It's slow. It had been slow since the moment on the bridge. Nothing was right. Everything was wrong. So wrong. The pieces didn't fit. Hours, days, weeks, months. The pieces still didn't fit. Maybe they never would. A thought that put the fear inside of him. Maybe he would never find out who James Buchanan Barnes was. Staring at the Smithsonian did nothing. Would never do anything. Only make it feel as if his eyes would bleed, his psyche would break. He wanted to remember, so badly it felt as if it he would break, before something would allow for him to remember.
The HYDRA bases fell. One by one. The only thing that had helped to feel if was worthy enough to exist out of being the asset. He needed to be more than what he was as he stood on the bridge, shooting at her, shooting at him, destroying every one without thinking twice.
Thinking, if only it was so simple.
His mind wiped. Again and again. One, twice, three times. Unable to think for himself. All he was were the orders. Kill him. Kill her. Kill anyone he needed to. Succeed in the mission. Failure was not an option. He did not fail. Even as a little girl screamed for her father. He did not fail.
He failed now. Mission. Mission failed. Memories lost. Recovery slow, long, difficult, mind a haze, static, the vodka consumed only making it worse, as if the sips would tear him away forever.
Red hair sparks something one day, the one it belongs to useless, a stranger, unable to even begin to comprehend what he could have ever been through, certainly as the metal taps against the counter, eyes widening. It's never pretty.
Natalia.
One day he just wakes up. Natalia. Red hair. Training. Over and over. Eyes watching them without question, forcing them to work until they broke, lying against the mat. An ache to reach out fills him, empty, as empty as he had been before the night took him.
Another day. Another base. Lives stolen, as years were stolen from him, memories, everything. Lost. Gone. Nothing. Unable to pull.
"Natalia."
It slips one day, one day when he swears it's her. She's smooth, stopping for only a moment, he picks up on it, and let's her go. Let's her slip away, even as his arm reaches out for her. Instinct. Desire.
He never searches for her. She simply appears. Next to him, ordering a drink, Russian fluently slipping. Russian. His own greeting comes, looking at her.
A flash.
Showers. Beds. Destroying all in their wake. Breathing her in. Her skin, her body, a comfort brought, Natalia, he would whisper. Parting from her as fast as they would come together.
It's his time with the USSR that comes together first, as much as could be allowed. Steve. He wants to remember the name. Natalia is one he remembers more. Her. There. The scent of her bringing him back to her, their time together.
Она моя.
The bridge. Her. Him. His needing her, more than him, no matter he was the mission. Pieces. One by one. The puzzle. One day maybe the puzzle will be whole. If he's lucky. He's never lucky.
Her lips surge something in him, her body something else. It falls into a rhythm, just as they do, breathing together, being together. Over and over.
Natalia. James.
It's them. There. Together.
Fingers grace the scar. His scar. One he had given. Memory of the mission there, vaguely, in pieces. Gun rising. Complete the mission. All costs. The bullet leaves. Target falls. She falls.
Mission complete.
She squirms away, fingers touching the too smooth circle. His doing. To her. Natalia.
"I'm sorry."
Their eyes meet. Something shared. The two of them, sharing more than he could imagine sharing with another. Products of something no one should be products of.
"James." It's all he hears. One day he just might actually be James.