1.
This mission was an easy one, something they usually never sent the likes of him on. No, this was a test for his nineteen year old protégé, to see if she was worthy to keep her life after graduating at the top of her class.
Soldat heard the buckle slip, a faint whisper of metal over leather which he barely caught .
He walked over to where Natashka was struggling with her new holster. Unlike the ones in training which were meant to hold wooden guns, the metal of a real firearm weighed more, and therefore needed adjustment. Only it was a thing learned in the field versus in a training room and in of itself a test.
"It's not-" she stuttered when he took the rig from her. "I can do it."
Soldat nodded. Natashka was his best student, so he allowed for some grace when it came to these finer details. It was a thing he kept to himself along with the name he called her in his head, despite it being temporary ownership until the next time they sat him in the chair.
He knelt before tapping her ankle. Natashka placed her foot on his leg, holding still as he wrapped the holster's straps around her leg. Soldat showed her how to properly gauge the tightness needed on one strap then let her do the other, watching her nimble fingers mimic his. They were painted a shell pink to go with the outfit she wore.
Rather than let her do the other thigh where there would be a pair of thin knives, he did that one himself. She shivered when he ran a finger over the smooth skin of her inner thigh. He stood, ignoring the feelings stirring in his gut.
Rather than thank him in words, his Natashka leaned up and placed a kiss on his cheek, the pale pink lipstick leaving a faint impression on his skin.
2.
It was the sunlight which gave it away as James walked with Strike Team Delta across the helicarrier's tarmac. He followed the angle of the next flash to a gold ring Natasha wore on her thumb.
The design was familiar: the crest of the long dead Russian Imperial family, it's double headed eagle in gold on a red enamel field. Yet he couldn't place it as they walked, filing it away to go over in the privacy of whatever closet sized bunk he was assigned with Clint.
Much later, while the other sniper snored away in the bed above his own, James focused in on the design. He did the breathing exercises his therapist taught him to center his mind then tried to follow the thread without tugging hard enough to bring forth more serious memories.
Paris came first. Not how it was during the Occupation of the nineteen forties, but the tourist friendly city of the mid-nineteen nineties he barely recognized. He was Soldat, being outfitted for a mission during fashion week. In his mind's eye he saw himself put the ring on his pinkie while the girls around him prepared for their own assignment as waitstaff. In the corner, Natashka watched him, eyes lingering on the ring.
James shook his head. Natashka...Nat had been in charge of his gear as a reward for efficiently breaking the arm of another girl in an exercise where they'd both been blindfolded. He remembered blood coating her face like a mask after she'd been beaten for "losing" the ring.
He left a bag of zolotoy klyuchik candy in her bag the next time they were in Paris.
After that, the ring was always on her thumb.
3.
It was inevitable, James supposed. An early retirement as part of the agreement with the World Council in exchange for a lot of things written down in a brick thick book that Thor negotiated after hearing of the disaster of the first Accords. By the end of it, General Ross' face was a particular shade of purple that gave James the impression the man would rather eat shit than admit he'd gotten outwitted by an alien.
Rather than settle in Brooklyn or anywhere on the East Coast, he took over the farm next to the Barton Family's (not that Clint hadn't spent a month not so subtly dropping hints about the place while on and off mission). It was a fixer upper he paid too much for along with enough acreage for a pumpkin patch or cornfield, because that's what was done in Iowa. Clint's kids were already making noise about James turning the field into a corn maze in the fall. He would've held out if Laura hadn't pointed out that it was a nice tradition for him to start if he was setting down roots.
He heard the quinjet before it landed behind the ramshackle barn.
And smelled the blood when the wind kicked up.
"Laundry room!" James called after a board on the porch creaked. He set down the dish he'd been washing before going to see what mess darkened his doorstep. "Second door around the corner!"
Nat stood in the center of the laundry room, her black shirt shone like it was made of vinyl and not cotton. Past her in the yard he saw Clint stripped to the waist and using the garden house to rinse himself off.
"Any of that yours?" James asked. In his head he was going over the inventory in his First Aid kit.
"I'm a professional," Nat replied with a wry smile. "We don't bleed our own blood."
"So about half."
"None, maybe next time you can play doctor," she replied. James held out a hand to take the shirt once she stripped it off. Blood droplets hit the linoleum and he was willing to bet if he wrung out the shirt there'd be at least a cup's worth in the fabric. "You got hot water in this place?"
"First thing I fixed," James said. He was done with the cold he thought as he dropped the shirt into the laundry sink. At least it was black and wouldn't stain. "Anything else you need to soak?"
Nat handed over the rest of her clothing then unabashedly made her way to his master bathroom. He took a moment to despair at the growing red stain on his floor before realizing Clint was now naked and facing the road.
"You could use the other shower, wiseguy!" James yelled into the yard rather than watching her leave. He might be a murderer and a technically a war criminal, but he had manners.
"This is easier!" Clint half shouted and half signed back. You could take the boy out of the circus but not the circus out of the boy James supposed. He didn't mind Clint coming over to wash and patch himself up before going home. He understood Clint not wanting his kids to see him covered in blood or worse. "What's to eat?"
James ignored him, running cold water until the sink filled before wandering upstairs. He stopped by his room, grabbing a few things from the top of his clean laundry basket. It was a novel thing, having as many clothes as he wanted, and not having to wear one outfit for almost a century.
He left the shirt and a pair of sweatpants on the bathroom counter.
James remembered bits and pieces of them, but not enough to be sure she still wanted to be with him as he was now. Nat lived several lives at once, balancing them all with the skill of an experienced juggler, and here he was, the extra thing that could send it all crashing to the ground.
The next time he took a shower, it revealed the lip print she'd left on the mirror.
But when she left him things like the lip print, James wondered if she was waiting for him to catch up.
4.
"You're here."
Nat winced at the sound of her voice, more of a croaking than actual words. It was surprising how she didn't smell like three days of sick, instead she found the gentle scent of fabric softener on her sheets. She caught something after weeks in the Alps on mission and like always, Clint didn't. Having kids meant an ironclad immune system she thought with a tinge of resentment.
"Thor brought me," James said. He sat on the edge of her bed, crowding her a little since it was only a full sized one. At her confused look, he added, "He took a quinjet to get me. All of you need to stop underestimating him."
Nat felt a moment of annoyance at how she always overlooked the Asgardian prince's capabilities. There were times when he did such a good job of acting like there was nothing in his head that made even her fall for the act. The only thing she kept to herself was how he spoke to them in All Speak; there were times when she heard Russian instead of English.
"Where's Clint?" Nat asked. She holed up in her studio apartment safehouse in the building Clint owned to wait the sickness out. For all she knew, he could've been called away to fight turtle robots or whatever weirdness decided to grace New York that week. He'd never leave Nat to fend for herself while incapacitated.
"Sleeping in his place, from the sound of it you were a terrible patient. He warned me you were "punchy" in the physical meaning of the word," James said. He placed his hand on her forehead. "You're warm and not hot, that's good."
Nat spent a few weeks after the Triskelion fell to figure herself out: who she wanted to be going forward, what she wanted to do with her life, and where, if anywhere, would the former Winter Soldier fit in.
"I think you'd be good at handling difficult patients considering you kept Steve alive."
"Steve was the worst, always throwing boney elbows while swearing up a blue streak. At least we only have to put up with his mouth these days," James shook his head at the memory. "All your clothes are in the wash, I put you in some of mine."
He'd bundled her in a pair of his pajama pants, a well worn shirt, and the heavy robe he wore around his house in the winter. All of it smelling faintly of black tea and raspberry jam. The robe practically swallowed her body, reminding her of a freezing winter night long ago when the Soldat wrapped Nat in his heavy jacket as they crossed the Urals to a rendezvous point. Back then it'd made her feel better, a memory she treasured, and got to hold onto when the Red Room became unbearable.
Strange how it worked now as well Nat thought. Sure, her body ached and her throat hurt, but the soft fabrics gave her comfort. He reached past her, adjusting the pillows before helping her up. It brought him close to her. Nat held onto his shoulders, staring into his eyes, wondering if James finally figured it out.
"You relax and I'll make dinner," James said. She wanted to strangle him.
Hadn't she waited long enough?
"Stay with me for a while?" Nat asked, moving over on the bed. If she wasn't feeling like hell, she would've patted the mattress next to her. Anywhere else she wouldn't have asked for this, but the studio was the first place she lived that truly allowed her some semblance of privacy.
James nodded, staying over the covers like the gentleman he once was. Nat moved under his cybernetic arm, closing her eyes as she laid her head on his chest. He held her close, humming softly.
She pretended they were back at his farm with the rain on the roof. It wasn't hard to figure out why James took the early retirement nor did she need to ask him. Yet Nat didn't know where she fit into his life now. She'd been going nonstop since her earliest memory, unlike Clint she couldn't fathom having an island of peace to retreat to.
This felt close enough for her to pretend.
5.
Nat went through her closet for the second time, resisting the urge to start throwing clothes, and giving JARVIS a reason to alert the others to her distress.
It wasn't there.
It had to be there and no one in the Tower would dare to go into her closet under threat of extreme retaliation. She laid out every piece of clothing, identifying each one, and kept going until the closet was empty. It took the better part of two hours.
And still nothing.
She took a car to Clint's building where she remembered wearing it last. The idea of this particular item of clothing being lost made her heart climb into her throat, nearly choking her. It made her take the steps instead of waiting for the elevator, which was actually working that month.
It wasn't in the closet in her safehouse.
A package on the table in her kitchen nook Nat from going upstairs to look through Clint's place. If any mail managed to get past the foyer, it passed all of the tests Clint put into place for safety.
She ripped the paper the package was wrapped in and tore the lid off the box. In red tissue paper was her hoodie. Clint had handed it to her when he brought her onto the Samuel Sawyer, one of the first helicarriers, before telling Coulson she wanted to work for SHIELD. It'd been new then, but now was worn to soft perfection due to gentle and considerate care over the years.
It was also the first thing Nat managed to keep without paying in blood.
Nat hugged the hoodie to her chest, relief flooding her system. A mild smoky black tea and raspberry scent was embedded in the fabric. She lifted it to her face and breathed deep, closing her eyes.
He must've taken it with him when he left weeks ago.
Soldat, no, James she thought. The Soldat's scent had been like snow and the tang of hot steel, Bucky stank of sour fear, but James picked how he smelled with soaps and cologne. Out of all them, she loved this one because it'd been what he'd chosen.
A metallic jingling came from one of the pockets.
A key with a simple metal keychain engraved with:
When you're ready, come home.
In the end it took three months, several reams of paper worth of forms, and saving the world twice before Nat parked in front of James' house. She sat in her seat, listening to the engine ticking as it cooled, and wondered if she'd gotten it right.
There was still red in her ledger and she would work towards making her amends, but now she could have this one thing for herself.
James came out onto the porch, body at ease as he waved.
And before she managed to realize what she was doing, Nat was out of the car to head towards him. Then he was there with her, arms around her, and holding on like she was his entire world.
Maybe she was and maybe he was hers.
Nat kissed him.
And then James did the best thing; he kissed her back.
Notes:
For Firelord65/Dragonmaster65 for the AO3 All Dressed Up 2021
Prompts filled:
-Thigh Holsters
-Stealing partner's/love interest's ring (s) (and wearing them forever)
-Blood on Black Clothes Just Looks Wet
-Waking up still sick or in pain but at least you're warm and cozy in your partner's clothes
-You Borrowed My Hoodie And Now It Smells Like You
