It was nice enough, Bellamy considered that day's turn of events and nearly nice morning conversation a success due to the simple fact he refrained from trying to kill her. It was the most they talked, their silence filled the rest. Bellamy wondered if her reminder of his newly realized sense of free-will seemed to stick with him and make him think in a healthy way. She hoped he could find some sense in her words, and tried convincing herself in the meantime he looked to be with constructive thoughts rather than bad ones, that he was staring at the bookcase rather than glaring.
Constructive thinking when conscious or not, he still couldn't control his unconscious stream of thoughts, and that was when she realized she was foolish for thinking his situation to be so black and white. That night in the close quarters of her apartment as she tried to tidy her room, she could hear an array of noises coming from the living room, all expressing pain. Her hand rested on her gun contemplatively, but his yelp pulled her from the room without it, and she stumbled in on him having what could only be a nightmare.
"James," she shook his shoulder gently. His arm flexed, making a mechanical sound, and she had to duck out of the way as he swung it at nothing. "James, wake-up. You're okay," his restless squirming was growing more ceaseless, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his anguished face. Her heartbeat picked up nervously.
"No!" He cried out, before letting out a wail similar to the one she had been forced to hear as they wiped his mind in their imprisonment. It brought back the feelings of original pity from the time she first realized he wasn't just a mindless monster—monsters didn't feel this kind of torment. She shook him harder, realizing she couldn't even imagine what he was dreaming.
"Bucky! Bucky, wake up!" He jolted upright, panting heavily and eyes looking around him frantically. She was still latched onto his shoulders and forced him to look into her own eyes as he still tried searching for an unknown enemy around them. "Bucky, you're here, you're with me. You're safe. Bucky…you're safe." She kept repeating, like a chant, breathing hard with him. His eyes were calming as he stared at her.
"You…" His eyes were locked directly on her, his voice twisting the word in a mixture of realization and wonder, and she was confused as he pushed past her off the loveseat, running away with heavy steps. The front door was still locked and sealed when she automatically checked there, and then finally understood where he had run to when she heard the sound of him retching in the bathroom. Her footsteps were slow, weary and tired, and she grew angry, almost, at the evil in the world.
So much progress she had seen—he had looked at her with knowing confirmation after nearly being pulled back into the nightmare, only for him to suffer now from this. She didn't feel sick, other than the discomfort she felt at the sound of his violent struggle behind the half closed door, so it couldn't have been the food they ate. Or maybe, he just hadn't eaten in so long, maybe it was too much for him at once, the food and everything else around him. But really, she knew it ran deeper than that. It was the first of many times she nearly called Steve, but didn't. Instead, she sighed and walked into the bathroom, hesitantly holding his unkempt hair back. In between his struggle, he tried pushing her back, but she persisted and won after another wave of nausea attacked him.
"Go away. I don't want you here." He told her after he shuddered and flushed the toilet, trying to sound forceful and cold, but lacking persuasion. She shook her head firmly, and he didn't bother arguing. Instead, he sank backwards down onto the ground, pressing himself into the corner, pressing his face against the cool bathtub. She sat down against the door, pulling her knees to her chest. "Why weren't you sleeping?" He asked with his eyes shut, his face twisted in a grimace. She looked down at her knee caps, not wanting to watch if he suffered another bout of sickness.
"I heard you." It took him a long time to respond. She looked up, wondering if he had nodded off. He was staring at the door above her with intense interest.
"Will I ever be okay?" He whispered, his eyes trickling down the door before he locked eyes with her. "Will it ever stop?" The vulnerability in his voice reminded her of him asking desperately about the man he remembered on the bridge.
"One day." It was the only thing she could tell him, no matter how bleak. He was right, he didn't deserve anymore lies. She could see that his mind was still stuck in that place. It wasn't good. She stood up silently and walked out into the hallway, going and retrieving a washcloth and a large towel. He hadn't moved an inch when she returned. "Up." She told him. He looked up at her blankly. "Come on, you need to clean yourself up. Time for a shower." His eyes narrowed a bit, and, as if he were now a bit conscious, drew the back of his hand across his mouth. Surely, he knew what a shower was; he wasn't Thor who was used to bathing in the rich hot springs of Asgard.
"I don't—"
"A shower will help you feel better. It'll wash all the dirt away and it'll feel good on your back, and neck. That old sofa wasn't comfy before it was even broken, it can't be good to sleep on." He resembled a robot sometimes, especially in moments like this, like he couldn't comprehend what she was telling him. Maybe he really couldn't, she wasn't sure, but she moved past him anyway and turned the knob for water that was hotter than just a warm, but not too hot.
He stood by her, not moving. Gently, she gave his normal arm a guiding pull towards the shower. He frowned, pulling back a bit, until she looked up at him and pulled his hand again, still gentle but with a firm grasp, to let him feel the water run over his fingers. "Is that a good temperature?" He left his hand there even after she removed hers. Finally, he nodded absently. She looked around, wondering how to get him properly underneath the running water. "Alright, um…do you want to get in now?" He didn't answer. "Because, we're wasting water…the environment is a bit more in danger nowadays than it used to be." He looked at her quizzically. "Never mind that, environmental awareness can wait. I'll, uh…here, I'll just go and get you some soap…" She left the room and went back to the hallway closet, retrieving a new bar of soap. Pausing before entering, she pressed her ear against the door. She didn't want to return too soon, in case he had started undressing, but she couldn't hear anything other than the steady shower. Her hand knocked on the cracked door, knocking it open a bit wider, and earning her no reply.
Bellamy pushed in, eyes halfway shut already as if she were expecting the sun, but he was still standing the way she had left him, staring at the water running. She sighed lightly, holding the soap in her hand.
"The hot water doesn't last for too long." He didn't react. The thought of maybe getting him to shower at a different time crossed her mind, but she could still smell the lingering stench of sickness, and she knew he could too. It was time he started fresh, and washed the literal dark circles away from his eyes. "Come on, then. The water feels good." She pulled his hand again before she herself stepped carefully into the tub, feeling her hair immediately flatten to her head and her shirt cling to her skin. He frowned deeply at her as she pulled him in with her, and they stood staring at each other in the tub, like two unhappy rumpled cats with their pelts soaked in the rain. "See?"
His eyes looked up slowly to the shower head he was standing directly under, and she froze, hoping he wasn't about to rip it from the wall with the unlimited strength in his arm. Instead, his eyes fluttered shut, and he tilted his head back all the way, the water running over his eyes and eyelashes, the stubble and hair on his cheeks and chin, and sleeking his hair down as it cleansed him, freed him from one less constriction, like rain run-off water dwindling down a mountain to the valley.
It almost felt wrong to disturb him, but she gently reached out, grabbing a hold of his shoulders. His eyes opened immediately and he stared at her through the water. "Turn around." She instructed, and he cooperated after a moment, now letting the water pound against his chest, ruffling the cotton shirt that stuck to his skin. His eyes closed again, and she filled her palm with shampoo before she brought her hands to his hair. His head twitched backwards slightly, and she made a small sound in shock when his metal hand tightened around her wrist instantly. Her hand was outstretched and straining with no possibility of motion as her forearm was wrenched over his shoulder. She let out a shaky breath as he watched as the remaining shampoo drizzle from her hand onto his shirt and to the bottom of the tub.
"What are you doing?"
"I was just…" What was she doing? It was almost embarrassing really, but he still withdrew his hand from hers nonetheless. She immediately pulled it closer to her chest and circled the ligaments in her wrist. "You looked like you've never been taught the concept of showering, I was just making sure you got a thorough wash." Her voice was slightly defensive, out of the embarrassment she felt. Really, the situation she was in at the moment was questionable enough without her having to complicate it further by trying to wash an assassin's hair, especially when that assassin was a capable young man and had almost succeeded in killing her multiple times prior.
"Sorry." He told her. She hesitated now, her instincts telling her to hop out of the tub to escape her clumsy mistake and put out the burning mortification, but it almost didn't seem right, like leaving a conversation hanging. Bucky stood as if he were waiting for her to proceed, his hands obediently at his sides. In a way, it almost seemed mean to leave, for some reason. Maybe she was just imagining it.
"Do you…uh, d-do you want me to…?" She spoke up, because she felt obligated, but immediately regretted the decision and wished she had just gotten out. "I, I can—if you want, or I can leave. I'll leave."
"You can." He told her, keeping her in place with his vocal confirmation. She panicked on the inside; what if she had made him think this was a normal activity? The only thing keeping this chaste was their clothes, they were in an entirely too intimate setting for her to wash his hair like couples did. Some couples didn't even do this. Every ounce of professionalism in her body, the maturity and sensibility she had acquired early in life couldn't understand how she had gotten herself into this position.
Fury's words came to her at that moment, Agent Romanoff is comfortable with everything. She wasn't Natasha—she was trained to get the job done in the most orderly professional manner, not by the ends justifying the means; she was trained the right way. Lawful. Her hesitation continued until Bucky glanced over his shoulder; truthfully he had become one with the tiled shower walls surrounding her in her vision, until he moved. "Are you…" He didn't finish as he eyed her in slight confusion. She sighed, shaking her head, trying to shake her averseness. "You aren't?"
"I'm not?" She questioned with a blink. He could've been asking if she were alright, or maybe if she were going to, frankly, just grow up and do as she had clumsily, foolishly, started to do and just wash the man's hair. Either way, he had mistaken the flustered shake of her head as her answer and shrugged lightly.
"It'll be fine." She blinked once again at his response, though not out of confusion, but at the thoughtfulness that washed over. Sure, his hair would be fine, most likely, despite the visible knots and deadened ends, and sure, she would be fine too. As if to confirm this new mindset, she took an intake of the steaming air, exhaling her former embarrassment, and filled her palm with more liquid shampoo.
The white liquid turned to thick white bubbles, covering his hair like a foamy blanket. She took care to tilt his head back far enough to ensure the soap wouldn't burn his undoubtedly sensitive eyes. The focus in her fingertips relaxed as her mind began to switch from the task at hand to self-evaluation she couldn't hide from. Many times, she had, though not outwardly, looked down on the field agents like Natasha. The assassins, the employees of espionage, notorious for sinking to any means to achieve their missions, be it lying, deceit, seduction, ruthlessness. That was the dirty way, the way that was always the easier route, at least to her. It always seemed much harder to get the jobs done with a professional grace, always demanding respect, always being the bigger person, always better in her ways simply because she had always thought herself to be more prudent. Better, better, that's what they told her, anyways. There was a reason why she the Deputy Director rather than Natasha, right?
But, despite all of her seemingly impressive credentials, she had still flinched away from a mildly embarrassing situation she herself had created. Natasha wouldn't have even batted an eye, she could handle anything, and it was that fact that made her realize what she had always thought to be immaturity was actually extreme maturity, and something she apparently lacked. Despite her experience out there, she had always only taken down the easy thugs, the easier suits, or sealed the deals on peace agreements. It took a whole lot more to handle an unpredictable mission where you never knew where the day would take you, you never knew what your person of interest was going to do.
The only importance in front of her was fairly simple; James needed help. Yet, she had managed to complicate it. It wasn't hard, she had helped many people in need, many children in the small African villages littered with hunger, with AIDS, with malaria, and every other god-awful thing that existed in the world. That was it, another connection. She had done with James what she would've done with any child; she was trying to care for them. Because they had no one else, simply that. They had no shoulder to lean upon.
Her fingers had already traveled from the tips of his brittle hair to the base of it, where her fingers were swirling circles into his scalp when he finally spoke, interrupting her movement and train of thought. "You were right," he murmured. It was the most at ease she had witnessed him, even compared to sleep, which always seemed disturbed. "This does feel nice."
"A shower can help anything." She agreed distractedly, before she began to turn him back around again. He was facing her once more, and he tilted his head on his own, washing the soap out of his hair with his hands. She watched the bubbled foam build up on the ground and slide down his shirt, realizing he was still dressed. That wasn't efficient. "I'll leave you to it now, um, take as long as you'd like." He nodded, eyes still shut as she climbed out, dripping water onto the floor and taking the large towel to dry off. She shut the door behind her and went to her room to change into something dry.
An hour later, after she had started brewing the coffee and scrambling eggs, she was still towel drying various strands of her hair, blinking tired sleep out of her eyes. The sky was a salmon color, quickly turning orange with shades of blue peeking out behind the buildings as the sun began its ascent. Despite the popping of the bacon in the pan, she was still slumping on the counter, in danger of hitting her head if it slipped from her upright hand, when the shower cut off. A moment later, the door opened and she jumped, blinking at James who poked his head out the door. A strand of soaking hair dripped water onto his face and the hallway wood floor.
"Do you have a towel?" He inquired. She realized she had taken his and instantly sprang forward, hurrying to the hallway closet and grabbing another large one.
"Sorry." She apologized and looked away down at the floor politely. He said nothing as he took it from her, though she thought she had saw his lips twitching before she turned away.
"And clothes?" She started and turned back to him as he stared back blankly. "Mine are wet."
"Oh…er, right. Hang on, I'll just…be right back." He shut the door again, and she stayed standing where she stood, before she swallowed. She had only one man's clothing in her house.
Her steps dragged, slowly carrying her to her closet. With rigid fingers and slow movements, she pushed her clothes to the side to reach the ones at the end of her closet, having belonged to her brother.
The pants came first, before her fingers gingerly, reluctantly, settled on a long sleeved cotton shirt. There was a soft black spot, she knew it from the memories of the nights spent clutching the fabric to her chest, crying. The nights she was kept up, sleepless.
Her eyes stared at the two articles of clothing with unseeing eyes, realizing she could never completely not see both her father and brother's murderer in Bucky. She wanted to see him as a victim, she wanted to believe it, she wanted to help him selflessly, but could only see his actions. Now, she was to give him the only clothes of Bronson she had and watch him walk around like an awful cruel joke only she knew?
Bellamy continued to stare at the clothes, before she remembered, somehow again, Natasha. She pushed her heart back down her throat and walked back numbly towards the bathroom, knocking twice and leaving the clothes on the ground in front of the door. She didn't wait for him to take them and instead moved to stare out the window at the city.