A/N: This story is a follow up to "Down Time", but if you haven't read it, this will hopefully still stand alone.

I am also uploading this on AO3.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, etc. These belong to Marvel.

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Matt knew she was there the moment he opened the door, though she was hardly trying to hide. The flat smelt of creamy potatoes and roasting lamb, she was playing her iPhone through his speaker system, her coat was draped across the back of the chair, her bag on the floor.

"Please, make yourself at home, Natasha."

"Busy day at the office?"

"Something like that." Matt rested his cane against the kitchen bench and turning off the music. "Why are you here?"

"I haven't seen you for a year. Haven't spoken to you for nearly a year. Figure old friends can drop round," she danced past him and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"Ok, well, I'm not sure we're friends, and…"

"You got the cheque?"

"The - oh yeah. Thanks."

"Dinner will be ready in in five. I made enough for four, figured you'd appreciate the left-overs. Even you fancy New York City lawyer-types appreciate a good bit home-cooked of lamb and creamy potatoes dauphinoise."

"Since when did you learn to cook?" Matt asked, taking off his tie.

"Since always. Sometimes it's just fun to have take-out though. But it's not something I've had a lot of time to do lately., and you have a really nice kitchen. Plus it's nice to cook for someone, you know?"

"Right," Matt said, "And then after a convivial dinner, you're going to leave, right?"

Natasha grabbed the oven mitt and opened the oven door an inch. "Potatoes are bubbling nicely. Still think they could have a couple more minutes. Sit down. I'll set the table. I'm feeling domestic."

"Yeah, I find that breaking into people's houses makes me feel like catering too. Cut the crap. What's going on?" Matt asked, taking a seat.

Natasha grabbed two beers out of the fridge, and popped them both open, handing one to Matt. "Dinner, Matt. Dinner is what's on."

"Don't bullshit me, Natasha," Matt said. He could hear her lying. Or maybe not lying exactly, but she was a long way from telling the whole truth. Natasha busied herself with the cutlery.

"Either I'm in some sort of trouble I don't know about," Matt said, "Or you're in so much trouble you can't even go to Captain America. Or maybe he's in trouble too, like last time. You haven't caused any international crises while I was on my way home from the office?"

"Can we talk over dinner?"

"Is it really that bad?"

Natasha laid out the cutlery. "No."

"Where have you been for the past year?"

"Russia, mostly. Siberia. I did what I needed to in Moscow during the summer. Did a postal vote, though I now realise that sending it from Russia probably wasn't a great idea. I got out in mid-November, before the problems really started to flare up. Are there are problems. Then various parts of Eastern Europe," Natasha got the food out of the oven and began to dish up. "From Finland to Croatia. Spent Christmas and New Years in Budapest for work and, I'll admit, old times sake, then the last couple weeks in Paris and London. Figured I deserved a little R&R."

Natasha laid the plates on the table. Matt took a swig of beer, then picked up his knife and fork. He wasn't about to say as much, but the food smelt delicious. The heat signatures told him it was a bit of a mess, creamy potatoes and juicy lamb chops and peas falling all over the plate, but he didn't care. It tasted as good as it smelt.

"Came back and crashed with Rogers a few days ago. That man has the comfiest couch in Brooklyn. I'm sure he bought a fold-out one just for these kind of occasions."

"Don't you have a place in New York?" Matt asked.

"Yeah, but it's currently got a couple from Athens in it, and once they check out on Friday, a guy from Yorkshire's got it for the week from Saturday."

"Huh?"

"AirBNB. Ellie in the flat downstairs takes care of it all for me. I give her a cut. Didn't realise it would be so popular."

"Who knew people would want to stay in a downtown condo?" Matt said between mouthfuls of dinner.

"A seriously reasonably priced condo," Natasha added.

"What about your safe houses?"

"That's kinda the whole idea," Natasha said, "They're safe houses. I'm not in trouble. I'm here on my own passport, no immigration issues or SHIELD matters or wanted by federal agencies or anything. I won't use the safe houses unless I have to."

"Fair enough," Matt said. He was happy for her to talk; it allowed him to eat. He scrapped the last of the cream from the potatoes from his plate. "But you're not staying here."

"I know."

"Then why'd you bring a bag?"

"You want more potatoes?"

"Yeah, but I'll get it. What's in the bag?" As Matt stood up, he realised he knew the answer to his own question.

"My gym kit."

"Yeah, and?"

"My…"

"Damn it, Natasha." Matt piled more potato onto his plate, and tried to get a read on her as he came back to the table. She was relaxed, and content, and proud? No, not quite. But she was certainly enjoying herself.

"I need to find something," Natasha said, "And yes, I would like your help."

"Of course. There is a real reason why you came."

"Matt…"

A twinge of vulnerability. Maybe she was doing it on purpose, knowing he wouldn't turn her away. He couldn't turn her away. "Ok. Professionally or - otherwise."

"Both."

Matt sighed. "What do you need?"

Natasha scrapped up the last of her food before continuing. "Access to legal archives. Piotr Ivanovich, an electrical engineer, was arrested in Harlem in 1977 for treason against the United States of America."

"It was a mistake?"

"No, he was a Soviet spy. Definitely. Up to his nose in it. But that's not the point. Before he immigrated from Russia in 1969, he'd been a part of a - program."

Matt noticed the moment Natasha's tone changed, even if she didn't. He slowly finished the last of his food.

"Ivanovich had information about this program, some of which he brought with him to the States, and was later found in his apartment and used as evidence against him in court."

"Which is why it's now in the archives."

"Exactly."

"Where's Ivanovich now?"

"Died in '93. But that's not the point. I need that information."

"Why?"

"To destroy it."

"Why?"

"Seriously, Matt?" Natasha snapped. "So it can't be used to hurt anyone else. Because it's still dangerous, especially if anyone else dangerous knows where it is or what to do with it."

"This is about Barnes, isn't it?"

Natasha stood up and marched to the sink. She ran the water and looked at the wall, away from Matt.

"You should get a dishwasher," Natasha said.

"Is that what you've been doing? Looking for information that they could use to hurt him? Or use to use him to hurt others?"

No response, but her body told him yes.

"Does Rogers know?"

"What do you think, Matt? Where the heck's the washing liquid?"

"Cupboard to your right. But Natasha, I - " Matt stopped himself. He stood up and brought his plate and cutely over to the sink. "Let me. You cooked. I'll wash up."

"Fine," Natasha said, and went and perched on the couch, folding her arms.

"You could have just said," Matt said, "That it was for Barnes. All this - what you've been doing. I don't mind. I get it."

"Whatever."

"I do, Nat." Matt sighed. He'd let down enough of his friends. "Ok, but nothing illegal."

"What?"

"Nothing illegal, but I'll help you get into the archives. And no guns."

"Really?"

She sounded genuinely surprised. "Yes, really. You came here for help, right?"

"Thanks."

"But one question,"

"Shoot," Natasha said.

"Why'd you bring the Widow gear with you tonight?"

Natasha uncurled and leant over the couch. "No reason, Matty. Mostly just to rile you up," she purred.