For tumblr user artificiallyimplantedmemories, who requested "Bucky beginning to remember Natasha after all this time, or vice versa."
Many thanks to xwingrey for the quick beta and straightening me out on NYC coffee shops.
-o0o-
Title taken from:
"Of course I'll hurt you. Of course you'll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter." - Manon, Ballerina, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
"To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world..." - The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Here there shall be discussion of books, Christmas shopping, and Natasha hoping Bucky remembers what they once had. No smut.
Not entirely MCU compliant but I've included a blend of comics, MCU and my own headcanons/universe (not compliant with my Red Winter Hymnal story, if you're wondering). Can be considered an Avengers Tower AU solely since I'm setting it in New York City instead of out in the boonies where the new Avengers facility is. Since we're on the AU train, let's pretend after the dust settles post-Civil War that Thanos is pestering other galaxies and not Earth's, the Avengers are all friends again, and no one is a fugitive (including Bucky).
-o0o-
Natasha turned the page of her book as she sat in one of the cozy armchairs in the Avengers Tower common area. Snow was gently falling outside, the Christmas tree glowed in the corner… it was a perfect early December evening, except for the book itself. The best-seller was a steaming pile of pretentious bullshit about an Upper East Side socialite leaving it all behind to find herself in the Canadian wilds. It was so full of basic survival errors that the author couldn't possibly have stepped a foot north of 96th Street even once in her life. "Polar bears don't spend their summers roaming the border by North Dakota," Nat muttered as she flipped through several more pages of tedious, poorly researched idiocy. It was so awful she couldn't even read it as a parody.
She was about to chuck it against the nearest wall when a movement across the common area caught her eye. James Barnes quietly stole into the room, clad in thick wool socks and warm sweats a size too big, a book of his own in hand. His long dark hair was damp from the shower. For all that he was a former assassin and current Avenger, at the moment, he looked about as threatening as a four-year-old.
He caught her watching him, blushed a little, but nodded to her as he headed for the armchair in the opposite corner, next to the Christmas tree. She smiled back.
James Buchanan Barnes was a puzzle. He had gotten his head somewhat straightened out in Wakanda, but the weight of his past lurked as an ever-present shadow in his eyes, a shadow she easily recognized because she still sometimes saw it in her own eyes. She had conquered most of her demons, but James was only just getting started in the battle against his own. He handled missions with confidence bordering on swagger, but during down time, he haunted the edges of any room, keeping to himself, saying little and often slipping back out as quietly as he came in when there were too many people around. She'd once described him to Steve as a ghost. In many ways he still was.
James was, however, a ghost who loved Christmas. To the surprise of everyone except Rogers, on the Saturday after Thanksgiving he had suddenly shed his shell to take on holiday decorating with the same laser focus he employed on missions, even going so far as overruling Pepper on the type of wreath to hang above the fireplace (hand-made from pine boughs, not pine cones, and he didn't care what Pinterest said, there would be no pink or aqua, damn it). He had insisted on a live tree, the biggest that would fit the room, and fussed at everyone for putting the big ornaments up too high and the little ones down too low and no, you don't put a damn snowman on top, you put a star on it, Wilson, because it's the star of Bethlehem didn't you ever go to Sunday school? The bickering was better than any comedy club act Nat had ever seen. The best part of all was when he spent three hours untangling the strings of lights, completely ignoring Tony's increasingly exasperated offers to buy a new pre-lit tree.
"No fake tree. These lights'll work just fine, soon's I untangle them and find the burned-out bulb," he had mumbled, not lifting his head from the giant knot as he sat on the floor surrounded by spare bulbs, fuses and electrical tape.
Tony scowled at the tinny 1920s Christmas music floating from the speakers. "Can we at least play some real Christmas music? Music from 1910 makes me twitchy."
"It's from 1935, not 1910 and no," James grunted. "Not gonna listen to the modern pop crap while I work."
Tony had finally thrown his hands in the air and stomped out of the room, leaving only the peaceful sounds of Benny Goodman and James' soft humming to break the silence.
Even now, Natasha smiled. You can take the boy out of the Depression, but just try to get him to embrace modern traditions or, heaven forbid, waste anything. Rogers was just as bad. Or good, she supposed. Nothing wrong with defying modern throw-away culture.
She watched James settle into an oversized chair that was the twin to her own, his movements easy and athletic. He didn't look her way. Instead, he gazed for quite a while at the Christmas tree. Maybe it was the reflection of the soft, colorful lights, maybe it was the snow outside, who knows, but for a change, the usual grim set to his jaw was missing and his gray-blue eyes were clear of shadows.
He really, really liked Christmas. She'd love to know more about that, but how to get him to open up? She was used to being able to charm a flood of unguarded words out of just about anyone, but he remained a securely locked room. She stifled a sigh, wondering when they would ever have a real conversation, one that didn't involve tactics, the proper method of stringing cranberries and popcorn garlands, or how to keep Steve Rogers' own stupidity from killing him. Not that those weren't fun chats, especially about Rogers, but she could remember a time when they talked easily about much, much more. And times when no words were necessary at all.
Stop thinking about that. He doesn't remember. There's no point in trying to work up something out of nothing. He doesn't remember any of it.
If the pain of that wasn't so fierce, she'd laugh at the irony of their star-crossed relationship being so very Russian.
She wondered if there was any hope of rekindling his old memories, his old feelings for her, short of cognitive recalibration. She didn't see him responding well to that suggestion. No, her best hope was to start fresh, to work with who they both were now. Rebuilding the past was most likely a lost cause. She needed him to know her as she was today, not as she was back in Russia, and she must do the same for him and hope that somehow they came together as one again.
So. Best way to get to know someone is to have a casual chat, and now was as good a time as any to try picking that lock. "What are you reading?"
He looked startled. "Uh…" He glanced at the book's cover. "It's just, ah, oh damn it." His eyebrows knit together in pure exasperation. "I thought I grabbed Machiavelli's The Prince. But this is the kid's book. The Little Prince."
"Machiavelli seems a little heavy for reading by the tree, anyway."
"Yeah, I guess." He still looked irked. "I don't even know what this one's about."
"It's a good book. Has a lot of insights into the human condition."
"So did Machiavelli, and it'd probably help me in my job better than a book about—" He squinted at the flyleaf—"a visiting alien prince from a tiny asteroid. What the hell. You can't live on an asteroid. There's no atmosphere."
He was such a space nerd. "Humanity is more than power struggles and scheming, and stories don't have to rigidly adhere to the laws of nature. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry packed a lot of wisdom in that book."
Bucky grunted, his face a study in skepticism.
"'To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes,'" she quoted. "But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world...'"
Good god, why did she pick that quote of all possible quotes to parrot at him? She thanked her spy training for keeping her face from going up in flames, but her heart was lurching around all over the place. "That line has always stuck with me." Lame, Romanov. So lame. Just go ahead already and turn in your spy card.
He regarded her, his eyes unreadable. "It's a good quote," he finally said, very softly. He opened his book, but instead of reading, he nodded toward hers. "What are you reading?"
Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that he had moved the conversation to safer territory, she glared at her book. "A complete piece of garbage that nevertheless found its way to the top of the New York Times' best-sellers list. I weep for humanity. The Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's of the world are long gone."
She tossed it on the table beside her and walked over to the window by his chair. She tried not to be obvious as she breathed in his scent (Kirk's Castile soap and Bay Rum aftershave, just too damn adorably 1940). The snow had stopped. "I love the city right after a snowfall, before it turns dirty and gray." She looked down at him, keeping her tone casual. "I think I'll go out for a cup of coffee. Care to come with?"
Bucky looked a little surprised (James, we really do enjoy your company. I really enjoy your company…), but he closed his book and tucked it down in the crack between the cushion and the chair's arm. "I'd like that. I, uh, kinda need to do a little Christmas shopping, if you'd be okay doing that, too?"
"Sure. We'll shop first, then finish up with coffee. I need to grab my coat, so I'll meet you at the front doors."
He gave her another one of his shy smiles—damn it, if he only knew how much that smile still makes my heart flutter—and disappeared down the hall toward his apartment . She gave herself a shake and hurried to her own place for her jacket.
-o0o-
"Who are you buying for?" she asked as they walked down the sidewalk. There had only been about an inch of snow, so walking was easy enough. He had changed into black jeans, a weathered black leather bomber jacket and boots. He had stuffed his damp hair under a dark blue slouch beanie. He could easily pass for just another New York hipster, out to find the perfect ethically-sourced cup of java. The joke's on the hipsters though; she knew he preferred run-down pancake houses that served plain old Maxwell House.
"Steve and Sam. If I find the right kind of bookstore I can get something for each of them with just one stop."
From the way he tensed up and glared down every alley they passed, making just one stop sounded wise. "You're shopping with the right person. I know just the place, and it's on the way to the best coffee shop in Hell's Kitchen. We can take a cab if you're not in the mood for a hike."
He actually smiled a little. "Nah. Let's keep walking."
They headed west, their boots crunching softly on the new-fallen snow. She made several turns and cut through an alley before finally stopping in front of a dingy storefront hidden in the shadows of scaffolding that stretched upward in front of the building. The door was coated in peeling green paint. The word "Books and Oddities" announced with no frills what awaited beyond the smudged windows.
"Here?" Bucky looked dubious.
"Never judge a book, or a storefront, by its cover. This place is magical." She pushed the faded green door open. A bell jingled above their heads and the smell of old books wafted over them.
Aisles barely wide enough to allow passage wove between stacks of books on the floor and shelves that sagged under the weight of thousands more. Pendant light fixtures with bare Edison bulbs—possibly original from the looks of them—hung here and there, casting scattered pools of light just bright enough to let you read the titles if you squinted. This was no Fair-Trade-coffee-and-the-latest-novel shop. It was dusty, musty and dim, the kind of bookshop where you can't drink a cup of tea, but you just might run into the ghosts of Dorothy Parker and Edith Wharton lurking in the shadowy corners. Nat loved it.
James, however, was looking around as if he expected HYDRA agents to come spilling out of those shadows.
"Relax, James," Nat murmured. "The owner's a friend."
James looked dubious.
She rolled her eyes as she led him to the back of the store, where a wizened black man, his eyes covered by a ratty tweed newsboy hat, had his feet up on a scratched-up roll-top desk. An honest-to-God Victrola played a 1930s blues record beside him. She glanced at Bucky and whispered. "You probably played with this guy when you were kids."
"Ha ha," he whispered back, but she was glad to see the tense line of his shoulders relax.
"Toby!" she said loudly. "Wake up! I'm bringing you a customer."
The old man jerked awake and put his feet down on the floor with two loud thumps. "Eh?" he shoved the cap off his face and squinted at them, then his face split into a wide smile. "Natasha!"
"Hello, Toby."
He came around and gave her a huge hug. "Been too long, child. How are you?"
"Getting by. How's your back?"
"Fair to middlin'. Aches in this kinda weather, but I get by." He winked, then he looked James up and down. "Who's your friend?"
"James Barnes. Late of HYDRA and before that, Department X and before that, the Howling Commados. But now, like then, his own man."
James glared at her, panic gathering around the corners of his eyes.
"Don't worry, I told you, he's one of us," she said.
Toby nodded, stretching his hand out to shake. "She's right, son. Ain't no one gonna turn you in or nothin' like that. I play on Captain America's team, always have, always will. And let me just say right now that it's an honor to meet Bucky Barnes in person. Wasn't nothin' I loved more when I was younger than seeing the newsreels about the Howling Commandos kickin' those Nazis to the curb. Hated to hear you'd been captured and then what they'd done to you. Damn shame, that happening to a good man such as yourself."
Bucky turned so red Nat thought they could turn off the lights and still see by the glow of his face. She hid her smile as Bucky shook Toby's hand and said, "Thank you, sir. Honor's mine."
"So. You buying for yourself or someone else?"
James cleared his throat. "Um, a friend. Two, actually."
"Anything particular in mind?"
"One is an artist. The other, um…." He glanced at Natasha.
"He likes birds."
"American birds or some other kinda birds?"
Nat shrugged. "Any birds, anywhere."
The old man nodded. "I got stuff that'll suit both." He gestured for James to follow him as he disappeared into the stacks.
Bucky glanced over his shoulder and whispered, "Come rescue me if I'm not out in fifteen minutes." To her shock, he grinned as he hurried after Toby.
She laughed, and as soon as he was out of sight, took a huge breath and picked up a magazine from Toby's desk to fan her face.
Forget the metal arm, it was that smile that could always slay.
.-o0o-
An hour later, they were sitting across from each other at a corner table in the back of Caffe Russo, right next to the giant antique espresso machine that dominated the wall space. High pressed-tin ceiling, dark wood wainscoting, green walls and giant Italian paintings… it was one of the first coffee shops in the city and another of Nat's favorite haunts. They had chosen pastries from the glass-fronted case at the front of the shop, cannoli and cappuccino for Nat and apple crumb cake with ice cream and double espresso with Irish cream for James, plus a slice of Italian cheese cake tucked into his bag of books, to eat later.
Nat blew across the top of her cappuccino. "Didn't I tell you it was the perfect bookstore?"
James nodded. "I like Toby. He didn't ask awkward questions."
"He didn't need to. He already knows your entire story. He may not look like it, but he's one of my best informants. Very little escapes his notice, and discretion is his super power. People trust him, including criminals and HYDRA agents. He's fed me a lot of good intel over the years."
"He knew right away I was shopping for Steve. Knew Steve had an artistic bent. And he figured out just as quick that the bird-lover friend was Sam."
"What'd I tell you?"
He shoveled in a bite of his cake. "I think Steve'll like what I got him."
She had been lost in a book on 18th-century Russian firearms when James paid for his goods, so she'd only gotten a brief glimpse of books and some sort of oddball antique contraption before Toby bagged it all up. She nudged the large bag under the table with her toe. "Tell me again what that thing is? I thought you were going to get him a book."
"This is better. It's a Magic Lantern with a box of hand-painted slides of America."
"So, like an antique slide projector?"
James nodded. "My grandfather had one that Steve and I loved to play with when we were kids. I'm amazed Toby had one."
"Like I said, that place is magical. There's no telling what treasures are buried under all those books."
"I just happened to stub my toe on the box, or I would never have known it was there. Had to move about twenty books off of it to get it out."
"And what did you get Sam?"
"A kinda rare Audubon Society book."
Nat's eyebrows shot up. "That can't have been cheap."
Bucky shrugged. "It wasn't James Audubon-original rare. Just kind of old and vintage. It's a Folio edition, I think Toby said? I don't know squat about collectible books, but Toby thought it would make a good gift. I just hope Sam likes it."
"He will. Trust me." She leaned around the table to look at the smaller bag sitting between James' boots. "What else did you get?"
He shrugged. "Few things for me."
"Let me guess, a signed first edition of The Little Prince."
He laughed. "No, not that. Didn't get a first edition of Machiavelli, either."
"That'd cost a pretty penny. I think I saw a first edition translation go for fifty-thousand pounds at auction in Great Britain a few years ago."
"Too rich for my blood." He took a sip of his coffee and sat back with a sigh. "Thank you, for this. Been a long time since I spent an evening out with a… friend."
His slight hesitation before 'friend' may have made her heart jump a little. "You're good company, James."
He gave her that same unreadable look that he had back in the Tower. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head, as if he were thinking about saying something and weighing the consequences. In the end, he merely smiled and said, "You, too," and put his head down to concentrate on finishing his cake.
She did the same, stuffing away her frustrated disappointment with each bite of cannoli. What did she expect, anyway? Sudden declarations of love? The best she could hope for was what was happening: a slow renewal of acquaintanceship with the faint hope that some long-buried ember might flare to life. It wouldn't happen overnight. This evening had gone well and was a pleasant step forward and she needed to be content with that.
She wasn't.
They finished their desserts and coffee in companionable silence. James had an endearing habit of giving good food his undivided attention, and little wonder, considering he'd been kept alive on some sort of liquid nutrient solution for seventy years. The man deserved every chance to simply enjoy his food. She finished first and simply sat back to enjoy watching him. A lock of hair escaped the confines of his hat and fell across his right eye. He shoved it absently behind his ear and caught Natasha watching him. "What?"
"Good cake?"
He nodded vigorously as he scraped his spoon across the plate to get the last sweet bits.
Nat leaned forward. "Use your finger. I'll never tell."
He laughed a little and did just that. When he had drained his coffee cup and wiped his finger and mouth with a napkin, he gathered up his purchases, easily slinging them all over his left arm. She followed him to the door, which he held open for her. "Better be careful doing that, James. Women don't go for that these days."
"Yeah, I kinda found that out the other day. I held the door for a woman and she spit on me and started yelling something about the patriarchy needing to be burned to the ground. I had no idea what she was talking about."
"The patriarchy is-"
"I know what it is, now. Had to look it up online, but I get it. Maybe she shouldn't have spit on me, but I get it. All those things we used to do for the ladies because we were gentlemen just seem like condescending chauvinism now, I guess."
"It's complicated. But have no fear—I won't spit on you."
"I appreciate that." He ushered her through the door, lightly touching the small of her back. Any other man would be down a hand if they tried that with her, but with James… it was all she could do not to start purring.
Natalia Alianovna Romanov, get your head on straight.
It was lightly snowing again. "Should we grab a cab?" she asked.
"I'm okay walking if you are. If it gets worse, we can duck in somewhere and call for a car."
She started down the sidewalk in lieu of actually answering.
They walked quietly, each lost in thought. The snow started falling again before they'd made two blocks. By the third, the wind had picked up considerably. James struggled to pull up his collar with just his free right hand, so she reached up and did it for him, her hand lightly brushing the hair sticking out under his hat in the back. It was silky soft.
"Better?" she asked.
He nodded.
They walked on, but as they traversed the alley she had used as a shortcut earlier, it became clear they'd be miserable if they tried to walk all the way to the Tower. James must have had the same thought because he reached for his phone the same instant Nat reached for hers. She laughed. "Flip you for it."
His smile was a splash of white in the darkness. "Since there's a real possibility you would literally flip me for it, go ahead."
"Finding a cab in this weather would be a miracle and I know how you feel about the subway and buses, so I'll have FRIDAY send a car."
"Thanks. About the subway, I mean. I guess I'm just not a mass transit kinda guy."
She patted his arm, then turned her back to the wind to keep her phone free from snow. James moved so his body helped do the same. She rapidly sent the text. "There. They'll meet us at the 24-hour laundromat just around the corner. We can duck in where it's warm while we wait."
"Well, that sounds romantic."
She stared at him for a good ten seconds, absolutely speechless.
He stared down at his feet. "Sorry. That just… slipped out."
She blinked and found her senses but not her voice. She cleared her throat. "That's, um, okay."
"Guess we better get out of the wind," he said and hurried ahead.
She jogged after him. "James, wait."
He slowed and looked over his shoulder.
"You don't know which way to turn." That was not what she wanted to say, but talking in an alley in the freezing wind wasn't optimal for prying open the lock on James' secrets.
He was still looking at her. "Right," she said. "Turn right."
He nodded and kept his head down until they reached the door of the laundromat. He held it open for her and she ducked in. The place was empty, which wasn't really surprising. Not many people risked a snowstorm to do their laundry.
James put his bag on a laundry-folding table and leaned against a washing machine, his hands jammed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Nat could have cried. All the progress they seemed to have made had disappeared and she didn't know what to say. She studied him as he stared at his boots, then took a breath. In for a penny…
"James… do you remember…" She didn't know how to ask.
James was quiet for so long she turned away finally to watch out the window for the car. Damn it, Romanov…
"Natalia," he whispered.
Something went very still inside of her. Natalia. No friend besides James ever called her that. She turned around.
"You were a ballerina." James glanced quickly at her, then back at his feet. "I, um… remember. Bits and pieces. Back in Siberia, with Steve and Tony, before we got off the jet, Steve and I talked about a redhead I once dated. Gal named Dot. Steve said I always had a thing for redheads and it got me thinking. Well, I mean it got me thinking once I got over all the shit that happened after that. I started to get flashes of… of another redhead. A ballerina. You." He stopped. Still didn't look at her.
"I remember, too," she said, stepping closer. She reached out and touched his chin, lifting it so he had to look at her. "I never forgot you. Our time together. What they did to you when they caught us."
He looked ready to run out into the storm and disappear. "I didn't want to tell you. Didn't want to disappoint you. I'm not that man anymore."
"I'm not that woman."
He searched her eyes. "I might hurt you. I can't risk that."
She reached for his wrists. "May I?"
He pulled his hands out of his pockets. She carefully peeled his gloves off and put them on the table, then took his hands again, one flesh, one metal, both achingly familiar. His fingers intertwined with hers just as they used to. She smiled sadly at them, then looked into his face. His eyes were troubled, wary, but also… desperately hopeful. "Would you run screaming from this place if I quoted Antoine de Saint-Exupéry again?"
"No." Then he gave her a feeble grin. "I, uh, might roll my eyes a little."
"I'll take that chance." She took a deep breath, then quoted, "'Of course I'll hurt you. Of course you'll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter.' I'll take that chance, if you're willing."
"My winter is too bitter."
"Some of the best springs I've seen come on the tails of terrible winters."
His right hand tightened around hers as he searched her eyes. "Help me become spring, Natalia," he finally whispered. "I'm so tired of the cold."
She laid her hand on his cheek. He leaned into it, his eyes closed. She felt the dampness of a tear and brushed it away with her thumb, then pulled his head down to meet hers. She gently kissed his lips. "Milli moi, you will find your spring, and I will be beside you every step of the way, for as long as you need me."
He kissed her this time, shyly at first, but then with a barely restrained hunger. He finally broke off and whispered, "I will always need you, Natalia."
She laid her head against his chest, breathing deeply of his scent this time, with no need to be subtle. Bay Rum, Castile soap, and now also coffee and leather. As he held her close, she marveled that unlocking James Buchanan Barnes had come so suddenly and so sweetly. Had she tamed her wary fox? Maybe. Maybe not. They might yet hurt one another, but for now, she savored knowing that for her, he had always been unique in all the world and now, at last, she might finally be the same for him once more.
A/N
Benny Goodman Christmas Time 1935 on youtube. Listen to it. You won't regret it.
The coffee shop based on the famed Caffe Reggio, a coffee shop in Greenwich Village that dates back to the early 20th century and boasts the first espresso machine brought to the United States. I would have used it by name, but it was too far away from Nat & Bucky in Hell's Kitchen, so I fudged and put in an Easter Egg reference. But, seriously, google it. I have it on good authority that it's awesome.