Steve's in the New York Public Library when he notices. He's the only one browsing the History shelves at 9 in the morning, aside from the tired-looking girl whose purse keeps sliding off her shoulders who seems to be looking for information related to the Gulf War. Steve's a little tired of the sheer number of wars during the 20th century, even though he knows older generations didn't really do it better.
Anyway. It's not that she's being obvious, Natasha is never obvious, but his hearing got quite a bit better from the serum, and he thinks she's making a point of not being quite as sneaky as she can be. He doesn't react well to being startled, which she knows, because she's good at people like that.
"Light reading?" she says.
"I." He thinks about it. "I just want to understand," he says, finally, glancing at her.
She nods. "It's hard to understand. I lived through some of it, and it's still--" she shrugs, nudging a little bit closer.
"So many people," he says, nodding at the books. "So many dead, because--"
"Some of them because of me," she says, and it's flat, no inflection, and she's waiting for him to flinch.
"You're here now," he says, and she smiles a little at that.
"I don't think I'm any better than the people who are still there," she says. "I just got lucky."
"I left people behind too," he says. "I don't think I'm any more--the war killed so many good men. And women."
She nods. "Every day's an anniversary," she says, fingering a book titled The Rise and Fall of the KGB.
It's an impulse, and he's not sure why he does it, because Natasha sure doesn't invite casual touch when she doesn't know you very well, and they don't know each other that well yet. But he puts his arm around her shoulders and squeezes, quickly, leaning his head against her hair for a second. She's always much shorter than he expects.
She only lets him do it for about four seconds before she shrugs off his arm. Her eyes are warm, though, so he's not too worried.
"Let's go outside," she says. "You could use some sun. You can read more later."
"I need to--" he says, and she nods.
"I know. I really do know. I mainlined books for months after I got out. But sunshine, soldier boy, it cures all ills. Or near enough."
no subject
Steve's in the New York Public Library when he notices. He's the only one browsing the History shelves at 9 in the morning, aside from the tired-looking girl whose purse keeps sliding off her shoulders who seems to be looking for information related to the Gulf War. Steve's a little tired of the sheer number of wars during the 20th century, even though he knows older generations didn't really do it better.
Anyway. It's not that she's being obvious, Natasha is never obvious, but his hearing got quite a bit better from the serum, and he thinks she's making a point of not being quite as sneaky as she can be. He doesn't react well to being startled, which she knows, because she's good at people like that.
"Light reading?" she says.
"I." He thinks about it. "I just want to understand," he says, finally, glancing at her.
She nods. "It's hard to understand. I lived through some of it, and it's still--" she shrugs, nudging a little bit closer.
"So many people," he says, nodding at the books. "So many dead, because--"
"Some of them because of me," she says, and it's flat, no inflection, and she's waiting for him to flinch.
"You're here now," he says, and she smiles a little at that.
"I don't think I'm any better than the people who are still there," she says. "I just got lucky."
"I left people behind too," he says. "I don't think I'm any more--the war killed so many good men. And women."
She nods. "Every day's an anniversary," she says, fingering a book titled The Rise and Fall of the KGB.
It's an impulse, and he's not sure why he does it, because Natasha sure doesn't invite casual touch when she doesn't know you very well, and they don't know each other that well yet. But he puts his arm around her shoulders and squeezes, quickly, leaning his head against her hair for a second. She's always much shorter than he expects.
She only lets him do it for about four seconds before she shrugs off his arm. Her eyes are warm, though, so he's not too worried.
"Let's go outside," she says. "You could use some sun. You can read more later."
"I need to--" he says, and she nods.
"I know. I really do know. I mainlined books for months after I got out. But sunshine, soldier boy, it cures all ills. Or near enough."