Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

[Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.]

Six years later- 

“Come on,” Stark whined, sounding like a child denied a treat. He trailed after Natasha as she stalked into the mansion’s kitchen. “Pepper, Cap, tell her that movie nights aren’t optional.”

Pepper, clad in the Iron Man pajamas Stark had given her for her birthday, sat at the table sipping at a cup of tea.

“Pepper, Steve, back me up here,” Stark said, frowning.

Pepper ignored him. Steve did the same, not bothering to even look up from his sketchbook.

“Your taste in movies is terrible,” Natasha said. She contemplated going to the archery range, where Clint would be and where Stark was banned. No, Natasha decided. She wasn’t going to retreat.

“It is not!” Stark said, sounding offended.

Natasha turned and stared at him.

“Tony. Remember what happened the last time you chose the movie?” Steve asked without looking up from his sketchbook.  

“Okay, so in retrospect, Invasion of the Body Snatchers was a bad idea,” Stark admitted. He grimaced. “But lesson learned-- if I want to keep my movie theater intact, I shouldn’t choose movies that piss off Barton. This time I’ll run the movie by Pepper first, I swear! Everyone’ll watch something that’s Pepper-approved, right?”

“Thank you for volunteering me for these things, Tony,” Pepper said dryly.

“I only volunteer you because you’re awesome,” Stark said. It might have been meant as a joke, but the poorly concealed sincerity of his words made his declaration into something sweet and almost tender.

Natasha turned towards Steve to give Stark and Pepper some semblance of privacy. “What are you drawing?” she asked, sitting down in the chair next to Steve.

Some color crept into Steve’s cheeks. It always puzzled Natasha how Steve could be confident as Captain America but self-conscious about his artwork. “I was.... Well,” he said, trailing off as he considered his words. “I’ve been drawing memories.” He paused again.

Natasha waited.

“I don’t have any photographs,” Steve said quietly. “I thought I’d draw what I could remember while the memories were still fresh.”

If Natasha were Pepper, she would probably reach out and squeeze Steve’s hand, say something like, “Oh, Steve, that’s sweet.”

“Tell Stark you want an art studio,” she said instead.

Steve blinked. “An art studio?”

“He’s built Clint a state-of-the-art archery range and given Banner three floors of labs,” Natasha reminded him. “An art studio would be a far easier task.”

“I don’t want--” Steve began awkwardly, but Pepper was already smiling.

“A studio! Natasha, you’re a genius.”

“Hey,” Stark objected. “I’m the only certified genius around here.”

Natasha stared at him again.

“Well, in this kitchen at least,” he muttered, and then squinted at Steve. “I can do an art studio. Work with Pepper and get me a plan.”

Steve looked even more uncomfortable. “Famous artists have studios. I just like to draw,” he said.

“Don’t sell yourself short. You would’ve gotten into art school if you’d been able to afford it,” Pepper said, earning stares from everyone but especially Steve. Sadness briefly darkened her features. “Phil liked to share random Captain America facts with me.”

There was a moment of heavy silence.

Stark forced a smile. “Yeah, well, Cap, let me know what you need, and I can whip up a studio. It has to be easier than Barton’s archery range.”

Pepper smiled at Steve. “I’ve got a meeting at ten, but tonight we should talk, see what type of studio might suit you best. And I’ll give you a list of some great art stores.”

“Thank you,” Steve said. The redness was fading from his face, and he managed a genuine smile back.

“May I see what you’re drawing?” Pepper asked.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “All right, though I’m still a little rusty….” He nudged the sketchbook across the table.

Natasha studied Steve’s drawings from the corner of her eye as Pepper began to flip through the sketchbook. Steve was right-- he was rusty, the first few drawings done by a slightly shaky hand, but as the sketchbook progressed, his talent returned, faces and scenery coming to life in black and white.

Pepper paused on one. “This was during the war?” she asked quietly. Her fingertips hovered just above the page, and Natasha gave into temptation and leaned closer.

There were no explosions or even weapons in the sketch, but the man leaning against a wall held himself with a weary tension that came from being in the middle of a battlefield. One hand held a still-smoking cigarette; the other was pressed against his eyes, Steve having caught him in a moment of exhaustion or perhaps grief.

“Turn the page,” Steve said. His voice was a whisper. “It’s a better picture of him.”

Pepper flipped to the next drawing.

Like the others, it was also in black and white, but Natasha didn’t need colors to recall the particular blueness of those eyes and darkness of that hair, to recognize the half-sarcastic slant of those lips, to know those familiar features.

James looked young in the drawing. There were still lines of pain etched in the corners of his eyes, but he reclined against a stopped Jeep, loose-limbed and content in a way Natasha had only seen him during the too-brief moments when they’d been in bed together.

“Natasha,” Steve said. His voice was loud.

She blinked. At some point, she had tipped Steve’s chair backwards and pinned him to the floor by kneeling on his chest. One of her knives pressed against the skin next to his right eye, turning the skin white but not drawing blood.

Steve didn’t look alarmed; instead he actually looked concerned for her. His hands rested on the floor, palms upward in a gesture of surrender. “Natasha,” he said, softer. “Put the knife away.”

Her hand wanted to tremble; she didn’t allow herself to move an inch. “How do you know him?” she said. Her throat hurt; she must have been shouting.

A crease appeared between Steve’s eyes. “Natasha--”

“Nat?” Clint said from behind her, quiet and worried. Stark must have called for him as soon as Natasha had attacked. “Nat, you need to speak English.”

“English?” she said. Oh, she’d been yelling in Russian, hadn’t she? She swallowed. “Did I hurt you?” she asked in English, standing slowly and setting the knife on the table.

Steve telegraphed each movement as he got to his feet and kept carefully out of reach. “Takes more than tipping over a chair to hurt me,” he said, attempting a smile. Despite the gesture, his eyes were still dark with concern.

She saw Stark from the corner of her eye; he had Pepper behind him, both pressed up against the kitchen counter.

Clint moved carefully into her line of sight, his hands open and empty. He met her eyes and didn’t quite smile in sympathy. “Trigger Xavier missed or just a bad memory?” he asked.

Natasha felt some of the tension in her ease. At least Clint understood. “He has a picture of James,” she said.

“James?” Clint said, expression going blank with surprise even as Steve stared at her like she’d, well, just attacked him with a knife.

“How do you know about Bucky?” Steve demanded.

“Bucky?” Natasha said. That couldn’t possibly be James’s real name. Even if it was a nickname, it seemed absurd. She tried to imagine James responding to it, and failed. “I knew him.”

“You couldn’t have known him,” Steve said. “He died in the war. I saw him die. I couldn’t save--” He stopped, voice breaking, but one of his hands twitched at his side. For the first time, Natasha saw Steve look small and defeated. Quieter, he said, “Bucky died.”  

“Hands up, sweetheart,” James said, the gun aimed at her chest. “You don’t touch Steve.”

“I knew him,” she said. “He was at Department X. He was-- he trained me. They called him the Winter Soldier. He was Russia’s finest assassin.”

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “The Winter Soldier? Department X? It couldn’t be him. Bucky was a soldier, not a killer. And he wouldn’t work for the Soviets willingly.” 

“I don’t work for the Soviets. I sure as hell don’t work for them when they want to kill my best friend.”

“It wasn’t willingly,” she said. Each word hurt to say, like she’d swallowed glass. “Department X had a programming chamber where they-- they were very good at making people believe they were something they weren’t.” Her throat was tight, panic a hole in the pit of her stomach that grew with every sentence.

She had to get away from Steve looking shattered and lost, escape this room too few exits.

“Uh, as much as I hate to admit it, this sounds like something Fury needs to hear,” Stark said. For Stark, he sounded almost subdued. “I mean, Captain America’s best friend being brainwashed into a Russian assassin? That…sounds like something right up SHIELD’s alley.”

Natasha didn’t look at him. She looked instead at the growing horror on Steve’s face.

“Yes,” she agreed, forcing the word out.

“What happened to him?” Steve demanded, his voice strained. “Where is he now?”

She looked to Clint, and met the same sick realization in his eyes. She licked her lips, resisted the urge to close her eyes like a coward. “He’s dead,” she said. It was giving into cowardice, but she didn’t look back at Steve as she spoke.

He didn’t react loudly; rather, it was an absence of sound that immediately followed her declaration, his breath caught in his chest for a minute, then two. Then his breath escaped in a soft, bitten-back sound of pain. “You’re telling me he died not knowing who he was?”

Natasha had to get away from that wrecked voice, had to get away before she’d be forced to explain that she’d killed Captain America’s best friend.

“Nat,” Clint said, otherwise motionless. Something in her eyes must have warned him, because he stepped aside and gave her a clear exit.

She ran, and didn’t stop running until she was at one of her safe-houses on the outskirts of the city.

It was one of seven safe-houses she’d kept from SHIELD, and one of the three she’d kept from even Clint and Coulson. She crouched, breathing hard, pretending that she was shaking from the adrenaline and not from her own weakness. After a long moment, she dragged herself over to the book case with the hidden compartment.

Six hours later, Anya Volkova was boarding a flight to Stockholm.  

The mansion would have been impressive if Natasha hadn’t just come from Stark’s, but it was the security she found the most lacking. Natasha broke in with barely any effort.

She found Tatiana reclining by her indoor pool, one arm covering her face as she dozed. Natasha crept soundlessly across the tiles until she was a few feet away. Then she stopped.

“Getting soft in your old age, Tatiana,” she said, using their common tongue. (It was always a little bit soothing to speak Russian. Even after years with SHIELD, English occasionally grated upon the ear.) “Twenty years ago, you would have heard me entering the room, much less actually approaching you.”

Tatiana’s eyes snapped open. A second later, she had a small pistol in her hand. “And you’re getting senile, thinking sneaking up on me was a good idea.” Pale green eyes studied Natasha warily.

Natasha held up her hands, showing they were empty. She wasn’t surprised when Tatiana didn’t look reassured. After all, this close Natasha could likely kick the pistol from Tatiana’s grip and then kill with her bare hands before Tatiana could wonder what had happened. “I’m not here to kill you. I’m here for information.”

Tatiana didn’t lower her gun, but her forehead creased with confusion. The serum hadn’t slowed her aging as much as it had for Natasha, Natasha saw; there were hints of silver in Tatiana’s hair and crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes that deepened as she frowned. “I’ve been out of the game longer than you, Natalia. Now I teach rich paranoid people how to defend themselves from people like us. What would I know that you don’t?”

“You might know of any surviving records on the Winter Soldier.”  

Tatiana looked even more confused. “The Winter Soldier? Why do you need information about him? He’s been dead--”

“Tatiana. Do you remember the rumors about where he came from?” When the other woman slowly nodded, Natasha offered her a mirthless smile. “They were all wrong.”

Tatiana didn’t lower her gun, but her wariness shifted to cautious interest. “What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t Russian. He was an American soldier Rodchenko experimented on and brainwashed.” Before Tatiana could react, Natasha held up her hand. “It sounds unbelievable, I know, but I met someone who knew him before the Red Room, Tatiana. I want-- I want to bring the Winter Soldier’s bones back to America, to give whatever information I can gather to his best friend.”  

Tatiana stared at her. “Now who’s gotten soft?” she said, a note of wonder in her voice. “You sound…guilty.”

Natasha didn’t let her expression change. “I killed him. I owe him a debt.”

“You can’t owe the dead, Natalia,” Tatiana said, almost gently. “And we can’t spend the rest of our lives trying to make amends.”

Natasha didn’t respond. Perhaps Tatiana chose to ignore the red in her ledger, but Natasha didn’t. “Do you know anything that will help me?”

Tatiana’s lips pursed as she thought hard for a long moment. “Not really,” she said at last, apologetic. “I had very little contact with him, and after his death, there was a silent understanding around the department not to speak of him--” She paused, her expression tightening. “--especially not around you. After how long they kept you in the Red Room afterwards, we didn’t know how you’d react to even hearing his name….”

Natasha frowned. “How long they kept me?” she repeated. “They removed my childhood memories. You remember that mission in Odessa when I didn’t remember the lullaby? Taking those memories would have only taken a few hours, a day at the most.”

Something flickered in Tatiana’s eyes then, a look that made the hairs on the back of Natasha’s neck rise. “Natalia, you were with Rodchenko for a week.”

“A week?” An incredulous laugh escaped her. “No one spent a week with him.”

Tatiana bit at the corner of her lip, her brow creasing again. “I remember it, Natasha,” she said slowly. “I was recovering from an injury, and saw Orlov go storming from his office, cursing. The next day, Marta said she saw you, Orlov, and Rodchenko go into Orlov’s office. Then Orlov was dead and you were in the Red Room, and no one saw you again for a week.”

“No,” Natasha said. She had to speak loudly over the sudden buzzing in her ears. “You must be mistaken. I came to Orlov, with the Winter Soldier’s bionic arm as an apology for killing J-- the Winter Soldier. Orlov brought in Rodchenko.”

“Natalia.” Tatiana’s voice was quiet, so low that Natasha took a half-step forward to hear her better. “Your nose is bleeding.”

Natasha touched her nose, stared at her bloody fingertips. Realization swept over her like a dark wave, and she laughed. She couldn’t help it. The sound, half-bitter, half-an emotion she couldn’t put a name to, made Tatiana wince.

“It was a week, wasn’t it?” she said quietly. “Tatiana, I remember-- I remember killing him. He said he would kill me before he would return to the Red Room, and I shot him. I know I shot him--”

The buzzing was a roar now, so loud she couldn’t even hear her own voice. She closed her eyes.

James was crying, though she didn’t think he was aware of it, tears streaming down his face. He shook his head. “I’m warning you one more time. I love you, but I’ll kill us both before I ever go back.”

“You don’t love me,” she said, not letting her hands shake even though they wanted to.

He nodded to himself, the smile gone, replaced by an expression she couldn’t decipher. “That’s right. Love doesn’t exist in the Red Room, does it, Natshechka? So I suppose this won’t be difficult for you,” he said, and raised the knife to throw at her throat.

It was an old gun. When she fired, the recoil was like a punch to the shoulder. She dropped it. It hit the ground a second after James did, a loud thud followed by a still louder one.

Blood took a moment to well up from the wound, but then the blood began to spread and kept spreading across James’s chest. She watched the blood patch widen, because otherwise she would have to look at his face and see his expression.  

“Damn it, James. You promised no foolishness,” she whispered. Each word fell from her lips like a stone.

From the floor, she heard James make a sound that would have been laughter if he hadn’t still been crying. “Natalia, if there’s any mercy Orlov and Rodchenko haven’t beaten out of you-- let me die.” The words were faint, with an underlying breathlessness that meant the bullet had likely nicked his lung.

She looked at him then, met his pleading expression with a blank look of her own. “No,” she said, and watched all the animation fade from his face along with the color. With quick, efficient movements that he was too weak to fight off, she bound the wound and tied his legs and hands.

Then she turned to the window.

“Natalia. He’s innocent,” James whispered, choking on the words.

She picked up the gun.  “Since when has that ever mattered?” she said. Then she leapt through the window after Nemov.

She’d fallen to the floor, she realized distantly.

The tiles were cool against her shoulder as she pressed her fists against her eyes and rocked back and forth, trying to shake the sensation of someone slowly dissolving her brain with acid, trying to banish the unsurprised look in James’s eyes as she’d betrayed him.

She could taste blood in her mouth.

“Tatiana?” someone asked in Swedish-- another woman, her voice high and sharp with concern. “What’s going on?”

Natasha had rolled into a crouch and pulled a knife before she’d consciously realized what she’d done. It was only Tatiana’s even sharper, “Natalia!” that stayed her shaking hand. She blinked, trying to get her eyes to focus.

Another woman stood a few feet away. She was tall and impossibly beautiful, like she’d just stepped off a poster promoting Sweden. “Tatiana? What’s going on?” the woman asked, her worried gaze darting between Tatiana and Natasha.

“Emelie, stay back,” Tatiana said sharply. “This is Natalia. She’s ex-military too, but she’s…been having trouble adjusting.”

“Oh,” Emelie said, some of the concern easing to sympathy. She bit her lip. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Just go wait in our bedroom. I’ll take care of her and explain later.”

“All right.” Emelie retreated, shooting Tatiana one last worried look before she closed the door behind her.

“Emelie?” Natasha forced out, spitting out some of the blood in her mouth.

“My wife,” Tatiana said, in a careful tone that suggested Tatiana wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of Natasha’s weak state and break a bone or two if Natalia had anything unpleasant to say about that.

Another laugh scraped Natasha’s throat. “Who did you say had gotten soft?”

“Shut up,” Tatiana said, but there was an almost a smile in her voice.

Something soft and fluffy was pressed into her free hand. Natasha blinked down at the towel.

“Your face is a bloody mess,” Tatiana said. “Clean yourself up while I try to think of who might know what really happened to the Winter Soldier.”

Natasha did, though each movement felt sluggish and difficult, like she was moving underwater. When she’d wiped her face clean, she looked up in time to see Tatiana’s eyes narrow in consideration. “What?” she asked.

“You’re going to hate my suggestion,” Tatiana said, but there was a hint of humor in the slant of her lips.

Natasha stared at her a moment, then sighed. “It’s Bullski, isn’t it?”

Tatiana shrugged. “He’s made quite a name for himself as a mercenary, I’ve heard. And he’s the only one I know who’s stayed in Russia.”

“Wonderful,” Natasha said sourly. After a moment, though, she brightened a little at a sudden thought. “Well, perhaps I will get to beat the information from him.”

“If you do, throw in a few punches on my behalf,” Tatiana said dryly, and then offered Natasha a hand.

After a pause, Natasha sheathed her knife and accepted the help upright.

“Natalia,” Tatiana said quietly as Natasha turned to leave. “I hear you work for SHIELD now.”

“I’m doing this on my own,” Natasha said in answer to the unasked question. “If SHIELD ever comes to call, it will not be on my account.” She offered Tatiana a smile that was only half-mocking. “Besides, what would they want a washed-up assassin who’s so out of the game she’s married?”

“Go to hell,” Tatiana said, but she was laughing.

Natasha tracked Bullski down seconds after he’d put a bullet in the head of the man who’d been favored to win the popular vote in a small African country.

“What, did they double-book?” Bullski grunted, eyes narrowing at the sight of her.

“No, I’m here to speak with you,” Natasha said as they blended into the screaming crowd. She couldn’t help adding, “Besides, if we’d been double-booked, I would have beaten you here and killed the man a bit more subtly. A bullet to the head in the middle of a speech, Boris? Really?”

Bullski grunted. “Contract didn’t ask for subtlety.”

“Of course it didn’t,” Natasha said, unsurprised. “If it had, you probably wouldn’t have taken it.”

“I’d almost forgotten what a bitch you are, Romanova,” Bullski said, snorting with amusement. He ducked into a restaurant and signaled that he wanted a private table for two. “Or is it Romanoff now? Fucking Americans, with their ridiculous names.”

“Says the man who goes by the code name Titanium Man,” Natasha said. She sat down and waited until he followed suit. “I think we’ve had enough pleasant banter.” She ignored Bullski’s incredulous, “Pleasant?” and stared at him. “I need to know about the Winter Soldier.”

“What’s there to know? The one-armed freak’s dead.” Bullski started to chuckle, but the sound caught in his throat at her cold look.

“He’s not dead,” she said. “Or at least, he didn’t die when we were told.”

“Huh,” Bullski said, leaning back in his chair. “I’d heard rumors, but I never thought anything of them. After all, you said you killed him, and you don’t lie about that sort of thing.”

“I thought I had killed him,” Natasha said evenly.

Bullski’s expression twitched, something not quite sympathy in his eyes. Then the brief look was gone and he just looked disgusted. “Fucking Rodchenko. Always wished I’d put a bullet in that twisted bastard’s brain.”

“The rumors?” Natasha prompted.

“There were rumors that they’d put the Winter Soldier on ice, only woke him up for certain missions.” Bullski paused. “And I’ve seen a few kills over the years that reminded me of him. Give me a couple hours and I can figure out if there’s any pattern.”

She didn’t thank him, didn’t acknowledge the foolish flutter of hope in her stomach. “How much?”

He snorted. “What, you didn’t think I’d give you the intel out of the goodness of my heart? Well, if it is him, the Winter Soldier’s part of my competition, so for that and the pleasure of your company, I’ll knock down the price to five hundred thousand.”

“Fine. Half now, half when I’ve confirmed your intel is useful.”

Bullski shook his head. For a second she thought he was going to demand the whole thing upfront, but then he said, “I still can’t figure out why you got out of the game, Romanova. Not that I’m not grateful that you are, but it never made sense to me, you becoming one of SHIELD’s lapdogs.”

Natasha didn’t bother answering. He wouldn’t believe her anyway, would laugh if she tried to explain how it’d felt to have Barton, his bow pointed at her chest, look at her and see something other than a killer. Instead, she pushed a napkin at him. “Give me the account information. I’ll go wire the first half, meet you back at your hotel in five hours to get the intel.”

Bullski scribbled the digits on the napkin, and she tucked it into her purse. She rose to her feet, ignoring the puzzled waiter who’d come to ask for their order.

“Don’t you need to know the name of my hotel?” Bullski asked.

She flashed him a derisive smile. “Please. I might be SHIELD’s lapdog, but I’m still a professional. Five hours.”

“Bitch,” Bullski muttered as she left, his tone admiring.  

In the years since the surviving operatives had been sold off by Orlov’s successor to the highest bidders, there had been thirteen deaths similar to the Winter Soldier’s style. Seven of the thirteen could be traced, in rumors only, to a Russian weapons-manufacturing company called Kronas. Natasha recognized the name-- SHIELD had been trying to gather useful intelligence on its owner, Lukin, for years.

The Kronas headquarters were in the same compound as his largest manufacturing building. It took Natasha two days to scout both buildings, and another four to come up with a viable plan.

Each day’s delay physically hurt, a knot in the pit of her stomach that grew with every passing hour. She didn’t allow herself to rush. If James was still alive, Natasha would rescue him without making any foolish mistakes out of a sense of urgency.

Early on the seventh day, she closed her eyes, offering up a wordless apology to Clint. He’d risked everything to get her into SHIELD, and now she’d thrown his mercy back in his face.

An hour later, Natasha waited in the kitchen of Doctor Victor Polzin, helping herself to the use of his coffee maker.

When Polzin stumbled blearily into the kitchen, sniffing curiously at the air, he saw her and stopped dead.

She lowered the cup of coffee and kept the gun aimed at his chest. “You, Doctor Polzin, will cooperate, or you will die,” she said dispassionately. “Do you understand?”

“I--” Polzin looked around, as though there was anything, anyone who could help him. After a moment, his shoulders slumped and he sagged against the doorframe. “Yes. W-what do you want?”

“You interest me, doctor. Why does Lukin need a psychiatrist who specializes in repressed memories on his payroll?”

All the color leeched from his face, and the twisted lump in Natasha’s stomach slowly began to unknot. She was right. James was here. “P-please, I don’t-- he’ll kill me!”

“Doctor,” Natasha said, smiling in a way that dragged a whimper from Polzin’s lips. “Lukin may kill you, but I will make you beg for death. Now tell me where you keep the Winter Soldier when Lukin doesn’t need him.”

“T-the Winter Soldier? I never knew w-what he was called…I’ll cooperate!” Polzin added hastily when her eyes began to narrow. “I just-- you have to have certain clearance….” He trailed off as she slid his ID card across to him and then pulled out a nearly identical one with her photo and a false name and flashed it at him. “Oh. Well, I-I see you have everything, uh, thought out, so l-let’s just get this over with.”

“Excellent,” Natasha said, still smiling. “I knew you were an intelligent man.”

Time seemed to blur around her, but hyper-vigilance made details both major and minor press against her senses. She could see the way the guard squinted at her ID card, turning it over in his hand before he nodded and handed it back at her, his fingertips rough like sandpaper against hers, but the walk to the chamber where James was being held was a blur.

James’s expression was blank even in sleep, the liquid of the stasis chamber turning his features a pale sickly blue. They had built him another arm, this one apparently able to withstand stasis.

He didn’t look quite real, more like a mannequin than a real man, even as Polzin punched something into the machine that drained the liquid and made a muscle twitch in James’s jaw.

“Wake him up,” Natasha said.

“It will take some time, if you want his mind intact when he wakes,” Polzin mumbled even as his hands darted and pressed blinking buttons. “He’s been in stasis for two years. He’s always more confused after long periods of inactivity.”

Natasha felt her lips curl away from her teeth. “Inactivity? Is that what you call waking him up to kill Lukin’s enemies?”

Polzin cringed, but didn’t answer.

After what seemed like hours, James’s eyelids flickered, and he coughed violently, instinctively turning his head to retch out the stasis goop that had gotten into his mouth.

“James,” Natasha said, leaning over him, not daring to touch. “James, wake up. I’m here.” She spoke the words softly in Russian.

Distracted, she didn’t hear Polzin’s retreating footsteps until he was almost to the door. “Guards!” Polzin screamed, his voice high with panic as he struggled with the door. “Guards! G--” He collapsed against the door, voiceless as he clutched at the knife in his throat.

She went to the door, kicked his corpse aside, and listened. She could hear voices sounding the alarm. “Damn,” she spat, and began barricading the door.

When she turned, James was coughing again, his eyes half-open. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, some of the stasis goop running down his face as he struggled upright.

She rushed to his side. “James. James, it’s me. You have been in stasis for two years. Do you remember what happened?”

James stared at her, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “I--” He coughed violently. “I remember.”

The tension in her shoulders eased. “James--”

“I remember you shot me,” James continued tonelessly. Then he punched her with his bionic hand.

She fell, landing heavily and having to scramble rather than roll out of reach. “James,” she said, ignoring the pain of a molar he’d knocked loose, working around the blood in her mouth. “I know you’re angry, but I am here to help you.”

“You gave me back to Rodchenko. You knew what he’d do to me,” he said, rage thickening his voice.

“I didn’t know!” she argued. She switched to English. “I didn’t know who you really were, James, what Rodchenko had done to your mind! I know now. That’s why I’m here.”

James stared at her. “I almost wish I could trust you,” he said, and his voice sounded like neither the James she’d known nor the brief glimpse of Bucky she’d experienced. This voice was weary, and almost regretful. Then he went to the door and broke down the barricade.

He stepped outside. She could hear shouts, then screams.

Natasha struggled to her feet, and spat out the tooth James had knocked loose. Then she pulled out a knife. Lukin’s security force was impressive. James might need some help.

She found, when she moved slowly around the door and into the corridor, that she’d underestimated James’s rage. “If you do not trust me, at least believe that I want to escape from here as well. I know a way out.”

James smiled, and it was the Winter Soldier’s smile and yet not. Blood was in his hair, speckled across his face. “So do I, Natalia. It’s called the front door,” he said.

Then he shot her.

She’d already started to move when he’d raised the gun, but even the Black Widow couldn’t doge a bullet fired by the Winter Soldier. The impact knocked her off her feet.

She landed on her back, blinking up at the ceiling. A slow ache spread across her chest. Her thoughts muddled as her vision darkened. Despite the pain, a smile curved her lips. “Matching bullet wounds,” she said, hearing the dreamy quality of her voice and too distant to be concerned about it. “Some might call that romantic, if they were fools.”

James crouched next to her. She could see the tightness in his jaw, and his eyes were hooded. He pressed something that felt like fabric into her hand, and then forced her hand against the wound. The agony shot through her, briefly clearing her mind as James said, “Keep pressure on the wound, and you’ll probably live long enough for Lukin to kill you.”

“James,” she gasped. She couldn’t let him leave. Did he even know what year it was? She grabbed his wrist with her free hand, ignored his cold expression. “Steve-- he’s alive--” Blood had filled her mouth. She choked on it.

James’s expression had gone soft and vulnerable for a second, something like yearning in his face before his expression hardened. “Steve died in the war. I know that much.”

“No,” she forced out. It was agony to speak, but she continued. “New York-- SHIELD-- Captain America. Ask for him.”

“If you weren’t already dying, I’d kill you for that lie, Natalia,” James said.

There was a roaring in her ears again, roaring that sounded like explosions. Odd, losing unconsciousness had never sounded like this, not even when she’d almost bled out that time in Serbia. “New York,” she whispered, or tried to. It was hard to breathe, harder still to coax enough oxygen to speak. “James. Go to New York. Steve.”

He didn’t answer. She closed her eyes in defeat.

Distantly, like voices overheard from another room, she heard someone yell, “Bucky!”

“Steve,” James said, then added something that could’ve been, “Thought you were dead.”

She tried to open her eyes, but her eyes couldn’t focus. Besides, the man embracing or fighting James couldn’t be Steve. He wasn’t wearing his uniform.

“Nat. We’re going to get you out of here. Nat?” Clint. Even dying, she’d recognize his voice.

She attempted a smile. “Bullski,” she said. She should have known. Clint smoothed her hair away from her face, and she endured the gesture for a moment. “How…much?” 

Natasha could hear the grin in his voice even through the buzzing. “I think he was going to ask for a quarter million, but after Steve broke his nose, he gave everything up for free. Now just stop talking and let Banner take a look at you, okay?”

“Scientist. Not. Doctor,” she protested, too weak to even tense at the thought of Banner’s hands on her. He might have proven that he could control the Hulk ninety percent of the time, but she still feared and distrusted that other ten percent.

“True, but I’m the closest thing to a doctor we have, so you’ll have to put up with me,” Banner said dryly. His hands were warm and gentle as he touched the area around the wound, but even the soft touch hurt.

She didn’t make a sound, but Banner said, “I’m sorry. This is going to hurt no matter what.”

“Yes,” she whispered. Darkness moved over her, and the pain receded as she lost consciousness.   

When Natasha woke up after surgery, Steve was sitting in the chair next to her bed.

“You should have let me come with you,” he said without preamble.

“Didn’t Clint tell you?” she said hoarsely. She must be on the strong painkillers, because her thoughts wouldn’t focus and she couldn’t get the taste of cotton out of her mouth.

“That you’d killed Bucky? Yeah, he mentioned that, but since Bucky’s alive and in SHIELD custody right now, I’m kind of wondering what the real story was.”

“Implanted memory. I thought I’d killed him.”

She watched understanding bloom across Steve’s face, ease some of the tension in his broad shoulders. She licked her lips, and he made a face at himself before he offered her a cup of water. She let him hold it to her lips as she drank slowly, trying not to resent how her one shoulder was too wrapped in bandages and the other arm too shaky to be of use. Once she’d drunk the entire cup, she cleared her throat.

“I went to retrieve his body, and get some answers for you.”

“And you figured out he was still alive.” Steve shook his head. His eyes were too bright.

She looked down at the white sheets, unwilling to be witness to Captain America’s tears. After a minute, he cleared his throat and she glanced at him. Any trace of tears was gone.

“Thank you,” he said. “Bucky says he’s sorry about shooting you, by the way.”

“No, he didn’t,” Natasha said immediately.

Steve frowned, half-sheepish at being caught in the lie, half-mystified, she supposed, that James hadn’t apologized. “No, he didn’t.”

“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I deserved it.”

Steve’s expression said he doubted that, but he didn’t argue.

She blinked, some of the fuzziness in her head clearing enough for an unpleasant realization. “He’s in SHIELD custody?” When Steve nodded, she frowned. “What does Fury plan to do with him?”

Steve looked down at his hands. “The Winter Soldier killed a lot of people,” he said quietly. “Fury’s trying to talk the Council out of prosecuting Bucky for those crimes, but--”

Natasha spat out a Russian curse. “Get me out of this bed,” she demanded, struggling to sit up, ignoring the way of dizziness and burst of throbbing pain in her chest even the painkillers couldn’t dull. “I will go to the Council myself, tell them that he was brainwashed--”

“Natasha, stop,” Steve said. “The Council won’t lay a hand on him. I promise.”

She sagged against the pillow. “How much has James told you?” She judged by his expression that it wasn’t much. “Tell them, if it is necessary, that he broke free of his programming once and immediately tried to escape and return to America.” It was not the whole truth, but it would do.

Steve smiled at that. “I will. Now get some rest. A few inches closer, and the bullet would’ve hit your heart,” Steve said, and then looked puzzled when she laughed.

She didn’t bother explaining that the Winter Soldier never missed.  

Clint was next to visit her. “Next time, you take me with you,” he said, eyes flat, expression brooking no argument. Then some dark humor touched his features. He shook his head. “Jesus, Nat, I’d heard you were a professional. What kind of pro gets shot by the target she’s extracting?”

“Go to hell,” Natasha said mildly.

Clint grinned and threw himself upon the foot of the bed. It was a seemingly careless gesture, but she knew it had been done with great precision to keep from jostling her.

“I’m a little worried,” he said. “Are you getting slow in your old age? Used to be you could dodge bullets as good as Neo.”

“Shut up, Barton,” she said, letting some of the fondness touch her voice. “You’ve already had enough problems with SHIELD after Loki.”

Clint shrugged easily. “Well, they couldn’t very well punish me after Captain America decided to rogue and go after you. Be a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

Natasha let herself smile. “Good.”

“Fury’s still arguing with the Council, but since Cap’s backing him up, I’m pretty sure Barnes is safe,” Clint said. He snorted. “I’d like to see anyone try to touch Barnes without Cap’s permission. He’s been looking like he’ll punch anyone who so much as looks at Barnes funny.”

“Good,” she said again, softer, and Clint grinned at her.  

“By the way, I think Stark has video of Cap punching Bullski. I’ll bring it next time.”

“That I would pay to see,” she said, and then relaxed against her pillows as Clint began to regale her with the marvelous misadventures of the Avengers going rogue.

Fury was a harried-looking third. He stuck his head in, glared at her, and snapped, “First, the Council will pry Barnes from my cold, dead fingers, so stop worrying. Second, Xavier’s coming in to see Barnes, so we’ll get any triggers out of his head. Third, you go off-reservation like that again, and I’ll serve your head on a fucking platter to the Council. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Natasha said.

“I’m sure Barton is giving you fucking hour-by-hour updates, so don’t bother me,” Fury added, and slammed the door before she could answer.

Stark would have been her next visitor, except that she’d put him on her no-admittance list. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sound of his incredulous tirade for a good half-hour.

Then Pepper slipped inside, offering her a watery smile. “I just wanted to say hi, and see if there’s anything you need from the Avengers mansion,” she said, and then held up a bag. “I brought along some of your clothes. I figured you’d want to wear something other than a hospital gown.” Her gaze darted to the bandages, and then away.

“Thank you.” Natasha motioned for Pepper to sit down. They sat in silence for a moment, listening to Stark’s muffled yells. “How long will this tantrum of Stark’s last?”

Pepper rolled her eyes, and they shared an exasperated look, though Pepper’s had a trace of fondness that Natasha was quite certain hers didn’t contain.

“A while,” Pepper said. Something twisted in her face. “He’s got a thing about chest wounds.”

“Oh. Yes,” Natasha said. After a moment, she grimaced. “Fine. He can come in for five minutes, if you promise to drag him out by his ear if he makes any jokes or innuendos about my relationship with James.”

“I promise,” Pepper said, her expression clearing. She sprang to her feet.

Two minutes later, Pepper offered Natasha an apologetic smile and dragged Stark from the room.

Thor arrived the next morning, bearing a laptop and a box of DVDs. “Lady Natasha, I thought you might enjoy these operas while you recover,” he said, beaming at her. “I am pleased to see you already looking much better!”

She smiled back, and Stark doubtless would have been shocked to find it was a genuine smile. Coulson had enjoyed the occasional night out to the opera with her, but after his death, it had been Clint who’d gamely suffered through them for several months until Natasha had discovered Thor’s fascination with “Midgardian” theater.

“Thank you,” she said. When he set the box down and looked hopefully at her, she gave in, pointing to the chair. “If you have time, sit and watch one with me?”

“Gladly,” Thor said, grinning. He let her select the opera, and then set up the laptop so that they could both watch easily. Before he pressed play, he paused. In a voice that was unusually quiet, he said, “Do not worry for your friend, Lady Natasha. The captain will not let him to come to harm. And I have made my feelings plain that a man whose mind has manipulated should not be persecuted for his crimes. Did they not see reason with Clinton?”

“SHIELD had Clint on probation for six months,” Natasha said. The words were sharper than she’d meant, but Thor didn’t look offended.

Instead, he nodded. “Yes, that is the very suggestion I made: probation. Let your friend be given time to be healed by SHIELD’s mind-menders and to prove himself worthy of joining the Avengers.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow even as his words warmed her. “Who said anything about James becoming an Avenger?”

Thor laughed, as though certain she was joking. “I saw his prowess in battle with my own eyes at Kronas, Lady Natasha. Once his mind is healed, he will make an excellent addition to the Avengers.”

Natasha thought about the look in James’s eyes as he’d shot her, the fact that Xavier had said he doubted he would be able to restore James’s memory completely to him. She didn’t smile. “He would be an excellent Avenger,” she agreed. “I think he might be more comfortable working for SHIELD.”

Thor nodded, looking thoughtful. “The captain said much the same when I suggested the idea to him.” He shrugged. “You two know him far better than I. Perhaps he would prefer SHIELD. Still, I look forward to fighting alongside him in the future, whether he is an Avenger or an agent.”

Natasha smiled, and said nothing.

After a moment, Thor nodded his understanding. He pressed play, and they both settled back to watch Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin.  

Banner didn’t come to visit her. She was grateful, if only in the privacy of her own mind.

A week later, Steve entered her room, something hesitant in his face.

“What is it?” Natasha asked, alarm making her chest tighten and her injury twinge. “Has something--”

“Bucky’s fine,” Steve assured her. She bit back the flow of questions as he continued. “He’s still in SHIELD custody. Professor Xavier’s been spending a couple hours with him each day.”

“Then what is it?”

“Bucky asked for you.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, he asked for Natalia. Clint says that’s what you were called before SHIELD.”

“Yes,” she said, and then hesitated. Unease curdled her stomach. “What has he been told about me?”

“Just that you’ve been working with SHIELD for a number of years,” Steve said. “He understands the Cold War’s over, but I think he still thinks of it as you defecting.”

Natasha carefully shrugged her good shoulder. “In a way, I did.” She licked dry lips. “When will Fury let me see him?”

“Now, if your doctors will release you for a few hours,” he said. She couldn’t conceal her surprise at that, and he smiled crookedly. “It’s been the first request he’s made. I think Fury’s choosing to look at it as a sign of progress.”

“Yes, and it will be, right up to the moment that James breaks my neck,” Natasha said dryly.

She wasn’t prepared for Steve to look stricken at that, his face paling. “He wouldn’t do that,” he said defensively. “He was confused when he woke up--”

“Captain. I was joking,” she said. In fact, she hadn’t been, not entirely, but she wasn’t about to mention that when Steve was looking so horrified. Besides, she’d been trapped in this bed while Steve had been busy defending James to the Council. Anyone would be on edge after spending two weeks trying to knock some sense into them.

“Oh.” Steve looked relieved. Then he laughed awkwardly. “Of course you were.” He stepped towards the door. “I’ll go find your doctor.”

Once he’d left, Natasha closed her eyes, tried to nap. She’d need all her strength for this meeting.

She stepped into the cell, having to force herself to make noise as she walked. Steve had mentioned James didn’t deal well with people sneaking up on him.

Natasha lowered herself carefully onto the chair SHIELD had fixed into the floor. Even walking into SHIELD and into this room had exhausted her. She tried not to let it show. “James.”

“Natalia,” he said from his bed. His weary expression was remote, his voice toneless.

She made a show of looking around at their surroundings rather than the exhaustion in James’s face and the empty sleeve. Where had they taken his bionic arm? Stark was probably off somewhere tinkering with it, she thought sourly.

“This is a larger cell than I received when Hawkeye brought me in,” she said, speaking in English as Xavier had advised. “I’m trying to decide if I’m offended or not.”

Amusement made his eyes gleam. “They always did underestimate you.” There was his real accent she’d heard in that small room with Nemov, American with the sound of Brooklyn she’d come to recognize in Steve’s.  

“And they always regret it,” Natasha said. “What did you want from me? And if you say that you want to apologize, I am leaving.”

A smile struggled across his face before it finally bloomed into life as one of his real, crooked grins. “Understood. No, I wanted to ask you if this SHIELD deal is legit. Steve seems to trust these guys, but Steve’s always seen the best in everyone.” His voice soured at the end, his crooked smile twisting into a grimace.

Natasha wondered what Steve had said. That James wasn’t the Winter Soldier, that the blood was on Rodchenko and the others of Department X’s hands? James wouldn’t believe those words. She never had, even if she’d beaten it into Clint’s head that he wasn’t responsible for the deaths of the SHIELD agents during Loki’s attack.

“I have worked for SHIELD for seven years now, and so far they have kept their promises to me,” she said slowly.

“Promises?”

“Not to create a serum from my body, and to burn my body if I die.”

The crooked smile revived in a fainter guise. “Hard to know if they’ll hold to that second promise when you haven’t died yet.”

Natasha shrugged carefully. “Hawkeye will ensure they keep that promise.”

“Hawkeye. Guy with the bow?” When she nodded, James said, “Steve mentioned you two were close. Are you two…?” He trailed off, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

There was no jealousy in his voice. She told herself it was foolish to be angry that there wasn’t. “No,” she said, and didn’t elaborate. Let him wonder. “What has SHIELD promised you?”

“Probationary status as a SHIELD agent. Confined to the city for the first six months, with a provision to upgrade to taking assignments outside the city should Fury and Xavier deem it safe.” James was silent for a moment. “Steve said I didn’t have to join SHIELD, that he’d figure something else out,” he said at last. “That I’d sacrificed enough for our country.”  

“Says the man who was frozen for seventy years and immediately went back to being Captain America,” Natasha said.

His laugh was hoarse and loud in the room. They both jumped at the unexpected sound of it, and then James ducked his head, the faintest hint of red in his face. “Yeah, well, Steve’s an idiot,” he said, and sounded so fond that for a second it hurt Natasha to breathe.

“You don’t have to take SHIELD’s offer,” she said. “Life will be harder if you don’t -- Fury won’t like having you in the city, for one -- but SHIELD--” She paused, trying to find the right words. “If I have to kill someone, it’s nice knowing that they deserve it.”

“No more innocents,” James said. It wasn’t a question.

Natasha answered him anyway. “SHIELD works in shades of gray, but at the end of the day, they want to stop the Rodchenkos and Orlovs of the world.”

James nodded. After a moment, when the silence had stretched on to the point of being unbearable, she rose to her feet.

His soft words stopped her with her hand poised to knock and alert the guards she was done. “Steve said you changed your name, that I’m supposed to call you Natasha now.”

Natasha stared at nothing. Then she swallowed, gathering the little moisture left in her mouth to speak. “You’re the only one who calls me Natalia,” she said. “I…don’t mind.”

She didn’t look back to see his reaction, to see if he recognized her phrasing. How much did he even remember? He remembered her betrayal, certainly, but did he remember the other, gentler moments?

After a moment, he said lightly, “Too bad about the name change. Natalia suits you.”

Natasha wanted to rest her forehead against the door, wanted, for a foolish moment, to weep. She straightened instead. “Better than your nickname suits you,” she said, using every bit of concentration to mimic his easy tone. “Bucky? Really? I am not calling you Bucky, James.”

James’s disused laughter filled the room again, and she turned her head so that the glass in the door wouldn’t betray her smile to him.

If Natasha allowed herself the luxury of regret, she would miss Coulson in moments like these. Jasper Sitwell was an excellent handler, but he did not understand her or Clint as Coulson had. She doubted he would understand James either.

Still, at least Sitwell had had the sense to tell her about James’s upcoming mission. He had promise.

“It’s too soon,” she said. It was only years of long practice that kept the edge from her voice. “Two months ago, he didn’t know that the Berlin Wall fell. Now you want him to go on a mission for SHIELD?”

Sitwell looked a little uncomfortable. Fury just raised an eyebrow.

“Barnes might have been released to Rogers’s custody, but he agreed to join SHIELD for a probationary period. That means he needs to actually perform some service for SHIELD. Unless you want him to be handed over to the U.N. to be tried for the several dozen crimes we can link to him?”

Natasha kept her expression blank, but her rage was sharp and bitter on her tongue. “It’s too soon,” she said again. “He’s not ready.”

“Well, Agent Romanoff, I hope you’re wrong,” Fury said. He turned to Sitwell. “You’ve contacted Barnes?”

Sitwell looked uneasy, his gaze darting between Natasha and Fury. “I have,” he said slowly. “Barnes hasn’t responded to my texts. And I think Tony’s pet A.I. is screening my calls, because I haven’t been able to reach anyone at the mansion.”

Fury didn’t look surprised. “Romanoff, go with Sitwell to collect Barnes and bring him back here. And before you ask, yes, that’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and let some of her anger touch her voice. She felt only a bitter satisfaction when Fury narrowed his eye at her.

Steve met Natasha and Sitwell at the front door of the mansion with an unapologetic look on his face and a dangerous glint in his eyes. “He’s not going on the mission,” he said, folding his arms against his chest and glowering at them both.

“With all due respect, Captain, that’s not up to you,” Sitwell said, and Natasha left them to argue as she slipped around the back of the mansion and began to scale the wall.

She paused after reaching the third story and then pulled out her cell phone and dialed Stark’s house number.

“Agent Romanoff,” JARVIS said. “Since Agent Sitwell and Captain Rogers are arguing at the door, am I to assume you are here to retrieve Mister Barnes?”

If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought she detected a note of disapproval in that robotic voice. “I am here to see James, but I won’t make him go to SHIELD unless he wants to,” she said. “Do you know where he’s located?”

There was a moment of silence, and Natasha wondered if JARVIS was hesitating. Then he gave her James’s current coordinates, adding, “Although he asked to be left alone, Agent Romanoff.”

“I understand,” Natasha said. “Thank you, JARVIS.”

“You’re welcome, Agent Romanoff.”

James’s current location was one of the many bedrooms Stark had in the mansion. It wasn’t the one Stark had given to James, but that was no surprise. She found the correct room, with its drawn window shades.

She knocked on the window, their old signal, and when he didn’t respond, began removing the window from its frame.

James had raised the blinds and was standing in front of the window by the time she broke into the room. It was 16:00 and the room was dark, the bed sheets looking rumpled in the way bed sheets did when someone has been tossing and turning and doing everything except sleep.

“Most people sleep at night,” she commented, keeping her voice matter-of-fact.

James laughed, a hollow sound. “Most people sleep,” he said, confirming her suspicions, and helped her inside.

As soon as she was steady on her feet, she stepped out of his personal space. She remembered how she’d felt in her first few months post-Clint bringing her into SHIELD, how she’d wanted to kill anyone who’d gotten close to her, except maybe Clint; how she’d cherished being able to decide for herself if and when someone was going to touch her.

“Sitwell is at the front door,” she said. “Though I doubt he’s getting past Steve.”

This time James’s laugh sounded more genuine. “Probably not,” he agreed. Sunlight flooded into the room, illuminating his features and revealing the damage done by the past few months. His eyes were sunken, his face pale and swollen from lack of sunshine and sleep, and he held himself gingerly, like if he moved too quickly he’d shatter.

Natasha wanted to touch him. Her fingers ached with foolish urges, like cupping his jaw and brushing his tangled hair away from his eyes. She curled her hands into fists instead. “They want you for a mission,” she said.

The faint spark of humor vanished from his eyes. “Who do they want me to kill?”

“No one,” Natasha said, and then amended, “At least not yet.” And I’ll kill the target for you if you need me to, she didn’t say, but the promise must have crept into her voice anyway, because James smiled faintly.

“Just let me take a shower,” he said, turning away.

Despite her better judgment, she reached out and touched his elbow, the one made of flesh, her fingertips light against his skin. “James,” she said.

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn back. Instead he said in a cheerful, teasing voice, one that meant he was trying to distract her, “Even Stark’s guest rooms have enormous bathrooms. I bet we could swim in the tub.”

Natasha studied the tense line of his shoulders, the way his head was slightly bowed as though he was preparing for a fight. After a moment’s consideration, she nodded and squeezed his elbow. “All right,” she said. “I’ll allow it today.”

James turned to face her then, looking almost normal as he half-smiled. “Today? And what happens tomorrow?”

She stepped close to him, raised her hand to his stubble-rough chin and tugged it down so that he met her eyes. “Tomorrow I kick your ass for moping and then show you how we can wipe a bit of red from our ledger,” she informed him. Her hand moved to the back of his neck.

“Natalia,” he said. There was something uncertain and desperate in his eyes. “Natalia Romanova. I missed you.” He whispered her name like a prayer, the second sentence like a confession. His metal hand rose and touched the scar where he’d shot her, a gesture so unsure and tender that her breath caught in her throat.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” she said. “No one will take you away from me ever again,” she said, and it was an oath, sealed with a kiss as he lowered his lips to hers.

[There are many names in history

but none of them are ours.]