I went and hurt myself (unintentionally) and now everything is awful.
13
Bucky does laundry in the basement with the same machines as the other residents. The first time he does this, he notes that the machines are new. Suspiciously new. When Bucky texts Steve about them, Steve just replies that they're a gift to him and the neighbors from an anonymous concerned citizen.
Sure.
When he comes back up with his clean clothing, his door is cracked open. He adjusts his pile of clothes, reaching for the gun he has holstered on his back.
He must make some sound—or his visitor is extremely vigilant—because he hears a voice before he can pull out the weapon.
"Relax, Barnes, it's just me."
Romanoff. Despite now knowing who the intruder is, Bucky still keeps his clothes in one hand so that he can wield a weapon with the other. When he enters, kicking the door shut behind him, he hears Romanoff stirring something in the kitchen. He drops off his laundry—his back itching the whole time from the knowledge that there is another highly-trained spy in his apartment—and then goes to confront her.
He debates improving the lock on his door. It wouldn't stop her. At best it would slow her down.
Not worth it, then.
Romanoff looks different than she did a week ago. A new hairstyle. Shorter, curlier. But she is not dressed for a fight; she wears a jacket, leggings, and boots with heels tall enough to be weapons if broken off. Bucky isn't fooled by her appearance. There are at least three places to hide knives in her jacket alone.
She holds a mug in her left hand, a small spoon in her right.
"What? I stopped for hot cocoa." She nods towards a small package on the counter while putting the spoon in the drink. It clinks against the side, making the same noise Bucky had heard when he first entered. "Got some extra packets for you, if you want it. Otherwise Clint will take it off my hands, so no pressure."
Bucky considers her reasons for doing that for a few seconds before deciding that he won't be able to figure them out. "Thanks."
Romanoff takes a sip of her cocoa, somehow keeping the spoon from sliding into her face. "You can put the knife away, Barnes. I'm not going to hurt you."
Bucky doesn't know when he had pulled the knife out. He doesn't put the knife away. "Why did you break in?"
She takes another drink. Shrugs. "If I had knocked, would you have let me in?"
"No."
"And if, for some reason, you had let me in, would you have felt obligated to make me comfortable?"
Bucky frowns. Or maybe he was already frowning. "I don't know."
"If you're anything at all like Steve, the answer is yes. So I figured I would save us both the hassle of pretending like we're normal and let myself in. I left the door open so you would know, by the way."
Like he has any reason to doubt her skills.
"I don't know about you," James says, and Bucky almost forgets to stop himself from looking at the hallucination in case Romanoff notices, "but I like the idea of hot cocoa. It's not as good as Barton's, but it's still tasty. Let's keep it. It is getting colder after all."
That is true. Bucky has noticed the chill in the lower levels of the building, which are not heated as well as the upper floors.
And that reminds Bucky that he is still sorely lacking in warmer clothing. His bed sheets are not acceptable outdoor wear, though the comforter will make an excellent blanket—
"C'mon, Stevie, scoot in! I won't fit in the fort if you don't move your butt over."
"Jeez, Buck. I gotta make sure I don't knock nothin' over first."
"Fine. But I ain't waitin' long, so hurry up."
"I know."
"Barnes?"
He blinks. Romanoff is staring, her expression showing curiosity but otherwise unreadable.
"Why are you here?" Bucky asks to distract her from whatever he had just accidentally revealed and to distract himself from the memory. He has already placed it as early childhood and will write it down later.
"I'm checking on you," she says. "You never texted me."
"You have her number?" James asks.
Bucky is more concerned with how she got his, and then he realizes that Stark probably preloaded it onto the phone.
"Besides, I figured I should visit before Steve has an aneurism and breaks down your door out of worry. I can at least reassure him that you're alive and well."
"What?"
She rolls her eyes. "Just let it go, Barnes. I promise I am here to help. You can even search me for weapons if you want."
"You're carrying four knives, a garrote wire, and at least one pistol."
Romanoff is good at hiding what she feels, but Barnes can see the surprise that glints in her eyes before she takes another sip of her hot cocoa. "You're close. Five knives."
"I knew there was one in her left boot too," James mutters.
"What were you saying about Steve?"
She shrugs. "He gets your texts, but he still worries. It's a habit of his."
Bucky struggles to hide a frown. "He knows I'm fine."
"He does. He worries anyway. It's one of his many endearing qualities."
He doesn't understand—why is Steve worrying if he knows that Bucky isn't hurt or in pain?
"Because he cares about you, you dope," James says. "Why else?"
Bucky clenches his jaw to avoid responding. When he is confident he can ignore James again, he turns to one side and grabs a mug from the nearby cabinet while sheathing the knife. He moves with slow, deliberate motions, giving Romanoff ample time to slide away and keep her one-meter gap.
And she thought he hadn't noticed her discomfort if he got too close.
The hot cocoa is good once Bucky gets the milk-to-mix ratio right, which takes a few experimental sips. By the time he is drinking, Romanoff has moved to examining the kitchen as though she hasn't already. But Bucky knows that she has already searched his entire apartment. She is a spy.
It's what he would do.
"I didn't search your bedroom or bathroom," Romanoff says. When Bucky levels her with a blank stare, she shrugs. "It's your space." Her lips twist. "Consider it a trust exercise."
He believes her. He doesn't know why.
"Nice shirt," Romanoff comments. Bucky glances down out of habit. He's wearing a plain gray t-shirt and a black jacket. There's nothing significant about the shirt or the jacket or even the gloves he wears when he leaves his apartment. Now that he realizes he still has them on, Bucky sets down the mug of cocoa and takes off his gloves. He pretends not to notice Romanoff examining his metal hand.
"Thanks," Bucky says belatedly when James clears his throat.
"How many shirts do you actually have?" Romanoff asks. Bucky frowns at her. Why does she want to know?
Romanoff rolls her eyes. "Don't give me that look, Barnes. I'm doing this out of concern for you." He wonders how much it pains her to say that. "How many?"
"Five," Bucky replies.
"Five," she repeats. "Total?"
He nods. He had been given them as part of his moving-away gifts.
She blinks. And then she is all business. "Right, we're going shopping. Right now."
"So that's why she came," James says.
Romanoff does check that Bucky is willing to go out. He can give her credit for that, at least. Within five minutes they are walking down the street, Bucky in his only jacket to stave off the late autumn chill and Romanoff looking like any other young woman on the sidewalk. She stands close, and Bucky understands without having to be told that they are going with the couple cover. She does an excellent job of hiding her reactions to his presence.
James is gone, chased away by the abundant people and city noise.
"Steve and I did this, once," Romanoff says casually as they turn a corner. "He wasn't as good as you are. He kissed me. Did he tell you about that?"
He did what.
She laughs and it is hard to tell how much is genuine and how much is for the couple currently walking past them. "I guess not." She goes quiet, and Bucky glances over to see that her expression has gone blank, the kind of blank that indicates thinking.
She wants to say something, but she doesn't. They find the first store before the need to fill the silence finds Bucky.
Romanoff puts her hair up and Bucky raises an eyebrow at her in a silent query about their destination. He does not feel threatened, even though he has not been here before. It is odd, how easy it is to trust Romanoff despite her background. Despite the fact that she shot him in the face.
"You need to be prepared for winter," Romanoff explains while she leads the way into the bowels of the small shop tucked away between two other stores. "I know the perfect places to get warm gear."
While she directs him to the section with hats, gloves, and scarves Bucky works out the question swimming in his head.
"Why are you doing this?"
Romanoff pauses in the middle of handing Bucky a gray beanie. He can see her debating whether to tell the truth. She sighs, letting her outstretched arm drop.
"We have shared history," she says.
"The bridge."
"No."
What?
"Before that," Romanoff continues. Her tone is light and her expression is cheery—the person at the register is watching them with the bored interest of someone with nothing else to do. "Let's just say you were one of my teachers, and I now have the chance to make some things right. We can talk about it more later, if you want."
He doesn't know if he wants that. But he nods anyway, even though the explanation doesn't explain much at all.
"Here," Romanoff says, offering the beanie again. "You have nice hair, but it isn't going to keep you warm."
They end up getting two beanies, an actual warm hat, two scarves, three pairs of gloves—the first two for hiding his metal hand and the last one because they were really fucking comfortable—and earmuffs. The guy at the counter rings them up and Romanoff pays, offering the half-assed excuse that Bucky has just moved to New York from Arizona. The guy hums and Bucky knows he actually believes it even though Bucky is as pale as they come.
He'll forget about them in five minutes, anyway.
Romanoff carries the bags and they find a second store. This one has a few other customers browsing and Bucky forces out some easy small talk until Romanoff can take over the talking and Bucky can browse the pants and shirts.
He picks out lots of sweatpants. They look comfortable and soft and easy to move in. And then he grabs some jeans because they look good.
By the time he gets to shirts, Romanoff is back and helping him browse.
("Do you like flannel? Actually, never mind. You're friends with Steve. Of course you like flannel.")
The third store has a fantastic variety of footwear. Bucky gets boots, slippers, and then some casual shoes because his current ones are falling apart. And he gets a kickass pair of boots because he saw them out of the corner of his eye and couldn't look away.
By the time they are heading home, Bucky has stopped at two more stores and gotten three sweatshirts—two of which are oversized—a vest, and a heavy coat. He and Romanoff have to spend a few minutes at the final store organizing all the bags so they can carry them without blocking off an entire sidewalk.
"Where did you get the money for this?" Bucky asks while they walk.
"Tony found out that you owned less than Steve in terms of clothing. He got offended that you hadn't said anything."
"How did he find that out?"
"Barnes," Romanoff says, shooting him a sly smile, "you recycled outfits every few days. It wasn't hard to figure out. He would have given you more when you moved, but he didn't know if he should."
"Oh."
Romanoff is quiet for a few steps.
"Steve has a phrase for Stark's methods. What was it? Oh, right. He's trying to build a bridge by buying the bricks."
"I burned that bridge," Bucky says. "I killed his parents."
"I'm sure you and Steve and Tony have already had that discussion, so I won't say what I know Steve has already said to you. But Tony is a good person, and he's trying. So are you. Therefore, money."
"That's…" he has to think for a while. "Strange."
"I was going to say maladjusted, but strange works too."
He smiles without thinking.
It feels weird.
They get back to the apartment and Bucky sets to putting everything away. It takes some time; he isn't used to having so much. But everything has its proper place, and by the time is done his closet is comfortingly packed. He has eight pairs of pants. Eight.
"Man, if Stevie could see us now," James says. He's sitting in the desk chair, his legs swinging while he smiles. "We're loaded, pal."
"Hey, Barnes," Romanoff says from the kitchen, "you left your boots in here."
Right. The boots. He goes to get them and finds Romanoff holding the notebook.
Bucky's brain screeches to a halt and he shakes with the effort of keeping still. He can't control his breathing and the plates on his metal arm are clicking into alignment for combat and he can't—
Romanoff makes eye contact. Her face drains of color and she sets the notebook down, steps back. Lifts her hands.
She has stepped away from the notebook. Her hands are empty.
"I am sorry, Barnes," she says.
She is not holding any weapons. She is not touching the notebook. She has not opened the notebook.
"Hey, pal, it's okay," James says. "We're okay. We just gotta calm down, all right? Count to ten. Deep breaths. There you go."
Bucky finally unclenches his right fist and as the tension bleeds from his muscles he reaches up and scrubs a hand across his face.
"I'm sorry," Romanoff repeats. "I didn't open it."
Bucky takes another deep breath and lets it out while focusing on getting his left arm loose again. "It's okay."
She hadn't known what it is. What it means.
How it is Bucky's entire goddamn world outside of Steve.
He grabs the notebook and the boots and puts them in his room. When he returns, Romanoff has calmed down and her expression is as inscrutable as ever.
"There's something else I meant to give you," she says.
"It's like Christmas," James comments.
"What is it?" Bucky asks.
"These." Romanoff puts a few packages on the counter. Bucky picks one up and James stifles something that isn't a cough.
"Hair ties," Bucky says. He hadn't even seen her pick them up.
"They're the brand I use," Romanoff says. "Reliable. And I figured it would be easier for you to do chores without your hair falling in your face."
It's—thoughtful. Something Bucky hadn't even considered.
"Thank you."
She smiles—quicksilver and honest—and then checks her phone. "I have to meet a friend of mine for dinner, but I enjoyed our shopping trip. You're not bad company, Barnes."
He doesn't know what to make of her. He picks up the hair ties, noting that Romanoff had gotten both plain black and the rainbow packages.
"By the way," Romanoff says, pausing near the doorway. Bucky glances up, curiosity mingling with the fatigue pulling on his bones. "You can call me Natasha."
And then she's gone.
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