Cursed Realities

1. He Bothers Her

He bothers her. His entire existence bothers her. The way he talks, the way he works, the way he orders around, the way he expects discipline from others. Everything about him bothers her lately. 

Natasha sat at the minibar in Tony's lavish Stark Tower, the pulsating music and the dull roar of conversation enveloping her like a distant, irrelevant symphony. A vodka-filled glass stood before her, and she tossed back another shot, feeling the fiery liquid blaze a trail down her throat.

Across the room, Steve Rogers, the embodiment of virtue and discipline, occupied his own space. Natasha's eyes involuntarily rolled at the thought of him—the way he spoke, the commanding presence, the incessant expectation of order and discipline. It all grated on her nerves, intensifying her aversion to the super-soldier.

The previous day's mission replayed in her mind like a frustrating loop. Natasha, ever the strategic risk-taker, had successfully apprehended the criminal they were pursuing, albeit with a painful consequence.

 A deep knife cut adorned her thigh, a testament to the dangers she willingly faced. However, any satisfaction from her accomplishment was swiftly extinguished when Steve, in his self-righteous demeanor, berated her for her perceived recklessness.

In that moment, the room seemed to shrink, the accusing gazes of SHIELD agents intensifying the embarrassment Natasha felt. The sting of his reprimand cut deeper than the knife wound on her thigh.

It wasn't the wound that bothered her; it was his relentless need to assert authority, to remind her of his version of discipline. The frustration simmered beneath her cool exterior, and as she tossed back another shot of vodka, the burn in her throat mirrored the simmering resentment within her.

But the thing intensifies her frustration is, the way he talks to her after their missions. The way he behaves so normal after getting back to the tower, as if he just had not lashed out on her for creating unnecessary noise. 

Natasha's frustration simmered beneath the surface, fueled by each gulp of vodka that she downed in an attempt to drown her vexation. The atmosphere around her remained a blend of indistinct chatter and pulsating music, yet her inner turmoil seemed to carve its own silent symphony.

Into this dissonant backdrop approached a man with a smirk that oozed confidence, an audacious stranger who took a seat beside her. Natasha, uninterested and already on edge, glanced at him with a dismissive air as he smoothly inquired, "Can I buy you a drink, my lady?"

Her eyes rolled at the predictability of the line. "No," she retorted curtly, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

 However, the man, seemingly undeterred, seized her hand as she stood up to leave. His persistence bordered on insolence as he insisted, "Come on. You should be curious about what's next after this drink."

A wink accompanied his suggestive words, igniting a spark of irritation within Natasha. She recoiled, her patience stretched to its limit. 

Natasha's momentary fantasy of using a knife to silence the insolent stranger was abruptly interrupted by an unexpected turn of events. Just as she was about to unleash the full force of her skills on the intrusive man, someone else swooped in from behind. A firm grip seized the offender's hand, and a twist followed, causing the man to wince in pain.

As Natasha turned her head to identify the unexpected savior, the familiar figure of Steve Rogers emerged from the shadows. His stature radiated authority, and his eyes bore into the man with a stern intensity. Steve's actions were swift and decisive, a silent reproach for the unwarranted advances.

"Why can't you hear her resistance?" Steve's voice carried a stern reprimand, emphasizing not just the physical discomfort he was inflicting on the man but also the audacity of ignoring Natasha's clear disapproval. The stranger, now thoroughly chastised, winced once more before choosing a hasty retreat, leaving behind an air of humiliation.

However, for Natasha, the lingering discomfort didn't dissipate with the man's departure. Instead, a different kind of frustration seeped in. Steve's intervention, though well-intentioned, felt like an unwarranted intrusion into her self-sufficiency.

Natasha's gaze held a mixture of irritation and defiance as she processed the implication of Steve's actions. Once again, he had positioned himself as the protector, treating her as though she were fragile and in need of rescue.

The air crackled with tension as Natasha's eyes bore into Steve's, a glare that sought to communicate both frustration and a firm boundary. "Don't do that again," she demanded, her tone cutting through the ambient noise of the party.

To her disbelief, Steve merely smiled, a reaction that kindled an ember of anger within Natasha. How dare he dismiss her admonition with a smile? The internal monologue echoed in her mind, a silent protest against his perceived overstepping.

"What?" Steve replied, feigning innocence, his calm demeanor standing in stark contrast to Natasha's bristling irritation.

Natasha sighed, exasperated by the need to articulate what felt obvious. "I don't need a protector, Rogers. Not you, certainly."

A subtle twist of discomfort flickered across Steve's face, a hint of hurt that Natasha noticed. However, he swiftly masked it, reaching out to place a steadying hand on her shoulder and waist. Preventing her from stumbling. 

The smirk in his voice lingered as he remarked, "It sure looks like you do, though."  His grip shifted to both her shoulders as he guided her through the crowd, an unspoken acknowledgment of his decision to override her protests.

Ignoring the calls of Tony and Clint, Steve supported Natasha's unsteady steps towards the elevator. The world outside the party seemed to blur as they entered the confined space. Natasha's frustration grew, not just with Steve's assumption of her state but with her own lack of control in the moment.

The journey to Natasha's apartment continued, each step accompanied by the soft hum of the elevator. Upon reaching her door, Steve watched as Natasha swayed slightly, struggling to focus on the scanner. With a gentle touch, she managed to scan her thumb against the lock, granting them access to her dimly lit apartment.

As they entered, Steve guided her through the familiar space, the scent of alcohol lingering in the air. Natasha's mind was a blur, clouded by the effects of the alcohol, leaving her feeling hazy and confused.

Steve led her to her bedroom, the soft illumination revealing a room that mirrored the dichotomy of their relationship – one of conflicting emotions and unspoken tensions. He eased her down onto the bed, a touch that, despite its gentleness, was met with a foggy sense of confusion.

The removal of her heels was a tender gesture, and Natasha, on the cusp of succumbing to sleep, couldn't quite grasp the details of the moment. Steve pulled the blanket over her, tucking her in with a care that contrasted the haziness in her mind.

Kneeling beside her, Steve observed as sleep gradually claimed her consciousness. In her half-sleep state, Natasha mumbled, "I hate you, Rogers. You make me feel weak." 

Steve's response was a gentle caress to her hair, a silent acknowledgment of the recurring sentiment. "Not the first time you're saying it to me," he smiled, a mixture of understanding and fondness in his gaze.

Aware that Natasha wouldn't remember their interaction in the morning, Steve leaned in, his expression filled with longing. "Let me tell you a secret," he whispered. Natasha nodded faintly, her eyelids drooping.

"It's okay if you don't need me when you would be doing alright," Steve confessed softly. "But... I want you to know that... I'll always be there for you when you would be vulnerable." A sigh escaped him, carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. "Good night, Nat." With that, he flicked off the lamp, leaving the room in soft darkness, and walked out, closing the door slowly.

As the door clicked shut, Natasha succumbed to the embrace of sleep, the blurry and confused sensations of the night fading into dreams.