Natasha paused, head tilted, a bit surprised that he'd even ask. "No...nothing you have to worry about," she told him, tone a little wry. "She's on board with our current mission, so consider it a donation from Stark Enterprises." Since Pepper was still the CEO of Tony Stark's massive manufacturing empire.
"We'll still have to come up with pocket money for the really big stuff, but at least we won't starve or run out of basic ammunition. Although," she amended, giving the ceiling a frown, "we might blow away this time, if the wind gets any stronger."
And it was already getting warmer inside their small apartment. Natasha preferred warm over cold, definitely, but the tropical humidity was no joke. Granted, with the storm raging about outside, the customary heat wasn't an issue now, but once it blew itself out, it might be days before power was restored to their corner of this pirate's den.
A gust rattled the windows, but thankfully they held. The couch was well out of range should the glass implode, but it was still a little unnerving, just sitting while Nature's fury ripped and roared about outside.
"Want to practice languages again?" A game left over from their time in Norway, useful for passing the time whenever the power went out.
The mention of Stark Enterprises made some indescribable emotion cross James' face: a twist at the corner of his mouth, self-conscious and rueful. Just because Tony Stark had relented and decided to let him go didn't mean there weren't still complicated feelings on both sides. Accepting donations from Stark, no matter how simple, came with a tangle of guilt.
(He'd been friends with Howard. He could still remember all the time they'd spent together. Sharing pints of beer in a pub in London; joy-riding an army jeep at headquarters; both of them chatting up women together on leave, both acting as flirtatious wingmen trying to help Steve out of his shell.) (And then, that perplexed voice: Sergeant Barnes? His metal hand smashing into the other man's face again and again and again, until it was just a mess of pummeled meat and broken bone. His hand coiled around Maria Stark's throat.)
Anyway. It's complicated, is what we're saying.
When she suggested practicing languages, James considered it from his boneless slump against the sofa, but then ultimately shook his head. "It's too hot. I can't think straight. I feel like a goddamn engine overheating, I'm not good in this kind of—"
He'd been built for Siberian winter.
He hesitated for a second, already feeling that heat settling into all his skin and bones, and then he straightened in his seat. "Sorry, this is gonna kill me. Is it okay if I strip down more? This might be is our beach day after all." As soon as she tipped her chin in an assenting nod, James hauled off his undershirt, leaving him just shirtless and sprawled in that sofa in his boxers, and then he fell back with another sigh.
She knew about the Starks, of course, but there was no way in hell she'd ever divulge the fact that she knew. It wasn't any of her business, for one, and she'd never willingly cause the man at the opposite end of the couch any more guilt than she knew he already carried. Which was why she'd more or less kept those little details on the down-low, at least until he asked.
But the Winter Soldier's past missions were abruptly shunted aside when Barnes asked if he could peel out of that damp undershirt, and Natasha watched with an unconcerned façade, but in truth her hooded gaze was mapping every single defined line of that magnificent torso, gleaming with dewy sweat in the brief flashes of light from the storm outside. And heaven help her, but she could still recall how it felt beneath her fingertips - heated velvet over corded steel.
Another freezing cold shower loomed in her future, she knew.
Well, James' idea wasn't a bad one, and after a moment's thought, the redhead uncoiled from the sofa and made her quiet way into the bedroom, emerging a few minutes later in just her plain black bikini top with a cold wet washcloth around her neck, long curls swept up into an artfully messy twist, leaving her neck and shoulders bare. She'd kept her soft cotton gym shorts, but nothing beneath - satin stuck when one was sweaty.
She plopped down in her former place, absently tossing a second cold cloth towards her companion, the cool wet rag landing right in the middle of that perfect abdomen. "Here," came her husky drawl out of the interrupted darkness. "See if that helps."
James yelped a little — an undignified noise and entirely un-Winter Soldierlike — as the cold cloth hit his stomach like an icy punch, but then he sighed in relief. "Ah jeez, great idea. Thanks."
His finger knotting into the fabric, he pressed it against his neck and throat to start cooling himself off, then rested it against his temple as if he had a headache. He leaned against it and then, despite himself, slid a glance sideways to his companion. And he told himself, sharply, not to look—
But he'd already started looking.
It really was unfair. He'd thought he'd grown long-since immune to the sight of an attractive woman: all those parts of himself shut down, out of service, decommissioned, the lights turned out and the windows shuttered and the doors locked. But there was something. Something about Natasha in specific. They shared the same goddamn shampoo so he shouldn't notice the smell of her hair when she walked past him in the morning, and yet. And now from where they sprawled, he couldn't help but notice the long lines of her bare thighs and the gleam of sweat on her neck, which made his mind go places it hadn't gone in so, so long.
But with near-Herculean effort, James managed to drag his focus away for now. Because his gaze had slipped down the angles of her collar bone and the dip of her chest and landed on her stomach. That old and familiar bullet wound.
He still remembered pulling the trigger.
"It must've hurt," he said. A non-sequitur, possibly disorienting for a moment, before he gestured with the hand which wasn't holding the cloth. That ugly scar. At least it was a clean shot, had gone right through her, when it could've been a kill shot. They'd already talked about it, that strange omission or improbable slip-up by the Soldier, but seeing the proof of it with his own eyes is something else.
"I'm glad—" James hesitated. I'm glad the Winter Soldier let you live? I'm glad I didn't kill you? He wasn't sure how to continue that sentence. "I'm glad it wasn't worse."
Despite the muggy heat of the tropics, even with the storm clamoring about outside, the temperature in the small apartment did drop a few degrees when Barnes mentioned The Scar. Natasha grew still, but only for a moment, then her customary nonchalance resurfaced and she foisted off a slight shrug.
"It did," was her easy response, resuming the chore of bathing the back of her neck and slope of shoulder. "I really wasn't a fan of yours for a good long while, after that little incident." Not to mention the loss of that Iranian engineer. Her career had been hanging by a thread as it was, before that assignment. Having a hold in her side helped explain her failure, but the rehabilitation that'd followed hadn't been pleasant.
"But," Natasha drawled then, shifting about on the couch with a resigned sigh, "that's the nature of the job, isn't it?" She didn't blame him, not in the least. He'd been programmed, after all, and besides, he could have killed her outright. "...you could have killed me," she told him, voice quiet. Then a soft smile followed, "I'm profoundly grateful that you didn't. James."
“It’s the nature of the job, yeah, but how many times have you been shot by a friend?” Beat. “If that’s what we are. I mean, I like to think that’s what we are.”
The heat was thick and humid and oppressive, and the distant lights of Madripoor outside were a smear of colour against the dark windows. He was sprawled motionless on his end of the sofa, and pulling his thoughts together in a coherent order was difficult. Even with that cold cloth pressed to his face, it felt like thinking through a fog.
Maybe that was what made it easy for the next few words to slip out, James’ brain a livewire straight to his mouth.
“I know we’re not exactly close,” he wasn’t sure how to define their relationship, because they were travelling together and literally living together, and they should still be practically strangers — and yet there was that sense of intimacy, of unearned comfortable companionship, as if they’d known each other so much longer. “But you’re one of the only people left in my life. So I’m… profoundly grateful, too.”
"We're friends," Natasha agreed off-handedly, still bathing the back of her neck with the damp cloth. The lightning fell quiet for a few minutes, leaving only the beating rain and the occasional howl of the wind for company, and the small redhead quite abruptly took full advantage of the darkness. Her end of the couch gave a minute creak, then the barest rustle stirred, and when the next flash illuminated the Stygian darkness, bright green eyes gleamed just six bare inches from Bucky's own face, intent, heady.
A bare knee dug between his thighs, not unintentionally pressing right against the apex of those semi-loose boxers. One hand rested on the back of the couch, the other pressed against Bucky's shoulder; she only needed bend her elbow to bring their bodies into full, complete contact. Green eyes glinted, red lips slanted just so.
"--closer than you think," Natasha suddenly purred, whiskey voice rough, and low. Her knee moved lightly, pressing, giving pressure and inviting just a little more, if he wanted... "And maybe..." her lashes lowered as did her gaze and her hand, trailing just fingertips down over his collar, his chest, fading sensations as they went, "...a little more than friends, da?"
Before he could answer, Natasha met his eyes again, lips parted, then time seemed to stop completely when she leaned down and pressed her lips to his. A soft sigh escaped her, testament to the secret she still carried, but her mouth was soft, moving against his, the smallest flick of her tongue a cheeky tease.
Two heartbeats passed, then she was gone, pushing up and off to sashay towards the kitchen, saying over a pale shoulder, "I'm getting an apple and water from the fridge. Want anything?"
He’d always known, of course — the widows trained for seduction and for twining people around their little finger — but being on the receiving end of it was an overwhelming experience regardless. His heartbeat felt like it was going to pound right out of his chest, all his skin afire where she trailed her fingertips across his skin. Each touch a spark, lighting something he’d thought long-buried.
And when Nat leaned in and kissed him, that spark flared and caught like a wildfire.
It was the barest thing, a small and ghosting thing; not tentative, but teasing. Coquettish with that slip of tongue, before she whisked herself away and walked across the room again, with James staring helplessly after. And for a second—
( he remembered her knee between his legs in a lumpy bed
her teeth nipping his bottom lip as he pressed her against the wall of a building, the Siberian chill on both their skins, and they both taste of winter
the warmth of her tongue and innumerable mornings and afternoons and midnight evenings, time carved out between missions and assignments, stolen minutes, stolen kisses, rushed, her quick fingers going for his belt while his slipped under her shirt
there had been so many more missions than she’d implied— )
James sat there for a second like a statue carved out of stone, stunned, not answering her question. And then, before he could really rethink the movement, he was already on his feet and following her to the kitchen instead of replying. He reached out and caught her wrist, tugged her back to look at him.
“Natalia,” he said. Her real name, her true name, given to him as a gift yet so rarely used. “I’d wondered if I dreamt it. Have we—”
He petered out, unsure how to piece together those words. It wasn’t all of it, it wasn’t the floodgates opening and delivering a tidy resurrection of all his long-dead memories — but it was like a rockslide had slid loose, offering a series of flashes, all dislodged by that kiss. It was far more than he’d had before.
There were precious few individuals left in the universe capable of sneaking up on the former Black Widow. Alas that she shared living quarters with one of the most successful, because the former Winter Soldier could make less noise than moonlight on water when he so chose. Thus it was that Natasha wasn't entirely aware that Bucky had followed her into the kitchen, until about half a second before his grip closed around her left wrist, and he pulled her away from the refrigerator to face him.
She bit off a gasp, but didn't struggle to get free. She could, and they both knew it. But struggling would be futile, not to mention it would sever the fragile threads between them. And Natasha was just so damn tired of fighting...
Then he asked that question, and honestly, she'd been subconsciously waiting for it. Something would trigger those memories sooner or later, and damnit, she'd simply been unable to help herself. Natalia... It rolled like a caress off of his tongue, the Slavic guttural raising gooseflesh down her spine. God, but she'd always loved his voice...
Blinking back into the present - Madripoor, hurricane, shitty little apartment - she kept her wrist firm in his grasp; not pulling, but not giving, either. That wasn't who whey were to each other; never had been. Calm eyes gazed up into bright blue, both of them illuminated by the irregular flashes of Nature's fury outside.
"Yes."
One word. A simple answer. But it was always the smallest answers that preceded the biggest revelations, wasn't it?
James hated using his inexorable strength against her; he would have let go immediately if Nat started struggling or recoiled or tried to yank herself away from him. But she didn’t, and so he held on with a loosening touch; his right hand slipping down until his fingertips were curled around her ring finger and pinky, just the most delicate half-contact.
Yes.
Just that one word, no further elaboration, but it was all he needed. She could hear the small inhale in the back of his throat, the realisation sinking in. He didn’t bother asking why she’d kept it from him, even though it was a whole chapter of his own history which had been sitting unread, forgotten, neglected, while she knew everything. Because he understood. How did you even begin to broach something like this? She had carried the secret for so long, protecting him from it.
And it explained so much. Their comfort with each other, the way they fell into this easy routine, the way she trusted him, the way she’d volunteered for this mission even when he thought they were complete strangers to each other.
His expression was neutral, stony, falling back on expressionlessness as a defense mechanism — he had long-ago forgotten how to emote, and was still re-learning — but his voice was soft and tender as he looked right at her, unflinchingly, unblinking.
“I remembered,” James said. “Just… bits and pieces. Flashes. When you kissed me, I remembered doing that before. It felt… familiar, in a way which made no sense. Until it suddenly did.”
Natasha fully expected him to stagger away, to disappear into the bedroom behind a closed door, but...he didn't. Bucky just stood there, silent, staring at her. And this time, the weight of his gaze was heavy, palpable. She honestly wanted to squirm out from under it.
But it was the truth. And she couldn't help the quiet breath of relief when he spoke again, despite the lack of expression on his handsome face. It was okay. They were okay. Everything was okay. Even though he no longer gripped her wrist, the light coil of his fingers around hers was just as powerful; that simple grasp kept her rooted right in place.
Not that she wanted to move. Not now.
"--then I'm glad, James," she finally heard herself say, meeting his eyes unblinkingly. "That you remembered something, at least." I've wanted to tell you... Her lashes lowered, gaze following suit. "I...I really did want to tell you, but..." Her slim fingers slowly closed around his, in turn. "...but it didn't really seem fair, to push that on you, with everything else you've been struggling with."
Then she looked back up at him, unconsciously taking half of a step closer. "No one else knows," she told him. "Just me..." God help her, but Natasha couldn't help the slide of her eyes to his mouth, so temptingly close, and she unthinkingly wet her lips, "...and you..."
Natasha always played her cards so close to her chest. Of course she wouldn’t have told anyone else; and yet that was an indescribable relief, too, knowing and realising and understanding that Steve hadn’t been privy to it either. It’s not like the entirety of their close-knit, ragged gang of fugitives had known something about James’ life that he hadn’t. It was just her. And now him. Just the two of them in this room, on the other side of the world from anyone else who mattered—
James hesitated, their hands still linked, looking at her.
“Just you and me,” he repeated, softly, and there was an additional meaning to those words, the weight of an us which hadn’t been there just half an hour ago.
Perhaps he should be cautious. Careful. Not step over this line too quickly, not endanger this fragile new dynamic between them; it was like a delicate seedling, still growing roots into the solid earth. She was still re-learning how to be friends with this new version of him, let alone anything more.
But once upon a time, long ago, before HYDRA and before the Winter Soldier and before WWII, Bucky Barnes had been a carefree flirt. Sometimes he felt like he could catch fleeting glimpses of that man, an echo ringing like he’d just walked into a room where his old self had left. And he was hungry, desperate for any kind of tether to those missing years, to that long empty blank space on his map — wanting more of that flash of memory, bridging the gap between who he was now and who he’d been then, re-learning himself.
And it seemed that whatever they’d had, it had been special. He could feel it in that electricity buzzing in his fingertips, sparking in the recollection, aching for the rediscovery even if it wasn’t quite the same.
He wanted to feel that much again.
He wanted.
So James closed the rest of the distance between them. His hand slid up the line of Nat’s bare arm, went up to her face, bracketed her cheek as he leaned in and kissed her back, his lips hard on hers; an answer to a question she’d already asked.
Her back hit the edge of the cabinet and Natasha whimpered, but not from the pain that, honestly, she scarcely felt. The moment their mouths met, her arms came around him; one coiled around his waist, beneath the weight of that fascinating silver arm, and her left slung around his neck, pulling him close. Hers, to keep. God please, forever.
The air inside the apartment was muggy, but there was heat in the small kitchen, and not from any tawdry appliance. No, the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier had, at long last, found each other again, and the people that they now were had opted to throw all caution to the storm outside and rekindle that smoldering ember back into its previous inferno.
Natasha dimly recalled cold stone walls, icy floors, tattered blankets, groping hands, hungry mouths, and the years seemed to disappear completely from her memory, leaving her to associate these soft, soft lips with those she'd kissed over two decades before, when she'd been so young and eager. Now, alone at their last haven, she was no less eager, no less starving for him; she met his kisses with just as much energy, the same desperation - needing to feel something again, just so she could tell herself that this was real; he was real.
--that she wasn't alone anymore.
A slim bare leg slipped over James' hip, coiling him close. This was insanity, devouring this man right in the middle of their shitty little kitchen, but then, it also made perfect sense. Red curls spilled over pale shoulders as her ponytail disappeared, and short nails scraped hot white lines over scarred shoulders, soothed by soft touches moments later, homage to the trauma he'd suffered, as she relearned his body with her hands alone.
"...Dzheyms," emerged from her throat an eternity later, when both of them had to pull apart in order to breathe. It was his name, the first hymn she'd ever voiced, and for the youth she'd been and the woman she was now, there was no other word, no other name so absolutely beautiful.
It was ever so slightly different from the man she remembered, his mannerisms and gestures and the pressure of his mouth slightly off; like he’d gone rusty, and he had to warm up those ancient engines before he could remember how to do this. But every additional touch — nails against his shoulders, digging into his skin, leg hooked around him — sparked another ghosting memory, another nudge of recollection.
“Lisichka,” he answered as they broke for breath, his forehead tipped against Natasha’s, the term of endearment suddenly coming to him with unexpected certainty. Little fox: a nod to her blazing red hair, her mischievous demeanour, and the way the girl had always gotten underfoot at the Red Room. Lisichka, and it was all muscle memory more than conscious recollection (he still couldn’t tell her every mission they’d been on, they’d successfully carved that out of him). But it was there. It was like getting on a bike and realising you still knew what to do, where to put your hands.
He had done this before— —they had been here before—
James drifted slightly sideways to kiss the pale column of her throat, his mouth hot against her neck, licking the sweat from her skin. And with the sensation of taking a gamble and hoping he was right, he kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear which he thought he remembered had always made her shiver, once upon a time.
The Russian endearment washed over her, making her tremble just lightly. It rang in her ears like a sultry bell, smooth and silky, and Natasha couldn't check a small, wanton moan as the breath washed over her lips. She knew she was remembering the exact same thing: cold stone walls, a haggard, spavined cot, and burning mouths and hands, tangled together at every stolen opportunity.
Then, unbidden, "...moya zvezda," purred out of her mouth, and she almost lurched, but thankfully James held her close and upright. My Star; her name for him, testament to the five-pointed emblem on his left bicep, scarlet against the bright silver. My Star; her haven, her safe place, the one she'd follow without question, the only one to ever both break her and put her back together - the name had encompassed all that he was, all that he meant to her.
"Moya zvezda," Natasha - Natalia - breathed again, her head tipping back in sheer permission, tilting slightly to grant him unfettered access to her heated, aching skin. Those smooth, remembered lips graced her flesh with soft, sure kisses, and Natasha felt her knees suddenly go dangerously weak when they sought out the warmth beneath her ear, and she gripped tightly, one small hand fisting in James' dark hair and the other clutching him around the waist.
It was dark inside their apartment, but she didn't need light to see; the former Red Room graduate still remembered every line, every muscle, even the cherished scent of his skin was still the same. A few more scars here and there, but that wasn't at all surprising. She'd earned her own share, too.
This was fast, desperate, the boundaries between them collapsing, the pair accidentally tripping right past friends and straight into the something-more. Because all of a sudden, they weren’t strangers anymore. She had been patient, waiting him out and watching to see if any of those long-buried memories would ever be excavated. And he had been— oblivious, a little, but perpetually haunted by that absence, the lack, the sense of something he was missing in the picture.
But now the puzzle pieces were slamming together. Making up for lost time. James found that he missed the warmth of her mouth on his, her hands on his bare skin. Their apartment was already muggy and hot, they were already sweaty and half-naked, and so it would be the easiest thing to slip into more if this was what they wanted—
He reluctantly broke the kiss, pulled back just enough to catch his breath. His right hand had gone to Natasha’s cheek, the line of her neck, holding her in place, their eyes meeting. His composure was always so difficult to rattle, but his breaths were shallow now, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard; another victory for her. There was an unaccustomed hunger in his eyes when he looked at her.
“I don’t remember everything,” he admitted. He wanted to say it. Make it clear so it didn’t feel like he was taking advantage of her; walking in another man’s shoes and robbing his memories, except that man was also himself. “There are still… gaps. They burned it out of me. I don’t know if it’ll all ever come back.”
He’d been encountering it with Steve, too. No matter how much the other man waited and prompted, occasionally asking questions like do you remember that day we took in the stray cat, he’d simply had to shake his head regretfully and say, no, sorry. It’s gone.
“But I do remember… moments like this. Us.” His thumb brushed the line of her jaw, the corner of her mouth, her lips. His expression had gone a little distant and thoughtful. “I kissed you behind the generator building at the Red Room, standing in the snow. You crawled into my bed after the job in Rovaniemi.”
Small details dredged up out of the abyss. How long? How long had they done this? How much had been taken from him?
Natasha too was panting softly when they broke apart again. And rather than insist on more kisses, more eager, hungry caresses, she let him pull away, let him hold her still and rest his forehead against hers, blue eyes gazing directly into green. She held still, seeing him struggling with...everything. Composure, memories, balance.
Score for her; she knew how hard it was to discombobulate the Winter Soldier.
Unlike James, Natasha hadn't forgotten anything. She still remembered their missions together - etched in a bittersweet shell of pleasure and pain. She still remembered the weight of his fist, crashing down on her in the training room; she still remembered the warm gutturals that purred beneath her ear later that same night. She still remembered every assignment, every cover, every kill. And, for just a moment, she was quietly glad that he couldn't.
She'd take the pain of him not knowing them over him not knowing what they'd been forced to do together. How many lives had been lost at their talented, dangerous hands.
So she forced a small smile, a reassuring smile, and shook her head lightly, lowering her lashes even though she still rested her forehead against his. "It's okay, James," she soothed him, gently stroking his cheek even as he cupped hers. "--I don't expect us to just...pick up where we left off."
A small warmth curled through her at his spoken recollections, though. Because she remembered them, too. "It was really cold that day," she added to the memory. "And we were supposed to be running the obstacle course that ran around the compound." A light shrug. "...but." Then, "...you were mad at me after the Rovaniemi mission." A light smirk curved her lips. "You didn't approve of me getting all familiar and handsy with the CEO's son."
But she'd needed a way into the man's executive office that didn't involve bloodshed. So, seducing his playboy, over-confident son had been the next best idea.
Natasha chuckled lightly. "You barely spoke to me for the rest of that day and all night, too. Only when I marched over to your bed and shoved you over did you even look at me, all glowering and pouting." She gently stroked his face, fingertips gentle against his skin. "That didn't last too long, though..."
He huffed a small laugh, an exhale of breath against her wrist. If he grasped for the edges of that memory, he thought he could finally see the edges of it, even pale and threadbare as it was: his silent surliness, that jealousy stewing beneath his skin. The way Natasha had drawn him back out of that shell, and he had made a point of putting his mouth where the playboy’s had been; of being better than him; of getting her to make noises that the other man hadn’t been capable of.
The very tips of his ears turned faintly red at the memory.
“I shouldn’t have sulked,” James said. “It wasn’t my place. You had a mission to do.”
He still sounded contemplative, weighing over a decision, and how much he knew better. He shouldn’t rush this. They shouldn’t. This thing still felt fragile and new, whatever it was.
But.
He craned his head into her touch, and looked at her again, and there was a flicker of humour on his mouth which was suddenly very much Bucky: not the Soldier, not even James. “What if I wanna pick up where we left off?”
"I liked that you did," she whispered with a sly little smile. "Made me feel...worth something, somehow. I liked that it got under your skin. That I meant something to you." She'd never had anyone care, before him. She'd been just a tool, an asset, barely with a name of her own. Their prodigy, but only as long as she was useful.
Natasha's hands slowly feathered over Bucky's shoulders, his upper arms - not at all daunted by the gleam of silver on the left - and back again, silently greedy for the feel of him once more. She'd been starved for decades. A small hand moved to cup his cheek, relishing the slight scruff of his jaw against her palm, and she felt him lean into her touch, as if he too were so hungry for it.
Then her brows lifted with his quiet question, green eyes searching his face, his expression. "...really?" A reflexive answer. They were still so close, Natasha trapped between Bucky's large frame and the kitchen counter. But the world around them might as well not even exist at all. "Do you really want to?" Followed by, "...can you, James?"
His expression flickered; a scrunch of his nose, a gesture of mock affront at that last question.
“Yes, and yes, and that almost sounds like a challenge, Natalia.”
Can he, though? Is he capable? It had been long enough that he honestly didn’t know if he could wake his body up again and pull these particular strings again, but— “Let’s find out,” he added, fierce, and he leaned in and kissed her once more. Lips hard against Natasha’s, the lean lines of his body crowding hers against the counter, hands drifting back into her red hair, seizing that challenge and running full-tilt with it. He wanted to recapture this, whatever they’d once had.
No one was watching them. They didn’t have handlers and surveillance and cameras on their every move, ready to swoop in and punish them for the intimacy, for straying outside the lines of their existence as weapons. Maybe, just maybe— this time, for once— they could simply have what they wanted.
It wasn't so much of a challenge than it was a serious inquiry; Barnes' mental state was the very reason they were even here, in Madripoor. Rogers had always handled him with kid gloves, every watchful, ever wary that his best old friend might run off the rails at any moment, driven by the demons in his own mind. And, if she were honest, Natasha had done the same; at a lesser degree, of course.
But since they'd been traveling together, she hadn't seen the first inkling of anything other in the man, at all. Of course, they wouldn't be truly safe until HYDRA's conditioning was broken once and for all, erased completely, but so far, no relapses. Not even any serious nightmares. A few bad dreams here and there, but honestly, she could understand that.
However, it seemed that James wanted more than friendship, and Natasha didn't have any objections. When he kissed her again, hard and fervent, she didn't hesitate. Both of her arms went around him, and she immediately slithered atop the countertop, so that she might drag him between her thighs and wrap her strong legs around his waist to hold him close. It was hot in their apartment, yes, but her skin burned where it met his, and she gave a series of low, needful moans on every shaky breath.
He didn't have to be Bucky Barnes. He didn't have to be the Winter Soldier. Not for her. All she wanted was the man in her arms, kissing her like he'd never get enough, and that was more than enough for Natasha.
Needing more than a quick inhale, Natasha abruptly broke their kisses to pant, "--bedroom's too far," before latching her mouth to the throbbing pulse in his neck and sinking in her teeth.
All of this was something of a minor miracle: realising and learning that what he’d assumed was just his tongue-tied antsy crush on a very competent teammate was, well— something else. Walking the same footsteps he’d once walked before. A deep wellspring of shared history, entangled in all the details he could just barely catch and unpick from the tapestry, and then the ones he couldn’t. James’ own body and subconscious betraying him and remembering Natasha, apparently, even when his conscious mind couldn’t. Some recollection sparking in the husky sound of her voice in the mornings, the way they walked around each other in this cramped apartment, the warmth of her body on the mattress in the wintry cabin beside him.
And here, now, the easy way she hopped up onto the counter and comfortably drew him closer, pressing her lips to his neck, the scrape of stubble on his jaw. Even that nip of her teeth: James was learning that he liked that little flash of gentle pain, the knowledge that she could leave hickeys on his throat, they didn’t have to hide the evidence any longer, they could visibly ruin each other and no one would give a shit. Another miracle: he wasn’t even self-conscious about the desperation of it. He just wanted his hands on her again. Wanted to walk this ground again; have what he’d once had with her, again, and again.
So he stepped into the cradle of her legs, and with him just in those boxer shorts, Natasha could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her. While he cocked his head so she could better reach his neck, he reached blindly behind her; the bikini top was even easier to undo than a bra, just one tug at the tie and the fabric was falling free, replaced by the warmth of his hand palming one bare breast, thumb rolling over her nipple.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured in Russian, the words familiar, like a ghost.
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maskirovka) wrote2021-07-20 01:46 am
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"We'll still have to come up with pocket money for the really big stuff, but at least we won't starve or run out of basic ammunition. Although," she amended, giving the ceiling a frown, "we might blow away this time, if the wind gets any stronger."
And it was already getting warmer inside their small apartment. Natasha preferred warm over cold, definitely, but the tropical humidity was no joke. Granted, with the storm raging about outside, the customary heat wasn't an issue now, but once it blew itself out, it might be days before power was restored to their corner of this pirate's den.
A gust rattled the windows, but thankfully they held. The couch was well out of range should the glass implode, but it was still a little unnerving, just sitting while Nature's fury ripped and roared about outside.
"Want to practice languages again?" A game left over from their time in Norway, useful for passing the time whenever the power went out.
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(He'd been friends with Howard. He could still remember all the time they'd spent together. Sharing pints of beer in a pub in London; joy-riding an army jeep at headquarters; both of them chatting up women together on leave, both acting as flirtatious wingmen trying to help Steve out of his shell.) (And then, that perplexed voice: Sergeant Barnes? His metal hand smashing into the other man's face again and again and again, until it was just a mess of pummeled meat and broken bone. His hand coiled around Maria Stark's throat.)
Anyway. It's complicated, is what we're saying.
When she suggested practicing languages, James considered it from his boneless slump against the sofa, but then ultimately shook his head. "It's too hot. I can't think straight. I feel like a goddamn engine overheating, I'm not good in this kind of—"
He'd been built for Siberian winter.
He hesitated for a second, already feeling that heat settling into all his skin and bones, and then he straightened in his seat. "Sorry, this is gonna kill me. Is it okay if I strip down more? This might be is our beach day after all." As soon as she tipped her chin in an assenting nod, James hauled off his undershirt, leaving him just shirtless and sprawled in that sofa in his boxers, and then he fell back with another sigh.
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But the Winter Soldier's past missions were abruptly shunted aside when Barnes asked if he could peel out of that damp undershirt, and Natasha watched with an unconcerned façade, but in truth her hooded gaze was mapping every single defined line of that magnificent torso, gleaming with dewy sweat in the brief flashes of light from the storm outside. And heaven help her, but she could still recall how it felt beneath her fingertips - heated velvet over corded steel.
Another freezing cold shower loomed in her future, she knew.
Well, James' idea wasn't a bad one, and after a moment's thought, the redhead uncoiled from the sofa and made her quiet way into the bedroom, emerging a few minutes later in just her plain black bikini top with a cold wet washcloth around her neck, long curls swept up into an artfully messy twist, leaving her neck and shoulders bare. She'd kept her soft cotton gym shorts, but nothing beneath - satin stuck when one was sweaty.
She plopped down in her former place, absently tossing a second cold cloth towards her companion, the cool wet rag landing right in the middle of that perfect abdomen. "Here," came her husky drawl out of the interrupted darkness. "See if that helps."
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His finger knotting into the fabric, he pressed it against his neck and throat to start cooling himself off, then rested it against his temple as if he had a headache. He leaned against it and then, despite himself, slid a glance sideways to his companion. And he told himself, sharply, not to look—
But he'd already started looking.
It really was unfair. He'd thought he'd grown long-since immune to the sight of an attractive woman: all those parts of himself shut down, out of service, decommissioned, the lights turned out and the windows shuttered and the doors locked. But there was something. Something about Natasha in specific. They shared the same goddamn shampoo so he shouldn't notice the smell of her hair when she walked past him in the morning, and yet. And now from where they sprawled, he couldn't help but notice the long lines of her bare thighs and the gleam of sweat on her neck, which made his mind go places it hadn't gone in so, so long.
But with near-Herculean effort, James managed to drag his focus away for now. Because his gaze had slipped down the angles of her collar bone and the dip of her chest and landed on her stomach. That old and familiar bullet wound.
He still remembered pulling the trigger.
"It must've hurt," he said. A non-sequitur, possibly disorienting for a moment, before he gestured with the hand which wasn't holding the cloth. That ugly scar. At least it was a clean shot, had gone right through her, when it could've been a kill shot. They'd already talked about it, that strange omission or improbable slip-up by the Soldier, but seeing the proof of it with his own eyes is something else.
"I'm glad—" James hesitated. I'm glad the Winter Soldier let you live? I'm glad I didn't kill you? He wasn't sure how to continue that sentence. "I'm glad it wasn't worse."
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"It did," was her easy response, resuming the chore of bathing the back of her neck and slope of shoulder. "I really wasn't a fan of yours for a good long while, after that little incident." Not to mention the loss of that Iranian engineer. Her career had been hanging by a thread as it was, before that assignment. Having a hold in her side helped explain her failure, but the rehabilitation that'd followed hadn't been pleasant.
"But," Natasha drawled then, shifting about on the couch with a resigned sigh, "that's the nature of the job, isn't it?" She didn't blame him, not in the least. He'd been programmed, after all, and besides, he could have killed her outright. "...you could have killed me," she told him, voice quiet. Then a soft smile followed, "I'm profoundly grateful that you didn't. James."
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The heat was thick and humid and oppressive, and the distant lights of Madripoor outside were a smear of colour against the dark windows. He was sprawled motionless on his end of the sofa, and pulling his thoughts together in a coherent order was difficult. Even with that cold cloth pressed to his face, it felt like thinking through a fog.
Maybe that was what made it easy for the next few words to slip out, James’ brain a livewire straight to his mouth.
“I know we’re not exactly close,” he wasn’t sure how to define their relationship, because they were travelling together and literally living together, and they should still be practically strangers — and yet there was that sense of intimacy, of unearned comfortable companionship, as if they’d known each other so much longer. “But you’re one of the only people left in my life. So I’m… profoundly grateful, too.”
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A bare knee dug between his thighs, not unintentionally pressing right against the apex of those semi-loose boxers. One hand rested on the back of the couch, the other pressed against Bucky's shoulder; she only needed bend her elbow to bring their bodies into full, complete contact. Green eyes glinted, red lips slanted just so.
"--closer than you think," Natasha suddenly purred, whiskey voice rough, and low. Her knee moved lightly, pressing, giving pressure and inviting just a little more, if he wanted... "And maybe..." her lashes lowered as did her gaze and her hand, trailing just fingertips down over his collar, his chest, fading sensations as they went, "...a little more than friends, da?"
Before he could answer, Natasha met his eyes again, lips parted, then time seemed to stop completely when she leaned down and pressed her lips to his. A soft sigh escaped her, testament to the secret she still carried, but her mouth was soft, moving against his, the smallest flick of her tongue a cheeky tease.
Two heartbeats passed, then she was gone, pushing up and off to sashay towards the kitchen, saying over a pale shoulder, "I'm getting an apple and water from the fridge. Want anything?"
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He’d always known, of course — the widows trained for seduction and for twining people around their little finger — but being on the receiving end of it was an overwhelming experience regardless. His heartbeat felt like it was going to pound right out of his chest, all his skin afire where she trailed her fingertips across his skin. Each touch a spark, lighting something he’d thought long-buried.
And when Nat leaned in and kissed him, that spark flared and caught like a wildfire.
It was the barest thing, a small and ghosting thing; not tentative, but teasing. Coquettish with that slip of tongue, before she whisked herself away and walked across the room again, with James staring helplessly after. And for a second—
James sat there for a second like a statue carved out of stone, stunned, not answering her question. And then, before he could really rethink the movement, he was already on his feet and following her to the kitchen instead of replying. He reached out and caught her wrist, tugged her back to look at him.
“Natalia,” he said. Her real name, her true name, given to him as a gift yet so rarely used. “I’d wondered if I dreamt it. Have we—”
He petered out, unsure how to piece together those words. It wasn’t all of it, it wasn’t the floodgates opening and delivering a tidy resurrection of all his long-dead memories — but it was like a rockslide had slid loose, offering a series of flashes, all dislodged by that kiss. It was far more than he’d had before.
“We’ve been together before. Haven’t we?”
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She bit off a gasp, but didn't struggle to get free. She could, and they both knew it. But struggling would be futile, not to mention it would sever the fragile threads between them. And Natasha was just so damn tired of fighting...
Then he asked that question, and honestly, she'd been subconsciously waiting for it. Something would trigger those memories sooner or later, and damnit, she'd simply been unable to help herself. Natalia... It rolled like a caress off of his tongue, the Slavic guttural raising gooseflesh down her spine. God, but she'd always loved his voice...
Blinking back into the present - Madripoor, hurricane, shitty little apartment - she kept her wrist firm in his grasp; not pulling, but not giving, either. That wasn't who whey were to each other; never had been. Calm eyes gazed up into bright blue, both of them illuminated by the irregular flashes of Nature's fury outside.
"Yes."
One word. A simple answer. But it was always the smallest answers that preceded the biggest revelations, wasn't it?
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Yes.
Just that one word, no further elaboration, but it was all he needed. She could hear the small inhale in the back of his throat, the realisation sinking in. He didn’t bother asking why she’d kept it from him, even though it was a whole chapter of his own history which had been sitting unread, forgotten, neglected, while she knew everything. Because he understood. How did you even begin to broach something like this? She had carried the secret for so long, protecting him from it.
And it explained so much. Their comfort with each other, the way they fell into this easy routine, the way she trusted him, the way she’d volunteered for this mission even when he thought they were complete strangers to each other.
His expression was neutral, stony, falling back on expressionlessness as a defense mechanism — he had long-ago forgotten how to emote, and was still re-learning — but his voice was soft and tender as he looked right at her, unflinchingly, unblinking.
“I remembered,” James said. “Just… bits and pieces. Flashes. When you kissed me, I remembered doing that before. It felt… familiar, in a way which made no sense. Until it suddenly did.”
now that i have internet again, woo!
But it was the truth. And she couldn't help the quiet breath of relief when he spoke again, despite the lack of expression on his handsome face. It was okay. They were okay. Everything was okay. Even though he no longer gripped her wrist, the light coil of his fingers around hers was just as powerful; that simple grasp kept her rooted right in place.
Not that she wanted to move. Not now.
"--then I'm glad, James," she finally heard herself say, meeting his eyes unblinkingly. "That you remembered something, at least." I've wanted to tell you... Her lashes lowered, gaze following suit. "I...I really did want to tell you, but..." Her slim fingers slowly closed around his, in turn. "...but it didn't really seem fair, to push that on you, with everything else you've been struggling with."
Then she looked back up at him, unconsciously taking half of a step closer. "No one else knows," she told him. "Just me..." God help her, but Natasha couldn't help the slide of her eyes to his mouth, so temptingly close, and she unthinkingly wet her lips, "...and you..."
♥️
James hesitated, their hands still linked, looking at her.
“Just you and me,” he repeated, softly, and there was an additional meaning to those words, the weight of an us which hadn’t been there just half an hour ago.
Perhaps he should be cautious. Careful. Not step over this line too quickly, not endanger this fragile new dynamic between them; it was like a delicate seedling, still growing roots into the solid earth. She was still re-learning how to be friends with this new version of him, let alone anything more.
But once upon a time, long ago, before HYDRA and before the Winter Soldier and before WWII, Bucky Barnes had been a carefree flirt. Sometimes he felt like he could catch fleeting glimpses of that man, an echo ringing like he’d just walked into a room where his old self had left. And he was hungry, desperate for any kind of tether to those missing years, to that long empty blank space on his map — wanting more of that flash of memory, bridging the gap between who he was now and who he’d been then, re-learning himself.
And it seemed that whatever they’d had, it had been special. He could feel it in that electricity buzzing in his fingertips, sparking in the recollection, aching for the rediscovery even if it wasn’t quite the same.
He wanted to feel that much again.
He wanted.
So James closed the rest of the distance between them. His hand slid up the line of Nat’s bare arm, went up to her face, bracketed her cheek as he leaned in and kissed her back, his lips hard on hers; an answer to a question she’d already asked.
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The air inside the apartment was muggy, but there was heat in the small kitchen, and not from any tawdry appliance. No, the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier had, at long last, found each other again, and the people that they now were had opted to throw all caution to the storm outside and rekindle that smoldering ember back into its previous inferno.
Natasha dimly recalled cold stone walls, icy floors, tattered blankets, groping hands, hungry mouths, and the years seemed to disappear completely from her memory, leaving her to associate these soft, soft lips with those she'd kissed over two decades before, when she'd been so young and eager. Now, alone at their last haven, she was no less eager, no less starving for him; she met his kisses with just as much energy, the same desperation - needing to feel something again, just so she could tell herself that this was real; he was real.
--that she wasn't alone anymore.
A slim bare leg slipped over James' hip, coiling him close. This was insanity, devouring this man right in the middle of their shitty little kitchen, but then, it also made perfect sense. Red curls spilled over pale shoulders as her ponytail disappeared, and short nails scraped hot white lines over scarred shoulders, soothed by soft touches moments later, homage to the trauma he'd suffered, as she relearned his body with her hands alone.
"...Dzheyms," emerged from her throat an eternity later, when both of them had to pull apart in order to breathe. It was his name, the first hymn she'd ever voiced, and for the youth she'd been and the woman she was now, there was no other word, no other name so absolutely beautiful.
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“Lisichka,” he answered as they broke for breath, his forehead tipped against Natasha’s, the term of endearment suddenly coming to him with unexpected certainty. Little fox: a nod to her blazing red hair, her mischievous demeanour, and the way the girl had always gotten underfoot at the Red Room. Lisichka, and it was all muscle memory more than conscious recollection (he still couldn’t tell her every mission they’d been on, they’d successfully carved that out of him). But it was there. It was like getting on a bike and realising you still knew what to do, where to put your hands.
He had done this before—
—they had been here before—
James drifted slightly sideways to kiss the pale column of her throat, his mouth hot against her neck, licking the sweat from her skin. And with the sensation of taking a gamble and hoping he was right, he kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear which he thought he remembered had always made her shiver, once upon a time.
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Then, unbidden, "...moya zvezda," purred out of her mouth, and she almost lurched, but thankfully James held her close and upright. My Star; her name for him, testament to the five-pointed emblem on his left bicep, scarlet against the bright silver. My Star; her haven, her safe place, the one she'd follow without question, the only one to ever both break her and put her back together - the name had encompassed all that he was, all that he meant to her.
"Moya zvezda," Natasha - Natalia - breathed again, her head tipping back in sheer permission, tilting slightly to grant him unfettered access to her heated, aching skin. Those smooth, remembered lips graced her flesh with soft, sure kisses, and Natasha felt her knees suddenly go dangerously weak when they sought out the warmth beneath her ear, and she gripped tightly, one small hand fisting in James' dark hair and the other clutching him around the waist.
It was dark inside their apartment, but she didn't need light to see; the former Red Room graduate still remembered every line, every muscle, even the cherished scent of his skin was still the same. A few more scars here and there, but that wasn't at all surprising. She'd earned her own share, too.
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But now the puzzle pieces were slamming together. Making up for lost time. James found that he missed the warmth of her mouth on his, her hands on his bare skin. Their apartment was already muggy and hot, they were already sweaty and half-naked, and so it would be the easiest thing to slip into more if this was what they wanted—
He reluctantly broke the kiss, pulled back just enough to catch his breath. His right hand had gone to Natasha’s cheek, the line of her neck, holding her in place, their eyes meeting. His composure was always so difficult to rattle, but his breaths were shallow now, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard; another victory for her. There was an unaccustomed hunger in his eyes when he looked at her.
“I don’t remember everything,” he admitted. He wanted to say it. Make it clear so it didn’t feel like he was taking advantage of her; walking in another man’s shoes and robbing his memories, except that man was also himself. “There are still… gaps. They burned it out of me. I don’t know if it’ll all ever come back.”
He’d been encountering it with Steve, too. No matter how much the other man waited and prompted, occasionally asking questions like do you remember that day we took in the stray cat, he’d simply had to shake his head regretfully and say, no, sorry. It’s gone.
“But I do remember… moments like this. Us.” His thumb brushed the line of her jaw, the corner of her mouth, her lips. His expression had gone a little distant and thoughtful. “I kissed you behind the generator building at the Red Room, standing in the snow. You crawled into my bed after the job in Rovaniemi.”
Small details dredged up out of the abyss. How long? How long had they done this? How much had been taken from him?
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Score for her; she knew how hard it was to discombobulate the Winter Soldier.
Unlike James, Natasha hadn't forgotten anything. She still remembered their missions together - etched in a bittersweet shell of pleasure and pain. She still remembered the weight of his fist, crashing down on her in the training room; she still remembered the warm gutturals that purred beneath her ear later that same night. She still remembered every assignment, every cover, every kill. And, for just a moment, she was quietly glad that he couldn't.
She'd take the pain of him not knowing them over him not knowing what they'd been forced to do together. How many lives had been lost at their talented, dangerous hands.
So she forced a small smile, a reassuring smile, and shook her head lightly, lowering her lashes even though she still rested her forehead against his. "It's okay, James," she soothed him, gently stroking his cheek even as he cupped hers. "--I don't expect us to just...pick up where we left off."
A small warmth curled through her at his spoken recollections, though. Because she remembered them, too. "It was really cold that day," she added to the memory. "And we were supposed to be running the obstacle course that ran around the compound." A light shrug. "...but." Then, "...you were mad at me after the Rovaniemi mission." A light smirk curved her lips. "You didn't approve of me getting all familiar and handsy with the CEO's son."
But she'd needed a way into the man's executive office that didn't involve bloodshed. So, seducing his playboy, over-confident son had been the next best idea.
Natasha chuckled lightly. "You barely spoke to me for the rest of that day and all night, too. Only when I marched over to your bed and shoved you over did you even look at me, all glowering and pouting." She gently stroked his face, fingertips gentle against his skin. "That didn't last too long, though..."
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The very tips of his ears turned faintly red at the memory.
“I shouldn’t have sulked,” James said. “It wasn’t my place. You had a mission to do.”
He still sounded contemplative, weighing over a decision, and how much he knew better. He shouldn’t rush this. They shouldn’t. This thing still felt fragile and new, whatever it was.
But.
He craned his head into her touch, and looked at her again, and there was a flicker of humour on his mouth which was suddenly very much Bucky: not the Soldier, not even James. “What if I wanna pick up where we left off?”
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Natasha's hands slowly feathered over Bucky's shoulders, his upper arms - not at all daunted by the gleam of silver on the left - and back again, silently greedy for the feel of him once more. She'd been starved for decades. A small hand moved to cup his cheek, relishing the slight scruff of his jaw against her palm, and she felt him lean into her touch, as if he too were so hungry for it.
Then her brows lifted with his quiet question, green eyes searching his face, his expression. "...really?" A reflexive answer. They were still so close, Natasha trapped between Bucky's large frame and the kitchen counter. But the world around them might as well not even exist at all. "Do you really want to?" Followed by, "...can you, James?"
She was ready if he was.
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“Yes, and yes, and that almost sounds like a challenge, Natalia.”
Can he, though? Is he capable? It had been long enough that he honestly didn’t know if he could wake his body up again and pull these particular strings again, but— “Let’s find out,” he added, fierce, and he leaned in and kissed her once more. Lips hard against Natasha’s, the lean lines of his body crowding hers against the counter, hands drifting back into her red hair, seizing that challenge and running full-tilt with it. He wanted to recapture this, whatever they’d once had.
No one was watching them. They didn’t have handlers and surveillance and cameras on their every move, ready to swoop in and punish them for the intimacy, for straying outside the lines of their existence as weapons. Maybe, just maybe— this time, for once— they could simply have what they wanted.
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But since they'd been traveling together, she hadn't seen the first inkling of anything other in the man, at all. Of course, they wouldn't be truly safe until HYDRA's conditioning was broken once and for all, erased completely, but so far, no relapses. Not even any serious nightmares. A few bad dreams here and there, but honestly, she could understand that.
However, it seemed that James wanted more than friendship, and Natasha didn't have any objections. When he kissed her again, hard and fervent, she didn't hesitate. Both of her arms went around him, and she immediately slithered atop the countertop, so that she might drag him between her thighs and wrap her strong legs around his waist to hold him close. It was hot in their apartment, yes, but her skin burned where it met his, and she gave a series of low, needful moans on every shaky breath.
He didn't have to be Bucky Barnes. He didn't have to be the Winter Soldier. Not for her. All she wanted was the man in her arms, kissing her like he'd never get enough, and that was more than enough for Natasha.
Needing more than a quick inhale, Natasha abruptly broke their kisses to pant, "--bedroom's too far," before latching her mouth to the throbbing pulse in his neck and sinking in her teeth.
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And here, now, the easy way she hopped up onto the counter and comfortably drew him closer, pressing her lips to his neck, the scrape of stubble on his jaw. Even that nip of her teeth: James was learning that he liked that little flash of gentle pain, the knowledge that she could leave hickeys on his throat, they didn’t have to hide the evidence any longer, they could visibly ruin each other and no one would give a shit. Another miracle: he wasn’t even self-conscious about the desperation of it. He just wanted his hands on her again. Wanted to walk this ground again; have what he’d once had with her, again, and again.
So he stepped into the cradle of her legs, and with him just in those boxer shorts, Natasha could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her. While he cocked his head so she could better reach his neck, he reached blindly behind her; the bikini top was even easier to undo than a bra, just one tug at the tie and the fabric was falling free, replaced by the warmth of his hand palming one bare breast, thumb rolling over her nipple.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured in Russian, the words familiar, like a ghost.