"Would you believe Century 21?" It was out of her mouth before she could bite it back, but Natasha just smirked at herself and shook her head, getting out of the sedan and giving the place a slow once-over. Hand on a hip - near her concealed firearm - Natasha strolled in front of the car, a little beyond, then stepped towards the house just enough to peer around the far corner.
Once she was satisfied all was clear, she returned to the car, reaching through the driver's window and down between Bucky's knees to release the trunk latch. Giving him a sideways smile, she winked lightly and replied, "I bought it. Several years ago." Moving to the trunk, she pulled out her duffel and swung it over a shoulder. "It was really run down before - no one had lived here for years." She rummaged a little further and came up with a black, hard plastic case.
"So I had it renovated, upgraded, and it's been a good place to get off the grid since. No cell service up here, no wifi, just an unlisted sat phone with several burner numbers attached, if I really need to get a word in or out." There were still several other bags in the trunk, some from a market back down the mountain, and others from a department store specializing in men's apparel.
"Come on, my gorgeous trash panda," she called around the lifted trunk. "This stuff isn't going to pack itself inside."
He gave her a look in return, watching as she climbed out of the sedan and moved closer toward the cabin to inspect it, apparently finding it still and silent enough for her to deem it safe. Inside the car, window rolled down, he still waited, listening, watching. He didn't hear anything aside from birds in the distance, the faint sound of wind rustling through the grass and nearby trees. He watched a moment longer, starting when Natasha moved right up to the window, reached down between his knees and pulled a lever.
Bucky eyed her warily for a moment, watching as she moved to the trunk and removed a bag and a black plastic case which he assumed contained weapons.
"In cash?" He couldn't help but ask, considering it was the only way to ensure the exchange couldn't be traced to a real person. He was relieved to hear the rest -- he might like technology and it might have its uses, but he didn't trust it, either. It was too easy to track, trace and hack. He knew that from experience.
His brow furrowed faintly at the nickname. "What the hell's a trash panda?" She'd called him that back at Denny's, too, but he'd been too distracted to ask then. He climbed out of the sedan and moved around to peer into the trunk before reaching out and taking the trunk from her since it appeared to be the heaviest thing. "You get the groceries. I got this."
Weapons and a few other technological marvels, too. It was damnably heavy, so Natasha let him have it without qualm. She gathered up the rest of their shopping adventure spoils and headed for the porch, placing the bags in her right hand on one of the little rocking chairs next to the door. Fishing in a pocket procured a set of keys with an interesting looking fob; Natasha pushed a series of buttons on its plain face and was satisfied to hear a few electronic chirps respond on the other side of the door.
"Mutual bonds," she replied, opening the door and stepping inside. "Believe me, I covered my tracks. I have more identities and social security numbers than you can possibly imagine." Natasha arched an eyebrow over her shoulder, moving through the small living room to the kitchen, plunking down the grocery bags on the empty counter.
"If Tony Stark can't find me here, then no one else on the planet will be able to, either."
She came back around the corner, flicking on the overhead light, it filling the room with a soft, golden glow. "A trash panda, by the colloquial definition, is a raccoon, Barnes." She cocked her head as she looked him over, then couldn't help a little chuckle. "Fits you, though, all dark, masked, and broody."
Gesturing for him to place the weapons case near the couch, she waved him to follow her further into the house. "Only one bedroom, but you're welcome to it. I can take the couch, it's closer to the heater, anyway." Natasha stuck her hand around the door frame and turned on the light. Like the rest of the cabin, the bedroom was nicely but simply furnished; bookshelf on the far wall, thick rugs on the hardwood floors, a dresser and mirror, and a cozy double bed hosting a mountain of pillows and thick quilts and bedspread.
"Bathroom's through there, so we'll have to share, da?"
The trunk was heavy, but for him it wasn't any kind of real burden. He followed her to the front porch, glancing around now less from wariness and more from curiosity. It wasn't just a little abandoned place she stayed in to lie low, it was an actual little house inside. He found himself surprised by that for some reason. Maybe because he'd been staying in the darkest, dankest shitholes for the last nine months that he'd forgotten that actual people tended to like things like furniture.
Bucky would give her the benefit of the doubt. He knew enough about Black Widow to know she was good at covering her tracks. She was clever, smart. They were impressions he had from her that he supposed came from all the reading he'd done in the last few months, and from what intel HYDRA had given him on her before that.
The name Tony Stark makes him grow still for a moment, the shadow of something flitting through his mind -- a car on a dark road at night, a purposely blown tire -- and suddenly there was a brief, sharp stabbing sensation in his head and he grimaced, setting the trunk down inside because he didn't want her to see the flash of pain.
"I'm not wearing a mask," he pointed out. Not lately. Never again, hopefully. He also wondered if that meant she thought raccoons brooded. It was a strange mental image.
He followed her on the miniature tour of the house, pausing at the entrance of the bedroom. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even seen an actual mattress, let alone an entire bed. "You should take the room," he told her uneasily. He doubted he'd be getting much sleep anyway. Sleeping too much tended to lead to nightmares. And getting too comfortable led to dropping his guard too much. He'd probably end up on the floor. His gaze locked momentarily on the bookcase full of books, though.
"It's fine." He nodded his agreement, scanning the book titles without really thinking about it.
Natasha hadn't entirely missed that grimace back in the living room, but she'd chosen not to comment on it. Barnes still carried his own share of mysteries, and none of them were her business. If he chose to divulge any information, that was fine; she was a wonderful listener and kept secrets with the best of them. She had a mountain of her own, after all.
But she shook her head when he tried to refuse her offer of the bed, saying, "Let's pretend we've already argued about it and I won, okay? You're getting the bedroom because this is my house and I said so." She gestured at the far wall, near the bookshelf. "Look, there's a window you can even sneak out of later. It opens to the outside and everything." Noting his interest in the books on those shelves, she added, "Feel free to read what you like. I've got some novels in there, a few documentaries and biographies, nothing very earth-shattering, but good enough to pass the time." Her expression softened slightly. "...and forget about things for a while, I guess."
Then she was striding back down the short hallway, fetching up the department store shopping bag and returning to plop them down on the side of the bed. "If you want to wash any of these, pull the tags off and I'll toss them in." She'd procured shirts, pants, jeans, socks, two or three pairs of shoes and boots, a small wardrobe, actually, although the acquiring of said garments had her nearly wanting to pull out her hair. Or, better still, Barnes' hair. She'd suggested colors; he'd held out for neutrals and darks. She'd suggested tailored; he'd dug in his heels for 'the baggier, the better'.
"...still looks like an X-games reject," Natasha muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes, but gave a flick of her curls and headed into the bathroom, setting out towels and other cloths, good hostess that she was. When she emerged again, she breezed by her houseguest, saying as she passed, "I'm gonna put up the groceries. Make yourself at home. Or, whatever." Pausing at the corner of the hall, Natasha tapped fingers against the jamb and added, "Food in half an hour." Up went an eyebrow. "Take advantage of the soap and hot water, da?" A wink and a smirk, and she vanished into the kitchen.
He opened his mouth to object, because even though he didn't remember everything, he was sure there was some rule in there about not letting a lady take a couch if there was a bed to choose from. His gaze shifted to the window momentarily. It would need to be covered up, of course. The likelihood of anyone finding them out here was small, but not impossible, and while a cover wouldn't stop someone from coming through the glass, it would at least make them wonder if it was worth the trouble it might cause if they couldn't be assured their target was inside.
Bucky glanced back at her when she started telling him about the books she owned. Reading was one of the few things he still did regularly. There were enough free book boxes around the world that he'd managed to read nearly two hundred since he escaped from HYDRA. He found himself drawn to science fiction and reading War of the Worlds had left him with strong feelings of deja vu, which he assumed meant he'd read it at some point before even if he had no recollection of doing so. None of the books appeared to be sci-fi, but that was okay, too. He liked variety just fine.
It wasn't that he disliked the clothes that she'd tried to talk him into. It was that he'd learned that the best way to blend in and go unnoticed was to go with the neutral and darker shades of clothes. Baggy made it easier to hide the arm. He wondered, idly, where she'd gotten the money to buy everything from, but he also figured it wasn't really any of his business.
Bucky met her eyes when she smirked and winked at him, suggesting he bathe, and well. She had a point. Another way he'd managed to fly under the radar was by not bathing as often as he wanted. People, after all, didn't tend to look directly at anyone they suspected was homeless or poor.
"Right," he muttered, crossing the hallway and slipping into the bathroom. Locking the door was instinct, and he spent nearly the full half hour standing under the hot water. When he emerged, he was dressed in clean clothes -- jeans and a dark navy Henley, no socks or shoes on his feet, hair still wet, but clean.
"Food", at least this time, was nothing more elaborate than heated soup from a can, along with sandwiches and potato chips, but at least the sliced meat was deli-fresh and delicious. Although it took her ten minutes to actually get the soup bowls into the microwave - she kept wondering just why in the hell she was doing this, damnit!
He doesn't remember. He doesn't know. That litany kept scrolling in front of her, clouding her vision and stilling her hands, until all she could do was watch her own memories begin to replay in her mind's eye, over and over with crystal clarity. She was lost in the middle of her small kitchen, gazing at nothing, but reliving every single scene, every single moment, until a timer went off, jolting her out of the reverie.
Natasha shuddered, yanking open the carton of sliced meat a little more savagely than she'd intended, resulting in it ripping halfway down, but she ignored it; she doubted there'd be any leftovers to worry about, anyway. She forced herself to place everything neatly on the small table, wondering why she didn't just toss him out on his ass and demand he vanish again, she couldn't take this sort of heartache anymore, just fucking go!
But she knew she wouldn't.
She couldn't.
By the time she heard the very quiet, very quiet, footsteps in the hallway, the former Black Widow was once more the picture of composure, moving fluidly around the small kitchen. She smoothly pulled the soup from the microwave, spun on a graceful heel, and placed both down on the table in the respective places, glancing up when a shadow appeared in the doorway.
"Feel better?" An innocent inquiry, she supposed. No matter how much her hands might itch to smooth back that damp sable hair, let her fingertips drift over his pale cheek. No. No, no, no. He doesn't know you. Not anymore.
Food was food and he wasn't going to complain about soup and sandwiches. Far from it. As wary as he still was, he was also incredibly grateful for what she'd done for him in the last twenty-four hours. He paused far enough back in the hallway for a moment, before she noticed him, that he found himself watching her. He watched her stand silently at the counter, looking utterly lost until some kind of timer buzzed and then he watched as she shuddered and ripped into the carton of meat with what he read as anger.
Both the lost look and the angry one vanished as quickly as they came as he took a couple of quiet steps toward her, not as silent as he could be. But he wasn't trying to sneak up on her. He regarded her quietly for a moment, then gave a short nod.
"Yeah." Because truthfully he did. Not bathing had been a survival technique, not a thing he enjoyed. He had faint memories of days before the war when he'd take his time showering and shaving and even styling his hair, wanting to look his best because his parents had taught him at some point, that was important. At least he assumed that was from his parents' teaching.
"Can I help?" His voice was hesitant. The urge to be useful was still ever-present, too deeply ingrained that if he didn't have a mission, he was going back on ice. Even though he knew that wasn't a threat hanging over his head, the emotions that were tied to it? They certainly were.
The soft, hesitant question caught her off guard. Natasha paused in mid-motion, a bag of bread swinging from her hands. She blinked at Bucky for a stretched moment, then mentally shrugged, allowing her small smile to curve her mouth. "Sure," she replied easily, handing over the bread. "Wanna drop a few slices in the toaster? That way I won't have to wash the skillet later." The four-slot toaster sat next to the microwave, near the fridge, and Natasha sailed smoothly around the large soldier, pulling lettuce, sliced cheese, and tomatoes from the fridge to place on the counter and cut.
"What do you like on your sandwiches?" She'd known before, but this wasn't the same man that'd been taken from her all those years ago. And you'd do well to remember that little fact, Natalia Alianova, she heard her conscious reiterate. "We have lettuce and tomatoes, Swiss cheese, mayo, mustard, and...honey-smoked turkey." That she'd nearly scattered all across the kitchen a few minutes ago.
"I think we have enough stuff to make blinis for breakfast, too."
She'd stocked up on the foodstuffs, knowing it was going to take a lot to keep her houseguest fed, and from the looks of him, he'd had somewhat of a rough time eating regularly. Which wasn't all that surprising, really.
"Just bottled water for now, but I can make some coffee, if you like." She typically preferred tea, when she had the choice, but she didn't mind a good dark roast loaded with cream, sugar, and milk.
He could tell his question caught her off guard, but he was relieved when she didn't tell him that she was fine and didn't need his help. The small smile she gave him eased his nerves a bit more, and he reached out and took the bread from her. He moved over to the toaster obediently, dropping four slices in and setting it to toast them. "Plates?" he asked, glancing at her sideways as she worked on cutting up the tomatoes.
Bucky eyed the toppings she'd picked. He knew he liked cheese for sure. The rest -- he hesitated a second then shrugged. "Everything's fine," he told her, because truthfully he wasn't picky. He didn't think he had been before, either, but things like that hadn't really come back to him. He supposed it was ultimately unimportant. He could figure it out now as he went along, anyway.
He couldn't remember ever having blinis before, but he knew what they were. Sort of. "Will you show me how to make them?" Because for whatever reason, puttering around the small kitchen felt sort of familiar. Normal. Maybe he'd liked to cook at some point in his life, before the war and HYDRA?
"Water's fine. Thank you." At least the words of gratitude were starting to feel less foreign as they rolled off his tongue.
Natasha paused just long enough to gesture to a cabinet near Bucky's head, where the plates and bowls were stored - not too many, alas, as she seldom ever had company here. "Glasses are right next door, and silverware in that drawer," she added, sliding the tomato slices onto a small dish near the lettuce. She'd never really favored American-style sandwiches, but she had to admit they were definitely easier to make.
Bucky's next question also had her stilling slightly, but she moved on, shrugging lightly and giving him a glance over her shoulder. "I will. They're ridiculously easy, and a lot lighter and healthier than American pancakes." Or so she justified it, anyway.
Placing the dish of condiments on the table, Natasha moved to the fridge, coming to stand close to Bucky's right side. "Hand me a couple of glasses?" A quiet query, coupled with a very small smile. This time, she couldn't help the entirely instinctual motion of placing a light hand on his right bicep.
He wasn't bothered by the shortage of dishes. He'd grown up in an era far before disposable plates had become popular, and long before the invention of a dishwasher. When you ran out of dishes, you simply washed them, dried them, and put them away til next time.
The hand on his arm caught him off guard, but more than that, it was the way she spoke his name, a name he hadn't heard in a long, long time. He'd been trying as hard as he could to think of himself as Bucky and not the Asset or Soldat. But hearing the name James sent off some kind of signal in his brain that was somewhere between alarming and confusing.
He found himself staring at her, his eyebrows furrowed and his head cocked slightly to the side. Of course he knew James was his real first name, but he'd gotten the impression from the various things he'd read - and his brief interaction all those months ago with Steve - that he'd gone pretty exclusively by the name Bucky. So why on earth did hearing James, coming from Natasha, seem so damned familiar?
She felt him tense seconds before she saw him stiffen, and she nearly drew back at the puzzled frown aimed down at her. As it was, Natasha let her hand slowly slide down Bucky's arm to his elbow, then drop away entirely, unsure if she'd misstepped or been too familiar just then. She was hardly one to ever be flustered or awkward, but the weight of those blue, blue eyes never ceased to produce a slow flush beneath her skin; Natasha felt her cheeks heating ever so slightly.
Needing something to jolt her out from under that heavy stare, the redhead bit down on the inside of her lower lip, the sudden pain delicious. Unable to help the heat creeping down the slope of her throat to spread out over her collar and disappear beneath her shirt, she adopted her customary sardonic expression but actually had to clear her throat before quipping, "Gonna hand me the glasses, Barnes, or make me crawl over you to reach the cabinet?"
The fact that he hadn't jerked away from her touch was a signal that he was better off now than he had been just a few weeks before. He'd taken great efforts to keep anyone from being even slightly inclined to touch him. Physical affection was a thing of days long past, a thing that belonged solely to whoever he'd been before wreaking havoc all over the globe and snuffing out so many innocent lives.
Natasha was the first one to touch him in months.
He hadn't realized he was breathing more heavily than before until he noticed that her cheeks were growing pink, but then she was snarking at him and he wondered if he'd imagined it. He exhaled, breaking the gaze and feeling dazed as he turned to grab the glasses from the cabinet, holding them out to her wordlessly.
The minute flare of nostril on that achingly handsome face very nearly had her reaching out for him, regardless of what a magnificently unwise decision that would be. Damn the man, to still, after so very long, be able to affect her like this! But she'd known, hadn't she, just how magnetic the attraction between them had always been, even from the very start.
Even when she'd been flat on her face, spitting blood from lacerated lips and aching in every bone and muscle, she'd been drawn to him. And somehow, hard fists had become gentle touches in the deep, cold hours of darkest night, a rough baritone which had only issued orders, commands, somehow became an impassioned whisper against her heated skin, breathing her name beneath the fall of scarlet.
Forbidden. Unsanctioned. Taboo.
Hadn't stopped them, had it?
But thank God Bucky turned away before she could act upon her suicidal impulse; he all but yanked open the cabinet and passed over the mismatched glasses without another word. Natasha took them just as silently, hurriedly opening the freezer not only to fetch ice, but to let the blessedly cold air cool her heated cheeks and throat. The cubes clinked merrily against the glass; she couldn't linger for too long without suspicion.
Besides, she'd always prided herself on being smoother than this, hadn't she?
Exchanging one door for another, she pulled two bottles of water from the refrigerator, busying herself with pouring for them both, then placed the glasses on the table and all but dropped into her seat, knees suddenly feeling a touch unsteady. The toasting bread smelled wonderful, and everything else was ready; their soup still steamed in the bowls, but Natasha had a feeling everything was going to taste like cardboard, given how intense the last minute and a half had just been.
He was missing something. He could feel it with every fiber of his being. It was an ever-present feeling that he carried with him, because frankly there were a lot of things he was missing. But that feeling hadn't been as strong in the entire nine months he'd been on the run than it was right now.
Bucky found himself staring after her as she moved across the room and put ice in their glasses, pulled out water bottles from the fridge and poured it into the glasses and then sat down like she was completely oblivious to the weight of his gaze. He knew better, though. She hadn't become Black Widow by being unobservant.
His nerves were decidedly rattled, but the toast chose that moment to pop up from the toaster and he moved to grab them, laying them on the plates and carrying them to the small table, taking the seat directly across from her. He waited for her to make her sandwich before he would -- it was the polite thing to do, and there was that female voice against, distant but present, in his mind. Kind but firm.
"Soup smells good," he said quietly, finally letting his gaze drop from her form.
She wasn't oblivious. Far, far from it. The touch of those Nordic eyes was almost palpable, like a warm hand - or even deliciously cool fingertips - stroking down the length of her spine, blossoming into a weighted heat further down. And Christ, hadn't it been just forever since anything had affected her so? But she was a chameleon still, and it took very nearly every ounce of composure she could muster to sit there as if nothing had happened, as if electricity hadn't just crackled between them, wild and wicked.
The pop of the toaster gave her something other than him to focus upon, and Natasha sat up expectantly as Bucky turned with the plate of warm bread and took the other seat across the table. After a brief pause - she was still unused to his hesitance over nearly everything - Natasha gave a mental shrug and took two slices of toast and fashioned a sandwich for herself, layering meat, cheese, and lettuce in a dainty pattern between the bread.
Bucky broke the thick silence and she glanced up with a thin smile, nodding her agreement. "It does." Was it only her imagination or had her voice gone a little huskier? God. A sip of water corrected than, she hoped, and Natasha added, trying for lightness, "Hopefully it tastes better than diner breakfast at two am."
Bucky reached out and took the other two pieces of toast and set them on his own plate, fashioning a sandwich very similar to the one she'd created, albeit with more meat and cheese on it than lettuce. When he was finished, he picked it up and took a bite, closing his eyes momentarily and chewing as slowly as he could, trying to savor the tastes. Even this morning he'd been in too big of a hurry to scarf down the food to really stop and enjoy it. But maybe, even if it was just for now, he could let his guard down a little, let himself relax. At least long enough to enjoy a meal.
He kept giving small, flickering glances in Natasha's direction. He had a feeling there was so, so much more to her than what he knew about her. It was fair, considering how little she probably knew about him, too.
"It was good too," he told her. "The food this morning." He dropped his gaze to focus on the food in front of him now. He ate a few bites of the soup before he spoke again. "All food is better than the protein shakes."
At least he wasn't inhaling his food this time. Natasha felt that was progress, given how he'd attacked the plates at Denny's earlier. But the man was hungry, so she couldn't fault him for eating as if he might never taste anything else again. She also wasn't too surprised to see that he'd piled the meat and cheese thick on his sandwich; an imp of a smile touched her lips as she took a bite of her own.
And he kept looking at her. Every so often their eyes caught, and Bucky always glanced away first. Natasha simply lowered her gaze to her plate, eating lightly and with a delicate sureness to each movement, very well aware of being observed, scrutinized. It didn't bother her. She knew he had to be constantly combing through what was left of his memories, searching for that something that would trip a switch and suddenly remind him of things long past, be they pleasant or...otherwise.
She glanced up when he spoke again, giving a light little shrug. "I'm glad you liked it. Diner food can sometimes be a little heavy on the grease, for me." Then she lowered her spoon, a small but tangible wrench momentarily knotting her stomach when he mentioned protein shakes. "They're...not the best, no," she agreed quietly, stirring her soup slowly.
Natasha worried at her lower lip, wondering if she should even bring it up, but... "It surprised you, didn't it, when I called you 'James' a minute ago." Not really a question, that. She looked up at him through her lashes, a little bold, but...soft. Something had snapped between them just then; she'd felt it, and from the look he'd given her, she hadn't been the only one to do so.
The food had been a bit greasy. Fortunately between his metabolism and whatever bastardized version of the super soldier serum they'd given him, his body seemed to handle it all right. The first few meals with actual food he'd consumed hadn't settled well. It had made him wary of eating for days, but eventually his body started to get used to actual food and not just a shake and a shot of vitamins. And now here he was.
It didn't escape his notice that she agreed about the protein shakes and he found himself gazing at her for a moment, speculative. He wondered what her own training as Black Widow had consisted of. He can't imagine the methods used had been pleasant. He wondered if they'd wiped her brain out a few times, too. He wondered just how similar the two of them might truly be. Whatever similarities they had, the differences stuck out far more. She took on a persona of someone who was flirtatious and optimistic but he didn't buy it. It didn't seem real. She was acting -- but for whose benefit? His or her own?
And then, for a moment, the facade dropped entirely and he found himself holding his breath, staring at her with his glass of water halfway to his lips. "Yes," he agreed, because there was no point in denying. He hadn't tried to hide his reaction. "Yes, it did." He took a sip of the drink and set it down on the table once more, but kept his fingers curled around it.
"It felt -- familiar?" He wasn't sure that was the right word, exactly.
It was definitely the right word. Natasha kept her expression carefully neutral, still moving her spoon around in her soup bowl. She lowered her eyes to the plate in front of her, wishing she could just tell him. Tell him everything. But that would undoubtedly lead to disaster, and she had no intention of adding any more burdens to his already weighted shoulders.
"Well," she heard herself say, as if from the end of a very long tunnel, "that is your name, isn't it?" It was a customary quip, but even to her ears it fell a little...flat. So she tried again, forcing her lips to curve somewhat wryly. "Steve shared your file. What information that he had, rather." Never mind that she'd given him most of it in the first place. Details she'd compiled over a decade of searching.
"He hoped that there was something in there that would help us locate you, after SHIELD collapsed." She shrugged again, but suddenly wasn't hungry anymore, either. "But we never even got close, did we?" Nine months, they'd traveled the world, looking for a single man. A man who was nothing more than a ghost, a specter lost amid the masses.
"Steve always referred to you as 'Bucky'," Natasha added softly. Then she looked up at him again, sincerity edging into warm green eyes. "But I think I like you better as 'James'." Moy Dzheyms. Moya zvezda...
"So I hear," he quipped in response without missing a beat. He thought maybe he should be perturbed that he could joke so thoughtlessly about the fact that he didn't, in reality, have any kind of solid grip on who he was, but he wasn't. But the idea that Steve had shared information on him with others was a bit surprising. Then again, she'd been helping Steve look for him for the last nine months, as well as one Sam Wilson.
He exhaled, sitting back in his chair and staring at the mostly empty plate of food before lifting his gaze to look at her. "A couple of times." He paused. "I knew he was looking for me. That he'd recruited people to help him." He also knew Steve was never going to stop and that at some point, he was going to have to at least meet with him, convince Steve that he was fine and he could handle himself. It made him tired just to think about. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Steve, it was that he wasn't ready. He'd been trained to be a ghost, and he was damned good at it. Maybe better now, even, because he had even deeper incentive to stay hidden: keeping Steve safe. And he was mostly certainly not safe to be around.
Which Natasha knew, too, and yet...here they were. Sitting across from each other in a safe house in the middle of Hungary, having dinner like they were old friends. And the weirdest part of all of it was that sense of deja vu that he couldn't seem to entirely shake.
He drew in a breath and lifted his eyes to look at her, to hold her gaze. "It's fine. You can call me whichever," he said quietly, nodding. Neither name necessarily felt like who he was at that point, but maybe he could get used to them more if someone was addressing him regularly. He paused at that thought, realizing he'd already jumped to the assumption this deal between them, whatever it was, was more than short-term.
She wasn't afraid of him. Had never been. Would never be. To fear this broken man would be the worst sort of blasphemy. But she could be afraid for him, definitely. She also wasn't surprised that Bucky had known they were tailing him, dogging his tracks across the continents and even beyond, she sometimes imagined. But they both knew that Steve Rogers was never going to stop. Once an idea took root in his mind, Natasha had learned that there was no dislodging it. And she also knew that Bucky was indeed correct: Steve did sometimes make bad decisions, particularly where the man seated across the table was concerned.
But Steve wasn't here. And if things had gone according to the plans he'd discussed with her and Wilson just four short days ago, the two of them were heading back Stateside, which took a lot of the stress out of her shoulders; that she didn't have to watch her back for America's Golden Boy bearing down on them both. Because she knew Barnes would absolutely disappear, and then she'd be left holding the proverbial empty bag.
Bucky met her eyes then, and Natasha's spoon stilled as she let it come to rest against the side of her soup bowl. She nodded back, once. "Khorosho," she murmured back. All right. And she felt it again, that unerring pull. It seemed to snap back into place each time their gazes met and strengthen the longer they held. It was both aggravating and bittersweet simultaneously.
"Why did you come with me?" she suddenly heard herself ask, shifting slightly and straightening in her chair. "You had no reason to, but you did. Why did you trust me?"
It wasn't that Bucky wanted anyone to be afraid of him. He didn't want to be the monster that HYDRA had twisted him into being. But he knew people should be afraid of him, because he knew exactly what he was capable of. He also knew there were those still out there who would be able to flip the switch in an utterance of ten little words that would force him to do their bidding whether he wanted to or not.
He also knew what he would do if he was backed into a corner. He wouldn't like it, but he wouldn't allow himself to be apprehended, locked up or used. Not by HYDRA. Not by the remnants of SHIELD that was rebuilding itself. Not by any other organization or agency because as far as he was concerned they were all corrupt and had hidden agendas.
Never again.
There was something in the way she kept looking at him, like she was waiting for something, like she was trying to figure him out or she was waiting for him to figure it out. But what?
The question surprised him and his lips parted momentarily, because truthfully, there was no real good reason he could give her that would answer her satisfactorily. He rested his hands on the table, considering. It was a fair question. "I guess I just have a gut feeling about you," he said finally.
Well, that was about as honest an answer as she could expect, really. Natasha nodded, satisfied for the nonce. Although she could have told him that gut feelings were hardly something to bet one's life on, but she supposed he had better reason than most to trust his own instincts. At least, they'd gotten him this far, hadn't they?
"Fair enough," she murmured, picking up her sandwich and taking another small bite. She'd let her gaze fall as she did so, needing somewhere else to look other than crystalline blue. As she ate, Natasha silently wondered how long it would be before she woke up to find him gone again. She wouldn't begrudge him that, when she did. She had no illusions that Bucky would remain, even if some small, wishful part of her hoped that he would. Even if he didn't remember everything that had transpired between them, James Barnes was still a force to be reckoned with, and paranoid enough to sniff out trouble at the slightest hint of something not right.
Her old, battered humor quirked for a moment, and her smirk tilted slightly. "Some people might not consider that plus, though." Natasha touched a fingertip to the corner of her lips, brushing away a few stray crumbs. "My backstory isn't exactly stellar, either." If he hadn't gone through the files she'd released online, she'd eat her boots. It was a mixed blessing that certain details regarding both of their histories had been redacted at the highest levels; only Nick Fury had known the true account of the "Black Widow", and Natalia had trusted him with her life, rightly so.
She ate a few more bites from her sandwich, then her soup, before setting both away and leaning back in her chair. Crossing her arms, Natasha let her head tilt slightly, silently appraising her companion before inquiring, "Did you save any hot water for me, by chance?"
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maskirovka) wrote2018-04-08 02:44 pm
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Once she was satisfied all was clear, she returned to the car, reaching through the driver's window and down between Bucky's knees to release the trunk latch. Giving him a sideways smile, she winked lightly and replied, "I bought it. Several years ago." Moving to the trunk, she pulled out her duffel and swung it over a shoulder. "It was really run down before - no one had lived here for years." She rummaged a little further and came up with a black, hard plastic case.
"So I had it renovated, upgraded, and it's been a good place to get off the grid since. No cell service up here, no wifi, just an unlisted sat phone with several burner numbers attached, if I really need to get a word in or out." There were still several other bags in the trunk, some from a market back down the mountain, and others from a department store specializing in men's apparel.
"Come on, my gorgeous trash panda," she called around the lifted trunk. "This stuff isn't going to pack itself inside."
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Bucky eyed her warily for a moment, watching as she moved to the trunk and removed a bag and a black plastic case which he assumed contained weapons.
"In cash?" He couldn't help but ask, considering it was the only way to ensure the exchange couldn't be traced to a real person. He was relieved to hear the rest -- he might like technology and it might have its uses, but he didn't trust it, either. It was too easy to track, trace and hack. He knew that from experience.
His brow furrowed faintly at the nickname. "What the hell's a trash panda?" She'd called him that back at Denny's, too, but he'd been too distracted to ask then. He climbed out of the sedan and moved around to peer into the trunk before reaching out and taking the trunk from her since it appeared to be the heaviest thing. "You get the groceries. I got this."
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"Mutual bonds," she replied, opening the door and stepping inside. "Believe me, I covered my tracks. I have more identities and social security numbers than you can possibly imagine." Natasha arched an eyebrow over her shoulder, moving through the small living room to the kitchen, plunking down the grocery bags on the empty counter.
"If Tony Stark can't find me here, then no one else on the planet will be able to, either."
She came back around the corner, flicking on the overhead light, it filling the room with a soft, golden glow. "A trash panda, by the colloquial definition, is a raccoon, Barnes." She cocked her head as she looked him over, then couldn't help a little chuckle. "Fits you, though, all dark, masked, and broody."
Gesturing for him to place the weapons case near the couch, she waved him to follow her further into the house. "Only one bedroom, but you're welcome to it. I can take the couch, it's closer to the heater, anyway." Natasha stuck her hand around the door frame and turned on the light. Like the rest of the cabin, the bedroom was nicely but simply furnished; bookshelf on the far wall, thick rugs on the hardwood floors, a dresser and mirror, and a cozy double bed hosting a mountain of pillows and thick quilts and bedspread.
"Bathroom's through there, so we'll have to share, da?"
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Bucky would give her the benefit of the doubt. He knew enough about Black Widow to know she was good at covering her tracks. She was clever, smart. They were impressions he had from her that he supposed came from all the reading he'd done in the last few months, and from what intel HYDRA had given him on her before that.
The name Tony Stark makes him grow still for a moment, the shadow of something flitting through his mind -- a car on a dark road at night, a purposely blown tire -- and suddenly there was a brief, sharp stabbing sensation in his head and he grimaced, setting the trunk down inside because he didn't want her to see the flash of pain.
"I'm not wearing a mask," he pointed out. Not lately. Never again, hopefully. He also wondered if that meant she thought raccoons brooded. It was a strange mental image.
He followed her on the miniature tour of the house, pausing at the entrance of the bedroom. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even seen an actual mattress, let alone an entire bed. "You should take the room," he told her uneasily. He doubted he'd be getting much sleep anyway. Sleeping too much tended to lead to nightmares. And getting too comfortable led to dropping his guard too much. He'd probably end up on the floor. His gaze locked momentarily on the bookcase full of books, though.
"It's fine." He nodded his agreement, scanning the book titles without really thinking about it.
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But she shook her head when he tried to refuse her offer of the bed, saying, "Let's pretend we've already argued about it and I won, okay? You're getting the bedroom because this is my house and I said so." She gestured at the far wall, near the bookshelf. "Look, there's a window you can even sneak out of later. It opens to the outside and everything." Noting his interest in the books on those shelves, she added, "Feel free to read what you like. I've got some novels in there, a few documentaries and biographies, nothing very earth-shattering, but good enough to pass the time." Her expression softened slightly. "...and forget about things for a while, I guess."
Then she was striding back down the short hallway, fetching up the department store shopping bag and returning to plop them down on the side of the bed. "If you want to wash any of these, pull the tags off and I'll toss them in." She'd procured shirts, pants, jeans, socks, two or three pairs of shoes and boots, a small wardrobe, actually, although the acquiring of said garments had her nearly wanting to pull out her hair. Or, better still, Barnes' hair. She'd suggested colors; he'd held out for neutrals and darks. She'd suggested tailored; he'd dug in his heels for 'the baggier, the better'.
"...still looks like an X-games reject," Natasha muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes, but gave a flick of her curls and headed into the bathroom, setting out towels and other cloths, good hostess that she was. When she emerged again, she breezed by her houseguest, saying as she passed, "I'm gonna put up the groceries. Make yourself at home. Or, whatever." Pausing at the corner of the hall, Natasha tapped fingers against the jamb and added, "Food in half an hour." Up went an eyebrow. "Take advantage of the soap and hot water, da?" A wink and a smirk, and she vanished into the kitchen.
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Bucky glanced back at her when she started telling him about the books she owned. Reading was one of the few things he still did regularly. There were enough free book boxes around the world that he'd managed to read nearly two hundred since he escaped from HYDRA. He found himself drawn to science fiction and reading War of the Worlds had left him with strong feelings of deja vu, which he assumed meant he'd read it at some point before even if he had no recollection of doing so. None of the books appeared to be sci-fi, but that was okay, too. He liked variety just fine.
It wasn't that he disliked the clothes that she'd tried to talk him into. It was that he'd learned that the best way to blend in and go unnoticed was to go with the neutral and darker shades of clothes. Baggy made it easier to hide the arm. He wondered, idly, where she'd gotten the money to buy everything from, but he also figured it wasn't really any of his business.
Bucky met her eyes when she smirked and winked at him, suggesting he bathe, and well. She had a point. Another way he'd managed to fly under the radar was by not bathing as often as he wanted. People, after all, didn't tend to look directly at anyone they suspected was homeless or poor.
"Right," he muttered, crossing the hallway and slipping into the bathroom. Locking the door was instinct, and he spent nearly the full half hour standing under the hot water. When he emerged, he was dressed in clean clothes -- jeans and a dark navy Henley, no socks or shoes on his feet, hair still wet, but clean.
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He doesn't remember. He doesn't know. That litany kept scrolling in front of her, clouding her vision and stilling her hands, until all she could do was watch her own memories begin to replay in her mind's eye, over and over with crystal clarity. She was lost in the middle of her small kitchen, gazing at nothing, but reliving every single scene, every single moment, until a timer went off, jolting her out of the reverie.
Natasha shuddered, yanking open the carton of sliced meat a little more savagely than she'd intended, resulting in it ripping halfway down, but she ignored it; she doubted there'd be any leftovers to worry about, anyway. She forced herself to place everything neatly on the small table, wondering why she didn't just toss him out on his ass and demand he vanish again, she couldn't take this sort of heartache anymore, just fucking go!
But she knew she wouldn't.
She couldn't.
By the time she heard the very quiet, very quiet, footsteps in the hallway, the former Black Widow was once more the picture of composure, moving fluidly around the small kitchen. She smoothly pulled the soup from the microwave, spun on a graceful heel, and placed both down on the table in the respective places, glancing up when a shadow appeared in the doorway.
"Feel better?" An innocent inquiry, she supposed. No matter how much her hands might itch to smooth back that damp sable hair, let her fingertips drift over his pale cheek. No. No, no, no. He doesn't know you. Not anymore.
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Both the lost look and the angry one vanished as quickly as they came as he took a couple of quiet steps toward her, not as silent as he could be. But he wasn't trying to sneak up on her. He regarded her quietly for a moment, then gave a short nod.
"Yeah." Because truthfully he did. Not bathing had been a survival technique, not a thing he enjoyed. He had faint memories of days before the war when he'd take his time showering and shaving and even styling his hair, wanting to look his best because his parents had taught him at some point, that was important. At least he assumed that was from his parents' teaching.
"Can I help?" His voice was hesitant. The urge to be useful was still ever-present, too deeply ingrained that if he didn't have a mission, he was going back on ice. Even though he knew that wasn't a threat hanging over his head, the emotions that were tied to it? They certainly were.
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"What do you like on your sandwiches?" She'd known before, but this wasn't the same man that'd been taken from her all those years ago. And you'd do well to remember that little fact, Natalia Alianova, she heard her conscious reiterate. "We have lettuce and tomatoes, Swiss cheese, mayo, mustard, and...honey-smoked turkey." That she'd nearly scattered all across the kitchen a few minutes ago.
"I think we have enough stuff to make blinis for breakfast, too."
She'd stocked up on the foodstuffs, knowing it was going to take a lot to keep her houseguest fed, and from the looks of him, he'd had somewhat of a rough time eating regularly. Which wasn't all that surprising, really.
"Just bottled water for now, but I can make some coffee, if you like." She typically preferred tea, when she had the choice, but she didn't mind a good dark roast loaded with cream, sugar, and milk.
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Bucky eyed the toppings she'd picked. He knew he liked cheese for sure. The rest -- he hesitated a second then shrugged. "Everything's fine," he told her, because truthfully he wasn't picky. He didn't think he had been before, either, but things like that hadn't really come back to him. He supposed it was ultimately unimportant. He could figure it out now as he went along, anyway.
He couldn't remember ever having blinis before, but he knew what they were. Sort of. "Will you show me how to make them?" Because for whatever reason, puttering around the small kitchen felt sort of familiar. Normal. Maybe he'd liked to cook at some point in his life, before the war and HYDRA?
"Water's fine. Thank you." At least the words of gratitude were starting to feel less foreign as they rolled off his tongue.
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Bucky's next question also had her stilling slightly, but she moved on, shrugging lightly and giving him a glance over her shoulder. "I will. They're ridiculously easy, and a lot lighter and healthier than American pancakes." Or so she justified it, anyway.
Placing the dish of condiments on the table, Natasha moved to the fridge, coming to stand close to Bucky's right side. "Hand me a couple of glasses?" A quiet query, coupled with a very small smile. This time, she couldn't help the entirely instinctual motion of placing a light hand on his right bicep.
"You're welcome, James."
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The hand on his arm caught him off guard, but more than that, it was the way she spoke his name, a name he hadn't heard in a long, long time. He'd been trying as hard as he could to think of himself as Bucky and not the Asset or Soldat. But hearing the name James sent off some kind of signal in his brain that was somewhere between alarming and confusing.
He found himself staring at her, his eyebrows furrowed and his head cocked slightly to the side. Of course he knew James was his real first name, but he'd gotten the impression from the various things he'd read - and his brief interaction all those months ago with Steve - that he'd gone pretty exclusively by the name Bucky. So why on earth did hearing James, coming from Natasha, seem so damned familiar?
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Needing something to jolt her out from under that heavy stare, the redhead bit down on the inside of her lower lip, the sudden pain delicious. Unable to help the heat creeping down the slope of her throat to spread out over her collar and disappear beneath her shirt, she adopted her customary sardonic expression but actually had to clear her throat before quipping, "Gonna hand me the glasses, Barnes, or make me crawl over you to reach the cabinet?"
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Natasha was the first one to touch him in months.
He hadn't realized he was breathing more heavily than before until he noticed that her cheeks were growing pink, but then she was snarking at him and he wondered if he'd imagined it. He exhaled, breaking the gaze and feeling dazed as he turned to grab the glasses from the cabinet, holding them out to her wordlessly.
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Even when she'd been flat on her face, spitting blood from lacerated lips and aching in every bone and muscle, she'd been drawn to him. And somehow, hard fists had become gentle touches in the deep, cold hours of darkest night, a rough baritone which had only issued orders, commands, somehow became an impassioned whisper against her heated skin, breathing her name beneath the fall of scarlet.
Forbidden. Unsanctioned. Taboo.
Hadn't stopped them, had it?
But thank God Bucky turned away before she could act upon her suicidal impulse; he all but yanked open the cabinet and passed over the mismatched glasses without another word. Natasha took them just as silently, hurriedly opening the freezer not only to fetch ice, but to let the blessedly cold air cool her heated cheeks and throat. The cubes clinked merrily against the glass; she couldn't linger for too long without suspicion.
Besides, she'd always prided herself on being smoother than this, hadn't she?
Exchanging one door for another, she pulled two bottles of water from the refrigerator, busying herself with pouring for them both, then placed the glasses on the table and all but dropped into her seat, knees suddenly feeling a touch unsteady. The toasting bread smelled wonderful, and everything else was ready; their soup still steamed in the bowls, but Natasha had a feeling everything was going to taste like cardboard, given how intense the last minute and a half had just been.
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Bucky found himself staring after her as she moved across the room and put ice in their glasses, pulled out water bottles from the fridge and poured it into the glasses and then sat down like she was completely oblivious to the weight of his gaze. He knew better, though. She hadn't become Black Widow by being unobservant.
His nerves were decidedly rattled, but the toast chose that moment to pop up from the toaster and he moved to grab them, laying them on the plates and carrying them to the small table, taking the seat directly across from her. He waited for her to make her sandwich before he would -- it was the polite thing to do, and there was that female voice against, distant but present, in his mind. Kind but firm.
"Soup smells good," he said quietly, finally letting his gaze drop from her form.
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The pop of the toaster gave her something other than him to focus upon, and Natasha sat up expectantly as Bucky turned with the plate of warm bread and took the other seat across the table. After a brief pause - she was still unused to his hesitance over nearly everything - Natasha gave a mental shrug and took two slices of toast and fashioned a sandwich for herself, layering meat, cheese, and lettuce in a dainty pattern between the bread.
Bucky broke the thick silence and she glanced up with a thin smile, nodding her agreement. "It does." Was it only her imagination or had her voice gone a little huskier? God. A sip of water corrected than, she hoped, and Natasha added, trying for lightness, "Hopefully it tastes better than diner breakfast at two am."
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He kept giving small, flickering glances in Natasha's direction. He had a feeling there was so, so much more to her than what he knew about her. It was fair, considering how little she probably knew about him, too.
"It was good too," he told her. "The food this morning." He dropped his gaze to focus on the food in front of him now. He ate a few bites of the soup before he spoke again. "All food is better than the protein shakes."
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And he kept looking at her. Every so often their eyes caught, and Bucky always glanced away first. Natasha simply lowered her gaze to her plate, eating lightly and with a delicate sureness to each movement, very well aware of being observed, scrutinized. It didn't bother her. She knew he had to be constantly combing through what was left of his memories, searching for that something that would trip a switch and suddenly remind him of things long past, be they pleasant or...otherwise.
She glanced up when he spoke again, giving a light little shrug. "I'm glad you liked it. Diner food can sometimes be a little heavy on the grease, for me." Then she lowered her spoon, a small but tangible wrench momentarily knotting her stomach when he mentioned protein shakes. "They're...not the best, no," she agreed quietly, stirring her soup slowly.
Natasha worried at her lower lip, wondering if she should even bring it up, but... "It surprised you, didn't it, when I called you 'James' a minute ago." Not really a question, that. She looked up at him through her lashes, a little bold, but...soft. Something had snapped between them just then; she'd felt it, and from the look he'd given her, she hadn't been the only one to do so.
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It didn't escape his notice that she agreed about the protein shakes and he found himself gazing at her for a moment, speculative. He wondered what her own training as Black Widow had consisted of. He can't imagine the methods used had been pleasant. He wondered if they'd wiped her brain out a few times, too. He wondered just how similar the two of them might truly be. Whatever similarities they had, the differences stuck out far more. She took on a persona of someone who was flirtatious and optimistic but he didn't buy it. It didn't seem real. She was acting -- but for whose benefit? His or her own?
And then, for a moment, the facade dropped entirely and he found himself holding his breath, staring at her with his glass of water halfway to his lips. "Yes," he agreed, because there was no point in denying. He hadn't tried to hide his reaction. "Yes, it did." He took a sip of the drink and set it down on the table once more, but kept his fingers curled around it.
"It felt -- familiar?" He wasn't sure that was the right word, exactly.
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"Well," she heard herself say, as if from the end of a very long tunnel, "that is your name, isn't it?" It was a customary quip, but even to her ears it fell a little...flat. So she tried again, forcing her lips to curve somewhat wryly. "Steve shared your file. What information that he had, rather." Never mind that she'd given him most of it in the first place. Details she'd compiled over a decade of searching.
"He hoped that there was something in there that would help us locate you, after SHIELD collapsed." She shrugged again, but suddenly wasn't hungry anymore, either. "But we never even got close, did we?" Nine months, they'd traveled the world, looking for a single man. A man who was nothing more than a ghost, a specter lost amid the masses.
"Steve always referred to you as 'Bucky'," Natasha added softly. Then she looked up at him again, sincerity edging into warm green eyes. "But I think I like you better as 'James'." Moy Dzheyms. Moya zvezda...
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He exhaled, sitting back in his chair and staring at the mostly empty plate of food before lifting his gaze to look at her. "A couple of times." He paused. "I knew he was looking for me. That he'd recruited people to help him." He also knew Steve was never going to stop and that at some point, he was going to have to at least meet with him, convince Steve that he was fine and he could handle himself. It made him tired just to think about. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Steve, it was that he wasn't ready. He'd been trained to be a ghost, and he was damned good at it. Maybe better now, even, because he had even deeper incentive to stay hidden: keeping Steve safe. And he was mostly certainly not safe to be around.
Which Natasha knew, too, and yet...here they were. Sitting across from each other in a safe house in the middle of Hungary, having dinner like they were old friends. And the weirdest part of all of it was that sense of deja vu that he couldn't seem to entirely shake.
He drew in a breath and lifted his eyes to look at her, to hold her gaze. "It's fine. You can call me whichever," he said quietly, nodding. Neither name necessarily felt like who he was at that point, but maybe he could get used to them more if someone was addressing him regularly. He paused at that thought, realizing he'd already jumped to the assumption this deal between them, whatever it was, was more than short-term.
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But Steve wasn't here. And if things had gone according to the plans he'd discussed with her and Wilson just four short days ago, the two of them were heading back Stateside, which took a lot of the stress out of her shoulders; that she didn't have to watch her back for America's Golden Boy bearing down on them both. Because she knew Barnes would absolutely disappear, and then she'd be left holding the proverbial empty bag.
Bucky met her eyes then, and Natasha's spoon stilled as she let it come to rest against the side of her soup bowl. She nodded back, once. "Khorosho," she murmured back. All right. And she felt it again, that unerring pull. It seemed to snap back into place each time their gazes met and strengthen the longer they held. It was both aggravating and bittersweet simultaneously.
"Why did you come with me?" she suddenly heard herself ask, shifting slightly and straightening in her chair. "You had no reason to, but you did. Why did you trust me?"
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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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