Wow, okay. So real life's crazy. Congrats to my lil sis on being valedictorian though.

This is a random, rambling little fic meant to preview how Black Widow might have caught up to Team Cap after the events of Civil War.

Deep breath in. The scent of deep-fried chicken wings and the bitter wisp of cigarette smoke. Wanda's perfume and the sweaty man at her elbow.

Size up the shot. Hold, wait. Calm. No need to rush it. Nobody else matters. There's just you and your target. Don't worry about the people around you because, quite frankly, what you're doing is none of their business and what they're doing isn't any of yours.

(That's Clint's voice in your head.)

Exhale, and move. The precise jerk of your arm with the billiard cue and then the sharp crack of the balls. They roll across the felt, slam into one another, careen and spin, until they drop one by one into the pockets.

A cheer goes up from the crowd gathered to watch a well-matched game on a Friday night. There's the usual clapping and whistling, some laughs, and a good natured curse from your opponent. A few anonymous hands slap at your shoulder or back. The night has just started, the atmosphere friendly, the patrons agreeable. As the applause fades, you scan the room. You feel eyes on you. But there are many eyes on you. The bar, although not yet packed, is quickly filling with office workers, teachers, young couples and college students, eager to start the weekend. Your noisy corner of the room is drawing curious attention from the rest of the building. The commotion dies down and the other side of the room goes back to their drinks. But you've been living on the run long enough that you know not to ignore the insistent tug in your gut.

"Twenty bucks says you can't make that shot again," says the man you're playing against.

"Forty says he can!" Sam laughs, boldly laying the bills on the wooden edge of the billiard table.

The crowd approves of the wager, excited murmurs and the clink of beer bottles. You snag the neck of your own drink, but you don't lift it. Instead, your eyes slide to the side. Just a quick glance to make sure the Eagles' fan next to Wanda is keeping his hands to himself.

"What do you say, Steve?" Sam goads.

Your opponent is chalking his cue. There's a television hanging above the bar, newscaster silently mouthing the words on the muted set, while the closed captioning struggles to keep up. You bring your beer bottle to your mouth, swallow the last of it and pass it, and your cue stick, to Sam.

"Sorry, fellas. I'm done for the night."

A hum of disappointment ripples through the crowd. Sam frowns and steps closer to you.

"Are you sure, Cap? This could be an easy way to some fast cash," he whispers.

"We've made enough to cover our drinks. Let's leave it at that," you whisper back.

What you don't tell him is how your skin is prickling and the sour taste the alcohol left on your tongue. You don't tell him that you're afraid someone's here who knows who you are. Someone who can and will turn you over to the government, who will charge you all with treason and lock you up so you never see the sun again. So your lips smile while your heart pounds and you wisely avoid Wanda's pout because that girl has you wrapped around her little finger and sometimes you catch yourself wondering if that's a taste of what it means to have a daughter.

Your jacket was discarded on a nearby stool and you collect it, laying it over one arm while you fish some cash from your pocket. The bartender takes it, you nod, and walk out the door. As you thread your arms into your sleeves against the cool Ohio air, you hope you're the one your mysterious stalker will follow. You are the biggest prize, a more tempting capture than your friends.

The night is washed in honey, cream, and lemon, light spilling from street lights and headlights and the windows of busy restaurants. Car tires, cell phones, and live music. Chatter and laughter and rowdy groups of young men. It's nearly impossible to detect potential threats. As nonchalantly as you can, you turn your head now and again, glancing into shop windows to check the reflections for anything suspicious.

You're closer now to, well, of course not home. But to where you're staying for the moment. The apartment a friend of Sam's is letting all of you borrow. Nearly there and no sign of danger and you start to relax only to tense as you notice a face that's been behind you almost the entire way from the bar. It could be a coincidence. Not likely. The apartment building is here in front of you but your feet keep going just far enough to round the bend, to miss the front door and slip into the alley. If your paranoia has gotten the better of you tonight, the person will walk past and you'll be left to explain your sudden and uncalled for departure to a skeptical Sam Wilson in the morning.

The footsteps come closer and you crouch in the shadows, muscles taunt, breath held, eyes wide. A shadow creeps into the mouth of the alley and you pounce, fingers clamping hard around arms, pulling, dragging this threat toward you. You want to meet it head on and you won't go down without a fight.

Rather than gasping in shock, or wriggling in desperation, the woman in your arms chuckles lightly. "It's good to see you too, Steve."

Your hands fall open, and you're the one surprised. "Natasha?"

"Do you plan on having this reunion here in the alley or are you going to invite me upstairs?" she asks and the smirk is clear in her voice, even though the expression is smothered in darkness.

You don't move so she takes the lead, walking out of the alley and around the corner. You stand there a moment more, mouth open, mind racing. She didn't instantly drop you, though you know she's capable. She didn't whip out a pair of handcuffs, though you know she could. Is it a trick? Are there agents waiting just out of sight to haul you off to a secure prison? Is she here to talk? Can you trust her?

Your heart answers the last question, though your heart is what turned you into a fugitive in the first place, and you're stepping back onto the sidewalk and she must have been following you long before you sensed her at the bar because she's already inside and upstairs and waiting in front of 305. You almost want to feel ashamed, want to bear the failure of being outmaneuvered, to cringe with the knowledge that you didn't provide the protection to Sam and Wanda that you promised them. But you remember who Natasha is and no one outmaneuvers Black Widow and all you can do is unlock the door and pray she's not here to arrest you.

"You haven't changed much," Natasha says, crossing her arms in the entryway.

Her tone doesn't reveal whether she's disappointed or merely stating a mundane fact. She could be referring to your appearance. Or your lack of subtlety while on the street. Or even your choice to be bait. It's impossible to know her thoughts. You sigh, lock the door behind you and get your first real look at her.

"But you have!" is all you can manage.

She tosses a jet black ponytail over one shoulder before resettling her arms above her obviously round stomach. A strange, fleeting tangle of emotions brush against your brain. Shock, jealousy, happiness. It doesn't matter though. Natasha rolls her eyes, long-suffering, and reaches behind her back, under her shirt and there's the snap of buckles and then she's tossing a lump of fabric and stuffing to the floor.

"You might be surprised how willing people are to help a pregnant woman. Not as much as they used to be, but it's still a convenient disguise," she shares. "Or at least more effective than a pair of glasses and a ball cap."

Rising on tiptoes, she removes the lensless frames from your face. She pauses and you do too. Her breath ghosts across your cheek, eyes peering into yours. You break first.

"What are you doing here?" Gaze skittering away, you try so hard to avoid sounding hopeful that you probably come across as hostile.

"I certainly didn't come for the accommodations," she says, glancing first at the empty pizza box visible on the kitchen counter and then through the doorway into the living room, where your blanket slumps on the end of the couch you use for a bed.

Her blase attitude and confident posture scrap at your agitated nerves and you aren't in the mood for playful banter and casual flirting and you need to know right now if she's still the friend you wish she was.

"Are you here to arrest me?" you ask quietly.

She whips her head around to look at you then, easy smile slipping from her lips and your heart plummets and you don't want to fight. Not her. Never Natasha. But you can't go with her. You won't go to jail. Because you made a promise to Wanda. To Sam. To Bucky. And there's still evil in the world and you still have to protect people, even if they don't ask for it or want it. Even though they've branded you a traitor. Even though you no longer carry a shield on your back or a star on your chest.

She's looking at you with that sad expression and you don't know what to do. You can't fight another friend. You just can't. You don't have it in you anymore. Not after what happened in D.C. Not after Bucky while he was under Hydra's control. Not after the Sokovian Accords and Siberia and Stark. Please God, no. You don't have the strength or determination or conviction anymore to fight a friend.

Your face fractures and the Black Widow sees. She could pounce on you now, vulnerable and exposed like you. You've gotten harder in the past few years, no longer the dewy-eyed, clueless Man Out of Time. Betrayal and murder and lies and killing and aliens and months on the run have beaten the lesson into you that if you want to survive, to simply live another day, you have to rip your heart off your sleeve and bury it somewhere no one can find. But you're still Steve Rogers and Steve Rogers can still be a goofy, naive kid from Brooklyn and you've never quite mastered a mask of indifference. Natasha excels at reading the tells of her mark, drawn to weakness like sharks to blood, and she sees the corners of your lips curving down, the way your brow lowers and how your posture shrinks and this is her moment to strike.

Bracing yourself, you wait for it. For her to condemn you to a battle you can't fight against an enemy you don't want to hurt in a war you never meant to wage.

The washing machine down the hall rattles, traffic swishes by on the road below, and you can smell her perfume but it's no scent you recognize and you didn't even recognize her until she was already standing in what was supposed to be your safe place and maybe she's changed into someone you won't be able to recognize and she's here to put an end to your misplaced belief that you can manage to have even a half sort of life because you don't deserve one because you've made too many mistakes, told too many lies, burned too many bridges and you should have died seventy years ago and you're floundering in the wreckage you've created, hardly able to keep food on the table for the friends you dragged into this messed up situation with you but you can't live without them and if it had to be someone, why did it have to be Natasha when she was your partner for years and the two of you have been through horrors no one else could begin to imagine, know each other's pasts and dreams for the futures, and all the secrets and the chinks in each other's armors and despite her views being in opposition to yours, she helped you escape all those months ago in that airport miles from here because she knew you and it's going to tear you apart and maybe you should bolt while you still can, even though you'll never escape her but maybe, just maybe, you can at least warn Sam and Wanda and they can get out and start over somewhere else and you'll never see them again because you'll be in prison, alone alone alone.

"Calm down, Steve."

Her gentle hand on your cheek catches you off guard and you stumble back a step, distracted by your mad, disordered thoughts.

"Come on, take a breath," she urges softly. "Easy, Steve."

You can't calm down. Your worst fear is coming true right in front of your eyes and you're powerless to stop it. There's nothing you can do. You can't fight Natasha. You can't.

"I'm not here to arrest you." She switches tactics since you're panting and sweating and freaking the heck out. "I'm here to help you."

Your eyes snap to hers, wary, because she could be lying. She's done it before and you can't really trust her, you probably shouldn't and what has trusting people ever gotten you but heartache and loss and misery anyway? But you're Steve Rogers and you're a stupid son of a gun sometimes and you're so tired of running and constantly looking over your shoulder and scraping just to get by and trusting no one, and you used to trust her, completely and without reserve, trusted her above all others and you don't want to fight.

So you collapse, arms going around her, one around her narrow shoulders and the other around her waist and you draw her to you, folding yourself almost in half just to be able to reach her, to feel her pressed against you, with you, here in this borrowed rented room. She stumbles beneath your sudden weight, but only for a moment because she's a strong woman, in more ways than one, and she returns the embrace, gripping you tightly because she knows that's what's going to ground you, because words are too cheap and don't mean much to you anymore, not since pain's become your first language and she won't let you fall. She's here to help and you believe her, not because your weariness is making you gullible but because her hands loosen to rub up and down your back, just like they did in that church in London when you lost Peggy in the first of many losses to come, and she told you that staying together is the most important thing and you lost sight of that and she's here to help you remember.