Some Nat/Steve friend fluff for @littlestartopaz, in that soulmate AU from earlier, reading it probably isn’t necessary but I’m always in search of approbation.  This is probably just a few months after the Avengers were formed, in my bastardized movies-comics-wishful-thinking-verse where they all live in Avengers Tower.

Steve and Natasha are sparring, because Steve gets nervous about sparring with fragile normal humans and Natasha is willing to bully him into it.  Tony isn’t generally one to spar, given the suit, and Clint’s still recovering from the cracked rib he sustained on their last mission, and Thor, who could take Steve’s full strength punch without batting an eye, is still off-planet handling his psychopath brother.  (No one asks Bruce to spar, because they all like being un-splatted.) So Natasha drags Steve’s protesting ass into the ring and punches him in the face until he fights back.  Unless he manages to actually grab her, it’s a pretty fair match.

It’s a system, okay, and if Natasha thinks it’s funny that he’s afraid he’ll hurt her, that’s between her and the inside of her own skull.

But anyway, the point is that they’re sparring, and Steve manages to catch her around the waist and toss her over his shoulder to land hard on the ground.  It’s the accepted rule in the Tower that once someone is flat on the mat, they’ve lost the round unless previously negotiated otherwise, so Natasha doesn’t rush to stand.

“That’s the spirit, old man,” she pants, grinning lazily up at him as he wipes a hand over his forehead.  It’s a point of supreme pride that she can drive a supersoldier to sweat-drenched exhaustion in the ring—a good percentage of the time, she even wins.  Fighting someone with Steve’s speed and strength is oddly familiar, something her body remembers even though her mind barely recalls a scrap of red-printed metal and dark hair.

“You’re a goddamn menace,” Steve says, breathing almost as hard as she is.  He pauses and tilts his head, and she realizes belatedly that her fall dragged her shirt up to her ribs.  “Is that your–”

“Yeah, I—yeah, it is,” Natasha says, sitting up and tugging her shirt back down to cover the black print.

“It’s, what, ‘put down the gun–’”

“Stop,” Natasha demands, and Steve shuts his mouth with a click.  She thinks he’s maybe never heard her desperate before, his face lining itself with concern as he offers a hand.  She waves it away and blinks, hard.  The red and black barely fringes her vision before she manages to drive it away, takes a deep breath and reminds herself that she’s not a robot.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, crouching down to be on level with her, with that desperately earnest look in his eye. “Natasha?  Are you all right?  I—I don’t know, did soulmarks get taboo in the last seventy years?”  He offers her a crooked grin and she returns it slowly.

“No,” she says, quietly, and stands. “My training—soulmates were a weakness. We were trained to kill anyone who said our words, and,” she cracks a grin of her own and raps on her forehead with a knuckle, “some of the old brainwashing still likes to act up.” Steve takes a second to follow her up, the question at hand printed all over his face.  “My soulmate’s alive,” she adds before he’s put in the awkward position of asking, well, did she. “He stopped me before I could do any damage worth mentioning.”

“Stopped you?”  Steve’s respect is clear, and Natasha is flattered, she’s not going to lie.  It’s always nice to hear that tone of shock when someone realizes she can be taken down, and given that Steve just did, it’s even better.

“He shot me,” she says, pointing to her shoulder where she still bears the ragged starburst scar of an arrow going straight through and into a wall.  “I didn’t take it personally.”

It says positive things about Steve, in her opinion, that he doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t even seem interested in the fact that her soulmate shot her one time.  “Who is it?” Steve asks, grabbing a bottle of water from the edge of the ring and tossing it underhand to her.  “If you don’t mind.”

She smirks, taking a swig of blessedly cool water, and says, “Stark wanted to know if it was you.”

“Yeah, well, Stark thinks porn was invented in the last thirty years and he keeps trying to spring the gay rights thing on me,” Steve says, dry.  “Brilliant guy, not all that bright.  His dad was the same.”  He picks up his own bottle and drinks before speaking again.  “Seriously, though.”

“It’s me,” Clint says from the ceiling vent, as if he’s been a part of the conversation the whole time, and Steve fails to totally mask his startle response.  Natasha hides her grin in another drink of water.

“Jesus Christ almighty,” Steve swears, looking up at Clint with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing up there?”

“Got bored.”

“You have a cracked rib, Barton,” Natasha says.  “If you’re not out of the vents by the time I finish my shower, you’ll regret the day you didn’t kill me.”

“I could never, cuddle-bear.”

“I’ll shoot you,” Natasha threatens, as calm as a summer breeze.

“I don’t think I’d stop her,” Steve says, looking revolted.  “Cuddle-bear?”

Clint is still laughing as the quiet sound of shuffling cloth heralds his retreat down the vent shaft, presumably back to their floor where he’s supposed to be resting and watching TV.

“So you two are a thing,” Steve says once Clint is well and truly gone.

“If you pretend not to know and place a bet in Stark’s pool, we’ll make sure you win as long as you split the profits,” Natasha offers, and Steve grins again, slow and dangerous.

“Done.”

Natasha hops the ropes around the ring without trouble and starts toward the locker rooms.  “You want to watch a Disney movie with us after I duct tape Clint to a chair?” she calls back over her shoulder.  “Disney was a thing in your day, right?”

She can almost hear Steve’s eyes roll.  “Yes, Disney was a thing in my day.  Buck and I went to Snow White.  And the chorus girls dragged me out to Fantasia, it was gorgeous.”

“You’re such an art nerd,” she mutters, and he makes a protesting sound behind her.  “We’re going to watch Robin Hood because Clint needs to sit still,” she says.  “You’ll love it.”  She pauses, turning back at the door to the locker room, and adds, “And I promise not to tell Stark that you know anything about pop culture.  It’s funnier to watch him try to spring stuff on you.”

“Don’t tell him I know how to use the microwave, I want to get someone to film him trying to explain it to me again.”

“You got it, my friend,” Natasha says, and wonders if he knows how few people have earned that title in her life.