Amnesia

C21: Breakfast

I woke up at 9:42. Or atleast that's what the clock said.

That's the latest I've ever slept in before.

I rolled over and peered at Steve, those adorable blue eyes locked under eyelids of tired desperation. He looked tired still, he needed the sleep.

I tucked a strand of his golden hair back behind an ear, and kissed the small spot on his forehead that it left behind.

I flipped back the sheets and set my feet down onto the cold floor. Wincing at the sudden change in temperature, I stepped carefully across the room, making sure this time not to trip and wake up Steve.

I made it to the doorway before realizing I had left my shirt on the nightstand. I looked back and glared at it, but decided to carry on without taking the risk of waking up Steve by walking back in to get it.

As I stepped into the kitchen, I realized it was much warmer out here than it was in Steve's room anyways. Probably because Steve left the windows open.

Yawning, I grabbed a pan from the counter and searched around for something to make everyone for breakfast. A bag of potatoes caught my eye, Steve used to love it when I made pancakes and little diced potatoes.

I picked a few out of the bag and grabbed a knife from the drawer below.

Setting the pan out on the stove, I started to chop the potatoes up into little cubes on the counter next to it, humming faintly as I recalled the days of making breakfast for my little siblings, or often times, Steve.

I slid the first round of diced potatoes into the pan and then returned to do the next one when I felt a presence behind me.

I didn't hear any footsteps or breathing, so I didn't even bother turning around. It was probably just the breeze from that stupid open window.

I held the next potato in my hands, inspecting which way to cut it, when I felt a hand on my back, tracing fingers running along a scar etched into my right shoulder. The feeling was too light, too delicate.

It wasn't Steve.

The knife beside my hand was flipping through my fingers, faster than I remembered I could. I whipped the blade around to the person standing at my back as my other hand reached out to pin them up against the fridge.

I stared at the blade, which was dangerously close to the face beneath it, and traced the silver down to the eyes that held my gaze.

Familiar eyes. Confusing blue eyes.

I stared for a second at the smirk that emerged from her lips, and then back up to her eyes.

"Damnit Natasha." I grumbled whisking the knife away from her face, and back down by my side.

"Sorry." She said gently.

"What were you doing?"

She didn't answer, but instead pushed herself up onto the counter across from where I was cooking, staring at the half empty pan on the stove.

"Do you remember how you got that scar?" She said, quite obviously avoiding my initial question.

I paused.