Author's Notes: Here we are, the chapter we've all been waiting for, and the end for our Soldat and Black Widow. I had a lot of ideas for this chapter, most of which didn't make it in the final cut. There were so many questions. How do you subdue the two greatest assassins in the world? The answer? You don't. You make them surrender.

I really hate Karpov for that. He's an evil bastard.

All that being said, this is truly one of my favorite chapters in the story. It says a lot about how far Nat and James have come. Imagining these two with the two we see in the early chapters is so satisfying for me. My babies have come so far.

*sigh*

Time to ruin it.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. It's not mine. Stop making me say it.

Chapter 20: Past

It was hardly their first mission now that Natasha was officially Black Widow, but she still fought not to grin as she walked out of the Red Room of her own free will to find James waiting for her on the curb, leaning against a slick motorcycle that she couldn't wait to straddle. "You know, one of these days, I'm going to drive," she asked as she approached.

James's lips twitched. "If you ask nicely."

She batted her eyelashes. "This is me being nice."

"You can do better than that."

"Careful, soldat. I might take you up on that."

James's eyes fluttered shut against his will as she caressed the two simple syllables. Damn her. He loved her so damn much.

But she would be the death of him.

"Get on the bike, malen'kiy pauk."

Natalia smirked but climbed onto the bike behind him, letting her hands slide purposefully around his waist and laughing lowly when he cursed her under his breath. She waited until they were out of sight of the compound before she molded herself to his back and let her hands drift up to his chest. She felt certain that he would still be able to hear her despite the air whipping around them and the traffic of downtown Moscow, but she chose to keep her dirty thoughts to herself.

For now.

They were supposed to stay overnight at a hotel. She'd wait until she had him trapped with nowhere to go but a bed. And even that was optional, when she thought about it.

They arrived at what was supposed to be a not-so-abandoned warehouse that was a front for a wayward operative who had decided to run HYDRA weapons for his own benefit. And well, that just wouldn't do. William MacDuff needed to be made an example of—though honestly, Natalia wondered just what HYDRA thought of trusting an American not to turn.

James parked the bike in the alley a block over, and as soon as she was off the bike, he had her pressed against the rough brick wall, his knee between her legs and his hands on her hips. Natalia laughed under his assault before she moaned as he slipped his tongue in her mouth. They hadn't seen each other in weeks. Natalia had gone on assignment as soon as she'd been made Widow, and James had been sent off hours before she was due to return. She had come back hoping he could wash off the scent of the fat millionaire she'd seduced for five pages of bank account numbers, while he'd hoped to remind himself that he could be warm. It was so easy for him to slip into the cold abyss of the Soldier. Sometimes he thought he'd be lost without Natalia to remind him that he had a home.

But she was here now, pressed so tight against him, lips moving hotly against his, and he was warm. He was home.

"I missed you," he murmured when he finally pulled away, their breaths heavy between them.

"James, you're being reckless," she said, even as she smiled and ran her fingers through his hair. "Anyone could see."

"What do they know? We're just two people who are crazy for each other," he dove in to suckle her neck, and she sighed.

"We have a mission," she reminded him.

He hummed against her skin. "I'm aware."

"James."

"Natalia."

Natalia summoned her all the fortitude she possessed and gently pushed him away. "Work first," she said. "Play later."

James's eyes gleamed like a little boy, letting her have another glimpse of that other man she knew was somewhere inside him. The one with the Brooklyn accent and broad grins who sang off-key when he was trying to be romantic. She saw more and more of that man lately. "Hmm," he let his eyes trail over her, "what kind of games will we play?"

"Tell you what, I'll let you pick the first one."

James eyes closed and he smiled as he shook his head. "You're killing me, Nat," he said. He did that sometimes now. Called her "Nat." She liked it. "But, as you said," he glanced at the end of the alley. "We've got work to do."

"Think of it this way," she said as she started down the alley. "The sooner we finish this, the sooner you have me."

James nearly took her hand and started running, but he refrained. He wasn't sure exactly what had come over him. There were some days when he thought he'd never be able to shake the mindset of the Soldier, and then there were moments like now when he felt like an entirely different man. Younger, funnier, lighter. It was strange. A little disconcerting. But it was almost like a sugar high. It was fun. He felt, in an odd way, like he was finally himself.

Yet by the time he and Natalia reached the end of the alley, that man was gone—safely tucked away in the back of his mind—and James was back. Or the Soldier. Sometimes it was hard to tell. Both men trusted the woman next to him, so he supposed it really didn't matter.

"I'll take care of the perimeter," he said. "You get us in."

Natalia smirked. "I'll try not to have too much fun without you."

James wished later—oh, so much later—that he'd kept kissing her in that alley.

Four guards patrolled the perimeter, and Natalia slipped past them like a ghost had once taught her. Getting through the door took her roughly a minute, and most of that was spent overriding the fingerprint scanner, which she improvised with some powder and a piece of tape. She felt James next to her as she turned the handle, and then she threw the door open and James charged through. There were a dozen or so men who shouted in surprise. Two had bullets in their brain by the time Natalia could blink, and she ran toward the man closest to her, dropping to her knees at the last moment to dodge his swinging fist. Then she was on her feet behind him. A kick to the back of the knee, then her hands grasped his head. One twist. One more man down.

She grabbed his gun from the table and fired two quick shots. They landed in the chest of a man aiming at James from across the warehouse. The whole ordeal was painfully easy and over in minutes. James looked over at her, his eyes hard and cold and familiar. She gave him one sharp nod, and then their eyes drifted to the upper floor and the closed office door.

James led the way, pistol steady in his hands. Something was off. Something wasn't right. The firefight below was too easy. This whole op, now that he was truly thinking of the mission and not Natalia, smelled funny. What had transpired downstairs could've been dealt with by either of them without much issue. Hell, it still wasn't anything that any other operative couldn't do. Not one aspect of this operation screamed Winter Soldier or Black Widow.

But his feet continued to move forward, as if driven by some innate order to complete the mission, no matter the cost. He felt and heard Natalia behind him, following so closely behind, so trusting still. He wanted to turn and tell her to go, to run, as they continued to climb the stairs and his gut steadily continued to drop. But he said nothing, and when it came time to break through door, he didn't spare her glance.

He wished he had.

Because it was all a goddamn trap.

It was dark in the room, but that wasn't what dropped him to his knees. It was the two cattle prods buzzing with enough electricity to take down a horse. But his Natalia, his little spider, was not so easily felled. She leapt over him like the brilliant dancer she would always be at heart and opened fire. He couldn't see anything but the flickers from muzzle flashes as she emptied her clip into the men in the room, sparing a bullet for no one.

It wasn't enough.

There had to be thirty people in the office, all of them armed to the teeth, and yet none were firing back, at least to kill. So they were needed alive.

James was still being pumped with electricity, and it had him twitching and scrambling more than he thought it should, and so with a roar he lunged for the legs of one of the bastards, forcing him to the floor and in seconds, his knife slipped between his ribs. The other bastard got the same knife right under his chin. James let him keep it.

It was a bloodbath in the room. Complete chaos. A quarter of the men likely went down just from stray bullets, another quarter met their end once James got his hands on a gun. It was close quarter combat with one goal: subdue then fire. His tacsuit was slowly soaking up the blood until the material clung to his skin. None of it mattered. He threw a man across the room with his metal arm that had his gun pointed at Natalia's knee.

They fought together with ease even in the cramped space, and in her mind, though it was racing with repercussions and what this ambush meant, Natalia found herself back in the Red Room, back in the training room, dancing with James like she had so many times before. It didn't take long before the only people breathing in the room were herself and James, and they both stood silently for a moment, each catching their breath, before Natalia swallowed and said, "They know."

James gritted his teeth. "Go out the back. I'll meet you there."

"No."

"Natalia."

"I'm not leaving you, James," she snapped, sending him a scathing glare. "We're in this together," she said, her voice softening. "You and me."

He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to tell her to run, to get as far away as she could, to leave Russia behind, to defect, to be safe . . . but he only swallowed and nodded. "You and me," he repeated.

He held out his hand.

Natalia took it.

They didn't make it two steps outside the warehouse. Natalia could only marvel at the picture they must have made. The Black Widow and the Winter Soldier, blood-soaked hands clutched together, staring down a small army. Forty soldiers in all, two trucks with high beams tracking them like spotlights, bringing everything into sharp, bright focus. Karpov stood in the thick of it all, his hands clasped behind his back, as though he was prepared to scold them for being out past curfew.

"You know, Sergeant, when I told you months ago that you could have fun with one of the widows, I never actually expected you to do it," Karpov said with false humor.

Sergeant.

James tried to hide the curiosity in his eyes, but Karpov must have seen something flicker. Or perhaps he merely wanted to brag. "Ah, I thought you had begun to remember," he said. "You see, Soldat, your real name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. A National War Hero. A good man." Karpov smiled coldly. "And I made you my puppet."

James thoughtlessly took a step forward in rage, but Natalia's hand pulled him back, along with the sound of forty rifles being raised. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Sergeant Barnes," Karpov said as he slowly stalked forward. "You see, they're not aiming for you. You're too valuable an asset. But your little whore there, well . . . there will always be another Black Widow."

Natalia surprised the General by smiling dangerously. "I wouldn't count on it."

Karpov chuckled indulgently, but Natalia's hard gaze never faltered. The sound slowly died in his throat, which he cleared with fake arrogance and said, "She has quite the mouth, doesn't she, Sergeant?" He looked at James. "Now, I do believe you've killed enough of my men. Perhaps you could make this next bit simpler, no? Stand down."

James didn't move.

". . . or your plaything dies."

Natalia knew what James would do. You're more important than any mission, he'd told her. He was an idiot. Such a goddamn stubborn idiot.

She loved him so much in that moment that she thought she may just hate him.

James turned to look at her, smiling sadly at the fire blazing in her eyes. "You know I can't," he said.

Her lips trembled. "I know."

There was a whistle in the air, and then her world went dark.

He should have fought harder.

His every step and breath was painful, but he should have fought harder. He knew what was going to happen to him. He'd made his peace with it, but the reason he was pacing his cage like an animal was because he didn't know what would happen to Natalia. They wouldn't kill her. Karpov had to be bluffing. Natalia was the best Widow to ever come through the program. She'd be punished. He knew that. But it might all be worth it as long as she lived.

God, it was all his fault.

He didn't remember what happened after they subdued him. He remembered catching Natalia as she crumbled, a sedative dart in her neck. He remembered lunging for Karpov only to blackout at the sound of a single word he couldn't remember. He thought he might remember seeing a glimpse of Natalia's red hair disappearing around the corner, but he wasn't sure. He only knew that Karpov knew. Maybe he'd always known.

James's fists clenched.

He'd paced across his containment cell twenty-seven times when he heard her. She hadn't spoken, hadn't said a word, but he knew she was there. Just on the other side of the door. He knew those steps, knew those breaths. He swore he could hear her heartbeat. And it was beating fast. She was scared.

Then the machines began to whir.

No.

He lashed out with a roar. His metal fist dented the door. His second punch made the whole thing shudder in its frame. The third made the metal pucker. He could hear the soldiers gathering in front of the door. He heard their weapons being loaded and cocked. He didn't care. He'd kill them all.

Yet all his rage was extinguished with one word.

"James!"

No. Goddammit, no.

"Natalia!"

When the screaming started, he slammed his hands over his ears, but it didn't help. His knees gave out and he shook his head in denial as her screams sank into his bones. Tears welled in his eyes but for some reason none fell until the screams finally stop and the machines go quiet.

By the time the door opened, he was ready.

Two were dead before they could blink.

Another two were dead before the first bodies even hit the floor.

One fired a volley that he deflected with his arm. Three stray bullets found new homes in a torso, a skull, and a leg.

He fought until he couldn't fight anymore. His right leg bled heavily from two bullets. His side ached from a stray knife. His whole left side was still numb from a cattle prod. When they dragged him to the chair, he didn't struggle. He stared out at the basement littered with bodies and thought that it still wasn't enough.

"I never wanted this to happen," Karpov said as he came forward, his red book in his hands. "You were not programmed to feel such . . . emotion."

James glared at him. "Guess you're not as smart as you think you are."

Karpov smiled before gesturing to the machines above James's head. "Do you know what this does, Sergeant? Do you remember?"

"No," he said. "But I've got this funny little feeling that that's the idea."

"Very good. You see, it's interesting. Dr. Erkstine, the man responsible, in part, for the serum in your veins, always had this idea that it didn't just enhance things like your strength and your speed. No, it enhanced everything. Even this." He put his hand over James's heart. "A good man, he said, would become a great man," he quoted. "And I suppose I believe him, now. Because no matter how bad a man I make you, we somehow always end up here."

James glared. "What did you do to Natalia?"

"Ah, your lover," he sighed. "She will not be punished further," he said, as if to be reassuring. "The memory wipe was successful. Her graduation ceremony will be in the next two weeks. Congratulations, Sergeant. Your little ballerina remains a Black Widow."

Graduation.

"You sick fuck."

Karpov tutted. "I've let you have too much, ah, what is the American phrase? Leash? Yes, I've let you have too much freedom. But fear not, I learn from my mistakes," he said, holding up his book. "Now, listen carefully, Soldat . . ."

The straps around his body tightened, and James could only stare up at the metal descending slowly toward his face. He struggled, but it was pointless. The restraints were made for him. There was no escape. He could hear Karpov speaking, but the words didn't make sense. They were just random words.

"Longing."

Natalia.

"Rusted."

Red.

"Seventeen."

The machines began to charge.

"Daybreak."

No, no, no. He'd remember. He'd remember.

"Furnace."

"Nine."

"Benign."

"Homecoming."

Home. He'd finally found a home.

"One."

And he supposed he'd been right, in the end.

"Freight car."

Natalia would be the death of him.

Well, there we are. Ever since Civil War when we learned about his trigger words, I wondered if it had always been a thing (since we didn't see it in Winter Soldier) or if something had happened that made it a requirement. Something big enough that zapping his brain wasn't enough to make him compliant. So I thought it would be interesting if the trigger words came about because of his relationship with Nat that ultimately proved to Karpov that he didn't have nearly as much control over Bucky as he may have thought.

Next chapter we get Clint!

Next time in A Ghost of a Memory . . . "Just call me Uncle Clint." - Clint

See you Friday,

AC