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Part 7

Natasha lounges on the double bed with a laptop and a heap of photographs, picking at a selection of chocolates Steve had room service bring up. Every now and again she'll make a small noise of frustration or chew on her pen instead of chocolate as she scrutinises the screen in front of her before scribbling on a notepad.

Steve reclines in an armchair by the window, legs stretched out in front of him. There's a similar stack of files and photos on the coffee table to his right. He's trying to concentrate on the text in front of him but they've been combing every line and every photo for what feels like hours and his brain just isn't absorbing the information anymore. Endless call records and bank transactions and blueprints and emails and security camera stills. He feels so sluggish that he's pretty sure that he's read the same paragraph at least six times over without realising.

There's a film playing quietly on the television in Russian, with English subtitles. Steve's gotten into the habit of having films on in the background like this because reading a language is very different from hearing it being spoken. He learns it better this way, the combination of hearing the foreign language spoken naturally and reading the translations at the same time burning into his memory. Watching it absentmindedly, he finds himself occasionally repeating words and phrases under his breath to get used to the feel of the words on his tongue when his attention strays from the files he's supposed to be reading.

"As much as I like hearing you speak Russian, you should be reading those files," he hears Natasha say, her voice luring him out of the daze he's in.

"Hm?" he hums, glancing across at her before looking back to the files guiltily. But really he knows he isn't going to get any further with them in this state of mind. Defeated, he throws the file he's currently holding to the table and rubs at his eyes.

"I can barely see straight anymore I've read so many of these things," he says, standing and stretching out his limbs. His fingertips just brush the ceiling before he lets his arms fall heavily back to his sides. "I just need to think about something else for a few minutes."

"I've seen this guy's face so much I'm going to be dreaming about him," Natasha agrees, pushing the photos of the man they are trailing away from her and throwing an arm over her eyes as she rolls onto her back. Steve walks over to the small coffee machine on the side.

"Coffee?" he asks automatically, filling up the pot with water.

"Please," comes Natasha's reply, and he switches it on and sets out two cups.

"<So you like hearing me speak Russian, do you?>" he teases, though secretly his chest swells at the thought of it.

"<Shut up>," she retorts back. A pillow hits the back of his head, softly thumps to the floor and he has to stifle a laugh. He turns to face her and she's wearing that playful smirk of hers, like she knows something he doesn't. She jerks her head in the direction of the file he's left on top of the stack on the table.

"<Pass me that file,>" she says.

Steve could listen to Natasha speak Russian all day. There's something incredibly warm and silky smooth about her voice, the heavy accent lowering the pitch slightly and never failing to send a shiver through him no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

He hands the file to her, and when their fingers brush he can't figure out if she did it on purpose or not because she's still smirking even though she's looking at the file instead of him. Her tongue sweeps across her plump lips and Steve wonders if they're as soft and inviting as they look. But she had made it unmistakably clear about a month ago after a very awkward conversation that they're just partners, colleagues, and doesn't have any intention of changing that. So he thinks about something else.