Romanogers - Oneshots

𝔦'𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔪𝔞𝔰

I'm not sure if it's made completely clear so forewarning: set in 1944, NYC.

Natasha raps on the door of the townhouse, shrugging her shoulders to her ears in an attempt to pool more warmth around her neck, a shield against the cold. Her light reefer coat is from last summer, but it's all she's got, and her hope that pairing it with a thick wool scarf would keep out the late December chill was sadly mistaken. Standing in the shadow of the intimidating building provides little respite, and she's glad when the door is opened briskly.
"Natasha! Come in, come in, out of the cold with you." Pepper beckons her inside, shutting out the last frigid draught and immediately offering to take her coat and hat. Natasha accepts gratefully. "Did you walk all the way here?"
"It's not far, only 'bout five blocks or so."

"Is that a Natalie?" The one and only Tony Stark emerges from the living room carrying a brunette child, neatly dressed (by Pepper, she's assuming) in a green frock to suit the festive tone and bouncing excitedly in her father's arms.
"Only if that's an Anthony Stark," she replies, already shaking the cold out of her bones with this warm greeting.
"It is. How are you on this merry evening, Nat?"
"Surviving."

The Stark's house is, as always, spick and span, kept in meticulous equilibrium balanced by Tony's antics and Pepper's insistence on orderliness. Natasha's own apartment at the Griffith is kept tidy only by the threat of Mrs Fry's inspections, and a distinct lack of stuff; she doesn't own much, doesn't need to. The Stark's however, stuff in proportion to their townhouse, but neatness evidently comes easy to Pepper.

"Meal's all laid out, if you want to go straight through." Pepper ushers them out of the entrance hall to the dining room, untying her apron as they go.
"Gosh, Pepper. What a spread." Despite the restriction of rationing, the contents of the table really is impressive. A couple of hunks of meat, the sum of two weeks of saved ration tokens, finely roasted, complemented by a bowl of boiled potatoes. The only food in multitude is the fresh produce, bowls of carrots and peas and turnip, due to limited supply but no allotted allowance on that commodity. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."
"Potatoes were barely out of the pan, don't worry."
" 's really impressive, Pep. Well done." Tony rubs his wife on the arm as they sit and she blushes, but brushes off the praise.

"Thanks so much for inviting me." Natasha takes her place tentatively, eyeing the plates of food. She can't quite believe it. Without the Starks' invitation, she would now be sitting down to a lukewarm dinner of measly portions, with only the loneliest of girls present, and then confined to her room for the rest of the evening, watching the merry folk pass below her window. Drunk couples, young ladies hurrying back before their curfew, the solitary, searching for company at the most wonderful time of the year. All would only remind her of her own melancholy. How the only person she wants to spend the evening is out of reach for the long run.

She and Pepper are good friends - Tony's wife had been her neighbour before marrying him - but this intrusion into their family was not anticipated, though gladly received.
"It's no problem, Nat. I couldn't stand to think of you in that apartment all by yourself, not tonight."

They sit. The meal is delicious, despite limited supply of nourishment, and plates are cleaned quickly. Morgan's intermittent babbles seem to quieten as dinner drags, so Tony offers to take her to bed, scooping her lax body, drooping like a sunflower deprived of sun, over his shoulder.

"You have a wonderful life, Pepper."
"I cant complain. Tony's a good husband, constantly moving on up, you know? They really like the work he's doing at the SSR right now, he's eyeing a promotion, but... I should stop prattling. How 'bout you? Any more letters from lover boy?"
Immediately, Natasha's heart stutters in her chest. From choked desolation or eagerness, she's unsure. She toys with the stem of her glass, fighting a blush. "Some." Her fingers go to brush her brooch, the tiny sculpted rose he'd pressed into her palms as he left. The letters are a source of ambivalence. Their script, every word precious, burns itself into her mind so brightly that there are few she cannot recite start to finish. It could be poetry, the way he speaks of his love for her. She tries to emulate it, translate the way he makes her feel, even from across the sea, to the page, but suspects it does not have the same effect.

However, every day between is purgatory filled with an agonising anticipation. Every day he falls out of schedule the hot poker at the back of her mind convinces her that the next will be notifying her of his passing.

She knows, wishing his presence for Christmas was foolish and childish. He couldn't just demand absence from the front lines. But oh, how she wished it. There was that club he'd been wanting to take her to. He always insists he can't dance for toffee, but they'd fumble along, and then burst out into the night, flushed cheeks meeting the chilled air. They'd have prolonged her escort back to her apartment as long as possible, barely escaped Mrs Fry's reprimands. Their hands would've lingered as they separated, still reaching long after she'd arrived in her room.

But they couldn't. Can't. The world is not at rights enough.

Pepper's next words are punctured by the doorbell. She winces, thinking instantly of Morgan and her hopefully uninterrupted slumber.
"I'll get it." Pepper rises, wiping her hands down on her apron. There's a pause after the caller is revealed. A drawn out pause.
"Nat, it's for you."

Natasha frowns, astonished, and rises from her seat. For her?

Pepper steps out of the way as she enters the hallway, and as soon as she sees her visitor, the corridor is instantly too long.

Steve stands in his uniform, framed by the doorway, supported by a crutch on his left leg and a sling on his opposite arm, bruised and battered and utterly, utterly beautiful. She flings herself at him soundlessly, registering and avoiding his injuries all in the same second. He reciprocates immediately as best he can, still gripping the crutch, pressing his face into her hair. Pepper is smiling in the background, as is Tony (on his way down the stairs), but Natasha isn't paying attention to them. Steve smells musty and sharp: like sweat and sanitation and smoke. All she focuses on is his presence, how he breathes and feels and looks, when she pulls back, beaming.
"Surprise," He injects, ruefully, and her heart hurts.
"I can't believe it." He places a kiss to her forehead and she just about melts.
"Well, they couldn't really send me back in like this, so I've a bit of leave to recover. Wanted to surprise you, y'know?"

"Come in, Steve. Please come in, we've just eaten dinner." Tony says. The door shuts behind them.

"How did you know where to find me?"
"I turned up at the Griffith, but Wanda passed me on her way out, said you'd gone for an evening at the Starks'." He answers, shrugging one shoulder.
Natasha loses track of how much time passes while they sit together, heads close, voices low, in the living room. Jubilation is a welcome but unexpected contrast to her hidden melancholy only an hour ago, but the world is brighter. It's sharper.

The celebratory airs are slightly dampened by the strike of the clock, reflecting the darkness in their signals of the dwindling hours. Only slightly.
"Darn, it's already 9:30. I must get back; Mrs Fry will be after me if I break curfew." Natasha stands, collecting her coat, and grins hopefully in Steve's direction. "Walk me back?"
He offers her his arm. "With pleasure, darling."

I don't know if they said 'darn' in 1940s America but it's old-timey so

This series is almost over 😔