overflow / open post

[maskirovka]

Comments

TFLN for survivedmars

[maskirovka]

[ continued from here ]

He's a biocomputer nerd from Xerxes, babe. I don't trust anyone who can add numbers that high in his head.

Besides, you're getting all lathered for nothing, dorogoy. It was an "official" date, if that helps explain things.

<3

[survivedmars]

Well at least we're agreed on not trusting him.

Alright, I can cut you slack on account of that.

Still can't believe he tried to kiss you.

TFLN for semistableman

[maskirovka]

[ continued from here ]

And flirt a little with the waitress. She's been eyeing you all night long. Give her something to giggle over.

You'll have to attract a LITTLE attention, just enough to keep everyone else from watching ME. Unless you'd rather slip into the manager's office and extract the intel from his jerry-rigged wall safe.

Either or.

[semistableman]

I did used to be quite the lady's man, until Steve suddenly gained 140 pounds of muscle on me and stole the show.

Bet you I can make her blush in ten minutes tops.

TFLN for runningscams

[maskirovka]

Thankfully, it didn't take long for her to finish her work at the outpost station, and after securing that the facility wouldn't be viable for any information extraction--I.E. it exploded not three minutes after her ship broke through the asteroid's thin atmosphere--Natasha piloted her small ship through the rest of the meteor field and landed without interference at the coordinates provided.

There was a mild delay at the shuttleport; her craft bore no outward markings, but once the internal scan had finally completed and the sigul of House Krasnaya flashed bright red across all monitors, she'd continued on her way without interference. Wise decision, that one.

The Blue Brezak wasn't far, thankfully, and Natasha stepped inside slowly, letting her eyes adjust from the brightness outside, pushing back her plain black hood. It only took a moment to locate her quarry, though she didn't miss the wary glances directed her way as she moved through the tables; they were expected, and she'd have probably been disappointed had there been none.

She slid smoothly into the empty booth across from Han, resting her elbows on the table as her head tilted with a slow smile. "Heya, handsome." She stole a swallow from his glass before sliding it back over. "Got room for one more?" The Wookie she hadn't seen yet, but she had no doubt Chewbacca was nearby.

[runningscams]

The Blue Brezak is as unremarkable as any cantina in the galaxy can be. It’s dark, it small and it’s full of scoundrels looking to treat themselves after a job well done. Or to line up the next bit of work. It’s full of humanoids of all different shapes and sizes and a couple of non-humanoids too. The sent of someone smoking a grassy smelling root is mercifully covering up the more long-term odors that a place like this can pick up over the years.

Sitting, apparently alone, in a shadowy corner was Han. It’s extremely hard for him to remain looking casual and unphased when he finally sees Natalia there. She’s the kind of woman that catches everyone’s eye when she walks into the room and his heart has this annoying habit of starting to race in his chest when they first run into each other.

“And there she is.” He drawls, as he watches her help herself to a swig of his wheat heavy Corellian Ale. His lips twitch into the barest of smiles.

“For you, I’ll make room.”

TFLN for survivedmars

[maskirovka]

[ cont. from here ]

I'll just make a liquor store raid run, shall I? Might save time. ;)

A surprise. Well, as long as it doesn't involve eggplant in any form, shape, or fashion. Oh, that reminds me--if "the boys" are coming over, please let me know at LEAST an hour beforehand, hm? I'd appreciate it, m'love.

[survivedmars]

That works. You'll receive plenty of thanks when you get home, promise.

No, no eggplant. I remember what happened last time, though in my defense you never told me how adverse you are to them. And nope, no company tomorrow. Just planning a nice meal for the two of us.

TFLN for poeticforce

[maskirovka]

[ cont. from here ]

Ironically, it's not the strangest. Not by a long shot.

This from the man who needed assistance in using an electric razor? I rest my case.

Are you expecting me to bring coffee and bagels, Dameron? Or doughnuts, perhaps? ;)

[poeticforce]

I'm almost afraid to ask but I imagine I'll find out eventually.

Hey! It's not my fault most of the tech here is a far cry from what I'm used to.

I mean, you can if you want, but I was just expecting you to bring yourself.

[ex_rearm127]

( wakanda is like stepping into the future. there's too much -- bucky doesn't know where to turn. shuri gives him a tour of where she will be running her tests. where he sleeps. out in the market as well. he takes to the fresh air and cannot get past feeling guilty for it. t'challa has offered his country as a haven. but that means he is willing to shed blood in his defence.

bucky knows he's not worth that. yet, others continue to do it.

he cannot get used to it.

but wakanda is beautiful and distracting. he is woken from cryosleep regularly to do some exercise and talk to shuri. sometimes, it is because steve has come to visit him. he has news of the outside world. still hung up on those accords. bucky says nothing. they are documents. they can always be rewritten.

sometimes, steve brings a friend.

his memory is not clear regarding the black widow. he must be wary of her, he knows that. yet, she saved their lives. he owes her more than watching her from the corner of his eye. pretending that he is only waiting to hurt her like he has been made to hurt so many others.

so, one morning, when he is awake and she is alone in the cafeteria, he brings her a small black coffee. )

Do I owe you an apology?

( he smiles. thinly. there is so much he has done that he cannot apologise for. )

jesus apologies, have a novel.

[maskirovka]

She'd only acquiesced to visiting Shuri's lab because Steve had asked. Repeatedly. Given her some ages-old fortune cookie wisdom about not holding grudges and letting bygones be bygones, and she'd really stopped listening after the third one. But she'd accompanied him despite her irritation with lectures; she wasn't doing it for Steve.

No. Not for Steve.

She'd made the right choice in Berlin; Natasha had no doubt about that. But that didn't mean she was ready to jump on the forgiveness train with the rest of her comrades, not in the least. And she'd made the right choice again, when she'd opted to travel to Wakanda with Steve and the others. They needed sanctuary, and T'Challa had been gracious enough to offer it.

And that wasn't all the King had offered, thankfully.

Natasha had wholeheartedly agreed with the notion of putting Barnes back into cryo until HYDRA's programming could be negated. He was too dangerous, too volatile, and too well-trained to be trusted with that sort of time bomb in his head. Granted, he'd been doing pretty well for the past two years, but unfortunately the cat was out of the bag now. No, cryofreeze was the safest place for the man. At least for now.

But it was a process, or so she'd discovered, as the Wakandan scientists worked to "correct", as Shuri often said, the Winter Soldier's brain, to remove that which made him a monster and leave the rest to heal as it would. An intriguing idea, that. Naturally, Steve had been immediately on board. But trust was a fragile and hard-won thing, thus when invited, Natasha hadn't turned it down.

No, she didn't do it for Steve.

She did it for herself.

For Wakanda.

For the rest of the bloody world.

Someone had to pull the trigger, if necessary. Natasha knew that Steve never would. He'd proved that. So, she'd taken it upon herself to be the watchful eye, the unobtrusive gun in the shadows, willing to do whatever was necessary should the unthinkable come to pass. And, by some miracle--or perhaps the skilled brilliance of a certain Wakandan princess--things were...okay. Not great, not wonderful, but...okay. No disasters, no triggers; just slow healing, the piecing together of a broken mind, one which, she had to admit, never deserved to be splintered at all.

Nevertheless, it was still--odd, seeing Barnes out and about without Steve for an over-mothering chaperone, or one of the scientists from Shuri's lab. She tensed when she spied him enter the cafeteria, but kept her stillness and her silence, actively glancing up when a quasi-familiar shadow fell over the table to spy Bucky Barnes--The Winter Soldier, no, she insisted to herself, not anymore--standing across from where she sat, a small styrofoam cup in hand.

Natasha slowly put down her newspaper and curiously lifted an eyebrow, corner of her mouth quirking. An apology? Well. "...well," she began slowly, tone even and companionable as she could make it, "that depends." She rested her arms on the table, hands clasped as she gazed up at him. "What would you apologize for?"

for semistableman

[maskirovka]

"No one else can pass for a native, Natasha," Steve was saying, possibly for the third or fourth time. "And you need backup on this." American-blue eyes narrowed at the redhead, who was currently tapping away at her laptop, resolutely trying to ignore the tall blond leaning towards her from the opposite side of the table.

The mission: intercept a shipment of weaponry leaving a factory in Kiev, change delivery coordinates to a prearranged site somewhere off the African coast, and neutralize the leaders of the smuggling cell by whatever means necessary. Parameters required a great deal of stealth, marksmanship skills, and fluency in Russian. And only one individual in their little "family" possessed all three of those particular talents.

Natasha didn't even look up from the screen. "I don't need his help, Steve." Now she did flick her gaze upwards, just enough to meet his over the laptop's screen. "I can handle it myself."

She watched the former Captain America just stare back at her, recognizing his patented "I'm Annoyed At You But Know Better Than to Push It" look. It was one she received often, in point of fact. Therefore she simply shrugged it off and went back to her email. She felt more than saw Steve straighten, plow a hand through his hair, shake his head, and move coldly for the door. Then he paused, glanced back over his shoulder, and delivered a parting shot:

"You know he's trying, Nat."

He ducked out of the small kitchen just as her fingers stilled on the keyboard. ...damn you, Steve Rogers. Natasha glowered at the empty door facing, wondering how much it would cost her to have her laptop replaced if she hurled it through the door into the wall beyond. She didn't need Steve to remind her just how hard his precious "Bucky" Barnes was endeavoring to get all of his shit back together. She knew.

She.

She knew like no one else did. No one. Not even Steve.

Although she'd been more than hesitant around the former Winter Soldier at first--Natasha hadn't forgotten events all those years ago, and her shoulder and hip still ached a bit in cold, damp climates--she'd kept a close eye on Steve Rogers' best friend, determined to "handle" things if the Wakandan "therapy" didn't work as predicted. She'd kept her casual, calm veneer, allowing no outward uneasiness to show...

...even if certain things she noticed made her stomach do this strange sort of flip-flop.

Running metal fingers through that thick sable hair. Crossing arms over that thick, solid chest. Hitching a hip against the table or couch or counter. Head cocking just so as he listened to whomever was speaking, and processing every single scrap of information from the conversation. Yes, she remembered. Every gesture, no matter how small, was engraved in her memory, burnt so deep that there was no erasing it.

James Barnes. The Winter Soldier.

The only goddamned man who'd ever made her feel...hot. Feverish. Wanton.

And now, he didn't know her. Didn't remember.

Nor did she begrudge him that; his mind had been beyond scrambled after his liberation from HYRDA, but Natasha couldn't help how she felt. She tried, she really did, to keep her personal influence out of her work; it was unprofessional to allow any sort of conflict of interest to muck up the job. But there was no way in hell she'd be able to "babysit" the man during this sort of mission, let alone deal with her own turbulent emotions well enough to keep them both from getting killed.

Natasha sighed, abruptly closing the computer and getting up to fetch a glass from the sink, filling it with water and gazing unseeing out of the kitchen window as she sipped. Ultimately, she knew she didn't have a choice; Barnes was the only candidate for this mission, and she'd just have to deal with it. Somehow. But God, this coming week was going to be absolute hell.

[semistableman]

Whatever is going through Bucky's mind, he doesn't share it readily-- he's gotten good at masking what's going through his head at any given moment, no matter who it is. Steve, bless him, has always been too trusting, and accepts an "I'm fine," for what it is, it's probably why Steve volunteered Bucky for this in the first place-- and he had volunteered Bucky, because he'd been making plenty of effort not to bump into Romanoff, not to reopen old wounds when they hadn't ever gotten a chance to heal.

Bucky slinks into the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, shoulders upwards in a way the Winter Soldier never carried himself. Bucky has been like that ever since Steve brought him to Wakanda; tense around other people only relaxing when he's alone with his goats. He doesn't like being away from his animals, but some of the farmers have already volunteered to help watch over them for the mission; they're used to it, probably not shockingly, since their King often leaves for his own missions.

The fact that he has his left arm at all means he's prepared for the mission; and he only looks up when he spots Natasha, acknowledging her with a nod, one of those quick calculating looks that HYDRA trained into him before he seems like he's decided he can handle the situation, instead pulling the door to the refrigerator open right-handed, grabbing the carton of orange juice and fishing a glass out of the tiny cabinet. "He's always worried like that," Bucky says, sheepishly admitting he'd heard the last bit of the conversation.

He pours the juice before hurriedly putting the carton away, movements rushed by not sloppy. "Given me more 'n my fair share of those kind of talks. I know you can handle this on your own, but you know Rogers. He never lets himself rest, even when he's benched." He gives another assessing look, clearly not too interested in giving much away, but after a moment he says, "With your skills, we'll be able to finish quick-- then we can both get Steve off your back for next time."

supernatural au funtimes. ^_^

[freedomreign]

The downstairs bathroom was a mess, but then, that happened when a night was bad enough for all three of them to come home bloodied. Nothing that rest and food and a little bit of bandaging won't take care of, at least. The same couldn't be said for those who'd been on the other end of the fight.

While the master bath had more than enough space it would have meant tracking blood and dirt halfway across the house and the less often they needed to have cleaners come visit, the better. Although Steve supposed he shouldn't have bothered with the effort to have them get cleaned up in the bathroom closest to the garage; it wasn't ten minutes before Bucky was brushing off any effort at tending to his 'scratches' and wandering off to the backyard with some half-growled mention of the waning moon. Part of him had a hunch the other man just wanted to lick his wounds in peace.

"Some days..." The muttering was said affectionately though as Steve gave a slight shake of his head, glancing at the bloodied shirt and jacket Bucky left behind. They were all down a few articles of clothing, but that seemed to be par for the course when shifters were involved. He was still undecided as to whether claws or fangs were worse to deal with. Well, when of the unfriendly kind.

He turned his attention to Natasha even as she was trying to get a look at the abrasion on his forehead. "Hey, which one of us is playing nurse here?" he lightly teased, cracking a smile. Gently brushing her hand away, he reached for the bandages on the counter so he could tend to cuts on her arm. "Not sure which one of you two got it worse tonight." Ignoring that, despite his own accelerated healing abilities, the other two were likely to barely have signs of their wounds come morning.

best ever!

[maskirovka]

It had not been a good night.

London had felt her wrath, tonight. She'd woken to her wolf pacing up and down in agitation, insisting that something had happened to the third member of their little family, and as usual, Bucky's instincts had been right on the money. After learning from the local SHIELD office across town that Steve had, in fact, headed for home over an hour ago and had not yet arrived--an impossibility, since it was but a thirty minute drive even with heavy traffic, and if he'd even stopped to pick up a loaf of bread, he would have notified one of the household, as that was the expectation as well as the strict rule to which all of them adhered--she began to suspect something in the wind. Which had been proven correct when, not an hour after midnight, she'd received word through "local channels" that her soldier had been ambushed by a group of truly ignorant little fangs and was being held on the southern side of town, down near the wharf.

Who knew that water could actually burn?

Yet, it had, as the city's Enforcer and her werewolf assassin soldier descended upon the hopelessly unwary, tearing their way through at least a score of fledglings--illegally made, she'd noted while wading through the carnage, bloody to the elbows--to get to the third of their circle, held at knife-point by a truly suicidal matron which claimed the abduction nothing but a publicity stunt, to gain attention from those sympathetic to the "monster's plight". Bucky had growled, eyes flat, and Natasha had snarled, practically vibrating with rage. Because she'd seen the marks decorating her soldier's neck and arms.

She and her companions had been the only ones to leave that disgusting sewer; indeed, they'd been the only three left alive.

Now, back home, it was time to clean up, heal up, and reaffirm that which had been tested: Steve's blood-bond to his vampire mistress. Natasha wasn't entirely thrilled about it, but another vampire had put its teeth in her property, and that simply was not borne. She knew Steve disliked drinking blood, even hers, but it was necessary, and tantamount to his own protection. Particularly in view of what had taken place tonight. If her claim upon her men was lax enough to warrant such a thing, then it was her responsibility to correct it.

"Don't worry about Bucky," she diverted him, huffing a small noise through her nose when he refused to be still. "Steven," Natasha insisted, gently but firmly pushing his hands away, "I'll be fine. Trust me, love." She took hold of his arms and pushed him down to sit on the toilet seat. "We need to see to you first," she said in a grave tone. "You've had another's fangs in your flesh--I doubt you even remember it, the bitch was that skilled, at least--but we're going to have to do a little bit of maintenance, on the both of you."

tfln for theoneroad

[maskirovka]

Car's in the shop. [ Not really, but flying is just faster all the way around. ] ...are you seriously sitting in a motel in...French Lick, Indiana? The population has never been higher than 2,000 since 1847.

[ Dean. Baby. Dean. ]

Stark doesn't really care about me taking anything, just as long as I bring it back in...relatively good condition. Sex in the jet isn't completely out of the question, if you can handle getting hot and heavy in a very small space.

Gotta say though, riding the fuck out of you in this captain's chair does have its appeal.

[theoneroad]

Hey this is the finest two star motel French Lick has to offer, and I gotta tell ya it's... okay it's still kinda shit, but you know this isn't the worst hole in the wall I've been to. Hell, this isn't even the worst one this week.

[ Why do you think he got completely shitfaced last night? Aside from the usual anyway. There's nothing else to do here except hunt down nasty spirits and drink at the one bar. So, yeah, his kind of town.

Only it's lacking in company of the attractive female persuasion, but she's about to fix that. ]

Mmm I like the sound of that and I can definitely work with small spaces, but that might have to wait until round two. I dunno where you're parking that thing, but if you think I won't fuck you up against the door before we go anywhere you don't know me at all.

[ As if they haven't done that before. She knows what he's like. ]

tfln for authentics

[maskirovka]

[ previous ]

[ She'd thought she'd seen his outline in the big bed across the room, but she was still a little bit fuzzy from her earlier ablutions. She'd needed something to take the edge off of bad memories, and hadn't really expected aught else but to slink back to her own abode and sleep it off.

This, however, is so much better. ]

I'm here.

[ It's a quiet reiteration, and, hearing Steve's equally soft request, does as bid, moving through his bedroom with scarcely a sound, despite the denim and soft leather boots she'd thrown on earlier. The dark jacket she shed on the way, letting it fall unheeded as she approached, eyes dark with restrained desire never leaving the big man seated just there. ]

Thanks for the invite. [ A quirk of her odd humor laces her voice, already husky but by now tinged with something a little...darker, more sultry. Natasha reaches the edge of Steve's bed and pauses, waiting, one hand resting easily on her hip, but a little tense with eager anticipation.

The urge to slide right into his lap is strongly tempting, but she doesn't want to presume, doesn't want to force him into anything he's not sure he wants. But a corner of her mouth tilts, unable to help a coy little tease: ]

--this close enough?

[authentics]

Figured this was better than utensils being involved. [ Words carrying a light tone of their own; his gaze, even in the darkness, is anything but that. An intensity thrums within his veins. No apt description fits Natasha. Friend? Yes; undoubtedly. More than that? A question up in the air but the answer didn't matter. Not right then. Wanting her is enough; a want already bordering on need. Feather light steps. A reminder of her particular skill set.

Licking increasingly dry lips, he scoots towards the edge of the bed to close what distances remains, eyebrows knitting together. ] No. [ Another admission. This time when he speaks the word comes out more akin to a growl; rumbling low from in his chest. ] Not close enough. [ Swallowing at the lump forming, he finds his voice again ] I want to feel you.

[ There's truth in the statement that he's always been better at action. Comfortable with it. Reaching out, his arms slip around her waist, lifting Natasha as if she weighted nothing, and a second later they were both on the bed, her atop, and he still slightly sitting up. Even through the layers separating them, the heat from her body is burning against his skin, sending an electric jolt of pleasure down his spine.

And just like that, his left hand presses into the small of Natasha's back, and his lips found her neck. The kisses placed against skin start out airy; but the graze of his teeth quickly follows, not applying enough pressure to leave a mark yet, still able to clearly be felt. ]

vampire au hijinks! <3

[rzhavyy]

Bucky's honestly more than a little surprised to be opening his eyes at all. The last thing he remembers is-- falling. Pain and cold, the surety of his own death as the train disappeared from view and all he could see was white, snow whipping across his vision, and then darkness. And yet as he looks around, that seems like a world away.

The room he's in has a sort of opulence he's never encountered in his life. Bucky's parents got by pretty well, enough to support him and his three siblings, and he'd worked at the Docks once he was out of school, picked up at gig at a bar not long before the war hit, so he'd been more or less comfortable for most of his life. But this is enough to all but put stars in his eyes.

He sits up slowly, like he expects the pain to come back in a rush the second that he moves the wrong way, but it doesn't. No bandages, no wounds that he can see, not even any bruising. He's never considered himself particularly religious, even if his parents were Protestant and Steve would always make a big deal about church around the holidays. But for a moment, he finds himself wondering if he's dead and this is some sort of afterlife.

He slides out of bed, and there's a hunger in his throat, scratching at the back of his awareness, that makes him wonder if maybe he's alive after all. How many days has it been? Since Steve and the Howlies had breakfast in camp before they'd gone after Zola? The idea that he'd been rescued, brought to some strange mansion hidden in the mountains seems too ridiculous. And if that's the case, where are his injuries? He remembers the feeling of bones breaking, remembers the cold, and yet there's not a sign of any of it on his skin.

He's in a pair of pants that aren't his own, although his boots and belts are laid out, cleaner than he can remember since the beginning of the war, since before he'd gone through training. Rescue is looking more and more likely, even if it seems almost like something out of a comic- of course with everything that's happened lately, happened to Steve, he's not sure if this's really the weirdest turn his life's taken. There's a sound at the door, and he stands up straight, and wishes he'd at least managed to get a shirt on, but he tries to look respectable anyway.

At least, he's pretty sure this isn't HYDRA. He's experienced their mercies before, and it's not this.

best kind, srsly <333

[maskirovka]

"Your know your mother will disapprove, Lady Natalia," the old retainer advised her back as she strode down the carpeted hallway. "You should not have brought him here." That rather sulking reminder brought her up short, and the redheaded woman abruptly stopped, whirled around, and bared an impressive set of gleaming, bone-white fangs at the old man, hissing like an agitated cobra. The gnarled codger braked in turn, recoiling from those deadly daggers as well as the blazing green eyes above them, and he realized that he'd pushed her temper a touch too far with his grousing.

"Mind your place, Anton," Lady Natalia Alianova Romanova warned her family's most trusted human servant, truly, her mother's favorite, assigned here at the Carpathian estate to "keep an eye" on the legacy's most erratic scion. She snapped those sharp canines at him and he immediately lowered his gaze, eyes on the floor, mollifying her somewhat, but she drilled the point home a moment more before sweeping back around and continuing on her way.

The subject of the debate was, naturally, the young American soldier she'd "rescued" some three nights before, found while she was out 'hunting' for Nazis who'd strayed a little too far from their encampments. She despised Hitler's "chosen" selecting her mountain as one of the spots to perform his little "experiments", and she always made sure to thin his ranks every time she was able.

But that morning, she'd returned not with a satiated hunger and the satisfaction that the "master race" had lost a few key members to her fangs and claws, but rather with different sort of soldier entirely. One more than half-dead from blood loss and exposure, was her first assessment. He'd been going into metabolic shutdown by the time she returned to the house, and her time window had been short.

Her first instinct was to simply let him expire; such was the way of human nature, and she had no right to interfere. Which was, in fact, one of the tenants of her species. But then he'd began calling out for someone in his delirium, sounded like "Steve", and then perhaps, "Rebecca" or "Becky", but soon thereafter he'd just begun to shake all over and beg, "please".

And that had simply broken her heart.

So she'd opened a slice in her wrist, letting just a few scarlet drops escape, smearing them on his lips simply to ease his suffering and hopefully ease his passing, but before she'd been able to even think twice about doing so, he'd grabbed her wrist in his one good hand and fastened his mouth over the cut in her skin, sucking greedily and so quickly all she'd been able to do was let him.

Things had followed the predictable course from there.

Anton had found them not long after; Natalia haphazardly lolling on the cold stone floor next to a dark haired soldier who was convulsing in agonizing seizures as pure virgin vampire blood began to work in his body, repairing what had been damaged, but also changing his cells to something...more. He'd thrashed like a creature possessed for a few moments more, then had fallen limply unconscious.

And had yet to wake, Anton had reported to his mistress, who'd recovered with no ill effects, other than a slight tingle in the wrist he'd bitten, and a strange but not at all unpleasant pull in the pit of her stomach, urging her to hurry upstairs, hurry, hurry.

So she all but flew up to the second floor, towards the guest room where Anton had, rather unceremoniously, lugged the new Romanova fledgling after the debacle in the foyer three days hence. As she approached the door, she realized that he was now indeed awake; she could hear him stirring about within. His dogtags were gripped tightly in her fist - not enough to bend the metal, but enough to leave slight indentions in her palm. "James B. Barnes", they read. "U.S Army, 107th Infantry", as well as other identifications, was also etched into the tin.

Well, his days of service to his former countrymen were over, she thought wryly, gently rapping a knuckle on the thick oak, then easing it open slowly. Ah, he was indeed awake and upright, Natalia realized, opening the door further and taking a gentle step into the room. He didn't seem much worse for wear, but then she'd had yet to even speak to this man with whom she'd shared her blood for the very first time.

Time to remedy that.

"Good morning," she told him with a soft nod, Slavic acccented English thick. "Or, good evening, rather." She moved further into the room, coming into the circle of soft lamplight, a small but strong woman with long red curls cascading over her shoulders and down her back, eclipsed by the dark suit covering her from neck to heel. "My name is Natalia Romanova, and you are in my house." She extended a small pale hand, holding out his tags.

"These are yours, I believe, Sergeant Barnes." Her head tilted as she observed him. "How do you feel?"

and some angst and feelings, along with some "can't get away" squirming <33

[rzhavyy]

It was a strange thing, dying. It was the sort of thing that you never expected to come back from, but Bucky had, for the second time. Except this time when he comes back to himself, he isn't a monster, just... alive, somehow.

She's the first person that he sees, and there's a glint there, something to how his blues light up when he sees her. "Natalia--" A soft whimper of her name, a brief touch of his fingertips against hers is all that he manages before everyone's there. His hands fall away, and Steve hugs him, and it's good to be alive, even if it hardly feels real. Like this is some death's dream, and his body still feels cold and empty.

He wants to reach out to her, but all he can steal are moments, breaths, looks from across the table that say I need you, amidst everyone trying to catch up on everything that's happened. Tony doesn't shoot him, so he takes that as progress, but he really just wants time to himself. To process, and to pull her along with him. His beautiful redhead that reminds him what it is to be human. What it is to be alive, even when he forgets.

She carries the gun that he stole from her gun locker, and it feels like a promise, like something wordless, but still important. "I'm not getting it back, am I?" He asks as a tease, a lift of an eyebrow that seems playful more than anything. But there's a heat to his gaze only for her. Things unsaid, things he thought that he'd died without ever saying. Things that he owes her. And there's too many people, too much joy and reunions to break away easily, to steal her into the quiet along with him.

But he can also see the war on their faces.

Getting them all back-- this was a thing suffered and fought for. He knows what that feels like, what that costs. He knows she does too. There are his own selfish desires, for something to make him feel less like he's still made of ashes, but he also wants to touch her, to give her someone else to lean on. It's been a while, and he was literal ashes, so there's a risk that he's lost whatever chance there was between them. But she meets his eyes, leans in to the slight touches he steals when no one's looking, like she needs this as much as he does. Like he's not the only one that needs something.

Everything looks different, no doubt born out of desperation. News reports fills the monitors, stories from across the world of people returned, the dead walking again and seeming no worse for wear. And Bucky leans in like he's trying to get a look over her shoulder, but in truth it's just an excuse to be close to her. To breathe in the scent of her hair, to let his breath tease against the curve of her ear. If he can't steal her away, then he settles for little teases, fingers against her back, contact that says what he can't put into words with people like Steve and T'Challa and Sam around.

beautiful <333

[maskirovka]

She'd always grieved alone.

No one had ever witnessed tears fall from green eyes, had ever heard the anguished screams that ripped from her mouth, had ever seen her broken on her knees, beating the floor with her fists until blood had seeped through the abused skin. Silence was her only companion, her only real friend.

She'd been the pillar for others; Steve, Tony, Shuri. Had held them as they sobbed, had offered silent comfort and words of sympathy when silence hadn't been enough. But her own pain, she hid. It was private. It was hers. No witnesses, no witnesses.

Rogers and Stark had begun their project, attempting to discover where those they had lost had vanished to, and she assisted where she could, although she had no idea about the metaphysics of it all - she only knew that they had to try. They had to try.

Months later: progress. She'd hurried into Shuri's medical chamber only to skid to a halt next to the table, not quite believing what she was seeing. Then...he was there. She swore her heart stopped for a full ten seconds, until Nordic blue eyes opened, found hers, then she could breathe again. My God, Barnes. James. Please tell me this is real...I won't survive if it isn't...

It was real. He was real. Hale and hearty as he'd been before, with his sweet smile, tender eyes, and gentle touches that seemed accidental but she knew that they weren't. She craved them. Craved him. She'd lost him once, to those who had made him, and then again, this time to himself, and then a third time, until her heart had become so numb to even the smallest hope...but here he was, vibranium fingers brushing across the back of her hand, leaning against her back to watch the news feed, ghosting his breath over her skin in beautiful silence.

Everyone was watching the monitors, enraptured, but Natasha let her lashes drift closed and teeth worry at her lower lip, quiet little volts of electricity coursing up and down her spine. Proximity alert, incoming. She shifted slightly, just enough to brush her back against his front, subliminal message received and reciprocated. The gun on her hip, predictable; she placed her hand behind it in order to twist her fingers in his shirt.

I need you.

for soloflight

[maskirovka]

previous

[ Wuss. ]

Wuss.

You sound like no one else does it, Solo. But all sentient species have their ways, believe me. Humans are...tame, compared to some.

You should look into it.

[soloflight]

Just because I don’t want to talk about it doesn’t mean I’m not... looking into it.

[ You’ve got him all flustered, Nat.

He does manage this, however: ] But if you want to educate me so bad, I learn best by action. And repetition.

for kgbs

[maskirovka]

previous

You know, if you have to think about it... Well, never mind. I'll text you the address.

If being angry would suit you better, I'm sure I can come up with a way to accommodate.

Re: for kgbs

[kgbs]

I do not need to be angry to do what needs to be done. But, if it were to happen, then it happens. I will see you soon.

[ he waits for the address before pocketing his phone and heading out towards the intended destination. ]

for winterproof

[maskirovka]

previous

[ Oh, just watch her bristle at that flippant response. Soft paws, wolf, soft paws. ]

On the contrary, Sergeant. The luck is all yours.

[ When the titles and ranks come out, shit's getting serious. Brace yourself, Rogers. ]

I'm a touch more concerned about the intel we might have missed than your intestinal issues, James. You will recover another stray from that same nest, and you will bring him in alive and cogent, understood?

[winterproof]

[ The metaphorical ears go back slightly and his expression cools. ]

You'll get your intel.

Anything else or am I excused? Wouldn't want to waste moonlight.

for rzhavyy: nightmares

[maskirovka]

She'd never really had a true home, before. The residences she maintained around the world were just places to rest, hide, and sometimes recuperate. Don a different identity, whatever the mission required. Sometimes she startled herself, looking in the mirror, face unrecognizable. That had been her life, before. She'd lived for it. And had very nearly died for it, too.

Now, however, home had taken on a different definition in Natasha's vocabulary. Now, the word was associated with a pair of beautiful blue eyes, a sweet crooked smile, both belonging to a man whom she'd known as another so very long ago. Then, he'd taught her how to survive in a world unsuited to them both; now, he held her tenderly through the quiet African nights in strong arms made of both flesh and metal.

She wasn't really sure how it'd happened. Somehow, more and more of her possessions had come with her on her "visits" to the former Winter Soldier's little farm on the edge of the Wakandan savanna. She just...never took anything back with her when she left. And leaving seemed to take longer and longer, the excuses to stay growing very nearly nonexistent; she simply held on to her implied license to remain. Bucky never seemed to mind - he just made room in his closet for her clothes, placed her toothbrush next to his in the cup sitting on the bathroom sink, the same as he'd done with her favorite coffee mug, it now resting in the cabinet next to his.

Little things, little things.

She had noted, with no end of amusement, that the floor of Bucky's closet was now covered with her shoes, but then that was one price of having a woman for a housemate.

All in all, life seemed...idyllic, a nuance that Natasha still had a little trouble accepting. Her past was soaked in violence and blood; she still glanced over her shoulder every so often, just to make sure. But soft touches, gentle smiles, and sweet kisses helped take the edge off that sharp corner, soothing her enough that she was able to find a modicum of peace. With him. Always with him.

Tonight, she and her soldier had reclined on a blanket in the yard, Natasha's head comfortably resting on Bucky's right shoulder, listening quietly and absently toying with the fingers of his metal hand as he told her about every constellation visible in the night sky, pointing them out and giving her a veritable astrological dissertation as she softly nodded and made encouraging noises; she loved hearing him prattle on about things. The passion he held for whatever interested him always captivated her, and after a while astrology was forgotten as they made love surrounded by sweet smelling grass, the soughing wind off the plains, and each other.

A shower and supper had followed, then it was time for bed, and Natasha had no hesitation about tumbling into Bucky's waiting arms, his lips in her hair and her arms around his waist. Already drowsy, she'd drifted off to sleep to the beat of his heart, her cheek pressed soft against his chest after they exchanged their light pillow talk and kisses good-night. She thought she'd never been more content, happier, safe...

...until strange sounds and a violent thud jolted her from that perfect sleep, abruptly sitting up and staring, shocked, as Bucky suddenly vaulted out of bed, dropped to his knees and clutched his temples, panting harshly only to throw back his head and scream like a wounded animal, freezing her heart right in her chest. She started to clamber over and reach for him, but he collapsed in a shivering heap before she could, and wariness warred with instinct, leaving her frozen, unsure of just what to do. This was clearly a nightmare - she'd never before witnessed him in the throes of his own mind, and given how dangerous she knew he was capable of being, did she dare?

Then he screamed again, a weaker cry but still fraught with so much pain and misery that it galvanized her into motion, rolling off the side of the bed to her knees next to him, calling to him over and over, praying she could shock him back to wakefulness. Natasha knew she was taking her life in her hands as she reached for his shoulders, but for him, she'd risk that and so much more. Anything. Everything.

"--James? James!" Tears welled in her eyes, seeing the anguish clearly written across his sharp features. "Moya zvezda, please, you have to wake up!"

[rzhavyy]

Bucky had always thought that this little place out in Wakanda would be more like a safehouse than a home, but a stable one. Where he could get himself back together, breathe until it felt easy. Somehow, it had turned into so much more than that. It had all started with that clumsy kiss, unable to help himself, unsure if she remembered or if it was anything that she wanted to acknowledge. But the more of her there is in his space, the more this feels like home. Like someplace he could stay.

Falling to sleep together, her body pressed to his, arms that hold her gently as he breathes in her hair. Her clothes hang in the closet next to his, although it's her shoes that dominate the floor. With her in his arms, he doesn't really have many nightmares, and the one he does are soft whispers, not pain and darkness and anguish. Maybe it's that he gets complacent. Maybe it's just the fact that even this peace, and Natasha and how good he feels with her around isn't enough to completely silence the darkness, even if she comes as close as anything ever has.

Tonight it hits him hard, out of nowhere. Men that speak in Russian, the pain that surges through him as they try to get him to obey. And then the chair, the electricity, ready to comply--

He knows, distantly, that someone is calling him, but as his nightmare whirls around him, he doesn't entirely process it. It's not until she reaches for his shoulders that he startles from the grip of it, but he's still reeling, lost in old memories. So when she reaches for his shoulders, he moves, abruptly fast for how out of it, how disconnected he'd seemed. He pulls her down, pins her beneath him, and tries to catch her hands to the floor, there's a moment mid-way down where he seems to soften, like he recognizes her. But his eyes seem a little bit unfocused, something about him that hasn't entirely slid into place. When he speaks, it's in Russian, but while his hands are firm he doesn't hurt her, just holds her in place as he catches his breath.

"What have I told you about trying to sneak up on me, Little Spider?" His question low, a murmur off of his lips. It's a nickname he hasn't used for her since the Red Room, since their moments together were always something stolen. He remembers her, recognizes her, but the pieces don't quite fit together right, he's not quite himself. There's still that part of him that is The Soldier, even if he buries it deep, tries to be more than that as he focuses on tending his goats, picking fruit and trying to focus on helping, on things that live. But just because Bucky had put most of the pieces together these days, that there wasn't a series of words in his head that could make him that person on command-- it didn't just go away.

And now the pieces are a little jumbled from being pulled out of a nightmare, the layers overlapping, lining up in the wrong ways, and there's familiarity, affection in how he looks at her, but it's not with the uninhibited sweetness that he has by the light of day. The man that would apologize for getting up at dawn with breakfast in bed. Not gone, just obscured.

He's a little lost, but he holds onto her. Like she's the only thing right now that makes sense.

cross-universe christmas shenanigans

[carrytheshield]

Really, maybe he should be thankful that he still exists at all. That he's not trapped in the past or some far-flung future. Maybe it's what he gets for wanting to see her again. But there was something about being in Russia on Christmas Eve that put a chill in his blood, and it wasn't just feeling like a fish out of water.

He hadn't known where he was at all when he'd regained consciousness, but this world wasn't his. He'd read an article in the Moscow Times about the last of the clean up efforts on dealing with HYDRA. So his priority for the moment is just getting his bearings and working out his next steps.

He gets himself some street clothes, a duffel bag to stuff his gear in. None of the numbers he knows go through, but it was a long shot anyway. At least it's a world where the Avengers still exist. Steve's alive, and Natasha-- he can't help the goofy smile that curves his face at the sight of some footage from the Battle of New York. It doesn't matter what world it is, Natasha's always beautiful and deadly.

He landed here two days ago, and left Moscow for Saint Petersburg this morning. Really, his best options for figuring out what's going on are to make contact with the Avengers. Which means either catching a flight to New York City, or tracking down the next fight. He's leaning toward the later, if he's honest. He might not know this world, but he's spent a large portion of his life punching Nazis, and he knew a few of the secret HYDRA lairs from the brief time he'd spent working for the Red Skull. No telling if that means anything here, but it's something to start with. Roll the dice, see what happens.

But all of that goes out the window when he catches sight of a particular shade of red hair in the crowd. It can't be her; he doesn't think he's that lucky. But he follows anyway, because he has to, pulled along like there's an invisible tether. It can't be her, but he's trying to get a look at her anyway: a glimpse in the glass of a store front, trying to circle around to get a view from the side. He doesn't get a full glimpse, but what he does see means that he keeps tagging along after her anyway.

His hair is cut short, but aside from that he mostly just keeps his head down and counts on the crowd to do the rest. But the leather jacket with a white star on the shoulder of his left arm isn't exactly subtle. It occurs to him that if it is Natasha, she's probably aware that she has a tail by now. The thought puts a slight curl of a smile on his face as he pretends to get distracted by some of the decorations in anticipation of New Years. Russia rivals New York City for the sheer spectacle they make for Christmas, but they celebrate it on the Orthodox calendar so it comes after the new year.

American that he is, to him it's still Christmas Eve, though. If he was in the states, he'd go to the cemetery in Arlington, see if his friends were still buried there, if Namor showed up. But he's not, so instead he's just tailing someone until he can be sure they're not his ex-girlfriend. He tells himself it can't be, but he can't walk away. The wounds are still open, and they still hurt.

eeeee~~~ <33

[maskirovka]

She hadn't really had the chance to mourn. Six months had passed since that horrific battle on the Wakandan plain, and the world was still trying to cope with the aftermath. But there hadn't been much rest for the wicked, as Wilson had tried to joke, but even his good humor had been suffused in the presence of his grieving, grim teammates. Rogers had soldiered on, of course, insisting that the world still needed, and was worth, saving. But she hadn't really been so sure, at that point.

Nevertheless, she'd followed him, assisting where she could, doing what she was able, because to not do so was worse; then she'd have to actually face the stark reality: he wasn't coming back. The thought lurked in the back of her mind, waiting for the opportunity to slink forward; when she tried to sleep, when she stopped moving, whenever there weren't enough distractions to keep her preoccupied.

Sometimes she made the trek out to his (their) little house and collapsed in his (their) bed, just long enough to cry her silent tears and leave another part of her broken heart behind.

She never told anyone.

Just as she didn't advertise her leaving for the far north after Steve's New Year; there was a place she needed to be, if only for clarity's sake. Russia during the Orthodox Christmastime, a holiday she'd treasured in her youth. She'd arrived in Kiev a few days prior, then departed for Saint Petersburg not long after. The city was lovely, as always, lit up brightly with the green wreaths and the pines veritably dripping with tinsel and ornaments. It soothed her heart a little.

She'd booked a hotel before leaving Africa, expensive but worth it, although she walked the city most of the day, only arriving back to sleep...when she could. This afternoon, a soft snow was falling, gentle as cotton, and the tiny flakes sparkled on her lashes and her lips, a quiet amusement as she lowered her face again. Natasha shook snowflakes from her scarlet curls and pulled up the hood of her parka; her ears were getting a little cold. But a sixth sense tingled along the back of her neck and she involuntarily tensed, a learned reflex from decades ago.

Someone was following her.

Hard to imagine, in this crowded city, everyone hurrying here and there in anticipation of the feasts and gifts to come. But she knew she wasn't wrong; she'd stake her life on it. Which, in point of fact, might be exactly what she was doing. So she slowly began to melt with the crowd, even darting into a nearby department store and emerging with a different overcoat entirely, then crossing the street and setting an easy sauntering pace down the block. Recent paranoias had made her overly wary, and her eyes and ears were sharp despite her seeming nonchalance.

It didn't take her very long before she was sidling into a sheltered doorway of a shop which had already closed, dark jacket shielding her face from the snow and any overt observers. She waited patiently; one...two...three-- And then a razor sharp knife seemed to simply appear at her assailant's throat, extended from her arm out of the doorway, quivering right at the curve of his jaw.

"A small caveat," she growled darkly in Russian, "you should hunch your shoulders more, comrade. Being a head taller than the rest of the population tends to stand out."

ABO-Werewolf AU

[disassembling]

Will she be the first Black Widow?

That was the only question he had been asked as he had been handed a manila folder with a single slip of paper inside of it. The information was scant, just a worn black and white photo, a few physical attributes that meant nothing of her abilities, and a kill count. They wouldn't give him more information, and he wouldn't ask for more; this would not be the first candidate that they would hand over in one final assessment after years of hard work molding. Always they would ask the same question as an alert to the mission ahead of him, and always he would simply nod his head and offer back the folder. It was meaningless to him.

They allowed him a short amount of time to wash the blood from his hands from the mission he had just returned from, likely thinking fatigue and the drag of a kill mission would increase the chances of their candidate being successful. He never told them what he was looking for, and they never asked. It wasn't that he knew best, but he was hypersensitive to weakness, the fine cracks in a young woman's psyche after years of torment that hadn't healed quite right. If they couldn't face him down, if they could but with too much recklessness... he just knew. Sometimes he'd let them struggle to be certain; most times, he didn't bother to torment them further.

The Red Room had a fenced off area for him. The cement walls were eighteen feet high, the trees that inhabited the space even taller to catch what little of the sun would come through. There were little nooks and crannies for someone to hide, but amid the roots of the biggest tree, he had long ago made a den for himself. It was an old bomb shelter really, all metal sheets inlaid to cement slabs, but it kept the wind off. It also had a good rise that allowed him to look down the mostly invisible trails through the enclosure.

As always, they released him first into the enclosure, his footsteps making tracks in the snow as he headed for the treeline. Once there, he shifted forms and ranged the entire enclosure, sniffing but not marking anything. He wasn't here to claim anything as his, only to sniff about and learn of any changes like fallen trees, added rocks or whatever prey happened to have made the mistake of tunneling their way in. Nothing was out of the ordinary, which allowed him to settle his dark furred body on top of his den.

He was massive. Unlike common wolves, he continued to grow into his paws. The bigger the wolf, the older they were. He was larger than any others of his very rare kind that existed, and the hair along his spine had grown up to a shaggy mane. If he had any rights to anything, others of his kind would decorate the longer fur with plaits, beads, feathers and the like. He had none such adornments; if anything, he simply looked well-kept but shaggy.

His big head rested on his front paws as he waited, ears pricked forward as he listened for signs that she was in his domain. He knew her, had trained her a few years ago, but he didn't entirely know what to expect. Years of private brutal tutelage could do any number of things to a young mind, but their handlers seemed confident that she would pass his test. She had... been different from the others, he thought. She took her knocks with tenacity but without being overly aggressive, knew better than most where the line in the sand was and how to side-step it to get her way. Her skills had been good, her scent had been better. He doubted their handlers understood exactly what they had gotten their hands on, and he hadn't been asked. No question, no reason to be forthcoming with the information.

However, the Red Room was easy on no one. He wouldn't be easy on her either, no matter what form she took. So he waited, nose working and ears shifting to catch any sounds. There was a breeze that wafted his scent towards the entrance, and he made no motion to hide it. If she knew he was out there amid the trees, she would show him her best.

[maskirovka]

Your final test, the handler had informed her. Complete it successfully, and you shall survive. Fail, and die. The last had nearly had her eyes rolling; how many times had she heard that before? Failure was simply not acceptable in the Red Room. Thus far, she'd been the only one to survive so long. And she intended to keep on doing so, regardless of what they threw in her path.

Such as this: she was taken to a restricted part of the facility, given cold-weather outerwear and a wickedly sharp hunting knife in a sheath, and released into the snow. Initial examination proved it to be an enclosure - high concrete walls, security cameras situated around the single entrance, dirty wet slush beneath her feet, fading into a pristine and untouched blanket of white further on. Pines and spruce growing tall throughout.

...and the most enticing scent wafting on a spare breeze, floating past her nostrils. Natalia turned her head to take a deep draught, instantly recognizing that distinctive smell. It was one she'd never, never forget. And it had her eyes narrowing, all senses immediately coming into sharp alert.

He was here. He was waiting. He was her target.

Her first instinct, one she stifled, was to flow into fur and fangs, meet him on his own ground, in his own form, but she refrained, knowing that the wolf seldom yielded to logic and was more prone to instinct; she had to keep her head if she expected to survive. She couldn't count on him remembering her, even though memories of his distinctive scent and burning blue eyes aided her through aching nights when her heats were all but unbearable.

No, she had to keep her wits about her. No matter how appealing was winter's breeze just now.

So she began to move further in, moving as stealthily as might her other form, scarcely stirring a bough or a branch. She'd pulled up the hood of her parka, blending beautifully into the snow-strewn landscape, head held low to hide the steam from her breath. At times she dropped to a light crouch, moving on fingers and toes, easing through the foliage with the grace of one born to it. All the while she watched, listened, scented. Her nostrils weren't as sharp in this form as the other, but his scent was powerful enough to prickle even this flesh, potent as it was.

A rustle arrested her; she froze, a marble statue in the falling snow, but a quick perusal proved it only a foolish squirrel, chittering briefly before vanishing back into its tree. Natalia let her nostrils flare, a fresh touch of that tantalizing smell making her shiver beneath the weight of her garments. She knew he was close; unseen, she gripped the knife down near her thigh.

[theoneroad]

It's been a hell of a day. Think I could convince you to distract me for a while?

[maskirovka]

That bad? My sympathies.

Anything specific you have in mind?

[noblecaptain]

Steve shook his head, watching her. "Peanut butter and jelly. Really? Even I can make something better... Well, no, I can't." He smirked as he stepped into the room, hating to see his friend upset in any way.

"Hey... Want some company?"

[maskirovka]

"Love to see you try," was her laconic response, pushing over the plate after taking a first bite. Even she was getting tired of quick meals, eating on the go, waiting for the phone to ring, so to speak. "Are you ever going to learn now to cook, Steve?"

Natasha blinked then, a bit puzzled. "Wait, why are you here? Don't you have classes to lead?"

Pre: Endgame - Wakanda

[conflictedsoldier]

The calm before the storm. He could only imagine how this was going to go. Steve was up with Shuri and T'Challa and the others, trying to help Vision. The fight would be coming soon.

He had to say something. Just in case he didn't get a chance to say anything.

She was easy to find, off by herself, staring out a window and watching for incoming targets. It's what he would have done. "Natalia," he murmured.

<3

[maskirovka]

If she heard Steve mention "contingencies" one more time, she'd have probably screamed. So Natasha had prudently slipped away, ascending a few floors to fetch up near one of the large balcony windows, gazing out across the Wakandan plain.

But a light step, familiar, caught her ear and she had to smile, a soft curve of lips. "Moya zvezda," she replied quietly. Natasha didn't turn, but she did tip her head in silent invitation, hoping he'd sense what she needed and put his arms around her.

for stillcantdance & conflictedsoldier

[maskirovka]

One of the caveats of her 'relationship' with Barnes was that it was never to be mutually exclusive. For both their sakes, really. They were both free to persue other avenues with other people, since the nature of both of their lives was always so unpredictable. And she enjoyed her James, she truly did; they shared so many memories both good and bad, and had survived more than anyone else could possibly even fathom. They were good for each other, in a way; he sometimes needed a strong hand to keep him grounded and together, and she needed someone who was able to weather her sometimes violent storms. All in all, it was a good arrangement, and she sometimes found herself considering the possibility of it becoming a little more...permanent.

And then there was Steve.

Natasha could admit, if only to herself, that her attraction for America's Paragon had only grown over the years, regardless of her insistent refusal to do anything about it. Steve Rogers didn't seem the type to play her particular game - she knew he wouldn't ever be interested in a "friends with benefits" sort of relationship. And she never begrudged him that; it was simply who he was. But still, her interest remained, so she resolved herself to being a friend, and just let what would be, if anything, develop on its own.

She'd been expecting Barnes tonight, and had cleared her evening so they might spend it together, but something might have come up, as he hadn't yet arrived, texted, or called. She understood - in their line of work, they were always "on call" - and knew he'd check in sooner or later. So she lowered the lights in her off-base apartment, poured herself a generous tumbler of vintage bourbon, and curled up on her comfortable couch, new mystery thriller in hand to read herself to sleep.

Unless something more interesting came up, of course.

the 'verse we talked about

[lacunas]

On the plains in Wakanda, Bucky could see for miles. It helped to make him feel a little more secure, knowing who was approaching well before they hit his hut. But that evening, as day turned to twilight and the stars started to twinkle up in the sky, Bucky wasn't paying attention to the horizon. Couldn't pay attention.

His attention was focused on his hand, trembling slightly. He twisted his fingers in his shawl in an effort to stop the trembling, but it didn't help, and he let go with a disgusted sigh.

They'd told him, as the Hydra shit left his head and his body, that he'd go through a period of adjustment before his body settled into something resembling normal — if he could manage something as mundane as normal. After seventy years of suppressants, no one was exactly sure what would happen to his body. At least they were aware that his system would be flooded with testosterone and hormones, and the potential for ruts.

Bucky shifted on his feet, leaning against the well he had, meant for his sole use, and a soft growl escaped him. He shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. With an impatient gesture, he pushed it back and pushed off the edge of the well. Energy crackled in his veins, but after so many years, he couldn't tell what it was, if he'd even been aware of it before. If it had even happened before Hydra.

According to Steve's latest message — they talked over text messages and video calls, Steve's biology incompatible with his at the moment — they were sending someone to help. He hadn't clarified and Bucky didn't have anything more, no who or why or when. Whoever it was, he just hoped they could help with the burning itch beneath his skin. After seventy years of his body being a tool, he hated having it taken from again because of fucking biology. Another growl escaped him, and he kicked the brick of the well.

yay! <33

[maskirovka]

The first time Steve had asked her to do this, she'd said no. And the second. And the third. The fourth time, she'd finally relented, albeit reluctantly. And only then because she'd finally gained access to the files no one had wanted to see; recorded testimony of what James B. Barnes had suffered at HYDRA's unmerciful hands. Steve had tried to keep it under wraps - Natasha understood the why of it - but she'd been insistent that if she was going to try and help his best friend acclimate to his own body's biology without chemical interference, then she needed to know just how he'd reacted while actually on those particular drug cocktails.

In her youth, she'd had difficulty settling into her own presentation; Omegas were stereotyped to be passive, less aggressive, and more even tempered than their volatile counterparts, but Natasha's formative years had been their own testimony to suffering, pain, and abuse. She'd emerged from that hell a perfect marble shell, cool-headed, even-keeled, but with an underlying, dangerous energy thrumming just beneath that glassy surface. She could absolutely hold her own against whatever Alpha came snarling into her path.

Which was the main reason Rogers had all but begged her to do this.

Recalling only too vividly what it was to feel betrayed by one's own body, and a prisoner to one's own emotions, Natasha had finally agreed, and she was currently en route to Barnes' little farm out on the Wakandan plain. The sun was setting over the savanna, the natural beauty not at all lost on the redhead, even if she was a bit...distracted. But the transport arrived soon enough, and the palace guardsman indicated the Wakandan bracelet on her wrist, that should she need assistance, it would arrive as soon as possible.

Leaving her escort to return to the palace, Natasha shouldered her duffel and began a steady pace towards the house, eyes and ears missing very little. The place seemed neat, evidence of care given to the fence, house, and small shed behind it, a small garden, a few fruit trees, indicative of a single occupant and the lack of a supermarket within walking distance.

But then she smelled him, and her nostrils flared of their own accord, inhaling the distinctive scent of fresh-baked bread, sunshine, and a darker tang, something like...gunpowder and mint. It filled her nose, nearly lifting her up on her toes to take in more, but Natasha sternly shook her head and reminded herself just who was in charge around here, and resumed her steady pace for the front door. It was open, but Natasha wasn't about to just barge in; that was a rookie mistake.

Instead, she leaned in the doorway slightly, peered this way and that, and rapped a knuckle on the frame. "Barnes?!" Her alto echoed softly in the dimness. "Barnes, you home?!"

for ostavil - reverse amnesia

[maskirovka]

[ cont from here ]

This time, she was the one needing comfort from the nightmares. Or...memories. "Yelena" didn't hesitate, holding out her arms and all but falling into Bucky's after he appeared, trying to stifle her small, choked sobs. She buried her face in his right shoulder, unable to help the tiny tremors that shook her from head to heel.

The quiet of the small house had been too much, and apparently her subconscious had chosen to fill it. With the screams of the man shackled in the Chair, electricity coursing through his large frame while it fried his mind and burnt away his memories, and she'd been forced to watch. And know that she was next.

It had been their punishment. Their consequence for...for... Tense fingers clenched in his shirt, nearly strangling the fabric as she tried to fight the inevitable. But it'd been a lost cause since before she'd arrived on this continent. It could have only ended in such a way.

"Yelena" lifted her head, glassy eyes meeting Bucky's gaze, and she then leaned back into him, feeling exhausted. "It was punishment," she mumbled against his chest. "You. Me. We were punished for..." she sniffled, then nestled her head further beneath his chin.

"...for loving each other. Da?"

Re: for ostavil - reverse amnesia

[ostavil]

"Yeah, we were punished. They made you watch so you'd know ho much pain it was and how culpable you were in it. It wasn't our faults. I was never supposed to be more than a teacher to you and I fell for you. It was my fault, I know that, and I just hate that you ended up getting punished too."

Bucky feels the only thing he can do is shoulder the blame for this. He can't let her think she's in any way responsible for them getting caught or HYDRA's subsequent punishment of them. It was because he, their perfect asset, had stopped responding to commands so they made him respond.

"They told me that they'd take you away and hurt you. I did everything I could to prevent it."

[endsinafight]

[When she'd said that the safe house was in the middle of nowhere, she'd certainly meant it. There was literally nothing around for miles except rolling fields of greenery and mountains in the distance. The cabin that was in front of them was small and unassuming and he wonders how many times she's retreated here, whether for safety reasons or just downtime in general. Seems like it would be a good place for either.

He casts a glance in her direction in the passenger seat, not quite ready to shut the engine off yet. They'd been driving for hours and there's been no sign that anyone's tailed them -- which is always a surprise. But he still feels compelled to wait, if only for a little while, before moving into the house and leaving the safety of the still running vehicle.]

How'd you find this place?

[maskirovka]

"Would you believe Century 21?" It was out of her mouth before she could bite it back, but Natasha just smirked at herself and shook her head, getting out of the sedan and giving the place a slow once-over. Hand on a hip - near her concealed firearm - Natasha strolled in front of the car, a little beyond, then stepped towards the house just enough to peer around the far corner.

Once she was satisfied all was clear, she returned to the car, reaching through the driver's window and down between Bucky's knees to release the trunk latch. Giving him a sideways smile, she winked lightly and replied, "I bought it. Several years ago." Moving to the trunk, she pulled out her duffel and swung it over a shoulder. "It was really run down before - no one had lived here for years." She rummaged a little further and came up with a black, hard plastic case.

"So I had it renovated, upgraded, and it's been a good place to get off the grid since. No cell service up here, no wifi, just an unlisted sat phone with several burner numbers attached, if I really need to get a word in or out." There were still several other bags in the trunk, some from a market back down the mountain, and others from a department store specializing in men's apparel.

"Come on, my gorgeous trash panda," she called around the lifted trunk. "This stuff isn't going to pack itself inside."