the soldier

11^th November, 2015

Brooklyn, New York, USA.

It had been a century.

In less years, empires had fallen, cities had been built, love had been lost, had been gained, battles fought and won or lost.

Still, the New York he had known lingered on. It had just taken him a little while to realise it. Of course, the streets looked different, the buildings bigger, the cars louder and faster, the world somehow younger despite the years that had passed.

Suppose that was what wartime did.

Made everything old and tired and pained.

The New York he knew was still here, under the bravado of the modern era. Jesus. He’d promised Natasha he’d stop acting like an old fogey. It was in the smog lingering in the alleys, it was in the still brilliant sunrises and sunsets, it was in the constant bustle of the streets, the crease on a layman’s brow, the smell of salt-water by the docks, the rush of subway air. It was there.

It didn’t stop him looking for the pieces he missed.

He’d gone to his first apartment the other day. He still remembered the row of chipped glasses and mugs Bucky’d lined up along the windowsill, like a monument to Steve’s shaky hands. The building wasn’t there anymore. There was a gym instead, and an obnoxious healthy juice café. He thought Bucky would have flipped off the judgemental looking barista that had stared and glared at him.

He thought a lot about Bucky.

Steve looked back down at the sketchbook he’d splayed across the too-small wicker table. His best friend’s face looked back. Steve set down his graphite deliberately, ignoring the faint tremor of his hands. These days, when his hands shook, it wasn’t because he was cold, or because he was sick.

This particular sketch of Bucky wasn’t really him. Not how Steve knew him best. This Bucky was the haunted looking man that had looked at him without recognition, and had tried to drive a knife through his heart. He took a sip of his now-cold coffee, and shut the book.

He’d also promised Natasha he wouldn’t beat himself up about it.

His phone buzzed, the two-tone sound of an email. He couldn’t help but smile slightly at his own small victory, even if it was only recognizing the sounds of text alerts. He didn’t have the luxury of ignoring anything that actually made its way through to him. Tony could be an ass, but he could appreciate the man’s dedication to filtering out any noise that could have occupied the personal channels of his life. When he’d first had a phone, somehow his number had been leaked, and he’d suffered a few months of non-stop bombardment before Tony took pity on him and installed privacy settings and upgraded the phone itself.

So, the unfamiliar email address that appeared atop his screen set off deafening alarm bells.

He hunched over his phone, unable to resist the urge to scan his surroundings, neck prickling. The street moved on around him; the coffee machine inside the café chugged and hissed, the waitress that had served him looked at him curiously, fresh brownies steamed atop the glass counter. Relax, soldier.

The email was undecipherable. It was formatted strangely, and made up of rows of symbols that made up patterns that could have been words. Steve sighed, finger hovering over the delete button. Spam, probably. Maybe one of Stark’s automated systems glitching. It didn’t matter, he could just-

A string of symbols caught his eye. If he reversed it, then it looked similar to code he had used, back during the war. Yeah. He eyed other symbols that were familiar, dotted over the email’s text. But it didn’t account for the other symbols, entirely unfamiliar, and barely even numeric or alphabetic. It almost looked…Russian.

He frowned, taking a screenshot of the email in case it disappeared, and then dialled the first number on his speed dial.

“Steve?” Natasha answered on the first ring, voice casual, but Steve knew her well-enough now to pick up on the note of worry. Guilt swirled in his gut. He clearly needed to call more, if her first response was panic.

“Hey, Nat.” He sat back in his chair, eyes drifting to the skyline, to the still-half fixed Stark Tower. Natasha was quiet, and he breathed. “Did you get an email?”

“I was going to call you.” She said, sounding relived. “There’s some old code I don’t recognize.”

“I recognize it.” Steve said. She didn’t sound surprised. A note of suspicion made him cold. “You know who sent it.”

Natasha sighed. “I think we both know who did.”

Steve scowled, fingers stilling on the worn cover of his sketchbook. “How long have you been in contact? Why didn’t you tell me, Nat-”

“Steve! This is the first I’ve heard directly from them… look, I should have told you I was still looking, but I didn’t think I was going to find anything,”

Her voice faded for a moment, the sudden wave of frustration and old memories making his throat tighten momentarily. He should have been better than this. Maybe this was why she hadn’t told him.

“-Okay? Steve?”

He blinked, the world coming into a roaring rushing focus again. “What? Yeah. Sorry, what did you say?”

It took her a moment to respond, and Steve could practically picture her carefully considering face. “I said I have some things, if you wanted to see them.”

“Of course I do.” He replied instantly, already standing, his chair giving a loud screech at his abrupt movement. He dropped a random note on the table; probably more than he needed to pay, but it didn’t matter, and started towards his bike.

“Steve, it’s not much. It’s just shadows.”

Steve tried not to feel too hurt. “It’s still more than anything I’ve had to hold onto on months.” His voice was still bitter.

She breathed a sigh, one of real regret. “I am sorry, Steve.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you soon.”

Steve shoved his phone in his pocket and straddled the Harley. The engine roared to life with a satisfying growl, and he gunned it towards the compound.

Natasha watched Steve arrive from the window of the living area. His shoulders were tense, but even from here, she could tell the tight set of his mouth was more about hope than anything. She should have just told him.

Now it was all going to come out at once, and whilst Steve was too good of a man to hold it against her, she knew she’d hurt him with her deception. That, of course, was a running theme for her. She smiled humourlessly to herself, and turned to head back towards the sofa, where her laptop was already set up.

The email was still glaring at her from her open screen, and she ran her eyes over the lines of code again. The letters and words she recognized were still too disjointed to make sense of anything. Just as she sat, with perfect timing, Steve strode in, casting his leather jacket aside. “You have it?”

“Hello to you too.” She said, maybe a little too lazily, because his eyes flashed with brief irritation. She nodded towards the laptop. “I’ve already decoded my parts.” It was only as she said it did she realise just how accurate the statement was. The message had been split in two perfect, indecipherable parts – only solvable by the two of them, meant entirely for their eyes only. She was suddenly glad she’d forgone asking for Vision or Tony’s help.

Steve grunted, and sat beside her, tugging the laptop towards himself. She pushed a notepad and pen towards him as he began to frown at the screen. He still preferred to work on paper. Her own decoded work was already on the screen. Steve began to scribble away, and she thought about sitting back.

“So, what haven’t you told me?” Steve’s quiet question was enough to make her sit straighter.

She had been expecting it, and turned to pick up the stack of relevant files she’d hastily collated after he’d hung up. “A trail of bodies mostly. Dead Hydra agents and sympathisers. A video from Istanbul. And now this.” His jaw worked, but he remained quiet, dutifully writing out his half of the message neatly, leaving spaces for her. Natasha hesitated. “And- and something else.”

At this, he looked up. Maybe it was some tell in her voice she could no longer recognize. Maybe he just knew her that well. Most likely it was her own sentiment. “What?” He asked.

Natasha studied his face for another moment; handsome, familiar, innately kind. Her friend. Her chosen family. He deserved to know. She wanted him to know. “The woman,”

“Ghost.” Steve supplied absently.

She inclined her head. “She’s- she’d more than just my past. More than the Red Room.” Steve’s face had gone very still. Perhaps she was rubbing off on him too. “She’s my family. Flesh and blood.”

What she didn’t expect was his sudden and fierce embrace. She didn’t realize just how much she needed it, either – until his arms were around her, strong enough to force her to relax. He held her for a moment before he pulled away. “I’m happy for you.” He said, with genuine joy.

Natasha could help but smile briefly. “I am too. Even if is…like this. Even after all of this. I somehow don’t feel as alone.”

Steve patted her once more on the shoulder, a grave sort of understanding in his eyes, before he handed her the notepad. She took it, and began to write. Steve picked up the stack of files, and she couldn’t help but hear his quiet intake of steadying breath. She might have discovered family, but Steve had just as much stake in their recovery mission as her.

For your eyes only; Captain Steven Grant Rogers & Natalia Alianovna Romanoff.

Natasha almost smiled at the cheesiness and lack of necessity in the introduction. The next lines, however, were enough to wipe any joy from her mind.

The dead you have no doubt been chasing are dead for a reason. We have a common enemy. Many enemies, in truth. But I am trying to lessen the dark stain HYDRA has left upon the world.

To have her suspicions confirmed was one thing. To see her mentor’s writings, her voice somehow clear through the mixture of her and Steve’s handwriting was another. Natasha could almost hear her; the cool, crisp diction of a woman who had lived a life of efficiency.

I make contact to establish one thing. Forgiveness.

Natasha stopped writing.

“What is it?” Steve looked up as she set down her pen. Wordlessly, she passed him the notepad. His brow creased. “I don’t understand…”

Natasha shook her head. “She doesn’t- I mean, she never thought in the first person. Her own needs were never at the forefront of her mind – she was literally conditioned, created to be as close to a machine as they could get.”

Steve reached for the pen. He had always been more impatient than her. It was the soldier in him. Natasha watched as the rest of the message came to life.

It is taking work – dirtier work than I think you would be comfortable with, Captain Rogers. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t write for myself. I am giving you a name, and a location.

Brock Rumlow, former Commander of SHIELD Strike Force Alpha, known HYDRA Agent, will be in North Korea in approximately three weeks. He has assembled a parody of his old unit, despite my best efforts to stop them. Rumlow has taken on a new alias; CROSSBONES.

Despite the infantile name, he is more dangerous than he was when you knew him.

He is my gift to you, Captain Rogers. In the same spirit of giving, I ask you accept and facilitate my partner’s return to the US.

This message is not an invitation to chase us. We will not be found until he can return.

He deserves forgiveness.

Natasha looked slowly to Steve. There was something churning behind his eyes; an unnameable, untameable mess of emotion.

“He deserves forgiveness.” Steve’s voice was barely a whisper. This time, Natasha was the one to hold him. Steve didn’t cry, but the way he let her embrace him was telling enough.

A small seed of jealousy turned her stomach. What about her? Some childish part of her glowered and stomped her foot. Was she nothing?