they say l o v e is pain, well darling let's h u r t tonight || for natasha_romanoff

[maarmoreal]

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.

Comments

Aww <3

[natasha_romanoff]

"No... I don't think so." She answered that honestly. Everything pleasant in her life had been a blur of pain bleeding into it and the line ceased to exist sometimes. Clint likely represented the most stable and normal force in her life and he didn't need her or her baggage mucking up his life. Idly sweeping her hair back, she vaguely considered cutting it again while letting her thoughts drift out the window into the darkening landscape beyond. Where she stayed always alert, always waiting for him to move, she still let the mind ignore the painful stimulus.

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."

[maarmoreal]

Memories when they are slamming into your brain are certainly painful; fighting back all the conditioning, all the mind wipes, all the lies and ghosts that were in his mind made him grit his teeth. It wasn't a physical pain, he could handle that, could push that to the back and get on with life as he did with broken bones and cuts of the flesh, but these... these were different. Some part of him knows he is more than a blank slate, that there is history in him, but he doesn't know.

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.

[natasha_romanoff]

She expected more than she got. A knife hovering between them had to be one of his lesser reactions to her breaking the line when he hovered in that space between remembering and remembering nothing. However, she didn't stop. Natalia merely slowed her pace to something traceable and kept her touch remarkably soft and loving. Once she smoothed away the last of the blood, she let her eyes slip to his.

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...

[maarmoreal]

Weakness. That was what she brought out in him. That was why-- He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, not out of pain but because she is so soft and that hurts in a way he can't figure out. It feels like something soft and innocent and something that he knows was beaten out of him a long time ago. And yet-- he is still leaning into her touch without really thinking and that is terrifying because he should put a bullet between her eyes and--

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.

[natasha_romanoff]

"Red suits me." Just like the red all over her hands. The red dripping from her ledger and pouring out over the floor around them. Where she was forced into this work, she also at times, enjoyed it. Venting, taking the anger of everything they took from her out of those foolish enough to attack her first. And for a while, it worked. Drowning herself in the blood of victims somewhat pacified the agony in her own chest. Until she realized it wasn't pacifying, it was killing. She was killing herself slowly. Painfully with each horrifying act she committed.

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."

[maarmoreal]

There is red carved into his bones, but no, it isn't his colour. He is the colour of ash and dust and the shadows that you see from the corner of your eyes when you feel someone watching you. He wasn't a human, not really, he was a shell, everything that he might have been carved out, leaving something that could be filled left behind. He was a weapon, his purpose was to kill or be killed, and he knew that he didn't have that any more, and that was terrifying. He barely knew how to deal with the tenderness that seeped out of Natalia, such softness should not break him.

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.

[natasha_romanoff]

Every tremor and quake he suffered, she felt it. Absorbed it through their joined hands with a saddened look in her eyes. Breathing in slowly, she waited for him to take it in. Turn it over in his head... and her brow furrowed in sadness from the way it seemed he couldn't even breathe with the knowledge. These were things she always feared with being honest with him, but she promised him once. Promised that if she told everyone else lies, she would always try to be honest with him.

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.

[maarmoreal]

Truth hurts more than lies. It always did, always will, and it is painful now as ever. He knows that he has been fed lies and half truths his whole life, and this honesty from Natalia is almost too much for him to process. Like a man that has been starving being presented with rich foods sure to make him ill. But he is greedy for it, greedy for whatever else this woman of red might dredge out of the depths of his shadows, what other things she might be able to call forth from him, what other voices she might silence. He will take the pain, the terror, because he knows that it is worth it.

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.

[natasha_romanoff]

Closing her eyes to the pain, she focused more on the words she forms in that song. The soft lilting tone is all but whispered into his hair and against his cheek. Natalia blocked out the sadness and the pain that come with his words. All in such distance from the concept, like it's there on display but not in his hands. Intangible. Outside of his current world.

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."