A/N so I read a headcanon from tumblr (credit to whoever came up with it, I don't know who it was) and ran with it. The headcanon being that there's a saying in the Red Room, that where fall goes, winter follows or something like that. The idea being that the reason Nat kept her hair red throughout her career, including through countless undercover ops, was so that the Winter Soldier could find her again. So yeah, I ran with it. Historic winterwidow, established BlackHawk/Clintasha. This first chapter also references another of my fics, In Every Way He Knows You Fear.
This will probably be 3 chapters long, one for the Winter Soldier, one for Civil War and a final one for Infinity War. Buckle up buttercups, this might hurt.
There had been a saying in the Red Room, a whisper really. Where autumn goes, winter follows. And even after the brutal end of their time together, somehow that saying had proven itself true.
She knew he'd come. The Winter Soldier doesn't miss. She was alive (with a damn painful shoulder) because he wanted her to be. So it was no surprise to her when she walked into the kitchen of her off-the-books safehouse to find him sitting at her kitchen table. He looked tense, ready, with his back to the wall and an easy view of both entry points. Predictable really.
She sets her rucksack down by the door and walks over to the counter, feigning nonchalance. Really her heart is pounding in her chest. "Want a drink?" she asks, "I've got coffee or water." When she receives no response she runs two glasses of water and sets one down in front of him.
They sit for several minutes in silence. He looks at her intently, frowning. She knows that look, no doubt Clint had seen it on her more times than he'd care to count. The look of someone sifting through memories, real and imagined, trying to fit them into a narrative that made any kind of sense. She remembers clawing at her memories of James, the one person who showed her any compassion, the man she once loved with everything she had. The same man she has monitored from the shadows for years, ever since that bullet in Odessa.
He seems to reach a conclusion.
"I killed you." He says blankly.
"You shot me. Twice." She gestures vaguely to herself. "Still alive."
His lips purse in frustration and he shakes his head, a break in the calm façade. "No, not Odessa, not the other day." His metal hand clenches and he looks up at her, his face contorting in confused pain. "I killed you."
She hears the anguish in his voice. "Who am I talking to?" She asks carefully.
He looks away, almost ashamed. "I don't know" He croaks, and then his eyes return to hers. "Natalia." Her name is a strained whisper. "That's your name. I knew you. You were in the Red Room…" He closes his eyes, struggling to make sense of the memories through the fog of programming.
Her chest is in a vice. She remembers sparring with him, learning his rhythm, fighting for hours in something that was more a dance than actual combat. And she remembers actually dancing with him, and learning that physical contact didn't have to be an attack. She remembers feeling loved, and relearning how to love.
Her voice cracks. "James?"
His gaze snaps to hers. His eyes burn with self-loathing. "I killed you." He repeats. "I remember every punch. I beat you to death with my bare hands, because they ordered me to. You died in my arms…" His voice is quiet and trembles, but finishes harsh and strained. "I couldn't do anything to stop it."
"But you did. You broke through three times. You were still in there, fighting all the way." Her own anguish bleeds into her voice. "Do you remember what I said to you?" She looks at him and she knows. She knows he does. It's not your fault, James. It isn't you. "I meant what I said." She took a steadying breath. "Do you know what I remember? I remember you holding me, whispering how sorry you were."
And very slowly, she reaches out and takes his hand. Because it wasn't fair what happened to them, and nothing could ever take that pain away. They had butchered the mind of a good man, warped him in to something he had never wanted to be. They had ripped away everyone and everything either of them had ever cared about. And nothing could change that.
"You'll get your memories back. And as you do, it'll be messy and frightening and awful. And somewhere in amongst all those memories of horror and violence are the memories of a good man, who went to war with his friend, and who had a family who loved him."
He jerks away as though burned, his chair clattering onto the floor as he backs away. She isn't offended, although it hurts. She remembers shutting down in much the same way. She doesn't try to stop him as he strides to the door.
"You have people who care about you, and when you need us, we'll be there." She murmurs.
He turns back. "The man on the bridge, the one with the shield… I knew him." He says softly.
"You did." She replies, thinking for a moment. "There's an exhibit at the Smithsonian, about him." She glances at him carefully. "About you. If you're looking for a place to start, that's where I'd go."
The door shuts quietly behind him.
A/N keep an ear to the ground for the next chapter, let me know what you think in the meantime.