Hi everyone! Sorry, I'm behind in posting. Work has been crazy. If you would like posts in real-time, you can always follow HighLadySolo on Ao3 as she posts there, and I post to FFN from that. -Skye

Summary:
Been together…the phrase didn't really encompass their odd interaction. Been sullen and uncomfortable together was more accurate. Yelena scoffed, her face burning. God, what had she been thinking? About him, about any of it. Drinking, fighting in the street, sharing a meal with the goddamn Winter Soldier.

A/N:
TW/CW: Brief mention of date rape drugs/roofies in this one. Yelena is drugged but beats the shit out of her attacker before anything happens to her. Brief mention of an unknown person being assaulted. It's only mentioned and not graphic.

Chapter 3

Maybe the vodka had affected her more than she thought, but the implications of hanging out with the Winter Soldier didn't hit her until the next morning when she rolled out of her narrow bed wondering why the hell she'd done it. Hours later, she still didn't know.

All she did know was that it had been nice, being with someone without the hint of competition that always came from the other Widows. Or the knowledge that she'd just end up slicing a knife through their ribs. Enjoying herself with another person around just didn't happen. And with him of all people. Yelena rolled her eyes, checking over her gear again, feeling as if she had forgotten something important. Boots were laced, uniform was zipped and intact, but as Yelena passed through the halls on her way to the sparring rings, she couldn't shake that nagging feeling.

Until she entered the room, and fluorescent light glinted off gleaming metal.

Right. Him.

A deep green spark sizzled through her as she watched the Winter Soldier adjust Nessa's stance, and she felt his hands on her body like they'd never left.

She'd forgotten that he'd touched her while they'd been together.

Been together…the phrase didn't really encompass their odd interaction. Been sullen and uncomfortable together was more accurate. Yelena scoffed, her face burning. God, what had she been thinking? About him, about any of it. Drinking, fighting in the street, sharing a meal with the goddamn Winter Soldier.

Yelena's hands intercepted the black staff before her brain caught up to the motion, and by then she was already spinning away, wrapping her fingers around the cool black metal and using her momentum to jerk her opponent down.

Or try to anyway.

Unfortunately, her opponent happened to be twice her size and imbued with Super Soldier Serum. All the movement managed to do was tangle Yelena's legs together, leaving her to trip and fall at his feet.

"Belova." Yelena glared up at him from the floor. "What was your mistake?"

Thinking about your hands on me .

"Distraction," she spat through gritted teeth.

The Winter Soldier held the end of the staff out to her, hauling her to her feet. The mask was back, both the real one and the metaphorical one.

Shit, one interaction with him and she thought she knew him.

Without thinking, she jerked the staff away, and in one smooth motion, split it at the seam in the middle. Spinning the two halves in her hands, she advanced on him, feinting with one hand before spinning quickly to try to kick his knee out while simultaneously trying to hit with the other half of the staff.

But she'd miscalculated, and rather than moving to dodge her blow, he leaned into it with his left shoulder, the metal there absorbing the blow. The vibrations from metal hitting metal left her hand nearly numb, but somehow Yelena managed to hold on to the staff as he stepped closer to her, swinging with his right. Her right came up to block it, but her hand still tingled from his blow, and she lost control of the staff. It spun out of control across the room, landing with a loud clang that jarred her back to her senses.

Stupid, novice mistakes.

Shaking her head as if that could clear it, Yelena spun the remaining staff and settled into a more stable fighting stance. The Winter Soldier's blue eyes peered out at her from beneath the black paint, and was she imagining it, or did he give her the slightest hint of a nod? This time, she was ready when he advanced on her, blocking most of his blows and landing a few of her own with smug satisfaction. For what felt like hours he put her through her paces until Yelena's body poured sweat and her knuckles were covered in bruises. At some point, the cut on her lip had opened again, and she tasted the faint tang of copper as she licked her lips and panted.

"Better, Belova."

Yelena straightened, catching sight of their reflection in the mirror across the room. Her, red-faced and panting, hair disheveled, and her cut lip painting blood over her chin. Him, unmoved, untainted by the grueling work they'd just put in. She wanted to snarl at him, wanted to smack his stupid, unruffled head with the staff as she glared at him in the mirror.

But she caught his eye in the mirror. Only for half a second, but it was enough. Whatever passed between them only stoke the raging fire in her at his immovability. Was he truly so solid and stoic? So cold? She had thought that maybe there was more to him, but maybe cold was all he was.

He was the Winter Soldier after all.

xxx

War. He was at war with himself. It felt like he was splitting in two as he fought with Belova.

The Winter Soldier demanded violence, cold and sharp; to train her he had to fight her and win, and that was that.

But something buried deep inside, something he never acknowledged, something that couldn't be there, didn't want to fight her.

She was no helpless damsel; he felt every blow she rained on him, but the shard of ice inside him had kept him frozen, incapable of reacting to the pain she caused.

In a way, that buried, impossible part of himself reveled in it, the pain. Here was a girl who burned brighter than a star, leaving her marks on his skin, though the marks on him would fade far more quickly than the marks he left on her.

Good. Some twisted sense that was neither the Winter Soldier or the impossible piece, but something new, was glad to have marked her in the only way he could.

Cold flooded his veins at the intrusive thought. Don't think about her. You train her, nothing more. Nothing. You are nothing but a monster, a weapon wielded by someone else's hand.

Blinking, he summoned the remains of the cold mask, willing himself to be .

And when his eyes met hers in the mirror, he showed her the ice in his veins and looked away.

xxx

Restless again, and uncertain why, Yelena left the Red Room facility at midnight, set on roaming the streets with no real destination in mind. After the Widows reached a certain age, the Red Room didn't much care how their mercenaries spent their time when they weren't bringing down countries from the inside, as long as they met certain training requirements. So Yelena chose to wander at night, usually not searching for trouble, but not exactly hiding from it either. It was understood by the Widows and the Red Room that if a Widow got herself into trouble and couldn't extricate herself quickly and quietly, then she wasn't deserving of the title of Widow.

A bitter laugh rasped from her mouth as she remembered the night before, and she wondered how angry the men were. If they were out looking for the blonde bitch who'd handed their asses to them on a platter.

What she did not think of, however, was the Winter Soldier and his ice-shard eyes and his thumb caressing her lip. If she were thinking of it, she'd wonder why he'd touched her and been so gentle. But she wasn't thinking of him. Or his hands on her hips and thighs. No, because if she were thinking of him, the turmoil of emotions he caused would have driven her right back to the vodka bottle again, and she wasn't drinking. Was she? So there was definitely no thinking of the Winter Soldier, not at all.

And because she wasn't thinking of him and therefore wasn't drinking, Yelena found herself at a loss for what to actually do on her night-time jaunt through the city. Wandering aimlessly hadn't helped ease her mind, and while she was certainly in the mood to fight, a fight hadn't presented itself to her. She didn't want to sample the city's culinary offerings, vast though they may be, so Yelena found herself in a small park on the bank of the river that bisected the city.

Staring idly into the water, Yelena wondered where the river began, where the water had flowed, and where it would pass through before finding its way to the ocean. The dirty brown water had more freedom than she did, and would probably see more of the world. Or, at least the water wouldn't have someone dictating her every move and be used to assassinate whoever had pissed off the highest bidder.

Maybe she should have gotten vodka.

Threading her fingers through the patchy grass that grew on the banks, Yelena sat, the hours melding together until the sun rose in the horizon, the red streaks stretching across the sky toward her like an outstretched hand. Finally, once the sun had fully risen, Yelena rose and dusted the blades of grass and dirt from her pants, sighing as she turned on her heel to return to the Red Room. If she'd bothered to look in the shadows of the nearest building, she would have seen the unmoving outline of a tall, long-haired man.

xxx

Belova was right to hate him, and he felt that she hated him now in a way that she hadn't before. Before, she'd just been indifferent to him like every other Widow he'd trained. Now, though, she barely looked at him, even when he found excuses to spar with her more than usual. Her hazel gaze never met his, and when she spoke, she snarled. Her anger showed itself in a deep red spreading high across her cheekbones.

And if whatever remained of his former self were in charge, he would wonder how else he might make that blush appear.

But, no. No attachments. He had to be ready to comply with someone else's wishes at all times, leaving no possibility for his own, whether or not they existed.

After following Belova for a week, he found himself wishing that she didn't hate him. It was absurd, of course. He deserved to be reviled by her, by anyone. Everyone. But he'd followed her for a week, over rooftops and through narrow streets. Revealing himself to her again wasn't an option now, so he contented himself with watching her from afar. Indulging that newfound curiosity about her, he told himself. More often than not, Belova went to the river and watched it for hours. One night, she'd joined a group of other older Widows for a night out, drinking and dancing in an underground club. They'd emerged in street clothes; short clingy dresses, platform boots or sky-high heels, dramatic makeup, and enough perfume and hairspray to drown an elephant.

Just normal girls, out on the town. Except normal girls didn't have knives strapped to their thighs, tucked into boots, or hidden God-knew-where-else.

They traipsed a few blocks over, their high-pitched laughter sounding too bright and just a hint too loud to be genuine. He watched as they joined the queue for the club, and edged closer as the bouncer waved them past others who'd waited longer. When the door to the club opened, flashing light and music spilled out, and a strobe cast Belova's face in white for a half-second, illuminating the feral grin across her red-painted lips.

The Widows were up to something.

Some invisible string pulled in his gut, and he found himself ducking into the alley behind the club. A door, presumably for deliveries, was visible in the half-light from the street lamp half a block away, and he made easy work of picking the lock. Inside, he picked through a warren of hallways and rooms, following the pounding bass until he emerged abruptly into a room filled nearly wall to wall with people.

Instantly, the flashing, multi-colored lights and wailing music set his teeth on edge.

Treat it like a mission, he thought, and ice flooded his veins as he felt his cold mask slide into place. He hadn't realized that it had slipped.

Bar. He should start at the bar. If he sat at the bar with a drink, he wouldn't stand out the way he did just standing here on the edge of the dance floor that was filled with moving bodies. Blend in .

Dancing was out of the question, so he edged around the floor, keeping out of the path of the dancers as much as possible while still searching the throng for the Widows. Occasionally he felt the brush of bodies against his, and it took every ounce of his will not to lash out and toss someone across the room. That would get too much attention. He was able to pick out most of the Widows among the dancers, and all the hairs on the back of his neck rose when he was unable to pinpoint Belova's location.

After what felt like a decade of bad music, he reached the bar and ordered a bottle of vodka. He had the unfortunate ability to be able to drink excessively without getting drunk, though he relished the faint burn of the alcohol in his throat. A small bank of booths and tables lay near the bar, and he chose the one that had the least light so he could watch without being watched.

As he settled himself into the booth, he finally spotted Belova's light hair glinting across the room. Gold powder matching her dress shimmered on her eyelids, and her skin glowed as she moved her body with the music. The fabric of her short dress rose higher as she lifted her arms over her head and tossed her hair. He watched as she let her body flow, the gold fabric clinging to her body in a way that was entirely different than the snug fit of the leather training uniform he was so used to. Leaning forward, he watched the curve of her hips sway as she danced.

Belova's dancing had caught the attention of a sleazy-looking guy wearing a vest with no shirt, and the guy pushed through the crowd toward her. No-Shirt came up behind Belova, pulling her back against his front and moving with her in time with the music.

The shot glass held in his left hand shattered, and he tossed the shards into a corner, choosing to drink directly from the bottle instead as he glared at the guy dancing on Belova. Anyone else would think she wanted the attention. Her smile was wide and even her body language projected acquiescence, letting No-Shirt touch her with far too much familiarity. But even from across the room, her eyes glinted with stony determination as No-Shirt ran a finger under the tiny strap holding up her dress.

He set the bottle down so he wouldn't shatter it, too.

Then the song ended, and Belova was smiling at No-Shirt, toning down the predatory curve of her lips when the man's attention turned to the bar. No-Shirt gestured for her to follow, and she did, hugging the man's arm close to her body.

Both of his hands tightened to fists.

At the bar, No-Shirt had to lean across the bar to order, and from his vantage point behind them, he could see No-Shirt slip something to the bartender, who palmed it. Belova, beside No-Shirt, still wore her vapid party girl grin, but her eyes narrowed while No-Shirt wasn't watching.

Whatever was happening, she knew.

Fists tightened further as No-Shirt put his hand on Belova's lower back, then slid it further down, cupping the curve of her backside, then dipping lower, fingers slipping under the hem of her short dress. Belova playfully swatted No-Shirt's hand away, and he could breathe again.

Their drinks arrived, No-Shirt's was a pretentious-looking martini, and Belova's was a pink monstrosity with skewers of fruit poking out over the edge of the oversized glass. With a pout that was probably meant to be seductive, Belova freed one of the skewers from her drink and popped one end in her mouth, tugging a piece of fruit off with her teeth. Her red mouth closed around the fruit, and she rolled her eyes backward as if it were the best thing she'd ever tasted.

No-Shirt watched her, giving a sleazy grin as she licked her lips. No-Shirt was clearly thinking about those lips on his cock, because the man had to adjust himself. Belova pretended not to notice.

Now his fingers were digging into the lip of the table, squeezing hard enough that both hands would leave fingerprints in the metal. Never mind that he'd thought the same thing. How could he not with her mouth painted red as sin? But that piece of shit needed to take those filthy hands off her.

He was halfway out of his seat when Belova crooked her fingers at No-Shirt and wobbled a bit in her platform combat boots, steadying herself on the disgusting little man's arm. No-Shirt wrapped his other arm around her waist and leaned in to whisper in her ear. Belova blinked a few too many times, then nodded and giggled.

Far away as he was, he couldn't hear the sound, but he saw her head tip back, exposing the soft column of her throat. He wondered if her vanilla scent was stronger there.

No-Shirt took that as a cue to get even closer to Belova, pushing that greasy-looking face into her neck.

When No-Shirt's tongue flicked over Belova's skin, he was up and moving.

But so was Belova. She and No-Shirt were moving quickly around the edge of the crowd, and she was shaking her head slightly at a girl in the crowd. Another Widow, then, keeping watch. The other Widow didn't follow, as Belova instructed, but she'd told him no such thing, so he followed as closely as he could without attracting attention. Still, he nearly lost them as No-Shirt pushed open a door and nearly dragged Belova in as she tripped on her own feet.

Drugged. She was drugged.

The metallic tang of dread coated his tongue as he watched the door close behind them, and he was too far away to reach it before it was locked. Rather than picking the lock and wasting time, he simply broke the knob off with his left hand, pushing the door open to reveal yet another hallway. Pausing, he listened for any sounds, but the club music drowned out any sounds Belova would be making. If she could even make sounds by now.

Shit.

Several doors lined the walls between him and the end of the hallway, and he was resolved to break down every single one when he noticed shadows in the light spilling from beneath one of the doors a few meters away. With silent steps, he approached the door, tugging a knife from a sheath. Again, he broke the knob off and shoved the door open.

Inside, a couple writhed on the floor. Not Belova and No-Shirt. He cut off their protests with a glare and a flip of the knife he held and pulled the door closed behind him. As he neared the end of the hallway, uncertain of how to proceed, he heard a faint moaning from the door nearest the exit. It was partially open, and as he grew nearer, he heard a thudding sound from inside.

A black haze was descending over his vision as he shoved the door open, ready to rip No-Shirt to shreds. It took several heartbeats for him to process what he was seeing once he'd entered the room.

Belova, once again, beating the shit out of a man.

Belova, once again, not needing to be saved.

He should have known that he wouldn't be able to get out unnoticed. He really should have fucking known.

But as soon as the door had flown open behind Belova, No-Shirt's blackened eyes had flown to him.

"Help," No-Shirt croaked just before Belova's boot connected with his groin. She spun to face the door, a small black knife in hand and her eyes wild.

The red lipstick smeared across her chin in an echo of the blood from before.

"You!" she hissed, then turned as No-Shirt, thinking to take advantage of her distraction, tried to crawl away. "Inside," she snapped over her shoulder. "Close the door."

He did as he was told.

Belova hauled the man off the floor by the front of the stupid vest.

"Did he hurt you?" His voice sounded far away, colder than he'd intended.

"Not me, no." She raked a hand across the man's face, nails leaving gouges in the sallow skin.

"Then…others?" Ice-cold started trickling into his veins, and he gripped the knife tighter.

"This one," she pressed the point of her knife against No-Shirt's Adam's apple, "likes to drug women, then bring them home, and…well." Her knife dug in deeper, and a drop of blood welled before running down the man's neck. "He's a sick bastard."

"Let me handle it."

"I've got it," she snapped.

"Belova." Her name tasted like honey.

"Why do you care?" she nearly growled the question.

Shouldn't care. Don't know why.

"What he did was wrong."

He was going to hurt you .

"Why do you care ? Why are you even here?" Belova let No-Shirt fall again as she turned back to face him. The man collapsed, unconscious.

Green-gold eyes with pupils that were far too large bored into his.

"Shit, Belova, what did he give you?"

"I'm fine." She blinked slowly. Too slowly.

"You're drugged."

"Black Widows are immune to poison."

"But are they immune to roofies?"

Belova shifted her weight and blinked again.

"Not…roofies." She shook her head as if trying to clear it.

"Then what?"

"Not sure." Her pupils had blown so large that almost no color was visible.

"Belova, let me help you."

"I don't need you to save me." She swayed a bit.

"No, you don't. You did that yourself." He took a step toward her. "But you can let me help."

"I don't need-"

"I'm not leaving you." He cut her off.

She visibly softened at his words. "Fine."

He hadn't expected her to give in.

Then her eyes rolled back, and she started to fall forward. Crossing the distance between them, he caught her before she hit the ground, her body lolling limply in his arms. He hoped whatever the bastard had given her had no lasting effects.

Through some miracle or divine intervention, he managed to get the unconscious Belova to No-Shirt's car and away from the club in a matter of minutes. After he'd stolen the man's keys, he'd rendered No-Shirt unconscious with the intention of returning to deal with the cretin later. The problem was where to take Belova. The Red Room's complex was only a few blocks away, but leaving Belova there in her drugged state felt wrong.

Not to mention the explanations that would be made if anyone discovered that he was the one who'd dropped her off while drugged.

No, it was best if she slept it off first, then returned.

So he drove them across the river to one of his safe houses. He had them in nearly every city of a decent size simply because he'd been to most of them. They were small and innocuous, with only the essentials: standard first-aid equipment, a weapons cache, a tiny kitchen, a bed, a cabinet with extra clothes and nonperishable food, and a tiny bathroom.

Inside, he deposited Belova onto the narrow bed, and watched her for a few seconds. Just to make sure her breathing was normal. He didn't know what she'd been drugged with, and even though her pulse had been normal, he just wanted to be certain. Seeing her like this, without her uniform and the scowl she generally wore felt wrong. She looked soft and vulnerable, almost the complete opposite of the Widow she usually was.

Forcing himself to tear his eyes away from her, he pulled a few items of clothing out for her, laying them at the foot of the bed where she'd likely see them. He was halfway out the door when she spoke.

"Where…going?" she spoke so softly he could barely hear her. He thought her eyes might still be closed.

"I'm going to take care of things."

She rolled to her side, curling in on herself, wrapping around the thin pillow.

"…coming back?"

He hadn't planned on it, knowing she wouldn't want him to be here when she woke. Besides, there was the whole 'scowling in his general direction and unable to look at him' thing.

"Do you want me to?"

"Mhmm," she hummed, and then she was asleep on his bed.

It was a safe house bed, but it was his, nonetheless. And he'd left her his clothes to wear. He should definitely not come back.

But she wanted him to.

She wanted him to come back.

xxx

Dawn had not breached the horizon when Yelena woke, but the navy tinge to the sky told her it wasn't far off. She yawned and stretched before realizing that she was not in her own bed.

The previous night's events flooded back to here, not all of them entirely clear, and she sat straight up in the bed. Around her were the standard trappings of a safe house, and across from her, as far away as he could get in the tiny house, sat the Winter Soldier, streetlights glinting off his bare vibranium arm.

Actually, thinking about it, she wasn't sure she'd ever seen him without the leather jacket. Now he wore a soft-looking black t-shirt that looked to be stretched to its limits over muscles that were honestly kind of ridiculous. Who had pecs and biceps like that and hid them under a jacket all the time?

Slowly, he turned to face her, looking her up and down, and she remembered what she'd worn the night before. Instantly, her hands went to her chest, to make sure she hadn't flopped around so much in her sleep that an errant tit had decided to pop out of the gold dress she'd been unable to wear with a bra. Not that she was modest by any means, but the way he was looking at her was…intense. Thankfully, there were no errant tits.

What would he have done if there had been?

Looking for any excuse not to follow that train of thought, Yelena cast her eyes around the room, landing on the pile of clothes at the end of the bed. Without speaking, she rose and gathered the clothes before ducking into the minuscule bathroom to change. Once inside, she dared herself to look in the mirror and winced. She looked very…smudged. Like looking through a camera lens covered in fingerprints. Twisting her hair up into a knot on the top of her head, she considered the shower. It was barely big enough for her to turn around in, so how did Sir Frostiness fit in there?

For that matter, how did he shower with the arm? Surely it was waterproof, but what about where it connected to his shoulder? Could he take it off? Did he take it off to shower?

Again avoiding those kinds of thoughts, Yelena turned the shower on and stepped into the freezing spray, yelping at the temperature. She scrubbed herself as quickly as possible, hoping the makeup washed off. If it didn't, she'd end up looking like him with those big black smudges around her eyes.

Would he be offended or think it was funny? Would he laugh? Did he laugh?

Ugh. Nope.

A towel was hanging on the hook beside the shower, and Yelena quickly dried off before tugging the shirt over her head. Black, of course. And surprisingly soft. Seriously, he was never getting this shirt back. When she picked up the folded tactical pants, she knew immediately that there was no way in hell they'd fit. But his shirt reached halfway down her thighs, and if she was careful, her lack of underwear wouldn't be too noticeable.

She chose to ignore the fact that she had just taken a shower that was about half a degree away from glacial.

Gathering her dress and his pants, she kicked the door open.

The Winter Soldier was exactly where she'd left him. All that had changed was the color of the sky.

"Thank you for-" she plucked at the fabric of the shirt.

He nodded.

"And for…last night. I had it under control, though."

"You passed out."

"So?" Yelena sat on the bed, looking for her boots.

"You passed out in a room with a man who preys on drugged women." Was there an edge to his voice?

"Yeah, but I had broken enough of his ribs that it wouldn't have mattered. And now I have to find the bastard again."

"I handled it." There was definitely an edge to his voice.

"You handled it? What, did you snipe him? Poison dart? I hear you're fond of defenestration." She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips and ducked her head so her hair would hide her burning cheeks.

His chair creaked as he turned to fully face her for the first time.

"He turned himself in. With a signed confession. Names, dates, drugs used. But he had a car accident first." His words were clipped.

"I- oh. How?"

"I can be very persuasive." A chill skittered down her spine, and she focused on that, not the heat she felt. "How did you know? About what he did," he asked and leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees.

"Stasia heard from one of the cooks. Her niece worked for him in another club, and he got a little too friendly." Her boots were hidden beneath the corner of the blanket that had fallen off the bed and she pulled them toward her. "The cook said she'd heard of others too. And I don't know, I guess I've done enough bad things in my life that I wanted to do some good for once." She finished tying her laces as she spoke and looked up just in time to see him flinch.

It was a minuscule movement, and normally she would have chalked it up to the reflection of headlights passing the window. But the way he met her gaze told her it had been real.

For a long moment, he held her gaze. Long enough that something between them shifted, changed.

And she didn't know how to handle that.

"So…I'm going to go…now. See you around, I guess." Yelena stood and gathered her things, stepping toward the door.

"The coffee on the table. It's for you. The bag too." He spoke quickly, faster than she'd heard.

A plain white pastry bag and a take-away cup of coffee lay on the table. Yelena scooped them up.

"Thank you?" She couldn't meet his eyes again.

After half a block, Yelena couldn't resist any longer and took a sip of the coffee. It was still hot, and it was delicious . She nearly moaned with delight at the perfectly brewed, rich drink. Curiously, she opened the bag. Inside lay half a dozen rolled, cone-shaped cookies with an intricate stamped pattern, filled with some sort of cream. She fished one out and bit the pointed end of the cone. Sweet, delicately spiced cream exploded on her tongue, and she did moan at the flavor and texture, shoving the rest of it into her mouth. The cookie was crisp and the vanilla was so rich that she thought she might die if she didn't have another.

Thankfully, he'd given her six.