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Echoing Your Voice Just Like the Ringing in My Ears

She thought he was dead. It had been years, over a decade, since she'd thought of him. She'd married him and was in love (wasn't she?) and he'd been killed in an accident. She'd gone to his funeral. She'd mourned, and had served her country proudly in his memory for years before she couldn't take it anymore and had defected. At least, that was the story she knew. But now it was clear he hadn't died then. And branded her a traitor. Why had he faked his death? Why was he taken from her? What did it matter now if he was dead, and at her hand?

The roof was usually a calming place, though Clint frequently staked it out. It is empty because of the stormy day and finding a spot out of the snow is difficult. She manages, though it's not the most comfortable. She doesn't want it to be. It seems that she'd finally lived up to her code-name in a completely literal sense, and she can't decide whether to laugh or to cry at the realization. Fighting off either reaction is a challenge, but she's a professional. She can be whomever she wants to be now, she reminds herself. But it doesn't work today.

She wants to be Natalia Shostakov, married to the charming officer Alexei. She wasn't a real housewife, of course, and the union had been set up by the Red Room so she could get close to political enemies. But she'd thrown herself into the role and it was the best assignment she'd ever had. They weren't supposed to actually fall in love, but she hadn't thought it was much of a problem for their cover to be more believable. Until they came to say he was dead, and she'd had to move on. Which she had. But it was funny how old ghosts could come back and still throw you, make you feel just like you did then.

Something changes and she is aware that she is no longer alone. Peering around her hood, she is surprised to find Barnes standing not far away, looking out over the skyline thoughtfully. His expression is usually blank, so she is further perplexed by the softness in it now, and frowns. She doesn't need his pity, if that's what he's come here to offer.

When he notices her looking at him, he walks over and drops down next to her, albeit a foot away. "Hey," he says casually, as though they frequently meet like this.

"What's up?" she replies in the same tone.

He shrugs. "I thought you might want someone… neutral to talk to," he answers.

Her frown deepens. "And that's you?" she asks with forced politeness.

Something like a smile twists his face briefly before it becomes blank. "Barton is your partner and you're close, but you don't tell him everything. Steve is a great confidante, but it's important to you that he thinks of you a certain way. You wouldn't tell Stark's kid anything about yourself, and Miss Potts isn't in town."

She cocks her head at him, unaware that her feelings were so obvious to everyone. Well, maybe just him. Reading people had to have been part of his training at some point, she supposes. His silence and unobtrusive nature makes it easy to forget what he can see with those cold blue eyes of his. "What about Banner and Thor? Or Hill?" she suggests.

"Banner's not the type for confiding, it's not his temperament." She wonders if he knows this from personal experience; he spent a lot of time in the labs downstairs when he first got here. "Thor's off-world right now and Hill's in DC."

She smiles wanly at him. "Alright, so you're the best candidate from my perspective. But why would you want me to tell you my secrets?"

Other people would be hurt by the question, but he doesn't seem bothered by it. He shrugs again. "It's just… You're compromised. You're on my team."

Her fake smile fades and she looks at him, considering his earnestness in answering her. He's right, though, so she sighs, turning her gaze elsewhere. "When I was working for the Red Room, I was assigned to marry Alexei. He was one of us, so we were both undercover. But it became more than that. I was young," she adds a little wistfully. "He was Alexei Shostokov then. They told me he was dead, had been killed in an accident with his plane. I mourned. Went to the funeral. I had no reason to suspect he'd survived. But he did, and I don't know why, and now I've killed him. And there's no one left to question about it," she finishes abruptly, slightly unnerved by her uncharacteristic oversharing.

She glances over at him and waits to see if he'll respond. He's looking at his hands thoughtfully, maybe nervously. "That… might not be true," he responds haltingly.

"What?" she asks sharply.

"I think… I think I knew him," he continues in the same tone.

Resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he explains himself is a challenge, but she's a professional. "How?"

He licks his lips, clearly thinking hard. "I was supposed to rig the plane, to make it look like an accident. He wasn't in it; that was the plan. I… It wasn't his plan, he was upset about it. I think I had to subdue him. Then bring him back to the man in charge. I think they called him Ivan."

"What?" she gasps, interrupting his hesitant confession.

He turns to look at her, almost shyly, possibly apologetic. "I don't… I don't know who Ivan is. I just remember bringing him to a big house outside of the city and leaving him there."

Ivan lived in a big house outside the city, though it's not as if that were a unique classification. And Ivan isn't exactly an uncommon name. But her Ivan was a friend, the closest thing she's ever had to a father. He took her in, brought her to the Red Room when she had nowhere else to go. She is supposed to be upset about that, to hate him for essentially making her a slave of that terrible place, but she isn't. He was a kind man, even if those that ran the department were not. So to hear him implicated in what happened to Alexei… It's difficult to accept.

She doesn't let her feelings show, no outward display of dismay, of shock. But she can feel Barnes watching her as she stares into the distance, into the lightly whirling snow as though it will give her answers.

"Natalia," he murmurs and she turns to face him, blaming the shudder that runs through her on the cold. "I'm sorry most of the stuff from that time hasn't come back. But I know what it's like to be betrayed by someone you trusted," he offers.

Her first thought is that he's talking about Steve, but that doesn't make sense, so it takes her a moment to realize he must be referring to one of the HYDRA agents who took care of him. It occurs to her, possibly for the first time, that he may be the most likely person to really understand what happened to her, without making up their own version of her. She puts that thought away to consider later.

"It's alright, James," she answers gently, surprising herself by the name. "Thank you for coming up here," she adds. He smiles at her tentatively and she's reminded of the man from the newsreels that he once was, that Steve likes to think he still is. The snow is coming down harder now and she thinks he might leave, but he doesn't, just stares out, deep in thought. After a moment, she does the same, pulling her jacket closer around her.

A touch on her elbow brings her attention back to Barnes – James? – and she looks over, surprised to see him holding out her coat. She smiles at him and pulls it over her jacket, breathing a slight sigh of relief as the warmth envelopes her. "You're not what I expected," she says suddenly, amused by the confused look on his face.

"What did you expect?" he asks, concerned.

She shakes her head, unwilling to continue looking at him while she talks. His gaze is so intense, it makes it hard to maintain eye contact for long. She doesn't think she likes being the sole focus of his attention. "When I first was brought in, after years of having things done to me like they did to you for decades, I was a mess. I had to be kept under observation for months, and it still took me years to trust anyone." She shrugs, smiling self-effacingly at him. "I'm just saying it wouldn't have occurred to me to bring my own coat somewhere, let alone someone else's," she explains.

His face slowly broadens into a smile. "Well, I think it was probably a habit of mine, from before," he answers, not quite looking at her, the fondness in his expression not directed toward her.

Thinking of young and sickly Steve Rogers, she supposes. She wonders how that would be, how that kind of thing might have changed her rough transition into being her own person. She hadn't been one before, not since she was a child. Perhaps he's having an easier time because there was a past self to find. Seeing one of the greatest and most feared assassins in history smile gently while thinking of his childhood is certainly a strange sight, she thinks. Makes him seem human.

"You didn't have any close friends when you were young?" he asks, bringing her back from her thoughts and causing her to wonder just how readable her face is these days.

"Well, I don't remember too much from before the Red Room. I was an orphan, and Ivan took me in. There was a girl, though, named Yelena. We were friends, as much as the Red Room would allow, anyway," she offers.

He nods, looking thoughtful. "Yelena Belova?"

She frowns. "Yes. Did you know her?" This whole conversation seems like too much of a coincidence to be real. Though no more so than the rest of her day, she supposes.

His brow furrows as he considers this. "I don't know. Everything after the war is all jumbled," he says apologetically, motioning toward his head with his left hand. The other is tucked into his pocket.

"Hmm," she replies. "Do you remember getting this?" she changes the subject, nodding toward his hand.

He looks down at it as though taken aback that it's still there. "Yes," he says shortly.

"That's unfortunate. I'm sorry," she tells him, a little surprised by her sincerity.

With a shrug, he tucks the offending hand away. "It's fine."

"Do you remember Steve?" she asks, figuring that won't be something that bothers him to discuss.

"When we were kids, yeah."

He doesn't seem willing to continue without prodding, and she doesn't know what to say to get him to talk. It's fine if he doesn't, she decides, and they lapse into silence. She admits to herself that she does feel better having told someone about Alexei. Maybe not all the details, but she doesn't think she's ready to tell anyone how she really felt about the man. How it was to feel that strongly, possibly for the only time in her life. She keeps her distance from people now; it's safer. Letting Clint and then Steve get close was a challenge, but seems to have worked out well. Maybe she'll take a risk on befriending Barnes, too. James. He could use a friend.

"Hey, Tasha, what are you –" Clint's casual tone is interrupted when he sees who is sitting next to her. Both of them jumped a little at the sound and turned to look for the source, and she wishes Clint wouldn't be quite so silent when he moves around. "Am I interrupting?" he asks politely and she smiles winningly.

"Not at all, Clint. We were done reminiscing, I think," she adds, glancing at James to verify. His face is expressionless, but his eyes can't hide how he feels about the interruption to their companionable silence. Instinctively, she reaches out to pat his forearm and he relaxes a little. "We should probably head inside, don't you think, James?" she suggests.

He nods and gets to his feet. Clint has been watching the exchange with interest and she gives him a look to prevent him from commenting. James glances around the roof briefly then walks toward the door, Clint stepping out of the way when he gets close. "Good work out there today," Clint says haltingly, compliments not really being his thing.

"Thanks for saving our asses," James replies before disappearing through the doorway.

Clint looks at her appraisingly, arms folding over his chest to maintain warmth – he hadn't brought a coat. "Talking about Russia?" he asks.

Used to his insight, she nods. "We knew some of the same people," she explains flippantly.

His eyes narrow at her tone, but he moves back to hold open the door and waits expectantly for her to come forward. After a moment, she does. Inside, James is nowhere to be found and she decides to head to her room. Clint doesn't follow, but she hears him mutter something about letting her keep her secrets before she gets out of earshot.