It has been a boozy night — the type they hadn’t had in a long time. All are wasted — drunk, at best— except Cap. Half the Avengers are sprawled in the sofas, or on Stark’s indecently expensive soft carpet; the other half have already stumbled their way down to their rooms.
He should have gone to bed by now, but he feels it is his duty to remain for one particular Avenger, the one slouching over the bar with her elbow propped on the board to stop her chin from going South.
She is earnestly laughing, engaged in an intense conversation with Tony…who is snoozing over his empty glass of whiskey. Cap is watching her patiently: she should notice anytime. Or so has he been hoping for the past 10 minutes.
Eventually, she frowns down at her mute interlocutor for his lack of eloquence and looks around the room. She clumsily slides down her stool and lands on her feet like a feather — a habit of hers.
She roams across the room, in search of something…maybe a loquacious companion. Her eyes light up when they fall on him. He smiles; she smirks.
They start walking up to each other and she nearly trips on the inanimate bodies of her teammates. She is holding her drink very tightly, though. She nearly does it again and he catches her right in time, securing him with his strong arm wrapped around her small waist.
She smells of vanilla.
“Gotcha,” she comments with a giggle.
Her breath smells of vodka and a mix of unidentifiable spirits.
“How are you feeling?” he murmurs softly.
“Never been better,” she says with aplomb. “I feel like I could fly.”
“That’s probably because you’ve nearly fallen half a dozen times in the past 40 seconds.”
It makes her laugh. She traces patterns over his shirt with the tips of her fingers; it keeps her focused. That’s how a spider chooses its prey.
“I am fine.” She points at the terrace behind her. “I could walk along the edge of the fence on my hands.”
He arches an eyebrow. “You’re swaying.”
She presses her fumbling forefinger on the temple. “But not my mind.”
She spins around and starts off towards the terrace. “Let me show you.”
He pulls her back against his chest with a light pressure of his palm on her waist; she swings right back towards him.
“I believe you,” he says quietly. She looks intently into his eyes, then trails down his lips, biting hers.
Her eyelids suddenly become heavy. She presses the side of her glass on her forehead.
“I’m taking you to bed,” he decides. “I think the party is over.”
He looks around the room for confirmation: there is no one conscious to tell him otherwise.
She moans in a strange combination of displeasure and satisfaction. He scoops her up and she lets her upper body drop on his broad shoulder like a leaf folding in the wind.
He gets in the elevator and presses the button down. Her breath on the small of his neck is warm and distracting.
After the doors open again, he steps out into an apartment: simple but elegant, just like her. In the dark, he comfortably walks across rooms he is familiar with, all the way to the bedroom.
He gently lays her down on the mattress and she chuckles.
“I was thinking…remember that wedding we all went to last year, and I wore white and everyone was staring?”
He rolls his eyes amusingly. “It rings a bell,” he answers with a smiling voice.
He pulls the blanket and sheet away.
“I really hope the bride didn’t resent me for it,” Natasha is musing aloud.
“I’m sure she didn’t mind.”
Nat stares up at the ceiling, and frowns, as a new memory begins to form.
She now looks scandalized — but entertained at most.
“Oh my God! I just remembered I flirted with someone at that wedding!”
He pauses, slightly alarmed, and glances at her. “Who?”
“The groom!” she laughs at what alcohol is making a hysterical memory. “He propositioned me. He even groped my ass. Aren’t you shocked?”
“I’m outraged beyond words,” he answers coolly.
“Don’t you think what I did was wrong?” She says. She pauses, probably replaying the scene in her head, and laughs again. Apparently, she had a change of mind on the matter.
Steve leans over her and reaches for the buttons of her blouse. Natasha is watching closely, a little taken aback.
“Cap?” she arches an eyebrow and leers at him. “You’re not going to take advantage of a drunk woman, are you? I know moves that would knock you out for the rest of the night.”
He chuckles. “I know that. Hence why I won’t dare try anything.”
He gently opens her buttons down, one by one, and he feels her intense gaze on him.
“Why not?” she asks. “Am I not your type?” He finds her question highly comical. “Don’t you want me?”
He takes her blouse off, revealing her black lace bra. She is exquisite — there isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t think that.
“I do,” he answers in a husky voice that betrays his thoughts. But somehow it feels wrong to entertain such fantasies at a time when she is so vulnerable.
“You are my type,” she claims matter-of-factly, then blushes at her next words. “I often think about tearing your clothes off.”
He clears his throat and reaches for her skirt. He unzips it and pulls it down dutifully.
“Steve,” she begins. “There’s something I must confess.”
She props herself up on her elbows and looks up at him. “That day when I flirted with the groom…that was wrong…to you.”
She clumsily helps herself up on her knees and faces him. She loosely wraps her arms around his neck.
“I wasn’t lying,” she purrs, “about often wanting to tear your clothes off…Hulk style!”
He laughs and she trails her fingers along his jawline, pressing herself against him. His hand instinctively goes up to the small of her back. He can feel the goosebumps his touch leaves on her skin.
“Anyhow, I don’t know why I did what I did with that stupid groom.” He frowns: he’ll remind her of these words tomorrow. “Truth is, I wish it had been you.”
She’s looking him deep in the eye, earnest, and stern. “I love you, Steven Rogers. Even after all the worlds have turned to dust, even if the moon goes dark, even if love ceases to be at all, I shall still love you.”
She recites the words like familiar poetry. He’s heard them before. He’s known them too. By heart. Since the day they came out of her lips, a year before. They were particularly fitting after what they had gone through with Thanos.
“I know,” he murmurs. He leans in to kiss her. Her lips are warm and sweet and hungry for more but he pulls away.
“And now it’s time to sleep,” he says. He tucks her in and kisses her forehead. He takes off his shirt and jeans and drops them on the floor, before lying next to her — a delightful routine of his for the past couple of years. “Good night, Mrs. Rogers.”
But Natasha is already sound asleep.