it's not the teasing so much as her next actions that catch him by surprise, but he's too stunned to do little more than stand there and stare wide-eyed while she messes up his clothes, his hair, then— promptly rubs their mouths together. It's definitely not a kiss, he knows. He still lets out something of a muffled yelp against her lips, eyes wider when she pulls away.
And for a moment, staring is really all he does, mouth hanging open like he can't fully process what just happened. "Right," he manages once Natasha's already vanished into the bedroom, huffing nervously while he shakes his head, calling out while he looks around for the phone. "A little heads up would have been nice, you know?"
Well, at least he's sporting that deep fluster she spoke of. Can't really fake that. Grabbing the phone, he asks for room service to bring up that bottle of champagne.
"Careful, Trevor," she calls over her shoulder before the bathroom door closes behind her. "You're about to be touched and then not kissed by another consenting adult."
She takes her time removing her makeup properly, cleansing, moisturizing. She hunts down every pin in her hair, then brushes out the tight curls until they resemble something closer to her own hair's texture. It takes her far longer to get out of her complicated underwear and weaponry than it did the dress, but no surprise there. She locks the jewellery away with one of the guns and most of the knives.
Her pajamas do not conform to the image of the trophy wife, a sports bra, oversize tee shirt, and pair of jogging shorts. They weren't actually planning to stay the night, so her pajamas are just her workout clothes, an earlier trip to the hotel's gym and a jog around the perimeter part of her scheme for scoping out security.
When she leaves the bathroom, she stays in the bedroom, sitting on the bed and turning on the television on mute, waiting for Steve to come back with the champagne.
Steve just rolls his eyes at that but doesn't spare her another answer, shrugging off his blazer while he waits for room service. It doesn't take too long, unsurprisingly, and when finally there's a knock on the door Steve makes his way over, managing some slight panting as he pulls the door open suddenly enough that the waiter even startles slightly.
Luckily, and predictably, he doesn't say much of anything, not aside from giving Steve something of a knowing look, which only deepens the fluster tainting his cheeks. It's literally nothing of what it looks like, but then what it looks like is all that matters, in this case. The waiter offers to get the cart into the room but Steve simply hands him a generous tip and grabs the bottle and the two glasses, sending him on his way again.
Closing the door with his foot, he heads towards the room again, though he stops just near the slightly cracked door. "Can I come in?" He figures she's had more than enough time to change into her pyjamas, but no harm in making sure.
"Yeah, come on in." Natasha knows that Steve wouldn't be knocking and asking if the waiter were in the room, so she takes the television off of mute and turns the volume up a little bit. "You can order food in a while if you're still hungry after the spread at the party." She very much doubts he's got any interest in the protein bars she has in her bag. Besides, a burger sounds pretty good. Later. At the moment, she just holds out her hand for one of the glasses.
If Steve cares to look around the bedroom, it's mildly trashed. Very mildly. Her corset is draped over a knocked over lamp, her panties are on the headboard, stockings on the comforter for her to tangle up in the sheets later. Most of the furniture is pushed at least a little out of place. "Toss some of your clothing around in here. Doesn't have to be right now. Oh, and in an hour or so you need to call down to let them know we want to stay another day while I'm loud and drunk in the background. Don't let me forget."
Steve steps inside and immediately stops for a few seconds, looking around. Some changes are too subtle for him to notice right away, but others he picks up on almost immediately, and he raises an eyebrow as he smiles in amusement. Maybe a hint of embarrassment, almost exclusively brought on by her panties hanging on the headboard of the bed. "Love what you've done with the place."
His tone is dubious at best, as he steps closer and hands her one of the glasses, setting the other down on the nightstand. He pops the cork carefully, then pours them both a bit of champagne. Not that they're celebrating anything in particular, but might as well. "Another night? Damn, this married life is more exciting than I thought."
She pats the mattress beside her, inviting him to sit down. "He's going to be in a panic, and he's going to be suspicious of everyone. The easiest way to do this is to let them get in and check the room. Tomorrow morning, we go down to breakfast, take our time, and give them a chance to do just that. I'd rather not blow this cover just yet. I like her. She's useful."
Natasha has no idea if he's kidding or not, about a second night in a hotel being the height of exciting married life. Probably not. He comes from a time when a flash of ankle was pretty risque. She's sure his tastes and expectations are still skewed.
He really wouldn't know what the height of excitement in married life would be, as he has no idea of what married life is like to begin with. Either way, any sort of life where any couple can simply decide to postpone their lives for another day of lounging around doing little more than having sex in a hotel room sounds pretty exciting. A different sort of exciting than what he and Natasha are used to, granted, but still.
He eyes the empty spot beside her for a moment, then slowly takes a seat, his back resting against the headboard. "Alright, then. Let's make sure they're both beyond suspicion, and I don't see why we can't revisit this cover for a future operation." They work well together, he likes to think. Steve knows how difficult that is sometimes, finding a partner in whom he can rely and from whom he knows what to expect. Well, sort of.
"Cheers to that." Natasha clinks her glass against Steve's, taking a sip while she flips through the channels. "Do you want to watch anything in particular? Do you have favourite shows yet? I'd say we could rent a movie, but given the cover so far, it would have to be porn."
A little smirk hid in her glass, and she watches out of the corner of her eye to see if he'll blush. "Not sure you're ready for that part of the future yet."
He takes a small sip himself, chuckling and shaking his head when she mentions porn. Yes, he's aware of what it is, and yes, he's definitely blushing. "I caught some... porn on TV, already. Accidentally. Just... no, I'd rather— not." Terribly embarrassing when he was on his own, he can only imagine it would be mortifying with Natasha sitting next to him.
"I like cooking shows? Not the competitions. The ones where they just teach you new recipes, like Jamie Oliver or Nigel Slater. Do you know about those?"
Natasha is pretty sure that, if he caught it on television, it wasn't the kind of porn that she was talking about. Still, his reaction had been enough that she's not going to push him on it. Not tonight. She's a better friend than that.
"I do. I like those, too. Can't cook, but I love watching other people do it." She also likes the competition ones. Her DVR at home is full of episodes of Cupcake Wars. She enjoys the competition aspect of things, too, and watching people fail can be just as entertaining as watching them succeed.
She continues to flip until she finds the cooking channel. No Oliver or Slater, but a pretty good re-run of Carnival Eats. "Oooo, this show is good. Just wandering around to awesome carnivals and food fairs indulging in all the stuff that no one should ever eat. Sometimes the people who do the cooking, if it's iconic, give a sort of recipe. Not that you'd want to try making most of this stuff on a regular basis." She takes another sip of her champagne and snuggles herself back against the padded headboard, getting comfy.
If there's an even worse kind of porn than that out there, then he sure as hell doesn't want to see it right now. He may just lock himself up in the bathroom for the rest of the night.
"Really?" He sounds surprised, but he realizes a moment after that it's silly of him. What with her line of work being what it is, it shouldn't be so strange that she doesn't have the time to dedicate to a skill that, in these days, doesn't seem as important. "I can. I mean, I'm no chef, but... I can find my way around a kitchen pretty well. Not to brag or anything."
Alright, maybe he is bragging a little bit. He nods at the explanation, watching the show for a few minutes before commenting on it. "These people must love their jobs. Traveling around and just eating and talking about that, getting paid for it too. Must be quite the life."
"I can make toast," Natasha says with a decisive nod, "and I am absolutely bragging." Whenever she's in charge of breakfast for Cooper and Lila, it ends up being toast and hot chocolate. If the kids are upset with the limited food, the chocolate keeps them quiet. The chocolate and the cartoons.
Natasha lays her head against Steve's shoulder, watching the television and sipping her champagne. "I'd get so fat." There might be something wistful there, though. A normal life. She's sure she would get bored, but maybe being bored might be nice once in a while. Being mundane and normal. Having to make the choices that normal people make. Or, no, not even that, but getting to make those choices for herself. She's sure she wouldn't actually choose the white picket fence and the dog and the PTA meetings. It all sounds horrible, but the choice should have been hers, not someone else's.
She doesn't say any of this, but she drains her glass and then holds it out to Steve for a refill. "We could go to a carnival when this is over. If you want."
Steve snorts at that, finding himself amused. "I'm in awe. I'm not sure I could compete with your supreme toast-making skills." He's teasing her only because he's sure she won't take it to heart. She knows he doesn't mean any true harm by it.
Her next gesture quiets him promptly, though, and he glances down briefly just as she rests her head against his shoulder. "I don't think I'd mind being fat, in those circumstances." He wonders if he'd be bored half to death, though. He can't even remember what it's like to live a life of peace and quiet— he's not even sure anymore he ever had that in his life, really. Sometimes it feels as though he never did.
So there's something a hint wistful in his expression, in the soft tone of his voice when he answers her invitation of sorts. Maybe a date, maybe not. He's fairly sure Natasha doesn't care enough to define things like that, even if Steve would. Ordinarily, anyway. "Sounds like fun. I'd like that a lot." Reaching for the bottle, he tops up her glass, then his own while he's at it.
She takes another sip, pulling out her phone to go a little google-fu. There's a state fair in Texas next week. It's a good place to go and blend in with an insanely large crowd. Also, they'll have all the best deep fried atrocities, and some pretty good rides, and the fireworks will be pretty much guaranteed to knock their socks off. The whole place will smell faintly of manure, but certain concessions must be made.
"You know, you've got one of those faces... you'd probably look cute even with a little gut. Not too big. Just one of those suburban dad beer bellies." On the screen, the host is showing the camera a delicious looking slice of incredibly cheesy pepperoni pizza. Which, yes, it looks wonderful, but it's hardly exceptional. Natasha's confusion only lasts for the barest moment, and then she's chanting quietly, almost like she's daring someone to do something risky and fun. "Deep fry it, deep fry it, deep fry it, deep fry it."
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And for a moment, staring is really all he does, mouth hanging open like he can't fully process what just happened. "Right," he manages once Natasha's already vanished into the bedroom, huffing nervously while he shakes his head, calling out while he looks around for the phone. "A little heads up would have been nice, you know?"
Well, at least he's sporting that deep fluster she spoke of. Can't really fake that. Grabbing the phone, he asks for room service to bring up that bottle of champagne.
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She takes her time removing her makeup properly, cleansing, moisturizing. She hunts down every pin in her hair, then brushes out the tight curls until they resemble something closer to her own hair's texture. It takes her far longer to get out of her complicated underwear and weaponry than it did the dress, but no surprise there. She locks the jewellery away with one of the guns and most of the knives.
Her pajamas do not conform to the image of the trophy wife, a sports bra, oversize tee shirt, and pair of jogging shorts. They weren't actually planning to stay the night, so her pajamas are just her workout clothes, an earlier trip to the hotel's gym and a jog around the perimeter part of her scheme for scoping out security.
When she leaves the bathroom, she stays in the bedroom, sitting on the bed and turning on the television on mute, waiting for Steve to come back with the champagne.
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Luckily, and predictably, he doesn't say much of anything, not aside from giving Steve something of a knowing look, which only deepens the fluster tainting his cheeks. It's literally nothing of what it looks like, but then what it looks like is all that matters, in this case. The waiter offers to get the cart into the room but Steve simply hands him a generous tip and grabs the bottle and the two glasses, sending him on his way again.
Closing the door with his foot, he heads towards the room again, though he stops just near the slightly cracked door. "Can I come in?" He figures she's had more than enough time to change into her pyjamas, but no harm in making sure.
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If Steve cares to look around the bedroom, it's mildly trashed. Very mildly. Her corset is draped over a knocked over lamp, her panties are on the headboard, stockings on the comforter for her to tangle up in the sheets later. Most of the furniture is pushed at least a little out of place. "Toss some of your clothing around in here. Doesn't have to be right now. Oh, and in an hour or so you need to call down to let them know we want to stay another day while I'm loud and drunk in the background. Don't let me forget."
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His tone is dubious at best, as he steps closer and hands her one of the glasses, setting the other down on the nightstand. He pops the cork carefully, then pours them both a bit of champagne. Not that they're celebrating anything in particular, but might as well. "Another night? Damn, this married life is more exciting than I thought."
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Natasha has no idea if he's kidding or not, about a second night in a hotel being the height of exciting married life. Probably not. He comes from a time when a flash of ankle was pretty risque. She's sure his tastes and expectations are still skewed.
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He eyes the empty spot beside her for a moment, then slowly takes a seat, his back resting against the headboard. "Alright, then. Let's make sure they're both beyond suspicion, and I don't see why we can't revisit this cover for a future operation." They work well together, he likes to think. Steve knows how difficult that is sometimes, finding a partner in whom he can rely and from whom he knows what to expect. Well, sort of.
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A little smirk hid in her glass, and she watches out of the corner of her eye to see if he'll blush. "Not sure you're ready for that part of the future yet."
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"I like cooking shows? Not the competitions. The ones where they just teach you new recipes, like Jamie Oliver or Nigel Slater. Do you know about those?"
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"I do. I like those, too. Can't cook, but I love watching other people do it." She also likes the competition ones. Her DVR at home is full of episodes of Cupcake Wars. She enjoys the competition aspect of things, too, and watching people fail can be just as entertaining as watching them succeed.
She continues to flip until she finds the cooking channel. No Oliver or Slater, but a pretty good re-run of Carnival Eats. "Oooo, this show is good. Just wandering around to awesome carnivals and food fairs indulging in all the stuff that no one should ever eat. Sometimes the people who do the cooking, if it's iconic, give a sort of recipe. Not that you'd want to try making most of this stuff on a regular basis." She takes another sip of her champagne and snuggles herself back against the padded headboard, getting comfy.
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"Really?" He sounds surprised, but he realizes a moment after that it's silly of him. What with her line of work being what it is, it shouldn't be so strange that she doesn't have the time to dedicate to a skill that, in these days, doesn't seem as important. "I can. I mean, I'm no chef, but... I can find my way around a kitchen pretty well. Not to brag or anything."
Alright, maybe he is bragging a little bit. He nods at the explanation, watching the show for a few minutes before commenting on it. "These people must love their jobs. Traveling around and just eating and talking about that, getting paid for it too. Must be quite the life."
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Natasha lays her head against Steve's shoulder, watching the television and sipping her champagne. "I'd get so fat." There might be something wistful there, though. A normal life. She's sure she would get bored, but maybe being bored might be nice once in a while. Being mundane and normal. Having to make the choices that normal people make. Or, no, not even that, but getting to make those choices for herself. She's sure she wouldn't actually choose the white picket fence and the dog and the PTA meetings. It all sounds horrible, but the choice should have been hers, not someone else's.
She doesn't say any of this, but she drains her glass and then holds it out to Steve for a refill. "We could go to a carnival when this is over. If you want."
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Her next gesture quiets him promptly, though, and he glances down briefly just as she rests her head against his shoulder. "I don't think I'd mind being fat, in those circumstances." He wonders if he'd be bored half to death, though. He can't even remember what it's like to live a life of peace and quiet— he's not even sure anymore he ever had that in his life, really. Sometimes it feels as though he never did.
So there's something a hint wistful in his expression, in the soft tone of his voice when he answers her invitation of sorts. Maybe a date, maybe not. He's fairly sure Natasha doesn't care enough to define things like that, even if Steve would. Ordinarily, anyway. "Sounds like fun. I'd like that a lot." Reaching for the bottle, he tops up her glass, then his own while he's at it.
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"You know, you've got one of those faces... you'd probably look cute even with a little gut. Not too big. Just one of those suburban dad beer bellies." On the screen, the host is showing the camera a delicious looking slice of incredibly cheesy pepperoni pizza. Which, yes, it looks wonderful, but it's hardly exceptional. Natasha's confusion only lasts for the barest moment, and then she's chanting quietly, almost like she's daring someone to do something risky and fun. "Deep fry it, deep fry it, deep fry it, deep fry it."