Romanogers - Oneshots

Oh, the irony

Natasha grips the handle and sighs. Her eyes close as she breathes deeply, gathering the mental strength to open the door to whatever scene she may be welcomed by. No doubt, his coat will still, however many times she reminds him of the stand, be shouldering a dining room chair. The milk will probably have spoiled after being left out all day too, as usual; that's why an extra carton sits in the carrier bag tugging at her left hand. Just in case. And in all likelihood, a nature documentary will be lighting up the television. This is particularly trying for Natasha, who herself cannot understand the David Attenborough obsession, and is personally partial to a box set, a good old crime drama. Nevertheless, she grits her teeth and pushes the door open, sliding inside before it closes, only to be greeted by almost exactly that image, except that the documentary is on the war, not a rare species of bird. This time.

The culprit turns as she enters and mumbles something that sounds like a greeting, be it half-hearted at most. She forces a smile in return, which immediately makes way for an eye roll as he turns back to the TV. 'He' being Steve Rogers, her roommate.

There are many things Natasha can say about Steve Rogers. Most of them unflattering, she'll admit, but he never really tried to get into her good graces. She'd never wanted to share a home with a stranger, but here they were. Apparently her finances had decided she didn't have a choice in the matter. How bad can it be?, she'd thought. How very wrong she was. A nightmare, is what it could be. To put it politely, they don't exactly 'get on', which is why they attempt to stay out of each other's way as much as possible.

It's the little things, mostly. He turns the light off when he exits any room, which while probably benefiting the environment and their electricity bill, is thoughtless when she's just got comfortable on the sofa, and is thumbing a really good page of her book. He doesn't even turn it back on when she calls out, just apologises, so she has to do it herself. He cleans too, which is great, except he's obsessive about it. He reorganises all the drawers, all the shelves, so she can never find anything. He even tried to do it to her room once, but she said she'd snap his neck if he ever stepped foot in her personal space again. Granted, that might have been an overreaction, but very effective. Except now he has this whole passive aggressive deal where he cleans everywhere besides the square of corridor outside her door, where, coincidentally, all the dust seems to be swept so they may as well be another carpet when he's finished. And she fucking hates the sound the vacuum cleaner makes, which seems to be a constant soundtrack to life at the flat. That's not everything, either.

"Can you please remember to put the milk back after you've finished? It's really annoying having to buy new ones nearly every day." She pauses at the counter.
"Oh, yeah sure." He turns in his seat again, leaning to converse. "Sorry, I just get in a rush sometimes." All these apologies, but nothing seems to come of them.
"Mmm." Natasha carries on over to the fridge, feeling the breath of cold as she slots the new carton onto a shelf and searches subconsciously for the ketchup. "And the ketchup goes in the fridge, not the cupboard." Probably slamming the cupboard door more forcefullly than she meant to, the ketchup joins the milk.
"No it doesn't!" This is an ongoing controversy between them, refusing to be solved no matter how many articles are pulled up in exasperation. It's stupid, but somehow important, and neither are willing to back down. Natasha half-believes they do it out of spite by now.
"It goes in the cupboard. It feels like ice when it comes out of the fridge. I don't want solid ketchup."

She sighs again, before hanging up her coat and stalking to her room. He's just so whiny.

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Steve goes to pick up his phone, half watching her go. In another reality, perhaps if they hadn't been forced to live in the same space, they might have been friends. She can be nice enough, and has pleasant friends, it seems, but by god is she irritating to live with.