not a burden
Nat, Steve, and Clint said nothing on the car ride back to the latter two's apartment. Nat was driving and Clint sat in the driver's seat, physically fine and verbally not saying anything at all (and readers, we all know that Clint not speaking says a lot in itself).
Steve sat in the back, not daring to look in Nat and Clint's direction and staring out the car window. When they pulled up to the apartment, he scrambled out for the car, not bothering to close the door behind him and fumbled with the keys as he walked toward the door to their complex and up the stairs to their floor.
Knowing Nat and Clint were following his direction behind him, he entered the apartment and practically sprinted to the door to his room, and slammed the door behind him.
***
Steve woke up the next day at 1:28 pm, and his chest felt hollow and his head felt heavy and everything ached. He sat up in bed, and looked down, realizing he was still wearing the jeans and t-shirt from last night, and- to his horror- was still wearing his leather combat boots.
He stood up and wrestled out of his jeans, and tugged his boots off his feet and threw the two in the general direction of his closet. He grabbed his duvet cover and threw it over his head and wrapped it around his body and sauntered warily into the kitchen.
Nat and Clint were sitting at the counter, eating sandwiches and engaged in some lively conversation that Steve couldn't bring himself to listen to. He dragged himself toward the fridge and tugged it open.
At this point, Nat and Clint's voices had subdued, and Steve assumed (correctly) that they were watching him. He grabbed a small container of yogurt, thanking his past-self for buying them a week ago at the supermarket, despite Clint's protests. He closed the fridge and stood facing toward the it.
"Take a fucking picture, it'll last longer," he deadpans and rolls his eyes. He turns to the counter and grabs a spoon from the drawer.
"Wow, good one," Nat comments sarcastically, and Clint leans back in his chair. Steve scowls and pushes the drawer back in and walks promptly back into his room.
He marches back to his bed and plops on the mattress and grabs his laptop which was haphazardly strewn on the floor next to his bed. He half tosses, half places it in front of him and throws the top open and waits for everything to reload.
The first thing that pops up is all his links, most of which were about the stupid research paper and project he had to do. There was also a link open to when he looked up the company that James's arm was made by (he had saw the name when James leaned over to grab his bag and his shirt had rode up on his arm). He angrily exited out all the pages and typed in the address for Netflix and clicked on The West Wing and started watching an episode.
He opened up his yogurt and started eating and finally got comfortable and watched as the show's opening scene unraveled.
A few minutes pass before he hears a knock on his door.
"Steve? Can I come in?" a muffled voice asks, and Steve doesn't answer Natasha because he couldn't care less. "Steve, get your hand out of your pants because I'm coming in-"
"I'm not-"
Nat opens the door and cocks her head and the sight of Steve, which was, he admitted to himself, probably odd. He was sitting with his blanket wrapped around him completely and his head sticking out and his arm holding a spoon which peaked out, as well.
"Rogers-"
"I'm fine, Nat," Steve says, and eats a spoonful of yogurt.
"I was gonna say that I made you a sandwich and it's on the counter, but sure, we can dive right in," she smirks, and Steve groans. Nat walks over and plops on his bed, and crosses her legs and stares intently at him.
"Alright, Rogers, spit it out," she says.
"There's nothing to say," he replies dryly.
"Bullshit," she says, and pauses. "Have you been taking your medication?" she asks more softly.
Steve groans, "Nat, this has nothing to do with-"
"Steve! This has everything to do with it, actually, and if you've been skipping out on your medication," she says, "then I have to do something about it."
"It's not- that's not, it's not that!" he stammers, and Nat rolls her eyes.
"So, hotshot, what is it? Why didn't you fucking defend yourself like the way you and I and Clint know that you can? Because we all know your more than capable-"
"God, Nat, just drop it," Steve insists, and slams his laptop close. Nat stops, and looks at Steve with her eyes squinted.
"Steve..."
"Nothing happened, I don't know why Clint did what he did," Steve says dryly, and Nat snorts.
"Fucking idio- Steve, have you been taking your damn meds?" she had a steady voice, and Steve knew she was mad. "And don't make any fucking excuses, because I don't need this bullshit, Steve, okay? Clint and me? We fucking care, and we're willing to help and we want to- because it's not burden, no matter what you think and believe. You're not a burden. Clint fucked that guy up because he deserved it, because he was not respecting you- and you couldn't defend yourself, you refused to," she takes a deep breath. "So, tell me, Steven Grant Rogers, have you been taking your medication?"
Steve looks down.
A few moments pass before he looks back up.
"No."
"Okay, that's okay, Steve," she eases her body. "I made you a sandwich and I put out a glass of water and your pill on the counter, please go eat and take it."
"Nat-"
"No, Steve, do what I say, because I refuse to watch you dig yourself into your fucking hole of self-pity and regret, all because you can't take some damn medication," she says, and she gets up and starts walking out.
Nat pauses at the doorframe.
"Steve... you, you know that I love you, right?" she asks. "And so does Clint, we both love you and we both care about you and..." she stops talking and looks at Steve intently.
"Yeah, Tasha, I know," he says softly.
"Good," and then she turns back around.
"I love you too," Steve practically whispers, and Nat does everything in her power to not run back to her best friend and wrap her arms around him and hold him tight. She nearly gives in, but instead. she turns around and smiles a small smile.
***
The rest of the weekend consisted of Nat, Clint and Steve sitting on the couch and drinking hot chocolate and watching Doctor Who reruns. They did order pizza that night, but otherwise than that, they snacked on junk that was in the cupboard.
"Dude, Daleks aren't even that scary," Clint comments, and bites into another one of his (sacred and loved) chips.
"If you had a huge metal box with a plunger of death coming toward you, screaming bloody murder, l'm positive that you would piss your pants," Nat says, and Steve laughs quietly.
"No, I know parkour, I would jump off of him and fight his galactic ass," Clint says, and Nat snorts.
"YOU DON'T KNOW PARKOUR, BARTON," Steve yells, and gets a chip thrown at his head. He retaliates with a kick, and Clint yelps and shifts into a different position on the couch.
"I do, too," he whines, and Nat laughs.
"Falling on your face is not parkour, dumbass," Nat retorts.
"That was one time, Natasha," Clint says.
"It was more than one time, Barton, because Friday is still fresh in my mind," Steve says dryly.
"And don't forget today," Nat adds, and Clint groans.
"And last night after the movie," Steve says pointedly, and Nat nods in agreement.
"I hate you both."
***