Carrying Small Stones

“You’re not wearing that,” Natasha said.

James just snorted, not surprised that she had suddenly appeared splayed across his bed. He was the only one she couldn’t sneak up on—yet. She always enjoyed a challenge.

“I think I know how to dress myself,” he told her.

She raised an eyebrow, running her eyes from his head to his toes. “I didn’t fix your hair for you so you could waste it on—I mean, I don’t even know what to call this. Nerd-chic?”

“Yes,” he agreed, not offended in the least. “Tony doesn’t care how I dress.”

“It’s not just him you need to do it for. Don’t get complacent,” she warned him, before switching seamlessly to Russian, “Those like us must always be on our guard.”

It was always so hard to figure out where she stood with Barnes. Was she the mentor, or the protégée? The teacher, or the student?

Physically, she figured she was about a year older. Chronologically, he was old enough to be her grandfather.

Experience wise, they were nearly equals.

But there was an innocence to this iteration of James Buchanan Barnes. He’d been erased to a blank slate, and no matter how much he got back, some of that stuck. He’d built a new person, piece by painstakingly recovered piece, but the foundation he’d used to do it was barely a couple of months old.

Natasha did not usually feel protective. There was Clint, of course.

And then there was Steve.

But there was a kinship she felt with James that she had never had with anyone else. They had a shared understanding of pain that was unique. It was not something she would have ever wished on someone else.

She gracefully got to her feet, avoiding his eyes as she shook back her hair. “Where is he taking you?” she asked.

“He wouldn’t say,” Bucky told her.

“And you didn’t find out?” she asked, frowning at him. “Lazy of you.”

“He wanted it to be a surprise, why would I—what are you doing?” he demanded, as she moved past him and began to search his closet.

“First rule for facing the unexpected: when in doubt, go casual,” she told him. “It’s harder to blend in when you’re dressed to the nines.”

“I’m not trying to blend in,” he said petulantly, and leaned up against the wall beside her. “What’s wrong with what I’m what wearing?”

Natasha glanced back at him. He was wearing a t-shirt with a Pixar character on it, the one he liked so much, and a pair of ripped blue jeans. It was nice for any day of the week, but it wasn’t suitable by any means for something like this.

“Nothing, in particular,” she allowed, before turning back to the closet. “You always want to have some piece of yourself in your armor, so you don’t forget who you are, you’ve just left a bit too much of it. And don’t fool yourself. It is armor, and you need to treat it accordingly.”

“It’s a date, not a mission,” he told her.

“We’re never not on mission,” she reminded him. “Not ever.”

She grabbed a pair of black jeans, still casual, but nicer for the places Tony was likely to take him. She grabbed a hooded jacket and a blazer, and considered letting him keep the shirt he was wearing, but it was blue like the jackets and that was a bit too much blue. “Pick another shirt,” she told him, pulling out a couple black ones.

He rolled his eyes, but grabbed one for some band that Tony liked. He pulled off his shirt, and replaced it with the band t-shirt. She watched him as he did, noting the scars that still scattered out from his shoulder, though there was nothing to indicate that his left arm was any different from his right.

“If you’re gonna stare that hard, I’m gonna start expecting some kind of payment,” James told her wryly.

“Sorry, I’m fresh out of dollar bills,” she said, giving a crooked grin. But she turned, allowing him his privacy. She knew how important privacy was, even if she could only give him the pretense of it. There was no helping that she'd already seen him at his worst.

She moved to the dresser as he got dressed, and looked at all the photos that had been spread out there. There were a couple from the forties, James and Steve, before and during the war, but most of them were new. James and Pepper lounging together in the large pool on the thirtieth floor, the photo obviously taken by Tony, considering the grin James was giving the lens. There was a candid photo of Tony in the lab, apparently holding a heated conversation with Dum-E. There was one with Tony, James and what looked to be Helen Cho—they were in one of the dining halls from the penthouse, all of them with their glasses raised in a toast.

Beside the photos there was a Starkpad that had its backing removed, and pieces had been taken out and left carelessly beside it, the way a child might pull something apart to see how it worked.

“Okay,” James said, and she turned back around.

She assessed him carefully. It was better, very contemporary. Sometimes Natasha thought Steve used familiar clothes to shield himself from the new century, but James always seemed to go all in. Of course, James had started with no memories and nothing to lose. She couldn’t begrudge Steve for trying to hold on to all he knew.

“You need shoes,” she said, glancing down at his sock covered feet. “Not sneakers.”

He frowned at her, but grabbed his combat boots and waved at them. “Will these do?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, flashing a grin. “Good choice.”

They gave the outfit just a bit of a dangerous edge, though no one would know, to look at him, how terrifyingly competent he was at killing. But then—that was the entire point.

“And now you’re ready,” she told him, glancing over at him with approval. He looked good, but not so good he couldn’t disappear into a crowd and blend in. If he needed to lose a tail, he could drop the blazer and put up his hood. She just had to make sure he had the tools—if something went wrong, she knew he’d know what to do with them.

James glanced at the mirror as he shoved his feet into the boots. “I guess this is better,” he agreed reluctantly.

“This is why you should always listen to me, James,” she told him.

He shook his head lightly, but tolerated her fussing when she reached up to straighten the collar of his blazer. “Why do you call me James?” he asked.

“Given names are important,” Natasha said simply.

“Should I start calling you Natalia then?” he asked.

Natasha tightened her grip on his collar, her hands going clenched and still, though she gave nothing else away. “And where did you hear that?”

“You dumped your entire life onto the internet,” James reminded her. “You read about me. Did you really think I wouldn’t read about you?”

She reached up and gripped his chin, turning him back to face her firmly. “You don’t have to be Bucky with me,” she told him. “That’s why I call you James. But I can call you Bucky if you like. I’d certainly prefer you call me Natasha.”

“No, I don’t mind,” he told her, gracefully slipping free of her hold. She watched him step back as he flashed her a slight smile. “I think I’ll keep calling you Nat, though.”

She felt her lips quirk up without her permission. He reached back and gently grabbed her hand, squeezing it slightly. Most of the time, she merely tolerated touch—but this felt like something else, this felt like a spark of connection, like a promise of the sort of friendship that was nearly impossible for someone like her to find.

“Thank you,” he told her earnestly.

“It’s no trouble,” she promised.

“I didn’t mean for this,” James said, and let her go.

“Yeah,” she said, grinning slyly. “I knew what you meant.”