Midtown was already filling up with tourists when Bucky exited the hellhole they had the brass to call Penn Station onto Seventh Avenue, where he'd been told a car would be waiting for him. He was five minutes early, a feat of the Acela that he hadn't imagined possible, so he could have milled around inside for a while instead of looming conspicuously on the sidewalk, but he refused to spend a second longer inside than strictly necessary, just on principle.

He scanned traffic for a minute, but nothing matched the plate number he'd been given. It was unlikely they'd just be circling the block like a taxi looking for a fare. He went over the mission specs, thin as they were, in his head again as if he hadn't done that dozens of times on the trip up from D.C. There wasn't really any need to, but it was a great distraction from the other topic that was running laps in his mind: the phone call that got him into this, and the woman on the other end of it.

Forty-eight hours ago, he'd been right where he wanted to be, which was alone in his apartment, scavenging the fridge for the last of the leftover Christmas ham and macaroni and cheese. He eyed the wedge of sweet potato pie, but Sam had threatened him with bodily harm if he touched it, so he considered that a gentlemen's agreement. When his phone made its electronic warble, he put down his stack of plates and answered without looking—he hadn't yet gotten the modern hang of not answering a ringing telephone—expecting Steve and more of his efforts to "include" him in "activities."

"Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

"You haven't even heard my offer, Barnes," Natasha spoke in his ear, and something fizzed and popped in his brain.

You called me Bucky last week , he thought. "I, uh, hey. I thought you were Steve. He's been...scheduling me."

"Maybe I'm too late, then. Are you booked for the 31st?"

"The 31st? Uh." The question had sent him into a stall.

"Do you need me to wait while you check your calendar?"

"No, nah, that's…" His mental engine kicked over. "New Year's Eve?"

"That's what it's commonly known as, yes."

"Do I have plans for New Year's Eve?" He winced; he was starting to sound like a Vaudeville routine. Of course you don't, idiot. "Nothing solid," he said casually. "Why?" He leaned against the kitchen counter, and his elbow landed in a pile of macaroni.

"I need a man for a job," she said, as he cursed under his breath and unspooled paper towels. "You interested?"

She needs a man for a—? "What kind of a job?"

"Security gig, nice and boring. I could do it on my own, but I'd rather have a partner. If you feel like coming up to the city one more time."

A partner. "Is this official?" he asked, but he knew he was just killing time until saying yes. "I don't have a concealed carry license in New York."

"That's okay, you'll be the muscle. And yeah, all official. We'll put you on the books as an independent contractor. It's good money for one night's work."

The money was not his primary interest. "What, uh, what made you think of me for this?" Did anything else make you think of me, for any other reason? Or was this just a one-man week-long hangover?

He was convinced he could hear the precise arc of her smile. "Well, I know that you already have the outfit."

So now here he was, back in Manhattan, and back in that damn dinner jacket, all at her request, and with no better idea of what her game was than he'd had last week. Maybe he'd find out tonight, though. Or maybe he would have already figured it out if he'd spent as much time on working that puzzle as he had on wondering what she'd be wearing, and if anything could possibly top that green dress.

The shiny black sedan with the right plates stopped at the corner. He looked through the windshield and groaned at the nonexistent driver. The rear passenger door opened automatically, and as he got in he said to the empty cabin, "No offense, but I fucking hate you." The SHIELD fleet car didn't respond, except to announce its destination and proceed to the Upper East Side.

The new Latverian consulate, he'd learned from the briefing book she'd sent him, was situated in a handsome Murray Hill brownstone. Tonight's…"festivities" seemed like a strong word for what he knew about the national character of Latveria. Tonight's event was something of a grand opening, with a bunch of bigwigs in attendance, including the Secretary General of the UN. That's why they were here: to add an extra, super-level tier to her usual protection. "Precautionary measure," Natasha had said, which meant she knew something he didn't have clearance for. He didn't know how she'd managed to get him approved for this gig at all, but it didn't surprise him that she had; she struck him as a woman who usually got what she wanted.

The car let him out around the corner, and he walked down the block until he saw the green and black flag and the gathering of fancily dressed but still somehow unglamorous people and double-parked limos outside. A car door opened and a trio of dark suits exited, followed by a woman in Ghanaian kente and headwrap. Behind the Secretary General, a flash of silver high heels and long white coat revealed itself as Natasha, her sleek red hair catching the streetlight like a flare, even as she tried to remain in the background and scope out the crowd. She spotted him, and he was transfixed by the tilt of her head for a second before he raised his hand and started toward her. It was going to be an interesting evening.

Natasha greeted him with an assertively pleasant, "You made it!" Then she kissed him on the cheek and reached up to place his earpiece, under the guise of ruffling his hair. Her fingers ran over the outside of his ear and down his neck before her hand floated away and she looped her arm through his, turning smoothly to lead him toward the entrance.

He caught the scent of her perfume, something clean, vaguely smoky, not too sweet. Around the rock in his throat, he said, "I thought this was an escort detail."

"It is," she explained, "I'm escorting her; you're escorting me."

"That wasn't in the brief."

"I like to stay flexible."

She introduced him to the UN team as "my colleague, James," and apparently she had thoroughly prepared the ground, because there were no questions. Consulate staff appeared to usher the Secretary inside, while he and Natasha joined the modest security line with the rest of the not-so-VIPs.

While they waited, always conscious of her hand on his arm, he looked up at the brownstone with all its carved details and dignified flourishes.

"High class. Not what I was expecting."

"Yeah. The old one was twenty blocks south, between a psychic and a Metro wireless."

"Why the move?"

"Rebranding. All part of Latveria's new image." At his shrug, she asked, "Have you really not heard about this?"

"I don't follow the news."

She pulled in closer, and said sotto voce. "Their new dic— new monarch is throwing out signals that he wants to open up the country. People are talking about 'the Wakandan model.'"

"Why?" He leaned down, exaggerating his cluelessness in the hopes of amusing her. "Did a meteor made of beets land in Latveria ten thousand years ago?"

Her lips pressed into a line and she squeezed his forearm as they approached the guard station.

He had barely had time to think, It's a good thing vibranium doesn't set off metal detectors , when she stepped ahead of him and shed her cashmere coat. It fell to her waist to reveal a high collar attached to a T-shaped panel of silvery fabric that left her arms and shoulders bare and made a tantalizing statement about her spine underneath. She slipped out of the sleeves and handed the coat off to an attendant before he could act on his impulse to reach out and take it. He stumbled through taking out his wallet—at least he'd remembered to leave his knife at home—and nodding at the guards, focused as he was on the angles of her shoulder blades, and the way her dress formed to her curves and flowed like mercury to the floor.

When he caught up to her in the foyer, he saw that the material was made up of tiny, interlocking metallic sequins, like fish scales—or chain mail. Unlike at the Christmas party, all her vulnerable parts were covered, except for a slit that went up her right thigh as far as was decent, and then a little higher—kicking length. Her hair was pin-straight; even her makeup meant business, dark eyes and pale lips. So it was "tough" tonight. Made sense; she was on the clock. And she was still a round one knockout.

They entered the reception area and he did a visual sweep, comparing it to the floor plans in the brief, and taking a quick headcount of consulate security. "Everything looks…normal."

If the outside of the building was Old New York, the interior design was Old, Old, Old Latveria. Lots of heavy drapes in what was apparently their national green, tapestries of happy peasant farmers that were somehow dreary, stone statuary of medieval saints and national heroes, all with the same nondescript scowl.

As they followed traffic into the central gallery, he leaned in and said quietly, "So tell me more about this enlightened new ruler. You know, in case someone tries to make conversation. I don't think I've heard of him."

"Trust me, you'd remember if you had. His name is Dr. Victor von—oh, that's him."

Over the sweeping staircase hung an oil portrait at least as big as Tony Stark's Christmas tree, its massive, cloaked and armored subject glaring out from behind a metal mask at everyone who dared to pass by. A plaque in the heavily gilded frame read simply, "DOOM."

"Wow. Okay."

"Yeah, I know."

"I was gonna keep my hand in my pocket all night to stay inconspicuous, but maybe I'd fit right in. Is that why you invited me to this?"

She made a little "hmm" of agreement. "I needed someone who could stand around and look dour, I figured you could handle that."

The guests were herded into the parlor and the solarium beyond, and they weaved their way to the front of the crowd to keep the Secretary in sight. He glanced back at the portrait. "The Wakandan model, huh?"

"That's what people are saying. Don't tell me you're skeptical."

"I'm just saying, I've been to both places, and I know where I'd book my honeymoon."

He caught the corner of her mouth turn up as she stopped and took two cut crystal goblets from a pewter tray. "You getting married, Barnes? Who's the lucky girl?"

"Vacation," he corrected, snagged on the curious arch of her brows. "I meant vacation."

"Not the marrying kind, huh?" He didn't have an answer for that, but apparently it was rhetorical. She handed him a goblet. "Here, have some Latverian chardonnay."

He nosed the glass skeptically. "Is it good?"

"Oh, god no."

They did a circuit of the party at a tangent with the Secretary's path, making periodic contact with her team. He recognized the Consul General from the briefing book, a nervous little man with bushy eyebrows. Now that he'd seen his boss, he knew why he looked so nervous. Natasha ran into an acquaintance of hers who worked at State, and "my colleague, James," was less jarring this time, although he'd prefer it without the "colleague" bit. Most of the time he stuck close to her while she chatted and charmed, and did his best to keep an eye on their assignment. So far she was right: it was an easy job, and he was almost starting to enjoy himself. It was a strange place to be more comfortable than he'd been at the Stark penthouse, but maybe it was because he was warmed up now, or because he was working. Or because the host had never tried to kill him (although, thinking about that portrait, he wouldn't rule it out for the future). Or maybe it was the colleague who smiled as he touched her elbow to let her know he was off to do another check of the perimeter, and come back with more unidentifiable Latverian hors d'oeuvres.

She nibbled delicately on some kind of doughy pouch that might have contained cabbage and sheep's tongue for all he knew, while they staked out a spot in the corner of the parlor.

"How is it?"

"Salty?"

"Is that a question?"

She held out the last bite. "Try it."

"I don't think so—" But as he protested, she deposited the odd morsel in his mouth, her finger touching his lip as she drew her hand away. After a second he remembered to chew.

"Well?"

"It's...meat?"

She shrugged, having amused herself enough to politely cover the remainder of the food on her plate with a napkin. "So what would you be doing tonight if you weren't here with me? Did I ruin a big night out? Or were you going to stay home alone, listening to Glenn Miller?"

"Ouch, lady. Too soon."

"Sorry. Condolences. Artie Shaw, then?"

"Artie—? Did you do research to make smalltalk with me? 'Cause I'm flattered, but for the record I was more of a Duke Ellington guy."

"Noted," she said, and he could tell that she really had noted it. He wondered what else her mental file on him contained. "What did you do for Christmas, then?"

"I— Are you really interested?"

"Of course." Her brow creased, but she quickly willed it smooth again. "I don't ask questions I don't want answers to."

He thought about making a joke, but decided since she was sincerely asking, he'd answer sincerely. "Okay. On Christmas morning, I went with Steve to the VA hospital."

"Oh." If she was putting on the way the corners of her eyes crinkled with concern, she was an even better actress than he'd thought. "How was that?"

"It was… Yeah, it was good. Not always easy, but… yeah, I'd do it again." Her eyes softened, that understanding look that made it dangerously easy to spill his guts. "Most everybody from my war...you know, they're gone now. But it's…it's all pretty much the same."

"I suppose so," she said quietly. "But you didn't have just one war, did you?"

If that was a question she wanted an answer to, he didn't get the chance. The Secretary was heading for the ladies' room, and Natasha broke away to join the entourage. She looked back at him, some concealed emotion straining to surface on her face, and for once he didn't think it was for his benefit.

Stand around and look dour , he thought, waiting for her return. You can handle that.

Her voice in his ear soon interrupted his efforts. "Is that all you did for Christmas? Steve didn't roast a turkey or something?"

He smiled despite his assignment. "We were invited to Sam's grandmother's."

"Did you go?"

"Yep."

"Did you have a good time?"

"Sure, it was swell. Great food, nice people. A... lot of people."

"Mm hm. How long did it take you to recover?"

"Couple days."

"It'll get easier."

"How about you? Where were you on Christmas day?"

"With Clint and his family, like usual. I probably wouldn't even bother with Christmas if it weren't for the kids."

"That guy has kids?"

She laughed. "Three. I'm sort of their godmother."

"That's a good way to make sure no one messes with them. Hey, should we be discussing this stuff in public?"

"Our earpiece transponders should be jamming anything trying to pick up this frequency."

"So we could talk about...whatever?"

"What do you want to talk about, Barnes?"

The Secretary and her team reappeared and headed for the solarium at the back of the townhouse, but Natasha wasn't with them. Bucky looked in the other direction and saw a flash of silver disappear around a corner. "How about where the hell you're going?"

"I just want to check something out. Stay with the package."

He drifted with the crowd, but glanced back when he heard Natasha chatting in Latverian with a consular employee. He saw her leaning over a desk in the reception room, feigning interest in the young staffer. She threw him a subtle nod meant to reassure; it didn't.

"Is something going down?"

He had to wait for her reply, a muted, "Give me a few minutes, and then we can get back to talking...whatever. Try and blend in." He must have been scowling, because when he saw her again, entering the solarium with two fresh glasses of turpentine in hand, she smiled and said, "That's perfect. See, I knew you could handle it."

He took the goblet and, not finding a convenient plant to dump it in, drank some more of the wine with a grimace that made her chuckle. "Sorry, a waiter forced it on me."

That wasn't what he wanted an explanation for. "What was that about?"

"Politeness?" He stared her down until she said, "Oh, that. Nothing to worry about. It's handled."

"Handled, huh?" He leaned in, making sure there was no one around before he whispered, "Okay, well, I'm going to assume it's something I don't have clearance for, but if you need a hand 'handling' it, you know, I'm available."

"Appreciate it," she said, with a hint of surprise. "You're taking this better than Steve would."

"It's business," he shrugged. That was an agenda he could understand; it wasn't the side of her that bewildered him. "Would have appreciated a heads up, though."

She put a hand on his shoulder and got close to his ear. "I'll try to get authorization for that next time."

With her very high heels, their faces were close enough to touch, if he just moved a few inches… "Next time? Are we making this a regular thing?"

He thought he saw a glint in her big green eyes, and that now-familiar tilt to her mouth that left so much unsaid. He got another draught of her perfume. "Let's just see how the rest of the night goes."

It went smoothly for the next few hours. They split up periodically—always one of them attending the package—to surveil the crowd, spot the Latverian security, check the exits. Nice and boring, like she'd said. At least the bodyguarding-a-diplomat part of it was. The escorting-Natasha-Romanoff bit of the assignment was, despite his lingering doubt over her motives, a hell of a good time. She was...stimulating, and not just in the way that made his breath hitch at her movements, made his skin wake up at her touch. He liked talking to her. He'd liked it at the Christmas party, too. He didn't think he would get tired of it for a long, long while.

"What else did Steve make you do for the holidays?" she asked him over comms. "You said he scheduled you."

"Yeah, he was kind of, you know, babysitting. One night we went to a movie house to see a Capra picture so he could cross it off his list. It's a Wonderful Life ?"

"A classic."

"That's right, you said you liked sappy movies."

"It's not that sappy. What did you think?"

"I think George Bailey shoulda slugged Mr. Potter in the breadbasket. But it was good, I guess. I liked Meet John Doe better."

"Who's in that one?"

"Gary Cooper and..." There she was again, the tough girl with a heart of gold. "Barbara Stanwyck."

"I'm beginning to think you have a crush. She made another Christmas movie, you know. It came out in '45. That one has a happy ending. The one you recommended was a real tear-jerker."

"Guess I forgot that part." He didn't remember much of it, actually, not even the title. But it was just normal-person forgetting, a nice experience to have. He pictured her curled up on her sofa watching the movie, maybe thinking of him a little bit. "Did you like it, though?"

"Yeah. I liked it a lot."

At nine o'clock, the Latverian Consul General delivered prepared remarks, staring at his cards and droning on while the invited diplomats attended patiently with frozen smiles. Bucky and Natasha took position in a corner where they had a wide angle on the party and a view of the traffic in and out of the kitchen. Bucky swiped a few more mystery food lumps from a passing waiter's tray.

"Are you sure about that?"

"I didn't eat before I got here." He popped one in his mouth. "What are the chances they're trying to poison us?"

"I mean… not zero."

He swallowed it anyway. "You should tell Stark to add these to his next spread. Get people to go home earlier."

"Bring back some decorating tips, too. I'll mention the giant portrait, he might be into that."

It wasn't Bucky's place to laugh at that, but at least when he did, he felt a little bad about it.

"So what's this 'my colleague James' stuff?" he asked a little later, when it was his turn to walk the perimeter again. "I thought I was your escort."

"You know 'escort' has a different connotation now. Although now that you mention it, I did see a few people looking at you like they wanted to order you on Postmates. So maybe that would have been a better cover."

"Anything for the mission." He was enjoying this conversation, not sure if he was glad or disappointed they weren't having it face to face.

"What do you want me to call you then, Barnes?"

Anything you want. "I do anwer to Bucky. But—" But she had said it, at the Christmas party. And he'd liked it, but it wasn't quite perfect. Not from her. "James is fine, too."

"I could call you Yakov, that's Russian for James. Or Jacob, really, but it's the same thing."

"Can we go back to 'Barnes'?"

"How about…" She paused, and it could have been because someone walked by, but it felt like hesitation. "What about Yasha? That's—"

"I know." The shortened form of Yakov, the nickname, the endearment. Like Natasha. Then we'd rhyme , he thought stupidly. Something about all his names piled up, vibrating around his skull in her voice, made him stop for a second. He almost forgot he was supposed to be doing a job.

But then she said lightly, teasing. "Like Jim. Jimmy? That's it, Jimmy Barnes."

He made a face. Okay, maybe not anything you want. "I don't—"

"Finish up your sweep and get back here, Jimmy. You can't leave a girl alone at a party without an escort."

At eleven o'clock, they all gathered in the center gallery for a cultural presentation featuring a chamber ensemble from the Latverian National Orchestra. As they began playing their program of traditional songs, Bucky leaned toward Natasha and indicated the tapestry behind her and its hard working peasants. "Do you think this is the kind of stuff they listen to on their time off?"

"What makes you think they get time off?"

He tried to imagine people dancing gaily around a maypole to this, but he could only get them to trudge. "Maybe this is for holidays, like at Christmas when everyone gets a single crabapple."

"Or celebrating pulling a lost goat out of a well." Her dry delivery was betrayed by a little self-congratulatory twitch of her lips, and he lost a few seconds thinking about kissing her while the concert went on.

"Can't say I'll go right out and buy their record."

"Really? I already added it on Spotify."

That made him curious—not about what Spotify was, although… "What kind of music do you like? We already covered me."

"Right, Duke Ellington."

"So?"

She shrugged. "All kinds."

"Sure, everybody says that." He realized then that he was eight decades behind on the subject, and wouldn't recognize anything she named, anyway. "Classical? You were a dancer, right?" He forgot where he'd heard it, but having said it, his brain conjured up a startlingly detailed image. She was standing in front of a studio mirror in her black skirt and black leotard, hair restrained in a tightly disciplined braid. Her ankles were taped, her knees bruised; her face a little younger, a little leaner, determination burning in her tired eyes. It was so vivid, he almost felt like if he took one imaginary step to the right, he would see his own reflection...

"Not by choice. But yes, I was."

Shit. "Yeah, sorry."

"Don't be." She smiled to reassure him, but there was a dollop of irony in it. "It's a skill I worked hard at. I don't take those for granted. Besides, it wasn't all bad. I could find a little peace in it sometimes. In the work. In the…" She laughed, mocking herself. "in the art , or whatever. But you're right. I do like classical music." The ironic smile again. It struck him that she used it to hide real hurt underneath. "Although if I never hear Swan Lake again it'll be too soon."

... the cassette clicked over and the orchestra started once more. She tried to pull herself off the floor, and a hard voice said in Russian, "Again!" But her leg buckled under her; her jaw clenched as she swallowed the pain. All he would have to do is reach out, and he could help her...but it might kill them both…

The vignette came and went in a flash, before he could really grasp hold. His imagination had been particularly... active when it came to her, but this wasn't a pleasant if ungentlemanly fantasy. More like an ambush and retreat of images and feelings, intense and then elusive. Almost like…

"Hey," she said softly. "What's up? Are you remembering something?"

She was studying his face, and he collected himself under her compassionate scrutiny. He shook his head, although it was more of a reassurance than a flat denial. "Faulty wiring, that's all." He smiled.

"Right." She looked down, and nodded.

They both politely turned their attention back to the performers for a minute. "So...if I take you to the ballet, no Swan Lake . Got it."

That earned him something pretty close to a double take. "Are you going to take me to the ballet?"

"Well, you know. In case we have to guard the Prince of Latvia or something."

"Latvia is a parliamentary republic."

"The Prime Minister, then."

"You think we'd get to pick the ballet? On this hypothetical job?"

"What would you like to see, then? Hypothetically."

She tilted her head and he enjoyed the angle of her jaw while she mused. "Prokofiev, maybe. Stravinsky. Rite of Spring ."

"Isn't that the one that people flipped their lids over? What's it about, anyway?"

"A virgin sacrifice."

"Oh. Relatable."

"It is to some of us." Her tone said she was joking...mostly. "I danced in Petrushka once. Do you know that one?"

"Can't say as I do." But if she wanted to tell him, he'd listen. He'd listen to her talk all night.

"It's about puppets."

"Puppets? Like…?" He moved his hand like a mouth, and she laughed and shook her head.

She subtly lifted her arm, with a delicate little jerk, as if it was on a string. "Like this. Marionettes." She held his gaze again, in a way that was becoming unsettlingly familiar. Like she was seeking something, until he flinched minutely and, disappointed again, she looked away. It was enough to do a guy's head in. But he didn't want her to stop; he wanted to win the game, and deliver up whatever prize she was playing for.

"Now I can relate." His joke only half-landed; her flickering smile was too sad. Don't be sad for me, doll. I can't take it. "So what's the story?" he prompted her.

"Petrushka's a stock character. A fool. The magician, the puppeteer, brings him to life along with two others. Petrushka loves the Ballerina—that was me—but she loves his rival, the Moor."

"I assume everything works out great for ol' Petrushka, though."

"His rival murders him and he haunts the puppeteer."

"Oh, a Russian happy ending," he said, and her tiny smirk delighted him.

"I had a secret when I played it, though."

"Yeah?"

"When I danced it, the Ballerina was only pretending to love the Moor. Playing out her part."

Intrigued, he asked, "Did she love Petrushka?"

"She didn't get to decide who she loved," she said. As if nothing else made sense. "She was a puppet."

"Oh." He felt a little dumb, realizing then it wasn't just him she was sad for. "So you like that modern stuff, huh?" he asked, determined to bring up the mood.

She laughed. "Yeah, I guess."

"Like Shostakovich?"

"Sure. You know a little about this?" she asked with genuine surprise, to which he tried not to take offense.

"A very little," he admitted. "The minimum. We went to Carnegie Hall once to see what's-his-name, not Toscanini, the other guy. Stokowski. They played Shostakovich that night."

"What did you think?"

"I thought it was pretty okay," he recalled. "Kind of...moody. Steve preferred Beethoven."

"Really? Would have figured him for more of a John Philip Sousa guy."

He grinned. God, what a peach. "See, that's something else we could do together. Bust Steve's chops."

"It's not as much fun when he's not around."

"Then we'll have to find ways to have fun without him, because if I take you out again we're definitely not inviting Steve."

Beyond a brief upward press of her lips, she didn't address the hypothetical invitation this time. He chose to read that as closer to a yes than a no. "I'm trying to picture you two at the symphony. Getting some culture."

"Well, Steve wanted to get culture. I thought it would be a good way to impress a girl. Louise Bonifazio."

"Ah ha." Her eyebrows went up. "Special girl?" If she was fishing, she had him on the hook.

"Nah." Realizing how that sounded, he added, "I'm sure she was special to someone. Just— You know, there were a lot of—"

"It's okay, stop digging."

"There weren't really any—" She hadn't asked, and it wouldn't matter anyway—it was eighty years ago, for pete's sake—but for some reason he needed to tell her. "I didn't have a Peggy."

She was quiet for a second. "Good."

Interesting. "'Good'?"

"Steve is still carrying that around." That was true, of course, but it was also a smooth answer. He noticed her press her thumbnail into the heel of her opposite hand, and wondered if she had a tell. "Heartbreak sucks." She said it casually, but her intent, fixed look made him feel like he was on the edge of something.

He stuck his toe over. "You know from experience?"

"I have a history," she said, her voice lilting like a fluttering curtain, hiding some kind of wreckage behind. "Like anyone." But she wasn't just anyone. She was a fighter, like him; but it wasn't the drudging endurance of a soldier—she was fierce and agile, built to adapt, overcome, and survive. It must have taken a hell of a lot of damage to break a heart that strong.

There was a wire of sharp sorrow running beneath her patient, searching stare. He didn't know whether she was showing it to him on purpose, but he felt it pulling at him, tangling him up. "Anybody I know?" he asked quietly. "This guy who broke your heart. I just wanna talk to him."

She reeled back on her heels a little, eyes wide, a cough of shocked laughter expelled from her diaphragm.

"I'm— Sorry, I don't— Not my place, I get it. It was—" It was not a joke.

She turned her head down and to the side, as if she was listening to her earpiece. When she looked up again, her face was a mask of professionalism. It stung, but he was able to re-tune himself to her frequency immediately. This was why they were here, after all: to do a job, not to swoon and make time. He'd let himself forget it too easily. Still a little voice inside argued against his strategic retreat: You know it's not just making time, you know it's more than that.

"I have to go," she said. "You stay with the package."

Right. The job. "Maybe I can help—"

She shook her head. " Stay with the package. This won't take long."

She walked away, and he paced her for a few steps as they moved out of their spot into the wider room. The concert presentation had ended, and people were filtering out of the gallery off into different areas of the consulate. "At least tell me your window, in case something goes wrong," he insisted.

"Ten minutes," she relented, and pointed behind him, where he turned to see the Secretary General being herded in the opposite direction. "Fifteen at the outside. Go. "

He nodded, and caught up with his assigned protectee, who seemed as politely bored and as free from any signs of danger or distress as she had all night. He tried to track Natasha through the crowd, a flash of silver and red amidst the diplomatic drab, but he lost her on the staircase, which she trotted up beside the young consular aide she'd been chatting up earlier.

"Keep your comms open, please," he muttered. No response. "Natasha?" He stretched his perimeter as far from the package as he dared. He checked his watch at two minutes, and tried again; nothing. Three checks later, at +08:47, she clicked over to his channel.

"Wrapping up soon. No issues. Told you this was an easy night's work."

He tried to keep his huff of relief and his concerned frown out of his reply. This was her show, and she could handle herself. "What's your position? Just in case." She hesitated. "Come on, you're already off-brief, you might as well bring me in on this all the way."

"Northeast corner. Third floor."

"Check. Still looking like hard out at fifteen?"

"Yep. I—oh—"

Shit. He straightened, on high alert. "What's happening?"

A man's voice carried over her comms; he must have been close. He was speaking Latverian, harsh and accusing. She started speaking Russian, as if she didn't understand, her voice innocent, sweetly placating, and open to negotiation. " I have an appointment with the Consul General, I was told I could wait here. But if his plans have changed, I might have an hour free…"

Bucky didn't speak Latverian, but he didn't have to to understand how the man scoffed at her. The old lady-of-the-evening routine had probably worked better before she had the public profile of an Avenger. Meanwhile, he was already moving through the party doing a grid scan, counting heads. Shit, shit.

"Nat, he's not consulate security, they're all accounted for. So whatever you're after, chances are he wants it, too."

She switched to Latverian, all business now, but he could tell the talks weren't going well. Bucky was now bulling his way through the crowd, toward the main stairs, but he would definitely draw more attention from security ascending them than she had. She hadn't brought him along to put the overt into her covert ops. Then he remembered there were servants' stairs in the back, he'd seen it in the brief, and headed for the kitchen. Walk fast, look dour , he told himself, and the staff mostly ignored him.

Natasha and the interloper's exchange grew more volatile. There was only one reason she would have let it go on this long without taking him out: he'd drawn on her and hadn't yet given her an opening to disarm him.

"I'm on my way," he told her, mounting the stairs two and three at a time.

" Nyet—"

When he heard the shot, he was already running.

Fucking collect yourself, Nataliya , she thought, as she lay on her back in the hallway outside the Latverian Consul General's quarters.

It was the same phrase she had admonished herself with less than fifteen minutes ago, as she pretended to get a message over her earpiece. It was close to midnight anyway, and time to carry out the night's secondary mission was growing short. So she'd left the tertiary mission—apologies to the Secretary General—in the charge of her primary mission and hustled upstairs, eager for the reprieve of some nice, simple espionage after an evening that had been simultaneously the best date she'd been on in years, without question, and a punishing emotional ordeal that she had no one to blame for but herself. Every question, every look or touch, every hint, nudge, or prod that was meant to guide him through this last mile of maze, entrenched as it was, cost her a little more. But that was Phase Two of her self-assigned mission, going according to plan.

"Anyone you know," she muttered. "Fucking hell, soldatik. "

She heard pounding footsteps come around the corner and stop short. Her right hand twitched toward her thigh holster and the Glock she hadn't had a chance to pull, but it was no use. Even with vibranium alloy chainmail, it took a minute to recover from a gunshot. The energy dissipation had left her body stunned, and there would be an impressive bruise on her abdomen where the bullet had deformed and merged with the mail in an ugly, scorched stain. It was such a nice dress, too.

Natasha coughed, groaned, and opened her eyes. No need for the Glock anyway. He stood at her feet-Bucky or James or Yasha, wherever that carousel had stopped—staring, not blankly, but like he was lost somewhere. She breathed deeply in and out, once. Collect. Yourself.

She lifted her head, and he appeared to come back to the present. "I thought I told you," she said, and paused for another breath, "to stay with the package."

He knelt beside her. "Yeah, I'm not so good at taking orders anymore. Are you—? I heard suppressor fire."

"I'm fine." She pushed herself onto her elbows, and his eyes traveled down her body to the site of the impact. He huffed in relief. She smoothed down the scales in one direction, and smiled to see the damage became barely noticeable. "You're not the only one with Wakanda connections. A gift from Okoye." She sat up and clamped shut her matching bracelet, lighter one spent Widow's Bite. "Since you're here anyway, you want to help me with him?" She indicated the hostile, a compact, sandy-haired man crumpled against the opposite wall, with the tell-tale spider web of electrical burns spread over his neck and face. "We've only got a few minutes before their security comes back online."

He helped her to her feet, and watched as she secured her weapon and readjusted the slit in her gown. "I guess you got what you came for."

Still working on it, actually, she thought. "Yup."

"And you can't tell me what it is." He hoisted the unconscious man over his shoulder, where she confirmed he still had a pulse.

"Nope. Sorry."

He shrugged, and the man's legs flopped like a ragdoll. "Business is business."

She led him back into the consul's suite, toward a pair of French doors off the bedroom. A mantel clock read 11:55. "You're taking this a lot better than Steve," she told him as they stepped out onto the shallow balcony.

"You know, as a rule I'm not crazy about being compared to Steve, but I'll take it just this one time." He looked around. "So, just…?" He pointed his thumb over the rail.

They were directly over the solarium. "That would be a memorable end to the party." She leaned over and considered their options. "Over there." She pointed to the building next door. "Looks like no one's home. Try and get him onto their deck. I'll call it in and have him picked up."

He paused to consider the physics. "Hey, what if he's Latverian secret police or something?"

"Like you've never caused a diplomatic incident before?"

"Not so as I could enjoy it."

"Well, happy to be your first. Anyway, I don't think he's Latverian. The accent was off." She patted him down, and while she didn't find any ID- "A ha." She raised his ankle and pushed down his sock. "Thought so."

"Jesus Christ," said Bucky upon seeing the Hydra tattoo. "What the hell kind of penny-ante world-domination outfit is this? Was it always this...stupid?"

"It's a mixed bag," she said.

The Hydra agent landed with a heavy thwump on the neighbors' outdoor chaise lounge, but it wouldn't be jarring enough for New Yorkers to take notice.

From two floors down, the chamber ensemble had started up again. "Auld Lang Syne" had never sounded so much like a dirge.

"Well, this was fun, but…we should get back," she said, unable to keep her reluctance from bleeding through.

"You sure you're okay?" He gestured toward the mark on her dress as she stepped closer to him without thinking; his hand brushed against her stomach before he drew it away. They hadn't been alone like this since the Christmas party. She had almost lost control, then, too.

"No permanent damage," she assured him. Downstairs, guests awkwardly sang the final chorus. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot," she murmured. He knitted his brow, and she felt guilty and weary of being a puzzle he had to try and work out. She wanted to grab his face, end his confusion by just telling him. That would hardly end it, though, she knew. No, he had to get there on his own.

A subdued cheer drifted up from the party, just as similar, if more exuberant, ones echoed all around the city.

"S novym godom ," she said, at the same time he asked, "Why am I really here, Natasha?"

Through all of this, for all the vagueness and double meanings, she hadn't lied. She'd made careful, deliberate choices, but she hadn't faked a single moment. That wasn't part of the plan.

"For this," she said. She reached out and tucked his collar back into place, and let her hand linger on his lapel. "For something just like this."

They both jumped as her bracelet's timer shrilled out its forgotten warning.

"Ah, chert ." She grabbed his hand and ran.