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Based on this prompt and this graphic (I did have a choice in costume, decided to go big or go home).
No one would expect it, but Natasha Romanoff was an awful gift-giver. She was a spy and an assassin, and so it made sense that she would be excellent at figuring out what people wanted. In most ways, she was excellent at this. If the game was manipulation, getting intel or convincing someone of something, anyone knew the game was lost if Natasha was called in. In five minutes, she could tell that a tight-lipped mark had a secret obsession with disco and women’s stockings. It was a gift unto itself.
“A Chia pet? Really?” Darcy, the intern that came attached to Thor’s Jane, confessed once to Natasha’s oft-partner in the field, Clint Barton. “Did she shop at CVS like the hour before?”
“It’s a decent birthday present,” he shrugged. “Be lucky you got anything at all. That means she doesn’t hate you.”
It was something anyone close to Natasha knew, and everyone exchanged looks whenever social rules asked that she bring anything. Low expectations lead to low disappointment.
The only one who ever openly complained to her face was Tony, because what is a millionaire supposed to do with a re-gifted set of lavender-scented candles.
“Natasha, you shouldn’t have. Really,” he announced, with just enough bite that Pepper punched his arm.
He never got another gift from Natasha, who chose to take his statement at face value.
In truth, Natasha was horrible at giving because she didn’t know how. Before defecting, a “gift” was currency. She didn’t have rich memories of birthdays or holidays. Any kindness came with a catch or as a sign of vulnerability. Extra food meant a bribe, something expected in return. A praise, (excellent work, Natalia!) was either code for You’re getting weak or (in the case of a mark), a sign that she was edging her way in.
The whole social contract of gift-giving (and gift-receiving) had never really bothered Natasha, even though she knew it was something she should give more thought to. She told herself that she didn’t really care. In fact, the rumor was that the last thing Natasha Romanoff wanted for Christmas (her birthday an unknown), was a present. It was a relief when she was left out of the gift exchange that floated around the tower from time to time, because the act of figuring out what she owed someone in return was (quite frankly) exhausting.
Most accepted this as part of who she was. Every once in awhile she was included in a group gift or sent a wishlist (an email she usually deleted on sight).
It didn’t bother her, at least consciously.
It did, apparently, bother Steve Rogers. Perhaps because he had grown up in a different time, gift giving and even the act of handwriting a thank you letter, was just “what people do.”
It started after New York. Flowers delivered to her apartment. A bouquet of red lilies bloomed open like stars.
Thank you. –S. R.
She honestly didn’t know why he was thanking her, though she found the gratitude sweet. The vase stayed underneath her sink as a sentimental reminder, in a place she was certain no one would check.
A delivery after a battle that had brought their group together, after the city had been nearly destroyed, made sense. Just as with 9/11, JFK, and Pearl Harbor, most people in the United States knew where they were when the Chitauri attacked. Natasha shrugged off the flowers, certain he’d sent them to everyone else because that’s what people like Steve Rogers do.
Except that the gifts didn’t stop.
She’d return from a taxing assignment, mentally exhausted and physically pushed past her limits, to find a gift basket with popcorn, red vines, and her favorite vodka.
Glad you made it out safely.
The note would be written in his straight-forward block script, always signed “S.R.”, even when they’d started working together more closely and formalities slowly dropped.
“So, Captain Rogers is a fan of care packages,” she once smirked, sitting at the table eating lunch with Clint and Maria.
“Is he?” Clint asked, his own mouth twisted as if fighting to say something sarcastic. “Like what kind of care packages are you getting, Nat?”
Natasha looked over at Maria, whose eyebrows were raised to the ceiling. “Hill?”
She shook her head. “Not unless you count turning in reports on time.”
It was an unsettling confirmation, partly because it was in her own category of “unprofessional” but partly because she found herself expecting it.
Random flowers, an amazon box with lotion for aching muscles (card read: Darcy taught me how to order online), and once just a plain note card (thanks for finding my shield). She once opened her door to find an apple pie on the doormat (I was told it was Pie Day. Happy Pie Day).
Part of the fun was the game that they played in person. She didn’t dare thank him, fearful he would catch on to how much those little gestures filled her, that he would get embarrassed and stop. So she nodded and he nodded back, impressing her with his poker face. Instead, she found herself thinking with extra care about which clothes she picked out when she had to buy him anything for an operation. Or she made sure the kitchen was stocked with the jelly beans she knew he liked, even hoarding them in her bedroom closet when they went on sale on Halloween and Easter.
Every little thought added up, like coins in a jar, and she mentally reviewed all of the ways she could repay him. When she kissed him in the mall, one of many logical methods for distraction, the choice was made because she owed him and she knew what any other man would receive with appreciation.
When he told her that he trusted her, words she didn’t think he would ever even realize had more worth than anything bought, she could help calculate all of the ways she could balance things out (even after he assured her that it wasn’t necessary- not that they were “even” but that being there is what friends and partners do.)
After the fall of SHIELD, when he was tied up with Bucky and she was figuring out where she belonged, he sent her a white mug, “I miss you” stenciled on. She used that mug for everything. Water, wine, coffee. Holding it in her hands at the end of a long day, even when the contents were cool, felt soothing.
The fact that Steve Rogers was maybe just as bad as her at giving gifts, his often laced with cheese and sappiness, gave her goosebumps and butterflies. Though she’d kill anyone if they ever found that out.
When things started to settle and he had returned from the odyssey to find Barnes, she waited for five minutes, her fingernails digging in to her palms, before going over to his apartment.
“Natasha?” He opened the door, his eyes fatigued and his face betraying growth that showcased his shift in priorities while searching.
“We have to talk,” she asserted, waiting for him to let her in.
“Is everything ok?” He asked, gesturing for her to come inside, making his way to the kitchen in the back of the apartment.
“Yes. I think so.” She followed him, watched as he put a tea kettle on the stove.
“I didn’t expect anyone today. I don’t know if I have anything to offer…” he shrugged, opening a cupboard to pull out a box of tea.
“Seriously. This,” she motioned toward the tea. “Who does this?”
He tipped his head. “Tea?”
“Tea. Or the flowers. Or the cup. Or any of it,” she challenged, stepping close.
“The cup? The coffee cup, right? Did you like it?” He asked, his expression hopeful and nervous all at once. “I wasn’t sure…”
She took a deep breath, leaning in to corner him against the kitchen counter, arms on either side. “Why?”
She watched his face flush, his discomfort and uncertainty mixing with a heat that reminded her of a sunburn. “Because you deserve them?”
“I deserve them?”
“And no one gives you anything, Natasha. That’s not right,” he added, a wobble in his voice that felt so delicious to hear.
“And?” she pushed her leg in between his, a desire to fit against him awakening in response to his obvious tension. She’d read his file, knew he was about as experienced as a seventeen year old, his social skills so much weaker than his ability to take down an entire organization in an afternoon.
“And I like you, Natasha,” he admitted, his hands gripping the countertop, his breath heavy and still panicked. She felt a little like a bully, pushing him into such a confession, but she needed it, needed a clear answer for all of the trinkets and notes and sincerity.
“You like me?” She pressed, moving a hand to his chest.
“A lot, Natasha. I’m sorry, I know it’s not professional and I tried really hard to think of things that didn’t cross any lines…”
She bit her lip, her mind clicking on all of the things she’d like to do, things that would be simultaneously selfish and giving. Things that were easy to imagine against those broad shoulders. When she stood on her toes, she did so with full intentions. It wasn’t the first time she’d kissed him or the first time she’d done so while he looked like a deer in headlights. She decided that caught-off-guard Steve was her favorite, anyway.
One thing she loved, kissing Steve, was that he didn’t back down. He didn’t aggressively suck her face like a hoover, thankfully, and he wasn’t peckish either. One of his hands found it’s way timidly too her waist, flat and patient, waiting for her to set the pace. She decided she loved that too.
“Are the rumors true, Rogers?” she asked as she broke the kiss, her body heating up from toe to crown.
“Rumors?” he questioned, brow furrowed and so damn innocent it hurt.
“I just want to know what I’m dealing with before I proceed,” she explained, moving her hands down to his belt line. “I’m not going to lie, I kind of want to pretend that you are as inexperienced and virginal as all the girls say you are. I definitely have a thing for that.”
“Natasha…” he croaked, answering her in just the way she wanted.
“Stick with me, Rogers. This is going to be worth at least ten fruit baskets..” she gave a smug grin before sliding to her knees.
***
She did, in fact, receive ten fruit baskets after that night. It ended up being more fruit than she could handle and it was hard work bringing fruit in to the office in such a way that she was able to unload and share without everyone asking why Natasha suddenly had a surplus of apples and oranges. Clint figured her out, of course, but he knew how to read her and held back, (for the most part).
“Hey, Steve. Orange?” he asked once in one of the few times they were all together in the communal kitchen, discussing employee benefits.
“Yeah, sure.” Steve answered, catching the fruit.
“Nat? What do you want? Banana?”
She looked up from her mug (a Stark mug, thank you). “As long as you don’t throw it.”
Natasha could be discreet, eating that banana in such a way that only one person really noticed and turned red. Except of course, that Clint also noticed.
“Steve, you okay? You look like you are going to pass out?” he interrupted group conversation on time off and how to get it. The entire room stopped to pay attention. Natasha kept eating but smiled inwardly as he coughed.
“Are you feeling well?” Banner asked.
“Fine…” he waved, not looking in her direction.
“I know that look…” Bucky said slowly, his voice filling the room only because he never used it and people often forgot he was even there.
“Fine…” Steve repeated, putting his orange down and turning away.
“I think I do too… he’s either going to start having a seizure or he’s got his head focused on other things,” Tony grinned, his elbow gesturing towards their team leader’s tightening pants. “And when I say head…”
Steve turned a shade of red she didn’t think possible. Natasha briefly felt a tinge of guilt, especially when he shook his head and excused himself to the restroom. Everyone diverted attention from an embarrassed Captain to her, the air thick with laughter and ribbing that no one dared do out loud.
“Subtle. Stark,” she finished eating and folded her arms, not wanting to give up any clues.
“Yeah, well, just try not to debauch Captain America on company time, Romanoff,” he shot back. “Do as I say, not as I do and such.”
***
The plan was originally to do exactly that, debauch. To repay Steve for all of his considerations via the one gift she knew he would like. And, in the beginning, it was amazing. It was almost a public service, showing up at his apartment when he returned from a mission.
She could, sitting above him, watching him pull her boots off, testify that one of the best parts of giving was in being filled as a result. Metaphorically and (deliciously) in the best, most literal ways possible. He was a quick learner, and also a bit of a scientist, always willing to try new things. They might spend one afternoon figuring out how to finish in record time (they were working on three and a half minutes to beat) and then the next afternoon, how to make things last as long as possible (they stopped looking at the clock but she was certain he could win awards for patience).
“I feel kind of like I should apologize to you,” he once said as she was pulling his jeans down. She scrunched up her face and pushed him down against his living room sofa.
“Why?’
“Because,” he sat back up, leaning to kiss her. “Because I’ve totally taken advantage. It’s not right…”
She laughed and bit his lip. “You’ve taken advantage of me?”
“Well, yeah.” He pulled her on to his lap. “I mean, I haven’t taken you out or anything.”
“Steve,” she paused from the very important task of freeing him from all of his clothes.
“It would be important to me to do that,” he explained evenly, though she knew it was something he’d been rehearsing in his mind for awhile.
“Like dating,” she bit the inside of her cheek. It was a sweet idea but problematic. She didn’t date for the same reason she didn’t give gifts. There would always be a catch.
“Do they call it something else, now?” he smiled, touching her cheek.
“Isn’t this nice, though?” she wrapped her legs around him, hoping to convince him by applying just the right amount of pressure.
He groaned, bucked his hips up, proof that he was absolutely not complaining.
“Natasha… this is…”
She thought she heard the word amazing but couldn’t tell for sure, because his tongue was suddenly doing double duty, his words tumbling into her mouth. Score one point for her.
Except that later, when they were on the bedroom floor in a tangle of sheet and limbs, he brought it up again.
“Unless you don’t want this to be anything more… I mean, if you don’t want a boyfriend, I understand…” he whispered, his fingertips drawing slow circles along her spine. She looked up at him, her hair still sticking to its’ spot on his chest.
“Steve, I’d be the world’s worst girlfriend. And I’d be so bad for you.”
She said it softly, soberly, tiny pieces of her own self-doubt eeking out of her, almost through her pores.
“Says who? I’d say so far you are doing pretty well, I don’t see why we don’t just call a spade a spade.”
Steve Rogers sounded so pragmatic and matter-of-fact just then, that she understood why he was the captain and why even Tony let him lead.
“I’m not asking for a lot, Natasha. We can even make up a word for it, if the word is what is bugging you. I just want to take you to dinner. Maybe a walk.”
She relented, recognizing that she was probably overanalyzing things. Going out for coffee wouldn’t change what they had started, in all likelihood. It might even make things better, she reasoned as she planned out ways to introduce him to the fine art of sex in public.
***
Except, of course, that dating did change things. He went from sending her sweet little boxes of tea and thank you cards to considering her in public. It felt nice, him opening the door for her and handing her a cup of coffee before they walked in to a meeting. It made her heart explode into her chest, distracting her and unnerving her.
It was bad because she fucking loved it. She ate up the attention like she was starving.
It was also bad because everyone caught on fast. He would hand her a cookie and she would turn into a swoony teenager, her face burning in a way she was sure she had never experienced before. He knew her limits and was careful not to say too much or touch her in a way that was anything overt, but everyone could tell.
At first, everyone just raised an eyebrow or snickered. They arrived at the tower together once, passing Darcy and Jane on the way in, and when he let his hand fall on the small of her back, she could swear she heard giggles.
At another time, Tony and Pepper were discussing their weekend plans and whether or not she would go with him to attend a movie premiere downtown later that evening. It was a remake of a remake and she was listing reasons she wasn’t interested when Steve interrupted.
“I’d like to see that,” he said as he sat down with a sandwich. “We should go.”
Natasha looked up from her own sandwich to see that he was speaking directly to her. She took advantage of her full mouth to consider how she would respond, basing it on what Tony would say.
“Well, then you guys go. I mean, you’ve been fucking for God knows how long. Might as well make it official.” Tony shrugged, pulling out his phone. “I’ll set things up. Romanoff, make sure he looks pretty.”
“Have fun, kids,” Pepper smiled in satisfaction, “Better you than me.”
***
And so, for the first time in her life, Natasha found herself caring about gifts. She had a mental list of all the gifts she gave, a rolodex of items that worked for every occasion and person. Candles. A gift card. A salad spinner.
They had been together, intimate, for months. He had seen her pee. She had seen him brush and floss. They had goddamn in-jokes about a rice ball stand in Tokyo.
He meant so much more to her than anything she could pick up at an end-cap in the pharmacy across the street. She started panicking about his birthday two months in advance.
She spent hours online, even filling out a gifts quiz. It was a waste of her life that she didn’t think she’d ever get back because she didn’t think anyone really ever wanted a personalized plot of land in Ireland or a membership to the wine and cheese of the month club.
How did you tell someone, “You are an amazing boyfriend with a magic tongue and an insane gift for opening up my heart?”
Definitely not with salt and pepper shakers.
And then she started fishing around, laying her ego down to ask for suggestions. Clint said she should get him a dog (which made no sense considering how much he was gone), Tony said a walker, and Bucky just shrugged. Bruce offered to help her find a chemical compound that could help trigger pheromones, something that sounded complicated and time consuming. No help at all.
“What about lingerie?” Darcy said, nodding to the bartender that she was ready for another shot.
Natasha considered it, looking over at the other women who had gathered with them for a girls night.
“Isn’t that kind of a gift to myself?”
“Trust me, it’s not.” Jane shook her head.
Natasha noticed Pepper nodding in agreement. “And I have some excellent contacts for that.”
“I can do that,” she decided.
“Well, but it’s the first time you guys are celebrating his birthday together, right?” Jane added. Natasha noticed the funny glance she was giving Darcy, who was obviously trying not to laugh.
“What?” she challenged.
“I mean. It should be memorable. You kind of suck at that.” Darcy explained, her voice trailing off at the end.
“I don’t suck at memorable. Trust me, I’m very memorable.” Natasha bristled. “Why does it matter? It’s coming off.”
“You are such a guy.” Darcy countered.
“It’s just. It should be something that’s made for him.” Pepper explained. “Making it even more memorable.”
Natasha wanted to back up, wanted to say that she didn’t need their advice, even if she did want it, because that would mean admitting she could use the help.
“Like Thor hasn’t stop talking about the Princess Lea-Asgardian getup I wore six months ago…”
She looked over at Jane, who was attempting to hide in her hair.
“I have a visual,” Darcy chuckled, handing over a shot. “He’s a secret Star Wars fan?”
“No, he said it was because I had worn something that was totally a tribute to him,” she blushed.
“Did you have a hammer too? Please tell me you had a hammer. Please tell me that it vibrated,” the intern teased before reaching into her pocket for her phone. “Actually, please tell me you can buy this online.”
Before Jane could stammer out a response, Pepper saved her. “Actually, I think Jane has a solid idea, Natasha.”
“You think I should get a Captain America vibrator?”
“Yes,” Darcy threw her thumbs up.
“Well, that’s not what I meant…” Pepper crooked her head. “I mean….”
“This is Steve Rogers.” Natasha said, reaching for more alcohol. “I need everyone to remember that.”
“Steve Rogers who I’m sure could outlast energizer” Darcy added. “In which case, you may want to make sure it plugs in to the wall. And is waterproof. “
“Actually,” Pepper continued, “I was thinking about how much Tony loves it when I wear anything related to Iron Man to bed.”
“This is the best girl night ever,” Darcy grinned. “Tell me he has a special Iron Man cock. Tell me it’s like a Swiss Army knife. I need this.”
Natasha inhaled. “So basically, the best gift ever is something that feeds his ego?”
“It’s complicated and yet simple,” Jane shrugged.
***
The simple part had been ordering it. Pepper’s contacts were fast and intuitive, and suddenly she was designing (or rather they were leading her through a design) of an homage to Captain America.
The complicated part, naturally, was getting the damned thing on. An addendum to the complicated part of buckles and snaps and holding her breath to slide the leather over her skin, was her own feelings about the entire thing. She was Russian, for crissakes, she murmured to herself as she buckled the blue utility belt around her waist. The bold of the red and blue, the magnificence of the white star across her chest, and she almost backed out.
She knew she looked good and had no doubts it would be well-received. But wearing it felt like a leap of faith. As though she was admitting in the bluntest of ways that she was his girl and that she was game for whatever their future held.
She slipped in to his apartment when she knew he was at the gym, her body tingling at the thought of surprising him.
When she heard his keys, her mind went through a second wave of panic and she again considered backing out, going home to retrieve something she could re-gift. She had a blank journal. It had flowers on the cover but he drew all the time. It was perfect.
“Natasha?”
She looked up, stood as straight as she could, hands fidgeting with the belt to her coat.
“Surprise?” she said weakly, mentally steeling herself for the reveal.
“Yes. I am, a little.” He smiled. “Your hair looks great down like that, by the way.”
She touched the blue headband she’d added for effect, her stomach working itself into ridiculous knots. It was all frustrating and childish, because it wasn’t like she’d never been undercover before or worn something different. It was more common to dress as someone else than not, enough that she barely knew what “in character” even meant, after all.
“I’m thirsty,” he announced making his way to the fridge.
She took his turned back as a green light and slid out of her coat, the cool air against her midriff making her shiver.
“Holy Mary Mother of God…”Steve Rogers exhaled. She held her breath as his eyes roamed over her, boots to eyelashes. He said a few more curses and she thought he might combust, like a cartoon character whose tongue had fallen to the floor and unrolled itself like a red carpet to her toes.
“I think that reaction alone is worth the price of admission,” she smirked, feeling braver. “I know you have feelings about your suit, Captain. But I researched this. Jane said Thor liked it and Pepper told me Tony had this….”
“I really don’t need to know,” he blurted, shaking his head slowly.
Natasha decided it was as good a time as any to make sure she was on the right track, because the journal was still a back-up, motioning for him to come closer.
“I think I need to draw this…” he stammered, sprinting over. “Can I touch?”
“You are the Captain,” she teased. “And you’d be doing the country a disservice if you didn’t touch.”
He pulled her close and reached for one of her cherry-colored gloves.
“This,” he said as he kissed her wrist, “is the color of Christmas.”
She hummed, feeling her core heat up like oil in a hot pan.
“There are a lot of wonderful things about this get-up…” he mused quietly, fingertips skimming her belly. “I don’t show that kind of skin….”
“I don’t think they were going for accuracy….” She breathed as he kissed a latex-covered shoulder.
“Yeah, I don’t think so either,” he smiled into her skin, his breath tickling her neck. She reached for his pants and he pulled back.
“What’s this for, Natasha?” he asked, licking his lips.
“Your birthday,” she answered, clenching her fists out of impatience.
“Then I guess I should be the one to do the unwrapping,” he sighed, as if it was a hard and thankless job. Before she could make a retort he was on his knees, admiring the red boots that came with the deal.
“A lot of snaps on these…” he said as he ran a hand up her calves.
“Yeah, well, watching you undo them is one of my all-time favorite pastimes,” she responded, spreading her legs a little wider.
“Mine too,” he admitted, one of his hands stopping at her knees. “Knee pads…. Those are always handy in battle…”
“I’m sure they work, too,” she said, desire thick in her voice. He looked up at her and hummed, as if considering a test-drive. His fingers traveled over her ass to her belt, pulling her body against him.
“Do you know how many letters we get asking what I keep in my utility belt?” he wondered, his mouth dangerously close to her middle.
“I’m sure this one is a little different…” she mock-apologized, moving her hips closer.
“Doesn’t really matter if it’s coming off, does it?” he noted, looking up at her with those damned eyelashes.
She shook her head, watching as he took a deep breath before unbuckling her. His fingers moved fast but it was still too slow and she found herself whimpering, wishing she’d gotten a skirt instead. He tossed the belt onto the floor and got to work, his lips pressing against her belly, his thumbs hooking into her leggings.
“I hope these come down easier than mine,” he murmured, rolling them down carefully. They did slide down easier than she had anticipated and he got them down to the knee before he stopped.
“Keep going,” she urged.
“I’m still trying to figure out how I can get these down and still have those boots next to my ears,” he admitted before dipping a finger between her legs. The suit’s logistics worked in her favor in that she hadn’t worn underwear. He crooked that finger and she started cursing.
“It’s not possible…” she grunted, doing what she could to move, as if one digit could even come close to relieving the pressure.
“Not unless I get the scissors,” he nodded, parting her legs as much as the stiff material would allow. She watched with bated breath as he shifted on his knees and leaned in.
Hearing Captain America inhale into that geography of curls and sweat and want does something to a girl.
“Don’t fall on me,” he chuckled when her knees started shaking, a response to the tip of his tongue as it went straight for her clit.
“I won’t,” she managed the two words out, garbled as they were because of the throbbing he was creating as he opened her up, fingers stroking and pushing against nerves. Gloved hands tugged on his hair, gently steering him against her, because she wanted more. More fingers and pressure and pull and suck.
"I hate these pants right now," she grunted as he grazed teeth across her flesh. More of that and she'd get the scissors herself.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked before drawing that tiny and glorious nub of feeling between his lips.
She leaned in, her knees pushing against his chest, and whined in response.
"Did you know the clitoris has more nerve endings than the penis?" he asked, dragging a thumb over her.
"howdyoufindthatout,” She moaned, not really able to care if it came out in English or Pig Latin.
"The Internet," he shrugged. "Wanted to know how to hit them all..."
"God..." she reached for his shoulders, wondering if she could just use momentum and gravity to push against him, the pressure building, bubbling underneath the surface like lava. She felt indulgent, wanting to find out if he could tease out all of those nerves too, certain he was well on his way as her body started quaking.
The rip of cloth startled her only momentarily. The back part of Natasha's mind registered that she had range of motion again, that the pants-turned-torture-traps that had kept her from opening her legs wider were no longer an obstacle. She registered a momentary loss of gravity and found herself on her knees. Except that he was still there between her legs, and it wasn’t immediately logical but oh, it was delicious.
“I told you I’d figure out a way to get these boots up to my ears,” he said smugly, caressing her legs. She ground into him, throwing her body forward and curling herself around his head in frenzy, no coherent thoughts except “ohgodohgodohgodohgod…”
After, her body felt like jelly as she slid off. Suddenly, all she could think about was how constricting the whole uniform felt.
“Scissors,” she ordered, her lower half still vibrating. He’d ripped her pants. She couldn’t process that Steve had ripped those damned pants. He looked over at her and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking suddenly pretty confident and pleased, before getting up to go to the kitchen.
She reached for the buckles on her gloves, fumbling and cursing, and managing to work through half of one by the time he was back. Steve held up a pair of black kitchen scissors and a sheepish look.
“Sorry, I know this was probably expensive,” he said as he slid the tip of the blades underneath the hem of her top.
“Sorry it’s your birthday present,” she said, just as apologetic. He flushed and started cutting, managing a straight line by carefully following a white stripe that led up to her breasts. She tried not to hold her breath, feeling the sliver of metal against her skin as the blades cut through, her body rejoicing at the breeze. Air, she decided, never felt so good. When he’d cut through the star and turned the top into a jacket, she exhaled. He snuck a quick mouthful of breast and she playfully slapped at his shoulder.
When he helped her out of the gloves, she wondered how she’d even gotten them on at all.
Sitting on her bottom, she watched as he undid the buckles and snaps to the boots that had gotten them started in the first place, footwear that quite honestly pointed out how problematic the whole ensemble really was. He stayed focused, tugging until she was finally free and the only proof she’d had of the search for the perfect birthday present was a heap of fabric and embellishment on the floor.
“I think I may just cry,“ she sighed, glad to feel just skin. He smiled and held out his hand.
“Alright, so I guess we should leave the stripes to me and let you keep the suit we know was made for you,” he said as he pulled her up and led her to the bedroom.
She resisted the urge to ask him if he liked it, quelling the part of her that wanted to hear the approval because that would top her list of most humiliating things….
“Natasha,” he sighed as he lay down beside her, his body naked and warm. “That was amazing.”
“I have other things,” she lied, working out a plan for what to add in case it wasn’t exactly what he wanted.
“It was perfect. And unnecessary. Just being with you is all I really need or want,” he said, in a tone she knew was sincere. She rolled her eyes.
“Steve. I’m your girlfriend. I should be able to get you a birthday gift without thinking so hard.”
“Is this your Achilles heel, Natasha?” Steve propped himself up on an elbow. “Because I mean it. The fact that you are present with me at all is present enough.”
“Ha,” she smiled at the pun.
He smiled back and kissed her, soft and sweet. “You did just say you were my girlfriend. I don’t think I even thought I’d hear anyone ever say that about me.”
It tugged at emotions, his confession about not belonging to anyone. The root of why she hated gifts so much and why he tried so hard sometimes.
“I don’t think I’ve ever stressed out about what to give someone, Steve.”
He ran a finger along the line on her chest that the uniform had burned into her. “I don’t think I’ve had anyone that wasn’t my mother worry as hard.”
Natasha leaned in and hugged him, sighed in to him. She was appreciated. It was revolutionary and overwhelming and beautiful.
“Why did you send me those things?” she asked into his neck.
“Because,” he shrugged, “because I wanted to. It made me feel good to make you feel good.”
“What if I didn’t like them though?”
“It’s a gamble. I like those sometimes,” he chuckled. It frustrated her because it wasn’t enough and she found herself pushing.
“But you expected something back?”
“Did I?” he answered, an eyebrow raised. “Huh. Like what?”
“A favor? I don’t know…” she pulled back and sat up, drawing her knees in.
He leaned in and kissed the outside of her thigh. “Well, I don’t know. Unconsciously? I think I nearly died watching you eat that banana.”
She smiled. “That was fun.”
“I don’t know what I expected, Natasha. I didn’t expect that sending you flowers because I thought you were fascinating and inspiring and beautiful in a way that I can’t describe in the English language…. I didn’t expect to fall in love with you.”
Natasha looked down at him, searching his face for confirmation of what she’d just heard, searching herself for checks on how she felt in response.
“I’m saying it without expecting it in return, Natasha. Sometimes gifts are freely given,” he smiled, planting a kiss on her knee.
Natasha thought again to the journal in her closet at home, and the meanings she communicated when she gave things like that away. It had been so important to her to give him something personal and real. Because he had been personal and real.
Because they had been personal and real and because he’d brought out all of her authenticity, if she was honest.
Before she could second-guess herself, she reached over to the bedside table and opened a drawer, rustling through the odds and ends.
“Natasha?” he touched her shoulder.
“Shhhh…” she whispered, pulling out a sharpie.
“I’m not going to ask…” he started.
“Good,” she bit her lip and pushed him down so that she could straddle him. “Hold still.”
“I’m not going to ask but this is definitely pushing at my comfort zone…” he struggled only a bit as she grabbed his wrist.
“Shut it, Rogers,” Natasha ordered, opening the pen and holding the cap in her mouth. She could feel him, panting below her, his body responding naturally to the weight of her against him. She scrawled something, the only thing, on his pulse point, in her serious and careful script.
I love you, too, Steve Rogers.
“That”, he traced it with his other hand, his eyes wide, “is the cherry on top.”
***
Natasha continued her reign as the worst gift-giver on the team, though every once in a while she got it right. The tell, at least when it came to Steve, was always the way he rubbed at his wrist.