Steve, Natasha
Jul. 27th, 2012 08:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aa_natasha =NYC= Training Facilities - Shield HQ - Midtown
As gleaming and new as the rest of the headquarters, the training facilities are stocked with the latest in gym equipment, for both employee fitness and the odd scientific study of member health that might require some exercise.
(Exits : [O]ut )
(Players : Natasha )
SHIELD has the general advantage of being closer to the Upper East Side than Brooklyn, which is possibly one of the reasons Steve is here and not there. Stripped down to a plain fitted t-shirt and khaki workout pants that SHIELD really must have made for him, because those really haven't existed in like fifty years, he is giving his best efforts to defeat the special conditioning of SHIELD's punching bags. There is a fierce focus to his workout today as his wrapped hands work the bag. There's been a little bit of murmured observation of him in this mood from people who have been in and out of the gym, but no one's indiscreet enough to sit and gawk, at least.
No one but Natasha, that is. Clad in loose pants and a fitted white tank, she settles herself up against the edge of a doorframe and folds her arms over her chest with a patient, studying sort of expression. She remains there for a few seconds before lifting her voice to ask, "Who do you wish you were pounding?"
Steve doesn't immediately stop, which itself is further proof of his mood. (Not immediately respond to a question? How impolite!) "No one in particular, ma'am," he says on a gust of breath in between punches.
"No?" Natasha stirs, pushing herself straight with a lithe grace before she moves toward him. "Just the world in general, then?" It's rhetorical in nature, evidenced by the quick follow-up: "Want to aim at something a little harder to hit? I could use a good workout."
Another punch leaves the bag creaking a bit, and Steve pauses to consider the offer. "I don't know if that's the best idea."
Natasha's lips quirk just slightly as she circles round to stand next to the bag, watching his pause. "Afraid I'll make you feel old?"
"Not exactly," Steve says, a wry, tight twist to his smile. He reaches to still the bag in its swing as she stands next to it.
Natasha's smile spreads a bit further in response to his, wry or no, and she lifts a hand to the side of the bag in echo. "Don't worry," she says. "I'm tougher than I look, and I'm used to guys who hit hard. Come on." She gives a jerk of her head toward the roped-off ring.
Steve considers her a moment longer, then wipes his arm across his forehead and shrugs. "All right," he finally assents, making his way over.
Natasha is light on her feet as she moves. Her duck into the ring is practiced and familiar, as if this is a place she knows by heart as well as by habit. She settles into one corner with relaxed ease, tracking Steve with an offhand sort of half-attention.
Steve rolls his shoulders once he's in the ring, settling his weight in preparation. He watches her with a hint of trepidation, although perhaps not for his /own/ safety. He lifts his hands into something that's not quite a boxing stance, although it resembles it.
Natasha, in comparison, looks nonchalant. She's just hanging out here, in this boxing ring. No particular reason. Nice day out, isn't it? She steps forward, limbs loose, and waits.
Very nice day. Steve watches her a long moment, apparently reluctant to offer the first blow. But eventually someone has to, and he moves forward to strike. He's quick, although far from his full speed, and he starts rather direct, if maybe not as direct as he would be with a male sparring partner. Look, he is a product of his generation, okay.
It's okay, Natasha is here to help you get over that. She moves with startling speed - it's not superhuman, but it sure is hard for /most/ people to track - to avoid the blow, and a few quick steps take her around behind him so she can strike upward with a hard kick.
Steve is rather quick himself, and frustratingly good at tracking. He's still awakening to a real opponent, though, and one he has to get over issues to handle, so the kick lands solidly against his shoulder as he twists to meet her. (Solidly against a very solid shoulder.) He maintains a certain conservative defensiveness to his sparring, meeting her again for another quick attack towards her side.
There is a tiny, minuscule flicker of surprise in response to the quick pace of Steve's tracking as Natasha dances him around the ring. She doesn't quite smile, but there is a note of acknowledgement and appreciation in her gaze. She doesn't bother to block, preferring instead to dodge with occasionally feats worthy of a gymnast and striking only when she feels fairly certain his attention is occupied somewhere other than where she is. These times are not very often, nor are they entirely /accurate/.
She might just possibly earn the slightest hint of a smile at her several gymnastic feats to slip out from the path of his blows. Steve has the artificial advantage of strength, speed, and reaction, but Natasha has the strategy and experience to still dance him around a bit. His blows sharpen as they go, his body learning from the fight, and his mind understanding just how much of his ability he needs to actually utilize. To her credit, it's a lot more than he has to use with most people.
Natasha catches a blow on the shoulder with a backwards stumble and an audible grunt of pained breath, though she knows better than to let it slow her. She puts some distance between them, measuring for half a second before whipping down in a move that typically takes men's legs out from under them and puts her elbow at their throat before they realize she's there.
He falls -- for a moment. But even as he does, Steve uses her momentum to try and flip her safely over him to avoid such elbows at throats and roll out of the way and back to his feet before any other joints come to haunt his delicate bits.
Natasha comes down hard on her back, breath leaving in a rush before she scrambles to get it back with a flip to her feet that lands her half a second after he regains his feet. Her eye is perhaps a bit warier on him for a moment, and now she pauses.
Steve is a little obnoxious in the amount of activity it takes for him to really work up a sweat, and he hasn't reached it yet. He pauses as she does, back on his feet, eyes still bright and alert as they track her.
Natasha certainly has. Not that she's admitting it. When its clear that he's not slowing, something stubborn appears in Natasha's eyes, and she moves in for round two. She's not slow, not yet, but there is a hair of a difference in reaction times. A tiny hair. A very thin one.
The thinnest? Steve is not someone to press that advantage in a sparring match with a woman, but his attacks come with a certain enduring steadiness of focus and energy. If he is in a position to beat her, he at least will not do it embarrassingly.
Natasha keeps Steve moving for some time more. She takes several more blows, each with a slowly-increasing wince and grunt, before she finally dances back to her corner with a breathless lift of her hands. Steve may not have worked up a sweat, but her brow is glistening and her hair curls damply against her temples.
Maybe there's a bit of dampness on his skin. A small touch. Steve gusts out a breath when she steps back and lifts her hands, settling back on his heels and straightening into a less combative sort of posture. "That was a good session," he compliments her.
"Ouch," Natasha says by way of compliment as she tests the ache of her shoulder with a careful roll. She skims her hand across her forehead, pushing her hair back, and studies him. "Was that you hitting as hard as you can?"
"Ah -- no," Steve says, lingering tension not allowing a more lax brand of sheepishness. "No, I don't generally hit as hard as I can outside the field."
"Wow," Natasha says. Admiration creeps into her voice as she gives him another moment's consideration before twisting to duck between the ropes and out of the ring. "They really did a number on you, didn't they? That's some serum." She grabs at a bottle of water, twisting the cap off for a long swallow while she waits for his answer.
"Well." Steve considers this as he rakes a hand distractedly back through his hair. "I think I topped off at about ninety-eight pounds. Before."
Natasha's smile curves over the lip of the bottle in momentary pause before she says, "Yeah. I've seen the pictures." A quick twist replaces the cap, and she tosses it toward Steve with a fast arc that is in no way a test of his reflexes.
Steve catches the cap without much trouble. He's quiet afterwards, looking down and twisting it between his fingers. "Yeah," he finally says, beginning to make his way out of the ring. "I guess a lot of people have."
"Ah," Natasha says quietly, combing her fingers through sweat-damp hair. "That's why you're in here racking up our punching bag bill?"
"No," Steve tries to claim at first, but there's a twist to his expression at his own dishonesty. He slips underneath the ropes and out of the ring. "I guess Howard Stark and his wife put together a museum," he finally says.
"And you're not feeling quite ready to be stuffed and mounted?" Natasha adds, voice lifted in slight query. She twists a bit, wincing as a bruise catches.
"It's not that," Steve says quietly. "I never cared about that. I did what the country needed me to do, but I didn't--" He exhales a slow breath, angled away from her, and starts unwrapping his hands. "But all those pictures. All those people. They were alive just a couple months ago."
"Some of them are still alive," Natasha says, then drops her voice a bit and goes wry as she acknowledges, "But I know what you mean. I don't envy what you have to face."
Steve says nothing at all to that first statement. And even the second he just shakes his head to, unable to find more words for the topic. "Anyways. Stark is shipping it all off to make a -- house, I guess. For us."
Natasha's brows shoot up at that, and she pauses in the middle of a stretch. "He's what." It's so flat-toned that it almost entirely avoids being a question.
"He's sending everything to different museums," Steve explains. "To -- reconstruct it, I guess. Or redecorate. He said something about having to replace the wiring."
"Tony Stark is building us a house?" Natasha pauses, then checks, "The.. Avengers?"
"I don't know if it constitutes building," Steve says. "The building already exists. But -- yes, the Avengers."
"Huh." Natasha remains frozen in thought for a moment before she fishes out a smile to turn to Steve. "Is he expecting us to live there? Or will he just throw us fabulous parties?"
"The former, I believe," Steve says, not quite up for smiles of his own yet. He's not quite up for fabulous parties, either, it would seem, because he adds, "I don't know about the latter."
"Oh, trust me," Natasha assures. "Tony Stark knows how to throw a party." She considers Steve a bit more seriously for a moment before adding, "You'll probably find them horrifying. But at the very least you won't be /bored/."
"Well. At least there will be one sober person there," Steve sighs.
Natasha's brows inch upward. "You don't drink?"
With a darkly rueful expression, Steve says, "I can't get drunk."
Natasha's wince shows clear on her face, swiftly followed by a rueful sympathy. "Wow. Now I feel even worse. No wonder you're down here putting your fist through bags."
"Apparently I 'metabolize too quickly,'" Steve quotes. "'Four times as fast.'" He finally summons up a weary smile for her.
"Don't mention it to Tony," Natasha suggests. "Next week, I suspect he'd have half a dozen synthetic compounds for you to try, just in case one of them gets you well and truly wasted."
"I might actually be one of the only people in the world who could out-drink him," Steve says a bit dryly. He drops his wraps into his leather gym bag. "But I'll take care not to mention it."
"Then again," Natasha says after a moment, stirring as Steve drops his wraps. "Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if one of them worked."
"Can't imagine anything that packs that much of a punch is all that safe," Steve murmurs. He crouches down to zip up his bag and then hoist it over his shoulder.
"What's the fun in living a safe life?" Natasha asks, voice light. She lingers, arms crossed over her chest in casual stance. There's a beat before she says, "If you need some distraction again. You know where I am."
"I don't live a safe life, Agent Romanov," Steve says quietly. He straightens back up and tips a nod to her offer. "Thank you," he says sincerely. "I'll -- see you later, I suppose."
Natasha gives Steve a nod, simple, and answers, "Of course," before she leaves him to seek out the showers.
As gleaming and new as the rest of the headquarters, the training facilities are stocked with the latest in gym equipment, for both employee fitness and the odd scientific study of member health that might require some exercise.
(Exits : [O]ut )
(Players : Natasha )
SHIELD has the general advantage of being closer to the Upper East Side than Brooklyn, which is possibly one of the reasons Steve is here and not there. Stripped down to a plain fitted t-shirt and khaki workout pants that SHIELD really must have made for him, because those really haven't existed in like fifty years, he is giving his best efforts to defeat the special conditioning of SHIELD's punching bags. There is a fierce focus to his workout today as his wrapped hands work the bag. There's been a little bit of murmured observation of him in this mood from people who have been in and out of the gym, but no one's indiscreet enough to sit and gawk, at least.
No one but Natasha, that is. Clad in loose pants and a fitted white tank, she settles herself up against the edge of a doorframe and folds her arms over her chest with a patient, studying sort of expression. She remains there for a few seconds before lifting her voice to ask, "Who do you wish you were pounding?"
Steve doesn't immediately stop, which itself is further proof of his mood. (Not immediately respond to a question? How impolite!) "No one in particular, ma'am," he says on a gust of breath in between punches.
"No?" Natasha stirs, pushing herself straight with a lithe grace before she moves toward him. "Just the world in general, then?" It's rhetorical in nature, evidenced by the quick follow-up: "Want to aim at something a little harder to hit? I could use a good workout."
Another punch leaves the bag creaking a bit, and Steve pauses to consider the offer. "I don't know if that's the best idea."
Natasha's lips quirk just slightly as she circles round to stand next to the bag, watching his pause. "Afraid I'll make you feel old?"
"Not exactly," Steve says, a wry, tight twist to his smile. He reaches to still the bag in its swing as she stands next to it.
Natasha's smile spreads a bit further in response to his, wry or no, and she lifts a hand to the side of the bag in echo. "Don't worry," she says. "I'm tougher than I look, and I'm used to guys who hit hard. Come on." She gives a jerk of her head toward the roped-off ring.
Steve considers her a moment longer, then wipes his arm across his forehead and shrugs. "All right," he finally assents, making his way over.
Natasha is light on her feet as she moves. Her duck into the ring is practiced and familiar, as if this is a place she knows by heart as well as by habit. She settles into one corner with relaxed ease, tracking Steve with an offhand sort of half-attention.
Steve rolls his shoulders once he's in the ring, settling his weight in preparation. He watches her with a hint of trepidation, although perhaps not for his /own/ safety. He lifts his hands into something that's not quite a boxing stance, although it resembles it.
Natasha, in comparison, looks nonchalant. She's just hanging out here, in this boxing ring. No particular reason. Nice day out, isn't it? She steps forward, limbs loose, and waits.
Very nice day. Steve watches her a long moment, apparently reluctant to offer the first blow. But eventually someone has to, and he moves forward to strike. He's quick, although far from his full speed, and he starts rather direct, if maybe not as direct as he would be with a male sparring partner. Look, he is a product of his generation, okay.
It's okay, Natasha is here to help you get over that. She moves with startling speed - it's not superhuman, but it sure is hard for /most/ people to track - to avoid the blow, and a few quick steps take her around behind him so she can strike upward with a hard kick.
Steve is rather quick himself, and frustratingly good at tracking. He's still awakening to a real opponent, though, and one he has to get over issues to handle, so the kick lands solidly against his shoulder as he twists to meet her. (Solidly against a very solid shoulder.) He maintains a certain conservative defensiveness to his sparring, meeting her again for another quick attack towards her side.
There is a tiny, minuscule flicker of surprise in response to the quick pace of Steve's tracking as Natasha dances him around the ring. She doesn't quite smile, but there is a note of acknowledgement and appreciation in her gaze. She doesn't bother to block, preferring instead to dodge with occasionally feats worthy of a gymnast and striking only when she feels fairly certain his attention is occupied somewhere other than where she is. These times are not very often, nor are they entirely /accurate/.
She might just possibly earn the slightest hint of a smile at her several gymnastic feats to slip out from the path of his blows. Steve has the artificial advantage of strength, speed, and reaction, but Natasha has the strategy and experience to still dance him around a bit. His blows sharpen as they go, his body learning from the fight, and his mind understanding just how much of his ability he needs to actually utilize. To her credit, it's a lot more than he has to use with most people.
Natasha catches a blow on the shoulder with a backwards stumble and an audible grunt of pained breath, though she knows better than to let it slow her. She puts some distance between them, measuring for half a second before whipping down in a move that typically takes men's legs out from under them and puts her elbow at their throat before they realize she's there.
He falls -- for a moment. But even as he does, Steve uses her momentum to try and flip her safely over him to avoid such elbows at throats and roll out of the way and back to his feet before any other joints come to haunt his delicate bits.
Natasha comes down hard on her back, breath leaving in a rush before she scrambles to get it back with a flip to her feet that lands her half a second after he regains his feet. Her eye is perhaps a bit warier on him for a moment, and now she pauses.
Steve is a little obnoxious in the amount of activity it takes for him to really work up a sweat, and he hasn't reached it yet. He pauses as she does, back on his feet, eyes still bright and alert as they track her.
Natasha certainly has. Not that she's admitting it. When its clear that he's not slowing, something stubborn appears in Natasha's eyes, and she moves in for round two. She's not slow, not yet, but there is a hair of a difference in reaction times. A tiny hair. A very thin one.
The thinnest? Steve is not someone to press that advantage in a sparring match with a woman, but his attacks come with a certain enduring steadiness of focus and energy. If he is in a position to beat her, he at least will not do it embarrassingly.
Natasha keeps Steve moving for some time more. She takes several more blows, each with a slowly-increasing wince and grunt, before she finally dances back to her corner with a breathless lift of her hands. Steve may not have worked up a sweat, but her brow is glistening and her hair curls damply against her temples.
Maybe there's a bit of dampness on his skin. A small touch. Steve gusts out a breath when she steps back and lifts her hands, settling back on his heels and straightening into a less combative sort of posture. "That was a good session," he compliments her.
"Ouch," Natasha says by way of compliment as she tests the ache of her shoulder with a careful roll. She skims her hand across her forehead, pushing her hair back, and studies him. "Was that you hitting as hard as you can?"
"Ah -- no," Steve says, lingering tension not allowing a more lax brand of sheepishness. "No, I don't generally hit as hard as I can outside the field."
"Wow," Natasha says. Admiration creeps into her voice as she gives him another moment's consideration before twisting to duck between the ropes and out of the ring. "They really did a number on you, didn't they? That's some serum." She grabs at a bottle of water, twisting the cap off for a long swallow while she waits for his answer.
"Well." Steve considers this as he rakes a hand distractedly back through his hair. "I think I topped off at about ninety-eight pounds. Before."
Natasha's smile curves over the lip of the bottle in momentary pause before she says, "Yeah. I've seen the pictures." A quick twist replaces the cap, and she tosses it toward Steve with a fast arc that is in no way a test of his reflexes.
Steve catches the cap without much trouble. He's quiet afterwards, looking down and twisting it between his fingers. "Yeah," he finally says, beginning to make his way out of the ring. "I guess a lot of people have."
"Ah," Natasha says quietly, combing her fingers through sweat-damp hair. "That's why you're in here racking up our punching bag bill?"
"No," Steve tries to claim at first, but there's a twist to his expression at his own dishonesty. He slips underneath the ropes and out of the ring. "I guess Howard Stark and his wife put together a museum," he finally says.
"And you're not feeling quite ready to be stuffed and mounted?" Natasha adds, voice lifted in slight query. She twists a bit, wincing as a bruise catches.
"It's not that," Steve says quietly. "I never cared about that. I did what the country needed me to do, but I didn't--" He exhales a slow breath, angled away from her, and starts unwrapping his hands. "But all those pictures. All those people. They were alive just a couple months ago."
"Some of them are still alive," Natasha says, then drops her voice a bit and goes wry as she acknowledges, "But I know what you mean. I don't envy what you have to face."
Steve says nothing at all to that first statement. And even the second he just shakes his head to, unable to find more words for the topic. "Anyways. Stark is shipping it all off to make a -- house, I guess. For us."
Natasha's brows shoot up at that, and she pauses in the middle of a stretch. "He's what." It's so flat-toned that it almost entirely avoids being a question.
"He's sending everything to different museums," Steve explains. "To -- reconstruct it, I guess. Or redecorate. He said something about having to replace the wiring."
"Tony Stark is building us a house?" Natasha pauses, then checks, "The.. Avengers?"
"I don't know if it constitutes building," Steve says. "The building already exists. But -- yes, the Avengers."
"Huh." Natasha remains frozen in thought for a moment before she fishes out a smile to turn to Steve. "Is he expecting us to live there? Or will he just throw us fabulous parties?"
"The former, I believe," Steve says, not quite up for smiles of his own yet. He's not quite up for fabulous parties, either, it would seem, because he adds, "I don't know about the latter."
"Oh, trust me," Natasha assures. "Tony Stark knows how to throw a party." She considers Steve a bit more seriously for a moment before adding, "You'll probably find them horrifying. But at the very least you won't be /bored/."
"Well. At least there will be one sober person there," Steve sighs.
Natasha's brows inch upward. "You don't drink?"
With a darkly rueful expression, Steve says, "I can't get drunk."
Natasha's wince shows clear on her face, swiftly followed by a rueful sympathy. "Wow. Now I feel even worse. No wonder you're down here putting your fist through bags."
"Apparently I 'metabolize too quickly,'" Steve quotes. "'Four times as fast.'" He finally summons up a weary smile for her.
"Don't mention it to Tony," Natasha suggests. "Next week, I suspect he'd have half a dozen synthetic compounds for you to try, just in case one of them gets you well and truly wasted."
"I might actually be one of the only people in the world who could out-drink him," Steve says a bit dryly. He drops his wraps into his leather gym bag. "But I'll take care not to mention it."
"Then again," Natasha says after a moment, stirring as Steve drops his wraps. "Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if one of them worked."
"Can't imagine anything that packs that much of a punch is all that safe," Steve murmurs. He crouches down to zip up his bag and then hoist it over his shoulder.
"What's the fun in living a safe life?" Natasha asks, voice light. She lingers, arms crossed over her chest in casual stance. There's a beat before she says, "If you need some distraction again. You know where I am."
"I don't live a safe life, Agent Romanov," Steve says quietly. He straightens back up and tips a nod to her offer. "Thank you," he says sincerely. "I'll -- see you later, I suppose."
Natasha gives Steve a nod, simple, and answers, "Of course," before she leaves him to seek out the showers.