"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."
Every day was a new learning experience in how to be a person and not a weapon. Not somebody's Asset. He wasn't sure, but he had a feeling it was going to take a long while before he truly felt like he was safe, both from people who wanted to hurt him, and also safe for other people to be around. Which made him think about something that had been tugging at the back of his mind since they'd run into each other.
He watched as she reached for the honey and he picked up the syrup, pouring a little of it on one side of his plate before picking up the honey and putting a dab of it on the other side. He murmured a thank you for the coffee refill, holding his breath when she stroked her fingers through his hair, a gesture that was far too natural and soothing than he deserved.
"You're welcome." He paused. "Thank you for -- everything." For feeding him, for giving him a place to rest. He didn't know why he wasn't more suspicious of her motives than he was, but he just wasn't. It probably should have worried him.
"I owe you an apology." His voice grew soft once more and as much as he wanted to drop his gaze and stare at his plate instead of looking at her, he owed it to her to make eye contact for this.
Natasha added sugar and cream to her coffee after resuming her seat, stirring then taking a slow sip of the still-hot brew. She'd nodded to Bucky's quiet 'thank you', giving him a small smile over the edge of her cup. He didn't have to thank her, not really, but she appreciated the sentiment. A murmured "you're welcome" followed, then the redhead picked up her fork, cut a small bite and relished its fluffy sweetness, swallowing just as he spoke up again.
She paused mid-motion, then glanced up to see him staring over the table at her, voice hushed but haunted blue eyes seriously intent. Natasha slowly lowered her fork, resting it against the edge of her plate, while her right hand slowly gripped a fold of her robe beneath the table. An apology? She had an inkling of what he might mean, but she wasn't going to just brush it off as nothing; apparently it meant something to him, at the least.
It took her a minute, but she finally found the courage to inquire, "...an apology for...what?"
He watched her stir the sweet mixture into her coffee, then he did the same. He liked his coffee sweet. Really sweet. He took a few bites with the honey and realized he preferred the syrup. And without the blueberries.
Bucky drew in a breath and exhaled slowly, his right hand gripping tightly onto the fork he was holding. He waited until he had her attention before he set his fork down, as well, pressing his lips together. "That day on the bridge," he said, breath hitching slightly. "I shot you. I could've killed you." He almost had killed her and Steve both. One day he'll apologize to Steve, too. He knew he wouldn't be able to make amends with most of the people he'd hurt over the years, or their families and loved ones.
But she was right there across from him, trying to help him for whatever reason. The least he could do was apologize for hurting her.
Her fingers tightened imperceptibly on her fork, and she slowly placed it on the edge of her plate as he spoke. So, it was New York that he remembered, their most recent meeting. She wasn't too surprised. There was no way to know how many times HYDRA had scraped the inside of his skull before then, leaving nothing but jumbled fragments and broken memories behind.
She had to gather her own thoughts before she could respond, and when she did, her voice too was hushed, very little emotion coloring her words. "You could've," Natasha agreed with a sage nod. One slim finger traced the edge of her plate, then she looked back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "But you didn't." That finger curled back into her hand, and she rested her arm on the table.
"Why didn't you? I know just how good of a marksman you are, Barnes. You could have sent that slug right through my eye, even from that angle." But it'd gone through her shoulder instead, knocking her down, but not out. She worried her lower lip with her teeth, biting at the soft flesh lightly. "I've always wondered why you didn't."
He'd lost track of how many times his brain had been wiped in that chair. He just knew it was a lot. Usually before every mission they sent him on, and after. Twice in New York. It was also the last time.
Bucky dropped his gaze, falling silent at that. He definitely could've taken a kill shot on the bridge. Why hadn't he? He leaned back in his chair, pushing the food around on his plate as he contemplate the answer. He closed his eyes, trying to go back to that moment, trying to recall exactly what he'd been thinking. What his mindset had been. He'd already had orders to kill both her and Captain America. He'd never failed a mission before then. Not once. Not when he'd been with HYDRA, and not when he'd been a sniper in the army. He'd always made his mark.
What had been different that time?
"I wish I knew the answer to that," he answered after a moment. "There was just -- something that told me not to take the shot." The same something that had stopped him from killing Steve on the hellicarrier later. A distant voice in his head that had been screaming so damned loud he'd had little choice but to listen if when he'd tried to ignore it.
"Well, whatever it was," Natasha said after a long stretch of quiet between them, "I'm grateful to it." She didn't have any illusions about how very fortunate she was to still be upright and walking around, considering the deadly accuracy of the Winter Soldier. She'd witnessed it firsthand more than once, after all.
"Maybe it was the beginning of the end," she suggested, picking up her fork and taking a small bite. "Steve said you could have finished him off on that heilicarrier too, but you didn't." She idly swirled the tines of her fork through a bit of syrup. Starting to add something else, Natasha abruptly shook her head and closed her mouth, instead opting for another bite of blini, although this time it tasted a little flat.
It took her a minute or so, but she finally pushed her plate back and picked up her coffee cup, holding it in both hands to warm them, and remarked, "Nevertheless, thank you. For the apology." Natasha took a soft sip, then added, "I never blamed you, you know. It's just another scar. People in our line of work tend to have a lot of them."
Bucky tried to smile at her but didn't quite manage it this time, suddenly feeling a lot less hungry than he had been not that long ago. He took a drink of his coffee, wrapping his hands around the mug. "Maybe," he agreed quietly. What he knew for sure was that it had been the only time he remembered so much as hesitating on a HYDRA mission. "Yeah, maybe." He stared down at the liquid, taking another sip and exhaling. "I almost did." He still didn't remember why til the end of the line had been significant -- not yet anyway. He hoped maybe someday it made sense.
All of it. Most of the time it felt like some kind of hazy dream that he was just sort of floating through.
"An apology's the least I can do." He didn't really have a clue how to go about trying to wipe out past sins aside from apologizing. He wasn't sure a hundred homemade breakfasts would make a difference when you'd tried to kill a person, even if that person said they weren't holding it against you.
Bucky lifted his gaze to look at her across the table. "I guess we do."
She nodded back, unable to explain the shudder that imperceptibly rippled over her just then. Meeting his eyes with a small smile, Natasha nodded, holding her coffee cup in front of her before taking a swallow and placing it back on the table. "Don't worry," she said then, lightly, "I'll think of something you can do to make up for it." A wink followed, and she slipped up from the table, gathering their plates to take to the sink.
"I'll wash up the dishes in a bit, since you cooked," she told Bucky, putting the remnants of breakfast away. "And I think I'll go out on the porch for a bit, do some stretches and maybe a little yoga to work out the kinks of driving these past few days." As flexible as she was, she hadn't gotten that way by resting on her laurels. Closing the refrigerator, Natasha turned back to Bucky and added, "If you want to stretch your legs later, we could take a hike up into the hills; there's some great scenery further up the mountain. And no people," she added, holding up a finger. "Just us."
Not that she wouldn't be carrying enough firepower to subdue a small squad, regardless.
Offer made, Natasha gave her houseguest a final small smirk and exited the kitchen for the bathroom, to change into more comfortable clothes, and the front door made only the smallest squeak when she opened it a few minutes later, slipping out onto the porch and softly closing it behind her.
"Good," he said quietly, expression lightening a bit at the playful wink she sent in his direction. They weren't square -- far from it, but for now it had to be enough. He started to protest when she cleared the plates and set them in the sink but assured him she'd do them after awhile. He drew in a breath and sat up a little straighter at the mention of a hike.
He hadn't really spent any time in the wilderness since the army. It didn't sound like a bad idea. Might be a good way to help clear his head, so he nodded his agreement, watching her head out a few minutes later.
Ignoring the assurance she'd take care of the dishes, Bucky cleaned them up, dried them and put them all away before heading to his room and changing into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, loading himself up with his own arsenal of weapons before heading outside and trying not to watch her as she did her yoga poses.
Physical exercise had always helped clear her mind and settle her nerves, finding a certain peace in the flow of muscle over bone, in sinew and tendon. And she'd only taken up yoga since joining SHIELD, but had come to appreciate the long stretches, the deep breathing, and the flexibility that went along with some of the very strange poses.
But her routine was old hat by now, and Natasha set up her small mat and placed her cell on the railing after turning on her music to a quiet classical piece. She could hear the music, but also her surroundings; the rattling of wind in the branches, the rustle of leaves, the distant chirps of nearby birds, and should any unwise creature - humans included, humans especially - decide to disturb her morning routine, they'd be very, very sorry. Particularly since Natalia Romanova went nowhere these days without some sort of weapon.
Not counting herself, of course.
She was about three-quarters of the way through her stretches, working on stretching the deeper muscles, working through her breathing, and was almost through with Janusirsasana when she heard the front door open and a familiar tread step out onto the porch. Head bent against her knee, Natasha smiled to herself, took three more long, deep breaths, then smoothly flowed back into Vriksasana, eyes closed and expression soft.
Feeling Bucky's presence more than anything else, Natasha hummed softly under her breath, standing rock-still on one foot, hands pressed together over her head. "Three minutes," she murmured softly between inhales and exhales. "This is the last one."
Once outside, Bucky moved to sit down on the porch steps, quiet and waiting, nodding in acknowledgment of her words even though she wasn't looking at him. He clasped his hands together, looking out over the distance, toward the woods and the mountains. He had to admit, the scenery was beautiful. Peaceful. He drew in a slow breath of the crisp morning air and exhaled just as slowly.
Involuntarily, he found himself glancing over at Natasha as she stood still and silent on one foot, not wavering in the least as she held the pose. It was impressive. If he'd ever done yoga before, he didn't remember it, but he doubted he could pull a move like that with the metal arm. It was far too heavy, and while he had good balance, walking without favoring the left side was more muscle memory than anything conscious on his part.
He leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the sky, clear and blue, the sun bright even though the air was chilly. When he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, he sat up once more and then rose to his feet, watching as she finished her routine. "Some of that looked a little painful," he admitted, arching his eyebrows.
She always came out of her stretches feeling better, looser, and absolutely ready to take on the world. Natasha flashed a quick grin as she rolled up her mat, storing it on a corner of the porch. "It can be, if you're not limber enough to reach all the way." She perched on the small settee to pull on her socks and sneakers. "But that's why you're supposed to do it in stages, because if you try to twist the wrong way, it's gonna hurt like hell."
Intimating that he was ready for the proposed jaunt up into the wilderness, Natasha silently agreed, saying, "Let me run inside and grab a few things, then we can head out, da?" She darted inside and emerged about five minutes later, having picked up a light sport jacket, a small backpack, in which were stored snacks and bottles of water, and what weaponry it was convenient to carry, given her comfortable attire. But she was ready for bear, if need be, and after readjusting her ponytail, she gave her companion another brief smile and bounced down the porch steps.
"Well, here we go. There's a small trail that runs for about a mile and a half up and around the mountain. There's a gorgeous waterfall near the top that's a good place to stop and take a break." Then her eyebrow arched a little teasingly. "Think you can keep up, old man?"
He was pretty sure he wasn't anywhere near limber enough to try the kind of poses she'd just folded herself into. Maybe he could have, back before the metal arm, but hell, back then he'd never even heard about yoga. He nodded his agreement about heading out and he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and turned to look out at the mountains again, waiting for her to return. He was surprised by how much calmer he felt today than he had just the previous. He'd been on edge for most of it, wary and nervous. Maybe the sleep had helped more than he'd thought it would. It was rare for him to sleep as much as he had, let alone uninterrupted.
He heard her footsteps approaching and turned to glanced at her. Eying her backpack, he almost smiled because he had little doubt what was in there. She was likely more armed to the teeth than he was and he couldn't quite take his eyes off her as she bounded down the steps like a teenager, energetic and ready to take on the world.
Bucky turned to look at her at the teasing voice and the faintest smirk touched his mouth, torn between making a joke about racing her and commenting that he wasn't sure anyone had a chance of keeping up with her if she was determined enough.
"I better grab my cane just in case," he responded wryly.
His quip earned him a giggle and a wink, then Natasha flipped her ponytail and gave a tilt of her head, indicating a small break in the trees as their starting point. She set off in the lead, well-familiar with the trail and keeping her eyes and ears tuned to the woods around them as they went. The morning was cool, crisp mountain air bracing, but it would get warmed as the morning went on. Still, she very much preferred this climate to the cold winters of her youth; she'd even disliked New York in the winter.
Birds were chirping in the trees, a few squirrels and chipmunks chittered above them as they passed, but Natasha kept a steady pace, the trail holding a slight incline as it wound through the trees and rocks dotting the landscape. About half an hour up, the trees thinned and revealed a stunning view of the mountainside, high hills reaching into the distance. Here she paused, thumbs resting in the straps of her backpack, and gave a glance at her companion over her shoulder.
"You having chest pains yet?" It was a twinkling tease, coupled with the amused twist of her lips and the gleam of mischief in her eyes. "I made sure to pack a respirator, just in case."
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maskirovka) wrote2018-04-08 02:44 pm
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"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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
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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."
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"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."
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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.
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"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."
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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. "
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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."
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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.
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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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He watched as she reached for the honey and he picked up the syrup, pouring a little of it on one side of his plate before picking up the honey and putting a dab of it on the other side. He murmured a thank you for the coffee refill, holding his breath when she stroked her fingers through his hair, a gesture that was far too natural and soothing than he deserved.
"You're welcome." He paused. "Thank you for -- everything." For feeding him, for giving him a place to rest. He didn't know why he wasn't more suspicious of her motives than he was, but he just wasn't. It probably should have worried him.
"I owe you an apology." His voice grew soft once more and as much as he wanted to drop his gaze and stare at his plate instead of looking at her, he owed it to her to make eye contact for this.
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She paused mid-motion, then glanced up to see him staring over the table at her, voice hushed but haunted blue eyes seriously intent. Natasha slowly lowered her fork, resting it against the edge of her plate, while her right hand slowly gripped a fold of her robe beneath the table. An apology? She had an inkling of what he might mean, but she wasn't going to just brush it off as nothing; apparently it meant something to him, at the least.
It took her a minute, but she finally found the courage to inquire, "...an apology for...what?"
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Bucky drew in a breath and exhaled slowly, his right hand gripping tightly onto the fork he was holding. He waited until he had her attention before he set his fork down, as well, pressing his lips together. "That day on the bridge," he said, breath hitching slightly. "I shot you. I could've killed you." He almost had killed her and Steve both. One day he'll apologize to Steve, too. He knew he wouldn't be able to make amends with most of the people he'd hurt over the years, or their families and loved ones.
But she was right there across from him, trying to help him for whatever reason. The least he could do was apologize for hurting her.
"I'm so sorry."
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She had to gather her own thoughts before she could respond, and when she did, her voice too was hushed, very little emotion coloring her words. "You could've," Natasha agreed with a sage nod. One slim finger traced the edge of her plate, then she looked back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "But you didn't." That finger curled back into her hand, and she rested her arm on the table.
"Why didn't you? I know just how good of a marksman you are, Barnes. You could have sent that slug right through my eye, even from that angle." But it'd gone through her shoulder instead, knocking her down, but not out. She worried her lower lip with her teeth, biting at the soft flesh lightly. "I've always wondered why you didn't."
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Bucky dropped his gaze, falling silent at that. He definitely could've taken a kill shot on the bridge. Why hadn't he? He leaned back in his chair, pushing the food around on his plate as he contemplate the answer. He closed his eyes, trying to go back to that moment, trying to recall exactly what he'd been thinking. What his mindset had been. He'd already had orders to kill both her and Captain America. He'd never failed a mission before then. Not once. Not when he'd been with HYDRA, and not when he'd been a sniper in the army. He'd always made his mark.
What had been different that time?
"I wish I knew the answer to that," he answered after a moment. "There was just -- something that told me not to take the shot." The same something that had stopped him from killing Steve on the hellicarrier later. A distant voice in his head that had been screaming so damned loud he'd had little choice but to listen if when he'd tried to ignore it.
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"Maybe it was the beginning of the end," she suggested, picking up her fork and taking a small bite. "Steve said you could have finished him off on that heilicarrier too, but you didn't." She idly swirled the tines of her fork through a bit of syrup. Starting to add something else, Natasha abruptly shook her head and closed her mouth, instead opting for another bite of blini, although this time it tasted a little flat.
It took her a minute or so, but she finally pushed her plate back and picked up her coffee cup, holding it in both hands to warm them, and remarked, "Nevertheless, thank you. For the apology." Natasha took a soft sip, then added, "I never blamed you, you know. It's just another scar. People in our line of work tend to have a lot of them."
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All of it. Most of the time it felt like some kind of hazy dream that he was just sort of floating through.
"An apology's the least I can do." He didn't really have a clue how to go about trying to wipe out past sins aside from apologizing. He wasn't sure a hundred homemade breakfasts would make a difference when you'd tried to kill a person, even if that person said they weren't holding it against you.
Bucky lifted his gaze to look at her across the table. "I guess we do."
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"I'll wash up the dishes in a bit, since you cooked," she told Bucky, putting the remnants of breakfast away. "And I think I'll go out on the porch for a bit, do some stretches and maybe a little yoga to work out the kinks of driving these past few days." As flexible as she was, she hadn't gotten that way by resting on her laurels. Closing the refrigerator, Natasha turned back to Bucky and added, "If you want to stretch your legs later, we could take a hike up into the hills; there's some great scenery further up the mountain. And no people," she added, holding up a finger. "Just us."
Not that she wouldn't be carrying enough firepower to subdue a small squad, regardless.
Offer made, Natasha gave her houseguest a final small smirk and exited the kitchen for the bathroom, to change into more comfortable clothes, and the front door made only the smallest squeak when she opened it a few minutes later, slipping out onto the porch and softly closing it behind her.
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He hadn't really spent any time in the wilderness since the army. It didn't sound like a bad idea. Might be a good way to help clear his head, so he nodded his agreement, watching her head out a few minutes later.
Ignoring the assurance she'd take care of the dishes, Bucky cleaned them up, dried them and put them all away before heading to his room and changing into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, loading himself up with his own arsenal of weapons before heading outside and trying not to watch her as she did her yoga poses.
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But her routine was old hat by now, and Natasha set up her small mat and placed her cell on the railing after turning on her music to a quiet classical piece. She could hear the music, but also her surroundings; the rattling of wind in the branches, the rustle of leaves, the distant chirps of nearby birds, and should any unwise creature - humans included, humans especially - decide to disturb her morning routine, they'd be very, very sorry. Particularly since Natalia Romanova went nowhere these days without some sort of weapon.
Not counting herself, of course.
She was about three-quarters of the way through her stretches, working on stretching the deeper muscles, working through her breathing, and was almost through with Janusirsasana when she heard the front door open and a familiar tread step out onto the porch. Head bent against her knee, Natasha smiled to herself, took three more long, deep breaths, then smoothly flowed back into Vriksasana, eyes closed and expression soft.
Feeling Bucky's presence more than anything else, Natasha hummed softly under her breath, standing rock-still on one foot, hands pressed together over her head. "Three minutes," she murmured softly between inhales and exhales. "This is the last one."
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Involuntarily, he found himself glancing over at Natasha as she stood still and silent on one foot, not wavering in the least as she held the pose. It was impressive. If he'd ever done yoga before, he didn't remember it, but he doubted he could pull a move like that with the metal arm. It was far too heavy, and while he had good balance, walking without favoring the left side was more muscle memory than anything conscious on his part.
He leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the sky, clear and blue, the sun bright even though the air was chilly. When he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, he sat up once more and then rose to his feet, watching as she finished her routine. "Some of that looked a little painful," he admitted, arching his eyebrows.
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Intimating that he was ready for the proposed jaunt up into the wilderness, Natasha silently agreed, saying, "Let me run inside and grab a few things, then we can head out, da?" She darted inside and emerged about five minutes later, having picked up a light sport jacket, a small backpack, in which were stored snacks and bottles of water, and what weaponry it was convenient to carry, given her comfortable attire. But she was ready for bear, if need be, and after readjusting her ponytail, she gave her companion another brief smile and bounced down the porch steps.
"Well, here we go. There's a small trail that runs for about a mile and a half up and around the mountain. There's a gorgeous waterfall near the top that's a good place to stop and take a break." Then her eyebrow arched a little teasingly. "Think you can keep up, old man?"
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He heard her footsteps approaching and turned to glanced at her. Eying her backpack, he almost smiled because he had little doubt what was in there. She was likely more armed to the teeth than he was and he couldn't quite take his eyes off her as she bounded down the steps like a teenager, energetic and ready to take on the world.
Bucky turned to look at her at the teasing voice and the faintest smirk touched his mouth, torn between making a joke about racing her and commenting that he wasn't sure anyone had a chance of keeping up with her if she was determined enough.
"I better grab my cane just in case," he responded wryly.
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Birds were chirping in the trees, a few squirrels and chipmunks chittered above them as they passed, but Natasha kept a steady pace, the trail holding a slight incline as it wound through the trees and rocks dotting the landscape. About half an hour up, the trees thinned and revealed a stunning view of the mountainside, high hills reaching into the distance. Here she paused, thumbs resting in the straps of her backpack, and gave a glance at her companion over her shoulder.
"You having chest pains yet?" It was a twinkling tease, coupled with the amused twist of her lips and the gleam of mischief in her eyes. "I made sure to pack a respirator, just in case."
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