AN: It's taken a (looong) while but here it is. Now officially an AU in light of the heart-breaking plot of Civil War, but I think my world is a kinder place than the one the (evil yet wonderful) Russo Brothers and Markus and McFeely have concocted.

This fic now therefore includes some minor elements of Civil War - but let's say that a certain tape went missing from that Siberian bunker, and Bucky's memories of his missions hadn't fully returned - so it was just Zemo's word (and aforementioned Hydra agent's) that Bucky carried out the Starks' deaths. So Tony never totally loses his shit (pardon my language), and has time to rationalise his response and instead helps 'bring in' Steve and Bucky. And Rhodey never gets shot from the sky because WTF? The 'shoot the POW on sight order' discredits Ross 1 and Ross 2, and gives the gang enough leverage to get a house arrest ruling from a sympathetic judge for Bucky, and pardons for the rest of Team Cap. Plus T'Challa speaks in favour of it all (love him), so that gets us to the un-cryogenically-frozen place of team-togetherness this fic inhabits. Russos, Markus, McFeely, Feige, the make up scene between Bucky and Tony better be Oscar-worthy - that's all I'm saying.


It's 6am and somehow Nat has managed to wriggle her way-with numerous half-conscious kisses and caresses impeding her progress-out of her room and away from the unanticipatedly cuddly delights of a post-coital supersoldier, and is finally making her way toward the much-needed calories her overtaxed body's now almost audibly crying out for.

And despite desperately wanting to satisfy her primary craving for food, she'll happily admit that in her personal hierarchy of needs, sex is now definitely on a level standing. And hadn't it been a while since that had happened. If ever.

But James is still mostly asleep and she's still mostly worn out. So food it is.

Her eyes are already adapted to the after-hours half-light of the Avengers base, and her familiarity with the layout makes navigating her way from her room at the far end of the residential corridor virtually effortless. But it's only her extensive and highly painful training that stop her from voicing her surprise when she stumbles upon a silent pj-clad Steve Rogers sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. In the dark. Huh.

Clearly supersoldiers getting between her and her sandwich was the theme of this morning. Though she doubts this encounter will be quite as pleasant as the last.

She's assumed he's heard her coming, but after a beat or two of waiting and no words forthcoming, she quietly clears her throat to announce her presence. Still nothing. He doesn't even turn to face her, instead continuing his apparently fascinating contemplation of the counter top. Wait, are those headphones?

Nat walks on soft feet in an approach that allows her to sweep past Steve's beautifully-defined back and snag the cable out of his left ear on her way to the fridge.

Steve almost jumps straight out of his bar seat. "Jesus Christ!"

Natasha can't help the satisfied smile that twitches her lips as she pulls open the icebox door. "Not quite. Morning Steve."

She lifts out one bottle of water before reconsidering and pulling out a second, and turns back just in time to see the half-hearted stink eye Rogers sends her way. He still sucks at lying in both word and deed, so the effect's almost totally negated by the quirk of amusement playing over the left corner of his mouth.

"Morning Nat."

She holds out the water bottle to him as a peace offering, which he takes with an outstretched arm and a nod of thanks, finally dropping his look of exaggerated annoyance for a slightly-tired version of his typical genial expression.

Nat pulls out a replacement water as Steve unscrews the cap on his and takes a drink. She might currently be on a post-orgasm high from the attentions of her tall, handsome, dark and deadly edition of the two resident supersoldiers (and cuddly, she can't forget the cuddly), but you'd have to be made of stone not to be given pause by the sight that a ruffled Steve Rogers made drinking from that condensation covered bottle. Sharon would be a lucky woman if the two of them ever got their act together.

Steve's apparently missed her initial perusal, so she shoots him a follow-up over-the-top look of appreciation to retaliate. Sure enough a pink tinge of embarrassment flushes his cheeks and a bout of uncomfortable throat clearing commences. Good. If they were about to have the conversation she suspects they were about to have she'd prefer him slightly off his game. Not to mention that bashful's a pretty good look on him.

She moves some grapes to one side and starts eyeing up the sandwich filling options. What to have?

Steve clears his throat again, clearly trying to get her attention this time.

Oh well, here goes. It's definitely going to be a first for Nat. Rogers was up to bat, but that didn't mean she wouldn't go down swinging.

She looks back over her shoulder at him, sees him inhale deeply in preparation of whatever he's winding up to say, and so she does the only sensible thing a world class spy can do and sets about deflecting for all she's worth.

She turns and nods towards the high-end headphones and Stark phone now lying on the counter.

"I didn't think you knew what Beats was? Sam?"

Steve looks a little irritated at her (beautifully timed) interruption, but, as she knows all too well, he's far too polite of a person to ignore a question directed his way, especially one from a friend. She can literally see him biting his tongue at the fairly obvious redirect.

"No Wanda got them for me. Sam doesn't rate them, too much bass in the balance or something... Look, Nat..."

"Well they are designed for Hip Hop and Sam's a bit of a soul and RnB purist. They're decent but there are a couple of specialist audio brands who'll give you a little more color in the replay - more like vinyl, but not quite. I can give you some suggestions."

Steve's amused look was back, "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind".

Thank god, she needs to keep this light if she's going to get through it. She pulls out the block of Dutch cheese and plate of sliced turkey from the fridge. And, oh, there's a prepped salad she can raid too. Score. "One of Sam's playlists?"

"No, it's an audiobook about astronauts. Nat..."

"The Martian?" A swing and a miss from the opposition batter. She's starting to understand why American men think about baseball to distract themselves - it's working like a charm for her. Now the question is does James like peppers? Everyone likes peppers don't they? And should she bring him an apple juice or orange juice? She's seen him drink both.

"No, real astronauts. I figured that maybe hearing about the wonders of actual space travel would be enough to keep my focus away from any sounds from down the hall. Buck prefers orange by the way."

And it's a hit. She grabs the bottle of orange juice out of the fridge, closes the door and turns round to face what was likely to be a shovel talk for the ages. It was inevitable she supposed. Not even her best evasion techniques could make Steve ignore the fact that she was currently wearing his best friend's shirt as a nightdress.

"Thanks for the input. So, am I getting a dressing down from the boss over breaking fraternisation regs we don't have? Or is this more a 'hurt him and I'll end you' conversation I've got coming?"

Steve gives her a considering look and raises an eyebrow, "As if I'd ever be able to make good on that threat."

Natasha's game face cracks into a small warm smile at that. Steve's respect for her skills has never been anything other than genuine, despite their disreputable source. "So what did you want to ask?"

She honestly has no idea how this conversation will go now the two standard options have been taken off the table. But Steve was always making her revise her expectations.

Steve looks down at the counter before taking a breath and locking his gaze with her own. "Nat, you're one of the most insightful people I've ever met and also one of the most...reserved..."

He sounds so apologetic when he says it, Nat can't even be bothered to summon up her standard comedic mock-outrage. "Closed-off you mean?"

Steve lets out a little exasperated huff, "You're not, at least not any more anyway, not round us."

She almost wants to dispute it, for her professional pride if nothing else, but she wants to know where this was going more. Plus Steve thinking that, it wasn't the worst thing in the world.

OK, that was enough of a moment, "So...?"

"So, I know how much you're not going to want to answer this question, but I gotta ask because Buck's my family and he's been hurt enough for several lifetimes, and you're my friend, and despite how little you talk about it I know you've been through hell too."

Natasha feels the breath catch in her throat and has to force herself back into normal respiration. Crap, why did she let him impact her this way. Even worse, she suspects that Barnes is going to turn out to be an even bigger threat to her (perfectly healthy thank you very much) repressive tendencies.

"Just spit it out Rogers, I have places to be." Steve's look of discomfort returns, but he's been asking for that one, and unlike some people she's only human.

He gives her his best 'You know what Romanoff?' look before continuing. "Until now those places have been wherever Bucky isn't, or in my office telling me he's too unstable, dangerous, vulnerable, etc to leave the compound never mind go on missions. You even disapproved of him going to Clint's farm. And now 'those places' are my best friend's bed. So, I gotta ask. What's changed?"

There he goes, pulling out the trademark Captain America honesty and hitting a home run. And he didn't even blush this time. She'll be proud of him later, once she's dealt with the dozen other emotions swirling around her gut. She's not even really feeling all that hungry any more.

"Would you accept hormones as an answer?"

Without saying a word Steve manages to convey with his eyes alone exactly how unimpressed he is with her jokey response.

"Geez, tough room. Fine. Just give a girl a bit of time to process."

She's too tired, too hungry, too sore, too relaxed, too scared, too elated, too everything to be Natasha Romanoff right now, so with a deep breath she drops the mask -one she suspects Barnes had seen past almost instantly-and allows Natalia to step forward. She leans against the counter, crosses her arms, contemplates the tiles for a moment and wonders if Steve can tell the difference.

She raises her head to meet his steady and supportive blue gaze. "He was a good guy, back before Hydra got him, wasn't he?"

Steve's brow crinkles at her question but there's no hesitation in his reply. "The best".

She feels Natalia's lips curl up into a rueful smile "And he still is. He's so much better than me, stronger than I ever was, and yet he refuses to see that. And the way he looks at me..."

She can't find the words, but Steve finds them for her.

"Like you hung the moon? Yeah, I've noticed."

She'd give him shit about the old-fashioned phrase if it wasn't so perfect. "God, it was pissing me off."

Steve's eyebrows both shoot up at that. They're going to get a serious workout before she's done.

"You all see me wrong." There the brows went again, coupled with a look of concern. "Don't get me wrong, I'm happy about that, you all see me how I want to be, who I might someday manage to be once I've done enough good in the world to start to balance out all the bad. But James knows better. Everything he blames himself for, that he did without choice, I chose. The options may have sucked yes, but I had them to pick between. Yet he thinks I'm worthy of his admiration, his affection even. I kept wanting to punch him in the head to try and knock some sense into him."

Steve was physically biting his lip at that one.

"With Bruce, I'd given up. I was the monster they'd made me and nothing I'd do could change that, so why not run away with someone who still liked me and pretty much felt the same way about themself right?"

Steve was struggling to contain his surprise at her bringing up her ill fated flirtation with Banner. But it was necessary context and Natalia was apparently in a confessional mood.

"Yet along comes this guy, a guy who's pulled the trigger, feels the blood staining his hands, but who deserves war hero, brother and POW written large in his profile way above any mention of assassin, and he even has Captain America as a character reference. He knows what I am Steve, in all its technicolour, first-person glory, and yet he still looks at me like that. Like I really can be that person, The Avenger. Once I got over being angry at him for making me feel inadequate, I had to admit to myself how desperately I wanted that. And well here we are. And I'm pretty sure I'll fight to the death to keep it."

Steve's expression is strained, and the glassiness of held-back tears is softening the too-emotional look he's giving her even further. Natalia's throat tightens. It's time for her to go. Natasha turns back and pulls the fridge open with possibly more force than is required, pulling out the bowl of salad, and some hummus and mayo, before (softly) closing the door.

"Want a turkey salad sandwich?" She digs the pre-sliced French bloomer out of the well-stocked bread bin.

"Nat, I-", she turns around brandishing the chef's knife she's just pulled from the wooden block to cut up the cheese. He takes the hint, "Yes. Thank you."

She knows the thank you is about more than just the snack. She nimbly portions out the cheese into thin even slices. She'd make a good chef, lord knows she has the knife skills. "Two okay?" She knows how much he has to eat but often foolishly doesn't.

"Yeah, that would be good thanks."

She pulls out bread for six sandwiches, luckily they buy the large size of everything, even loaves. Now that her insides have stopped somersaulting she can probably get through at least one and a half and she's sure James won't have too much difficulty finishing off the rest.

She's familiar enough with Steve's food preferences now after a few years of living and working together that she assembles his almost as quickly as she would her own. Well, as she typically would her own. Now that she's decided on sharing it with James suddenly his preferences seem more important than hers. She prefers hummus over mayo; she has no idea what James likes other than her and chocolate. He has a pretty serious sweet tooth. And apparently they also have a shared love of raisin bread to fall back on. She needs more intel. And to not have something as simple as a god-dammed sandwich throw her off.

This is why she's always kept her personal relationships as simple and select as she has. Her life's already complicated enough. She can hear Steve fidgeting with his water bottle behind her, clearly considering if he should say something about the fact she's frozen mid-build.

Well if you can't go to the source..."Does he like hummus?"

Steve stops playing with his bottle cap and looks unexpectedly upset. "I don't know, it wasn't exactly something we were able to get growing up and I don't know if he's ever tried it. I used to know everything about him, and now I don't even really know which out of the two of us is the older."

Nat puts the knife down and turns around to properly face him rather than continue to glance at him over her shoulder. "Does it matter?"

Steve picks at the bottle label and shrugs. "All things considered it probably shouldn't, but it does."

Nat, of all people, knows how important it is to have some certainties to hold on to. "He is, still. Just. I've compiled a time line of all his missions from the Hydra data I've decrypted. They amount to under a year of active duty, but the Russians also seemed to like using him for training other agents on occasion, so there are a few instances where he was out of the ice for a few weeks at a time. Your age gap was about a year and four months, you were out of the ice for around two years before he was bought out to deal with Fury, and a near as I can tell he's been awake for around 13 months over the last seven decades. So he's still your big brother, it's just a little closer than it was."

The smile he sends her way is pained but grateful and lasts only a moment as his mind registers the other aspects of what she's just said. "Training missions other than those supersoldiers in 1991. Who? And when?"

"The who and where were heavily redacted, I'm hoping James can fill in the gaps." Steve looks unhappy at the prospect but resigned to the necessity of it.

The 'when' of a few of these missions has given her pause, but if James had been used by the Red Room she would have known. The dates closely coinciding with her own advanced training and graduation had to be nothing more than coincidence. His memory might still be a bit of a jigsaw, but she's pieced hers painfully back together and has the complete if bloody picture, she's certain. But not too certain to not ask questions. And she would, but not today.

"So how does James feel about mayo and peppers?"

Steve's frown lightens without totally disappearing. "Not a fan of the first and as for the second, see above re hummus."

She salutes Steve with the knife before deciding to add the sliced peppers and hummus to her own so James can try them out and leaves them off the other two. Worst comes to worst she can probably finish off that half.

She loads up Steve's two helpings in a double stack on a plate and places it in front of him on the counter. Steve nods his thanks and carefully picks up the triangle closest to him and pauses, watching her heap the remaining sandwiches on two more plates and tuck the two, now only slightly-chilled drinks bottles under her arm, before collecting up the food to finally return to her room.

Steve purposely catches her attention as she's about to head past, "You know, he's not exactly keen on being called James either."

It's said in that teasing tone of Steve's she's come to know and love, but no way is she going to leave that one just lying there. "Oh, I'm pretty sure that with the circumstances I'm calling him that working in my favour, I'll get him to love being called James."

Steve half chokes on the swig of water he's just taken. Sometimes he's still so innocent.

"I mean James just sounds so good when it's being screamed..."

"Nat please stop." Steve's face was rapidly going a shade of red that would put her hair to shame.

"That's not what he said." Steve lets out a groan.

Come on, that was hilarious on so many levels. This was too much fun to stop now.

"Natasha please, I'm begging you." Steve was equal parts mortified and amused by the looks of him - she could improve on that.

"Now that was definitely something he said." Steve's head hits the counter with an audible thunk.

"Just go please."

Natasha salutes as much as she's able to with the plates still in her hands even though he can't see it, and gives her fearless yet easily embarrassed leader a smart 'Sir, yes Sir', before heading into the hallway. On the threshold she turns back to Steve who's still splayed over the marble counter top. "Oh you might want to stay put and take in the next chapter or five of that book you're listening to for the next hour or so. Two tops."

He lifts his hand to give her a two fingered wave of acknowledgement and reaches for his ear buds without raising his head. Steve Rogers was a lot of fun, she'll use her bites on anyone who says differently.

She gleefully walks down the long, featureless corridor towards her room at the far end and towards the singular man who's ripped her carefully-constructed barriers to shreds. She plans to return the favour imminently, with his clothes as her primary target.

Nat stops in front of her door. Anyone looking on would assume it's to figure out the logistics of opening her door with no free hands, but that isn't it.

"How much of that did you hear?"

James emerges fully-formed from the almost non-existent shadows of the hallway. Nat would love to pretend she knew exactly where he'd concealed himself but at best it would be an educated guess. The small, complicated smile on his heart-stopping lips makes her professional envy all but evaporate. "Enough."

He takes the plates from her so she can initiate the finger print scan and open the door to her quarters. The second they're both through he door she claims back the plates, places them and the drinks on the first suitable surface, and shoves him hard against the nearest wall. He looks upset for all of one second, until she presses her warm and pliant body firmly against his and short-circuits the fight or flight reaction she sees coming and should really have known to expect. She hopes he can read her apology in the literally breath-taking kiss she lays on him. All her training, and his, focused on not telegraphing their movements, it's going to be a hard habit to break.

The heat of his mouth's intoxicating, his breath carrying just the hint of something sweet that she hadn't noticed before, and if she were in the slightest bit artistically inclined she'd already be composing sonnets to the things this man can do with his tongue. And dear god, was she looking forward to exploring the full range of that particular talent as soon as humanly possibly. She pulls away from his lips to grab a few necessary, panting breaths, her open mouth still pressed to his jaw, refusing to disconnect, her torso flush to his, her breathing outpacing his, but at least her lower half was still willing to obey her, her right leg pressing between the two of his and her thigh exerting a perfectly judged amount of upwards pressure against his groin. Well maybe not perfectly judged. She increases the pressure and bites and sucks gently on the strong tendons where neck and shoulder meet. The strangled sound and shudder combination this gifts her make her reconsider her grading system yet again. She's at least going to need a top 10.

She dives in for another combative kiss, before braking from his lips just long enough to trace a searing path along his strong jaw and sun-deprived, alabaster skin. "I brought food."

"I saw." He wraps his flesh fingers into her locks and tugs up just hard enough to encourage her to expose the full length of her own neck to him, one of her most vulnerable spots, and she more than willingly cooperates. The thrill of allowing someone this deadly that much access to her person is almost as much of a turn on as the sensory delights of soft lips skilfully playing symphonies across all her erogenous zones. She knows he's a sniper but still, wow.

Natasha gasps for air, and this time when she rolls her hips across his it's more about her own gratification than his as overwhelming want overrides most of her higher brain functions. And as this means that suddenly both her legs are now gripping his waist, her scorching centre pressed demandingly against his hard shaft she doubts he'll complain.

She nods, realising it's been too long of a delay between words uttered for this to be now really be considered a conversation. "Food after."

James nods his agreement, strands of hair already adhering to his face due to sweat, "OK." And then whatever sense they had left to the pair of them goes out the window. Nat's preciously guarded sense of time and place warps and melts to a singularity of addictive sensation. And oh god, they're in the bed, they're beautifully naked and he's kissing down her stomach and not stopping, his mouth traces over her pubic bone and his tongue parts her lips, diving into her core, and oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, don't stop, please don't stop, yes, yes, god more, there, there, right there, perfect, can you even breath?, now I can't breath, oh god, oh god, oh god, James, James, James, JAMES, "JAMES! Fuck!".

Her climax washes over her and she's left a sweaty, trembling, over-stimulated mess as Barnes kisses his way back up her stomach looking wholly satisfied with himself. "Well at least I remember how to do that."

She opens her mouth for what she was certain was meant to be an ego moderating jest, but all that comes out is an elated giggle. That couldn't be her, right? He nussels his almost perfect nose into the inside of her heaving breasts and the final vestiges of her exceptionally rational mind pack up their bags and leave. She takes several rapid panting breathes before forcing out her first pre-selected words in the last 15 minutes. "More please."

She can feel his smile against her skin, it's like a call to arms, she needs this, it's a sense of completeness she's never found in any mission or calling. God he could be the end of her, but at this very moment she can't seem to care. His nose, lips and locks of damp, dark hair trace an unerring path back to her centre but Nat's earlier desires stir her to action and she tangles her fingers through his unexpectedly thick chestnut tresses and guides his head back up to the level of her own. This might make her a sadist admittedly, but she's also admittedly a bit of a control freak, so as she halts what would undoubtedly be a mind-blowing round two, she's driven by a more pressing desire. He follows her lead so beautifully that she barely has to exert any force to get him on his back beneath her and lying perfectly still as she repeats his actions from just moments ago. Kissing his sternum and continuing down his impeccably sculpted abs until she presses a soft kiss to the tip of his fully-erect dick and gets a full-body shudder in response. She looks up through her expertly curled and tinted eyelashes to find those normally pale, steel blue eyes, irises compressed to vivid colour by the involuntary expansion of his blown-out, pitch black pupils, fixed on her every action, as she opens her mouth and without warning takes in as much of his length as she's able to. The full-body convulsion that follows drives him further into her throat than she's anticipated, but she adapts quickly, hollowing her cheek, pressing up her tongue and using just the slightest touch of pressure with her teeth as she raises her head up, quickly employing her hands to caress any part of him that might be feeling neglected upon her withdrawal, before diving in eagerly once again. His shocked gasp is everything she hoped it would be.

God, she could do this all day, or at least until her jaw starts to protest. She draws back up, applying pressure with her lips and with the flat of her tongue to the sensitive under-side of his erection. Fingers, both flesh and metal are entangled in her hair but he's exerting enough control not to grab on. That wouldn't do. Natasha raises her head up and swirls her tongue around his decidedly sensitive head before reaching back with both hands to apply a gentle pressure to his balls and a firm thumb to his perineum. She can't explain why she's gone for this rather heavy-handed approach, but she just knows it will do the job and somehow also knows it won't ruin the rest of their morning. Without any empirical data what so ever to back it up, she's totally convinced that she can make him explode and still get taken to church by him shortly after.

Bucky, no James, flaps a hand at her, "Nat no, I'm going to...you need to stop." She pauses for a second. From what she's seen so far she's assumed he was sexually experienced in most things, but she's not bothered to actually ask, yet seeing him coming to pieces above her she decides then and there that that simply doesn't matter. Experienced in one aspect doesn't mean experienced in all and she's determined to give as good as she gets. And damn was it good. This now is more for her than it is for him and so she dives back in, deep-throating him and applying yet more pressure with thumb and fingers. With a strangled yelp he's surrendering to her, releasing hot and bitter spendings that she quickly swallows down and follows up with caresses and kisses to his still half-hard shaft as he gasps for air in the aftermath. Her hand quickly joins her lips, and the doubled focus does just what she's anticipated, bringing him back to full attention in just a few well-timed strokes. "Well isn't that nifty."

He looks far more surprised at his body's response than she is, and that's not going to do either of them any good, so she enthusiastically distracts him by reaching up to capture his lips for a long, slow, sweet kiss as she returns to her favourite position of being fully impaled on his lap.

Their joint groans are borderline obscene and entice another rush of pleasure that builds on that already emanating from where her body grinds against his. She uses her expert muscle control to rise and fall and squeeze until he's as much of a gasping, quivering wreck as he'd just made her, until the strangled words "Natasha please," make her relent and she cedes control back to him and then promptly looses her mind.

He withdraws, making her feel momentarily bereft, before he flips her over and plunges determinedly back in, literally balls deep, and proceeds to hit her in the proverbial bulls eye, with, each, and every, single, superhuman, thrust of his hips, while his mouth moves with purpose and precision over her breasts and neck.

Oh f&*ki%g*c*#t*n^hell this wasn't sex, it was some divine torture formulated to reduce her to a useless, needy, forever-distracted wreck of a once-feared super spy. She claws at his back as he thrust in and somehow hits her sweet spot again and again. God she doesn't care, about her reputation, about any of it, just let her keep him. God please, please let her keep him this time. She feels inexplicable tears gathering in the corner of her eyes and an irresistible building of sensation and pressure until she's once again screaming his name as lights explode behind her eyelids.

She feels his cock pulse inside her as his release quickly follows her own. It's glorious. But just moments later she feels him still and his body tense even as his face comes to rest against her collar bone, his deep breaths tickling her skin. She swipes away the wetness gathering at the corner of her eyes with the heel of her hand before he has time to notice. "So who's Yasha?"

What? She doesn't realise she's saying it out loud until he repeats himself in the same level tone. "Who's Yasha?"

It feels like he's talking in another language until she realises he is, hers. "It's Russian for James. Well as close as we get anyway. I thought you'd know that one."

"Oh, right." He sounds embarrassed. How that's possible after he's made her scream like that she can't understand.

She strokes his now sweat-soaked hair away from his lovely face and turns it towards her, "Do you prefer that to James?" He looks at her with an uncertain but considering expression in his eyes, as if the diminutive already has some hold over him. Natasha won't stand for that, she has points to prove. "Well tough luck, I don't care if you do, I'm still calling you James, because that's your actual name."

His eyes flash and his lips do something best described as borderline illegal as he leans over her and captures her mouth in an indulgent, drawn out kiss, "Whatever you say Natalia".

Shit she's so far gone she should probably pay up to Clint along with the others. Considering the circumstances he might actually accept the cash as well. Though she'll still be getting the better end of the deal.

He shakes off the uncertainty that descended when she christened him with the (never to be used again. And where had it even come from?) Russian pet name and shoots her a look which she can only imagine is one of the traits that made Bucky Barnes the popular guy he was reported to be around 1940s Brooklynn. "How about I make you forget your own name as well as mine?"

"I'd say you have yourself a deal Sergeant." A delightfully playful kiss is his response and it's almost enough to deter her from the momentary lapse of judgement, or return to sanity, whatever you want to call it, that makes her finally put her figurative foot down. "After we've had something to eat."

Only the now audible grumbling of her stomach and the sympathetic rumblings of his own prevent him from protesting. She climbs out of the bed, and unabashedly strides out to collect their makeshift picnic in all her unclothed glory. When she hands the plate of sandwiches over to him, she's certain it's not just the food putting that hungry look in his eyes.

He virtually inhales the two she's made for him, and gulps down the juice, so she passes him over the half of hers she's reserved for this very reason, along with the second water, and watches as he takes a small exploratory bite, before he clearly decides he's okay with the flavour combination and sets about consuming it almost as fast as he did the first.

Natasha's never found watching someone eat interesting before, off-putting is more like it, but now she's engrossed as opposed to her usual grossed-out. She wants to memorise every quirk and gesture he makes and every habit he has. Do other people feel like this or is it just her training coming out to play to help her normalise these new, strange circumstances?

But this isn't the spider watching her prey, this is pure fascination. It helps that he's a tidy eater. But not tidy enough to avoid a trace of hummus painting the corner of his mouth before he finishes. She clears the plates away and finds herself reaching out a hand and wiping the mark slowly away with her thumb as he swallows his last mouthful. And eyes locked with his she slowly and gently pushes her thumb against his lips until he grants it entrance to his mouth, and the caresses of his tongue sweep it clean. The sensation travels straight to her core and she can tell by the focused look in his eyes that he's noticed her reaction. She withdraws her thumb just enough to sweep it over his kiss bruised lips and kneels up exposing herself fully to his gaze, which drops downwards to the visibly-growing dampness between her thighs. She stills her thumb, applying a gentle downward pressure to that sinful lip, telling him without words 'this is mine now' and leans forwards, bringing her own mouth up to breath hotly into his ear. She's not touching him at any other point despite the fact that his cock is once against standing proud and practically begging her to reach out and take a firm hold. She inches forwards slowly until her lips are almost caressing the shell of his ear before whispering in her most seductive tone "So, did you like the hummus then?"

"What?"

The painfully turned on confusion present in his voice and expression are enough to make her break character and giggles are welling up despite her best efforts to quell them. "The sandwich. Did the hummus do it for you?" The laughter is starting to spill out now, she can't fight it.

"The sandwich."

The look he gives her's so deadpan it breaks through the last reserves of her will power, and she's doubling over in her amusement. But he's not laughing with her. Maybe she's misjudged this one?

She looks up just in time to confirm that yes, she has made a mistake, but it was looking away. The wicked gleam in his eye is all the warning she gets before he's pouncing on her and everything else becomes an unfocused blur, as her giggles transform to groans, and her world and awareness become solely centred around the touch of his hands and the captivating and changeable blue of his eyes.

Notes: Please point out any errors. Save me some work. And the next (and last?), already written chapter will be up shortly. *In case you were wondering about the 13 month bit. In CA:TWS Nat tells us he's credited with over 2 dozen assassinations over 50 years. So clearly they had to wait for Zola to be freed and to perfect the control process, so he probably didn't get used for a mission until the late 50s or early 60s. Add to that that his mind starts to repair itself to the extent that the WS techs tell Pierce that Bucky's been out of Cryofreeze too long after just a handful of days, then we're saying that missions probably needed to be restricted to 2 or 3 days each tops. Even adding in a heck of a lot of uncredited kills and 'accidents', and time for experiments (sob) it's unlikely that Bucky's seen all that much daylight since 1944. *