[ The suggestion comes as a surprise — yeah, she hinted at it, and yeah, she blatantly made up not being able to eat an entire one on her own. Natasha Romanoff has eaten entire *cakes* on her own, let alone larger slices of the stuff. It was an out — an acknowledgement that the attempt to tease him was still hitting a little too close to home, and in the split second it takes her to process the thought she realizes that she'd let out a little of her own hope, too. Part of her still want this. Her, not some false memory of a life she never really lived. She gives him a smile as her answer, a small enigmatic thing, and steps up to the counter. ] We'll take a slice of the double chocolate, two forks, a black coffee and a white mocha with cinnamon.
[ She doesn't wait for him to pay, sliding her own wallet out of her purse and handing over the cash before he gets a chance to really respond and takes the plate and her coffee when they're presented to her. She leads them both to a small table in the corner of the cafe and sits down, settling for a moment before taking one of the forks, grabbing a bite and pausing her with her fork her in mouth, thinking.
He's healing, but he isn't healed. He still quite clearly feels very much for her, the little flare of jealousy a moment ago more than enough to tell her that. And she can't get any of it out of her mind, the raw intimacy of their relationship — both sexual and not. Bruce's abandonment had hurt, but it had hurt without the knowledge of what she was missing. But here? She knew physically and mentally what it was she had, that feeling like it was something she deserved.
This is more than sharing cake.
Natasha sets her fork down, and takes a breath. ] Steve, I—
[ And there's a loud bang, the building shakes with the force of the wind, and the entire room goes dark. Without the hum of electricity, the rain and hail is loud against the roof and windows, but Natasha can barely make out the tail end of a long, aching, scream, and whatever she had been about to say is gone, replaced by one thought:
no subject
[ She doesn't wait for him to pay, sliding her own wallet out of her purse and handing over the cash before he gets a chance to really respond and takes the plate and her coffee when they're presented to her. She leads them both to a small table in the corner of the cafe and sits down, settling for a moment before taking one of the forks, grabbing a bite and pausing her with her fork her in mouth, thinking.
He's healing, but he isn't healed. He still quite clearly feels very much for her, the little flare of jealousy a moment ago more than enough to tell her that. And she can't get any of it out of her mind, the raw intimacy of their relationship — both sexual and not. Bruce's abandonment had hurt, but it had hurt without the knowledge of what she was missing. But here? She knew physically and mentally what it was she had, that feeling like it was something she deserved.
This is more than sharing cake.
Natasha sets her fork down, and takes a breath. ] Steve, I—
[ And there's a loud bang, the building shakes with the force of the wind, and the entire room goes dark. Without the hum of electricity, the rain and hail is loud against the roof and windows, but Natasha can barely make out the tail end of a long, aching, scream, and whatever she had been about to say is gone, replaced by one thought:
What the hell just happened? ]