Author's Notes: Hello! It's that time again, and I am so pleased with myself. Let me tell you why. 1) Finals are OVER! 2) PLUMS and 3) Got an idea for another story.

The week started out rough, but definitely ended on a high note. With that in mind, I hope this chapter makes all of you a little giddy. There are memories making themselves known. Things are really about to start heating up!

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel or Cap or Bucky or Nat. They're just my imaginary friends I hang with occasionally. No crime there.

Chapter 7: Present

Plums.

Of all the fucking things to matter, it's plums.

Natasha huffs as she stares at the ceiling above her bed. Honestly, she asked for this, didn't she? She's the one who wanted to remember. She's the one who spends hours at night, lying awake, searching her mind for some magic key to unlock what she's forgotten, all while she listens to James quietly cry out downstairs, trapped in his own memories.

She isn't sure which is worse.

Remembering certainly seems logical, even for all its horrors. It makes the most sense. It allows for more information. More information creates better contingencies. Better contingencies equal a greater chance of survival. Yes, remembering logically seems the better option.

But God help her, it sure as hell doesn't feel like the better option.

Look at her, she's actually hiding in bed to avoid going downstairs. She knows that James is awake. He's been awake for hours, sometime after three that morning after waking from his last nightmare for the night. She'd listened to him pace for another hour, barely picking up the hushed, angry Russian muttering under the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. She'd never managed to distinguish the words, but the rhythm had soothed her somewhat.

That's when she abruptly remembered the plums.

Fucking plums.

Natasha would rather focus on the plums than the feelings they bring. Honestly, she shouldn't suddenly feel so sentimental about a goddamn fruit, but Jesus Christ, she just wants to smile thinking of them. More so the way James had called her Natalia for the second time, that twitching smile on his lips, as if he was still trying to remember how to smile and what it meant. She remembers the way her stomach had felt like it was playing host to a colony of butterflies and the way her heart had beat in her chest like a drumline. God, she'd felt like a little school girl with a crush on her teacher.

Holy fuck, she had been that schoolgirl.

Fuck her.

Fuck. Her.

Natasha groans into her pillow. And look at her now. Still in bed. Obsessing over plums like they have some extraordinary meaning that others just wouldn't understand. Which they wouldn't. The plums were . . . they were a truce. No, they were a promise.

Just you and me.

Fuck this.

With more determination than is warranted, Natasha throws back the covers on her bed, heedless of the way they land on the floor, and stomps into the bathroom where she showers and dresses with methodical precision as if she's a soldier meeting a five-star general. By the time she looks into the mirror, her mask is in place. Her hair is slick and shiny, her makeup flawless. She's in her favorite leather jacket and boots that give her an illogical sense of protection against whatever she may find downstairs.

Given that she knows it's illogical, she's hard-pressed to be surprised when it doesn't work.

James looks up from the table the moment she's on the stairs, the pen in his hand pausing over his notebook. No big deal.

Then his lips twitch, and it's the same meager but genuine little smile from her memory.

Goddammit.

"I'm going out," she says. "Don't go anywhere."

James doesn't have time to reply before she's out the front door, leaving him staring after her with a puzzled frown that she doesn't give herself time to see. She marches to the car and throws it into drive, hoping that the speed will distract her, but with her superior reflexes and decades of experience, navigating the twists and turns of the country highway requires very little of her attention. So she has nothing to do but to berate herself for being compromised.

Christ, she's never been so compromised in her life.

She feels . . . fragile. Unbalanced. Spooked. It's not just a memory from her past. It's a part of her that she doesn't remember. She's worked so damn hard to separate who she wants to be from what the Red Room made her, and now she knows that there's yet another part of her that was ripped away and stolen. It infuriates her. It makes her want to scream. It makes her want to rage.

It makes her want to cry.

Natasha sets her jaw and blinks forcefully against the heat in her eyes. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to relax. So what if she remembers feeling so free? So what if she remembers feeling rebellious and challenging and—God, help her—hopeful? So. What.

The memories don't change what happened. It doesn't change her past. She just has another piece of the puzzle, another way to explain why her stomach had flipped as she'd stood on the stairs with James smiling that feeble smile of his. She made him smile.

Natasha pulls into the grocery store parking lot but doesn't immediately get out. She sits with the engine idling and "All Around the Watchtower" playing softly on the radio and realizes that she's done this all before. She and James have danced this dance. It's as if they're reenacting how they met all over again, and that terrifies her.

Their story isn't one that ends well.

"It's different this time," she tells herself. "You're different."

Natasha scowls in annoyance and shakes her head, abruptly cutting the engine and throwing open her door. Two steps into her stride toward Costco's automatic doors, Natasha has her mask back in place. She grabs a basket that she doesn't need and takes her time working her way through the aisles, grabbing a bag of Doritos on impulse and then a package of Oreos. By the time she's in the produce aisle where she actually needs to be, her basket is overflowing with junk food.

Her eyes scan the rows of fruits and vegetables until her eyes land on a familiar purple. She stares at the fruit for a long moment before she reaches out and begins to feel them for bruises. It's illogical, but picking the right plums feels important. So she spends the next five minutes feeling plum after plum and declaring all of them unworthy. She's frowning critically at a plum in her hand when an elderly woman shuffles up next to her and begins to peruse her choices.

She's entirely unlike the old woman from the antiques shop. She's dressed smartly in tan slacks and a soft pink button down shirt. Her white cardigan hangs open, brushing against the lower shelves were the carrots and broccoli are kept, and her red-rimmed glasses perch precariously on the end of her nose. Instead of pushing them back up, she tilts her head back until she's peering down her nose and raising her eyebrows to look through her bifocals. Natasha wonders how many grandchildren the woman has to corral since there's a colorful streak of blue from a Crayola marker over her knee.

The woman glances over at her with an easy smile. "Beautiful day," she says.

Natasha smiles slightly. "Busy."

"Oh, don't I know it," the woman sighs fondly. "I'm babysitting for my oldest today. Addy and Tristian. Addy's quiet, but that boy . . ." She tuts and shakes her head. She huffs through a smile. "I'm getting too old to keep up with them."

"I doubt that."

The woman laughs. "Well, you just wait until you're where I am," she says before sighing a little sadly as she begins to feel the plums. "My husband, Harold, his memory isn't what it used to be," she explains. "Put the laundry in the dishwasher the other day." She chuckles. "That was a sight. Ruined my favorite blouse. I'm just afraid one day he'll be one of those people that just wander off and gets themselves lost." She frowns and Natasha thinks she would be twisting her hands if she didn't have a plum in them.

She glances at the fruit. "Are those his favorite?"

"What? No, he hates them!" She chuckles. "But they're supposed to be good for memory, so I mash them up and make a jam out of them. Puts it on his toast every morning none the wiser."

Natasha smirks even as her mind seems to buffer over the sheer irony of plums. Good for memory. Go fucking figure.

"Well," she says, filling a bag with plums. "I might try that."

"Oh?"

"My . . . friend. He has amnesia. I've been trying to help him remember."

The woman grips Natasha's arm with surprising strength. "Good luck, dear," she says. "But don't set up expectations. They'll always know they're disappointing you, even if they don't know how."

The advice is meant to comfort her, Natasha thinks, but it only makes her stomach sink. Because if James remembers her, does he expect her to act . . . like, like Natalia? She doesn't remember being that girl. She doesn't know if she can be that girl. She doesn't know if she wants to be that girl.

No. She doesn't. She likes being Natasha. She chose to be Natasha.

"Are you alright?"

Natasha smiles at the woman's concern. "Fine," she says. "It was nice talking to you."

She walks away before the woman can say anything else, pays for the plums and junk food, and thinks on the whole drive back to the cabin on the idea that somehow, all these weeks, it can easily be James that's been waiting for her to get her memory back. How fucking ironic is that?

The cabin seems disturbingly domestic yet daunting as she parks the car. The little porch is inviting with its two abandoned rocking chairs tucked into the corner. There's a flicker of light through the windows that seems to beckon her inside, but the shadows cast by the roof and the trees seem too dark, too long—like creepers along the forest floor. There's no noise from within the cabin. She can't even hear him pacing or the scratch of his pen on his notebook.

She's greeted to a strange sight. Well, not really. Just a new sight. James sits on the couch in her spot, with her book in his hands, already a third of the way through Anna Karenina. James snaps the book shut without marking his page as she shuts the door behind her. "I didn't know you liked to read," she says as she sets her bags on the counter.

James eyes Natasha appraisingly, trying to determine just what spooked her that morning. Whatever it'd been, it's still bothering her, and he shifts restlessly on the couch. "I didn't either," he says.

Natasha smirks as she rips open a package of Oreos. She hops up to sit on the counter, perching the cookies on her lap. "Learning something new every day," she says before holding out an Oreo. "Here, try one. They're arguably better than the Doritos."

James inwardly doubts this. He's already clocked the familiar red bag sticking out the top of one of the grocery bags, but he feels compelled to indulge her and walks into the kitchen to take the proffered cookie. He eyes it curiously before tossing the cookie whole into his mouth, which proves slightly problematic when the consistency is much thicker than he anticipated. He chews awkwardly while Natasha smirks at him and pointedly bites off no more than she can chew.

He glares at her as he swallows. Natasha raises an eyebrow. "So, what's the verdict?" she asks.

"Doritos."

"What? C'mon."

"Is this all you bought?" he asks as he looks in the bags. "It's not exactly healthy."

"You're hardly in a place to judge my food choices. And look, there's fruit in there." There's a hitch to her voice that James can't pin. "I bought plums," she continues. "Good for memory."

He looks up at her, and though Natasha tries to keep her face blank, there's a shadow in her eyes that she can't hide, and James spots it. His stomach begins to twist and his heartbeat falters. He wants to shuffle his feet and look away from her like he's . . . embarrassed? No. Disappointed? No, not quite. Frustrated? Maybe.

He feels like he's missing something, like she expects him to make some connection, but he can't imagine what or why or how.

"You remembered something," he assumes. Natasha shrugs as if it's no big deal, but James sees right through it, and in that moment, her behavior that morning clicks. She's remembered something, and apparently she isn't sure what it means or how she feels about it. His lips twitch. "Complicated, ain't it?" he says.

Natasha smirks in return but it's not sly or sultry or playful. It's nearly sheepish. "That's one word for it."

On a whim, James reaches in for a plum and takes a bite. The fruit is sweet, but he swears he tastes more than that. It's strangely bittersweet in a reminiscent way. "Can't hurt," he says.

Natasha smiles a little. "No. Guess not."

And James feels like he's done something good.

He tries to hold on to that feeling as night falls. He keeps it locked tight in his chest as he chops what Natasha orders him to chop in the kitchen (carrots, celery, tomatoes, lettuce, and more green, leafy shit). He suspects it's payback for his junk food comment, but he doesn't mind the mindless activity. It allows him to watch Natasha out of the corner of his eye and inwardly smirk at the way she critically assembles a salad as if she's wiring a bomb.

It's . . . cute.

He doesn't think that Black Widows are supposed to be cute, but he'll be damned if he doesn't think that his red ballerina isn't fucking adorable with her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed as she tosses a goddamned salad.

His thoughts are drifting more and more toward such . . . sentimentality . . . the longer he stays at the cabin. And the more he remembers. His memories of his time in the Red Room are few and far between, but that doesn't seem to matter. The more he remembers of the past seems to unlock more of . . . whoever he is, and that man seems to think that this redheaded assassin is cute and adorable and his.

It's ridiculous, he knows. He has no reason to feel that way. None at all. Most of the time he's able to suppress these softer thoughts and feelings, but inevitably they creep up on him and leave him like he is now, staring at her and just wondering how the hell. How the fucking hell.

All the while that warmth sits in his chest like a gentle flame, burning quietly as they eat dinner and Natasha quizzes him about what he thinks of Anna Karenina. They fall into Russian without much thought, and it pleases him a strangely inordinate amount to see the sparkle in Natalia's eyes as she speaks in her native language and hear the way her voice becomes lower and melodic. That flame in his chest flares brighter.

But eventually night falls, Natasha retreats to her room, and James is left alone in the dark. And that light in his chest begins to fade, and when it does, the nightmares come. Violent pictures of blood, echoes of gunfire, and screams . . . there is so much screaming. Sometimes it's him. Most times it's others. A crowd after he assassinates a public figure standing behind a podium. A mother as she holds her child. A teenager barely sixteen standing in the kitchen where her father lays, head twisted.

He wakes with a quiet shout and then begins to cough as if he'd choked down too many cries. His eyes dart to the stairs as they always do once he can breathe. Natasha never appears. Never seems to stir. He's grateful. He doesn't want to bother her. Or let her see him like this.

James wipes his eyes in frustration, brushing away the wetness on his cheeks. He sniffs and runs his hand through his hair before reaching toward his notebook that lies ready and waiting on the coffee table. He flips to a blank page. He'll need a new one before the week is out if his memories keep returning at this rate.

He writes it all down. Remembering detail is never an issue. He's able to recall it all with crystal clear vision, like he's watching it all on a film, and he isn't sure if he's grateful for it or if it's just a goddamn curse. His eyes look up at the stairs again.

He wishes he could remember more about the Red Room. Those memories aren't painful. They're enlightening. He remembers being the Soldier and yet more. Not like he is now. No, he'd been different then. Younger, like her. Not as lost, perhaps. Not as mindless. His memory wipes had been less frequent. Karpov had preferred to keep him on ice.

And he's just as curious about Natalia then as he is about her now.

If he can understand her then, perhaps he can understand that strange warmth in his chest that always seems to stir when he sees her.

James glances at the clock. It's almost four in the morning. Sleep at this point is worthless. Impossible, really. So he closes his notebook and goes toward the cupboards in the kitchen. He's still not used to the idea that he has constant access to rations, and he beats back a wave of anxiety as he retrieves a plum from the refrigerator. He rolls the fruit in his hands as he paces the length of the cabin until the tightness in his chest eases. He's much better at controlling his panic attacks now that he knows what to expect.

So he counts his breaths and his steps, focusing on the plum in his hands and the way Natasha had looked when she had offered him one yesterday. There's something about plums. It means something to them. It must. He's never seen Natasha so unsettled.

He wonders if it's good or bad.

James eats two plums and doesn't remember a thing.

Dammit.

When Natasha comes downstairs just as the sun is rising, hair ruffled and in fuzzy blue pajamas, he has her pot of coffee waiting for her and two mugs sitting on the coffee table. She mutters a "good morning" at him as she passes him, eyes still half closed, and his lips twitch when she plops onto the couch with the coffee pot in hand and wraps herself in that ugly ass afghan before she pours herself her first cup of the day. He takes a sip of his own and sighs a little at the familiar warmth. It's stronger than he remembers drinking in the old days. He had vague memories of making coffee over the fire for the Commandos somewhere snowy. It was shit, but they drank it anyway.

Once Natasha is into her third cup, she turns to him, eyes bright and alert and yet still not quite as sharp as usual. "You got a bit more sleep than usual," she says.

James takes a drink. "Yeah, well, those four hours cost me."

"You're lucky you don't need as much sleep as a normal person."

"I don't?"

"No. I've seen Steve go four days without a wink. Caught him asleep sitting up on his couch."

James frowns. "Why couldn't he get to sleep?"

"The same reason you can't," she says. "The serum makes nightmares a bitch."

"They're memories."

"Same thing."

He huffs in agreement. "Guess so."

"C'mon," she drains her cup and kicks his leg with her foot. "I wanna spar today."

"I don't know, Natalia."

"What? If you wanna sit on your ass and brood, fine. But if you want to do something constructive, you know where to find me. Unless your arthritis is acting up again."

"I don't have arthritis."

"At your age? What a miracle."

James glares at her. "Fine."

Natasha smiles serenely as she throws the afghan off of her legs and heads up to the room to change into something more comfortable. As she digs through her drawers for a pair of yoga pants, she hopes that she's making the right decision to spar with James. She knows he has nightmares because she hears him shout himself awake. He's always so quiet, like he doesn't want to wake her, and it makes her heart throb painfully. This morning seemed to be worse. She'd nearly gone downstairs.

But that feels like crossing a line, and she's not ready to do that yet.

James is waiting outside when she steps into the cool morning air. "Ten bucks says I pin you in the first minute," she boasts.

James cocks an eyebrow even as lips twitch at the way she sidles up to him. So deceptively sweet, his ballerina. "Alright," he agrees. "What're the stakes?"

"If I win, you tell me about your nightmares."

His back stiffens for a moment before he relaxes. "Fine," he agrees. "I win and you tell me what the plums mean."

He enjoys the way Natasha's eyes narrow. "Fine."

Natasha makes the first move, unknowingly charging at him just as she had in their very first spar. And though she may not remember it, James certainly does, and so it's with a small smile that he counters just as he had then, batting away her punch and returning one. Only this time, Natasha is able to block. That only makes him smile a bit more.

Maybe a spar is exactly what he needs.

Natasha keeps track of the time in her head as she dances around James, eyes narrowed and lips thinned as she looks for an opportunity. There are none. They balance each other far too perfectly. Where he's strong, she's fast. Where he's direct, she feints. Back and forth, push and pull, they complement each other too well, and that alone leaves her with a feeling of unease. Because no one knows her this well.

She ducks a punch and capitalizes on a brief opening, hitting him three times in the solar plexus. It would have been enough to send another man to the ground, but James only wheezes and takes a step back. He smiles at her then, really and truly smiles, and it looks so natural, like he's finally remembered how it works, that Natasha can do nothing but stare and feel her chest swell.

She blames that smile for what happens next.

Before she can blink, she's on the ground, wrists pinned above her head and held in a metal hand. No hope of escaping. "Four seconds to spare," James says, that smile still playing at his lips, and it's all she can do not to stare at them. "You got distracted."

There's the slightest hint of a question in his voice as he stares down at her, his eyes curiously taking in her face, and Jesus Christ, his eyes were blue. Natasha swallows as a realization hilariously late in coming finally hits her: She's compromised. Not because he's a figure of her past. Not because he's key in unlocking a part of her that she's forgotten. Not even because she's attracted to him.

She's compromised because she likes him. Really, genuinely, likes him.

She's crushing on James now just as hard as she'd been sixty years ago.

She's so fucked.

She's so fucking fucked.

"You smiled," she says with a small smile of her own. "It looks good on you."

James blinks once in surprise, and then again in confusion. He . . . he is smiling. And it's strange to think of something so simple as if it's a new revelation, but he . . . it's odd. But good. It feels good. He feels his smile slip a little as he continues to stare down at Natasha, but he doesn't let it fall completely. "What do the plums mean, Natalia?" he asks softly.

"It was a promise."

"Of what?"

"You and me," she says. "Just you and me."

James's smile falls. "What?" he repeats, with a faraway look in his eye.

"So, it's just . . . you and me," he said, trying to understand.

Natasha frowns. "Just you and me."

Natalia smiled, then, really smiled, and that damn light in his chest shone so brightly that for a moment, it nearly hurt. "Yeah," she said. "I like that. You and me."

James stares at her. He's never noticed how green Natasha's eyes are until now. "You and me," he repeats. "I remember."

*dies of feels*

Got to admit that this chapter is one of my favorites. It's the start of Bucky and Nat remembering together instead of separately, and that's where the meat of the story is. Super pumped!

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. It's always nice to know that someone out there is enjoying all your hard work, so drop me a line and let me know what you think.

Next time we're taking a trip to the past. It's Nat's first mission with the Soldat! Here's a tiny spoiler from our favorite redheaded assassin: "You're going to ask me to dance."

See you Friday!

-AC