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6. Step over all that used to be

He's remembered waking up at the bottom of the gorge. He's remembered being dragged, looking at the bloody stump in place of his arm. He's remembered the sound of the bone saw they used to cut away the flesh before attaching his arm. He doesn't remember that part, for which he is thankful, but he does remember waking up with it the first time. It was heavier, felt awkward. But it worked well enough when he tried to choke the nearest man. He hadn't been successful, of course, because he wasn't as fast back then. Now, he'd at least kill everyone in the room before they could bring him down. Which may or may not be a good thing.

The decades are a blur. Waking up to kill and going back to sleep. Most of his missions, as far as he can tell, relied more on stealth than destruction. But he was always good at that kind of thing. They hadn't managed to get him under control at the very beginning. Sometimes he refused to go, or didn't return to extraction points. Sometimes he spared the people he was sent to kill, or at least didn't hurt anyone who wasn't on the list. But that hadn't lasted long. They'd strapped him down again and invaded his brain. He doesn't know what they did or how they did it; the only records he's found don't go into much detail. Which might be for the best anyway.

They'd broken him down until he did just as he was told. Except that made it harder for missions to be completed efficiently. So he'd been given some of his autonomy back after he'd proven his loyalty. And life was a monotony of pain and death and bitter, bitter cold. But at least he had some power on missions, some ability to improvise and enjoy his freedom from dark rooms and darker cryo chambers. He'd learned quickly how much leeway he had before they would punish him.

Still, it didn't exactly make life worth living. Not that they allowed him to think of such a thing. They told him often enough of the difference he was making, the hero to the nation they'd turned him into. And he'd endured because he was always a survivor, even if it meant living through an unimaginable hell.

Until Natalia.

He doesn't know why they chose him to train the girls in the Black Widow program. Surely someone else could have taught them hand-to-hand combat and how to act American, someone besides a weaponized ghost. But he'd been chosen, and he applied himself to the task with the same dedication he always exhibited. And they were pleased.

The girls were afraid of him; he could see it in their eyes the first time they were brought into the padded room where they would train. At that point, the remaining girls were in their late teens or early twenties. As near as he could tell; they weren't encouraged to keep track of such things. He'd assessed them all carefully and identified their weaknesses quickly. They had previous combat training, but these were the best of them. Perhaps he was the only person the Red Room had at their disposal who was better. He'd had decades to train, after all, as well as some natural aptitude. Or maybe it was an unnatural aptitude.

There were ten girls then. He doesn't remember them very well, at least not in terms of appearance or personality. He does remember their weaknesses and strengths regarding combat readiness. Natalia was the only one of them about whom he had noticed more than was absolutely necessary. And it wasn't because of his programming or an attempt to break out of it. It was because she wasn't like the others.

After the first time they'd sparred, she'd stayed behind to ask him for pointers. The others had fled, some tearfully, as soon as they had lost. But not her. She'd pulled herself to her feet and walked over to him, almost managing to hide the soreness in her muscles. In all the decades since he'd fallen from that damn train, no one had talked to him like she had. It wasn't that she was warm or affectionate, not that first time. She just asked him a question like he was a person, someone allowed to have opinions and ideas and who could help her get better. Somehow, he hid his surprise at how such a small gesture made him feel (or, more accurately, that it made him feel). He'd told her what she wanted to know. And, when they fought again the next day, she'd clearly taken his advice to heart.

He doesn't know how long he was there, how long it was that he trained young assassins in red rooms hidden deep underground. He wasn't sent on any missions outside, and each day was roughly the same. The highpoint was always Natalia's sessions. At the beginning, the whole group was always there, and she was just one of those he fought. But, later, the lessons became tailor-made to the individual girls and it was hours of just the two of them, alone in the room, almost dancing around each other.

Perhaps it was sloppy of his masters to have allowed it, to let him get close to anyone. But there were other girls with whom he spent the same measure of time, and there was no danger from them. They were afraid, afraid of his metal arm, his cold eyes, his deadly reputation. Natalia, always pragmatic, saw him as an asset, an expert who could help her, rather than a monster, just another barrier to be overcome to earn the Black Widow title. They were determined, driven, like she was. But they didn't see how similar they were to the Winter Soldier, and she did.

He'd gotten fast, faster than he ever would have training alone. His own limbs were a blur as he drove her across the mats, jumping back to avoid his blows in a purely defensive stance. But when they reached the wall, she suddenly ran up it to launch herself at his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around him in what would later be her signature move, and she used her momentum to bring him down while also cutting off his oxygen supply. It wasn't as effective that first time as it would become, but it did give him pause. Once he could get a grip on her, he threw her with all his force against the wall.

The effort was bone-rattling, and she slid to the ground and stayed there. He slowly rose to his feet, his right hand straying to his throat to rub at it as he tentatively approached her. When he got close enough to begin wondering what the protocol was for injured, possibly dead, trainees, her eyes snapped open and she kicked his legs out from under him. Caught by surprise, he dropped heavily onto the mats, then stared up at her as she stood over him, a smirk on her face.

"Good work," he said softly, and her smile grew. She offered her hand, and pulled him to his feet when he took it.

"Thank you, sir." When he was standing, she took a few steps back and seemed ready for an attack.

"Where did you learn that?" he asked instead.

Hesitancy flickered in her eyes before a genuine smile appeared on her lips. "I adapted it from one of our dance moves," she explained, almost shyly.

"It was well-done. If you approached a little more to the right, you'd have been able to get a better grip," he offered.

Her nod was appreciative as a bell rang somewhere in the building. It seemed to startle her, and she looked away toward it. "Session over," she said softly, directing her gaze back to him.

"So it seems," he answered, wondering at her behavior. "Until tomorrow, trainee."

"Tomorrow, Soldier," she responded flatly, before turning away and leaving the room. He couldn't shake the expectation that she might look back at him, but she didn't.

Their fights after that became less rigid and formal-feeling. She told him stories while they stretched, some of them true, and he offered her more praise on her moves than the other girls. Of course, she was better than them. More innovative. He gave her more advice, seeing that she would use it right away. Sometimes she even advised him back. He found himself thinking about her between sessions, first about how to improve her abilities, and then about more than that.

He realized, possibly for the first time, that there could be some joy in his life. Duty was paramount, but serving his country alongside someone else, a friend, made such a significant difference. He knew she would not be around forever, that he was just her trainer, but he couldn't imagine going back to how things were before. He didn't think of her as more than a friend, and perhaps not even that. An ally, maybe. His vocabulary didn't involve many terms for those he didn't have to kill. But she was not as broken as he was, and she saw their connection differently.

Her training took up more and more of his days as it became apparent that she benefited the most from his tutelage. The other girls worked with him one or twice a week, but Natalia spent almost every afternoon sparring with him. One day, she was practicing with knives. He was especially adept with those, and was not armed himself. Just disarming her and dodging her attacks. She didn't like it when he just waited for her to attack him. Her attacks became faster and less accurate when she was angry, but she drove him back against the wall and he was forced to retaliate to keep from being backed into a corner.

But she flipped a knife around and pressed it to his throat. And he smiled at her. "I concede," he told her.

Her eyes narrowed at him, and she didn't move away. "Why won't you attack me properly?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Questioning your training?"

"No, my trainer. Soldier, I can take it if you attack me."

"I know. But that's not what we're doing here today," he explained calmly, ignoring the knife-edge nicking his skin. "I'm trying to help you become the best."

She stared at him intently, making him wonder if he'd said something he shouldn't. "Why is that important to you?"

"It's my mission," he answered, surprised.

Her gaze flickered away for a moment, then back. "Why me?"

He licked his lips uncertainly. Why her? Why not the others? "I like you," he replied quietly, discarding the more logical reasons he could have supplied.

Without warning, she leaned forward to press her lips against his for a brief moment before breaking away, a smirk on her face. A smirk that he sometimes imagined was only for him. "That's what I thought. Again?" she asked, stepping back and into a defensive stance. He smiled genuinely in response and prepared to attack, pushing away the thought that he'd never felt more light on his feet.