Author's Notes: Hello, hello. We're back for another chapter, and this one, I warn you, is back to your regularly scheduled angst.
Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel.
Chapter 15: Present
It's raining. Again.
Four fucking days of straight rain. Her flowerbeds (measly though they were) had washed away completely yesterday, leaving a smearing black bloodstain on dead grass. Last night they'd lost power, and she'd woken up with frozen feet and no James to press them to. He'd spent the night on the couch.
She knows his reasons, even if she doesn't agree with him. Natasha's fingers delicately skim the tender, bruised skin of her throat as she sits in one of the rocking chairs on the porch. One foot stays on the ground to push herself back and forth while the other helps to prop up her book. She watches the rain fall as she continues to touch her neck.
She doesn't blame James. She knows exactly who she'd invited into her bed, and she knows the risk of waking him during a nightmare. She knows and she understands and she doesn't blame him for waking up ready for a fight.
Once the rain stops, they'll have to go into town to replace the coffee table. James doesn't remember slamming her through it, doesn't remember her foot breaking his nose, or how he'd nearly sunk a knife between her ribs. But Natasha remembers his wide eyes as he suddenly, finally woke up. She remembers his confusion and then dawning horror as he scrambled off of her, leaving her gasping on the floor and clutching her throat. She remembers him taking in the toppled furniture and her torn nightdress and jumping to all the wrong conclusions. She remembers him leaving, walking barefoot into the rain, and coming back hours later, soaked to the bone and shivering with lost, begging eyes that looked away every time he saw her throat.
They haven't spoken since. Thirty-seven hours and counting.
And it's still fucking raining.
When her phone buzzes and she recognizes the number as one of Clint's burners, she almost doesn't answer. Unfortunately, she knows from experience that if she doesn't answer, he'll only keep calling until she does. The record is fifty-three. He'd resorted to calling every five minutes on the dot. Like a child.
She answers the call, blinking in surprise when his face pops up on her screen for a video call. She hadn't even noticed. Well, shit.
"Hiya, Nat," he says. "Glad to know you're alive. That's good."
"I've missed you, too."
"I leave you in D.C. with Rogers for, what—six months?—and you destroy SHIELD. Not gonna lie, I feel a little left out. And unemployed."
Natasha smirks. "I'm sure you'll figure something out," she says. "How's the family?"
"Good. Ava had her first recital the other day. Sent you the video."
"Haven't checked my email in a while. I'll look for it."
Clint nods, and in typical Clint-fashion, looks pointedly at her neck. "So, are you gonna explain that?" he asks. "Or is this some kind of kink that I didn't know about?"
She chuckles, but it gradually fades into a heavy sigh. "Don't worry about it," she says. "It's nothing."
"It's something, Nat. What are you up to?"
"I can't tell you."
It's the first time in years that she's denied him. Clint has been her secret keeper since the day she joined SHIELD, and there's little that she hasn't told him. He's the first person she ever trusted with her life and her heart. She loves him in a way that she'll never love anyone else. He's her bridge. Always supporting, always leading, always taking her to new places within herself. He's so much of the reason that she's Natasha Romanoff, and she owes him a debt she'll never repay.
But she can't tell him about James.
It's not that she thinks he'd turn her in. Or James, for that matter. In fact, she knows that he would be on her side, that he'd been on James's side. But she can't betray Steve more than she already has.
"Just how much trouble are you in?" Clint asks, and she smiles dryly. "Oh, great. That's great." His face grows serious. "Level with me, Nat. Are you okay?"
"Physically, yes."
"Mentally?"
"Complicated."
"Emotionally?"
"Fucked."
"These answers don't exactly inspire confidence, Nat."
"I'll be fine, Clint."
"You said that in Budapest, and look how that turned out."
"You and I remember Budapest very differently," she says with a slight smirk, and Clint sighs in defeat.
"Dammit, Romanoff."
"Why'd you call, Barton?"
Clint breaks into a smile, the one that softens his eyes and makes him look ten years younger. Natasha knows that smile. "You're kidding," she says. "Again?"
Clint chuckles. "Due early August."
"I've been waiting for a little Natasha. Took you long enough."
"Hey, saving the world is time-consuming. And exhausting."
"Maybe you're just getting old."
"I don't wanna hear any old jokes out of you, Granny."
"It's Auntie Nat."
"You must be spending a small fortune to hide all that gray."
"Goodbye, Barton. And congrats, you asshole."
She hangs up with a smile, making a mental note to call Laura when she can. She's still looking at her phone when the screen door squeaks. James stands hesitantly in the doorway as she meets his eyes before he slowly steps onto the porch and lets the door slap shut behind him. He moves tentatively, as if she's a deer he's afraid to startle, but she only continues to rock in her chair as he sits in the rocker next to hers. She inwardly snorts at the picture they make—senior citizens in rockers on a porch. All they needed was a pot of black coffee and passersby to wave at.
Unlike when she had sought him out at the pond, Natasha doesn't break the silence. She's ready to sit in silence for however long James wants, because this is important. At the pond, there had been room to push. Here, Natasha needs to wait. James needs her to wait.
So she waits.
Her mind wanders to their past in the Red Room. She replays sneaking onto the roof and drinking whiskey from a flask. She smirks ever so slightly as she remembers a particularly long night in Tokyo when their rendezvous was delayed, leaving them with three precious hours in a five-star hotel room. They stole champagne (her idea) and drank it in the Jacuzzi (his idea). There were smaller moments like the one time she'd found a flower on her pillow or the time they skinny-dipped in the middle of winter on a mutual dare.
Natasha shivers even as she smiles.
Her thoughts eventually drift away from Russia to the States, to New York, to D.C. New York makes her think of the Avengers and Loki and fucking aliens—the crazy sci-fi plot that had put her on her course, saving the world, wiping the blood from her ledger. She doesn't belong in that kind of world. The front lines. Being a hero.
She operates best in the shadows, and she's for damn sure not any kind of hero.
Can you really wipe out that much red?
D.C. makes her think of Steve. She remembers moving him into his apartment and watching Friends, a joke that completely backfired on her when she realized that she actually liked Rogers. Really, genuinely liked him. He's a chatterbox if you give him something to talk about, and it's so fun to catch him blushing when he realizes he hasn't given you a chance to say anything for ten minutes. He double knots his shoelaces and could burn water if left unsupervised in the kitchen. She'd nearly pissed herself laughing the time he'd tripped over his own shield.
It's wonderfully refreshing to know that Captain America, the living legend, was actually just a dumb, giant blond dork.
Natasha looks at her phone. Part of her wants to call just to hear from him. He's always in the back of her mind. She wonders where he is, what cold lead he's following. She hopes that when he inevitably discovers that she's sent him on a wild goose chase, he'll forgive her. She's worked so hard to win a trust that she still doesn't believe she deserves. After all, just how long did it take her to go behind his back? Twenty-four hours?
"You didn't tell him," James says, snapping her out of her thoughts. She turns her head toward him. James looks down a second after her eyes meet his. "Barton."
"He doesn't need to know."
James glances up at her again, his eyes lingering on her neck. "I'm sorry," he says.
"Not your fault." He scoffs. Natasha raises a challenging brow. "Would you have done it if you'd been in your right mind?"
In your right mind. They both cynically acknowledge the irony, but James huffs and looks away again, "No."
"Then it's not your fault," she says simply. "But I forgive you, if that helps."
"Not really."
"James."
He looks up, tired eyes meeting hers. For once he holds her stare for longer than a second, and she sees him in that extra time. The bags under his eyes that look more ghostly and haunted every day that passes. Memories of their past had blinded them both in a way, a light in the dark. But for every bit of their past that James remembers, he remembers ten more missions, ten more victims, ten more deaths. All at his mindless, deadly hands. And he doesn't just remember the people. He remembers the Soldier, how pleased he'd felt after completing a mission, how he'd been as clean as possible, hoping for a reward. In hindsight, he sees the manipulation of it all, recognizes that he had never had as much autonomy as he'd thought. He hadn't had any control at all.
And it's that lack of control that he hates most of all.
Because he remembers himself, too. Him, as he is now. Or Bucky. Or James. Whoever. He remembers being someone else, buried deep inside, a hopeless spectator fighting and fighting and fighting to break free and failing every single time.
"It's getting worse," Natasha says. "Isn't it?"
"They're clearer the longer I'm here," he admits. "It's less pieces and more of a picture. Whole days, sometimes, and I remember it all. What I saw, what I thought . . ." He shakes his head. "It's hard to know who I am when I wake up."
"Well," she says after a moment, "next time, I'll be faster."
James glances at her sharply. "No."
"My toes got cold last night," she says. "And for a Winter Soldier, you're ironically like a furnace."
"Natasha."
"It's a tight squeeze on the couch."
"I'll manage."
"But I like some room to maneuver."
"That's why you have a bed. To yourself."
"Did it help or not?" she challenges. "Until the other night, did it help?"
James looks away in frustration. He knows without looking that Natasha's giving him smug eyes, her lips twitching as she fights a smirk. He loves that smirk, but when he turns to see it, he's distracted by the ring of purple around her throat like a macabre necklace. "I'll hurt you," he says eventually.
Natasha shrugs. "I'll hurt you back. How's your nose?"
He sniffs automatically. "Sore. You?"
"I've had worse."
James thinks it's twisted how he wants to smile. He and Natasha share a look, eyes full of dark humor. Natasha gives him that smirk again, and he has to fight to stay expressionless. She sees through him, of course, and she hums smugly before looking out toward the yard. "Rain's stopped," she says.
James takes a deep breath. "For now."
Their tentative peace holds for a week, just long enough for both of them to begin to ease into familiarity and expectation. James's nightmares are just as frequent and vivid, yet he awakes as himself, in full control, and Natasha is there to soothe without words. She just presses a hand to his chest and eases him back onto the pillows. Her hand always lingers like a tether to reality, and sometimes James will brush it away in favor of pulling her closer and burying his nose in her hair. The gesture is intimate and yet purely tactical. He's calmer when he holds her. He feels human, and the lingering coldness of the Soldier fades.
Natasha fills their days with as much fun as she can manage on a mountain in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Minnesota. She gets two paintball guns and challenges James to a game that lasts all day and well into the night. Hours after sundown, James finally gets a "kill shot", hitting Natasha square in the chest from a tree a hundred yards downwind. She makes him pancakes as a reward and tries not to roll her eyes at the boyish gleam in his eyes when she sits the stack of cakes in front of him.
One day they trudge through the mud and go into town for a matinee at an old theater showing Ghostbusters. They sit in the back row of the near-empty theater and share an obscenely large bucket of popcorn that they devour before the movie is even halfway through. Natasha entertains herself by pulling up the armrest separating their seats, curling into James's side, and inwardly cackling at the way his thigh tenses when she draws random patterns with her fingertip.
He stops her just when she's decided to run her finger long the thick seam of his jeans.
She pouts the rest of the film, and his only response is, "This isn't Kiev."
To which Natasha's eyes brighten even as her voice dips, "You remember Kiev?"
Then one morning she wakes up and he's gone.
Natasha sits up slowly as she reaches out to feel the temperature of the space next to her. Cold. She doesn't call out for him. She doesn't trust the silence in the cabin. It reminds her of that moment between breaths when she pulls the trigger.
She soundlessly eases out of bed and down the stairs.
James sits at the kitchen table. Wild hair. Red eyes. Wet cheeks.
A broken pen.
A ripped notebook.
A loaded gun.
Her voice is soft. "James?"
"Mission report," he says. His voice trembles. "December 16th, 1991."
She knows that date.
"James—"
"I knew him," he says. "He was my friend. I knew him."
She takes a cautious step forward. "James—"
"He . . . he recognized me, Natalia. I killed him. I didn't remember."
The gun sits innocently on the table.
"James, look at me." She takes another step. "James, look at me."
"I killed his wife, too. All for the damn serum. He had Steve's blood."
"James, please look at me."
"They had a kid, didn't they?" His voice hitches. "Howard had a son, didn't he? I killed his parents. I killed them. I've killed so many people, Natalia."
"James, moya lyubov," she takes another step, "take your hand off the gun."
His grip tightens. "It would be better, wouldn't it?" he asks. "I deserve it."
"No, you don't, James. You're a good man."
He laughs, and his eyes glisten. "We both know that's not true."
She gently perches on the table in front of him and holds his face in her hands. "Look at me, James." Her voice is soft, but every syllable is heavy with command. It works. Blessedly, his eyes—so wild and pained and lost—meet hers. "You listen to me, soldat," she says. "You do not have my permission to die."
"Natalia," he whispers. "I—"
"I remember," she interrupts. "Not everything, but I remember enough. I knew you then, and I know you now. You don't deserve to die."
He shakes his head. "The things I've done . . . there's no forgiveness."
Natasha takes a shaky breath. "Someone once told me that all sins are forgivable when someone loves you."
She doesn't know if she believes it, but in that second she doesn't care. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that James is looking at her and not the gun. She wants to hide from his gaze, but she can't, and so she braves his piercing, searching eyes, praying that'll he'll find something, anything to keep a bullet out of his brain.
She doesn't know if she loves him, but she knows that she can't lose him.
Not again.
"Natalia."
Her name is a curse and prayer, but he lets go of the gun and holds her instead, burying his face in her stomach. She murmurs soothingly in Russian as she runs her fingers through his hair, ignoring the fact that she's crying, too.
Um . . . yeah . . .
So this chapter, specifically this last scene, is based on a line from Bucky in the comics, where he says that he would have put a bullet in his brain if not for Nat. I really wanted to incorporate it because it's a great line and it really hits you hard and reminds you that Bucky is dealing with some serious shit. It's easy to get caught up in the romance, but at heart this story is really about getting Bucky to the place that we see in Civil War. So many, many, many feels.
Next time in A Ghost of a Memory . . . "Something . . . something's wrong with me." - Natalia
Reviews give Bucky a hug.
See you Friday!
-AC