#sovietspies

Barnes couldn’t stop shaking. Chills, bone-deep and trembling, wracked his body. When he could summon the strength to open his eyes, white and grey swum in front of him, morphing away from his touch when he tried to reach out. Occasionally, there was a flash of red, a murmur of a voice. 

You, he thought, allowing his eyelids to close against the light that burned his retinas. I know you.

Something touched his forehead, damp and gentle, giving him a moment of relief from the sweat rolling across his skin.

Unable to maintain his grip on consciousness, he let go. Falling, falling, falling.

James’ eyes fly open as he jerks up in bed. A thin sheet slips down his body to pool in his lap. Knife gripped in one hand, he scans the room.

Nothing. Another nightmare.

Scoffing at his own weakness, he returns the Finka combat knife to its place beneath his pillow and shoves the blankets off of him.

He moves through his morning routine without much thought. Check the door, make sure it wasn’t opened during the night. Strip off his sweat-soaked sleep clothes. Seven minute shower, cold. Scrub hard. Don’t think about the nightmares. Shave with the straight edge razor he keeps beneath the sink with his TT pistol. Dress in the tank top and loose pants provided for him. Boots on feet, another Finka in each boot. Stretch. Don’t think about the nightmares. Calibrate arm with a wide swing, listen to the plates move against each other. Be relieved when nothing sticks or grinds. Don’t think about the nightmares. Open the door, stride through the barracks. Meet no one’s eye, keep a scowl fixed to stop them from approaching. Don’t think about the nightmares. Don’t think about the n—

“Солдат!” (Soldier!)

James’ head whips towards the sound. It’s not snapped, not an order or a reprimand. It’s her .

He can’t stop a smile from spreading across his lips when he sees her, waving at him from the entrance to the restricted barracks. She’s tiny, a slip of a thing with red hair that practically glows against the grimy grey snow. He only realizes he’s standing stock still in the middle of the walkway, staring at her, when she begins to jog towards him.

The other soldiers and staff that pass occasionally flow around him, giving him a wide berth. If his intimidating height and musculature wasn’t enough to warn them away, the glinting silver arm with a bright red star on the shoulder certainly would.

She stops in front of him, looking up at him with those wide, green eyes that twinkle with warmth and mischief. Her breath puffs little clouds in front of her pert, pink lips. He can’t stop his gaze from dropping to her lips for a moment before finding her eyes again. 

“Принцесса,” he murmurs for only her to hear. (Princess.)

A pink flush that wasn’t from the cold paints itself across her cheeks.

“Can we practice our English today, Soldier?” she asks, her accent almost nonexistent. He knew almost wasn’t good enough for her.

“Of course,” he replies easily. It’s almost strange to speak his native tongue again, his near-native fluency in Russian and Romanian far more useful at this snowy Soviet base tucked deep in Russian lands.

His agreement is met with a stunning smile from the girl that almost made his heart stop.

He knows he shouldn’t think of her as a girl anymore, she is a woman of twenty already, (they had celebrated her birthday last month) and she could very nearly hold her own against him in the ring now.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks, finally tearing his eyes from hers and noting her workout gear and how unsuited it was to protect against the icy breeze and drifting snowflakes around them. She shrugs.

“Not all of us only just rolled out of bed,” she teases. “Some of us have work to do, you know. I’m warmed up.”

He rolls his eyes at her goodnatured needling.

“Good,” he replied, down to business. “We can get straight to our run, then.”

She bounces on the balls of her feet, ready to go. 

“Remember, distance,” he says as he turns and begins heading for the edge of the military campus. Beyond the last low, long building, there is nothing but grey fields of snow broken up by the occasional skeletal tree.

“I know, I know,” she waves him off, easily keeping up with his long stride even if she has to take two steps for his one. “No need to expend energy on bursts of speed, humans are stamina hunters, I remember.”

“Well if you remember, show me,” he goads, breaking into a run once they clear the last building. Even though he preached stamina and distance, he is still quick, his enhanced body easily carrying him faster than most men could sprint, and he isn’t even winded. Only a moment later, she is at his side, keeping up with a loping gait. Where he pounds through the thin layer of snow over their path, driving the flakes into mud beneath his boots, she seems to float across the terrain. Her eyes sparkle as she turns gracefully mid-stride, running backwards just in front of him to shoot him a small, almost shy smile. When she turns back around in mid-air he is reminded of the rigorous dance program she was put through, and wonders for a split second if she would be happier as a simple ballerina, rather than the weapon she was becoming.

The weapon I’m helping make her into , he thinks, stomach rebelling at the thought. He shakes his head, driving that train of thought away. Almost without meaning to, he starts to pull ahead, forcing his legs faster, as if he could outrun the guilt hanging over his head. 

She lets out an exclamation, speeding up to try and catch him.

“What happened to stamina and distance?” she asks. He doesn’t answer, stopping on a dime and turning directly around, facing back towards the base.

“Last one back has to do an extra twenty minutes in the ring,” he says shortly, before taking off like a shot, leaving her to scramble behind.

“I’ll kick your ass, James Barnes!” she calls behind him, the snowy air muffling her declaration from any curious ears back at base. He just chuckles, knowing that they’d end up doing the extra minutes together anyways. No one else could keep up with her. They were the only two on base who could challenge each other, always pushing, always striving to one up the other, always improving. They were a perfect match, steel sharpening steel.

A single, traitorous thought wanders into his head, almost drowned out by the rush of his pulse and the hammering of his feet against the ground.

Maybe we could make ourselves strong enough to leave this place.

As if sensing his idea, his body rebels, a stitch developing in his side and slowing his pace. She blows past him just a few feet away from the outskirts of the base, and even though she has a trained neutral expression in place for the people around them, he spots the proud lift of the corner of her lips as she keeps up her speed until she is fully past the base border.

Slowing herself down to an easy jog, she stops by the gym, waiting for him with her hands on her hips.

“Fast, Солдат,” she says, a relaxed look in her eyes. (Soldier.) He comes to a stop beside her, breath clouding in front of his face. “Not fast enough,” he jokes.

She shakes her head.

“Your heart,” she says. “It’s too fast.”

James frowns slightly.

“What do you mean—”

He’s cut off when he’s forced to gasp for breath. There’s a pounding ache in his chest, interspersed with sharp pains that make his muscles twitch.

She just stands in front of him, watching. “Too fast,” she whispers, sadly shaking her head. “Too fast.”

James’ head began to swim. When he looks down, his hand is shaking like a dead autumn leaf in a stiff breeze. 

“Help me,” he chokes out, before a muscle spasm sends him slamming to his knees in the snow at her feet. His vision narrows, black edges starting to encroach on his view as she crouches smoothly beside him. Her fingers ghost through the air beside his cheek, almost touching his skin that now beads with sweat despite the freezing air.

“Fight it, my soldier,” she begs. Then the tunnel choking his vision closes and he’s falling once more. 

The ground rocks beneath him as James’ eyes fly open once more. His world is painted in flashes of orange and yellow, with black smoke pouring over everything. Something moves beside him, red hair streaked with soot, a body in a formfitting black suit as she slams down next to him, taking cover against the rubble he finds digging into his back.

“This is not how I imagined spending our weekend,” the woman beside him spits, although he knew deep down that the vitriol wasn’t aimed at him. Another explosion goes off not far from them, and she steadies her arms on the collapsed structure around them to fire a few shots before ducking back into cover. She glances over, rasing an eyebrow that is half-singed off.

“You letting me do all the work, дорогой?” she asked, and he realizes he has the weight of a rifle in his hands. (Darling)

“Of course not, мое предмет любви,” he replies easily, throwing her a lopsided grin. (My flame)

She returns the expression, face softening for a moment beneath the soot and ash, and something in his chest clenches. A splitting pain cracks across his head, a memory begging to be released. The gun drops from his hands as he presses them to his skull. Someone is screaming themselves hoarse. As the woman, the one he spoke to with such ease and care, abandons her own weapon to kneel in front of him, distantly begging him to talk to her, he realizes he is the one screaming.

“Jami— please—”

Her words are disjointed, each one floating down to him as if whispered far above as the icy hot fingers of pain claw over his head. His throat burns. Snapping watery eyes up for a moment, he sees the fear behind his flame’s beautiful green eyes.

“Help me,” he mouths, vocal chords unable to produce a sound. She cradles his face gently, nodding rapidly.

“I will, I will always help you,” she stumbles over her words, a Russian accent thickening as she strokes fingers over his cheek. Her touch is blessedly cool against his stubbled skin. 

“You need to fight it,” she says, but he can’t. The pain is too great, it feels like his skull is cracking beneath his hands, splintering into a thousand pieces and stabbing him everywhere they can. With a final wail of  agony, he collapses towards the filthy ground, but instead of hitting the stone he is falling once more. 

All is darkness around him. When he tries to open his eyes he finds just more darkness, leaving him unsure if he even raised his eyelids. A faint sound draws his attention, the only stimulation in otherwise-perfect deprivation. It’s a simple, slow melody, sung quietly, almost as if the voice wasn’t paying attention to itself.

“Спасибо вам и сердцем и рукой,

За то, что вы меня - не зная сами,

Так любите: за мой ночной покой,

За редкость встреч закатными часами.” 

(I’m grateful to you with my heart and hand

For loving me, while not so realizing,

For granting me nocturnal peacetime, and

For it isn’t us, together at stars gazing,)

He can’t move, suspended in nothingness, so he just closes his eyes and listens, letting the words wash him away once more.

Natasha ached from tensing every muscle in her body at every movement Barnes made. Unable to reach out to any of her contacts for fear of bringing either the US Government, Hydra, or Dreykov’s men down on top of her, she had resigned herself to letting her partner sweat it out. 

That had been three days ago.

It had been touch and go for a while, but she kept forcing broth and water down his throat at every opportunity, muttering curses to Hydra and prayers to whatever gods might be listening in the same breath. Finally, late last night, after a frightening few hours where Barnes had stilled, pale and clammy, barely breathing, his fever broke and he slipped into a semi-peaceful sleep. Natasha, who had barely left his side except to clear the burned-out husk of the wrecked cars out of sight and set up some security so she couldn’t be ambushed, fell asleep beside him only minutes later. 

Now, with late morning sunlight streaming into the ranch house bedroom, she groaned as she stretched. Her legs were cramped from curling into the chair she had dragged to his bedside, and her neck had a pinched nerve from resting on the mattress beside his hand that set her eyes watering.

Barely conscious, she stood, checking Barnes’ breath and pulse. He had terrified her for a while, his pulse racing far too fast, but she had given him a risky electric shock from her Widow Bites (turned down to the lowest setting) and his heart had reset itself. She was relieved that his pulse and breathing all seemed normal. While he was still pale, some color had returned to his skin. He was on the mend.

Natasha felt like she could cry.

Dropping his wrist from where she had been monitoring his heartrate, she bent to touch her forehead to his fingers, eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” she whispered, fighting back waves of exhaustion and relief.

Natasha didn’t even flinch as warm blood and flecks of tissue spattered her face and hands. As the man dropped to her feet, dead before he hit the ground, she looked across the driveway in time to see Barnes snap the neck of his last opponent. He raised his head and something changed as his eyes met hers. The coldness receded for a moment, replaced by…was that worry? Recognition?

She didn’t have time to think about it.

Striding to the car, Natasha wrenched the door open and dragged out the terrified driver, tossing him easily onto the drive.

“Разговаривать,” she ordered, leveling her gun at the cowering man. (Talk.) He was shaking, clearly the driver for this operation, never intended to face actual combat. He whimpered, peering up at her from beneath raised hands.

“I can speak English,” he said, stumbling over his lightly accented words in a rush to get them out before she shot him. 

“Good for you,” Natasha replied in a monotone. She knew from experience that she must cut a terrifying figure: expressionless face, dead eyes, pale skin splattered with dark blood, staring down the ironsights at her victim.

It felt almost good to be the weapon again, rather than play nice as the SHIELD agent. The freedom to inflict whatever pain she needed to get the job done without being forced to hold back was tempting, intoxicating…she forced her lungs to fill and deflate with a steadying breath. She wasn’t that person, not anymore.

Unless I am, and I’ve just been pretending otherwise.

“Why are you here?” She asked.

“We were sent to retrieve you,” he replied, choking back a sob of fear.

“By whom?”

“General Dreykov.”

“He’s dead, try again.”

The man’s eyes widened, pupils almost pinpricks, drowning in the round whites of his eyes. 

“He’s not!” he said, pleading. “The General is alive, he wants you back. When SHIELD fell and you were on TV, he saw you and sent teams to retrieve you!” “Even if that were true,” Natasha said, narrowing her eyes. “Why would he want me back?”

Fear momentarily forgotten, the man’s jaw dropped slightly.

“Why…why would he want you back?” He repeated. “You…you’re Black Widow, you’re the Black Widow. He talks about you like you’re his greatest achievement. All the Widows, they are taught to be you . You are his template, his gold standard. If he could get you back, his work would be complete, he would have the most elite team of spies and assassins on the planet. Or at least,” he hurried to add, quickly remembering his situation and cowering once more, “that’s what I’ve heard. I haven’t had the chance to meet The General myself but, you know, soldiers and how they talk-”

The blood drained from Natasha’s face and the man’s rambling voice faded to nothing but a buzz.

All the Widows are taught to be you.

All the Widows.

There are more.

The Red Room still exists.

Without fully registering what she was doing, Natasha shot the man before her, cutting him off mid-word. Vaguely, she heard Barnes exclaim in surprise, but it was like he was in another world.

The Red Room is still operating.

She didn’t know how she made it to her bag or why she was there, but she mechanically cleared her weapon and put it away. Barnes was speaking, she could sense the low rumble of his voice, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.

The Red Room is still training Widows.

Natasha suddenly found her hands empty, weapon in her bag. She just stared at it, the dark grey of her bag swimming and merging with the light grey of the gravel it rested on. When she raised a hand, she noticed it was shaking, but it was as if it belonged to someone else.

The Red Room is still taking girls.

Something fell onto her hand,  smearing the partially-dry blood there. Moving more sluggishly than she ever had, Natasha touched the smear of crimson. It was wet. Another drop fell onto her fingers. She touched her cheeks and found they were wet, too. She was crying.

Dreykov is still taking girls and turning them into monsters like me.

It must have been a strange sight, to see her standing stock still, head bowed, breathing evenly as tears dripped from her nose and chin, running down her cheeks and streaking down her neck to the hollow of her throat. There was no sobbing, no shaking shoulders or screwed up expressions, just a blank stare and enough tears to drown in.

I’m going to kill him.

Slowly, she began finding the pieces of herself that had shattered at the realization and pulling them together.

I’m going to kill him.

Like surfacing from a dive, Natasha started to be aware of the world around her again. The shifting of the gravel beneath her weight, the feel of the breeze as it brushed her hair across her skin. The smell of country air: fresh and crisp and a little bit earthy. The smell of blood: sharp and metallic and rusty. The smell of gunpowder: smoke and acrid nitroglycirin and hot metal.

I’m going to kill him.

Barnes’ cautious stare burned into her side. When Natasha finally turned around, she had regained tight control of herself. All the parts of her that broke when the nameless hit squad driver confirmed that the Red Room was still active were back together, glued to each other with one promise.

I’m going to rescue those girls. I’m going to burn the Red Room to the ground. And then, once he’s watched me destroy his work and strip away his power, I’m going to kill Dreykov with my own hands and watch as the life leaves his eyes.

Rescue. Burn. Kill.

These three words looped in her mind over and over as she nodded to Barnes.

“Good work.”

Her voice sounded stilted and wooden, even to her own ears.

“Let’s clear the bodies and the driveway and regroup inside.”

Cold blue eyes swept over her, assessing her. Friend or threat? Useful or broken?

“Are you…”

“I’m fine,” she cut him off. Even though she felt half-lost in her own mind, she had been unresponsive for less than a minute. When she glanced at her last victim, the blood was still pooling around his head. She could play this off.

“Just felt weak,” she said, searching for an excuse as she leaned against their car in an attempt to play it cool.

“I haven’t eaten in a day or so, and the blood made me nauseous.”

Barnes scoffed.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, turning to start dragging the corpses into a pile. “Whatever, Widow.”

With a deep, grounding breath, Natasha raised her head and took in the destruction. Two smoking, bullet-ridden cars, four bodies, and blood all over her and the ground.

“Messier than we used to be,” she commented offhand, considering their options. Barnes gave her a strange look, but she ignored him as she started dragging the leader's corpse.

“Help me with this?”

Together, the two of them piled the bodies into the SUV. After they had searched the hit squad for any way to prevent more unpleasant surprises (and finding nothing) Natasha carefully drove the SUV into the middle of the gravel drive. Barnes, who had broken into the garage to search for supplies, emerged with two gas canisters.

“Jackpot,” he called, raising them. Natasha gave him a thumbs up and jumped down from the driver’s seat.

“I guess we don’t need to worry about neighbors,” she said, taking one gas can and starting to drench her side while Barnes did the other. “Anyone close enough to hear the gunshots would have called the cops a long time ago.”

“So we’re free to light it up?” Barnes confirmed. Tossing her gas can into the SUV, Natasha nodded. They both took several large steps back, and Barnes produced a slim motel matchbook from a pocket. Lighting one, he set the flame to the whole matchbook on fire and tossed it into the car.

Heat seared over them as the thoroughly soaked vehicle caught fire. 

“Job well done,” Natasha said, brushing her gas- and blood-stained hands off on her pants. “What do you say to a shower and some food?”

“Lead the way,” He gestured towards the ranch house, easily slinging both of their bags over his shoulder. They left the car burning and stepped into the cool shade of the porch. A moment later, Natasha had the door unlocked.

“These people are seriously lacking in home security,” she commented as they strode in, noting the lack of an alarm system, cameras, or motion sensors.

On instinct, Natasha swept the area, cataloging exits, sightlines, cover, and improvised weapons. The back wall featured massive windows that looked out onto an overgrown garden and rolling fields beyond. Beautiful, but lacking in cover.

The house was sparsely furnished, and when she ran a finger over the smooth kitchen countertop she came away with only a small amount of dust.

“Someone’s been here within a week or so,” she said, holding up her finger to show the small grey smudge on it. “This place has been cleaned recently.”

Barnes dropped their bags behind the couch, easily accessible from the kitchen thanks to the open floorplan.

“Are we going to talk about what happened out there?” he asked, tone hard and pressing. Natasha ignored him.

“Nice place,” she said. Pulling the dust cover off the couch, she let herself fall onto it, bouncing slightly. 

“Comfy!”

Barnes appeared above her, upside-down to her horizontal angle. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, forehead lined in wrinkles as he frowned down at her.

For a moment, Natasha felt 19 again.

— ”Что делаешь?” (What are you doing?) —

— She opened her eyes, blinking away the snowflakes stuck to her eyelashes, to see him standing over her with a displeased scowl. —

— “Тссс, я сплю.” (Shhh, I’m sleeping.) —

— “В снегу?” (In the snow?) —

— “Здесь так же тепло, как и в моей постели, к тому же меня здесь никто не беспокоит.” (It's just as warm as my bed, plus people don't bother me out here.) — 

— She arched a dark brow at him, and his scowl broke with a lopsided twitch of his lips, eyes rolling goodnaturedly. He sat down next to her. —

— “Ты замерзнешь, принцесса. Иди сюда.” (You’re going to freeze, princess. Come here.) —

— She scooted next to him, her clothes designed to stop the damp of the snow, if not the cold. — 

— “Глупый солдат, все знают, что Вдовы не могут замерзнуть. Мы принадлежим холоду.” (Silly soldier, everyone knows Widows can’t freeze. We belong in the cold.) —

— He had pulled her into his lap, glancing around to make sure they were out of sight of the buildings before he pressed his lips into her hair, murmuring so low she almost couldn’t hear him. —

— “Не ты, Нат. Не вы.” (Not you, Nat. Not you.) —

Natasha’s fingers tingled, remembering the cold, as she looked up into those same blue eyes. There was no spark of mischief or recognition there, though.

“Widow, you froze up,” he said. “What happened?”

Natasha forced a laugh.

“I didn’t freeze up,” she said. “I just needed some fresh air. I’m fine now, Barnes.”

He wanted to argue but seemed to think better of it. His jaw tensed, a muscle in his neck pulsing, and he whirled away from her. 

“Any food?” he asked, striding to the fridge. Natasha let out a breath of relief and hauled herself upright. While she began rummaging through cabinets, he pulled open the fridge and freezer. They both piled their findings on the kitchen counter.

“Two frozen pizzas, frozen spring rolls, a frozen…meatloaf?”

She looked to him for confirmation, who shrugged.

“Three boxes of pasta, two jars of sauce, a case of blue Gatorade, and a jar of pickles.”

Natasha wrinkled her nose.

“I guess it was too much to hope for some fresh fruit or vegetables.”

“Whoever lives here must not come around often,” Barnes commented, peering at the frozen mystery meat. “All this stuff is meant to keep for a while.” Digging through the last few cabinets, Natasha exclaimed in success. Barnes was instantly at her side, looming large and warm behind her.

“What?”

“Spices, oil, and…” Natasha turned around, revealing the bottle with a flourish. “Alcohol.”

She passed him the bottle of vodka to set aside while she pulled out what she needed.

“Why don’t you shower first and track us down some clothes while I make food?”

Eyeing the pile of food suspiciously, Barnes nodded.

“What are you going to make?” he asked before leaving to explore the rest of the house.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” she replied, shooting him a cheeky grin. He rolled his eyes and disappeared into the hallway.

Immediately, Natasha’s grin dropped, all the easy, casual energy she carried slipping away. Her panic and fear were still there, forming a toxic sludge in the pit of her stomach, but there was a much more familiar and productive emotion burning above them. Anger.

Rescue.

She needed to figure out where the Red Room was getting new recruits.

Burn.

She needed to find where the program was based now.

Kill.

She needed to watch Dreykov die.

Pain lanced through her jaw, and Natasha realized she had been clenching and grinding her teeth, gripping the counter so hard her fingers ached.

What about Barnes? A small voice in the back of her head asked. Natasha hated admitting defeat, even in the sanctity of her own mind, but she had to. 

I don’t know. 

Part of her wanted to run out the door and start tracking down the Red Room immediately. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t imagine leaving Barnes alone. 

I just got him back. I can’t risk losing him again.

That instinct was quickly reinforced when she heard a heavy thump from the opposite side of the house.

Grabbing a knife from the block in the kitchen, Natasha moved silently down the hall she had spotted when they entered the house. At the end of the hall a door was cracked, sunlight streaming through it. The sound of water running almost masked the groans coming from inside.

Stealth forgotten, Natasha rushed in, sweeping for any threats, expecting the worst. Steam spilled from the ensuite bathroom, clinging to her skin as she moved towards it. Inside the bathroom, slumped on the floor, Barnes was curled in on himself, shaking. 

Natasha dropped the knife, letting it impale the polished hardwood of the master bedroom as she fell to her knees beside him. His skin was pale and clammy, hair sticking to his face in sweaty clumps. The shower, turned as hot as possible, roared in her ears, steam clogging her lungs.

“Barnes, are you hurt?” she demanded. At first glance, he seemed unharmed. When he didn’t reply, she pursed her lips.

“I’m going to move you out of the bathroom,” she said, not even sure if he could hear or understand her. “I need to check you for injury.”

Carefully stepping around his twitching form, she shut off the shower, hissing as the scalding water touched her skin. That done, she looped her arms underneath his and awkwardly shuffle-stepped backward, pulling him out of the muggy bathroom and into the bedroom.

Her concern grew as he made no response to the change in his surroundings. Low, pained groans tore from his throat as he curled in on himself, metal arm over his head as if protecting it while his flesh arm wrapped tightly around his stomach.

“I need you to lay out for me, Barnes,” Natasha pleaded, panic rearing its head once again as she caught a glimpse of his face, features distorted in pain. “I need to see if you’re bleeding out or something, fuck you better not be, I’m going to be so pissed if you are.”

Her words had no heat to them, just a desperate worry as she pulled at his shirt, trying to spot any blood soaking through the fabric.

“Это больно,” he whimpered, words slurring together. (It hurts.)

“Что болит? Вы ранены?” (What hurts? Are you injured?)

Barnes’ hand shot out, wrapping tightly around her wrist. Natasha looked down with wide eyes. Barnes’ pupils were almost entirely dilated, nose running and lip quivering as he tugged at her arm.

“Mне нужна доза,” he rasped. (I need a dose.)

Realization hit Natasha like a truck.

Of course.

Hydra had controlled him in every way. They had wiped him, beat him, tortured him, froze him. It made sense they would have drugged him too.

And if they had given him enough slow-releasing drugs that they were only running out now, a few weeks after being dispatched, with his serum-enhanced metabolism…

The withdrawals could kill him, she realized. He was probably hiding the symptoms until now, numbing them with alcohol and riding it out on his own.

Beneath her, Barnes whimpered, unfocused gaze wavering from her, hand still around her wrist.

“Пожалуйста,” he begged quietly, broken. (Please.)

Natasha’s chest felt too tight. She had no idea what experimental drugs they would have given him, or how bad the withdrawals would be, or how to help him. With luck, he’d be able to burn through the worst of it in a few days, unless…

Unless Hydra had dosed him with some sort of poison as an insurance policy.

Unless they had made sure that if they couldn’t have him, no one could.

Natasha jerked awake, instant and silent, although the windows imploding around her would have covered any sound she made.

Masked figures in black combat gear swung through the broken glass, sweeping red headlights across the room. Natasha rolled off the couch and pressed herself to the cold floor.

Breathe in.

She felt the vibrations of feet on hardwood. Five combatants. Heavily armed and armored. 

Breathe out.

She pushed herself to her feet, moving noiselessly. The first man didn’t know where she was until she was launching him out the window.

Four left.

They swung towards her as she dispatched her first opponent, red light painting her skin as they raised their guns. She didn’t give them a chance to aim, sprinting towards them and hitting the floor with a grunt, sliding across wood and broken glass between one man’s legs. She grabbed his thigh as she slid, throwing him off balance and tugging his sidearm free. The pistol was heavier than she was used to, a silenced Glock 17 instead of her preferred Glock 26, but it was familiar all the same. Still on the floor, she fired two shots in rapid succession at the man she had just relieved of his weapon. Both hit, one in the back of his thigh, one in the back of his head. A loud crack told her that his helmet had caught the headshot, but the quick, pulsing spray of blood told her that her other shot had hit his femoral artery and he’d be dead by the time she left.

Three left.

The remaining men had pulled themselves together by now, shouting to each other in Russian. They fired at her, forcing her to roll behind the couch.

Silenced AK-12s. Russian Special Forces?

The men called back and forth, muffled by their helmets so she couldn’t hear their callouts. Not wanting to give them time to regroup, Natasha spun onto her knees and, steadying herself on the arm of the couch, fired.

Six shots, double-tapping each head. The red headlamps made it easy, it was as if they were signaling to her exactly where to aim in the dark.

One man dropped instantly, another with an anguished scream. The third, though, and last, had time to spin by the time she got to him, and the bullets had grazed his helmet instead of lodging in it or piercing through.

One.

“глупая шлюха,” he spat, stalking towards her. (Stupid whore.) His gun hung loosely at his side. 

“Шлюха, возможно, по некоторым определениям,” (Whore, perhaps by some definitions) Natasha replied, eyeing him as he approached. He was the biggest of the group, and clearly overconfident. “но не глупая женоненавистническая свинья.” (But not stupid, you misogynistic pig.)

The man growled, but she didn’t give him time to react. Throwing her gun to pull his attention away, she took two running steps towards him before launching off the couch and into the air. She latched a leg around his neck and swung herself around him, locking her grip before throwing herself to the ground and bringing him with her. 

The man dropped his gun with a clatter as he clawed at her legs, trying to get purchase. His fingers caught her calf and he pushed hard, grunting with effort. As she felt her grip begin to give, Natasha decided to give the man what he wanted.

She released him, kicking hard and catching his helmet, sending it rolling, before scrambling for the gun he’d released. Her hands found the stock just as his found the muzzle.

“Кто тебя послал?” she demanded as she wrenched the gun out of his reach, pulling it up to her shoulder and glaring down the ironsights at him. (Who sent you?) The man rolled onto his knees, hands on his thighs as he spat blood at her feet. He panted for a few seconds before answering.

“Ты стала мягкой, Вдова,” (You’ve become soft, Widow,) he said in a gravelly voice. 

“Мне все равно. Кто тебя послал?” (I don’t care. Who sent you?)

He looked up and smiled, teeth stained red as blood dripped from his split lip onto the floor.

“Генерал Дрейков передает привет.”

Before she could react he stumbled to his feet and launched himself out the window. Mouth open in shock, Natasha stepped after him but she was too late, all she saw was his body hit the sidewalk, hundreds of feet below.

Her heart pounded, breath coming too fast. The man’s words looped in her mind.

General Dreykov says hello.

“That’s not possible,” she whispered. The cold night breeze played with her hair as she stared, unseeing, down to the sidewalk where a panicked scream told her someone had found the two mercenary bodies.

The sound shook her to action.

Dropping the gun, Natasha quickly strode to the other bodies, searching for anything that would provide her with answers. They had nothing, no identifying papers or tags, no logo on their uniforms, just the weapons they carried. She grabbed two of the handguns and hurried into the bedroom, where she tossed them into the dufflebag that contained everything she needed. She grabbed her oversized leather jacket, crying out as she shrugged it on over the dozens of tiny wounds on her arms and torso. Some still had glass in them, but she needed to get out. Already she could hear sirens wailing in the distance.  

Swapping her preferred leggings—which were now ripped and bloody—for looser sweatpants that she hoped wouldn’t drive the glass any further into her body, Natasha gritted her teeth and threw the dufflebag strap over her shoulder. She arranged it across her body, leaving the flap open as she stepped into the kitchen. The medicine cabinet was the first thing she had found after the wifi password, and she emptied it into her bag before zipping it shut.

Red and blue lights bounced off the buildings as she stepped to the edge of the windows, glancing down. Police swarmed the street, blocking off civilians and crowding around their trucks. It was only a matter of minutes before they made their way up to her.

Natasha returned to the bodies one last time, patting them down.

“Come on,” she muttered. “You got in here, you had a plan to get out.”

Her fingers closed on an oddly shaped gun.

“Jackpot.”

Tucking the grappling hook gun into her jacket pocket, Natasha hurried out of the ruined apartment and up to the roof. The access door was an easy obstacle, so cheap and rusted that she was able to kick it open in one go. 

Fresh air, free of gunpowder, blood, and sweat, hit her as she stepped out onto the gravel roof. Her building was one of the taller ones around, but there was an office highrise across an alley that was just a bit taller. Bonus: it was away from the police, and all the lights were off, meaning no late-night office drone was about to have a heart attack.

Natasha aimed the grappling hook and fired, feeling a flicker of satisfaction as it caught on something on the roof. Probably a ventilation unit, if she had to guess. She tugged it hard, jerking it around, but the line held firm.

Part of her groaned and complained about what she was about to do, but she shook it off.

Don’t be soft, Nat, she reprimanded herself. Drawing one of the silenced Glocks, she shot at the window she was aiming for, cracking the glass. Downstairs in her own building, she heard yelling.

Okay, time to go.

Natasha held the grappling line taught and sprinted off the roof. Her hair whipped into her eyes as she swung across open space, and she almost smiled at the familiar, exhilarating swoop of her stomach. She braced herself.

The window shattered on impact, raining shards of glass around her as she released the grappling hook and tumbled a few feet.

“Fucking. Glass.”

Natasha grit her teeth as she heaved herself to her feet, making a mental note to stop rolling around in broken glass.

Adjusting her dufflebag, she stuck the Glock into her jacket pocket and hurried for the exit.

As she had suspected, the building was empty. She scowled at the elevator when her button press did nothing, slamming open the door to the stairwell with excessive force.

Why bother shutting off elevators at night , she grumbled to herself. What if someone breaks in and wants to rest for a few minutes instead of having to run down fourty flights of stupid stairs?

The silent complaining helped take her mind off the dozens of cuts and glass pieces that shifted slightly with every step. 

I have to get these out before I start to heal over them.

Finally at the lobby, and not particularly caring if she tripped any alarms or was caught on camera, Natasha shot the lock on one of the doors and escaped into the night.

Three blocks later she allowed herself to slow down and start looking for somewhere to hunker down. She was on a timer now: the police would be looking for whoever killed the mercenaries, and if she didn’t get the glass out of her body soon she’d have to cut herself open to remove it, which definitely wasn’t her preference.

She hurried across another street, putting more distance between herself and the carnage she left behind, eyes scanning for the right place to clean up. The city was slowly transitioning into a darker, rougher part of town. The clean, bright lights of expensive bars and late-night eateries was changing to flickering bulbs and old neon signs advertising seedy locales. Natasha spotted a 24/7 laundromat with bars on the windows and bright fluorescent light pouring from the door.

I love cities, she thought, shouldering her way into the building.

Her only companion was a woman in the corner beside a dryer who looked like she could be anywhere between 80 and 120. Natasha gave her a small, tight lipped smile as she made her way to the bathroom in the back. The woman just watched her, narrowing her eyes slightly.

Once in the grimy unisex bathroom, Natasha locked the door and dumped her bag on the floor. The mirror was streaked and chipped, with a phone number scrawled in the corner and a note to call for a good time. She leaned on the sink and surveyed the damage.

No wonder the old lady glared at me, she thought. I look like shit.

Her clothes were a little ripped from the window she had jumped through, and dark patches on her shirt and sweat pants told her she was still bleeding. A smear of red ran from her chin down her neck, but it wasn’t her blood…as far as she knew.

Natasha turned on the hot water tap. It sputtered a few times before it began to flow, and she let it run while she rummaged through her duffle bag. 

With practiced hands she laid out the tools she needed: tweezers, knife, disinfectant, gauze, and tape. Stripping off her jacket and shirt, Natasha started the painstaking process of identifying every piece of glass embedded in her skin.

Fortunately, this wasn’t the first time she had done this. Between her disregard for her own pain and her past experience, Natasha quickly moved over her torso and arms, and before long she was stepping out of her pants to check her legs. 

They were worse, thanks to her slide across the floor, and she had to use her knife a few times to reopen skin that had started to close over glass. Methodically working down one leg, then the other, Natasha extracted shards, disinfected cuts, and taped gauze firmly over the larger wounds. Her smaller ones she left—they’d close on their own in a few hours.

Changing clothes once again, Natasha stepped out of  the bathroom in clean leggings and a long sleeved shirt, jacket wrapped around her once more. The woman was still in the same place, a worn sudoku puzzle book in her hands. She glanced up, tapping a pen against the page. Natasha nodded at her, heading for the door.

“Someone came in here looking for you,” the woman said in heavily accented english. Hand on the door, Natasha turned.

“Who?”

The woman shrugged.

“Some man. He had a-”

She shook her left hand, searching for the word.

“A 假肢, a fake hand?” (Prosthetic)

Natasha stilled, blood draining from her face.

“金屬手?” (A metal hand?)

A flicker of surprise crossed the woman’s face, but she nodded.

“他說什麼?” Natasha asked. (What did he say?)

More comfortable in her own language, the woman opened up. She told Natasha that he had come in a few minutes after her, asked if a redheaded woman was in the bathroom. When he hadn’t gotten an answer, he just asked if she was alright, if she looked hurt. The old woman hadn’t told him much, not wanting to get involved in what she assumed was a lover’s quarrel, and he had left shortly after.

Natasha leaned against the laundry counter, head spinning.

What’s your play, Soldier?

“謝謝,” she said to the woman, lowering her head in thanks. (Thank you.)

“他擔心你,” the woman called after her as she made to leave. “讓他知道你很安全，是嗎?” (He was worried about you. Let him know you are safe, yes?)

“我會,” Natasha promised, and stepped out into the night. (I will.)

Now her pain had faded to an all-too-familiar pulse in the back of her mind and she wasn’t actively running from the cops, Natasha took a few breaths to gather herself.

He was here. He was…worried?

The Soldier didn’t worry about the safety of people. He only cared about the mission, and he certainly didn’t ask old ladies if missions were alright.

Unless…I’m not a mission. Unless it’s not the Soldier, not fully.

Natasha swallowed her hope, but it still sparked deep in her stomach.

The Soldier would never have done what the old woman relayed to her. He would be more likely to have shot Natasha while she was fighting Dreykov’s goons. So if it wasn’t The Soldier…who was it?

Are you still in there, James?

Natasha walked aimlessly down the street, too shaken to make a plan right away. Eventually, she ended up criss-crossing the city into a hotel district. Her paranoia had her checking over her shoulder constantly. She moved easily between shadow and light, her sixth sense tingling every so often. Soon she found herself in front of a mid-range hotel, big enough to disappear into, but small enough that she wouldn’t get odd looks for sitting down at the hotel bar with a dufflebag at her feet.

Natasha did just that. Against her every instinct, she headed to the bar and slid into the last booth with her back to the door. A waiter took her order and brought her her drink before returning to the bar, where a bachelor party were playing some sort of drinking game. Natasha sipped the cocktail.

To hunt a spy one needs to think like a spy. Thankfully, Natasha was one of the best in the business.

That isn’t to say it had been easy. The Soldier was inconsistent, fluctuating wildly between standard blown-mission protocol and seemingly random actions. It made it hard to keep up, even for Natasha. Not only was he unpredictable, but he also had all the skills necessary to disappear at a moment's notice.

Even now, six weeks after saying goodbye to Steve at Fury’s graveside, she hadn’t actually seen the Winter Soldier. She tracked him through a web of police scanners, neighborhood watch reports, and hacked surveillance cameras. When he stepped on a thread she went racing after him, but no matter how quick she was, he was a step ahead of her.

It was starting to get exasperating.

That’s how she ended up standing in the middle of a Philidelphia crosswalk, hair fanning out around her as she whipped her head back and forth, scanning the crowd. Someone jostled her as they hurried by, trying to get out of the road before the light changed, and she was forced to admit she had missed him.

Again .

Natasha trudged back to the coffee shop she was set up in. The weeks of surveillance, tracking, and running all over the east coast were starting to weigh on her. 

When was the last time I slept more than four hours? She thought, rubbing her eyes. Before SHIELD fell, that’s for sure.

The door of the cafe opened with a ring of the bell. The fruity, acidic scent of coffee drifted through the air, making Natasha wrinkle her nose. She’d never liked the taste of coffee, and the caffeine was far too weak to affect her. It just seemed to be an unpleasant beverage all around.

The quiet chatter of a dozen conversations, underlaid with the jazzy background music ubiquitous to the venue floated around her as Natasha returned to her seat. Her jacket and laptop appeared undisturbed, but something still felt off.

Tapping the trackpad of her laptop, she quickly glanced around before slamming it shut and gathering her things. She left the cafe in a hurry for the second time that day, shrugging on her jacket and glancing over her shoulder with every other step. 

When her screen had blinked to life there was just one window open on the desktop, a basic notepad program. In it was written a single word.

STOP.

She didn’t relax until she made it back to her current safehouse: a luxurious Rittenhouse Square apartment, empty for the next week according to postal records. Its owners were off in Kentucky for the Derby, and Natasha had decided that their (frankly obscene) amount of wealth meant they were unknowingly donating their apartment to her for the week. Plus, the security system was extensive, and even though it took a little longer than usual to hack, she felt safer with access to every camera and sensor in the building at her fingertips.

Flinging her jacket onto a mosaic-topped side table as soon as she unlocked the door, Natasha planted herself on a pure-white couch that probably cost more than her SHIELD salary and re-opened her laptop.

The note remained there, cursor blinking at her like it knew a secret. Natasha let herself exhale a long breath, fingers running gingerly over the keyboard.

He was here.

She tried not to get too excited over the idea, but seeing him on the overpass months ago had put a crack in the icy walls she’d built up around herself, and this confirmation sent a spark of warmth through her.

Memories had started flooding back to her lately, memories long suppressed. Some of the memories left her shivering under a pile of blankets at night, eyes staring unseeing at a wall while she tried desperately to get warm again. Some of them weren’t quite that bad, but most plunged her into freezing nightmares without a second to catch her breath. There were only a few that were good, truly good. Mostly ones that involved—

Natasha shook her head, cutting off that train of thought. If she pinned her hope that the man she once knew was still there she’d be no better than Steve. 

Is it wrong to hope? The treacherous voice in her head asked.

Yes, she answered firmly. 

She went to close out the notepad on her screen, the evidence that he had been there, but she hesitated. Before she knew what she was doing she had the note saved.

J.TXT stared at her innocently from her desktop.

She knew it was silly, but she needed a reminder. Something to look at to know she was close.

I won’t stop, she promised. No matter who you are now, I’m going to find you and I’ll help you. The War, the Red Room, Hydra, they stole your life from you. All I want to do is give it back.

Her heart dropped a little.

Even if that means you don’t want me in it.

Impulsively deciding that she’d run around the city enough for one day, Natasha stood and helped herself to a bottle of wine off the rack in the kitchen. It looked expensive and tasted it too. Sipping from her generously poured glass, she returned to the couch and sat cross-legged, wine in one hand and phone in the other.

She checked over her hacked security cameras, but all was undisturbed there. With another long sip she pulled her laptop onto her legs, navigating through it. It had once been a top-of-the-line machine, but she had gutted it, ripping out the webcam and GPS tag with tweezers, forcing her way through its flimsy system protection, and turning it into a traceless, unidentifiable machine. 

If The Soldier had enough time to access her laptop he might have messed with her files, so Natasha ran a cursory sweep to ensure everything was where it should be before starting a more in depth file scan.

While her laptop went over every byte of data with a fine-tooth comb to ensure nothing was out of place, Natasha topped up her wine and settled back on the couch, flipping through channels on the giant flatscreen opposite her.

The news had mostly moved past the fall of SHIELD, with the ever-increasing demand for 24-hour content cycles demanding fresh information. The lead story tonight was a messy celebrity divorce case. Natasha smirked. It would be harder for the government to allocate resources towards finding her if the public didn’t care, although she was sure they were searching. After she missed a hearing there had been an outcry and some basic news anchor fearmongering (Ruthless Killer Black Widow on the Loose!) but it had faded just as fast. Now, the only people who wanted her back were looking to lock her up. Natasha didn’t plan on letting that happen.

Sometime between Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, she slipped into a restless sleep.

Snow was Natalia’s favorite weather. It softened an often hard world and made everything seem slightly more magical. She pressed her face up against the thin window, not even feeling the chill on her cheeks. Barely tall enough to see out the warped glass, she had to stand on her tip-toes to see the fluffy white flakes float towards the ground. Chin resting on the windowsill, she sighed in contentment, her breath fogging the glass for a moment before fading away.

“Она идет!” (She’s coming!) A voice warned. The quick words were enough to pull Natalia away from the window. Like the other young girls in the dormitory, she scrambled to stand at the end of her bed, chain rattling between the bolted-down bedframe and the cuff on her ankle. A moment later in strode a tall, stern woman with steel-grey hair pulled back into a tight bun and a scowl that never quite left her eyes. Natalia stood to attention with the other girls, back ramrod straight. She remained perfectly still as the matron stepped slowly down the line, despite the chilly air that cut straight through her thin nightgown.

A girl on the other side of the room shivered. Natalia kept her eyes trained straight ahead. The girl shook for a moment, every muscle tense, then let out a tiny sneeze.

The matron whirled on her.

“Этот,” (This one) she said, and two men in threadbare uniforms marched forward. The girl’s brown eyes filled with tears.

“Пожалуйста,” (Please) the little girl whispered, voice wavering. “Пожалуйста, не.” (Please, no.)

The matron acted as if the girl hadn’t even spoken. Grabbing her roughly by her thin arms, the uniformed men unlocked her ankle cuff and pulled her out to the center of the aisle between the rows of beds.

“Возьми ее,” (Take her) the matron ordered. The men complied, half-carrying the girl between them. Her eyes widened, tears spilling down pale cheeks.

“Пожалуйста!” (Please!) the girl cried again, voice rising. “Пожалуйста! Я буду хорошим!” (Please! I’ll be good!)

No one in the room moved, no one breathed. Natalia stared straight ahead.

The girl began to struggle, kicking out at her captors, thrashing between them.

“Пожалуйста, не надо! Пожалуйста!” (Please, don’t! Please!)

She shrieked, sobs wracking her as she fought back, but she was no match for two fully-grown soldiers. The men dragged her out of the dormitory and the doors swung shut behind her.

Standing in the center of the room, the matron waited until her screams faded away. 

“Вдова не попрошайничает,” (A Widow does not beg) she said, breaking the heavy silence.

“Вдова не попрошайничает!”

Every girl in the room repeated her words instantly. Natalia repeated them in her mind.

I will not beg. I will not fail. I will not die.

As the snow fell outside Natalia welcomed the cold into her. The girls who fought it froze, never able to get warm. Their knees knocked during inspection.  Drafts made them sneeze. Natalia accepted the cold, lived in it, loved it.

A Widow does not fear the cold. A Widow does not beg. A Widow does not disobey.

She knew many things that a Widow did not do, but only a few that they did.

A Widow is strong. A Widow always completes the mission. A Widow does whatever it takes.

The little girl with red hair and blank eyes warmed herself on mantras while the matron completed her inspections.

I am strong. I always complete the mission. I do whatever it takes.

I will not beg. I will not fail. I will not die.

The cold seemed to settle into her very bones.

Natasha felt Fury tense next to her as the screen blanked for a second. When it rebooted the number of targets and rash of red dots had disappeared. Instead of hundreds of thousands, the number fell to only three.

“Where are the targets?” asked a confused voice over the computer. Natasha and Fury shared a look, one of simultaneous triumph and trepidation.

If the targeting chip had only just been replaced, that meant that one of their team was on board the final helicarrier.

“Where are the targets?” the lieutenant demanded again, but before he could say anything else the line went dead in a crackle of static. The office windows shook as the first volley fired from the helicarriers. Pierce stared out the window as shrapnel began raining from the sky, followed by black smoke.

“What a waste,” he muttered.

“So, you still on the fence about Rogers’ chances?” Natasha asked, stepping towards the window. Pierce acted as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Time to go, Councilwoman,” he said, taking hold of her elbow. “The way, come on. You’re going to fly me out of here.”

At least I’m good for something , Natasha thought, face an impassive mask of neutrality while cold anger began coiling in her stomach. There were plenty of ways to kill a man on a helicopter. If she went too, so be it. At least the world would be rid of Alexander Pierce. But maybe there was another way…

Fury’s voice slowed her steps.

“You know,” the ex-director said, “there was a time I would’ve taken a bullet for you.”

“You already did,” Pierce replied glibly, holding the phone like it was a gun at Natasha’s back. “You will again when it’s useful.”

Natasha slipped her hands into the pocket of her itchy blue skirt. Her fingers closed around a small metal disk, warm from being so close to her skin. Her last chance.

Raising the disk, Natasha activated it, sending electricity arcing over her body. Tingling pain, like the world’s worst case of paresthesia, shot through her. Her muscles contracted too fast, causing excruciating pain to follow the tendrils of electricity. She felt her heart double beat, making her lightheaded. Groaning with pain, she collapsed to the ground.

Pierce quickly rebooted her deadly tag, but he was too slow. Fury put two bullets in him before he could press down on the rearmed kill switch, sending the Hydra traitor careening through the glass screen.

“Romanoff,” Fury breathed, a surprising amount of worry in his tone as he kneeled next to her. 

“Natasha,” he hissed. It was like he was calling her from far away.

“Natasha! Come on!” Something close to panic was in his voice and Natasha forced a breath, feeling her body come back to life. A painful, stiff, numb life, but life nonetheless. She frowned, blinking.

“Ow.” 

Her vocal cords felt fried, and she was surprised her polyester skirt suit wasn’t smoking.

“Those really do sting.”

As the helicarriers began to fall out of the sky, Fury helped her to her feet. Pierce was flat on his back with two bullets in his chest, shattered glass all around him.

“Hail Hydra,” he whispered. Natasha glared at him before limping out of the room under Fury’s arm, her muscles still protesting the number of volts she’d subjected them to. The Secretary died alone and in pain, while she and Fury hurried to the helicopter to provide air support for their team.

Fury tossed her a duffle bag as the climbed into the helicopter.

“Figured you’d be looking for something a little easier to move in,” he said. Natasha dug into the bag, pulling out a SHIELD bodysuit. She nodded her thanks, quickly stripping off the Councilwoman’s outfit and jewelry. She had the suit pulled on by the time Fury had the chopper in the air. 

It was a relief to slip on the helicopter’s headset and finally be tuned in to their team communications. Fury brought the chopper in a wide circle, surveying the battlefield. Natasha couldn’t help but feel a little awed by the sheer size of the helicarriers. They were collapsing, burning, heading straight for the ground. Their maiden voyages were to be nothing but a bloody footnote in the history books, rather than the bloody chapter they would have been otherwise.

“Please tell me you got that chopper in the air!” Sam’s voice, panicked and winded, crackled to life in her headset. Relief shot through Natasha’s body like a drug.

“Sam! Where are you?” she asked. 

“Forty-first floor, Northwest corner!”

“We’re on it, stay where you are!”

“Not an option!”

As Fury turned the helicopter her stomach dropped. One of the helicarriers was headed straight for the Triskellion. It plowed through glass, concrete, and steel like butter, slicing across the upper floors of the SHIELD base. Natasha tried to estimate where Sam was, searching for him through the chaos. Then, a few floors ahead, she saw him break through the window and freefall towards them. Fury instantly spun the copter and Sam slammed into it. Natasha grabbed anything she could to hold him steady as his impact sent the opposite door spinning into nothingness.

“Forty-FIRST floor,” he yelled as she hauled him back into the copter “Forty-FIRST!”

“It’s not like they put the floor numbers on the outside of the building!” Fury rebutted. Natasha watched the helicarrier break through the rest of the Triskellion as she put a hand to her mic.

“Hill! Where’s Steve? You got a location on Rogers?”

“He was on the carrier when he ordered us to fire,” came Hill’s response. Gunfire sounded in the background and she grunted as if she had just had to hit the floor. “Haven’t heard from him since.”

Natasha scowled.

“Shit!”

The helicarrier was raining to pieces around them as Fury tried to keep the helicopter steady.

“We have no idea where he is,” Fury yelled. “We’re sitting ducks for debris out here.”

Trust Rogers to do something stupid and self-sacrificing.

“Get us out of here!” Natasha said. Sam protested, but she couldn’t hear him through her padded headset, and she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. Behind them, the Triskellion crumbled. 

Fumbling, Sam grabbed a headset and slammed it on.

“Go back!” he demanded. “Steve’s still out there!”

Fury ignored him.

“If we go back we probably aren’t getting out again,” Natasha explained calmly. This seemed to just make the paratrooper angrier.

“We aren’t leaving him behind!” “Listen!” Natasha snapped. “Steve is an incredibly resilient, resourceful man. Also, he’s literally a super-soldier. We have to trust him that he got out.”

Sam glared at her. She met his angry eyes evenly.

“Fine,” he said, crossing his arms and looking away. She sighed and did the same.

Her whole body hurt . Tingling pain ran up and down her limbs and her shoulder ached badly, even though it was already healing. She made a mental note not to recover too quickly. Everyone around her assumed she was tough, no one knew she healed from wounds almost as quickly as Steve. Itching around her bullet wound told her that the muscles, tissues, and ligaments were already repairing themselves. 

“Hill, check in,” Fury said. It took a few tense seconds, but Hill replied.

“I’m here, sir.”

“Did you get clear of the Triskellion?”

“Yes, sir. I was helping the last of the staff out when it was hit.”

“Good. Meet us back at base.”

The line clicked dead, and Natasha leaned her head back on the rattling helicopter seat as Fury flew them back to the abandoned dam.

It didn’t take long, and after he landed they all trudged up to the top of the dam by silent consensus. The helicarriers were still collapsing around the Triskellion, fireballs launching periodically into the sky as ammunition caches caught fire. Acrid black smoke poured out of the wrecks, stinging their noses even from miles away. 

No one spoke. No one had anything to say. They just stood silently as SHIELD went up in flames, watching. At some point, Hill joined them, looking a little battered and scraped up but no worse for wear. They stood out on the dam for a few more minutes, then Fury shook himself.

“Inside,” he ordered. Hill followed without a word. Sam and Natasha shared a look before trailing after.

For the first time, it hit her. Natasha was officially an independent actor. SHIELD was gone. For the first time in her life, there was no chain of command.

Still, what’s a spy without a mission? She sat in the same chair she had occupied hours ago, when they first came up with the plan to sabotage the helicarriers. Sam leaned on the wall behind her, arms crossed, and Hill sat across from her. At the head of the table, Fury leaned on his arm, the other still tucked into a sling.

“I know I have no right to give any of you orders anymore,” he said, echoing Natasha’s thoughts. “Still, I hope you’re willing to help me.”

“With what?” Sam asked, suspicious.

“Finding Captain Rogers.”

Natasha looked up, surprised, but there was no hint of deceit on the ex-director’s face. He just looked tired and in pain, a state she’d rarely seen before.

“If Steve was on one of those helicarriers when they went down,” Fury said, “he’s either in the Potomac or around it.”

Or burned to a crisp inside them , Natasha thought, but she elected not to give voice to that particular possibility. 

“I can take the helicopter and scan the wreckage,” Hill volunteered.

“I’ll search the east bank,” Sam said, naming the side closer to the city. “No one’s looking for me or thinks I’m dead,” he said as way of explanation when the other three stared at him. 

“You don’t need to be involved anymore, Mr. Wilson,” Fury offered, but Sam fixed him with a hard look.

“I never leave a soldier behind, sir.”

Fury nodded.

“Guess that leaves the west bank to me,” Natasha said, standing and stretching with a wince.

“I’ll go with you-” Fury started, but was quickly cut off.

“Like hell you will,” Natasha said with a little more venom than necessary. Fury raised an eyebrow at her.

“What was it?” She asked, beginning to list his injuries off on her fingers. “Lacerated spinal column, cracked sternum, shattered collarbone, perforated liver, and one hell of a headache.”

“Don’t forget a collapsed lung,” Sam interjected, shooting her a half-smile.

“Don’t want to forget that,” she agreed, turning back to the man in question. “You need to sit this one out, Nick.”

It took him a long moment, but finally, he nodded.

“Fine. But keep me updated,” he said, amending the order a moment later. “Please.”

“Of course we will,” Hill assured him. 

After they had escorted Fury back to his hospital bed and left strict orders for him not to be allowed to leave, the trio found themselves standing in a damp corridor. 

“Here,” Hill said, holding out earpieces. “For when you find him.”

Natasha nodded, slipping the earpiece in. Sam did the same.

“Good luck.”

No further words were needed, and they parted ways.

Natasha knew she had the hardest search ahead of her. Tangled underbrush and grasping roots threatened almost every step as she picked her way down to the shore. In some places it was a few feet of pebbly beach, in others, it was trees growing straight out of the water, leaving her stuck wading through mud that pulled at every step she took. It was exhausting and frustrating, but it was something . Something that meant she didn’t have to sit alone with her thoughts in a green, clammy room under a dam. 

For a while she felt like she was being watched, her skin breaking out into goosebumps. It took nearly two miles of slogging through the river shoreline, glancing around with every step, before the feeling went away.

“Check-in,” came Hill’s voice in her ear.

“Nothing yet,” Sam said, “but it’s slow going here. Lots of emergency services. If he was here, he would have already been identified and extracted.”

Natasha raised her hand to her ear, ready to report nothing on her side too, when she spotted a crimson ribbon in the dark river water.

“Hold,” she said, eyes fixed on the blood that hung in the water, barely visible in the light of the setting sun. Speeding up, she rounded a bend and saw Steve, pale and soaked and bleeding but alive, laying on the beach.

“I have him,” she said, running to his side. “He’s injured, multiple knife wounds. Looks like he was shot a few times and was beat half to hell too.”

“On the way,” Hill said.

“Thank god,” Sam breathed. 

“Steve,” Natasha called, checking over his body with her hands, trying to ascertain where he was most hurt. “Steve, can you hear me?”

His chest rose and fell unevenly, but when she pulled an eyelid open his pupils reacted to light. She pressed her hands on the wound in his gut, spotting Hill’s helicopter speeding towards her.

“Hang in there, Rogers,” she muttered, and a few moments later rescue was there.

For the second time that week, Natasha stood in the observation room of a surgical theatre. This time it was Sam beside her, not Steve, and they both watched in silence as the surgeons worked on their super-soldier.

“He’ll be alright,” Natasha said, glancing at Sam. 

“How can you know?” he asked, eyes not leaving Steve’s face. A tube snaked into the corner of his mouth and his features were marred with swollen bruises and cuts, but they already looked better than when she had found him.

Natasha shrugged.

“All that stuff they pumped into him, he heals fast.”

The doctors extracted the final bullet and began final repairs before closing.

“What I want to know,” Hill said from beside her, “is how he got there.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow at the ex-SHIELD agent.

“You said you found him flat on his back. It’s as if someone dragged him to shore,” Hill explained. Natasha nodded, turning back to the surgery.

“It is, isn’t it?”

They each took turns by his bedside after Steve was cleared from surgery. The doctors had pumped him full of enough painkillers to kill a normal man, so they assured the team he would be out for a while. Still, none of them wanted to leave him alone, so they left in shifts to get cleaned up and changed into clothes that didn’t smell like smoke and metal and blood. Sam was by his bedside, playing Marvin Gaye’s Troubleman soundtrack, when Steve finally opened his eyes. He told Natasha afterward about their “on your left” joke, that that’s when he knew Steve was going to be okay.

That night it was Natasha’s turn by his bedside. She sat quietly in the dark while he slept, turning a hard drive over and over in her hand. Moonlight speared through the cheap hospital curtains, sliding across the device’s matte black surface as it spun in her fingers.

“Hey,” Steve’s voice croaked from beside her. Natasha looked down, lips quirking in a smile.

“Hey there, cap,” she replied softly. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got the crap beat out of me,” he said, groaning as he adjusted in the bed.

“Good, all your pain receptors are working then.”

Steve rolled his eyes. They sat quietly for a few moments, Natasha never stopping fiddling with the drive, silver light flashing over her fingers.

“It was him,” Steve said quietly. Natasha stayed silent, letting him speak.

“He was beating me, but I think…I think I got through to him, Nat. He stopped, his eyes changed-”

Natasha’s fingers stumbled over the drive, almost dropping it before recovering. Steve continued talking.

“-it was like he recognized me. And in the water, after I fell, right as I was about to pass out…it was him. I saw his metal arm.”

His voice broke a little.

“Bucky saved me.”

Slipping the drive into her coat pocket, Natasha turned to look at Steve.

“It’s easy to see what we want to see sometimes, Steve,” she said.

“No, it was him, I know it.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t, I’m just saying…it’s possible that your mind provided the answer you wanted in a near-death situation. You’d lost a lot of blood.”

Although Natasha’s voice was firm and sure, inside her mind was racing.

If Steve could get through to him, what could I do? Could I break him out of whatever hold Hydra has on him?

Swallowing hard, she pushed down her emotions, trying to think logically.

He’s out there alone. He doesn’t have a handler anymore, and he’s probably hurt.

Natasha didn’t know what shape he might be in, if he was a risk to himself or others, but she knew she couldn’t let Steve find him. Not yet. Steve still saw his best friend, Bucky, a happy-go-lucky army man.

Natasha knew better. She knew The Soldier, knew how he thought, how he functioned, how he fought.

Steve would want Bucky back. Natasha just wanted The Soldier safe.

At least, that’s what she told herself. Because, like her, The Soldier was a deadly spy, lost and adrift. He would be searching for answers, looking for a mission. And what’s a spy without a mission?

Natasha hadn’t meant to lie under oath when she told the senate hearing that they’d know where to find her. Part of her really did intend to follow the rules, wear the tracker, show up to the hearings, and generally go straight for real this time. Part of her meant to do things the right way, find The Solider without bypassing the restrictions they put on her, be one of the good guys.

It was just so easy to slip away. 

It took her one evening of fiddling with her tracker to figure out how to disable it, another to make it appear like she was somewhere else in the city. From there, shaking her tails was child’s play.

The first place she went was the graveyard.

Steve had texted her to meet him and Sam there. Not on her regular phone, of course. She’d grabbed a burner almost as soon as she left Capitol Hill.

Summer was right around the corner, trees in full, bright green leaf but a slight crisp in the air. Sam and Steve were already there, standing over the fresh grave where Fury had supposedly been laid to rest. The supposed deceased was also with them, decked out in a new pair of sunglasses and a normal-length leather jacket. It was strange to see Fury without his long black coat flapping around him, but many things had come to an end in the past few days. It made sense this was one of them.

Approaching slowly, she heard Steve and Sam turn down the ex-director when he invited them to join him in hunting Hydra in Europe. Her grip tightened around the file in her hands when Steve said there was something else he needed to do. She knew what it was, and she knew she had to beat him to it. 

“If anybody asks where they can find me,” Fury said as she walked closer, “tell them they can find me right here.”

He inclined his head to the grave and then clasped both men’s hands.

“You should be honored,” Natasha said, making her presence known. “That’s about as close as he gets to saying thank you.”

Sam stayed by the grave as Steve strode up to her, movements easy and loose. He was already fully healed.

“Not going with him?” he asked.

“No,” Natasha answered immediately with a small smile. 

“Not staying here,” he surmised, and she glanced up at him.

“Nah.”

Birdsong twittered from the trees as she looked around.

“I blew all my covers,” she said. “I’ve gotta go figure out a new one.”

“That might take a while.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m counting on it.”

A moment of silence stretched between them. Steve was the closest thing she’d had to a friend in a long while, and she was about to do everything she could to go behind his back and stop him from finding his long-lost best friend. Even though it was for the best, she felt guilty.

“That thing you asked for,” she said, holding out the folder. “I called in a few favors from Kiev.”

Steve accepted the folder, face falling into serious, thoughtful lines. Natasha watched him, half wishing she could take the folder back, spare him the information inside, and disappear with it. But she couldn’t. Steve had a right to know. None of the information was missing or falsified, she owed him that, but he didn’t have her advantage. He didn’t know The Soldier. She hoped he wouldn’t let the hunt for Bucky consume him.

“Will you do me a favor?” she asked, not waiting for a reply. “Call that nurse.”

“She’s not a nurse.”

“And you’re not a SHIELD agent.”

“What was her name again?”

“Sharon.”

Natasha smiled softly. She wouldn’t say she and Sharon were friends, or close to it, but they knew each other. She was reliable and kind, a good person, as far as people went. 

“She’s nice,” she said. The closest to a glowing endorsement one could expect from a hardened spy.

Pursing her lips, Natasha pulled Steve down and brushed a kiss on his cheek. He looked at her, confused, and for a moment she worried he would get the wrong idea. It was a goodbye, and an apology, although he didn’t need to know that yet.

“Be careful, Steve,” she said as she turned away. “You might not want to pull on that thread.”

It was the last warning she could give him.

Natasha checked her phone as she, Sam, Steve, and Sitwell drove down the beltway, heading into DC.

“Hydra doesn’t like leaks,” Sitwell insisted, not for the first time. 

Sam gave him a snappy response, while Natasha did some quick math in her head.

“Insight’s launching in 16 hours,” she said, leaning forward and cutting off whatever else Sitwell was going to say. She could feel the man’s annoyed glare on the back of her head, but she didn’t care. 

“We’re cutting it a little close here.”

Steve was on top of it.

“I know,” he said. “We’ll use him to bypass the DNA scans and access the helicarriers directly.”

Their hostage was less than thrilled about this idea, protesting wildly. 

“That is a terrible, terrible idea-”

A thud on the roof cut him off, and they all looked up. Before anyone could react there was a flash of metal and the window next to Sitwell shattered. He was dragged out of the car and flung into high-speed traffic across the median, his scream cut short as an oncoming car squished him. Natasha reacted fast, but not fast enough to save him, and froze for a moment as she watched the Hydra agent die, already calculating what to do to raise her rate of survival in what had quickly become a deadly situation. The figure on top of the car pulled out a handgun and disappeared out of her view. Knowing what she would do if the roles were reversed, Natasha rolled into Steve’s lap not a moment too soon, barely dodging the bullets fired from above. She pulled him forward as the next shot shredded his headrest, and was relieved to see Sam had ducked the potential headshot as well.

Steve threw the emergency brake and the car screeched to a stop, sending their unknown assailant flying. Adrenaline pumping through her system, Natasha watched with wide eyes as the figure landed on the road ahead, and it was as if time slowed to a crawl.

His metal fingers dug into the asphalt, gouging it open as his leather gear took the brunt of the slide damage. Natasha couldn’t breathe. Silver glinted in the sunlight as the man’s arm cycled, releasing his grip on the road, and he stood. 

There was only one man in the world with a silver metal arm bearing a red Soviet star on the shoulder.

If she hadn’t been in a life or death situation, Natasha thinks she might have just broken down. He’s alive. He’s alive.

The man stood slowly, and her elation ebbed.

He’s alive , she thought, head spinning, and he’s trying to kill us.

She didn't understand. How was he here , standing in front of her, alive, having just thrown their best lead into traffic.

No matter how badly her chest hurt, as if her heart was ripping itself apart, Natasha focused on the present. She prided herself on her compartmentalization, and this needed to be compartmentalized far, far away if she had any hope of getting herself and her teammates out of their current precarious circumstances. Even so, she couldn't drive the shock, relief, and confusion from her mind.

He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive , the thought looped through her head with the rapid beat of her heart. He began stalking towards the car. Just as she braced herself and raised her pistol, a vehicle revved behind them, and a tanky Hydra SUV slammed into the back of Sam’s car. 

They were all thrown forward and Natasha felt her gun slip from her between her fingers as Steve jolted hard, squeezing around her in an attempt to shield her with his arms. The Hydra SUV kept accelerating, pushing Sam’s car forward, towards the man with the metal arm. Just as they were about to hit him he jumped, pivoting midair and landing heavily on the roof, shattering the back windshield. Sam tried to break, sparks flying from his poor car, and Natasha felt around the safety glass on the floor, trying to get her gun back. They only had a few seconds before Hydra stopped toying with them, she was sure. 

With another shattering of glass, the metal arm punched through the front windshield and ripped the steering wheel out of Sam’s hands and out of the car.

“Shit!” Sam exclaimed, but before the metal-armed man could do anything, Natasha felt her fingers close around her weapon, and she instantly swung it up and started firing blindly, forcing their assailant to leap to the Hydra vehicle.

Please don’t hit him, a treacherous voice in her head whispered. She drowned it out with gunfire. 

One more nudge was all it took to send Sam’s totaled vehicle spinning out of control. Steve braced his shield against the door.

“Hang on!” he ordered. Natasha, already basically in his lap, wrapped her arms around Sam as he dove into them, and Steve freed the door from the rest of the car. They fell to the asphalt with a bone-jarring thump, skidding after the spinning, crushed chassis they had just escaped. Hot metal and burning rubber stung her nose, the screech of the metal sliding down the road drowning out any other thoughts for a moment.

She felt Sam slipping, and she couldn’t tighten her grip on him with the speed they were going. Holding on for as long as she could, she eventually had to let him free, and was relieved to see him safely absorb the impact and roll the rest of the way to a stop while she and Steve slid on the car door. 

Without a moment to catch their breath, Steve and Natasha leaped from the door as the Hydra vehicle squealed to a stop. Someone handed the metal-armed man a grenade launcher, which he raised and fired.

Steve shoved Natasha to the side. She sprinted for cover as he raised his shield, barely in time to block the deadly shell. He went spinning over the side of the overpass, but Natasha had no time to worry about him. Below them there was the sound of car horns, shattering glass, and crunching metal, but on the overpass the only noise was gunfire. The Hydra agents moved in, firing on her last position. Waving Sam to cover, Natasha sheltered behind a car and returned fire with her pistol, but she knew they were hopelessly outgunned. The only way to win would be to separate the agents and their assailant, and then hopefully she’d be able to pick them off.

Reloading on muscle memory, Natasha moved to return fire once again just in time to see him stalking towards her, grenade launcher in his hands. He raised it and she darted away, vaulting over the concrete median as she felt the searing heat explode behind her. Quickly rolling to avoid oncoming traffic, Natasha slid across a car hood and ran . 

She needed to get the conflict away from the highway, away from civilians. As another grenade fired toward her, she jumped off the overpass, a burning car flipping over her head as she used a grappling hook to turn her headlong dive into a controlled swing.

Still moving at full speed, Natasha scanned the area ahead. A bus was overturned and people were screaming, but they were also fleeing, and for that she was grateful. Her eyes fixed on the shadow cast by the overpass and the figures outlined in darkness there. He was waiting for her. He always did.

Skidding to a stop, she planted her feet and raised both Glock 26’s, firing rapidly at her target. He instantly disappeared out of view and her heart leaped to her throat. Had she hit him? Had she hurt him?

She pushed those thoughts away and ran for cover beside a utility truck. The next moment her fears were allayed as a sloppy clip of assault rifle fire sprayed in her general direction. She fired back, slipping into form. She wouldn’t worry about him. He would survive, and so would she, but that didn’t mean she would let him hurt innocent people—or her.

After he fired on her position again she turned and ran. She had to get him alone, away from the Hydra agents, away from civilians. Ducking behind cars as she ran, she risked one glance behind. He stood, silhouetted, on the bridge, rifle raised as he watched her leave. His eyes burned her, even with all the distance between them, and she pushed herself faster. He would follow. He always had.

It only took a few minutes. Natasha had disappeared into a quieter business district, ordering everyone away as she ran. Most had heard the explosions on the highway and were already clearing out, eyes wide and breaths short with panic. The few who weren’t hurrying to leave quickly changed their minds when a police car raced by, sirens screaming, only to explode into a ball of fire a moment later.

Natasha couldn’t help but feel a grim sort of satisfaction. Just as she suspected, he had followed her. He may not know her, having shown no spark of recognition during their fight, but she knew him. More importantly, she knew the Soldier.

Her trap set, she waited, forcing her breath to come slow and deep. Her own voice echoed across the street from her phone. Mind racing, she played out the most likely scenarios for the upcoming fight. In very few did she come out unharmed, in even fewer did she emerge the victor. Low odds had never stopped her before though, so she waited, body thrumming with adrenaline and senses heightened by combat. She didn’t think about anything but the fight, categorizing her opponent in terms of advantages, disadvantages, strengths, and weaknesses. Anything else would distract her, and even a split second of distraction could kill her. Footfalls softened by years of practice sounded near her. She breathed in.

“I make an LZ, 2300 block of Virginia Avenue,” her own voice said. The Soldier rolled an explosive towards the source of her voice. “Rendezvous, two minutes.” She breathed out and jumped.

The explosion disguised her movements, and her opponent's momentary confusion allowed her enough time to kick the launcher out of his hands and hook a leg over his shoulder. He was solid muscle and metal beneath her. Gripping her fiber wire tight, she tried to hook it under his chin, but he was fast. He got one hand to his neck before she could stop him, and even though she pulled hard, she wasn’t in a secure position. He stumbled back into a car, slamming her lower spine against it, then grabbed her and flung her over his head. Natasha hit a half-charred car and the asphalt in quick succession, grunting as her body screamed a dozen new aches and pains to her. She heard her opponent pick up his rifle and, thinking fast, she grabbed a small disk from the lining of her jacket and threw it. Despite the speed, she was accurate.

The electricity engulfed his metal arm momentarily, forcing him to lower his weapon and affording her enough time to run again.

You’d kill me to see me running so much, she thought, feet pounding down the road. Her breath came quick and steady.

You’d tell me to stand and fight .

As she rounded a corner she encountered a panicked crowd of civilians.

“Get out of the way,” she shouted as she sprinted, dodging between covers, not knowing how long she had before he recovered. “Stay out of the way!” 

Distantly, she heard her voice crack. She sounded scared, panicked. When had she started caring about civilians?

More importantly, where was the Soldier? Would she have enough time to clear the area-

A single bullet fired, and a second later it ripped through her shoulder. For a moment she kept moving on momentum alone. Then hot pain exploded down her arm and across her chest, and she fell to her knees with the impact. All the wind had been knocked out of her. Hissing with pain, she pushed herself against a car, its window blown out from the shot passing by, and gasped for air. Her hand pressed against the wound, already feeling hot blood seep through her clothes. It was a through and through, a small kernel of good news wrapped in a whole lot of bad news.

Where is he, where is he?

Vision spotting with pain, she scanned the cars and buildings around her. She couldn’t see him. She swallowed, forcing the stinging heat of her wound down, and blinked. Her eyes cleared, but she still couldn’t see him.

Where did he go-

Her questioning thought was answered as she heard now-familiar boots hit the hood of a nearby car. She whirled around, barely even feeling the screaming pain in her shoulder, to see him aiming down sights at her. She didn’t have time to move, and the car wouldn’t provide cover against the heavy-duty ammo he was using. Then she heard light footsteps sprinting towards her, and her assailant turned as Steve raced at him. A loud CLANG echoed off the buildings as metal fist met vibranium shield. A moment later, grunts and shots rang out. For a moment, Natasha was forgotten.

She allowed herself a breath to check her wound. As she suspected, it was a through and through, but she needed to get it treated before blood loss or infection could set in. They weren’t out of the woods yet. Leaning heavily on the car, she peered over the hood in time to see Steve barely avoid decapitation via his own shield. He engaged their opponent, defending from the Soldier's knife with only his fists. The fight was a blur, the two were close to evenly matched. Natasha filed that information away and moved after them, looking for an opportunity to jump in and help. The Hydra grenade launcher lay abandoned on the ground and she grabbed it, groaning as the heavy weapon strained her injured shoulder, which was starting to go numb. Her body was going into shock, but Natasha grit her teeth and forced herself to keep moving.

Steve went flying over a car and the Soldier followed, slamming his metal fist into the road with enough force to crack the asphalt. Another knife appeared in his hand, Steve fended it off, they moved so quickly that Natasha didn’t have a chance to engage, and then it happened. 

In an effort to flip his opponent onto his back, Steve found purchase on the man’s mask. It ripped free as the man tumbled a few yards away, and Natasha stumbled into a car, leaning heavily on it. All she could do was watch as she saw the face of the first man she ever loved, a man she had thought dead, turn towards Steve. She wanted to call out to him, find the man she knew behind the mask of the killer before her, but her body was frozen. He was there, but his eyes were empty and he had shown no sign of knowing her throughout their fight. Steve stood, mouth dropped open slightly.

“Bucky?” he asked, disbelieving.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” the man replied, turning towards him with a scowl. As he raised a pistol to fire at a shellshocked, defenseless Steve, Sam came soaring in and knocked him over with a well-placed kick. Natasha dug her fingers into her shoulder, the pain sharpening her, pulling her back. This wasn’t who she thought it was. This man was a threat. He was The Soldier. Nothing more. She raised the launcher.

The man tumbled out of the way and when he stood again his eyes were wild, frightened. Natasha's heart skipped a beat. Confusion, she could work with. After a moment his hesitation morphed into anger and he aimed the pistol once more, but Natasha didn’t give him time to fire. She aimed for the car beside him, which went up in a ball of flames and smoke, and when it cleared, the man was gone.

Part of her was relieved.

Her shoulder screamed with the exertion of aiming and firing such a heavy weapon, and the recoil had bruised her at the very least, she was sure. Slumped against a van, she and Steve shared a confused, pained look, before sirens overtook them. Masked SHIELD agents surrounded them, and the only thing that stopped them from shooting Natasha, Steve, and Sam where they stood was the news helicopter circling overhead. Natasha glanced up, grateful for the insatiable American appetite for current violence, and let the launcher slide out of her hands. Several SHIELD agents encircled her, roughly jostling her as they cuffed her hands in front of her.

“No funny business,” one ordered gruffly.

“I’ve already been shot once today,” she grumbled, letting them lead her to the armored van that pulled up. “Not looking to double that.”

Once they had been bundled into the van, away from the prying eyes of the media, Steve was locked into heavy wrist restraints. Natasha was shoved into the corner and left under the watchful masks of two SHIELD enforcers. She let out a groan and leaned her head back against the metal wall. Her body ached and any movement that jostled her shoulder made her dizzy. In the enclosed space of the van she could smell the sweat, smoke, and coppery blood smeared on her clothes. Once Sam joined her and the van started off, she let her eyes close, wincing at every bump in the road.

They had been driving for a few minutes when Steve spoke.

“It was him,” he said, firm but dejected. “He looked right at me like he didn’t even know me.”

Natasha wanted to say something, to agree, but her past had been erased long ago. No one at SHIELD knew her real birthday, where she had trained, or who had trained her. Not even Steve. She carried her past like a scar, something both comforting and painful to touch, sometimes easy to forget, but always on her, even if no one else could see it. 

“How’s that even possible?” Sam retorted. “It was, like, 70 years ago.”

Natasha glanced at Steve, but he stared at the floor, unseeing. 

“Zola,” was Steve’s reply. “Bucky’s whole unit was captured in ‘43. Zola experimented on him. Whatever he did helped Bucky survive the fall. They must have found him and…”

“None of that’s your fault, Steve,” Natasha cut in, looking away. Pain throbbed through her arm, forcing her eyes closed as she tried to steady herself in the rocking van.

Her words didn’t seem to have any effect.

“Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.”

The words rang truer than he knew for both of them, but the pain and discomfort in her shoulder were starting to overwhelm her. The burning pain made it hard to think straight without the adrenaline of battle coursing through her veins. She was bleeding steadily, and it had now soaked through her shirt and jacket, dribbling down the leather. Sam glanced over.

“We need to get a doctor here,” he said. “If we don’t put pressure on that wound she's gonna bleed out here in the truck.” 

He was right, but Natasha was struggling to find it in her to care. SHIELD didn’t seem to want them alive, and none of their trio were in any shape to fight. A distant part of her knew that it was the blood loss talking, but it was so hard to care about bleeding out. She fought her way through most of the past century, why did she need to keep fighting? 

There was one answer that floated to the top of her lethargic thoughts.

How is James Barnes here, alive, and what the hell did Hydra do to him?

She steeled herself for another long fight, trying to force her mind to focus on possible exit strategies instead of the way the Soldier had looked before she blew up the truck next to him.

Sam’s insistence for medical attention was cut off when one of the enforcers brandished a taser stick at him, forcing him to lean back. 

Then the enforcer suddenly flipped the stick around and slammed it into their companion, knocking them out of commission with a kick to the head.

Natasha pulled herself from her pain, pity and planning, watching with confusion as the enforcer removed their helmet. 

“Ah, that thing was squeezing my brain,” Maria Hill complained, brunette hair tangled around her face as she took in the trio before her.

“Who’s this guy?” she asked Steve as her eyes landed on Sam. 

“A friend,” Steve replied. Maria shrugged and tossed Sam the keys to their restraints. While Sam unlocked their handcuffs, Maria lit a plasma torch and began cutting a rough circle in the floor of the truck. 

Just like that, Natasha was back on board the struggle to survive. Once her hands were free, Natasha ripped off part of her shirt and packed her wound as best she could. It wouldn’t hold back the bleeding for long, but hopefully Maria had somewhere safe close by, she’d deal with it then.

When the circle was nearly complete Maria looked up at the three.

“Ready?” she asked.

“What’s a little more jumping out of moving vehicles among friends?” Sam quipped, and Maria finished cutting away the floor.

Thankfully, they were in the back of the convoy and made it out with only minor road burns and scrapes. Steve had singed his arms on the edges of the plasma-cut metal, but the only serious injury among them remained Natasha’s bullet wound. 

“That’s what you get for bulking,” she deadpanned at Steve, nodding to the burns on his arms as they trailed after Maria Hill like three chastened puppies after their mama. Steve glanced down and gave a halfhearted smile. 

“I’ll see what I can do about slimming down.”

Maria led them to another non-descript van and took the short way to the safe house, which Natasha was grateful for. The world was starting to spin, and Steve watched her with concern as he helped her out of the van. Sweat glistened on her forehead and she accepted his help when she stumbled, unsure if she’d be able to walk much further alone. Steve supported her on one side and Sam steadied her on the other as they walked up a muddy path to what appeared to be an abandoned dam. A man jogged towards them as they made their way into the dam.

“GSW, she’s lost at least a pint,” Hill called to him. 

“Maybe two,” Sam added.

“Let me take her,” the man said, but Hill stopped him. “She’ll want to see him first.”

Natasha, breathing heavily and soaking through the second compress since their escape, looked at the Deputy Director in confusion.

Before she could get frustrated or work through anything beyond confusion, Maria led them into a room off the access hallway and pulled aside a grimy curtain. Natasha stared. Steve stared. Sam also stared, although he definitely didn’t understand why the man with the eyepatch seemed like such a big deal to the other two.

A glance at Steve’s face confirmed the same feelings inside her were also warring within him, although she was much better at hiding them. So, not a blood loss hallucination, then. She stared harder, speechless.

Nick Fury raised his head, taking in the battered group before he spoke.

Natasha had learned many years ago how to wake up in precarious situations. From napping in a tree in the Black Forest, to caves in the Middle East, or disguised in a crowd of refugees in eastern Europe, she was an expert at falling asleep at a moment’s notice and waking up without moving a muscle the moment she sensed something was wrong.

When Natasha regained consciousness and became aware of the back of her eyelids and the rough floor pressing into her side, she took mental stock of her situation. Wall to her back, bag undisturbed beneath her head, knife in her boot still pressed against her leg. She could feel his eyes on her.

She blinked her eyes open, surprised at the weak pre-dawn sunlight that cast a haze over the room. Moving slowly, she sat and stretched, her muscles protesting from a stiff night’s rest.

“I thought we agreed on taking watches,” she said, voice low and rough from sleeping on a dusty floor.

He remained exactly where she left him: pressed into the corner of the room opposite her, staring at her with those icy blue eyes.

“Not tired,” he grunted, coughing once to clear his throat. Natasha rolled her eyes.

“If I’m tired from the pace you’ve been setting, you definitely are. Go on, sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

He shook his head.

“I need to move. I’ve been here too long anyway.”

It was too early for arguments, so Natasha just shrugged and rolled to her feet. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, watching her stretch and check over her bag.

“I’m coming with you,” she answered simply. He frowned.

“I’m fine on my own.”

“ I’m fine on my own, ” Natasha repeated in a mocking voice. “Shut up.”

After shaking out the blanket, she packed it into her bag and slung the strap over her shoulder. By the time she turned back to her companion, he was stuffing his own sleeping bag into a ratty backpack.

“Ew, no,” she strode over, waving his hands away. “Leave the sleeping bag. I’ll get you a new one, that one is gross and way too small for you.”

He tugged the sleeping bag to his chest.

“You’re not coming with me.”

Frustration bubbled in Natasha’s chest. Why couldn’t he just let her be there for him?

She took a deep breath and held out her hands placatingly.

“I’m sorry,” she said. The words were unfamiliar on her lips. She grimaced.

“I just want to help,” she added. His deep frown didn’t go away, but as she studied him she could see fear hidden behind the anger.

“Why do you want to help me?” he asked again. There was a hard edge to him that she had never seen before. It reminded her of a cornered fighting dog.

I never wanted this for you, she thought, swallowing. I tried to protect you from the worst of it, to salvage your humanity from the hell we were in, but I couldn’t even do that.

He had grown into someone she didn’t fully recognize anymore, someone more like herself than she wanted to admit. So, Natasha thought about what she would say to herself if their positions were reversed.

“I owe you a debt,” she said. “You saved my life. Even if you don’t remember it, I do.”

This resonated with him more than anything she had said previously, she saw it in the tilt of his stubbled chin, the understanding in his eyes.

One weapon to another, she thought. If that’s the only way we can understand each other, so be it.

“As long as you’re useful and not in the way, you can come with me,” he said, warning lacing every word like poison. 

“Fine, as long as you leave that here,” she said, nodding at the sleeping bag in his hands.

He leveled a glare at her, but wrenched the sleeping bag out of the backpack it was half stuffed into and dropped it onto the floor.

“Fine,” he snapped. “If you’re going to be a princess about it.”

Natasha froze.

— “Давай, ударь меня.” (Come on, hit me.) —

— He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, arms in a loose defensive position. A cocky grin spread across his face. —

— “Не бойся, принцесса.” (Don’t be afraid, princess.) —

Forcing herself out of the flash of memory, Natasha found herself staring up at him with wide eyes. He just looked confused.

“What?”

No spark of recognition, no joking laugh or twinkle of mischief. She shook her head.

“Nothing, let’s go.”

She strode out of the room without even looking to see if he was following. It wasn’t until she had kicked the front door open (more violently than necessary, probably) and she was out in the chilly dawn that she felt centered again.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?” He asked, jogging to catch up with her. She spun around to face him.

“What do you remember?” she demanded. His confused, almost concerned expression quickly closed off into one of distant, cold anger. It was like a mask slammed down in front of him.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

He scowled. 

“I don’t owe you anything,” he said, sneering. She matched him, glare for glare.

“No,” she said. “You don’t. But like I said: I owe you my life, many times over. So I need you to work with me, here. I want to help you. Do you want your memories back?”

She hadn’t realized she was stalking towards him as she spoke until they were almost chest to chest, her chin tipped up defiantly to stare at him.

“Of course I do, what sort of question is that?”

His scowl remained fixed, but as his eyes moved over her face, something changed, ever so slightly. Something sad and lost, hidden behind his anger.

Natasha forced herself to take a step back, and breathe deeply.

“Okay, then. I’m no neuroscientist, but your brain needs to rebuild neuron pathways. That means I can’t just hand you all the answers, Bucky.”

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she spoke, searching for a reaction. She found one as he shook his head.

“Don’t call me that,” he said softly, eyes falling to the ground.

“Why?”

Part of the question was to satisfy her own curiosity, but part was to push him to think through his decisions rather than rely on muscle memory, so to speak. Given what she knew about the human brain (more than a layperson, less than, say, Bruce Banner) it was a muscle like any other. He had to work to get it functional again, and that meant doing more than just reacting.

James stared at the asphalt like it held the key to unlocking his mind.

“I’m not…I’m not that man anymore. I’m not Bucky. At least…not right now.”

She forced herself to soften, relaxing her muscles and lowering her voice.

“What would you like me to call you?”

He scuffed his boot at the edge of a pothole.

“I don’t know.”

“You had a lot of names to choose from, but you’re allowed to pick a new one if you want.”

God knows she’d done it enough times. At this point, she slipped between names as easily as a pair of shoes. None fit quite right, but she couldn’t go back. At least…not now.

He shook his head.

“I think…I think Barnes is good. The sergeant. I could be him, maybe. A soldier.”

Natasha let out a long breath, more relieved than she thought she’d be.

— ”Как вас зовут?” (What’s your name?) —

— “Ты уже знаешь мое имя, принцесса.” (You already know my name, princess.) —

— “Нет, не твой титул. Как вас зовут?” (No, not your title. What’s your name?) —

— “...Барнс, Джеймс Барнс. Что твое, вдова?” (...Barnes, James Barnes. What’s yours, Widow?) —

— “Наталья Алиановна Романова.” (Natal'ya Alianovna Romanova.) —

— “Какой глоток. Я зову тебя Нат.” (What a mouthful. I’m calling you Nat.) —

“Okay. Sergeant Barnes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Again, she thought, holding out her hand.

He slowly took her hand.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Ah, there’s the heartbreak all over again.

She gave him a wry smile.

“Call me whatever you remember,” she replied with forced lightheartedness. He frowned.

“But I only know you from my mission briefing,” he said, stumbling over the last two words like they choked him on their way out. “I only know you as the Black Widow.”

Natasha straightened.

“Then that’s who I’ll be, for now.”

The sun was barely peeking out over the rows of townhouses, and the city of Philidelphia was starting to come to life. Natasha surveyed the street.

“Where to, Barnes?”

Just using the name seemed to invigorate the man in front of her a little. He stood a bit straighter, hitched his bag higher, and scanned their surroundings for threats.

“I’ve been in this city for too long,” he said, down to business. “Do you have somewhere within a day’s travel we can regroup?”

She nodded.

“I burned a lot of my safehouses on the coast looking for you-” she shot him a look, he had pursed his lips in what could almost be a proud expression. “-but I still have a few,” she finished, shaking her head to hide her smile.

“Lead the way, Widow,” he gestured. Natasha took a moment to get her bearings, then started walking down the road.

“Train or car?” Natasha asked after a few minutes of walking. They had moved from the street to the sidewalk as people began to drive to work.

“Car,” he answered instantly. She nodded. “We’ll have to jack one. Keep your eyes peeled.”

Neither of them had any compunction about their actions, and when Barnes pointed out a sleek black BMW 3 series they moved in perfect tandem. He kept watch while Natasha produced a slim wire and a knife. A few moments later they both slid into the car, with Natasha hotwiring it in a matter of minutes while he tossed their stuff in the back seat.

“Watch the duffle,” Natasha said, fiddling with the wires. “I pulled some pistols off those guys yesterday, they’re still loaded.”

“Didn’t your CO teach you to clear your weapons?” Barnes grumbled, unzipping the bag and grabbing a pair of guns to unload them. Natasha smirked.

“Nah, he wasn’t too much a stickler for safety. He said either I’d learn or I wouldn’t, and if I got shot it would  be a good lesson.”

The car rumbled to life beneath them, and Natasha straightened. Barnes tossed the full clips of ammo into the glovebox and tucked one unloaded pistol into the door, sliding the other into the center console.

“He sounds like a dick,” he said. “You ever get shot?”

Natasha let out a short laugh as she pulled out onto the street and set her sights on the highway.

“Once or twice.”

“And you still didn’t learn.”

“Nah. Takes more than a few pesky bullets to get a lesson to stick for me.”

Barnes just shook his head, turning to look out the window.

“So, where are we headed?” he asked as she followed signs for I-76. 

“Harrisburg,” she answered, then muttered a few choice Romanian words under her breath as a Lexus swerved to cut her off. Barnes chuckled, causing Natasha to raise her eyebrow.

“Got something to say, sergeant?” she asked. He shook his head.

“Course not. Wondering where you learned to curse like that, but no comment here.”

Natasha couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face.

“Same CO,” she said. 

Her chest hurt, but if she forced herself to slow down and stop thinking about what to do to get her James back, she found herself simply happy that he was here at all. Even though he didn’t remember sneaking out onto the roof when it was snowing and teaching her how to curse in Romanian while they huddled under old blankets, she was still happy. They were still able to fall into a conversation, even if he didn’t remember her.

Until you can do it on your own, I’ll do the remembering for both of us, James, she promised.

It took a few more muttered curses to get Natasha through traffic without yelling at anyone, but eventually, they made it onto the highway, heading west. Once clear of the city, Natasha felt a little tension leave her body. With the open road unspooled ahead of her, cutting through woods and rocky hills, the blue sky above dotted with a few grey clouds, and the sun shining down on a fresh new day, she felt her spark of hope warm into a flame.

“So,” she said, smoothly maneuvering around an old pick-up and accelerating in the fast lane. “We should probably figure out a plan.”

“I thought we had a plan,” Barnes replied. “We’re going to Harrisburg to lay low, right?”

“Well,” Natasha drew out the word. “Yes and no.”

He instantly tensed beside her, voice harsh.

“What do you mean, yes and no?”

“We are going to Harrisburg to lay low,” she was quick to reassure him. “But it may not be that simple.”

“When is it ever,” he grumbled. “What now?”

“The men who attacked me last night, do you know who they were?”

“No.”

“Me neither, not exactly. All I could figure out is that they were Russian.”

“My grandmother could have guessed that.”

Natasha rolled her eyes as Barnes crossed his arms, looking out his window.

Always with the attitude.

“Anyways,” she said pointedly. “They might end up being a problem again.”

“Why?”

Natasha grimaced.

“Long story short? They were sent by my old commander, not the one who taught me to curse, the one in command of my entire program.”

“What, he’s got a problem with you?”

“A bit, I guess. I kind of…killed him.”

Barnes huffed.

“You should have killed him better if he’s sending guys after you.”

Natasha scowled.

“I literally blew up his building with him inside, okay? I didn’t really think he’d come after me, given that I blew him up .”

“Did you recover a body?”

Natasha chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“No…we thought it was destroyed in the explosion.”

“You can’t half-ass an assassination, Widow. I thought you were supposed to be the best,” he snapped.

“I am,” Natasha snapped back. “He shouldn’t have survived, there’s no way he could have.”

And I killed so many people to make sure he didn’t…

“Clearly, he did.”

He had raised his voice, turning to look at her.

“And now I’m with you, which means if they shoot at you, they’re probably going to shoot at me, too!”

“Relax, they would have anyways.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Natasha was about to answer when something tugged at the back of her mind. 

“Shut up.”

“What the f-”

“Barnes, shut up! ”

Frantically scanning her surroundings, Natasha found the threat. A tanky grey SUV was directly behind them, accelerating quickly.

“Hold on!” she ordered, swerving into the righthand lane just in time to dodge the SUV. Metal screeched as its front bumper caught the corner of their BMW, but Natasha was able to maintain control. 

“Говно!” (Shit!) Barnes cursed harshly, bracing himself as the BMW swung wildly.

“Заряди пушки, Барнс,” Natasha spoke through gritted teeth, weaving in and out of traffic at ever-increasing speeds to try and get away from their pursuers. (Load the guns, Barnes.)

While Natasha gripped the steering wheel tight, racing through traffic full of innocent civilians, Barnes grabbed the pistols he had stowed earlier and slid the ammo clips into them, dragging back the slide to chamber a shot.

“These your Russian friends?” he asked, twisting around in his seat. 

“I wouldn’t call them friends,” she replied. “I have to get us off the highway, there are too many civilians.”

“Wouldn’t the civilians stop them from engaging?”

Natasha’s answer was short, clipped, and heavy with personal experience.

“No.”

As if confirming her answer, a shot rang out, lodging itself in their bumper. When Natasha glanced in the rearview mirror, she spotted a black-clad, masked shooter hanging out of the passenger side of the SUV, already lining up another shot.

“Okay, time’s up,” Natasha said. Wrenching the wheel, she bumped over the grassy median and onto an empty offramp. The speed she lost in the sudden maneuver she quickly made up with a clear road ahead of her. Unfortunately, their pursuers had more time to make the ramp, and quickly filled her rearview mirror again as they sped through a rundown town featuring all of one gas station and a grocery store. Almost as quickly as they had entered it, they were gone again, trees closing in around the road and only occasionally breaking to reveal flashes of rolling fields.

“I should have left you at the bar,” Barnes grumbled, checking the guns.

“And miss all the fun?” Natasha replied, pushing the car faster down the cracked two-lane road. His response was a string of muttered Russian and an exaggerated eye roll.

“Весело, говорит она.” (Fun, she says.)

After fumbling with the buttons on his car door, locking and unlocking the car a few times, Barnes hit on the button to lower the window.

“Stay steady,” he ordered before hauling himself half out the window, leaving one of the guns on the seat behind him. Natasha did the best she could, but the road had other plans. Swerving to avoid a pothole, she heard a shot go off above her. A moment later, Barnes ducked his head inside.

“The fuck did I just say?” he demanded. “Hold the car steady!”

“It’s rural Pennsylvania,” she replied testily. “You think they maintain the roads for these speeds?”

Barnes’ response was lost to the wind as he returned to his previous position. Natasha tightened her grip on the wheel, the speedometer blinking in warning as she crossed the three-digit threshold. It took nearly all her focus to keep the car under control, scanning for danger as quickly as she could. Above her, Barnes fired again. A return shot skated along the side of their car, carving a silver line into the paint.

“Turn coming!” Natasha yelled. She hoped it was enough warning as she pulled the emergency brake and set the tires squealing as they locked up, leaving long black skid marks on the asphalt. Taking advantage of the momentary stop, Barnes emptied his clip. A second before the bullet-ridden SUV could ram into them, they were off again, speeding down a tree-lined, one-lane road with a spray of gravel. Natasha spared a glance to see Barnes was still with her and had to restrain a laugh as he pulled himself back into the car. His hair stuck out all around his face, windblown and matted, and he wore a wide-eyed scowl as he discarded the empty gun in the backseat and checked the fresh one.

“A little more warning next time would be nice,” he said. Natasha gave him a smile.

“I knew you could handle it.”

Their maneuver had gained them some ground, as the SUV had blown past the entrance to the road and was forced to backtrack to turn onto the winding gravel path.

“So, you got a plan?” Barnes asked, watching out the cracked back windshield as they turned a corner, losing sight of their pursuers.

“Plans are so overrated, don’t you think?” Natasha replied.

“No, no I don’t think that.”

The trees around them, thick as any wall, suddenly broke open to reveal a picturesque white ranch house. The gravel drive widened into a circle, with the house on one side and a large, freestanding garage on the other. No other vehicles appeared to be in the drive or garage, and Natasha hoped that meant there were no civilians home. She spun the wheel and pulled the e-brake again, stopping the car so it blocked the drive. As she shut off the engine, the roar of the SUV grew louder.

Natasha and Barnes moved on instinct, grabbing their bags and flinging them to the edge of the circular drive as they hurried out of the car. Natasha fished more ammo from her bag and tossed it to Barnes, who caught it as he hurried to cover in the trees opposite her. Flanking the end of the driveway, they both melted into the trees, guns hot. A moment later the SUV appeared, gunning toward them as fast as it could on the uneven road. It crunched into their car, crumpling the passenger side and sending the BMW sliding several yards.

“Их там нет!” A voice yelled. (They’re not there!) The SUV doors slammed open and three men jumped out, AKs held close across their bodies.

Natasha almost sighed. This wasn’t a challenge, this was an annoyance.

“Держите двигатель работающим,” one man, the leader, apparently, ordered. (Keep the engine running.)

Natasha’s eyes found Barnes, crouched beside a tree. His eyes were as cold and dead as a Siberian winter and despite the warm adrenaline pulsing through her veins, Natasha shivered.

Barnes held up two metal fingers and pointed at himself, then one and pointed at her. She frowned, holding up two fingers and pointing to herself, then one and pointing at him. He shook his head. She nodded emphatically. He scowled.

Their silent argument was cut short as three pairs of boots crunched on gravel.

“Глаза вверх. С ней кто-то есть.” (Eyes up. She has someone with her.)

“это солдат,” a voice said, younger than the grave orders of the group’s leader. (It’s the Soldier.) He sounded terrified. 

“Это не подтверждено.” (That’s not confirmed.)

“Я видел его металлическую руку!” (I saw his metal arm!)

“Солдат на нашей стороне, идиот.” (The Soldier is on our side, idiot.)

Two dull thumps sounded as the leader hit his two companions on their helmets. 

“Это может быть царь Николай Второй, мне все равно. Вас убьют, если вы не будете внимательны.” (It could be Czar Nicholas II for all I care. You're going to get yourselves killed if you don't pay attention.)

Natasha peeked through the leaves. The group was slowly approaching the wrecked BMW, guns raised. Two of them, the two subordinates, split off towards Barnes’ side of the road, while the leader stalked unwittingly towards her.

A flash of metal caught her eye, and she glanced towards her companion, who had three metal fingers raised. Before she could tilt her head in question (no way was she giving all three to him, this was her fight) he lowered a finger.

Two.

The commander stepped closer, and Barnes lowered another finger.

One.

Moving as one, Natasha and Barnes leaped onto their targets. She heard a scream from the other side of the road, but her focus was quickly focused entirely on her opponent. 

The leader was big and bulky, but his size didn’t stop him from moving faster than she anticipated. As Natasha engaged he swung his rifle, cracking her across the jaw with it before she was able to dodge. Stars exploded behind her eyes as she stumbled back a step and fell into a defensive stance. With a few feet of distance, Natasha glanced over him, noticing how he held himself and his weapon. She spotted the safety, still on. Her eyes flicked up to the expressionless visor of the man’s helmet.

“What, scared to return to Dreykov with damaged goods?” she goaded. The man growled.

Jackpot.

He lashed out with the butt of his gun and Natasha dropped to a crouch, feeling her hair ruffle as his swing missed. Before he could recover she popped up, slamming an elbow into his underarm, staggering him. Digging her fingers under his helmet, she ripped it off, revealing the man beneath. She didn’t recognize him, she didn’t have to. His lips curled in fury at the same time fear flashed in his eyes.

“Передай от меня привет этому ублюдку Дрейкову,” (Tell that bastard Dreykov hello from me,) she snarled, pressing the muzzle of her gun under his chin. “Я скоро пошлю его к вам.” (I’ll be sending him to meet you soon.)

Natasha didn’t have to wait long. By the time the bachelor party was stumbling out the door, released into the city for their night of fun, she could feel his eyes on her.

It was the same creeping, hair-rasing sense she had felt by the river when she found Rogers, and at the coffee shop when he had made contact for the first time.

She drained the last of her cocktail, barely feeling the burn of the alcohol, and nodded when the bartender offered a refill.

“A Moscow Mule too, please,” she said. The bartender returned a few minutes later, brass mug in one hand and delicate martini glass in the other. Once he left, Natasha set the Moscow Mule across from her, waiting. She knew he needed to take his time, make sure the coast was clear. She had control of the traffic and security cameras for three blocks already, her experience hacking for SHIELD coming in handy. Keeping her hands clearly above the table, she checked her phone. They were alone and in a blind spot, but she couldn’t tell for how long. The attack tonight had thrown a wrench in her plans, upended everything she thought she knew. She couldn’t be sure of anything except that he would come.

He always did.

The kitchen announced last call, and the bar’s lights dimmed. As a few cooks walked past her, Natasha sensed him. It was like she had a sense attuned just to him. A moment later he slid into the booth across from her, barely sitting on the edge of the seat, primed to run at a moment’s warning.

Natasha tensed, imperceptible to most, but he noticed. His blue-green eyes flickered over her, eyebrows drawing together. She forced herself to still, keep her breathing even and slow her heart rate. Slowly, she raised her gaze.

All the blood drained from her face as her eyes met his. He looked like shit. He was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. She wanted him as far away from her as possible. She never wanted to lose sight of him again. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to burst into tears. 

She did none of this, remaining stock still as they stared at each other.

His hair was tangled and greasy. His clothes were stained and smelled faintly of smoke and sweat, probably stolen to hide the leather combat gear she spotted at his neck. Dirt smeared his skin, and deep, dark circles bruised beneath his eyes.

Forcing herself to move, Natasha lifted her drink to her lips, maintaining eye contact as she gulped the entire thing down. It was only sheer willpower that stopped her hand from shaking as she returned the glass to the table.

“James,” she finally managed to say, cursing the way the name croaked past her lips as if she hadn’t spoken in all the decades she had thought him dead. She watched him carefully, gauging his reaction.

His frown only deepened.

“Bought you a drink,” she said, a little stronger now, nodding at the Moscow Mule. He made no move to take it, instead just glaring at the table.

Natasha felt as though she wasn’t getting enough oxygen in each breath. Glancing around, she caught the bartender staring at them, concern written clearly over his face as he moved a towel repeatedly over the same spot on the bar.

“Wanna get out of here?”

He didn’t reply, instead just standing and sweeping his gaze across the bar and lobby. Natasha did the same, dropping a generous tip onto the table. The bartender raised his eyebrows, eyes flicking between them as she gathered her things, a question in his pointed look. Firmly shaking her head at him, Natasha took a deep breath and turned to the man beside her.

“My last place is kinda a crime scene right now,” she said. He wasn’t looking at her, eyeing their surroundings for threats, but the way he stiffened told her he was listening.

“Do you have a place we can talk?” she asked.

He gave her a robotic nod and strode off, leaving her to quicken her pace to keep up with him.

When Natasha thought about how her night would go, this hadn’t been the plan.

Drink expensive wine? Check.

Fall asleep on the couch watching old films? Not necessarily planned, but not unwelcome.

Get jumped by special forces apparently sent by her old commander, who she had thought was dead? That was a surprise, but she could handle it.

Follow a brainwashed super-soldier assassin through the dark, empty streets of Philidelphia into a neighborhood she would feel leery about entering in broad daylight, let alone far past midnight?

Definitely not on the plan.

The Soldier—she wouldn’t let herself think of him as anything else, not yet, not until she was sure—moved quickly and silently. Natasha kept her mouth shut despite the questions swarming her mind. He was either taking her somewhere they could safely talk, which would lead to answers, or he was taking her somewhere to kill her, which would be an answer in its own way, too.

After half an hour of slipping down narrow streets, doubling and tripling back, and ducking in and out of overgrown backyards, he led her onto the back porch of an abandoned townhouse. He pulled the boards covering the door aside, the wood creaking and protesting against the rough movement. After he disappeared into the darkness, Natasha had no choice but to follow him. 

Her fingers itched for a weapon, to have something in her hands in case this was a trap, but she knew any sign of danger would sign away either her life or her chance to talk to him, so she took a deep breath and plunged into the abandoned house.

In the few hard blinks it took for Natasha’s eyes to adjust to the oppressive darkness around her, her senses were assaulted with other input. Sawdust tickled at her nose, which stung from the scent of ammonia that undoubtedly came from rat piss soaked into the floor. The house creaked as it settled, with distinct footsteps making their way upstairs ahead of her. Once she could see the vague silhouettes of walls and doors, Natasha followed.

The stairs were narrow but solid, and the musty smell of abandoned house faded slightly after she made her way to the second floor. Moonlight spilled from an open door at the end of the hall, and a slight movement inside told her that’s where she needed to go.

Natasha paused at the doorway. The room was small, easily illuminated by the single open window that provided silver light and fresh air. The Soldier sat in the far corner on a stained sleeping bag. A few cans of soup and vegetables were stacked against the wall next to him, but more notable were the dozen empty bottles of liquor scattered across the floor around the sleeping bag. The wall across from him sported several large holes and the wallpaper peeled down in strips as if a feral animal had clawed at it.

The Soldier glared at Natasha as she stepped into the room as if daring her to say something as she took it all in. She stepped carefully, slowly, keeping her hands in full view as she set down her duffle bag and sat catty-corner to him, beside the door.

“Guess you didn’t need me to buy you a drink, huh?” she said quietly. It wasn’t really a joke, but it was something, anything to break the silence that weighed between them like a physical block.

The Soldier shifted, something in his gaze changing. The cold anger around him slipped slightly, just enough.

“James,” Natasha said. Her voice was stronger this time, more sure. He frowned, but the expression wasn’t one of aggression. He swallowed.

“I know you,” he said, voice wobbly and unsure. He glared at her, confused and frustrated, and she was sure that if he could rip her memories from her mind and tear through them like a photo album, he would.

“You do,” she said, watching him carefully.

“How?”

Natasha took a deep breath. It was time to test the waters.

“We fought a few weeks ago, in Washington DC.”

“No!”

His response was quick, almost a growl. Natasha froze, eyes widening.

“No,” he repeated, lower, softer, but not by much. “I know you.”

Fixed beneath his glare as his eyes bored into her, Natasha nodded jerkily.

“You do,” she whispered.

Her words hung between them for a long moment.

“Why do you call me that?”

“James?”

“Yes.” “It’s your name.”

“The other man…he didn’t call me that.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Why?”

Why? Natasha wasn’t really sure how to answer that.

“I guess…he’s known you longer.”

He turned over this response in his mind.

“That’s what the museum said,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Natasha’s breath caught. The Soldier wouldn’t go to a museum looking for answers or lead her back to his bolthole to talk or leave her alive at any point in this night. This time, when she felt hope’s familiar warmth, she didn’t tamp it down.

She had waited long enough. She was allowed to hope, just this once.

“You went to the museum?” she asked softly. He nodded.

“I wanted to know…why I knew him.”

“Did you find your answer?”

He nodded again, raising his eyes to meet hers.

“It didn’t say anything about you, though.”

A barely-there smile flickered over Natasha’s lips, both sad and ironic and happy all at once.

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Why do I know you, then?”

There’s a can of worms, she thought.

“It’s…a long story,” she said. He scowled.

“Shorten it.”

Not willing to put this tentative truce at risk, Natasha picked the most palatable parts to summarize.

“We worked together,” she said slowly. “You trained me. A long time ago.”

Something flickered in his eyes as they widened. He subconsciously pressed himself back into the corner.

“I trained you?” he snapped. “Are you one of them?”

“No!” Natasha shook her head emphatically. “No, I’m not. I didn’t know you were with them-”

“I’m not with them,” he snarled.

“I meant: I didn’t know they had you,” Natasha amended quickly. “I thought…I thought you were dead.”

She couldn’t keep all her emotions locked up, and some of it bled into her words. He tilted his head.

“You were upset, thinking that I was dead,” he said. A statement, not a question. Natasha pressed her lips together and nodded.

“Why?”

Shit.

“We worked together a lot. We were good partners.”

The lie came easily, as they always did for her. He seemed to accept it, and she let out a breath of relief as he looked away.

“Why were you looking for me?” he asked, looking out the window as he spoke.

“I needed to know if it was really you, if you were alive.” A simple enough explanation for the frantic and, frankly, obsessive hunt she had conducted. Deciding that was enough one-sided interrogation, Natasha began to push back.

“Why did you follow me to the laundromat?”

The silence stretched for a long moment before he replied.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, and the raw honesty in his voice struck Natasha to her core. When he turned to look at her once more, there was fear in his eyes. Carefully concealed, but not from her. Never from her.

“All I know is that I had to make sure you were safe.”

Natasha’s heart shattered, reformed, and broke again in a matter of moments. Her face remained impassive as she processed this.

“I want to help you, James,” she said. “Or Bucky, or whatever you’d like to be called.”

His eyes flickered over her face, searching for any signs of trickery or dishonesty.

“Why?”

“I told you. We were good partners.”

“No. Why?”

“What Hydra did to you was despicable and-”

“No,” he was getting heated now, demanding truth. “Why?”

“We used to work together-”

“No!”

Before she knew it he was on his feet, fists clenched, glaring at her. Natasha scrambled to her feet too, meeting him halfway across the room.

“Why. Do you. Want to help. Me.”

Every word was a bitten-off growl. He would accept nothing less than the truth, but Natasha couldn’t give it to him. Not the whole truth. Not now, not yet. She didn’t know if he was truly all there to be recovered, and she wouldn’t give the truth to anyone but him . Hydra had him for decades, there was no telling what he would remember, if he ever remembered. The whole truth belonged to her and a man who may no longer exist, and Natasha clung to that with an iron grip.

“Because I cared about you,” she spat, anger roiling in her stomach. This man who wore the face of someone who meant everything to her couldn’t just demand answers. If he wanted the full truth he’d have to earn it. She had worked too hard to put herself back together for him to appear and demand she rip herself apart for him all over.

“Because I cared about you,” she repeated, anger lessening into something more vulnerable. She pushed it down, refusing to acknowledge it. “You were my mentor and my friend. You taught me everything I knew, then. And I want to help you, now.”

She looked up to see him staring down at her, open shock and confusion in his eyes. Her words had rocked him where he stood.

Shaking away her raging thoughts, Natasha turned her back to him (something her instincts screamed against) and knelt by her bag. Methodically unpacking a rough SHIELD-issue blanket and spreading it on the floor, she arranged her bag at one end to act as a pillow. Assured that she had herself under tight control, Natasha turned back to see him still standing, staring at her, a myriad of questions on the tip of his tongue.

“We can talk more tomorrow,” she said firmly. “You have run me ragged all up and down the coast, and I just fought off five special force operatives then followed you over half the city.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but she kept talking.

“I’ll take the first watch. Or, if you’re not comfortable with that, you can, but either way, we both need to sleep.”

His mouth snapped shut and he nodded.

“I’ll take first,” he said. Natasha nodded, some tension slipping from her shoulders. She knew he would say that, if she were in his shoes she would have too. But for now, she was exhausted, and she needed to sleep. 

“If you decide you need to kill me in my sleep, at least make it quick,” she said, settling onto the blanket with her back against the wall, facing him.

“So it’s painless?” he replied, a mirthless joke.

“Because otherwise, I’ll survive,” she replied, fully serious as she closed her eyes. “And if I survive, I’ll kill you.”

She didn’t see the confused frown he gave her as he settled into his own corner, but she couldn’t stop a tiny, barely-hopeful smile from lifting her lips.

Maybe…maybe this will work. Maybe I can help him. Maybe he’ll come back to me. Maybe I'm allowed to hope, just this once, after all this time.