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?"
Bucky didn't really know how to do idle. Maybe that was one of Steve's traits that had rubbed off on him growing up, but sitting still these days just wasn't part of his forte. Sitting still for too long meant he'd delve too deeply into thoughts he'd rather not deal with, and that didn't tend to turn out well. He could slip into his mind far too easily, and wound up drowning in the darker memories that he'd gotten back.
He especially had no desire to do that in the presence of anyone else considering how ugly it could get.
He watched as Natasha's red locks framed her face in a way that was far too beautiful for one person and he had to remind himself that despite everything, somewhere deep down he was no different than any other hot-blooded male and noticing the fact that she was so damn pretty that it almost hurt to look at her was possibly the most normal thing he'd felt in years.
Even though what she said made sense (the couch was definitely too small for his larger frame), and that it was warmer out in the living room than the bedroom, he couldn't quite shake the guilt that weighed on him for taking the bed anyway. It just didn't seem right. But she was insistent, so he wasn't going to put up further argument. And if he wound up covering her up with another blanket in the middle of the night, well. It was the least he could do.
Bucky watched as she opened the case, and he paused, gaze sweeping over all the different weapons she'd stored inside of it. There wasn't too much in the way of weaponry that he wasn't familiar with. He could assemble and disassemble all of the different guns in a matter of seconds, and in his sleep.
Still. He was a little unsettled at the fact she was trying to hand him a gun. Slowly he shook his head, holding up his left arm, a chilling reminder that really, the only weapon he needed was already attached to his body. "I'm good. But thank you."
Besides. He had a gun at his hip, one at the small of his back, knives strapped to both of his ankles, and another at his right shoulder blade. He didn't like it, but it was how it had to be for now. It was his just in case insurance.
Rather than insist he take the gun, Natasha merely shrugged and placed it back in its spot; she had a very good hunch that he was carrying his own private arsenal with him. It was what they did, after all - never be unprepared. And she had to agree with him on one thing; that fascinating left arm was a weapon with which to be reckoned.
But she went on with her nightly weapons check, even removing one of the smaller Glocks and nestling it beneath the couch cushion as if it were a matter of course. A sheathed knife was slipped beneath the cushion on sofa's other end, and Natasha also chose a few other toys before closing the case and setting the lock once more.
"Well," she commented, gingerly sliding the case off of the coffee table and back to its place against the wall once more, "if you need it, it'll be there." She then fetched a clean pair of socks from her duffel and pulled them on, returning to her bed on the sofa to begin settling down in it. "I think I might turn in," she said around a sudden yawn. Sleepy green eyes found Bucky's, and she tilted her head back and forth, pulling up one of the blankets to wrap in her arms.
"Just...if you do decide to take off again, wake me up before you go?" It would...hurt, to wake up later and discover he'd vanished. "You know you're more than welcome to stay, and..." a small shrug, "...it's nice, not to be completely alone. For a while, anyway."
He watched as she carefully tucked away her own stash of weapons, readying herself for any middle of the night battles that might break out. He hoped like hell no middle of the night battles broke out. He felt reasonably assured they'd hidden themselves away safely enough, at least for the time being.
Bucky nodded slightly at the reassurance, unsure whether or not he should alert her to the fact he's already packing. "In the interest of full disclosure...I have weapons on me aside from the arm."
He found himself holding his breath at her request, at her quiet admission that it was nice not to be alone. He wasn't sure which affected him more, but they both left an invisible mark somewhere on his soul. "I won't take off without telling you." He'd do his best to keep his word on that, and if there was trouble...
He wouldn't leave her behind. He'd watch her back. He held her gaze a moment longer, then turned to head down the hallway, pausing only for a few seconds. "Goodnight," he said quietly.
It wasn't surprising that he was packing, and probably more than just a single firearm, but it was a little startling that he'd admitted it. But maybe, just maybe, he was starting to trust her, and despite what the rest of the world believed, Natasha Romanoff - Natalia Romanova that was - made it a point never to go back on her word.
Not ever without a damned good reason.
So she nodded, considered making a quip along the lines of A man generally works best with his own equipment, but tried to stifle another yawn instead, and failed. Then she blinked up at him again, hearing his quiet assurance that he wouldn't, in fact, disappear into thin air without saying something, and a sweet, sleepy smile curved her lips as she tucked herself in, pulling up the blankets and absently flipping up her long hair to coil across the pillows.
Natasha met his eyes steadily, though her lids were drooping quickly, and watched as Bucky slowly turned towards the hallway, hearing his gruffly gentle benediction as he paused for a moment. It warmed her heart, fragile frozen thing that it was, and curled her toes, warm in their thick socks.
"Goodnight, James," she called to his retreating back, then reached above her head to flick off the lamp, then snuggle down into the warm darkness. She lay still on the sofa, automatically listening for any noises or rustles from the back of the house, but eventually slumber took her away, down into its inevitable embrace.
Truth be told, Bucky wasn't sure what to think when it came to the fact that he felt like being upfront with her was the right thing to do. It wasn't because he viewed her as some kind of replacement handler -- the thought alone made him shudder involuntarily as he made his way into the bedroom. There was something else, something just beyond his reach, buried in his subconscious, that told him that trusting her was okay. That she wasn't out to get him. Maybe it was naive, or hell, even wishful thinking, that there was someone on his side, someone who wasn't going to turn on him. Sure, there was Steve, but - that was different, too, and he wasn't sure why. It just was.
He laid down on the bed but didn't get under the covers. He simply lie awake, staring up at the ceiling as the minutes ticked by slowly. After awhile, the cold air began to seep into his skin and he grimaced. Cold was maybe one of his least favorite sensations and he reluctantly climbed off the bed and tugged the blankets back, pausing and staring down at the mattress as thoughts of the redhead flickered through his mind, wondering if she was warm enough. She was small, and while he knew she was anything but weak, she was just as vulnerable to the cold as he was.
He quietly tugged the blankets off the bed, carrying them in his arms and making his way to the living room where she lay sleeping, breathing slow and even. For a moment, he simply found himself watching her. Then he set the blankets down silently on the floor, keeping the heaviest one in his arms and moving to gently drape it over her unconscious form.
When morning came, she'd find him passed out on the floor across the room, curled up beneath the remaining blankets from the bedroom.
Natasha stirred some nine hours later, feeling a little dizzy and lightheaded. She usually only averaged about six hours at the time, when she could manage it, but she must have been tireder than she'd realized. Not surprising, given the emotional roller-coaster she'd been on for the last day and a half. Yawning delicately, the redhead swam up from her nest, starting in surprise when she recognized the comforter from the bed. She let her fingers roam over the bedspread, then sat up further and glanced around the living room, mouth melting in a smile to see the covered lump curled up on the floor.
As quiet as a shadow, Natasha slipped up off of the couch, gathering up the bedspread as she went, and padded over to return the favor, draping it over Bucky's slumbering form, trying not to wake him. He deserved to sleep as long as he liked, although her heart gave a twinge that he'd opted to sleep on the floor instead. A glance at the clock revealed it just after sunrise, and a peek out of the kitchen window showed the edge of light just peeking over the mountains to the east.
She briefly considered firing up the stove and starting on breakfast, but then recalled that Bucky had asked her yesterday to teach him the recipe. So she started up the coffeepot instead, then padded on silent feet to the bathroom to tend to the morning ablutions. It was definitely chilly in the bedroom, even with the small gas heater running, so she didn't linger. On the way back, she snagged a novel from the bookshelf and took it back to the couch with her, flipping through the first pages while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.
Bucky slept like the dead, still and silent on the floor, completely immobile and unaware even as she got up and moved around to start coffee and use the restroom and grab a book. The smell of coffee is what permeated his slumber and his eyebrows furrowed, his head under the nest of covers.
Sniffing, he shifted beneath the weight of the blankets and poked his head out, momentarily trying to figure out where he was. He wasn't used to waking up to the smell of freshly brewing coffee, and he'd be hard-pressed to dig up a memory where he was. It was new, comforting, and completely non-threatening, and none of that made any sense. When he opened his eyes his gaze immediately locked on her form, curled up on the couch reading.
He'd fallen asleep on the floor of a safe house that belonged to Natasha Romanoff. He blinked a couple of times, sitting up and idly wondering if he'd dreamed up this scenario because everything about it screamed that he had to be mistaken. But no, he dug the nails of his right hand into his left leg, felt the sharp pain it caused, and knew he wasn't dreaming. Still. His eyes zeroed in on the book in her hands.
"What are you reading?" His voice was rough from sleep.
She heard him stirring a few minutes later, but opted to just let him wake up on his own, and kept her gaze on her book, turning a page every now and then. Only when she heard him speak did she glance up, a soft smile on her lips and eyes warm, holding up her book to show him the cover title.
"A James Patterson novel," was her quiet reply. "He's written several, and his mysteries are pretty good." A rustle, a moment later, and the lamp next to the couch came on, casting gentle golden light over the room, revealing the former Winter Soldier in all his tousled glory; Natasha had to chuckle under her breath. It would be so easy to let her hands smooth through his disheveled hair, drift fingertips over his stubbled cheeks and sharp jaw, wouldn't it.
"Want some coffee?" she asked instead, placing her book aside and sliding out of her rumpled nest. "It should be ready by now."
He'd heard of James Patterson, even picked up a couple of his novels at a thrift store a few months back, though he hadn't ended up buying them. He'd decided on buying a discount a science fiction novel instead. But he filed away the knowledge that she had a preference for mystery novels along with the other things he knew about her.
Bucky rubbed his flesh hand over his face, yawning involuntarily and untangling himself from the blankets he'd used to make a pallet on the floor before he rose to his feet. "Yeah. Definitely need coffee," he agreed. Not that it did anything for him. It was a tiny bit of normalcy that he'd clung to.
"I can get it," he offered as raked a hand through his tangled hair.
Natasha bit her lips to keep from giggling at Bucky's rumpled, tousled look. It'd always been a good one on him, one she'd never tired of seeing. Time hadn't erased that preference either, she noted with a crinkle around her eyes. "All right," she agreed, folding back down on the sofa, tucking one of the blankets around her. "You know where the cups are."
She absently propped her head on a hand and ran fingers through a few loose curls as she watched him putter around the kitchen. For such a large man, he moved so fluidly, with an innate grace she'd envied and had quickly adopted early on into her training under his hand. He'd been so hard on her, she'd hated him then, but now realized that his brutal tutelage had kept her alive, and had rendered her capable enough to survive in even the harshest circumstances.
She'd never had the chance to thank him for that.
"Cream and sugar are in the cupboard above the microwave," she called after a minute or two. "Milk's in the fridge." Natasha pulled aside a corner of the blanket and gently patted the cushion beside her. "Come sit by me? We'll drink coffee and I'll tell you all about this book series. Might find that you like it."
Bucky tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at the laughter in her eyes even as she made herself comfortable on the sofa once more. He had the distinct impression she was trying hard not to laugh at his morning bed-head. He knew from quick glimpses in the shattered mirror in his bathroom that it was ridiculous looking first thing in the morning. Still, the light expression on her face made his lips quirk upwards -- not quite a smile -- but almost. He shook his head and moved out of the living room and into the kitchen area, grabbing the mugs down.
He paused even before she called out about cream and sugar, which he'd already located, and he'd dumped in a bunch of both into the one he'd been getting for her without even asking if she liked cream and sugar in her coffee. He wondered why he'd leaped immediately to that assumption.
"Do you do cream and sugar?" he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder and taking in the sight of her curled up so cozily in the blankets on the sofa even as she invited him to sit down beside her. If she didn't like her coffee that sweet, he'd drink it -- he'd cringe but he wouldn't waste it. He liked a little of each in his drink, but he'd probably gone overboard.
She'd opened her book to its saved page and had it resting lightly in her lap, but Natasha glanced up at Bucky's question, nodding in response. "Lots of both. I'm not the biggest coffee fan in the world, but I'll drink it if it's sweet." She was definitely a caffeine junkie, but had never really enjoyed coffee's bitter flavor. "I usually drink hot tea, but forgot to pick up some during our grocery run yesterday." A mild shrug. "I'll live, though."
Natasha wiggled around a little, arranging her pillows more comfortably, and closed her book, finger marking her page. "Flavored coffee's okay, iced coffee's better." Then her mouth crimped in a humorous smile. "Although you should have seen poor Steve trying to operate the espresso machine back in New York. That was hilarious."
Propping back up on an elbow, she fell back to just watching him, never failing to enjoy how he moved; the subtle tilt of his head as he worked, the graceful swing of shaggy hair around broad shoulders. The soft, mobile mouth beneath permanently tired eyes, the sharper angle of his jaw, peppered with rough whiskers that darkened dusky skin. Yeah, it was a fact: James Barnes was one helluva gorgeous man. She absolutely believed that back in the forties, no shortage of dames sighed or cried into their pillows over this bloke.
So had she, her memory supplied, but for different reasons entirely.
But Natasha refused to let melancholy color the morning, so she shoved those thoughts away and focused on the now. Which consisted of a cool morning, a quiet place, and a handsome man preparing coffee in the kitchen. Not a bad view, that.
Bucky stirred the cup of coffee, his back to her, expression on his face puzzled. He shouldn't assume it meant anything, he supposed. It could just be a weird coincidence. Then again, how many coincidences in life were really just that? He didn't think it was as many as people tended to pretend it was.
There'd been a handful of instances in the last twenty-four hours that signaled there was more here than he was consciously aware of. The problem was, he didn't know what it was or even how to access the information that he wanted. This wasn't how his memories tended to resurface. Usually those came back with terrible headaches that wouldn't dissipate until the memory was his once more, and then he'd be exhausted for hours after.
He stirred the sugar and cream in his own coffee, careful not to mix up the mugs as he turned and carried them back toward the other room, expression giving nothing away of his thoughts.
His lips curve into a faint smile at the image of Steve battling it out with an espresso machine. "Yeah. Yeah, I bet." There was no doubt, really. Steve had always been a bit skeptical when it came to technology while Bucky had been the one to drag him to Stark's Expo every year. Why was that so easy to remember?
He handed her the mug and hesitantly settled onto the sofa beside her, mere inches between them.
Natasha reached up to take the mug with both hands, nodding her thanks. "Spasibo." Then she shifted about so he could settle beside her, tucking her legs up beneath her. As he sat, she took a small sip of coffee, smiling softly because it was exactly how she preferred it.
"'s perfect," she murmured over the edge of the cup, her hands wrapped around its ceramic warmth. "You did good." Mildly surprised that he'd actually taken her offer of a seat, Natasha simply hid her quiet delight in her coffee cup, taking a few more short swallows before placing the mug on the table at her end of the couch.
"So, this book," she began, picking it up and turning it over so Bucky could read the cover. "When the Wind Blows. It's the first in a series that Patterson wrote, and it's always been a favorite." She opened the book to the first chapter, slim fingers resting on the blank left page.
"It revolves around kids," Natasha told him in a quiet voice. "Kids who were taken by the government and...and...experimented on." An instinctive duck of her head; a few loose curls fell over her shoulder, masking her profile. "The geneticists somehow mixed their DNA with DNA from birds, and the kids were either born with, or somehow developed, actual functional wings. Along with the ability to fly."
She went on to share a few more pertinent details from the book, taking sips of her deliciously sweet coffee as she spoke. After divulging an appropriate number of enticing tidbits - nothing too particular; she didn't want to spoil him the joy of reading it - Natasha gently closed the book and let her fingers drift over the embossed cover. She wasn't really aware that during her synopsis, she'd unconsciously leaned over against Bucky's right arm, the book resting on both of their laps so that he might read with her.
"This was the first of his books I'd ever read," she told him, voice quieter, huskier. "I wasn't sure that I'd like his writing, but...this one hit a lot of places...really close to home. And I can...sympathize with those kids, maybe not on a physical level, but...well...I know something about how they had to feel."
"пожалуйста." The Russian slipped out of his mouth easily in response and he tried not to think about how it wasn't a language he'd chosen to learn. He'd gone to the war knowing English and a little bit of French, and he'd wound up becoming fluent in seven different languages. But Russian had been the first he'd been programmed to learn. None of them he'd learned by choice.
He settled into his spot on the couch, cradling his own mug of coffee in his hands and falling silent as she started telling him about the book she was reading. An instant, uneasy feeling settled into his stomach at the mention of the government taking and experimenting on people. Not just people, but kids. He found himself holding his breath, watching her as she spoke. When she unconsciously shifted positions and leaned against him, he didn't flinch, partially because he'd picked up on the fact that she was getting closer as she spoke.
He reached down, picking the book up and gazing at it for a moment, then shifting his gaze back to her as he took another drink of his coffee. He knew enough about her background to understand why it hit close to home for her, and he chest felt tight. He ducked his head, silent for a long moment as he absorbed her words.
"How old were you? When your training started?" He wondered if he was asking too much. If the subject matter was too hard for her to discuss, or if she'd been out long enough now that talking about it no longer felt like being electrocuted. Burned from the inside out.
Natasha suddenly blinked, realizing just how close she'd gotten. But Bucky wasn't edging away, or getting up altogether to avoid their sudden closeness, so she didn't move back, either. She let him have the book, didn't immediately meet his gaze when he turned to look at her, but flicked her lashes up briefly, then lowered her eyes again, fingernails idly plucking at the soft velour blanket draped in her lap.
"Seven," came quiet, but not hesitant. "...at least, I think so. It's getting hard to remember that far back." Her first memories were of dark paneled hallways, rows of plainly dressed beds, and a tall thin woman with severe blonde hair and a grim mouth. A loaded gun in her small hand, and pointe shoes and tulle. "I was...one of several," she added in the same low voice. "God, it's hard to imagine that many children, orphaned at that age, all in one place..." Natasha started to reach back for her coffee cup, found her fingers trembling, and thought better of it, settling back and tucking her hands into the sleeves of her grey robe.
"It was always cold, in there. We only had a sheet and a single blanket." Green eyes stared unseeing at the coffee table in front of them, her words wooden, flat. "Lessons, drills, dance...we were their perfect porcelain dolls. Their created killers, pretty as a picture but deadly as a viper." Natasha suddenly shuddered, abruptly hiding her face between Bucky's shoulder and the couch. She didn't want him to see the anguish reflected in her eyes, the heavy weight of memory clawing at her.
A ragged breath, two, then she pulled back slightly, tucking scarlet behind her ear. "...sorry," she murmured huskily. "Thought I felt a ghost for a second, there..."
Bucky could barely take his eyes off her as she spoke. Seven. Seven. Jesus Christ. He knew that they'd taken them young from the files he'd read, but he hadn't realized just how young. He did his best to ignore the distinct urge he had to reach out and catch her hand in his own, stop her from picking at the blanket.
It was difficult to imagine that many girls had been orphaned at that age in the same general area and already he couldn't stop himself from wondering if that had been just another coincidence or if there had been something more sinister going on back then. It didn't seem like it would be that much of a stretch for that to be the case, for a government who had no problem turning children into killers.
Bucky's breath hitched at the way she suddenly shuddered, and God he knew how that felt, even if the circumstances had been radically different. But to be turned into something you never wanted to be, to be used by an organization, the means to an end - it wasn't something you just came through without significant scars.
This time he can't quite stop himself and he reaches out, hesitant, and rests his hand on her arm, eyes dark with understanding. "You don't have to apologize."
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maskirovka) wrote2018-04-08 02:44 pm
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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.
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"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?"
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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."
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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."
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"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?"
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He especially had no desire to do that in the presence of anyone else considering how ugly it could get.
He watched as Natasha's red locks framed her face in a way that was far too beautiful for one person and he had to remind himself that despite everything, somewhere deep down he was no different than any other hot-blooded male and noticing the fact that she was so damn pretty that it almost hurt to look at her was possibly the most normal thing he'd felt in years.
Even though what she said made sense (the couch was definitely too small for his larger frame), and that it was warmer out in the living room than the bedroom, he couldn't quite shake the guilt that weighed on him for taking the bed anyway. It just didn't seem right. But she was insistent, so he wasn't going to put up further argument. And if he wound up covering her up with another blanket in the middle of the night, well. It was the least he could do.
Bucky watched as she opened the case, and he paused, gaze sweeping over all the different weapons she'd stored inside of it. There wasn't too much in the way of weaponry that he wasn't familiar with. He could assemble and disassemble all of the different guns in a matter of seconds, and in his sleep.
Still. He was a little unsettled at the fact she was trying to hand him a gun. Slowly he shook his head, holding up his left arm, a chilling reminder that really, the only weapon he needed was already attached to his body. "I'm good. But thank you."
Besides. He had a gun at his hip, one at the small of his back, knives strapped to both of his ankles, and another at his right shoulder blade. He didn't like it, but it was how it had to be for now. It was his just in case insurance.
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But she went on with her nightly weapons check, even removing one of the smaller Glocks and nestling it beneath the couch cushion as if it were a matter of course. A sheathed knife was slipped beneath the cushion on sofa's other end, and Natasha also chose a few other toys before closing the case and setting the lock once more.
"Well," she commented, gingerly sliding the case off of the coffee table and back to its place against the wall once more, "if you need it, it'll be there." She then fetched a clean pair of socks from her duffel and pulled them on, returning to her bed on the sofa to begin settling down in it. "I think I might turn in," she said around a sudden yawn. Sleepy green eyes found Bucky's, and she tilted her head back and forth, pulling up one of the blankets to wrap in her arms.
"Just...if you do decide to take off again, wake me up before you go?" It would...hurt, to wake up later and discover he'd vanished. "You know you're more than welcome to stay, and..." a small shrug, "...it's nice, not to be completely alone. For a while, anyway."
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Bucky nodded slightly at the reassurance, unsure whether or not he should alert her to the fact he's already packing. "In the interest of full disclosure...I have weapons on me aside from the arm."
He found himself holding his breath at her request, at her quiet admission that it was nice not to be alone. He wasn't sure which affected him more, but they both left an invisible mark somewhere on his soul. "I won't take off without telling you." He'd do his best to keep his word on that, and if there was trouble...
He wouldn't leave her behind. He'd watch her back. He held her gaze a moment longer, then turned to head down the hallway, pausing only for a few seconds. "Goodnight," he said quietly.
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Not ever without a damned good reason.
So she nodded, considered making a quip along the lines of A man generally works best with his own equipment, but tried to stifle another yawn instead, and failed. Then she blinked up at him again, hearing his quiet assurance that he wouldn't, in fact, disappear into thin air without saying something, and a sweet, sleepy smile curved her lips as she tucked herself in, pulling up the blankets and absently flipping up her long hair to coil across the pillows.
Natasha met his eyes steadily, though her lids were drooping quickly, and watched as Bucky slowly turned towards the hallway, hearing his gruffly gentle benediction as he paused for a moment. It warmed her heart, fragile frozen thing that it was, and curled her toes, warm in their thick socks.
"Goodnight, James," she called to his retreating back, then reached above her head to flick off the lamp, then snuggle down into the warm darkness. She lay still on the sofa, automatically listening for any noises or rustles from the back of the house, but eventually slumber took her away, down into its inevitable embrace.
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He laid down on the bed but didn't get under the covers. He simply lie awake, staring up at the ceiling as the minutes ticked by slowly. After awhile, the cold air began to seep into his skin and he grimaced. Cold was maybe one of his least favorite sensations and he reluctantly climbed off the bed and tugged the blankets back, pausing and staring down at the mattress as thoughts of the redhead flickered through his mind, wondering if she was warm enough. She was small, and while he knew she was anything but weak, she was just as vulnerable to the cold as he was.
He quietly tugged the blankets off the bed, carrying them in his arms and making his way to the living room where she lay sleeping, breathing slow and even. For a moment, he simply found himself watching her. Then he set the blankets down silently on the floor, keeping the heaviest one in his arms and moving to gently drape it over her unconscious form.
When morning came, she'd find him passed out on the floor across the room, curled up beneath the remaining blankets from the bedroom.
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As quiet as a shadow, Natasha slipped up off of the couch, gathering up the bedspread as she went, and padded over to return the favor, draping it over Bucky's slumbering form, trying not to wake him. He deserved to sleep as long as he liked, although her heart gave a twinge that he'd opted to sleep on the floor instead. A glance at the clock revealed it just after sunrise, and a peek out of the kitchen window showed the edge of light just peeking over the mountains to the east.
She briefly considered firing up the stove and starting on breakfast, but then recalled that Bucky had asked her yesterday to teach him the recipe. So she started up the coffeepot instead, then padded on silent feet to the bathroom to tend to the morning ablutions. It was definitely chilly in the bedroom, even with the small gas heater running, so she didn't linger. On the way back, she snagged a novel from the bookshelf and took it back to the couch with her, flipping through the first pages while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.
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Sniffing, he shifted beneath the weight of the blankets and poked his head out, momentarily trying to figure out where he was. He wasn't used to waking up to the smell of freshly brewing coffee, and he'd be hard-pressed to dig up a memory where he was. It was new, comforting, and completely non-threatening, and none of that made any sense. When he opened his eyes his gaze immediately locked on her form, curled up on the couch reading.
He'd fallen asleep on the floor of a safe house that belonged to Natasha Romanoff. He blinked a couple of times, sitting up and idly wondering if he'd dreamed up this scenario because everything about it screamed that he had to be mistaken. But no, he dug the nails of his right hand into his left leg, felt the sharp pain it caused, and knew he wasn't dreaming. Still. His eyes zeroed in on the book in her hands.
"What are you reading?" His voice was rough from sleep.
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"A James Patterson novel," was her quiet reply. "He's written several, and his mysteries are pretty good." A rustle, a moment later, and the lamp next to the couch came on, casting gentle golden light over the room, revealing the former Winter Soldier in all his tousled glory; Natasha had to chuckle under her breath. It would be so easy to let her hands smooth through his disheveled hair, drift fingertips over his stubbled cheeks and sharp jaw, wouldn't it.
"Want some coffee?" she asked instead, placing her book aside and sliding out of her rumpled nest. "It should be ready by now."
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Bucky rubbed his flesh hand over his face, yawning involuntarily and untangling himself from the blankets he'd used to make a pallet on the floor before he rose to his feet. "Yeah. Definitely need coffee," he agreed. Not that it did anything for him. It was a tiny bit of normalcy that he'd clung to.
"I can get it," he offered as raked a hand through his tangled hair.
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She absently propped her head on a hand and ran fingers through a few loose curls as she watched him putter around the kitchen. For such a large man, he moved so fluidly, with an innate grace she'd envied and had quickly adopted early on into her training under his hand. He'd been so hard on her, she'd hated him then, but now realized that his brutal tutelage had kept her alive, and had rendered her capable enough to survive in even the harshest circumstances.
She'd never had the chance to thank him for that.
"Cream and sugar are in the cupboard above the microwave," she called after a minute or two. "Milk's in the fridge." Natasha pulled aside a corner of the blanket and gently patted the cushion beside her. "Come sit by me? We'll drink coffee and I'll tell you all about this book series. Might find that you like it."
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He paused even before she called out about cream and sugar, which he'd already located, and he'd dumped in a bunch of both into the one he'd been getting for her without even asking if she liked cream and sugar in her coffee. He wondered why he'd leaped immediately to that assumption.
"Do you do cream and sugar?" he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder and taking in the sight of her curled up so cozily in the blankets on the sofa even as she invited him to sit down beside her. If she didn't like her coffee that sweet, he'd drink it -- he'd cringe but he wouldn't waste it. He liked a little of each in his drink, but he'd probably gone overboard.
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Natasha wiggled around a little, arranging her pillows more comfortably, and closed her book, finger marking her page. "Flavored coffee's okay, iced coffee's better." Then her mouth crimped in a humorous smile. "Although you should have seen poor Steve trying to operate the espresso machine back in New York. That was hilarious."
Propping back up on an elbow, she fell back to just watching him, never failing to enjoy how he moved; the subtle tilt of his head as he worked, the graceful swing of shaggy hair around broad shoulders. The soft, mobile mouth beneath permanently tired eyes, the sharper angle of his jaw, peppered with rough whiskers that darkened dusky skin. Yeah, it was a fact: James Barnes was one helluva gorgeous man. She absolutely believed that back in the forties, no shortage of dames sighed or cried into their pillows over this bloke.
So had she, her memory supplied, but for different reasons entirely.
But Natasha refused to let melancholy color the morning, so she shoved those thoughts away and focused on the now. Which consisted of a cool morning, a quiet place, and a handsome man preparing coffee in the kitchen. Not a bad view, that.
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Bucky stirred the cup of coffee, his back to her, expression on his face puzzled. He shouldn't assume it meant anything, he supposed. It could just be a weird coincidence. Then again, how many coincidences in life were really just that? He didn't think it was as many as people tended to pretend it was.
There'd been a handful of instances in the last twenty-four hours that signaled there was more here than he was consciously aware of. The problem was, he didn't know what it was or even how to access the information that he wanted. This wasn't how his memories tended to resurface. Usually those came back with terrible headaches that wouldn't dissipate until the memory was his once more, and then he'd be exhausted for hours after.
He stirred the sugar and cream in his own coffee, careful not to mix up the mugs as he turned and carried them back toward the other room, expression giving nothing away of his thoughts.
His lips curve into a faint smile at the image of Steve battling it out with an espresso machine. "Yeah. Yeah, I bet." There was no doubt, really. Steve had always been a bit skeptical when it came to technology while Bucky had been the one to drag him to Stark's Expo every year. Why was that so easy to remember?
He handed her the mug and hesitantly settled onto the sofa beside her, mere inches between them.
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"'s perfect," she murmured over the edge of the cup, her hands wrapped around its ceramic warmth. "You did good." Mildly surprised that he'd actually taken her offer of a seat, Natasha simply hid her quiet delight in her coffee cup, taking a few more short swallows before placing the mug on the table at her end of the couch.
"So, this book," she began, picking it up and turning it over so Bucky could read the cover. "When the Wind Blows. It's the first in a series that Patterson wrote, and it's always been a favorite." She opened the book to the first chapter, slim fingers resting on the blank left page.
"It revolves around kids," Natasha told him in a quiet voice. "Kids who were taken by the government and...and...experimented on." An instinctive duck of her head; a few loose curls fell over her shoulder, masking her profile. "The geneticists somehow mixed their DNA with DNA from birds, and the kids were either born with, or somehow developed, actual functional wings. Along with the ability to fly."
She went on to share a few more pertinent details from the book, taking sips of her deliciously sweet coffee as she spoke. After divulging an appropriate number of enticing tidbits - nothing too particular; she didn't want to spoil him the joy of reading it - Natasha gently closed the book and let her fingers drift over the embossed cover. She wasn't really aware that during her synopsis, she'd unconsciously leaned over against Bucky's right arm, the book resting on both of their laps so that he might read with her.
"This was the first of his books I'd ever read," she told him, voice quieter, huskier. "I wasn't sure that I'd like his writing, but...this one hit a lot of places...really close to home. And I can...sympathize with those kids, maybe not on a physical level, but...well...I know something about how they had to feel."
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He settled into his spot on the couch, cradling his own mug of coffee in his hands and falling silent as she started telling him about the book she was reading. An instant, uneasy feeling settled into his stomach at the mention of the government taking and experimenting on people. Not just people, but kids. He found himself holding his breath, watching her as she spoke. When she unconsciously shifted positions and leaned against him, he didn't flinch, partially because he'd picked up on the fact that she was getting closer as she spoke.
He reached down, picking the book up and gazing at it for a moment, then shifting his gaze back to her as he took another drink of his coffee. He knew enough about her background to understand why it hit close to home for her, and he chest felt tight. He ducked his head, silent for a long moment as he absorbed her words.
"How old were you? When your training started?" He wondered if he was asking too much. If the subject matter was too hard for her to discuss, or if she'd been out long enough now that talking about it no longer felt like being electrocuted. Burned from the inside out.
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"Seven," came quiet, but not hesitant. "...at least, I think so. It's getting hard to remember that far back." Her first memories were of dark paneled hallways, rows of plainly dressed beds, and a tall thin woman with severe blonde hair and a grim mouth. A loaded gun in her small hand, and pointe shoes and tulle. "I was...one of several," she added in the same low voice. "God, it's hard to imagine that many children, orphaned at that age, all in one place..." Natasha started to reach back for her coffee cup, found her fingers trembling, and thought better of it, settling back and tucking her hands into the sleeves of her grey robe.
"It was always cold, in there. We only had a sheet and a single blanket." Green eyes stared unseeing at the coffee table in front of them, her words wooden, flat. "Lessons, drills, dance...we were their perfect porcelain dolls. Their created killers, pretty as a picture but deadly as a viper." Natasha suddenly shuddered, abruptly hiding her face between Bucky's shoulder and the couch. She didn't want him to see the anguish reflected in her eyes, the heavy weight of memory clawing at her.
A ragged breath, two, then she pulled back slightly, tucking scarlet behind her ear. "...sorry," she murmured huskily. "Thought I felt a ghost for a second, there..."
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It was difficult to imagine that many girls had been orphaned at that age in the same general area and already he couldn't stop himself from wondering if that had been just another coincidence or if there had been something more sinister going on back then. It didn't seem like it would be that much of a stretch for that to be the case, for a government who had no problem turning children into killers.
Bucky's breath hitched at the way she suddenly shuddered, and God he knew how that felt, even if the circumstances had been radically different. But to be turned into something you never wanted to be, to be used by an organization, the means to an end - it wasn't something you just came through without significant scars.
This time he can't quite stop himself and he reaches out, hesitant, and rests his hand on her arm, eyes dark with understanding. "You don't have to apologize."
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