A/N: I meant to post this last night for MCU Bucky's birthday, but oh well. It is still BuckyNat week, so enjoy! Title from Panic! at the Disco, inspired by the youtube video "He's back" by xXCrystalxX

Her world had gotten very strange over the years. Not that it was ever normal, she supposed. She wasn't raised like other little girls, never had a regular job (except as a cover). But surviving in the realm of spies was very different from battling aliens or rogue AI. She used to be assigned missions that, while a creative use of her skills, were relatively easy to handle for a government agent. Maybe two government agents. But certainly nothing that involved magical superbeings, gods, or mystical powers (and artifacts).

So, while taking SHIELD (and HYDRA) down was one of the most influential things she'd done, it was more personal than the other world-saving activities she'd gotten up to over the years. It had been a relief to return to her day job after the events of New York. And working with Steve Rogers regularly was easy to get used to – he didn't act like he was superhuman. He certainly didn't act like regular humans, having a more precise moral compass than anyone she had met, but he did not like to bring attention to his physical prowess. If his part of the mission required more strength or stamina, he didn't like anyone pointing that out. He did his job and she did hers and they worked well together.

And when he found out HYDRA had been controlling SHIELD (at least to some extent; who knew where that line was drawn?), Steve had insisted all of it be destroyed. Though he might not have felt quite so strongly about it if HYDRA hadn't been experimenting on and torturing his best friend for seventy years. Nick hadn't appreciated that, hadn't liked the idea of everything he'd spent his entire life working for would be gone. But it was a lie, what he'd been doing. He just hadn't known it yet. She was familiar with that, with seeing that all you've done was wrong and spending the rest of your life trying to make up for it. That's what she had been doing for most of her adult life, after all. And would now have to start over, it seemed.

Nick had looked to her, looking for her support or for confirmation of Steve's analysis. And she found it was easy to side with Steve instead of Nick. Steve was her friend, and had asked nothing more of her than that she be his friend in return. Nick had not trusted her enough to let her know the Winter Soldier had failed to kill him (something he knew would devastate her). And it wasn't like she had any reason to doubt – if anyone could successfully assassinate Nick Fury, it was the Winter Soldier. She didn't put all of SHIELD's files on the internet lightly – she knew what it meant for her and those like her. But it was a relief.

After that, she'd gone off the grid for a while. Helped Tony and everyone when they needed it, but was glad to go home. To live like she supposed most women her age did. She worked at a little shop down the street from her apartment, and came home before dark every day. She made her own meals, which was somewhat novel, and enjoyed how quiet her evenings could be. Clint knew where she was, but she didn't invite him to visit. It's great to be alone.

Still, she should have known it was too much to ask for her life to be normal. Too much to think she could just stay in this retiring lifestyle forever, without any of the ghosts of her past reappearing. She knew there were people who wanted to kill her, to capture her; a lot of people. But she also knew that the chances of them finding her here were rather slim. Only Clint knew of her location, and she'd used every trick in the book to get here without leaving any kind of trail. But when she came home to find a man with a metal arm sitting at her kitchen table, she was only slightly surprised.

It had started as a regular day. She'd made herself breakfast, packed a lunch, and gone to work. It is late afternoon when she comes home, and she is deep in thought about what to make for dinner (thoroughly enjoying that this was the heaviest decision she'd had to make all day). As soon as she opens her front door, though, she is immediately on edge – someone is here. Something imperceptible is different, and she can't quantify it, but she knows that dinner is going to have to wait.

Pausing in the doorway, she pulls out an earpiece from her purse and affixes it as she speed-dials Clint's number. When he picks up, she doesn't answer, and knows he will just listen. If she is overpowered, he can be here soon to save her, or at least track her. If (more likely) she needs help cleaning up a mess and moving somewhere safe, he will be able to help with that, too. And, after the first questioning "'Tasha?", he won't make any more noise. Unlike some other allies she could call, who talk too much.

She keeps several guns hidden around her place, and gets her hands on one of these before she leaves the entranceway. Then she makes her way silently down the hall, barely breathing, as though opening the door hadn't alerted whoever is here to her presence. The living room is clear, and she is a little startled to get to her kitchen and find him just sitting there, waiting for her.

His hair is longer, but not by much (had he cut it sometime in the last year?), his cheeks unshaven but without a full beard. Those blue eyes are brighter than they had been the last time she'd seen him, and are watching her carefully. His left arm, glinting in the dimness, is on the table in plain view, and a gun is resting just out of his reach. His other hand is on his knee, and he has turned the chair so she can see that there were no weapons near those deadly fingers. He is dressed in regular clothes – jeans, t-shirt, button-down shirt, jacket. A hat also sits on her table, and he is wearing converses. She thinks of Steve's opinion of those shoes and almost smiles.

Her gun is aimed at him as soon as she sees him, though it's apparent he doesn't intend to hurt her. But she's never been one to throw aside caution. He doesn't react to the threat, or even glance at her weapon. He just watches her, silent. There is something like recognition on his face, though she might be imagining it. In any case, she doesn't think she needs to keep Clint on the line.

She lowers the gun, without putting the safety back on, and keeps it carefully pointed downward as she presses the device in her ear. "He's here," she says simply. Then she hangs up. He'll know who she means. She takes the piece out and sets in on the table, near the gun that isn't hers and sits down, not giving in to the urge to move her chair back a little more. "You found me."

He nods, slowly, as if unaccustomed to answering people. And perhaps he hasn't had to lately.

"Why?"

His brow furrows slightly at the question, and his eyes flicker away from hers for a moment. It's something of a relief to have his gaze elsewhere. "I –" his voice cracks and his frown deepens. She wonders how he's managed to get by without talking to anyone. "I remember," he mutters, gaze still on the table in front of him.

"Remember what?" she asks politely.

He looks up at her again, intense. "You."

She smiles coolly to distance herself from the way the answer and his expression makes her heart pound. "What about me?"

His metal fingers twitch, and her grip tightens on her gun, but then he stills again, thinking. "When you were … younger," he says haltingly, the last word hardly audible.

"How much younger?" she presses, while keeping her tone light and uninterested.

"Ten years, maybe," he guesses.

She licks her lips, then is immediately annoyed by the action and what it might tell him about her. She's better than this. "The Red Room," she offers.

He nods, then cocks his head at her appraisingly. "You remember?"

"Yes."

"You remember me?" he tries again.

"Yes." It's not as clipped and professional the second time, but it's alright.

He considers, assessing her. "What do you remember about me?"

A cool smile crosses her face, and she shakes her head slightly. "I believe I asked you that first," she deflects.

His eyes narrow, but he goes back to staring at the table. His hope of heaven might lie in the grains of the wood, so intently does he stare there. She resists the urge to shift her weight, or get up, or something, as time stretches on. He may not have come with the intention of hurting her, but she has very little to go on regarding his mental state. He might snap if she startles him.

"I taught you," he says suddenly, and it's hard not to flinch at how it breaks the silence. "You were one of my students." He looks at her for confirmation, and she nods, face a mask of polite interest. His eyes narrow again at her reaction, but he continues his train of thought, still watching her with uncomfortable intensity. "We … knew each other pretty well. We were punished for that."

Again, she nods, and she knows her mask is slipping. He puts his other hand on the table, palm down, and she doesn't know why. "Then I shot you. But I didn't kill you. I should have, you were a witness, but I didn't want to." She's sure the politeness is gone from her face, but thinks she's managing to keep any other expression from showing. "Then… I saw you again, and you tricked me. Twice. Got me to chase you, and almost got away." His voice is steadier now, less rough from disuse. "And then… I shot you again. And you shot at me, but didn't kill me." He sits back, gauging her reaction. She hopes, a little desperately, that she's giving him nothing. "Did you not want to?" he asks simply.

She feels the breath go out of her at the question, but no other psychosomatic tics show. "I don't like killing people. I try to avoid it if possible." Her tone is as calm as she hoped it would be.

"I was going to kill him. You stopped me. You could have stopped me permanently. But you didn't. You knew they'd reset me, send me after you again. You knew what I was capable of. But you didn't kill me. Tell me why, Natalia," he says. The first few sentences are calm, logical, but the entreaty at the end clearly hurts him and doesn't make her feel any better.

"Because I didn't want to," she murmurs finally. He nods at the answer he was expecting, and she is relieved not to have to explain herself more fully. He understands. The silence between them stretches long enough for her to compose herself, for her polite mask to return. "Why are you here?" she asks again.

"Things are coming back. The things I did, the things Bu – Captain America's friend did. The things you did," he adds, and she doesn't expect it to hurt like it does. "I've read all about you."

"Have you?" she manages.

He nods, silent for a moment. "I want to be – to be able to do what you did."

"And what's that?" she asks, aware of the bitterness she can't keep out of her tone.

"Come back from this. Be a – a person again," he stumbles over the words, though her chilly demeanor does not seem to affect him.

She bites her lip. "You want me to teach you?" she tries.

He nods. "Please, I – I know you have – I know it's asking a lot. But I just thought… Since I taught you to be like me, maybe you could return the favor," he says. It's clear he's been practicing how to express that final thought for a while.

"Alright," she says against her better judgment. He looks surprised. "Where should we start?"

His gaze is fixed on hers and he's too obvious about how grateful he is, and how little he expected her to go along with this. What does he really think of her, she can't help but wonder. "Where did you?"

She shrugs, getting to her feet. He tenses for a moment, then follows suit. "You've apparently got the whole dressing yourself thing down, which is important. So feeding yourself would be next, I suppose. What do you want for dinner - ?" She stumbles at the end, almost calling him Bucky, but he avoided that word before. He notices, and is watching her, waiting instead of answering. "Okay, so there is a first step we kind of missed. What do you want me to call you?"

The question startles him, and he looks slightly panicked, glancing around the room to verify the points of entry she knows he's already identified. Then he licks his lips and looks back at her almost shyly. "James," he guesses.

She doesn't press him to be more definite in his choice; that will come with time. "Alright, James, let's look at what I have for dinner and you can pick," she tells him, business-like. He seems to appreciate her tone, and does as she asks.

Teaching him how to be who he wanted was not as difficult as she expected. It was harder for her; she had never been someone before. For him, he at least had the option of a man he once was, and he could choose to keep or discard that man's character traits. James enjoyed cooking, likely for the same reason she did. It was such a pleasant change from viewing food as a source of fuel only, from being part of a cover, to actually decide what he liked and getting to enjoy it. Spies and weapons don't get a lot of joy in their lives.

Since he had been able to find her, she thought it wise to move on. She quit her job and sold her place and Clint helped set her up in a new one. He knew about James, but didn't comment on the situation. She didn't tell James about him, either, though the potential breach in trust gnawed at her. James was very worried about seeing Steve again, having to be Bucky for him. And she suspected that any reminder of people outside the two of them would cause James to worry more.

He didn't get a job at the new place, and she worked only part time. Again at a little shop; it was uncomplicated and simple. Which was exactly what she needed after – well, after the rest of her life, it seemed. James stayed home while she went to work, and she thought the freedom in small doses was helping him much more than when he had been completely alone. She didn't want to think that his improvement was entirely because of her.

They watched dumb things on TV, mostly avoided anything serious. It was a pleasure to see him laugh at them, his whole face lighting up, and she wondered if that's what she looked like, too. Laughter, at least real laughter, was rare in their lines of work. Nonexistent in his, forced in hers. Laughing when she chose, developing her own sense of humor, was an important step in her ability to cope with what she'd done. And, from what she'd gleaned from Steve, James used to laugh and make jokes a lot.

Privacy was the biggest thing, and she made sure that their new place had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. James had a key and could come and go as he pleased (he didn't, as far as she could tell, but the option was always there). He had his own room, his own space, to use however he saw fit. She didn't go into his part of the house after they'd moved in, and always made her presence known to him in the parts they shared. She wasn't going to sneak up on him. Though most of her free time they spent in each other's company.

The only time she was tempted to go into his space was when he had a nightmare. Those were frequent (how grateful she was that she was no longer in that stage), and his screams were horrifying to hear (one of the reasons they were in a house instead of an apartment). She would get up and go to the kitchen to make some tea, and he would usually join her eventually, his hair a mess and his face creased from the pillow, the grateful look on his face making her ache.

These were not the only breaks in their otherwise peaceful atmosphere, however, and she paid close attention to figure out what else bothered him. He hated it, hated himself, when he became overwhelmed and couldn't calm down, so she applied herself to preventing those reactions. Some were not preventable, she knew (she remembered) but he was very grateful when she caught him before he got too worked up. Calling him by name, either James or Bucky, often helped bring him back from the edge.

He didn't like being cold; that was not a surprise and easy enough to avoid. The lights on most electronic devices bothered him, and they covered these up. People coming too near the house worried him, though was not usually enough to cause an outburst (and he got better with this as time went on). Unidentified noises outside could throw him, especially if it was late. Watching anything with a lot of suspense wasn't a good plan, though violence (of any kind) never bothered him. He preferred the quiet, but so did she, so that wasn't an issue.

As the months passed and his reactions generally grew fewer and farther apart, there was something that she couldn't identify. She didn't think it was just what she should expect, after everything that had happened to him, but something more specific. Things were often broken. If he did become upset, it was difficult for him not to break something (metal arms do a lot of damage). He never hurt her, but sometimes would go into the woods behind the house for a few hours to blow off steam. And, try as she might, she couldn't figure out what had caused him to feel the need to escape for a little while (well, at least not what prompted it).

Until one day the realization hit her, and she couldn't believe she hadn't noticed it before. During most of their interactions, she was always calm and a little gentle, her personality muted and voice steady. She didn't make any of her more provocative jokes (though she did tease him), and didn't do anything like flirting with him. It was very similar to how she acted toward Steve: mostly honest, but a little reserved. Not quite how she acted with Clint, but certainly more of herself than she was with anyone else. She kept her distance when he needed it, and was always available if that's what he wanted.

So it shouldn't have been a surprise to realize that he often reacted negatively to any moments in which they were too close, when she was too gentle and understanding. He'd be appreciative toward her in the moment, but always ended with him having to get some distance (and break some stuff). That made sense, he hadn't been encouraged to be close to anyone in a long time, but she couldn't figure out why it upset him to the extent that it did.

Sometimes he talked about Steve. He needed to get it out, she knew, and she didn't pressure him. He might say a sentence and then not mention his former friend for a week. Or he might talk for hours on what he remembered, what he thought about those memories, and whether or not he wanted to pursue reconnecting with his past. She listened patiently, offering insight when it seemed like he wanted it, silent understanding when he didn't.

He was young (so was she), but it was hard to remember that fact. He'd been through so much, but had most of his life ahead of him still. What was he going to do with it? He didn't pursue that train of thought very often, and usually only late at night when they were still up for no good reason. She didn't like it because she didn't have any answers, either for herself or for him. She couldn't hide out here forever (could she?), but she didn't know what to do. How to go about wiping out more red from her ledger.

He called her Natalia. No one else did, not anymore. Sometimes they spoke to each other in Russian, which was also something she rarely experienced, unless undercover. His understanding of the language was largely mission-oriented, and he thoroughly enjoyed learning to talk about more mundane things when she'd teach him. She liked it, too, she had to admit. Even if her daily decisions were a little heavier than what to make for dinner, they were still manageable and not earth-changing. So while her vacation (retirement?) might not be going exactly how she'd expected, it was pleasant and relaxing.

Until one day, when the phone rings. It doesn't usually ring, hasn't rung since they moved in. They both stare at it, perplexed. She had forgotten they even had a phone, and James looks like he had the same thought. She answers it calmly, but their quiet little world has been invaded and she is irrationally afraid of losing it entirely.

"Nat," Steve says.

"Did Clint give you this number?" she asks.

"Yes."

Steve is not a big talker, but the monosyllables worry her. "What can I do for you?" It takes an effort to smile disarmingly at James, whose normally expressionless face is clearly worried.

"I can't find him, Nat. It's been two years. He could be dead, they could have found him. I've failed him again."

The pain in his voice is contagious and she has to turn away from James. "Steve, it's not your fault," she tells him firmly.

"But if I hadn't –" he begins.

She cuts him off. "He has to figure things out on his own, Steve. When he wants to see you, he'll find you."

Steve is silent for a moment. "How do you know?" he murmurs.

She sighs, taking a deep breath. "Because I know what he's going through," she answers at last, feeling exposed by her honesty, to both men who have heard her say it.

The line is silent for a moment and she wonders if Steve has hung up. Before she can ask, she feels a touch on her shoulder (something he usually avoids) and turns around to find James standing right there, looking at her. He holds out his hand and it takes her a moment to realize what he wants. Then she hands over the receiver and steps back. She would leave, but his human hand reaches for hers, and she takes it silently, hiding her surprise at his actions.

"Hello, Steve," he says quietly.

There is no response for a moment, but then she can hear Steve's answer, his disbelief apparent despite the tinny nature of the sound. "Bucky?"

"I'm sorry, Steve. Natalia's been helping me. I – I'm not – I don't think –" He stops, clears his throat. "I'm not ready to see you yet. But I don't want you to worry about me," he says firmly.

Steve wants to argue, she can tell even from here. James' hand is clinging to hers and she hates the feeling of eavesdropping, of hearing both of them being so honest. So cut open. But she won't leave, not if James wants her here. "Alright," Steve says at last, though his tone is hardly accepting. "I'll – I'll let Nat know when I'm back home and then maybe – maybe you'll want to visit," Steve offers, tentatively hopeful.

James bites his lip for a moment, then nods. "Sounds – sounds good."

"Great," Steve asserts.

An awkward silence follows, and then James hands her the phone. He doesn't leave, just stands there, still holding her hand like it's an anchor against whatever storm is going on in his head.

"You can reach us at this number, Steve," she says gently into the mouthpiece. "Keep in touch."

Both of them are appreciative of her calm end to the conversation. "Yeah, okay. I'll let you go," Steve answers in an almost normal tone, though she knows that is a very hard thing for him to say. "Thank you, Nat," he adds sincerely.

"No problem," she says lightly. "Talk to you later."

"Later," Steve tells her more definitively, clearly not meaning it as a casual goodbye, then hangs up.

James hasn't moved since he handed her the phone, though the tightness in his shoulders relaxes a little now that the threat of Steve is delayed. After she hangs up, she is startled by his arms suddenly wrapping around her as he drops to his knees and buries his face in her abdomen. "Thank you," he murmurs, muffled.

She tentatively rests one hand on his shoulder and runs the other through his hair soothingly. "You're welcome," she replies quietly. The strength of his reaction is not unexpected, not after what she's seen him do for the last few months. But that he seeks her out so desperately is not something she knows what to do with.

Eventually, he lets go of her. Eventually, he gets to his feet, not looking at her face. Eventually, he walks away, to his room, and she doesn't see him again that day.

When she gets home from work the next day, it is evening. She didn't see him in the morning before work, and she does not admit to herself that it made her day feel long and her usually calm demeanor a little more clipped. As soon as she steps into the house, she is surprised to smell something delicious. She is more surprised to find that there is a cloth covering their (her?) table, and a vase of flowers in the center of it. James comes out of the kitchen to see her staring at the table, and looks very nervous.

"Go change, Natalia, dinner won't be ready for half an hour," he tells her, pushing the hair out of his face ineffectually.

"Shall I dress for dinner, James?" she asks, clamping down the desire to grin at him.

He shrugs, looking away. "If that's what you want to do," he answers before disappearing back into the kitchen.

She realizes he is echoing back the phrase she has said to him at many points in the last few months. As she showers and changes, she wonders how long it's been since she found him sitting at her table. It seems like forever and brand new all at the same time. She puts on one of her favorite dresses – black with a blue inset, short-sleeved with a skirt coming down just above her knees. The fabric is silky and comfortable, and she reflects that she hasn't worn a dress lately.

She waits, somewhat impatiently, in her room until he calls her. When she appears in the dining room, she is pleased by the fairly dumbstruck expression that crosses his face at the sight of her before he helps her into her seat like a gentleman. He's dressed up, too, and she wonders how long he's had a nice black suit tucked away in the single duffel bag he brought with him. Perhaps he bought it more recently, she supposes.

While she had encouraged him to select favorite foods, she hadn't intentionally shared her own. Somehow, though, he knows and has made them for her, and she can't keep her usual polite smile in lieu of a real one anymore, and grins at him. The expression seems to startle him, but then he smiles shyly back before sitting down across from her.

"Everything looks delicious," she tells him sincerely.

"Thank you," he answers, and looks somewhat relieved.

Though they often eat in silence, it's never quite this awkward. She keeps looking up at him, attempting to start a conversation, but he mostly fidgets and looks at the table. After a while, she gives up and enjoys her food, regardless of the odd atmosphere. It's as delicious as it looks, and she wonders if he's been practicing while she wasn't paying attention.

When she's done eating, he clears off the table and motions for her to sit back down when she tries to help. She looks out the window and tries not to think about why he put this all together for her. It seems like a way of saying goodbye, a thank you for what she's done, before he escapes into the night again (anything to avoid Steve). She hadn't realized how – how accustomed to his presence she's become. It will be hard to get through the day without seeing him.

Music starts lilting out from the living room, and she is struck by the thought that James might be considerably more Steve's Bucky than her Winter Soldier by this point. Then he appears and holds out his right hand and she decides she doesn't care as he lifts her to her feet and leads her to the living room. His right hand in hers, his left on her waist, she feels oddly comfortable as he leads her in a long-forgotten dance around the room. She doesn't know when (if) she's learned it, but he leads her easily, giving her another reason to wonder about what he's been doing while she's at work.

The song ends and he comes to a stop, not releasing her. She expects another song to follow, but it doesn't, and the silence is deafening. He clears his throat, and she looks up at him. "Natalia, I – I've been trying to think of how I can pay you back for all you've done for me," he begins hesitantly. She opens her mouth to tell him he doesn't have to, but he shakes his head quickly, silencing her. "But I've come to realize that I – I can't. I have nothing to offer you that compares with what you've given me, what you've helped me get back." He bites his lip briefly, then plunges on. "But, if it's what you want, you can have everything." She must look perplexed because he clears his throat once more and tries again. "I love you, Natalia. And I – I've come a long way from who I was – from when we met before, from when you let me stay with you."

He would continue, but she stops him by lifting a hand to touch his cheek. The gesture is very effective at stilling him. "What do you want?" she asks very quietly.

"You," he says with surprising vehemence.

She smiles slowly. "That's what I thought."

His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on her hand and her waist. "What do you want?" he echoes, gaze intense.

She toys with him, making a show of considering, and he starts to smile, too. "I don't know. I had dinner, some exercise. I think I'm good."

"You sure?" he teases, pulling her flush against him.

Warmth spreads through her and she is sure her cheeks are pink. "I suppose there is one thing," she murmurs, moving her hand to the back of his neck, bringing him closer. He takes the hint and – finally – presses his lips to hers.

He's surprisingly tentative, more so than she thinks he was when she was younger (he was virtually the same age, she supposes). He doesn't deepen the kiss until she does, but then he's no longer holding back. His hands feel like they're everywhere, and, when she responds, he picks her up and carries her to his bedroom.

After he sets her (gently) on the bed, he stands back up and looks down at her, worry hitching his eyebrows together. "Are you sure?" he asks a little breathlessly.

"Sure of what?" she responds lightly, leaning back to rest on her elbows and look at him through half-closed lids.

Her body language has its calculated effect and he looks very remorseful to be still standing there, away from her. He manages to resist, though, and repeats his question. "Are you sure you want a brain-washed Soviet assassin, who's killed hundreds of people, to touch you?" he asks, tone both pained and resolute.

She sits up and takes both of his hands, pulling him forward to settle them on her waist. "Yes," she answers simply, and he nods.

As he kisses her, the weight of him a delightful sensation, she considers how long she's been waiting for him to do this. It had to be his decision – she couldn't press him (much as she wanted to). But he's finally ready to do what she's been wanting for months, possibly from when she first saw him at her kitchen table. He's quite charming now, and keeping from jumping him was getting increasingly difficult. She will tease him about his delaying, but maybe later. When he's a little less vulnerable.

His metal fingers are slightly cooler than his real ones, but both send shivers down her spine as he unzips her dress and slides it off of her. He pauses at each step of undressing her to look at her, as if momentarily in shock, but throws his own clothes off with little thought toward their well-being. When she's naked, he leaves a trail of fiery kisses down her throat, her chest, her belly, then tucks his hands under her before kissing her intimately. She has a moment to wonder when the last time someone touched her was before she is too distracted to think straight.

When her thoughts eventually start making sense again, she is laying on top of him, a blanket pulled haphazardly over them, his hands holding her sides loosely. She runs her hand slowly down his metal shoulder, admiring the plating and wondering how they got it to work just like a real arm when he presses a kiss into her hair and sighs deeply. She smiles.

"You okay in there?" she asks, lightly tickling his ribs as she reaches back up to touch his face. Clean-shaven, for once.

He smiles, though whether from her touch or her words, she can't be sure.

"It's sure nice when we both want the same thing," he tells her, turning his head slightly to kiss her palm.

The gesture makes warmth pool in her belly, though she would have thought that sensation was spent for a while. "It sure is," she answers after a moment. Then she sits up to smirk at him.

"Hmm?" he questions sleepily.

She shrugs, tossing her hair, aware of his eyes on her. "I was just wondering what took you so long."

A look of mild confusion crosses his face, but then he sits up and looks at her very seriously. "What are you talking about?" he asks, one hand closing (gently) around her wrist as though she might try to escape.

Puzzled by his seriousness, she drops her teasing tone. "James, I've been waiting for that since you found me," she tells him flatly.

"Why?" he wants to know, still very serious.

She presses her lips together and looks away, and his (real) hand moves up her arm slowly to caress her face. "There aren't a lot of people like us, James," she says finally.

When she looks at him again, she knows he understands, and he leans forward to kiss her sweetly. "I love you, Natalia," he murmurs, breath warm on her face.

"I love you, too," she admits, to herself and to him. He squeezes her hand and kisses her again, then he lays down again, pulling her back on top of him.

"Good night, Natalia," he murmurs, his voice a rumble in his chest.

"Good night, James." She closes her eyes and thinks that maybe this step back toward normal isn't quite as scary as she thought it would be.