MCU (c) Marvel Studios

If you're lost out where the lights are blinding; caught in all, the stars are hiding; that's when something wild calls you home, home. If you face the fear that keeps you frozen, chase the sky into the ocean; that's when something wild calls you home, home. — Lindsey Stirling featuring Andrew McMahon

She walked with a clip to her gate as she went to Bucky's room, the palace staff helping her when she needed it. It was near the medical wing, in case he had a mental break and needed to be contained. She tapped her foot with impatience as the door hissed open, she stormed up to Bucky, who was playing cards with Sam. "Why did you have to bring that up!" she snapped, glaring up.

"Hello to you too, doll," he said, calm as a still pond. Sam looked up from his cards, eyeing her uneasily. "You're move." The door hissed closed behind her.

"Out." She fixed Sam with a glare and the man swallowed, muttered an apology and something about a rain check and left the room. Bucky set his cards down and peeked at Sam's hand.

"Thanks Natasha, I would've lost." He gave her a tiny smile as she took Sam's empty seat. "Poker?" He gestured to the cards. She glared at him as he gathered the cards, wondering what game he was playing by bringing up Leningrad in front of Steve. Not that Steve understood what the hell they were staying in Russian, but still. She had hoped to never bring that up, to never have that conversation with him. Bucky had shattered all of that. She let out a deep long sigh, a serpentine smile spreading across her lips.

"I love too," she said, offering him her hand. He put the cards in and she shuffled quickly and set up the little table between them. She looked at her two cards, a 5 of Diamonds and a Queen of Hearts. Hopefully, not a shitty hand. Bucky rolled his shoulders, his face impassive. "How've you been?"

"Y'know," he said, "could be better." He set his cards on his lap and tossed two chips in. She blinked, adding two chips of her own. She peeled the top card off and put the second card down. 6 of Diamonds. She may not have a terrible hand after all. "You?" She caught his gaze her question in her eyes. He blinked and looked at his hand.

"Alright, can't complain," she said, tone pleasant. Bucky's room was sparse and bare, with a few books on the shelves. She didn't catch the titles. He tossed two more chips in. "Confident?" She added two of her own. He awkwardly scratched his brow with his stump.

"It's not real money, just plastic chips," he said, "you know that." He looked at her, his posture telling her all she needed to know. A small frown creased her lips as she dealt the next card: Ace of Spades. Her chances of winning plummeted.

"You never told me what I'd get if I won," she said. She added four chips to his two. "I hope you have a good hand, Bucky." It pleased her as he grumbled, tossing in an extra two chips.

"What makes you think you'll win?" he asked, as she dealt the last card, the Jack of Clubs. She frowned, she had no chance of winning. She scanned Bucky's face, unable to tell if he had a good hand or not.

"It is just fake money," she said, tossing her cards down. "I fold."

"Oh good," he said, tossing down his cards to reveal a pair of aces, "I win." The corner of his mouth tugged up in a half smirk as he pulled their pot towards him. He leaned back in his seat. "We can play another game if you want. May get lucky."

She gave him a beatific smile. "Pass." She leaned back, hands on her knees and she sighed. Her body was a taunt bowstring, her original anger now a warm smolder in the pit of her stomach. "Let's talk?"

"No."

"Bucky," she chided, "you don't even know what I'm going to ask." She got up and sat next to him, pressing her hip against his. "Why are you being so standoffish?"

"Like you said, it's over between us," he said, shifting away. She looked away, realizing that charming the answer out of him wasn't going to work. "You need to tell him."

"And you need to tell me why you even brought it up?"

"Leningrad?" He gave her a puzzled look. "Well, in Leningrad you were in a pickle and I got you out, just like I did this time."

"Vision convinced T'Challa I wasn't going to turn everyone in." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Not you. So no, it was not like Leningrad."

"I still think my opinion helped."

"Why do you want me to tell Steve anyway?" she asked. "It's over between us. I don't need to tell him every detail of my past. If he's curious it's all over the internet." She folded her arms over her chest. "Thank you very much."

"You need to be honest with him. Steve values honest, if you want your relationship—"

"Whoever said I wanted something long term?" she lied. A muscle in his jaw twitched, eyes hardening. She gave him the same hard look, daring him to do something.

"You break Steve's heart" — he jerked his thumb across his throat — "Ya sam tebya ub'yu," he growled. She kept her face expressionless. She knew Bucky enough to know that such a threat was not an ideal one.

"I have no intention of breaking Steve's heart," she hissed. "I love him."

"Uh-huh. You know they pulled me out of cryo because he showed up. He was distraught, last time I remember seeing him like that was when his mother died. So, I question your love."

"I would never hurt Steve," she said, standing up. "Regardless of what you think."

"Then tell him to truth about us or I'll do it," he said. She blanched, leaning in close to him, hands on either side of his hips, their noses almost touching.

"Don't." She glared at him. He held her gaze, steady as a wolf across the ice. She swallowed, the tension between them thick and palpable, she broke the staring contest, but Bucky grabbed her chin. He didn't say anything just ran the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. Her breath caught in her throat. "Don't," she breathed, a tremble ran through her body. "I love him, Bucky."

"I miss us," he whispered, voice soft. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the memories. The clandestine meetings, the feel of his hands on her skin: the cold metal and the warm skin. The way he held her after sex, and the searing kiss goodbye as they parted ways, so the KGB didn't report their unauthorized relationship to the Kremlin. She loved the thrill of their romance. "Being with you… were the few happy memories I had." The melancholy in his eyes tugged at her heart.

"Bucky, we can't," she whispered. "I love Steve, you know that."

"I know, lisichka, I know."

"Don't call me that." She tried to pull away, but his grip was strong. She rested her hands on his knees. "Please if Steve comes back…"

"Right," he said, and dropped his hand. She stood up and put some distance between them, her back to him. "Sorry."

She nodded, staring at the wall. "I don't want to… sometimes I think he deserves someone better than me." She looked up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns. A clock ticked somewhere, and she was acutely aware of Bucky's stare on her back. She rolled her shoulders, she didn't like people staring at her back. "I just thought— I mean I understand why he needs to think about us, but I thought—" she swallowed. She would not cry in front of Bucky. She would not.

"Steve sees the good in people, always had. Unless they are a bully. He's also old fashioned, and wears his heart on his sleeve, sometimes it's painful how easily his emotions come through. He's just bad at expressing it half the time." Bucky chuckled a little bit. "You should have seen him back during the war, making puppy eyes at Peggy, but he was too shy to go up and ask her for a dance."

"I know," she whispered. She felt his tears on her neck as she held him after Peggy's funeral. He almost crushed her, holding her so tight. "I just thought that if I came back—"

"You could pick up where you two left off? Good luck." Bucky tapped his fingers against his knee. She turned to watched him, the silence between them pensive, as if someone was holding their breath, awaiting something to happen. "I still love you," Bucky said, his voice soft and sad; broke the silence. It sounded as if he threw a glass, a soft tinkling sound in her head. She closed her eyes, not wanting it to be real.

"Bucky…"

"I still love you. More like… I love what we once had, the nostalgia of it all." He gave a half shrug. "I'm also a bit jealous that you're with Steve." He sighed, looking away. "Did you ever love me?"

"Once" — a fleeting smile appeared on her lips — "when it was real between us. But now, no. I don't. I love Steve. I love him like I never loved anyone else."

"Okay." He gave an accepting nod. "Promise me you'll tell him?" he asked. She swallowed, tapping her foot in a nervous manner.

"I…" she glanced at her feet, mulling over her options. "I promise." She rubbed her temples. "Is this why you brought up Leningrad? To get me to agree to tell Steve?"

Bucky barked a laugh. "No, I actually do owe you for Leningrad—"

"St. Petersburg."

"Whatever, same city." He licked his lips. "I told you I owed you for saving my sorry ass."

She nodded, looking at the ground. "Well…" she let the word hang in the air, the silence between them starting to get uncomfortable. She had her answer and now she had a promise to keep. Though she had no idea how she'd keep it.

"The sooner the better," Bucky said, "especially if you two are planning to get serious."

"I know," she snapped. "I just don't like… people twisting my arm to get me to spill my secrets." She glared at him. "You made the bet with Sam. If you're worried about then that's your own damn fault."

"Listen, Natasha" — he leaned forward, pointing a finger at her — "Steve will risk his life to save thousands, but he will die for you. You are his one weakness—"

"I can take care of myself, Steve knows that. I doubt he'll throw himself into the maws of death for me."

"That's not the point! He'll lay his heart bare for you, so you better realize that right quick Romanoff. You want a relationship with Steve, you better come clean to him about a lot of things. And one of the first things should be us."

"I hate you."

"Love you too, doll."

She stalked towards the door, kicking the little table over, scattering the cards and plastic chips. "Enjoy your game of fifty-two card pick up with one hand." She stalked towards the exit.

"Thanks," he huffed and began to agonizing process of picking up cards with one hand. She heard him mutter a curse as the door hissed shut. She rubbed her temples and had no idea where to look for Steve. Something told her he'd come to her when he was ready to talk. She looked down the hall way, nervous energy in her system. A good work out in the gym may help. She frowned, punching would not settle her mind, she needed something with precision. A smile came to her face and she headed to her room to get her old CD Walkman.

The punching bag went flying across the room, sand spilling out. His chest rose and fell, sweat glistening on his brow. The ache in his muscles was familiar and a good enough distraction from the conflicting emotions he was trying to deal with. He left the punching bag and went to get another one. He hung it up with a soft grunt, watching it swing as he backed up. He shuffled his feet before shifting his weight to the balls of his feet and began to pummel the punching bag with a series of rapid jabs. He tried to string together some different combos, to make it harder for FRIDAY to analyze his movements, if he ever fought Tony again.

His thoughts drifted to Natasha — he slammed his fists into the bag, grunting with each blow — her lips, her smile, the way her kisses lingered on his lips. He ached to be close to her, to hold her. The way she laughed and quirked her smiles, with a mischievous twinkle always gleaming in her eyes. He growled, throwing more punches at the bag. How could this have happened? When did this happen? — with each punch he could smell the leather of the bag, feel the give of the sand beneath; his heart pounding against his ribcage as he worked his muscles into a steady state of exhaustion — when he first met her, he got the impression that she was standoffish and didn't trust easily. Then Fury had the brilliant idea of assigning her as his 21st Century liaison (Tony had generously volunteered but was shot down). She had driven him to Peggy's nursing home a few times. He had called her in the middle of the night a couple of times, the nightmares being too much to handle and she had patiently listened to him ramble about everything he lost. In return he was there for her when she needed it, answering his door in the middle of the night to see Natasha in pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, looking small and vulnerable, her skin stark white and eyes wide like a frightened doe; with nary a word, he allowed her to come in, fixed her some tea and simply sat next to her listening to the silence until she felt comfortable enough to discuss (or not) whatever was bothering her. It began as a tentative friendship, that only grew closer and deeper when they had to destroy Shield to stop Hydra.

Her friendship helped with the fact that Peggy had moved on — only a damnable fool would expect a woman to wait seventy years for a date — yet coming to terms with that fact had been harder than he imagined. Logically, he knew Peggy had moved on as soon as he stumbled into a very different New York City. The bright lights and honking car horns and the noise. So much noise. Not that New York wasn't noisy during his era but there was so much more noise: from airplanes to the hum of machinery to the cars to the electronics. Noise noise noise noise! It had shocked him, sending him back to the Hydra base where he found Bucky and the 107th. He felt like a lost boy and all he wanted was to go home. Finding Peggy wasting away in a nursing home, her mind slipping away from her — he bit his lip as he pummeled the bag, the sting of tears in his eyes that he could easily lay and say was sweat — it wasn't fair. It wasn't right that after all this time, when he finally comes back that they'd lose each other again, that they'd never get their dance. And that was the crux of his dilemma. He loved Natasha, yet he was afraid to move on. If he surrendered and let Peggy go then there would be no turning back, no hope that he could go back and stop the Red Skull before it was too late and have that future he wanted with Peggy. So he compromised (at least he viewed it as a compromise), he loved Natasha just enough to easy his heart, but squirreled the rest of it away with his memories of Peggy and the dead dream he clung to like a starving fool. With a cry, he punched the bag and sent it flying, chest heaving as it made a dull thud against the floor, sand spilling from the broken seams. He covered his face with his hands, gasping as the maelstrom of emotions raged within him; he raked his hands through his hair before retrieving the bag. He stooped, grabbing the bag.

Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye and he let go of punching bag, a few grains of sand spilling from the broken seam at the top. He squinted, trying to make out who was in the other room. It looked like the person was dancing? Curious, he went over to the room, grabbing a towel on his way to mop the sweat from his face. He stood by the entrance, just out of sight of whomever was in there.

It was Natasha, dressed in yoga pants, with a sports bra and a tank top, and old CD Walkman clipped to her hip and satin ballet slippers on her feet, the pastel pearlescent pink of the ribbons gleamed against her skin in the low light. She had pulled her short blonde hair into a small ponytail, and the headphone cords clipped to the strap of her tank top. He watched her.

She danced with such grace and poise, her face a mask of utter concentration. Tony had taken them to the ballet one December for The Nutcracker; he didn't remember Natasha going. When he asked why she had skipped out on the team-bonding evening, she gave a vague excuse, which he didn't press her further. Watching her dance now, maybe this was why she didn't want to watch someone else do ballet, because she could do it better.

He watched her, lost in her movements: the leaps and pirouettes, the fluttering steps done on her tip toes, the perfect splits, and how she seemed to return to her feet in the same fluid motion, only to grab her ankle and effortlessly lift it over her head. It moved something deep inside him, tormenting his inner artist; his fingers twitched, he wanted to draw her and capture her beautiful swan like grace forever. It was like watching a dragonfly dart about, no movement wasted. She grabbed her foot as she balanced on her toes, only to let go and twirl, her foot placed perfectly against her knee. He inched closer, wondering what she was listening to. He wondered if the others knew she could dance like this. Maybe Clint? This must be why she's so good in a fight. He nodded as she sank down with another perfect split before coming back and leaping across the room.

He inched closer, his foot catching on something near the door. It came crashing down, echoing in the room and breaking the still silence. Dust motes danced in the thin stream of dying sunlight and Natasha came to a spinning halt as she removed her headphones. Her chest rose and fell, and she pinned him to place with a glower. He swallowed, nervous and awkward. "Sorry."

"You make a terrible spy," Natasha quipped, as she settled her headphone around her neck. "Always crashing about, sometimes I wonder if you realize you're six-two and two hundred forty pounds."

He flushed. "Yeah," he mumbled, "sometimes I still think I'm a ninety-pound asthmatic kid and then I break something and realized that I'm not." He gave a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean in the beginning, I did. Not anymore. I'm pretty aware of how strong I am, that I'm taller… bulkier. But before… when I first got outta the pod… I felt taller and I could leap clean over a fence and—" he stopped, looking at his feet. He could hear Peggy telling him he had no idea how to talk to women.

She smiled at him, bemusement in her eyes and he felt his blush deepen. God, this was awkward. "What are you doing down here?" she asked.

"I was uh… relieving stress and then I saw you—"

"You watched me dance?" her eyes widened slightly. He nodded, feeling like a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Her jaw clenched, and he felt like he stepped over some line. "Why?"

"I… saw movement and I thought… well…" he trailed off with a shrug. "You're memorizing." He looked her up and down, the light sheen of sweat, the rise and fall of her chest. That maelstrom of conflicting emotions returned again to batter his weary soul. He felt it, how they could be so much more if he only gave himself fully to him. But that involved letting Peggy go and whenever that came up he balked. She was willing; she came back to him after all. He reached for her, wanting to touch her but withdrew his hand, afraid he was invading her personal space. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't… I didn't mean to intrude like that."

"Gimme your hand," she said, holding out her hand. He laid his hand in hers and she unwound his wrapping. "It was coming undone." She rewrapped it. "You need to make it nice and tight." She pulled the clothe tight. He winced a bit, and she tucked the end in to secure it. "Like that."

He flexed his hand as he gave her the other one to rewrap. "Thanks." He studied her face, noting the lines of concertation on her brow, how she bit her lip as she worked. "I love you," he whispered. So romantic. He frowned when the voice in his head sounded like Peggy's snarky quip. He didn't want to think about her right now. No, he wanted to live — for once — in the moment. Natasha smiled, looking up at him as if he was the one beautiful thing left in the world. She pulled the towel from around his neck to wipe his face.

"I love you too, Steve," she said, her voice soft. He licked her lips, wanting to draw her close and kiss her. She pulled away and he swallowed, a strange guarded look in her eyes. The pain in her green eyes made his heart ache and he wished he could take away all her pain and suffering, take it all into himself and hold it for her. He was strong enough to bear another cross, and he wanted it to be hers. "Steve, there's something we need to talk about." She hung her head.

"I want us to be… us," he blurted out. She jerked her head up, eyes wide and face a bit pale. He rolled his shoulders, he was already committed, might as well finish it. "I thought about it and… I'm tired of dancing around how we feel. We make a good team." He ran his hand through his hair. "Why do you think I turned down all those women you tried to set me up with?"

"You called Sharon."

"Yeah, I did," he said. He took her hands, squeezing her fingers. "It didn't feel… she wasn't the right partner I've been looking for." Peggy, please… I swear I still love but I need this. I want this… please, I hope you can forgive me. He dipped his head and caught Natasha's lips. It was sweet and tender; her arms snaking around his neck as he cradled her head with his hand, his other hand settling on her hip. They pulled away, their foreheads touching. "I want this."

"I want this too." A tiny smile spread across her face, fingers threading his bread. He got lost in her eyes and for a moment he saw a future; a home, a child and happiness… peace. He stroked her cheek, a boyish grin spreading across his face. "New Jersey is a terrible honeymoon destination," he said. The scent of her: mint and raspberries, mingled with her sweat and natural musk was intoxicating. It felt like he was drowning in it and coupled with the lingering feeling of her lips on his, a soft animalistic growl bubbled in his throat.

She laughed. "Really? I thought it may be rather romantic," she quipped.

"No, it's a terrible place." A smile tugged at his lips. "Trust me, I'm a New Yorker." He nuzzled her nose, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He cupped her face and kissed her again, his thumb stroking her cheekbone, his other hand trailing down her neck, coming to rest on her shoulder. His lips massaged hers, a soft sigh escaping her lips and he slipped his tongue in. She wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him closer. He pulled away, breathless and wanting.

"I believe you." She stroked him behind his ear with her thumb, smiling. "Brooklyn boy," she purred, rolling the R just enough to send a pleasurable shiver down his spine.

"Good," he said, a smoldering grin spreading across his face, pulling her flush against his body. It felt nice holding her like this, his hands roaming her body. She ground her hips against him, panting into his ear as his lips pressed searing kisses to her throat. He groaned loudly.

"Maybe we should go shower," she said in a seductive tone.

"Uh… yeah," he agreed, she walked off, and he trailed her like a lost puppy.

Steve is referencing that he's from the state of New York. And there's like a rivalry between New Jersey and New York. Irunno, I'm a West Coast girl. :P

I'm sorry to everyone, promising them sex in this chapter…

BUT IT IS THE NEXT CHAPTER!

I know, I know. But I want to do this right and I just felt like I'd be forcing things if I kept going plus I'm fucking tired, pushing these chapters out daily for you people.

I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Also, during the part where Steve was thinking about kissing (or rather people he has kissed), I kept replaying that horrible Sharon/Steve kiss in my head and wtf it is so fucking left field. Like I can't even… my word. Some Sharon/Steve fan on tumblr tried to tell me that it makes sense because "subtext". Subtext my fucking ass! There was no damn subtext.

Peggy there was subtext. The way he looked at her, the fact he had her picture in his compass. There was so much more believability between Peggy and Steve, then Sharon and Steve.

And Natasha and Steve… fucking hell, I was Infinity War and I knew they were more than just buddies. When I found out that the general assumption about Sam saying: "Well this is awkward" when Bruce showed up was because Steve and Nat are dating my brain went "omg, yes!" Because daaaamn. Power couple anyone? So, the fact that I have never seen any of the movies, go see Infinity War, am convinced Steve and Nat are dating says A LOT. And then I go back and watch the movies and… there is no fucking subtext between Steve and Sharon!

Okay, rant over.

Ya sam tebya ub'yu – I'll kill you myself

Lisichka – Russian pet name meaning little fox

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Note: The reason why the Russian is anglicized and not in Cyrillic is because nobody can read fucking Cyrillic unless you actually are Russian. So anglicization or maybe it's romanization because our alphabet is based off of the Latin one… Either way, it makes it look nicer with the rest of the text instead HERE'S A BUNCH OF RUSSIAN NOBODY CAN READ! :)

Nemo et Nihil