Chapter Text
Norway was lovely this time of year.
The cabin was almost completely covered in snow when they arrived and, to her surprise, Steve gladly set out to dig pathways and make kindle.
This was odd in many different ways, but mostly because it was so calm. Their lives had been a clusterfuck for the past years and now, all of a sudden, somebody had flipped a switch and the world stopped. It turned white, quiet. Clean.
Natasha was washing her hands in the sink after having put their dinner in the oven and gazed outside. Steve was still at it, chopping wood like he planned to stay here for ever. The pile was huge and there was steam rising from his body.
Odd indeed, she thought to herself, walking to the exit and leaning against the door frame. Still wet from rinsing, her hands were also sending white tendrils of evaporating heat towards the gray sky. She half hid, half dried her palms in the tea towel while watching the man continue splitting large pieces of wood blocks.
Here they were, halfway across the world, fugitives from the law (Steve) and runners from the messes they had made (both, really). Were they free? As far as Natasha knew - this was freedom. Every decision, from when to eat to where (or even if) to go, was solely hers to make.
So far Steve had made the same choices she had. They left U.S., stayed for a while in Toronto and then made their way to Norway via Spain. And he was still here, still following- no, going with her, because, apparently, he wanted to.
The strangest of all was her feeling of calm anxiety. There were many reasons to be worried, they could be caught, brought in or killed and yet... and yet, she felt more afraid of the quiet of the nature around them right now than a city full of sirens and spies. It was like a hand on her throat, squeezing, little by little, making her dizzy and hyper aware at the same time. When the woods were alive at night and animals roamed around, calling at each other, fighting and playing, Natasha sat by the window, looking out and waiting for something to happen. Noises made her suspicious. Silence (with Steve around) was something even worse.
She was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Steve planted the ax into the chopping block and stretched, hooking both arms behind his head. Clearly, he had no care in the world. He was constantly on the move, from dusk till down, and slept with the innocence of a child, which was an improvement from the last months of nightmares and sleeplessness. His favorite position these days was a human sized star-fish stretched across a bed, or halfway off the coach, depending on where they stayed.
On the first night here Steve had taken the coach and, when Natasha got up in the middle of the night, his left arm and leg were leaning right over the edge. He had growled something unintelligible, which had drawn her attention to the bubble of saliva gathering in the corner of his mouth. She had stood in the door, just like now, watching him sleep until her feet felt cold as ice. It was preposterous to see him, who was more than a normal man, be so unapologetically just that - human. The very idea that someone would be this deeply relaxed while sharing quarters with her and being chased by people they had seriously pissed off was counter-intuitive.
For the life of her Natasha couldn't figure out why Steve trusted her. From the first time they met, all they had shared was violence. She had stabbed the man upon him being awake for five minutes. And she had lied repeatedly, indiscriminately and purposefully. Still, he trusted her.
A warm feeling washed over her, stirring up a sense of wistfulness and a deep longing, and right at that moment Steve turned towards the house, saw her, beamed and waved.
Natasha could feel her cheeks blossom with heat and looked down at her feet, as her own mouth answered with a shy smile. She had, perhaps, developed a bit of a crush on the way he was able to demolish solid pieces of wood with his bare hands and the way he always, without a fail, smiled when he saw her.
Pushing hair out of her eyes, Natasha retreated back into the house to take the potatoes out of the oven. So, yes, feelings... she almost burned her hands, having forgotten to put on the oven mitts. Once the disaster was averted, she pulled the dish out and turned to put it down just as Steve walked in.
''Do I smell oven baked potatoes?'' the man asked, cleaning his boots on the mat.
She looked down at their dinner. The spuds weren't even peeled, she had just put them into a pan and hoped for the best.
Steve padded over to the small kitchen island and also inspected the dish. ''Oh, I love these. We used to just stick them into the ashes next to the fire.''
Natasha nodded, like she knew what he meant. ''Yes, that was what I was going for. Rustic potatoes.''
''We should make them by the fire next time, the taste is really something. And, it changes depending on the wood you burn.''
''Sure, sure. But can we deal with these first?'' she called over her shoulder while walking to the small dinning table in the corner.
It really was rustic, Natasha thought. As she wasn't much good in the kitchen, the fact that these puppies had not been burned, was an achievement.
''Grab some butter from the fridge.'' Looking back she saw that he was already doing so. ''And some plates. And forks.''
She was still standing when Steve came over, quickly set the utensils and sat down. His nose and cheeks were red from being outside for so long. Natasha leaned over and pressed both oven mitts to his face, completely covering it.
''Ah...'' the man sighed with deep pleasure and put his own hands over hers. ''So warm.''
Trust. They might be talking about potatoes and warm mittens, but all she heard was Steve trusting her to have good intentions.
That, perhaps, felt as good as a hot shower. Or somebody else brushing your hair. Or the first sip of coffee in the morning.
It was highly likely she had a crush on more than just the way he handled wood and smiled at her.