the estate and Whitmore Residence in London when he was needed in town for business meetings and other formalities.
Sitting in his father’s study, sealing documents with his stamp, signing the letters with his title…these were all strange things he had not wrapped his mind around yet.
“I do not wish for you to worry about anything, mother. Leave it all to my supervision.”
Sarah smiled as she looked at her only son. She had been unfortunate to miscarry two children, one of which should have been Steve’s old brother. But in this ordeal, God had graced her with the best son a mother could hope for.
“I am so fortunate, you know? The other ladies tell me how they wish their son were more like you, sensible and devoted, kind-hearted and fair.” She paused and smiled, “While the mamas fervently hope you will choose their daughter this season.”
Steve got up from the chair, brushed his hand on her shoulder and slowly walked over to the window.
“I know that a good marriage is important to you and will determine the good future of the family. I shall not disappoint you.”
He looked down musingly at the jasmine flowers standing in rows in the soil as the landscaper was watering them.
Sarah came by his side and pressed a hand on his shoulder. “I know it must appear cruel of me that I expect you to marry now, when you probably have other aspirations, but I believe it is what we all need to ensure stability. Remember you are the Earl now, you need a Countess on whom you can rely and who can bring harmony and honour.”
He watched as the gardener knelt down, inspected one of the flowers and cut it at the base with a sweeping and cold motion. It felt like witnessing his hope of a genuine romance be yanked out of his life.
He took a short breath in and averted his gaze from the window. He turned to his mother and smiled.
“I promise I shall bring home a Countess worthy of your respect and affection. Someone who inspires prestige and excellence.”
As certain as it was that he would devote himself to serving her and making her happy the very moment she would become his wife, he didn’t know if his heart would learn to love her as well.
All of the other chapers are available on AO3 — please leave kudos and comments
(chap 1 x)
Chapter 2
Two weeks later, the social season was officially kicked off with the first ball of the season, held by the Duchess of Somerset as every year — an honour the middle-aged woman had acquired after years of indulging and scratching up the back of the right people with utmost diligence and unremitting attention and one which she wouldn’t relinquish until she lies in her grave.
Her Grace’s balls were of incredible splendour meant to exhibit in every dish, in every ornamental bouquet, in every piece of fabric that lay about the room, that this event was the ball of all balls, and that nobody could achieve such magnificence without her unparalleled sense of excellence and dignity.
This first ball incidentally came with the contagious need to boast a similar superiority amongst the guests. It was the event that made all the mamas and their daughters occupy the poshest boutique in the city and drain the lovely couturier owner and his seamstress wife out of their life force for the six weeks that preceded the social evening.
Guests adorned their most stunning and expensive outfits, and it seemed Natasha could see the soul of the poor boutique owners reflect weakly in the glittery embroidery of every gown and in the buttons of every tailcoat.
Less officially, but just as importantly, the Duchess of Somerset’s ball was the when the surveying phase started. It was the evening when the mamas patrolled around the room in search of a target to call gender by the end of the season; when the daughters praised each other on their looks and gossiped about the unfortunate ones whilst awaiting their mother’s report; when bachelors scoped the room in quiet search of the woman that would fill all the societal and his personal criteria. The only difference between the mamas and the bachelors, despite sharing a common agenda, was that men had the luxury of feigning not to care the least about the purpose of the season for the simple reason it was expected of the women to sort the matter.
The Romanoff family entered the ballroom and immediately became the object of more or less fixed looks and glances. For more reasons than one.
Firstly, because it was known that Yelena, Baron Alexei’s little favourite would officially enter the season as the debutante and she was viewed as serious competition by the women in the room and an appealing prize for the men. Secondly of course, because this event marked the official return of the older and mysterious daughter to London society.
Natasha feigned not to feel the heavy peering of the audience trying to find evidence — or counter-evidence— of her long study trip across Europe.
Alexei stiffened after about five seconds of enduring patience and then said he needed a drink. He smiled at his youngest daughter and glanced at Natasha with a stifled grunt.
“I fought you said father was fine with my return,” she murmured to Melina with a joyous air meant to fool the audience that was still watching.
Her mother displayed a smile of circumstances. “The season is long — I still have time to sway his opinion on the matter.”
Natasha suppressed a pout. She gave her mother an intent look instead, then turned to Yelena.
Although she had been in uninterrupted correspondence with her sister, she could now fully realise how much Yelena had grown over the past year. She looked very much like a young woman. She noticed she was wringing her fingers behind her dance card.
“It’s going to be alright,” Natasha said, giving her hand a squeeze. Yelena glanced back at it then grinned. “I’ll be right by your side the whole evening. Besides, remember you don’t need to find a match this season — this is your first year and there is still plenty of time for you to turn into a full and strong woman.”
Melina stepped between them out of nowhere, like a hound smelling danger. “Tasha, no feminist indoctrination tonight — I mean it. Yelena, remember what I taught you, always be refined and polished.”
“Does it mean I shouldn't talk like zat, motherrr?” Yelena answered with the thickest Russian accent with a mischievous expression.
Melina shot them a glance of unrestrained discountenance.
“How did I ever offend God to be given two daughters such as you?” she commented with a sigh whilst the sisters chuckled.
“I was only trying to lift your mood,” Yelena answered with an impeccable English accent.
Melina brushed her daughter’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “Just lift your dance card right now and look approachable.”
Just then, Natasha caught the sight of a lanky young man making his way over with gawking eyes glued to Yelena. Natasha her arm under her sister, called it time for a Punch and swept her sister across the ballroom in a matter of seconds.
Meanwhile, Earl Steve Rogers stepped into the room from the opposite French doors, his hands clasped behind his back.
A different kind of atmosphere fell upon the ballroom.
“You are quite the attraction of the evening, my friend. There is no female that is not staring at you right now, girls and rapacious crones alike.”
Steve frowned. And yet, it was true. His presence in any room generally, but even more so this evening, could not be ignored. His tall and broad figure looked particularly eminent in his dashing black suit and tailcoat. His blue eyes pierced over his angular and perfectly shaped nose, and his light golden hair was combed sleekly with short strands over his temples and others at the front elegantly curved up.
But what made the new Earl more attractive than a chandelier to a stranded swarm of fireflies, was not that he was undeniably the handsomest man in the room, nor that he was without a doubt the good match of the season for those with social ambitions, it was his flawless reputation. His incorruptible sense of honour and his genuinely kind heart.
One could skitter to every corner of the city and the outskirts in search for delectable gossip or carefully wrapped scandal about the man and would only return frustratingly empty-handed.
Lord Rogers’ name was as immaculate as a clergyman, and even disreputable places —where most gentlemen not so secretly spent their evening once a fortnight or more— had no information on him. Those who had tried to sprinkle sketchy rumours and hearsay only ended up caught up in their lies. And even if for a short while, his long stay in America raised suspicions at first, stories from travellers and American visitors in the capital only further established what was already known of him.
“Are you conceding a compliment, Bucky?” Steve commented with an amused smile, eyes on the crowd. “It doesn’t sound like you.”
His friend from America, who had accepted the invitation to spend the social season in London, was an equally dashing darker version of him. His brunette locks lay silkily from the side part. His military suit from overseas looked also very dapper.
“You’re right, it doesn’t. I am simply pointing to your title and the family fortune that comes along with it that are securely chained to your ankle, tonight.”
Bucky smiled cheekily then grabbed a glass of champagne from the closest tray hovering nearby.
“So are you starting the hunt this very evening?” he asked after a sip.
Steve half snorted. “Don’t call it that,” he said, as he glanced across the room at the many guests in attendance. “My mother expects that I will come up with a few names by the end of the evening, though.”
Bucky took another sip with an amused smirk. “The Earl life is being so hard on you,” he commented ironically. “I can’t say I have spotted a potential match for you, yet. Unless...,” he trailed off, his eyes locked on the right side of the room.
Steve followed his gaze and saw two women standing closely, either good friends or sisters.
The younger one looked dazzling and had the attention of over half the male audience in the room. Her round and smooth face was only topped by the perfection of her pointy nose, slightly curved upwards. Her long blond hair, styled in an elegant thick side plait ornated with shiny pins, fell gently over her chest.
But what she had in grace and beauty almost fell short in comparison to the ravishing sight next to her. The woman by her side, for she had the features and the confidence of a woman, redefined the criteria of beauty. Her flawless marble-like skin contrasted only even more with the fiery colour of her hair, red like the best rose of the blossom and deep like the most delectable French wine. Her hair was tied up in an elegant bun although a couple of unpinned strands hinted that she sported curls that would probably cascade wildly down to the nape of her back when she let it loose.
Her figure was slender and exuded natural grace, just like the way she stood and held her chin up as if she was continuously aware of her centre of gravity.
Interestingly so, it came to his attention that this woman, despite her unquestionable beauty, garnered the attention of a noticeably lower number of men. He wondered how it could be.
Just then, a man ventured to the ladies and bowed to the red-haired woman. A few words were exchanged and the poor lad retreated with a badly concealed wince.
Bucky nodded his chin as a sign to move forward.
They moved across the crowd, greeting fellow bachelors from a distance and excusing himself to the mamas who attempted to latch on to him. They eventually made it safely to the other side.
As he stepped in front of her, it hit him that the mysterious lady had yet another surprising twist to her beauty: the deep emerald of her large almond eyes. His throat turned dry for a couple of seconds, long enough for Melina to fly across the room and reach their side.
“Earl Rogers, what a pleasure to see you here, tonight,” she exclaimed.
“Baroness Romanoff,” he answered with a bow. “I hope the Baron is well, I haven’t had the pleasure to see him in a long time.”
She smiled. “He’s not far and I shall make sure he finds his way to you before the end of the evening,” she answered, then turned her attention to her daughters. Steve’s was already set on Natasha who eyed him closely. “You may remember my two daughters, Yelena, who has just joined the season as a debutante, and Natasha, who just recently returned from an educational stay across Europe.”
He reached for her gloved hand and raised it to his chin.
“Miss Romanoff, it is my honour to see you again. I recall seeing you a couple of times when my parents paid a visit.”
They locked gaze for a few seconds longer than expected then he cleared his throat and air-kissed Yelena’s hand next.
Steve felt a fixed look on him and pointed to the side with a smile.
“May I introduce my friend, Mr. James Buchanan Barnes, who has travelled from America to keep me company?”
Yelena hardly hid the sparkle in her eye. She had never spoken to somebody who had crossed half the globe before.
“So, you’re an American?” she asked.
James smiled. “Born and bred American, you couldn’t find a more authentic one.”
Natasha smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t have taken you for one of those Amerindians whose people were ruthlessly massacred by the Crown and continue to be persecuted by the settlers.”
Bucky made up a tense smile, that was only met by Steve’s amused expression. Melina’s face was on the brink of falling.
“You’re absolutely right, I’m not exactly authentic,” he answered. “I see you are quite educated on and aware of the ethnic situation overseas.”
Natasha’s smirk did not waver. “Oh, don’t worry, only to a socially appropriate extent. I know well enough where the line between conformity and free-thinking stands.”
“Quite a thin rope for a lady, I’m sure,” Bucky answered with a smile.
“You have no idea,” she commented.
Melina laughed a little louder than normal to deflect the attention. “Her sense of humour may be unexpected but always harmless,” she exclaimed, before turning her head away from the gentlemen and shooting Natasha a warning look, then pivoted back to them with a beaming smile. “My daughter is obviously a fervent supporter of the monarchy.”
Steve watched the interaction unfold, and Natasha’s clearly unenthusiastic response to the Baroness’ statement, with a suppressed smile. He brushed his thumb over his top lip to conceal any sign of amusement.
The start of the first dance was announced. Bachelors rushed across the room like a scattering swarm, in search of the lady they had reserved their dance from.
Steve and Bucky glanced around them, then at each other with implicit understanding.
“Would you like to do us the honour of the first dance?” Steve asked. “Although I am sure it was reserved to other gentlemen in the room long ago.”
Natasha slightly pursed her lips. “I’m afraid I have lost my dance card.” It inadvertently fell all the way across the road after she had stepped out of the coach. “I should go look for it around the room”.
Melina pointed to Yelena. “Yelena would be obliged to do the honour. There must have been quite a congestion at the buffet as it took them longer than expected to collect their drinks and come back in time for dance reservations.”
Natasha and Yelena smiled connivingly at each other. As for their mother, she would not endure the offence of her daughter debuting the season without a full card.
Steve nodded and offered his hand to Yelena, then both went to take their place in the middle of the room.
After a few seconds, the dance started. Melina moved over to chat with the other mamas, and incidentally to boast about her daughter’s big catch so early in the evening, as Natasha watched Yelena elegantly follow the steps before twirling to meet the Earl half way.
James, who had momentarily stepped away to greet a guest, came to stand by her side, watching his friend and his young dance partner moving across the floor.
“I hope my remark earlier did not offend you, Mister,” she said courteously to make conversation.
Bucky had a feeling her comment was not exactly truthful, but he bore no grudge against her.
“Not the least, Miss Romanoff.” He answered with a smile. “I found your candour quite refreshing.”
“Is it your first time in London, Mr Barnes?” she asked, eyes on her sister. Surely it had to be.
“It is, yes. The Earl was generous enough to invite me to stay for the next few months.”
Natasha nodded absent-mindedly then glanced in his direction. What surprised her more than her interlocutor’s broad-mindedness was that Earl Rogers called him a dear friend. She expected him to keep more conventional figures as close company.
“I hope you will find the social season to your taste and meet new people to call friends.”
“I have no doubt I will,” James answered and smiled at her with a gleam in the eye that suggested he already did.
“I wish you an enjoyable evening, Mister.”
“Thank you for your entertaining company tonight.” He bowed slightly, which she returned, and slowly vanished into the crowd.
She saw a gentleman, out of the corner of her eye, carefully make his way from one group of guests to another, exchange brief words before proceeding to the next, with the clear and final intent to reach her side and engage conversation.
She sighed internally. She had entertained enough mundane conversations with the other sex, in the high society and at the theatre after a performance to, firstly, state as a fact that gentlemen and rakes alike foster the same lusty thoughts and impulses — and ultimately pursue the same goal—, and secondly to know neither her mind nor her heart could ever be charmed.
Even if her alleged beauty blessed her with the attention and inclination of the other sex, it also cursed her with the perpetual disappointment of being regarded as a prize to be won.
Conversations rarely went beyond the obvious and were often initiated for self-interested motives.
Moreover, as a woman of her rank, she was expected to fit normative criteria that confined her to an accomplished lady, and perhaps she believed that leaving to become a dancer would help to break out of this box and be seen for something other than those stifling conventions from the high society.
And although she did break her societal chains and did not feel like she had to meet certain expectations at all times and embody an ideal, she was reduced to an object of fantasy with no layers.
The rake, unlike where the gentleman failed, would provide the feeling of freedom and spontaneous conversations but she also lost the high regard, both chimeric and binding, that made her worthy of respect. Aware she could never get the best of both worlds, she chose the path that was personally fulfilling. If she couldn’t be revered, she would rather be the disgraced artist than a fabricated paragon.
She took hold of the fabric of her gown and walked off just when the bachelor exited the conversation of the group of guests that was nearest to her.
She managed to find some old acquaintance ladies to chat with to feign looking occupied. The blunder of an unreserved dance on Yelena’s card was swiftly corrected, and most coveted debutante of the evening found a different partner to dance with for the entirety of the ball.
The Earl, shortly after leaving the dance floor, was solicited by the many mamas and their daughters in the room. After a long hour of unwavering patience, he walked out of the ball room, probably to meet the other gentlemen.
Melina walked up to Natasha. “Have you seen your father, dear? He knows I don’t like it when he drinks too may glasses and starts blubbering nonsense.” It was a pretty accurate description of Alexei and Melina. As far as she could remember, she always pictured her father with an almost empty, or refilled glass in his hand, being rebuked by her mother.
“I’ll fetch him,” Natasha said, seeing it as a nice opportunity to interact with her avoidant father.
She walked around the room, between the guests, all the way to the patio where she had caught sight of older gentlemen smoking cigars earlier in the evening. A mild burst of masculine laughter confirmed her theory. She came through and haled when she heard her name being mentioned.
“Maximoff, how does it feel to have your two daughters taking part in the season?” Lord Raynall exclaimed. “You must be quite proud you will probably have no issue marrying them off both — they certainly are the two most beautiful gentlewomen in the room.”
“Ha!” Alexei exclaimed, cheering to that. “The gentleman who will marry my Yelena is a lucky lad. What she has in beauty, she equally has in grace.”
“And your older one?” Viscount Atkinson ventured. “I gather she must quite erudite. Maybe she would find a match in a scholar; someone to entertain her curious mind.”
The derisive undertone of the Viscount’s made her want to roll her eyes.
“The man who would choose to marry her would be a brave man. And probably reckless. Her beauty is only surpassed by her unrelenting spirit.”
Alexei let out a loud laugh before clinking glasses with the other lords. Natasha felt her face burn, fists clenched to her side. Brave, reckless, beyond these, the deliberate and cunning choice of the word man over gentleman showed how little consideration her father had for her.
She barged back through the same door she was standing in and darted across the ballroom, shutting away from the background sounds of festivities.
When she made it through the French Doors to the private gardens, she was on the verge of screaming. She sprang across the terrace and stopped by the stone garden columns, swallowing a deep breath of air. She paced back and forth, replaying the whole scene and her decision to return to London. She should have known better than her father would make her pay for leaving in the first place. Not frontally though, it was way too easy and he knew she would expect no less. Insidiously, so that the thought of it would possess and subdue her mind completely until it broke. She certainly would not break.
The small sculpture of goddess Diana, standing on the column held her attention. She swung her arm and it smashed loudly on the ground. She looked down at her feet to recollect herself.
After a few seconds, when she came to regret her burst of anger, her eyes wandered to the broken figure. The sight of it was disgruntling until she noticed a pair of shiny shoes standing by it. Her eyes travelled up the tall figure until they met the Earl’s blue gaze. Piercing and intent.
“Lord Rogers!” she said breathlessly, feeling her cheeks burning in embarrassment this time.
He watched her closely with an unreadable expression. She began to fumble for an excuse.
“You’re not injured, are you, Miss Romanoff?” He asked, unaware but nonetheless concerned.
She frowned. “I beg your pardon,” she said weakly and shook her head before pointing to the statue. “I was —”
“You were strolling and the sculpture fell,” he cut in assertively, his gaze locked on her. “Luckily, it caused no harm.”
She paused, eyeing him closely. She was certain, just a moment ago, that he had witnessed everything. Surely, he had to have been just nearby to stand in front of her shortly after the statue of Diana had hit the ground.
The longer she probed him, the more she found he stood by his statement. His expression was reassuring and benevolent without being patronising.
He gave a slight nod of the chin as a tacit sign that he would not investigate further and that it was a done matter. She nodded back, as her breathing slowed down, and cautiously made her way back to the ballroom. She felt a knot forming at the pit of her stomach at the possibility that he could someday use this incident against her. She had learnt with time, not to trust anyone, apart from Yelena.
When she ventured to throw a glimpse behind her shoulder, the spot he occupied was empty. It was as if nothing had happened.
By the end of the evening, the guests departed, but only after showering the Duchess of Somerset with praises, as was the tacit requirement that came along with the invitation.
When the family left the ball, Natasha caught sight of the Earl again since the incident, in deep conversation with a brunette lady she could not identify from the back. He shot a glance in her direction before nodding to the woman with whom he was talking.
That same night, as she took off her dressing gown, and lay down in the bed, her mind wandered off to restless thoughts. She thought of the Earl and what had happened on the terrace. She now had no doubt that he had seen her deliberately shove the statue. And although he may have feigned to be oblivious to avoid dealing with an outburst of womanly emotions, she wondered whether his chivalrous response hid other motives, far more selfish.
Black Widow with a pinch of Romanogers fluff. Warning: contains minor BW spoilers.
__________________________
After a quick stop at the local shop, her truck is trekking along the solitary road, the green and bountiful landscapes of Norway rolling outside her window. The music playing quietly from the radio is her only company.
After a long and monotonous journey, she eventually pulls over and turns off the radio just after listening to the daily news report that mentions hers and Steve’s name.
To think they were still the Avengers, and heroes, a few months before. They were still a team and a family. Now blown apart, half locked behind bars, the others shut behind their anger and resentment. She hates it and abhors this feeling of powerlessness even more.
Somehow, solitude becomes more unbearable after you have found a place and people to call home. She has been on the run more times than she can count but, this time, it feels particularly bitter.
She walks across the meadow, carrying her bag of errands. She gets inside the RV, inspects it one more time just in case before heading to the shabby kitchen.
Normally she would have another gourmet plat du jour, baked beans straight from the can — a plate somewhat feels like an unnecessary luxury. But not tonight. She pulls out the slices of decently fresh steak and pours rice to cook in simmering water.
The sun has come down (not that it stays up for long so up North, anyway): she settles in front of the old, buzzing TV set and begins to focus on the only program available the flimsy antenna can channel.
After nearly an hour, she hears a muffled sound outside. She slowly stands up and pulls the gun always stowed at the back of her pants. She quietly makes her way to the door and takes off the safety. She presses her palm against the door but it swings open before she pushes.
The barrel of her gun is aimed right at her visitor’s forehead. His smile fades slightly and he raises an eyebrow. Apart from the dark stubbles, the outgrown haircut and the not-so-well concealed haggard expression, he looks the same as a few weeks ago. He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans — he hung up the suit long ago. The last time she asked about it, he said he left it somewhere secure. And remote.
“On edge, much?” Steve comments, half-dully, half-amusedly.
“Well, the veal has been expensive this season,” she jokes humorously as she steps away from the door.
She catches a spark of excitement flash in his eyes. He comes inside while she puts the gun away — but still in safe proximity — on one of the shelves.
The perfume of rice and some other preparation fills his nostrils, makes his stomach growl.
“If you wanted to introduce me to your new firearm, then consider me impressed.” His sarcasm feels homely comforting.
“You’re never too careful,” she comments dismissively.
“I texted you I was on my way,” he retorts. They would exchange coded messages whenever they were passing on sensitive information or setting an occasional rendezvous, like tonight.
With General Ross, and potentially the second half of the Avengers after them, they deemed it wise to be on the run apart to avoid raising suspicions. A cap, a hood, and uncomfortable displays of affection can do the trick only for so long.
She puts up a smile as her last defense and walks over to the kitchen. She puts the two steaks into the frying pan.
Soon enough, they are sharing dinner on the narrow couch. They’ve had worse.
They fill each other in on Ross, Sam, Wanda, Clint, and Bucky. Whatever small piece of information or remote whisper they’ve retrieved is worth sharing.
They don’t dare make plans to break their friends out. The situation is far too precarious and uncertain to think so big so early. Right now, they are busy surviving each day.
The first yawn is heard and Steve gets up to switch the TV off while Natasha makes her way to the room in the back. He follows her there. She is taking off her shirt for a more comfortable one.
“Wanna shower?” she asks, rummaging in her bag of clothes.
He shakes his head. “Managed to have one at the last stop before getting here.”
“They ran out of razors in that place?” she teases as she puts her hair up in a ponytail.
He sits down on the bed and smirks. He brushes his hand over his jaw. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s just…different from the Captain America persona the world’s seen until now.”
A wave of sadness washes over him. “Yeah, well, I’m not Captain America anymore.”
She listens quietly then turns again towards the furniture, opening the button of her pants. The wave subdues and he lies chest down on the bed, smiling at the sight as she undresses. He wraps his arm around the pillow, bumps it up to bury his face in it as he watches her walk to the other side of the room in her underwear. He'd missed it. As his face snuggles against the pillow, his brows furrow at the unexpected olfactive surge.
“Whose scent is that?” he asks with a grumbling voice, scrunching his nose. The scent of cologne is almost revolting. “Whose smell is that?”
She turns around and eyes him with a smile tugged at her lips. “Didn’t know Erskine’s serum included super smell.”
He ignores the quip and leans in to sniff it again. No doubt — it’s male cologne. He wore those once upon a time before he was a fugitive. “Who was in here?” he inquires again
She shrugs. “Mason.”
He can't tell what’s bothering him more. The curt answer. The fact she name-dropped Mason like he should know who it is. Or the dismissive shrug.
“Who’s that?” he says, propping himself up on his elbow, ready to have a proper talk.
“That shiny gun that impressed you…it’s him. This RV too, actually. He’s the former S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent I told you about. I found him sleeping in the bed when I came back earlier today.” She drops on the bed and lies on her side, her hip peeking out from under her t-shirt. “He’s been helpful.”
“And helping himself around here,” he finishes, rolling his eyes. It annoys him to find out this Mason guy has been around his girlfriend more than him. After a reflective pause, he turns on his back, stares at the ceiling and sighs. “What does he look like?”
Natasha slips her arm under her pillow and snorts. “Ugh, don’t even ask. Awful. Borderline troll-like.”
“I bet he’s cleanshaven,” he comments matter-of-factly, eyes glued on the bug crawling over the ceiling.
Natasha lets out a groan and pounces on. She straddles him and leans down to capture his lips. She’d missed the taste of them. He kisses her back right away, although at a lesser degree of lust as hers. She dips her face under his jaw and begins to trace a path of kisses along it, pressing her chest against his. His hands come around her waist, sending a shiver up her spine.
As her lips continue their way down his neck, she hears him groan slightly.
“What a dedicated businessman he is,” Steve continues. “Testing all the merchandise beforehand. Why do I have a feeling he doesn’t welcome his male customers in their beds?” His snort echoes across the room — and probably the entire RV, considering the loudness of it and the narrow size of the vehicle. “Douchebag.”
She sits up and jerks her head back with a sigh. “Rogers!” she exclaims. He instinctively rubs his palms up her forearms, soothing her.
“What?” he murmurs with a slightly alarmed look.
She looks down at him and his puppy face. “Can we concentrate here?” She pats his chest and shoulders. “Look at you, you’re all stiff. You’re totally killing the mood.”
“Pretty sure stiffness is required to have the right mood.”
She tries to hit him with a wave of the hand but he stops it with a chuckle. “Just make sure you direct the stiffness further South and can you please not bring up a guy while doing so? My lack of testosterone doesn’t really allow me to compete with that kind of competition.”
He shoots her an outraged look and reaches up for her hands. He pulls her down closer to him and kisses her ardently. After a moment, she pulls away and looks into his eyes.
“You’re only here for four more hours and I missed you.”
His eyes quiver under her intense gaze. He threads his fingers through her hair and cups the side of her face. “I’m here with you.”
With an effortlessly motion, he flips them both around, lies on top of her. He reaches for the collar of his shirt at the back of his neck and pulls it over his head before dropping it on the floor. He leans down, kisses her mouth again then begins to worship her.
As he pulls her t-shirt off of her next and buries his face in her chest, a giggle builds deeps inside her ribcage and burst out. He pops his head up with a dubious expression.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
She puts her thumb up to her lower lip and bites it. “Mostly you…making the time to be jealous amid an international manhunt. It’s kinda cute. Dumb, but cute.”
He hasn’t seen her looking so genuinely gleeful in a long time. It’s infectious. His superficially bruised ego cracks completely and he bursts into a fit of chuckles too. Both their laughter ring out across the RV.
When their aching bellies and ragged breath finally catch on, he leans over her with bright eyes.
“I missed you,” he whispers lovingly. They kiss more heatedly and the night stretches on.
Those weeks separated are always hard but make their stolen moments together only more valuable. Tonight is undoubtedly the best of them.
As their naked figures rest enlaced under the sheet — now printed with both their scents only—, his hand brushing up and down her back with the moonlight shining through the window above their heads, he revels in and feels grateful for this successful reunion. It seems that coming back to each other always triggers the greatest dangers when it used to be so easy when she was only a few doors away in the compound.
The time to break apart is nigh but neither of them wants to acknowledge it. It seems her arm spread over his chest is clutching him harder than a moment before.
“It’s gonna be okay,” she murmurs. He shuts his eyelids and takes in the words with a stabbing pain. Of course, she’d be the one consoling him.
It’s in Natasha’s nature. And he loves her all the more for it.
_________________________________________________
Hardly 36 hours later, a text alert pings on her phone. It rings a minute later, as announced. She trails behind as Yelena keeps on walking.
“I saw the pictures from the bridge. Are you alright?” his concerned voice comes through the speaker.
“I’m ok but something’s cropped up. I’m in Budapest, now.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
“No,” she says curtly then bites her lips. “My past has nothing to do with you.”
Silence falls on the line for a short while.
“Nat, you and I share everything.”
It feels good to hear. “I know but it is my fight.”
She does not need to explain further for him to understand. He muffles a sigh.
“You know I’m only a call away if you need me.”
“I know”.
Only his heavy breathing indicates the line is not dead. She musters the courage to hang up for the both of them. She squeezes the phone on her palm then chucks it into Danube River.
______________________________
After a few strenuous weeks, she rides the motorcycle down a track. Mason welcomes her with a quinjet. It feels like a blast from the past. She glances at the woods in the distance and greets him with a naughtier smirk than she normally does but he could possibly not understand why.
When the time for goodbyes comes, her smile is earnest.
“Thank you for everything, Mason. You’re a good friend.”
“That’s what every man wants to hear,” he jokes. A faint veil of disappointment swiftly passes over his face.
He walks away and she watches from a distance. After the remote sound of his engine roars into life and wanes, she turns around. A familiar silhouette comes through between the trees. She smiles.
Steve emerges in his Cap suit, beard full and hair visibly longer. He looks hot. She smirks — yeah, she could definitely get used to it.
When he reaches her side, she points to him. “Nice beard.”
He smiles. “Nice hair.”
He pulls her in for a hug and kisses her temple. “It’s good to have you back.” He brushes her cheek with his thumb. “How’s the family doing?”
“They’re all fine — which may not be as good news as it sounds. Oh, and Yelena wants to meet you. She said she needs to give her blessing.”
He winces. “Noted.”
After a pause, he nods in the direction behind her. “So…that was Mason, huh?”
She snorts. It brings back fun — and sexy memories — from a few weeks ago, though. “Don’t worry. Pretty sure he smelled your super pheromones all over me.”
They make their way towards the quinjet, on their way to break their family out, as the new plan now is.
He chuckles bashfully. “I’m not gonna hear the end of it, am I?”
He walks along the corridors of the compound like a remote, forsaken place he once called home. As he turns around the corner and enters the conference room with daunting familiarity, his heartbeat quickens.
The big shelf stands imposingly in the middle of the room like a ruthless rampart obstructing his view yet allowing him to gnaw on spare seconds to regain composure.
The first thing he catches sight of is her bright red hair with blond ends peeking through between the vases and other trinkets on the shelf.
His heart immediately pounds in his chest so hard it could well burst at this very moment before having a chance to speak up.
A piece of his soul gets stuck in his throat like a painful lump. When he eventually comes to stand by the piece of furniture, he finds Natasha nonchalantly sprawled on her chair, one leg up on the table.
It makes him want to smile. It makes him want to cry.
It hits him more acutely than before how miserable she indeed was. Engrossed in her own deep thoughts, she doesn’t notice he has entered. She puts down half of her peanut sandwich with a dull pout. Her head falls back on the chair and she closes her eyelids tight, slowly spiraling back into heavy musing.
His eyes linger on every feature of her face. The thick eyelashes, her straight nose standing just above the nape of her full lips, slightly parted. Her cheekbones sharply embossed under a slight flush of pink almost concealing her pale complexion blemished by a diligent lack of sleep and meal.
He knew it already — he’d seen it up close before — but in this one moment, he truly acknowledges and revels in her boundless beauty. Those lips that had playfully smirked at him a hundred times; those lips he’d kissed a hundred times in his most daring dreams; those lips he once tasted in a brief stolen moment on an escalator and which now tormented him like a ghost.
On another day he would joke about making her dinner, but not today.
“Hi,” he hears himself blurt out. He wants to kick himself right away for such a trivial greeting.
Natasha’s eyes slowly crack open, a small grin tugging at her lips. God, he’d missed it. She tilts her head and probes him quietly.
“You here to do your laundry?” she asks with a casualness that is both soothing and excruciating. Why can’t she see why he has come here now?
He suddenly hates himself for letting her think, even for one second, he showed up for something so trivial and insignificant. He should have told her earlier, explicitly and unequivocally, that every time he came for a visit, it was for her. Several seconds slowly pass by in silence which earns him a quizzical frown from Natasha. He tries to clear the thick lump in his throat — conceal his growing emotion.
“To see a friend,” he utters but the words that come sound like the most outrageous lie. He abhors the casual tone this reunion has taken.
It makes her snort slightly. Part of him wonders — and hopes — she, too, can sense the fakeness of it all.
“Clearly, your friend is fine,” she answers coolly and makes up a smile. He frowns slightly: how did he never notice before this behavior was all a show to spare him additional guilt? Under his light, with his new enlightened perspective, he can so visibly read through her pain and hint of resentment for leaving her in here on her own. But Natasha was always too selfless with him to truly hold a grudge against him.
The glossy gleam in her eyes falls into the abyss of his mind. He will never forget this look again.
He carelessly throws his jacket without a proper glance and sits heavily on the chair across from her. He eyes her meticulously as if she could vanish soon.
He voices the familiar words with more depth than ever.
“You know, I kept —keep— telling everybody they should move on and... grow. Some do.” He trails as his gaze falls on her sorrowful figure. He feels tears fill his eyes. He clears his throat again as his hand curls into a fist. After swallowing tears, he resumes painfully. “But not us.”
She is taken aback by such an open display of emotions and yet she doesn’t seem to appreciate it is all directed at her.
“If I move on, who does this?” she asks. His heart sinks at the throbbing wound her words slash deeper open. He shakes his head.
He can’t take it anymore. Deeper instincts take hold of him and completely overshadow his reason. He reaches over and touches her hand.
Maybe it doesn’t need to be done is the right answer but not one fit for her to hear. Maybe if he hadn’t let her carry the weight of this responsibility alone, or at all, it would all have been different. It’s an answer she shouldn’t have to hear. It’s an answer he never wants to say to her again.
“It shouldn’t all fall on you.” One of the words clumsily uttered burns his tongue on its way out and triggers a new flow of sorrow. “I never expected you to do it.”
She furrows her brows deeply stunned by his cryptic words and his uncharacteristic demonstration of affection. She glimpses at his hand lying tenderly on her knuckles and looks deep into his eye.
The depth of his gaze, he assumes, becomes too much to bear and she breaks eye contact pulling her hand away in the process.
“I can handle it,” she comments dismissively.
He blinks numbly as it dawns on him that her mind is set in the hardest stone and nothing he can say will ever break it.
“Nat, I…,” he begins but her expression is already stripped of all emotions, completely unfazed, and indifferent to his silent plea.
He veers off the trajectory and clears his throat again. “I can’t lose you.”
She turns in his direction, astonished and confused. “What do you mean?” she asks.
He begins to muster the words but the big screen in the room comes to life and cuts his intervention short. He wants to utter the next words when he finds himself walking along the familiar corridors of the compound.
He slowly makes his way to the conference. Her red hair peeks through the vases and other trinkets on the bookshelf. She is seated in the same posture as earlier completely oblivious to his presence.
It’s unsettling but the greatest relief.
“Nat,” he calls softly.
She cracks her eyelids open and tilts her head in his direction.
“You here to do your laundry?” she asks with a teasing smirk. And the unmissable hurt, growing more and more apparent every time.
He rushes forward and leans over the table, towering over her frail figure.
“Don’t do it,” he exclaims assertively. “You can’t-I can’t take it. I’ll never be able to move on.”
She eyes him up quizzically. Seeing the broken expression on his face, she drops the casual smirk. Her leg slips off the table and she sits up. “Don’t do what?” she inquires curiously.
“I can find another way to save us all without paying that hard price,” he continues frenetically. His thoughts are toppling one upon another in his mind, fighting for priority. He’s talking fast, suddenly made painfully aware of the little time he has left. “Promise me you won’t go there. Promise me you’ll fight to stay alive.”
Her green eyes delve into his, seeking clarity. But his stern composure does not waver. After one long look exchanged, she finally breaks into chuckles.
“What kind of water have you been drinking on Liberty Island?”
Her light-heartedness is excruciating.
“Please, listen to me — we’re running out of time,” he goes on throwing a glimpse at the screen behind them. “I need you to survive this. It shouldn’t have been you. I need to know that you will fight your hardest to make it back.”
“Jut promise me!” he promotes her urgently with a demanding fist on the table.
She freezes. “Fine. I promise.” As short as it is, it brings him relief and comfort. “Whatever the hell you’re rambling on about,” she finishes.
A heavy sigh slips out of his lips and his shoulders drop heavily. He’s about to protest again when the screen goes on, stealing her attention away.
He curses under his breath….and finds himself walking along the familiar corridors of the compound.
He finds his way to her almost with his eyes closed. Natasha is holding back tears, eyes shut tight.
The sight is heart-breaking. Frustrating even. He heavily drops the jacket on the floor. It makes her jump in surprise. Her facial features relax when she recognizes him.
A smirk begins to tug at her lips. He strides around the table up to her chair.
“You here to do your —,” she begins when he grabs her hand and yanks her up. Her small figure collides onto his chest and he presses he crushes his lips against hers. Eager and desperate.
Her mouth is unresponsive at first then warm up to the taste of his lips. She kisses him back with a sense of hopelessness. He deepens the kiss, unwilling to waste any more time than he already has. She melts under his touch, surprisingly compliant.
The kiss is better than that stolen moment in the mall, better than the ones he had in his dreams. This one is grounded, real. One he will reminisce forever.
Threading her fingers through his hair, she guides his lips down to the nape of her throat.
“What is going on?” she breathes out between soft moans. He plants sweet, heated kisses down her neck, breathing in her scent like it is the last time.
“Something I should have done long ago,” he murmurs finally, looking into her eyes.
Her fingers caress the side of his face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to do it when it still mattered,” he whispers, tears sitting at the edge. She can read the raw, ugly self-hatred that passes through his eyes.
“It’s ok,” she whispers back reassuringly. He is grateful for her boundless ability to forgive people who wronged her. He leans in again when the screen behind blasts on. They both ignore it while his lips devour her for that last second.
Then he is walking again along the familiar corridors of the compound.
Again and again and again.
Always finding his way back to her, in countless different scenarios but the same cursed and setting, each time precociously interrupted in the cruelest way.
Exhaustion and despair take over as he meandered through the corridors for the umpteenth time, on his way to a reunion doomed to be aborted. Although it is indeed Natasha he finds sitting in that chair the same way he found her that day before Scott showed up with his time Heist idea, it becomes more and more undeniable it isn’t the whole version of her. Rather a hard copy of a fragment limited by space. And time.
He eventually realizes that he could never prevent the inevitable to happen for the simple reason he is interacting with is nothing more than a cheat code. And although advising, demanding, or begging her not to take that jump was all he wants to say, he eventually understands that these are not the words she should hear.
So this time again, as he entered the conference room and caught glimpse of her bright red hair peeking through the items on the shelf, he made his way straight to her with newly found determination and inner conviction.
She cracks her eyelids open and raises an eyebrow as she sees him walk straight up to her. He slowly kneels down in front of her chair and holds her hand. Tears rise to his eyes for the hundredth time with the same profusion as the first.
A smirk plays on her lips.
“You here to—.”
“Natasha, please listen to me,” he cuts in the pre-recorded tape he hasn’t been able to put out her mouth all the attempts before. He glances down at her hand curled into is palm then he looks up into her eyes. “I’m sorry I left you in this empty place by yourself. And…I’m sorry I let you go to Vormir. But I don’t want to take away what you did to save everyone.” He trails off and squeezes her hand a little tighter as his pupils quiver under her confused but intense gaze. “I am so proud of you. Even the nights I yelled and screamed and cursed you for making the choice you did out there, I was still proud of you. I stand forever stunned and humbled by your valor and your noble soul. I know you always thought you had to keep trying to wipe the red off your ledger but the truth is you’d paid your debt long before then. And I loved you still the same.”
Two hot tears roll down his face as he takes in the sight of her face with unadulterated adoration. “I love you, Nat. And maybe carrying the weight of not telling you when I had a chance is my punishment for not going after the Soul Stone with you — this pain and this guilt are all I have left of you. But if this thing we’ve been doing here can achieve anything I hope it’s for you to carry on knowing, somewhere in a deep and recluse corner of your mind, that you were loved truly and fully for who you are.”
He closes his eyes and drops his head, pressing his forehead on her knee. The looming reset is heart-wrenching to accept; he gently and repeatedly kisses her hand, knuckles and palm. Soon, he feels her fingers gently stroke the back of his head.
“I heard you and I promise I won’t forget,” she says.
He slowly raises his head and gives her a look that bears a thousand hopes.
“I could live with that,” he murmurs.
Her face breaks into a genuine smile, one he can’t recall seeing in years after the Snap.
The screen comes to life, stepping in on their moment.
“No, not yet,” he exclaims urgently.
And he finds himself walking in the corridors of the compound again. As he is about to make his way to the conference room a door of light appears in front of him and a man, dressed in dull brownish suits steps through, with a grim expression.
Steve’s heartbeat quickens and the pain of being soon separated from Natasha almost becomes physical. He shakes his head, ready to cling on any heavy object around not to be pulled out of this place. “I need more time. This isn’t enough!”
“Temporal loops can do the trick for only so long,” the TVA agent says matter-of-factly. “You knew that before you agreed.”
On his journey to bring all the Infinity Stones back to their right times and places, he ended up breaking the Universal rules in Vormir, making a Variant out of him. It didn’t take long for the TVA agents to find him and take them to their base. His interrogation turned into a deal that took him straight to that familiar corridor in the compound. Back to her. He knew what it entailed — he bargained for it — but he was adamant to have one more time with her.
“It’s not really her. And you can’t stay here forever,” the agent reminds her.
He looks in the corner and catches sight of her bright red hair peeking through the trinkets on the bookshelf. How close and how far she sits makes it all more painful.
His voice breaks. “I know,” he murmurs. But he can’t leave her. Not yet. “I just need a little more time with her. Please.”
His doleful bright blue eyes turn back to the agent whose firm features eventually wield. “Okay,” he says. He shoots him a last glance and steps through the light portal again before it shuts completely.
Steve wipes his hand over his face and takes a deep breath. He enters the conference room in a familiar fashion that has become addictive and shoots a brief and booming feeling of relief.
Natasha is sprawled on her chair, one leg up the table. Her eyelids are shut. When he calls her name, she cracks them open, tilts her head in his direction as smirk tugs at her lips.
“You here do your laundry?”
The words hurt but the sound of her voice heals him temporarily. He smiles at her and steps forward.
My first true AU ever! No Avengers at all. I hope you’ll enjoy!
Chapter 1
Time is a strange concept. It's impalpable yet heavily perceptible. It can make a moment linger forever or go by fleetly. It stretches or shrinks. It is mysterious and unfathomable.
Or so, it was.
It all changed fifteen years ago when scientists finally deciphered its secret code. At a time when divorces were skyrocketing in the world, a company came up with an algorithm capable of determining when you were to meet your significant other and encapsulated it in the modest form of a watch.
LOVE IS ONLY A TICK AWAY the slogan read on every TV commercial and banner in the streets and online.
Skepticism gave way to curiosity and hope. And as hard as it was to admit— and still is for some — the Watch had startling results. Every encounter predicted led to a successful relationship. Love blossomed everywhere and never perished. The divorce rate fell significantly across the world and the efficiency of the Watch became indisputable.
The principle is astoundingly simple. The Watch activates around the wrist of the wearer the first time it is worn and sets automatically. When the countdown reaches 0, which means you are standing in front of your soulmate, it beeps (along with theirs) then turns off completely.
Of course, a small, trivial object with such power stirs strong opinions. People began to argue over it — some asked to make it illegal and have it banned. The initiative was strongly supported by the main Churches, but not only. Over time, — after the heated debate wore off—, you could pretty much find three categories of people. The overwhelming majority — who wore the Watch and waited expectantly waited for the last tick; the minority — those who'd refused to buy or activate it altogether; and those who knew, but vehemently tried to fight against fate...at their own scale.
Now, whether people live by or abhor it, the Watch has become a trivial object omnipresent in your everyday life. Like a phone or tablet.
The many people currently bustling in the small Manhattan coffee shop are walking past, waiting in line for their orders with a Watch around their wrist. Or not. It's something you don't dwell on.
Natasha Romanoff is sipping coffee at her usual table by the window, right next to the tall plant. She looks up from the book she's reading and notices a man is staring at her from the sugar counter across the room. She dismisses it and goes on to take another sip before resuming her reading. Her cup is nearly empty when a tall, broad figure comes to stand above her.
"Excuse me," a male voice calls. She takes her eyes off of the page and looks up. It is the same man from earlier. He's holding his cup and has a notebook clutched under his arm.
His blue eyes stare into hers with an unexpected combination of boldness and bashfulness.
"I couldn't help admiring you from across the room and, as I was about to leave, I thought I had to take a chance and come and speak to you."
She raises her eyebrow. His advances certainly are flattering. And she'll admit, he is strikingly handsome. His sharp, square jaw, his full lips, and the golden hair, without mentioning his incredible athletic figure — the man has it all.
"May I?" he asks, pointing at the chair across from her.
She nods. He smiles and sits down. He puts down on the table what she realizes is a leather sketchbook, creased in the middle for often being folded with the corners worn out. He attentively watches her.
“You come here a lot?” he asks.
“Probably more than I should,” she says with a smirk. “You?”
“First time, actually. And I’m glad I did.”
The smirk tugging at his lips is compelling. Almost irresistible.
“Yeah. Their lattes sure are the best,” she chimes in. Her humor makes him smile.
They chat, mostly banter in the most natural and familiar way until he finally asks:
“Can I give you my number? See how things could develop…”
She eyes him without a word.
“They wouldn’t develop much unless you are…,” she trails off as she pulls up her sleeve, “3 months, 5 days and 37 minutes early.”
He brushes his thumb over his bottom lip with a slightly stern expression. He takes a breath in and leans back on the chair. His eyes dive into hers, unwavering.
“You didn’t come off as the type to wear the Watch,” he says. He doesn’t sound disappointed or judging. Maybe the contrary intrigued and willing to tackle that unexpected challenge.
“I like to keep people on their toes.”
“3 months, huh? That’s quite close,” he comments.
She smiles unabashedly. He nods to himself.
“I’ll admit I didn’t see this hold-up coming but I’m a good judge of character.”
“And?” she cocks an eyebrow.
He extends his forearms on the table and leans over, creating an unsettling kind of intimacy.
“You’re not the type to let an algorithm take control of your life.”
His bold statement and the quiet confidence he displays draw her in. She smiles and glances away quietly.
“Or maybe I believe in destiny.” A short, contemplative silence follows.
He quickly looks at the clock on the wall across.
“Time seems to be against us today. But I’m pretty stubborn. What’s your name?” he asks, casually.
“Natasha.”
It makes him smile. “Let’s make a deal, Natasha,” he purrs her name like hot and sweet liquor. “If we meet again, you’ll owe me a date. It’ll be my honor to ask you out again.”
“Why would I make such a deal?” she questions daringly.
“Because if we meet again we can definitely agree it was meant to be, right?”
The corner of his mouth curls up. He takes his sketchbook, folds it under his arm then gets up. As he walks away, she calls out.
“If I choose to honor this deal, I should at least know your name.”
His large shoulders spin around. He smiles triumphantly.
“Steve Rogers.”
That evening Natasha Romanoff comes home from work and smiles as she finds herself almost wishing to meet that stranger in the coffee shop again.
And indeed, they do. It happens very randomly about a week later. Natasha is chatting alongside her colleague and friend Maria Hill at a fancy but relaxed banquet party they have been invited to when she sees him, watching her from across the room. He is standing with a group of people who are laughing loudly, totally oblivious of the scene that seems to unfold in slow motion.
He is wearing an elegant black shirt with sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms with a pair of black trousers. It strikingly contrasts with his light hair and turquoise blue eyes. He is a guest, too, but he has the attention of half the females in the audience without even trying. But he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are fixed on her with a satisfying smirk playing on his lips.
He lets the moment linger as a way to savor his victory. And oddly perhaps, she is too. Maybe she likes the thrill of this adventurous curve in the straight and steady path lying ahead of her.
She whispers a couple of words into Maria’s ear, apologizes to her company and goes out on the large terrace looking over Manhattan and its skyline. It only takes a few seconds before she hears him approach.
“Quite a lovely evening, isn’t it?” he says after standing by the guardrail.
“And full of surprises,” she finishes with a smile.
She turns to face him. “Ok, what’s your secret? How’d you know you’d find me here?”
He leans an elbow on the rail and turns towards her, too.
“I didn’t. I’m pleasantly surprised too, to be honest.”
She snorts and shakes her head, then gazes at the floodlit landscape in front of them.
“So how come you were invited? Who are you friends with?”
He points at the exuberant man giving a grandiloquent speech to his assembly.
“I’m Tony Stark’s lawyer.”
She nods to herself. “I guess that explains the whole ‘good judge of character’ talk.”
“Becoming his lawyer may not have been my brightest moment,” he jokes. “And you?”
“I’m a pianist. Stark has been funding many of my concerts across the city.”
“You must be very good at it, then. Tony doesn’t choose to be someone’s patron lightly.”
She smiles silently. She can feel his expectant gaze upon her.
“So…Natasha, will you have dinner with me? And who knows? I might even surprise you.”
His boyish smile forces a giggle out of her. She reaches over to take the flute of champagne in his hand and takes a sip.
“Maybe you already have,” she murmurs.
_______________________________
The date was agreed on for the following Friday in a busy street in Brooklyn. She finds him standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. He is wearing a dark brown leather jacket. She has put on a pair of blue high-waist jeans with a silky maroon cropped top with a jacket. Her hair is up in a bun.
He flashes a wide when he sees her coming up.
“You look stupendous,” he says. For a pair of jeans and a jacket?
“That’s…quite an enthusiastic response.”
He chuckles. “You’ll understand later.”
“So where are we going?” she asks.
“I know a local Italian around the corner. It’s been open for as far as I can remember.”
They make their way there. The interior is as modest as the outside façade. It surprises her — not a common choice for a Wall Street lawyer. He’s not trying to dazzle her and she likes it.
“Steve!” a man calls loudly in a thick Italian accent. He warmly shakes his hand and taps his shoulder then turns to greet Natasha with the same friendly enthusiasm. “Welcome to Giovanni’s, darling. I have kept the best table for you.”
They go and sit and Giovanni lights up the half-used candle.
“They serve the best lasagna. I know, I’ve tried at other places.”
Giovanni casts him the glare. Steve gulps. “Not that many.”
The wine is exquisite in an authentic type of way. There is nothing glittery or arrogant at Giovanni’s but it’s charming all the same. She can see why he’s chosen this place for their first date.
"Of course we could only meet again, and in these circumstances. This is Tony Stark's world and we all live in it," she remarks and they both laugh.
The conversation eventually shifts to the Watch.
“What’s your story? Why aren’t you wearing one?”
“Why should I?” he laughs. “Half my family is obsessed with it and I’m not sure they are any happier.”
“So your family doesn’t share your views?”
“The day my parents got theirs it struck the end of their marriage. My father was never truly involved anyways; it simply gave him an excuse to leave us. My mom’s Watch beeped eventually and she re-married. He’s a nice guy; his wife had passed many years before. They’re doing well. His son — my step-brother — who’s about my age, has patiently been waiting for his Watch to beep.”
“And what’s so wrong about it?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “Call me old-fashioned or stubborn, but I like the idea that I have chosen the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
“Some people need a little help, sometimes. It is scary to fall in love.”
“It’s always been. I’m not scared to have my heart broken so long as I allowed it to work.”
She eyes him from behind her glass of red wine.
“You think people don’t fall in love nowadays?”
He stares into her emerald eyes. “I think they forget to be spontaneous.”
They’re words she hasn’t heard in years and that bring back fond nostalgia.
“Spontaneous?” she trails off as she plays with the spoon of her dessert. “Show me.”
He cracks a smile.
He lays bills on the table and gets up, flaunts his leather jacket over his shoulder then stretches a hand out to her. “I was hoping you would ask.”
She looks up at him with inquisitive but beguiled eyes then glances down at his hand. She gently slips her fingers onto his palm.
A couple of minutes later, they are walking along the street. He halts and looks at her.
“Why are we stopping?” she asks.
He smiles. “Our ride is here.”
She stares in disbelief at the big motorcycle parked behind him. She chuckles.
“You’re the first lawyer I meet who rides one of these!”
“I guess I like to keep people on their toes,” he echoes her words, earning a smirk from her, then leans over to get the helmet. He steps in front of her and gently lays it on her head. He then fastens the clip.
He teasingly pokes the tip of her nose with his finger. “It looks cute on you.”
He puts his helmet on and straddles the motorcycle. She watches with an agape mouth — what a sight!
“When you’re ready,” he says kindly.
Her heartbeat quickens. The exhilaration is slowly surging up her body. It feels like old times again. She smiles and gives an encouraging nod to herself before getting on. Her hands gently slip around his waist.
The engine roars fiercely. It sends shivers down her spine. Steve pulls back slowly then engages on the road. As they enter the freeway, his hand swiftly pulls around the handle, launching the bike forward. Her fingers grasp the fabric of his shirt. They soon get away from the bustling city and the light turns dim as they dive into the night. Steve drives fast along the deserted roads lined with trees. She slowly looks up and catches sight of the thousand stars glowing in the sky. It seems like ages since she last saw them.
The mild air sweeps across her face and she breathes in the scent of humid grass and leaves. She loosens her grip and bends backward, taking in the view, enjoying the moment. She lets out a joyful and carefree squeal whose echo dies down in the distance. He smiles from where he is sitting.
Thirty minutes, he pulls over on the side of a quiet rural road. They are both leaning on the bike, gazing at the splendorous untouched nature in front of them.
She taps her finger on the screen of her Watch.
“My father bought it for me when it came out. I’d just turned 18. He had great hopes for me which involved being in a happy marriage and having children. But I wasn’t ready for any of it. I was…,” she smiles blankly, “rebellious. Hardly contented with anything. I took his gift as a leash so I protested. Commitment meant little to me. I’d date around for the sake of proving I could. Then I met this guy, a singer, he offered me my ticket out. I went with him on a tour around Europe. It was fun, and I felt free. Alive.” She pauses and takes a deep breath in. “My father had a heart attack. He died alone and it took days before someone even realized and found him. It took even longer before I came back and claimed his body. After that, I saw why family was important. And I put the Watch on.”
She turns to look at him with watery eyes and shrugs slightly as she sniffs and forces a smile. “Never took it off once ever since.”
Steve is watching her quietly. She notices his eyes are slightly gleaming too under the moonlight. “I’m sorry,” he says.
She shakes her head. “It’s ok. It was years ago. Anyways, when I came back I settled down and resumed my studies. I started a new life and it hasn’t been an unhappy one so far.”
The corner of his mouth goes up slightly. “Has it been a happy, fulfilling one, though?”
She runs her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know. It’s been so long. But it feels safe.”
“I get it. I really do.”
They look at each other without a word. She bites her bottom lip and shuts her eyelids. Her mind runs through a thousand thoughts, once of which is far more obsessive than the others and she can no longer pretend to ignore. Looking back at him staring at her with such candor and yearning, she feels the pull to lean in.
She makes a resolute nod and stands on her feet. She turns to face him.
“If we’re doing this,” she begins, “we can’t get attached. We’re just being spontaneous and going along with it…for the time it lasts.”
Still sitting on the bike, he looks at her with meek, but lustful, eyes. He looks down and shakes his head, snorting.
“Natasha. I like you,” he admits. “I like you. I think part of me will always want more but I can’t risk losing it all for being too greedy. We’ll go with your terms.”
She smiles. “Great,” she says and holds her hand up to make it an official shake.
He laughs softly. He swiftly puts a hand to her waist and pulls her to him, crushing his lips against hers, sealing the deal with a kiss.
Steve groans slightly as his eyelids remain shut tight. He pulls his hand from under his pillow and stretches his arm out across the mattress. The void space next to him is sourly cool, and has been for a while. He sighs and flips over on his back. The past 3 weeks, and many nights over, Natasha has left nothing but the shape of her figure and the subtle scent of her perfume into his cotton silk; and heated memories to stretch the night and seep into the next morning.
Natasha never stays longer than necessary or longer than she intends to. She usually sends a text less than an hour before her impromptu visit, makes the bed her own then slips off the warm sheet to disappear into the starless night.
And every new shortened night deepens his yearning for her. So he gives more. Every embrace becomes more passionate, eager…and maybe, to some extent, desperate. He wonders if she can feel how every burning kiss, every lingering caress, every lustful union of their bodies conceal the mute disquiet slowly burgeoning inside him. How every ardent gesture is begging for her attention.
Yes, the past three weeks have been the most uncanny combination of consuming thrill and quiet agony. One that leaves him insatiable.
But those are Natasha’s terms for this innocent, harmless fling to endure. And Natasha is very much in control. From the moment she texts to the moment she slips away, she is the one leading the dance. Bold and unapologetic.
He liked it, at first. Very much so. Fantasizing about, and never knowing, when and how their next sexual escapade would take place. But what excited him now frustrates him. Harmless to her only, it seems. For he can feel it. The kisses she returns are as steamy as they are hollow. They’re nothing but the thrill of satisfying a carnal need but they lack warmth and closeness. She gives but doesn’t engage. Her sensual generosity only reflects her emotional indifference.
Maybe he’s never been one for those meaningless hook-ups. Lying in the dim room lit by the city lights glowing through the wide window pans, her absence only emphasizes his solitude. He’s gotten used to it — tomorrow morning, mind deep into his cases, the feeling will wane. He rolls over and pulls her cold pillow to him. Wrapping his arm around it, her familiar scent swirls up his nostrils and eventually drifts him to sleep.
A couple of days later, his phone beeps.
You free tonight? I’m starving
He smiles sternly.
Come on over. I’ll cook. 7 pm?
The screen of his phone flashes a few seconds later.
It’s a date ;)
The following evening, they’re sitting at the kitchen island with jazz music playing in the background.
“How was your day? Did you have to deal with one of Tony’s shenanigans?”
He smiles. “Oddly enough, Tony has been quite all right lately. Overall, a quiet and peaceful 36 hours.”
She chuckles. “Fingers crossed he passes the 48 hours bar,” she says before taking a new mouthful from her plate.
“Let’s not jinx it,” he jokes then rubs his hand over his forearm propped on the table. “How about you?”
She nods while swallowing with a smile then sweeps her hair over to the other side. “Just rehearsing. I’m giving a concerto in Toronto in about two weeks.”
“Sounds exciting.”
His eyes instinctively fall on her fingers, elegantly wrapped under her chin. He can see she has the hands of a pianist: strong and graceful, fingers long and slim.
“It’s mostly lots of practice, discipline, and resilience,” she comments with a shrug and reaches for her wine. Her fingers beautifully wrap around the glass. She gets pensive. “When I get on stage and hit the first key, that’s when it becomes all worth it.” She pivots on the stool and smirks cheekily. “When the audience claps and breaks into a pool of tears, well that’s the cherry on top.”
She comes off the stool and wanders across the penthouse over to the lounge room, past the fireplace to stand in front of the large windows facing the river and Manhattan.
“This view is humbling,” she murmurs in awe like she is seeing it for the first time. “I can see why you’d want to live in Brooklyn.”
He gets up and watches her closely, eyes locked on his own humbling view.
“The main reason I chose Brooklyn is I grew up here — I wouldn’t see myself living anywhere else. But I admit the view was quite a compelling reason to sign the lease.”
She falls into silent contemplation. She doesn’t notice but her fingers slowly begin to play the notes she’s quietly humming under her breath, spontaneously creating the first beats of a melody. It’s fascinating to watch.
She nods to herself, gaging the first draft in her mind before stopping altogether to lock it safely in a corner of her memory.
“Where were we?” she asks with a purring voice. She swings around and gently leans on the glass. Her glass of wine hanging at her side, the fingers of her other hand wonderingly trace a line up along the side slit of her skirt.
“If you’re still hungry, I have dessert in the fridge,” he says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
It makes her laugh. She drops head back onto the window glass. She pauses as she seems to gather her thoughts.
“You’re not like the other guys, you know that? You’re there, watching me sheepishly from across the room. It’s kinda hard to read you right now.”
He puts his glass down and walks over to her. He comes to stand in front of her.
“It’s not that hard, actually. All you have to do is ask.”
The corner of her mouth goes up a little. She tilts her head slightly and eyes him. Daring, yet hesitant.
“Ok. What are you thinking right now?”
“That I’m the luckiest guy in Brooklyn tonight for having such charming company. For the most part. But I must admit, also clueless, as to how the night will end.”
“How do you want it to end?” she cocks an eyebrow.
His hands are in his pockets. His pupils are locked on her. Calm and collected.
“You know how.”
It makes her smile and look away. Her expression changes slightly, turns unexpectedly wistful.
“This is just a game, Rogers. Just play along.”
“Except I don’t know the rules of it.”
She bites her thumb friskily. “There shouldn’t always be. Life is complicated enough.”
He glances away and nods to himself.
“Right. Then uncomplicate things. What’s going on right now?”
She shrugs innocently. “I’m just a woman, with a breathtaking view of Manhattan lying behind, looking at an attractive man she wants to lie in bed with.”
Electricity sparks around them and the short space between their bodies, pulling them together like magnets. Their lips crush together, invasive and devouring. Her free hand pins his waist against her. His mouth trails along her jaw to the nape of her neck — a particularly erogenous spot of her body as he’s learned. A moan escapes her lips as her arm jerks away and she presses the palm of her hand against the cool glass, sending chills along her flustering body.
She pulls him away and catches her breath. Natasha glances behind him and a mischievous smile comes to her lips.
“Doesn’t literally have to be a bed, though.”
Pressing her hand against his chest, she leads him along to the couch nearby. He trips over the edge and falls flat on his back. He leans on his elbows as she puts her glass of wine down on the coffee table nearby. She then climbs on the sofa and straddles him.
She’s already unbuttoning his shirt before he has time to voice any of his lingering concerns. All of them mellow into an unsound mush. All he feels and grasps right now is the growing and overwhelming longing, primal and imperial. His hands are mirroring hers, pulling her top off of her.
_____________________________________
The sizzling sound of the fireplace can only be heard between their lusty moans.
These same flames have lost in intensity a few hours later as they both lie naked on the rug by the fireplace. Lying on her stomach, her red hair, down and wavy, fall loosely on the side of her face as her fingers fiddle with the corner of the cushion her elbows are propped on. Her legs crossed, up in the air.
Steve watches how the warm incandescence from the fire shimmers over the curves of her flawless figure. The nib of his pencil is tracing soft lines over the paper, his sketchbook steadily pressed between his fingers. For the past hour and a half, he has been fighting off sleep in an inane attempt to prolong this evening. Maybe drawing her is a way to keep a piece of her with him, even long after she will be gone. Embossing this memory of her onto the thick paper with lead.
Natasha doesn’t seem to mind or give it much interest. She lets herself be his muse for the night.
But his keen eye gets heavier, and so does the hand holding the pencil. He can feel he’s losing his fight against sleep.
“Do you have many of your other conquests in that book?” she eventually asks.
Eyes fixed on his sketch, he smiles. “You’re the first actually.”
He has just finished tracing the small of her back, blissfully vertiginous, and is going on to outline the curve of her bottom.
She drops her head onto the cushion and smirks. “Will you let me see it?”
“We’ll see about that,” he comments lightly, focused on his task.
“You know this is possibly the most artsy thing ever. Can’t be topped…unless I just jumped and went to compose a new symphony, in the nude.”
“Well, I don’t have a piano. We can always ask the neighbor downstairs to let you use his.”
“You’re a good guy, Steve. Any woman would be happy to have you,” she comments detachedly. “You should get yourself a Watch and wait for your girl. Just as she is.”
His eyes fall on the one handcuffed around her wrist. He watches the seconds tick by in dooming silence.
His expression turns serious. “I used to wear one,” he says, still drawing.
Natasha’s eyes swiftly lock on him. “Why did you take it off?”
“I wore it for many years. And then it just deactivated.”
Her features stiffen. Everybody has heard of it, and dreaded it. The loss of your soulmate. No message flashing on the screen, no comfort — just a blank screen. The Watch turns off forever, lifeless. No second option, no new Watch. For the wearer, the absolute certainty they will never meet their other half.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
He shrugs. “It’s okay. I managed to pull a few strings with people working for the Watch company and they traced back the code to her. Car accident. Her funeral happened to be a couple of days later and I attended the service,” he tells the story with a collected expression. “A British immigrant. Her name was Peggy Carter. And that was the end of it, really.”
The end of it before it had even started. It’d felt weird. Feeling a sense of loss without suffering any actual lack. You’re not emotionally affected and yet you’re grieving. Grieving for a person that was not from your past, but was supposed to fill your future. Grieving your own fate probably.
“Anyways, that was a while ago; and as strange as it sounds to say, I moved on.”
He smiles and she mirrors it, except weakly. The conversation then shifts to lighter topics.
He’s halfway through drawing her crossed calves when his eyes, burning with exhaustion, force him to surrender. He closes the sketchbook and drops in on the coffee table behind him. He reclines on the floor, head tilted in her direction. He watches her intently. She shows no ounce of exhaustion as shown by the swift motions of her fingers.
“You’re gonna leave, aren’t you?” he asks dozily. Her pupils dart in his direction.
“Don’t fret about it. It’s not worth it.”
“You know you could just take the key,” he says slowly. “I have a spare in the kitchen drawer. Since you’re gonna sneak out you might as well want to lock the door.”
She chuckles.
“You never asked where I live,” she muses aloud.
His eyelids are drooping like heavy curtains.
“Because I know you’re not ready to tell me.”
She pouts and mumbles her thumb.
“Oh dear, you really held on long this time,” she says to herself. Her voice seems to come from miles away.
Her figure turns blurry and his sight gets obscure.
“You’re gonna leave, aren’t you?” he manages to voice weakly.
Her figure leans over him.
“Good night, Rogers,” she murmurs then her lips gently graze his as he drifts to sleep.
The next morning, when he wakes up at dawn, the fire completely extinguished, he’s alone. He sighs, grabs his book and finishes the sketch, trying to revive the blazing night.
Natasha disappeared like the most ethereal fantasy. She answered his texts only briefly, in a detached way. And he soon understood he’d scared her away.
She doesn’t visit again.
Days go by and he resumes his normal routine. Work, social gatherings, and home. He sits on his couch, silently watching the skyline standing in front of him.
He catches himself missing the time when she would sneak out of his apartment. At least, he had her for a few hours then.
Over a week later, he’s in his bed. He puts a file down and looks at the clock. He remembers this is the night she is performing in Toronto.
He’s been asleep for many hours. He doesn’t hear the muffled sounds in his room. Then two arms come and drape over his bare back. The skin is slightly cooler from the soft wind outside. The familiar scent of her perfume hovers above him and lulls him.
She presses her body against his, spooning him, and lies the side of her face on his warm, soft skin.
He doesn’t want to open his eyes. It is too blissful of a dream to risk ending it and waking up to a disappointing reality. He lays his hand on her knuckles then holds it gently.
Next, they both sleep…until the end of the night. And beyond.
Brooklyn Golden Palace Diner was one of the coziest and nicest restaurants in Brooklyn. The food was tasty and affordable, in spite of the general inflation, and, by anyone’s standards, they served the best coffee in the borough. The vibe was as customer-friendly and simple as its name was posh. The bright cyan and white tiling reflected the warm light and matched nicely with the champagne walls. The furniture was second-hand but clean and shiny. And the staff was welcoming and friendly.
Yes, Steve Rogers had every reason to like Brooklyn Golden Palace. It had opened four years ago and soon become one of the locals’ favorite. He and Bucky sometimes had a burger there after watching a baseball game.
Until it eventually became a regular visit. A weekly one, to be precise. Every Saturday. Bucky liked to tease and say it was because of the new waitress. Steve took it in with an eye-roll but never changed the routine. Bucky often let him choose where to sit, which was either on the stools at the counter or the booth in the left corner with a direct, unobstructed view on the aforementioned counter.
Bucky sat on the leather bench across from him and ostentatiously turned to scope the staff area.
“I’m assuming she’s got a shift today or we wouldn’t be here,” James said, obnoxiously loud.
“Stop it! You look like a creep,” Steve groaned as he leaned over the table and pulled his friend’s jacket. He then brushed back the strand of hair hanging over his forehead.
Bucky sniggered before sitting back on the bench.
“How long is it gonna take you before you actually talk to her?” he said, then reached for the menu standing against the ketchup bottle. “Lucky you, I don’t mind playing this little game — the food here is pretty decent.”
And Bucky’s eyes hungrily skimmed over the card.
A familiar silhouette coming through the kitchen doors immediately caught Steve’s attention. He watched in awe as the slender, red-haired waitress swayed into the room with a beaming smile. She went over to another booth, collected her tips and picked up the plates. She next walked over to them and gracefully slid her hand into her apron pocket to get the notepad. She then reached for the pencil she always kept tucked behind her ear.
“Gentlemen, what can I get you?” she asked.
James put down the menu. “I’ll have your beef burger with extra pickles and no onion, with a chocolate milkshake.”
He then expectantly glanced over at Steve with an amused smirk tugged at his lips. The waitress mirrored him and turned to Steve. Under the table, he nervously wrapped his hand around his thin arm.
“I…,” he began, then buried his nose in the menu card. He intensely felt the gaze of her large emerald eyes on him and soon, this simple fact, clogged up his mind to the point he couldn’t read the menu.
Counting the long embarrassing seconds going by, he eventually cleared his throat and said: “I’ll have the same.”
He tapped the menu card on the table, glancing at the salt and pepper shakers.
“Noted,” she said with a smirk then vanished behind the counter.
Bucky chuckled. “You hate pickles,” he said. He grabbed a toothpick and put it between his lips.
Steve sighed. “I know.”
James was playfully brushing the toothpick over his bottom lip.
“She’s gorgeous, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Why won’t you say anything to her?”
“Because I’m this scrawny guy, and as you said, she’s gorgeous. The other women don’t look at me, so a woman like her won’t ever notice me.”
He suddenly became sullen, hit in the guts by this undeniable truth.
Bucky smiled comfortingly. “Life is full of surprises. You’ll never know if you don’t try,” his friend said. "What’s her name?”
Steve’s eyes wandered over to the counter where she was pouring coffee into a man’s cup.
“Natasha,” he answered absent-mindedly.
Many months went by and the weekly visits eventually became more regular. He’d go with Bucky then, when his friend enlisted in the army, he went there alone.
His exchange with Natasha was always brief but cordial enough to fill him with satisfaction until his next visit at the Golden Palace Diner.
Things changed on a foggy Tuesday morning in fall. Natasha wrapped her fingers tightly around her coat as she took out the keys to the diner for her morning shift. A raucous sound erupted near the corner.
“Now stay down,” a voice grumbled and she jumped in surprise as she watched a tall man step out of the alleyway behind the diner, rub his sore knuckles and disappear down the street.
After a few seconds, she ventured into the alleyway. Amid the broken crates and knocked down trash cans, she found Steve down on all fours. She recognized her regular customer and rushed over to pick him up.
“Are you all right? What happened?” she asked. Still dizzy, he immediately knew whose voice it was and jumped on his feet before she could help him up.
“I’m ok,” he assured sheepishly and headed out to the main street.
“It’s not safe for you to go alone. Just come inside, we have a first aid kit.”
She looked at him closely and nodded soothingly. He followed her as she took them back to the entrance, unlocked the door and let him in. She closed the door behind them and went to switch on the nearest light. She sat him down, took off her coat and went to get the kit.
She grabbed one of the napkins, put ice in it, and gently pressed it on his swollen lip. He winced silently and she cringed sympathetically. She was sitting on a chair by the bench, quiet but focused.
“Wanna tell me what happened?” she asked.
“I caught him stealing a passerby and tried to get the wallet back. Unsuccessfully as you can tell.”
Natasha nodded, still gently pressing the ice on his throbbing skin. “That’s very brave,” she commented. “Many would have looked the other way. Especially with a guy as tall as him.”
“It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before,” he answered dully. “I can take it.”
She smirked. “So you’re a big guy, huh?” She eyed him intently and he almost reeled. “That’s certainly the last thing I expected,” she whispered with genuine appreciation.
And from that day foggy Tuesday morning in fall, it became their inside joke. She’d always greet him as “Big Guy”. Other customers didn’t understand; Tommy, the cook standing behind he kitchen counter didn’t understand; Bucky, who was on furlough, didn’t understand. Only Steve and Natasha did. It was their thing.
Their conversations became more friendly and he eventually found out she was Russian and had moved to the U.S. when she was very young. He knew her last name was Romanoff and he found great pride in knowing he was probably one of the few customers who had been told.
Steve missed Brooklyn Golden Palace Diner greatly after joining the Army. More than Brooklyn or the juicy burgers, he missed the smirk of his favorite waitress.
As he was in the car headed towards the facility that would forever change his destiny, they drove past the street. When Peggy Carter asked him what was so special about it, he answered he’d been beaten up there and looked after by a friendly waitress. He told her her name was Natasha.
Peggy seemed to smile knowingly.
“Well, I’m sure Natasha will be pleased when she sees you again.”
He cleared his throat and blushed slightly at the prospect of it.
A few months later, Steve returned to Brooklyn Golden Palace. Natasha was wiping the waffle machine. His heartbeat quickened and he nervously straightened his tie.
“Is it too late for a milkshake?” he asked.
He heard the smile in her voice.
“I thought you’d forgotten about me, Big Guy.” She said, wiped her hands and turned to face him. She halted and arched an eyebrow as her eyes traveled up his body until they finally met his eyes. He smiled and laid his forearm on the counter.
“What did Tommy put in your scrambled eggs the last time you came?” she asked.
It was the first time she saw him after he was injected the super-soldier serum. He looked nothing like the regular customer she had picked up after a fight in the alleyway. His body, evidently, had changed, but so had his demeanor. He exuded some confidence his former shape did not allow other people to catch on. His lustrous blond hair was neatly brushed behind his shoulders and he was wearing his official military suit.
“Look at you!” Tommy called from the kitchen as he leaned over his counter and whistled. Natasha put a hand on her hip and smirked while Steve’s cheeks flushed red.
“You totally ruined my nickname for you. What happened?” she asked.
He smiled. “It’s a long story.”
She tossed her napkin over her shoulder. “Clearly my life isn’t as exciting as yours, I have time to hear it all.”
He cleared his throat as Bucky’s words echoed inside his head. “About that…maybe I could tell you all about it around a drink?” She raised an eyebrow and he shook his head nervously. “If you’d like to, of course.”
She frowned and scratched the side of her head. “I’m closing tonight. Maybe on Monday?”
“I’m going back tomorrow,” he answered. It had taken him days to muster the courage to turn up at the diner and drop the question.
“I see.”
“I don’t mind waiting till your shift is over. If that’s ok with you.”
“Hey darling, my turkey is turning cold and I really need that sauce,” a customer called from across the room.
She rolled her eyes then turned her attention back to him.
“Sure. I won’t be free till 10.30, though.”
“I know. I can wait.” He smiled. She smiled back. “See you later, then.”
He made his way to the exit and, as he walked past the turkey guy, he swiftly knocked the strawberry milkshake onto his lap. The man grumbled loudly, attracting everyone’s attention on them, including Natasha’s who was smirking from the counter.
Steve feigned to apologize then headed out of the diner.
At 10.25 pm, Steve came back and sat at the booth in the left corner. The place was completely empty, even Tommy had finished to clean the kitchen and had gone. Natasha was wiping the last wet glasses and plates with a cloth. She smiled at him.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” she said. “It was a long evening.”
Her expression was a little weary. She walked over to his booth and sat down across from him. She stretched her neck and it made a cracking side.
She chuckled. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
She then massaged the bare nape of her neck with her palm. He thought she looked exquisite.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked.
He stood on his feet. “How about we switch roles a bit. You’ve served enough people for today.”
He walked across the empty room, over to the counter, grabbed a clean cup and saucer, and brought them back to the table. He then went again to get the jar of coffee and a spoon from behind the counter.
Natasha had taken off her shoes, climbed up on the bench and sat against the wall as her legs lay along the bench.
He came to stand in front of her and poured coffee into her cup. He came back a few seconds later with a slice of cheesecake covered with syrup. She watched him with unconcealed wonder.
He sat on the bench across the table and watched her as she took a spoonful of the pastry to her mouth. She laid her head back against the wall, wiggled her small feet hanging beyond the edge of her bench and smiled.
“You know this place like the back of your hand,” she commented.
He propped his chin into the palm of his hand and smiled bashfully. “I may have observed you a lot. Sorry.”
As she looked deep into his blue eyes, she realized how much he looked like that regular customer she had picked up after a fight in the alleyway. She put down the spoon and reached over to nudge his arm.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asked with genuine interest.
And he told her about the greatest thing that had ever happened in his life.
At nearly midnight, she glanced over at the clock on the wall.
“Wanna go for a walk?” she asked.
He smiled approvingly. He got on his feet and came to stand over her bench. She stretched out her arms, slipped her small hands into his, and let herself be swept along to a nightly stroll.
The streets were lit with the city lights, shining on beyond the horizon. They kept on walking until their stroll took them to Brooklyn Bridge. The steps echoed on the thick wooden floor below their feet as the moonlight shone between the steel cables. They eventually stopped and leaned on the edge to look across East River and Manhattan.
“When I left Russia with my parents, we had dreams of achieving all that we ever wanted. I still look at the city like that little girl who first wandered through this steel jungle. The dreams are different, though.”
“What dreams?”
She smiled sheepishly.
“I thought I’d take on the world, mesmerize everyone. I guess Golden Palace is the closest I’ll ever get to sparkles and success.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re mesmerizing. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the world catches up.”
She laughed and buried her face behind the sleeve of her coat. She then cleared her throat and regained her confident countenance.
She raised an eyebrow and stared at him deeply.
A big yawn came through. He smiled fondly.
“Let’s go and I’ll hail you a cab home.”
She blinked. “You’re not offering to walk me back? All the other guys always offer to walk me back tome...to keep the door open. They never fully conceal their intentions.”
“I do have intentions. Hopefully to take out on a second date…if you’ll have me.”
“You’re good,” she remarked with her honeyed voice.
He smiled and started off, but she pulled him back by his sleeve. When he swung around, her lips captured his as she pressed herself against him and clutched her hand around his neck. One of his hands fell to her waist while the other cupped her face and pulled her in. Her lips, full and luscious, were warm and sweet. It was only him and her on the deserted bridge, lit by the moonlight.
When they broke the kiss for air, he breathed in the sweet smell of her perfume and pancakes. It made him smile contentedly.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you all night,” she admitted, breathless.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I saw you behind that counter.”
Her pupils quivered as she looked deep into his eyes, amazed and flattered.
“Now,” she began, “are you gonna take me home, Big Guy?”
On his journey to returning the Infinity Stones back to their rightful place, Steve kept Vormir for last. If he were being honest with himself, he dreaded it —abhorred it — for what it had comprised. For what it had cost the team to win. For whom it had cost him.
But loss and pain soon gave way for determination
He eventually made his way to the deserted planet, driven by growing will. The tall dusty mountains towering over the dying sea ominously stood in the distance as the eclipsed sun marked the direction to take.
He climbed up diligently as a dark veil slowly began to fall over his face. The place, sullen as it could get, bared the stigma of unspeakable atrocities steered by Greed.
Or Despair.
Despair was guiding his way too, today. His thumb rolled over the amber stone in his palm.
A gloomy shadow came upon him.
“Steven Grant Rogers, son of Joseph.”
The familiar dissolved skull showed through under the hood.
Steve clenched his fist.
“I thought you were dead,” he said grimly.
The specter hovered down to his level.
“Death is not the end, Captain.”
Steve opened hand and the stone glowed in the suffocating obscurity. He looked down at it.
“Is it the same for her?” he murmured. “For Natasha.”
“You aren’t just here to return the Stone,” Schmidt said assertively.
Steve swallowed quietly.
“No. I came here to bring her back.”
The specter watched him sternly.
“You aren’t the first to come here to try.”
“Is there a way to bring her back?” Steve asked.
“It is a high price to pay. Many are those who have come here to satisfy their avidity, and fewer are those who came back to alleviate their conscience but none was ever willing to pay the price.”
His heartbeat hastened upon hearing there was indeed a way to see her face again.
“What is it?” he asked.
The Spectre motioned towards the top of the mountain; he followed closely behind. They eventually reached a flat stone structure looking across the expanse to the veiled sun. He immediately recognized it from Clint’s description.
“The quintessence of the Stone resides in life itself. But life and death aren’t so different. If you wish to retrieve the cherished Soul that has been taken, you are to exchange it with your own.”
The cold wind grazed over his face.
“A Soul for a Soul,” he whispered.
Steve nervously stepped close to the edge and looked over, scared of the dreadful vision that might await him at the bottom. He found an abyss staring back at him. He felt tears rising and every muscle in his body tensed. Natasha had met her fate here.
But it shouldn't be.
He could fix everything.
The truth was he should have been here there. It should have been him from the start.
“If you do not wish to proceed, you are just to drop the Stone down to return it where it belongs.”
Steve closed his eyes and exhaled. He had hoped he could see her one last time. Tell her things he had been too afraid to say before and which now haunted him.
“I need to know she will return. I need to know she will live.”
“The Stone does not deceive.”
The clouds lay low.
It was a price he was willing to pay.
His eyes flickered to the gem in his palm. He slowly closed his fist over it and held it tightly.
“Can you —,” he halted abruptly. It hit him he could not count on the somber phantom beside him to relay what he wished he could have told her himself.
Schmidt watched him with the same unwavering callousness.
Steve nodded to himself and turned his attention back to the pit. The tips of his boots were sticking out as he stood still as a pole.
He glanced up at the sky one last time then closed his lids.
He thought of Natasha and how she must have felt before jumping off. Those thoughts tormented him far more greatly than the prospect of his own death. Losing Peggy was hard, but God the pain he was feeling now — the one that had been drilling a hole inside his chest since they had all come back from the Time Heist — it was excruciating.
Beyond bearable.
But it would end soon.
He leaped and his body plunged in the dark abyss.
I love you.
Coppery lights flicked across the still, quiet sea lying under the sandy dunes.
The obscurity ended. Lids trembled opened and the pupils dilated under the rosy lights brushed over the sky. Water brushed over the warm skin as a deep breath was taken.
“Steve,” she whispered weakly.
Natasha sat herself up and looked all around her; her eye fell on the otherworldly scenery she had visited with Clint before.
Her breathing grew jerky with anguish. She put her palm on the sand below and pushed herself up.
From inside the stone, she had seen everything. She had screamed for him to stop. But he didn't hear. He couldn't. And she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't have.
Her eyes anxiously swept across her surroundings.
Her chest began to shake as the sobs burst out. Her stomach twisted and she propped her hands on her thighs and leaned over.
“Please,” she wept.
Her heart was throbbing acutely.
She couldn’t bear the pain she was feeling.
We do not trade lives.
And yet he had.
She held in the scream burning her inside the chest.
Moving waters spattered in the distance. She killed her last sob and went silent.
“Nat?”
She jerked her head up at the sound of the familiar voice. She stood up straight and stared numbly.
He was standing across with a similar stunned expression, his wet hair slicked back.
Neither knew how it was possible but it was real. They looked at each other with watery eyes.
They ran up to each other desperately and collided. She buried her head into his chest as he pressed his hand against the back of her head as a tear rolled down his cheek.
They clung on to each other for a long while.
He cupped her face and looked at her closely. She looked alright.
She was alright.
And he was lucky to see it.
He had her back
He laughed and leaned in, laying restless kisses all over her face as tangible evidence of this miracle. He felt her smile.
She rested her hands over his.
“How can you be here?” she asked, diving her green eyes into his. She knew she was supposed to have lost him.
He shook his head.
“I don’t know. Everything went black then I woke up here.”
Her eyes filled up with tears. “Why did you do it?” she cried in a broken voice. “Why did you jump?”
He held her face tightly and smiled through his tears.
