Chapter 1: Dancing Among the Targets
Assassins do not dance. Bucky remembered hearing that, years back, years and years ago. Before his metal arm, at any rate. Some dumb movie himself and Steve went to see. It must've had some form of assassin, because on the way out, some broad made the mistake of expressing her desire to jive with the leading man. "Assassins don't dance, doll!" Her lover had insisted in a haughty tone, his arm slung around her shoulder like a heavy scarf.
It wasn't true, anyway. Assassins danced, or at least, they did in the Red Room. Being silent, agile, and graceful was all part of the trade. And while he wasn't ever gonna be as sleek and elegant as the women in the Red Room, let alone Natasha, he still knew how to dance. And, it became clear. So did she.
He made it clear in his mind. If she ever asked him what he was doing there that day, he'd tell her that he wanted to grab a glass of water. That he was thirsty after training, and out of habit returned to the main kitchen to rehydrate, rather than the fountains that lined the gym.
The music was classical. Not the loud shit that Stark listened to in the labs, but a dainty, breath taking melody, the swell of the violin and the sweet pitch of the piano floating out with haunting flow. Natasha was standing in front of the radio, her back to him, her head tilted slightly to one side. The sight was so familiar, and yet so different. She wasn't with the other girls, nor was she shivering in the tight black leotard. The rays of sunlight shone through the windows, catching her hair and illuminating her in a heavenly halo.
Why the fuck did he do what he did in that moment? Was it muscle memory, or some crap that the therapists came up with? No. Well, it was possible, but those guys told him that he wouldn't be aware of what he did when it came to that stuff. And he knew exactly what he was doing when he placed his glass down. When he crossed the floor without making a damn sound. And when he placed his organic hand on hers, gently, oh so gently.
Natasha turned around slightly, but didn't look up for a moment. She simply regarded their hands quietly. He didn't move a muscle. Hell. He scarcely breathed. She had that hold on him as Natalia Romanova, and she had it on him now, as Natasha Romanoff. Strange, how some things never change. Bucky finally allowed himself to breathe once she placed her other hand on his metal shoulder, light as a feather, and then guided him across the marble tiles.
Neither of them had to stop to remember the steps. Nor did they laugh, blush, or apologise for the wrong moves they never made. Bucky simply allowed his feet to match hers, guiding them swiftly across the empty room, trying to ignore how pain stakingly familiar it felt to have her in his arms once more.
"You're getting sloppy." She remarked suddenly, curtly. Did he imagine the catch in her voice?
"It's been forty years." He reminded her. Her captivating green eyes fixed on his face, and she responded briskly.
"That's not an excuse." The music stopped abruptly, and she stepped back, breaking the physical bond that had formed between them. "I'll see you at dinner, Sergeant Barnes."
"Until then, Agent Romanoff." He replied softly. As she walked away, part of him longed, yearned, beseeched him to go after her, to go down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. Because he'd left her. He HAD been sloppy. And if he'd just stopped to take the time to cover their tracks, to make sure nobody noticed, then maybe they could've had a few more years of holding one another in the cold Russian cells, of finding hope and light in the darkness.
Watching her leave, however, he couldn't help but feel the faintest glimmer of hope. Hope that, maybe, one day, they'd be able to meet one another. Discard their courtesies and stiff composure.
Hope that one day, Natasha and Bucky could continue the ways of Natalia and James.