Author's Notes: Hello! Hey, thanks for clicking on this story! I'll try not to disappoint. If you aren't here from my one-shot, Haunting Memories, that's okay (but *wink wink nudge nudge you should read it). Truthfully, there's no background needed to jump into this story. All you need to know is that Natasha and Bucky left DC together after CA: TWS in order to figure out just why they find each other so familiar. Let the fun begin!
Also, note. This story earns it's M rating. Because, well, Bucky. And eventual sexy times. Although, arguably, that also falls under the "because, well, Bucky" excuse.
Disclaimer: I do not own Captain America or anything else MCU. Regrettably.
Chapter 1: Present
Natasha Romanoff has no fucking clue what she's doing.
There are many things she should be doing other than what she is. She should be finding a new cover. She should be alone. She should be somewhere like Timbuktu or Kathmandu or some other far off place that ended in a vowel. She should be keeping up with her contacts, planting false leads for her enemies, establishing an emergency contact number with Clint or Steve. Natasha Romanoff should be doing a lot of things.
But no, she's standing in line at a Phillips 66 in Bumfuck, Wisconsin, with a Gatorade in each hand and a bag of Doritos tucked into the crook of her arm while she keeps a subtle eye trained on the passenger in her black sedan. He hasn't moved since they stopped for gas five minutes ago. He hasn't even spoken since he originally got in the car with her.
That had been ten hours ago.
James.
The name bounces in her skull as she waits for the tired, middle-aged Dad in khaki shorts and a Cubs t-shirt to fumble with his wallet and plastic bag of sodas and chips. He goes to the blue mini-van parked right in front of the doors that glows from the inside due to Frozen playing the in backseat. As he climbs into the driver's seat, a night janitor enters through the rear exit and bangs his mop on the shelf with the bugles and the jerky. She can hear the packages rattle as she steps up the counter.
"Quiet night for a drive," the cashier says as he takes his time scanning the chips and drinks. He scratches behind his ear as he looks her over, his eyes lingering as she expects, and her lips automatically begin to curl into a smirk. It's instinct, too ingrained to merely be a habit anymore. "Just you?" he asks.
"No," she says with a small smile. "My husband's in the car."
James.
"Lucky guy."
"He has no idea."
She accepts her change, declines a bag for her snacks, and makes her way back to the car. The night is dark, dark like she remembers in Russia, with not even a streetlight to interrupt the darkness. She can barely see James in the passenger seat. He's just a giant shadow, and he doesn't move when she slides behind the wheel and places the two Gatorades in the cupholders between them. She immediately opens the Doritos, snagging a chip from the bag between two deceptively dainty fingers, and pops it into her mouth.
The crunch as she chews might as well be a thunderclap in the silent car.
She eats another chip anyway before offering the bag to him. "Want one?" she asks.
James moves.
It's just the slightest tilt of his head as he turns to look at her. His hair is still tucked neatly behind his ears beneath his blue ball cap, and his face is just visible in the dim overhead lights of the station. At first glance he seems expressionless, but his eyes are swirling with emotion, too many to name, and it almost gives the impression that he's holding back tears. But he's too strong for that, and Natasha knows it.
The silence stretches. It should be uncomfortable, but it's not. Natasha just waits, bag hovering in her hand over the console between them, and watches as confusion and curiosity bleed through his gaze as he eyes the bag. Finally, after another moment of debate, James lets his flesh hand dip into the bag. Natasha still doesn't move. She watches as he stares at the chip, considering, before popping it into his mouth much like she had done.
It takes a split second for the flavor to register, and then his eyes widen with the minutest pleasure, and he reaches for another. Natasha smirks in triumph. "Yeah," she says, as she turns the engine over. "I know."
She may not have established any contacts, planted any leads, or started a new cover, but she can say that she's introduced the Winter Soldier to the glory of nacho cheese Doritos.
And somehow that feels just as important.
The silence continues to stretch, and neither pay it any mind. Yet when Natasha wordlessly pulls into a thrift store parking lot hours later just outside of Saint Paul, James has to fight the urge to break their silence. It's not as if he needs to ask why they've stopped. He knows he needs supplies for whatever cover Natasha has in mind. What he doesn't know, however, is why she gets out of the car with him, slips her hand into his like it's nothing, and tows him toward the doors like he's hers to lead.
But he stays silent and follows her lead, working up a slight smile for the shopkeeper when Natasha cheerfully greets her. The shopkeeper, Kate, gives him a somewhat pitying, indulgent smile, as if she thinks he's a reluctant boyfriend dragged too early out of bed on a Saturday. James thinks this is Natasha's intent.
It's the simplest explanation for why they're in a goddamn thrift stop at nine in the morning.
James is also aware, however, that the ruse will likely continue to wherever Natasha plans to take them. People are looking for the Winter Soldier and the Black Widow. Individuals. No one cares about a young couple. A young couple that, if the way Natasha keeps hanging onto his arm is any indication, is very free with affection.
He slips his hand into her back pocket when she holds up yet another plaid shirt to his chest. His action serves two purposes. It cements their relationship, as far as Kate the Shopkeeper is concerned. (She's been not so subtly following them with her eyes around the store. He has no idea why.). The move also lets him gauge Natasha's reaction.
And he gets one.
Just not exactly the one he expects.
Natasha's eyes widen in surprise for only a moment. Her reaction is so quick that he nearly misses it, even though he's looking for it, and he silently admires her poise as she effortlessly smirks confidently at him and takes a step closer to him like he's pulling her to him. She tilts her head toward his, and he thinks for a moment that she may kiss him, and in that split second as he's staring down at her, waiting to see what she'll do, his heart suddenly begins to pound against his chest like a beast trying to break its cage.
It unsettles him.
Something in Natasha's eyes shifts, and she only places her hand on his cheek, and says, "Later."
She backs away. He withdraws his hand.
And her wallet.
Let her think the move was purely tactical.
And Natasha does think that as she once again begins to peruse the racks of hand-me-downs for a handful of shirts that will fit his broad frame. Purely tactical. He took her wallet as a small sort of leverage. Perhaps he plans to use the couple hundred dollars to get him as far away as possible as soon as he steps out of the shop. In a way, she wouldn't blame him. She would have once done the same thing. She had once done the same thing.
God, she needs to call Clint.
Yet when she hauls her choices up to the counter, James only uses the money to pay, and then casually takes the bags from her as they leave, holding the door open and letting her go first. The move is so damn absent-minded and casual that she thinks he doesn't realize he did anything odd. Yet it gives her hope that maybe James—Bucky—isn't so unreachable.
He's in there somewhere.
She wonders if she'll like him.
It's only another two hours to a cabin that's nestled neatly in a small meadow, deceptively tranquil and rustic. Hidden inside is enough weaponry to impress even Stark, a secret underground passage that leads into an abandoned storm cellar two miles east, and canned food fit for a doomsday prepper. The cabin is something of a last resort, a worst-comes-to-worst scenario, a place that Natasha created to hide indefinitely. Absolutely no one knows about it but her.
"Home sweet home," she says drily as she parks the car behind the cabin. "You get the stuff. I'll make sure it's clear."
The cabin only locks from the inside, and so Natasha takes the gun from her waistband and steps soundlessly through the door. It's all one room with a loft as the bedroom. The kitchen runs along the far left wall, its only decoration the blue-checkered curtains hanging in the window above the sink. The kitchen table backs up against the single leather couch that's draped with an old orange afghan. Then the stairs lead up to the loft where there's a full-sized, quilted bed, a nightstand, and an old Victorian wardrobe. The attached bathroom is equally basic with the exception of a clawfoot tub. Her one indulgence.
She's already aching to soak in it.
James stands in the kitchen when she comes downstairs. His eyes trail over the cabin. He's already identified each exit and every weapon she's hidden throughout the first floor from the 9mm under the end table to the grenade launcher in the coat closet. Finally, his eyes settle on Natasha, and his damn heart starts hammering away once again. Like it recognizes her and is urging him to just move his goddamn feet and go to her. He doesn't understand how that works.
But mostly, he doesn't understand her.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly with disuse.
Natasha's first instinct is to lie. Dozens of options are on the tip of her tongue within a second. She wants to regain her own memories, she needs a place to lay low, all the flights to Paris were booked . . .
But every single lie leaves a foul taste on her tongue, and so she's honest. "I don't know."
James's eyes dart to the tabletop between them. Secretly, he's disappointed. He thinks it's disappointment. Emotions are tricky for him. They don't seem to immediately compute, like a video that keeps buffering before it's ready to play. He's angry and confused and suspicious and curious and something else . . . something he still can't name, can't remember, but when he looks up and finds Natasha staring back at him, he thinks she feels it, too.
"I knew you," he says. "How do I know you?"
"I was trained in the Red Room. Do you know what that is?"
"Yes."
"I think you trained me."
"I don't remember."
Natasha's gives him a humorless smile. "Neither do I."
"Then how do you expect us to help each other? Sounds like between the two of us, we've got jack shit."
"I know a few tricks," she says before crossing the room toward him. Her steps are as light and measured as always, and James tenses as she moves closer. It feels like the thrift shop all over again, but he doesn't react. Doesn't flinch. He keeps his mask just as smooth as hers as she reaches past him, her arm brushing his side as her hand slips into her bag that he'd set on the table. Natasha pulls out the original file she had given Steve and offers it up between them. All she feels is heat as she looks up at him, which doesn't make sense at all—he's the fucking Winter Soldier—and she wants to lean in closer to see if she'll burn, but she doesn't.
She merely keeps her voice low and adds, "In the meantime, this might help."
James takes the file, and Natasha backs away. He's relieved that there's space once more between them, and she's silently rattled because she can't read him. Yet both of them appear nothing but calm. Natasha gives him a little smirk. "I'm going to bed," she announces. Then, with a cute tilt of her head, she says, "The couch is all yours."
She retreats to her room and disappears into the bathroom, turning the water on and filling the tub. Once it's deep enough to swim in she slips lithely into the steaming water with a small groan of pleasure that turns into a hiss when her bullet wound dips beneath the water. It healed weeks ago, and so she doesn't understand why it's suddenly throbbing now. After all, a wound can't know that the man responsible for it is just downstairs.
James.
He stares at the closed bedroom door at the top of the small landing for a long moment after Natasha disappears. When he hears the water running in the bathroom, he looks away and forces himself to focus. He has a new base. He needs to be sure that it's adequate.
He has no qualms about scouring every inch of the cabin—opening drawers, testing floorboards, checking for booby-traps. It's as he searches that he realizes everything—weapons, ammo, knives, cash—is hidden exactly where he would have placed it. Just to test his suspicion, he stares down the 400 square feet of the first floor and then lets his eyes drift up to the ceiling fan. He stands on the coffee table and unscrews the cap where it meets the ceiling. He finds a roll of hundreds.
He takes it.
He still isn't sure that he's staying, and now he has some funds. Enough to get over the Canadian border at least. It's simple enough to find a backway flight from there. If he left now, he knows he could be over the border by noon tomorrow. In Europe the next day.
It would be easy.
It would be logical.
And that's precisely why he secures the fan to the ceiling, steps off the coffee table, and retrieves the file. He doesn't like how simple his thoughts are. They're dry and plain, as if he's reading from an instruction manual, and he intuitively knows that it's not normal. It's detached and cold, robotic like his arm, and whatever he is, whoever he is . . . he doesn't want to be that.
So he spends the rest of the night reading the file in order to know what happened to him. It's not hard. He thinks it should be, but it's not. He doesn't feel as if he's reading about himself. It feels like another dossier, like he's prepping for a mission. He doesn't flinch as he reads about what HYDRA and Zola did to him. The memory wipes, the plain old-fashioned torture, the experiments, his arm . . . he reads it all clinically and thinks that what he reads makes sense. It explains him.
That changes with two damning pages.
Asset and Black Widow compromised. Relationship was allowed to continue until it became plain that their relations were not purely carnal in nature. Asset needed to be heavily restrained and sedated before Widow could be extracted. Multiple wipes necessary to ensure compliance. Widow also wiped as precaution. Karpov has moved up the graduation ceremony as preventative measure.
Something in him flickers as he reads and rereads the pages. Brief summaries of missions. Notes on his growing . . . empathy. The word compromised begins to repeat with greater and greater frequency until he reaches the end and is left with words like restrained and compliance and graduation.
He sets the file aside and begins to pace.
Emotions are hard for him to decipher. He's not sure what anything means. He doesn't remember, but he feels . . . unsettled. His chest is tight and his fist keeps clenching as if he wants a fight. Anger. Yes, he's angry.
He thinks about the pages. They come back to him word for word. He's noticed that. He doesn't seem to be able to forget anything. Ironic.
Natasha.
No, Natalia.
That's her name. Natalia.
James isn't sure what feeling floods him next. It reminds him of the thrift shop when she'd been so close to him or just hours ago when she'd reached past him to get the file. He recognizes the moves for what they are. A test. A gauge. It's why he doesn't react. Two can play that game.
But this feeling now is different. He wants . . . he wants to go upstairs and guard her door. He wants to watch her. No, he wants to watch over her. He wants to . . . protect. Yes, he wants to protect her. She's . . . she's his.
And that scares the fucking shit out of him, because it doesn't make a damn bit of sense.
He eventually goes back inside and finishes reading the file. Those disconcerting feelings fade as he reads, and he's grateful. There's a second file, a smaller one, tucked into the back, and he realizes it's his military records. It makes him remember the museum. That place where he'd had his own memorial, his own dedication, as if he'd been someone important and loved. Someone worth remembering.
He sets that part of the file aside for another day.
Night passes slowly. He tries to sleep and fails, waking up every hour or so as if he's escaping nightmares before they can haunt him. He wonders how long he'll be able to keep running before the memories inevitably catch up. He wonders if he wants to remember at all.
When Natasha comes downstairs as the sun is peeking over the horizon, she finds him in a pair of worn jeans and a blue-checkered flannel. Yet the sight of the Winter Soldier looking like a lumberjack isn't what stops her. It's the sloppily made top knot keeping his hair out of his face as he absently looks over his file. So that's where her hair tie went.
It should disturb her that he's able to slip past her while she's sleeping to steal the tie off her bathroom sink.
Instead, she's impressed.
He doesn't look up as she walks past him to start the coffee, which she takes as either a sign of trust or a blatant dare. She feels it's the latter, and instead of warning her away, it really only entices her to flirt with a fine line. So once she gets the coffee brewing, she boldly walks right up behind him. He still doesn't turn, doesn't outwardly react, but the muscles in his back tense.
James goes completely still once her hands are in his hair. "You know," she says as she gently tugs the tie from his hair, "you could have just asked." He doesn't stop her as she begins to sift her fingers through his hair. It feels . . . nice. He wonders if she often did this during their affair. "That way," she gathers his hair neatly in her hands and twists, "I could show you how to tie it."
Natasha wraps the tie around the bun and resists the urge to fluff it out and make it more stylish. She'll ease him into that part. For now, it's merely a practical solution, and her coffee is ready anyway. "So . . ." She takes the whole coffee pot and two mugs with her to the table and quietly begins to pour. ". . . Learn anything interesting?"
James frowns. His brows furrow in agitation. "No," he snaps. Then, "yes." And finally, "Fuck if I know."
Natasha studies him for a moment and then pours another cup of coffee. "Well," she says, pushing the mug toward him. "That's better than nothin'."
She watches him stare at the mug as if it's a puzzle he can't solve. She remembers what it's like to be confused over something so innocuous. Clint has bought her coffee every morning since the day he recruited her, and she remembers being so confused by the gesture. At first, she thought it was a strategy. Make nice. Be friendly. Lull the mark into submission.
It led to her wasting a hundred good coffees before Clint finally looked at her and said, "It's just fucking coffee, Nat." Followed by, ". . . so do you like tea?"
She stomached another month of bad green tea before she cracked and told him to bring coffee or she was going back to Russia.
She looks at James and then back at the coffee. "It's just coffee, James. If I wanted to lull you into my web, I'd go about it a bit differently."
He meets her gaze then, and there's something in his eyes that makes her uneasy. She just can't put her finger on why. Her eyes drop pointedly to the file while she takes a slow sip from her mug. "No help at all, then?"
His gaze drops from hers. Inwardly, she's relieved. "Some things feel . . . familiar."
"Like what?"
She's aiming for something meaningless, something simple. A mission, a place, a name. James knows that, and so he says, "We had an affair. In the Red Room."
"Yes."
"I trained you."
"Well, that's one way of looking at it."
He studies her reaction. Naturally, there isn't one, and he's unsure whether he's amused or frustrated. He wants to know if she remembers. He honestly doesn't want her to remember. He likes the idea of someone being just as in the dark and fucking confused as he is, but then that sounds petty. Perhaps he is petty.
Hell if he knows.
"I want to remember," he says.
Natasha ignores how her stomach flips. "Then, let's try to jog your memory."
Five minutes later, they've both changed into sparring clothes. James wears his tactical gear, though he chooses to disregard the vest. Natasha is in a simple tank top and yoga pants, looking like she should be spending a day curled on a couch with a book rather than going toe-to-toe with the deadliest assassin in United States history. She sidles right up to him, eyes bright and teasing, but James isn't fooled. The smirk on her lips is decidedly dangerous, like a cat watching a mouse.
"It's probably best that we start at the beginning," she says.
James hesitates. He doesn't want to hurt her. Honestly and truly, he doesn't. "I'm not sure this is a good idea."
Natasha isn't worried. "C'mon. It'll be fun."
"This is your idea of fun?"
"One way to find out," she says as she sways even closer to him. She's testing him again, and she smiles when he tenses as she adds, "You show me your moves, and I'll show you mine."
Neither is sure who makes the first move, but they meet head on with brutal grace. Natasha is quick. Every strike is a blur. She's always moving, never staying in one place long enough for James to grab her. Yet she dares to get close, climbing onto his shoulders and spinning, throwing him onto the ground with inhuman strength. He rolls onto his feet in the next second and they meet again.
It continues like this, constantly meeting again and again, every punch and kick flawlessly countered. It isn't like the highway in D.C., and it isn't like the cliff in Odessa. James isn't the Soldier. His motive isn't to finish his mission. He only wants to test Natasha, to find proof that he trained her. He wants to see her moves.
Natasha smiles at him as he purposefully leaves himself open to see what she'll do. She ignores his open side and instead goes for his legs, kicking his knee and landing a right hook against his jaw that leaves him impressed and frustrated. Don't make the obvious move. Surprise your enemy. It's just what he would have done.
And as they continue to dance—because it's undoubtedly what they're doing, he thinks—a feeling of familiarity begins to creep up his spine. This give and take, the sweat and the strain, this is nothing new. Just forgotten.
But his body remembers. He begins to anticipate her moves in a different way. It's no longer about reading her body. It's about muscle memory. It's something in him knowing her style, her moves, better than his own, and the spar becomes lighter. More fluid. It's less of a fight and more playful. She leaves herself open for a second, and instead of landing a blow, his fingers dig into her side and she shrieks in surprise.
They both pause. Natasha stares at him in surprise, unable to hide behind a mask of sly confidence. She hadn't even known she was ticklish. No one had dared to try to figure it out. Not even Clint. "Did you just tickle me, Barnes?" she demands.
James shifts his feet. "I don't know where that came from."
Natasha stares at him for a second longer before she shrugs, mask back in place. "Alright then. Guess we're fighting dirty."
Then she leaps at him, and the dance starts all over again. There are no more tickle incidents, but Natasha does pull James's hair when he flips her over his shoulder, and so he goes right down with her. He relaxes more and more as the spar goes on, and naturally, he thinks, that's when things go to shit.
Whelp, there you go. Chapter 1. First fanfic chappie I've posted in four years. Holy shit, guys.
So, drop me a line. Pretty please. Tell me what you think. Next chapter, we get to dive into the past to Bucky and Nat's first meeting! I started doing this for my Hunger Games fics, so I'll get you a preview line from the next chapter. Let's see . . . who shall it be? Hmm . . . how about Karpov?
"Widows, this is your new instructor. He is to addressed as Soldat."
I'll update every Friday, so see you then!
Lots of love,
AC
