natalia(//natasha; widow)
the air is still and quiet, and she is sixteen and young, quick and daring. daring enough to be proud, but not more that she will be a threat. a threat will be terminated, however it could, immediately. natalia wishes not to be terminated. no matter how consuming the dark was to her, death do not appear nice.
he isn't entirely nice too. and he is strong and quick and he hisses, "what are you doing here," when she sneaks into his compartment, but he doesn't tell her to go away.
"they say i am ready." she says back because it's true, because she is not dumb, because ivan cradled her shoulder in a way he did once upon a time ago, and told her that this is it, my flower, your time has come. you are ready.
he doesn't say congratulations, and she allows her eyes to travel down his naked back, the spine that was bruised, the arm that was not.
"do you think i am ready?" she asks though they both know she doesn't really need his approval. he's just here to help her train, to keep her sharp, to correct her where she is wrong. he smiles a little - no, smirks, because smiling's too genuine, too good, and they're not made for that - his shoulders move as he snorts, "i don't think no one's ready, doll."
doll.
she hums. "i would like to be your doll."
he doesn't smile, again. "you're funny." he doesn't disagree. it's, she realises, the longest conversation they've ever had, the most harmless one she could manage, and she doesn't reply. she lingers for another hour though, just staring at him, while he does-not stare back. she goes when she needs to go, and he doesn't say goodbye.
she becomes a widow and visits him again, and answers when he does-not ask, "it is painful." because it was. but she's stronger now, she could feel it, her skin tighter and fresh. it felt wrong, but, natalia knew, it is what it is. wrong is what they're an expert on, wrong is why she's here.
"i am sorry," he says back, and she realises he is sincere.
and it is, once again, very wrong. she doesn't say anything back because she can't, doesn't know how to, and daringly lie on his bed where he does-not and stays there until he puts himself right besides her. that night, they do not fall asleep, and she touches his face, his scars, his lips and doesn't ask if it's painful, because she knows now that it is. every time, every moment, even when it's not supposed to.
one night as they lie there in the same position - he does-not sit when she comes now, like he knows she would come, and lies back on the bed waiting for her - and she whispers, "love is wrong, is it not."
he does-not smile again, smirks, amused. "i don't entirely think that statement is true."
"so it is wrong?"
"are you capable of love."
"maybe i am capable of being more in love." she pans her hand now, right in the spaces which separates them, stretching out her young fingers, nails reaching out for nothing but everything. "or less of it. i am a widow," she says the title, but is not wholly proud. not anymore, not in his presence. "it is confusing."
his smirks stretches, his eyes fluttering close as he chortles and she watches and thinks it might be a real smile after all. "can i love you, soldier?"
"do you want to?" he whispers back, serious, but there's a soft edge to his dark expression, one that's too fragile and serene, one that's too dangerous and not-wrong.
she looks down, breathes and thinks aloud, "i like being your doll." she gazes back at him, her eyes flickering sharply. "very much, i think." too much, i think.
"love me and call me james." he hums, eyes closed peacefully.
"james?"
"and you are natalia," he tells, even when he shouldn't know. "my natalia, my doll."
"james," she tries, moving her hand to caress his face, his lengthening hair. "james." she's not-smiling, she thinks. she's happy too. quite more than she really ought to. "i love you." she whispers deadly, so silently all to herself, but he hears. of course he does.
he not-smiles some more.
(( they put him in ice about two weeks later and she might think that ivan is right, ivan is correct. she does not like it when ivan is correct. love is for children, he leered, clutching her jaw when she was twelve and was asking of it, love, my flower, is foolish.
she watches ivan dies and it feels surprisingly like love. ))
james (//bucky; soldier)
he wakes up and the world is spinning.
she isn't there but she exists far back in the memory of something that might-or-might-not be there and he sits there, numb, as dr. banner tells him that while memory can alter, it does not necessarily vanished, and that, he adds as cheerfully as he could, could probably make you remember steve.
he does not remember steve. not fully.
he doesn't think he wants to. he means, he wants to. but he doesn't. because it hurts, he doesn't tell them. it hurts when they touch his brain, experiment on it, poke wherever they could. he does not stop them though, because the edges in steve's smile is bright and hopeful and it reminds him that perhaps he is not entirely helpless even when he learns that he is. so he lets them, because he could.
miss hill sits him down and he thinks that she is perhaps the only person besides dr. banner who is aware of all of his 'monsters' but she does not say it aloud, and he doesn't expect her to. they play scrabble a lot when she says dr. banner (or everyone else in the tower) needs her to coax him into talking. well, talking more.
"why didn't you," he asks, low and tired, but alert all the same.
she doesn't bat an eye, stacking the scrabble in a manner that was completely her, and he lets her. "i don't like talking," she answers, and he doesn't doubt it's untrue.
"the captain is mad?"
"furious," there's a dangerous, familiar glint to her eyes that he doesn't see too often, the corner of her lips twitching into a mischievous grin. "what can i say? i have the tendency to piss off even the best of 'em. stark says it's in my blood."
he's aware of the reference she's making and hums, nods, as he takes his share of alphabets, putting them up orderly. "thank you," he says, quiet, because there's a lot of thing he's comfortable about miss hill, and somehow, admitting to him that she makes steve, his supposedly only long best friend, mad is very refreshing. and he doesn't mind it. it doesn't allude him that she's trying to blanket him from the awful truth, and that she knows he'll take the worst of news if he needs to.
which is why when she says, "her name is natasha romanoff," to him, she is calm. he doesn't recognise the name, not at first, not until miss hill starts listing out how exactly they've come to be acquainted with her and ends with, "do you know her."
also known, miss hill says a minute ago, as the black widow with a former alias, natalia romanova.
he sees red. the world is still pretty much spinning, and lustfully filled with red.
he doesn't know her, not fully. like steve. but his mind twitches and whirls, and he thinks he will vomit and scream and starts to kill, but all he does is shake and shake and shake until dr. banner says, "it's time. she's coming today."
he shakes some more, and that's all he's able to do until miss hill comes, looking unsatisfied and annoyed and he knows this because today's not supposed to be the day they have their usual sit-ins, but there she is, with a box of scrabble and captain rogers trailing behind awkwardly.
they play like they always would, and steve gives this glances towards miss hill whenever he spells out a russian name even though he's strictly not supposed to, but miss hill never minds before, so she's not minding it now and they play on quietly, until she wins the game again and quips to steve that he needs to sponsor for her lobotomy and it's her day off, goddammit and he says to steve, "it's okay." with the barest hints of a smile, gentle and quiet, and the captain looks surprise, because he's never initiate the conversation before, not this casually.
"miss hill doesn't mean it. not entirely."
"don't i?" she snaps, her glare's sharp and intimidating, and both steve and him flinches, winces, and he thinks, just like the old times. they play chess next, and he's surprisingly good, and steve's surprisingly excellent as well and miss hill ends up walking out of the room ripping the chess board in two. steve looks over his shoulder to him with a knowing smile, and he returns it when the captain says, "maybe i should talk to stark about sponsoring her a lobotomy."
"that is insulting."
steve ponders, tilting his head, his confusion is real. "is it?"
neither truly knows; steve walks out. he stops shaking.
she drops into his room, silent and familiar, and he still doesn't really remember her, but he does. in a way, he does. she is older from what he's shaping in his head, more filled on the curves, healthier, steadier. she looks good. better. she tells him the same thing. "you look better."
he doesn't reply.
"they say you're not ready to see me."
he hesitates, wonders if she notices it. she must, but she doesn't let it be known. "perhaps they're correct."
"yeah, but what do you think?"
he shakes his head, decides on the truth. "i'm not ready."
"look at me."
he does, "is this what you want?" he asks, partially terrified, primarily in rage. he, he realises, doesn't like to be told on what to do. or not in this situation. not when it's her.
"it hurts, doesn't it?" she whispers, but doesn't come closer. "painful," she says again, tone a hush and in russian. nobody speaks russian with him, it's not allowed, not even miss hill.
the widow goes and leaves him in the darkness, and he stays there and waits for dr. banner and mr. stark to take him so they could prod into his head again but they never come, until barton drops in, throws him a chip and says that they're stopping the process altogether. the archer doesn't say anything that should be said, but he knows.
it's all red.
she comes to him again that night and he's lying on the bed like it's where he needs to be, and it must he thinks, because the widow comfortably found herself slipping atop the covers and next to him, her face near her shoulder, her eyes green and bright and healthy. she is beautiful, he doesn't breath, more beautiful than he could ever anticipate, could take. she is heavenly.
"thank you," he says, meaning it.
"you could've just said it, you know. they want to care, not hurt."
"i thought it was better," he admits, but isn't angry. he blinks at the ceiling, his fingers clasping on his torso, his mind absent-mindedly regulating the breath he is taking. he wants to look at her, he doesn't.
"when i first join s.h.i.e.l.d., all i asked for was for them not to touch my brain. never touch it. and to burn my body when i die. clint will scatter the ashes. he doesn't wanna talk about it, he hates talking about it, but i'll make sure he will."
"or i will." he interferes before he could stop, but he doesn't hesitate.
he thinks she is smiling, "or you will." she exhales through her nose, and it is warmly peaceful right now. nothing he's ever accustomed to. "and i'll make sure they do the same to you." she tells, and he secretly appreciates it, but doesn't say it aloud. he thinks she knows. "so you sure you can't remember anything?"
she talks like she fits well into the century, and he is amused. he looks at her, shakes his head. "not really. i remember..." he's quiet for a while, mouth in a straight, flat line. "i remember building. shouting and screaming. i remember a small face, pulling him up and walking. laughing. i remembers bits and scenes, not the... not the entire thing."
"are you talking about steve?"
"he's small then," he says instead, nodding unconsciously. "it is painful," he repeats what she had said, though in english, the russian accent lingers dangerously though.
"i know," her lips brushes her naked shoulder, her whole body scooting closer.
"i've loved you," he states, wasn't wholly certain if it's a question or a statement. she shrugs. "i think you might did. though that's the first time you've ever said it aloud, if it's true."
he looks at her again, dark eyes meeting with the green ones, and her touches burn where it comes in contact with his. "i love you."
she snorts, smiling outrightly. "loved. you forgot the past tense."
he did. he nods. "natalia."
"hello, james."
"i think we'll be alright now," he tells her and suddenly he remembers the dark compartment he was in, with her smaller body pressing close to his, and he's been here before, lying next to her, although back then they were directly facing one another, eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose. it's different now, she's older, he's more damaged than he likes to be, but it's starting to feel like they're going somewhere. or well, they could.
she kind of laughs, he isn't sure, but her eyes twinkle under the shadow of blackness, and it is magnificent. "and it feels like home, doesn't it?"
"close." he presses his lips together, relaxes. "it feels like love."
"you know what?" she murmurs, pressing her nose and mouth on his shoulder now, her fingers finding his arm. "it does."
(( i think i remember you, he says a few days later, when she's far enough that he knows she won't hear him. i think i love you, natalia romanova.
and he thinks he does.))