A/N: More ploteration, now with extra violence! Thanks to YourEverydayEdit for the kind reviews. I took my time and hurried.

But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

~ from "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell

I.

Natasha shared every detail she'd gotten from the lunch with Irina and Agent Carter including Irina's cryptic conversation about a promotion for Yakov later that afternoon.

"Has Fedkin said anything to you about any of this?"

The Soldier nodded. "He's been skirting around the edges of something for weeks now. Each day, he lets me in on a few new details, asks me to help him out with one or two more little things. He likes to end each day with a 'meeting' consisting mostly of my having to listen to his philosophies on things while we drink. He's been asking increasingly leading questions about how I feel about life here in the good old USSR lately and plying the drink even more heavily than usual." He tapped one of the empty bottles under the table gently with his foot, making it clink softly against the other. "That's how all this got started today."

"So what do you think his play is?"

The Soldier sat back in the chair, considering the situation. "It could go one of two ways. Either he is looking for an accomplice or a scapegoat. They want Anna and Yakov to help them with this little pipeline to the West they're running, or they are planning to use them as some kind of distraction if things go wrong. Do you have any sense from Irina one way or the other?"

She pondered it a moment. "I lean toward them planning on recruiting us. It doesn't make sense that she would expose the SHIELD agents to anyone she didn't more or less trust. This feels like some kind of interview. And if this A.V. does turn out to be at the party and is a scientist they're trying to assist with defection, that becomes even more true."

There was a pause, then…

"What did Petrov tell you to do about it?"

She had been looking down at the images of the two SHIELD operatives, and his question caught her off-guard. She cut her eyes up to his. He was watching her steadily.

"How did you know I've already talked to Petrov about this?"

He shrugged, the little smile twisting his lips not reaching his eyes at all. "Odds were good. Does it matter?"

"I…no. No, I don't guess so," she frowned at him. He couldn't have followed her. He'd been at the office and then here long enough to consume all that vodka. How had he known? "Petrov said if everyone was there tonight, we were to take them. If A.V. doesn't show, we are to use our own best judgment."

The Soldier continued to regard her steadily. "Our judgment or yours, little widow?"

It was her turn to shrug. "What's the difference?"

"Between the two of us when we're here like this? Nothing. To Petrov? That might be another thing altogether."

She laughed a little at the ridiculousness of it. "You can't possibly be worried about Petrov. He's just a busy little bunny making sure we have all the things we need so we can finish this mission. He's as invested in our success as we are."

"Yes. I'm sure he is." He stared at her another moment before pushing away from the table. "We should probably go down and see about dinner before it gets so late they stop serving. I'll get a shower." He stood and began to unbutton the front of his shirt. He removed it, folded it neatly as he walked toward the bathroom, held it in his hands, and looked down at it when he paused in the doorway. "Petrov's also the hand on the reins for both of us, Natasha. No matter how harmless you may think him or how personally ridiculous you find him, you need to keep that fact in mind. Nothing that has been given power over you is ever completely innocuous." And he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

II.

They ate dinner together in the hotel in the restaurant, but their conversation kept hitting odd pauses. She didn't understand his current mood. They were on the verge of completing a long mission, one she knew would please their superiors and end a strain on their national resources. He should have been filled with the same eagerness that she'd felt earlier, the readiness for the close and kill. When they'd been paired in the past, he'd never balked, always doing exactly what was necessary to bring the mission to its end with perfect skill and effort. Instead, now as they came to the end of what should have been their greatest accomplishment as a team, he seemed distant, more remote than he'd been in months and months. It was frustrating.

Perhaps it's because of Margaret Carter. Maybe he's still off-balance from trying to remember who she is. He seemed shaken by it.

She took a long drink of the wine on the table before lifting her fork to shuffle bits of the meal around on her plate again. She had no appetite for it. In contrast, he was slowly and methodically eating, cutting each bite of the meal into squares so precise he might have been using a ruler to measure it. Both of them were delaying a return to their room, a return to the conversation they'd left waiting for them there.

Eventually, though, there was nothing left to do but pay the bill and go back upstairs.

III.

She had expected that they would continue the discussion they'd started, but he brushed it aside reminding her that there was reconnaissance work to be done on the Fedkin's apartment building. She looked at him for long moment as he stripped out of the jacket and shirt he'd worn down to dinner. He pulled off the hated glove and freed the silver arm it shrouded when they were Anna and Yakov. They slipped into the dark suits they wore when they were the Widow and the Soldier, shedding all the other aspects of the young couple and becoming their dangerous selves again. Then they were moving silently down the fire escape and heading for their hidden transportation.

Of necessity, neither spoke much, but the quality of the silence between them was different than it had been on other trips like this. She felt that new reserve in him, and the distance he had set between them was puzzling at first. Is he worried over tomorrow night? Frustrated over not being able to remember Carter? Or angry at me because I went to see Petrov before I came to tell him?

Puzzlement passed into frustration. Frustration passed into hurt. Hurt slowly dissolved into anger. By the time they'd reached the warehouse and she slid behind him on the motorcycle, it was a fine simmering fury.

IV.

The Soldier and Natasha lay flat on the roof of the apartment building across from the one housing the Fedkins' temporary home. It was another desirable top floor apartment thanks to Fedkin's directorship within the ministry, but the entire building was only four floors high, so their perch looked down and into the lower space. The apartment itself was not as large as the one the Fedkins lived in full-time, but it had a largish terrace facing the sea. Natasha and the Soldier could see a few pieces of furniture already in place outside in preparation for the party on the following evening. The lights in the living area were still on, and Irina and Fedkin were still awake. Fedkin was seated on a greenish sofa, pouring himself a drink. Irina was up and pacing, gesturing as she went.

Natasha and the Soldier memorized the layout of the apartment as they watched the couple inside move around. They murmured little observations about possible problems and revelations in brief phrases that served as a form of shorthand for them. Other than those interactions, there was nothing but silence between them and the sound of the wind from the sea. Unlike other missions, there was no banter, no conversation that wasn't forced by their job.

Eventually, they felt they'd seen all they needed. They returned to the motorcycle and turned it back to the warehouse. He pulled up the ramp, through the door, and next to the office. He hadn't killed the engine or even settled the bike on its stand before she was swinging off the back and heading into the room. She was aware of him watching her, could feel the weight of his gaze on her as she opened the office door and went in, pushing it shut behind her. She found the supplies in the food containers to make tea, and she filled a battered kettle with water from the tap and put it on the small burner.

There was silence outside. Then she heard the soft rattle of the metal door rolling closed, the quiet click of the lock. Another moment passed. There was the rushing sound of heating water in the kettle but nothing else. She resolutely refused to look at the door.

Either he'll come in or he won't. If he does, he and I are going to have a discussion. If he doesn't, I'll drink my tea in peace.

Then I will go out and find him and quite likely punch him in the face.

V.

The water had boiled, and her tea had been made. The Soldier was still outside, somewhere. Disappointment had mingled with anger, and after a few sips of the strong tea, she pushed it away.

The first drops of the latest round of the seemingly endless winter rains in this place began to slap against the metal roof high above, sharp like a handful of gravel dropped from above. She made a face. She'd been thinking of walking back to the hotel alone. Maybe some space would allow both of them to refocus so they'd be able to move past this and allow her temper to settle some so she could see things more clearly and try to understand. That thought in mind, she headed for the door that led to the warehouse beyond.

And rain or no rain, that's still what I'm going to do. It's not like this will be the first time on this trip I've gotten soaked.

He was more or less in the middle of the huge open space, his back to her. He'd removed his weapons harness, his jacket, and his boots and was slowly moving through katas in the heavy black pants he wore on mission and a black tank, holding each form before flowing into the next. The dim light spilling from the door behind her shimmered off the titanium of his left arm. For a moment, she gave herself the pleasure of watching him, enjoying the beauty of his body and his movements, and subconsciously, as she'd been taught since she was a child, both by him and by others, analyzing every aspect of it for exploitable flaws.

Without turning or stopping, he said, "Join me. The practice will do us both good."

She considered it. It was true that she hadn't had a good sparring session since they'd left their apartment for this Black Sea town and its eternal dampness. While they'd been able to sneak up to the roof there and practice, here they'd been weighted down by the Fedkins's social activities and necessary surveillance. She undid the laces of her own boots and slipped them off, unfastened and laid aside her own most obvious weapons from wrist and waist. She didn't take the time to remove every blade and concealed item. It would take too much time, and she knew that despite appearances, chances were good he hadn't done so, either. It was a part of who they were. She slowly bent and stretched as he continued to cycle through the forms. When she was ready, she crossed the space and took up a position across from him as the rain outside picked up in earnest. He finished the last movement and came back to an easy centered stance.

"How are we playing tonight?" he asked lightly.

A little half-smile touched her mouth. "All out and for keeps. Is there another way?"

Something sad and shadowed flickered through his eyes. "No. I suppose not."

VI.

He struck first, right fist punching toward her with that frightening speed. She dodged it, but as she turned, she felt a hard open-handed slap on her ass from his titanium hand. It made her stumble a few steps, and when she regained her stance, she glared at him.

That will leave a bruise.

"You did not just swat my ass."

He smirked, shrugged. "You left the opening. Cause and effect."

The anger she'd felt earlier frothed up inside her again, a bubbling acidic tide. She made a formal little nod of acknowledgement in his direction and raised her hands. They continued to circle and feint, neither managing to land a hard blow. He jabbed again as he'd done before, but she pivoted away, swinging back quickly to punch him hard enough in the face to snap his head back and force him a step away. He sucked lightly at the little trickle of blood from his now-split bottom lip. She blew him a kiss and smiled sweetly.

"As you said, you left it open…."

He stared at her with eyes that had gone hot, tongue flicking out to taste the blood again. "It's like that, is it?"

"Afraid so, lover," she purred.

"Alright. Have it your own way, then…" And he closed in.

VII.

If the little class of Widow trainees could see them now, the fight from that fateful day so many months ago would be downgraded to only a minor skirmish. That darkness that had been between them all night drove them both to increasing savagery. The Widow and the Soldier circled each other, struck hard and impossibly fast, dodged, retreated, faked, tumbled, and re-engaged. Both of them landed solid blows to each other, kicks and punches still being pulled back from lethal force, but not by very much.

He caught her with a backhanded blow across the face, and she tasted her own blood. She dragged her hand across it absently, smearing the blood across her chin and cheek while glaring at him. He shook his head and clicked his tongue.

"Not even you can kill with a look, widow. Payback's hell, huh?"

She struck toward him clumsily, as if the rage inside her had started to make her careless, allowed him to grab her wrist, used him for leverage, flipped up neatly, planted both her feet in the middle of his chest, pushed off with all her strength, and threw him backwards to the ground.

"You tell me."

He wasn't down even five seconds, rolling up and rushing at her. She felt her blood singing as she flipped backward from the strikes he threw. When she crouched to sweep his legs out from under him, he reached down, grabbed her ankle, and tossed her. She tumbled through the air like a child's toy thrown hard.

She managed to get a hand down and turn the fall into a roll. He'd been tracking her progress, though, and as she was coming up into a standing position again, he kicked her hard, knocking her off balance and to the floor. She rolled, grabbing his ankle as he sent another kick toward her head, and she twisted with all her strength, yelling as she brought him down.

His weight crashed down over her, and for a moment, they grappled brutally on the floor. She scratched her short nails down his cheek, leaving trails of blood as she viciously struck upward with her knee, trying to catch his groin, but he deflected and took the strike to his outer thigh instead, finding and pinning the wrist of the hand she'd used to attack him to the cold concrete. He slammed her back hard enough to knock the breath out of her momentarily, but she furiously fought on. He was bigger than she, heavier, older, more experienced in combat, but she was angry, so deeply angry with him for pushing her away, for creating separation where she could see no need for it, for not understanding…

With a growl, she pushed hard, flipped them over, straddling him, punched his face hard, once, twice, but the third time, he took her other wrist and rolled them again and she was well and truly pinned.

"Stop fighting me, Natasha," he panted. She could feel his breath washing over her face, and some part of her wanted to yield, wanted kisses instead of this battle.

And that just pisses me off even more…

"Fuck you," she hissed. "No." She bucked again, trying to unseat him, but there was nowhere to go.

He transferred her wrists to his right hand, and she felt the cool silver metal of his left slide around her throat, squeeze warningly. She managed to pull one hand free and scrabbled against the titanium looking for some way to pry it off her.

"Stop," he growled again.

"No," she snarled. "You don't get to win every time." She thrashed under him, but he simply settled more of his weight onto her, immobilizing her.

Hateful, huge, heavy, metal-handed, cheating son-of-a…

His hand tightened to the point of pain, his eyes widened, and he laughed, a short, harsh, incredulous sound. "You think this is me winning? You think any of this ends in a victory?" He cursed sharply, and suddenly, she was free, panting, lying alone and staring up through the gloom toward the rafters high above. She heard the sound of the metal door rolling up with a bang as though it had been shoved hard, turned her head to see him straddling the bike, and sans jacket, boots on but not laced, he cranked the big bike and sped out into the rain without looking back.