They've been on the run for 53 days.

Steve marvels at the thought. The Siberian Hydra facility felt like only yesterday, when he slammed his shield down into Tony's iron heart, shattering it.

At the same time, Siberia felt like a lifetime ago. Another memory that which grows distant – a sensation Steve is becoming all too familiar with.

Under the unsteady stream of cold water, Steve flexes his fingers. He can feel the well-worn leather straps of his shield, almost like a phantom limb. He balls his hand into a fist, tighter and tighter until he feels nothing and everything and —

With a sharp exhale, Steve unclenches his hand. All that is left is a deep exhaustion seeping into his bones. The same weariness that he once found in the hot, dusty trenches of unnamed battles.

This, too, is a sensation that Steve knows all too well.

He turns off the shower and listens (just in case) – and hears only the chatter from the television and the muted roar of the city outside. Content, he steps outside the shower, into the adjoining bathroom space that is much too small for his frame. He tries himself off, his elbows occasionally bumping against the walls, just relieved to be in a hotel with decent water pressure and doesn't reek of mold.

He catches his reflection in the mirror.

He hadn't shaved since Siberia – it was one less thing he had to worry about. He half-heartedly looks around for a complimentary razor and finds it on the shelf behind the mirror. He reaches for it – then pauses. His hand drops. With a sigh (about what, he's unsure), he exits the bathroom.

A wall of humidity immediately envelops him. He silently curses the heat of Ho Chi Minh City that so quickly renders his cold shower pointless. Natasha looks up from her seat by the large windows, which have been propped open. Her Glock 26 pistols have been dismantled and neatly laid out on the coffee table before her. A hint of a smile tugs at her lips as she turns her attention back on the firing pin in her hand.

"What were you doing, taking a bath?" she teases.

Ignoring her jab, Steve crosses over to the beds and rummages through his duffle bag. He settles on a midnight blue t-shirt he had bought in Brazil ("It brings out your eyes," Natasha had said, before she made him try on a silly dinosaur hat) and his only pair of jeans before he moves for the mini-fridge.

He feels Natasha's eyes on his back as he opens the fridge door, relishing the fleeting moment of cool air on his skin. He stares blankly inside the fridge.

"Where's Sam?" he asks.

"Something about finding a goddamn burger in this goddamn city."

Steve chuckles. Grabbing a can of soda, he passes by Natasha and perches on the wooden windowsill. It creaks under his weight, but holds steady.

Steve leaps out of the way as Natasha suddenly, playfully makes a grab for his soda – and succeeds. She takes a sip – then promptly hands it back to him with a scowl. "Ugh. It's like drinking liquid sugar."

"At least it's cold," he says.

A breeze enters, lukewarm, carrying with it the distinctive scent of tropical rain.

Steve listens to the deep, orchestral rumbling of the motorcycles and cars, swarming the streets below like bees – only occasionally interrupted by the gentle clanking of metal from the coffee table beside him.

It's almost… peaceful.

He suddenly remembers Natasha, with that strange, wistful look on her face, as they stood together on that floating city rising over Sokovia.

Where else am I going to get a view like this?

He finds himself watching Natasha as she works. Her hands move on their own accord, operating on pure muscle memory. There's a certain satisfaction to be gained from the way she meticulously, methodically cleans each mechanical piece before setting it down on the table.

A semblance of order in this world of chaos they have found themselves in.

Well, found himself in. He suspects that the Black Widow has been living in chaos for a very, very long time.

With a succession of clicks and snaps, Natasha assembles the guns back together in a matter of seconds. With a final inspection, she straightens in her chair, collecting her red hair that clings to her neck from the heat. With an annoyed huff, she ties it into a loose ponytail.

"It's getting long," Steve observes.

Natasha raises an eyebrow in question.

"Your hair," he explains, suddenly feeling silly. He instantly regrets saying anything. Maybe the heat is getting to his head.

Natasha absentmindedly runs a hand through her ponytail, as though noticing its length for the first time.

"Hmm," she finally says, sounding far away. "I suppose it is."

Her eyes become clear, suddenly boring into his. For a second, it looks like she wants to say more – but she doesn't.

An hour before sunrise, Natasha wakes up with a start.

She stays frozen, her heart thundering in her chest, listening, gripping the gun under her pillow, acutely aware that she's not alone (Steve's steady breathing, Sam's light snoring, the cleaning lady entering an elevator upstairs).

It takes a long time before she forces herself to relax.

Natasha sits up, rubbing a hand over her weary face, shaking off the remnants of her dream. Or was it technically a nightmare? It didn't matter. For as long as Natasha can remember, they were always one and the same.

She glances over at Steve and Sam, equal parts envious and exasperated by their abilities to slumber away with such abandon.

Not for the first time, Natasha wonders what good men dream about.

She slips out of the bed and changes into her jogging gear with barely a rustle. Leaving a note behind ("Out for a run.") on the bedside table, Natasha exits the hotel room.

The air is surprisingly crisp.

Natasha follows a mental map of the still quiet city as she settles into a comfortable rhythm. Running had always been more of Clint's preference, but exercise options are limited when you're a fugitive.

So she runs, gradually picking up the pace, until the sun is an unrelenting ball of fire in the sky and her breathing grows labored and her t-shirt is drenched in sweat. Her lungs scream in protest but Natasha doesn't allow herself to stop, because stopping means having to deal with the hollow feeling in her chest that is frankly scaring the shit out of her.

So she runs, stopping only when she reaches a familiar, dilapidated stone bridge.

She all but collapses, leaning hard against the railing to catch her breath, relishing the way her body burns with exertion. She feels a little more grounded. A little more like herself. Whatever that means these days, she thinks darkly.

But before that thought can consume her, Natasha forces herself to walk, crossing the bridge to enter a small but vibrant marketplace bustling with activity.

She lingers at the food stalls and browses through the street vendors, easily slipping into the role of the wife of a British ex-pat. Following the long, winding street, she loses herself to the sights, smells and the sounds.

Soon, the street ends.

The rest of the world seems to fade away as Natasha turns a corner and finds herself before a non-descript storefront, tucked away between two residential buildings. The rusty doorbell (or what remains of it) creaks as she enters.

Inside the dimly lit store, Natasha navigates through the organized chaos, passing by shelves stacked with items for literally all occasions (the mink fur coat, however, is rather questionable). She grabs a lukewarm bottle of water, a thing of imported European chocolates (for a bad day), and a dusty bottle of Khortytsa vodka (for a really bad day).

As Natasha heads for the cashier, a shelf of scattered hair dye products catches her attention. She grabs a box.

At the front of the store, an old Vietnamese woman sits at the counter. A long, silver cigarette holder dangles from her cracked lips as she reads a local newspaper. Her piercing brown eyes flicker to Natasha's face as Natasha dumps the items on the counter.

"There hasn't been a spider in these parts, not for a very long time," the old woman says, her English heavily accented.

"If I recall correctly, you don't like spiders very much," says Natasha.

"You remember incorrectly, Natalia." Mai sets down her newspaper and takes a long drag from her smoke. "I hate spiders."

Natasha smiles. "It's good to see you too, Dr. Mai."

Mai doesn't reciprocate the smile.

"If you're here, then things must have really gone to shit, yes?"

"Is that a question or a statement?" asks Natasha. She casually leans on the counter, eyeballing the dizzying text on the newspaper. Mai takes another long drag and exhales, like a dragon in her cave of gold.

"There was quite a rumble, when you arrived," Mai says.

"That's what happens when you're with Captain America. It's only a matter of time before someone notices."

"No, Natalia. It is you whom they noticed."

The hollow feeling inside Natasha expands. Fuck.

This is exactly what Natasha had feared. She had hoped that Ho Chi Minh City would provide them with a much-needed refuge, at least for a while. But it was becoming abundantly clear that Natasha had made far more enemies than friends. But is anyone surprised by this? Her ledger continues to drip in red. Without the safety net of SHIELD or the Avengers Initiative, her world has grown increasingly small and crowded and deadly.

Caught in the intricate web that she herself had spun.

"It's Natasha now, by the way," she mutters.

Mai lazily waves her cigarette between them. "Natalia, Natasha – it is all the same to me. Changing a name does not change a person. Not for everyone."

Natasha grows silent. Well that's just the problem, isn't it?

Mai nods at the box of hair dye on the counter. "That is only going to get you so far. They know your face now."

"I know," Natasha says quietly. "But I'll go as far as I can get."

Mai nods. From a nearby drawer, she pulls out an envelope, which she bags with the rest of the items. Mai pauses, examining the bottle of vodka. Then, from another drawer, she produces two shot glasses.

Mai fills both of them to the brim, not spilling a single drop.

Without a word, they throw their heads back and down their shots in one practiced gulp. Mai wrinkles her nose. She turns the bottle in her hands and squints at the label, clearly disapproving. "This stuff will kill you."

Natasha smiles. "Then it will be a good death."

"I have a safe house," says Mai. She nods to the envelope in the plastic bag. "The organization doesn't know about it. It'll be safer than the hotel."

Natasha looks up sharply, her body tensing.

"How—"

"I'll keep them off your tracks for as long as I can. That much I owe you. But I'm afraid Vietnam will just have to be a pit stop."

Natasha nods. She pours another shot for herself and moves to fill Mai's — but the older woman shakes her head, putting a hand over her glass. Natasha shrugs. "Suit yourself."

"Care for some advice? Or are you too good for that now, Natasha?"

"Considering the last time I took your advice, it saved my life… yes."

Mai taps her cigarette holder against the counter, extinguishing the last of the glowing ember.

"Sometimes, staying away is the best way to protect them. This I learned the hard way"

Natasha stares down at the swirling liquid of light and silver. Then, she downs the second shot.

The alcohol leaves a trail of fire down her throat.

Natasha welcomes the pain.

Steve looks up from his sketchbook when the door lock beeps. Natasha enters the hotel room, carrying a small plastic bag. In addition to the sweat, his enhanced sense of smell picks up something else. Is that… vodka? His brows furrowing, Steve examines her pale complexion.

"Did something happen?" He asks.

That seems to catch her completely off guard. She tries to mask it, but it's too late, and she knows it.

"No." With that, she moves for the bathroom and shuts the door a little forcibly. Steve frowns at that, too. Natasha is never one for making sounds.

Steve stares at the closed door of the bathroom for a long time, the sketchbook on his lap forgotten. He hears Natasha moving about. The rustling of a plastic bag. A box being torn open. The groan of the pipes in the walls as the shower turns on, then off.

Maybe he was overreacting, he thinks. Seeing something that wasn't there. Or worse yet, projecting his own… something (he couldn't even begin to define what it was exactly that he felt)… on her.

Steve forces himself to reconsider his sketch of the Ho Chi Minh City skyline when –

Snip... Snip, snip.

He grows alert as he listens to the unusual sound of something being… cut? Stowing his sketchbook away, he quietly moves for the door and stands there for what feels like an eternity, debating what to do or say -

The bathroom door suddenly swings open and he's met with Natasha's piercing green eyes.

"What are you doing?" she demands.

Steve can't help but stare at her platinum blonde hair, still dripping wet from the shower. A section of it has been sheared off, now hovering just above her shoulders. His eyes flickers to the KA-BAR knife in her hand, then to the locks of uneven, chopped off hair scattered on the bathroom floor behind her.

"Nat, your hair…"

She shrugs. "Relax, Rogers. It's just hair. Unlike you, I can't just grow a beard to hide my face."

With that, she leaves the door open and returns to the mirror over the sink. Steve takes that as an invitation to linger in the doorway.

Snip, snip.

"What happened?" He asks again.

She doesn't look at him, her eyes glued to the mirror in front of her. Snip.

"We're not safe here," she says.

"Already?"

"There's a safe house in Da Nang. But it's probably best that we leave the country by the end of the week."

"And then?"

"And then…" With one last snip, the last of her long hair is gone. She wipes off the stray pieces of hair clinging to her shoulders and chest with a towel. "I don't know," she finally says, almost to herself. "I'll figure something out."

She kneels down to clean up the mess of hair that had pooled around her feet.

Steve watches her, searching for the right words in the chaotic storm of his own thoughts. But he finds that there are no right words, only shadows and contours and ghosts.

"Do you regret it?" Steve asks.

"Regret what?"

"Taking my side."

Natasha's hands grow still.

"Don't flatter yourself, Cap. I took no one's side but my own."

There's an icy edge to her voice that takes him by surprise. Natasha stands up and faces him. He's suddenly struck by how utterly unfamiliar she felt to him, and he knows it isn't just because of the new hair.

"As long as you're with me, you'll never be safe," she says.

"So what, you're just gonna go off on your own?"

Her expression softens. "You're a good man. But that's why I have to go."

"Why?"

She pushes past him, crossing the room to stand by the open window. Her short hair flutters in the wind.

"Natasha—"

"Because everything that is good in my life eventually gets taken away from me."

"You're not going to lose me."

"You don't know that."

"You're right. I don't," he says. He moves to sit across from her, at the edge of his bed. He tries to meet her eyes, but she doesn't let him.

"I don't know what I am anymore," she whispers. "Not a soldier. No longer a spy..."

"Just make something up," Steve says with a small grin. "A wise woman told me that once. I think she had red hair."

She snorts, recognizing her own words from the car ride to New Jersey. It felt like yesterday, and a lifetime ago.

"Sounds like I had better listen to her," she says.

They share a smile.

"What do you want to be, Natasha?"

She gazes outside the window.

"I want to be fighting by your side. Because you will always fight for what's right."

Steve finds himself unexpectedly moved by her words. They were like a lighthouse in a storm.

He leans back, feeling more relaxed than he had in days.

"So where to next?" He asks.

"I don't know," she says. "Somewhere with a view."

Just then, the hotel door opens and Sam enters, proudly holding three bahn mi sandwiches in his hands.

"I come bearing gifts. My guy swore on his mother's grave that these are the best bahn mi in the city—" Sam stops in his tracks, his eyes growing wide. "Whoa. What the hell happened to your hair?"