Minutes later, Steve and Natasha were walking through the festival crowd in a comfortable silence, arm in arm, and for a long while, the spy found herself simply soaking up the tranquility. Moments of true peace and serenity were very rare in their lives, and she was again thankful to him for another gift this evening. He led the way, and she followed along smoothly, enjoying the lights and sounds and life around her. Although she was struggling somewhat in trying to live a normal life, the spy had found a way to enjoy watching the breaths of life of those around her. It reminded her of the reasons why she so often risked her life to protect them.

In the middle of her wistful thoughts, Natasha glanced up ahead as Steve slowed them down. The sign outside the small street tavern caught her attention immediately.

'The Czar - Authentic Russian Cuisine'

"This looks good," Natasha said with a smile.

"I did some checking and reviews say this is one of the best places at the festival. I thought you could tell us if it is authentic or not."

"Do you mind if we get take out?" the spy said thoughtfully. "This night air is nice."

"Sounds good."

"I'll order for us," she said as the polite gentleman opened the restaurant door for her and they stepped inside. "I know a couple of native cuisines that are as good as your malt shake."

At the take out counter, Steve smiled as his Russian lady ordered a hearty meal, double of everything just for him. He trusted her judgement for the entrees, simply handing his credit card to the servers with a compliant nod. Carrying their sizable dinner bag and a bottle of a specially chosen vintage wine, the couple made their way back out into the festive evening atmosphere. After just a few short steps, a lovely ornate carriage drawn by two steed horses pulled up alongside them as an energetic voice called out to them.

"O Capitain! My Capitain! Capitain Rogers? What a joy!" the carriage driver yelled with jubilation. "May I have this honor?"

"That's not necessary," Steve smiled up at the driver. "We're fine. Thank you. We can walk."

"Please, Capitain," the jovial driver urged. "It is free. My family has home in this country because of your sacrifice. I can tell my wife and children that I had you in my carriage this evening. Even, please accept for your lovely lady here with you."

"Okay," The Captain relented. "The honor is ours."

"Little Ukraine, please," said Natasha. "Thank you."

"My pleasure!" the driver nearly shrieked.

The horses paused as the driver drew back on the reins. Steve opened the door of the carriage and extended his hand. With perfect poise and class, the spy took his hand and stepped up into the comfortable softly padded interior and waited for Steve to join her. The carriage began to move with excitement and vigor almost before Steve had closed the door.

The two of them smiled to each other as he sat down. The seats were tailor made with the softest fabric. They were designed to push the two passengers on each side toward one another, and Steve and Natasha laid back with their hips touching in the intimate setting. As the small stagecoach moved, the open windows on either side allowed the spicy smells of the festival to filter in through the space.

"It's a nice evening," said Natasha as she gazed out at the street beside them. "I hope it doesn't get cold tonight."

"I recently did some reading on an old term Russian agents used a long time ago," Steve said strongly. "It was called being out in the cold."

"Yeah, I know the saying," the spy answered as she turned to him. "It was a very bad situation to fall into. The term applied to agents that had gone rogue, usually while on a deep cover mission. If the mission was classified deep enough, sometimes only the agent's handler would know about the operation. If the handler was lost or killed, that agent then had no contact at the department that knew who they were. Departments and politics always complicated things even worse."

"Complicated?" he asked.

"There were some missions in which one department was investigating another, and it would end up being a situation in which one side wanted the agent to make it back in, but another side would want to make sure that the agent never saw the light of day again."

"Did any of the agents make it back in?"

"Some did," she answered. "It would almost always require a third party independent handler. That person would have to stick out their neck and risk their life to safely bring in the rogue agent. That… didn't happen very often. I knew a few… that got… lost… out there," she said with a deep sadness in her eyes.

"Don't you think it's time you came in from the cold?" the soldier asked boldly.

"What?" Natasha said as she looked up at him in surprise.

Then, his deeper meaning struck her, and the realization humbled her into silence. He was right. She was out in the cold. Not on a mission, but in her entire life. She always had been.

"I wouldn't… know how to come back in," the spy said as she turned to gaze out at the darkness of the night.

"I'll be your independent handler," Steve said firmly.

Natasha turned to stare at him with wide eyes. She didn't know what he was saying, and she couldn't comprehend exactly what he was asking. It took her another moment before she spoke.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying together," he answered. "I've thought about this before. Nothing you're not comfortable with. It would be simple. Where the world finds The Captain, it would find The Black Widow also. Not that complicated."

Natasha gazed at him for a long moment. Her eyes became slightly glossy, and there was an unreadable emotion hidden within their depths. Perhaps a ray of… hope.

"Is that who you want me to be?" Natasha whispered intimately.

"How about a partner?" Steve whispered quietly.

She stared. Then turned away.

"Wrong business, Rogers."

February 14th

10:14 p.m.

Little Ukraine, New York

The apartment building was quiet at this time of the evening. It didn't house a lot of tenants, and there was usually very little commotion inside its walls. On this particular night, a peculiar quiet anticipation seemed to hang in the air just for the two occupants making their way down the small hallway.

Still lost in her thoughts, Natasha had kept a comfortable silence with the soldier for the rest of their trip. It had almost seemed like familiar ground between them, as the carriage ride had been similar to their van ride while on their odyssey against Hydra. Despite her feigned detachment, she simply couldn't get his words out of her mind no matter how hard she tried.

The spy found herself wrestling with her emotions. If she were to ever be a… partner… with a man… like Steve… she would want it to last forever. In her mind, nothing lasts forever.

Steve wasn't bothered by the easy quiet he and Natasha could share. Working with her for years, he had become easily accustomed to her intermittent distance and reserve. He could see that she was deep in thought, and he knew that she was contemplating his words.

The soldier figured that the evening was drawing to a close, and he knew that he would miss her presence. For him, this entire night had been about trying to give this woman a glimpse of how much she meant to him. He had known that she would enjoy the ballet performance, and he wanted to remind her of that joyful moment before he let her go.

"What were you thinking about as you watched the performance?" asked Steve.

"I was thinking about the art itself and my practices," she answered in a thoughtful voice. "Steve, you're an artist and I know you draw, right?"

"Oh, yes, whenever I can," he answered. "I haven't done that in a while, though. Why do you ask?"

"Ballet is an art form. It's a stylistic expression. It's all of that," she told him intensely. "But most times, I feel like… like my body is out of sync with my soul. It just doesn't… come out right. I thought maybe a fellow artist might understand."

"I do. Tell me more about what you felt."

"I… I've never really found out if the ballet in my past was real or another programmed memory. That… haunts me. I know all the movements in my mind, but my body doesn't perform them like it knows them. It's kind of hard to explain."

"Actually, because I'm an artist, I do know exactly what you're talking about," he said as they neared her apartment door. "Sculptors used to talk about this sort of thing. When the clay wasn't acting right, or an arm fell off of the figure or something like that. They learned to incorporate the imperfections. That's why you see some of those famous sculptures with a missing arm and stuff like that."

"What's it like for you?" she asked curiously.

"For me, it's when my hand is drawing, but the picture isn't coming out like I envisioned it in my mind. It will seem as if I'm doing everything right, but the finished product will just not be what I intended."

"That's exactly… what it's like," whispered Natasha as they reached her apartment and she turned to face him. "You said you haven't done that in a long time?"

"It's been a while."

"Do you want to practice?"