Natasha had not felt such nervousness in years. She pulled into the driveway of the safe house and was certain that James would be gone. It had seemed a good idea at the time to allow him some solitude, to prove to him that someone trusted him. It had been a gamble to leave him unattended, but what better way was there to validate his capability of thinking for himself and that there was still some of James Buchanan Barnes left inside of him? Steve's approach had obviously driven his old friend to desperation.
As Natasha entered the farmhouse, she did not bother looking in any first story rooms. Instead, she headed directly to the basement and was relieved to find James exactly where any man from SHIELD would have happily stationed themselves for hours: the range.
The indoor range was the reason Natasha had chosen this particular safe house. A decade ago, SHIELD had modified the entire basement into a three lane, 25 yard shooting range, though why anyone would build such a thing within a safe house was beyond her. James was inspecting his last target, where almost every shot had landed dead center. Just three holes were less than a centimeter outside the bull's eye.
"You're not losing your precision, are you, James?" Natasha asked as she looked over his shoulder at the shredded targets.
"Sure," he responded. "If you think that's bad for shooting left-handed."
"That metal arm doesn't give you an unfair advantage?"
James headed down the lane with two fresh targets. "It gives me an advantage in lots of areas, but shooting isn't one of them."
Natasha nodded though James couldn't see, and watched him situate the targets. He looked much better than he had the day before. Rested. Relaxed. More conversational too. He had shaved and changed into the clothes she had brought for him—a PT shirt, cammie trousers, and combat boots. James returned, handed her one of his pistols, and reloaded his.
"Hair's a little long for a Marine," Natasha teased as she eyed her target.
James fired off eight rounds using his right hand and hit the mark every time. "Never was a Marine," he said with a shadow of a smile. "Desert cammies don't change the man underneath. I was in the Army."
"Once a soldier, always a soldier." Natasha took her turn filling the bull's eye with lead.
The two shot together for quite some time. Natasha had hoped that James would find the range therapeutic. They rarely said anything, but she could tell that he was content. She knew that, had she been in his position, the best thing anyone could have done for her would be to let her get out her pent-up anger and frustration with a pistol in her hand.
The darkness receded a little. He was not without friends. At least one person on the face of the Earth did not think he was a monster.
A monster.
But he was a monster. And while he could not remember the sins of the woman next to him, the word that had been stained into their souls was written in red: Assassin. The two of them shared a bond that, thank God, most people never would. They had both killed, and they both harbored rage in their hearts. Their eyes remained dry, but everything within them was crying out for relief from their guilt.
How he wanted to be normal!
How could he ever fool himself—or anyone—into believing he, the Winter Soldier, could wash the blood from his hands and live? How he wanted to live!
Steve didn't know. Steve couldn't know—how could he? He had tried, tried so hard to understand. But the man that Bucky was could not be explained or figured out within one night. He was not neat or tidy, not simply black or white, the way Steve liked things.
How did he know what Steve liked? Bucky shrugged as he cleaned his pistol. There was no answer for that question. He just knew.
Steve saw what was good and what was bad. Bucky was not good, so where did that leave him? He supposed he would like to renew his friendship with Captain America, but... but he had tried to kill him, had viciously attacked him, rendering Bucky unworthy of friendship or forgiveness.
Aurora Matthews, for all her goodness and all the wickedness she had been thrust into, didn't deserve to be the go-between for an assassin and a hero. Though she had studied Bucky for five years, her knowledge of him was little compared to the first-hand experience Natasha possessed of... death.
Natasha.
He lifted his gaze from his task and stared at Natasha. She worked diligently to clean the pistol she had used. Everything about her demanded his attention. Her past, her voice, her trust, her lips. She caught him staring and smiled slyly but said nothing and returned to her cleaning.
Her silence was heavenly. Talking did nothing to calm Bucky's nerves and habit, as Steve and Matthews had made so painfully clear. What could be better than an afternoon with plenty of shooting, minimal talking, and a beautiful woman? Bucky almost laughed at his thought. It was a Bucky Barnes thought, although back in the day he wouldn't have minded talking so much. The realization that HYDRA had not completely crushed his old personality out of him cheered him. Perhaps he could be found, after all.
But he was still a monster.