Author's Notes: Hello, hello! We're back with another chapter. Time to set up AOU and CW with these last few chapters. Don't worry, still plenty of Bucky and Nat to go around. :)
And thank you, once again, to everyone who reviews and favorites and alerts this story. You're all the best readers a girl could ask for.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Chapter 21: Present
She wakes up alone.
She hates how much it hurts.
Yasha is curled into her chest like he knows. He must. He's never dared to be on the bed with James in the cabin. She curls her fingers into his fur and closes her eyes.
Damn him.
She lays in bed for another ten minutes before resolutely getting up and going about her day as if nothing is different. She makes her pot of coffee, grabs two mugs, and sits on the couch, casually sipping from her mug while James's is left unfilled on the table. By the time she's drunk the whole pot, she's booked a flight on one of Stark's jets thanks to Pepper. Within the next hour, there's no trace of either her or James's presence in the cabin with the exception of the piece of paper she's left sitting innocently on the kitchen table.
With her bags in her hand and Yasha at her feet, she picks up the note, folds it without reading it, and stuffs it into her pocket. "C'mon, boy," she says before walking out of the cabin without a backward glance.
The jet is ready and waiting when she arrives at the airport, and she's once again thankful for the sheer convenience of money. They take off within ten minutes of her arrival and don't stop again until Saint Louis, where they pick up Clint, who's grumbling and cursing in a new black leather jacket. "Nat," he says as he collapses into the seat next to her. "Long time no see."
"Clint. You're looking . . . tired."
"Yeah, that's 'cause I fucking am." He sighed as he let his head thump against the headrest. "Ava has the flu, and I don't want Laura near her—understandably so," he added forcefully, as if he'd had this argument numerous times, "but that just made both my girls miserable, and so I was miserable, and"—he sneezed—"shit."
Natasha felt all the tension she'd been carrying that morning vanish. She laughed. "Sorry to hear that," she said.
"Yeah, well, life with kids," he shrugged. "It happens. Hey, puppy. C'mere boy." He chuckled as Yasha came trotting forward out of the Captain's Cabin. "Hey," he cooed as he petted the dog. "What the hell did you drag in, Nat?"
What the hell is that?
She ignored James's voice. "It's a dog, Clint."
"You should bring him out to the farm," he said. "The kids will love him."
"It crossed my mind, though I'm not sure whether Coop would let me take him back."
Clint laughed. "What's his name?"
"Yasha."
"Yasha? C'mon. Try for something original."
"Like what?"
"Like Lucky."
"Yes, because that's not cliché at all."
"It's the perfect dog name!"
Natasha rolled her eyes. "His name is Yasha."
"Well, suppose it's not so bad," he said as he leaned back in his seat and buckled himself in as the seatbelt light came on and the pilot announced that they were ready for take-off. He turned to her. "You think I could train it to get beer out of the fridge?"
"Clint, no."
"What? It'd be cool. I saw it on YouTube."
"No."
"But . . ."
"No."
Clint estimates that he has roughly three and a half hours to figure out just where Natasha has been the past six months and with whom. He watches her out of the corner of his eye as he looks at the large plasma he has showing the Mets/Cardinals game. His eyes linger on her neck, pale and flawless, and pictures the necklace of bruises she'd worn just two months ago when he'd called to tell her about the baby.
See, Clint has a problem with those bruises. And it's not out of some overprotective partner bullshit. Nat would eat him alive if he ever tried something that stupid. But those bruises . . . Nat never lets anyone get that close. Ever. And so for someone to get that close, it must be because she let them.
So Clint can only assume that for some reason, the bastard—sorry, sorry, culprit—is still alive.
"Natasha," he says.
She looks up from her book with a small smile. "I'd wondered how long it would take you."
"Where you been, Nat?"
"Minnesota. I had a cabin there."
"Sounds peaceful."
"It was."
Clint nodded. "Who'd you bring with you?"
Natasha turned a page in her book. "Someone who needed my help."
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing when you don't want to tell me the truth, but you don't want to lie."
"Then maybe you should leave it alone."
Clint nods. "Alright," he says. "So, I'm assuming you don't want anyone else to know about your guest?" He watches her carefully as he asks, and it's only because he knows her so well that he sees the briefest flash of guilt in her eyes despite the way she calmly holds his gaze.
"I'd appreciate it," she says.
He nods again and focuses his attention whole-heartedly on the game.
Natasha glances at him over the top of her book, eyes calculating. She hates it when he does this. It's a cheap, basic interrogation technique that she somehow inevitably falls for every single damn time. She focuses on her book even though the words blur together. She blinks and takes a deep breath to clear the sudden ache in her chest. The note in her pocket feels hot.
She holds out for another two hours until she's randomly turned fifty or so pages, and the Mets are trying to rally in the top of the 9th. Clint is cheering loudly with a beer in hand, stuffing chips into his mouth at an alarming rate with the other, while she swallows back the words that have been steadily building up since he stepped onto the plane.
She cracks once the Mets win with a 2-run shot into the left field gap.
"Why didn't you kill me?" she asks, drawing his attention. She's never asked for an explanation from him, always scared of the answer, whatever it could be. "You had your orders. Why break them?"
Clint stares at her for a second before shrugging lightly. "I don't know," he says. "It just . . . didn't feel right."
"Clint."
"I don't know, Nat," he says with a frown. "I just . . . you were about to die, and I looked into your eyes, and it didn't look like you cared. Like you were just tired of it all. Nothing was new or interesting. You'd seen it all before. The only thing you didn't know was what it would be like to die. And I'd been there, and someone," he smiled a little, "Laura, she thought I just needed a chance to start over. It seems kinda obvious, you know, but people like us, we're so trained to see everything that we miss what's right in front of our face. Sometimes, I guess, you just need someone to believe in you."
It takes effort, but Natasha manages a weak smile. Not because she doesn't want to smile. She wants to beam at him, to thank him profusely for seeing something redeemable in her when she needed it most. And it's because she's so overwhelmed that she can barely work up a twitch of her lips. Much more and she'd cry, and that's simply not an option. "Well, thanks, Birdbrain," she says.
He smirks. "You're welcome, Legs."
"Must have been hard, though," she says after a moment. "I wasn't the easiest to work with."
"Yeah, you know how much money I wasted on your coffee?"
She chuckles. "You need to let that go."
"It was perfectly good coffee, Nat."
"I know that."
"It's a crime." He laughs anyway before sobering. "Nat," he says, his voice soft and coaxing. It's the same voice he uses when Ava is stubbornly fighting not to fall asleep. "Where's this coming from?"
Natasha measures her words carefully. "I just . . . I know how hard it must have been, believing in someone when they don't believe in themselves. And then, eventually, you have to let them go because they need you to."
Clint's mind slowly puts the pieces together. He's not sure he's right (but he thinks he is), and if he is . . . shit.
But suddenly a lot of things make sense. Not just recently, when she and the Winter Soldier dropped off the face of the earth at the same time. Even the bruises are secondary. No, Clint suddenly thinks back to the early days of their partnership, not too long after Odessa, when he and Natasha were running a long surveillance op in Kiev, crammed together in a tiny ass apartment with one bed. The first night there, he remembers shaking Natasha awake from a nightmare.
And he remembers now, with stunning clarity, how she'd called him James.
He'd asked her about it the next morning, but she hadn't remembered a thing.
Who the hell is James?
Shit.
"They always manage to find their way back," he says eventually, and his heart breaks a little at the hope Natasha tries to hide.
"You think so?"
"Well, you always came back."
She smirks. "I did, didn't I?"
The rest of the flight passes in companionable silence, and once they're at LaGuardia, a black town car is waiting. Natasha smirks at Happy as he holds open the door. "How's that left hook, Hap?" she teases.
"If you're not scared about hurting that pretty face, I'll show you," he retorts, and she laughs.
Clint shakes his head before snapping his fingers at Yasha. "C'mon, in you go."
The dog hops in after Natasha, and Happy narrows his eyes. "I wasn't aware you had a dog," he says.
"I don't," he said with a close-lipped smile. "Just call me Uncle Clint."
He ignored the exasperated Russian curse from inside the car.
"I've got a no pets policy."
"No, you don't."
"It probably has fleas. Who knows where it's been."
"With me."
"Exactly. Jarvis, run a scan on the mutt."
"The animal is in perfect health, sir. I detect no fleas."
Tony huffs and stares at Yasha. Yasha stares back.
"What the hell is it? My Westminster Kennel Club is a pooch short."
"I do believe Yasha is a mixture of an English Sheepdog and your average Labrador Retriever, sir."
"Sheep Retriever, then." Tony declares. "I like it. Patent it." He points at Natasha. "He shits on my carpet, it's on you."
"He won't be a problem," she says with a smirk as she looks down at Yasha. "C'mon, moy malen'kiy soldat."
As they walk down the hall, she hears Tony call after them. "That better not be some weird Russian spy dog you're training."
She smiles. "Then I wouldn't tell you, would I?"
Her room—well, floor—at the Tower is new. There's a lingering air of fresh paint and expensive fabric spray that tickles her nose, and so the first thing she does is open a window. She examines her new surroundings critically, noting with a small smile the hidey-holes she finds for various weapons. A holster under the coffee table. A sleeve for a Ka-bar sewn into both pillows. She actually laughs when she finds a grenade launcher strapped to the box springs under the bed.
For all his bluster and self-absorption, Tony Stark pays attention.
Her floor is located in the middle of everyone. Steve is right above her, Clint right below her. She's sandwiched between two of the people she trusts most, and after spending the past six months in a cozy cabin with James, the thought is more comforting than she expects. When a dog bed is delivered within the hour, she outright laughs.
It takes her little time to unpack. Half of her closet is already stocked with clothes that are stylish, yet practical, and there's a line of shoes from combat boots to stilettos. The bathroom is just as elaborately prepared, the shower filled with expensive, sweet-smelling shampoos and soaps. Natasha catalogues it all and makes a mental note to thank Pepper.
There's only one thing left to unpack. It's very simple to look at but pretty. Cherry wood, small, and elegant. She gently pops the gold latch and lifts the lid. A smile that is both sad and fond lifts her lips as soft music begins to play and the little ballerina inside begins to twirl. Gently, she flicks the felt lining to reveal a small compartment. It's not big enough to hold much, but she has very few treasures. A picture of her parents, a diamond engagement ring, her arrow necklace, and the hollow point bullet from Odessa.
She takes a deep breath and takes the note out of her pocket. Part of her wants to place it in the box without reading it, but that seems ridiculous. Besides, James has never written her a letter before, and for a moment she truly feels her age as she lets her fingertips ghost over the paper. She unfolds it with a begrudging smile. Still so old-fashioned, her soldat.
Natalia,
I know I picked a hell of a time to leave. I'm sorry about that, but we both know that if I don't leave now, I won't leave at all, and we're not ready for that. The world needs you more than I do, Tasha. That's okay. You made me remember what it's like to be human. Again.
So go save the world, sweetheart. You already saved me.
And remember, no matter where you are, it'll always be just you and me.
-James
"You and me," she vows softly before shutting the compartment and placing the music box in the top drawer of her dresser.
There's a knock on the door. Yasha barks and charges toward the sound, tail wagging, and she rolls her eyes. "Calm down, malen'kiy soldat."
She's not surprised when she opens the door and finds Steve on the other side. He gives her a smile, and despite the guilt suddenly churning in her gut, she's hopeless not to smile back. "You look awfully chipper," she says.
"So do you."
He kneels in front of Yasha. "I heard the Avengers have a new mascot," he says.
"Tony tell you that?"
"He wants to dress him up."
"Not happening."
She smirks when Yasha plants both paws on Steve's knee and yips. "This is Yasha," she says.
"Yasha, huh?" Steve repeats as he scratches the dog behind the ears. "Good name."
"I thought so."
"I owe you lunch."
"You do, don't you? I'm driving."
"I have my bike."
She smirks. "I know."
They go to her favorite deli just like he'd promised, and he doesn't complain (much) when she tosses back the keys to his bike over her shoulder after she parks. "You know," he says. "If you like my bike so much, you should get your own."
"But why would I do that when I can just ride yours?"
He smirks at her even as he blushes. "You're terrible."
"You know you missed me."
"I did," he says honestly. "So c'mere."
His arm winds around her shoulders and pulls her to him. She feels his lips brush the top of her head and sighs. "C'mon," she says, winding her arm through his. "You promised lunch. I'm starving."
Steve pays for their food and they find a booth tucked in the back that's quiet. They spend the majority of their time talking about work in low voices. He tells her about the HYDRA bases that he and Sam had found instead of Bucky, and they discuss which bases to hit first and the problems they're likely to find. Two of the bases will require heavy recon, and she volunteers herself and Clint. It's what they do best. Steve agrees.
It's when they're sipping coffee and fighting over the last pieces of a cookie that Steve asks, "So, when you weren't figuring out your new cover, did you do anything fun?"
She smirks. "Did you?"
"Define fun."
"I was camping."
He raises his eyebrows with a little smile and leans back in his chair. "Camping, huh? That what spies do these days?"
"We're very adaptable," she retorts before stealing the last of the cookie and asking, "Did you ever call Sharon?"
He scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Nat."
"What? It's an innocent question."
"You know, it's a bit disconcerting when your partner is more interested in your love life than you are."
"Oh, so you have a love life? Tell me."
He sighs heavily, shaking his head when she smiles widely. "We've been on one date," he admits. "Last week."
"How'd it go?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"What more do you want, Romanoff?"
"All the dirty details."
"There are no dirty details."
She pouts. "Well, are you going to ask her out again?"
"She's somewhere in Europe right now. That's all she could tell me, so it might be awhile."
"Good. We have time to plan."
"We?"
"Oh, yes. You'll need my help for the second date."
"Why?"
"Because I know people," she says. "Don't worry. It'll be fun."
He smiles at her with this sort of fond exasperation that comes from loving someone despite their quirks. Would he forgive her if she told him the truth? She knows he'll find out eventually. Secrets never stay buried forever. She knows that better than most.
But she'll keep this one a bit longer.
Only two more chapters, guys! We're so close!
Sorry updates have been spotty. It's easier for me to stick to a schedule when school is in session since I'm always waking up at the same time. These days, I'm either binging True Blood - yum, Eric Northman - in to the wee hours of the morning and sleeping until 3 in the afternoon or I'm up at the asscrack of dawn playing with horses. Ah, life.
Next time in A Ghost of a Memory . . . no quote is really needed. Just one word: BUDAPEST.
See you Friday,
AC