Thinking back on it, Natalia shouldn't have fallen asleep in James's apartment. Yeah, they were neighbors, but beyond knowing what his footsteps sounded like through the floorboards and that he smelled generally good, she knew absolutely nothing about him.

When she woke up the second time, it was morning. She learned then that he didn't murder strange women that fell asleep on his couch. So now she knew three things.

That's better than nothing.

She nuzzled into the couch cushion against her cheek and sighed quietly, not wanting to admit she was well rested. The last few days had been stressful, the couch was very soft, and she wasn't a great fan of winter anyway. It was very atypical for a Russian, but she'd been that way even as a child. When she traveled with her dance company, she'd been overjoyed to preform in warmer climates. Italy and the American South were her favorites for the wintertime.

New York wasn't exactly a tropical paradise, but it was easy enough to not be found. With only a vague name change and three separate cellphones, she'd been able to mostly disappear.

After years of being tediously careful, she'd fallen asleep on a stranger's couch... and woke up to find herself curled against the cushions with a thick blanket laying over her legs.

James must be a really stand up guy, she thought, sitting upright and planting her feet on the ground. She could only imagine the e-mails she'd gotten from clients after the blackout. She figured that a lot of the messages would be about how their sessions were cancelled, so she should give them a new one on the house.

As if the snowstorm was her fault.

At least her bills were being paid.

Nat pushed her hair back from her face and turned her attention to the room as a whole. James clearly hadn't slept where she'd seen him last, the seat was pristine and looked almost untouched. She wondered how often he actually sat on any of his cushy furniture for a moment, it all seemed new.

His arm wasn't where he'd left it.

She stood up, folding his blanket, and straightening the throw pillows. The apartment was deadly silent, but she didn't think he would be sleeping. A chunk of metal wouldn't exactly be comfortable to sleep with, so he must have left her alone in his home. That's brave. She could see at least five things that she could pocket with just a single sweep of her eyes. But she outgrew that phase of her life almost fifteen years ago.

Instead, she gathered her robe and her personal phone, noticing the small note on the table for the first time. It was written on the back of an old crumpled receipt with what was probably a fading ballpoint pen, but Nat was still surprised by how neat the writing was. Beside the note was the bag of candles she'd asked for the night before.

Take these for the next black out.
It's supposed to snow all week.
- James

Her lips quirked up in the corner and she picked up the candles, examining them. They were just normal tea lights. "Thanks, James," she said to the apartment, picking the note up and pocketing it on her way out the door.

In the elevator ride down to her own floor, she decided that she owed James once again, both for the candles and for imposing on him for the night. He didn't seem like the talkative type, he couldn't have enjoyed the intrusion too much.

Or maybe she was convincing herself that she had a legitimate reason to see him again. Other than the warm feelings he was inspiring in her chest.

Wonderful, Bucky thought, bending his left arm a few times. At least the fabric wasn't going to get caught in the metal as often. He was pretty close to ripping the damn sleeve off and going to Steve's wedding in a homemade vest.

Actually, Steve and Peggy had offered to just let him wear a vest instead of the planned-on suit jacket. Steve even said he'd have the rest of the guys do the same if Bucky wanted... But they'd already gotten everyone tailored and spent the money.

Plus, he didn't want to draw attention to the metal, he remembered how the news went on about Stark Industries' generous donation to a war hero when he first got it. With the way that feel-good media liked to focus on Steve, Peggy, and their charity work... well, he imagined that someone would catch a photo of the wedding party.

So what if the suit was a little loose? He forced his frown to disappear when the door opened behind him and Steve appeared in the mirror.

"Well, don't you look spiffy?" He grinned, leaning against the doorframe.

"Spiffy?" Bucky scoffed, "Who says spiffy? I don't think anyone's done that for at least fifty years, Grandpa. What do you need?"

"I don't need anything, I just wanted to see how it was going," Steve shrugged, straightening the collar of his charcoal colored suit. His was a few shades darker than his groomsmen, but they all wore the same blood red ties to match the bridal party's dresses. "You have that 'I have a math test next period' look on your face."

"You're digging deep for that reference."

"I'm being funny," Steve shrugged, walking further into the room. "You should think about incorporating that into your whole 'grumpy hermit' thing. You might actually get a date that way."

Bucky rolled his eyes, wishing the tailor would come back already. "I know how to get a date."

"You used to know how to get a date. Now you scare people with the same look you have on your face right now. I'd work on that, if I were you," Steve tilted his hair as though he were thinking. "I might cut my hair, too."

This version of Steve might be a little more dickish than the stand-up-guy that was Captain America, but this was the kid he grew up with in Brooklyn. This asshole was a big version of twig-thin 5'7 asthmatic with heart issues that would pick a fight with a guy twice his size and an earnest belief he'd win.

"I'm not cutting my hair," Bucky said, pushing a stray strand back into the messy ponytail he'd tied so that the tailor could see his lapel.

"I'm just saying that women-"

"Like something to pull on." A challenge glittered in Bucky's eye, a friendly warning that he was happy to get graphic.

He hadn't been with anyone for quite a while, but in the period between being released into the world and recovering enough to keep a single address for more than a month... He'd been unkind to himself. Not in any way that would leave a physical mark, but he had shoved himself back into the life he left with such frantic enthusiasm in an attempt to be the old Bucky. He used to like dating, right?

It turned out that the women interested in him and willing to put up with his disorganized lifestyle weren't really looking for a date. So, that lead to a few new notches in his bed post... tens of notches.

He supposed that he could have coped in worse ways. He could have been unsafe.

"I don't think anybody would want to touch that greasy mop, but I'll take you at your word," Steve responded. Bucky thought he heard a twinge of concern at the reminder of that period, but forced himself not to read into it. His therapist said that wasn't fair to anyone, that he had to stop putting words in peoples' mouths.

They stood for a moment, looking at the oversized suit, before the tailor returned to shoo Steve out the door. Bucky was apparently hard to work with when he had someone to talk to.

"Think about coming to lunch, Buck," Steve said over his shoulder, looking back at him from the door for just a moment. "No pressure, but everyone would be happy to have you."

Bucky met his eyes in the mirror. The smile Steve gave him said that he understood Bucky wouldn't be going to lunch.

"I'll call you later, Bucky. Answer, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky sighed, letting the tailor lift his left arm for more measurements. The man was determined to find a fit that would work. He was always muttering about how such a loose fit would make him look to other professionals.

The guy was funny. Most older people were, though he especially enjoyed the crochety ones. Ever since he could remember, Bucky's mother had said he had an old soul.

He couldn't wait until he was old. No one would ask him when it was his turn to get married. If he ever got married, he'd be married by then. If not, he'd be old enough to tell them to mind their goddamn business.

The next hour was spent arguing with Joseph about how tight the sleeves should be and eventually relented a little. He'd just have to remember not to bend his left arm. Easy-peasy. He said the suit would be finished by the next Monday.

Once he was freed from the little platform and allowed to change, Bucky promptly headed home. He took a train, narrowly avoided getting kicked in the shoulder by a busker, and then ice-skated his way home on the insufficiently salted sidewalks.

In next to no time, he was stalking down his hallway and slipping his key into the lock. He thought that it might not be necessary, that Natasha couldn't have locked the door if she even left. But when he found that the key turned, he knew she couldn't be asleep on his couch anymore. And then he was left with the question of how she locked his door.

He'd ask her next time, he decided.

When he walked into the apartment, he found that it appeared completely untouched. That was vaguely unsettling when he considered that it had, in fact, been touched. But his sister's blanket was folded neatly and his throw pillows were fluffed and chopped. He supposed that was a sign that someone else had been there. He didn't do that unless his mother was coming over and she didn't come over anymore.

He walked to the fridge, hungry because he'd decided to miss lunch. The only thing in the fridge that was ready-to-eat when he left had been the soup Natasha had given him the day before, the soup she'd spilled. But when he opened the door, he found that his fridge was much fuller than it had been. There were eggs, milk, butter, something leafy and green, and a very large container of what looked like chicken noodle soup with a note taped to the side.

I forgot that you said you didn't like that other soup.
Thanks for the couch.
- Natasha

Bucky picked up the soup and peeled off the note, instead sticking it to his counter. Last night, she'd mentioned that she didn't like owing anyone... and he did like chicken noodle soup. He didn't think that letting her crash on his couch and giving her a ziplock bag with shitty little candles required a fridge of food, but he'd find a way to even the scale.

For now, he poured himself a bowl of soup.