Chapter 61: Please Hold To My Hand
Summary: Bucky wakes from a nightmare to find Steve and Emily at his side. Sam and Natasha have an in depth talk about her past relationships with James Barnes and The Winter Soldier.
Notes: This chapter is dedicated to kawherp for your wonderful support and feedback on my story. I appreciate the time taken to do so. – W6C
He fell asleep; unsure as to when. His brain slowly wakes up and he realizes that he's lying on something soft. He tries to make sense of where he is, but can't. He needs to open his eyes. He doesn't want to though, because as long as he keeps his eyes closed it can be anywhere he wants it to be.
He breathes in deeply, wishing he hadn't come awake. He wants to stay asleep. Wherever he is, it's soft and warm and comforting and it smells like Ivory soap and Old Spice. He knows that scent, that… fragrance: but from where? He wants to stay in this world, the world of dreams… where it's soft and warm and smells familiar, but-.
'Don't let them know you're awake,' the voice whispers to him. 'Keep your eyes closed.' The voice scares him. 'Don't. Move.' He wants to swallow but his throat is paralyzed with fear.
The mattress at his back depresses as someone sits down behind him. He wants to move, he needs to move, to see who it is, but he can't. He's frozen with fear. Terror makes it impossible to get his muscles to do anything. He feels the tremors start, beginning in his belly, spreading like wildfire to his chest… his shoulders, arms, legs and hands.
He feels the mattress depressing further as the person lies down behind him. His body naturally wants to roll backward into the person behind him, but he tenses up to keep from doing that.
A hand comes to rest lightly on his shoulder. His lungs stop working. His insides freeze up. His body betrays him though: he can't stop the trembling no matter how much he tries: no matter how much he concentrates.
"YA znayu chot ty prosnulsya," the man says. \"I know you're awake."\
"Ne nuzhno pritvoyat'sya," he whispers in your ear. \"No need to pretend."\
'You know that voice: it belongs to our master: Karpov. His hand squeezes your arm, trying to quell your fear.'
"Ne nuzhno boyat'sya, moy yinyy soldat. S moyey pomoshch'yu… vy budete formirovat' nash mir," he whispers.
'You feel his lips brush lightly at the rim of your ear. A strange sensation stirs inside me as I watch him with you.'
"No need to fear, my young soldier. With my help… you will shape the world we live in," he tells you.'
'His hand slides down your arm onto your hip. His fingers tighten, holding you in place as he presses his hips against you. You can feel his body beginning to harden pressing between your cheeks. You want to tell him to stop: you will plead and beg if you have to, but fear has frozen your vocal chords. I was in your position once, a long time ago; I know precisely what you are thinking: what you are feeling. You want to scream, but all that comes out of your throat is a whimper.'
A single tear escapes to dampen the sheet beneath his cheek. The dampness turns the sheet cold: but wait, it's not a sheet at all, it's a cold slab.
'They're in your cell: ambushed again.'
He turns his head sharply to see the dark figure standing beyond the men holding him down. He can't see the man's eyes, he's but a shadow… he wears a mask to hide his face.
'You fear me the most, don't you? - even though I've never laid a hand on you. Karpov tries to turn you over, but you resist him. Don't resist. It's easier if you don't resist.'
"N…nn…nooo," Barnes says aloud in his sleep. In his dream he is helpless to fight back, unaware of the fight still in him.
At the kitchen table Steve stops in mid-sentence. He listens.
"Captain, what is it?" Emily asks him.
"I thought I heard something," he says. Holding up one finger, he asks her to wait and she nods. "I'm going to check on him."
Stepping over to the door, Steve pushed it open slowly until he could see Bucky lying on the bed in the fetal position, his back to the door. He stood watching; waiting to see if the sound he'd heard actually came from this room.
At the table, Emily sat silently, also listening for whatever sound Steve thought he'd heard. If Barnes was still asleep, she wouldn't be surprised if his mind was trying to show him events in which he was forced to take part; or people with whom he was forced to interact during the years he was held captive. If it was a dream of a memory, it could go one of two ways: something he was forced to do to someone else, or something that someone had forced upon him.
The body pressed against him shakes in a manner he recognizes: Karpov is signaling with his hand for someone to approach. His heart pounds heavily against his sternum; he feels it in his throat and hears the sound of blood rushing in his ears.
"P… please… don't," he forces out through clenched teeth. "Pozhaluysta, ne nado," he repeats in Russian. 'I know Russian?'
'Da, you do; also German, Italian, French, Romanian, Sokovian… and many more languages.'
"Shhh," Karpov says as he strokes your hair; pulling it back over your shoulder so he can see his soldier's face. He tries to quell your fear, "Rasslab'sya, moy soldat... eto zakonchitsya prezhde, chem ty uznayesh'…" \"Relax, my soldier… this will be over before you know…"\
'Before Karpov finishes his sentence their hands are on you, forcing you onto your belly, pushing you face down.'
There are many hands: three men, maybe more? Pressing his shoulders painfully against the stone slab, hands pressing hard on his skull pushing his face against the unyielding surface; he fights against them, trying to turn his head and gasping for air.
"Rasslab'sya, moy soldat," Karpov repeats.\'Relax, my soldier'\
'His rough hands pull sharply at the clothes that cover you: the scraps that pass as clothing anyway. They are tugging your pants down.'
"Nnnooo," he pleads, even knowing it won't do him any good.
The Soldier watches from his position near the bars of the cell. A sense of jealousy rises in him as he watches his handler giving all his attention to the Broken Man. He pushes the sensation down: it makes no sense.
If the Broken Man would just yield, his life would be so much easier. The Soldier says nothing: but he remains, standing witness to the atrocities put upon the Broken Man: the same atrocities from which he himself was forged. He simply watches: not allowing any emotion to infiltrate his consciousness.
Once the Broken Man is stripped, he's pulled backward off the cold slab until his knees are nearly on the floor, but they do not allow him to kneel. He's unable to get his knees down and when he tries to put his feet flat on the floor they kick them out from under him: he has no leverage against them. If he had leverage he could fight: he could hurt them: he could kill them… they know this: so does the Soldier. Secretly the Soldier feels a desire to see that: to see the Man turn the tables on his captors.
Someone is pushing something against his mouth, he tries to move away from it but hands grab his face: fingers pressing hard into his jaw until his mouth is forced open. Something is pushed into his mouth: a cloth? A gag, to muffle his screams… it's made of rough, dry material that saps the saliva from his tongue: he chokes on it.
He tries to shout and realizes it's useless – he's helpless, he has no options – he cries out in despair and tears stream down his cheeks until they pool under his head making the cold, smooth stone beneath his cheek slick. Someone pushes into him – the pain is intense, so intense he can't even scream.
The Soldier straightens, sucking in a deep breath behind his mask.
The Broken Man cries out around the gag, sobbing as searing pain races up his spine. The only sounds inside the cell are his muffled cries, the heavy breaths of the man violating him, and the blood pounding in his ears.
His world goes dark.
Steve stood in the doorway and heard a soft whimper. Concerned, he stepped into the room and carefully approached the bed.
"P-p-pozhaluysta… ost- ostanovis'," Bucky said quietly, turning his face into the mattress. \'P-p-please, st-stop.'\
Steve walked over to try to ease him awake. He placed his hand gently on Bucky's shoulder and sat down beside him.
Bucky's brain registered the motion of the bed and incorporated it with the events in the dream. "Ne!" he shouted and threw himself off the bed before Steve could stop him. Steve reached for him though and nearly had a hold, but his touch seemed to escalate the speed of his escape. Barnes landed on the floor and scrambled to the corner between the nightstand and the closet.
Emily heard his yell and quickly rose from the table. She made it to the doorway in time to see Barnes slam into the corner and turn his face away so he didn't have to look at the man sitting on the bed.
"Bucky, it's okay," Steve told him and slid off the bed onto the floor. He didn't approach his terrified friend, but wanted to be on the same level so as not to appear threatening. "Bucky, it's me. It's Steve… you had a bad dream." Steve could see that he'd been crying in his sleep: his cheeks were flushed and strands of hair were plastered to his sweat-dampened face. His chin quivered as he stared unfocused into the past. Steve could see his entire body was quaking with tremors: he was absolutely terrified. "Buck? Bucky, can you hear me? It's Steve."
"Steve," Bucky whispered, but he remained frozen in the corner.
"Yeah, pal, it's me," Steve told him, keeping his volume low and his tone of voice soft.
"Steve?" Bucky said; sounding like a hiccup as he tried to control a sob.
"Yeah, Buck. I'm right here. I'm right here," he said softly. He watched as Barnes blinked slowly and his eyes finally regained focus. He still remained motionless except for the trembling but his eyes slowly slid toward the sound of his voice. When their eyes met, Steve smiled and raised his hand slowly. "You're okay," he assured him. "You had a dream. It was a bad dream. It's not happening now. You're safe."
"Steve," Bucky said, recognizing him.
"Yeah," Steve replied. "Can you… can you come to me?" he asked, still holding his hand out. He could see Bucky's head shaking with the terrified tremors. Barnes thought about it and then shook his head no. "Okay," Steve said, realizing his friend was so terror stricken he couldn't move. "Can I come to you?" he asked. Barnes thought about it, glancing at him and then to the woman standing in the doorway. He didn't answer so Steve tried again. "Can I come over to you, Buck?" Barnes still couldn't turn his head but looked at Steve out of the corner of his eye and nodded with a jerky motion.
"Nice and easy, Captain," Dr. Golden encouraged him.
Steve was still on his knees and slid forward pausing briefly in case he changed his mind: once, twice and by the third move he was right in front of Barnes, his hand still extended. He slowly let his hand come to rest atop Bucky's knee and watched tears flow down his cheeks.
"I gotcha, pal," Steve whispered to him and then moved to sit beside him, with his back against the wall so he wasn't in front of him, blocking any means of escape. He carefully laid his other hand on the metal shoulder and when Barnes allowed it, he then slowly threaded his arm around Bucky's neck and tried to slowly pull him toward him. He could feel the strength of the tremors paralyzing his friend.
"It's okay, Buck. You're safe. I gotcha," he said quietly and Bucky began to move. Steve felt him try to shift his weight but he couldn't manage it on his own; so Steve used the hand still on Bucky's knee to pull him around toward him and once he was in motion he was able to pull his shoulders around and it was as if the string holding him in place suddenly snapped. He turned toward Steve and buried himself against his chest. "I gotcha, buddy," Steve whispered again: aware of the tremors making his own body vibrate. He glanced up at Emily and she nodded approvingly.
Neither of them said anything: allowing Barnes the chance to shake off the vestiges of his nightmare. A few minutes later, Steve realized the tremors had ceased. He tightened his embraced briefly and then dropped one arm. He ducked his head to look at Barnes who seemed to be staring again unfocused. Steve used his fingers to brush the dampened strands from Bucky's cheeks and then pressed a finger under his chin to lift his face to him. Bucky's eyes refocused on Steve's face. He took in every detail: the curve of his mouth, the shape of his nose, the blue of his eyes, the tiny mole on his cheek.
"Steve," Bucky whispered.
Steve smiled at him. "Yeah, pal, I'm here. You okay?" he asked.
Barnes let out a long breath and seemed to think about the question before nodding. "Yeah," he breathed out.
"Yeah?" Steve asked to be sure and Barnes nodded. "You were having a bad dream," Steve told him and Barnes nodded again. "It sounded like a really bad one," Steve said and Bucky nodded yet again. "Do you want to tell me -?" he asked and Barnes was shaking his head before Steve even finished the question.
There was no question that he didn't want to experience it again by talking about it. There would be plenty of time for that, Emily knew. She wasn't going to push him this early in his recovery. He could barely keep himself in the present day at this point. His fugue states were powerful and were going to take a lot of intense therapy, she knew, to get them to subside. He needed to be on more solid ground before she attempted to guide him back through the memories of his terrifying life. She also knew that he wasn't at all stable: he could vacillate between the Soldier, Soldat and Barnes easily with the slightest trigger, so now was not the time to push.
Steve felt Bucky relax against him and that allowed his own anxiety to dissipate. He simply held Bucky in his arms until he was more certain that he'd regained his composure. Only a few minutes passed, when Steve ventured to reassess Bucky's state of mind. "Coffee's up," he told him and Barnes sat up to look at him. "I put some on, remember?"
Bucky nodded.
"Do you still want some?" Steve asked.
"Yeah," Bucky answered; his voice cracking.
"Good," Steve said as he shifted his position and Bucky backed off to give him space so he could move unimpeded. "You okay?" Steve asked one more time to be sure before standing. Bucky nodded, doing his best to offer him a smile. Steve smiled back, resting his palm on Bucky's cheek. "Okay," Steve said and stood up before extending his hand.
Barnes looked at his hand and then took it, allowing his friend to help him to his feet. His legs felt like rubber, but he was able to stand. Steve gave him a moment and then smiled, giving his arm a solid pat and then led the way out of the room.
Emily turned away before Steve made it to the door. She returned to her chair at the table to wait. She did her best to make him feel less self-conscious when –if– he chose to come out to visit with them. Steve went to the kitchen to get a mug for him with confidence that James would be joining them.
Bucky emerged from the bedroom doorway and stopped to look around: getting his bearings again. He remembered this room. He nodded to himself. Emily sat silently watching him. Steve came back to the table and pulled a chair out for him. He placed the mug on the table and filled it from the carafe. He turned to see Barnes was standing in the bedroom doorway looking at Dr. Golden as if trying to place her.
"Come on over, buddy," Steve invited, putting his hand on the back of the chair: indicating for him where he can sit.
Barnes walked over slowly as if he was still getting his legs solidly under him. He reached the chair and paused there before finally settling into it.
"Would you like cream and sugar?" Emily asked him. Barnes' expression shifted slightly as if he was trying to remember if he liked cream and sugar in his coffee. "Why don't you try it without first," she suggested. He looked down at the steaming mug and lifted it to his lips. He inhaled the scent of it and it nearly sparked an image in his head. He took a careful sip and put the mug down. "Is it okay like that?" Emily asked him and he nodded.
Steve smiled then topped off Emily's cup and then his own before placing the carafe on a trivet in the center of the table and taking his seat again.
They watched Barnes for a moment: he looked completely strung out. He was sweaty and pale and the dark shadows under his eyes made it clear to Dr. Golden that there were still lingering effects from the drugs in his system. She wondered if it was the drug effects that caused his terror dream. Steve looked to Emily with a concerned expression and she pressed her lips together, not wanting to acknowledge his concern openly in front of Barnes.
The three sat together at the table for another hour so Dr. Golden could assess his mental state and physical behavior. He didn't say much unless prompted… actually, he didn't say anything at all unless Steve or Emily asked him a direct question and even then they had to be patient, as it took time for him to comprehend the question asked and then forming an answer.
Steve spent a lot of time just looking at Bucky between sipping his coffee and trying to think of something appropriate to say to him. Emily spent her time watching both of them and coming up with things to say; not because she was that much better at small talk, but more along the lines of simply needing him to interact in order to observe his responses.
For the most part, he simply sat quietly, staring into space; seemingly lost in his own thoughts. They had to keep dragging him out of his own head and that alone seemed to exhaust him.
Dr. Golden was forming the opinion that for now it would be best for him to be left with his own thoughts. He definitely needed the down time to just be quiet. Her plans for his active therapy sessions could certainly wait as Barnes needed to be much further along in being able to organize his thoughts and whatever memories he was able to retain since his emergence. Now was certainly not that time.
Steve was wrestling with strong mixed feelings about Bucky's condition. He was certainly happy to have his friend back with him, safe and sound: but it was also heartbreaking to see how wounded his best friend was. He was getting a really clear picture of what PTSD looks like up close.
Natasha was sitting alone in the common area nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels. Sam watched her quietly from the doorway for a few minutes before deciding whether or not to intrude. She poured a finger's worth into the short wide glass and threw it back before staring out the window again into the darkness outside. Sam decided it was time to intrude.
"Is this seat taken?" he asked as he stepped up to the chair opposite her at the table.
She wasn't surprised by his sudden appearance because she'd been watching his reflection in the window for the past five minutes. Without looking at him she answered, "It is if you take it."
Sam raised his eyebrows and pulled out the chair. Taking a seat across from her he studied her for a moment before noticing there was a second glass sitting upside down on the table. He took that as a sign that she'd been hoping someone would join her. Perhaps she was hoping for Clint, since he was her best friend, but she didn't seem to mind that it was Sam. He reached for the glass and flipped it over.
Natasha looked down at the empty glass and poured him two fingers before pouring the same amount into her own glass. She put the bottle down and shifted in her seat to give him more attention than the window. Although she had turned to face him, she continued to stare at the table top.
Sam lifted his glass and took a sip. He held onto the glass as he watched her, clearly lost in her own thoughts. "What's going on, Natasha?" he asked.
She shrugged and shook her head, still completely focused on whatever was actually going on inside her head.
"Natasha," he said again and she raised her eyes to look at him. "Where are you right now?" he asked with careful compassion.
She gave him a sad smile, "In a place far away from here… in a time that seems so long ago now."
"You're having a tough time, aren't you?" Sam mentioned. Natasha took a sip of whiskey and just looked at him. "You told me, the last time we spoke, that you and he were having a rather… tragic… love affair… in a place where attachments and familial emotions are basically forbidden," he said, reminding her that she'd already confided in him about her feelings for James Barnes.
"We never should have allowed ourselves to…" she said quietly and tossed back the rest of the liquid in her glass.
"… but you did -," he pointed out, "- and, obviously he wanted it as much as you did."
"Yeah, he did!" she told him, a bit heatedly. "And he paid for that mistake with his -."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Sam interrupted rather loudly, his volume in the quiet room stilled Natasha. "Was it a mistake?" he asked her, challenging her use of the word. "Didn't you tell me that you loved him? Didn't you tell me that in the one place in the whole world you thought was devoid of any kind of compassion or friendship, true friendship… or love… you found all of those things?" he pointed out.
Natasha nodded and refilled their glasses. She sniffed loudly and swiped at a tear that offended her. "Yep," she replied, indignant at the thought.
Sam frowned at her. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.
"Doing what?" she asked in return, sounding angry.
"Why are you trying to ignore those feelings? Acting as though that love affair offends you… like it never happened?"
"Because it didn't!" she told him. "It can't have happened!"
"But it did," Sam told her keeping his tone soft.
"And what good did it do for either of us?!" she asked him. "They found out and separated us! They tore us from each other and tortured him for days - and forced me to listen to his screams!" she told him. Her anger and sorrow was palpable and Sam had to sit back in his seat as she let it all out. "They took him away from me! I was alone again!" she said heatedly. She took a moment to quiet her anger. When she began again, her voice was softer. "That saying – 'It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all' – is bullshit!
"Before him, I was alone. I was empty… but I didn't know why. After him, I was alone again and empty – but this time it was worse because now I knew what was missing – what was taken away from me. What I was being denied!
"The man that we brought back here is the living embodiment of all their cruelty; the torture and violent schemes! Don't you get that?!"
Sam listened: allowing her to vent all the emotions that were churned up inside her. The emergence of James Barnes and his brief recognition of her: his concern for her safety, had filled Natasha's empty heart to overflowing: and then he was gone again.
Her mounting grief at the repeated loss of James was tearing down the walls she'd built around herself. She suddenly understood even more clearly the helplessness and the loneliness that Steve must have experienced for so long. He too, had lost James more than once and here she sat, feeling pity for herself and that only turned her anger into fury.
Sam took another sip from his glass and waited for her to continue. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she swept them away angrily before tossing back the contents of her glass. She took a deep breath and blew it out.
"It was stupid of us," she told him, her voice softer now, with less rage and with more sadness and longing. "We knew it wouldn't be allowed. We knew if we were caught -."
"You must have felt, at the time, that it was worth taking the chance," Sam ventured.
Natasha nodded. "We both did."
"Why?" Sam asked.
Natasha thought about it and then said softly, "It was a chance to feel human."
Sam nodded. He could understand how that would be so important in such a place: a place where being human was the one thing they didn't want you to be. "How long were you able to keep your affair a secret?" Sam asked.
Natasha thought about the question and then smiled softly. "About six months, I think. It felt like a lifetime though," she told him.
"In a good way – or bad?" Sam asked.
"Oh, in a good way," she told him wistfully. "We… didn't have the option of seeing each other whenever we wanted, obviously… but we were able to sneak time together when we found ourselves to be in the same place… training or… usually it was for training purposes. As brief as our interludes were we knew we had to love a lifetime's worth in every moment, because we just didn't know if we'd ever see each other again - and so we did."
"You two trained together?" Sam asked.
Natasha smiled thoughtfully and nodded. "At times we trained in the same room… or location. Later: after they punished us for being together and erased all his memories of me -," she paused to order her thoughts. "The next time I was allowed to see him, he was… different. He wasn't James any longer. He was the Winter Soldier again."
"Again?"
Natasha nodded staring into her glass. "When I was a teen, they sent the Winter Soldier to the Red Room to train us -," she told him. "He frightened us. We'd all been abused and conditioned, but he was… so different. His eyes held nothing but anger… he was death personified…"
"But-?" Sam asked, prodding her to continue.
Natasha blinked and swallowed hard, remembering. "But… one day, something changed. When he looked at me, there was a new life in those dead, angry eyes. I froze. I stared at him and he almost smiled," she said, remembering. She raised her eyes to look at Sam. "That was the moment I realized that the Winter Soldier wasn't given a choice anymore than I had been given a choice. There was a man in there… inside that killer. A man who didn't want to be what they made him.
"That was when I realized that the man inside was fighting back. Even when it seemed clear that he had been turned – he always seemed to eventually pull himself out. It was my shock in that moment that betrayed him and they came and took him away.
"Some time later, they had me accompany him on a couple of missions as part of my final test toward graduation. He was my instructor in hand-to-hand combat, infiltration, ex-filtration, weapons, covert operations… you name it. He taught me to be a soldier, a spy… the best covert operative the Red Room ever produced: the best that I could be. He saved my life… he refused to let me fail when I wanted to fail… but failure meant death… and even as the Winter Soldier he refused to let me give up on myself."
"Do you think that was James pushing you?" Sam asked.
Natasha stared at the amber liquid in her glass and shook her head. "No. That was many years before we met again as adults. When they allowed us to meet again, it was because they were certain they had the Winter Soldier completely under their control. The first time I saw him again, there was nothing of James in the Soldier's angry eyes. My James was gone."
"But not for good," Sam pointed out, since their love affair began for her as an adult.
Natasha smiled at that. "No," she said. She took a sip then added, "He was so strong. I don't know how he did it… how he was able to overcome total memory erasure and… the damage done to his brain had to be extensive with all the electro-shock…" she shook her head as she mentally corrected herself -'convulsiveshock treatments he underwent. I can only wish to ever be that strong.
"Every time James came back…" she paused, thinking about how often he'd return: how many times he was able to break free. "It was his personal strength, his inner strength - his sheer will power that would bring him moments of clarity or lucidity. He was already being subjected to the most intensive regime of brainwashing protocols in order to keep him subservient… and he'd break through that conditioning, repeatedly. The Red Room… the Russians… even the goons from Weapon X; were all confounded by him. They'd never seen anyone like him, which only made him more valuable to them. But each time he gained any amount of clarity, it just forced the Soviets to intensify the process.
"Eventually, he was officially placed in the Weapon X Program and between them and the Red Room and the Soviets and Hydra… they established a new protocol: trigger words, a list of ten words that when recited in a specific order would activate his assassin training, kicking the Winter Soldier into a brutal state of mind."
Natasha raised her eyes to look at Sam. "As the Winter Soldier, there is no stopping him. Those trigger words turn James Barnes into the deadliest assassin the world has ever known."
"And now he's back," Sam told her.
Natasha looked at him with a serious expression. "No, Sam, he's not," she told him. "He was here for a moment, for a flash… but my James no longer exists."
"Perhaps not this day," Sam tried to reason, "but as much as Steve wants Bucky back, he's not quite here either. Either one of them could make a strong appearance at any time. Who knows – perhaps as he continues treatment you'll get to see James again."
Natasha shook her head, but this time with a smile. "It's more important that Steve gets back his James Barnes."
"And what if his James Barnes is also your James Barnes?" Sam asked.
Natasha poured them both another glass and put the bottle down. Raising her glass in front of her, she invited Sam to do the same. He raised his glass to hers and waited. "Here's to finding out," she said, "Here's to finding happiness – his, mine… or ours."
Sam smiled at her and they tapped their glasses together. They each took a sip and she turned to look back out the window into the darkness there.
Sam watched her for a moment. "I say… we finish our drinks and go check on them," he suggested.
Natasha looked at him with a concerned look on her face. "I don't want to intrude on them."
"I don't think it'd be an intrusion," Sam told her. "Dr. Golden is with them right now."
"All the more reason not to intrude," she said.
"Are you avoiding him?" Sam asked, concerned.
Natasha opened her mouth to rebuke his accusation, but stopped herself. She needed to think on that. Was she trying to avoid him - and if so, why exactly?
"I say we check in and if it seems like a bad time to visit, we can excuse ourselves and leave," he told her. "Come on," he said, "I don't know about you, but I'm really curious as to what is going on up there. I'm going with or without you," he told her.
Natasha grinned at him. "Are you trying to coerce me?" she asked.
"Is it working?" he asked.
"Not really," she told him, "but I'll go with you… because I choose to."
Sam smiled at her, but it didn't escape his attention that having the ability to choose for herself was still a very important part of Natasha's life. It was a liberty that many people took for granted. It was a liberty denied people like Natasha and James Barnes. He had to admit that he'd always taken that freedom for granted. The ability to make his own choices was a freedom to which he'd never had to give a lot of thought: until recently.