Getting to Know You

Ramen at Dawn

Steve has NO idea. Absolutely no idea of what she has to go through all over again; The painful process she got through over the years to get rid of her memories from her past.

Needless to say, she doesn't sleep well at night.

Barely did.

Impossible now.

She doesn't actually need that much sleep, though− she might not carry the same amount of brute strength that Steve's super soldier serum gave him, but she was given something too-- something to enhance her skills and training, and, that same serum has given her the advantage (is it an advantage?) to carry on up to days without sleep.

When she's not sleeping, her brain haunts her with warnings, memories, burdens of the need of redemption-- guilt. All calmness and stillness she presents in front of everyone is nothing but a thick layered mask; one that barely anyone has ever manage to impale through.

Help Wanda my ass. Mind your own business, little sneaky witch. You did this to me.

She rose up from her bed, combed crimson curls out of her face and decided to reach for her phone, for a moment contemplating on whether calling Clint is a good decision or not. He's probably asleep, it's two in the morning.

Amongst all deep thoughts that struck her, one of them stands out and gives her most anxiety: it's about how she treated Steve this afternoon, how cold she suddenly became, and how he must've meant nothing but to ask her for a favor. She shouldn't have done that to him. Poor Steve.

But I don't wanna help Wanda.

She waited, sitting down on her study desk (which she mainly uses to work on mission reports), and before she knows it, it was almost three already. She murmured 'fuck it' to herself, grabbed a worn ivory white sweater and ventured down the empty, quiet halls of the Avengers living quarters, headed for the living room, thinking she'd rather find herself alone someplace else rather than her claustrophobic-inducing room. Everybody's asleep, right? The living room should be empty.

She was wrong.

There was a broad, tall figure under the dim lighting of the room, sitting on the couch, noisily clanking silverware with one another and she could make out the sound of slurping noises, funnily enough.

She walked closer to the figure, circling the couch to get a better look at him. He quickly looked up, eyes glimmering in the dominating darkness, a bowl of Ramen noodles held on his palm, a fork on his other, spoon dipped inside the broth.

"Romanoff?" He let out, a mouthful of Ramen.

"Didn't know the captain has such a horrible eating habit."

He swiftly, embarrassedly, put down the bowl on the table in front of him and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. They found each other's eyes and she could see how much he's trying to take mental notes about her current state. She hates it.

She took a seat next to him,though, since she's already here and her leaving the premises right now will further his inquiry of her mental state-- he'd chase her down, she's sure and she'd hate that more. She kept her distance though, sitting far enough to maintain her personal space.

"As you can see I'm not that accustomed to table manners." He scoffed shyly.

"Oh no, knock yourself out. I don't care." She shrugged, looking out to the night sky, sounding cool and convincingly neutral.

He tangled his fingers together and pursed his lips tight, as if not knowing what to say when he clearly has something to say. Natasha doesn't even have to put up an effort to read through him; Steve Rogers is an open book. She decided to keep her silence, though. She'd rather just wait for him to say what he clearly is holding in.