a/n: i've decided that this will be set chronologically; the first chapter was set post-Avengers, and I'm planning to end this fic sometime before The Winter Soldier.

upon cracked and narrowed streets

ii. legacy

"Another round?"

Steve looks up from his position on the mat to the slight figure towering above him, eyeing the proffered hand with a healthy amount of wariness.

"How the hell did you do that… thing?" He shakes his head ruefully, ignoring the hand and choosing to stand on his own accord.

"Smart move. First time I did that to Barton, he ended up with ass handed to him for another five minutes," Natasha smirks. "And to answer your first question – if I tell you, I'd have to kill you."

"Of course," he mutters. "That sounds about right."

She shrugs. "Sitwell and Hill told me to devise a training program—"

"—Wait, you planned all of this?—"

"—Though I'm really not sure why I'm being punished; it's not like those Feds were getting anything done anyway," she mutters under her breath. "But yes, I devised this. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't interested in telling you how to fight, so you don't need me to tell you how to fight. Do whatever works for you, Rogers. That's the point."

"Well then, I'm asking as someone who respects their opponent," he says, adding with a slight frown. "And I thought we were part of a team?"

Natasha gives him a slow nod, reaching for the tablet resting on her bag and pulling up her messily created schedule. "Tomorrow," she says, scrawling a signature. "God, I'd never thought I'd have to do one of these."

Steve peers over her shoulder. "I thought all senior agents were rostered on at some stage?"

"That was Jasper's initiative," she snorts. "But apparently, no one wants the Black Widow to train new S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits."

"That's a shame," he remarks, taking a drink out of his bottle.

"Do you blame them?" She asks him with a challenge in her eye.

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "But why you and why now?"

"Told you. Last op in California went too successfully, and we're not allowed to beat the Feds at their own game."

"It's not just your punishment though, is it?"

She looks at him oddly for a moment. "Come on, I've got to get a file to Hill," she says, choosing to ignore his question.

He follows her out of the gym and through the levels of the helicarrier, ending up at a door in a line of at least twenty other doors; non-descript with no name, and the blinds drawn over the windows. Without knocking, Natasha strides in brandishing her file.

"The Puerto Rico brief for next week," she says, placing it on the small mountain of paper to her left and promptly taking a seat in front of the agent.

"Sure Romanoff, come in and make yourself at home," Hill says sarcastically, eyes remaining fixed on her screen.

"You know I never knock," Nat shrugs as she picks up the stapler, trying to find a way to weaponise it. "Barton's off in Malta and you have me educating Captain America. What did you expect?"

Rolling her eyes, Maria glances up and waves a hand at the other seat in front of her. "Have a seat, Captain."

Steve sits and looks curiously at the stack of files on the almost-pristine desk. "You still use paper?"

"Of course," she replies, dry as a desert. "It's probably harder for Stark to hack, wouldn't you say?"

He winces at that. "I mean, I thought there'd be more efficient ways, you know, with computers and everything now."

"Some things are still easier to do the long way," she says. "And old-fashioned isn't necessarily a bad thing."

"That's what Agent Coulson said," he says, subdued, seeing a similar flash in Natasha's eyes and the suddenly drawn expression on Hill's face. He bites his tongue and sits on the edge of his seat awkwardly, watching in silence as she turns her attention back to her computer, as Natasha continues to tamper with the objects lying innocently on the desk.

She puts the stapler down, modifications made. "There's an extra spring and pin on the side. Pull the pin and it's primed for staples to fire out the back."

Maria sighs, "Thanks, but you do know that there are more than enough weapons on this carrier and in my office already, right?"

"It was fun," she says nonchalantly, now reaching for the paper clips. "Also, stationery aside, we're here because Rogers wants to know why you assigned me to his training. And I'm not talking about what happened in L.A. either."

She stares at the pair in front of her. "I wasn't going to put you in the Academy, or with the usual trainers. I'd have thought that was obvious."

"Enlighten me," Steve says tightly.

"Putting Captain America with a bunch of starry-eyed recruits? Nothing would get done," she says with disbelief. "Or with veteran S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who think you're out of your time, and that the idea of superheroes is fucking insane?"

He lets it sink in. "Is that what you think?"

Natasha's eyes glance up from her half-made paper clip sculpture of a dragonfly, swivelling her head back and forth between the intense staring match happening across the sides of the desk. She finally settles on her friend's face, daring her to say something, to explain.

"Yes and no," Maria says after another pause. "I don't doubt your abilities as a soldier or a leader, Rogers. But you want to join S.H.I.E.L.D.? There are rules, beliefs, attitudes already entrenched; so you need to wind your way around them if you want to force them away from a better position."

"Surely it's better to face them head-on?" He asks, doubt in his question.

"This is S.H.I.E.L.D., Captain," she reminds him. "Not the Avengers."

And he looks at her again, sees the weariness and determination battling for control in her eyes. He's suddenly struck by the similarity – he's seen this before –

"You remind me of someone," he says abruptly.

She smiles, humourless. "Not something I hear every day."

Natasha sets down the completed dragonfly, gets up to walk over and lean against the filing cabinets. She sweeps her eyes across the room, occasionally flipping open a file and closing it again. "It's true, Cap. S.H.I.E.L.D. is all about being sneaky," she adds, blatantly examining the activity on Hill's computer.

Maria minimises some of the screens, looking pointedly at Romanoff. Natasha smirks and returns to rifling through a particularly dusty cabinet. Steve opens his mouth to protest, but is cut short by the minute shake of the head he gets from Hill.

"Don't bother," she murmurs.

He comments wryly, "Pick your battles, huh?"

"Always," she agrees, eyes flicking back to her work.

Steve sits back and observes, noting the clinical precision of her movements and the perfected blank expression. Soldier, spy, soldier, spy, soldier, spy – the echoes resonate around in his head; to be either, or both at the same time, or even not at all. He's seen first-hand (so many years ago, god it's been so long) the different sides, the different faces of both; comrades, friends with inconsequential titles.

A question springs to mind, hazily pulled from the very edges of his mind. "Does S.H.I.E.L.D. have a theoretical physics department?"

"What?"

He chews his lip. "If you had a time machine, where would you go?"

That gets her attention, and she stares at him, confused with the non-sequitur. "God, don't tell me Banner and Stark are attempting to build one right now."

"No, it's just a hypothetical," he assures her, looking to Natasha – who suddenly looks intrigued – for support.

"Why are you asking?"

"It's an interesting concept. Howard and the other scientists, they'd always theorise, you know. And no-one really understood back then," he explains with a shrug. At her raised eyebrow, he adds simply, "Also, I've missed out on a lot."

"Yes, we have a theoretical physics department. No, we don't have a time machine, nor do we devote our resources to that particular endeavour," she says, unsuccessfully trying to plan next week's twenty-man mission in Australia.

"You didn't answer the question," Natasha speaks up from her corner, receiving a glare in return.

"Since when are you interested in my time-travelling preferences, Romanoff?"

"We never got around to doing lightning rounds when we met," Natasha shoots back.

"Fine," Maria says, exasperated and resigned to the fact that she's not going to get anything done in the next half an hour. "I'd go back and stop the Star Wars prequels from being made," she says somewhat flippantly.

Steve looks incredulous. "All of time and history?"

"She has a point," Natasha frowns. "We have a duty to stop atrocities before they occur."

"All of time and history," Steve repeats, feeling slightly insulted. "You could go anywhere, to anytime. I mean, the things you could witness, experience, the people you could meet or see again…"

Maria stills, ignores Natasha's wary curiosity, and replies evenly, "History stays in the past; learn from it and move on. Nothing matters, except for now and the near future."

It's Steve's turn to frown. "That's…"

"Indulgent," Natasha supplies suddenly. "Practical, but still indulgent."

"Different people, different places, Romanoff," says Maria. "You of all people should know that."

"No one should get to pick and choose, or to simply forget," Natasha says with a tinge of bitterness, and with the knowledge and burden of things lost forever. Across from her, Steve inclines his head in silent agreement.

"You're absolutely right," Maria fires back calmly. "But everyone gets a chance to make of it what they will. You can't deny that from them."

Steve stares unseeingly at the dragonfly, and tries to understand. And it's true – he can't deny choice, would never dream of standing in the way of freedom. But at the same time…

"What about the future, then? You work for S.H.I.E.L.D.; you can't not care about what happens."

"Right again," she nods. "But it's foolish to pretend that humanity and the world isn't as fucked up as it already is. To make the world a better place means stopping it from getting worse. We protect what we have now; there is no ambitious grand plan that makes it better, that won't somehow backfire on us all."

"But pre-emptively—"

"—In terms of global peace and protection, that never works out well," Maria cuts in.

Natasha grins suddenly. "Good to know that cynics still exist."

"Speak for yourself, Nat," she mutters. "We can be the presidents of the fucking club."

"So you wouldn't go anywhere, to anytime?" Steve asks again, interrupting and determined to know.

"Why do you care, Captain?" Maria trains her grey eyes on his, and Natasha picks up an old file, discreetly reads it and pretends not to notice.

(because you remind me of—because i want to know what i've missed—because—because peg—)

"I want to know who I'm working with," he answers finally.

"Okay. Hope we passed." She gives him a considered nod and exhales. "So, will that be all? I've got a shitload of work that won't finish itself," she adds sardonically.

He stands, recognising a cue to leave, and arches a brow at his companion. Natasha closes the file and slots it back into the cabinet drawer, throwing Maria a mysterious look as she walks out silently. He follows, giving her one last glance and polite nod, and shuts the door with a soft click.

.

And later that night, he arrives back to his quarters (bruised and heavy with his bag slung over his shoulder) to find a rectangular package wrapped with last week's newspaper lying just inside his door. He unwraps it with tired calloused fingers, easing the tape off the worn paper, surprised to see a veritable tome hidden underneath.

The Complete and Unabridged History of S.H.I.E.L.D. (1940 – 2010)

Opening the book, he smiles at the familiarity of slightly yellowed pages and stoops down to pick up the note that's fallen out.

Thought you might be interested; this is the latest edition we have. Yes, books are still a thing – perhaps this is more feasible than a time machine.

– M.

(He starts at the very beginning, feels his chest swell with pride at the foundation of the organisation, feels the ache at the familiar names.

His fingers absent-mindedly trace over the written letters as he reads well into the night.)