Natasha's outstretched flat palm told Sam all he needed to know. He vacated the driver's seat, slapped the keys in her hand and settled into the passenger's side. The fall into a tired silence as she drove away from the house opened the door to a long protected memory, a secret shared with Barnes. Repeated questions of "Do you remember me?" Always brought a denial until the mission in Boston, a shared close-call stirred the question again. That time he answered "Yes." She held to her promise of never speaking of it again, but their first encounter stayed close in her mind.
Red-auburn hair pulled up to a pristine bun, utilitarian knee-high boots, a jacket nondescript, a young woman strode with a clipped pace, eyes straight ahead, efficient and lethal despite her twelve years. A matched step and look to her mentor, she followed in her wake through the winding streets of a darkened town to find refuge in a dingy safe house. An overnight haven, not the best of choices, bunking with uniformed Russian men not foolish enough to challenge the young Widow and her Madame, a place to rest and hide before moving on. Natalia Alianovna Romanova projected aloofness, and buried her reservations, a fledgling, still in the Red Room's nest she navigated the huddled soldier's gruffness and ignored their side-long stares.
Her eye drawn to follow a man set apart from the others, a Captain's insignia on his uniform, his singular focus on the basement door, a quiet coming and going. The hovering behavior made intriguing by what he carried down the stairs but didn't bring back; a cup with a dry crust of bread dropped on a spoonful of beans. Once the Captain's attention moved to others, curiosity pulled her to skirt past the cluster of men who'd lost interest in her presence she slipped unnoticed down the stairs to a shadowed and damp basement, harsh lit by a single bulb.
Thick metal bars stood square in the center of the room, the near corner of the cell contained a metal pail with a lid, cautious steps forward showed no cot or chair for comfort. Quickened heart beats thrilled into her chest when her eyes fell on a man sitting cross-legged in the center of the cage. Stripped down to dark boxers and a sleeveless shirt, he sat hunched over in silence, bare feet tucked tight beneath him, not revealing if he heard her approach. She wiped away the faint gloss of sweat that broke across her palms as she took in the cascade of unkempt hair dark and long, a barrier to his features. A held breath when she watched his faint movements, a cup held possessive, two fingers slow pulling the food to his mouth, a deliberate prolonging of a scant meal.
Her novice steps quiet she willed her heart to stop pounding, a move to glance past the fall of hair barring her view of his eyes, it brought light to reflect bright against his shoulder. A tilt of her head gave a rush of excitement that toyed with her gut, a red star painted on a hard surface, her gaze fell to take in the man's arm from bicep to fingertips, shimmering metal.
A flash of the Red Room stories caught her breath, told at night in the dark by the girls, hushed tones and dream-like. The story of the Winter Soldier training the young women, girls like her, a supposed tryst discovered, a price to be paid. Caught up in the tale of love affairs gone wrong, romantic notions of clandestine meetings and lovers beating the odds, whispered mouth to ear over the years, turned the story into something it wasn't.
A ripple of shivers coursed through his body drawing well-meaning words spilled out in a pressured whisper, an offer of a blanket, more food, and water, all met with no indication he heard or noticed her presence. She wondered if he didn't understand Russian, a fair attempt at English received the same response. A careful move to close the space between them, heart pulsing at her temple, she ducked to find some way to make their eyes connect. An ache of sorrow flirted with her heart as he hid behind the shadows and his hair to lick his fingers and slid his tongue across his lips to savor the last bit of food. Her hand caressed the metal bars, an unexplained drive to connect she held back the urge to reach out, to try and push the hair from his face, to let their fingers touch.
A remnant of schoolgirl excitement drove her to switch to a flurry of questions; was he the Winter Soldier from all those years ago, did the lover really exist? She wondered aloud if the story was true, they had escaped together only to be dragged back, a tragic ending to the fairy tale passed down by the girls of the Red Room.
The Soldier's eyes never raised to meet hers, the hint of a tremor slipped across his body when she asked about the woman, his hands tucked deep beneath his thighs when she spoke of the Red Room. Her voice fell quiet as she sat cross-legged, knees pressed to the bars, hands tucked under her thighs, her gaze intent on the fall of hair hiding his face.
In the end, she was dragged from the basement, her clothing torn, a near assault thwarted by a saving metal fist, one soldier dead, another injured, her mentor's sharp rebuke evident in her eyes. Natalia stole a searching look back through the crowd of soldiers. The sound of flesh sizzling under the press of a stun prod, the man in the cage on his hands and knees, gritting silent through his punishment, a last-second glance up, gray eyes connecting with hers, he watched her walk away.
Natasha maneuvered the car down the driveway, onto the dirt road then settled into the lulling hum of an empty highway and the promise of rest and relaxation. The echo of her first meeting with Barnes tearing at her memory. A replayed ache at watching the seizure on the tarmac, her mind fell back to finding him in a pool of blood, wrist cut wide open, unresponsive in the kitchen. Images pulled at her heart, the brokenness of Steve, the rhythmic press of hands on Bucky's chest, dragging him back to into this life. Back to face the pain, living with the guilt and the voices. The quiet hope of his body sprawled across Steve's saving embrace, finding his way home.
A tight-jawed internal resolution to get to the truth, the tires squealed their complaint when she spun the car around less than five miles from the house to head in the opposite direction. A one-handed juggle of her phone, she speed-dialed Fury.
Sam braced his hand on the ceiling and a foot on the dashboard, "I take it New York is out of the equation?"
"I have one question. Where's the spa?" Sam's voicing of his displeasure began with a tsking noise as soon as Natasha shifted the car into a one-eighty turn. It built to a crescendo when she took the access road that led to Fury's headquarters in one of the refurbished 1970's missile silo that sat silent across Upstate New York. A rumbling mantra of ignored complaint that continued as he trailed her deep into the bowels of the facility. "I was promised a spa, filet mignon, roasted red potatoes, tiramisu, and wine. This did not include doing the dishes, sullen ex-assassins or arguing over the relative economy of paper napkins versus cloth ones. I want the wine, where is the wine?" His rant wrapped up when they arrived at Natasha's spontaneous rendezvous. "Beer then, at least a beer?"
Fury stood dark-clothed and grim, outside an interrogation room flanked by two guards. He shook his head, "We have hot running water, there's a microwave in the mess hall and a vending machine with decent mac and cheese. That's the best I can do."
Sam's roll of his eyes serving a dual purpose, his response to vending machine mac and cheese and the image visible through the one-way glass window to his left. A clear view of a robust woman in an ill-fitting bright orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed to her waist, sitting in the center of the room, an armed man at each shoulder. "Great. Where's the mess hall? Nat's got this, you don't need me here."
Natasha's curt nod gave Fury the go-ahead to open the door, they stepped inside, including Sam.
Maymay's husky voice echoed her immediate protest, "Oh, thank god, a woman. For heaven's sake tell them orange is a disgusting color, it wrecks havoc on my skin tone. I can't scratch my nose, with these horrible cuffs keeping my hands here. This is outrageous treatment, I am just a secretary, my boss sent me to Cartagena because I needed a vacation, I had no idea they were arms dealers. He told me to sell those damn replicas to the highest bidder. What the hell is a Chitauri anyway? There are people out there that love movie memorabilia. Do you know how much that stuff pulls in? They don't even know what they're buying. He told me to sell those stupid toys, we bought them at a yard sale in San Fernando Valley six months ago on a trip to California, some kid built them for an indie horror movie that never got out of his basement..."
Sam pulled in a long, deep breath, crossed his arms and stood in the far corner, a willing yield of the room to Natasha.
Fury retreated to face the one-way window, a slow, cautious drop of his forehead to rest against the glass.
Natasha allowed a corner of her mouth to hint at a smile, a mental image of her knuckles cracking, a controlled step to lay a hand on Maymay's shoulder, she bent to whisper, her breath warm on her ear, "The Winter Soldier says 'Hello.'"
Gnarled toes burrowed deep into plush carpet giving way to spring back with each soft step forward, heel-to-toe, a slow-paced stride past open doors. Bright oblong patches of early morning sun spilled through uncurtained windows to lie across the softness, warmth then coolness repeating as bare feet roamed towards the East facing corner room. An awkward near spill of coffee as a hand reached to brush a faint patina of dust from the "Donations" plaque by the door. Serpentine navigation of gently-used furniture, year-old laptops, and last year's now obsolete coffeemakers brought Tony Stark into the streaming light of a new day in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.
A slight turn of his head allowed a vague reflection, a hazy mirror image that drew his self-assessing glance. Hair ruffled and topped with glasses perched on his head, the looseness of silken sleep pants, a half smile at the vintage thread-bare Grateful Dead T-shirt beneath a cherished robe. Eyes darted away and back to stare deep and hard at his own face. Tight-jawed tension, fatigue written in lines that creased across his forehead and pulled at the skin around his eyes. An old familiar tightness crawling up from his gut to spread insidious across his chest.
A shaken angry return to the Avengers Facility hours earlier to toss the Boston Hydra data into the air, holographic images of names and places, research combed again for clues. The torn apart and dumped upside down Intel competing with the memory of Steve's unrelenting passionate defense of the man who had killed his parents.
Confusion balanced the rage with every echo of Bucky's words. Fear laced tones, begging phrases, words not quite understood at the time but mulled over in the dim light of his lab in the middle of the night. A muttered secret, "What the hell did they do to him?" Discarded with contempt at the replayed sound of Bucky's voice speaking his mother's name. A question demanding examination, "Why give up so easily?" He fought with the image of fear that crossed his enemy's face as he dragged him off the quinjet. A hand laid flat on a table, eyes closed recollection of the vibrating tremor picked up by gauntleted fingers when his hand wrapped around a sweat-soaked throat. Pacing a line corner to corner and back again, debating the implications of 'Please don't make me do this, you can fuck me, not in front of him,' he returned to the same question, "What the hell did they do to him?" Always losing to the sound of Bucky's rasped terrified whisper, "Mrs. Stark - comes for me."
His night of restless pacing, drowning in the Hydra data sent to him by Bucky's own choice, debating his next move, phone in hand, the proper authorities dialed and aborted, wanting his revenge and not, ending with a sliver of doubt. The final image settling in his mind's eye, Bucky's seizing body surrounded by Steve's tight embrace, wrapped together on a dark and wet tarmac.
His wrestling with the aftermath of the last few days, hate turned to questions, hurt giving to concern, Stark settled into a state of resentment that flirted with remorse. A winding down retreat to the far corner hidden away room that afforded him the first view of the sunrise as it rose above the treetops, he mulled over his next move.
The morning's contemplation interrupted by the pinging of his phone.
"The plan was to reconcile with Rogers, not try to kill his best friend." Natasha's voice not unexpected.
His gaze dropped to study curled toes digging into the softness beneath his feet, "Carpet or wood for flooring? Let's debate. I'll go first. Carpet. Mohawk. Color: Sea serenade. Deep pile, high traffic compliant. Go."
He interrupted before she could speak, "No wait. I forgot the best part. Completely recyclable. Now you're turn."
She ignored his deflection, "You reached out to me. You asked if the Hydra data would help you reconcile with Rogers. 'We need to move past this, time to make peace,' your words. It ended with fake weapons, wayward secretaries and Barnes terrified, in handcuffs having a seizure. Was that the plan all along?"
A turn to negotiate through the furniture, "Change in plans, happens all the time."
"There isn't going to be a reconciliation with Rogers after this. He and Fury think you lied to them about the data. That this rush mission in Cartagena was a set-up."
A curt laugh, he shrugged, "I lied to them? Not so bad. Better than thinking I was wrong or did shoddy work or my analysis was faulty. Lying is an acceptable alternative. As is keeping my cards close to my vest as they say."
Natasha shot back, "So you lied? You sent us out on a mission just to screw with Rogers?"
Tony deflected, "That thing fell apart out in the field. You said he was stable. Taking medications, getting help. 'Trust Rogers if you can't trust that thing.' Your words."
She countered, "I didn't call him a thing. Did you lie to us?"
"He's unstable, a danger to everyone and Rogers is still defending him."
Natasha opened a small window to her frustration, "I've spent the night with Maymay. The weapons are fake, the arms dealers are secretaries, you vetted the details. Did you lie about the data? Did you set us up?"
Tony's winced expression brought a hand to press against his sternum. He balanced the coffee cup on the arm of an overstuffed chair while he dug in the robe pocket, "Let's talk antacids. Me first. I really prefer the berry fusion smoothies over the chewy delights," He popped a handful of chalky tablets in his mouth to crunch in her ear, "How about you?"
"Tony, I'd like to think all of this is deflection. We know you heard everything on the comm-link, you know how Rogers feels about Barnes. I can understand something about how hard this is to see him find some peace. And maybe you're right, he deserves to be punished. Maybe we all do."
Stark didn't answer.
Natasha pushed, "I'm asking you again, did you lie to us?"
"You're an idiot if you think you can take The Architect down, Soldat. You'll be back in the fighting pits. Your pretty boy Captain will be drawn and quartered and that asshole will be picking his teeth with Steve's bones while he watches your blood get spilled like a modern day Roman gladiator."
Bucky's step caught short by the Voice, a hesitant mutter, "Not a gladiator."
Steve paused on the basement stairs with Bucky's hesitation, "No, we're not sparring. Come on. Let's go over your notes in the tactical room." A finger looped into the knit of the sweater, as it hung over metal fingers, hand sought hand to be tight wrapped together as Steve pulled him towards the main communications room at the house.
The Voice's taunt showing as an unobserved twitch of Bucky's head. The press of metal to flesh, palm to palm heat swinging in Steve's favor in the battle with the Voice for his attention. A faint lagging back to let Steve's insistent strength pull him forward, craving the feeling of being led, giving in to him, allowing his will to win out even in the simplest of tasks. Bare feet padded across the soft give of the gym mats, recessed light crept alive with each step, brightening the ceiling, they stopped at the keypad entry to the tactical room. Bucky's cheek pressed to Steve's shoulder, rubbing across the firmness, his mouth glancing along his hairline, nose dug deep behind his ear.
Steve's quiet laugh at the distraction, "I can't get the password right," he pulled Bucky's hand to his mouth to press lips to metal, a lean back invitation to keep his body warm against his own. The green light blinking and click of the door opening pulling Steve's steps to head for the room.
"This is not the mission. Abort. The asset doesn't plan, doesn't think, doesn't seek revenge."
Bucky muttered again, "Not revenge."
Steve glanced back,"Maybe a little revenge," he pulled him through the doorway.
Soft overhead bulbs flickered on spilling pools of light down the long wooden table that dominated the room. Darkened computer screens filled the far wall, neatly packed and organized gear hung in the cubicles to their right, whiteboards covered the wall to the left. Steve forged ahead, dropping Bucky's hand, "I'll get the computers up and running, you go through that box of yours, let's see what we can come up with. Do you remember his name?"
"Soldat, you never knew his name. Only The Architect. The Asset had no need for the names of who controlled him. Only the names of the dead."
"Arkhitektor" an absent lapse into Russian, the head shake 'No' slow and hesitant, a required answer that nagged at his memory. He crossed to stand near the gear cubicles, shoebox clutched to his chest. A focused watching of Steve bringing to life images of world maps shimmering on the screens, sending a green-blue glow to wash across his skin. Bucky took him in, gaze intent on his face, lashes brushing soft on cheeks, hair long and near to the collar of his shirt, tucked behind an ear, an errant strand hung loose to dangle near one eye. All of Steve, his look, his scent every move and muscled twitch sending warmth to flush red across his skin.
"All of your struggles to fight off our programming to save him, your stupidity will get him killed in the end anyway. Forget about this mission. Get him into bed, he'll give it up."
"Take me to bed." Bucky's blurted ask, quiet and awkward.
Steve's soft laugh, "Sure, soon, let's see if we can find a name or location." His adjustments moved the images closer, colors changing, landscape moving, his gaze studying the maps.
"Lame Soldat. Go distract him. Grab his balls or stick your tongue down his throat. You know what to do. Your mission is to stop him."
Bucky shuffled his feet, a tug-of-war struggle between insistent commands and the push of his own thoughts, he ran a hand through his hair, tugging to dislodge the hold of the Voice.
Steve glanced over his shoulder, "A location? Where were you at the time?" He moved to the whiteboards, drawing two columns, "Where did you meet him? Russia? Germany, somewhere else?" A studied look back towards Bucky, the distracted glances, the return of the tremor not lost to his constant eye. "What's in the shoebox, you said he was in there?" He pointed at the crumpled box tucked close to Bucky's chest, a gentle encouragement, "Dump it out here. We'll go over it together."
"Negative. This is not mission compliant. Do not show him the contents of your memories. This is against all of your programming."
Bucky moved to pour the contents on the table, he rearranged the papers and stickie notes, pushed some aside, then back into the center, a shuffling disarray of uncertainty. A struggle to defy the Voice. A single metal finger settled on a folded square of white paper and held it pinned to the table. A pulled in bite to his lip, his eyes drawn to a shadow in the corner, a flicker towards Steve when he sensed him watching, only to settle back in the corner again.
Steve's concern laced in his question, "Can you remember his name? Where you saw him last? Can I look at the papers? Buck, are you listening to me?"
"Distract him with sex. He's watching you. Look at him you idiot, he sees you staring at me. Make the damned eye contact."
Bucky blinked hard as he switched his gaze from the shadowed corner to connect with Steve, a tremor shook his hand, a slow and careful slid of the folded piece of paper across the table towards him, his body followed. Knees on the table, he slow crawled forward to settle kneeling in front of Steve, mouth parted, hands settled full on his chest, want evident in his eyes.
Steve had to touch him, no choice, no amount of concern for his distracted gaze, the one-sided muttered conversations, none of it could keep his hands from gripping Bucky's thighs. Thumbs dug deep into muscle, a gentle push to slide his legs apart, he pulled to fit himself between his knees, chest to chest, his words not matching his own actions, "What are you doing?"
Eyes-wide-open, locking on Steve's he leaned to taste his lips, a long slow drag of his tongue slipping beneath the prickle of the beard, finding the deep pink of his mouth taking the last bit of flavor. A soft, insistent whine when Steve's eyes started to close, fingers dug into his chest, a sharp demand to stay open, obeyed when their gaze stayed connected. Bucky's body gave in to the pull of Steve's hands on his ass, tugging hips forward, lifting him to press groin to chest. He broke the gaze first, head falling back, releasing Steve to explore his body. A sharp breath when his mouth found his skin, pulling blood to leave red welts across his belly. Hands wrapping around Steve's head, a subtle direction of his mouth, fingers carding in hair grown longer at his whispered-in-the-dark request, a quiet moan as Steve laid claim to the tender flesh of his groin. The flush of heat that spread across his body weakened taut muscles, his body pressing to Steve's, weight heavy on his shoulders, he leaned to whisper "Take me to bed."
The taste of Bucky's skin pulled up distant memories of Brooklyn, city heat on a summer's night, the chill of a draft in winter, sweet and salt mixed together, always there underneath sweat and soap and leather. The craving ache to taste his flesh settled deep in his gut. Fingers slipping under the sweater, shoving it aside, clearing his path, tugging pants to allow him free access to the skin he knew was his now. Jealous possession, intrusive thoughts of Bucky's past, a surge of anger drove teeth to leave their mark in intimate places, a less than rational move to warn away the past. The soft aching moan that rumbled in Bucky's chest, a tell that he wanted the marks. Hands twisted in his hair, directing his mouth, helping him find the tender patch of skin waiting to be taken, soft whispers of "Yes," his breathed approval of Steve's claiming.
The underlying tremor that teased under Steve's fingers and pulsed against his mouth kept him from finishing Bucky right there on the tactical table. A reluctant pulling away, dragging his head and hands up his body, he tugged Bucky's hands from his hair, fingers entwined, their eyes meeting. A soft kiss pulled back from letting Bucky delve deeper, he whispered against his mouth, "I have a question."
Bucky tried to bring their mouths together, a push to overpower him, "No more questions."
Steve shook his head, "This one is for now. Right now."
A lunge to drive his tongue into Steve's mouth held back by hands cupping his face.
Steve insisted, "Yes a question. Look at me. Come on."
Gray eyes met his.
Steve fought down the rush of heat as metal fingers pulled open his pants, the raking fingertips that brushed against his cock told him to forget the questions, to give in to Bucky's open want of him. A head tilted back escape of Bucky's chasing mouth, a gritted mind-numbing attempt to ignore the slow stroking of his flesh, his question stumbled out, "When did you stop taking the meds."
Bucky's body tensed, soft lips slipped to a tight grimace, fingers stopped moving, jaw muscles tightened under Steve's fingers that didn't let go.
Steve asked again, "When did you stop?"
Bucky tried to pull away, hands holding him in place.
A firm, "You promised to tell me. You swore you'd talk to me first."
He squirmed to break away, "Guidelines not rules."
Steve hard pulled him, shaking him, foreheads near pressed together, "No, not promises. Your word. Stronger than promises, nowhere near guidelines. Your word."
A hint of a whine, "I don't know, I don't remember."
Steve worked to keep his anxiety close, the tight knot gripping his chest with every fleeting thought of what life was like before the medications, "Why? I get it you missed a few doses on the mission but this what I'm seeing now. You stopped them long before this mission. Why?"
"I hate the way they make me feel." An attempt to sit back on his haunches, Steve's hands on his face keeping him up and close.
He ducked his head to keep Bucky's eyes on him, "Stable? You hate being stable. Is that it?"
"No. Tired, fat, drooling, everything in slow motion. No more meds."
Steve's quick counter, "Seizures, ghosts, suicidal thoughts, more than one Voice, puking, what am I missing? Oh, wait, getting stuck on the porch, in the bathroom, in the gym, on the deck."
Bucky pushed at Steve's chest, his attempt to separate more of a gesture than real, "Fuck you."
"You'd risk all of that coming back because you might drool at night? I've got news for you pal, you drool without the meds, so too late."
"No, I don't. Liar. Besides you snore."
A huffed laugh, "I'm perfect remember. No snoring. Come on, what is it really."
Bucky rearranged to sit on the table's edge, legs wrapped around Steve's thighs, heels locked around his knees, his face still caught in Steve's hands, "You know already, you see it. I know you want it, want me to, I want to."
Steve raked fingernails across Bucky's scalp, his face and caress softening "Want to what?"
Head tilted to press into the fingernails, his thumb teasing the length of Steve's cock, "That. You know. You want me inside of you. To fuck you. I can't do that. Not on the meds."
Steve's hand stopped moving, a lean back to make their eyes meet, "Erection? This is about erections? You stopped the meds because you have a hard time getting an erection?"
Bucky's hand fell to his lap, eyes averted, "Yes. It's not funny. So don't laugh."
A tug on his hair to look at him again, "I'm not laughing. You'd risk voices and hallucinations so you can get an erection?"
A tentative whispered, "No."
Steve struggled to hide his frustration, "That's the dumbest thing I've heard in 100 years. You tried to kill yourself, I know you don't remember a lot of what happened, but I do, I almost lost you. The way you looked at me, terrified, distant. No, you can't do this. I'll make you take them if I have to. I can't believe this is about erections."
Bucky's louder answer, "No. not about erections, not like that. Not for me. For you. To take care of you." he reached to run his hand up Steve's thigh, a slow push to embrace his ass, fingers searching to hint at his intention, a warm, close whisper, "Be inside of you."
Steve held still, the rush of realization ran a different kind of heat across his skin, hands slipped from Bucky's cheeks, to rest on his shoulders, long slow breath in and out to steady his thoughts. He took in the look of confusion, mixed with sincerity, near to innocence that Bucky offered up with his logic.
He let a few heartbeats pass to make the words sink in before answering, "Buck, you already take care of me." A careful caress of his thumb along his cheek, "I don't need anything more than what we have right here, right now." Eyes closed kiss to his forehead, "If we never had sex again, I don't care."
Bucky wrapped his fingers around Steve's waistband, ankles tucking him closer, "I do. I want to take care of you, I need to do that. You'll get tired of me. I need you."
Steve's mouth covered his words, a rush to fill him with all the emotions boiling over in his chest, hands grabbing his body, tongue pushing deep to stop his logic, hoping his actions would wash over him to understand what he was about to say. He pulled back enough for their eyes to meet, "I, Buck, I need you. I'm not going to get tired of you. I need you. Never ever forget that."
Bucky's faint nod, "I need you too."
Steve closed his eyes, the cold sensation of regret began to creep across his mind, tightening his chest, the words he wanted to say lost in his answer, he opted to move on, "Let's go. Upstairs. Taking meds, going to bed. To sleep. The mystery man will still be here after a few hours of sleep."
Steve threw Bucky's arms around his neck, hands on his ass, he lifted him off the table. Legs wrapped around his waist, face tucked to his neck, he carried him upstairs.
Bucky closed his eyes and smiled.
"Well done, Soldat. Well done."
