Title: Russian Proverbs
Pairing: Natasha Romanoff/Black Widow x Steve Rogers/Captain America
Universe: AU (Blend of Marvel cinematic universe and Marvel comics)

"Live for a century, learn for a century"
Pronounced: Vek zhivi, vek uchis.
Russian: Век живи́ — век учи́сь.

Steve Rogers was a light sleeper.
It was leftover conditioning from the war combined with an already paranoid personality and inability to ever fully relax. Some nights it would be Tony stumbling back to his sleeping quarters from the bar, heavily intoxicated and just as heavily footed. Other nights it was Bruce somewhere deep within the labs pushing an experiment just a little too far, resulting in some form of mild-mannered explosion. On the rare occasion it was the severe thunderstorms that accompanied Thor's brief visit to their world. Steve would usually stay in his bed, counting back from some god-awful number in order to bore himself back into unconsciousness. Sam had taught him that trick after coming to a few of the veteran-based support groups he had attended despite his better judgment. There was a certain kind of guilt he felt, surrounded by others that had lost so much and aged so quickly.

As he pushed himself up, resting his back against the headboard he ran his hands over his face and through his hair, letting his eyes adjust to the dark room. The room itself had high ceilings and gracious, open doorways that let him have an unobstructed view from anywhere he could be sitting. Pepper had consulted with each member before decorating their interior space, wanting it to be as homely and comfortable as possible. He kept with simple, stained woods and light blue accents that reminded him of his Brooklyn home when he was younger. He kept the inside meticulous in appearance; everything in its place where it belonged, never leaving dishes for too long in his sink, even his bed was kept with tight, folded corners. Some habits he just couldn't break, not that he particularly wanted to at this point. "Jarvis, what time is it?" His voice was still rough from sleep.

The crackling of electronics echoed throughout his room before the polite, British voice filled the empty air. "Sir, the current time is 0300 hours." A pause. "Is there anything I can do for you?" The AI followed up promptly.

Steve sighed, swinging his feet out from under the covers and resting them on the cool hardwood floor, elbows against his thighs as he stared ahead at nothing. Now that he was awake, he realized that he actually had no idea what had woken him up. Usually there was some indication; the scent of alcohol, the sound of fire extinguishers going off in the lower levels, Thor's rumbling laughter echoing through the halls finishing an unheard conversation. As he sat and listened, he came up short. Silence. Truth be told, he was starting to wonder if anything had woken him up at all. "Jarvis, is anyone else awake in the tower right now?" He was already pulling on sweatpants, taking an oversized sweatshirt out of his closet as he shuffled across the room slowly, warming up his muscles.

"Miss Romanoff is currently the only other person awake, Sir. She's occupying the twenty-seventh floor communal bar…" The AI seemed to trail off, and Steve swore it was hesitating. "She has been for most of the night, Sir."

Well that was new. "Thank you, Jarvis. That's all." He heard the program shut down without another word, leaving him to his own thoughts again. In the last few years of living in the tower, Natasha had never once been the cause of him waking up in the dead of night. She was known for her silent movements and generally quiet disposition. If she wasn't helping him lead and train the new team of Avengers, she was out carrying side-missions for Director Fury and on the rare occasion that she had down time, she was off at Clint's farmhouse visiting the kids. He rarely saw her within the tower itself except for in brief passing. Despite her apparent apprehension to being the second-in-command she had warmed up to the title quickly, becoming a close mentor to Wanda and a steady person to rely on when he wasn't sure which step to take next. She challenged his judgment just as much as he did at times, which was something he appreciated.

He exited his room quietly, working out the kinks in his neck as he went down the hall. The communal bar was two floors up, three rooms over. He had the majority of the tower memorized, aside from the behind-the-scenes operations and the lower levels where the scientists worked. He wasn't much use down there so he generally kept his distance and stayed out of their way.

The ride in the elevator was short and quiet. With the entire tower asleep, it felt like a different place than what it really was. During the day there were countless agents, team members, and various other people making their way down halls on various levels all accomplishing various tasks. Everyone working towards something greater than themselves. With no one around and everything empty, the tower itself was almost imposing in its stillness.

As the doors to the communal bar slid open he was already scanning the room. It was wide and open, much like the rest of the tower. There was a lowered conversation pit towards the oversized television and a series of smaller ottomans and couches for more private conversations during parties. The entire back wall was lined by the bar, made of old, darkened wood with a high shine across top. The cabinets and shelves were always fully stocked, per Tony, and there was always a wide variety to choose from depending on what mood someone was in. Crisply styled, comfortable bar stools lined the edge of the bar in various heights, left over and never adjusted back from past parties.

Natasha was seated at the far edge of the bar, back turned towards him, fiery hair raining down in curls against her shoulders. She was wearing a simple gray V-necked shirt with black leggings, gray converse propped up against the side of the bar, tapping in some unknown rhythm. He knew that she was aware of his presence, despite not showing any outward cues. There was a single martini glass on the bar in front of her but from the color alone he already knew it was straight vodka, nothing mixed. He made his way across the room and around the bar as he grabbed himself a cold Budweiser out of the fridge. He looked over to her, offering his drink up in a toasting fashion. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" He offered with a soft smile.

She looked up at him with even eyes, regarding him silently before raising up her glass against his, taking a long, slow drink before setting it back down. "Steve, if I'm what you consider a 'nice girl' you might need to leave the tower more often." Her lips raised in a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes. He mirrored her actions as he took a sip of the cold beer, glad for the bitter taste. "You're up early." She commented dryly. Her cheeks had a light dusting of red to them but past that she appeared as if she hadn't been drinking any alcohol at all tonight. Her eyes were clear, there were no dark bags underneath them, and her speech was slur-free.

"The same could be said for you." He bantered with raised brows, taking another sip of his beer as he leaned up against the inside of the counter across from her, careful not to knock over any of the stacked liquor bottles.

This time the glint in her eyes returned, if only for a passing moment. "Can't be up early if you never went to bed to begin with." She let out a soft sigh, setting her now empty glass down. "Steve, do you ever think about the War?" Steve hadn't expected that question. He had gotten it from various people over the years, but never so bluntly and never without some kind of lead-in. Then again, she was known for being blunt at times. Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose, eyebrows furrowed, her lips formed into a thin line. "Not so much the War itself, but the people involved?"

"Everyday." He didn't have to think about that answer, it was always there in the back of his mind, no matter what he was doing or where he was. The men and women he fought alongside, the enemies that they fought against, the soldiers that would never return home or see their families again. They were ingrained in his memory.

She nodded in response, seemingly satisfied with that answer. Her expression didn't lighten even as she finally matched his eyes again. "Clint mentioned something a while back now…"

Clint and Natasha were sitting in the medical bay of the Helicarrier. He was still perched on the table, knees drawn up to his chest, a haunted expression on his face. Loki had really done a number on him, and it was going to take time to sort through that kind of mental fog. She was sitting in a small, metal chair next to him regarding him carefully. "Now you sound like you." She carried along with the conversation.

He turned to face her, frowning, the creases in his forehead becoming more evident. He felt like he was showing his age more and more everyday lately. He was beginning to feel it, too. "But you don't." He countered, equally as worried about her. "You're a spy, not a soldier. And now you want to wade into a war. Why? What did Loki do to you?"

It was her turn to frown, facing away from him as she thought about how she was going to say this. She rubbed her hands together in thought. "He didn't. I just…"

"Natasha."

She turned back towards him. "I've been compromised. I got red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth. She just didn't know how to say what she needed to say. Not yet.

Steve's concerned expression brought her back to the present as she shrugged her soldiers. "He's right. I'm not a soldier, I was trained as a spy. I'm much better as a spy." There was no argument from either of them there. "But I fought alongside Soldiers. Good soldiers. Good men and women that were doing what they thought was right. They paid a heavy price for that ideology." She forsake the glass in favor of the liquor bottle she had been pouring out of, bring it to her lips before speaking again. "I envy them." Her words were soft.

He frowned, uncertain of where this was coming from or where this conversation was headed. He had never caught her in such an intimate moment and he was wondering if he was intruding. No, if he was intruding Natasha would have let him know right off the bat. He had leaned on her countless times over the years, maybe it was time to finally be able to return that favor. "The dead?" He pressed, uncertainly.

She chuckled despite herself. "No, that's a bit melodramatic I think." She clarified for him. "I envy those that are able to commit themselves to something so completely, no questions asked. Having that sense of self, that sense of purpose."

Steve nodded at that. Steve was a soldier. He understood his place, his goal, and his end game. Natasha was a spy. She understood motives, deceit, and cloak and dagger routines. She lived in a world where nothing was what it seemed and everyone was out to get everyone else. There were no allies in the spy game, no one to call 'brother' or 'sister' as you fought towards a common goal. Steve understood longing for a place that you couldn't quite get to. "Tell me about them."

She raised an eyebrow.

"The soldiers you fought alongside." He cracked open another beer and sat further up on the counter, making himself comfortable.

Natasha leaned back on the stool as she played with the idea in her head, finding no real fault in letting him know a little bit of the story, regardless of the situation or circumstances. "The 21st Army of the Soviet Union. They were riflemen that fought under General Zhukov. He was a brilliant tactician. I had never been to a warzone before, but the Red Room thought it would be an outstanding demonstration of their Black Widow program to show versatility." Her short laughter was filled with a bitterness that was quick to pass, despite the gravity of what she was telling him. "They needed help taking in a High-Value Target, so they assigned me to a small group of specialized soldiers. Good men. Strong and deadly in a way that I had forgotten people could be when given the right opportunity."

"Were you successful?" This was the most that Natasha had spoken to him about her past in quite some time. It wasn't a pretty place to visit for her, but he was appreciative when she let him walk down that path with her.

Natasha cocked her eyebrow at him, "Depends on your definition of successful." She sighed. "By the Red Room's standards I had exceeded the objective and sealed relations between the Red Army, the KGB, and the Red Room.

Steve offered her eyes not filled with pity, but understanding of where she stood with the situation. "And by your standards?"

She shook her head, finally finishing off the bottle of vodka, leaving it to the wayside. "It was a fucking disaster, Steve. I had been cocky in the training program and my solo missions. I had considered myself the best. But working with people? Getting to know them, see them for who they really are rather than just another number for my ledger? It was terrifying." She confessed more to herself than to him. She never liked to think that deep into the past but tonight had kind of caught her off-guard. Sometimes the past just wouldn't be ignored.

Steve nodded. "When I was with the Howling Commandos I felt out of place. They were trained, battle-hardened men and I was…nothing more than a gimmick. I looked good for the videos back home. They were the real show-stoppers out in the thick of the fight. I remember shaking so bad that I thought the whole world was falling apart…" He trailed off, unsure of what he was exactly trying to get across to her.

Luckily she picked up on his indecision and continued for him. "We had a sub-machine gunner, Junior Sergeant Abram Vetrov. He was a real small guy but he fought twice as hard as any of us out there. He…" Her voice caught for a moment which only seemed to harden her resolve to speak as her eyes narrowed slightly before finishing. "He died protecting me because I forgot to clear a corner when entering one of the upper floors." She sighed, running a hand through her hair as she slid off of her barstool and stretched her back out. "I always clear my corners now." She looked back towards him, her features softer than usual. "Thank you, Steve. For letting me talk."

Being so caught up in conversation, Steve's mind finally caught up with himself as his eyebrows raised, a curious expression on his face. "You mentioned the 21st Army… What battle were you in?" He had studied a lot of the wars in his downtime, always having been a history buff. When he had finished the American wars he had branched out to other countries as well, finding the difference in tactics and strategies fascinating. Russia had graced his Kindle more than a few times in the past.

She smirked, putting the martini glass in the sink as she tossed the bottle into the open trash near the bar. So he had caught on. "The fight was for my hometown. It's commonly referred to as the Battle of Stalingrad."

This time Steve paused completely, the neck of the bottle still in his hand hovering over the garbage as he turned towards her. "Natasha, that battle took place in the early 1940s." He took a long look at the woman in front of him. Even despite her more tired appearance she didn't look a day over thirty. She was young. Younger than he cared to think about sometimes. But what she was telling him…

"Steve." She closed the distance between them, putting a hand on his chest as she breached his personal space, lips dangerously close to his ear. "The Americans weren't the only ones with a Super Soldier Serum." She pulled away with a chuckle, glad that she was able to spend moments with him like this. He was one of the view people she trusted in the world, and that was saying something given her list. "It was nowhere near the level of where your people took it, but it has its advantages." She began to walk away, heading towards the hallway that led down to her living quarters. "One of those being a slowed aging process." She called back to him without turning around.

He finally let the bottle drop into the trash, his brain working in overdrive as he processed what she had just told him. They fought in the same war. Different pieces in different places, but they had been a part of something that he didn't even realize they shared. "Wait!" He called out, causing her to pause in the doorway, one hand on the frame of the entryway as she turned back towards him. "Just how old are you, Nat?" He asked in near exasperation, realizing that it was way too early in the morning for a conversation like this but not quite willing to let it go yet.

"It's rude to ask a woman her age, Steve." With that she exited into the hall, "You're going to give me a complex." Her voice trailed off as she left out of sight.

Steve finally took a seat on one of the many bar stools and ran his hands over his face. "Right, a complex." He muttered to himself in a mixture of amusement and disbelief. He looked up at the clock over the bar. "0410" flashed on the subdued screen. He pushed himself off the stool, suddenly feeling more tired than he had felt waking up in the first place. His mind was full of unasked questions that he knew weren't going to be answered anytime soon.

He was going to bed.