bakerstreet | KEEP TRYING YOUR BEST UNTIL THE VERY END

KEEP TRYING YOUR BEST UNTIL THE VERY END

SPORTS ANIME AU MEME

IT'S TIME. You've been through the training, you're doing your best, you've gained the trust of your teammates, and now you're going to push forward though your competition on the way to glory. Maybe you win, maybe you lose, but your friends will always be your friends and your rivals will always be... well, your rivals.

Or maybe you're in training still, maybe you're having a team meeting, maybe you're doing a mock-competition. Maybe you're trying to get your team accepted as official, maybe you're breaking up as a team. Maybe your starters have moved on to college. Maybe you need to quit so you can get a part time job and take care of your family or study more to bring your grades up. What sport are you playing? Are you on the sidelines cheering someone else along? Are you the team manager? The coach? Go for whatever you like, live your dreams!

• Top level your character. Include any details you might think are relevant. Or don't. As always, we're not the cops.
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Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[ In the weeks ahead of the 2016 Summer Olympics, there's always a lot to talk about. What new facilities are they building in Rio? Will they be ready in time? Did they really just make golf an Olympic sport?

In America, where hometown pride for Olympic athletes has always bee high, the cable channels are already playing tear-jerking specials on the favorites for this year. But there's no question that Steve Rogers is at the top of everyone's list. American through-and-through with his blonde hair and blue eyes, Steve looks like he was born to look thoughtfully into the distance on the cover of LIFE magazine, or grin at you from the box of Wheaties on your kitchen table.

What makes Rogers so easy to focus on however, is his sport. Like most swimmers, he's entered in at least eight separate events — a combination of individual competitions and team relays. But unlike most swimmers, Steve Rogers is also entered in a team sport: water polo. When he did it in 2012, it had caused an uproar. Would water polo need to be rescheduled so that a single Olympian could participate in both sports? Was it really realistic that he could compete at the highest level in so many different events? America has dominated swimming for such a long time, was this their secret ploy to use the same athletes to dominate other events? It's unfair, surely.

But at the end of the day, after all that controversy, Steve doesn't know why the Olympics committee approved it. Once they did however, there was no taking it back. In 2012, Rogers took home six gold medals in swimming and the water polo team had won bronze. It was the first year that any American team had made it that far, and rumors are this year they're gunning for gold.

=== scenario 1

It's been a week since the American team landed in Rio and athletes are pouring in from all over the world. The atmosphere is tense, not from competition but from the universal understanding that for most people, this year is their only shot. They're at the peak of their game, they've trained for this, and they're hoping that 2016 is going to be the year they win it all.

But with great tension comes great responsibility — or so says one Steve's teammates, because before you know it, it's 9 p.m. local time on a Saturday night and the America house is having a party. It's a terrible idea because some of the other countries just arrived and people are still adjusting to the time zone, but with the pressure mounting, they all need the break. Something that tells them they're still human, just like everyone else. That the record-breaking expectations they all have for themselves are admirable, but not all they are.

Still, it's hard not to be amazed as you walk the halls — looking at the fastest man in the world in 2008 next to this year's favorite to win the ridiculous athletic competition. A lot of the competitors know each other too, from past years or from past competitions that have crossed borders.

=== scenario 2

It's a shame, the commentators always say, that for his sport, Steve has to cover up his hair and those gorgeous eyes. But god is Steve happy he can't hear the commentators during the actual events.

The time trials start today and he needs to focus. With his swim cap secured and his goggles on, Steve positions himself for a proper dive-in start. Three, two, one, he counts, until he hears that whistle they use for practice rounds and he slides into the water, pumping with his legs as far as possible before he emerges from beneath the water and starts into his freestyle.

=== wildcard

(ooc: please feel free to make up anything in this verse! be a fellow competitor, someone who's visiting the games, a coach, somebody's parents, a local, or anything else you can think of <3) ]

Edited 2017-04-01 04:56 (UTC)

Natasha never really considered competing for Russia. She had the meetings with the representatives, to not be rude. She heard about National pride, about what an inspiration she would be. Really, though, all she can think about is the way her family was treated there, the conditions she lived in after her parents died, before her mother's younger brother managed to get hold of her. No, there is no love lost, and she feels no connection there. She used to be Russian. Not any more.

Still, she wasn't born in America, and quite a few people are determined to not let her forget it. There's even been talk of her planning to tank on purpose, to take up spots on the American team just to ruin their chances. Why else would she be spread across so many events?

She doesn't want to be at this party, doesn't want to be celebrating her placement. She doesn't want to be smiling for cameras and making connections. She certainly doesn't want to be listening to people talk about her over her head, as though she can't hear them. Getting drunk is probably a horrible idea, but as she listens to one of her "teammates" complain loudly about how she lost her chance to bring her floor routine to Rio because of Russian Red pretending to be a real American, she's strongly considering it.

On the one hand, there are hundreds of athletes every year in America alone that are worth watching. On the other hand, only a few dozen truly stand out above the rest. Natasha Romanoff however, given her events and her reputation, had quickly belonged to an even more selective group. Athletes surrounded by controversy. It's one of the reasons Steve has paid special attention to her as opposed to just her personal best times at her events. The latter he felt was part of what it means to be a good teammate, no matter the sport. The former though, that was just his own interest.

Tonight, Steve's enjoying himself, and it's made obviously clear. What he likes about these parties is that while they always come with attention from cameras, once you're among fellow athletes, all the the oohhhs and ahhhs go away. People stop asking "how do you do it?" in a hero-worshipping vague sense, and instead ask "how do you do it?" in the, please-break-down-your-technique-step-by-step-immediately sense, and it's so much more satisfying.

Plus, there's beers, which, he doesn't drink but he likes how relaxed people get when they do drink (in moderation), and the rest of the water polo team is being the same troublemakers they usually are. So yeah. He can't complain.

When Steve comes in from the pool though to grab another six pack for his teammates, he can't help by overhear a few snide comments that are on the wrong side of a tease.

Can you believe that Russian Red? Like holy fuck at least I'm a real American.

It makes Steve turn his head, eyebrows furrowed in concern. But that's not the only thing he hears. Someone else is jumping in too, and with the six-pack in hand, Steve heads a little closer to see who's voice it is — until he actually sees Romanoff, right there, standing at the side of a circle, and they're trash talking her like she's not even present.

"Ahhhh," he breathes as he walks by, to catch their attention casually. "Hi ladies." Even after what he'd heard, his voice is still respectful and sweet. The welcome he gets in return is so warm you'd think Steve had just been named America's most eligible bachelor or something like that.

"Are you guys talking about Romanoff?" he asks, knowing full well the answer, before turning his attention directly to the woman they'd all been speaking over. "Hey Natasha. Heard you just qualified to compete in three different sports, is that right? Looks like I'm gonna have to play catch up." He just smiles at her for a second. "Heard Russia tried to recruit you, but you're stickin' with us. You know, most of us don't even get to make that choice? We were all born here, so while we love this country, it's the only one we can represent. But you. You chose America. And god we're lucky, and proud, to have ya."

After that last sentence, he looks expectantly towards the rest of her team, and most of them immediately nod in agreement, and say their own words of encouragement. He doesn't get to linger for long though, because the door to the outside slides open and music is pumping and someone is yelling "HEY ROGERS ARE YA EVER COMIN' BACK WITH THOSE BEERS?"

"Well, you ladies have fun. Make America proud." That last part sounds sweet, like a warning shot, before Steve waves and heads outside.

She's not expecting it. That's probably obvious in the look of shock and confusion that passes across her face before the mask slips back into place. She's waiting for the joke, for the cruel twist at the end of his act. That's what she is to them, isn't it? A punchline. It doesn't come. He just smiles that winning smile, dimples and all, and when he's gone, the air is thick with a feeling of desperately wanting to live up to the mental image he has of them. It's quite the superpower. Natasha wishes she had it.

She does not, but she recovers quicker than everyone else, and rides the wave of it. "It's four, actually," she says to the crowd in general and no one in particular as she downs her drink and cuts her way deliberately through them all to get another. Double vodka with lime, another thing she's not supposed to be doing. But she is, and she's still better than them, and they can all go fuck themselves if they have that much of a problem with her. All right, so maybe the chip on her shoulder has not been exaggerated, but she's not the only one responsible for putting it there. The silence is thick enough to cut with a knife. She's heard that before, but never experienced it. It's interesting. Not what she'd expected, bus she kind of digs it.

She could be nice. Take her drink and slink off and leave them to their shame. She is not. She stands in the middle of them all, hip cocked and fingers drumming rhythmically against her glass, nails clinking in a little uptempo beat all their own. She sips her drink, doesn't say a word, and lets them sweat it out. Until one of the younger girls, she thinks her name is Daisy, finally breaks the ranks. "He's right. We're-- it's so cool that you got to choose, and you chose us." It breaks the tension, and Natasha is a little disappointed that it does. Watching them squirm, it was the first thing that had made her smile in months.

They have a nice conversation, in the end. She takes the girl aside, just sixteen years old and still innocent enough that she can believe in the best in people. It's lovely. She and Natasha slip off their shoes and work on artificially shifting her center of gravity, and if it helps her to beat Natasha, then she deserves the better score.

Still, she doesn't forget about Steve. As the party begins to wind down, she watches the groups that head for the exit, she listens to chatter about who's sticking around. Some of the polo team leaves, not all of it. Most of the swimmers are still around. When she feels the numbers have probably dwindled sufficiently, she picks her way along the outskirts of conversational groups until she finds him, still by the pool, at the center of a very enthusiastic, though slowly dwindling, crowd of admirers. She puts herself just beyond them, in his line of sight. She doesn't want to intrude, but she wants him to know that she's here.

Steve's laugh — a full-blown real laugh, is a rare sight. One that no one's been able to see yet tonight, even if he's been smiling or chuckling a decent amount. He's happy enough, especially around the Olympics when nations put aside their differences and come together, but it's also clear to the particularly observant that there's a thoughtfulness to him that holds him back from being truly happy.

Doesn't mean he isn't happy at all though. Steve takes a drink of water from his bottle and someone must have told a choke, because he nearly chokes before clapping on the guys next to him on the back.

"You know if I die, we'll definitely lose the relay — right Sam?" he coughs out, half-laughing as he does.

He twists the cap back on and sets it on the tiled floor around the pool, and when Steve straightens back up he glances beyond his immediate environment and sees her. Once they make eye contact though, Steve doesn't ignore her or break it. Instead, he raises his eyebrows and tilts his head in the group's general direction, mouthing Do you want join us?.

He doesn’t notice her right away, and that doesn’t disappoint her. It gives her time to observe him. It gives her a chance to watch him interact with his teammates, with fans, with press, with sponsor representatives. She can’t imagine there’s any company in the world even slightly connected to athletics that isn’t looking to have Steve endorse them. If he wins even a single medal, he’s going to be set for life.

A few people approach her in the time she spends just beyond the circle of Steve and his entourage, safely out of the pull of his gravity. Not many. The sponsorship offers she’s receiving are mostly from the companies not traditionally associated with athletics. Cosmetics, hair care, clothing. All athletes at this level are impressive, but not all are beautiful. They want her because, while any woman here could sell a pair of cross trainers, not all of them could do the same for mascara or hair spray. She doesn’t take it personally. There is someone she needs ot take care of, someone who saved her when no one else in the world cared what happened to her. She will be in his debt for the rest of her life, and she knows that, but that doesn’t mean she can’t still do her very best to even the scales. While Steve is still busy with his fan club, she’s passed along her agent’s information to half a dozen people, and turned down a couple of clumsy advances. She's not sure why people think that complimenting her dress will make her desperate to get out of it, but she's heard it more than once to night and watched it followed up with disappointment when her response does not conform to the script they have in their heads. She's also finished off two more drinks. There’s one waiter, extra attentive, who circles by periodically to top her up from a vodka bottle and swap out spent wedges of lime. She’s getting nothing but disapproving or surprised looks every time he does, and she’s feeding off of that in a way she should probably feel a little bit guilty about.

Then Steve laughs, and her attention shifts again. Mostly because it’s not… quite right. Something missing, and she only notices because something in it reminds her of the way she laughs. Not quite the same, not quite right. She laughs as a nuance of a part she plays. It’s a carefully crafted sound, not genuine, even with her mirth is. It’s a delicate and almost sarcastic noise, and it keeps people from trying to follow through. It makes it very clear that whatever the joke is, she is the only one on the inside of it. Steve doesn’t laugh like that. He laughs like he’s only half there. Against her better judgement, she wants to know why.

Seeking out the poster child for mom and apple pie is not the way to keep flying under the radar, and yet here she is. She should bail. She does not. Instead, when he smiles, she smiles. When he asks if she wants to join them, she tips her head to the side, one pale shoulder lifting slightly, an agreement. Then she takes a step forward, and she’s no longer in her safe buffer zone. She’s in his pull, taking her place among everyone else caught in orbit around him. It’s easier than it possibly should be to slip in among people, side-stepping people shifting on their feet and talking with their hands, until she right up next to him. “Steve,” she says softly, a combination greeting and perhaps a touch of a thank you for including her. It’s easier, sometimes, with the men. Nothing about her is a threat to them. They aren’t even really competing for the same endorsements, because any company that could take either a female or male competitor usually wants them both. Besides, snubbing her closes the avenue to possibly sleeping with her. She just assumes that's a motivation for a good portion of them. She knows how the world sees her. Still, whatever the reason, she’s no threat here, and it shows in her smile, slightly less icy and barbed. “Natasha,” she says, slightly louder and to the group as a whole. She figures that Steve probably knows about both gymnastics qualifications, and the trampoline, so as her introduction to the group she simply says “fencing” and then glances at him out of the corner of her eye, wondering if he already knows.

[[OOC: Sooooo, apparently I'm just entirely incapable of giving you short tags in this one. Sorry for the novel. DOn't hate me.]]

What she'll be able to notice right away is that Steve doesn't brush anyone off — ever. Sometimes to his detriment. But when it comes to potential sponsors, he doesn't say yes to a single one of them. Instead, he asks them all to send him some samples that they can come pick back up from his agent a few days later. Like he actually wants to test the products out before he would even consider saying yes. He couldn't possibly actually want to sample them. The amount of time that would take is untenable.

Throughout the night, there's only been two exceptions to his rule: FILA and Under Armour. He says yes, conditionally, on the spot, because those are the brands he actually, genuinely prefers.

But when Natasha agrees to come over, he's not thinking about sponsors anymore. He invited her over, so he's going to make sure she doesn't stand on the sidelines. Which why there's a pleased smile on his face when she makes her way to the very front. Right next to him.

"Natasha!" he responds, even if most of them call each other by their last names. You can't help but get used to it after awhile. There's a surprising number of them with the same first name. The way he says her name though, also has an unintended side effect. While people don't stop talking, they do start paying a lot more attention to the red-head who Steve is greeting enthusiastically, and the recognition of who she is starts to dawn on their faces. And then she says fencing and Steve does have a hint of surprise on his face, but it's mostly all admiration. Based on his expression alone, it's unclear if he didn't know, or if he just wasn't sure if she wanted to tell anyone. It'd all be public soon, but it wasn't yet.

A few cameras begin to flash, and Steve fills in the rest for her. "And rhythmic gymnastics. And artistic gymnastics. And trampoline."

And then the circle around them seems to do a collective jaw drop before the commotion starts up again. This time, everyone seems to want to talk to her. So this is what it's like, then, either being, or being endorsed by the vision of America himself.

But Steve also knows that she will get swarmed, and fast. He's been through it enough times to know the drill, which is why before they can pile on, he puts his hands gently on her shoulders. It's not a command, but rather an offer, as he makes eye contact and motions towards the bench on the other side of the pool. If she nods, he'll announce their exit.

"Sorry everyone," he says apologetically. "But Natasha and I actually have some catching up to do, so if you want to talk to her, you'll have to wait in line after the timed run-throughs tomorrow morning for-" He glances at her. "Which one? Trampoline?"

There are groans, some words of protest, but this is a party, not a press event, so they let them go.

"Better to keep them wanting more," he says, as he sets his water bottle down again on their new bench, with just the two of them. "Or better yet. Get them to watch you doing your events, live." Like tomorrow morning, which Steve had just so specifically reminded them of. In a way, all the things she's seen him done just now could be described as calculating. But someone else could just as easily describe it as strategy, born through experience.

He takes a sip of water. One of the reasons he carries that bottle around with him is because of how much water he needs to drink, given how much he ends up talking. "I'm sorry by the way," he says, as he wets his lips, "about what the other gymnasts were saying earlier." Another drink, because god is Steve parched. "It wasn't right. But I think they'll come around."

Oh, he is good. She plays right into it, gives the responses he's expecting, knows how to follow the script. He's brilliant, he really is. She's hard pressed, at the outset, to keep her own act from slipping. It's a lot to take in, a lot to process. It's surprisingly difficult to pretend that you don't care, especially when it's something you need. He makes it look easy, makes it look like he belongs. Maybe it's because everyone loves him by default, starts off on his side. She wonders what that would be like, to be accepted without having to try.

It's a relief when he begins the process of steering her away, and the gratitude that slips onto her face is unintentional and very real. "Trampoline," she confirms, not all that pleased with her own tone, but he rolls right along. And they let him. Of course they do. She's pretty sure half these people would jump in the pool right now if he said he'd like to see it.

She's still smiling when they sit again, can't help but notice that they have not been left alone entirely, that the scrutiny is simply long distance now. Ranged observation. Clint would probably find that funny. "You're very good at that," she tells him with a chuckle, crossing her legs and sipping from her drink. She brushes away the comment about her teammates with a shrug and a shake of her head. Maybe they will, maybe they won't, but obviously something like the opinion of her teammates doesn't mean anything to the Ice Queen. She's far too Siberian for that, freeze you out and leave you drained, that's her. "They will or they won't. So... are you going to be at the run-throughs tomorrow? That's the dream, isn't it? Girls on trampolines?" Because it's all a joke. It has to be, or else it starts to matter.

He doesn't know enough about her to know exactly how much she needs this. All Steve knows is the basics. That most Olympic athletes have a once-in-a-lifetime shot of getting sponsors, when they're at their peak. With gymnastics, he knows that the runs can be short, because they're usually so young when they reach their best, and then their body changes and everything's over.

When it comes to Steve himself, he knows he has the world's biggest privilege. He's popular, so he has options. He's friendly with people because he likes people, so TV shows like to host him. His voice sounds good on the radio. Even since he first came on the scene, Steve's never struggled too much to get the deals most Olympians would dream of. But those things also aren't why he's here. He's here to do his best, and to make America proud. Which is why, in the end, it's always been much easier for Steve to keep sponsors waiting with baited breath, because he really doesn't care as much as they do.

Luckily, his same techniques though, work for anyone who's accomplished enough to be pegged as a metal contender at the Olympics this year. Like Natasha.

"It's not because I try to be, trust me," he says, chuckling back. "But I'm happy to help you get sponsors, if it's something you want."

He grins though, when she asks if he's going to be at the run-throughs. "My swimming ones are in the afternoon, so I could come," he offers. "But I don't want to take the attention off you. Plus. I'd rather see your fencing run-throughs on Friday."

Natasha is not unrealistic about her future prospects. She's an immigrant, an orphan, a cast-off with a host of issues and a criminal record. Small charges as a juvenile, but still, she knows what she is. She's a woman with a talent, lucky enough to be in the right place at the right point in time. Her body is the wrong shape, but she can make it work for her, can turn it into an advantage. She's supposed to be too old, but some fluke of genetics is turning that to her advantage, too - additional life experience, years of training and a built up fire in her belly. Everyone sees the ice, no one sees the fire. It's all giving her just enough time to make a run at this, a real shot at doing something important, something she can be proud of. Something her uncle can be proud of. Something that will give her her chance to take care of the both of them, the way he's done for so long.

Not that she lets any of that through. Interviews with her tend to revolve around her love life, her diet, and whatever rumour or scandal is currently making the rounds. She doesn't care. Not really. Nope. It's publicity, and it's a payday. She doesn't care if they want to mock her or tear her down, as long as the checks don't bounce. She just keeps telling herself that. Some days, she believes it, too. Some days, she gets to hang out with an actual celebrity pool side, and find out he really is kind of a nice guy, and that he smells like summer.

She chuckles. "I meant with everyone, this whole party. You just... move the world around you. It's impressive." Even now, the attention that's still on him from across the pool. Natasha raises her glass to a small group, who quickly look away and talk amongst themselves, because she has that effect on people. She can make you feel guilty, even if you've done nothing wrong. The toast drains her glass, and her waiter notices. It's going to take him a minute to get to her with her bottle, and in the mean time, she has a question. Not that she thinks he'll answer, but she's still going to ask. "Why did you step in? Back there with the other gymnasts. You didn't have to."

For Steve, it's the total opposite. He loves the water. He's always loved the water since the day his mom brought him to a public pool in Brooklyn and let her little boy splash around in the water. It feels so freeing, to move and dive and spin in any direction — like for a moment, he could be a mermaid, or that maybe gravity doesn't exist.

Even after all these years, Steve loves it. It's another one of the many reasons people love to interview him. Because if you get him started on swimming, the man can really sell the sport. From TV shows alone, he's probably inspired hundreds of kids to at least give it a try. There are probably dozens who want to be just like Steve Rogers when they grow up.

He smiles though, when he sees her laugh, and then looks away, grinning as his eyes flicker down to the pool as he shakes his head. When he looks back over, he sees her toast the people hovering from across the pool, and now it's his turn to laugh a little.

"Of course I did," he says, his brows furrowed like that's not even a question. "The things I heard them saying ... " He shakes his head, like it absolutely baffles him that they would even think to say things like that. "... if they really feel that way, they don't deserve the opportunity to represent America. Especially not at the Olympics. If there's one thing we're representing out there as athletes, it's the idea that hard work and determination got us to where we are." He picks up his bottle again for more water. "Sure, for most of us, genetics played its part. But we couldn't just rely on the bodies we were born with. You put blood and sweat and tears into what you've accomplished, just like the rest of them. No real athlete gets to belittle that. And no real athlete could stand by and watch a teammate be subjected to that kind of ... baloney."

Her face becomes more and more serious as he speaks. Once or twice, her eyes flick quickly around them, as though looking for someone else close enough to hear. There is no one. This is just for her. It might even be real. It's genuine and it's heavy and it's... it means something. Until he says baloney, and then she laughs again. It's not quite as sarcastic as usual, but still a small and delicate sound, still not entirely unguarded. It's difficult for her to slip back and forth, because it's difficult to pull the armour up around herself once she lets it down, once there's any sort of crack. Natasha learned, at a very young age, that life is cruel to those who can be ground down. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, sure, but the flip side of that, the more accurate assessment of life, is the weak will not survive. You bend, or you break.

"Baloney," she repeats. "You're a very special man, Steven Grant Rogers." Maybe she's talking about the swimming, the polo, the training and the dedication and the incredibly sexy body that embodies it all. Maybe she's not.

Her waiter has swung back around, by this time, and when he holds out the bottle to pour for her, her hand wraps around it, fingers brushing his. "I think I'll be here a while. Why don't you just leave it?" He looks like he doesn't want to, though whether that's because he's not supposed to, or because it means he won't get to see her at regular intervals any more, she won't hazard a guess. He doesn't argue with her, though. Few men do. He just blushes slightly and scampers off. Nice kid.

She catches Steve watching, and maybe she's just expecting him to disapprove. Most people do. It doesn't stop her from pouring. "Can you keep a secret, Steve?"

It is serious. So very serious, until he says baloney and she laughs, and Steve can't help himself — he laughs too. Natasha really is beautiful when she laughs. Not that she isn't beautiful all the time, but there's a difference. That look she normally has on gives her a sultry kind of atmosphere that makes her feel ... inaccessible to Steve. But when she laughs, at least from what he's seen up close tonight, she looks happy. And Steve finds himself looking at her for longer when it happens.

"Oh so people keep telling me," he quips back, grinning. "But I'm just a kid from Brooklyn."

The waiter comes over though, interrupting them, and Steve watches the dance with the bottle. He sees the way the kid blushes, but he doesn't pick up on too many of the other details. It's not his business. As for the alcohol though, and Natasha asking for the whole bottle, Steve would be lying if he said he wasn't concerned.

When she asks that question though, a curious glint sparkles from his eyes, and Steve gives her a curious look. "Why? Are you about to tell me one?"

Concerned from Steve is judgemental and condescending from everyone else. She'll take concerned any day. She feels like she might even like concerned a little bit. There hasn't been much occasion for that in her life.

She taps her fingernails against her glass, lips pursed as though considering. This is... fun? This conspiratorial whispering, like they have some sort of deep connection that makes them the sort of pair who would keep secrets for one another. She doesn't have anyone like that. Clint probably comes closest, but there's just something about having a friend who's her uncle's age, and a father, and as much of a goober as Clint. It's not quite the same. "I think I might be, yes." She takes a sip of her drink, then leans in close and shifts her grip so that the tumbler is resting on her palm, her fingers curving up around it to keep it steady. "Take a sip?"

When Steve looks skeptical, she nudges his calf with her foot. "This is the secret. Come on. Just one." Her secret is that the bottle of exclusive Russian vodka isn't a bottle of vodka at all, but a vodka bottle with water in it. After her first couple of drinks, she's been having water all night.

When she asks him to take a sip, the expression on Steve's face shifts to a goofy, exaggerated alarm. "You know the first rule at parties right?" You know, the one about safety and how you shouldn't drink something if you didn't see where it really came from? Yeah, safety is what Steve thinks of as the first rule at parties.

And he doesn't play ball. Shakes his head just once like he won't drink it. But he will take a whiff. He expects Russian vodka to be strong after all, but then Steve smells ... nothing.

There's a curious look on his face after that, as he leans back to where he was before leaning in get close enough to the drink.

"Well that is a secret."

But he doesn't say more, because even though he finds it quite brilliant, Steve would like to hear her explain it.

"It is," she confirms, taking a sip of her water and lime. A pretty big secret, and now that she's told him, there is already a nagging pinpoint of doubt, an insidious little voice telling her that she's overlooked some way this information could help him, and he's going to find a way to use it against her. She fucking hates that voice. Not that she can discount it entirely. Believing that everyone was out to get her was a daily aspect of life during a very dark time in her childhood, and she's pretty sure she wouldn't be sitting here now without it. It does make it very difficult to get close to people, though, now that she doesn't actually need it to literally survive.

Her eyes glance quickly around them again, at everyone he could potentially talk to about this. There are some people who wouldn't even need a personal benefit. There are some people who would do it just to fuck with someone else. She's known a lot of them, too. Still, she's proud of the way she keeps all of that out of her voice when she asks, "Are you going to keep it?" Because if anyone would, it's him, isn't it?

She doesn't explain. Not a word, which makes him even more curious. "Well at least tell me why you do it," he says when she's sipping her decidedly non-alcoholic beverage. "There's plenty of us who don't drink. Who ... " And this is the part that he can't figure out. "... is the show for?"

She asks him to keep it though, in a voice that's calm but also doesn't feel like a tease this time, and he just grins and nods. "I won't tell anyone."

She considers the question carefully, not because she doesn't know the answer, but because she's never had to explain it to another person before. Though at least one part is easy. "It's for... everyone. Except you, now." Even Clint thinks she drinks like a fish, and she does drink, she's just not a moron about it. "You saw what people think about me. I don't..." What? Have friends? She's not saying that out loud. "Fit in. Not in the country, not in my own sport. I'm too old for a first time olympic gymnast, my body is wrong, I stretch myself too thin, I don't take anything seriously, I don't care about anything." She lists them off on her fingers, nails painted glossy red ticking up with each assumed fault.

It's odd, the lump that settles in her throat. She's never tried to talk about this before. Maybe... is this why? She clears it with a little cough and takes another sip of water. "They're wrong. I do care. I want to win. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. I'd be... I don't know, a swimsuit model or something. For a while, it made me very bitter. Then I thought, if someone is going to have to carry that here." She reaches out and places her hand on his solar plexus, tapping her fingers against his shirt. "Why should it be me? So I found a way to enjoy it. Now, I play to the expectations. The wrong body, how very un-American I am, the food and the alcohol, late nights. Almost none of it is real, but everyone who looks at my life from the outside and doesn't care enough to try to get to know me... why do I owe them the truth? Besides, it keeps people talking. If there's one thing I've learned from the history of this country, infamy is just as good as fame. Maybe even better. Not as difficult to hold on to. It's easy for them to love you. You're theirs. I can't do that, but I can still make sure they're talking about me."

It's not until she runs out of steam that she realizes just how long she's been speaking. Unexpected, on many levels. He's easy to talk to, and that's dangerous. She wonders if he knows it. She also realizes, with more than just a hint of surprise, that he's the only person to not interrupt her a few sentences in. Everyone else has an answer prepared, or wants to cut in with a way the conversation relates to their own life. She can't blame them. They're here to network, and if you see a way to grab attention that can directly translate into income for you, why wouldn't you? Still, this is strange.

Not bad, she tells herself, just... strange.

He's about to point out the fact that they are wrong, but then Natasha says it herself, and a little trace of a smile curls over Steve's lips.

And then he just listens, through all of it. He can tell she doesn't open up much, and then she practically tells him that she doesn't have anyone to talk to, and Steve just nods and listens to everything. As she talks, everything else just fades away. The party's still going strong, but the crowds are starting to thin. Even the group on the other side of the pool is starting to disperse, understanding that Steve's not going to be coming back to them anytime soon. They don't have absolutely privacy, but here, outside, beneath the starry sky and with the light reflection of the pool cascading over them, it feels almost serene.

In the end, Steve never interrupts because he's interested in hearing what she has to say, but when Natasha's finally done, he only lets a few seconds of silence go by before: "I won't tell anyone — not if you don't want me to. But Natasha, can I ask you something?"

Those few seconds sit like lead in her gut. There's a reason she doesn't open up much, and it's almost entirely to do with an absolute lack of faith in humanity. She doesn't know why she's shared so much with him, other than it's just so easy, but she knows enough to be nervous once she has.

Then he speaks, and the weight lifts.

Her mind twists that into a barter. He'll keep her secret if she answers a question. Even though she knows he doesn't mean it that way, it's easier for her to accept, because nothing comes free. Another lesson hard learned at a very young age. Still, she smiles. "Of course." Takes a sip of her not-vodka. She can hear the party breaking up, but she doesn't look around. She doesn't have to engage. The beauty of her notoriety is that it's almost better if she doesn't. The more she accepts the role of black sheep, the higher the story builds itself. "Fire away."

Why tell me? is the question he really wants to ask, but posing a question like that only helps him satiate his curiosity. Instead, he asks something about her, because this is Steve, and his main priority seems to always be helping other people, if he can manage it.

"Is what you have now what you want?" He gets that it's not incredibly clear what he means though, so Steve clarifies. "I mean — if you knew for certain that they'd love you, after you showed them who you really are, would you do it? Would you ... want that instead?"

They don't know each other well enough for her to completely intuit what he might mean, or what's already going through Steve's head. On the one hand, it's a hypothetical, especially phrased that way because even Steve Rogers doesn't have the power to snap his fingers and make America love someone else. But on the other hand, if she wants it, there's plenty that he can do to help.

The first question is massive, heavy, and nothing she wants to think about. He might be able to catch it in the widening of her eyes, the instinctive flash of fear when her mind reacts with terror at the prospect of having to answer, before the obvious solution of lying to him soothes that away. She doesn't want to think about her whole life in terms that broad.

She sips her drink while he clarifies, and even more of that weight lifts. Thing is, the weight that's lifting now? She came into the party with it already pulling her down. "What's the point in wishing for things you can't ever have?" It's a desire to brush it off, deep and reflexive, rooted in a strangely corrupted fight or flight response. Keep who you are safe by keeping it hidden. Create a small place inside yourself, sheltered from the world, and you put what matters in it. Then you lock it away, you keep it safe. Galina taught her that, and it was all that had kept a young girl from breaking. Once she really was safe, though, no one knew to tell her that she could stop.

As he watches her, blue eyes matching the water by their feet, Steve rests his arms on his legs and brings his hands together, threading his fingers.

"But what if you could, Natasha? Would you?" He's not giving up. Steve only had one question after all.

"Tell me?" That last question just slips in there like a personal request.

"Yes." It's a small sound, when it slips out. Not particularly sad or wistful, and she's thankful for that. Just small. There's a moment before she can cover it, while it hangs between them and feels to her like a flashing sign, a neon arrow pointing to a weakness. "I mean, who doesn't want to be loved?" It's a weak joke, but she still smiles with half her mouth, tosses her hair back over her shoulder while she huffs out a little laugh. Nothing serious to see here.

When she says yes, Steve realizes that he hadn't even tried to predict what he answer would be, because when he hears it, he doesn't feel surprise. Instead, he just grins.

"I suppose you're right."

His life, from the outside, seems flawless to a lot of people. Steve knows that. But even if his life isn't perfect, in many ways, he knows that it's more perfect than most people's, and he's grateful — especially for the fact that he never has to hide who he is, and people still seem to like him.

"But for what it's worth, I don't think it's unattainable." A beat. "Not for you."

There's a pause there, like Steve's thinking something through and might have more to say, but suddenly, they hear a series of splashes coming from down the pool. Looking over, sure enough, it's a bunch of Steve's teammates who just can't seem to stay away from the water. There's a couple of women on the other end too, sitting on the ledge of the pool itself with their legs dangling in the water. Everything seems casual. A little flirty. A little drunk.

"STEVE!" one of them yells, "COME IN. LET'S PLAY A GAME." It's Sam. Steve knows it's Sam before he even sees him, and Steve rolls his eyes before he chuckles, slumping his shoulders for a second. Instead of answering though, he turns back over to Natasha.

"Do you like to swim?"

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Steve Rogers | MCU, OLYMPICS FLAVOR

so you know we're wildcarding that party back home, cause of course

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