Disclaimer: I own nothing and this is my head-canon.
James Buchanan Barnes: A Winter Soldier Story
Chapter 28 – Replication
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Listen to "Ride This Out" by Imaginary Cities
The Demolition Men had attacked a news building, taking hostages to the helicopter pad at the top and threatening to drop their captives over the side if the Avengers attempted to interfere, a demand that had Steve scrambling for options. In the end, it was Natasha who volunteered to enter the building stealthily, catch them off-guard, and secure the media staff. James had insisted on following her, but assured her that he would do so at a distance.
Fifteen levels later, she rose quietly up the stairs to the roof of the building. Natasha's presence had gone unnoticed until three of the five gunmen were lying in unconscious heaps on the floor, thanks to her speed, silence, and the electrical batons Stark had modified for her. The remaining two gunmen latched onto a camera-man and shouted obscenities at her, edging dangerously close to the drop beyond the scratchy, black surface of the roof. Fortunately, their attention was focused on her and not on James while he ducked within the stairwell, taking aim at the fourth gunman with his precision rifle. The gunman's head erupted in a spray of red before the rest of his body fell backward and disappeared into the expanse beyond the building. The remaining Demolition Man began to shout even louder as he pressed the barrel of his gun sharply into the cringing camera-man's temple.
Natasha could hear the click of a reload on James' gun, aware that he was about to fire again, but she held up a hand, cautioning him to wait. Approaching the gunman slowly, Natasha spoke calmly, trying to keep his attention without forcing his hand. But the D-man was too frantic and grabbed the tall, skinny youth by the collar, shaking him too close to the edge of the building for Natasha's comfort, and this clumsy action caused them both to flail as he took a step backward.
She didn't even think about what she was doing. She only acted. Natasha leapt forward to grab hold of the young camera-man's hands while the gunman plummeted over the side with a shriek.
"Gotcha," Natasha jerked backward so that the hostage fell on top of her and not over the edge. The young man grunted as he landed, eyes wide, mouth agape, and out of breath.
"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh," He kept repeating in a whisper, large eyes staring at her face with pinpoint pupils. Attempting to free herself from his weight, Natasha recognized the effects of shock.
"Listen," She groaned in discomfort. "Everything's going to be okay. I know you're freaked out, but I need you off of me."
"Oh my gosh," He seemed to realized how he was positioned over her body and shakily tried to move his legs, but I took Natasha's strength to roll him to the side, where he huddled in on himself for a moment before looking at her with awe.
"You'll be fine, just breathe." Natasha jumped to her feet, free of his skinny, but heavy body. "What's your name?" She asked, trying to distract him from his fading panic, offering a hand to help him up.
He raised a trembling arm, still out of breath while he clutched at his shirt collar with his other hand. "Um… I'm Jeff." After being helped to his feet, the frazzled youth looked at their surroundings in astonishment, his short, spikey brown hair pointing in all directions. "I can't believe that just happened…"
"You're a camera man in New York," Natasha snickered. "I'm sure you've seen worse than this."
"It's, uh…" Jeff watched the other hostages head for the stairs, running a hand through his hair and smoothing his open button-down shirt over the white t-shirt he wore. "It's different when, like, when you're in it."
"Well, you're out of danger now—why don't you join your co-workers?" Natasha nudged his shoulder, peering at the stairwell and wondering where James had gone to.
"I, er… could I stay?" Jeff's nerves seemed to melt and he smiled sheepishly at her. "I mean, I was hoping to, er, meet Iron-man…"
Natasha wanted to roll her eyes, but she bit her lip instead, hesitating when the voices began to crackle in her ear-piece, all assuring her that they were headed up immediately. She sighed. What could it hurt? "Only if you answer a few questions."
Jeff's awkwardly uneven smile lit up his face like a puppy. "Shoot."
"The Demolition Men, did any of them talk to you? Did you overhear anything?"
"They didn't say much," Jeff shoved his hands into the pockets of his tan pants, which were somehow long enough for his stork-like legs. "And they… they used a lot of swear words." He blushed.
Natasha couldn't help but grin. Cute. "But you didn't hear them talking about what they wanted here?"
Jeff's eyebrows rose. "No, but… I think I can help you—I didn't hear what they wanted, but I think I caught it on camera. There was this thing," He was spinning around, arms flapping as he stepped away with his long and awkward legs, looking for something intently. "A machine! I caught it on camera!"
The clank of metal boots behind Natasha couldn't be anything except Stark's Ironman suit. Steve dropped from the sky and landed not far from Natasha as she glanced upward, seeing Sam sailing in a circle over the building with his wings held out wide. The others appeared one by one, but still no James. Where had he gone?
"Tony Stark," Jeff breathed with adoration, twirling around and forgetting the camera, jaw dropping as Stark pulled back the facial part of his helmet. "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh…"
"Why's the kid still here?" Tony pointed at Jeff, though he spoke to Natasha.
She shrugged. "Said he wanted to meet you."
"Ah." Tony's demeanor changed and he took a step forward, allowing the very excited Jeff to shake his hand.
"And Cap," Jeff's eyes turned to Steve. "Cap! Is it true you almost died in the hospital?"
"It's true." Steve nodded, coming to stand beside Jeff and Natasha.
"Cap, you gotta tell me," Jeff held up a hand, as though emphasizing something, "who the other guy is." It was obvious he was referring to James, who had carefully concealed himself from the hostages.
Steve shared a nervous glance with Thor, but Jeff only became more animated in his wonder.
"It's killin' me, I just gotta know. I saw the press conference, I heard what Tony said about him, about what he did for you, but I gotta hear it for myself…"
"He's a friend." Steve said adamantly. It was obvious that his patience was worn and Natasha thought he looked ready to usher the young man down the stairs. "Everything Tony said about him was true. His name is James—"
"Is he here?" Jeff's head swiveled eagerly, looking around at the roof-top.
"Jeff," Natasha interrupted, clearing her throat. "Maybe you should show Captain America what you filmed on your camera."
"Oh, right!" Jeff whirled around again, his white-plaid button-down shirt fanning out with the movement and again those long limbs were tumbling to get to the large black news camera sitting on the surface of the roof. "Sorry, I just…" He held the camera in his arms like he was afraid it would grow wings and fly away from him, but his eyes were trained in Steve. "He's a hero. Whoever he is, he saved you, Cap. There are rumors all over the place, but—I was just hoping I could thank him."
Something about the implied request didn't sit well with Natasha, but she wasn't sure what it was…
Steve's face melted into warm appreciation and he pressed a finger to his ear without hesitation. "Buck, would you mind joining us?"
Natasha could hear the white noise of James' open line, but Barnes didn't answer. Something didn't feel right. What were her instincts trying to tell her? She scanned the roof again, trying to open her senses to this unease that wouldn't leave, trying to pin-point it when Steve spoke again and James stepped out from the stairwell with a glare. His expression spoke his mind. This isn't a good idea.
Taking slow, calculated steps forward, James watched Jeff warily. Trust was something James didn't give in abundance to strangers, but the way his face was working into suspicion further confirmed Natasha's fears. This wasn't right—something wasn't right about Jeff…
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Listen to "Heavy In Your Arms" by Florence and the Machine
It was with a guarded stance that James allowed himself to come closer to the young man. Steve was goading him forward and James could see what Steve was thinking. Do you see this? People are responding positively to you—this is good, Bucky! Let's make the most of this.
But Natasha was watching him with curiosity, aware that James couldn't shake this suspicious tremor running through his chest. His skin was crawling and his instincts were screeching at him. And as soon as he was a few steps away from the young man, he understood why. Jeff's expression changed completely—from one of absolute wonder to one of absolute malice, like a lustful predator that knew he was about to get what he wanted. His lips formed words that James hadn't been prepared for, unlocking a baser part of James' mind that was suddenly rattling the chains he'd locked it up with. The monster in his head roared, furious and desperate, clawing its way up his consciousness.
He was only dimly aware of the confusion of his team while Jeff spoke the nonsensical words, drawing out the assassin from within him, but Natasha seemed to sense it instantly.
"Thor!" He heard her call and the Asgardian laid a hand on James' shoulder, already whispering the words to counteract Hydra's terrible key to his mind—and that's when the camera in Jeff's arms exploded in a flash of light.
James took a step back, expecting the impact of the explosion to jar his limbs, but surprisingly, no such force came. It was a flash bomb, he realized. It had created an ear-piercing sound, but it wasn't mean to injure anything but his ear-drums. And with the last bit of rational thought melting away from his mind, James mentally applauded Hydra. They'd used another trigger word against him, set off a sound grenade to deafen him against the counter-words Thor would use, sealing their orders in his mind until the effects of the grenade had worn off. Not long, he estimated, but just long enough to do damage. It was a message: We still own you, even from afar.
I'm sorry, James whispered as he sank downward, past his cognizance.
The Winter Soldier was deafened, but sound wasn't the only sense available to him. He struck out against the hand at his shoulder, putting distance between him and the enemy, leaping away from the circle of bodies to judge how many there were.
Stark, Thor, Rogers, Romanoff, Barton—Wilson and Banner's absence was a mystery to the Winter Soldier, but it wasn't one he could puzzle over at the moment. First threat: Stark.
Grabbing the Captain's shield, James threw the heavy disc of vibranium at the Iron-man suit, catching him in the middle before James flipped and took Rogers in a choke-hold, using the man's throat as an anchor to kick out at Barton. Clint stumbled backward, close to the edge of the building, but Natasha grabbed his hand before he made it too far. With the element of surprise gone, the Winter Soldier would need something bigger to take on multiple foes at once.
They were shouting to him—he could see their lips moving, but his ears were still ringing, a trickle of blood leaking past one lobe and onto his shoulder—but the Avengers made no move against him. Sentimentality. A weakness on their part, and advantage on his. He was ramming his fists into Clint's chest, kicking at Steve's chin, sliding through the opening under Thor's legs, and crushing the armor around Stark's body with his metal hand, but his targets' only move was to defend themselves from him. No offensive- this would be easy.
The Winter Soldier wasn't expecting the Black Widow to be the first to attack, swinging out at him with her legs while her hands pressed against the surface of the roof. But he somehow knew that kick well enough to anticipate he next move and ducked, arm lashing out to topple her backward. His fingers curled around her elbow and pulled her upward, his metal hand closing around her windpipe as he held her over the edge of the building, feet kicking over open air, ready to drop her at the slightest twitch of his hand.
And then the Winter Soldier began to release his hold on the Black Widow.
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Please Please Please listen to "Bang Bang" by 2Cellos, Sky Ferreira
Natasha could barely breathe under the grip of the metal hand on her throat, but she managed to gurgle his name past her lips. "James." Her legs fluttered beneath her as she dangled over the edge of the building, wondering if his intent was to strangle her to death or to drop her. Honestly, just pick one already.
No recognition filled his eyes, no emotions passed over his face. He was the Winter Soldier. And his cold, dead, shark-like eyes barely registered that he was even looking at her, probably calculating a strategy against the others. The fingers under her chin twitched and she waited for them to release her entirely.
But then something flickered over his face. His lips parted and his eyes grew large, slowly coming to understand what it was he was doing, slowly resurfacing from that great depth in his mind. Fear worked its way into his features and his stance faltered, his hold on her neck loosening just enough that Natasha was starting to slide. James had come to himself and had tried to open his hand enough to let her breath, inadvertently robbing her of the only support she had while hovering over the abyss of a fifteen-floor building. All time seemed to slow.
Natasha began to fall, gasping a lungful of air as James' mouth opened wider in a cry of alarm, face shaking in horror as he scrambled to catch hold of her again, fingers moving through the air—
—but she'd already descended too far and was slowly dropping further and further away, watching his agonized eyes become smaller and smaller.
James despair morphed into something else—something determined and angry— and he threw his arms forward, lunging after her. What could he hope to accomplish? Sam was the one with the jet-pack—Sam! Time started moving faster and Natasha attempted to swivel herself as she fell through open air, trying to see if she could catch a glimpse of the dark man, but with no success. The only thing she managed to see was an angry James falling after her.
Something slammed into the back of her head and for a second Natasha thought she might have already hit the ground, but then her body was moving through the air again—in the wrong direction.
"Time to ride piggy-back." Stark said, trying to maneuver her behind him, but her vision was spinning and she was disoriented from being struck on the head, limp in Stark's metal arms. "You know what? Nevermind. Sam? You got him?"
"I've got James." Natasha heard Sam's answer through Tony's helmet.
Natasha tried to say something, but there was too much motion and she couldn't see straight. It was like someone had taken her internal compass and decided to spin it by flicking it continuously. " 'm gon' be sick." She managed to warn Tony.
"Not on the suit." Stark murmured back, setting her down safely on the rooftop. It was a good thing they landed when they did because her stomach couldn't have taken any more flight stress. Stop spinning! She mentally screamed at herself, but her back was against the floor and her limbs wouldn't answer her other commands.
Weaving in and out of consciousness, Natasha was faintly aware of faces studying her, questions coming at her from all sides, but the one thing she wanted was the one thing she didn't get: James' touch, a confirmation that he was alive. Even the light brush of his finger against her hand would have been sufficient to let her know that he was there, but she never got that satisfaction.
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Time had passed. Natasha could sense that. But how much time? Her head didn't feel like it was spinning out of control anymore and she dared to open her eyes. A face. Someone was standing over her. But not the face she expected.
"Steve?" Her voice sounded awful, like someone had force-fed her a pinecone. "Where?"
"We're back at the tower." He said, not sounding much better. He had a black eye and there was a curved metal brace taped over the bridge of his swollen nose. "We found another bomb. Took care of it. Stark found the base we were looking for, had Banner raze it to the ground. No more Demolition Men. At least, not for a while, anyway."
Good. This was good. And yet, not the information she really wanted. Natasha didn't want to be accused of having a one-track mind, but she'd dreamed plenty about James' horrified face and needed to know that he was safe.
"James?" She cleared her throat.
Steve's jaw tensed, his brow crinkling as his blue eyes pierced her. "He's gone. Left when we weren't looking. Crushed his phone and left it in an alley so we couldn't track him."
Natasha nodded, clearing her throat again. As strange as it sounded, that wasn't so bad. "Give him a few days."
"A few days…" Steve shook his head angrily, exhaling with impatience. "Natasha—"
"He'll be back."
"Last time he—"
"Steve," Natasha said sternly. "Trust me. Let him be for a little while."
She couldn't understand the way Rogers' head hung, but she honored the secret she kept for James. Tony had made him promise—even scolded him for his extended stay in Asgard—and James had been determined not to go back on that promise. Keep the family together. Stay together. Her thoughts were beginning to blur into each other and she allowed her eyes to shut again.
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Listen to "Confusing Happiness" by Lo-Fang
James almost betrayed Stark again. He'd nearly convinced himself he couldn't be saved. The only thing that had fought against the demons in his head was the phone calls he'd made to Natasha with the stolen phone. It was desperate and he wasn't sure why he'd even made that first call, leaning against the brick wall of a dark alley…
"Hello?" Natasha's voice met his good ear through the receiver - the ear that wasn't still recovering its hearing or filled with dried blood - and his heart skipped a beat. Confusion was palpable in her voice as he refrained from speaking. "Who is this?"
James couldn't bear to say anything, couldn't summon the breath or thoughts to tell her what he wanted. He exhaled in defeat, purposing to hang up, but somehow that breath was enough for her to pick up on.
"James?"
His heart beat faster. How? He had no idea what caused her to recognize that breath amidst his silence. And yet, somehow, she'd known.
"Hey, you." Natasha's grin was practically audible. "I'm here. Do you want me to come and get you?"
Oh, God, no. Don't find me. Don't come looking for me like I'm a stray kitten. I'm pathetic, Natasha. I don't know why you haven't given up on me yet…
"I know. You need space right now. It's okay, James."
His anxiety melted away into guilt, coaxing wetness from the corners of his eyes, but he only ran a hand over his face and listened on. You're so weak, you bastard, you can't even talk to her! What's wrong with you?
"It's okay," She said again. "I'll just talk, okay? Let me fill you in on what happened today."
Natasha wasn't a chatterbox by any degree, but she knew how to fill the dangerous silence—the quiet that threatened to break him when his loud, despairing thoughts shouted into that void, echoing off of the walls in his head.
"Steve's recovering well, but he's head to toe in stitches and complains that super-soldiers heal too fast for them. He's been annoying the hell out of Sam and I thought for sure he had endless patience, but I guess I was wrong. Sharon's the only one who's been brave enough to stand up to Steve—he said something snotty to her, something about how she was only pretending to be a nurse as a cover, but then she gave him this look. It was fantastic, James, it immediately put Steve in his place and he didn't make a sound while she calmly explained that she had, in fact, taken years of medical training as a CNA and then as an emergency medic…"
Though it was a ramble, it was inclusive—it played upon the fresh memories James' brain was storing—and James listened contently while Natasha spoke on and on and on, never prompting him to reply, but letting him know that he was missed, that everyone was safe, and that he was welcome back whenever he could manage it.
Only once in those three days did Natasha let slip her loneliness for him and it cracked at the already broken pieces of his heart.
"I hope you'll… I know you want some time alone. I know you need this. But… please, I want you to come back. I wasn't ready. After your time in Asgard… I…" Natasha paused and the silence was so thick that it choked James. He clutched at his forehead, tears spilling over his grimy cheeks, bangs falling into his face, and the silent sobs wracked at his chest, nearly causing him to drop the phone in his hand. He slid down the wall, backside thumping against the ground, still holding his face as the tears and his breaths became loud enough for his lover to hear.
"I'm sorry," Natasha whispered before picking back up at the string of conversation she'd left off. "So, we're planning to watch Casablanca this Friday. I don't know why it had to be Friday, it's not like we have jobs that run from nine to five like the rest of the world, but Tony insisted that it creates normality. I'm beginning to question his definition of normality, though, especially when he…"
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Listen to "Bless This Morning Year" by Helios
It was just before daylight that Natasha awoke to an alert from Jarvis, announcing that James was standing just outside the entryway on the ground floor. Standing? Not coming in? Natasha threw the blankets off of her and shoved her feet into some shoes, dashing out of the bedroom with a short, "Thank you, Jarvis."
One long elevator ride and a brisk trot brought Natasha and her wildly beating heart to the lobby where she flung the glass door open to see a morose James standing without any indication that he would take those first steps forward. She didn't care about being tentative now, Natasha hadn't seen him for days and threw her arms around his unmoving shoulders, tightening her hold until she heard him grunt. To say that she missed him was an understatement. It had taken every ounce of her energy not to beg when he'd made those phone calls, but now she was holding him. Now she was pressing her fingers against the back of his jacket, feeling his sharp shoulder-blades through the black leather, the contours of his muscles, and the hard column of his spine.
The expansion of his lungs pressed against her chest and she could feel the quiver of his breaths, threatening to unleash the tears she knew he hated to shed. His arms hadn't moved, but now they were rising slowly, fingers softly touching at the back of Natasha's tank-top, hands moving uncertainly. Was he afraid of hurting her? Natasha could recall countless incidents where someone had said the line, "You could never hurt me," and she nearly shook her head. No, James was capable of hurting her. Both of them acknowledged that reality. But for Natasha's part, she was willing to deal with whatever pain came. James was worth it.
"I missed you so much," She breathed into his hard chest, deciding honesty was more necessary than her aversion to showing weakness. "I'm glad you came back."
She could feel the swallow of his throat against her forehead. "Needed you."
Natasha looked up, saw the haunted look in his wet eyes, the way he was averting his gaze from her, as though he were ashamed that he'd confessed as much to her, but she nodded and reached for his hand, gently tugging forward.
James refused to meet her eyes. His hair was gritty and unkempt, some of it sticking to dried sweat on his forehead—and maybe even a little blood. He was wordless in the elevator, but his appearance told her everything she wanted to know: He hadn't eaten, he hadn't slept, and he definitely hadn't made any efforts to clean himself up or address his injuries.
James didn't argue when she brought him to her room, leading him into the bathroom where she began to unwrap him from his combat suit layer by layer. Reaching over to turn on the shower, Natasha rationalized that she was letting it warm up—even though they were in a building created by Tony Stark, the man who knew no patience, and the water would probably be warm right out of the faucet—but the truth of the matter was that she needed white noise. Everything about the defeated way James was holding himself, like he wouldn't resist anything anyone threw at him, was inwardly frightening her.
"Come on," She nudged him over the short lip of the shower. He paused in mid-movement and then reached to touch the pressure points on his mechanical arm, removing it in a smooth motion and allowing it to drop loudly on the tile floor. It wouldn't have surprised Natasha if the action damaged the tile more than the prosthetic arm.
Blank-faced, James stood directly under the showerhead, allowing the water to run down the sides of his face as Natasha applied generous amounts of soap to the areas where three-day-old blood had caked to the skin on his chest. There was black asphalt mixed into some areas and a fragment of rock still embedded in his side, but Natasha worked over the unmoving man with tenderness.
"Doesn't hurt." James reassured her, looking down at where she was delicately attempting to remove jagged pebbles from the slash on his ribs.
Natasha looked up to scold James with a scowl. "Don't lie to me. This has got to hurt. Don't tell me it doesn't."
"Can handle it." He growled as streams of shower water trickled down his naked muscles.
"I know you can, you masochist," Natasha acknowledge curtly. "But I don't want you to hurt. Call me sentimental."
In an action that surprised her, James hand went for her elbow, bringing her to stand upright from where she crouched at his side, straightening her and pressing greedy and hungry lips to hers. If she'd thought about it, she would have noticed that the hand snuck away from her elbow as soon as his mouth was locked onto hers, but it wasn't until his tongue stopped caressing the corner of her mouth that she realized he'd distracted her so he could hastily remove the fragments of rock himself. Cheater.
Natasha was running her soapy fingers through the long hair around his crown when he sighed in contentment, eyes shutting as he savored the touch of her hands over his scratched and scraped scalp. When he opened his eyes again, Natasha's heart swelled with sympathy at the confusion and dread she saw in that window to his mind. I'm so broken. They said. What do I do?
But his mind seemed to latch on to an internal answer and James suddenly knelt in front of her with droplets of water running down his face, tentatively touching the gunshot scar on her waist with his lips and pressing a gentle kiss against it before he moved to do the same over the scar on her right hip. Taking his time to go over every scar, James kissed the skin at every part of her body he'd inflicted pain upon.
The bullet wound from when he'd shot the scientist through her.
The other bullet wound from when Hydra had sent him after her, only to be stopped by that fateful first encounter with Steve Rogers.
The stab wound from when he'd been disoriented in the safe house, questioning her loyalties and uncertain about whom he could trust.
The tear in her calf where Ruger had shot and stood atop her.
And the remaining bruises on her neck from where he'd strangled her on the roof of the news building.
There were other scars, other ridges of skin that had been hastily stitched or grafted at a moment's notice, and James kissed those as well, as though to take responsibility for any harm that had ever come over her.
"Let's get you dry," she encouraged after he rose to kiss to her lips. She wasn't unappreciative of his soothing - and there were other sensations surging through her core - but she was also aware that he wouldn't have the energy to stand for much longer, turning the dial to stop the stream of water at his back and wrapping a towel around his shoulders.
James mechanically brushed away the moisture on his body with a towel, following Natasha into her room while she draped the Asgardian cloak over his shoulders. Once again, she reminded herself to thank Thor for the thick, warm covering, her heart clenching at James tired and lost expression.
"These are warm," Natasha reached into a dresser drawer and offered him thick sweatpants and a long-sleeved thermal shirt of his, both of which he silently took and slowly pulled over his limbs. "I'll be right back, don't go anywhere."
It was difficult to leave the room, but Natasha tore herself away and into the kitchen, only returning when she had soup and buttered toast—fats and carbs to make him feel full, nutrition to meet his body's needs, she reasoned, reassuring herself that everything she was doing would restore him to what he was before. She would see her James again. She just had to be patient.
A now-clothed James was curled up on the middle of the bed with the dark-blue cloak wrapped around his muscled frame, but looked up when Natasha set the tray of food down on the bed.
"I don't like people eating on my bed," Natasha raised a playful eyebrow, "but I think I'll let it slide just this once." That was stupid. What a domesticated thing to say. But she had to say something, had to keep talking to him.
James nodded, but his eyes registered nothing more than exhaustion, absently chewing at the toast after he'd dipped it into the soup. A few chewing motions later and some of the life returned to his eyes—as well as a low moan of pleasure from his throat.
"Good cook," He praised her, scooping up soup with his spoon.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Progress. "Anything else I can get for you?"
Another happy groan left his mouth as he chewed on more bread, eyes closing in contentment. "We got chocolate?"
"Maybe," Natasha didn't want to scare him with her enthusiasm, but was thrilled to hear him ask for such a thing. With the mood he'd arrived in, she'd expected him to continue his self-loathing "I don't deserve to breathe, let alone enjoy anything" demeanor, but now it relieved her to see him acting otherwise. "I don't think Steve's touched the coffee supply since you left—you want some of that, too?"
"Yes, ma'am," He groaned sinfully, a meek grin spreading across his face. James, chocolate, and coffee were destined to be an epic love-triangle.
But as soon as she made it back from the kitchen with a few squares of chocolate and the steaming cup of coffee, James had spread himself over the mattress and was lying peacefully and wonderfully asleep. Natasha picked up the food tray from the floor—at least he'd gone to the trouble of setting it down instead of knocking it over. She was about to return to the kitchen when he mumbled, "C'mere."
The tray was forgotten on the dresser and her shoes were hastily tossed aside as she all but lunged onto the mattress alongside him. Starving arms pulled her closer to him, a bicep under her temple, the bridge of her nose pressed into his sternum, and the nub of his left arm resting on the curve of her waist while his fingers stroked sleepily through her red hair.
He seemed blissful, content, and it was more than she could have hoped for after the incident three days ago. Whatever self-loathing would return when he woke in the morning, she would handle it—but for now, he had a full belly, soap-scented skin, and warmth around his always-cold body.
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Listen to "Home Again" by Michael Kiwanuka
Natasha had been right. The self-loathing returned. But at least he was making an effort to resist it. Sort of. James returned to not speaking, jaw muscles too occupied with that tense grinding he was so good at, but he didn't hide himself away and he didn't brush off the presence of the others.
Casablanca had been postponed and it was more than a week later when the assortment of spies, soldiers, and scientists were gathered on the entertainment room couches, popcorn flying through the air every few minutes that Tony and Clint tried to throw it into each other's mouths.
Sam had made a comment and Steve was arguing adamantly. And that was the first time James smiled—and snickered!—since the incident on the roof of the news building.
"Don't bother," James' voice was rough from non-use, but his lips curled into a grin as he addressed Sam. "He's a stubborn punk."
The room fell silent, all eyes turning in surprise to the dark-haired man who had been so quiet in all that time. Unsurprisingly, it was Tony who spoke up.
"All right, someone give Wilson a medal for getting grumpy-gills here to talk." Tony's satisfaction was plain on his face.
"Grumpy gills?" James mouthed with a sneer, turning his head to Natasha with questioning eyes.
"Pixar." Tony answered simply, turning his interest back to the tv screen.
"That's what we should watch next!" Clint pointed a finger at Stark. "Finding Nemo. Or Brave. No, Toy Story!"
Natasha's hand crept quietly over to James' elbow to give it a squeeze, an acknowledgement that something had fallen from James' heavy-burdened shoulders. The tentative smile creeping onto his face and the way he picked up his arm to lay it gently behind her and across her shoulders melted away her own tensions. James would be fine. Hydra had done their worst and it still wasn't good enough.
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re`pli`ca`tion: the action of copying or reproducing something
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Phew! Much longer than I normally write, but I really wanted to focus on how Hydra likes to play head-games- if they can't have their asset back, then they're willing to resort to mental torture from a distance, trying to "ruin" him from being useful to the Avengers. I also wanted to show that there is no consistent happily ever after for any of these characters. There are bad days and there are good days, and that also goes for people dealing with depression or PTSD. I've had days where I felt like it had "gone away", rationalizing that I hadn't had a panic attack or adrenaline rush in so long, maybe I wasn't so broken anymore. But then I'd have an attack and I'd come off of it feeling like a failure, like someone was keeping score and I'd graded below average again. I can't ever really escape the monster, can I? It's lurking in the shadows, present even if I can't see it- some days lurking closer to the surface than others.
Only God and my best friend (my husband) have been able to get through to me during these times when I just want to give up on everything, want to convince myself that I'm worthless, that I'm broken, that I can't function like a normal person. I wanted to do it alone, I didn't want to lean on anybody, didn't want to burden them with this invisible war I'm always fighting- and it can't be fought alone. It just can't. I hated relenting, giving up on my outward image of "bad ass" and letting anyone see just how vulnerable I am, just how hard it is to hold it together. But just like James can't deny that he needed Natasha enough to come back to her and silently ask for help, I've had to let go of the idea that asking for help was weak. I've faced tattoo needles so many times without flinching, but if someone grabs my shoulder the wrong way, I'm back in that place where everything started, searching for the nearest exit and trying to rush others safely away from the building that isn't burning, that isn't filling up with smoke, that isn't deafeningly loud with screams and sirens and panic. It's like a cruel joke- my readiness for a natural disaster, but all I get is false alarms. Is this what being an Avenger feels like?
Sorry for being such a downer. I guess I had to admit at some point that this story is more for me than for you, but I hope you're enjoying it all the same.
I think I've got one more chapter in me for this story, but that doesn't mean a series of one-shots won't follow. I think I ran out of titles that star with Re and end in Ation.
One of the one-shots is going to follow Natasha as she recruits and protects a new Shield agent, another one is going to follow Steve and a mystery beam that returns him to the small body he used to have, and another one will involve a little girl that looks shockingly like James AND Steve.
Should I add the one-shots to this story or should I separate them into their own file? Please tell me what you think!
Response to reviews for Chapter 27:
Avengers 2015: Thank you for the compliment on both chapters!
KnowInsight: How interested would you be in a Steve/Sharon story? I've been thinking about writing one...
Mmelody: Thank you for being so diligent to smiley-face each chapter! It really means a lot to me!
