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Part 3

"It's this one."

Steve looks across at her confident verdict to see her bringing her hands up to rest on her stomach. She's lying next to him, gazing at the ceiling, on a mattress in Ikea.

Natasha had declared it a crime when she found out he was living this century and he hadn't been to Ikea yet. And, when he let slip that he hadn't been sleeping too well on his marshmallow of a bed, it was decided. Killing two birds with one mattress, she had said. What feels like half a day has passed already and they haven't even made it out of the bed department. Steve isn't too certain that he likes the place. It's like time has a new meaning here.

"I'm not sure," he replies, looking back at the blank ceiling and fidgeting a bit. The mattress is definitely firmer than his current one, and probably the best one out of the dozens they have tried already, but can he sleep on it? There's no way of knowing, short of falling asleep in the store, which he's pretty sure is frowned upon.

"Remember, you have ninety days to bring it back if you don't like it and swap it for another one," she says, as if reading his thoughts and sounding like an employee.

Steve ponders for a moment. He thinks he's narrowed it down to two.

"Let's try the other one more time. Where was it again?" he asks, sitting up and finding himself unable to recall in the sea of beds. Last time he'd seen so many beds together there'd been a war on and the thought is a little disorientating. Natasha slips off the mattress and calls back over her shoulder.

"Aw, having trouble remembering in your old age? Maybe we should get you a memory foam mattress."

He rolls his eyes at her and follows, plonking himself down on the slightly firmer mattress and wondering if Natasha would ever run out of terrible jokes about his age. He doesn't see it happening any time this century. Yet another attendant walks over to them but is quickly turned away like the rest by Natasha's rather unique social skills.

Steve closes his eyes, tries to imagine falling asleep and that's when he finally figures out what it is that's bugging him about the place.There's a distinct lack of clocks. Ones that display the correct time anyway. There's cheesy songs playing on a loop the radio and there aren't any windows. Everything is bright and shiny and demands your attention. It's like a casino, or Tony's lab.

He's pulled from his thoughts when Natasha leans across flicks him on the shoulder. She's resting on one elbow and fixing him with an amused look on her face. He wonders for a moment if this is what it would be like to wake up with her. To open his eyes and see that fiery hair and clever smile. His heart stutters.

"Hurry up and choose one, I told that attendant I was going to divorce you if we don't make a decision soon," she says.

He still isn't sure why she feels the need to give them a cover story when they're just out looking at beds, but he knows better than to question her and doesn't press the matter. Let her have her games. God knows there's no room for such things most of the time with the kind of lives they lead.

"The other one," Steve sighs, defeated. Mumbling something about not being married as he gets up, Natasha ignores him and beckons to the assistant. A lump forms in his throat as she slips her hand into his.

"What are you doing?" Steve asks, mildly perplexed but hardly complaining.

"Married people hold hands, Steve," she says dryly, as if he's just asked her whether or not the sky is blue. They're not married, but it's nice anyway, the way her hand fits in his, and Steve doesn't object as he lets her wrap things up with the assistant and makes a move to leave, still holding his hand.

"Let's go to the kitchen department before we go, I need some new knives," she says casually.

He doesn't ask if she means for cooking or killing, but he hopes it's the former. He doesn't think Ikea kitchen knives would be good for throwing, but what does he know? It's the first time he's been here.

"I still can't believe you put 'Go to Ikea' on my list," he huffs, changing the subject. Not that he's actually annoyed at her. Quite the opposite in fact. His chest feels light because the skin of her palm is warm and soft. Her slender fingers are interlocked with his and it's the first time she's done such a thing outside of a mission.

"Well, now you can cross it off your list," she retorts. "Besides, it's part of the 21st century experience."

"What, consumerist-driven showroom aesthetics so everyone's lives look like dollhouses?"

"Precisely," she says, flashing that sly half smile at him. "Don't you know the government want to control everyone? It's a worldwide plot to get everyone to buy the same sofa."

Steve suppresses another sigh. Even though he doesn't really like the place, he's glad she's the one who dragged him here.

She's unusually quiet as they pass through the children's department, and Steve resists the urge to stop and pick up one of the plushies that resembles Hulk. There's a pained look in her eyes which he doesn't think he'd notice if he wasn't so used to her subtleties and expressions. He tries not to think about what it could mean, but he doesn't miss how the grip on his hand tenses a fraction and her shoulders stiffen when a child behind them screams with laughter and delight. He picks up the pace slightly, deciding it's best to get out of this particlar part of the store.

They leave the department and enter the almost clinical looking kitchen aisles, and the look in her eyes is gone. Her features are relaxed, as they were before, like it was never there. But she had let the mask slip and he knows he didn't imagine it.

Suddenly he feels uncomfortable and wonders just how much she's never said.

He squeezes her hand reassuringly, and hopes that one day she'll tell him.