Totally written as shameless Romanogers but it could also be gen if that's more your thing. Title from 'Five' by Sleeping at Last.

With a sigh, Steve passed a hand through his hair, knocking loose little bits of rubble and dust. He probably needed a shower. Definitely needed a shower. And the suit would have to be cleaned. Again. But first things first. By right of might, his stomach made itself a priority. Slapping a sandwich together with only one functional hand and one that was quite probably sprained, if not out and out broken, was a challenge he hadn't anticipated. Somehow, a mismatched piece of bread and heel of the loaf (all that was left in the bag) ended up slathered in an uneven coat of mayo, and burdened with shreds of lettuce, a chunk of tomato, and a pile of sliced turkey. Yeah, it wasn't gourmet but it was edible. Or at least, he hoped it was. The growling in his abdomen couldn't be staved off a moment longer.

A paper towel served in place of a plate as Steve devoured his creation, along with an apple and a glass of milk, right there at the kitchen counter. When he'd finished his first course, he hunted through the cabinets for easy snacking items. Granola bars, dried fruit, raw nuts, jerky sticks, and potato chips (he wasn't desperate enough to reach for the rice cakes) joined the menu. Once he was fairly certain his stomach wasn't going to succumb to cannibalism, he drained another two glasses of milk before heading to his room for a shower.

The water was heavenly. Clean, hot, endless. He'd forgotten what a luxury that was. Soon, the steady pressure and thick steam were working miracles on his sore muscles. He indulged himself longer than usual, content to let the grime of the past ten days sluice off his body. What was supposed to be a simple three day assignment had turned into an incredibly dangerous mission. (Because when was his luck anything but bad?) After clumsily lathering one handed, he rinsed and stepped out. Steam filled the room, obscuring the mirror. Steve wasn't about to complain. He and the man in the mirror weren't always on the best of terms and if Steve didn't have to deal with him tonight on top of everything else, that was just as well.

Once he'd gotten into a comfortable set of lounge pants and a tee shirt, he forced himself to at least look at the amount of work he'd have to catch up on in the morning. If he could have dredged up the motivation, he would started on it then and there but it was already late and between the food and the hot shower (not to mention the sleep deficit he had to make up for because of his time away), he was oddly drowsy. His email inbox was full. The number of unread was in the high hundreds. And that was only the electronic letters. He was sure that if he went into his office, he'd find an impressively tall stack of mail waiting for him. Perched as he was on the edge of his bed, he could feel the invitingly soft material of his mattress. The thought was appealing. To just lie down and shut his eyes. But there was one more thing he needed to check.

When he plugged his phone into the charger, it immediately lit up with missed messages. It was nearly as clogged as his inbox. This never would have happened if he'd just remembered to bring his charger with him. But in the grand scheme of things, a forgotten cord didn't seem like it should have held so much weight. He nearly shut off the screen, wanted to simply close it down and fall face first into his mattress for some much needed and well deserved rest. But a name near the top caught his eye. Natasha. He unlocked the device to bring up the messages. Texts at first. Short and simple, spread over the first few of days.

Let me know when you land :)

Did you make it in ok?

How's it going?

What time will you be leaving?

Text me when you have a chance.

Are you on your way back?

Did something happen? Do you need backup?

Then voicemails.

'Alright, Rogers. These check-ins were your stupid idea. If you don't stick to them, how can you expect the rest of us to?'

'Call me when you get this.'

'If you make me leave one more message, I swear-'

'If you were anyone but, you know, you, I'd think maybe you'd found your way into a bar and just haven't found your way out yet. But you're you and I'm me and I'm mad and you know what happens when I get mad. Call me.'

One last voicemail. From the night before.

'Well, I guess I should just assume the worst now, huh? *brittle chuckle* You are way past your check-in, soldier, and no one's heard from you since you left. I've tried contacting *long sigh* pretty much everyone and no one's seen you either. For some reason, I've lost your GPS signal and I… *sniffle* Steve. Don't be dead. Okay? I can't- *another sniffle followed be a cleared throat* Anyway. Come back. You hear me? Come back.'

With a guilty wince, Steve lowered the cell. He started composing a text before his tired brain shifted into gear and kicked him soundly. This wasn't the sort of thing he could take care of in a text. Natasha was here. In the compound. And Steve owed her a face to face apology. A big, huge, apology. The 'get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness' kind of apology. Because she had a point. A powerless phone was a poor excuse. There were other ways he could have gotten in touch. He was supposed to. They all were. It one of the first rules he'd established years ago, back when the Sokovia Accords was the most earth-shattering problem they were dealing with. (Oh, to go back to those simpler times.) It had been nearly comforting, falling back into the same post-trauma routines. And now, he had broken that rule and Natasha was going to kill him.

The hall was cool against the shower-warmed skin of his neck. He passed by the kitchen, already knowing he wouldn't find her there. The common room was empty. His next best guess was the shooting range. Natasha spent quite a bit of (unhealthy) time there. When that too turned out to be a dead end, he wandered through the complex, searching everywhere for her, starting in the most likely places and working down from there. But she wasn't in the gym or the armory or her bedroom. She wasn't in the lab or the garage or the research center. Empty room after empty room and Steve wasn't sure whether to be frustrated or worried. He was running out of building to search. So unless she had decided to take a midnight swim in the Hudson, it seemed as though she wasn't in the compound. The thought was equal parts disconcerting and panic-inducing. Not knowing where she was, what she was doing, if she was in danger, if she was hurt...it was almost too much.

The final place he checked, he nearly walked right by. The light was off and there was no reason anyone should be inside. But the unease in his mind wouldn't let him leave a single stone unturned so he cracked open the door to his office. And in his desk chair, illuminated by the ambient light spilling in through the large windows, was Natasha.

Relief swept over him, soothing his racing heart as he stepped closer to her. Upper half of her body slumped across his desktop, she was soundly sleeping. As Steve had suspected, there were stacks of papers littering every available inch of space on his desk. But somehow Natasha had managed to keep from disturbing a single one. The woman's grace never ceased to amaze him. Perhaps it was the way the moonlight brushed over the bridge of her nose, maybe it was the steady hum of electricity in the walls providing harmony to her slow and deep breathing, or it could have been the soft wave of affection that surged in Steve's chest at seeing her alive and well and peaceful and right there, but he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

Pain flared in his wrist when a smaller set of fingers snatched it mid air and wrenched it into an angle it wasn't designed to go. He grunted in pained surprise, staring into Natasha's suddenly open eyes. They widened and her grip tightened. Steve actually yelped, couldn't hold it back as his hand was slammed into the desk. The papers were a flock of birds, scattering at the disturbance.

"Nat," Steve gasped. "It's me."

The pressure on his wrist lessened slightly and he tried to tug it out of her grip. But Natasha's fingers were an unbreakable circle of iron around it. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed in into a stormy frown. Steve stopped struggling.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, hand surrendered to hers.

For a moment, he was left to face the full force of the Black Widow's furious stare. It was only when a single tear caught the light, reflecting white where it slipped down her cheek, that Steve realized there was more to her expression than simple anger. Slowly, he used his other hand, the previously injured one, to thumb the tear away.

"Natasha, I'm so sorry."

She swallowed, apparently locked in an inner argument. She must have come to a decision because she gradually opened her fingers, releasing him. He didn't pull away though, instead leaving his hand resting in her palm.

Her voice, when she did speak, was rough and pitched low. "I thought you were gone."

Steve winced. "I know. I'm sorry. I should have been in contact."

His words sparked her irritation and her eyes flashed. "Yes, you should have! I thought we agreed to-"

"We did-" He tried to interrupt her.

"-to have these check-ins so that something like this didn't happen. Do you know what it was like? Calling you and getting no answer?"

"Look, Nat-"

She wouldn't allow him to talk over her. "I tried everything. Cashed in favors from all over the world. No one knew anything, no one could find any trace of you. It was like you just vanished." Her voice choked on the last word. "And I didn't know what to do. That's something we never talked about. We're so busy cleaning up this whole mess that we never discussed what to do if something worse happened." She sat up straighter, shoulders a tight line and head tilted up at him. "You better have a damn good excuse, Rogers."

After remorsefully hanging his head for a moment, Steve sank to a kneeling position. Now at eye level, he held her gaze steadily. The heat of her stare was tempered by the glimmer of unshed tears gathered on the surface. Steve took a deep breath.

"I forgot the charger."

At first, Natasha didn't respond and Steve wondered if he should repeat himself because she hadn't heard him. But then her shoulders started shaking minutely and the corner of her mouth lifted, barely, and it was with surprise that he realized she was laughing. The sound that soon followed confirmed his speculation. It was little more than a muted chuckle but Steve couldn't help himself. He joined in. His laugh strengthened hers and as hers grew, it emboldened him until they were both breathless and aching and edging toward delirious relief.

"You mean to tell me that the whole time I thought you were dead, you were really just a forgetful idiot?" Natasha summarized around gasps of air.

"Yes," Steve answered, unable to deny the truth. "Yes, I'm an idiot."

As Natasha was shaking her head, a fond smile yet lingering on her lips, Steve shifted his hand in hers. He interlocked their fingers and leaned forward to press a quick kiss to her knuckles.

"And this forgetful idiot promises not to worry you again."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Careful there, Steve. You don't want to make promises you can't keep."

"I want to keep this one." He squeezed her hand and she returned the pressure, expression softening at the earnestness on his face. "I'm going to keep this one."