maskirovka | overflow / open post

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.

So he'd been right.

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."

The initiated touch was startling, but Natasha didn't flinch away from it. The weight of his hand was a warm comfort, something she'd missed desperately over the last several years, and she forced a corner of her mouth to turn upwards in silent appreciation.

She had to clear her throat before speaking again.

"...maybe not, but I didn't mean to dump it all on you, either." She couldn't swallow a self-depreciating little laugh. "You have burdens enough, James." And God, did he ever.

Natasha's gaze slid from her lap to the floor between Bucky's bare feet, and as she spoke again she unobtrusively slipped her arm through his grasp until she could very softly lace his fingers with hers, her grip strong but light, seeking comfort and offering it at the same time.

"Y'know? I really haven't thought about that place for a while now. But every now and then, it just sort of...explodes through my memories, until it's all that I can remember. Every sound. Every smell." Her fingers tightened a fraction. "Every bruise, every laceration..."

She shifted a little, looking up at Bucky with dark but curious eyes. "Is that how your memories work? Just...run you over each and every time, until they're satisfied they've tortured you enough?"

He pressed his lips together, looking down for a moment but not moving his hand away yet. "You didn't. I asked," he pointed out. "And it's not like I'm the only person in the world who's been through shit."

Bucky's expression registered surprise when she took his hand and laced their fingers together. He tried, unsuccessfully, to remember the last time he'd held someone else's hand, and also tried to understand why holding her hand felt familiar. Like they'd done this before. (Had they done this before?)

Guilt washed over him at her admission that she hadn't thought about it in awhile. And here he'd gone and brought up all kinds of bad memories for her. Dumbass. When her fingers tightened around his, he squeezed gently, afraid he'd hurt her with anymore pressure than he was already using. He'd hurt enough people already.

He shifted, leaning back against the couch and turning his head so he could see her better. "Sometimes." He exhaled. "There's still a lot of things I don't remember. I don't even know how much is missing. But a lot of times in comes back when I'm asleep. And sometimes when I'm not. I usually get really bad headaches before a new memory comes back to me. But other things just...play in the background on a constant loop." His voice was hushed.

"No, you aren't," she agreed, shaking her head. Her gaze fell to their clasped hands, the pad of her thumb slowly stroking back and forth over his darker skin. "But you're the only other person here who has." She'd only told two other people anything about her upbringing. And thankfully, neither of them had judged her for it. Not that she'd had much of a choice; Natasha - Natalia - would never forget the sight of little girls being led away after they'd failed or, God forbid, refused to obey. She'd never seen any of them again.

"In a way," she said after he'd squeezed her fingers back, "I'm sort of glad you asked. Because I chose to bring it back into the light, rather than have it burst all over my mind without any sort of warning. Which means I can control it, and this time lock it away a little deeper than before, where it might have trouble getting out any time soon." Natasha smiled a little wryly, and brought their hands up to press Bucky's fingers against her cheek, a brief, fleeting gesture.

She fell silent again, however, when he replied to her curiosity, expression clouding at the mention of his headaches, knowing that had to be some sort of remnant of HYDRA's programming, trying to reestablish control over his mind. "Do painkillers help at all?" She usually carried a stash, just in case. But God, to have a never-ending reel of one's memories, no matter how wonderful or how horrible, on constant playback, well, it was no wonder the man lived and breathed paranoia.

"...are any of those memories..." she paused, and licked her lips lightly. "...are any of them good memories?"

He paused at that, considering. He supposed it made sense, to choose to think about the worst things you'd been through on your own terms so they didn't spring up and surprise you. Almost like some kind of method of desensitizing yourself to your own thoughts and memories. "Does it work?" His voice was a little hesitant now, sneaking a glance at her even as she lifted their hands to her cheek. He held his breath, chest feeling suddenly warm in a way he can't remember ever feeling before.

Bucky shook his head at the question about pain killers, dropping his gaze from her face even though their fingers were still threaded together and for the life of him he wasn't sure why she'd taken him by the hand to begin with, considering. "My body metabolizes them too fast. Can't get drunk, either." He was quiet. "They had me on something, though. I don't know what all it was. I guess they figured out some kind of drug cocktail that didn't metabolize as fast as everything else. Kept me more docile when I was out of cryo." Kept his mind fuzzy. It had taken him nearly two weeks before the withdrawal had passed and it had been a miserable two weeks of existence. More than once he'd contemplated eating his gun. He still wasn't sure what had stopped him.

He lifted his other hand up, rubbing it over his forehead. "No. Mostly -- mostly I just see the results of the missions they sent me on." There was unmistakable bitterness in his voice. All he saw on a loop was the bodies of the people he'd murdered for HYDRA. He supposed it was poetic, in a way. Why shouldn't he be trapped with those images? He'd taken countless lives over the years. And maybe he hadn't had a choice, but he'd still done it.

"I'll let you know," she promised, covering their clasped hands with her other. God, but she'd missed this - simply being close enough to another person to share whatever might be needed between them. "I've...well, I've never really talked about it much before. Didn't seem important enough. No one needed to know." And she still held to that maxim; no one else needed to know.

She'd known about his inability to get drunk, but she hadn't been sure what his metabolism did with any sort of drug or tranquilizer; apparently it was all the same. Whatever they'd juiced him with treated any and all substances like little more than sugar water - it just went straight through him. But Natasha listened as Bucky explained, offering an ear for him to talk into, a shoulder to lean on if he wanted, or even just the simple touch of another human being. Non-judging, supportive.

But the rest... She suffused a shiver, knowing what a hell that had to be for him. "I'm sorry," she whispered at his shoulder. "They were cruel, they used you - and your skills - in the worst way imaginable." She still remembered his screams as the deadly Chair had done its hellish work. "No one..." Natasha had to pause, clear her throat. "--you shouldn't have had to suffer that. You didn't deserve it."

Natasha nudged her shoulder against Bucky's lightly, still clutching his hand in a firm grip. As if she didn't plan on letting go. "You're a good man, James. I'm glad--I'm glad you survived."

Bucky was silent for a moment, staring down at where their hands were clasped together. He wasn't surprised to hear she hadn't really discussed much of it with anyone before. The idea of talking about some of the things he'd been subjected to, that he'd done, makes him want to throw up. And he'd spent plenty of time doing just that as the memories had begun trickling back to him, partially because of the overwhelming pain in his head, and partially because of the memories themselves. It almost felt like going into shock each time something new came back to him, especially if it was one of the worse memories.

He closed his eyes at the whispered apology, swallowing hard. He didn't know exactly what details she knew about his time with HYDRA, but he had no doubt that she'd been privy to some simply from helping Steve try to find him. Which meant Steve probably knew more than Bucky'd ever wanted him to know, too. His stomach turned at the thought.

"I'm not," he said quietly. "I'm not a good man. The things I've done --" His breathing hitched in his throat. "I don't even remember at all, but I know that's the last thing that I am."

She understood. Better than anyone else in the entire world, Natasha understood. She felt him tense again, heard the change in his breathing, and simply kept rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb, keeping close so that he'd know he wasn't alone, that he didn't have to bear these burdens all on his own.

"Maybe so," she finally agreed, although her opinion hadn't changed one iota, "but you're not the only monster in the room either, James." She had done horrible things, too. And she didn't have the excuse that Bucky had. Natasha had killed in cold-blood, driven only by orders, and she'd had the chance, every single time, to not pull that trigger, to simply put down her weapon and walk away. Her life would have been forfeit, of course, but she'd still made that choice.

There was no one else to blame. The red in her ledger was earned; she'd nearly drowned in it.

"We have a lot in common," she absently observed, and wasn't that the greatest understatement she'd ever heard herself utter? But the morning was becoming too heavy; she didn't want to push him into a panic attack, or worse. So she forced a lightness in her tone, and gave his fingers a final squeeze before unfolding from her nest to stand up, tugging on him in turn.

"For one, a love of breakfast food. C'mon, I'll show you how to make pancakes ala the Motherland, Brooklyn boy."

Bucky fell silent at that reminder, and he wanted to offer her some kind of reassurance in return, but he didn't know what to say. He didn't know all of what she'd done over the years, but he knew the bits and pieces that had spilled onto the Internet several months ago. It wasn't like he could judge her for any of it, considering his own sins.

But at her comment that they had a lot in common, he couldn't disagree. "Yeah," he murmured. Yeah, he supposed they did. For all the wrong reasons. The weight upon his shoulders felt heavy and he closed his eyes momentarily, but then she was standing up and tugging on his hand, interrupting the serious nature of the conversation with a promise of breakfast lessons.

He rose to his feet slowly, almost smiling but not quite. "My cooking skills are probably a little rusty," he warned quietly.

Natasha didn't quite let go until they reached the kitchen, where she released her culinary student and headed over to the fridge, bringing out eggs and milk, then swung around to the pantry to fetch flour and the rest of the ingredients. "That's okay," she told him, setting everything on the counter, "all of my culinary skill came from the late-late cooking channel, so don't even worry about it." Then she hopped up to perch on the edge of the sink, and pointed at the counter and all of the ingredients.

"So, first turn on the stove, and put a little bit of butter in the skillet, just enough to coat it." And then she was off, directing Bucky to mix together the flour, salt, and baking powder, then add the eggs and milk. She then handed over a cup of powdered sugar, saying with a tiny smile, "This'll make them sweet." She watched as he worked, ankles primly crossed, socked feet swinging lightly.

"They're supposed to be small and light, so just put about a quarter of a cup of batter in the skillet. Let them bubble up, get a little toasted, then flip. Easy." She reached out and prodded his thigh with her toes. "I bet they'll taste amazing, too."

"Really?" It was kind of hard to imagine Natasha Romanoff watching cooking shows late at night. It didn't fit with the image of her that he'd started to build in his mind, but when he realized she wasn't joking, a tiny smile touched his mouth. Amusement. Black Widow watched cooking shows. He filed it away as another piece of the puzzle that he felt like he was far from seeing clearly.

She hopped up on the sink and he paused, looking up at her for a moment before shaking off the weird sense of deja vu that swept over him. It probably didn't come to a shock to her that Bucky turned out to excel when it came to following directions, though he did get distracted by her swinging feet a couple of times.

And when she nudged him with her foot, he arched his eyebrows a little, huffing a laugh out of his lungs. "I hope so." Standing at the stove and fixing food felt familiar in that way that so much else did that he had no active memories of. When the food is done, he carefully scoops some out onto the plates and hands her one.

"You'll have to let me know if it tastes right. Since I've never had one before. "

"Really," she affirmed with a nod, idly chewing on a thumbnail. "You can't eat takeout all the time, y'know." Natasha smirked right back at him, watching as he followed her instructions to the absolute letter. Seeing how well he 'obeyed', for lack of better, never failed to send a chill up her spine. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, did she silently curse HYDRA in the privacy of her own mind; Hell wasn't good enough for those bastards.

But Bucky's little laugh sent a swarm of butterflies to flight in her stomach, and Natasha's own smile widened, became a little truer, and she added a wink to go with. He was nice and relaxed, holding the spatula lightly, as if he'd done it a thousand times before, there was no tension, just the wonderful smell of cooking flour and eggs, and easy camaraderie between two old-new companions.

She took the plate with a small flourish, picking up one of the blinis and taking a healthy bite. And softly moaned around her mouthful. "...mmmm, 's delish," was all she managed to get out before taking another bite. Swallowing, Natasha nodded. "You did good. They're very good." She put down her plate briefly, slid off the counter, and wiggled over to the cupboard, opening the door and peering up into the cabinet.

"Want some syrup, or honey?" She fetched both, then opened the fridge and returned with a carton of fresh blueberries, placing all three on the table before retrieving her plate. "C'mon, handsome, let's eat."

The direction his thoughts turned at the sound of her moaning both caught him off guard and filled him with an immediate sense of shame. He held his breath, turning back to the stove and busying himself with turning it off and taking the pan to the sink, running water in it so the batter didn't set up and make it harder to clean. It wasn't some big secret that she was beautiful -- she was the kind of beautiful that was almost painful to look at and yet hard to look away from all wrapped into one.

But he wasn't used to thinking about things like beautiful women, or anything as normal as sex. He wasn't sure he even should. And especially not with Natasha. Beautiful or not, she was dangerous, and worse, he was dangerous to her. It would be a disaster waiting to happen because all he knew anymore was how to wreck things, how to destroy. Kill. He was an assassin; she was a spy. He wasn't sure either one of them would ever be at a place in their lives where there could realistically be anything normal. And if they did -- she could do a thousand times better than him.

He took a deep breath to clear his thoughts, watching from the corner of his eye as she slid off the counter. "Which goes better?" he asked uncertainly. He'd never had anything but syrup on something like pancakes before. He worried his lower lip between his teeth as he carried his plate to the table, eying all the ingredients she'd gotten out. He was admittedly also skeptical about blueberries with syrup.

It had taken her a while, too; learning how to be a person, after having been nothing more but a pretty face and a weapon for so long. And Natasha thought she did an okay job at it - her night terrors were all but gone, she'd learned hesitation when the urge to kill was almost overpowering, and she'd learned again how to feel sorrow for her enemies. And even mourn their loss.

They were people too, after all.

And the man in the kitchen had been her mentor, her teacher, her lover, all those years ago when she'd been just a young talented spider, learning how to weave her webs of seduction and destruction, and she'd learned everything he'd had to teach. And now, even as close as they'd been before - nearly inseparable (and that had led to their downfall, in time), a wide gulf stretched between them: he didn't remember.

But, she'd realized immediately, that wasn't his fault. So she didn't say that he'd used to make breakfast for them every chance he had, that he'd always preferred syrup while she liked honey, and he'd opted for extra sugar while she'd wrinkled her nose at such overpowering sweetness. Because he wasn't the same man as he'd been before. And she understood. So Natasha gave a small shrug at his question, reaching for the honey.

"It depends on what you like," she told him easily, pouring the thick golden stuff over her plate. Flipping the cap closed, she slid it back to the center of the table. "Why not try both, and see how they taste?" As Bucky sat, Natasha paused between bites to return to the counter for the coffeepot, refilling both of their cups, and giving the back of Bucky's head a gentle stroke.

"Thank you for cooking," she murmured with a small smile. "You did an excellent job."

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