"One of those better be for me."

Nick did not even look up from his computer screen when Natasha entered his office with two cups of coffee in hand as she sat in the chair across from his desk. Though he did smile in appreciation when she passed him the one not labeled as decaf. It occurred to her that there wasn't really a point in getting coffee every morning if she was trying to stay away from caffeine, but she guessed she had gotten used to her habits. Even if the thought of having any sort of routine in her life was strange to her. No matter how small or mundane that routine was.

Nick offered her his attention as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes questioning as he watched her take a sip from her cup. "So what has you so busy that you can't visit me?" He asked.

"Being pregnant." Nick rose an eyebrow, unconvinced by the excuse, and she rose one right back at him. "You'd be surprised by how much I eat and sleep these days," she continued.

"Any updates?"

He was the last person she expected to, well, care about all of this. Nick had no wife or kids -or anyone really but Maria, Clint and herself- and he seemed fine with it. More than fine and so was she, as he was just about the only person she could consider a father figure, having barely remembering her actual one. He was her family when she had none, and even now with everyone that she had he was still there.

"It's a boy," she offered, putting a hand on her stomach. She found herself continuing, her lips tugging up at the corners without her even realizing. "I think Steve was hoping for a girl even if he didn't admit it to me, but he completely changed his mind once we found out." He had spoken briefly about growing up around Bucky's sisters, said he was used to a house full of girls and sounded a bit too wistful from the nostalgia of it. He had mentioned only growing up with his mom in passing, and it wasn't difficult for her to piece together what he was hoping for. He was happy now, better than he had been for a long time, and she couldn't help but be relieved that nothing would deter him from his loyalty.

"And that's going good?" Nick asked after a pause.

"What?"

"Everything with Rogers?"

"Yes," she said carefully. Why did it matter?

"I'm sure neither of us want to talk about this but it needs to be said," he started. God, she did not want a lecture from Nick. She knew her relationship with Steve was nothing short of dysfunctional but they had found a comfortable middle ground. For now, at least, and it was fragile and confusing, and only really made sense to the two of them. But at that point in time it worked, and that's all she could really manage. "I don't want you running off to get married without me knowing," he said suddenly. Completely serious besides the small twitch of a smile that only Natasha could have caught.

The fragile cup in her hand was almost crushed, and she set it down to avoid getting hot coffee spilled all over her. It took her back a moment. That word. Marriage. She was really starting to hate it. How often she heard it, how it sounded, what it meant. She didn't understand everyone's obsession with marriage, since Steve had never mentioned it and she definitely had not.

"Since when do you make jokes," Natasha retaliated.

"I don't. I'm serious."

"You don't need to worry about that," she snapped. Suddenly angry and not knowing why.

"Keep me updated, Natasha," he insisted, ignoring what she just said.

She only stared at him.

"I have something for you," he said, shifting the conversation. There was a biting joke involving shotguns, Steve and a marriage license on the tip of her tongue but she decided to keep it to herself. Instead she watched as he pulled something smaller from his desk drawer and lightly tossed it across the table to her. It was a Manila folder, seemingly nothing special as she opened it with curious eyes. Before she could scan any of the words on the documents something else caught them. Paper clipped to the top left corner was a photo. Two people, smiling and holding each other. It tugged at something deep in her memory, being warm and wrapped in bed as two familiar faces smiled down at her. Those faces. Faces she would have known if her life had gone differently.

Her voice did not seem to work and she realized her mouth was open. She closed it, feeling like an idiot as she cleared her throat and tossed the folder back onto the desk. "I don't need this."

"Yes you do."

"I have a family," she insisted. One that she wanted to keep after waiting for so many years even if she didn't deserve it.

"Get closure, Natasha."

Closure. It made sense, closing one door to open another. To not ever have to wonder about her parents before she becomes one. She didn't want to think how many resources he wasted on this, on her, but she knew not to throw it away. Her pride didn't want to accept it, but there was a nagging voice in the back of her head telling her that it was okay to trust Nick. She took his offering, sliding the folder into her bag carefully to keep it to herself.

"Thank you, Nick."

Having Natasha in his apartment was strange. Terrifying, too but mostly just very, very strange. She was observant, her eyes covering just about every inch of the room as she searched for whatever it was she was trying to find. No picture frame went un-examined and no decorations went unnoticed as she walked the perimeter of his living room and the adjoining kitchen and dining area.

Steve just watched, standing back and trying to let himself enjoy having her there. He was not exactly fond of his apartment. He had never lived alone before and he quickly found out that he didn't like it that much either, but having Natasha here was different. She made the space seem better, brighter and smaller in the best way possible. It had to be the first time he actually enjoyed being home, and he couldn't stop the rush of thoughts invading his mind. Of having her here with him, taking her away from her own empty apartment and maybe finding a way to make this one feel like a home. A real home, one they could raise their son in and have an actual life in too. Together. An impossible thought, he knew, but he couldn't help but keep breaking his own heart if it meant being around her. Something on his table caught her interest, and she lifted the spare piece of paper up for a closer observation. He didn't know how long it had been there, maybe for a few days as he had a faint memory of needing the scratch paper to write something down from a conversation over the phone. But the remaining space was filled with a few drawings, not even ones that he could remember, just a few things his hands had sketched out while his mind was somewhere else.

"Do you draw often?"

He used to. Used to draw on just about anything he could get his hands on, paper, the empty spaces in books and notebooks, train tickets and receipts, his mother's walls once when he was four. But now paper was just that. Paper. He couldn't see what it could be because he didn't know how he could bring it to life. The inspiration that was damn near his entire life in the forties had been left behind with everything else, and he considered that a great loss these days.

"No."

"What about in London?" She questioned.

He grimaced a bit, still embarrassed by the memory. He was pretty sure about ninety percent of Natasha's decisions in life revolved around her keeping her privacy and he had yet to come to the conclusion of how drawing her while she slept didn't put a strain on their already delicate relationship. Or why she was even interested now. The few things he had drawn since the ice always seemed out of practice and mostly just lifeless. Most of them ended up in his trash as he would like to think the time, albeit limited, he spent in art school would give him something better than whatever he had ended up making. That drawing of Natasha had to be the only thing he made that he hadn't hated, but he thinks it might be because of the model herself and not really anything he had done. "First time in awhile," he shrugged, not really liking this conversation topic.

She nodded, eyes still on whatever he had sketched out. "You were in art school."

A fact. Also something he had never told her, though he was sure it was in some file about him in some database somewhere, but he wasn't really shocked that she found a way to it. "I was. For about three months before my mom got sick. Decided to take a break to take care of her but I never really got back to it," he explained, trailing off as he tried not to be brought back to the memory. He felt a hand on his face and it was enough to ease that numbing feeling that always came with thoughts of his mom. He put a hand over Natasha's and tried to smile for her. "It was a long time ago," he promised.

She nodded but didn't seem convinced, her eyes searching his face like she wanted to say more. His morning hadn't been bad. He had woken up feeling more like himself than he had in a long time, and didn't feel that constant weight on him that made even getting out of bed seem impossible. He had a day off from work and didn't resent the free time when Natasha agreed to come over. He really didn't want anything to ruin the good mood and hoped he could somehow convey to Natasha to please not make him talk about that time of his life right now.

"Ready to get started?" she asked.

"Yeah, come on," he said gratefully. He took her hand before leading her to his spare room. The walls were a plain white and the floors were just simple hardwood, and the room was empty besides the paint supplies he had brought in the night before. It was raining, spring's last farewell as June began and with it the hot weather, but for now the rain was insistent. Pounding at the window and bringing a harsh wind against the glass. Normally he would have hated the weather, would have hated not having any sunlight for the day and having to give himself a pep talk before stepping into the cold, but he didn't mind it today. He had no reason to leave the house and the company actually made him not want to.

He handed Natasha a paint roller, smiling as she looked at him expectantly on what to do next. He set the room up already, placed the drop cloths to protect the floor and poured the paint into the pans before she arrived. He doubted she could do much right now but he just wanted to share this with her. "Is there a certain way I should be doing this?" She asked.

He rolled the roller through the paint, creating the first blue mark on the wall soon after. "No, not really," he answered.

"What if I make it look bad?"

"You won't," he insisted. She still looked adorably unsure, and it almost made him lean forward and kiss her if he hadn't stopped himself. He couldn't resist putting an arm around her though, whispering the words into her hair as he said, "It's just a wall, Nat."

"It's his room," she corrected. "I want him to like it."

Her stubbornness was to be expected, even if he was pretty sure his life would be a helluva lot easier if she eased up on it even just a little, still, if his time with her taught him anything it's that he can't stop it. Then again he had never walked away when he should have. "Well, if he doesn't like it then he's going to have to learn to talk before he complains."

It earned him half a laugh and a sharp elbow in his side, but it was enough for her to pick up a roller and begin. He really had never seen someone so beautiful. Even now, with her hair tied back as a few curls escaped the tie she had in place, framing her face as she looked adorably concentrated on the task at hand, with her eyebrows slightly furrowed as she made slow, careful lines down the wall.

He had to be falling in love with her. There was no other explanation, no other reason he would be feeling as awful as he did whenever she wasn't near him. Why he laid awake at night when she wasn't besides him, why his mind never wandered far before always returning back to her, and why it hurt just being around her.

"It's rude to stare."

A remark about not being able to help it wanted to come out but he thought better of it. He even thought it would be wiser to begin a different wall since he didn't trust himself around her these days. Having his back turned to her was better, until she was speaking again. Still focused on the wall in front of her as she asked, "Do you paint?"

When she had been avoiding him he would've done anything for her to acknowledge him, to just look at him so he could know he was still on her mind. But now he questioned her interest in his art, of why she even cared in the first place. His inspiration had run out a long time ago, and after a few failed attempts he wrote off the sudden burst of it in London as a fluke. "No."

A pause. Which was never good with Natasha.

"Did you used to?"

"I never actually got to try it," he answered honestly.

"But did you want to?" Her voice was closer, and if he was anyone else then he would've jumped to see her on his left suddenly.

He remembered talking Bucky's ear off once he got the syllabus, telling him all the things he'd finally get to do past sketching. Sculpting and pottery, water color and oil paints, and just about all the things Steve couldn't get on his own. Paint was expensive and most days he couldn't even afford groceries, but things were different now, he guessed. He couldn't deny that it was a passing thought once he realized how easy it would be to get supplies now. But there was nothing in him that wanted to, and he didn't want to think of the reason why. "I used to."

She nodded, though he probably hadn't heard the last of it. Not when she stored every piece of information she learns about anyone and everyone.

"Thinking of painting his room at your place?" He asked once he realized she wasn't going to return to her respective wall. Her shoulder brushed his arm as they worked, and he could catch the faint scent of her perfume beneath the smell of paint. He didn't hate it.

There was a strange look in her eye when she shrugged, seemingly nonchalant as she said a quick, "Not really."

"I could help," he offered.

"No," she said quickly, "It won't matter. I have a feeling he'll like it over here more."

"What makes you think that?"

She bumped him with her elbow, still focusing on painting. Though he had stopped, looking at her with concern as she tried her best to ignore it. "His dad is Captain America, he's going to like you more."

"Hey," he said. She ignored him, going over the same space on the wall over and over again. He tilted her chin towards him gently, making her unable to ignore him. "Are you still feeling unsure about all of this?"

"No," she insisted. "He has you, at least."

"And you. Even if we're not…" He trailed off, not wanting to say what they both already knew. "I still want to raise him together."

"How?"

Truthfully he hadn't thought about the living situation too much besides a single thing. But the thought of not being able to come home to the both of them every night was not something he could handle for too long. "I want to see him everyday."

"Okay."

"And I think of one us should always be home with him instead of both of us being gone for days." He caught the slight look of dismay on her face at the thought of missing work, and if he was being honest he had felt the same way. But he knew where his main priorities were, and so did she. She nodded, seemingly not having anything to offer on her own. It wasn't until they had finished the wall they were on and moved on to the next did she speak again about it.

"I want to spend time with him together. I don't want him to feel like he has two separate lives with each of us."

He rose his eyebrows, comfortable doing so as he was concealed by the fact that he wasn't facing her. He had made what he wanted more than obvious, to the point that he was sure he was embarrassing himself hanging onto any hope of the future he hoped for. But if he couldn't have her how he wanted her then he still needed to be in her life. It was what he feared the most at the start of her pregnancy, that she would shut him out and their kid would be dragged into whatever issues they had. He shouldn't have doubted her. He knows that now as he looked at her, saw how genuine she was about this. "I think that's a good idea."

"Good," she said. Trying to fight a smile as she filled in a square of white wall.

Then it was quiet again. Not the same type as before, but now it was relaxed. Comfortable. Painting was soothing, his mind was shut off in a pleasant way as he worked. Not too different from when he was deep in a sketch, thinking of every line and shading and not much else. Though the wall provided a comfort of not having an end product that made him want to yell in frustration. Because really, how could he fuck up a wall? Like he fucked up almost every sketch he's made. Except the ones that Natasha had crept into. Not always her face. Sometimes her profile, the slope of her shoulders more prominent than her face as he sketched that dress she wore the night of the party. There were others, more innocent ones. Her eyes, softer than they were in person. Or just the outline of her face as he spent an hour or two loosely following the route of her curls with a pencil. Countless sketches of her entire face. The slope of her nose, the quirk of her brow, the fullness of her lips-

He really needed to find a way to stop thinking about her.

A thought that was cut short as she leaned into him from behind, her arms snaking around him. Touch deprivation was a thing, apparently, and after scrolling through an article about it online he was mildly convinced he could relate to it. He was leaning into her without even realizing the weight or the consequences behind it, or even bothering to question why she was doing it. A minute. He could allow himself a single minute to touch her.

Somewhere around the thirty second mark she was smacking his chest with both hands and laughing in his ear. He looked down, meeting two perfect blue hand prints as her hands lifted up. She was going to regret that.

If she weren't pregnant than he would've lightly pinned her to the wall. Or thrown her over his shoulder. Instead she got away, making a noise that he would've described as giggling if it wasn't coming from her. Her shirt looked older. A faded camisole that stretched over her belly, and he was sure the sweats that hung low on her hips actually belonged to him at some point. So he dipped both palms in the paint, already calculating his next move to get even. The room was small and there was nothing in there she could hide behind. She was in his arms in a second, pressed against him as he ran his hands down her sides. She half-heartily tried to get away, laughing as she protested and pressed into him. She smelled like paint, they both did, but he caught the underlying scent of her. The same floral scent that was prominent when he buried his face in her hair after they made love. He did the same now, knowing he could get away with it since she was allowing him to be so close. He tried to tell himself that it was all in good fun but even he knew it was bullshit.

"Okay, truce! Truce!" She called once his hands started tickling her sides. Though he quickly stopped once she started arching into him, her backside pressing against his chest in a way that had him wrapping his arms around her instead.

"I don't believe you," he laughed.

"Really thought that would work," she admitted, turning her face to him until their noses were brushing.

"You're playing dirty, Romanoff," he said, sounding breathier than intended as his eyes shut on their own accord. She laughed, the motion only sending her closer as she curled in closer to him.

"Am I?"

His grip tightened on her hips. "Yes."

They couldn't do this. Not yet, anyway. Not until he could kiss her and know that she wouldn't regret it. She must be thinking the same thing, as there was a gentle smack to the side of his cheek instead of her lips on his. More of a press of her hand instead of anything that could even resemble a slap. She laughed as she got away from him, returning to her wall and seeming more than pleased that she had won their impromptu paint war. Though with her hair tousled and her camisole strap falling off her shoulder Steve can't really count it as a total loss on his end.

He returned to his own wall, trying to think of anything and everything that wasn't Natasha. He shut his eyes, trying to think of something, like, old people. Well he was old. He looked out the window. Rain. He hated rain. And he could have a whole damn conversation in his head about how much he hated it so he wouldn't have to think about how much he wanted his painting companion.

She really wasn't merciful today. As that laugh was back, and he's heard it more times today than he had in the past month. And God did he love when she laughed, even if it was at his expense. "You have paint on your butt," she finally said.

"Is it a handprint?"

"It can be if you ask nicely."

After, they laid on his couch. Both freshly showered as she lounged in his borrowed clothes. There was a bad movie on the screen, one she picked, and take-out boxes around them, another choice on her end. Her legs were thrown over him and most of the pillows were tucked under her so she could be comfortable with the growing belly. They had taken the comforter off of his bed as he never really had the need for a blanket on his couch, but he was almost smug in the fact when they had no choice but to scoot closer to share the only one. It felt like their old normal, the only exception being their third addition, and he loved every second of it.

Natasha never realized how quickly time had actually passed until they returned for the next checkup. It had been a full month since they found out about the gender and a month since he pulled away from her. He kept in touch, though. Refusing to let her drift away from him even if she wanted to. She was content. Or she would be if she didn't have that thing hanging over her head.

The insistent nagging that she had made too big of a mistake this time. That there was no going back and her choice was already made when she wasn't exactly sure if it was the right one. Every time he put an arm around her, or his hand slipped into hers, or he walked her home one underlying thought was always there. He didn't want her anymore.

Whenever there was an issue in Natasha's life she found a way away from it. A way to throw out her old life and with it everything she couldn't handle, it was easy and never once made her stop and face her choices. There was some version of her that would have left Steve by now, would have left the rest of her team too, and Nick and SHIELD, she would have simply been gone. Like it was nothing, because it was nothing to her. A name was a name, and an identity was whatever she needed it to be. But who she was now might be the closest to normal she'll ever get to, to who she might have been if the Red Room never told her who she should be, and she didn't want to run from that. But it wasn't easy. Not when everything she felt with Steve was completely new and almost always un-welcomed.

She liked this part, at least. The checkups at first were uncomfortable, being poked and prodded by a doctor she didn't know all the while Steve watched stiffly on the side. But now they were both more comfortable, and he held her hand in a way that felt like more than what she knew it meant. Everything was fine, her baby was healthy and growing. She was okay too, no issues that the doctor could see and she felt alright. And it should have ended at that, but instead she spoke up with a question that had been on her mind since her conversation with Nick.

"Would it be safe for me to travel right now?"

"Travel?" Steve questioned, squeezing her hand to get her attention.

She was more interested in what the doctor had to say so she focused on her instead. She was assured that any flight would be safe for her, that she hadn't had too many complications so far and should be good to go. All the while Steve looked less than pleased with what he was hearing. The mood staying even when the appointment was done and they were left alone.

"Where are you going?" He started. "And when are you leaving, and when were you going to tell me any of this?"

"I'm visiting someone in Russia, I'll only be gone a few days." Her hand slipped out of his, and he didn't stop her. Instead, his hand balled into a tight fist, keeping the position for only a moment before he relaxed again. He had had the quirk for as long as she'd known him but she had seen it more than usual the past few months. "And I wasn't intending on asking for your permission."

"That's not what I said," he was quick to say. Bullshit.

"It's what you meant."

"I think it's fair that I care about what's going on in your life."

She pursed her lips at the sudden interrogation. Not wanting to fight with him even if she had the energy to. She was tired. She tried not to think about her parents. Ever. She had their names but she was too young when she was taken to remember their birthdays. There were a few distant memories, floating at the corners of her mind that she always shoved to the back of it when they tried to resurface. And now she knew where they were buried. That was it. Yet all of it had managed to make her both overwhelmed but numb and she was sure that she wouldn't be able to move past it until she saw those graves herself. It wasn't until Steve spoke again did she even remember his presence, still wrapped up in that small piece of humanity trying to make her feel something she didn't want to about the whole situation.

"Why do you never think of me?"

The anger had ebbed from his voice. Leaving only a tired, frustrated, and most of all hurt tone that actually made her turn to him. She hated that he made her feel like this, almost wishing that she could hate him for it even if she knew she never could. It always came back to this. The feelings he had for her, the feelings she wasn't sure she could ever fully return. They both knew it.

"You don't know how much I think about you," he continued. "Even before all of this."

She was sure she was on his mind when he was fucking Sharon. Or whoever else he was with before Natasha got to him, or even whoever came after her. He wasn't a saint. She used to think he was an over glorified Boy Scout but anyone who knew him as much as she did knew that wasn't true at all. She noticed the stolen glances only a few months into knowing him, the soft touches and shy smiles following soon after. She knew how he felt, but it didn't mean that she was the only one. It wouldn't be hard for Steve to find someone to mend his broken heart for him. But the accusation that she never thought of him. That she didn't feel something just as strong as he did even if she was the only one rational enough not to act on it… she was tired of being heartbroken. She would rather be mad.

"You're right, Steve." She said, voice low. She's had years of practice of keeping any and all emotions out of her voice, so she couldn't explain why it was so difficult to keep her voice from breaking in that moment. "All of this is easy for me because I don't care about you. Is that what you want to hear?"

His jaw clenched, the lines becoming prominent at her tone. It was what he wanted to hear, wasn't it? That she didn't feel anything for him, that he could keep acting wounded all on his own, that this wasn't taking a toll on her at all. "Natasha-"

"No," she cut him off, suddenly impatient. "You're not the only one that feels like this. I'm sorry that this is difficult for both of us but I'm not sorry that I'm making the hard choices that's better for our kid."

They had veered away from the original subject, she knows, but she can't bring herself to drop it. It wasn't fair that she was breaking his heart. That she was the horrible one for having the common sense to not start anything they shouldn't bring a kid into. That everything was her fault. She didn't realize how much it bothered her until it felt like she was going to collapse from all of it. Too overwhelmed and too exhausted to want any of this.

Steve loved too much, too strongly to ever have a relationship they could salvage once it was over. And it would be over. Not soon. Maybe a few years, at least, but it would end. Badly, too, they were both too stubborn to let it end over anything minor. She didn't understand how he couldn't see that.

He was too shocked to say anything, completely speechless for the first time in his entire life. She wasn't proud of it but she did feel a little smug about it. She got up, murmuring something about how they were going to need the room back and he didn't protest. She left him there, and for the first time she walked herself to her car. There was no Steve keeping a hand on the small of her back, a safe yet intimate space, she noticed, or opening her car door for her. Or kissing her cheek goodbye on a better day and offerings of dinner on great ones.

And she didn't regret it.

AN: This is the part where I casually say I love reviews. So, yeah, I love reviews. Tumblr is natasha_romanofff and as always thanks for reading!