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aa_natashaBit hard to wrap my mind around him, if I'm being honest. Waking up half a century after you fell asleep. The tech I expect. It's the rest that throws me off. Opening the doors. That straight-laced concept of /duty/.
Seems like his world was a lot more black and white than anything I've ever--
Well.
Than what we're living now, anyway.
Probably wasn't. Probably still says something solid about the man that he remembers that it was.
- Thai
- Paris
- Heath bars & other familiars
- Good men, good orders
- No fucking cursing
Natasha escorts Captain Rogers in companionable silence for several moments, with only the neat click of her heels to break the silence. It's not until they've stepped into the elevator and started the long descent downward that she turns to give him a glance tinged with mild sympathy. "I suppose it's not just the gadgets and gizmos that require adjustment for you, is it?"
"Pardon?" Steve asks, looking over and down at her once the elevator has chimed its descent. He slips his hands into his pockets as he waits.
"Mr. Stark," Natasha answers, tipping her head toward the elevator door as if in indication. "You seem to find him a bit-- ah. Frustrating?" Her voice lifts in querying suggestion as she glances back to her companion.
"Oh." Steve frowns a bit, reluctant to voice aloud what he's clearly thinking, which is already marking him rather at odds with the subject in question. "I just don't think he's always -- prioritizing correctly."
Natasha accepts that answer with a momentary silence and a thoughtful nod. At the end of it she asks, "And the rest of the team? How are you finding them?"
Steve smiles a bit faintly at her, though the expression is touched with wryness. "It's all a bit different outside of a mission."
Natasha laughs in response, though quietly. "Always is, in my experience," she allows as the elevator stutters to a halt with a *ding.* She inclines her head toward the parting doors before stepping forward into the lobby. "You have a fairly impressive field record."
Steve is disinclined to exit before a lady, and will do so only at particular prompting. "Thank you," he says humbly. "Just doing what I was intended for."
"Do you find it very different?" Natasha wonders. "Field work here, now, I mean."
"Don't have a whole lot to compare it to," Steve says reasonably, matching his stride politely to hers. "Just the one mission. But I'd say it's a whole lot different from 1945."
"No flying alien monsters in 1945?" Natasha wonders with a smile that just barely verges on teasing.
"Well." He seems to take the tease more thoughtfully than intended. "To be honest, some of the things Schmidt came up with sure seemed like they came out of science-fiction. Never seen anything like it." Steve reaches to run a restless hand through his hair. "But no, I guess no flying alien monsters."
"Yes, I've read the reports. They are-- interesting." Natasha takes a few silent steps before falling back just enough to let Steve push the door open for her.
Of course he will! It doesn't even seem like he thinks about it, the way Steve reflexively steps up to open the door for her. "We came in with bullets, and they had -- well, things that disintegrated men." It is with some grim satisfaction that he notes, "We still took care of them, though."
Natasha gives the surrounding sidewalks and streets an automatic, though subtle, once-over as they step outside before turning the majority of her attention back toward Steve. Her smile is small and filled to the brim with satisfaction. "It's a good thing to have capable men at your back."
"Yes," Steve agrees, firm on that point, as well as a bit -- withdrawn. He does not make a show of the grief of this point, but he is not trained to hide it like some.
Natasha gives him some space for said grief, leaving silence between then while she busies herself with the task of flagging down a cab. It's not particularly difficult, given the combination of Stark Tower behind them and the professionally (attractively) attired Natasha Romanov with her hand in the air.
Steve looks close to saying something about the cab, but defers to the fact that certain parties wear more difficult shoes and also don't take laps around the island for fun. It only takes him a moment to swallow the more public appearance of memory before he steps up to where Natasha's hailing. Or at a respectful distance thereof.
Natasha leans forward to give directions to a cabbie who only looks a little annoyed at the short distance (perhaps Natasha's so-sweet smile helps ease the pain of a lower fare) before settling back. In the quiet of the back seat, she turns to regard Steve with a frankly open sort of curiosity.
Aw, don't worry cabbie, there's always business near Grand Central. Steve looks a little discomforted under her open curiosity, and when he finally slides his gaze back over to her, he attempts to deflect by asking, "How long have you been with SHIELD?"
Natasha is quick to offer a smile and slide her gaze away in the face of his discomfort. "Several years," she replies vaguely. "It's not always as glitzy and glamorous as recent... activities, though. Don't get too used to it." Her tone is warm with an edge of humor.
"No, ma'am," he replies in a humorously obedient sort of way. "Don't worry. I'm not too concerned about glitz and glamor."
"No?" Natasha's smile turns teasing as she glances back to him. "I could probably talk Fury into dressing you up and parading you across the country to win us a bit of goodwill, if you'd like."
Smile a bit tight, Steve says, "The USO touring wasn't really my favorite part of my service time, but if he thinks it'd do some good..."
Natasha laugh very quietly and shakes her head. "While I have no doubt that what you did was useful in its own way," she says, firm, "you were wasted on it. Your gifts are far more important. Don't worry; SHIELD won't make that mistake."
"Well, I do appreciate that," Steve says, smoothing his hands down the top of his thighs to rest at his knees. "Although I'd feel better if I knew where I was likely to be asked to go next. There was never any question of where the front was during the war."
"One of many things that's quite different now," Natasha says, more quietly. "Our front is nowhere. Or everywhere. The uncertainty is part of the job. That's why it's so important to be certain that you trust the ones sending you out." Her gaze turns toward Steve with her words.
Steve is quiet a long moment, studying her face. "If you want to ask me something, Agent Romanov, you can go ahead and ask. I'm not a very good liar."
Natasha's smile reappears, and she tips her head in acknowledgement before answering, "Later, then." They are, after all, sitting in the back of a cab.
"Whenever you like," Steve says patiently. Likely the cab ride is almost over, anyways.
"I hope you find at least some bits of 2012 an improvement, though?" Natasha segues smoothly.
Steve smiles faintly out the window, his gaze a bit wistful as he watches the passing buildings. "It seems like -- well, a lot more opportunity for people who -- didn't have so much before." He doesn't look at Natasha for that, but he might as well have.
Natasha Romanov is a highly trained spy. As such, she is quick to catch Steve's suggestion, and she responds to it with an outright laugh. It takes her a moment to reign it in as the cab pulls to the curb. "Indeed," she says, wryly amused. "It's good of you to count that as a benefit. I'm not sure every man would have."
Steve reaches for his wallet, though certainly she must have considerably more money than he does. Likely he's just getting an allowance from SHIELD, who knows. He's thoughtful for a long moment, considering his words. "I knew -- some people -- who really had to fight for equal footing. Seems to be that everyone should have a fair shot."
Natasha doesn't look in the least surprised to find Steve paying, nor does she argue. She waits until they're firmly safe on the sidewalk again to respond. "Fair being what it is," she answers before adding, "I was hoping to find that you're really fond of our fancy guns or our outrageously wide variety of easily-available take-out, though." Her smile lifts the corners of her lips again. "Something you enjoy for yourself, Captain."
"I don't really think that humanity finding new, bigger ways to kill each other is much cause for celebration," Steve says quietly, tucking his wallet back away. With something of an effort to respond to her humor (and not be a /total/ party-pooper), he does add, "The shawarma was pretty good, though."
"You might be surprised," Natasha answers frankly. "While you're catching up on the past half-century, take a look at casualty numbers. It's rather remarkable, really, particularly when you take population growth into account." She pauses at the door, again allowing him first dibs.
"Maybe," Steve allows, reaching to open the door for her. "Even so, weapons were never -- well, I never really wanted to kill anybody."
Natasha falls silent for an odd span of beats as she steps through into the lobby. Then she remarks, "The schawarma /was/ pretty good."
"We didn't really have food like that when I was growing up," Steve says with another tight-warming smile, following the new tack obligingly.
"No," Natasha agrees, "I'd imagine not. We'll have to expand your culinary horizons a bit, Captain Rogers. Maybe I'll take you out for Thai sometime." She sends an inquiring glance in his direction.
"Thai?" he echoes back at her, a bit pleasantly baffled by the very prospect. "Sure," Steve says with a breath of laughter. "I'll try anything once."
"Indian," Natasha adds, smiling warming in response to the laughter. "Moroccan. Vietnamese. Korean. Japanese." There's an elevator here, too, and she heads for it. "Name a country, we'll find you some food. New York is truly global these days."
"That's pretty remarkable," Steve will admit, warming to the topic. "I mean, they called America a melting pot back when, but it wasn't anything like this."
"I forget sometimes that you were just on the cusp of air travel," Natasha remarks, leaning in to urge the elevator open with a press of her thumb. She steps between sliding doors with a click of her heels. "Anywhere on the planet in less than twenty-four hours. Pair that with online communication, and it's impossible to keep people apart." Her lips curve into a wry smile. "Not that some don't try."
Steve shakes his head, looking a bit overwhelmed just at the reminder. "You know," he says, "my parents came over from Ireland, and I barely stepped five feet out of Brooklyn before I went overseas."
"Where would you go?" Natasha asks. "If you could. Anywhere at all."
Steve blinks, waiting there in the elevator. "I don't know," he says at first. Then, after a hesitation, he says, "Maybe like to see what Paris looks like now."
"Paris," Natasha echoes with a nod, as if committing it to memory. "Paris is easy." She turns to give Steve a smile as the elevator dings its arrival and the doors slide open again. She leads the way, not just out of the elevator but down the hall and to a small office that she opens with the forward lean required for a retinal scan. This time she swings the door open for Steve, and adds, "Think up something to challenge me."
Frowning a little hesitantly as he enters, Steve asks, "Are you meant to be keeping me occupied, ma'am?"
Natasha's brows lift, though her lips remain curved in a smile. "Feeling suspicious, Captain Rogers?"
"I just don't see why my vacation would be such high priority," Steve says, in that I'm-sorry-but-maybe-not-really sort of way.
Natasha swings the door closed behind them and tilts her head toward a small seating area set up against the broad window that looks out across Manhattan. "Oh, don't mistake me. I never object to a healthy dose of suspicion, Captain Rogers, not even when it's directed my way." She moves to fold herself gracefully into a side chair flanking the sofa and wiggles her fingers. "The answer is no, I'm not meant to keep you occupied, but yes, it clearly benefits us to keep you /happy/. The more accurate answer is just that I think it's a damn shame you haven't been far beyond Brooklyn or eaten a perfectly spiced tikka masala, and I like to travel. "
"And you want to make sure I'm feeling good about SHIELD," Steve adds rather bluntly as he sits down.
Natasha smiles. "It doesn't hurt," she agrees. She jiggles her foot just slightly, letting the heel of her stylish shoes tap against her sole. "Which I suppose brings us to the question. How /are/ you feeling?"
Steve sits straight-backed in his seat, observing her. His jaw hardens a touch. "The America I remember wouldn't drop a bomb on its soldiers. It /especially/ wouldn't drop a bomb on its /civilians/."
"The America you remember doesn't exist anymore," Natasha reminds gently, though there is something that flickers dark behind her eyes for a moment. Hesitation, perhaps.
"With all due respect," Steve says, "if those are the kinds of decisions getting made now, I don't know if it's America at all."
"Doesn't stop being what it is just because you disagree," Natasha answers, but not without a dip of her tone toward implied agreement. She pauses for a moment before remarking candidly, "Then again, a few shadowy people in a room don't get to count for everything. Whatever Stark's priorities... well. When push comes to shove, he does what's right."
"Stops being what it is when it stops being what it is," Steve said, which is awfully circular logic, but he says it with every conviction anyways. "Stark's not really what I'm worried about. Commander Fury, to seem degree, but mostly, it seems, who he answers to."
"Yes," Natasha says, pausing for a moment to turn this thought over in her head. "I expect he's doing a lot of answering just now."
"I'm not really in the habit of questioning orders," Steve starts to say, then he hesitates. "Well. Not except for the once. But it was worth it. Usually I wasn't given cause to."
Natasha's lips twitch slightly, and she dips her head in a nod. "It's as important to have good men over your head as at your back."
"Exactly." Steve falls quiet, then, after a long silence, sighs. "Everything seems -- more complicated now."
"Captain Rogers," Natasha says quietly, "you don't know the half of it."
He shakes his head again, then reaches into his pocket to dig around and eventually pull out a Heath Bar. Steve glances at her, almost a bit shyly. "Do you mind?" he asks, his tone a bit wry. "Sometimes I feel like I haven't stopped feeling hungry since--" He gestures briefly at himself. You know.
"Of course not," Natasha assures with a wave of her hand. "I could call in something more substantial, if you'd like?"
"I wouldn't say no to it, but don't put yourself out on my behalf," Steve says, unwrapping the candy bar. "It's strange what stays and what doesn't. They used to put these in the Army rations during the war."
"I promise, Captain Rogers," Natasha answer with a hint of amusement. "Calling for takeout does not count as being put out." She rises smoothly and crosses to spend mere moments on the phone with some secretary somewhere before leaving it in capable, lesser hands. When she returns, she settles herself against the arm of her chair, feet crossing at the ankles in her lean. "Heath bars? Did they really?"
"You'd be surprised the effect a bit of chocolate can have on morale in the field," Steve says with a sudden grin that warms his expression and youthens his boyish face.
Natasha meets his grin with a warm smile, perhaps a little wistful. "A little bit goes a long way? How were the /rest/ of the rations?"
"There were more important things to do than complain about rations," Steve says, though not without a touch of lingering humor. He takes a bite of his candy bar.
"Somehow I doubt that meant that no one did," Natasha answers in kind. "Complaining is a long-standing method of bonding, after all, Captain Rogers. How would we ever build camaraderie without it?"
Steve laughs aloud at that. "The guys did say I was too serious for my own good," he admits. "Bucky used to say--" He stops there, clearing his throat quietly, and takes another bite.
Natasha gives Steve a moment, silence generously left for him to fill
"Sorry," Steve finally says. "It still--" He hesitates a moment. "Still feels like yesterday, however long ago it was." He shakes his head, quiet and thoughtful, and then looks over at her. "You know, you barely ever say a word about yourself."
"It was just about yesterday, for you," Natasha answers. "Don't ever apologize for mourning your friends, Captain Rogers. You're better for it." To the last she gives a slight smile as she straightens away from the arm of her chair. "You haven't known me that long."
"I suppose not," Steve agrees. But he does add, "We did save the world together, though," with a hint of his earlier grin.
Natasha turns in her pace toward her desk to flash Steve a full-out grin. "Pretty damn badass," she agrees.
This next laugh catches him more off-guard, though his face might gain a touch of color at her choice of words. "Something like that," Steve agrees a bit abashedly.
Oh, sorry, Steve. Natasha is a lady, we swear. She at least looks the part in her swaying stride to the desk, where she pauses to give him another, smaller smile before picking up the phone for a few words. After a moment she tells him, "It appears that Charlene decided she couldn't go wrong with an old-fashioned steak. I hope you're okay with New York strip. I had her send it up to your rooms."
"Wow," Steve says, a little impressed. "Steak delivered to your door. Yeah, that'll be great. Of course." After a beat, he recognizes the hint of dismissal and stands. "Well, thanks for -- talking, I guess."
"Welcome to 2012, Captain Rogers," Natasha answers with a hint of pride as she steps forward to see him out. "Any time. And if you decide you're feeling adventurous, you've got my number." She adds the last with a teasing smile as she tugs the door open.
"I'm sure if I need to, I can figure out how to call it on the phone they stuck me with," Steve says with a flash of a crooked grin. He tips his head to her, briefly unsure about protocol for exiting, then just offers another tight smile before slipping out.
"Don't let the buttons fool you, they're not that different. Dial and talk." Natasha waits for a moment, watching him leave.
"Dial and talk," Steve repeats agreeably before he's off.
That's okay, Steve, Natasha is. Following this log.
Seems like his world was a lot more black and white than anything I've ever--
Well.
Than what we're living now, anyway.
Probably wasn't. Probably still says something solid about the man that he remembers that it was.
- Thai
- Paris
- Heath bars & other familiars
- Good men, good orders
- No fucking cursing
Natasha escorts Captain Rogers in companionable silence for several moments, with only the neat click of her heels to break the silence. It's not until they've stepped into the elevator and started the long descent downward that she turns to give him a glance tinged with mild sympathy. "I suppose it's not just the gadgets and gizmos that require adjustment for you, is it?"
"Pardon?" Steve asks, looking over and down at her once the elevator has chimed its descent. He slips his hands into his pockets as he waits.
"Mr. Stark," Natasha answers, tipping her head toward the elevator door as if in indication. "You seem to find him a bit-- ah. Frustrating?" Her voice lifts in querying suggestion as she glances back to her companion.
"Oh." Steve frowns a bit, reluctant to voice aloud what he's clearly thinking, which is already marking him rather at odds with the subject in question. "I just don't think he's always -- prioritizing correctly."
Natasha accepts that answer with a momentary silence and a thoughtful nod. At the end of it she asks, "And the rest of the team? How are you finding them?"
Steve smiles a bit faintly at her, though the expression is touched with wryness. "It's all a bit different outside of a mission."
Natasha laughs in response, though quietly. "Always is, in my experience," she allows as the elevator stutters to a halt with a *ding.* She inclines her head toward the parting doors before stepping forward into the lobby. "You have a fairly impressive field record."
Steve is disinclined to exit before a lady, and will do so only at particular prompting. "Thank you," he says humbly. "Just doing what I was intended for."
"Do you find it very different?" Natasha wonders. "Field work here, now, I mean."
"Don't have a whole lot to compare it to," Steve says reasonably, matching his stride politely to hers. "Just the one mission. But I'd say it's a whole lot different from 1945."
"No flying alien monsters in 1945?" Natasha wonders with a smile that just barely verges on teasing.
"Well." He seems to take the tease more thoughtfully than intended. "To be honest, some of the things Schmidt came up with sure seemed like they came out of science-fiction. Never seen anything like it." Steve reaches to run a restless hand through his hair. "But no, I guess no flying alien monsters."
"Yes, I've read the reports. They are-- interesting." Natasha takes a few silent steps before falling back just enough to let Steve push the door open for her.
Of course he will! It doesn't even seem like he thinks about it, the way Steve reflexively steps up to open the door for her. "We came in with bullets, and they had -- well, things that disintegrated men." It is with some grim satisfaction that he notes, "We still took care of them, though."
Natasha gives the surrounding sidewalks and streets an automatic, though subtle, once-over as they step outside before turning the majority of her attention back toward Steve. Her smile is small and filled to the brim with satisfaction. "It's a good thing to have capable men at your back."
"Yes," Steve agrees, firm on that point, as well as a bit -- withdrawn. He does not make a show of the grief of this point, but he is not trained to hide it like some.
Natasha gives him some space for said grief, leaving silence between then while she busies herself with the task of flagging down a cab. It's not particularly difficult, given the combination of Stark Tower behind them and the professionally (attractively) attired Natasha Romanov with her hand in the air.
Steve looks close to saying something about the cab, but defers to the fact that certain parties wear more difficult shoes and also don't take laps around the island for fun. It only takes him a moment to swallow the more public appearance of memory before he steps up to where Natasha's hailing. Or at a respectful distance thereof.
Natasha leans forward to give directions to a cabbie who only looks a little annoyed at the short distance (perhaps Natasha's so-sweet smile helps ease the pain of a lower fare) before settling back. In the quiet of the back seat, she turns to regard Steve with a frankly open sort of curiosity.
Aw, don't worry cabbie, there's always business near Grand Central. Steve looks a little discomforted under her open curiosity, and when he finally slides his gaze back over to her, he attempts to deflect by asking, "How long have you been with SHIELD?"
Natasha is quick to offer a smile and slide her gaze away in the face of his discomfort. "Several years," she replies vaguely. "It's not always as glitzy and glamorous as recent... activities, though. Don't get too used to it." Her tone is warm with an edge of humor.
"No, ma'am," he replies in a humorously obedient sort of way. "Don't worry. I'm not too concerned about glitz and glamor."
"No?" Natasha's smile turns teasing as she glances back to him. "I could probably talk Fury into dressing you up and parading you across the country to win us a bit of goodwill, if you'd like."
Smile a bit tight, Steve says, "The USO touring wasn't really my favorite part of my service time, but if he thinks it'd do some good..."
Natasha laugh very quietly and shakes her head. "While I have no doubt that what you did was useful in its own way," she says, firm, "you were wasted on it. Your gifts are far more important. Don't worry; SHIELD won't make that mistake."
"Well, I do appreciate that," Steve says, smoothing his hands down the top of his thighs to rest at his knees. "Although I'd feel better if I knew where I was likely to be asked to go next. There was never any question of where the front was during the war."
"One of many things that's quite different now," Natasha says, more quietly. "Our front is nowhere. Or everywhere. The uncertainty is part of the job. That's why it's so important to be certain that you trust the ones sending you out." Her gaze turns toward Steve with her words.
Steve is quiet a long moment, studying her face. "If you want to ask me something, Agent Romanov, you can go ahead and ask. I'm not a very good liar."
Natasha's smile reappears, and she tips her head in acknowledgement before answering, "Later, then." They are, after all, sitting in the back of a cab.
"Whenever you like," Steve says patiently. Likely the cab ride is almost over, anyways.
"I hope you find at least some bits of 2012 an improvement, though?" Natasha segues smoothly.
Steve smiles faintly out the window, his gaze a bit wistful as he watches the passing buildings. "It seems like -- well, a lot more opportunity for people who -- didn't have so much before." He doesn't look at Natasha for that, but he might as well have.
Natasha Romanov is a highly trained spy. As such, she is quick to catch Steve's suggestion, and she responds to it with an outright laugh. It takes her a moment to reign it in as the cab pulls to the curb. "Indeed," she says, wryly amused. "It's good of you to count that as a benefit. I'm not sure every man would have."
Steve reaches for his wallet, though certainly she must have considerably more money than he does. Likely he's just getting an allowance from SHIELD, who knows. He's thoughtful for a long moment, considering his words. "I knew -- some people -- who really had to fight for equal footing. Seems to be that everyone should have a fair shot."
Natasha doesn't look in the least surprised to find Steve paying, nor does she argue. She waits until they're firmly safe on the sidewalk again to respond. "Fair being what it is," she answers before adding, "I was hoping to find that you're really fond of our fancy guns or our outrageously wide variety of easily-available take-out, though." Her smile lifts the corners of her lips again. "Something you enjoy for yourself, Captain."
"I don't really think that humanity finding new, bigger ways to kill each other is much cause for celebration," Steve says quietly, tucking his wallet back away. With something of an effort to respond to her humor (and not be a /total/ party-pooper), he does add, "The shawarma was pretty good, though."
"You might be surprised," Natasha answers frankly. "While you're catching up on the past half-century, take a look at casualty numbers. It's rather remarkable, really, particularly when you take population growth into account." She pauses at the door, again allowing him first dibs.
"Maybe," Steve allows, reaching to open the door for her. "Even so, weapons were never -- well, I never really wanted to kill anybody."
Natasha falls silent for an odd span of beats as she steps through into the lobby. Then she remarks, "The schawarma /was/ pretty good."
"We didn't really have food like that when I was growing up," Steve says with another tight-warming smile, following the new tack obligingly.
"No," Natasha agrees, "I'd imagine not. We'll have to expand your culinary horizons a bit, Captain Rogers. Maybe I'll take you out for Thai sometime." She sends an inquiring glance in his direction.
"Thai?" he echoes back at her, a bit pleasantly baffled by the very prospect. "Sure," Steve says with a breath of laughter. "I'll try anything once."
"Indian," Natasha adds, smiling warming in response to the laughter. "Moroccan. Vietnamese. Korean. Japanese." There's an elevator here, too, and she heads for it. "Name a country, we'll find you some food. New York is truly global these days."
"That's pretty remarkable," Steve will admit, warming to the topic. "I mean, they called America a melting pot back when, but it wasn't anything like this."
"I forget sometimes that you were just on the cusp of air travel," Natasha remarks, leaning in to urge the elevator open with a press of her thumb. She steps between sliding doors with a click of her heels. "Anywhere on the planet in less than twenty-four hours. Pair that with online communication, and it's impossible to keep people apart." Her lips curve into a wry smile. "Not that some don't try."
Steve shakes his head, looking a bit overwhelmed just at the reminder. "You know," he says, "my parents came over from Ireland, and I barely stepped five feet out of Brooklyn before I went overseas."
"Where would you go?" Natasha asks. "If you could. Anywhere at all."
Steve blinks, waiting there in the elevator. "I don't know," he says at first. Then, after a hesitation, he says, "Maybe like to see what Paris looks like now."
"Paris," Natasha echoes with a nod, as if committing it to memory. "Paris is easy." She turns to give Steve a smile as the elevator dings its arrival and the doors slide open again. She leads the way, not just out of the elevator but down the hall and to a small office that she opens with the forward lean required for a retinal scan. This time she swings the door open for Steve, and adds, "Think up something to challenge me."
Frowning a little hesitantly as he enters, Steve asks, "Are you meant to be keeping me occupied, ma'am?"
Natasha's brows lift, though her lips remain curved in a smile. "Feeling suspicious, Captain Rogers?"
"I just don't see why my vacation would be such high priority," Steve says, in that I'm-sorry-but-maybe-not-really sort of way.
Natasha swings the door closed behind them and tilts her head toward a small seating area set up against the broad window that looks out across Manhattan. "Oh, don't mistake me. I never object to a healthy dose of suspicion, Captain Rogers, not even when it's directed my way." She moves to fold herself gracefully into a side chair flanking the sofa and wiggles her fingers. "The answer is no, I'm not meant to keep you occupied, but yes, it clearly benefits us to keep you /happy/. The more accurate answer is just that I think it's a damn shame you haven't been far beyond Brooklyn or eaten a perfectly spiced tikka masala, and I like to travel. "
"And you want to make sure I'm feeling good about SHIELD," Steve adds rather bluntly as he sits down.
Natasha smiles. "It doesn't hurt," she agrees. She jiggles her foot just slightly, letting the heel of her stylish shoes tap against her sole. "Which I suppose brings us to the question. How /are/ you feeling?"
Steve sits straight-backed in his seat, observing her. His jaw hardens a touch. "The America I remember wouldn't drop a bomb on its soldiers. It /especially/ wouldn't drop a bomb on its /civilians/."
"The America you remember doesn't exist anymore," Natasha reminds gently, though there is something that flickers dark behind her eyes for a moment. Hesitation, perhaps.
"With all due respect," Steve says, "if those are the kinds of decisions getting made now, I don't know if it's America at all."
"Doesn't stop being what it is just because you disagree," Natasha answers, but not without a dip of her tone toward implied agreement. She pauses for a moment before remarking candidly, "Then again, a few shadowy people in a room don't get to count for everything. Whatever Stark's priorities... well. When push comes to shove, he does what's right."
"Stops being what it is when it stops being what it is," Steve said, which is awfully circular logic, but he says it with every conviction anyways. "Stark's not really what I'm worried about. Commander Fury, to seem degree, but mostly, it seems, who he answers to."
"Yes," Natasha says, pausing for a moment to turn this thought over in her head. "I expect he's doing a lot of answering just now."
"I'm not really in the habit of questioning orders," Steve starts to say, then he hesitates. "Well. Not except for the once. But it was worth it. Usually I wasn't given cause to."
Natasha's lips twitch slightly, and she dips her head in a nod. "It's as important to have good men over your head as at your back."
"Exactly." Steve falls quiet, then, after a long silence, sighs. "Everything seems -- more complicated now."
"Captain Rogers," Natasha says quietly, "you don't know the half of it."
He shakes his head again, then reaches into his pocket to dig around and eventually pull out a Heath Bar. Steve glances at her, almost a bit shyly. "Do you mind?" he asks, his tone a bit wry. "Sometimes I feel like I haven't stopped feeling hungry since--" He gestures briefly at himself. You know.
"Of course not," Natasha assures with a wave of her hand. "I could call in something more substantial, if you'd like?"
"I wouldn't say no to it, but don't put yourself out on my behalf," Steve says, unwrapping the candy bar. "It's strange what stays and what doesn't. They used to put these in the Army rations during the war."
"I promise, Captain Rogers," Natasha answer with a hint of amusement. "Calling for takeout does not count as being put out." She rises smoothly and crosses to spend mere moments on the phone with some secretary somewhere before leaving it in capable, lesser hands. When she returns, she settles herself against the arm of her chair, feet crossing at the ankles in her lean. "Heath bars? Did they really?"
"You'd be surprised the effect a bit of chocolate can have on morale in the field," Steve says with a sudden grin that warms his expression and youthens his boyish face.
Natasha meets his grin with a warm smile, perhaps a little wistful. "A little bit goes a long way? How were the /rest/ of the rations?"
"There were more important things to do than complain about rations," Steve says, though not without a touch of lingering humor. He takes a bite of his candy bar.
"Somehow I doubt that meant that no one did," Natasha answers in kind. "Complaining is a long-standing method of bonding, after all, Captain Rogers. How would we ever build camaraderie without it?"
Steve laughs aloud at that. "The guys did say I was too serious for my own good," he admits. "Bucky used to say--" He stops there, clearing his throat quietly, and takes another bite.
Natasha gives Steve a moment, silence generously left for him to fill
"Sorry," Steve finally says. "It still--" He hesitates a moment. "Still feels like yesterday, however long ago it was." He shakes his head, quiet and thoughtful, and then looks over at her. "You know, you barely ever say a word about yourself."
"It was just about yesterday, for you," Natasha answers. "Don't ever apologize for mourning your friends, Captain Rogers. You're better for it." To the last she gives a slight smile as she straightens away from the arm of her chair. "You haven't known me that long."
"I suppose not," Steve agrees. But he does add, "We did save the world together, though," with a hint of his earlier grin.
Natasha turns in her pace toward her desk to flash Steve a full-out grin. "Pretty damn badass," she agrees.
This next laugh catches him more off-guard, though his face might gain a touch of color at her choice of words. "Something like that," Steve agrees a bit abashedly.
Oh, sorry, Steve. Natasha is a lady, we swear. She at least looks the part in her swaying stride to the desk, where she pauses to give him another, smaller smile before picking up the phone for a few words. After a moment she tells him, "It appears that Charlene decided she couldn't go wrong with an old-fashioned steak. I hope you're okay with New York strip. I had her send it up to your rooms."
"Wow," Steve says, a little impressed. "Steak delivered to your door. Yeah, that'll be great. Of course." After a beat, he recognizes the hint of dismissal and stands. "Well, thanks for -- talking, I guess."
"Welcome to 2012, Captain Rogers," Natasha answers with a hint of pride as she steps forward to see him out. "Any time. And if you decide you're feeling adventurous, you've got my number." She adds the last with a teasing smile as she tugs the door open.
"I'm sure if I need to, I can figure out how to call it on the phone they stuck me with," Steve says with a flash of a crooked grin. He tips his head to her, briefly unsure about protocol for exiting, then just offers another tight smile before slipping out.
"Don't let the buttons fool you, they're not that different. Dial and talk." Natasha waits for a moment, watching him leave.
"Dial and talk," Steve repeats agreeably before he's off.
That's okay, Steve, Natasha is. Following this log.