Hi. I am posting this for a friend of mine who doesn't have an account on here. If you would like to follow her directly, you can find her on Ao3 under BlackWidowWhiteWolf or HighLadySolo. Hope you enjoy!
Summary:
Yelena Belova is always in her big sister's shadow. The Winter Soldier is an instructor for the Red Room. What could go wrong?
Notes:
This is out of my comfort zone, but I do love a good long-haired sad boi.
Thanks to skyeryder01 for betaing and spamming me with Sebastian Stan gifs until I decided to write this.
PrologueSpices scented the air, intermingling and masking the other, less palatable scents of the city, and Yelena inhaled deeply on the threshold of her tiny flat over an equally tiny shop. A new day, market day, her favorite in the monotony of everyday life in Marrakech. The dark haired baby bundled to her chest shifted, tightening tiny fingers into tiny fists, grasping onto the fabric of her shirt. Tugging a scarf over her head to protect her sandy hair from the sun, Yelena casts her eyes around, searching for threats and finding none. So she exits the flat, locking the door behind her.
The streets were crowded as usual, and Yelena pulled the baby tighter to her chest to avoid being jostled by a man with an oversized umbrella. She resisted the urge to shove one of the umbrella's spines through the man's eye.
Under the radar, Yelena, don't draw attention to yourself.
Gritting her teeth, she swerved around the man in annoyance and nearly fell off the curb, her boot skidding on a discarded piece of brightly colored, slick paper, her free arm windmilling to catch her balance.
Strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm, steadying her, and every instinct Yelena possessed told her to throw a punch, to stomp an instep or kick a groin, but she bit them down and looked up into the face of the person who'd stopped her from falling, her scarf falling backward.
Long, dark brown hair fell nearly to shoulders that filled out a leather jacket with too many zippers and buckles. Light blue eyes, and a quirk to his mouth that she knew meant he was biting the inside of his cheek.
Yelena bit down on her bottom lip. Hard.
The baby in the bundle stirred, probably reacting to the increase in her heartbeat, reaching tiny arms out and tipping back her head to yowl in frustration at being disturbed. The man looked down, peering at the baby, meeting her eyes.
His eyes.
He looked back up, registering Yelena's face, then he just…kept walking.
Every nerve ending in her body sang in his presence. In his absence, she felt empty. Numb.
He was hers and he hadn't even known her.
Not hers, then. Not Bucky.
The Winter Soldier.
A faint, incessant droning in the back of his skull kept the Winter Soldier focused, taking in so much of his surroundings that he was overloaded. Beneath the leather jacket covering his vibranium arm, his skin felt prickly. Cities like this were the worst, so many scents and sounds, too many people.
The job in Marrakech had been accomplished quickly, almost too quickly. It had taken longer to get the barrel of his sniper rifle in place and adjusted than it had for him to shoot his target through an open window. He stayed hidden in the alcove on a rooftop, watching through the scope of his rifle as the body fell backward, hidden by gently swaying gauzy white curtains. The Winter Soldier remained until the target's wife appeared, her screaming absorbed by the sounds of traffic on the street below. The grey-haired woman dropped to her knees, leaving only her head visible until she knelt down. When she stood, her hands were covered in blood, and she shakily wiped them on her nightgown before reaching for a phone.
The mission was complete. On to the next one.
Each piece of his rifle fit into a section of a foam-lined duffle bag that he slung over his shoulder before sliding down the rickety metal ladder he'd climbed to reach the top of the building. Vaulting himself off the second story, he landed on the broken pavement of an alley in a crouch before straightening and stepping onto the busy street.
He joined the crowd, watching for threats and scowling. The throngs of people moved past him like they knew who, what, he was. Not that there was enough room for them to split, but they left enough of a gap around him that he saw when a woman with a baby was going to slip.
His body reacted before his brain did, stepping forward to grip her by the upper arm and haul her upright. The woman's face was hidden by a scarf, but it dropped backward when she looked up at him, to thank him or curse him he didn't know. Instantly, the scent of vanilla and cardamom cut through the scent of the city around them, and the Winter Soldier watched the woman's face run through a range of emotions in the space of a millisecond.
He bit the inside of his lip. Don't speak to her Soldier. Don't speak. Focus on the next mission.
In the woman's arms, the baby screeched, and distracted, the Winter Soldier peered down into a face with blue eyes that looked entirely too old to belong to a baby.
Too long, he'd been in one place too long. So he continued on his way, finding the dingy, dark hotel where he was to wait for extraction. On entering his room, he slung the duffle containing the rifle to the floor, ripped open the buckles and zippers on his jacket, tossing that aside as well. He had just enough time to shower and change before his transport would arrive, so he did. When he exited the shower, he slung a threadbare towel around his hips and swiped his right hand across the mirror.
The same blue eyes he'd seen in the face of the baby stared back at him from the mirror.