Author's Notes: Hello, hello! I'm just back from Vegas and it was so fun! Exhausting, but fun. Oh, and my Dad bought 3 new horses! 3! I've got new boots in the mail, and life, my doves, is gooood.

So here's our latest chapter! I hate that this story is winding down, but we've only got a few chapters to go!

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

Chapter 18: Past

James flew the helicopter to the abandoned airstrip outside of Moscow absently, following the coordinates that felt ingrained into his brain while Karpov sat in the co-pilot chair and looked through his red leather book. James had noticed the book before, months ago when the pages were mostly blank. Now the pages were warped from use, black ink sprawled across the white paper.

Every now and then, Karpov would look over at him. The General meant to be sly about it, never making direct eye contact, pretending to shift in his seat and let his eyes wander. It was so goddamn obvious that Karpov would have ordered himself killed if it had been anyone else. James kept focused on the sky before him. If anyone was acting here, it was him, and he deserved a fucking Oscar.

These days, he felt like he was putting on a show. The Soldat. The Asset. It wasn't who he was anymore. Not completely. He forced himself to remain expressionless, to keep his eyes dead and blank. He took no pleasure in the sun on his skin or the cloudless blue sky. He cared for nothing and no one. He was a weapon, a tool for HYDRA.

He wasn't—he couldn't—be James.

And it was exhausting, pretending to be something that he wasn't. He was fine being an assassin. The job he didn't question. He knew he was a killer, and he knew he was a damn good one. But the hows and the whys . . . he wanted to know those. He wanted to know where his orders came from and why, if he really was creating a better world one bullet at a time.

It wasn't the best moral dilemma to be having just when Natalia was to take her final test to become Black Widow, but she didn't seem to hold it against him.

Christ, he loved her for it.

He hadn't told her yet. He kept waiting for the right time, but every time he thought might be right, he found some reason to keep his mouth shut. He had to make it special. He . . . they . . . weren't supposed to feel this way, they were supposed to be above such sentiment, but James thought the Red Room underestimated human nature. He could love. The Asset, the Soldier, the Fist of HYDRA. And Natalia, his little spider, his ballerina, she could love, too.

So saying it . . . James had to make it count.

Maybe tonight. He'd been on a mission for a month in Africa dealing with warlords and blood diamonds and missing Natalia every damn second. The nights were cold without her next to him, the days long without seeing her smile. God, he couldn't wait to see her.

A car was waiting on the airstrip when they landed. James rode in the passenger seat while Karpov sat in the back, pen still scratching against his book. Once, James met Karpov's eyes in the mirror, and he couldn't explain it, but his gut suddenly felt like a piece of twisted iron. He looked out the window instead, pretending to check for a tail. He thought Karpov looked smug.

James didn't wait when they pulled in front of the Girls Academy that served as the front for the Red Room. The doors opened for Karpov as if he was Moses parting the Red Sea. A young soldier James didn't recognize rushed forward to collect his handler's coat and gloves. "Would you like anything to drink, General Karpov?"

"No, thank you. If you would tell the Madame I've arrived?"

"Oh, yes. She's been anticipating your arrival." The man's eyes slipped to James. "The trainee's are waiting in the training room, as you requested."

"Excellent," Karpov said with a slight smile.

"If you'd follow me, sir."

Music sounded in the hall as they were led deeper into the house, and James looked through an open set of double doors to his right where the music was the loudest. Little girls, perhaps no more than seven, spun in delicate pirouettes, yet there was already something deceptive in their grace that made James feel a twinge of sympathy and longing. What he wouldn't give to watch Natalia do what she had once loved so dearly. Perhaps he would ask her to dance tonight. Just for him.

Karpov stopped outside the door to the training room. "Soldat. I trust you've trained these Widows to the best of your ability. They are to be unbreakable."

"Yes, General," he answered.

"Good. The final test is about to begin."

He went to open the door only to pause and glance back with a slight smirk. "Any bets as to who will win?"

"It is not my place to have opinions."

"Come now, Soldat. Surely you have an opinion."

James hesitated a split second too long to avoid answering the question. "Romanova," he said truthfully. To outright lie when Natalia was clearly the stronger of the two seemed pointless, but the ensuing smile that twisted Karpov's lips made James wish he'd lied anyway.

"Noted. Now, shall we?"

He opened the door before James could answer. His eyes skimmed over the room, making note of every detail—the mirrors on the walls that let him observe everyone's slightest twitch, the ballet bar that Natalia had used as a springboard to launch herself onto his shoulders more than once, the give of the mats under his feet that always felt softer whenever he ended up on his back. There were more people than usual. A group of scientists that James didn't recognize at all and yet knew. The Madame and her minions. James felt her eyes on him, but he ignored it.

He scanned his students, once thirteen and now just two. A sense of loss tried to settle in his chest, but he pushed it back. Now wasn't the time for him to . . . to be James. He needed to be the Soldier.

He wondered if he'd feel guilty when the time came.

Natalia Romanova stood silent next to her competition. It was clear what was about to happen. She'd finally made it. It was time. Her final test. It took all her will not to look at James beyond a brief glance. She'd missed him in the month that he'd been away, despite the distraction of two missions she had been allowed to carry out herself. All successful. All simple.

She was happy he was back.

Karpov began to drone about the glory of Russia and the many ways in which the Black Widow would make their country proud. Natalia tuned him out. She focused on her competition. Tanya Liminova was much like her in the sense that she flew under the radar. She never drew attention to herself to the point that you could stand in the same room as her and forget she was there. She was the opposite of Natalia in every way. Where Natalia was alluring and stunning, Liminova was a sly sort of beautiful that made a man look twice before he decided she was worth his time. Natalia was all fluid grace, still every bit the dancer, while Liminova was all straight lines and harsh angles. As far as Natalia could tell, Liminova's only real advantage was her height—a solid four inches—which translated into a longer reach.

Natalia wasn't worried.

And when Karpov finally stopped waxing poetically about the brilliant red of Russia, Natalia didn't waste time.

Natalia let her mind slip into a place where nothing else existed except her heartbeat and her breaths. The world fell silent. Her mind became clear. It was all about trust. She trusted her muscles to remember and react to every feint and attack Liminova made while she watched and waited for her moment to strike. Sometimes Natalia thought this was the closest she could get to peace.

The fight didn't last long. Hardly more than a minute. Not due a lack of skill but rather because even the best can be a split second too slow, and when Natalia saw her chance, she took it. Liminova's body crumpled to the floor like a forgotten puppet, limbs splayed and neck snapped. There was a second of polite applause, but Natalia didn't hear it. She knew it wasn't over. It couldn't be.

She was right.

"Well done, Romanova, well done, indeed," Karpov crooned like a proud parent. Natalia glanced at the Madame. All the woman did was nod. "And now, for your final test. Personally, I love it when a story ends the way it begins. It's poetic, no?"

As soon as he raised his arm and motioned to someone behind her, Natalia knew exactly what her final test would be.

Who.

"It is time for the student to best her teacher," Karpov said with a smile that made Natalia fight a shiver. There was something in his eyes—a quiet but manic glee that made her stomach churn—as he glanced from her to James, who met her gaze blankly.

And it was like the first time they'd met all over again.

He stared right through her, as if she was invisible, and Natalia was entirely unprepared for how much it hurt.

But she summoned her trademark smirk that all men were hopeless to resist, and stared right back in challenge even as her heart thundered in her chest.

Surely they didn't expect her to kill him?

Karpov spared them both one last glance, eyes gleaming at the prospect of the fight ahead. What he got was something he didn't expect. James and Natalia didn't fight.

They danced.

Only there was no music, just the rush of air as they moved and the soft whistle of the blade James withdrew from his belt. Natalia never faltered once. She knew him so well now, knew his moves, his body, just as well as she knew her own. James was no different. They wove around each other, one violent step after another, neither landing a single hit, and the entire room was entranced with the exception of one.

Karpov watched with a cold smile.

Because only a fool would fail to recognize the intimacy in every move.

It was like watching a romantic moment in a film, the moment when the hero and the heroine dance in a shining ballroom, candlelight in their eyes as they inevitably pause to stare, to drink each other in and marvel at each other. The music crescendos, time slows . . . Karpov felt like a voyeur as he continued to watch Barnes and the little Widow fight like they were making love.

His whole body thrummed with excitement when the little Widow capitalized on the smallest of advantages. Barnes was only the slightest bit off balance. No matter his strength, his sense of equilibrium would always be flawed because of his metal arm, and the little Widow knew it. She knew it, and she used it. Marvelous.

He watched her fingers ghost over the metal, and then there was a shower of sparks and the arm suddenly hung limply at Barnes's side. Oh, she wouldn't, would she? Did he want to see what would happen next? Did he? Oh, yes. Yes.

The little Widow stole the knife from Barnes and cut him in a thin slice that was only a hair from taking out his eye. Yes, yes, yes. Would she do it? Would she? Two quick combos that Barnes was too off-balance to effectively counter, and then he was on his back. Oh, she would, wouldn't she? She would do it. She would kill him.

Did he want her to?

The knife rose.

Perhaps he should let it happen.

The blade glinted in the afternoon light as it began to fall.

But then again . . .

"Stop!"

The knife sank into the mat next to James's head, and Natalia kept her fist clinched around the handle in order to keep her hand from shaking. For a split second, she and James were alone, her straddling his chest and their faces hidden by her hair, and she met his eyes with horror and guilt. He stared at her in shock that faded quickly into resignation and a quiet sort of acceptance. He didn't hold it against her. How. How could he not?

But there wasn't time to ask questions. As the room erupted into a loud applause, Natalia schooled her features and rose coldly, leaving James to lie prone on the floor for a second longer before he awkwardly pulled himself up, careful to keep his face blank even as the sensors in his left arm kept sending signals to his brain that something was wrong. It hurt, a strange sort of pain, but one he was familiar with.

He stood straight as he wordlessly walked to Karpov's side.

"Soldat," he said. "You've trained her well."

He nodded. "Too well, it would seem."

Karpov only smiled.

In hindsight, James wished he would have snapped the man's neck then and there.

There was little celebration. Natalia found herself alone in her room within the hour, and as soon as the door was shut behind her, she let her shoulders fall. Resolutely, she started for the bathroom, wincing as she felt the twinge in her muscles. James had nearly pulled her left arm from its socket, and the joint still felt shifty. Only when she went to grab the hem of her shirt and her fingers flared with pain did she realize that two were dislocated. She fixed them with little fanfare, barely flinching. Eyes resolutely away from the mirror, she finished undressing and then spent the next ten minutes just standing under the spray and letting the heat pound her skin.

She didn't know how she felt. There was a part of her that was undeniably proud. She was the Black Widow. Just like she'd wanted. Just like she'd always known. Now it was just official. She'd won. She'd defied everyone. She'd survived.

But she . . . what had she sacrificed to do it?

It was raining. She lay in bed on her side watching the raindrops race down the window as her fingers tranced the smooth metal plates of James's arm around her waist. His lips brushed her shoulder, and she sighed, her fingers never stopping their exploration. "Can you feel this?" she asked.

He hummed. "In a way."

"Is it nice?"

"Only because it's you."

Natalia smiled even though he couldn't see her. "Were you always this charming?"

"I like to think so."

"I bet you were trouble."

"I still am."

She laughed. "It doesn't bother me, you know," she said, fingers still ghosting over the metal. "Your arm."

His metal thumb brushed against her waist. It amazed her how gentle he could be when he wanted. "Good to know." She could hear the smirk in his voice.

"How does it work?"

"Sensors."

"What if one's damaged?"

"Depends which one. I might lose control of a finger," he poked her ribs, "or the whole damn thing."

He hadn't told her which plate hit the right sensor, but he'd told her the arm could be disabled. He'd been so free and honest with her, and look what she had done with that trust. She'd taken the one part of him that he had no control over and used it against him. Natalia hung her head and shut her eyes tight against the memory of his wide eyes staring up at her. Shock, anxiety, anger, acceptance.

And hurt.

Despite the fact that they both knew it had been unavoidable, the fact that she'd gone after the most vulnerable part of him hurt.

He couldn't possibly forgive her.

Eventually, she shut the water off and dressed in loose pants and a thin shirt, letting her hair hang in wet tangles down her back. There was nothing to do but sit cross-legged on her bed and rub her bruised fingers as she cast cautious glances at her window. He wouldn't come. Surely he wouldn't be so stupid . . .

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was the unmistakable sound of metal on glass. Natalia looked up just as James planted one foot on the floor, and despite her unease, she felt herself begin to smile. She stood without thinking, and her feet moved without her permission. James met her halfway across the room, his hands on her hips as he lifted her up just as she jumped. Her arms were tight around his neck. "You came," she whispered. "I didn't think you would."

James kissed her temple. "I needed to see you."

"I'm sorry, James. I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine."

"No, it's not."

"You did what you had to do."

"I would have killed you."

"And that's the only option I could have lived with."

Natalia pulled away with a frown. "James."

"It's true." He brushed her cheek. "You're more important than any mission."

She took a sharp step backward. "Don't."

James smiled ruefully, and her eyes narrowed even as her chest swelled with affection. She'd never seen him smile like that before. It made him look ten years younger. "I thought we established that I was compromised a long time ago," he said.

She wanted to choke him. Her heart fluttered. "If they find out, they'll kill you."

He closed the distance between them and raised his hand—the metal one, shiny and good as new—and gently caught her chin so she couldn't look away from him. "Worth it," he said.

"James," she whispered.

"Natalia."

This was the moment. James knew it. He should say it. Three words. Just three little words that Natalia deserved to hear. Oh, he was sure that she knew, whether she admitted it to herself or not, just as he knew that she loved him. But to say it . . . to say it made it real, made them honest, and for all of their growth, for all of their love . . . they were still spies, assassins, liars, and cheats.

They didn't handle truth well.

Three words.

"You and me," he reminded her. "It's just you and me."

Natalia smiled like she knew what he'd meant to say. And she did. She knew why he couldn't manage the words, and she understood. She couldn't say it either. But she could prove she meant it. "James," she said, taking his hand and leading him toward the bed.

He followed with a smile. "Yeah?"

She pushed him lightly onto the bed and straddled his hips. "Lie back," she said with a smile. "And don't move."

James grinned and raised his hands in supplication before locking his fingers cockily behind his hand and lying back. Natalia's answering smile would have made any other man shudder, but James only tensed in anticipation. Natalia let her nails skim over his chest. The bruises from their fight were already fading, the cut on his cheek now a thin pink line. Showing compassion wasn't something that she felt she truly understood, but Natalia began to trail her lips over his skin, pausing at every hurt and scar.

James's arm hummed as he fought to keep still. "Natalia."

She hummed. "James," she teased.

"You don't . . . Can I . . ."

"No," she said with a laugh.

"Natalia," his voice hitched as she gently nipped at his neck.

"And I thought the Soldier could withstand anything."

James squirmed as her lips began to trail toward his belt. "This is torture."

Natalia paused and slowly crawled forward until her face hovered over his. She traced the cut on his cheek. "This is about you," she said. She kissed the wound, and then whispered in his ear. "So be still."

Well, Nat is officially a Widow. I do love how she got there, though. Going after Bucky's arm was the only way I could think of that would show just how uncompromising both of them can be to get what they want. Plus, of the two, Nat is colder. Not her fault, just her age. It's why she's got a soft side in the future. She's retrospective in a way only experience provides.

See you Friday!

-AC

P.S. If you want a teaser quote for next chapter, drop me a line!