Work Text:
It was supposed to be a low-stakes weekend. Very All-American with the charcoal grill, time spent by the pool their safe house so graciously provided, a little small talk among the neighbors.
Easy. Simple. Pleasant.
Until their double agent decided to crash the party and ruin every bit of relaxation Natasha had formally noted in the itinerary for Agent Hill.
And worst of all—the jackass ruined her one opportunity to celebrate Steve’s birthday.
It wasn’t something he advertised. In fact, it had taken her years to figure out when it even was without snooping through his files which she promised herself she wouldn’t and the one year they had the perfect cover for her to do something obnoxious…
Natasha stared at the debriefing file sitting on the kitchen island, surrounded by chocolate crumbles that went flying like the pan from her hands. Including the ruined cake. The one she’d taken all those lessons from Heather across the street in order to get right. The one that inspired the perfect dose of interest and domesticity.
And instead of serving it up to their village of fake friends, there she stood alone while Steve was still busy on the phone with Fury.
Natasha ran the knife from her belt straight through the center of the cake just as Steve approached her on the other side of the counter.
"Whoa, what's all this?"
Natasha closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then met his sympathetic look. "It… was an attempt at a birthday cake. A sworn-by recipe from the Johnson's' grandmother, apparently."
"You—" His eyes widened. "You made me a cake?"
She stared down at the mess in front of her and gestured with her hand. "I definitely did not."
Steve stuck his finger in the smear of icing coating the side of the pan and licked it clean. "Seems like you did. It's just… Deconstructed."
"Why do you always have to be such a glass half full kind of guy?" she joked, swatting him with the debrief as he picked up a chunk of the cake and quickly tossed it in his mouth.
"You try it," he offered, picking up another crumble for her.
Natasha wrinkled her nose. "I think I'm good."
Steve shook his head. "Come on. It's not a party if you eat your birthday cake alone. And anyone else I would invite is… Well…" He shrugged a shoulder. "Long gone."
Natasha snorted. "Fine. I'm getting a fork though, I'm not an animal."
"Suit yourself."
They finished off the majority of his cake while they went over the exfiltration plan Fury and Hill sent over for the morning before turning to operation "clean the safe house." Natasha tossed the empty pan in the sink while Steve finished sweeping up the shards of glass from their now-defunct back door before he secured it with plastic for the night.
"Have to admit, this was one memorable birthday party," Steve said, sitting on the high end of the sofa that was missing a leg from the earlier scuffle.
"Is it really a party if it's just you and me on a broken sofa in a house we don't actually live in?"
Steve's lip jutted out then he nodded. "Sure, it's no Tony Stark affair, but hey." He stretched a hand out toward her. "You still went to the trouble, Nat. Besides, when's the last time you think someone baked me a cake?"
She took it and let herself be pulled snug against his side. "Well if you want someone to really fuss over you, I can always put out some feelers around the office…" she added with a smirk.
"Can't say that I do," Steve said, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. "Can't say I'm looking forward to giving up all of this just yet, either."
Natasha's eyes panned the room. Before everything went haywire, she had to agree that they'd settled in really nicely. Their flight plans meant heading back to DC. Back to their own missions. Their own lives. She'd gotten so good at pretending to be in love with Steve, it was sometimes easy to forget the "pretend" part. That was usually when she started thinking it would be better to get some air instead of sitting with her thoughts.
"Well, give Fury a day or two and there will be a whole new assignment waiting for you. Probably one for me, too, if there isn't already. And then we'll get paired up again somewhere down the line."
Steve took a moment to think about her words then nudged her side with his elbow. "We do make a pretty good team."
"We've had enough practice," she quipped, nudging him in return.
"Maybe we could try this team dynamic out without—" He made a wide gesture to the house. "SHIELD's help."
Natasha pushed herself up off of his chest and turned to look him in the eye. She expected to find some hint of a joke but his eyes were as sincere as she'd ever seen them. "Steve…"
"Just hear me out," he said, letting his hand rest near the small of her back. She ignored the pleasant shiver.
"Steve, I know you think you know me, but—"
"I know I don't know everything, Nat. And I know it's a big ask, but… Just one dinner. The two of us. No SHIELD. No Cap. No Widow. Just you and me. What do you say?"
Natasha pulled her lip between her teeth while she stalled over a decision. The only thing that rivaled her being good at her job was her ability to compartmentalize her work life from whatever she pretended existed of her personal one. And now here Steve was asking her to mix the two in the biggest way possible…
"One dinner," she said before she had time to talk herself out of it with a single finger held up for emphasis.
"Just one."
"Okay, Rogers. But only because it's your birthday," she said with a grin.
The corners of his eyes crinkled as the smile stretched across his face, morphing into a laugh. "Another happy birthday to me, then."
She let herself be pulled back into his arms, let herself inhale the rustic scent of his cologne, and for the moment, she'd let herself think of the odds that they could be a team outside of work.
"Happy birthday, Steve," she murmured against his white t-shirt as his chin came to rest against her head.
It was just as likely the "real" Natasha and Steve wouldn't see quite as eye-to-eye as the roles they slapped on for the mission, but Steve must've been rubbing off on her because she couldn't think of that at all. At least not from her current position, wrapped in the warmth of his arms.