Her Bodyguard

7. Fall

"Steve Rogers - get up! Did you take a narcotic or something? It's ten o'clock - ten! I have to get ready for my audition today!" Natasha's booming voice penetrated through the thin walls of Steve's bedroom. Steve winced, half-awake, then instantly bounced up into an upright position on his bed. Right. The audition. He gave himself a mental slap in the head. Natasha had been preparing for this for months, according to Sam. And from what he witnessed just in the past few weeks, she had prepared very intensely.

He climbed - well, stumbled, to be exact - hastily out of bed, getting his foot caught in the duvet cover he did so. He changed into fresh clothes just as clumsily and was still trying to work his belt when he sprinted out of the room and fell dramatically to the floor.

"Ow..."

fall /fôl/ ▸ v. to descend freely by the force of gravity

"Tsk tsk tsk."

From his embarrassing position on the wooden floor, Natasha came into view, clicking her tongue and slowly shaking her head. Red strands of hair like tiny little flames fell around her face as she tilted her head down to look at him.

fall /fôl/ ▸ v. to hang freely

"Are you all right?" She extended a hand out in support, and Steve took it gratefully. Turns out, this hand was not a helping hand. Natasha pulled it back as soon as he lay his fingers on hers, laughing mockingly. Steve felt his face heat up in embarrassment. He had fallen straight into her trap.

fall /fôl/ ▸ v. to enter as if unawares

"Rude." The blonde stood up on his own and dusted his slacks down, purposely frowning as he did so.

"You shouldn't have tripped in the first place," Natasha replied, a trace of laughter still lacing her voice. "What is there to trip on anyways? There's literally nothing on the floor. No wires, no nails sticking out, not even spilled water."

His frown deepened. "I tripped on the toxic air that you have created in this house with all of your insults."

Natasha let out another laugh. Steve's frown broke into a half-smile.

"Come on. My audition's in two hours, and it takes a long time to get there."

∙∙∙✩∙∙∙

In exactly thirty minutes, the two clambered into Natasha's car, her in the driver's seat as usual and Steve beside her in the passenger's seat. Before she started the car, she handed a piece of paper to him. He glanced at it for a moment, skimming through the short paragraphs written in a typewriter font.

"Isn't this your audition script?" He gripped the paper in his hands, puzzled. "Why are you giving this to me?"

Natasha leaned back in the leather carseat, stretching her arms out just enough that her hands lightly rested on the steering wheel. "I'm thinking of doing some last-minute practicing. Could you read the other part for me while I recite my lines?"

Steve agreed to her request and turned back to the piece of paper. "You first?"

She started the car and backed carefully out of the driveway.

"At least your feelings are real," she began, and he realized that she was beginning to recite her lines. "I mean, I - oh, I don't know, nevermind."

Steve took a deep breath, then started to read the words in front of him. "No, wait. What? Tell me."

"Oh, it's stupid."

"I wanna know. Tell me."

Steve realized with surprise that their back-and-forth dialogue seemed conversational, natural, easy even.