#winterwidowfic

pairing: fatws!bucky x exwidow!reader

summary: fighting the flag smashers wouldn't have been a big deal, except sam's metal-armed friend seems torn between pining for you and making your life a living hell.

warnings: fluff, angst if you squint

word count: 4k

a/n: so glad to be closing this out, THANK YOU for all the support you've given this!

series masterlist

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Eight Months Later

Date nights were sacred.

You'd made the rule three months ago, when Bucky's campaign schedule got brutal and your extraction work started bleeding into every hour of the day. Thursday nights. No phones. No work. Just the two of you.

And language nights.

It had started as a joke—Bucky suggesting you pick a language and fully commit to it for the evening. Dinner, conversation, everything. Between the two of you, you had options.

Tonight was Italian night.

The restaurant in Park Slope had string lights and a wine list that made Bucky's eyes widen. You were already speaking Italian before you sat down, discussing the menu with the waiter like you'd grown up in Rome.

"Mostri," Bucky said, shaking his head as the waiter left.

"What?"

"You switch languages like you're changing channels." He reached across the table, taking your hand. "It's attractive and also mildly terrifying."

You grinned. "You do it too."

"Not like you. You even think in different languages."

"So do you. I've heard you swear in Romanian."

"That was one time."

"It was three times. Yesterday."

He laughed, thumb tracing circles on your palm. "Okay, fine. We're both showing off."

"Exactly." You took a sip of wine. "How's the campaign?"

"Exhausting. The debates are next week." He paused. "You'll be there?"

"If I'm in the country."

His expression flickered—understanding mixed with disappointment. "Where are you going?"

"Maybe nowhere. Maybe Prague." You squeezed his hand. "I'll try to be there. I want to be there."

"I know." He brought your hand to his lips. "Tell me about the project. How many now?"

"Sixty-eight placed. Twenty-two in process." Pride crept into your voice. "We opened the third safe house last week. Berlin."

"Sei incredibile," he said softly.

"You're just saying that because it's Italian night."

"No. I'm saying it because it's true." His eyes were warm in the candlelight. "What you're doing—it matters."

Your throat went tight. "So does what you're doing."

"Running for office?"

"Fighting for people who need it." You turned your hand in his, interlacing your fingers. "That matters too."

The food arrived, and you spent the next hour speaking only Italian, debating everything from the quality of the pasta to whether Bucky's pronunciation of "bruschetta" was acceptable (it wasn't, but you let him think it was).

Walking home through snow-dusted streets, his arm around your waist, he switched to Russian.

"Я скучал по этому," he said quietly. I missed this.

"По чему?" Missed what?

"По нам. Просто нам." Us. Just us.

You pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Я тоже." Me too.

Later, wrapped together in bed, you'd already shifted to English without thinking about it. That's how you knew you were home—when the language didn't matter anymore, when you understood each other in silence.

"Thank you," you murmured.

"For what?"

"Making time for this. For us."

He pressed a kiss to your hair. "Always."

~

The extraction in Prague had gone smoothly—almost too smoothly.

You sat across from Irina in a quiet café near the Charles Bridge. She was twenty-two, dark-haired, with eyes that had seen too much too young. Her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she hadn't touched.

"You were Red Room?" she asked in Russian.

"Yes."

"How did you get out?"

You'd been asked this question dozens of times. The answer never got easier.

"I ran. For years. Eventually, I found people who helped me build something new." You leaned forward slightly. "You don't have to run anymore. That's what we do—we help you build something new."

"Why?" Her voice was sharp with suspicion. "What do you want?"

"Nothing. I just want you to be safe." You pulled out a folder—new identity documents, bank account information, housing options in three different countries. "You can choose where you go. We have support systems in place. Therapy, if you want it. Job training. Whatever you need."

Irina stared at the documents. "This is real?"

"It's real."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I give you a phone number and leave. No pressure. No strings." You met her eyes. "But you don't have to do this alone. That's all I'm saying."

Irina was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she reached for the folder.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."

~

The Widows Project had grown beyond anything you'd imagined.

What started as you and a laptop had become a full organization. Fifteen staff members. Partnerships with international agencies. Safe houses in seven countries. A 24-hour hotline.

You still did fieldwork—couldn't help yourself. Some women would only talk to someone who'd been through it. Who understood.

But now you had resources. A team. People who believed in what you were building.

Bucky found you in the office at 2 AM, updating case files.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," he said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Just finishing up."

"You said that two hours ago." He crossed to you, gently closing your laptop. "Come to bed."

"I need to—"

"It'll be there tomorrow." His hands settled on your shoulders, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. "You're exhausted."

"There's a woman in Belarus. The extraction window is closing—"

"And you have people handling it." He turned your chair to face him. "You trained them. Trust them."

You sighed, leaning into him. "When did you get so wise?"

"I'm just repeating what you told me last week when I was working too late on campaign stuff." He pulled you to your feet. "Come on. Bed."

In the darkness of your room, wrapped in his arms, you finally let yourself relax.

"Thank you," you murmured.

"For what?"

"Pulling me back. I get lost in it sometimes."

"I know." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "But I'll always find you."

~

The photo leaked on a Thursday.

You were in Romania, mid-extraction, when your phone started buzzing. You'd ignored it—couldn't afford distractions—but the messages kept coming.

When you finally looked, your stomach dropped.

Someone had caught you on camera. Full tactical gear, adjusting a wrist strap with your teeth while scanning a building. The angle was bad, the quality grainy, but it was unmistakably you.

Shadow Spotted in Romania—What is She Doing?

Exclusive: Y/N Y/L/N Caught in Covert Operation

Winter Soldier's Girlfriend Active in Eastern Europe

You called Bucky immediately.

"I saw," he said before you could speak. "How bad is it?"

"I don't know yet." You watched the building across the street, where two women were waiting for extraction. "But I need to finish this first."

"Okay. Be safe. We'll handle the rest when you get home."

The statement went out two days later.

I've been working to help victims of human trafficking, particularly women with connections to the Red Room. This work is done quietly, carefully, and always within legal bounds. I won't apologize for helping people who the world has forgotten.

The response was overwhelming. Support poured in. Donations. Offers of partnership. Media requests.

The Widows Project stopped being your secret and became your legacy.

~

Bucky's campaign took off fast.

City Council first, then a Congressional run that everyone said was impossible. Former Winter Soldier turned politician. The narrative wrote itself.

The paparazzi attention increased tenfold.

You learned to spot cameras. Learned which restaurants had back exits. Learned to smile when you wanted to scowl.

People Magazine ran a feature eight months after you'd gone public: "The Winter Soldier and The Shadow: The World's Most Dangerous Power Couple."

The photos were striking. One showed you at a campaign rally, watching Bucky speak with something fierce and proud in your expression. Another captured you leaving your office, exhausted but determined.

But the photo that really got attention was from the Christmas gala.

Bucky had insisted you come—some big donor event, black tie, important for the campaign. You'd agreed on one condition: you got to choose your dress.

The moment he saw you, his brain short-circuited.

Deep green silk—the same shade as Madripoor, which was absolutely intentional. The same halter neck and plunging back, except this one ended in a bow low on your spine, fabric wrapped like a present. Floor-length this time, elegant and devastating. Emeralds circled your throat.

"You're doing this on purpose," he'd said, voice rough.

You were, without a doubt, doing it on purpose- months ago, you'd seen the dress online and immediately saved it, knowing the effect it would have on him. And just as you'd predicted, he was dumbstruck.

"Doing what?" You'd turned, giving him the full view. The bow sat perfectly at the small of your back—an invitation, a tease.

"Trying to kill me."

"Maybe." You'd adjusted one of the emeralds. "Remember Madripoor?"

"I remember wanting to murder Zemo for putting you in that dress."

"This one's better, though. Festive. Don't you think?"

He'd pulled you close, hand splaying across your bare back. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

At the gala, you lost track of how many people asked you about the Widow Project. Bucky's hand stayed a respectable height on your back while you spoke, but you both knew it was only a matter of time before he stole you away.

"You're indecent," you murmured when he finally got you alone. His eyes were stuck on your mouth, one hand already weaving behind your neck.

The paparazzi had caught you on a secluded balcony, his hand curved over your hip, your face tilted up toward his, mid-kiss. The emeralds glittered. The fabric caught the light. And there, visible on your shoulder, were the faint scars from Walker's attack.

The photo went viral. You'd stared at it for a long time. At the visible evidence of your trauma, now immortalized for the world to see.

"Regrets?" Bucky had asked quietly.

"No." You'd traced the scars in the photo. "They're part of the story. I'm not hiding anymore."

~

The relationship wasn't always easy.

Bucky's schedule was brutal—Congress, committee meetings, constituent services. He'd come home exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Your work was demanding too. Late-night extractions. Emergency calls. Women who needed help now, not tomorrow.

You'd slip out of bed at 2 AM, trying not to wake him. He'd find you gone in the morning, a note on your pillow: Prague. Back tomorrow. Love you.

Sometimes you'd go days barely seeing each other. Ships passing in the night.

But you made it work.

Coffee dates at 6 AM before his meetings. Quick calls between appointments. Text messages throughout the day—nothing profound, just thinking of you and be safe and can't wait to come home.

And when you were together, really together, it was worth it.

"I miss you," you said one night, curled against his chest.

"I'm right here."

"I know. But I miss you anyway."

He pulled you closer. "I miss you too. Even when we're in the same room."

"We're busy people."

"Too busy." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "We should fix that."

"How?"

"I don't know yet. But we'll figure it out." His hand traced lazy patterns on your back. "We always do."

~

Sam took full credit for your relationship.

"I brought you together," he'd say at every opportunity. "If it weren't for me, you'd still be pretending you didn't have feelings for each other."

"That's revisionist history," Bucky would argue.

"Is it though? I'm the one who recruited her. I'm the one who made you work together." Sam would grin. "Basically, I'm Cupid."

"You're delusional."

But when you and Bucky were together, Sam would complain endlessly.

"You two are disgusting," he'd say, watching Bucky trying- and failing- to subtly interlace his fingers with yours under the table.

"You're the one who brought us together," you'd point out.

"Yeah, and I'm starting to regret it."

"Liar. You love us."

"I tolerate you." But Sam would be smiling. "Barely."

The real torture started when you and Bucky began speaking Russian in front of him.

"Он ревнует," you'd say, grinning. (He's jealous.)

"Определённо," Bucky would agree. (Definitely.)

"I KNOW you're talking about me!"

"Доказательств нет." (No proof.) You'd shrug innocently.

Sam would groan. "I hate you both."

But he'd show up at your door with takeout on difficult days. Check in when Bucky was traveling. Text you articles about trauma recovery without comment.

He was your biggest supporter and your worst critic, and you loved him for both.

~

Two Months Ago

The Void hit without warning.

You were in Stockholm, coordinating an extraction, when reality rippled. The hotel bathroom tiles went cold under your palms.

Then you weren't in Stockholm anymore.

The Red Room materialized with visceral clarity. Training rooms that smelled like fear. Madame's voice, sharp and cutting: Again. Faster. Weapons don't cry.

You were nine years old, exhausted, desperate to be good enough.

The scene shifted.

Riga. Walker standing over you, shield raised. In this version, no one came. He finished what he started.

You came back to your body curled against the bathroom wall, chest heaving, hands shaking.

You made it back to Brooklyn, with no memory of how. The front door opened.

"Y/N?" Bucky's voice, rough with exhaustion. "Sweetheart?"

You were standing in the kitchen, fingers gripping the countertop. You tried to answer. Nothing came out.

He appeared in the doorway, still in tactical gear. Blood on his shirt—not his. He looked like he'd been through hell.

"Hey—" He was beside you instantly. "What happened?"

You shook your head.

"Okay." His arms came around you. "I've got you."

He carried you to bed, held you while your breaths shook.

"The Void," you finally managed.

"When?"

"Stockholm. Where were you?"

"The Void." His arms tightened. "There's a team. They're calling us the Thunderbolts. We stopped it from spreading." He pressed his forehead to yours. "What did you see?"

"Red Room. Riga." Your voice shrunk. "Walker finished it this time."

"You're safe. You're here." His hand cradled your head. "I've got you."

You buried your face in his neck. "I'm fine."

"You don't have to be fine."

"I know." But you held yourself together, breathed through it, pretended the fear wasn't still clawing at your throat.

Neither of you slept that night. You watched Casablanca in silence.

~

Two Months Later

"They want to meet you," Bucky said over breakfast.

"Who?"

"The team." He poured coffee, not meeting your eyes. "They've been asking. Apparently you're cool and they want to know the 'famous Widow' I keep talking about."

"You talk about me?"

"Constantly. It's annoying." But he was smiling. "Yelena called you a badass. Bob's nervous about meeting you. Alexei wants to arm wrestle you."

Despite everything, you laughed. "Arm wrestle?"

"He challenges everyone. It's a thing." Bucky finally looked at you. "No pressure. But they'd like to meet you."

You thought about it. About spending two months pretending you were fine when you weren't. About the nightmares you hid, the fear you swallowed.

Maybe talking to people who understood would help.

"Okay," you said. "Let's meet them."

Bucky blinked. "Really?"

"Really." You stood, kissing his cheek. "When?"

"I—uh—today? If you want?" He seemed surprised by your easy agreement. "I can call them."

"Call them." you grinned.

Two hours later, you were standing outside Thunderbolts Tower.

"Walker?" you asked.

"Made sure he's on assignment until tomorrow." Bucky squeezed your hand. "Just the others."

~

The common room was warm, lived-in. String lights hung around the windows. Four people turned when you entered.

A blonde woman launched off the couch. "Finally! You are the famous one!"

"Yelena," Bucky said. "This is Y/N."

"Widow, yes? Can tell by the way you move." Yelena grinned. "Also, your project? Very impressive. We should talk."

A tall man approached, holding out a tupperware container. "Bob. Hi. I made walnut cookies. Stress-baking is kind of my thing."

You took one, biting into it. "These are really good."

Bob's face lit up. "Thanks. The walnut-to-chocolate-chip ratio was tricky."

A woman with sharp eyes stepped forward. "Ava. Nice to finally meet you. Bucky talks about you constantly."

"Does he?" You glanced at Bucky, who was suddenly very interested in the ceiling.

A massive man with a thick beard bounded over. "You are famous Widow! I am Alexei. Red Guardian. Greatest hero Russia has ever known!"

"Debatable," Yelena muttered.

"We must arm wrestle!" Alexei grabbed your hand, shaking it enthusiastically. "But first—I must tell you about time I fought bear!"

"Alexei, no—"

"Was in Siberia! Bear was enormous! Size of small house!" He spread his arms wide, nearly knocking over a lamp.

"Alexei," Yelena said tiredly. "She just got here."

"But is good story! Bear came at me, I came at bear—"

"The bear won," Ava said.

"LIES! Was draw! We both walked away with respect!"

"You walked away with twelve stitches."

"Was worth it! Bear and I are now friends!"

You were trying very hard not to laugh. "You're friends with a bear?"

"In spirit!" Alexei beamed. "He knows I could have won but chose mercy!"

"That's not what happened—"

"IS WHAT HAPPENED!"

Two hours later, you'd learned that Alexei had apparently fought three different bears (or the same bear three times, the story kept changing), Bob stress-baked but was otherwise surprisingly calm about it, Ava had a wicked sense of humor, and Yelena was exactly the kind of Widow you'd want in your corner.

"The Void was hard," Ava said quietly during a lull in the chaos. "Seeing things from before."

"Yeah," you agreed. "It was."

"Does it get better?" Bob asked. "The nightmares?"

"A little. Mostly you learn to live with them."

"Having people helps," Yelena added, glancing around the room. "People who understand."

You looked at them—these broken people trying to figure out how to be okay—and felt something settle in your chest.

"Yeah," you said. "It does."

"Also!" Alexei appeared with a phone. "I must show you something. I have been researching."

"Researching what?" you asked warily.

He pulled up a TikTok edit—you and Bucky at some campaign event, set to dramatic music. "The internet loves you! You are very famous! Very romantic!"

"Alexei—"

"I have seventeen more!"

"Please don't show me seventeen more." you laughed, cheeks heating from embarrassment.

"But they are very good!" He was already swiping. "Look, this one has the kiss from Christmas party—"

"Alexei," Bucky said sternly. "Put the phone away."

"But—"

"Away."

Alexei pouted but complied. "Fine. But later I send to you. For research purposes."

"So," Yelena said, settling beside you on the couch. "We saw Bucky's wallpaper."

"What?"

She pulled out her phone, showing you. It was Bucky's lock screen—a photo you didn't even know existed. You were sitting cross-legged on the apartment couch, guitar in your lap, completely focused on whatever you were playing. The evening light caught in your hair. You looked soft, unguarded.

"When did he take that?" you asked.

"Wouldn't say. Just refused to change it when Bob accidentally saw it during a mission briefing." Yelena grinned. "Bob asked if you played. Bucky got very defensive."

Across the room, Bucky's ears had gone pink.

"So," Ava said. "Do you actually play?"

"I—" You glanced at Bucky, who was studiously avoiding eye contact. "Sometimes."

"YOU MUST PLAY FOR US!" Alexei declared. "After I tell you about second bear fight—"

"Alexei, no more bear stories—"

"Was different bear! In Kamchatka! Even bigger!"

"Play something," Yelena said, handing you a guitar from somewhere. "Please. Before he starts the bear story again."

You looked at them—at their eager faces, at Bucky whose wallpaper was apparently you looking soft and focused.

"Okay," you said. "But only if Alexei promises not to film this."

"I promise nothing!" Alexei declared.

"Alexei."

"Fine! No filming! But I reserve right to make edit later!"

You settled on the couch, adjusting the tuning. "Any requests?"

"Something good!" Alexei said.

"Something romantic," Bob suggested quietly.

You thought for a moment, then started playing. The chords came easily, muscle memory taking over. The song of choice: an acoustic cover of "How Bad Do U Want Me."

When you were home alone with a spare moment, you'd worked on that song. For nearly two months. The lyrics felt almost too intimate for the room, but you kept going.

When you finished, the group was silent.

"Okay," Ava said finally. "That was beautiful."

"You have been hiding talent!" Alexei said, thankfully at a normal volume. "This is not fair!"

"Now you must hear about bear fight—"

"No," everyone said in unison.

"But is good story!"

"We've heard it three times today," Ava said.

"Was three different bears!"

Bob offered you another cookie. "Thanks for playing. That was really nice."

Bucky crossed to you, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Told you they'd like you."

~

In the elevator, you looped your arm through his, fighting the grin spreading across your face.

"You didn't tell me your wallpaper was me playing guitar."

His ears went pink again. "It's a good photo."

"It's a secret photo."

"It's not secret if I use it as my wallpaper."

"Everyone can see it!"

"That's the point." He pulled you close, voice dropping. "I'm not hiding how I feel about you, doll."

Your throat went tight. "You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"I do," you admitted.

Leaving the tower, your phone buzzed.

You pulled it out to find a new group chat notification: THUNDERBOLTS + SPECIAL WIDOW*

Below it, someone—probably Alexei—had sent a photo from tonight. It was candid, slightly blurry: Bucky looking at you while you talked to Ava, his expression soft and completely unguarded.

Yelena had replied: disgusting

Bob: That's really sweet actually

Alexei: I HAVE SEVENTEEN MORE

You laughed, showing Bucky. He groaned.

"They made a group chat?"

"Apparently you're soft now."

"I'm not soft."

"You absolutely are." You zoomed in on his face in the photo. "Look at that."

He looked. His cheeks went pink.

You walked in comfortable silence, snow falling around you. Then Bucky shook his head.

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing. Just—" He gestured vaguely back toward the tower. "The group of them... I think I'm just collecting strays at this point."

You stopped walking. "Hey. You collected me first."

"Exactly. And look at all the messes we've gotten into." But he was smiling. "You're a bad influence, doll."

"James Buchanan Barnes." You tried to sound stern but you were laughing. "I know your mother didn't raise you to talk to girls like that."

"My mother would've loved you, actually."

"Damn right she would've." You pulled him down, kissing him quick and sure. "Now take me home before Alexei sends those seventeen photos."

Your phone buzzed.

"Too late," Bucky said.

But you were both laughing, his arm around your shoulders as you walked through the snow.

~

One Week Later

Dawn broke warm and golden through the bedroom window.

Bucky woke slowly. The weight of blankets. Traffic sounds far below. The warmth of you pressed against his side.

He didn't move. Just watched you sleep.

The morning light was perfect—golden and soft, spilling across the bed. It caught in your hair, turning it warm. Highlighted the slope of your shoulder where it emerged from the sheets, the elegant line of your collarbone.

His eyes traced your face slowly. The arch of your eyebrows. The way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. The slight part of your lips as you breathed deep and even.

One hand was curled under your chin. The other rested on his chest, right over his heart.

He thought about Munich. That field. The split second when you'd been under him and he'd seen your eyes—furious and alive and there.

Some part of him had recognized you even then.

And now here you were. In Brooklyn. In his bed. Sleep-warm and perfect in the morning light.

You stirred slightly, making a small sound. Your hand flexed on his chest.

Your eyes fluttered open. When you saw him watching, you smiled—slow and soft and just for him.

"You're staring again," you mumbled.

"Can't help it." His hand traced the line of your shoulder, following where the light touched your skin.

"What are you thinking about?"

"How I got here." He pulled you closer. "How I got you."

"You didn't get me. I chose you." You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I keep choosing you."

"Good," he said, voice low. "Because you're stuck with me now."

You laughed softly. "That's exactly what I wanted."

Outside, Brooklyn hummed with morning traffic. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand—probably Alexei with more edits. Somewhere, Sam was already awake and planning to take credit for everything.

But here, wrapped in golden light, none of that mattered yet. It could wait.

---

series masterlist

Our contribution to the 2018 BuckyNat Mini Bang. Huge thank you to @fuckyeahbuckynatasha for organizing this event. 

Art by @mushewhosta (who was amazing to work with and a huge inspiration for this story) and fic by yours truly. link to ao3 here

TRUE LOVE CONQUERS ALL

18-I’ve got you. 53-I’ll keep you safe. 86-It’s just you and me. 98-I won’t let anything bad happen to you.

(okay i am so so sorry, 86 did not get said. I did try but it just seemed really forced so i left it out? I hope you like it anyway. also дорогой is basically ‘darling’ bc what’s a buckynat ficlet without some russian term of endearment? Thanks for requesting!)

Natasha picked up her phone, the distinct ringtone bringing a smile to her deep red coated lips.

“Hey, дорогой, I’m working, i’m just about to meet with the cont-”

“Natasha.”

The smile slipped and the color beneath her makeup drained from her face as she registered the voice on the other end of the line.

“Steve. Why are you calling on Bucky’s phone?” She forced herself to remain calm, quelling the panic beginning to swell in her chest.

“Natasha, we lost Bucky. Something triggered him.” She heard his pain over the phone, the helplessness at not being able to help his friend coming over raw, even over the miles that currently separated them. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m coming.”

Steve was waiting for her in the compound, arms folded, pacing back and forth when she burst in, the deal she had been working for months on hurriedly postponed, possibly ruined. A part of her had realized it was stupid, reckless, to do so, but it was quickly overruled by the rest of her, which knew only one instinct, to get to the man she loved.

Steve walked over to her, unsure what to say, how to phrase the situation.

“The good news, is that we found him, we brought him back. The bad news, is that i don’t think it’s really Bucky who’s in there” He gestured to a room, one Natasha knew was a secure one saved for when an especially dangerous someone was apprehended. “He’s..”

Steve was still talking but Natasha was no longer listening now, the words nothing more than background noise that some small part of her mind was taking and filing away from later as she moved towards the door, pressing her finger to the pad and opening her left eye wide for the scanner. She stepped in cautiously, expecting to be attacked when she entered, bracing herself for the raw power of the winter soldier. What she saw instead was a hundred times worse.

Her eyes scanned the room until she saw him, in the corner of the room, on the small couch that sat there, huddled up tightly in the corner, shaking slightly. She approached him carefully, trying to appear as calm as she could.

“James?”

The effect was instantaneous, his head whipping around to view who was speaking to him, his metal arm raising, before freezing as he took in who she was, who was sitting next to him now, trying her best to push down her instincts of defense, who instead just repeated his name softly, it was his name, he knew that, this was his name, he was James, James Barnes and this was-

“Natalia?” A single tear managed to escape his eye as she breathed a silent sigh of relief at his recognition. “Natalia, they came back, all of them, I saw them, and I couldn’t stop, I was trying to fight them, I couldn’t do anything, and they were hurting me, over and over and over and over and over” he shivered harder now, Natasha’s heart breaking, her mind filling with cold rage at whoever had done this while another tear leaked from his eye, as he allowed himself to open up to the one person he could.

“Shhh, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” Natasha moved closer pulling him gently into her embrace, wrapping her arms around him. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you, you got that James? I’ll keep you safe.”

When she heard that the Winter Solder was on a rampage in the Berlin headquarters, Natasha felt her throat catch. When he walked into the room, she allowed herself a few seconds to note his stride, the focus in his eyes, the glacial certainty with which he moved, and thought I wonder how much of that people see in me.

She almost expected Tony to die in those first few seconds. They had a hastily thrown together plan, and Tony was a genius, but without the suit he was a god rendered mortal. She was already running as Tony grappled with him, already calculating and planning and suffocating the part of her that wanted to scream not again. Wasn’t once enough?

Tony lived. Natasha was glad of that at least, as the Winter Soldier pinned her down and tried to choke her to death. Her vision was going fuzzy and she could feel metal fingers crushing her neck, so her situation seemed a bit less hopeful. Her last air went selfishly – “you could at least recognize me” – because maybe, maybe she’d done enough good to merit that one tiny admission. Days later when she allowed herself time to process, she noted that he’d knocked everyone else aside but actively tried to kill her.

How flattering.

Oh my gosh thank you for asking

Natasha hated to lose.

The Winter Soldier had pinned her again. Logically, sheknew that an eighteen-year-old wasn’t going to be able to defeat one of themost famed assassins in the world, a man few even believed existed. But theweakness she was forced to show grated on her every time her face hit the mat.

“What mistake did the trainee make?”

His Russian was perfect, but so too was his English. AndFrench. And Swahili. No identifying vocal patterns in any languages, nothing totie him down. No personal details she could glean to beat him in a fight.

“She left an opening on her left side,” one of the girlssaid. It was a pointless discussion; she’d only left the opening for a moment,too briefly for anyone but him to take advantage of. She’d taken down plenty ofgrown men before, but it was impossible to outfight this one.

So the next time they faced off, Natasha didn’t bothertrying to fight him. She made a subtle mistake, felt rather than saw him takeadvantage, felt herself hit the mat with him pinning her down. She grinned upat him, white teeth flashing in his shadow. “Buy me dinner first?”

The famed assassin, with at least 30 kills, another 20 rumored,the glory of the soviet black ops, hesitated. Natasha’s grin turned half feralas she moved, wrapping her legs around his midsection and flipping atop him.

Close to him as she was, she felt his chuckle more thanheard it. “First time one of you has tried that.” His voice was low and quiet;she was an inch away from him and had to strain to hear. “Figured I should letyou have a win just for taking the option.”

Natasha let him hear her snort of disbelief. The nexttime they met she managed to give him a black eye. “Still think you let me win?”she asked as they circled each other. When the Winter Soldier gave her the sameferal grin she’d given him, it was the most terrifying display of humanity she’dseen in the Red Room.

Later, after the discovery, after the fallout, the WinterSoldier sat in the chair. The Black Widow had come and gone, her memoriesshredded. The program director stood behind the technician. “Make sure that this time, he won’t get distracted by a pretty girl’s smile.”

One of the trainer at the red room looked dispassionatelyat the Winter Soldier. “Make sure he can’t be impressed by a clever woman’s strategyeither.”