Summary:
Yelena finds herself in a bit of trouble, and the Winter Soldier finds Yelena.

A/N:
Before we get started: in the Winter Soldier's POV, I purposefully don't call him by name. It's very intentional, and while it might be annoying to read (it's VERY annoying to write), it serves a purpose.

-X-X-X-

"Again."

Yelena pushed to her hands and knees, muscles burning and sweat dripping in her eyes. Around her, all the other Widows did the same, grappling and working their way through a complex series of movements for the thirtieth time.

"No, Belova. Start from the top. Rotate your hips more," the instructor said, his voice distorted through the mask covering the bottom half of his face.

"I'll show you rotating my hips," Yelena muttered under her breath, pushing herself back into the first position.

"Belova. Here. Now."

Shit.

Of the twenty Widows in her cohort, Yelena took the brunt of the attention and abuse. Because her sister Natasha had been some sort of assassin prodigy, it was expected of her, too. And Yelena was good. She was very, very good; she knew that. But everyone expected her to be Natasha.

Especially the Winter Soldier, whose dark blue eyes stared at her from beneath a smear of black as she pushed off her sweaty mat and stomped toward him.

"Get in position." His voice was flat and modulated, but loud enough for the rest of the room to hear. No one stopped practicing, but Yelena felt every eye on her as she settled herself back into the position for the millionth time. "Spread your legs wider." She did as instructed, feeling the stretch along her hamstrings. "Wider." And maybe she didn't move fast enough for the fucking Winter Soldier because before she knew what he was doing, his hands were on her thighs, shoving them apart. "Like this. Now, rotate your hips." Now his hands were on her hips, the bastard, and…

Oh.

She felt more power in the movement after he'd adjusted her stance.

On her hips, his handprints, one ice-cold and one fiery-hot, burned through the leather of her training gear. She looked down, expecting to see his hands still gripping her.

But they weren't.

Bastard.

Straightening, Yelena removed herself from the front of the room and returned to her mat and her waiting partner, slamming their bodies through the movements again and again until she was so exhausted she nearly had to crawl to leave the room.

On her way out, she looked over her shoulder to where the Winter Soldier just sat. Waiting for the next round of the torture they called training.

He was completely still, not moving and barely breathing. No emotion or expression crossed what she could see of his cold face.

His head whipped toward her, long hair swinging around his face.

Yelena snarled as she stomped out the door, slamming it behind her.

The slam of the door echoed in her ears as she walked away still burning with anger. Anger at him for calling her out in training, for putting his hands on her. For being a cold bastard.

After trying and failing to relax her aching muscles in the tepid spray of the communal shower, Yelena slid into her standard-issue civvies, chuckling darkly at the irony of "standard-issue civvies". Her mass of sandy hair fell dripping down her back, but she left it, knowing the heat outside the compound would dry it in a matter of minutes.

As an older Widow, Yelena received "privileges", and she took full advantage of them, having developed a taste for the music of the underground dance club scene in their current city. But for some reason, she felt the need to drink in silence, away from her usual loud clubs with flashing lights and wall to wall bodies. So she wandered until she found a place suitable enough, the door marked only with a hand painted sign that said "bar". Inside, the bar was dark and smoky, with a few occupied tables, and a bear of a man behind the bar.

"Vodka," she said when he looked her way. "Leave the bottle." The man nodded and silently set a glass and a bottle of cheap vodka on the bar in front of her. Yelena slapped some bills on the bar before grabbing the bottle and glass and heading to a corner booth. Her training refused to allow her to sit at a bar with her back to the room.

The first shot burned, and she relished it, feeling the fire from her mouth all the way to her belly.

Perfect Natasha. The Black Widow. What everyone expected Yelena to live up to, never allowing her to be herself .

The second shot burned less. Yelena didn't even know who she was without following in her sister's shadow. Who she'd be if she weren't a Widow.

The third shot did nothing. Unlike her interaction with the fucking Winter Soldier. What kind of a name was Winter Soldier anyway?

Winter Soldier. She mouthed the words and rolled her eyes.

The fourth shot left her thinking about his hands on her hips and thighs. Would he grip her like that if he fucked her?

Pouring her fifth shot, Yelena pondered the Winter Soldier's sexual prowess. Did his cold indifference disguise passion? Or would he just remain cold and indifferent? Did people like that even fuck at all?

Why was she even thinking about the Winter Soldier fucking anyway?

Drinking was not clearing her mind. Peering at the vodka in the bottle, she sloshed it around before pouring a final shot. She tossed it back and threw more bills on the table, then shoved out of the booth and stomped to the door.

Fucking Winter Soldier .

It was unlike her to let anything but Natasha get under her skin.

Food. She needed food.

If she'd expected fresh air after the dark smokiness of the bar, she was sadly mistaken. The air outside the bar was the same temperature as her body, and humidity clung to her, dampening her clothes and leaving her skin covered in a film of sweat that couldn't evaporate. Unwilling to return to the Widows' compound, Yelena wandered the streets in search of food. An unfortunate side effect of all the enhancing shit done to the Widows was an incredibly high tolerance for alcohol, and rather than feeling drunk, she just felt it churning in her stomach, the feeling matching her twisting thoughts.

Footsteps behind her. Three? No, four. Yelena stifled a grin, not changing pace or reacting at all. Let them think she was just a stupid girl out on her own in the dark underbelly of the city. Maybe a fight, a real one, would take the edge off.

So she wandered, hearing the footsteps behind her slowly grow closer. Growing bored with her game, Yelena decided to head down a blind alley, essentially cornering herself. A snicker from behind.

Yelena let herself smile then, her back still facing the men.

"Hey, girlie," one of them called out. She stopped walking, keeping her back to them. "We just want to talk."

Sure, and Yelena was Queen of England.

She turned slowly to face them. They were spread out evenly, taking up the width of the alley.

"What do you want to talk about?" she pitched her voice higher than usual, and without the sardonic tone she usually possessed.

"We want to have some fun," the nearest man said. He was average height and weight, with a crooked nose and broken teeth. And a gross little mustache.

The other men chuckled.

"What a coincidence," Yelena said. "So do I."

All four of them blinked stupidly. She rolled her eyes.

"Well come on then." She beckoned with two fingers.

Mustache-man didn't move, but one of the men beside him did, stepping forward and grabbing her upper arm. Yelena stepped in close to him and promptly shoved a knee to his groin. He dropped like a stone.

"Bitch!" one of the other men yelled, and the two furthest from her lunged forward at the same time.

"Yeah, probably," Yelena laughed, dodging the first one's blow and tripping the second. She kicked out, and her boot connected with the first man's knee, knocking him to the ground with a thud. The second man got closer to her, grabbing wildly, probably trying to hold her still, and she spun on her heel, delivering a high kick to his face. A satisfying crunch came from what was left of his nose, and he dropped too.

Mustache-man remained, watching.

"Your turn?" she asked him, smiling her sweetest smile.

He responded by pulling a long hunting knife from beneath his jacket.

Excellent.

"Really?" Yelena stared the man down, but he started slowly moving toward her. "Okay, let's do this." She shrugged, letting him get closer. Too close, probably, but she felt a little wild.

Maybe it was the vodka.

Maybe something else.

"No, you're holding it all wrong." The man stopped his approach and blinked at her. "And stop twisting your wrist so much. You have a whole arm. Use it."

Really, the criminals in this city left a lot to be desired. But Mustache-man adjusted his stance, now within arm's reach of her.

"Much better," she said and promptly knocked the knife from his grasp.

"Bitch!" he snarled, spraying spittle.

"We did that one already. And buy some toothpaste man, your breath is rank." His eyes bulged and she laughed. "You can try again. Pick it up." She kicked the knife toward him with the toe of her boot.

"You're crazy," Mustache-man said, but he still bent to retrieve his knife.

Behind him, his goonies were stirring, and the one with the broken nose pushed slowly to his feet, blood dripping down his face and coating his front.

"Not really." She shifted her weight, settling into a partial crouch. "Just bored."

"You go looking for fights because you're bored?" A new, vaguely familiar voice spoke from the shadows.

Too well-trained to fully take her attention off the men in front of her, Yelena stifled her reaction and kept her eyes trained on Mustache-man rather than searching for the newcomer.

"It's been a long day," she responded. "Are we doing this or what?" she asked Mustache and Broken Nose.

As if by some unspoken cue, they launched toward her at the same time, but she danced away from them, laughing to incite their anger.

"I bet if I knew my grandma, she'd fight better than you." And she winked at mustache-man, who immediately turned purple.

"You fucking bitch," he snarled, coming at her again with the knife.

"I think maybe you should learn some new insults, yeah?"

Stepping toward Mustache, Yelena reached out, and he slashed upward, slicing the knife over her palm and further in a glancing blow over her bottom lip. The small cut stung, and Yelena felt blood begin to drip into her mouth and down her chin. Grinning at him through the blood, Yelena finally decided to stop playing with the man and put him out of his misery. With a deft series of blows, she had him disarmed and unconscious on the ground, before Broken Nose had realized that he was next. And with one punch, again to the nose, he was down.

Spitting blood, Yelena gripped the knife and turned slowly to face the direction where she'd heard the voice. Shrouded in shadows was the shape of a man, but she couldn't discern further detail.

"Are you next?" she asked.

"I'm not bored." His tone was tinged with something…amusement? annoyance?

"Good for you," Yelena snapped. She remained where she stood, uncertain if she should pass him.

"Why did you let him cut you?"

"What?" She squinted, trying to make out more details.

"You let him cut you."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did." He took a step toward her, then another, remaining in the dark edge of the shadowed alley.

"Fine. I did."

"Why?" Now he sounded curious.

"To feel something." She paused. "Something different." She spat blood again, though the trickle had slowed.

"Oh."

The single syllable felt heavy in the air between her and the stranger, and Yelena felt that, somehow, he understood.

Almost of its own accord, her body shifted toward him, sliding herself into the darkness where he stood, and once her eyes adjusted she was able to take in more detail. Long dark hair that brushed over the collar of a sleek motorcycle jacket. Tall, with broad shoulders. Leather gloves, despite the warm air. Ice-blue eyes that were haunted and sad.

Again, she felt a hint of recognition and couldn't place him.

Then, faster than she could see, fast enough to knock the breath from her lungs he'd crossed the distance between them and had her shoved against the alley wall. Arms pinned to her sides, she kicked her legs up and shoved her back against the wall for leverage. Shoving him backward with her legs, she brought the knife up when he released her, slashing for his left arm.

A resounding clang echoed through the alley, and Yelena froze.

"You."

He barked a cold laugh.

Without the mask and stupid face paint he looked…human.

Sad, broken maybe, but human.

Yelena froze.

Seeing him outside the Red Room was wrong.

Seeing him as human felt worse .

Shit.

He couldn't be human to her. He couldn't . Hell he'd beaten the shit out of her on more than one occasion.

Still, seeing him staring down at her she felt…something. Confused, maybe.

"I didn't see you, you didn't see me. Deal?" His voice was so different without the added rasp of the mask.

"Deal," she agreed.

The Winter Soldier took a half step closer to her, slowly, slow enough that she knew it was intentional, he reached out and brushed his right thumb over the cut in her bottom lip.

The pad of his thumb was startlingly warm through the glove, and she felt her lips part in surprise.

He jerked his hand away but continued staring down at her.

He was too close.

She didn't move.

"It's too fucking hot for leather." Her words surprised both of them. She hadn't intended to voice the thought, and he blinked in response.

"I have a metal arm."

"Right."

He was still so close, close enough that she couldn't even draw a deep breath without fear of brushing against him.

But she wouldn't be the first to back away.

"Does it have to be leather though?" Again, her words forced themselves out of her mouth without thought, and she silently cursed herself for stupidity.

"I like it." One shoulder twitched in the smallest hint of a shrug, a remnant of an old movement that further humanized the monster she expected him to be.

"The pockets are nice," she conceded. She was eye level with roughly six of them on his chest, and her own uniform was sadly lacking.

A huff of air above her. Yelena tipped her head back slightly to peer at him.

He wasn't smiling, exactly, but his face seemed less cold somehow.

She needed to get out before she forgot who he was. Who they were.

"Fries," she blurted. "I'm going to go get fries. You can come with me."

The words were out before she realized what she'd said.

"What?"

Instructor , she thought, he's an instructor. At the place where you learn to kill people . Oh god, why?

"Oh, umm, I mean-" she stammered.

"Fries?" He blinked down at her, and it took a full three seconds for Yelena to realize what she was looking at.

An emotion. On face of the coldest person she'd ever met. He looked…confused.

That more than anything else made her decide to continue.

"Fries, yes. Fried potatoes? Do you want to eat some with me?"

His dark brows furrowed. Yelena sighed, resigned to spending the rest of her night with a man who taught her how to be an assassin.

"Come on, Winter Soldier, which, by the way, is the worst name ever. We're getting food."

-X-X-X-

Belova called him Winter Soldier, and it stung.

It shouldn't have.

But it did. How?

He didn't have a name, just a title. A title, an arm made out of vibranium, and a kill list longer than said arm.

Maybe because the way she said "Winter Soldier" felt like a match held to his skin, or maybe he just wanted to see what would happen, he let her lead him out of the alley and through the city's darkened streets.

He hadn't meant to follow her to the bar, but when he was at the Red Room he got restless, wandering the streets most nights until dawn, overdosing on the glowing blue serum that kept him awake and focused, cold and hard like the vibranium attached to his left shoulder. He hadn't meant to follow her, but he'd caught the scent of vanilla and cardamom on the air when she'd stomped out of the Red Room's barracks and began following it before he realized the scent came from her, and he was curious.

Curiosity was…foreign and strange, and he followed her simply to maintain that newness. Where would she go? Rooftops were his chosen path to remain out of sight; anything else and she'd notice. He'd trained her, all of the Widows, well. She kept an easy pace through the streets, not traveling with any real direction, so when she'd entered the dingy little building and stayed, he'd been surprised.

Then when she left and the men followed her, it was curiosity again. He wasn't concerned for her; she could take care of herself. But when he'd heard her husky laugh, he couldn't stop himself from slithering off the rooftop to get closer, to see what she'd do.

He shouldn't have spoken, alerted her to his presence, but he wanted her to know that he watched her. So he spoke, and his voice without the mask sounded unfamiliar to his own ears.

When she'd let the man with the mustache cut her, he felt…something. Seeing her bleed, grinning with her blood dripping down and painting vermillion droplets on her chest, it did something to him.

An urge, a need, something unnamed and deep tore through him and settled just beneath his skin as he watched her. And then she'd turned toward him with a knife in her hand, and something told him just let her do it, let her do it and be done . She'd asked if he would be next and his answer was unexpected.

Because he hadn't been bored watching her. The way she moved and the way she'd laughed . Had he paid attention to anyone laughing before?

"To feel something," she'd said. "Something different." He felt like she'd punched him when her answer had so closely mirrored his own thoughts.

When she'd drawn closer with the knife in hand, his body reacted on instinct, pinning her against the wall, while his mind screamed at him to keep his distance, not to get close to her.

Don't hurt her.

Recognition had flashed across her face, followed by confusion before her features froze over, but he drew closer, only inches remaining between them. Again his body reacted to her, this time reaching out to touch the split in her lip. He blinked and found his hand on her mouth and jerked his hand away, but she didn't move.

Their exchange about his jacket left a strange light feeling skipping through him and he exhaled the sound, unable to contain it.

And then she invited him to eat with her?

He'd taught her more ways to kill than either of them could probably remember, and he'd slammed her into a wall, and she was telling him to tag along with her, like she knew him. Like he wasn't a machine made to kill.

He blinked, unable to contain the thoughts, unable to shift his features back to the cold indifference he wore before she saw.

But she'd taken charge and told him to follow, so he had.

Which was how he found himself eating greasy fried potatoes out of a newspaper cone with Yelena Belova.

Belova was eating as if her life depended on it, stabbing the fries with her little wooden fork. The scent of the malt vinegar she'd dumped on them reached him, making him wonder what it tasted like. She'd offered him a variety of condiments once they'd received their order, but he'd just shrugged and watched as she shook the bottle of vinegar over her food and filled a small cup with ketchup. He'd been slightly amazed to watch her balance the paper cone and the sauce cup in one hand, while still managing to use the other to stab her fries before dipping into the sauce. His eyes tracked her hand from the cone to the cup to her mouth, and she paused after popping the fry into her mouth. She winced slightly as the salty potato and vinegar came in contact with the split on her lip. Involuntarily, he felt his teeth grind together.

"What?" she asked, eyeing him. "Is there blood still on my face?" She gestured to her mouth and chin.

He shook his head, no.

"Speaking of-" Belova gestured to her mouth again, "I didn't recognize you without the-" this time, she made a circular motion around her whole face. "You know the over-dramatic eyeliner and muzzle."

He felt his eyebrow twitch.

"Are you implying that I'm a dog to be muzzled?" He was, so she was right.

"No." She rolled her hazel-green eyes. "But it's an odd fashion choice."

"It's more anonymous."

"Is it, though?" Belova scoffed. "It's kind of noticeable."

"I tend to stay in the shadows."

"Oh yeah," Belova rolled her eyes again while shoving her last fry in her mouth. "Big scary man, hiding in the shadows with his eyeliner." And she snorted, crumpling up the newspaper cone.

He opened his mouth, but had nothing to say, so he ate a fry instead.