"Ouch! Dammit!" Holly cried, snapping her finger back from the piece she'd been working on. Disappointment and rage warred on her face as she stuck the sore digit into her mouth. She glared darkly at both the manual by her knee and the glide support hanging precariously off the side panel. The crib was out to get her, she was certain of it. It had outright pinched and stymied her from the moment it had been taken out of the packaging. If one of the panels wasn't trying to fall on her, she had the metal parts to contend with, her mounting frustration making her slip and scratch here and there. Painting the room had been less of a hassle, even with all the taping that had to be done. And at least that had turned out the way she'd been hoping; the shade of light green that had been chosen was gorgeous. Her son's eventual bed? Pain in the ass.
Her finger was removed from her mouth as Steve came up with the tiny mattress for it, firm and meeting the many specifications of safe baby bedding. As her brain began to churn over all the rules of crib safety, she tried again, only to slip and scratch the screwdriver away and across the inner varnish, leaving a mark.
"That's it; screw this thing and its mother," she yelped, fist clenching hard around the tool to prevent her from tossing it across the room. "Shoving the kid back into my womb to sleep every night will be less of a pain than putting this stupid piece of shi—garbage, together."
Inhaling deeply, Steve finally looked over at Holly, awash in a sea of metal and wooden parts, screws and other bits scattered around her as she sat upon the floor. The crib they'd picked out in Albany several days ago had been shipped out, delivered to the drop house designated for large purchases for the base (furniture and the like could not be held indefinitely at the post offices, and so a separate domicile had been engaged once the base had been opened). The rest, including a dresser, a rocker, and a changing table, were taking their time to get out there, but at least they could get started on the crib. The agent stationed there had extended well wishes to the couple, stating that building the thing would be a chore—he'd helped his sister put one together for her first kid, and he had proclaimed he would not ever repeat the experience. Well, he wasn't lying, the captain mused peevishly; his wife had formed a sour relationship with the thing from the get-go, bruises and pinched skin its retaliation. If she had waited for him to help her, her patience would've had a chance, he surmised. As it was, she'd barely paused for him to remove the pieces from the box, declaring she would at least get a head-start while he got the rest of it removed from the truck. She'd built her bookcases and entertainment unit downstairs, she'd pointed out. She could handle getting a couple of rails on while he brought up the mattress and linens.
Apparently, the bookcases were less trying than a baby bed.
"Holl," he said, attempting to soothe ruffled feathers. Kneeling down, his palms slid over her shoulder blades and down her back. A hand swatted backward, slapping at his wrist and propelling his comfort away. He exhaled harshly, but did not push. It was a time to pick his battles, and this would definitely not be one of them.
"Nuh-uh! I have had more injuries in the last twenty minutes than I've had in the last year." Off his spiked eyebrow, Holly veritably glowered, pointing jerkily at her own forehead. "And yes, I'm including the friggin' coffee table scar."
He winced at that, at the reminder of how she'd gotten that injury in the first place. "Maybe you should take a break."
"That's the plan," she groused, rolling up onto her knees and shuffling towards the closest wall. Bracing a hand against it, she got to her feet slowly, Steve coming forward and hooking his palm under her elbow to steady her. Once she was fully upright, she let out a rumbling groan before slapping the screwdriver into his grip. Nodding to the manual still on the floor, she raised her eyebrows at him. "Go ahead. Take a shot at the devil crib."
With the pleasant nickname given, she shuffled out of the room, resolutely turning her back on the project in favor of recollecting herself. Scrubbing his free hand across his face, there was little left for Steve to do, other than to pick up where she'd left off.
"Okay, okay," he assented, getting onto the floor and pulling the paper instructions closer. Palming the piece of glider that she had been working on, he muttered, "I'm sure it…argh!"
It was impossible not to cry out, particularly as his skin had been caught between the screw dangling on the glider and the panel. Jerking his hand back, he brought it up to his mouth to alleviate the pinch he'd just endured. The stupid piece of furniture really did have it out for them.
"Told you!" was the rapid reply floating around the corner from the office. Flashing a dark look at the barren hallway, he removed his mouth from the side of his hand, the throbbing growing duller by the second.
"Didn't doubt you in the first place, dear," he called back, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Palming the screwdriver again, he peered at the manual and absently reached out for the left side panel. However, a leg of it had hooked around the back panel, and both tumbled down towards him. "Gah, sonofa—"
His expletive was cut off by the closing of the office door, with Holly pacing the carpeted floor for several long minutes. Deep breathing exercises were employed, in and out, to calm herself. It was just a silly crib, she reminded herself, a piece of furniture. A piece of furniture that was trained to fight back, but furniture nonetheless. It would not get the best of her; it wasn't worth that much. Sinking down into the desk chair, she continued her deep breathing, pulling up to the desk and opening her laptop to engage in another project that threatened to make her blood pressure rise. At least the new one would be mildly more enjoyable. And less pinchy.
With the contract examined and signed, Holly had entered the editing stage for her story. The literary agent was still hashing some of the finer details with the department, but otherwise she was given the chance to make some tweaks and changes to her story. Having not been involved in it for awhile, she found it to be challenging, getting her mind back to universe she had created. It would be worth it in the end. The reminder never hurt, especially when she received emails from the editor with tight time frames attached to them. Opening up the most recent one of the bunch, she sighed as she retrieved the attachment, red typeface in the margins instructing her in what needed fixing and what alterations would help polish the story.
"Five days to do chapter rewrites for both four and five. Thanks, guys," she muttered under her breath, cracking her knuckles before selecting a new word document. Putting it and the attachment side by side, she wound down from the residual anger brought up by the crib and frowned at the screen. "Alright, gotta develop the bond between the handler and Chelsea." She did not have time to get too in-depth about the changes she made, but she did make a list of ways to show how Chelsea, the girl with powers in her story, grew to accept and respect her handler, instances that would make the impact of future betrayal strike all the harder later on in the text. Fingers flew over the keyboard after several long seconds of silence, the peace undisturbed save for a crow of outrage from the room next door on occasion. Her stomach fluttered, and she was about to brush it off merely as gas, but something about it struck her as being...different. Hands rested on the keyboard, and she glanced down at the swell. When another flutter happened a few minutes later, her dark eyes widened significantly. "Oh."
Rising from her seat, she barely remembered to hit the save button before hastily speeding out of the room. She went right to the doorway of the nursery, her smile lessened when she realized Steve was no longer in there. Shuffling and a click came from the hallway bathroom, giving away his position, and she went there immediately. Peering into the room, she saw her husband pulling a box of bandages out of one of the drawers. Selecting one, he glimpsed her out the corner of his eye as he tore the paper apart, ready to dress the new cut on his finger. Gesturing with the bleeding appendage, he grunted low.
"I know you already said it, doll, but this really is a pain in the…what?" Steve started, cutting himself off as he became aware of her big eyes and secretive little smile. Bemusement flooded his features, and he wondered, "Holly, what is it?"
"Just come here for a second," she commanded gently. When he finished securing the adhesive bandage, he approached her. Tipping her palm out to him, she requested, "Give me your hand."
Doing as she asked, he placed his hand in hers, allowing her to guide it to her belly. It was a little low, and off to the right, but she held his palm firmly there, heat from his fingers soaking into her blouse. The clock down the hall was ticking audibly as they remained there, suspended in waiting. After several long seconds, Holly's eyebrows snapped together, and her lips pursed as she stared down. Oh, so now was when the baby chose to be quiet? Right when she wanted her husband to feel him turning inside her? For his part, Steve's expression was laced with mild amusement.
"…Not that I mind touching your bump or anything, but why am I touching it?" he queried, digits shifting away from the spot. Immediately, she seized his wrist, securing it in place.
"Hold on, give it a minute." Another glance was cast down, a little prayer projected at it silently.
'Come on, Baby Boy, do it again. Do it for Daddy,' she begged the little one inside, breathing shallowly.
"I think it's been more than a minute. What's…" he trailed off as fluttering pressed into his palm. He stilled, his hand frozen on the swell as another rippled under her skin. Blue eyes widened as he looked up at her, understanding dawning. "Oh. Oh."
She nodded enthusiastically, grin broadening again. "Yeah."
"He's moving," Steve said, his other hand braced along her swell, too. Another thump, a little harder than the first, rebounded against him, and he laughed. "Woah, he's kicking now."
"I thought it was just stomach rumbles at first, but…it's too much to be that, you know?" Holly explained, giggling herself. More than the ultrasounds, more than the physical growth of her body, this was confirmation. It really, truly drove home the point that she was carrying a baby. A little, live human being was growing, and she could feel it. She could feel him, and would feel him from then on out.
"Wow. That, that is amazing," he stammered. The beam he sported dimmed as the seconds passed, his gaze flicking away from her belly to a point over her head. Concentration spilled into his expression, and his jaw twitched.
"What you thinkin', Steve?" she asked him, curious as to what was going through his mind. Meeting her eyeline again, he took a deep breath.
"I'm thinking…it's time to move forward with the plans for the team," he revealed, bringing up his palms to rub up and down her arms. "Only got a few short months until this little guy comes, and I've gotta get things in line."
Holly inclined her head. The intricate details were still being discussed and hashed out, but she did know about the broad outlines of some of the plans Steve had for the near future.
"Fury and Maria have already agreed?" she inquired. Last she'd heard, the two were still on the fence after discussing options with Steve, and nothing concrete had been decided upon. Given the way her husband's face brightened a shade or two told her that had changed.
"It's just a question of organizing a good time and actually discussing options with everybody." Light squeezing on her forearms, and then he dropped his grasp. "It'll take some doing, but it'll be worth it in the end."
She laid a palm on his bicep, looking up at him with all seriousness. "Anything I can do to help?"
"Whatever you're doing right now with him, keep doing that," he said, a palm patting her belly fondly. Another tiny kick came, and he snorted. "Feisty, ain't he?"
Raising her chin proudly, she smirked at him. "Just like Daddy."
A deliberate scoff poured out of his mouth. "Yeah, because Mommy's totally innocent on that account."
Smiling blithely at him, she canted her head back towards the hall, taking a step or two away from him.
"Well, either way, break's over," she announced, pivoting on her heel and gesturing for him to come along. "Let's finish building the crib from hell."
"Oh sure, keep associating our child's bed with something evil. That's very comforting," he replied sarcastically. Risking a glance down at the newly acquired bandage, he cleared his throat and amended his statement. "Although, you do have a point."
Holly just blinked at him, the tiniest curve coming to her lips as they entered the nursery again. Letting him guide her back down to the floor, she started divvying up the remaining tools and parts between them. The instructions were laid out for both of them to read, her squinting involving a lot less rage that time around. Deciding that he would finish the work on the remaining glider, she would start prepping for the second one.
"Hand me the Allen wrench," she said, drawing in a breath for courage as he passed the tool to her. It would be finished that night, come hell or high water. They would get the crib assembled and ready for their son, no matter how many times it bit them.
Picking up the screwdriver for himself, Steve's bright eyes glimmered. "Won't it be a joy to convert when he's a toddler."
Holly snorted loudly, lines in her forehead becoming more pronounced as she went about her task.
"Don't remind me."
xXxXxXx
The following Saturday found another quinjet arriving at the base, getting in around sunset and its occupancy very small. In fact, aside from the pilot and co-pilot, there was only one other person aboard. Bucky Barnes, off a long mission in Belarus, had returned to the helicarrier, finding it close enough to New York to make his report in person for once. On top of that, Fury had granted him five days of leave. After working nonstop for the last several months, he was unwilling to let one of his most effective agents collapse under the pressure of his occupation. Frankly, Bucky reckoned his stamina could take him a lot further than a few months, but his therapist had also recommended he take the offered days, and so there he was, in civvies and free. Once his report was filed, he could head back to the Rogers homestead, take some time to catch his breath. Maybe he would get in some training, too; the Avengers base had much better facilities to utilize than the carrier, and he was determined to have a crack at some of the updated equipment.
Perhaps he would be joined by a certain fiery redhead, one who would be just as eager to meet his challenge and spar. Maybe she would join him for more than that...maybe, maybe...
First, though, he had his report. Or so he had thought when he met Wilson on the platform. Informed of his arrival, the other man had greeted him well enough. Pleasantries, while stilted, were exchanged as they disembarked for the elevator. An inner alarm was ringing in his head; generally, it would be Steve that would meet him, or Natasha. The fact that Sam had done so, instead, seemed a little off. When he said as much, the other man had chuckled, informing him that he might not be as out of touch as some people might think he was. Frowning, he merely followed him as he led the way, not to the offices, but to the private quarters at the back. As they passed the security checkpoints, his suspicion rose exponentially. And when he heard the festive music, he definitely knew something was up.
"What's going on?" he asked, staring ahead as Wilson brought him further into the space. All at once, his vision was assaulted with green streamers and shamrocks strung up to the ceiling, the traditional Irish folk music playing on the overhead system. Wanda waved him from across the room, laughing loudly as she drank deeply from a cup and poked the Vision in the arm. Teasingly, she pointed to the "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" shirt she was sporting, and the automaton's eyes were saucer-sized at her implication. Rhodey was in low-voiced conference with the captain, and there was a flicker of red hair disappearing behind a column at the far end.
"Well, this here is what we call a 'party,'" Sam explained carefully, as though he were speaking to a child. When Barnes narrowed his eyes at him, he snickered. "Welcome to it."
"Bucky," Steve's voice rang out, the other man departing from the colonel's side and greeting him with a fond handshake. "You got here in good time."
Barnes took another fast glance around, the hand clasping the straps of his duffel clenching.
"Actually, it would seem I'm a little late, or a little early."
"Nope, right on time," the captain countered, his eyes darting to the obscene amount of green décor and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling (he was the only one of Irish descent in the bunch, so the enthusiasm of his coworkers was amusing, to say the least). "Didn't really have a time to celebrate St. Paddy's this week, so here we are."
A party. That was something Bucky wasn't sure he was prepared for.
"Steve, my mission report, I'm not—"
"It can wait," Sam cut in, clapping him on the shoulder. When Bucky merely glowered and flicked a pointed look down at the appendage, he arched a brow at him. "Ditch the grumps, old timer."
Wilson released his hold on him, wandering off instead to get himself a drink. A hard week of missions, plus another rocky argument with Kay, was enough to deal with. He would leave the ex-assassin with social anxiety to others. The remaining two men watched him go, Barnes shaking his head and Steve scratching the back of his neck. When a look was chanced the captain's way, he gave his old friend a rueful smirk.
"Can't be serious all the time, Buck," he advised gently, cupping a hand in the air. "You can cut loose, you know. Not a whole lot of opportunities to do so, so take 'em while you can."
Barnes met his gaze, the straightness of his spine slowly relaxing. Without the threat of danger looming over him at the moment, and with him among people who would not actively wish him ill (he wasn't too sure about the colonel, still, but that was understandable; he was standing with his friend, and he didn't blame him for it), he could afford to take a break. Act like a regular human being, even if he would never think of himself as one.
"…Okay. Fine," he conceded to his friend's request, dropping his bag and following him over to the wet bar on the opposite side of the communal space. As they made their way across, he inquired after Holly, who was nowhere in sight. She was well, Steve gushed, though she had cried off attending the team party that. (Something to do with attempting pregnancy yoga while one of her agent friends helped her out, whatever that was.) Joining him as he poured out another glass of whiskey, Bucky let the amber liquid swish around the cup, intent on savoring it. The bright blue stare of his companion was difficult to ignore, and soon enough, he shot a glare over the rim of his glass at him.
"What?"
Steve shrugged, his head shaking slightly even as he grinned. "Never thought I'd see the day where I'd have to be the one persuading you to let go and have a good time."
Bucky snorted at that, swallowing some of his drink and letting the burn of good liquor course down his throat.
"And I had never thought I'd see the day where a gal would make a pass at you and ignore me, but we were both proven wrong eventually, right?"
Memories flooded both of them, and their grins took on a somewhat saddened cast. Steve rotated the glass in his hand, a puff of air coursing out his mouth before he took a swig from it.
"Yeah, I guess so," he agreed, purposefully making his voice take on a cheery tone. "Not something you have to worry about now, of course."
Barnes's bitter laugh rumbled out. Not too many ladies were clamoring for the attentions of an unstable, ex-assassin still in brainwash-recovery mode.
"Tell that to the agents who come up to me to 'put in a good word with the captain' for them," he divulged, ignoring the self-hatred that had swelled up. Quirking his lips, he concluded, "Married or not, you're a popular guy."
The captain's lips thinned, and he shrugged the implications off.
"Doesn't matter. I am married, and that ain't changing, no matter how many words are put in. Good or bad," he declared, thumb rubbing against the wedding band on his finger and his eyes softening as he looked down at it. His old friend averted his own gaze down into his cup. If Steve was still enjoying marital bliss, then he couldn't begrudge him that. He deserved it, in his estimation, having been on his own for so long...his focus was pulled back to the present moment when the captain tipped his glass at him in a salute. "Enjoy the action, pal, 'cause it's all yours."
"Not really," Bucky corrected him, letting Steve's look of surprise roll off him. There weren't many ladies, but that wasn't to say one or two hadn't taken a shine to him. A couple of the rotating members of his response team had given him the eye, he knew that much. There was also a girl who worked on the bridge, a pretty gal with green eyes and legs for days. And he certainly had looked himself, but a quick fling, while appealing in the moment, was not his ultimate goal. Not then. Flicking a few fingers in the air, he revealed, "Not too keen on being, erm, 'active duty' these days."
The surprise melted remarkably fast from Steve's gaze, and the blond man gave him a half-smile.
"Good. Hard to do that when you're carrying a torch, anyway," he pointed out, an off-handed response that Bucky blinked at. Steve spiked an eyebrow at him, as if mutely asking him how stupid he thought he was. Outwardly, he intimated bluntly, "I'm not blind. Some things may have changed, but I still can tell when you're keen on a particular gal."
The flash of red danced out the corner of his eye, and he reflexively turned, hoping to catch a glimpse of the face under the fiery hair. Having just missed it, again, he pivoted back in time to spy Steve's barely-suppressed smirk.
"Steve," he warned him, daring him to do something about it. The captain, though, met his steely stare with one of ice. As the seconds passed, the thaw came to both their gazes, but the intent remained clear on each side. Breathing a sigh out his nose, Rogers drained the whiskey from his glass, reaching behind the bar to grab up the bottle again.
"Just...like I said before, be careful," he reiterated, caution seeping out of him and into his friend. Pinned beneath the hardened gaze, Bucky met it fully, a single nod given to the captain before he departed. Taking a moment to think, to get his bearings, he ambled over to the seating area in the middle of the room. It had lasted for a mere moment, though, as Natasha had come out of nowhere, a small cake in hand and a lit candle atop it. It wasn't just a celebration for St. Patrick's Day; his birthday had also passed recently, and she was not about to let it go by without remarking upon it. There was no singing (thank the Lord, he mused privately), but the beauty did admonish him to make a wish, at least. The wish he had was one that was at the forefront of his mind most days, and it was no hardship to wish for it again. Blowing out the candle, he obediently ate the cake at her behest. Presents for him were back at home, the captain had explained, as they did not know if he would be delayed or not. A part of him was marveling at it all; his birthday had passed by for seventy years without so much as a nod given to the date. To celebrate now seemed so strange.
But then again, so many things were strange to him those days. Stewing over his thoughts as the party whirled around him, he did not register the tap on his shoulder nearly an hour later.
"Hey, old man," a smooth, feminine voice called him out of his musings. Glancing up, he was met with a bright smile and glittering eyes. Natasha had returned from wherever she had wandered off to earlier. Glancing obviously at the couch he was perched upon, she asked, "Mind if I join you?"
"Not at all," he told her, scooting over so that she could sit next to him. Taking in the sight of his empty cake plate, he hooked a thumb at it, grinning slightly. "Thanks for the...well, you know."
He could've sworn her smile became brighter, but he wasn't sure that was possible.
"Had to find some excuse to work it in and embarrass the hell outta you," she said, shrugging a bit and brushing a non-existent wrinkle from her blouse. She nudged him with her elbow and winked , the action making his stomach lurch. "Wait until next year. One hundred is quite a milestone."
Snorting, it was his turn to focus on the toe of his boot. "I guess. Should I expect a brass band or somethin'?"
"Please. Swing band would be more appropriate," Natasha decreed. Her gaze slid to the left, and she went on, "Though I don't know if I want to wait that long to see your dance moves. Steve has basically said they're legendary."
A real, genuine chuckle rumbled in his throat, and he knocked back the last of his whiskey, it having remained untouched until then. Legendary? Well, wasn't that quite something to live up to? His mouth curved at the corner, the charming set of his countenance as he leaned closer to her making her eyes widen.
"Play the right tune, and I'll dance with ya whenever you want, sugar," he suggested, the words rising from a place inside him that he thought he'd never be able to touch again. Somehow, though, he was able to do so. With her, at least. Setting his glass down, he was just about to lean back in his seat and enjoy the quiet moment when the sensors in his left wrist were triggered. She had her fingers clasped around it, and she sprang to her feet, a crafty smile decorating her lips. His eyebrows shot up as she tugged at it, silently insisting that he get up. Rising to his feet, he was pulled across the communal living space, curious looks shot at them from the others as they went. Taking him to an open area by the windows, the darkness of the night blotted out all but their reflections. Using her phone, she contacted the AI in charge of virtually everything around the base, commanding it to replace the melodic traditional Irish music with a...more swingin' track (her exact words). That certainly got everyone's attention, and the others stared at them as the music changed. The bang of drums suddenly took over the sound system, and his heart thumped with them, the electric charge of it so familiar to him. Natasha, sporting a look of smug satisfaction, tossed her phone onto a nearby chair, taking his hand and guiding him to the center of the space, matching his unconscious bouncing on the balls of his feet with her own.
Swallowing hard, he mumbled, "Oh, wow, you actually—"
"Time to put up or shut up, Barnes," she insisted, placing his right palm on her waist, and hooking her fingers around the left. Personally, she had little experience with swing dancing, but she was confident in her ability to keep up with whatever was thrown at her. Bucky glanced down at his feet, nervousness wafting off him then.
"I'll, uh, I'll try. It's a bit easier to remember how much C-4 to use at this point," he uttered flatly, clearing his throat. She canted her head to the left, the stir of her hair drawing his attention for a second.
"Muscle memory; your body will take care of it," she assured him. Spying the layer of doubt under his irises, she leaned a little closer to him, her weight in his arms grounding him. She met his gaze, the challenge subdued somewhat. Swaying, and therefore causing him to sway with her, she whispered, "Trust me. Show me, Sarge."
It was as if a switch had been flipped inside of him, when she breathed those words. All at once, Bucky was off, his feet tripping along as his arms caught her up. One could hardly compare him to Fred Astaire, but he was keeping up with the music as it went, the steps of long ago pushing him along. Natasha ducked her head once or twice, getting a feel for the rhythm of the movement as he guided her along the impromptu dance floor. Spins were almost expertly timed as he led her through them, the beat pulsating through their bodies as they met over and over again. Claps and cheers echoed around them (she thought she'd even spotted Rhodey getting into it, rooting for them as they moved), their captive audience watching as they moved with precision and a synchronization that typically was reserved to their fighting abilities in the field. Catching a glimpse of his lightning-quick grin, she saw the young man he'd once been: Sergeant James Barnes, out on the town and painting it red with every jump and jive his feet could muster. For a moment, she was breathless, almost stumbling in her steps as the crude vessel in her chest beat erratically, its betraying chant drowning out the music for a few seconds. His arm looped around her waist, hoisting her off the ground, and instinct had her fingers digging into his shoulders and her legs crooking around him. Part of her was grateful that she had chosen to wear pants; no unsightly flairs of the skirt as he went into a fast spin would mar the moment. Hands pressed at her hips, prompting her to spring away, and when she landed he drew her in, twisting her out and catching her at the last second.
The music cut off then, the team whooping and clapping at their display. Even the Vision had seemed enthralled by their movements, his electric blue eyes cutting to the auburn-haired young woman to his left as she loudly congratulated the pair on their dancing. Steve, with a knowing glint to his eye, merely grinned at his old friend, a look darted to the redhead still in his arms as they caught their breath. Bucky's face, already tinged red with exertion, felt the crimson grow a few shades darker. The smile that had graced his lips vanished, though, when Natasha stiffened in his grasp, extracting herself with aplomb and her chin dipping in thanks to the others before she wandered away. His brows sprang together, and he made a silent appeal to Steve, unsure of what to do. The captain felt his forehead crease in concern, and he nodded for him to follow her. If he wanted answers about the invitation and the sudden, cold cut-off, it would be best to get them from the source. Thinning his lips, he trotted towards the communal kitchen, catching up with her just as she braced a palm around the handle of the refrigerator. Her bright, brittle gaze locked onto his, and he could practically see the shutters falling into place, the inner exposure that had threatened to surface pushed down. Opening the fridge, she grabbed out two beer bottles, popping the caps on the edge of the nearby counter before handing one off to him.
"Well, that was a good time," she said, the airy tone of her voice not fully dissipated. Taking a pull from her bottle, he watched the swallow course down her throat, and he inhaled sharply. Another wink, deadly and cutting him to the core, was shot at him as she rested her hip against the opposite counter. "Can see why you had such a reputation."
The edge of her tone caught him off-guard, and as he took a sip of his own, he closed his eyes. Finding courage, finding strength that resided deep within him, he put the bottle down and looked upon her again. He took in the flush of her face, the languid set of her body, and the fanning fieriness of her hair, and he swallowed.
"Natasha...what is this?" he asked, his voice steady even as a minuscule part of his brain quaked at the quagmire he was about to willingly traverse. For her part, she merely blinked at him, though her back stiffened.
"What's what?" she threw back, widening her eyes for effect. He was not taken in by it, though.
"This," he said simply, flapping at the space between them. At the things hovering unspoken between them. Those things had been eating away at him, little by little, for months now, and he wasn't about to let them do so any longer. Not after the provocation of the night. "What are we doing here?"
"Well, currently we're drinking, or so I thought." Pursing her lips, she wiggled the bottle in her hand for emphasis. A frown grew; a smart-ass answer, something he half-expected when he'd asked. If she was going to be flippant about it, like she was with so many other areas of her life, then he wasn't going to merely accept it.
"Right." Turning, he managed to get a few steps away before she called out to him.
"Hey, come on," she said, her plaintive voice going unheard. Sensing that it wasn't working, she set her bottle aside, striding swiftly after him and grabbing at the crook of his elbow. "James, stop."
Bucky scoffed out loud at her entreaty, even though he did pause. "And get the brush-off again? No thanks, dollface."
"What did I do?"
"It isn't..." He stopped, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. It wasn't something she had done, it was just...something that she wasn't doing, that she wasn't allowing herself to do. He had seen flickers of want on and off over the last several months in her, in her eyes, ones that he thought were reflections of his own needs. In that moment, though, he started to question if that was true.
Looking down at her then, in the mist of her ocean-colored eyes, a spike of it shot through, and he held his breath as she met his gaze.
"I can't understand until you tell me what's wrong," she murmured, her face scrunching up as she considered a quip. "It's not like you came with a user's manual or something."
All joviality and amusement disappeared in that instant, the frost of his gaze icing it all. Oh, he was not about to take it, not that time.
"Is this just a joke to you, or a game? Because I gotta tell ya, it ain't funny, and I don't like being toyed with," he ground out, snapping his arm out of her grip. Stunned by his refusal to accept her usual modes of address, her jokes, she gaped at him for a second or two. The levity of their time together was lost, and he did not want it back. What he wanted was the truth, plain and simple.
What he didn't know, was whether she could give him that much. Perhaps not that time.
"I'm not playing around," she told him, encroaching on his space once more and meeting his gaze squarely. A finger traced along the line of his jaw, and he closed his eyes, leaning towards her touch. "There's...there's no game here, James."
Violently, he carded a hand through his hair, head shaking as he tipped it back and stared at the ceiling. No answers were to be found there, and the traitorous mix of feelings inside him provided no solace, either.
"Christ, this doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. Half the time, I'm so lost I have no idea what to think about the world around me. Other times, everything is so clear that it's painful, and I'd rather go crawl in a hole and die. But...it's not like that with you," he professed, the words rocking her just as much as they were stirring him. Every single one was true, though, and he could not stop himself from uttering them aloud. Hands, one warm and one cold, cupped her cheeks, the thumbs sliding over her skin. "You help it come out alright. Until you pull away. Until you think...hell, I don't know what you think. Whatever it is, I wish you didn't think it. Because it makes you just as lost as me, and I don't want that for you."
The edge was there, both of them poised upon it. Both of them ready to either leap, or flee.
Breathing hard, Natasha asked, "And what do you want, Bucky?"
The mists in her eyes flooded again, and he sighed.
"Something...something that I'm not sure you want, too." His hands dropped, and he took a step back. The sudden rush of confusion and hurt in her gaze tore through him, and he had to look down at his feet to maintain his composure. Fists curled to stop himself from reaching for her again, and so he shuffled backward once more. "But I don't know, either way. And won't, until you figure out your side. Just...let me know when you do."
With that, he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to walk away and leave her. He wouldn't beg and he wouldn't plead. It had to be done, no matter how hard it was to keep pacing farther away, to flag down Steve and tell him that he'd had enough. When she was ready, whatever she decided, he would hear her out. For the moment, it was just time to go.
xXxXxXx
Natasha had retreated to her quarters, a single light on above her as she sat at her breakfast bar. An open bottle rested nearby on the counter top, but it had remained virtually untouched. Her attention was riveted to the letters scattered before her, retrieved from her private safe and laid side by side. For hours, her gaze had been darting between them, jumping from one to the next without a break. The party had broken up some time after Bucky had left her in the communal kitchen, had asked Steve quietly if they could go back to the house. He'd left her, left her to think, to consider...everything. And so, she was.
Ten months. Ten months had passed since the Winter Soldier had reentered her life, shedding the title to become Bucky Barnes again. It had seemed like such a long time, but conversely, she'd felt as though it had been mere minutes since that moment. Since the moment Bruce left her, his excuses of being broken and not fitting together pricking at her, as always. Granted, the sting had lessened as time had passed, but she would not forget them. She could not forget them. Because, even though it was used as an excuse, it was true. She was broken, had been broken since childhood, and had been spending the majority of her adult life gluing the pieces back together. The whole they were forming was almost unrecognizable from the little girl who had been locked to her bed, who had been cast out and forced to destroy the other ones just like her. Jagged, sharp edges capped with beauty and deadliness were all that remained as a common tether. Well, that, and the underlying terror that the Red Room had instilled; no amount of therapy would rid her of it, no matter how many times she met with her doctor. No matter how many trips she took to Clint's farm to unwind, let her baggage rest.
Seven months since he had first written her, first as an obligation at his friend's behest. And her answer was just as much an obligation. However, it had morphed into more, each letter becoming longer, stronger for every piece of his ragged soul that he let her see, for every busted edge and cut the had formed him. What had happened was unexpected, what it had all turned into was beyond what she'd imagined. Natasha had not been angling for anything when Barnes had first reached out to her, had not expected anything from him. She had just conceded to helping another broken person find the pieces, let them start to stitch himself up and move on with his life.
What she hadn't expected was for some of the pieces to be sewn in with the fabric of her life, intertwining them and blending them. It was all patchwork and sloppy stitches, but it had happened, nonetheless.
And what do you want?
...Something I'm not sure you want, too...
Compromised, compromised again was the chant echoing deep down inside her. Natasha sighed. What she wanted went against everything she had been taught. What she wanted went against her own inner mantra, her cold remark made to Loki all those years ago resurfacing as she thought on it. Her eyes screwed shut and she scrubbed a hand against her forehead.
Sentiment, feeling. It was a fairy-tale, a dream that only children clung to. Or so the little, nasty voice that had been with her since her youth had spat at her, time and again. However, it was being drowned out by a louder voice, one that sounded more and more like her everyday. A voice that pointed at Clint and Laura, Tony and Pepper, Steve and Holly, and asked why it was childish to behave as they had. To live as they had, to care for others and be strengthened by it. Perhaps it made them vulnerable, but it did not make them weak, did not make them less. Natasha knew what it was like to be less, to feel less. What they had, wasn't that. What she could have with Bucky did not have to be less, would never be that. Given the chance, of course.
Natasha's hands dropped, her eyes snapped open, and she let herself feel, let herself know what she truly wanted. She was ready to take that chance.
Set on her course, Natasha determinedly grabbed her coat, slinging it on as she strode out of her quarters. The communal spaces were dark, save for the odd light or two left on for security purposes. The remnants of beer bottles and food bowls were scattered about, but she paid them no mind, cutting a path instead to the elevator bank. She fidgeted, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she rode the elevator down to the garage, and nearly sprinted when the doors opened. In a trice, she was in her car and roaring down the frontage road. She drove with purpose, slashing the normal commute time in half as she sped down the backroads with ease, her sports car revving as she gave it more gas. Turning up a familiar driveway, she thumbed into her digital panel, alerting the security system that she was a friend, not a foe. JJ, recognizing her vehicle, granted her access to the property, but was not at liberty to let her into the house. After ten o'clock, the domicile was in lockdown, and entry could only be granted by the occupants. As she parked in front of the garage, she glanced in the direction of the house. There were no lights on, which told her that all three had retired for the evening. Blowing out a breath, she retrieved her phone from her pocket, pulling up a number and selecting it to send a message. Biting the inside of her cheek, she tapped her thumb along the edge of the device for a moment or two. Perhaps it was a mistake, to come in the middle of the night and reopen the can of worms between Bucky and her.
No, no, she chided herself as her fingers tapped at the screen, words forming under her swipes. She could do it. She could be strong. The message was sent, and she got out of her car, going around to the back door like she had said she would in the text message. Though the window was shaded, she blinked when the outline of light came on, the lightest tread of feet across the floor greeting her ears through the wooden panels of the house. Faint taps could be heard, along with the clunk and slide of locks being released. As the door finally swung open, she squinted against the sudden brightness, her focus turning onto the looming man before her.
Bucky stood there, filling the frame and looking down at her. He hadn't changed since returning to the homestead with Steve; his red Henley shirt clung to his cut torso, shifting as he crossed his arms over his chest. His hair was ruffled, as though he'd been pulling and tugging at it repeatedly in frustration. Her hands balled up at her sides, preventing her from reaching out and combing it back into place, from running her fingers along the scruff of his jaw. For a moment, her eyes latched onto the glint of metal hanging around his neck, the dog tag she'd given him still being worn. Noticing her focus on it, he said nothing, and instead waited for her to say something.
He didn't have to wait very long.
"This is a bad idea," she blurted suddenly, and inwardly she chastised herself for being so blunt. For his part, Bucky merely furrowed his brow in confusion.
"What?"
"This," she stated, as though affirming a simple fact of life. Tipping a palm out, she continued, "Me, being here, and…well, you know."
She tried to smile, lighten the seriousness of the situation somewhat, but from the way Bucky's posture hardened further, he was not having it. Just like before.
"No, I don't know," he shot back, jaw setting and his stance tightening. "I think I made that point earlier."
The grin on her lips faded. "So you did."
"So, what, then?" he probed, staring down at her. When no answer was forthcoming, when her bright eyes merely gazed at him, he shuffled uncomfortably. Softening his stance and his tone, he asked her, "Why are you here, Natasha?"
Opening her mouth, the barest creak echoing through the boards cut her off, eyes flicking over his shoulder towards the ceiling of the kitchen. It may have just been the house settling, but she did not want to risk an audience at the moment.
"We...we should probably do it inside." A dark eyebrow inclined slightly, the barest glimmer of a smirk playing across his lips, and she shot him a dirty look. Clearing her throat, she amended her statement. "Take this inside."
His moment of amusement faded, and he sighed. Scratching at the back of his neck, he risked a glance over his shoulder, his ear bent towards the interior of the house. Thus far, their little discussion did not seem to have woken Steve or Holly. If they wanted to keep it that way, wanted to keep their conversation private, they would have to relocate.
"Fine," he conceded, taking a step in and unblocking the doorway. Waving her forward, he muttered, "C'mon, we can go downstairs."
Stepping aside, he closed the door as silently as possible once she was in the house. Tapping through the security codes and sliding home the obvious locks, he shared a glance with her, his gaze indicating that they were free to move. As one, they glided silently across the kitchen floor, the light turned out as they went. On the steps leading down to the basement, Bucky's hand found its way to the small of Natasha's back, resting there as they tread lightly. Taking a swift look at her surroundings, she could see that the open space had not changed much; the punching bag in the corner looked a little worse for wear, and she wondered if it was the captain's doing, or if her current companion had given it quite a beating once he'd gotten back. With a gentle nudge, she was guided over to the half-opened door to the bedroom. When they were safely ensconced inside, he snapped the door into place, taking a seat on the mattress of his bed, resuming his crossed-arm posture from before. She took a moment, letting her gaze run along the room that had been given over to his use. Spartan, but that was to be expected. Desk littered with notebooks, the shelving unit nearby holding a few good titles, the spread of blue sheets and quilts enfolding the bed underneath him. When her eyes glanced at the floor, she outright snickered.
"The rug is ugly," Natasha commented wryly, trying to ease the tension in some way. Following her gaze down to the orange and blue monstrosity on the floor, Bucky snorted.
"I'm aware. Believe me, we're all aware." Shaking his head, he tipped his palm out to her, the metal of it gleaming in the low lamplight. "Anytime you're ready."
Inhaling deeply, Natasha busied herself for a moment by removing her coat. A flash of heat had spiked through her, making her feel stifled. Setting it atop the desk, she smoothed down her shirt and prepared to speak.
"You wanted to know what this is. I don't have an answer for you, but I do know that I…I want it, no matter how badly it could end or if we hurt each other in the process of figuring it out," she confessed slowly, her fingers lacing together. Her teeth wanted to grit, every fiber of her being screaming at her for giving it up, for surrendering the fight. For surrendering the fight she had been losing for months. Nat never saw the point in fighting something she actually stood no chance against. It was inside of her, and inside of him, and there was no distance they could run to forget it, forget what they felt. Meeting his bright gaze directly, she murmured, "You were right; it isn't a joke, or a game, and I didn't want it...I didn't want it to make things worse. It's always gotten worse, or didn't work out in the past." She frowned, and Bucky grimaced; he'd been an unwitting witness to one of those times, knew how it had wounded her. The memory of Bruce rose again, a faint, bitter echo that no longer held any true sway on her. What she'd felt for him then was little more than a memory, one that she had not focused on for a long time. New focus had been found, unknowingly. Straightening her spine, she charged forward and told him, "But it hasn't, this time. Pulling away has. And I don't want that anymore. Maybe it's a terrible idea, but I've participated in worse ones."
"I'm beginning to understand why speeches tend to be Steve's thing," he remarked quietly, a lone eyebrow spiking and the corner of his mouth lifting. She shook her head, the lengthening red tresses of her hair shifting around her face. His eyes focused on it, then her face again as her self-deprecating smirk wore away.
"I'm being honest. Maybe I don't carry it off well, but it is what it is," she said, shrugging her shoulders. Turning, she took a step towards the desk, her eyes fastening on the pictures tacked to the wall above it. Photos from Steve's wedding, precious snapshots sent on to his friend, she surmised. She stared at the one of her, the coy wink she gave the camera at the time her disguise after a tough six weeks of blood, sweat, and tears. Pretty, picture perfect, and pristine ran through her mind. None of those words were accurate of her then, and were not at that moment, either. Looking over her shoulder at Bucky, she exhaled softly. Her mother tongue flowed out of her mouth, the truth drowning out the ingrained deception. "Ti takaya neobichnaya. No ya ne mogu s soboy podelat'. Ya tebya khochu."
When she'd finished confessing her want for him, her head snapped back forward, expression unseen. The tightness in her form, though, spoke for her. The usual fluidity she adopted was nowhere to be found. Bucky, digesting all that she had said, carefully rose from his perch on the mattress. Taking a few steps forward, he watched her back stiffen further, could practically hear her brain screaming about allowing herself to be approached from behind. Fisting his metal hand at his side, he instead reached out with the flesh one, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the thin material of her shirt as it rested upon her shoulder.
"Kak dolgo?" he nearly whispered, his thumb brushing back and forth, sliding from cotton to skin. The small touch made her shiver, the undetectable shake almost invisible. Pivoting on her heel, she faced him again, sea-colored eyes glinting in the low light. She raised her hand, palm laying atop his scarred knuckles and fingers hooking to hold onto him.
"For as long as you want me."
The moment lay suspended between them, undisturbed save for their breathing and the rising heat shooting between them. The air felt thick, heavy, but neither of them found it to be cloying even as they locked gazes. Heartbeats passed, thumping hard with each second going by. A sharp breath filled Bucky's chest, and then he glanced down, his hand slipping off her shoulder to slide into his pants pocket.
"…Ya veryu tebe. Ya veryu v tebya," he told her, so low that she could barely hear him. When she understood what he said, her eyes raked over him, the swell of something deep inside overriding the nerves of earlier. His bionic hand raked through his hair, the dark strands tousled and falling as he continued to stare at the ground. Sincerity laced his form as he huffed out a breath, his face twisting with it as he spoke. "You know...everything. How damaged I am. How far I still have to go. I know I don't really deserve the things I already have. But I, I can't help it. I want more."
Pausing, his blue eyes were stormy as he looked at her again. A slight tremor had wracked him, and instinctively, she reached out to him, her hand curling around his metal wrist. Swallowing hard, he twisted his arm in her grasp, sliding it so that instead she would be holding his hand once more.
"I want you, too. I just..." he trailed off, nodding his head to the sparse surroundings and down at his feet. "I wish I could give you more."
"Just give me this," she breathed, fingers shooting up and tugging at the collar of his Henley. She wasn't going to wait any longer, now that she had fully acknowledged and confessed the truth. She was so tired of waiting. Drawing him down, her lips met his, her softness enveloping his slightly-chapped warmth. She had thought to pace the kiss with him, given how he'd barely had any friendly interaction for seventy years, let alone anything with a romantic connotation. And so she did, sweet sips taken from his mouth carefully. Even so, the innocence of it was something she had not felt before, a run of pleasure from head to toe that was markedly different from pure lust. It was more than that, more than simple desire and base want. Still, when he took the initiative and opened his mouth, running his tongue along her bottom lip, she let the innocence drop. A moan rumbled in his throat as she rolled her own tongue over his, sparks and fire jumping up as he cupped her jaw, holding her close and meeting her for every stroke and slide.
"Hot damn, girlie," he gasped when they broke apart, a wide smile on his lips as their gazes met. His heart was downright rattling in his chest, and he could honestly say that was the best he'd had in seventy years.
Peering up, she smirked at him and raised an eyebrow, almost in challenge. "Movin' too fast for you, old man?"
The sweetness in his grin lessened, and that was a big enough hint for what came next. His hands, which had been cupping her face innocently enough, slid down her arms, the flesh and metal fingers grazing her bare skin and making her shiver again. All at once, his mouth crashed back onto hers, his palms jumping from her arms to her waist, bringing her flush against his body. Immediately one of her hands threaded into his dark hair, tugging on the strands and tilting his head a little. He allowed her the better access, but he met her halfway, tongue sliding along hers. Heat coursed and flowed between them, sparking as she curled her other hand into the back his shirt, arching up into him. Lips trailed away, down her jaw to her neck, open and hot as his scruff scratched her skin. Groaning, Natasha found herself being lifted up, desperate fingers clenching around the backs of her thighs. Her legs wrapped around his waist, arms slinging around his neck as she hung on. The gentle suck at her pulse point made her inhale sharply, and the moan reverberating in his chest made her insides quiver. He kissed his way along her neck, and in response, she mouthed the spot beneath his own ear, taking the lobe between her teeth and tugging on it. An electric thrill ran down her spine as he growled, his fingers digging in tightly as she rolled her hips against him.
Broken pieces, both of them, but damn were they fitting together at that moment.
The ferocity of his growl heralded the onslaught of his lips on hers, hunger and desire roaring between them. Breathless, she was left breathless for the first time in years, the thrum of her heart pounding throughout her body, his working in time with hers. Breaking apart, he caught her sharp inhale, smiling as he nuzzled along her cheek.
"Not fast enough, sugar," Bucky whispered, a shudder passing from her to him in that instant. Indulging once more in tasting her before he turned and carried her to the bed, he chuckled, and Natasha hummed in approval. She cradled him to her, secure as his body molded along hers. Whatever it was, what they had together, the labeling could wait until later.
xXxXxXx
Morning dawned, and Steve was up with it. It was too ingrained in him to not be up early, to be ready to meet the day. That morning, though, he was a little groggy still, enough so that he decided to postpone his run until the afternoon. Despite having little to no effect on him, he desired coffee instead. Particularly after the night before. Bucky had been surly and silent on the way back to the house, his gentle prodding producing nothing but rolling eyes and huffs. Letting it go, the two men parted ways in the kitchen up returning to the house, with his friend somewhat deflating and wishing him a good night before clambering down to his room. Steve had watched him go, disheartened by Barnes's clear disappointment. Whatever had been said between him and Natasha, it hadn't been good. But, he didn't want to talk about it, and the captain wasn't going to push. Instead, he took himself upstairs to bed, undressing carefully in the dark before crawling between the sheets, Holly unconsciously turning over and letting her arm flop over his chest as he settled.
It couldn't have been more than two hours later that the rumble of an engine up the drive roused him from his slumber. Squinting in the darkness, he rolled over, scooping up his phone and checked the security. JJ had sent him a message; Agent Romanoff was on the property, that much access granted to her. Expecting a text for entry, he felt confusion lace through him as the screen went black in his hands. Clarity came in the form of two doors opening downstairs: the basement door and the back door. Voices were low, unintelligible, male and female trading remarks. It went on for several long minutes, and Steve bit his lip, wondering if perhaps he should go down and intervene (or at least to tell them to either take it in or out; having the door open and leaving the house susceptible in the middle of the night bothered him immensely). Suddenly, quiet reigned again, the only sound greeting his ears being the nearly silent click of doors latching into place and Holly's heavy breathing. Foot steps faded away, and he concluded that their discussion would happen downstairs. Privacy, isolation was what they wanted, and tiredly, he shrugged to himself; he could give them that, and so he resolved to go back to sleep. With one ear listening carefully, in case they decided to kill each other and he had to interfere.
Another thirty minutes went by, and a knock came at the door. Steve's eyes snapped open, and he was on his feet in an instant, treading as softly as possible so as not to wake Holly. Peering through the slight crack he'd made upon opening it, he saw his friend standing there: disheveled, a wild look in his eyes and his hips angled awkwardly away. Spiking a brow at him, it took a garbled apology and a request for protection to realize exactly how far the conversation had gone. He'd flushed, barely choking off a laugh as he swiftly darted into the bathroom. Grabbing a few foil packets out of the cabinet, he returned and passed them through the crack, pleading for Buck to be careful while getting his ashes hauled. The other man had just shot him a glare as he took the packets, begrudging thanks given as he nearly vaulted down the stairs. Shaking his head, Steve had returned to his bed, consideration of the changed circumstances keeping him awake for some time after that (that, and the occasional muffled shriek of Natasha that managed to make its way to his ears through two floors; he'd had to wrap his pillow around his head and screw his eyes shut in an attempt to block it all out so he could get some rest).
Well, given how there was no blood on the floor or damaged furniture as he crossed from the living room to the kitchen, Natasha and Bucky had not killed each other. Quite the contrary, his brain kicked up, a snort shooting out of his nose before he could stop it. Shaking his head at the basement door as he passed, he made his way to the coffee maker, pulling out the carafe and filling it. The filter and the grounds were being put in just as a creak came from overhead. Holly was awake, it seemed, and judging by the patter of her feet, she would be downstairs in a moment to join him. A yawn practically echoed down the hall to him as her shuffling gait gave her away. Waiting on the coffee to drip, he turned and rested his elbows on the counter, looking up in time to see his wife stop by the basement door. Running one hand through her sleep-tangled hair, and the other scratching at the curve of her belly, she coughed once.
Hooking a thumb at the closed door, Holly wondered, "Should we let them sleep, or should I get them up for some breakfast?"
Steve's lips quirked at that; so she did know about what had happened last night. Off the look he shot her, she rolled her eyes.
"I spotted Natasha's car outside the upstairs window, and nobody was asleep on the futon or the couch," she explained. She had slept through the arrival, but she had been jarred awake somewhat by the knock at their door. Since it had not escalated in a fight or something as distressing, she let it go without comment. Dipping her chin, she continued, "And I doubt she's prowling the property...again."
Her husband choked out a bitter laugh. He remembered the agent casing the house shortly after their purchase all too well. She was just checking for vulnerabilities, or at least that was her excuse at the time.
"She's not," he confirmed, raking a hand through his hair.
Holly blew out a sigh, coming fully into the kitchen and standing beside him. Bumping him with her hip, she smiled up at him. "So they finally figured it out."
Steve nodded in confirmation. After airing his strong suspicions about his best friend and his teammate's attraction weeks ago, Holly had expressed how little the idea surprised her. She'd had her own summation that an undercurrent was there, based on their interactions at Thanksgiving and Christmas, but she'd kept her opinions to herself, in case she was totally off-base. Evidently, she was not.
"To a point, I'd say," he equivocated. When Holly blinked in confusion, he cleared his throat and dropped his gaze, a tinge of pink burning the tips of his ears. "Enough for, well, protection being necessary."
She snickered at that, a bloom of pink in her cheeks as well. "Well, my question still stands. Should we get them up or not?"
At once, the captain shook his head, eyes wide and mouth twisting in denial.
"Trust me; Buck was a chore to wake before everything happened. I'm not risking my neck for anything less than an emergency." He lifted a shoulder, and exhaled softly. The bubbling of the coffee maker had subsided, and he turned to see the carafe had filled as they spoke. Going and fetching a single mug for himself from the cupboard (a sympathetic grin shot to his wife as she eyed it enviously), he supplied, "Besides, one or the other of them will be up soon enough."
The caffeine envy was rapidly replaced by a devious glint in her eyes, her lip bitten as she pondered something. Spying this, Steve assembled his cup with half an eye on her, wary of what she was thinking.
"So we camp out at the table and wait, then?" she posited after a moment, a corner of her mouth lifting. A barely suppressed laugh tore out of his throat as he walked away, going to the fridge and picking out a bottle of flavored water for her.
"Doll," he said, the reprimand in his tone hardly present as he returned to her side and passed the bottle to her. A finger jabbed at him, and the impish cast to her face increased.
"That's not a 'no.'"
The barest hint of a smirk came across his lips before he pressed a kiss to her cheek.
"You're right," he murmured quietly, turning her towards the table and giving her backside a light pat as a prompt. "It isn't."
Mischievous glances passed between the pair, and Holly smiled slyly as she took a seat, Steve walking over to the pantry and rustling through it to find the ingredients to make pancakes. After all, if Bucky and Natasha were using his house and one of his beds to consummate...whatever was going on between them, the least they could do was have breakfast with them. Sipping at his coffee as he went, he canted his head once and got to work.
Meanwhile, Natasha's eyes fluttered open to the sounds of the feet treading across the floor above her, the clang and bang of pans followed by muffled conversation pulling her further out of the realm of sleep. The glow of the lamp burned her eyes briefly as she adjusted to it, and she breathed a moan out her nose as she arched her back. Fingers twitched over the bare skin of her stomach, legs tangled with hers under the quilts. The plates of the metal arm wedged beneath her had absorbed her heat, clicked tightly together so as not to pinch her in any way. Rolling over, she was greeted with the sight of Bucky Barnes, dark hair falling into his face as he slept. The rise and fall of his bare chest was almost rhythmic, the lines of his face smoothed as he rested. Running a palm up his chest, her thumb and forefinger tweaked the chain around his neck, sweeping over the star on his dog tag. It was the only stitch of clothing remaining on him, all others dropped away in the midst of their passion. She had been sated and satisfied thoroughly the night before, the aches and kinks he had pressed upon her welcome. What was not welcome, however, was the knowledge that she was effectively stuck down there. Having slept too long, sneaking out would be downright impossible. Unless she roused her partner in crime and made him consider options with her.
"Bucky," she whispered, poking his bicep. A snort and muffled sigh came, but he otherwise did not respond. Huffing out a short breath, she reached up, running her fingers through his hair. Relishing the tingling feeling of her nails on his scalp, he moaned a little in appreciation. Rolling her eyes playfully, Natasha tried again in a slightly louder tone. "James, wake up."
A sly smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth, and his eyelashes fluttered. "No thanks, 'm fine here."
A false, exasperated groan rolled out of her, and that got him to open his eyes. He grinned widely at her, cornflower irises lit up with amusement.
"Maybe so, but I can hear movement upstairs."
"And voices, don't forget that," he pointed out swiftly, chuckling at the slight twist of discomfort on her face. Oh, he had certainly heard Steve and Holly's deliberate movements upstairs, their speaking cadences and the muted clatter of cookery enough to shake him out of his slumber. Truth be told, he'd been woken by the first tread of steps, Steve's lumbering followed by the whir and beep of the coffee maker. Still, he hadn't wanted to get up; he was too...content, to be wrapped up with her in his bed. He reveled in the warmth and softness of her skin, her tight curves, melding them with the cut and angles of his body. Pushing the curtain of fiery hair out of her eyes, he smirked at her. "Quick escape is not on the docket for today."
"Maybe not," she conceded, a fast glance shooting up. A sliver of light was peeking through the shade covering the glass high up on the wall, an option hinted at. "Unless you boost me up through the window."
Following her gaze and raising an eyebrow to match the one she arched, it was his turn to grumble.
"That would imply that I want you to get out of here," he replied, hot flesh and cool metal constricting around her waist and locking her tightly against his body. Her stiffness had melted away, and she sank into his embrace, the pads of her fingers traipsing lazily across the bare skin of his arm, his neck. Closing his eyes and pressing his lips to her forehead, he mumbled, "And I don't."
"This isn't going to be easy, is it?" Natasha mused rhetorically, tracing over the bumps and ridges of his scars. Each had a different story attached to them, some of which she knew, some of which she had been the cause of herself (there was a slight one on his neck, a permanent burn caused by her collapsible wire two years ago). Her middle finger grazed over the ones along his left side, the branching lines from where metal was grafted onto flesh, and he let out a shaky breath. She had not shied away from them in the night, and she certainly would not do so then, it seemed. Though she already knew the answer, he was still compelled to say something.
"Nothing ever is, sugar," Bucky murmured, bending and pressing a kiss to the scar on her chest. His handiwork, though it had healed well. No, what they had would not be easy to explain, or fit into their dangerous lives. But that did not mean he did not want it, that he was not willing to work to have it with her. A chance had been given to him, and he was not about to waste it. "Not the things worth having, at least."
Once, twice, she blinked, and then she was pressing a hot, fast kiss to his lips, the hidden surge of her unspoken sentiments an underlying taste on her tongue. Another buss was dropped before she squirmed out of his grasp, throwing back the sheets and crawling off the end of the bed. The haze she'd left him in lifted little by little as he turned over, watched her pick her way across the floor to his dresser. Hypnotized by the sway of her bare hips, he had to forced himself to concentrate as she began to rifle through the drawers.
"What are you doing?" he asked, propping himself up with an elbow. A flannel came to her hand, and she gave a low mewl in delight.
"Borrowing one of your shirts," she told him, obviously shaking out the article before slinging it around her shoulders. A small frisson of disappointment laced through him when she did so, but it was replaced with another spike of pleasure. He rather liked seeing her in his shirt, even if she was practically swimming in it (he was taller than her by eight inches, roughly). Buttoning it up swiftly, she turned up the sleeves at the elbows before resuming her search. Ocean-colored eyes glimmered at him as she shot him a look. "If I'm going to be ambushed, I would like to be at least a little prepared."
By the time she found the other thing she was looking for, Bucky had sat up fully, his legs swinging over the edge of the mattress and his hands scrubbing at his face. The sheets around his hips fell a little as he stretched his back, and she could not help but watch as the line of his form grew taut and then relaxed. It was the calmest she'd ever seen him, and to know she'd had a hand in it sent a thrill through her. Natasha gave him a naughty grin as she tripped back to his side, a pair of dark green boxers dangling from her fingertips.
"Here, put these on," she told him, relinquishing the piece of clothing into his care. With a nod, he started to bend down, to retrieve his jeans from the floor, but her splayed palm on his chest stopped him. Furrowing his brow at her, she lowered her head so that her lips were almost brushing the shell of his ear when she continued. "Only these."
At her single stipulation, the furrow vanished, and he chuckled almost darkly.
"I like the way you think," he said, agreeing to her plan. If they were going to be caught out, they may as well own it. They were going to wage a small battle upstairs, and Natasha was determined to win. He was glad to be on her side, in more ways than one.
"You like a lot of things I do, Medved'," she remarked cheekily, a peck dropped on his cheek, his scruff buffing her lips. Flashes of the night filtered through his mind, and he growled playfully at her, snaking his hand behind her neck and pulling her down for a proper kiss.
"Da," he retorted when they broke apart. Serenity dawned on her features as she pulled away, scooping up the panties that had been tangled with his jeans and given him the chance to dress as she slid them on. Lower halves were covered, and they were ready to go. Hesitantly, almost shyly, he tipped his palm out to her as he stood, the newfound intimacy still taking some adjustment. With a small, nearly heartbreaking grin, she slid her fingers between his, metal and flesh crossing as the pair padded their way out of the room and up the stairs. Going into the kitchen, it was no surprise to see the similar shit-eating smirks on both the captain and his wife, both of them sending their greetings and gesturing for them to have a seat at the table. Plates and food were already set up there, waiting for them as they came in. Light, oblique ribbing was passed among them all, but Natasha was pleased to get a little of her own back in the form of Holly's slightly reddened face and Steve's eyes riveting to his plate to avoid staring at his teammate's disrobed state.
The dynamics had shifted once again, and all they could do was brazen it out and hope for the best. When the meal was concluded, and Bucky and Nat had all but scampered back down to his room, Steve merely canted his head to his wife, kissing her on the temple before heading upstairs to make a call. He had missed the one that had come in the night before, and the message left was broken and spotty. Still, he had been able to make out the caller's name, and so dialed in the correct return numbers. The tone rang three times, followed by a click and the canned voice of the outgoing message stating firmly that "you know what to do." The high-pitched beep coursed into his ear, and a small chuckle cracked his voice as he spoke.
"Clint, seems we're still unable to connect. Guess I have to ask you to call me back again. With any luck, I'll catch you before another week goes by. Gotta coordinate a meeting with everyone. And yes, that does include you, no matter what your paperwork says." His gaze shot out the open door of his bedroom, to the sliver of the nursery he could see through the crack. "It's important. Thanks."
Hanging up, he resolved to play the waiting game yet again. Tipping his chin up, he exhaled sharply, moving into the bathroom to shower and change for the day.
A/N: Another super-long chapter for you all, whoo. :-P We got some real romantic progress on Bucky and Natasha's part, and so the pairing labeling for them shall be altered from this point out. I know some of you might not find it kosher for them to get together that fast, but bear in mind that they've had a developing relationship for over seven months by this point in the story. And yeah, they're not exactly the healthiest of individuals, but who is, really? They still have time to figure it all out; this is just the beginning, after all...
And baby kicks (slightly embellished for the sake of the story) spur more changes to come, which I have been hinting at a little. And they do involve Clint's participation, and Tony's as well. I will get more in depth with those in the coming chapters.
All Russian dialogue was done with an online translator and therefore may not be 100% accurate. Also, it's written out somewhat phonetically because I'm not going to make you guys try to understand the original language characters. They are as follows:
"Ti takaya neobichnaya. No ya ne mogu s soboy podelat'. Ya tebya khochu."- You are so unusual. But I can't help it. I want you.
"Kak dolgo?"-For how long?
"Ya veryu tebe. Ya veryu v tebya."-I believe you. I believe in you.
"Medved'."-Bear.
"Da."-Yes.
Yeah, Nat's nickname for Bucky is "Bear." Let that soak for a minute...Also, threw in a bit of 1940's slang for fun. If you're curious about the song they danced to, it was "Sing, Sing, Sing (With a Swing)," written by Louis Prima and performed by the Benny Goodman Orchestra—which I don't own.
I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.)
I know it's getting to be a common disclaimer from me, but I just want to put up a warning because it is a holiday week: next week's chapter might be late. Again, getting to be an old refrain, but I'd rather warn you guys and actually have it be on time than not say anything and leave you guys stranded for several days, wondering what's going on. That said, to my American friends: happy Thanksgiving to you all! And to my non-American friends: happy last full week of November!
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!