The fifth time he gets an epic wedgie in the middle of a battle because his jeans are too tight, Sam seems to decide something has to change.
“Natasha,” Sam says when they meet for their weekly Starbucks date, “I think I gotta start wearing spandex.”
Natasha sips her tea, unmoved by the announcement.
“Or you could just wear looser pants,” she suggests, eyebrow raised.
Sam takes a defiant bite of his pumpkin bread. “Not when Captain Booty is over there shaking his little butt at everyone,” he says. “I’m already just a dude with wings. I need to hold my own, y’know?” He preens a little. “The internet says I have a nice ass. I gotta give the people what they want.”
Natasha takes another sip of her tea, this time to maybe hide a laugh. Sam frowns.
“I’m serious,” Sam says. “I need an outfit that won’t get all—you know—bunchy. Something stretchy, so I can show off what my mama gave me, too.” He frames his hands in a square, squinting like he’s envisioning a scene in front of a camera. “Spandex,” he says. “Lots of it.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “Is this how the average American male comes of age, or something?” she asks fondly. “I didn’t realize.”
Sam grins. “Nah,” he says. “It’s how American superheroes come of age.”
Natasha gives him a considering look. “Not just American,” she says after a pause, conspiratorially.
Sam blinks. Looks her up and down. “…what, really?” he asks. Then, “What? Really?”
Natasha shrugs and steals Sam’s pumpkin bread. “Really,” she confirms.
Which is pretty much how Sam ends up wearing Black Widow’s catsuit.
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"It’s a special lycra spandex blend,” Natasha explains for the thousandth time as Steve laughs himself sick. “It stretches.”
Sam sniffs. “Yeah, Steve,” he says. “It stretches. Probably if it had a cowl like your outfit, it’d even fit your fat head—”
Natasha brandishes her gun. Casually. Sam and Steve shut their mouths.
“Boys,” she admonishes. "The catsuit is not intended to cause fights. It’s intended to give Sam a sense for how he might move in this kind of material. He’s been feeling…constricted, lately.“
Steve looks abashed at that. “Sorry, man,” he says. “Probably I’m the last person on planet earth who needs to be laughing at a guy in spandex.”
Sam tugs on the zipper of the catsuit, trying ineffectually to get it to go a little higher than mid-chest. “‘s alright, dude,” he says cheerfully. “I almost laughed myself into a fuckin’ coma the first time you wore those leather go-go boots—”
"They’re combat boots painted red—”
Natasha holds up her gun again. The two men shut their mouths. Again.
"Let’s do a test run,” she says pleasantly. “And Steve? If those pictures go on Instagram, I will ruin you. As far as the world knows, that catsuit is mine and mine alone.”
Steve pockets his phone guiltily.
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Turns out, the catsuit is just about perfect for Sam. There are some—minor support issues, but nothing that can’t be solved by a good built-in cup. Natasha makes a mental note to ask Clint later; he spent the eighties in purple spandex, if she remembers the files correctly.
She squints as she looks to the sky, the elegant shape of Sam in all his long, muscled glory, taking flight against the clouds. The metal of his wings is a lovely contrast to the sleek lines of his body under the catsuit, and as he tilts to the right, ducking and swooping down to the ground, Natasha glimpses the infamous gift that apparently, Darlene Wilson passed along to her only son.
"Nice ass is right,” she mutters appreciatively.
Sam’s right—only spandex will do, from here on out. Anything more would be a crime.
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The next morning, Natasha walks into breakfast wearing one of Sam’s shirts. And only one of his shirts.
“What?” she asks, smiling behind her coffee at Steve and Bucky’s stricken looks. "He got to wear my stuff.”
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