Glamourous locations were never high on the agenda in his line of work. Tonight was no exception to that. There rarely were. The building he was currently crouched in would no longer be a building in the morning. The condemned signs had been plastered all over the walls and boards, informing members of the public that they should stay away for their safety. He had ignored these warnings, ripped a hole large enough to get through and gone in anyway. The hole he shut once again, not wanting any attention. He had then moved off to find a suitable spot to wait. At least in here it was out of the softly falling snow.
The building was devoid of most signs of life. No carpet covered the floor, wallpaper, long since succumb to the damp infecting the building now peeled and crinkled on the wall like aged skin. The smell of damp was underpinned by stale piss, and the odd empty bottle loitered in the corners here and there. A small part of his mind registered that this had once been the home of tramps; he was probably going to be the last living soul to leave the building before it was destroyed.
The stairs were about as stable as he was.
Once on the third floor, he began the short set up process. The large gun he had been given for the job would not be coming back with him. It was screwed together within minutes, something he was able to do with his eyes shut – he had been made to on numerous occasions. His eyes then turned to the window. On this floor, they had not been boarded up. No one expected someone to enter the place from this height.
Pointing the barrel of the gun out the window, the rest on the ledge, he waited. His mind utterly clear, he watched the street below for the Target. It did not take long for him to appear. He would have just finished the live show of Chaz Pik. He had not been given a reason for this, just told what to do and when to do it. The Target crossed the street. The wind died, the snow ceased to matter. A quick look down the sight was all it took. Relaxing his face, he squeezed the trigger. There was no crack only a small thud, a clutched chest and a woman screaming.
Dropping the gun, he stood and headed back down the rickety stairs, far quicker than he had gone up. He no longer needed to worry about being silent; he needed to be out of there. The motorbike was hidden just behind the house; the vehicle was his way out. The something happened that The Winter Soldier did not anticipate.
Stood in his path was a small, gangly looking creature. Large brown eyes looked out from a gaunt face. The clothes the boy was wearing were little more than rags, there were holes in his shoes and marks on his face. This was a problem. It became clear that this child was using the house as a hidey hole, maybe for the night, maybe it had been on a more permanent basis. It wasn't for him to care about.
He regarded the dark eyes, watched as they flicked from his face to the hand gun at his hip. A frown flickered. "Hey!" the kid said. "Did you see what happened out there? Did you-" Before he could think, the gun was in his hand aimed right between his eyes. There were no more words to say. The kid's voice turned into a high pitch scream. He squeezed the trigger. Warmth splattered over his face and he was moving before the body was on the floor.
It was the sound of screaming brought Natasha up from the depths of sleep. Beside her, thrashing around as though he were entangled, was James. Knowing that this was probably a bad idea, she placed a hand on his shoulder, "James?" he asked. There was no real response so she gave him a shake. His skin was slick with sweat, his breathing came in gasps and pants and his nostrils were flared. "James, wake up," she said, sitting up beside him so she could see what was happening a little better. She flicked on the light.
His eyes flicked open and she rapidly withdrew her hand. There was no recognition in his eyes for a long moment and he looked at her as though he had no idea what she was doing there. His hair was plastered against his face and he looked pale, paler than usual. She didn't say anything for the moment, just pressed her lips together and gave him the time he needed to come back to himself. She watched him run a hand over his face, pinched the bridge of his nose and wipe his eyes.
"Are you alright?" she asked, knowing that was a lame thing to say, it was obvious he was not. He sighed but gave no real answer.
"I'm going to shower," he muttered. She watched him scoot off the bed, utterly naked and felt helpless. She heard the shower flick on and his movements in the bathroom, it had her wondering what he must look like with the water cascading down his bare form. Natasha screwed her eyes shut. How dare she think something like that when he had clearly just been through something pretty nasty? Part of her knew it was the drug running through her system and that she could no more help it that he could help the bad dreams he appeared to suffer from. It did not stop her from feeling terrible about it however.
When he returned, he was wrapped up in a red bathrobe and sat on the edge of the bed, "Sorry you had to see that Nat," he said, shortening her name. Normally she would have protested such a thing but it sounded fine coming from him. She scooted to the end of the bed so she was sat beside him, the blanket around her for warmth more than anything else.
"It's alright," she said, "Was it bad?"
"I think I shot a child in the face," he said, his voice was little more than a whisper. A hollow feeling grew in the pit of her stomach when he said that and she felt a pang of sympathy for him.
"You know that wasn't you right?"
"I still did it," he replied, "I didn't have to shoot the kid, could have knocked him out instead," he said. Her hand found its way to his and she forced down the rush of need that surged through her at the contact. She had no idea what to say, he had made a point and she wasn't sure how to proceed.
"You didn't know what you were doing then, had no control over it, just as I have no control over what's going on right now," she said. It seemed as though he was constantly being put in this position and part of her detested Fury for doing so.
"I still have to live with it," he mumbled softly. He looked around at her then, the pain so clear in his usually bright blue eyes that it stung her to see him thus. She also knew there was very little she could do to help.
"Does anyone else know about this?" she asked. He shook his head and she wondered whether she should say something. There were people who would be able to look into this for him, maybe ease that stress a little.
"It's alright Natasha," he said. He gave her hand a squeeze then and a whimper escaped her lips. He frowned, "You've been holding out on me?" She squirmed and nodded her head. "Why?"
"It wasn't fair on you," she whispered, "You needed time and I… I could… well…" she trailed off without really saying what was on her mind. He leaned down and kissed her softly. His mouth was gentle, tender almost and without thought, he hand brushed his cheek.
"Thank you," he said, breaking the kiss. She smiled and pressed her lips together, her thoughts losing coherence.
"Do you need…?" She nodded, unable to stop it any longer. He pulled her onto his lap with a sigh and she noticed that he was already hard. It did not take long, a couple of deep thrusts and she was climbing to the ecstasy of release. A couple more and she was there.
When she returned to herself, she leaned hear forehead against his shoulder and let out a sigh, "I'm so sorry," she whispered. His response was to just kiss the side of her head.
"Neither of us can help this," he said. He lifted her up then and drew her back up to the top of the bed, "We should try and sleep, we're going to need the energy," he said. She could only nod as he drew the quilt back up over them.