James "Bucky" Buchanan Barnes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maarmoreal) wrote2016-10-30 10:26 pm
maarmoreal) wrote2016-10-30 10:26 pm
Entry tags:
they say l o v e is pain, well darling let's h u r t tonight || for natasha_romanoff
The safe house is one that is well hidden and well stocked. It is also, most notably, not on the list of safe houses given to him by HYDRA. How he even knows that it is here, hidden in the backwoods of Romania, isn't something that he is going to question at this point in the game. He needed to get away, needed to no be anywhere near the Unite States, or blonds that made his gut churn. He isn't The Asset anymore, isn't looking to be picked up a few miles off mission by his handlers only to be shoved back into the Chair, isn't--
Mission: Eliminate target. Designated Target: Stev-- Captain Rog-- America. Mission status: ...
He shakes his head, metal hand clenching --spasming-- around the strap of the backpack he had picked up at the airport, the faint whir of the gears familiar and comforting amid the chaos that is rattling around his brain.
The man on the helicarrier...
Mission: Eliminate Steve Ro--
"I'm with you 'till the end of the line"
Those words rattled his bones. Shook something loose in him that didn't want to go back in a cage, didn't want to go back in the Chair.
So he didn't let it.
HYDRA was compromised anyway, not that he cared. He didn't know what he knew right now, didn't care, didn't want--
Breathing out heavily, he pushes back all extra thoughts and focuses on getting up the last few feet of the mountain trail to the safehouse without curling up into a ball under the weight of his own thoughts (were they just his thoughts? He wasn't even sure who he was anymore). It is a relief when he pulls himself over a ledge, the harder way up the mountain but faster, and sees the tiny cabin still tucked away without any signs of someone having been there.
He doesn't want to think about how he even knew it would be here.
There was something in him that urged him here, telling him he would be safe, that this was, this was--
Mission: Training in the Re-- Mission: Training--
Stumbling a bit, he slides towards the cabin, eyes sharp as he surveys the area. Just because it was supposed to be safe, didn't mean that it was. And he wasn't sure how else to proceed, didn't feel right just feeling okay with a place because something left in his fucked up brain told him that he could.
Life wasn't really like that.
So he takes the time, the extra precaution, to scope out the area, somehow knowing what it was supposed to look like untouched. His memories weren't the safest of things (the exhibit in the Smithsonian still hurt, like someone was splitting open his chest and filling it with water and lead), but it went deeper than that here; when he thought he needed to be safe, he knew he could come here.
And he wasn't about to question why.
Mission: Eliminate target. Designated Target: Stev-- Captain Rog-- America. Mission status: ...
He shakes his head, metal hand clenching --spasming-- around the strap of the backpack he had picked up at the airport, the faint whir of the gears familiar and comforting amid the chaos that is rattling around his brain.
The man on the helicarrier...
Mission: Eliminate Steve Ro--
"I'm with you 'till the end of the line"
Those words rattled his bones. Shook something loose in him that didn't want to go back in a cage, didn't want to go back in the Chair.
So he didn't let it.
HYDRA was compromised anyway, not that he cared. He didn't know what he knew right now, didn't care, didn't want--
Breathing out heavily, he pushes back all extra thoughts and focuses on getting up the last few feet of the mountain trail to the safehouse without curling up into a ball under the weight of his own thoughts (were they just his thoughts? He wasn't even sure who he was anymore). It is a relief when he pulls himself over a ledge, the harder way up the mountain but faster, and sees the tiny cabin still tucked away without any signs of someone having been there.
He doesn't want to think about how he even knew it would be here.
There was something in him that urged him here, telling him he would be safe, that this was, this was--
Mission: Training in the Re-- Mission: Training--
Stumbling a bit, he slides towards the cabin, eyes sharp as he surveys the area. Just because it was supposed to be safe, didn't mean that it was. And he wasn't sure how else to proceed, didn't feel right just feeling okay with a place because something left in his fucked up brain told him that he could.
Life wasn't really like that.
So he takes the time, the extra precaution, to scope out the area, somehow knowing what it was supposed to look like untouched. His memories weren't the safest of things (the exhibit in the Smithsonian still hurt, like someone was splitting open his chest and filling it with water and lead), but it went deeper than that here; when he thought he needed to be safe, he knew he could come here.
And he wasn't about to question why.
no subject
There was nothing left there. James would never remember her. There would be no more firsts and she thought that had been preferable. No more agonizing and drawn out moments of wondering when or if he would remember knee jerk memories or feelings... no more feeling like he died again while she stood back and watched.
Telling Steve what little she did, probably was a betrayal to both parties. To James for saying anything at all, and to Steve for omitting and lying about some things. And after she knew Steve was awake, alive... and the press conferences were over, she left. No one needed to know where she went to lick her wounds and get it together.
Steve couldn't save her. Clint had more than his share of things to worry about. And Fury, once a man she felt utterly loyal to, left her feeling betrayed all over again.
Perhaps her sins, the blood on her hands, made trust an implausibility.
And now with the media knowing everything she needed to get away. To deal with seeing him again and try to tap down the emotions securely behind the mask she wore like a second skin. That need and desire led her back to Romania. Natalia would not help Steve look for James. She knew if she looked for him, the motivation would be truly selfish, and right now, she didn't feel up to dealing with the emotions that would instill upon her.
Making her way slowly up the hill to the cabin she helped establish years ago, she brushed aside just who helped create it. Even if the reason she came here was all because of him. When she finally made it, the sun was dipping down over the horizon casting long shadows through the trees that lined the mountain terrain. It stretched the lines of the cabin out toward her, almost like an old friend reaching out to her if she felt inclined to imagination and vain hopes.
She wasn't.
Then why did she stand there and just take in the look of it? Retrace the lines and follow ghosts of the past around the area surrounding and through the front door to the fireplace and even the bedroom? Why entertain apparitions like that? Setting her jaw, she moved forward again only to stop as a cold feeling crawled up her spine. That tell-tale feeling that told her something or someone already took up residence here...
The first instinct told her to pull her gun, but she ignored it. No one knew about this place, and the only one that did wouldn't remember it. Shooting some poor local for squatting would be ridiculous. Not that she wasn't ready for a fight. She was always ready for a fight...
With utter intensity, she approached the cabin. Both hands lowered deceptively loose at her sides and free to move when ready. Climbing the stairs to the front door, she very calmly turned the knob and pushed the door open with a soft creak on the hinges.
no subject
Or maybe it was just a failsafe. Something that, even as The Asset, he knew he would need if the worst ever happened. If things were compromised, if he was compromised.
Not that HYDRA would let the Asset be compromised, but it was all he could think to be true.
Finishing up his sweep of the property, he finally lets himself in. The door makes him wince, too loud in the quiet. But it's good, another failsafe in this place to ensure he knows when people are coming in-- if people come in.
...Bucky?
Not without you!
He sits down heavily on one of the chairs, a dust filled thing that makes his eyes water and throat burn, but he doesn't move. The echo of a memory chasing down the name thrown at him like a hope, a prayer, and he doesn't know where it comes from. He's pulling on his hair teeth clenched, before he can think, a high pitched whine in his throat because it fucking hurts, all these crashing memories, and spectres that want him to remember--
Mission Status: Stasis. Waiting for... waiting for...
The memories come to a halt when he hears footsteps.
Someone was coming.
The backback is hidden, gun in one hand, knife in the other, between one beat of his heart and the next. He can hear whoever it was coming up the front path. Steady. Calm. Only one person, so not HYRDA. He doesn't think it's HYDRA. They are too... too sure, not enough panic in the movement to suit them.
So who...
The door creaks and he slides into the shadows off to the side, as soon as he sees red (red hair red blood there's no room for error! Again!) something shakes loose in his chest. Gritting his teeth, he moves across the floor, gun aimed to kill but he doesn't shoot.
Not yet.
"кто ты черт."
His voice is rough, but he speaks easily, slipping into the familiarity of Russian with the weight of the gun in his hand.
Being bad at work for the win...
Because she knew whose eyes were on her.
Natalia remembered the weight of his gaze. The way it shifted from trust to distrust and how intent the desire to kill felt when it bore into her skin. So she stayed still other than that slight head movement and sigh. Of all the people she expected to run into here, here of all places… James was not on that list.
“If you plan to leave another scar… make sure to finish the job this time.” Because third time was a charm, right? A sardonic smile pulled at the corner of her lips as she cast a silent gaze into the shadows where a glint of the day’s dying light flecked off of the metal of his gun. Clearing her through, she tried again, softer this time in Russian, the words feeling foreign and yet like coming home again all at once.
“You know me, James. You just don’t remember.” A dark voice whispered in the back of her head that he never did. And likely never would again. Switching back to English, she looked around the room too tired to fight back this time. Maybe, if he did take the shot, she wouldn’t mind dying here. How ironic it would be if it was him to finally do it. “Funny, you seemed to remember this place just fine.” Maybe there was a little bitterness there. Just a little. She felt she earned a right to be bitter about that.
“I don’t feel like trying to shoot you today.” The game got old, and she didn’t have to save civilians this time or Steve for that matter. So why try? She never could shoot to kill with him. “It really messes up my figure when you keep leaving scars.”
BUT SO BEAUTIFUL YAAAAS <3
He should shoot. Should kill her, should--
James
That-- that name settles at the base of his spine, warm and tangled in more things than he has name for at the moment. It pulls a growl from his throat as he takes another step forward, towards the woman with the red hair.
Mission: Training in the Red Room. Status: In progress. Observations: She is--
His flesh hand clenches around the gun reflexively, but he doesn't shoot. He doesn't understand why, but there is something about her that makes him think of this place, of it being okay despite the unknown. There is another low growl, eyes narrowed before he speaks, in English.
"I don't remember this place. Or you." He shifts, off kilter by her ability to look away from the gun pointed at her, away from him when he knows he looks like death warmed over. Looks like he will kill her without a thought, even though he isn't, and that is something he is going to have to question later. "But you know me."
It's not a question, her tone makes it clear that she knows who he is. Who he was. And she isn't afraid of him.
That's new.
The gun lowers, not put away, but no longer aimed to kill.
"So you want me to shoot to kill?"
Something in him screamed at the thought, the image (memory) of blood red on porcelain white skin making him wince and recoil slightly, even if he didn't know why.
Last one till after schooooool~
Now that he was less in the shadows, she let herself look at him. Tracing the weary lines and shadowed eyes. For a moment, she felt the pain in his gaze that wasn’t really there to be seen. She just knew. And that proved why it was so dangerous for her to deal with him again. Natalia knew too much about James, and most of what she knew could break heart over again. Her voice was soft as she intoned the Russian to him softly. “I knew you. Again and again.”
Shaking her head, she arched a brow at him and dropped the Russian and the remembered accent as she finally lifted a hand to run through red hair and brush it behind her ear. “Third time’s a charm I hear. I figure you’ll eventually stop the warning shots.” In this life or the next. Because each mind wipe felt like a new life and a restart when it came to him. And not necessarily a wanted one.
“James…” Finally she held her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to do anything to you. I have no reason to right now.” Her voice was soft as she tipped her head. “We’re both tired… can we just… have some no kill agreement for right now?” She had a feeling the point would be moot, but she had to try anyway.
Because fighting James was not something she wanted to do right now. And if she were honest with herself? Ever again.
"I'm Natalia... by the way. Granted, they call me Natasha."
shoves face full of pumpkin spice cookies.
At least no one is trying to kill him this time.
Though he is more than sure that she could kill him. That there was enough power and skill in her limbs to at least put up a fight. Somehow, he knows that she is a elegant fighter too, same way that he knew this place would be here. He doesn't question it, just watches her with a weariness in his eyes that speaks of the running and fear and unknowns of the last weeks.
His face contorts with confusion, the gun lowering completely, even if he doesn't drop the knife. "You knew me before the Chair, then." That would make sense, would explain why she called him James, something even the exhibit didn't call him, knew to come here.
Would explain why she felt like a safe space.
Mission Parameters: Changed. Abort the Red Room. New Mission: --
At the notion he would ever give someone a warning shot, he snorts. He first sign of real personality from him in a long time. "Warning shots? I don't give those." His eyes are sharp as he looks at her, assessing. "Perhaps you have me mistaken for someone else. Someone who misses."
But he knows that is untrue. There is something telling him -- James-- that he has seen her. Many times. And he would never want to kill her, no matter what the mission might be. And the more she spoke, the more she proved that she wan't afraid of him for some reason, the more he had reason to believe that she was telling the truth. His fingers tighten on the knife, reassurance in the familiar grip, when she says she doesn't want to fight. That she has no reason to.
For now.
"And what happens when you have a reason to?" He says it without emotion, even as he flicks the safety on the gun and slides it into a holster. The grip on his knife shifts, but he doesn't put it down. More out of comfort than anything.
Backing up a few steps, but not moving his gaze, he moves to sit himself down in a chair, clearly anticipating her doing the same.
The name Natalia rings like a bell in his mind.
"Natalia..." His brow furrows. He knows--Making a frustrated noise, he grips his hair with his free hand.
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Wait.
Always waiting.
Letting out the breath she didn't know she was holding, she shook her head. "I don't know. You..." She paused and thought about it quietly before speaking softly. "You were assigned to train me a long time ago in a place called the Red Room. You don't have to try to remember that." The words felt too familiar. Thick and almost like wool on the tongue. She'd said them so many times before. Told him not to strain himself on the memories that did want out and not stress over the ones he couldn't dredge up.
Instead, she focused on the comment, the scoff and the bleeding through of his personality. Don't think about what was wiped away. "Tell that to the scars you left on me." She arched a brow at him and pointed at her abdomen with a wry look. "Not to mention the one you just gave me. Missed isn't the right word, James, more like you hit exactly what you were aiming for." She tried to tell herself that James was gone. That he only didn't hit vitals this time because she kept moving.
Such a rubbish notion. James didn't miss.
Turning to put her bag down on the floor, she did so in a way that kept her hands where he could see him. Practiced behavior from prior wipes, the difference this time was at best she'd been labeled an enemy since the last time. Stopping at the sound of her name, she lifted her head to pin her gaze on him. A soft, almost smile pulled at her lips. "Yes... Natalia. You're the only one that ever calls me that."
Moving deeper into the room, she paused before looking around the room then back at him. "As for a reason... James, we're up on a mountain top in the middle of nowhere with just you and I. You won't be killing any civilians by accident here. And honestly, no one knows I'm here."
Settling on the edge of the seat of the couch she folded her hands in front of her. "When you are tired of looking and feeling like a giant bruise, let me know and I can tend to your wounds. Unlike you, I at least had professional medical care and I'm sure you need it." He always did after a mission because he always went too far.
/quietly writes sonnets about your Nat. <3
Sure there was the blond, the-- Steve. There was Steve. But apparently he and Steve had once been like brothers, had been all they had in the world.
The same wasn't the same for Natalia. At least, he didn't think so.
"I would rather it hurt than to have nothing."
Memories are supposed to be those things you have no matter what, along with sense of self. HYDRA managed to take both of those away from him. He watches her carefully as she speaks, his fingers tracing idly along the edges of the knife still in his hand. It needed sharpening, he could press his thumb against the edge and it didn't cut in as far as it should.
Red Room.
His gaze sharpens at that, something like a memory flickering in his mind. The cold, and girls in black, and blood between the plates of his arm. He shakes his head, brow still furrowed because something in his gut tells him that those memories? Those ones will hurt more than he wants at the moment.
Mission Parameters: Reset. Observation: Growing familiarity. Dangerous. No room for--
"Not many can say they have scars from me." There it is again, the brief flash of something beyond the Asset. If you look close enough behind the weariness and frustration, there is something like amusement. "Usually it is a tombstone."
If they even get that much. Sometimes there is nothing left. Depends on the parameters of the assignment.
When she moves, he notes how she is careful, non threatening as possible, and it makes him wonder how many times she has done this. Has she met him like this before? Between missions, on the few times when he has tried to leave, or has gotten lost between the past and the present like some kind of mental labyrinth? He thinks she must have.
The name Natalia sits well in the cage of his teeth. It's not cumbersome of heavy, doesn't dredge up mud and ash, just ice and blood. And he doesn't mind either of those.
"Natalia.... You are a Widow."
And not the kind that has loved and lost, though perhaps that too. She is a widow maker. He knows that much, even as his face all but crumples in on itself, something tearing at the back of his throat in fury. His mouth tastes bitter and he doesn't know why.
The admission to being without backup (she is alone and seems to trust you, it's a trap) goes unnoticed as he tries to grasp the spectres that are right there, if only he could--
"Damage inflicted is non-affecting. Broken ribs, front lower, along with minor lacerations to the abdomen." He blinks, the assessment of his physical state falling from his lips without thought. Like he was reporting them to a handler. "I don't-- You need not waste supplies. I'll heal."
-SO MUCH BLUSHING!-
"Pain? Or memories?" But weren't they both simply that? Pain?
At least he bypassed talk of the Red Room and didn't ask. A hand moved reflexively to her stomach and a shocking confusion hit her. Did she do that unconscious move because of the scar... or because of what they did to her body to ensure there would be no... complications in her loyalty? The thought made her uncomfortable more than she wanted to acknowledge. It hurt like a twist in her intestines and she had to force a sardonic smile at his words.
"Maybe you liked the lessons that came with the souvenirs." She said the words with the barest hint of a lilt giving way to sarcasm as she found she couldn't stay seated and stood up. Her hand stayed on her stomach to her disgust as she moved to the window and pushed the drapes aside to stare blankly at the mountain view. Turning her back to him was likely a lethal mistake, but right then, she felt too tired and too broken to care.
Her shoulder leaned heavily against the window frame as she only briefly looked at his reflection in the dirty glass. "I was the Widow for the longest time. Easily replaceable." Just as her replacements were easily replaceable. Something she found true after being forced to kill the next Widow. Her fingers dug deeper into her stomach and she bit her lower lip at the memory. "Then they decided I was too... complicating. A 'bad influence' on their favorite asset. So... I was assigned away from you. You had your memory wiped and we weren't allowed to cross paths again if they could help it." Not that they could most of the time. At first.
Then the fight to get his memories back just seemed like a steep uphill battle with no end. Turning her head at his damage report, she looked at him over her shoulder and gave his body a cursory look. "Doesn't mean we can't clean you up and bind the ribs so they heal right. Just because you heal faster doesn't mean you can't mess up the alignment of bones when they pull together. Up to you. I learned a long time ago if it's not your idea, it's a losing battle to force the subject."
HEAPS ROSES UPON YOU . also aliana= graceful SO AKFHSDG
Pain, memories. All his memories seemed to be of pain, and a great deal of his pain came from memories. Even the memories he didn't truly have managed to ruin him in some way. And that was the problem, he knew that he didn't know much of anything. Sure, his body could react, he could kill a man fifty ways with a shoe, and speak more than a dozen languages with near perfect accents but-- but he couldn't tell you his favourite colour. Couldn't remember where, or when, he was born.
Couldn't remember the woman with promises in her eyes and death in her gracefulness.
He is watching her, hand almost protective around her, and he wonders. Who is she really? Who was she, to him. Because she was someone. He can feel the ache in his bones, like an old battle scar that never really heals. You know me, you know me you knjow--
Mission Report: Red Room Operatives. Success. Deploying--
His face all but collapses in again and he groans, falling back into the couch that he can barely hear over the screaming in his head. He fists a hand in his hair, the flesh one, and forgets about the knife in his hand until he feels blood on his fingers, along his hairline.
The litany of Russian curses are edged with a Brooklyn accent, a feat few could achieve. He drops the knife to his lap and looks back at her, blood running down the side of his face, eyes clouded. "You were the best I ever trained. Romanova. The graceful death." The corners of his mouth twitches, eyes still not quite seeing anything but the figures in his memory. "You were-- something too human. They said, they said..."
The pain flares to life, images of red in the dark, of secret meetings behind backs and hard lies. He took more than one beating for her, he knows this. She must have been something else if he was so willing to try this again and again, there was no lying to HYDRA, no matter how hard he tried. Then again, it seemed that there was.
Shaking off the memories, he stares at her, eyes a little clearer though no less confused. "You've had this argument before then. I don't want to waste supplies. I--"
He wasn't worth it. Injuries like this didn't merit being taken care of if the mission failed. If the mission--
Mission: Eliminate Captain America and all accomplices.
He breathes out heavily through his noes, before staring at the floor. "They would break the rest of the ribs before setting them all right. Right before putting me in Cryo." He knows this much to be true. "Unless it was a life threatening wound, there was no reason to deal with it. It would teach me... teach me not to let it happen again."
Aww <3
Yet, the moment she found that perfect balance to numb out her thoughts, the groan he made shattered it. Turning her head in a fan of bright red, her eyes widened. For once she moved without thinking. Unsure why, but knew it had everything to do with the past. The times she could run to him and not worry about being lashed out at in return for her efforts. Gracefully dropping down to her knees in front of him, she reached out to him, her hand stopping in mid air when he suddenly stopped and spoke. Slowly, she lowered her hand back down into her lap, the slender fingers instantly digging into her knees.
Meeting his eyes, her jaw tightened slightly. A breath released slowly as she recognized that look in them. He was there, but not there. Far away and trapped in a flicker of a memory. Waiting. Always waiting, she kept her eyes on his face, gauging the change and need on his face until he finally seemed to come back to the present. Sighing softly, she pulled her sleeve down to her palm and slowly reached up again, taking the risk finally to just touch him.
"I can get more." She stated it simply as she carefully used her coat sleeve to wipe the blood away from his skin. For one so easy at bringing death, her touch was gentle and tender with long repressed emotions.
Her jaw tightened again at his description and she dared to let her fingers uncurl and gently coil a few rich strands around the tips. She knew. She knew what they did to him and hated it. And somehow they knew how much she hated it. It wasn't just James that got compromised by emotions. "They can't teach you anything anymore, James. We stopped them. You don't ever have to go back... I swear."
no subject
The curses he utters are achingly familiar, Russian laced with more of his history, providing him with another crash of memories and pain and--
Red
Mission Status: Failure. Not acceptable, the Asset will--
The body moves before the mind has caught up, all the muscles tightening like coils, a cobra ready to strike, hand on the knife and it's there, raised between them like a line he is daring her to cross. But he wasn't, he wasn't even really there, in the cabin with her, he was in Siberia, in Berlin, in St. Petersburg. She isn't touching him, but she moved so fast, like a shadow and she moved like so many of his memories. There was a sharpness to her that put his weapons to shame.
When the softest touch presses against his skin, he almost jumps, almost kicks and slashes with the knife, but something stops him. This isn't-- she isn't--
When he speaks, his voice is rough, like his memories had torn at his throat, clawed their way from his gut to leave the taste of bile in his mouth. "What... what are you doing, kroshka?"
The word slips in without a though, it should be there. He knows it is an endearment, his brow furrows at the ease with which it slips form his lips. He should be worried about how easily his guard slips around her instead, how he hasn't but a knife between her eyes and is instead finding himself almost at ease with her soft touch and softer words.
It feels like a --
Recalibrating. The Asset needs to be taught a less--
The gentleness makes him shiver, but he drops the knife, looks at her with memories that are almost free. He knows her. "Neither do you. We're... are we free?"
It's such a simple question, but his voice shakes. Freedom isn't something he knows how to deal with. Not yet.
no subject
This time she dares to go just a little further. Releasing her sleeve from her palm, she allowed her fingers to so very softly trace the outline of his face and curl some of the long brown hair behind his ear. The sudden slip of that endearment pulled up the corners of her lips in a small affectionate smile. A small spark of amusement glittered in her eyes as she cupped his chin softly. "Cleaning you up. Red has never been your color, luchik."
Her voice is soft, gentle, and almost serene as she rolls the return endearment off of her tongue with a certain sweetness to the tone. As teasing as the name was, she used it with the utmost amount of adoration. Lowering her hand from his face, she settled her hands in her lap where they fidget a second before she rose up to place them softly and non-obtrusively on his knees. Leaning in, she rested her chin atop her own hand and hummed a sound of affirmation.
"Yes, James, we're both free." And sometimes freedom was more terrifying and more painful than the places the monsters kept them hidden and locked up. Sometimes freedom cut into your wings and choked you on that very desire to fly away. But here and now, in this place, she and James were safe.
A line furrowed her brow as she fixed her gaze upon him, marring that perfection of her face and drawing lines of concern around her eyes as she kept them on his face. "I know you don't remember, but I promise you, I will take care of you if you let me." If he only let her, she'd stay by his side as well. If he let her...
no subject
The nickname shakes him to his core, shakes some memories loose and he can remember shadows and furtive glances. Remembers the taste of blood on her lips and the feel of skin-- There is a broken laugh caught in his throat as he looks at her. "No, it was always yours, wasn't it?"
The Asset is compromised. New mission parameters: Retur--
There are still too many fragments, too many shards of the past digging into his eyes that he can't quite see and it's too much and not enough and she is right here, and he jumps slightly at the touch. At her solid presence on his skin, on his mind, and he can't find it in himself to jerk back the way he knows he should (the way he has been trained. Show no mercy. Show no humanity. You are a weapon, and weapons do not feel). He is tired of running, and fighting and there is comfort here where he does not expect it.
The knife is dropped, forgotten, and he finds himself, bloodstained hands, covering hers with a reverence that surprises him. He tries not to think about how much it feels natural, feels like something he has done time and time again. Continues to not think as he reaches out and lets a finger trace the side of her face, brows furrowed.
"We-- I don't know how to deal with freedom." It's a quiet truth that breaks him a little. Because he doesn't know, he has been following orders for as long as he can remember, even longer because he can't remember and this is terrifying. "I don't know-- I barely remember my name."
And he doesn't. The blo-- Steve called him Bucky. Natalia called him James. He was just-- well he just was.
"I know how to kill, but I don't know my name..." There is something soft and broken and desperate in his voice, his confusion giving way to something too close to sorrow.
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Clint and Coulson drug her out. Pulled her out of that world and helped her bury all of it. The idea of realizing that SHIELD was Hydra? That undid her world. All of the good she thought she'd been doing... she'd just been doing more wrong under a pseudonym rather than finding freedom. It seemed so right... the moment he released the knife to cover her hands with blood. She lifted her hands just a little and splayed her fingers slowly, letting his own slip through her own. For a moment, she stared at the stains of scarlet before lifting her eyes up to his once more. Pressing their palms together, she curled her fingers over the backs of his hands.
"Truth is, James, I don't either. But I think... I'd rather learn now with you, if you want to try." Because now Hydra was gone. Even if SHIELD tried to save itself now, she would never work for them again. At best she would go to Steve if he called. Maybe even Stark if the cause was just. But the truth was, she needed to learn how to live first... if living was what anyone could call her half life. "Know the funny thing about Russian's, luchik? We like many different names... from many different people. Each means something to the one that says it. And that feeling behind it... I think that's what matters the most about names. How it is said by the one that says it. To me you are James." The corner of her lips curled up just a little at that. "And to you, I will always be Natalia. To Steve, you are Bucky. Do you know why both of those are different from them? Because they called you a thing. Devoid of feeling or reason. When I call you James..."
She drifted off, her words getting a little weaker as she considered how it might sound. Emotions complicated things, but they carried her intent now. Natasha just fought the cold truth that she'd try to throw the feelings for him away. How sad of her... "I am calling you the last of my heart." What ever little bit still remained. The broken pieces and wasted opportunities and life she'd loss... that was him.
"So maybe... just listen to that when I say that name. And maybe... one day you will believe that person is you again."
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But it was, gods above it was. He watches as he fingers tangled with his and it feels like another piece being slotted into place even if he has no memory to go with it. He is squeeing her hand with a gentleness that he does not expect from himself and he wonders what other things are hidden right beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to creep out and blindside him.
Good evening, soldier.
Natalia's voice is -- soothing. Grounding. It quiets the voices clamouring for attention in his head and he uses that, and the warmth of her hands, as a lifeline. He is here, as safe as he can be, and now. There is no ice, no snow, no missions to be carried out. He has-- he has freedom, and that shakes him to the core. He can feel the fear creeping in, even as he tries to focus on Natalia, can feel the tremors in his hands, can--
I am calling you the last of my heart.
Suddenly there is no air to breathe because those words have ripped the air from his lungs. The tremors in his fingers have stopped and he is staring at her with something crossed between wonder and horror and confusion. There is so much emotion in those words that he feels like he might drown, and it is no trick. He knows the tells (knows her tells, can remember learning them time and time again in the dark and the cold), and this is not-- She doesn't--
When he speaks, his voice is rough and raw, and he bleeds honesty into his words. "I loved you. They used that against me, and I-- they used that against you. How--"
He stops, choking a little and making a whining noise, like a wounded animal, as he tried to blink away the fragments of memories that swirled around him. When he looks back to her, he is pleading without words, something in his gaze uncertain and trusting and terrified.
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Little good it ever did her. They kept removing everything from them. And on the off chance they did keep her away, he somehow found his way back to her. And here they were. Squeezing his hands firmly, she drew one to her lips and kissed his knuckles, uncaring of the blood still splattered over them. Her eyes fluttered closed at the pronouncement of past love and it echoed back to her in a different way..
Love is for children.
People that didn't know how bad this hurt. That didn't realize you could have your very soul sucked out of you. And yet, here she was again. How could she answer that? And then it didn't matter. The sounds he made caused her head to rise and her body to move fluidly. Releasing his hands, she found her way up into his lap to curl about him, both hands slipping into his hair to pull his face into her chest to just... hold him. Pressing her lips into his hair, she kissed the mussed locks and whispered lowly. "You did love me. I still do. It hurts. Both knowing, and not knowing." For both of them.
Carding her fingers through the hair to rest softly at the back of his neck, she spoke as sweet and soothing as she could. "I will not leave you this time. Not this time, James... no one can tear us apart now." She hated speaking so hopefully, but she knew this to be true. She wouldn't leave. Not even Steve or Tony could keep her from him this time. Turning her head, she placed her cheek to his temple. Her voice slipped into soft Russian as she dipped down to whisper in his ear. "Shh... just listen to my voice. It's okay." Her voice shifted, singing a strange Russian lullaby to him, her voice perfectly lilting and staying smooth and soft. For most, it seemed like anything but a peaceful song... to them, it was a shared solace.
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Gentle lips on his skin send shocks along his nerves. This is not real, a test a test a tes--
Watching her with hooded eyes, he tried to pull together the few quick as lightening images that passed beneath his the surface of his mind. Too many shadows, and too much blood, but he knows-- knows that she is there too, if only he could dig far enough down. If he could only wipe away enough blood, maybe he would be worthy of her gentleness, of her calmness. Of--
The noise registers to him, but he does not realize that he is the one making it, is startled by Natalia's movements but-- he doesn't stop her. He all but melts into the hold, eyes shit tight against the horrors that lie in wait in his mind, and presses himself against the skin of her neck, not even aware of how vulnerable she is right now. He can only think that he is safe, that this is okay. He is free and HYDRA will not find him again, will not rip them apart and tear him to shreds for wanting just one thing in the world.
When he speaks, he must try more than once, tongue heavy in his mouth. "I think-- I think I know, the love of you." It doesn't make sense, but it does. There is no reason for this reaction otherwise. "I know in some sense, this body knows, as it knows to kill, it-- knows you. Knows to .. be safe."
Soldier, report. Soldier-- sol-- love is not--
He closes his eyes again, tightly, as if that could block out the world. Leave him here with this, whatever this might be. There are hands in his hair and a weight on his lap and he feels-- he feels like James, just a little bit. Something warm uncurling, stretching its legs beneath the weight of all the horror. There is something in him that responds to the song, broken bits of Russian slipping from his lips as it pulls up the memory of a drafty room in Germany, blinds shut tight, but the bed was warm. Warm and perfect and--
James softly joins her singing, voice shaky but there.
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The sound of his voice encouraged her. It pushed her to keep singing to the end, her body swaying them gently to the rise and fall of the lullaby. When she finished the song, she exhaled in a gust against his hair. It's not a smooth breath, it stuttered and paused at times showing how much it affected her though she tried not to let it show. Biting into her cheek, she can almost feel the coppery tang of broken skin and blood on her tongue.
But it doesn't stop her from humming the tune as her fingers play in his hair.
Finally reaching the end a second time, she convinced herself to move. Pull back and find his eyes quietly. "Remember things as they come, James. Don't force it." Her eyes almost plead for her even if her voice stayed even and calm. "For once... we have time."