"Food", at least this time, was nothing more elaborate than heated soup from a can, along with sandwiches and potato chips, but at least the sliced meat was deli-fresh and delicious. Although it took her ten minutes to actually get the soup bowls into the microwave - she kept wondering just why in the hell she was doing this, damnit!
He doesn't remember. He doesn't know. That litany kept scrolling in front of her, clouding her vision and stilling her hands, until all she could do was watch her own memories begin to replay in her mind's eye, over and over with crystal clarity. She was lost in the middle of her small kitchen, gazing at nothing, but reliving every single scene, every single moment, until a timer went off, jolting her out of the reverie.
Natasha shuddered, yanking open the carton of sliced meat a little more savagely than she'd intended, resulting in it ripping halfway down, but she ignored it; she doubted there'd be any leftovers to worry about, anyway. She forced herself to place everything neatly on the small table, wondering why she didn't just toss him out on his ass and demand he vanish again, she couldn't take this sort of heartache anymore, just fucking go!
But she knew she wouldn't.
She couldn't.
By the time she heard the very quiet, very quiet, footsteps in the hallway, the former Black Widow was once more the picture of composure, moving fluidly around the small kitchen. She smoothly pulled the soup from the microwave, spun on a graceful heel, and placed both down on the table in the respective places, glancing up when a shadow appeared in the doorway.
"Feel better?" An innocent inquiry, she supposed. No matter how much her hands might itch to smooth back that damp sable hair, let her fingertips drift over his pale cheek. No. No, no, no. He doesn't know you. Not anymore.
Food was food and he wasn't going to complain about soup and sandwiches. Far from it. As wary as he still was, he was also incredibly grateful for what she'd done for him in the last twenty-four hours. He paused far enough back in the hallway for a moment, before she noticed him, that he found himself watching her. He watched her stand silently at the counter, looking utterly lost until some kind of timer buzzed and then he watched as she shuddered and ripped into the carton of meat with what he read as anger.
Both the lost look and the angry one vanished as quickly as they came as he took a couple of quiet steps toward her, not as silent as he could be. But he wasn't trying to sneak up on her. He regarded her quietly for a moment, then gave a short nod.
"Yeah." Because truthfully he did. Not bathing had been a survival technique, not a thing he enjoyed. He had faint memories of days before the war when he'd take his time showering and shaving and even styling his hair, wanting to look his best because his parents had taught him at some point, that was important. At least he assumed that was from his parents' teaching.
"Can I help?" His voice was hesitant. The urge to be useful was still ever-present, too deeply ingrained that if he didn't have a mission, he was going back on ice. Even though he knew that wasn't a threat hanging over his head, the emotions that were tied to it? They certainly were.
The soft, hesitant question caught her off guard. Natasha paused in mid-motion, a bag of bread swinging from her hands. She blinked at Bucky for a stretched moment, then mentally shrugged, allowing her small smile to curve her mouth. "Sure," she replied easily, handing over the bread. "Wanna drop a few slices in the toaster? That way I won't have to wash the skillet later." The four-slot toaster sat next to the microwave, near the fridge, and Natasha sailed smoothly around the large soldier, pulling lettuce, sliced cheese, and tomatoes from the fridge to place on the counter and cut.
"What do you like on your sandwiches?" She'd known before, but this wasn't the same man that'd been taken from her all those years ago. And you'd do well to remember that little fact, Natalia Alianova, she heard her conscious reiterate. "We have lettuce and tomatoes, Swiss cheese, mayo, mustard, and...honey-smoked turkey." That she'd nearly scattered all across the kitchen a few minutes ago.
"I think we have enough stuff to make blinis for breakfast, too."
She'd stocked up on the foodstuffs, knowing it was going to take a lot to keep her houseguest fed, and from the looks of him, he'd had somewhat of a rough time eating regularly. Which wasn't all that surprising, really.
"Just bottled water for now, but I can make some coffee, if you like." She typically preferred tea, when she had the choice, but she didn't mind a good dark roast loaded with cream, sugar, and milk.
He could tell his question caught her off guard, but he was relieved when she didn't tell him that she was fine and didn't need his help. The small smile she gave him eased his nerves a bit more, and he reached out and took the bread from her. He moved over to the toaster obediently, dropping four slices in and setting it to toast them. "Plates?" he asked, glancing at her sideways as she worked on cutting up the tomatoes.
Bucky eyed the toppings she'd picked. He knew he liked cheese for sure. The rest -- he hesitated a second then shrugged. "Everything's fine," he told her, because truthfully he wasn't picky. He didn't think he had been before, either, but things like that hadn't really come back to him. He supposed it was ultimately unimportant. He could figure it out now as he went along, anyway.
He couldn't remember ever having blinis before, but he knew what they were. Sort of. "Will you show me how to make them?" Because for whatever reason, puttering around the small kitchen felt sort of familiar. Normal. Maybe he'd liked to cook at some point in his life, before the war and HYDRA?
"Water's fine. Thank you." At least the words of gratitude were starting to feel less foreign as they rolled off his tongue.
Natasha paused just long enough to gesture to a cabinet near Bucky's head, where the plates and bowls were stored - not too many, alas, as she seldom ever had company here. "Glasses are right next door, and silverware in that drawer," she added, sliding the tomato slices onto a small dish near the lettuce. She'd never really favored American-style sandwiches, but she had to admit they were definitely easier to make.
Bucky's next question also had her stilling slightly, but she moved on, shrugging lightly and giving him a glance over her shoulder. "I will. They're ridiculously easy, and a lot lighter and healthier than American pancakes." Or so she justified it, anyway.
Placing the dish of condiments on the table, Natasha moved to the fridge, coming to stand close to Bucky's right side. "Hand me a couple of glasses?" A quiet query, coupled with a very small smile. This time, she couldn't help the entirely instinctual motion of placing a light hand on his right bicep.
He wasn't bothered by the shortage of dishes. He'd grown up in an era far before disposable plates had become popular, and long before the invention of a dishwasher. When you ran out of dishes, you simply washed them, dried them, and put them away til next time.
The hand on his arm caught him off guard, but more than that, it was the way she spoke his name, a name he hadn't heard in a long, long time. He'd been trying as hard as he could to think of himself as Bucky and not the Asset or Soldat. But hearing the name James sent off some kind of signal in his brain that was somewhere between alarming and confusing.
He found himself staring at her, his eyebrows furrowed and his head cocked slightly to the side. Of course he knew James was his real first name, but he'd gotten the impression from the various things he'd read - and his brief interaction all those months ago with Steve - that he'd gone pretty exclusively by the name Bucky. So why on earth did hearing James, coming from Natasha, seem so damned familiar?
She felt him tense seconds before she saw him stiffen, and she nearly drew back at the puzzled frown aimed down at her. As it was, Natasha let her hand slowly slide down Bucky's arm to his elbow, then drop away entirely, unsure if she'd misstepped or been too familiar just then. She was hardly one to ever be flustered or awkward, but the weight of those blue, blue eyes never ceased to produce a slow flush beneath her skin; Natasha felt her cheeks heating ever so slightly.
Needing something to jolt her out from under that heavy stare, the redhead bit down on the inside of her lower lip, the sudden pain delicious. Unable to help the heat creeping down the slope of her throat to spread out over her collar and disappear beneath her shirt, she adopted her customary sardonic expression but actually had to clear her throat before quipping, "Gonna hand me the glasses, Barnes, or make me crawl over you to reach the cabinet?"
The fact that he hadn't jerked away from her touch was a signal that he was better off now than he had been just a few weeks before. He'd taken great efforts to keep anyone from being even slightly inclined to touch him. Physical affection was a thing of days long past, a thing that belonged solely to whoever he'd been before wreaking havoc all over the globe and snuffing out so many innocent lives.
Natasha was the first one to touch him in months.
He hadn't realized he was breathing more heavily than before until he noticed that her cheeks were growing pink, but then she was snarking at him and he wondered if he'd imagined it. He exhaled, breaking the gaze and feeling dazed as he turned to grab the glasses from the cabinet, holding them out to her wordlessly.
The minute flare of nostril on that achingly handsome face very nearly had her reaching out for him, regardless of what a magnificently unwise decision that would be. Damn the man, to still, after so very long, be able to affect her like this! But she'd known, hadn't she, just how magnetic the attraction between them had always been, even from the very start.
Even when she'd been flat on her face, spitting blood from lacerated lips and aching in every bone and muscle, she'd been drawn to him. And somehow, hard fists had become gentle touches in the deep, cold hours of darkest night, a rough baritone which had only issued orders, commands, somehow became an impassioned whisper against her heated skin, breathing her name beneath the fall of scarlet.
Forbidden. Unsanctioned. Taboo.
Hadn't stopped them, had it?
But thank God Bucky turned away before she could act upon her suicidal impulse; he all but yanked open the cabinet and passed over the mismatched glasses without another word. Natasha took them just as silently, hurriedly opening the freezer not only to fetch ice, but to let the blessedly cold air cool her heated cheeks and throat. The cubes clinked merrily against the glass; she couldn't linger for too long without suspicion.
Besides, she'd always prided herself on being smoother than this, hadn't she?
Exchanging one door for another, she pulled two bottles of water from the refrigerator, busying herself with pouring for them both, then placed the glasses on the table and all but dropped into her seat, knees suddenly feeling a touch unsteady. The toasting bread smelled wonderful, and everything else was ready; their soup still steamed in the bowls, but Natasha had a feeling everything was going to taste like cardboard, given how intense the last minute and a half had just been.
He was missing something. He could feel it with every fiber of his being. It was an ever-present feeling that he carried with him, because frankly there were a lot of things he was missing. But that feeling hadn't been as strong in the entire nine months he'd been on the run than it was right now.
Bucky found himself staring after her as she moved across the room and put ice in their glasses, pulled out water bottles from the fridge and poured it into the glasses and then sat down like she was completely oblivious to the weight of his gaze. He knew better, though. She hadn't become Black Widow by being unobservant.
His nerves were decidedly rattled, but the toast chose that moment to pop up from the toaster and he moved to grab them, laying them on the plates and carrying them to the small table, taking the seat directly across from her. He waited for her to make her sandwich before he would -- it was the polite thing to do, and there was that female voice against, distant but present, in his mind. Kind but firm.
"Soup smells good," he said quietly, finally letting his gaze drop from her form.
She wasn't oblivious. Far, far from it. The touch of those Nordic eyes was almost palpable, like a warm hand - or even deliciously cool fingertips - stroking down the length of her spine, blossoming into a weighted heat further down. And Christ, hadn't it been just forever since anything had affected her so? But she was a chameleon still, and it took very nearly every ounce of composure she could muster to sit there as if nothing had happened, as if electricity hadn't just crackled between them, wild and wicked.
The pop of the toaster gave her something other than him to focus upon, and Natasha sat up expectantly as Bucky turned with the plate of warm bread and took the other seat across the table. After a brief pause - she was still unused to his hesitance over nearly everything - Natasha gave a mental shrug and took two slices of toast and fashioned a sandwich for herself, layering meat, cheese, and lettuce in a dainty pattern between the bread.
Bucky broke the thick silence and she glanced up with a thin smile, nodding her agreement. "It does." Was it only her imagination or had her voice gone a little huskier? God. A sip of water corrected than, she hoped, and Natasha added, trying for lightness, "Hopefully it tastes better than diner breakfast at two am."
Bucky reached out and took the other two pieces of toast and set them on his own plate, fashioning a sandwich very similar to the one she'd created, albeit with more meat and cheese on it than lettuce. When he was finished, he picked it up and took a bite, closing his eyes momentarily and chewing as slowly as he could, trying to savor the tastes. Even this morning he'd been in too big of a hurry to scarf down the food to really stop and enjoy it. But maybe, even if it was just for now, he could let his guard down a little, let himself relax. At least long enough to enjoy a meal.
He kept giving small, flickering glances in Natasha's direction. He had a feeling there was so, so much more to her than what he knew about her. It was fair, considering how little she probably knew about him, too.
"It was good too," he told her. "The food this morning." He dropped his gaze to focus on the food in front of him now. He ate a few bites of the soup before he spoke again. "All food is better than the protein shakes."
At least he wasn't inhaling his food this time. Natasha felt that was progress, given how he'd attacked the plates at Denny's earlier. But the man was hungry, so she couldn't fault him for eating as if he might never taste anything else again. She also wasn't too surprised to see that he'd piled the meat and cheese thick on his sandwich; an imp of a smile touched her lips as she took a bite of her own.
And he kept looking at her. Every so often their eyes caught, and Bucky always glanced away first. Natasha simply lowered her gaze to her plate, eating lightly and with a delicate sureness to each movement, very well aware of being observed, scrutinized. It didn't bother her. She knew he had to be constantly combing through what was left of his memories, searching for that something that would trip a switch and suddenly remind him of things long past, be they pleasant or...otherwise.
She glanced up when he spoke again, giving a light little shrug. "I'm glad you liked it. Diner food can sometimes be a little heavy on the grease, for me." Then she lowered her spoon, a small but tangible wrench momentarily knotting her stomach when he mentioned protein shakes. "They're...not the best, no," she agreed quietly, stirring her soup slowly.
Natasha worried at her lower lip, wondering if she should even bring it up, but... "It surprised you, didn't it, when I called you 'James' a minute ago." Not really a question, that. She looked up at him through her lashes, a little bold, but...soft. Something had snapped between them just then; she'd felt it, and from the look he'd given her, she hadn't been the only one to do so.
The food had been a bit greasy. Fortunately between his metabolism and whatever bastardized version of the super soldier serum they'd given him, his body seemed to handle it all right. The first few meals with actual food he'd consumed hadn't settled well. It had made him wary of eating for days, but eventually his body started to get used to actual food and not just a shake and a shot of vitamins. And now here he was.
It didn't escape his notice that she agreed about the protein shakes and he found himself gazing at her for a moment, speculative. He wondered what her own training as Black Widow had consisted of. He can't imagine the methods used had been pleasant. He wondered if they'd wiped her brain out a few times, too. He wondered just how similar the two of them might truly be. Whatever similarities they had, the differences stuck out far more. She took on a persona of someone who was flirtatious and optimistic but he didn't buy it. It didn't seem real. She was acting -- but for whose benefit? His or her own?
And then, for a moment, the facade dropped entirely and he found himself holding his breath, staring at her with his glass of water halfway to his lips. "Yes," he agreed, because there was no point in denying. He hadn't tried to hide his reaction. "Yes, it did." He took a sip of the drink and set it down on the table once more, but kept his fingers curled around it.
"It felt -- familiar?" He wasn't sure that was the right word, exactly.
It was definitely the right word. Natasha kept her expression carefully neutral, still moving her spoon around in her soup bowl. She lowered her eyes to the plate in front of her, wishing she could just tell him. Tell him everything. But that would undoubtedly lead to disaster, and she had no intention of adding any more burdens to his already weighted shoulders.
"Well," she heard herself say, as if from the end of a very long tunnel, "that is your name, isn't it?" It was a customary quip, but even to her ears it fell a little...flat. So she tried again, forcing her lips to curve somewhat wryly. "Steve shared your file. What information that he had, rather." Never mind that she'd given him most of it in the first place. Details she'd compiled over a decade of searching.
"He hoped that there was something in there that would help us locate you, after SHIELD collapsed." She shrugged again, but suddenly wasn't hungry anymore, either. "But we never even got close, did we?" Nine months, they'd traveled the world, looking for a single man. A man who was nothing more than a ghost, a specter lost amid the masses.
"Steve always referred to you as 'Bucky'," Natasha added softly. Then she looked up at him again, sincerity edging into warm green eyes. "But I think I like you better as 'James'." Moy Dzheyms. Moya zvezda...
"So I hear," he quipped in response without missing a beat. He thought maybe he should be perturbed that he could joke so thoughtlessly about the fact that he didn't, in reality, have any kind of solid grip on who he was, but he wasn't. But the idea that Steve had shared information on him with others was a bit surprising. Then again, she'd been helping Steve look for him for the last nine months, as well as one Sam Wilson.
He exhaled, sitting back in his chair and staring at the mostly empty plate of food before lifting his gaze to look at her. "A couple of times." He paused. "I knew he was looking for me. That he'd recruited people to help him." He also knew Steve was never going to stop and that at some point, he was going to have to at least meet with him, convince Steve that he was fine and he could handle himself. It made him tired just to think about. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Steve, it was that he wasn't ready. He'd been trained to be a ghost, and he was damned good at it. Maybe better now, even, because he had even deeper incentive to stay hidden: keeping Steve safe. And he was mostly certainly not safe to be around.
Which Natasha knew, too, and yet...here they were. Sitting across from each other in a safe house in the middle of Hungary, having dinner like they were old friends. And the weirdest part of all of it was that sense of deja vu that he couldn't seem to entirely shake.
He drew in a breath and lifted his eyes to look at her, to hold her gaze. "It's fine. You can call me whichever," he said quietly, nodding. Neither name necessarily felt like who he was at that point, but maybe he could get used to them more if someone was addressing him regularly. He paused at that thought, realizing he'd already jumped to the assumption this deal between them, whatever it was, was more than short-term.
She wasn't afraid of him. Had never been. Would never be. To fear this broken man would be the worst sort of blasphemy. But she could be afraid for him, definitely. She also wasn't surprised that Bucky had known they were tailing him, dogging his tracks across the continents and even beyond, she sometimes imagined. But they both knew that Steve Rogers was never going to stop. Once an idea took root in his mind, Natasha had learned that there was no dislodging it. And she also knew that Bucky was indeed correct: Steve did sometimes make bad decisions, particularly where the man seated across the table was concerned.
But Steve wasn't here. And if things had gone according to the plans he'd discussed with her and Wilson just four short days ago, the two of them were heading back Stateside, which took a lot of the stress out of her shoulders; that she didn't have to watch her back for America's Golden Boy bearing down on them both. Because she knew Barnes would absolutely disappear, and then she'd be left holding the proverbial empty bag.
Bucky met her eyes then, and Natasha's spoon stilled as she let it come to rest against the side of her soup bowl. She nodded back, once. "Khorosho," she murmured back. All right. And she felt it again, that unerring pull. It seemed to snap back into place each time their gazes met and strengthen the longer they held. It was both aggravating and bittersweet simultaneously.
"Why did you come with me?" she suddenly heard herself ask, shifting slightly and straightening in her chair. "You had no reason to, but you did. Why did you trust me?"
It wasn't that Bucky wanted anyone to be afraid of him. He didn't want to be the monster that HYDRA had twisted him into being. But he knew people should be afraid of him, because he knew exactly what he was capable of. He also knew there were those still out there who would be able to flip the switch in an utterance of ten little words that would force him to do their bidding whether he wanted to or not.
He also knew what he would do if he was backed into a corner. He wouldn't like it, but he wouldn't allow himself to be apprehended, locked up or used. Not by HYDRA. Not by the remnants of SHIELD that was rebuilding itself. Not by any other organization or agency because as far as he was concerned they were all corrupt and had hidden agendas.
Never again.
There was something in the way she kept looking at him, like she was waiting for something, like she was trying to figure him out or she was waiting for him to figure it out. But what?
The question surprised him and his lips parted momentarily, because truthfully, there was no real good reason he could give her that would answer her satisfactorily. He rested his hands on the table, considering. It was a fair question. "I guess I just have a gut feeling about you," he said finally.
Well, that was about as honest an answer as she could expect, really. Natasha nodded, satisfied for the nonce. Although she could have told him that gut feelings were hardly something to bet one's life on, but she supposed he had better reason than most to trust his own instincts. At least, they'd gotten him this far, hadn't they?
"Fair enough," she murmured, picking up her sandwich and taking another small bite. She'd let her gaze fall as she did so, needing somewhere else to look other than crystalline blue. As she ate, Natasha silently wondered how long it would be before she woke up to find him gone again. She wouldn't begrudge him that, when she did. She had no illusions that Bucky would remain, even if some small, wishful part of her hoped that he would. Even if he didn't remember everything that had transpired between them, James Barnes was still a force to be reckoned with, and paranoid enough to sniff out trouble at the slightest hint of something not right.
Her old, battered humor quirked for a moment, and her smirk tilted slightly. "Some people might not consider that plus, though." Natasha touched a fingertip to the corner of her lips, brushing away a few stray crumbs. "My backstory isn't exactly stellar, either." If he hadn't gone through the files she'd released online, she'd eat her boots. It was a mixed blessing that certain details regarding both of their histories had been redacted at the highest levels; only Nick Fury had known the true account of the "Black Widow", and Natalia had trusted him with her life, rightly so.
She ate a few more bites from her sandwich, then her soup, before setting both away and leaning back in her chair. Crossing her arms, Natasha let her head tilt slightly, silently appraising her companion before inquiring, "Did you save any hot water for me, by chance?"
He'd managed to avoid every person and agency looking for him for nine months acting on his instincts and doing what he'd been trained to do. He doubts seriously that anyone from HYDRA ever anticipated he'd take the training they'd forced on him and use it against them, though even if it was done in the most passively defensive way on earth. It had crossed his mind on more than one occasion, too use his skills a lot more aggressively. To use his knowledge of their inner workings, their facilities, their codes and programming, and blow them right off the grid.
It was going to happen. But not until he could be sure that their programming could be deactivated. He was smart. He wasn't going to risk losing himself -- whatever was left of himself anyway -- because of his desire for vengeance.
Bucky shifted his gaze to her once more, focusing intently on her, studying her the same way he had this morning at the Denny's. "Most people aren't like us," he said carefully. Because yes, he had seen the information that had been released. He'd read every bit of it he could get his hands on, practically memorized it. He also knew she was the one to release the information that came out. He'd seen her interrogation in front of congress and how matter-of-factly she'd handed them their asses on a platter before waltzing out.
No. His instincts about her were spot on. He could feel it in his bones.
"Of course." He tilted his head at her. "Believe it or not, at one point I used to be a gentleman. I think."
"That's true," Natasha agreed in that same quiet voice, "most people aren't." And thank God for that. "And I think that's actually a good thing." Because it was only the strong, the resilient, who could survive the lives they led. They both were broken in different ways, yes, but they were both still alive. Which, she believed, was a testimony in and of itself, given their bloody and violent histories.
She almost smirked to his latter quip, but reined it in just in time. Because yes, yes he had been, hadn't he? So long ago, and in small ways, ways which counted for so much because they weren't programmed; they were simply part of the man he'd been before HYDRA sank its poisoned claws into him. "I can believe it," she told him, eyes still warm. Natasha pushed up from the table, absently flicking a curl over her shoulder.
"I imagine you were a regular charmer back in your day, James Barnes," she remarked as she stepped around the small table, unable to help placing a slender hand on Bucky's left shoulder as she moved behind his chair. Her fingertips drifted from his left to his right as she passed, adding, "Help yourself if you're still hungry. I'm gonna take a quick shower, then we might want to think about getting some sleep."
"It is," he agreed quietly. His gaze dropped to the table, appetite vanishing from the direction the conversation had turned. For every single thing he did know about Natasha Romanoff, he'd bet there were twenty he didn't. There hadn't been much on how she'd been trained or what methods had been used, but he'd wager they hadn't been pleasant.
Still. Her easy agreement about his joke almost caught him off guard and he glanced at her, assuming Steve may have filled in some of the blanks on the guy he'd once been. He remembered that he'd rarely spent a weekend without a date before the war. More than that, though, he knew that guy had been dead for a long, long time. He'd died back on a table in a weapons factory in Azzano, long before he'd taken a plunge off a train. The beginning of his ruination.
The light touch to his shoulder brought him quickly out of the dark terrain his mind had veered into and he found himself holding his breath, wondering if she had any idea that she was the first person to touch him without inflicting any sort of pain for longer than he can actually recall. It seemed so casual and easy, those light touches, but in reality they gave him goosebumps up and down his right arm and he turned his head to watch her go, feeling shaken to his core for reasons he didn't understand.
Natasha stood under the stream of hot water, head down and eyes closed, letting the heat seep down into her bones. She inhaled a shaking breath, wondering not for the first time how her sanity was going to survive this. Your mental health is irrelevant, she heard a voice between her ears remind her. This is for him, it is all for him, lest you forget, Natalia.
Yes, she knew it was all for him. And she still felt a little guilty, not immediately notifying Rogers of the situation. But damnit, she'd given her word, and she still knew that putting Steve Rogers and James Barnes in the same vicinity right at this moment was guaranteed to end in disaster. And everyone had had enough of that for a while, thank you.
Twenty minutes later saw her stepping out of the shower after giving herself another mental lecture, chastising herself for wanting more than she should. But it wasn't wrong to hope, was it? No, not wrong, but as everything else she'd dared dream, more than likely futile. She wasn't meant to have those dreams; her hands were stained just as red as Bucky's. The best an assassin could dare to hope for was a clean death, after all. Natasha snarled at that thought, yanking a comb savagely through her wet hair.
Ablutions didn't take her long - they seldom did - and she emerged from the steam-clouded bathroom a few minutes later, snugly wrapped in a thick grey robe, barefoot and rubbing her still-damp hair with a towel. She fetched a few pillows and blankets from the closet to bring with her to the couch, padding down the small hallway with laden arms. She'd slept in worse places, after all. But the heater was running full blast - even in this mild weather, it could get downright chilly at this altitude.
While Natasha was in the shower, Bucky cleaned up the kitchen, putting away all the leftover food for later, then washing and drying the dishes before putting them away, as well. He washed down the toaster and the counter and the sink and left the wash cloth draped over the sink nozzle to dry. And then, he simply leaned against the counter and stared out the window blankly, listening to the sound of running water from the shower in the back of the cabin.
He wondered if it would even be possible to sleep here, but more importantly, he wondered if it was possible to sleep here and not have any nightmares. He didn't really want to consider those possibilities, but they were possibilities. Sleep didn't come easily these days and when it did come around, it tended to be full of images he'd rather not see. Sometimes they were actual memories, other times, they were simply his worst fears dancing behind his tired eyelids.
Shivering a little in the chill of the air, Bucky moved and kicked the furnace up. He didn't like the cold and with good reason. And if Natasha was insistent on sleeping on the couch, the cabin needed to be a lot warmer than it was right then. He turned to look over his shoulder when he heard the bathroom door open and then she emerged with a grey robe wrapped around her, engulfing her in its warmth.
Bucky swallowed heavily, watching as she moved toward the sofa carrying pillows and blankets. "Are you sure you don't want the bed? This is your place."
A glance in the kitchen confirmed that her houseguest hadn't been idle while she'd been in the shower, and Natasha gave him a nod of thanks as she went past him towards the couch, propping her pillows on one end and spreading out the layers of blankets she'd brought with her. Free of its ponytail, her curls spilled over her shoulders like streaks of blood, swinging with a damp bounce when she turned her head at the sound of Bucky's voice, looking over at him with a slightly lofted eyebrow.
"I'm sure," she affirmed, finishing her nest then lugging the large black case up on the coffee table. "One, the couch is a little too small for you to be comfortable; two, it's warmer in here than it is in there and I always freeze if I sleep in there by myself; and three, I thought you could use a little privacy, if you wanted." She sat down on the edge of the sofa, touched the combination on the case's electronic keypad, waited for the green beep, then opened it to reveal a veritable armory within.
Handguns, throwing knives, all of her own custom-made weaponry, and also what any layman would recognize as an assault rifle, broken down into its smaller components, quietly waiting to be fashioned into a deadly killing machine once again.
Natasha immediately reached for one of the handguns nestled in its custom liner, ejecting the magazine and opening the chamber to prove it empty, then turned it around and held it by the barrel, offering it to her houseguest. "Sig P220," she remarked. "I believe you're familiar with it, da?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maskirovka) wrote2018-04-08 02:44 pm
no subject
He doesn't remember. He doesn't know. That litany kept scrolling in front of her, clouding her vision and stilling her hands, until all she could do was watch her own memories begin to replay in her mind's eye, over and over with crystal clarity. She was lost in the middle of her small kitchen, gazing at nothing, but reliving every single scene, every single moment, until a timer went off, jolting her out of the reverie.
Natasha shuddered, yanking open the carton of sliced meat a little more savagely than she'd intended, resulting in it ripping halfway down, but she ignored it; she doubted there'd be any leftovers to worry about, anyway. She forced herself to place everything neatly on the small table, wondering why she didn't just toss him out on his ass and demand he vanish again, she couldn't take this sort of heartache anymore, just fucking go!
But she knew she wouldn't.
She couldn't.
By the time she heard the very quiet, very quiet, footsteps in the hallway, the former Black Widow was once more the picture of composure, moving fluidly around the small kitchen. She smoothly pulled the soup from the microwave, spun on a graceful heel, and placed both down on the table in the respective places, glancing up when a shadow appeared in the doorway.
"Feel better?" An innocent inquiry, she supposed. No matter how much her hands might itch to smooth back that damp sable hair, let her fingertips drift over his pale cheek. No. No, no, no. He doesn't know you. Not anymore.
no subject
Both the lost look and the angry one vanished as quickly as they came as he took a couple of quiet steps toward her, not as silent as he could be. But he wasn't trying to sneak up on her. He regarded her quietly for a moment, then gave a short nod.
"Yeah." Because truthfully he did. Not bathing had been a survival technique, not a thing he enjoyed. He had faint memories of days before the war when he'd take his time showering and shaving and even styling his hair, wanting to look his best because his parents had taught him at some point, that was important. At least he assumed that was from his parents' teaching.
"Can I help?" His voice was hesitant. The urge to be useful was still ever-present, too deeply ingrained that if he didn't have a mission, he was going back on ice. Even though he knew that wasn't a threat hanging over his head, the emotions that were tied to it? They certainly were.
no subject
"What do you like on your sandwiches?" She'd known before, but this wasn't the same man that'd been taken from her all those years ago. And you'd do well to remember that little fact, Natalia Alianova, she heard her conscious reiterate. "We have lettuce and tomatoes, Swiss cheese, mayo, mustard, and...honey-smoked turkey." That she'd nearly scattered all across the kitchen a few minutes ago.
"I think we have enough stuff to make blinis for breakfast, too."
She'd stocked up on the foodstuffs, knowing it was going to take a lot to keep her houseguest fed, and from the looks of him, he'd had somewhat of a rough time eating regularly. Which wasn't all that surprising, really.
"Just bottled water for now, but I can make some coffee, if you like." She typically preferred tea, when she had the choice, but she didn't mind a good dark roast loaded with cream, sugar, and milk.
no subject
Bucky eyed the toppings she'd picked. He knew he liked cheese for sure. The rest -- he hesitated a second then shrugged. "Everything's fine," he told her, because truthfully he wasn't picky. He didn't think he had been before, either, but things like that hadn't really come back to him. He supposed it was ultimately unimportant. He could figure it out now as he went along, anyway.
He couldn't remember ever having blinis before, but he knew what they were. Sort of. "Will you show me how to make them?" Because for whatever reason, puttering around the small kitchen felt sort of familiar. Normal. Maybe he'd liked to cook at some point in his life, before the war and HYDRA?
"Water's fine. Thank you." At least the words of gratitude were starting to feel less foreign as they rolled off his tongue.
no subject
Bucky's next question also had her stilling slightly, but she moved on, shrugging lightly and giving him a glance over her shoulder. "I will. They're ridiculously easy, and a lot lighter and healthier than American pancakes." Or so she justified it, anyway.
Placing the dish of condiments on the table, Natasha moved to the fridge, coming to stand close to Bucky's right side. "Hand me a couple of glasses?" A quiet query, coupled with a very small smile. This time, she couldn't help the entirely instinctual motion of placing a light hand on his right bicep.
"You're welcome, James."
no subject
The hand on his arm caught him off guard, but more than that, it was the way she spoke his name, a name he hadn't heard in a long, long time. He'd been trying as hard as he could to think of himself as Bucky and not the Asset or Soldat. But hearing the name James sent off some kind of signal in his brain that was somewhere between alarming and confusing.
He found himself staring at her, his eyebrows furrowed and his head cocked slightly to the side. Of course he knew James was his real first name, but he'd gotten the impression from the various things he'd read - and his brief interaction all those months ago with Steve - that he'd gone pretty exclusively by the name Bucky. So why on earth did hearing James, coming from Natasha, seem so damned familiar?
no subject
Needing something to jolt her out from under that heavy stare, the redhead bit down on the inside of her lower lip, the sudden pain delicious. Unable to help the heat creeping down the slope of her throat to spread out over her collar and disappear beneath her shirt, she adopted her customary sardonic expression but actually had to clear her throat before quipping, "Gonna hand me the glasses, Barnes, or make me crawl over you to reach the cabinet?"
no subject
Natasha was the first one to touch him in months.
He hadn't realized he was breathing more heavily than before until he noticed that her cheeks were growing pink, but then she was snarking at him and he wondered if he'd imagined it. He exhaled, breaking the gaze and feeling dazed as he turned to grab the glasses from the cabinet, holding them out to her wordlessly.
no subject
Even when she'd been flat on her face, spitting blood from lacerated lips and aching in every bone and muscle, she'd been drawn to him. And somehow, hard fists had become gentle touches in the deep, cold hours of darkest night, a rough baritone which had only issued orders, commands, somehow became an impassioned whisper against her heated skin, breathing her name beneath the fall of scarlet.
Forbidden. Unsanctioned. Taboo.
Hadn't stopped them, had it?
But thank God Bucky turned away before she could act upon her suicidal impulse; he all but yanked open the cabinet and passed over the mismatched glasses without another word. Natasha took them just as silently, hurriedly opening the freezer not only to fetch ice, but to let the blessedly cold air cool her heated cheeks and throat. The cubes clinked merrily against the glass; she couldn't linger for too long without suspicion.
Besides, she'd always prided herself on being smoother than this, hadn't she?
Exchanging one door for another, she pulled two bottles of water from the refrigerator, busying herself with pouring for them both, then placed the glasses on the table and all but dropped into her seat, knees suddenly feeling a touch unsteady. The toasting bread smelled wonderful, and everything else was ready; their soup still steamed in the bowls, but Natasha had a feeling everything was going to taste like cardboard, given how intense the last minute and a half had just been.
no subject
Bucky found himself staring after her as she moved across the room and put ice in their glasses, pulled out water bottles from the fridge and poured it into the glasses and then sat down like she was completely oblivious to the weight of his gaze. He knew better, though. She hadn't become Black Widow by being unobservant.
His nerves were decidedly rattled, but the toast chose that moment to pop up from the toaster and he moved to grab them, laying them on the plates and carrying them to the small table, taking the seat directly across from her. He waited for her to make her sandwich before he would -- it was the polite thing to do, and there was that female voice against, distant but present, in his mind. Kind but firm.
"Soup smells good," he said quietly, finally letting his gaze drop from her form.
no subject
The pop of the toaster gave her something other than him to focus upon, and Natasha sat up expectantly as Bucky turned with the plate of warm bread and took the other seat across the table. After a brief pause - she was still unused to his hesitance over nearly everything - Natasha gave a mental shrug and took two slices of toast and fashioned a sandwich for herself, layering meat, cheese, and lettuce in a dainty pattern between the bread.
Bucky broke the thick silence and she glanced up with a thin smile, nodding her agreement. "It does." Was it only her imagination or had her voice gone a little huskier? God. A sip of water corrected than, she hoped, and Natasha added, trying for lightness, "Hopefully it tastes better than diner breakfast at two am."
no subject
He kept giving small, flickering glances in Natasha's direction. He had a feeling there was so, so much more to her than what he knew about her. It was fair, considering how little she probably knew about him, too.
"It was good too," he told her. "The food this morning." He dropped his gaze to focus on the food in front of him now. He ate a few bites of the soup before he spoke again. "All food is better than the protein shakes."
no subject
And he kept looking at her. Every so often their eyes caught, and Bucky always glanced away first. Natasha simply lowered her gaze to her plate, eating lightly and with a delicate sureness to each movement, very well aware of being observed, scrutinized. It didn't bother her. She knew he had to be constantly combing through what was left of his memories, searching for that something that would trip a switch and suddenly remind him of things long past, be they pleasant or...otherwise.
She glanced up when he spoke again, giving a light little shrug. "I'm glad you liked it. Diner food can sometimes be a little heavy on the grease, for me." Then she lowered her spoon, a small but tangible wrench momentarily knotting her stomach when he mentioned protein shakes. "They're...not the best, no," she agreed quietly, stirring her soup slowly.
Natasha worried at her lower lip, wondering if she should even bring it up, but... "It surprised you, didn't it, when I called you 'James' a minute ago." Not really a question, that. She looked up at him through her lashes, a little bold, but...soft. Something had snapped between them just then; she'd felt it, and from the look he'd given her, she hadn't been the only one to do so.
no subject
It didn't escape his notice that she agreed about the protein shakes and he found himself gazing at her for a moment, speculative. He wondered what her own training as Black Widow had consisted of. He can't imagine the methods used had been pleasant. He wondered if they'd wiped her brain out a few times, too. He wondered just how similar the two of them might truly be. Whatever similarities they had, the differences stuck out far more. She took on a persona of someone who was flirtatious and optimistic but he didn't buy it. It didn't seem real. She was acting -- but for whose benefit? His or her own?
And then, for a moment, the facade dropped entirely and he found himself holding his breath, staring at her with his glass of water halfway to his lips. "Yes," he agreed, because there was no point in denying. He hadn't tried to hide his reaction. "Yes, it did." He took a sip of the drink and set it down on the table once more, but kept his fingers curled around it.
"It felt -- familiar?" He wasn't sure that was the right word, exactly.
no subject
"Well," she heard herself say, as if from the end of a very long tunnel, "that is your name, isn't it?" It was a customary quip, but even to her ears it fell a little...flat. So she tried again, forcing her lips to curve somewhat wryly. "Steve shared your file. What information that he had, rather." Never mind that she'd given him most of it in the first place. Details she'd compiled over a decade of searching.
"He hoped that there was something in there that would help us locate you, after SHIELD collapsed." She shrugged again, but suddenly wasn't hungry anymore, either. "But we never even got close, did we?" Nine months, they'd traveled the world, looking for a single man. A man who was nothing more than a ghost, a specter lost amid the masses.
"Steve always referred to you as 'Bucky'," Natasha added softly. Then she looked up at him again, sincerity edging into warm green eyes. "But I think I like you better as 'James'." Moy Dzheyms. Moya zvezda...
no subject
He exhaled, sitting back in his chair and staring at the mostly empty plate of food before lifting his gaze to look at her. "A couple of times." He paused. "I knew he was looking for me. That he'd recruited people to help him." He also knew Steve was never going to stop and that at some point, he was going to have to at least meet with him, convince Steve that he was fine and he could handle himself. It made him tired just to think about. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Steve, it was that he wasn't ready. He'd been trained to be a ghost, and he was damned good at it. Maybe better now, even, because he had even deeper incentive to stay hidden: keeping Steve safe. And he was mostly certainly not safe to be around.
Which Natasha knew, too, and yet...here they were. Sitting across from each other in a safe house in the middle of Hungary, having dinner like they were old friends. And the weirdest part of all of it was that sense of deja vu that he couldn't seem to entirely shake.
He drew in a breath and lifted his eyes to look at her, to hold her gaze. "It's fine. You can call me whichever," he said quietly, nodding. Neither name necessarily felt like who he was at that point, but maybe he could get used to them more if someone was addressing him regularly. He paused at that thought, realizing he'd already jumped to the assumption this deal between them, whatever it was, was more than short-term.
no subject
But Steve wasn't here. And if things had gone according to the plans he'd discussed with her and Wilson just four short days ago, the two of them were heading back Stateside, which took a lot of the stress out of her shoulders; that she didn't have to watch her back for America's Golden Boy bearing down on them both. Because she knew Barnes would absolutely disappear, and then she'd be left holding the proverbial empty bag.
Bucky met her eyes then, and Natasha's spoon stilled as she let it come to rest against the side of her soup bowl. She nodded back, once. "Khorosho," she murmured back. All right. And she felt it again, that unerring pull. It seemed to snap back into place each time their gazes met and strengthen the longer they held. It was both aggravating and bittersweet simultaneously.
"Why did you come with me?" she suddenly heard herself ask, shifting slightly and straightening in her chair. "You had no reason to, but you did. Why did you trust me?"
no subject
He also knew what he would do if he was backed into a corner. He wouldn't like it, but he wouldn't allow himself to be apprehended, locked up or used. Not by HYDRA. Not by the remnants of SHIELD that was rebuilding itself. Not by any other organization or agency because as far as he was concerned they were all corrupt and had hidden agendas.
Never again.
There was something in the way she kept looking at him, like she was waiting for something, like she was trying to figure him out or she was waiting for him to figure it out. But what?
The question surprised him and his lips parted momentarily, because truthfully, there was no real good reason he could give her that would answer her satisfactorily. He rested his hands on the table, considering. It was a fair question. "I guess I just have a gut feeling about you," he said finally.
no subject
"Fair enough," she murmured, picking up her sandwich and taking another small bite. She'd let her gaze fall as she did so, needing somewhere else to look other than crystalline blue. As she ate, Natasha silently wondered how long it would be before she woke up to find him gone again. She wouldn't begrudge him that, when she did. She had no illusions that Bucky would remain, even if some small, wishful part of her hoped that he would. Even if he didn't remember everything that had transpired between them, James Barnes was still a force to be reckoned with, and paranoid enough to sniff out trouble at the slightest hint of something not right.
Her old, battered humor quirked for a moment, and her smirk tilted slightly. "Some people might not consider that plus, though." Natasha touched a fingertip to the corner of her lips, brushing away a few stray crumbs. "My backstory isn't exactly stellar, either." If he hadn't gone through the files she'd released online, she'd eat her boots. It was a mixed blessing that certain details regarding both of their histories had been redacted at the highest levels; only Nick Fury had known the true account of the "Black Widow", and Natalia had trusted him with her life, rightly so.
She ate a few more bites from her sandwich, then her soup, before setting both away and leaning back in her chair. Crossing her arms, Natasha let her head tilt slightly, silently appraising her companion before inquiring, "Did you save any hot water for me, by chance?"
no subject
It was going to happen. But not until he could be sure that their programming could be deactivated. He was smart. He wasn't going to risk losing himself -- whatever was left of himself anyway -- because of his desire for vengeance.
Bucky shifted his gaze to her once more, focusing intently on her, studying her the same way he had this morning at the Denny's. "Most people aren't like us," he said carefully. Because yes, he had seen the information that had been released. He'd read every bit of it he could get his hands on, practically memorized it. He also knew she was the one to release the information that came out. He'd seen her interrogation in front of congress and how matter-of-factly she'd handed them their asses on a platter before waltzing out.
No. His instincts about her were spot on. He could feel it in his bones.
"Of course." He tilted his head at her. "Believe it or not, at one point I used to be a gentleman. I think."
no subject
She almost smirked to his latter quip, but reined it in just in time. Because yes, yes he had been, hadn't he? So long ago, and in small ways, ways which counted for so much because they weren't programmed; they were simply part of the man he'd been before HYDRA sank its poisoned claws into him. "I can believe it," she told him, eyes still warm. Natasha pushed up from the table, absently flicking a curl over her shoulder.
"I imagine you were a regular charmer back in your day, James Barnes," she remarked as she stepped around the small table, unable to help placing a slender hand on Bucky's left shoulder as she moved behind his chair. Her fingertips drifted from his left to his right as she passed, adding, "Help yourself if you're still hungry. I'm gonna take a quick shower, then we might want to think about getting some sleep."
no subject
Still. Her easy agreement about his joke almost caught him off guard and he glanced at her, assuming Steve may have filled in some of the blanks on the guy he'd once been. He remembered that he'd rarely spent a weekend without a date before the war. More than that, though, he knew that guy had been dead for a long, long time. He'd died back on a table in a weapons factory in Azzano, long before he'd taken a plunge off a train. The beginning of his ruination.
The light touch to his shoulder brought him quickly out of the dark terrain his mind had veered into and he found himself holding his breath, wondering if she had any idea that she was the first person to touch him without inflicting any sort of pain for longer than he can actually recall. It seemed so casual and easy, those light touches, but in reality they gave him goosebumps up and down his right arm and he turned his head to watch her go, feeling shaken to his core for reasons he didn't understand.
no subject
Yes, she knew it was all for him. And she still felt a little guilty, not immediately notifying Rogers of the situation. But damnit, she'd given her word, and she still knew that putting Steve Rogers and James Barnes in the same vicinity right at this moment was guaranteed to end in disaster. And everyone had had enough of that for a while, thank you.
Twenty minutes later saw her stepping out of the shower after giving herself another mental lecture, chastising herself for wanting more than she should. But it wasn't wrong to hope, was it? No, not wrong, but as everything else she'd dared dream, more than likely futile. She wasn't meant to have those dreams; her hands were stained just as red as Bucky's. The best an assassin could dare to hope for was a clean death, after all. Natasha snarled at that thought, yanking a comb savagely through her wet hair.
Ablutions didn't take her long - they seldom did - and she emerged from the steam-clouded bathroom a few minutes later, snugly wrapped in a thick grey robe, barefoot and rubbing her still-damp hair with a towel. She fetched a few pillows and blankets from the closet to bring with her to the couch, padding down the small hallway with laden arms. She'd slept in worse places, after all. But the heater was running full blast - even in this mild weather, it could get downright chilly at this altitude.
no subject
He wondered if it would even be possible to sleep here, but more importantly, he wondered if it was possible to sleep here and not have any nightmares. He didn't really want to consider those possibilities, but they were possibilities. Sleep didn't come easily these days and when it did come around, it tended to be full of images he'd rather not see. Sometimes they were actual memories, other times, they were simply his worst fears dancing behind his tired eyelids.
Shivering a little in the chill of the air, Bucky moved and kicked the furnace up. He didn't like the cold and with good reason. And if Natasha was insistent on sleeping on the couch, the cabin needed to be a lot warmer than it was right then. He turned to look over his shoulder when he heard the bathroom door open and then she emerged with a grey robe wrapped around her, engulfing her in its warmth.
Bucky swallowed heavily, watching as she moved toward the sofa carrying pillows and blankets. "Are you sure you don't want the bed? This is your place."
no subject
"I'm sure," she affirmed, finishing her nest then lugging the large black case up on the coffee table. "One, the couch is a little too small for you to be comfortable; two, it's warmer in here than it is in there and I always freeze if I sleep in there by myself; and three, I thought you could use a little privacy, if you wanted." She sat down on the edge of the sofa, touched the combination on the case's electronic keypad, waited for the green beep, then opened it to reveal a veritable armory within.
Handguns, throwing knives, all of her own custom-made weaponry, and also what any layman would recognize as an assault rifle, broken down into its smaller components, quietly waiting to be fashioned into a deadly killing machine once again.
Natasha immediately reached for one of the handguns nestled in its custom liner, ejecting the magazine and opening the chamber to prove it empty, then turned it around and held it by the barrel, offering it to her houseguest. "Sig P220," she remarked. "I believe you're familiar with it, da?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)