A/N: This story is set after the events of the Captain America: Civil War. There are spoilers. You have been warned.

I am also uploading this on AO3.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, etc. These belong to Marvel.

Please read, reply, favourite, follow and enjoy! Your patronage is very much appreciated.

Natasha went to knock, but as she rested her hand on the door-handle, she found that it was unlocked.

"Steve?" she opened the door and entered his flat. About a year ago he'd decided to cough up and buy himself his own place in Brooklyn, despite spending most of his time being at the Compound. Even Captain America needed his own space from time to time. "I bought some Thai food and some beers. Figured you wouldn't have much in the fridge. You here?" The flat was dark, so she flicked on the lights, juggling the bags.

"Yeah, hiya, Nat," Steve said from the couch. He sounded tired.

Natasha locked the door and went and plonked onto the couch beside Steve, dumping the bags on the floor. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Steve shrugged, "Just, you know. Long way home."

"How was the flight?"

"Eh."

"You look like shit. Don't tell me Captain America was holed up in cattle-class," Natasha said, trying to joke.

"Nah, business," Steve said, staring at the turn-off television screen. "Just a five-hour flight followed by a two-hour layover followed by a fourteen-hour flight back to JFK."

"I could have arranged a private plane for you."

"It's fine." Steve didn't sound fine.

"You could have flown it back yourself."

"I said, it's fine. Business class is fine."

"Actually, you flying trans-Atlantic after farewelling Bucky probably isn't a great idea."

"Natasha…" Steve warned.

"Sorry," Natasha said, "So you've not eaten properly since…?"

"Dunno. Had a bit on the plane, but not much."

"And you've not slept in…?"

"Since Peggy died."

That wasn't the response Natasha had been expecting, and she wasn't sure how to reply. She picked up the books and papers sitting on the coffee table and put the beer and food in their place. Setting the papers down, a leaflet fell out of the notebook. Natasha picked it up. "I have a feeling," she said, "If you give the Smithsonian a call, they will give you a free poster from the exhibition about you."

"What?" Steve asked, looking at her.

Natasha held up the bent leaflet and smirked. Steve's face fell. "What?" Natasha asked, her smile gone.

"It's not mine," Steve said, pulling one of the beers from the six-pack and popping it open.

Natasha opened the notebook to put the leaflet back. "No. This isn't your handwriting."

Steve shook his head slightly as he gulped back the beer.

"Bucky?"

Steve nodded.

Natasha sighed.

Steve swallowed and looked at his beer. "I went back to his flat in Bucharest. It's pretty much destroyed. Not that there was much worth saving, but I figured," he shrugged and took another swig of beer. "That was worth something."

Natasha flicked through the pages.

"Most of it doesn't make any sense," Steve said, still talking to his beer. "Jibberish. Random words. Some of it isn't even in English. Real jibberish."

"It's Russian," Natasha said, finding a page of what she too at first thought was nonsense. "It's like his mind was jumping between the languages as he wrote. He's using part Cyrillic alphabet, part Roman. I can make out some of this, but - "

"But maybe he was right," Steve said, taking another swig. The bottle was almost empty. "Maybe he couldn't trust his own mind."

"We'll figure it out," Natasha said, grabbing the bag of food. "Chicken or beef?"

Steve shrugged, and finished the beer.

"Green chicken curry for you," she said, and handed him one box, "And beef Massaman curry for me. And a plastic fork for you."

"You could have got me chopsticks."

"Last time it took you an hour to eat rice with chopsticks. Just use the fork."

Steve took the fork, opened his curry and gave it a stir to mix the rice with the sauce. "There are lucid moments too."

"Huh?" Natasha said, mouth full of food.

"In the notebook. Paragraphs. In one case, a couple of pages. As though occasionally his mind would slit into place."

"What does he write about?" Natasha asked, grabbing a beer for herself.

Steve stabbed at his curry. "Mostly me," he told it quietly.

"Huh," Natasha said, swallowing a sip of beer.

"Nothing about his Winter Soldier years."

"You know," Natasha said, returning to her curry, unable to meet Steve's eye and not entirely convinced as to why she needed to say it, "The Winter Solider Program made the Red Room look like a picnic with cherries and cake. And the Red Room sucked."

Steve grabbed another beer. They finished the meal in silence. At least cleaning up after themselves was easy, cutlery and containers in the bin, empty beer bottles in the recycling. Steve collapsed back on the couch, and Natasha sat beside him.

"I dunno what to do, Nat," Steve said.

"Right now, I'd recommend a shower and bed."

"Yeah," Steve said, but he didn't move. "Hey Nat, can you…" Steve sighed, "Can you stay the night?"

"Why Captain," Natasha said, using her most seductive tone, "I thought you'd never ask."

"What?"

"I'm joking, Steve. Yeah, I'll stay. This couch is pretty comfy."

"Thanks," Steve said, eyes fixed on the blank TV screen.

Natasha had been expecting the question, and had brought a change of clothes and her toothbrush. Steve shouldn't be alone tonight. "They'll figure something out, you know," she said. "How to help him."

Steve shrugged, "I know."

"You don't sound as though you know."

"I just - I," Steve flailed for words, "We searched for him for two years. Then we found him, and the whole world was against us. He was fighting it, Nat, he was fighting and he was winning."

"But he was set off," Natasha said, "In Berlin. Until we can stop that from happening, counter the programming, well, I hate to say it Steve, but maybe he's right. We can't see inside Bucky's head. The Wakandians are good. T'Challa. They want to help. They'll figure something out."

"I know," Steve said so quietly that Natasha almost missed it.

"When Bucky snapped, and he had me pinned to a table, I don't know if he recognised me. But I want to believe that he did."

"Why?"

"Because if he was in there, even then, I don't know," Natasha said, leaning back into the couch. It was easier not to look at one another while they spoke. "It might mean something. I don't know what, but it might."

"He didn't even recognise me," Steve said.

"It's hard," Natasha said, "I never went through anything like he did, but the way they program you, make you think that everyone is your enemy, they're all out to get you. Find your target. Do you job. Get out. Get back. But Bucky didn't have a target in Berlin. He didn't have a mission. He was activated and he was scared and he was running. If we hadn't tried to stop him, I don't think he would have hurt us. I think he only attacked because we went at him first."

"It still isn't right."

"I didn't say it was."

Steve stared at the TV, his head resting on his hands, and Natasha looked up at the ceiling.

"I think it's time for that shower," Steve said after a few minutes of silence, and plied himself from the couch. Natasha sat up straight.

"Yeah. I'll make us a cuppa."

"Sure," Steve said, and shuffled into the bathroom. A minute later the shower started, and Natasha put the jug on. While she was waiting for it to boil, she picked up Bucky's notebook. Steve was right, most of it was just random words. Plum. Corner. Electric. Swim. Blue. Cliff. One word to a page. A string of words. A sentence. English. Russian. A mix. But as she got further into the book, the words made more sense. The sentences were longer, and the paragraphs more frequent. Bucky was working through the unimaginable, but it was working. Reading it made her hate Hydra more than ever. More than she thought was possible.

The shower stopped and the jug boiled. Natasha closed the notebook. She wanted something to punch. Something to shoot, to fight. Surely Steve must feel the same.

Natasha made the tea, black, there was no milk, and a minute later Steve appeared from the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

"Oh, look out, here comes Mr July Nineteen-Forty-Three!" Natasha teased as Steve whipped into the bedroom.

"Shut-up!" he said, but Natasha had seen him smile.

Steve appeared seconds later in a t-shirt and sweatpants. They drank their tea leaning against the bench. "I should probably say thanks for stopping by," Steve said, "And bringing dinner."

"No worries," Natasha said, "Guess I owe you one."

Steve sipped his tea. Black, no sugar. Sugar hadn't been a luxury they could afford when he was young, at least not to use so frivolously as to simply sweeten tea. And milk had been one of the many things likely to disagree with him. He'd tried a few different varieties of tea, but stuck to the classics. There were some new-fangled things that he was never going to get his head around.

They spoke idly about long-haul flights and international airports to fill the silence.

"Well I'm done," Natasha said, tipping the final third of her tea down the sink.

"Why do you do that?" Steve asked.

"What?"

"Not finish your tea?"

Natasha shrugged. "It goes cold."

"It's still hot."

"Yeah, well, not hot enough."

"Huh," Steve said, and gulped down the last of his tea in one throat-burning mouthful. He placed his mug in the sink.

"Want me to tuck you in?" Natasha asked, "Read you a bedtime story?"

"No, I do not," Steve said.

"Sure you do," Natasha said, "Everyone likes being read a bedtime story."

"Hang on," Steve said, "I have to pee."

A couple of minutes later, Natasha was tucking Steve into bed, with a lot of patronising cooing from her, and a lot of eye rolling and mockery from Steve.

"Ok, what books have we got," Natasha said, sitting on the bed beside him.

Steve folded his arms over the covers. "Not a huge choice."

"Lonely Planet New York."

"Hey, it's handy."

"I'm not judging," Natasha said, picking up the next book. "Thing Explainer."

"Sam gave me that. Really handy."

"I believe you. And this absolute brick," she said, picking up the final book.

"It's only 800 pages."

"Alexander Hamilton."

"Yeah," Steve said, and looked up at the ceiling. "Yeah, I - I kinda relate."

"Isn't he the dude on the money?"

"Yep," Steve said, "Ten dollar bill."

"I think I have his head in my wallet."

"We just about match up on our illnesses. I mean, I get why he fought so hard. I never had malaria, or yellow fever, but I'll play my scarlet fever and asthma cards."

"Are you trying to one-up illnesses with a historical guy?"

"I am a historical guy."

"Not powdered-hair historical."

"And his best friend died," Steve said, his smile fading, "When he shouldn't have, in the final days of the war."

Natasha put the book back. "You should to read more fiction."

"Why?" Steve asked. Natasha didn't have a response. Steve sighed.

"How about I just tell you a story instead," Natasha said, turning off the bedside lamp. The room went dark, save for the glow from the streetlights outside coming in under the curtains. She crawled over Steve and lay down beside him on top of the covers.

"Shoes off the bed."

"Seriously?" Natasha asked, put lifted up her feet to pull off her shoes. She threw them out into the hallway. Even in the semi-darkness she could see Steve look at her disapprovingly. "How about a Peggy story, if you're not into fiction."

"A what?"

"Peggy story. I've read all the SHIELD files." And committed them to memory, Natasha didn't add out loud.

"Is it a good one?"

"They're all good," Natasha said,

"I've probably heard it," Steve said, rolling onto his eyes.

"Not my version," Natasha said, "Right, well close your eyes. So, this one time…"

Steve was asleep before Natasha was even half-way through.