maskirovka | overflow / open post

I'm pretty sure it's two days worth of music.

We do win, Nat. Even if it doesn't always feel like it. There's always the bigger picture.

An eternity later - in reality only about two or three minutes - Natalia finally lifted her head, slowly, and gazed at the man beside her with glassy, sad eyes. His Christmas tree scent had filled her nose, gently pulling her out of her own head and back into the present. She was still trembling, subconsciously so scared, but she managed to unclench her grip on her knees and reach out for him with a shaking hand, biting hard at her lower lip to keep from breaking into uncontrollable sobs again.

"...they're going to find me," she whispered in a broken little voice. "...they're everywhere. I'll never escape. They always find the ones who escape. ...I'm so scared. ...please...please...help me..."

A man with his bases covered. I cannot begin to tell you how hot that is.

So my associates keep insisting. Makes me wonder if they're trying to convince me, or themselves.

I like to make sure I'm prepared for anything.

Could be both. I need convincing now and then.

Like a good Boy Scout. ...although I doubt you'd fit into the uniform anymore, da?

Which is fair. I think they sometimes overthink everything, and try to make "the ends justify the means", more often than not. But to each his own. I seldom lose any sleep over it.

Natalia wiggled and whined, feeling her loins clench almost painfully, aching to have him inside her again. She coiled her legs over those broad shoulders, feeling bold and brazen to be splayed out just so for her Alpha's pleasure, and slim hips squirmed, but she mewled above him, gazing down the length of her body with hooded, hungry eyes.

"...all the time," she managed to pant, rubbing her palms against tight nipples, a tactile stimulation. "I miss you so much when you're gone, Dmitri...I can hardly stand it..." A breath hissed between clenched teeth, feeling his fingers molest her, but she eagerly parted her lips and sucked both of them into her mouth, moaning at the taste of her own arousal.

"Mmmm, just for you," she purred, licking at his fingers, then coiling her tongue around the thick digits and pulling them both between her lips again. Needy. Greedy. So very eager for him.

Bucky takes her hand in both of his, clasping it so he can warm it. He doesn't want to frighten her when she's just reached for him and he wants to coax her into his arms and not force her.

"No one will find you," Bucky promises. "No one will hurt you. I'm your Alpha, all right? I won't let anyone hurt you. Come closer to me, all right? Come closer and let me hold you."

He smiles at her, so soft, and tries to be inviting.

His inherent warmth was comforting. Natalia relaxed from her terrified huddle just a fraction, then another, then another, soothed by the calm tone of Bucky's voice and the reassuring smile both on his lips and in sweet blue eyes. She'd just started to edge closer when a knock came upon the locked bedroom door, and an older female voice called through it.

"--James? Is everything all right? We heard someone crying, what's going on?"

Ma Barnes' voice triggered another panic attack, and Natalia couldn't help the scream that forced its way from her lungs, and she jerked away in reflexive fright, nearly slamming into the wall with a pained wail. She couldn't go back, she couldn't go back--! But there was no escape here, no way out.

She dove out of the bed, rolled to her feet, and frantically prowled the room like a caged feline, nearly hyperventilating and suddenly caught sight of the window. This room was on the second floor, but she could survive a dive out of it, if she really had to...

"Lucky for you, I always want to be with you right here," Dmitri says softly. He dips his head and fixes his mouth to her, keeping his lips and tongue soft. He wants to drag this out a little since neither of them are cycling at the moment and he wants her to just have a moment to enjoy her and for her to enjoy him.

There's nothing he loves doing more than this - perhaps even more than knotting her. He likes giving her pleasure just for pleasure's sake and for her not to have to worry about anything but feeling good. He would rather give to her than take for himself and especially now when he's been gone so long.

He slips his fingers into her, stretching her while he sucks at her clitoris, and doesn't stop even though he wants to see her face so, so much.

Bucky mutters a curse under his breath and comes to the door, cracking it open just a tiny bit. He just needs to tell her that Natalia's had a nightmare so she'll move along. His mother is nothing if not understanding.

"Talia had a nightmare," he whispers. "I'm working on calming her down, all right? I've got it handled. Don't worry about it. Keep everyone out. Please."

He knows he's going to have to start all over and once the door's shut and his mother's agreed to leave them alone, he stands in front of Natalia with open hands.

"Talia, darlin'. It's James. I won't let anyone hurt you. It was only Winnie at the door, okay? Nobody can hurt you here. You're in the safest place in the whole world. Trust me, honey. Just trust me a little."

Those shorts would leave nothing to the imagination.

I've noticed your group is a little reluctant to make the hard decisions. They're really nice that way.

Precisely. But then, first-hand knowledge is always a good thing, I've discovered.

If what you mean by "hard decisions" generally involves the end of life and the world as we know it, I can't really say I blame them. Particularly when the bad guys aren't even from this world.

I'd rather you see me with nothing on.

Sometimes the bad guy should die.

Natalia bit off a squeal when his mouth sealed between her legs, hitching her hips upwards in pure reflex. She never lasted too long, unfortunately - he was too good, she was too hot for him, and their mutual desire ran rampant and unchecked, always. But she knew how much Dmitri loved to please her, to take her completely apart with just the simplest and lightest of touches, so Natalia bit her lower lip and held on, even when those fingers slid into slick, wet folds, stimulating her twice over.

"...Dmitriiii..." It was a plaintive whine, the girl's young body all but writhing across the rumpled sheets at the hands - and lips - of her wicked lover. One of her hands buried fingers in his hair, tugging gently, while the other rubbed at her aching breasts, wishing for his mouth on her nipples, soothing them with laps from that delectable tongue.

"...mmmm, that's so good, malyutka," she breathed in a lust-laced voice, digging her head back into the pillows. "...sooo fucking good..."

The encouragement just makes him bolder and he crooks his fingers to press up a bit and push against a spot he knows will make her beg for him. He doesn't let up with his tongue, either, and alternates pressing the flat of it to her clitoris and sucking her between his lips. He doesn't remember doing this to anyone but Natalia but his body remembers how to do it and how to do it well.

He doesn't answer her cries; he doesn't want to let up on her when she's this close to coming. He wants to make sure he takes care of her through to the end, same as she does with him, and he loves to feel her fall apart under his hands and mouth.

She owns him, this slip of a girl, and it's both an asset and a liability. She makes him human but she also gives him something to fight for and infinitely more dangerous than a cold, removed killer. She gives him a heart.

She'd retreated to the far corner of the room, huddled in a crouch between the dresser and the door to the closet. Shaking and terrified, Natalia wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face, praying that if she couldn't see the monsters, then they weren't real. She dimly heard unfamiliar voices speaking, speaking in a language that had been so very hard to learn, then someone was there, right in front of her.

...James. Who was James? Why was that name familiar? James: derivative of the Hebrew 'Jacob'. Anglicized in the seventeenth century, first in Scotland, then in Britain.

Natalia dared a peek over her arm, through tangled hair.

"...who....who are you?"

It was barely a whisper; the voice of a frightened little girl, too afraid to speak any louder.

"It's James. I'm your Alpha," he says, trying to go back to the simplest thing that ties them together. She's terrified and she doesn't know how to break from the dream but scents are always stronger than other types of memories. If she can only smell him, she'll know she's safe, won't she?

He sits down a few feet away from her - within reach if she wants but not crowding into her space. She needs to approach him on her own terms and not because he's forcing it. He's terrified, though, that she won't trust her senses and won't seek him out.

"You're safe with me. No one can hurt you with me, all right?"

She flinched away when he sat nearby; it was sheer instinct to remain aloof. But slowly, surely, his Christmas tree scent - pine, cinnamon, and a hint of leather, along with a thread of steel (worry, she slowly realized) - began to fill her nose, bringing with it a soft sort of soothing, and Natalia finally lifted her head a little more, gazing at the man not an arm's reach away.

"...they always hurt," she whispered in response, giving her head a small shake. "...we're always being punished for something." Nowhere was ever safe. "...nowhere is safe." A glance around the dark room. "...not even here." She sniffled. "...Anna died," she suddenly said, gripping her knees tightly. "...I watched. I didn't want to, but she asked me. 'Don't let them stop me, Natalina', she said. And I didn't. I waited until she was done, then went back to bed. Didn't sleep after, not for weeks."

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she began to cry all over again. "...please...please don't let them stop me...! Please??"

"Nobody will hurt you. Look at me," Bucky says gently. "I'm a big guy. They're not going to get to you, sweetheart. Come and just hold my hand for a minute, all right? If that's too much, you can stop, but I think you'll feel better if you come and hold my hand."

He doesn't know what to do with Natalia this terrified and he's trying to keep his own head so he doesn't do more harm than good. How can he take care of her the way an Alpha is supposed to when he's fighting memories? He can punch a man if he needs to but he can't fight Natalia's own mind.

"Just come and hold my hand for a little bit. I'm right here for you."

It had taken a lot for Bucky to let down his guard and come into SHIELD. He trusts Steve, yes, but he doesn't know Fury or the rest of them and it wasn't that long ago that they were hunting him down and trying to kill him. He can't trust his own mind, either. They don't have the code book and can't put him under, sure, but spending the better part of seventy years as an assassin has left him scarred. He has holes in his memory but they're random, cigarette burns that have erased some names and faces but left some that he'll never forget.

Steve is there, of course, but it's all disjointed. HYDRA and the KGB are there in spite of his burning desire to just get rid of them. He remembers some of the people he's killed and he writes their names over and over in his journal and tries to make sense of the deaths, tries to think of ways to atone for taking these people from their families and friends.

His journals are sacred. Sometimes he writes about his day. Sometimes they're just lists - one is a grocery list written in Romanian, one is a list of records he used to like. One day he'd written a list of names and didn't know who they were so he showed them to Steve. Turns out, they were their high school graduating class. He keeps them locked under his bed when they're filled and the one he's currently on, he keeps on his person. He doesn't want anyone to take them from him or read his secrets.

Fury has decided he's a liability and Bucky can't help but agree. Steve keeps pushing it, though, and with some research they decide to put him in a therapy program about two hours away. It's equine therapy for veterans with PTSD. They don't send him alone, though. They send him with Natasha because she doesn't know him and has no expectations. He's quiet on the drive up and quiet when they bring their things into the house Fury has set up for them. It's hard to talk to anyone these days, especially Steve and Sam who are always asking if he needs to talk.

Right now, he's on the couch with his journal and back to writing lists. This one is in Russian and it's mundane things someone needs when they're making a fresh start. Shampoo, t-shirts, toothbrush, deodorant. Nothing riveting, really, but it's soothing to him all the same.

Fury had given her this assignment because no one else would have been able to handle it. But, out of all of the extraordinary people in, around, and associated with SHIELD, Natasha Romanoff was the only one who knew how it was to be "unmade", to be taught to obey a will not one's own, to be molded into a weapon without empathy, mercy, or compassion.

And she'd overcome that very thing, so perhaps there was hope for another broken soldier, too.

Rogers had been quietly frantic, worrying even before luggage had been packed, but Natasha had taken his quibbling in stride, calmly assuring him that she knew what she was doing, and that everything was going to be okay, to stop fretting like an overprotective mother hen. The good Captain was one of her best friends, but even he grated on her nerves now and again. She couldn't even imagine what Barnes felt, being the subject of all that well-meaning concern.

But it seemed a moot point, and one not really part of her purview, as the man himself was all but silent as a grave on the two-hour drive out of New York City and into the rural quiet of upstate, the modest little town a comforting balm when compared to the frantic rat-race they'd left behind. The house they were to share was pleasant, nicely suburban, tastefully furnished, sitting in a sparsely populated cul-de-sac in a quiet, homey neighborhood.

SHIELD had provided all the basics; furniture, appliances, decor, etc, but they'd left the stocking of the kitchen up to the inhabitants, and Natasha closed the empty refrigerator with a bemused little chuckle. Figured. A casual inspection of the next room revealed the subject of this project, sitting silently on the couch with one of his journals in hand. Okay, so.

She joined him a moment or so later, folding into one of the comfortable recliners near the couch, and propped her chin on a hand. "So," she began, gently breaking the silence, "we're going to need to make a grocery run, unless you'd rather live on a diet of Styrofoam plates and paper towels." A touch of wry mirth curved her lips. "Any particular requests? Snacks? Soda? Peanut butter and jelly?"

Choice is still something new to him. He'd gotten a bit of it on his own before turning himself in to SHIELD but it's still hard to make choices. Bucky is still remembering who he is and what he likes; it's harder still when Steve is always telling him what he likes. He doesn't know if his favorite color is red or if his favorite dessert is chocolate cake. He doesn't remember any of that from before.

"I don't really know. Food is food for the most part. I guess I'll just go with you and pick out what seems good at the time."

He doesn't know Natasha well and she makes him...not exactly nervous, per se, but unsure of himself and his footing.

"Breakfast things, though. I like breakfast."

To be fair, Barnes made her a tiny bit nervous, too. She knew his file backwards and forwards - requisite, for a mission of this sort - and she knew better than anyone else alive exactly what he'd suffered and what he'd done, although she didn't judge him for any of it. But being in the same room with someone who'd shot her - twice -- and would have just as easily killed her had it not been for some timely intervention was still a bit...unsettling.

He didn't seem all that intimidating now, however; jeans, faded shirt, baseball cap whenever they stepped outdoors. Scruffy face, haunted eyes; Hobo Chic, she'd acerbically commented when the discussion came up back at Headquarters. Nevertheless, she had a job to do, and acclimating him to the modern century was part of it.

She nodded. "Breakfast is good. I even know how to cook, a little, but for everything else, there's Google and the Food Network. Brass sprung for the good cable package, so we'll at least have TV when we get bored." She uncoiled from the chair, slipping into her sensible flats; 'newlywed mom-soon-to-be' persona in full force. "Wanna make a list while I drive?"

"I can make the list," Bucky says, happy to do so. It's a mind-numbing activity but it's good and he makes out a list of the necessities first. He goes from perishables to non-perishables, needs to wants. He puts syrup and pancake mix on there twice before realizing his mistake and neatly crossing out the duplicates.

He lists their toiletries separately and inexplicably puts Acqua di Parma on it. He doesn't even know if they make that cologne anymore, though, so he puts an asterisk beside it and adds *if still made in 2015.

When he's done, he hands the list to Natasha. He imagines she'll handle the shopping part mostly while he walks around with her. He gets overwhelmed sometimes in rooms with lots of people, still afraid he'll lash out and kill the way he used to.

"If we can't find some of this stuff it's fine," he says. "It's not that important."

They spent the day shopping. At first, Natasha remained constantly on edge, doing double work both watching for outside threats and keeping tabs on her subject, ready to respond at a moment's notice if Barnes suddenly went "off the rails". But by the time they made it to the ice cream aisle in the local grocery store, she'd begun to relax, albeit slightly, as all Barnes seemed intent on doing was following in her footsteps, hands in his pockets, head lowered in what she was coming to realize was a nonthreatening hunch.

He fetched and carried at her direction, however, bringing items to their basket without comment, and she was surprised to realize that his all-too-familiar obeisance tugged at her heart, just a little. So, she paused in front of the freezer case, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the cart's handle, and mildly inquired, "What flavors should we get? Want to try plain vanilla? Or maybe cheesecake? I like chocolate chip cookie dough, personally." She offered him a friendly smile, non-judging, patient.

overflow / open post

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ptsd bucky

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