A/N: A little birthday fluff at the Avengers Compound.

"Nat," Steve says slowly, "What are these?"

"Corndogs." She smiles slyly. "I read your file. Happy birthday, Rogers."

They look out of place in the smooth industrial lines of the Avengers compound. But then, so does Natasha. So, maybe does he. Steve picks up the plate.

"It mentioned this in my file?"

She sits down beside him. They're in the long room, the room with the windows that face outwards, the training room. It's quiet today. "You caught me. It didn't. I have my ways of finding out."

Steve Rogers eats lean proteins and leafy greens. He doesn't have to, but it makes him feel honest. Still, this carnival food tastes painfully familiar, even though they don't make 'em like they used to.

Nat picks at one and makes a face. "You have terrible taste."

Steve feels the corner of his lips lift up. "Well, when's your birthday? I'll cook you some filet mignon."

"I don't have a birthday," Natasha says, staring into some middle distance that isn't here. "And I prefer sushi."

Steve finishes his corndog in silence. Outside, upstate New York is perilously calm and green. These things are too good to be true, and the weight on his shoulders always feels too true to be good. "You should pick a day. And we'll celebrate."

She smiles, but doesn't meet his eyes. After a moment, the dangerous, distant sparkle is back in her eyes. They've bonded, training the new recruits. Sometimes it feels like they're parents. Or maybe that's just Steve. "So," she drawls. "July fourth. Captain America was actually born on the fourth of July."

Steve plucks at his t-shirt. "I guess the coincidence lends something to the myth that I'm the real deal."

Natasha picks herself up off the bench and walks off, hips swaying in that predatory, feline walk she has. Over her shoulder she says, "That's no myth, Rogers."