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When Steve hits the bag, the roof shakes.
Natasha isn't one to overlook feats of incredible strength. Not being able to appreciate the other person's abilities is a mistake that could cost one their head when the going got tough. But there's still something about watching him quake the rafters, beams rumbling and groaning overhead, that is distinctly intoxicating. Maybe all Phil's admiration is wearing off on her.
Still, she's sticky with the remainder of her own workout and her muscles are soft and trembling but not yet over-exerted to the point of risking injury; she's got ten minutes, maybe more, before she needs to call it quits. No point in over-doing it in practice when the real deal could crash in through Fury's skylights the next day.
She watches Steve as he works on the bag. He goes through more gym equipment than the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D combined, but it's interesting - he doesn't move like she thought he would. She isn't exactly sure what she had expected. It's just not him. It's just not Steve, minus the shield and the mask, who seems to be three seconds behind everyone else and still trying to run to catch up. Maybe she pictured a real superhero.
Natasha never really believed in superheroes. Real people are far more complex and rewarding.
The wrapping on his knuckles is coming loose and she can see the textured gauze hanging down from the rippling muscles in his forearm. She watches as he pauses, testing the hold of the bag's metal joints, and then begins again - rhythmic. Powerful. Each punch rings through the floor and up her soles. There are only two times that she's felt something up through her bones like that: when Clint's bomb hit the ship, and when Bruce was tearing after her in an uncontrollable rage.
Neither was particularly fun, but the vibrations shimmying up her ankles now are rather pleasant.
When the bag comes down, Steve looks her way, and he doesn't look surprised to see her - her opinion of him rises. Even though his gaze never drifted her way, he was still aware of her presence. He'd make a decent spy, if he ditched the spangly suit.
"Want a partner?" she calls, before she can think better of it and before her muscles cool completely again.
One eyebrow quirks up. "Sure," he says.
They start on opposite ends of the mat. Natasha doesn't want him to go easy on her, and from the stance and his distribution of weight, she doesn't think he will. He grows anxious when she doesn't move and rushes first, which gives her the chance to gauge his movements a bit more and anticipate them. He's relatively easy to avoid, but spins quickly and nearly gets her with a sharp uppercut. She kicks at the back of his knee just to try and bring him down, and it doesn't quite do the trick, but it does get him to falter just long enough for her hands to make solid contact with his shoulders to spring up and over, dragging him down with the motion.
She isn't aiming to really hurt him - he might be a super soldier, but he's still a comrade, and as foreign as the word tastes on the tip of her tongue, she likes the roll of the syllables.
"Nice," he grunts, spinning up on his elbows to shoot one leg out. She jumps over it, but doesn't expect his arm to come down from the other side. He gets a good smack to her ribs that stings more than aches, and she's so caught up in being impressed that he pulled that punch at the last moment and still managed to shake her up that she doesn't get out of the way in time for his arm curling around her middle.
The thing about Steve's grip is that it's good and it's tight, but he's holding her like a woman when he should be holding her like an assassin. She kicks at the mat and flips herself over, and Steve lands flat on his back when her boots are already hopping off the floor again. There's an opening, and she's going to take it; she straddles him, rolls them both over, and keeps the momentum going to end up back in the previous position with one of Steve's arms trapped beneath him, her fingers wrapped around his wrist.
"Match," she laughs, but it was a good one. She has a feeling Steve is going to go over every move she made tonight and come back tomorrow ready for all of them. She likes that thought - it sends a trill of pleasure through her form.
Steve's eyes are very dark from his position beneath her. "Again? Best two out of three."
She's more intrigued than anything else, so she gets up and nods and he readjusts the wrapping on his hands again. Natasha watches him get the kinks out of his neck knowing that she should say no, only because she can feel it in her muscles and know she'll pay the price for the exertion tomorrow - still, she's curious. He's a good opponent.
This time, she starts, to see if he'll do something different. Without his shield, he's relying mostly on quickness and physical strength, and she's got him beat in the first but not necessarily the latter. She knows she'll have to make up for it, so she feints at the last moment and veers to the right. Somehow, he guessed she would do it - he follows, though his punch goes wide and ends up being more a smack on her shoulder than anything else.
She spins and roundhouse kicks high, and the heel of her boot grazes his chin before he arches back to avoid it. While he's off-guard and off-balance, she lunges forward and pushes him until his back hits the far wall, where the extra bags are strewn for when he (or someone else, she supposes) needs them. It's mostly being so tired from her earlier practice that keeps her going with him, until they are flush against the wall and she can feel the hitches of his breathing reverberating through her torso.
"Match," she says again. She's just not expecting him to kiss her.
Natasha probably should have known - he kisses like he fights, a battle, something he's trying to win. His hands are rougher closing around her head than they were when they were balled into fists flying at her face. She turns them both and doesn't disconnect them, and she isn't sure why, but somehow, she's gotten all tangled up in his limbs and she can't figure out how they are still moving. The trembling in her thighs is getting worse, and now she knows she'll be paying for it tomorrow, but still -
She pulls his mouth open just to steal her way inside, and Steve's groan echoes through her throat. His hands are already everywhere: roaming, seeking, searching, leaving hot trails of heat behind them. When the pads of his fingers hit her exposed skin, it's warmer rather than cooler, even with the air creating goose bumps. She won't be able to hold herself up any longer with how hard she worked herself earlier, and sliding her hands across the expanse of his back, she doesn't really think it'll matter. Wrapping her legs around his waist will give her a better angle, anyway.
"Stop?" he breathes, and it's funny, it's funny because he asks and his hands are dipping beneath the waistband of her shorts.
"Do it and you'll stop breathing, too," she says. His shirt can stay on, really, but the pants are going to have to go. She can push them down with her heels and her boots. His finger is sliding down and up and in, teasing by ignoring everything she is pretty sure she wants, and she can feel his erection hard against her thigh. They're both covered in sweat and not moving fast enough.
She has to move to get her shorts down, but when she anchors herself back up again, thighs tight around the curve of his ribs, she reaches up to grab for one of the pull-up bars they are beneath. It helps to give her something to hold onto that isn't Steve Rogers and his abs of steel and his all-American perfect hair.
He pulls just as much as she arches in, and god, he moves in her like he moved across the mat. He's full of purpose and goals, and she's reaping the benefits of this one. One of his hands tangles in the end of her ponytail and tugs, and she really can't tell if she's laughing or moaning - maybe it's all the same, in the end. Her grip on the pull-up bar is slicked with sweat. Steve kisses her mouth and mostly just hits the corner since he's trying to keep up the rhythm between them.
"That all you got?" she asks. "Show me something super."
She feels his laugh against her neck, and his hand slides from her waist back down to find her with his finger. Circling and dragging, and she doesn't know where he learned that, but she hopes some sweet Ally medic went home very happy afterwards.
"Fuck," she laughs, and arcs her neck backwards. Her arm is starting to shake. Steve's moving inside her in all the right ways, and she was already halfway there from the match on the mat alone - it won't take long. She tightens her grip on his waist with her legs, squeezing a little in both appreciation and encouragement, and it's sort of belated that she realizes how exposed they really are and how anyone could walk in at any time.
Steve's muscles are coiling and she can feel every ridge of them beneath her fingers. He feels like a taut bowstring beneath her palms, aimed and ready to fire. She's close, close - there, and she has to bite the noise back that accompanies the white that fires up hot and bright behind her eyes when she comes. Riding it out, she keeps her grip on the bar - she owes him that much, at least.
But she clenches and squeezes her legs tighter, and if she rolls her hips forward she gets a long groan dragged out of his throat, and apparently, that's all he invitation he needs to follow. She can feel that, too, rippling through his body.
Natasha lets go, and her fingers have cramped. Steve has the good sense to help her down gently so the feeling of jelly in her knees can be overcome.
"Rematch?" he asks, pulling his pants back up, and she laughs from the sheer ridiculousness from it.
"If you can get out of bed tomorrow morning," she tells him, and god, she feels good, "then you bet your superhero ass on it."