Whatever is going through Bucky's mind, he doesn't share it readily-- he's gotten good at masking what's going through his head at any given moment, no matter who it is. Steve, bless him, has always been too trusting, and accepts an "I'm fine," for what it is, it's probably why Steve volunteered Bucky for this in the first place-- and he had volunteered Bucky, because he'd been making plenty of effort not to bump into Romanoff, not to reopen old wounds when they hadn't ever gotten a chance to heal.
Bucky slinks into the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, shoulders upwards in a way the Winter Soldier never carried himself. Bucky has been like that ever since Steve brought him to Wakanda; tense around other people only relaxing when he's alone with his goats. He doesn't like being away from his animals, but some of the farmers have already volunteered to help watch over them for the mission; they're used to it, probably not shockingly, since their King often leaves for his own missions.
The fact that he has his left arm at all means he's prepared for the mission; and he only looks up when he spots Natasha, acknowledging her with a nod, one of those quick calculating looks that HYDRA trained into him before he seems like he's decided he can handle the situation, instead pulling the door to the refrigerator open right-handed, grabbing the carton of orange juice and fishing a glass out of the tiny cabinet. "He's always worried like that," Bucky says, sheepishly admitting he'd heard the last bit of the conversation.
He pours the juice before hurriedly putting the carton away, movements rushed by not sloppy. "Given me more 'n my fair share of those kind of talks. I know you can handle this on your own, but you know Rogers. He never lets himself rest, even when he's benched." He gives another assessing look, clearly not too interested in giving much away, but after a moment he says, "With your skills, we'll be able to finish quick-- then we can both get Steve off your back for next time."
She instinctively tensed when she heard Barnes enter the kitchen. It was sheer reflex; she didn't even think about it before her hand tightened on the glass. Natasha quickly put it in the sink before it slipped out of her grasp. She turned aside to lean back against the counter as he opened the refrigerator and took out the juice carton, and she crossed her arms and kept her gaze safely averted.
"Steve's a mother hen," she forced herself to reply in an easy tone of voice. "He'll worry regardless of whether or not there's a need." And God, wasn't that the truth? But she had other worries besides the former Captain's nerves. Now she did turn her gaze to the other assassin in the room, arching an eyebrow at his own 'assessment'. "Flattery, Sergeant?" Her lips twitched. Interesting. "You don't have to worry about Steve, I can handle him just fine."
She shifted a small bit, gaze flicking to that magnificent metal arm and back to him again. "Are you ready?" It was a bit blunt, but hell, she wasn't about to coddle the man. ...drag him off to a side room, or even a goddamned closet, in order to fuck his brains out, yes, but coddle, never, Christ. "We're slated to head out in the early am, so hopefully you'll have your shit together by then."
--all right, she hadn't meant it to come out quite so bitchy, but she still had misgivings about the wisdom of this mission, and those usually didn't end well.
"Do you remember how to pilot an aircraft, by chance?"
"He was like that even when he was ninety pounds," Bucky grins, but leaves it at that. This isn't really about Steve, after all. There's the awkward, unspoken past between the two of them, but he doesn't really want to talk about it; discussion about the Soldier dredges up a lot of issues Bucky is still avoiding completely dealing with. But his expression is still a little wry when Natasha brushes him off; he doesn't mind at all, of course. He'd expected as much.
It's not like he's really worried about Natash's not being able to handle Steve. It's more that Bucky remembers a time when Steve's tendency to worry about people got him into even more trouble than it does now.
He looks her over briefly, another assessing look-- if he's attracted to her (and he is attracted to her)-- it doesn't show on his face, he's much too trained in keeping his face neutral, he's probably just as good as Natasha is at it. He nods at her question. "I'm ready," he says. It doesn't take him long to prepare at all; he's used to being ready at a moment's notice. Even when he normally avoids combat, that's not something he can forget.
Even if he still doesn't remember most of his training.
Her question actually gets a soft chuckle from him. "Chopper or jet?" he asks.
It was going to take all of her not-inconsiderable willpower and mental strength to survive this coming week, she just knew it. The tension in the room was thick enough to walk on, and neither of them had said a full paragraph to the other yet. Natasha was well used to holding her silence and letting the "other"--be it a mark, a teammate, or whoever--blunder along and spill the proverbial beans, but Barnes had been trained more or less the same way as she, and she'd even picked up a few of his tricks back in the day.
So, yeah, this was going to be absolutely horrible.
But while the focus was on work, at least, she could maintain--cool professionalism, that was the key. She too kept her emotions far away from her facial expressions; she knew he'd be able to read her like a damned book.
"One of T'Challa's War Dogs is flying us in," she reported, resolutely ignoring the tangible gaze that slid down her body just then, "but we'll probably have to make our own exit--that's the one questionable variable in the entire operation. If we end up back on Africa's north coast, we'll have plenty of ground transportation to appropriate, but anywhere else...well, we might have to make it up as we go."
She was used to that, thankfully.
Natasha then slipped lightly atop the counter, crossing her knees and gripping the edge as she finally gave Bucky her gaze again. Pursing her lips, she considered for a brief moment, then inquired, deliberately, "--how's your head?"
It's fine, as far as he's concerned. Dancing around the subject is nothing new for him, and he's done it dozens of times in just as many different circumstances. Steve doesn't know even a fifth of all the things Bucky had to do, and he's more than content keeping it that way. But the fact that he's face-to-face with one of those things right now? Well. It's going to make for a tense week.
He doesn't remember all of it, but he remembers enough of his time as the Soldier that the young, serious-faced Widow he was tasked with training has been burned into his mind. How could he forget? But for now, it's best not to discuss it. The fact that they were both used, and Natasha when she had been so young, makes him sick to his stomach.
He listens carefully at her explanation, nodding. That's fine; improvisation is nothing new, not with the kids of missions they usually run. He's worked with a lot less. "We'll make it work," he says with confidence; maybe that's kind of an annoying trait of his, because it might come across as a little overconfident-- or fake. Sometimes he has been given pointed stares by people who are aware of just how tense the situation is going to be.
"I'm fine," he says, tapping the side of his head for emphasis, a wry grin on his face. "Shuri's given me the all-clear." The girl may be young, but she's a genius, and he owes her more than he'll ever be able to articulate. And more importantly, she's not someone he underestimates-- it's the same with Natasha. "You ready?"
The words are casual enough, but he's watching her carefully as he talks. The second meaning left unsaid, Are you really okay with this?
She didn't miss that assessing gaze. God, how could she; it was as palpable as a touch. In that specific moment, Natalia Romanova sent up a brief prayer that she might somehow have her own memories wiped clean in the next five seconds, so that she wouldn't have to see them ever again. The dichotomy of this entire situation was so surreal it was almost giving her mental whiplash.
The Winter Soldier. James Barnes. Two halves of the same whole, integrated into one man. A man she remembered so very different from the one standing in front of her right now. She'd read all the files, watched all the documentaries, Christ, even listened to Rogers prattle on and on and on about his "best old friend in all the world", but it was still so difficult to compartmentalize the "then" and the "now".
But now, she had no other choice. Their success, as well as their lives, counted on her being able to do her job, and do it to the absolute best of her ability. Which meant: put all her issues in a box, lock that bitch down, and focus on the work. She was a Black Widow. She was one of, if not the, deadliest woman in the world (this world, anyway). She could do this.
Starting right goddamn now.
Natasha let her lips twitch in mild amusement at Bucky's response, arching an eyebrow at his own query back at her. Pausing a moment, she gave a little shrug, slipping off of the counter and sidling over to stand in front of him, deliberately keeping her eyes from his. "I'm always ready," was her quiet response, slowly lifting her hands to his collar, long fingers straightening the minute wrinkles from the warm fabric. I'm okay with it. Not thrilled, but okay. Her mouth quirked again, and she met his gaze solidly. "Don't worry, Barnes, I'll take care of you."
He'd never given much thought about working with Natasha before. Not that he has an objection to it-- he doesn't. He just didn't think it was something she wanted. Their intermingling, the training the Soldier had put such a young girl through. Neither of them had really done it out of their own free will. The Soldier had been a blank slate, so easily convinced to do anything his handlers asked him to. The girl had been forced to fight, to kill. He remembers enough.
He shifts a little, trying to appear lax. Not relaxed, not before a major mission, but his limbs are loose enough he doesn't look tense, just matter of fact. He smiles a little at her amusement, because that's a good sign. Probably a lot on her mind, but she's at least willing to talk with him, so there's that. He nods a little, an acknowledgement that they should be fine, if they can keep this up.
Talk about their past later on, just get through this mission. He doesn't react right away when she reaches for his collar, but he nods after a second's hesitation. "Good." He's fairly confident they'll be okay, and tries to give her an encouraging nod. Not a smile, nothing that could be seen as condescending, at least he hopes not. "You and me? We'll get through this in record time, make the rest of 'em jealous."
Four days later, and she was still keyed up enough to scream. Not because of the mission - things were going surprisingly well, actually; it had been ridiculously easy to intercept the shipment right outside of the city, replace the informational packet with one prearranged to reroute the convoy to the new location, and vanish without detection. Of course, that was only part of the assignment; the next step was to locate and neutralize the ringleaders of this little manufacturing ring, which had proved to be a little more difficult.
These individuals were exceptional at covering their tracks, and only a few in their selected cadre were privy to names and locations. Natasha had called in several favors from her network of contacts across the Motherland, and thankfully doing so had borne decent fruit. She and Bucky now had a list with five names, each one in a different city and three in a different country entirely. But a job was a job, and she was determined to see it through.
The first had been almost too easy: Dmitri Kostolev in Moscow, a gentleman who had come to believe his own hubris and whose arrogance had made him careless. He'd been brazen enough to appear in broad daylight, in public, never imagining that death waited patiently atop the butcher's shop across the street. He'd dropped like a stone, a bullet hole directly through his left eye, while a redheaded woman feigned hysteria and screamed for medical attention as the populace reacted appropriately.
The second, Cyril Polivka, was currently "vacationing" in Berlin, and intelligence had revealed that the fifty-something "crime boss" enjoyed..."pretty things". Women, namely. And he never minded spending obscene amounts of money to procure the most appealing females available, which was why Natasha was currently seated at the desk in the small motel room they'd rented yesterday, putting on the finishing touches of makeup.
Her outfit was a bit more risque than she'd usually wear, but they had one shot at this, and she needed to make it count. Long red curls cascaded down her back and over her shoulders in artful disarray, and she gazed at her reflection in the small mirror propped atop the desk, every so often flicking her eyes over a bare shoulder at her companion, studiously cleaning through his small arsenal of weaponry. For the second time.
Natasha capped her mascara, scarlet-painted lips twitching. "You don't approve, I take it."
The fact that the assignment was going well is a relief-- even with Natalia acting.... well, tense is the diplomatic word for it, because it means they can work professionally with each other. He might have been an unwilling assassin, but he had been trained as a sniper. All of this is nothing new to him. It's why Kostolev had been a target he didn't bat an eye at. Brazen disregard for safety just means the targets they need to get rid of are that much more easy get rid of.
Damn HYDRA, he wants to rid the world of every single one of them. Their next target is the one who makes him wary, because it means sending Natasha into a dangerous situation again when she keeps acting like something about to explode at any moment. She can handle herself, especially against a skeevy man. That's not the problem, the problem is her attitude, how she seems to think Bucky views her with some kind of contempt.
He finally looks up at her, still holding the rifle in his hands carefully, like it's a prized dog. "You look good," he says, allowing himself that one compliment. Not too much, he hopes. "I just wish you weren't getting dolled up for a scumbag like Polivka. Looks more like a dress you should be wearing for a night on the town." He lips jerk upward for a moment before he drops back into a neutral look.
Her fingers tightened on her eyelash brush, and she felt her heart give a strange sort of flip-fop, and had to bite the inside of her lip against a sudden surge of...of...what was that? She'd felt it so rarely that it was an unfamiliar emotion entirely. So foreign was it that she had to pause altogether and focus on it, just to realize why her chest suddenly felt so tight and she had the ridiculous urge to break right down into tears.
But rather than dwell on it - there was still work waiting for the both of them, after all - Natasha slowly put down her accessories and swiveled around on the uncomfortable wooden stool, leveling an unerring gaze on the man seated across the room.
"Thank you," was automatic. But she slowly crossed her arms and her knees, leaning back lightly against the desk behind her. Regarding her "partner" for a long, silent moment, Natasha finally shook her head, sighed, and spoke again, tone carrying none of her former sharpness.
"...James." She'd had enough. She couldn't, she simply couldn't, bear this any longer. "James," she said again, "what are we doing, here?" She didn't mean Berlin, either.
He watches her carefully, gaze flickering up and down her body, an appraising gaze even if he's not moving from his spot. An acknowledgement that he does, in fact, find her beautiful. He nods at the thanks, though he doesn't say anything else. Once he's in the mode of assassin, it's difficult for him to break out of it, even now that he's working with the team.
Her words are what gets him to drop his weapon, gently on the floor as he looks at her. His face twitches, just a little. Enough that it's clear he's thinking about what she said, what she really means, because it's not about the mission; he's sharp enough to be able to tell that, though his jaw works in a way that indicates he's not entirely sure what to say. He looks away, before turning back at her.
"Being a couple of people with a past that would be a real mess if the rest of the team caught wind of it, probably," he says with a sigh. The fact that Natalia has aged and he hasn't only complicates the matter. He combs his fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself. "There's no shame in not knowing how to feel about it. Our past is.... complicated."
Bucky is silent for a long moment before he continues. "I have a lot of holes in my memory, still. But I do remember you. I think I frightened you."
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maskirovka) wrote2018-04-08 02:44 pm
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Bucky slinks into the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, shoulders upwards in a way the Winter Soldier never carried himself. Bucky has been like that ever since Steve brought him to Wakanda; tense around other people only relaxing when he's alone with his goats. He doesn't like being away from his animals, but some of the farmers have already volunteered to help watch over them for the mission; they're used to it, probably not shockingly, since their King often leaves for his own missions.
The fact that he has his left arm at all means he's prepared for the mission; and he only looks up when he spots Natasha, acknowledging her with a nod, one of those quick calculating looks that HYDRA trained into him before he seems like he's decided he can handle the situation, instead pulling the door to the refrigerator open right-handed, grabbing the carton of orange juice and fishing a glass out of the tiny cabinet. "He's always worried like that," Bucky says, sheepishly admitting he'd heard the last bit of the conversation.
He pours the juice before hurriedly putting the carton away, movements rushed by not sloppy. "Given me more 'n my fair share of those kind of talks. I know you can handle this on your own, but you know Rogers. He never lets himself rest, even when he's benched." He gives another assessing look, clearly not too interested in giving much away, but after a moment he says, "With your skills, we'll be able to finish quick-- then we can both get Steve off your back for next time."
no subject
"Steve's a mother hen," she forced herself to reply in an easy tone of voice. "He'll worry regardless of whether or not there's a need." And God, wasn't that the truth? But she had other worries besides the former Captain's nerves. Now she did turn her gaze to the other assassin in the room, arching an eyebrow at his own 'assessment'. "Flattery, Sergeant?" Her lips twitched. Interesting. "You don't have to worry about Steve, I can handle him just fine."
She shifted a small bit, gaze flicking to that magnificent metal arm and back to him again. "Are you ready?" It was a bit blunt, but hell, she wasn't about to coddle the man. ...drag him off to a side room, or even a goddamned closet, in order to fuck his brains out, yes, but coddle, never, Christ. "We're slated to head out in the early am, so hopefully you'll have your shit together by then."
--all right, she hadn't meant it to come out quite so bitchy, but she still had misgivings about the wisdom of this mission, and those usually didn't end well.
"Do you remember how to pilot an aircraft, by chance?"
no subject
It's not like he's really worried about Natash's not being able to handle Steve. It's more that Bucky remembers a time when Steve's tendency to worry about people got him into even more trouble than it does now.
He looks her over briefly, another assessing look-- if he's attracted to her (and he is attracted to her)-- it doesn't show on his face, he's much too trained in keeping his face neutral, he's probably just as good as Natasha is at it. He nods at her question. "I'm ready," he says. It doesn't take him long to prepare at all; he's used to being ready at a moment's notice. Even when he normally avoids combat, that's not something he can forget.
Even if he still doesn't remember most of his training.
Her question actually gets a soft chuckle from him. "Chopper or jet?" he asks.
no subject
So, yeah, this was going to be absolutely horrible.
But while the focus was on work, at least, she could maintain--cool professionalism, that was the key. She too kept her emotions far away from her facial expressions; she knew he'd be able to read her like a damned book.
"One of T'Challa's War Dogs is flying us in," she reported, resolutely ignoring the tangible gaze that slid down her body just then, "but we'll probably have to make our own exit--that's the one questionable variable in the entire operation. If we end up back on Africa's north coast, we'll have plenty of ground transportation to appropriate, but anywhere else...well, we might have to make it up as we go."
She was used to that, thankfully.
Natasha then slipped lightly atop the counter, crossing her knees and gripping the edge as she finally gave Bucky her gaze again. Pursing her lips, she considered for a brief moment, then inquired, deliberately, "--how's your head?"
no subject
He doesn't remember all of it, but he remembers enough of his time as the Soldier that the young, serious-faced Widow he was tasked with training has been burned into his mind. How could he forget? But for now, it's best not to discuss it. The fact that they were both used, and Natasha when she had been so young, makes him sick to his stomach.
He listens carefully at her explanation, nodding. That's fine; improvisation is nothing new, not with the kids of missions they usually run. He's worked with a lot less. "We'll make it work," he says with confidence; maybe that's kind of an annoying trait of his, because it might come across as a little overconfident-- or fake. Sometimes he has been given pointed stares by people who are aware of just how tense the situation is going to be.
"I'm fine," he says, tapping the side of his head for emphasis, a wry grin on his face. "Shuri's given me the all-clear." The girl may be young, but she's a genius, and he owes her more than he'll ever be able to articulate. And more importantly, she's not someone he underestimates-- it's the same with Natasha. "You ready?"
The words are casual enough, but he's watching her carefully as he talks. The second meaning left unsaid, Are you really okay with this?
no subject
The Winter Soldier. James Barnes. Two halves of the same whole, integrated into one man. A man she remembered so very different from the one standing in front of her right now. She'd read all the files, watched all the documentaries, Christ, even listened to Rogers prattle on and on and on about his "best old friend in all the world", but it was still so difficult to compartmentalize the "then" and the "now".
But now, she had no other choice. Their success, as well as their lives, counted on her being able to do her job, and do it to the absolute best of her ability. Which meant: put all her issues in a box, lock that bitch down, and focus on the work. She was a Black Widow. She was one of, if not the, deadliest woman in the world (this world, anyway). She could do this.
Starting right goddamn now.
Natasha let her lips twitch in mild amusement at Bucky's response, arching an eyebrow at his own query back at her. Pausing a moment, she gave a little shrug, slipping off of the counter and sidling over to stand in front of him, deliberately keeping her eyes from his. "I'm always ready," was her quiet response, slowly lifting her hands to his collar, long fingers straightening the minute wrinkles from the warm fabric. I'm okay with it. Not thrilled, but okay. Her mouth quirked again, and she met his gaze solidly. "Don't worry, Barnes, I'll take care of you."
no subject
He shifts a little, trying to appear lax. Not relaxed, not before a major mission, but his limbs are loose enough he doesn't look tense, just matter of fact. He smiles a little at her amusement, because that's a good sign. Probably a lot on her mind, but she's at least willing to talk with him, so there's that. He nods a little, an acknowledgement that they should be fine, if they can keep this up.
Talk about their past later on, just get through this mission. He doesn't react right away when she reaches for his collar, but he nods after a second's hesitation. "Good." He's fairly confident they'll be okay, and tries to give her an encouraging nod. Not a smile, nothing that could be seen as condescending, at least he hopes not. "You and me? We'll get through this in record time, make the rest of 'em jealous."
no subject
These individuals were exceptional at covering their tracks, and only a few in their selected cadre were privy to names and locations. Natasha had called in several favors from her network of contacts across the Motherland, and thankfully doing so had borne decent fruit. She and Bucky now had a list with five names, each one in a different city and three in a different country entirely. But a job was a job, and she was determined to see it through.
The first had been almost too easy: Dmitri Kostolev in Moscow, a gentleman who had come to believe his own hubris and whose arrogance had made him careless. He'd been brazen enough to appear in broad daylight, in public, never imagining that death waited patiently atop the butcher's shop across the street. He'd dropped like a stone, a bullet hole directly through his left eye, while a redheaded woman feigned hysteria and screamed for medical attention as the populace reacted appropriately.
The second, Cyril Polivka, was currently "vacationing" in Berlin, and intelligence had revealed that the fifty-something "crime boss" enjoyed..."pretty things". Women, namely. And he never minded spending obscene amounts of money to procure the most appealing females available, which was why Natasha was currently seated at the desk in the small motel room they'd rented yesterday, putting on the finishing touches of makeup.
Her outfit was a bit more risque than she'd usually wear, but they had one shot at this, and she needed to make it count. Long red curls cascaded down her back and over her shoulders in artful disarray, and she gazed at her reflection in the small mirror propped atop the desk, every so often flicking her eyes over a bare shoulder at her companion, studiously cleaning through his small arsenal of weaponry. For the second time.
Natasha capped her mascara, scarlet-painted lips twitching. "You don't approve, I take it."
no subject
Damn HYDRA, he wants to rid the world of every single one of them. Their next target is the one who makes him wary, because it means sending Natasha into a dangerous situation again when she keeps acting like something about to explode at any moment. She can handle herself, especially against a skeevy man. That's not the problem, the problem is her attitude, how she seems to think Bucky views her with some kind of contempt.
He finally looks up at her, still holding the rifle in his hands carefully, like it's a prized dog. "You look good," he says, allowing himself that one compliment. Not too much, he hopes. "I just wish you weren't getting dolled up for a scumbag like Polivka. Looks more like a dress you should be wearing for a night on the town." He lips jerk upward for a moment before he drops back into a neutral look.
no subject
But rather than dwell on it - there was still work waiting for the both of them, after all - Natasha slowly put down her accessories and swiveled around on the uncomfortable wooden stool, leveling an unerring gaze on the man seated across the room.
"Thank you," was automatic. But she slowly crossed her arms and her knees, leaning back lightly against the desk behind her. Regarding her "partner" for a long, silent moment, Natasha finally shook her head, sighed, and spoke again, tone carrying none of her former sharpness.
"...James." She'd had enough. She couldn't, she simply couldn't, bear this any longer. "James," she said again, "what are we doing, here?" She didn't mean Berlin, either.
no subject
Her words are what gets him to drop his weapon, gently on the floor as he looks at her. His face twitches, just a little. Enough that it's clear he's thinking about what she said, what she really means, because it's not about the mission; he's sharp enough to be able to tell that, though his jaw works in a way that indicates he's not entirely sure what to say. He looks away, before turning back at her.
"Being a couple of people with a past that would be a real mess if the rest of the team caught wind of it, probably," he says with a sigh. The fact that Natalia has aged and he hasn't only complicates the matter. He combs his fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself. "There's no shame in not knowing how to feel about it. Our past is.... complicated."
Bucky is silent for a long moment before he continues. "I have a lot of holes in my memory, still. But I do remember you. I think I frightened you."