Disclaimer: Ownership is overrated, unless you own super-awesome things like Marvel does. Then I'm out in the cold, cold world. Without a sweater.

Spoilers: The Avengers and I suppose Captain America: The Winter Soldier. The fic takes place in the imaginary period between the two movies when the Cap and Natasha are working together regularly.

Rating: T for the most part, because I assume master assassins don't speak PG-13. You'll get a chapter warning if there's any M-rated content. It's a WIP, so I'm not sure yet.

Summary: Basically the adventures of Captain America and Agent Romanoff as they get closer over the course of several spaghetti-incident missions. Canonish through The Avengers, but diverging from TWS because…look, I can't try to merge a movie and comic-verse again. The end result is a madness I shall never disclose. So movies only and please don't correct me on comic canon because I am not traveling that road again. Blu-rays are expensive enough without omnibuses and retcons and other such nonsense. Romanodgers, from what I gather re: pairing names.

Captain Steve Rogers blinked in the bright light of the chilly DC winter as he stepped off the rear ramp of the jet, hoping his appearance wouldn't attract the usual attention and then some. The mission and subsequent flight back from the Amazon had been one of his worst experiences thus far in his short career as an agent of SHIELD, behind the Battle of New York and the cafeteria meatloaf. He didn't need groups of women in tight-fitting uniforms eyeing him like lionesses on the hunt. 21st century women were certainly not shy about what they seemed to want from him and he didn't think he'd ever be comfortable with the attention. Nevertheless, he politely waved to two female mechanics who had run up to attend to the jet he was disembarking.

"Move, Rogers." A half-hearted shove accompanied the annoyed command as Natasha passed by him to hand off her backpack of filthy supplies to the waiting quartermaster. At least there was one woman in his life he didn't have to worry about despite tight, form-fitting, figure-accentuating…shoot, he needed to stop walking behind her.

He handed over his slightly heavier though no less begrimed pack with a smile before turning to follow his partner toward the hangar entrance of the Triskelion. "You should be a little nicer to your footstool."

"You're the one who decided to take a nap on the floor."

"Like you couldn't have used the sleep." He suspected she'd been just as out of it as he had been as he rubbed his stomach where her boots had been sitting heavily when he'd woken to their pilot's announcement of their final descent. "You could have at least taken your shoes off."

She spun on one of said heels to face him. "Got a foot fetish? Or just worried about a little extra dirt?"

"Nah." He assumed the mud on his face relieved him of her usual response to his blushes and instead looked down at his uniform, noting that there was no longer any white visible, with only the merest suggestions of blue and red. "Does SHIELD have a good dry cleaner?"

"Just chuck it in the laundry cart." She exhaled a puff of steam before resuming her walk inside. Her normally black catsuit was at least as dirty as his uniform, even if didn't show the dirt quite as obviously. Obvious was for other things.

He hurried to avoid another stare/blush combination by falling into step beside her as they stepped out of the wind. "Think we'll have a chance to shower before debriefing?"

Maria Hill's voice echoed off the walls of the hangar in well-timed reply, "Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers, report to Director Fury's office immediately."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Field agent to public address system. Hope Hill got a hell of a pay-raise for that bullshit."

"I like Hill. She's very…competent."

"Can't argue that, but you'd have liked her better when she actually did stuff." She sagged against the rear wall of the elevator and called out, "Director's office."

He waited until the doors had closed and the elevator had begun to rise before saying, "So, by your estimation, anyone who hasn't crawled through a mudpit in the past few days is some kind of slacker?"

"Considering you dropped me in that mudpit…"

"And jumped in after you…"

"Right, because you assumed that I couldn't fucking swim…"

"I was just…"

"Pause elevator."

A barely noticeable jolt accompanied the computer's cool response, "Ascent halted."

Steve was momentarily flustered by the fact that they'd somehow advanced into a confrontational position. "There used to be a guy who operated the elevator. You'd tell him what floor you wanted and…he just rode up and down all day, pressing buttons. Up and down all day. I never really thought about how boring it must have been, but during the Depression… Of course, I never lived in a building with an elevator, much less an elevator operator. They had them at some of the hotels when I was traveling around selling war bonds, but…" He trailed off as she held up a finger.

"You make a good point with way too many words. Turn off all video and audio recording."

"Recording off," the computer's impersonal voice replied.

Now he was really starting to get nervous. "I feel like there should be some kind of authorization code to be able to do that."

"Biometrics, Rogers. My voiceprint is enough to confirm such a low level request."

"Right. So…I could…"

"Why did you jump in after me? We'd been swimming upcurrent for practically two days prior to that."

"I…um…" He couldn't deny that she was a strong swimmer. Or that his heart had leapt into his throat when the last flash of red had submerged beneath the unpredictable waters of the swamp they'd been swinging, Tarzan-like over, in pursuit of a group of arms dealers. He had released his grip on the vine without a thought, only to be slapped across the face half a second later when she'd realized he'd put the mission in jeopardy for her safety. They had lost less than two minutes in real time catching up with the FARC-associated guerillas; in fact, they had spent more time during the brief interrogation dispelling Natasha's annoyance at their lack of familiarity with something called 'The Song of the Rebels' from some movie called Bananas. He hadn't yet added it to his list.

There were more pressing things on his mind at the moment, anyway. "You shot two prisoners."

"Non-fatally. Thigh wounds are survivable if you get care in time. And you think they would have gone back to innocent, law-abiding lives if I hadn't?"

"I think you acted a little hastily, yes. We could have taken them to the nearest…"

"Wake up, Rogers. We were miles away from anyone who would have given those thugs a second glance. We stopped a potential diplomatic nightmare, not to mention casualties. Any idea how many cruise ships dock in Cartagena? Or Navy ships? Because that's where those RPGs were headed."

"We still…."

"No. We did the only thing we could. And we got to blow some shit up. Always a bonus."

"That…" He forgot his pointless argument against her plan that had started with a grenade and ended with running like hell as he stared into her green eyes for what felt like an eternity. Even covered in the filth from their mission, Natasha couldn't help being beautiful. He'd been noticing it more and more lately, almost to the point of distraction. A little voice in the back of his head urged him on as he licked his lips and leaned down. Were her eyelids actually fluttering closed or was that just his imagination? He allowed his own eyes to close and…

She wasn't looking quite as pleased as he was with himself as he straightened a moment later. "That was pathetic."

All his self-assurance deflated instantly. "Sorry. I thought…I thought we were having a moment."

"We were. Then you kissed me like people kiss their grandmothers who forgot their denture paste." She returned to her slouching posture against the wall, leaving him standing at near attention in the center of the small space. It seemed to get even smaller when she asked, "Do you want to have sex with me?"

He came close to choking on the disconnect between his brain, mouth and male anatomy, but managed to stammer, "W-what?" without making any ungentlemanly grabs.

"It's a yes or no question, Rogers. Not one that should require too much thought, either." He couldn't help but note that the swamp had gotten into all of her…hidden…places as she lowered the zipper on her catsuit an inch or two. "Well?"

He could only assume that what happened next was the result of the same sort of alien possession that had gotten him on the track to reach this specific moment in time. That was it. Really, that was the only reasonable explanation not involving skintight catsuits and sticky jungle nights and unconscious trust built only through shared danger. Therefore, by universal conspiracy, he growled, "Yes."

"Exactly. When you kiss a woman, you're telling her just how much you want to get her clothes off. Now…" She shook her shoulders and arms as if she were preparing for a quick sparring match. "Again. And make me believe it."

Although his rational mind took exception to her philosophy of kissing, he found that he was powerless to stop himself from leaning in once again. This was…okay, this was a kiss. Her arms rested on his shoulders and he began to relax into her. He was just getting used to the feel of her lips when he realized that his tongue was now involved. Right. This was working. He was standing in an elevator at work, kissing his extremely deadly partner and it was pretty swell. Just as he had decided to invite his hands to the party, she pulled back, settling back onto her feet from her tiptoes.

She was smirking in a self-satisfied way. "Mmm. Better. I almost believed it. Little swampy, but I suppose I can't really blame you for that, even if you did dump me in a mudpit. We'll have to try it again once we've showered."

"Right." Why was he agreeing to that? He was still feeling slightly dazed when the elevator resumed its ascent. The silence stretched until he felt compelled to break it. "I…I…your hair?"

"Hm?"

"Your hair. It looks nice." He glanced over at her and resisted the urge to pull the large dead bug from a few tangled strands."Uh, not right now, obviously, but…I mean, it's longer. I like it."

"Oh. Thanks." She was silent for a moment. "Your haircut looks good on you. Much more modern."

"Thanks." He fought the urge to run a hand through his own surely disheveled locks, instead checking that his helmet was still safely clipped to his belt. "Didn't think anyone had noticed."

"I think all the women in the building have. You're a very popular topic of conversation in the gym locker room."

He didn't get to ask her to clarify this alarming information as they stepped out of the elevator outside of Director Fury's office.

Natasha Romanoff didn't look over her shoulder to ensure that she'd held the door open long enough for Steve to enter Fury's office behind her. She made straight for the small sitting area and flopped onto the couch. "Are these just for show, Director? Because someone really fucked up on the cushions." She squirmed partly to find a comfortable position and partly to spread as much jungle grime around as possible. "Did you order them stuffed with gravel?"

Fury was unmoved. "Really, Agent Romanoff? You assume I called you here to complain about and ruin my furniture?"

She shrugged and made a show of propping her feet on the coffee table. "Leather is easy to clean, Director. If you were so worried about extra work for the janitorial staff, you wouldn't have called us up for an immediate debrief. Colombians angry they couldn't clean up their own mess?"

"Brazilians, actually. They're curious about a big explosion in Amazonas near the Colombian border. Turns out a known arms dealer ABIN has been trailing for months came pelting out of the jungle near the scene not long ago with a story about a big guy with a shield and a redhead with a mouth dirtier than she was blowing up all his amigos. State is on my ass for an explanation. And just sit the hell down, Rogers. You're making me nervous."

She didn't adjust her position as Steve sat on the very edge of the cushion beside her. "Well, I could check my passport, Director, but I'm certain I haven't been anywhere near South America in months."

"Cute. Now report."

She sighed and considered sitting up, but decided Steve was sitting uncomfortably enough for the both of them; he hadn't even unhooked his shield from his back. She shifted her voice if not her posture to 'official,' saying, "We tracked the expected shipment of RPGs up the Japurá River for three days. Apparently, FARC isn't good with maps or GPS because we were definitely in their camp when we found their arsenal and dealt with it."

"With extreme prejudice?"

"SHIELD should stop issuing me grenades if they disapprove of the results. As for the final outcome, you can hardly hold us responsible if they were stupid enough to store all their munitions together in the middle of their main camp. C4 can be so touchy once you trigger a chain reaction."

"Uh huh. Captain Rogers, anything to add?"

She watched with tempered enjoyment as Steve's head snapped up. "Sir? I mean, um, no, sir. Nothing to add, really. It was…very humid. My first time in the rainforest."

"He caught a catfish."

Fury looked slightly amused for the first time since they had walked in. "Well, I'll be sure to have our taxidermy department mount it when they get a moment."

"We have a…?" Steve did have a pretty adorable expression when he was sorting out sarcasm from actual modern improvements. Not that she gave a damn. "I mean, that wouldn't be possible, sir. We ate most of it."

"Needed hot sauce," she added. "Although the way he just sorta grabbed it out of the river was pretty impressive. What'd that bastard weigh, Rogers, forty, fifty pounds?"

"I wouldn't say more than twenty-five."

She could just make out the tips of his ears going red. "Still, if we could snag a mission in, say, the Hyogo Prefecture, I will definitely make a point of bitching about the MREs again. Kobe beef. Of course, I might be willing to settle for a shower and McDonalds right now if someone gives me a break from the active duty roster."

Fury nodded brusquely. "You're both off for the next thirty-six. Get some sleep and get cleaned up. You smell like the dumpster behind a restaurant the heath department just closed."

"Thank you, sir." She jumped up and headed for the door without questioning where Fury had come up with that metaphor. She crammed the thought that she was really rushing to avoid another elevator ride with Steve.

That had been…surprising. She was going to need a little time to figure it out.

"Hold that…" Maria Hill realized too late that she shouldn't have made the request, but still managed to squeeze out, "elevator."

"Hill."

She nodded curtly and stated her destination before saying, "Romanoff. Just back?"

"Mmhmm. We can't all pilot a desk, you know."

She ignored the dig, wrinkling her nose. "What is that smell?"

"Classified," Romanoff answered without a beat. "Should've warned you to wait for the next one."

"Successful mission, anyway?"

"Is there any other kind?"

"Wouldn't expect any less." Hill shook her head, remembering the few ops she and Romanoff and run together. An education and a half, for sure, provided you could get past the idea that the person you were working with was a lot scarier than the ones you were fighting. Finally feeling safe enough in her position to do so, she muttered a line she'd been saving since their first mission in Riga, "Phenomenal cosmic ego, itty-bitty agent. How tall are you anyway? 4'10"?"

"5'3". But I think I get a nice boost from the wedge heels on the new official boots. Fury let you pick those out so you could still dress like a field agent while making photocopies and passing memos?"

Hill bit back a retort about her actual duties. It was never a good idea to volunteer information to Romanoff, whether she was fishing, confirming a suspicion, or just being a bitch, as Hill suspected. Of course, if she had been the one stuck slogging through a stinking South American swamp for the past week… She had to smile at least a little. Being Fury's personal covert ops lead had its benefits, including sitreps on all current ops. One-upping Romanoff on intel was icing. She made the mistake of breathing through her nose and coughed. "I hope you're planning to hit the showers."

"On my way there now. It really is a shame we can't conduct more ops from five-star beach resorts. Think you could run that past Fury next time you're reading him his messages?"

"I…" Hill once again forced herself to ignore the bait. "I think the rookies are just ending their basic hand-to-hand class for the day. Try not to traumatize too many of them."

"Isn't that part of their official training? I handle the women's locker room and Barton takes the men's. When he's around," Romanoff added, with the slightest huff of annoyance.

Hill had to resist a real grin this time, knowing where Agent Barton was and what he was doing. No need to share compartmentalized information. She offered an olive branch instead. "You do realize that you terrify most of the people in this building."

Romanoff gave a snort of laughter. "Because I'm fucking terrifying. Have you considered laying off the ones who aren't scared? I mean, this is supposed to be an intelligence agency."

And the ego. Of course. "Think you have enough shampoo? Or shall I send housekeeping up with more?"

She shrugged, dislodging a slimy tendril of greenish something from somewhere under her catsuit. "I'll just borrow yours." The elevator announced her destination and she stepped through the doors without a backward glance.

"Stay out of my locker, Romanoff!" she shouted. A raised middle finger was her only reply. Administration was the fifth circle of hell sometimes.

Hill was alone in the elevator for only one floor, where Agent Sitwell joined her with a polite nod. After a moment, he sniffed noticeably. "What is that…"

"Don't ask."