Author's Notes: Hello! Another Friday is upon us, and I have a chapter for you! Only two/three more after this! AND DID EVERYONE SEE THE INFINITY WARS TRAILER FROM COMIC CON? *pterodactyl screeches*
Disclaimer: I don't own it. Not mine.
Chapter 19: Present
Steve and I were in the freezer truck because we spent our bus money on hot dogs. Idiots.
I took a bullet for Dum Dum. Right in the ass. Bastard just laughed.
Zola played opera while he worked. I hate opera.
Bridget hid peppermints under her pillow. If I played ponies, she'd give me one.
Steve's Mom's name was Sarah. He wore newspapers in his shoes.
Mission Report: June 5th, 1951. Target: Dmitri Aksakov. 4 daughters. Shot him through the window at a birthday party. Blood got on the cake.
Steve cheats at poker. I just can't prove it.
Mission Report: . . .
"Hey, you."
He sets his pen down as Natasha leans over his chair and wraps her arms around his shoulders. "You're up disgustingly early," she murmurs. "Come back to bed."
It's hardly three in the morning, but his dreams were unusually vivid tonight, and he could only take reliving so many different memories before he had to ground himself in some form of reality. The cabin. Natasha. He ran his thumb along the back of her hand. "I'd just keep you up," he says.
She kisses his neck. "Rough night?"
He sighs and leans back in the chair, closing his eyes as her hands slip toward his chest. He catches one of her hands near his heart. "Rougher than most."
"Bad memories?"
"Mostly good ones, actually."
"Tell me."
"You know that scar on my ass you keep asking about?"
She hums. "Yeah?"
"Took a bullet for Dum Dum. Italy. '44."
"Don't worry. It's still a great ass."
"Thanks," he says dryly.
She laughs lowly in his ear, and he relaxes a bit more. "Come back to bed," she says. "It's too quiet without you snoring."
"I don't snore."
"Oh, I beg to differ, soldat."
He lets her drag him back to bed, and says nothing when she snuggles right up to him like he's a body pillow rather than a deadly assassin. He might snore, but she's like a barnacle. He doesn't remember her being so cuddly, but he supposes a lot can change in a few decades. And, truthfully, he doesn't mind. It feels so good to know that someone trusts him.
He buries his face in her hair and inhales. There's a small chance in hell that he'll find sleep again, and he knows that Natasha knows that, too. But there's something so damn novel about sharing a bed with someone, something special about skin on skin and the extra warmth, something so incredibly human, and he and Natalia are addicted to it. They've both been alone for far too long.
And he's missed her.
The longer he's with her, the more he remembers, the more that simple realization sinks in. He's fucking missed her for so damn long. All this time, he'd just been some lost soldier who'd forgotten he'd ever had a home until she gave him one. Now he's home again, and he doesn't want to leave.
Just you and me, he'd promised, and he hates knowing that he'll have to break it. The real world will come calling sooner rather than later, whether he and Natasha are ready or not.
Turns out, it's not the real world that calls.
It's Steve.
Natasha sits on the couch, curled under his arm like a cat while they watch P.S. I Love You. She holds a bowl of popcorn in her lap that she's drowned in white cheddar and munches quietly as she watches Jerry and Holly meet for the first time. She glances up at James, who's watching with a look on his face that makes her think he's enduring this only because she's asked him, and smiles. "What? I think it's cute," she said.
"You like these movies?"
"They're rom-coms. And yes, but you can't tell anyone. It's my one guilty pleasure."
"You think this is romantic? He's haunting the woman he loves. She's waiting around for a ghost."
Natasha smiles a little. "I found a ghost, once."
James huffed. "Not the same thing." She hums like she doesn't believe him, and he rolls his eyes. "It's not—"
He's interrupted when Natasha's phone buzzes from the coffee table. She leans forward to check the number, praying that it's one of Clint's burners. One look at the number and her hopes fall. She glances at James, and there's a wary set to his shoulders that lets her know that he realizes exactly who's calling. She sighs and answers with a flawless smile.
"Rogers, it's not nice to go so long without calling a girl."
Steve laughs. "No, it's not," he agrees. "I'll take you out to lunch and make it up to you. We can go to that deli on 41st that you like."
"New York?"
"Yeah." Steve pauses for a moment, sighing. "I hope you've figured out your cover," he says, "because I need you here."
"What's happened?"
"I didn't find Bucky. The file you gave was a big help, but every lead wasn't just cold, it was dead," he says sadly.
Natasha stares across the couch at James who looks ready to bolt. She pleads with her eyes for him to stay. He looks down. "Steve, I know how much Bucky means to you," she says as she places her hand on James's thigh. "Believe me, I really do, but maybe you're not meant to find him. Maybe he'll find you."
"I just want to help him."
"I know," she says softly, brows furrowing in worry when James turns his head and stares at the wall. "So, what's the plan, Cap?"
"I may not have found Bucky, but I did find HYDRA. A lot of them. They've got active bases all over, Nat. We've gotta shut 'em down."
"There's something else, isn't here?"
"Loki's scepter is missing."
"Shit."
"Something like that, yeah. Listen, Tony's offering up the Tower as an HQ. He's trying to get a hold of Banner, and as far as we know, Thor is still Earthbound after what happened in Greenwich."
"What happened in Greenwich?"
He laughs. "You're really off the grid, aren't you?"
"I've been distracted."
"I didn't know you could be distracted."
"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to keep."
James finally takes her hand. Her smile is brittle.
"How long do you need to get to New York?"
Natasha closes her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. "A few weeks," she says. "I need to be sure I don't have any tails."
"Thanks, Nat. Stay safe."
"You too."
She hangs up and tosses the phone onto the couch before turning her face into James's chest. "Just you and me, right?" she asks.
"You and me," he repeats.
He kisses the top of her head, and she closes her eyes against the lie.
"You didn't tell him," James says after moment.
"I didn't think it was my place. Did you want me to tell him?"
"No."
She waits while he sorts his thoughts, squeezing his hand. "I'm not Bucky," he says eventually. "Not . . . not the one he's looking for, at least."
"Maybe you should let him be the judge of that."
"I'm not ready, Natalia."
"That's fine."
"I don't want you to lie for me."
"Good thing I didn't lie, then."
He gives her a look then, challenging and nonplussed, but she ignores it and smiles a little. "Now then," she says, turning back to the movie. "This next part is really fun. We should karaoke before . . ." she trails off with a shake of her head, and James's chest tightens. ". . . it'd be fun. I think you'd like it."
"What the hell is that?"
James stares dumbly at the dirty lump of fur in Natasha's arms as she waltzes past him, still sweaty and flushed from her morning run. "I think it's a dog," she says as she sets the little beast in the sink. "We'll find out."
"What's it doing here?"
"He followed me for four miles, James."
"So?"
She smirks at him over her shoulder. "A girl likes to be chased."
He scoffs. "C'mon, Tasha," he says, and she looks down to hide the silly smile on her face. "What the hell are we going to do with it?"
"Well, I thought we could start by giving it a bath."
"What about food? It's an unnecessary waste of rations."
She snickers. "Rations?"
"Nat—"
"I think I'll name him Yasha."
"You're not naming that thing after me."
"His name is Yasha."
"No."
"Yasha."
He huffs and glares at the little mutt. He can just barely make out its eyes under all the fur, but then the little fucker's tongue lolls out, smug as he can be as Natasha begins to suds him up. "Fine," he mutters. "But I'm not calling him Yasha."
The mutt follows him around like a goddamn shadow.
He hasn't figured out just what kind of mix he is, though it has to be some sort of sheepdog with all the fucking hair that's now covering every single surface of the cabin. Natasha seems to find it cute. He finds it annoying. And itchy.
But the mutt makes Natasha smile, and damn it if he's going to do something to fuck that up.
Even if it means having a furry shadow nipping at his heels for attention.
James remembers having a dog. It had been a little beagle named Patches, and he remembers the dog trailing after him just like the mutt. But Patches hadn't chewed up his boots or pissed on his shirt and then grinned up at him like he thought he was a cute little shit.
James puts up with the mutt until one night when he snaps awake from a nightmare. Memory. Natasha shifts beside him but doesn't wake entirely, too used this routine to react fully, and he soothes her back to sleep with a few hushed words in Russian. The mutt, however, is not so easily soothed.
Natasha had wanted him on the bed, but he'd put his foot down, and so the mutt sleeps on the floor at the foot of the bed. James nearly steps on the hairball and curses under his breath as the mutt keeps weaving between his legs, jumping up on its paws occasionally like it's trying to take out his legs and send him to the floor. Well, buddy, try harder.
He could punt the little fucker forty yards.
Bring it.
He pours a glass of Scotch knowing it won't help but hoping he may be able to trick himself into thinking that it will. He has notebooks scattered across the cabin, and he takes the one next to the coffeemaker and sits heavily at the kitchen table. He writes for hours. He writes about the three people he now remembers killing. A family. Small but loving. He can see that now. He hadn't then.
He writes about killing the father first. His true target. He writes about putting a bullet in the man's skull while his wife screamed. He writes about how the boy—maybe sixteen—had charged at him with a damn butter knife. He'd caught the kid by the chin with his arm. One flick of his wrist and the kid was on the floor. He remembers how the mother hadn't stopped screaming until he'd snapped her neck, too.
He doesn't remember the boy's name. He doesn't remember because he'd never known it. He vows to find out.
And for Christ's sake, what the fuck keeps scratching at his leg?
He looks down and finds the mutt staring up looking impatient and annoyed. "Fuck off," he mutters, lightly shoving the dog away with his foot.
The mutt comes right back.
"Goddammit, go away."
The mutt stares at him.
"Go bother Tasha."
It's ears perk up.
"No, not Yasha, Tasha."
But he's sealed his fate. The mutt reacts to his name and takes it as an invitation to leap into James's lap, only to slide right off and tumble to the floor when James stands with an annoyed huff. The mutt follows him to the couch. "For Christ's sake, leave me alone."
He lays against the cushions with a heavy sigh, shifting his weight to get somewhat comfortable. How he'd managed two months sleeping on this thing amazes him, and he nearly gives up and returns to bed with Natasha, but he knows that he'll toss and turn the rest of the night. The cabin won't survive two grumpy, sleep-deprived assassins.
He thinks he's finally managed a comfortable position, and of course that's when his mind decides to replay his latest sin on a loop. He can't get over the expression on the boy's face—terrified and angry and desperate. He can't forget the sound of his neck snapping or the mother's screams. It all echoes loudly in his head until his breathing is getting shorter and his skin grows hot.
Natasha. He should have gone back to bed. She always calms him when he gets like this. Anxiety attacks. That's what she calls them.
They're a goddamn annoyance is what they are, and fuck, he needs her.
Then there are four paws on his chest, and a little whimper in his ear as the mutt nestles its head in his neck. James focuses on the dog like he would Natasha. He strokes the dog's back like he would Natasha's hair and slowly takes deep breaths. He focuses on the warmth sitting on his chest and even the wet tongue that starts licking his face.
When he opens his eyes and looks down, the mutt is staring up at him, and James swears the little white fur ball looks worried.
"What are you looking at?" he mumbles before letting his head thump against the arm of the couch. The mutt doesn't move except to lower its head onto its paws and huff. James's grudgingly scratches its head. "Just once," he says. "Don't get used to it."
He wakes to find Natasha staring down at him with the smuggest smirk.
"Don't say it," he threatens, but she just chuckles and walks away muttering under her breath something about her stubborn boys.
She doesn't know why she's making things harder for herself. It's just going to make their inevitable separation that much more painful. But no, she had to bring home a damn dog and name it Yasha and then watch her soldat try his damnedest to hate the furry beast. She'd known he'd cave. James is one of the gentlest people she's ever known.
She knows what she's doing. Ever since those damning words you and me had passed between them, things had changed. Something in her shifted. She thinks she's the best person she's ever been. She feels more herself, or who she thinks she can be, and while it's completely terrifying, it's so incredibly liberating. She feels open. New. Softer.
And it's nice. It's human.
It's love.
She's so in love with James Buchanan Barnes that it's ridiculous.
And she knows that he's going to leave.
He's growing stir crazy, and to be honest, so is she. His runs become longer and longer. Their trips into town turn into weekends away. But it's not enough. She craves the excitement of a mission. She misses Steve and Clint. Hell, she even misses Tony.
And she knows that James feels the need to move on. Despite all his progress, despite all that's blossomed between them, he still feels as if he's on the run. And rightly so. Decades of training were telling him months ago that he'd been in one place for far too long. She knows it, and he knows it.
And yet she brought home a dog.
She's trying to build something that isn't ready to be built. She knows that, but she can't seem to stop, and James doesn't seem ready to stop either. They both seem content ignoring reality.
Of course, that's when reality comes calling again.
She wakes up to James calling her name.
"James?"
He turns sharply away from her, his metal arm whirring before slamming into the nightstand. The ensuing crash doesn't wake him, but seems to fuel his anger. Natasha knows she's an idiot when she stays next to him on the bed, placing her hands on his shoulders to try to keep him in one place. His grip on her wrist nearly crushes bone, and then she's suddenly on her back and he's hovering over her, eyes wide but sightless.
Still asleep.
"James," she holds his face with her free hand. "James, wake up!"
He growls and starts to curse her, promising awful, awful things, and she quickly realizes just what he's remembering. "I'm fine, soldat," she promises. "I'm fine. Wake up and see for yourself. I'm fine. James!"
James.
His eyes close and he shakes his head. She holds his face in her hands. "James, wake up. It's over. It was a long time ago."
James.
"Wake up."
His eyes snap open, and when the first thing he sees is red, he nearly reaches for the Ka-bar under his pillow before he's trapped by a familiar green gaze. Wide and worried and teary. "James, it's me," Natasha says. Her hands stroke his cheeks. "It's me."
He doesn't know when he sat up or how she came to be straddling his lap. His hands tighten on her hips as he closes his eyes against the sound of her screams echoing in his mind. "James," she repeats. "Look at me, soldat."
He flinches.
"James."
"Just stop," he whispers as he stares at the wall over her shoulder. "Just . . . don't."
He can feel her study him before she says, "You remember."
His eyes close. "I can't stop hearing you scream."
"Hey, look at me. James, fucking look at me." He looks, and her eyes are blazing a familiar fire and he loves it. Loves her. God, he loves her so damn much. "It's not your fault," she declares. "Alright? It is not your fault."
His eyes well with tears. "I'm sorry, Natalia. I never wanted to get you into trouble."
The smile she gives him is so soft and yet he feels it like a punch in the gut. "I remember everything," she says. "And you were the one good thing."
He leans his forehead against hers. "You and me," he breathes.
"Always."
He makes love to her the rest of the night.
Neither of them admit that it's goodbye.
Well, yeah. We had to get here. Sorry.
The next three chapters wrap up the story. We'll see just how Bucky and Nat are found out by the Red Room, get a glimpse of what happened in Budapest, tease how Nat joined SHIELD, and finally end things in preparation for Civil War. I'm debating a sequel, so please drop a line if you have an idea of what you'd like to see! ;)
Next time in A Ghost of a Memory . . . "James, you're being reckless. Anyone could see." - Nat
See you Friday!
-AC