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His mind had been working overtime the past few months, trying desperately to remember who he was. It was hard when the memories that surfaced were often violent, detailed scenes of himself murdering or torturing some poor sap for reasons unknown. He called those 'winter soldier memories'. Those were his least favorite.
Then there were 'bucky' memories, most of which involved the blonde man he now knew was Steve Rogers. Those were usually happier, though sometimes involved wartime, but they always left him a twinge of sadness.
He thought it would be easier if he could just organize his thoughts, but it wasn't. Instead it left him in this strange limbo. He wasn't the killing machine the Russians had made him, but he wasn't a carefree bachelor of the 40's either. That's where she came in.
The first time it happened, he was in the middle of one of the countless therapy sessions Shield had Him attending. The skinny man with square glasses whose name he didn't bother to learn had asked him to think about what had happened recently on a freeway overpass. He focused, trying and failing to pull his mind free of hydra's last memory wipe. When he was just about to give up, a flash of red flew across his mind.
He remembered her hair whipping past him, the vibrant shade making the world pale in comparison. Then, he wasn't on the streets of D.C. anymore; he didn't know where he was, but he wasn't alone. The same fiery strands of hair were now tangled in his fingertips, soft and silky as he combed it back.
As soon as the memory came, it was gone, and he'd been thoroughly confused. Since then, the slightest trigger brought up a memory of her. He didn't know how, but he kept remembering random facts about her; things he shouldn't know.
Then there were flashes of her skin, soft and warm against his own. Sometimes he could feel her full lips pressed against his own as they got lost in each other. He had no idea what to call those memories.
All he knew was that those were the only memories he'd regained where he felt like himself; whoever that was. He thought of her and there was no pressure, no expectations to be someone he wasn't. Of course thinking of her was completely different than actually having her in front of him.
As soon as she walked in, he felt his mouth go dry, like his body already knew how to react to her. He almost thought he'd imagined how beautiful she was, but here she stood, lighting up the darkness he'd come to know as his room.
She spoke his rank and last name, her deep voice music to his ears. He knew he was gaping at her, but didn't care. He knew her. He didn't know how or why or when, but that didn't matter right now. Right now, she was the only thing he could think of that didn't make him angry or upset.
"Natalia," he spoke the name as soon as his mind conjured it up. He didn't know where it came from, but from her reaction he knew it struck a cord with her. She'd been trained well, her expression remaining stoic, but her eyes flickered for s split second, showing him her true feelings. She recognized the name and was surprised he'd used it.
"It's Natasha, actually," she clarified as if he'd just made a mistake. He knew he hadn't though, which was saying a lot considering there wasn't a whole lot he was sure of these days.
"No," he shook his head slowly, more determined than ever. "It's not."
"Yes," she nodded sternly once, her eyes darting away from him. He followed her gaze to a corner of his room where a small but active security camera had been since he moved in. "It is."
"Mm," His response was almost silent, as he fully understood. For whatever reason she didn't want whoever was watching to know what he knew about her; which wasn't much.
"Right, so," She cleared her throat and handed him a file. "I just wanted to formally introduce myself and bring you this." He took the Manila folder with his metal hand, suddenly self-conscious about it. "It's the background info on our cover for the mission. Read it, memorize it, live it," she was all business, and he had no choice but to follow her lead. He had so many questions for her, but didn't want to ask them in front of the camera she'd pointed out.
"Yes ma'am," he nodded, mesmerized by her emerald eyes even as they glared at him.
"We have a meeting tomorrow at 9, someone will come by to bring you," she was looking right at him but it felt like she was looking through him. She might as well have been talking to a wall. "Don't screw this up," she said, slightly more sincerely, her mouth almost twitching into a smirk.
Without another word, she was gone, taking any answers she might've had about his past with her.
.
Late at night he tossed and turned, unable to shake her from his thoughts even in sleep. Unconscious, his mind seemed most likely to pull memories forward, though not always pleasant ones.
He'd dreamt of this place before, a training facility where the Russians had kept him. He remembered fighting and living there, but most of all he remembered the very first machine they'd used to wipe his memories and brainwash him.
He wasn't in the room with the machine though. He was in a large room with wooden floors and old looking punching bags that hung from the ceilings. He felt at ease here, like coming to this room at this specific time was all part of his routine.
He wasn't alone here, instead surrounded by about twenty teenage girls, all dressed in workout clothing. His voice echoed off the walls, shouting commands in Russian. They responded to each order with a new position, sometimes striking a punching bag in front of them.
A short bell sounded and all the girls bowed to him before scurrying off to somewhere he wasn't privileged to know. He didn't care either; usually he was only concerned with the fact that his part was done. Not today though.
Today, his curiosity was getting the best of him. For weeks now his eye had been drawn to one of his pupils. She was the smallest of them all, with red hair and light freckles spread sparsely on her face. He'd noticed her because she was the best. She never needed to be taught a move twice and she fought with a determination no one else had displayed.
He waited till the rest of the girls had all gone to approach her. Everything in his mind was screaming at him to stop, but a stronger pull in his chest made him do it. Like every day before, she stayed behind to practice what was learned, her small fists pounding into the punching bag in swift motions.
He stood behind the bag, holding it steady as she looked up at him for a moment. He nodded and she continued wordlessly, hitting with all her might. Her short bangs stuck to her forehead in a sticky sweat while her ponytail swung wildly with each movement.
Up close, she was shorter than he remembered, probably no bigger than the punching bag she was attacking. He noticed how her body seemed more developed than the other girls' yet she still had a baby face.
"Stop." He'd barely finished the word and she'd already complied. She held herself still, her chest heaving up and down. "You'll never win with brute strength. You're too small." He noted how she tried to hide her disappointment in his words and tried to clarify. "You're clever, though," she perked up a bit at that. "We can use that."
"Thank you sir," she bowed her head. He knew it was a proper address but it felt wrong to him.
"How old are you?" He inquired, making her glance at the floor and clasp her hands together behind her back.
"I don't know sir," she answered.
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"They haven't told me, sir," she explained. "But I earned my name last month, sir," She volunteered almost eagerly.
"What is it?" He asked.
"Natalia," She spoke proudly, and he could tell she was trying not to grin.
"Do you like it?" He found himself asking, knowing how empty he himself had felt without a name.
"Yes, sir," she nodded, her green eyes bright. "I do," she paused then looked back up at him quizzically. "Do you?"
"Yes," he nodded, allowing himself crack a smile. "I think Natalia is a beautiful name."
"Thank you, sir," she was beaming at him now, proud to have something to introduce herself as.
"Sir?" She spoke cautiously.
"Yes, Natalia?" He said it purely to see her smile.
"What is...your name?" Her voice dropped a few decibels to ask.
"My name?" He repeated, for some reason not expecting it. He raked his mind, searching and searching like he had many times before, still coming up empty. His handlers referred to him simply as 'soldier' and he'd never felt the need for anything more. Yet standing in front of this child, he felt a pang of jealousy. She had a name and he didn't.
"Sir?" Her voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "It...it's okay if you don't remember," she told him kindly. "There're some things I don't remember either..." She shrugged lightly as if she'd made peace with this fact.
His heart tugged in his chest again, and he was strangely thankful for this child and the person he was around her. He gave her the highest form of praise he could think of. "You're going to make a great weapon, Natalia."
He woke up with a jolt, her voice from all those years ago still clear in his mind. There were so many questions he didn't have answers to, but now he had one.
He'd known her name because she told it to him herself once.
