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"These might as well have been written in Greek," Bucky said, grimacing at the manual laid out in front of her. The smooth metal of the kitchen table was cool against her fleshy forearm; the light was too harsh overhead. She had been staring for too long, staring without really absorbing information.
It felt all wrong, somehow; she was programmed to retain data, and in that moment, the idea that her programming was slowly, slowly fading, wasn’t comforting at all.
"You know Greek," Natasha soothed, and she poked her head over Bucky's shoulder, squinting at the manuals.
Natasha’s soft, dark hair fell against Bucky’s collarbone, tickling the exposed skin just above the seam between her body and her prosthetic arm.
Bucky shivered at the sensation, arching her shoulders back, then growled through her teeth. "Ancient Greek," she amended. "It's a figure of speech, Sparks."
"Are you sure you're reading 'em right side up?" Tasha teased. She brushed Bucky's hair up, away from her neck, planted a kiss at the base of Bucky's skull, even as Bucky made a face.
"Explain how the French-Indian War directly contributed to the causes of the American Revolution," Tasha read aloud. "Come on, you know that one."
"The British government taxed the colonists to get out of debt, claiming the cost of the war should be paid by the Colonies," Bucky grumbled.
"See?" Tasha grinned at Bucky, looking unbearably pleased. "You can do this." She dropped into the seat beside Bucky at the table, and snatched up the manual, sliding it away from her. "Name one of the major acts of Parliament that instigated rebellion among the colonists and what it was intended to accomplish."
"The Stamp Act placed a tax on legal papers and newspapers, serving a dual purpose of levying revenue and limiting circulation of journalism that was often unfavorable to the Crown. I'm too old for this," Bucky lamented.
"You're twenty," said Tasha. "That’s normal."
Bucky gave Tasha a pointed look. "My ID says I'm twenty-two."
"And imagine how popular you'll be with the other freshmen when they find out you can buy booze," Tasha said cheerily. She dropped the U.S. History manual on top of the stack of books and pulled out the one for Mathematics. “Lots and lots of people don’t get their degrees right out of high school. And you look like a baby; nobody’ll guess you’re really eighty-whatever.”
Bucky groaned. "This is stupid," she said. She leaned her arms against the table, hiding her face against her forearms. “I’m stupid.”
"You’re not, and it’s not," Tasha answered. "Name three types of quadrilaterals."
"Square," Bucky muttered. "Rectangle. Is this really necessary?"
Tasha gave her a pointed look. "Steve would say it was necessary," she replied. "Steve would want--"
"Steve's not here," Bucky said sharply.
Tasha glared at her. "Fuck you, Barnes," she said. "If this is a stalling tactic, it won't work. One more quadrilateral."
"Trapezoid," Bucky answered. She traced a trapezoid in the air, around Natasha's face. "Steve went to art school," she said, glumly.
Natasha blinked. She caught Bucky's fingers, in midair, and folded her own hand over them. "You want to go to art school?" She asked. "If you want to go to art school, I'll-"
Bucky slumped. "I'd still have to know my shapes, like a fucking four-year-old. Anyway, I can't draw a straight line."
"Plenty of artists can't," Natasha retorted. "That's not what art is about. It's just...if you want art school, we'll do art school."
"Self-improvement at any price, huh, Sparks?" Bucky asked bitterly, and she tugged her hand away. “I didn’t ask to be one of your fix-it projects.”
Natasha stiffened, and Bucky watched her posture change, become more rigid, more closed-off. "I promised, Buck," she said, softly. "I promised to take care of you."
"You think this is what he meant?" Bucky asked.
"Sending you to school? It's a new world," Natasha said stubbornly. "It's different from the last time you got your own say in things; nowadays, everybody's got a degree. And yeah, maybe you're not going to be a lawyer or a teacher or a dental hygienist, but it'll help.”
“Help how?” Bucky “There’s no BA in superheroism.”
Natasha shrugged. “It'll help you get oriented, help you relate to everybody else."
Bucky shook her head. "It's a nice sentiment," she said. "But I'm not gonna relate. You think I'm gonna sit at a desk and read about George Washington and isosceles triangles and I'll suddenly feel like I'm one of them? I don’t--”
She willed her voice not to crack. “I don’t know how to talk to people, Sparks. I don’t…”
“You talk to me,” Natasha answered. “You do that just fine.”
Bucky cringed. “With effort,” she replied. “I still look at you and start assessing your size and strength and speed, your vital functions, your disadvantages. I start trying to predict your next move before you make it, overthink, overanalyze.”
She swallowed, rubbing her fingers along her metal arm. “How am I supposed to carry on a conversation like I'm not a danger to everybody I meet?"
"Fuck you," Natasha said. "Don't pretend like I don't know about that. Superhero, ticking bomb, all of it. The chances of my relapsing are about ten times worse than your conditioning kicking back in."
And Bucky pushed down the feelings of guilt that bubbled to the surface, queasy in her stomach. She didn't apologize, but she reached for Natasha's hand with her flesh hand, nonetheless, and their two hands rested on the surface of the table, fingers intertwined. "You won't relapse," she said. "I'll make sure of it. I'm watching out for you, now."
Natasha's eyes went soft at the corners, and she tugged Bucky's hand along the table, bringing it up against the curve of her belly, where Bucky could feel warmth on her fingers through Natasha’s thin cotton shirt. "I think about it all the time," she whispered.
Bucky drew their hands back toward her. "Should I tell you not to use drugs?" she asked. She straightened up, squared her shoulders, official. "Captain America says don't use drugs," she intoned, with a blank, serious face.
Natasha stuck her tongue out. "Captain America also says study hard," she pointed out. "Pass your tests. Stay in school."
Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Captain America says she's trying, but her attention is flagging precipitously."
They played tug-of-war between them, their hands passing back and forth, from one lap to the other.
“Captain America needs a break,” Natasha said. “How would Captain America feel about dinner out?”
Bucky grimaced. “Captain America has exams in the morning. Exams that may determine the entire course of human history.”
Natasha sighed and pushed herself up from her seat, but she didn’t let go of Bucky’s hand. Instead, she pressed down against the soft flesh between Bucky’s thumb and index finger, rubbing a circle there.
It hurt, stinging, tension building in Bucky’s hand, even as her shoulders relaxed, even as the physical pain of her frustration began to melt away.
“Is it the exams?” Natasha asked. She was looking better, Bucky thought, than she had in a long time: there was color in her cheeks, light in her eyes, flesh on her bones. “Or the prospect of being around people?”
Bucky wasn’t sure. She turned to look at Natasha, but couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Both?” she answered. “Either? Neither?”
Natasha took a breath, and glanced away for a moment, which made Bucky worry, that maybe she’d said something wrong, or done something wrong, that maybe Natasha needed to be around people, maybe it was her way of asking.
“Well,” Natasha said, after a moment that seemed too long. “Would Captain America like me to cook for her?”
“Oh,” Bucky said, maybe a little too visibly relieved, and the response elicited a broad smile from Natasha. “Oh. I.”
She tugged on Natasha’s hand, drew her forward, until she was standing just between Bucky’s knees. Here, she was of a height with Natasha’s hipbone, and she leaned forward, pressing her cheek to it.
She meant to say yes.
Instead, she said, “I didn’t know you could cook.”
Natasha burst out laughing, the sound vibrating against Bucky’s ear where it still rested against Natasha’s side. “I didn’t say it would be good.”
Bucky pressed her lips together, and tilted her head up to meet Natasha’s gaze. The other woman was looking down at her, teeth raking her lower lip, expectant.
“Well, then,” Bucky said. “As long as we’re both being honest, I suppose it’s alright.”