Author's Notes: Helloooo! How are we today? Personally, I'm exhausted and going cross-eyed because I thought it would be a good idea to read two books in two days on a tablet. I swear if I keep this up, I'll have glasses by the end of summer.

Worth it.

WARNING: Chapter contains secret shower sex.

Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel.

Chapter 14: Past

For once the water in the showers was warm.

James hadn't always cared about such things. Once all that would have mattered was that there was water, but now he appreciated the warmth and the steam and the way it relaxed his muscles. He dipped his head under the spray and closed his eyes, feeling the knots in his shoulders loosen and the subtle sting of the healing bullet wound in his shoulder. He leaned his head against the shower tiles.

It was the faintest scent that gave Natalia away.

An ordinary man wouldn't have noticed, and James thought that, perhaps, if he were distracted, even he might not have noticed. But James was so incredibly attuned to his little ballerina that he could even pick out her heartbeat beneath the patter of the shower spray on the tile. A smile split his face as he abruptly reached out behind him, snagging her wrist, and hauling her through the curtain and into the stall with him.

"You're getting better, moya malen'kaya balerina," he said, smirking when he looked down at her and his hands on her naked waist. He chuckled when she scowled.

"Bastard." Her arms wrapped around him, and he pulled her flush to him. Water clung to Natalia's eyelashes and slowly darkened her hair to a deep burgundy red. She smiled. "I missed you."

They fucked hard and fast against the tiles, Natalia's legs around him and his hands under her ass. The slap of flesh hitting flesh was muted by the shower, and both of them had mastered swallowing every sigh and moan. Natalia nuzzled him like a contented kitten as she came down from her high, while James breathed her in and listened to her heartbeat slow. When the water was as frigid as the snow outside, they left the showers separately.

When James snuck into her bed early that morning, she was awake and waiting for him. She let him curl around her until she was forced to recognize how completely he dwarfed her. Her response was to shuffle backward until she was firmly pressed against his chest and her legs her tangled with his. She let her hand run along the metal plates of his arm around her waist until she twined her fingers with his where his hand rested against her breasts. This type of affection—purely comfort—had been new and strange to her. Sharing heat, feeling skin on skin, the trust that she so willingly gave . . .

She felt safe. She'd never felt safe.

But she was safe, here, like this with James. When it was just her and him. James and Natalia.

You and me.

Here, she was loved.

"The test is tomorrow." James let his metal thumb brush her breast. "What do you think?"

Natalia closed her eyes. "I will survive. How long will you stay?"

"As long as I can."

"Khoroshiy."

Good.

James left before dawn, managing by a stroke of luck not to wake Natalia as he slipped from the bed. He lingered by the window, unsure why. He simply stood and looked at Natalia, curled under the blankets like a cat, the top of her red head just visible. He felt a familiar swell of emotion in his chest. He still didn't know exactly what it was, but it didn't surprise him anymore. He expected the surge of warmth that was almost bubbly. Like the bath that they'd soaked in after a mission in Austria. He expected the flair of protectiveness that made his back straighten. He'd just recently accepted all that that feeling would entail. He'd disobey orders for her, and that grated deep within him like nails on a chalkboard, but he knew it to be true, and a small part of him relished the disobedience.

But there was something else that stopped him at the window, and it wasn't a comfortable feeling. He wanted to shuffle his feet. His stomach was hog-tied. His chest felt like a ton of bricks. He bit his lip.

Natalia shifted in the bed, but by the time she raised her head, James was gone.

He tried to get rid of the feeling slowly consuming him, but it only seemed to grow as the day passed. It clung to his shoulders like a snake, and James didn't trust it one fucking bit. These emotions were difficult for him. He didn't understand half of them, but he knew that they were all Natalia's fault. He'd been perfectly fine before he'd come to the Red Room.

It disturbed him to know that he still wouldn't change a single goddamn thing.

Because Natalia.

James wanted to bite his lip again, but forced himself to impassively answer Karpov's questions as they walked to the training room. "They are ready," he said.

Karpov remained expressionless, but James saw through it. The General was excited. Full of anticipation that made James want to punch a hole through his head. He forced his hands to stay relaxed at his sides. "Very good, Soldat. Any predictions?"

"Romanova is strong."

He didn't want to bring his ballerina's name to Karpov's attention, but Natalia was too strong and talented. For him not to bring her up first would be foolish. "She will survive," he said. "Pashina is quick, but sometimes sloppy. Liminova has a chance."

"No others?"

"The rest are weak."

"Such a waste."

James didn't comment.

When they reached the training room, he forced his gaze not to stray to Natalia. He knew if he looked, there was a chance his gaze would linger a half-second too long. He listened absently to Karpov as he stood by the Madame. Then it came time for the trial, and Natalia was up first. Someone put on a Tchaikovsky record in the corner, and the first note had hardly played before Natalia sprung at Pashina.

James realized then, as Pashina pulled a knife from her boot and nearly stuck Natalia like a piece of meat, that the feeling currently gripping his insides was worry.

It took everything he had to watch impassively, to keep his eyes sharp and cold as he watched Natalia dance. He had not been lying to Karpov when he said that Pashina was quick—quicker than Natalia, even, and the blonde could wield a knife just as well as he could. After all, he'd taught them how to use it. He didn't flinch when Natalia got cut. It was superficial, a glance on her forearm. An inch down and to the right, however, would have cut the radial artery.

Natalia would have bled out in minutes.

And he would have had to watch.

James was glad he'd chosen to stand with his arms folded over his chest. It allowed him to try his best to dent the bicep of his metal arm with his flesh hand with no one the wiser.

Yet despite his worry, he never for a second thought that Natalia would lose.

When she ended the fight by driving Pashina's knife into the girl's chest, he merely nods at her as everyone else politely claps. Then someone puts on a new record, and two more girls fight. It ended in a draw. Karpov ordered Liminova into the spar to settle the winner. She killed one of the girls within a minute, and Karpov decided that the other would die as well. There was no room for weakness in the Red Room. James pulled the trigger without hesitation.

It left Liminova and Natalia as the only two Widows left in the program.

James stood silently as Karpov praised both of them. Natalia was granted a night out to do whatever she wished, and she immediately asked to see the ballet. Liminova didn't let any of her jealousy show, but James saw it flicker like a flame behind her eyes. It made his gut clench when her eyes flitted to him. He didn't know what the look meant, but he knew it meant something he didn't like.

The girls were dismissed, and Karpov vaguely motioned him to follow. "This is most exciting, no?" he asked as they walked. "Your predictions were correct. Pity about Pashina. She was lovely."

James stayed quiet. He didn't think it mattered that Pashina had been beautiful. And he recognized now, that she had been beautiful. Blonde and blue-eyed. Innocence personified. She'd reminded him of his littlest sister—he still couldn't remember her name, but he knew her face—and watching Natalia kill her had been . . . uncomfortable.

Not difficult. He could have done it himself without hesitation, but where he would have felt nothing months ago, James would have regretted killing her today.

It seemed . . . senseless.

He understood creating the best agents possible. Yet every Widow that morning had been better, faster, and smarter than every soldier in the compound. And three of them were dead. It didn't make sense to him. He couldn't make sense of their deaths, and he couldn't make sense of how he felt about them. Because he shouldn't feel anything.

But he did.

He felt uneasy all day. Unsure, uncertain. He found himself questioning things he'd never thought to question before. Whether what he was doing was right, whether the Red Room, whether HYDRA was right. They wanted to build a better world, a stronger world. James agreed with that. His memories were full of death and destruction. He remembered fire and explosions and killing. A war. He knew it was a war, knew what was expected of war, and he didn't want to ever experience it again.

There were faces that he remembered. Laughing faces. Men in his unit, he thought. A big man with a mustache who always had a flask or a cigar in his hand. A Frenchman who told lewd jokes with a blush. He remembered his CO the clearest. Tall. Blond. A goddamn pain in the ass.

James knew in his gut that he'd lost all of them. Friends. He'd had friends, and they were gone, and it was the war's fault.

So if HYDRA could end all wars, if they could usher in an era of peace the world had never known . . . surely that was right?

The problem was that James didn't see anything in the Red Room that seemed right.

Catching soldiers sneaking into the Widows' quarters . . . killing perfectly capable operatives . . . withholding rations as punishment . . . torture . . .

Sometimes James dreamt of screams, and he always woke up with his head burning.

None it seemed right.

It was a risk, but he snuck into Natalia's room that night. Normally, he tried to keep his visits random. He'd already planned to go to her three days from now, but he needed to see her. He needed to hear what she thought. He trusted her more than he trusted himself.

Natalia sat at her vanity, a hairbrush in hand, humming quietly to herself. She didn't know the song, but it comforted her in the strangest way. She must have heard it somewhere. She was just starting the song again when she looked into the mirror, her eyes inexplicably drawn to her window. When James appeared a second later, she gave him a delighted smile as she tossed her hairbrush onto the vanity and crossed the room to meet him.

"Moy soldat," she smirked as she slid her hands along his shoulders. "Always surprising me." She kept her face cutely tilted toward his, expecting a kiss or one of his special little smiles, only to frown when she saw how troubled he looked. "James?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he ran his hand along her arm, gently pulling it away from him so he could see the white bandage around her forearm and feel the neat row of stitches it hid. Natalia sighed, fondly exasperated. "It's just a cut, James," she said. "It's nothing."

James shook his head. "No, it's not."

He slipped from her arms to walk further into the room. He normally would sit on her bed and watch while she brushed her hair. Once, he'd even done it for her, twisting her hair into a braid almost absently, like he'd done it hundreds of times. He didn't do that now. He stood with his arms across his chest, so like he had earlier in the training room, only now his face was far from impassive. His brow was furrowed deeply, his eyes dark and confused, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

"James," she said warily.

"We're not good people," he said.

She didn't disagree. "No, we're not."

"Is what we do good?"

Natalia frowned. His questions didn't scare her, but they seemed to reverberate deep in her bones. She shook the feeling away. "Define we."

"HYDRA, the Red Room, all of it."

"Where is this coming from?"

"Just answer the damn question."

"We're trying to create a better world," she said, her voice sharper than she'd intended. James had never questioned her like this, and his own anxiety seemed to be prickling down her spine. "It's not always pretty. Where is this coming from, soldat?" she repeated.

James ran a hand through his hair. It was a tick of his, one that he'd never had until a month ago, and Natalia noted the move with narrowed eyes. "I don't know," he said. "I just . . . Pashina and the others . . . they didn't have to die today."

"Of course they did. They failed."

"Did they? They were better operatives than any of the soldiers here."

"There is only one Black Widow. That's how it works."

"They didn't have to be Widows. They could have just been agents."

"They were weak."

"Define weak," he challenged. "You're weaker than me. Does that mean I get to kill you?"

Natalia gritted her teeth. "You could try," she dared. "But that's hardly what I meant. You know that."

"Losing one fight isn't a show of weakness," James insisted. "Losing one battle doesn't mean you lose the war."

"We're not fighting a war, James."

"Aren't we?"

His tone brought Natalia up short. It was so confused, so completely lost and angry, that she wasn't sure what to do. Or what their conversation was actually about. It felt like more, like a moral dilemma they were both supposed to be above but weren't. Only Natalia couldn't see anything wrong. The Red Room was harsh, but then so was the world. So was life. The only difference was that Natalia was prepared for it.

"Does it matter?" she asked. "All that matters is the mission."

"That's all that matters?"

"Yes."

"Then what is it we're doing here, Natalia?" he demanded.

"What—"

"You and me," he took a step toward her, "us, whatever the fuck you wanna call it."

"James," she warned.

"Was I a mission? You were content to stay in the shadows until I came here. Then you're establishing rapport, getting me alone for private lessons, getting me in your bed, all for what? An advantage?"

Natalia's eyes flashed. "Don't you dare, James. I—"

"Is that all I am? An asset. I train you, I fuck you, and you get to be Black Widow."

He said the name like a slur. Like all the other soldiers did. No man could survive her. For all her talents, all her skills, she was just a pretty face with a prettier smile. A slut. A whore. But she was more. She was so much better. And she'd fucking earned it, and she was proud of it.

And James was so, so wrong about how she felt about him.

So even though his words hurt, she swallowed her response to stare into his eyes searchingly. He was so angry. She'd never seen such rage in his eyes, but she recognized it. It was that harsh, directionless rage you felt when something was beyond your control, when you felt trapped and helpless, and she didn't know what could possibly make her soldat feel like that.

She thought it was her silence and steady gaze that made him blink, made him realize that he'd pinned her to the wall, gripping her arms tight enough to bruise. His grip loosened and his eyes slowly widened in confusion and regret. "I'm sorry," he said, letting her go and backing away. "I'll go."

"You're not going anywhere, soldat."

"Natalia."

"Sit down, James."

She wound her fingers through his and tugged gently on his hand, leading him toward the bed. He sat, and she settled next to him, resisting the urge to straddle him like she normally would. She didn't want him to feel trapped. "I didn't mean it," he said. "Natalia, I . . ."

"Don't worry about it. Just tell me where this is coming from."

James ran a hand down his face. "I don't know. I don't . . . I don't know." He rubbed his temple as if he had a headache, and Natalia wondered if his memories had anything to do with his behavior. She didn't like seeing him like this. Her soldat wasn't meant to look lost and small. And she worried what would happen if anyone else thought for a moment that he was weak.

She didn't think he was weak. No, not her soldat. But these memories . . . this past that had so obviously been taken from him . . . she saw the benefits. There was no room in their lives for this sort of sentiment. There was no room for second-guessing or moral high-ground. The world was cruel and harsh and to survive it, you had to be willing to compromise if you wanted to see it grow and become better. If that meant lying, cheating, and killing—then so be it.

Yet that wasn't all she was or all she could do.

Natalia Romanova could love.

The Soldat wasn't supposed to remember, and the Black Widow wasn't supposed to love.

But they did.

"I'm compromised," James said finally, looking at the floor between his boots.

Natalia smiled ruefully. "So am I."

This little argument is one my favorites. It's fun to see James questioning things and forcing Nat to face them, too. Yay.

Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited. I love you all, my precious.

Quote from next chapter comes from . . . Clint! - "These answers don't exactly inspire confidence, Nat."

See you Friday!

AC