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Who's Going to Tell Them?

Chapter 2: The One With the Sketchbook

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

April 2017
Berlin, Germany

After nearly a year on the run, Natasha, Steve and Sam had perfected staying off the grid. Only a select few knew how to reach them - Wanda, Fury and Hill, and given the time Wanda spent with Vision, they had to assume he and Tony knew, too. 

They sought out the most secluded hostels, motels and safe houses, never staying anywhere more than a few weeks at a time. It was stressful and exhausting, but it worked. Thankfully, Natasha had recently managed to pull strings with an old contact to land them a safehouse just outside Berlin. It was the closest to comfortable they’d been in months. 

On this particular morning, Nat left before dawn to go into town for supplies, hoping to avoid any crowds and the need for an elaborate disguise. Sam usually did supply runs, as he was the least recognizable of the three, but she decided to let the guys sleep in that morning. With a list in-hand and stealth as the objective, Natasha was in and out unnoticed within the hour. She climbed the porch stairs upon her return, expecting to see Steve seated in an oversized chair on the front porch the way he did almost every morning, but he was nowhere to be found. His leather-bound sketchbook, however, was open on the small side table next to a steaming mug of coffee.

She pulled the linen bag full of groceries up higher onto her shoulder and slid the keys to the house from her pocket, glancing over to see what he’d been working on. It was a half-finished drawing of their view from the porch, the sunset coming up over the trees. Smiling to herself, Natasha remembered the first time she saw one of Steve’s drawings, right after they’d met in 2012. She found him seated at the back of the control room on the SHIELD helicarrier, hunched over the same leather-bound book. He was drawing Fury and Hill chatting at the command post, the sky filled with fluffy clouds floating outside the aircraft window in the background.

Natasha paused momentarily to watch him. He glanced up every few seconds to take in the scene, brows furrowed together, blue eyes filled with concentration. It was the most comfortable Steve Rogers had looked since she’d met him the day before.

“You’re a man of many talents, Captain,” Natasha said, approaching him from behind.

Steve looked over his shoulder, startled at her sudden appearance, and closed the sketchbook on his lap. He stood and gave her a polite nod, “Ma’am.”

“At ease, soldier,” she couldn’t help but chuckle at his formality. His earnestness was both irritating and endearing. She sat down next to him and gestured toward the book. “Can I see it?”

Steve hesitated but flipped through the pages until arriving at the drawing he’d been working on. He slid the charcoal pencil behind his ear, “Drawing is one of the only things that’s kept me grounded these last few months.”

Natasha scanned the page. Though it wasn’t complete, the detail and shading were near-perfect. He captured the scene in front of them with life-like accuracy. 

“It’s really good,” she said, sincerely impressed, though something told her she shouldn’t be surprised. Steve, in and of himself, was impressive, so it only made sense that his talents extended to things outside of his physical ability.

Steve ducked his head bashfully, trying to hide the blush that crept across his cheeks, “I appreciate that, ma’am.”

Natasha wrinkled her nose and scoffed, “You’ve got to stop calling me ma’am.”

“Sorry, force of habit,” Steve said, clearing his throat. “Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha had the privilege of watching Steve draw many times over the last year, but she never asked to see the full contents of the sketchbook, and he never offered to show her. She suspected there were some pages that were meant just for him.

Just as she was about to slide the key into the lock, a breeze picked up, blowing the book’s pages over and exposing a pair of ballet slippers. Natasha’s heart leapt into her chest, and she took a step toward the book for a closer look. The worn silk around the toe and slight fraying on the ribbon of the left slipper made it obvious the pair he'd drawn were hers.

“Just go inside, Nat,” she willed herself. 

Natasha turned back toward the door, but curiosity got the better of her. She set the groceries on the ground and picked up the sketchbook, running her fingertips lightly over the slippers. The page was dated March 2014, back when they were working together at SHIELD. She slid her finger under the parchment, about to flip to the next page when suddenly she felt Steve’s presence behind her.

She turned around to see him leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest. Natasha couldn’t help but notice how good he looked in the dark gray joggers that hung low on his hips and lightweight half-zip sweater. The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows and the zipper was pulled down, slightly exposing his collarbone. His grown-out hair was pushed back off his forehead, save for a few pieces that fell into his eyes, and his beard, oh that beard.

Natasha swallowed hard.

Steve nodded toward the book, with a boyish grin that made her stomach flip, “Go ahead. You can look.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Are you sure?”

“To be honest, I’m surprised you haven’t already,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and taking a seat in the chair next to hers. 

Nat rolled her eyes, only pretending to be offended, and when she flipped to the next page, her breath hitched. It was her, wearing those same ballet slippers, during one of the few times she’d put them on and danced since leaving the Red Room so many years before. Natasha had no idea anyone, let alone Steve, had seen her in those moments.

She flipped through the next few pages – Arlington Cemetery, a botanical garden, The Washington Monument – until she found herself again. Though still dated March 2014, this time, she was slamming a fist into a punching bag. 

“If I didn’t know you better, Rogers, I’d be a little weirded out by these,” she said, meeting Steve’s stare and flashing him that trademark Romanoff smirk. 

Steve smiled back at her without a single hint of embarrassment, “The juxtaposition between those two, the elegance and the ferocity, it sums you up pretty perfectly.”

His assessment made Natasha blush, which was no small feat. Steve made a mental note of this and filed it away for later.

“Aw shucks, Steve, that’s nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Though her comment was laced with flirtatious sarcasm, she meant it.

“You’re an easy subject to focus on," he met her eyes, challenging her sarcasm with sincerity.

Natasha felt her cheeks flush again. Was he … flirting back? “Get it together, Romanoff.” 

Before she had a chance to respond, the front door opened and Sam appeared on the porch with his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face, “Are y’all going to sit out here all morning with these groceries, or can I get breakfast started?”

Natasha stood and gathered the bag in her arms, “Why are you always so cranky in the morning, Wilson?”

Sam ignored her jab, spinning on his heel and grumbling something unintelligible as he headed back inside. She chuckled and turned in Steve’s direction to hand him the sketchbook. He accepted it from her, tucking it under his arm, and scooped the grocery bag from her hands. 

“Let’s go before he starts burning the toast on purpose again,” Steve said with a wink.

Natasha stared after him, slightly dumbfounded. “Definitely flirting,” she whispered to herself, following him inside.

Notes:

Sam Wilson interrupting Steve and Natasha’s moments since day one.