Natalia Romanova
There’s a warm hand under his chin, tilting his face up and forcing him to look. To see. A thumb brushes over the track his tears have made - it comes away wet, presses to the corner of his mouth. He feels unsteady, shaky in his body. Unrooted. Unsure. Terrified. Blue eyes - the colour of forget-me-nots - stare down into his, searching for something they won’t find. Eyelids droop shut, cutting off his visual of the colour.
Pink lips move. “I love you,” they say.
He shudders, wants to curl in on himself, hold himself together, but he doesn’t. The hand stays steady on his face. His soul aches, cries for some alternate ending. His jaw quivers, warmth sliding down his face; the personification of the feeling of his chest shattering. “Is that enough?” he wonders out loud.
The brilliance of those eyes shine down into his, which must be duller than the ocean after a storm. He wants to be closer, to touch and press himself down the line of the body his own knows every inch of. “It should be.”
“But it’s not,” he concludes. It’s not. It won’t be, it isn’t and it never was.
Lips press together into a thin line, going from rosy to white. Eyelashes brush down over red-stained cheekbones. Dry skin. There are no tears here, apart from his own, still flowing steadily. “Keep yourself warm, Buck,” is breathed out like a cloud of pity, of all things.
Every piece of him falls apart, breaking on the snow-covered concrete like glass. He sucks in a breath that stings like vodka and sinks down under a frothing ocean surface. The hand disappears and the ice crackles around him, stealing his air. Footsteps crunch across the road, disappearing. He should get up and run, beg for him to stay, but he’s broken. He can’t get up.
He curls in on himself, finally, wondering if it’ll be like this forever. He doesn’t doubt it will be.
He has nothing, now. There’s no possible way to fix this. He’s leaving tomorrow.
Night settles over him like a blanket, turning his lips blue.
This dream - nightmare? - happens the most often and makes the least sense. He wakes near screaming, sweating even though it’s freezing in his mind and with an aching body. All his other nightmares are full of blood, horror and torture, but this one is the worst. He doesn’t understand it. It’s nothing like the disjointed memories he doesn’t remember experiencing, it’s something more bone-deep and horrifying, like this is the worst thing that could have happened to him.
He gets up and takes a cold shower, attempting to wash the dream away.
The papers - passport, drivers license, birth certificate - arrive that day, just as Clint said they would. Clint drops the envelope on the bench just as James finishes making lunch, a big grin on his face. James opens the envelope, taking out the drivers license first. It’s the same picture from his previous identity, but since Winter was never convicted of any crimes, it’s safe to use.
“James Buchanan Barnes?” James asks, raising an eyebrow at Clint, who just shrugs. James rolls his eyes, but offers him a smile. “Thanks, Barton. I transferred the money last night. I should be out of your hair again before tomorrow,” he says.
Clint grabs one of the sandwiches on the bench. “I don’t mind having you around, James. It’s nice having a live-in cook.” He’s already darting away to avoid the jab James sends at him.
“Fuck you, this is hardly cooking,” James grumbles, moving to put the envelope in his backpack.
Clint settles down on the couch. The coffee table’s pile has reduced somewhat. “Have you called Nat yet?” he asks.
“Nah, I was gonna do that after lunch,” James says.
“Don’t worry about it, she’s coming over for dinner.”
James sends him a look, narrowing his eyes. “Why is the Black Widow joining you for dinner, Barton?”
“Joining us, man. I told her you were in town and she invited herself,” Clint throws up his hands in defense, still chewing on the sandwich.
James figures it’s actually pretty convenient. Natalia is much easier to talk to face-to-face and he hasn’t seen her for months.
*
Clint’s napping on the couch and James is reading over an old file. He’s got no idea how Clint got his hands on FBI classified shit, or why, but the thing is interesting. Dinner, despite Clint saying they could just get pizza again, is mushroom julienne. It’s nearly finished cooking, too, which means Natalia will turn up at any moment.
Clint’s still snuffling away on the couch by the time James is dishing up, but they’re not alone in the apartment anymore. He can’t see her, but James can tell Natalia has come in through one of the windows. There’s no telltale whisper of footsteps, no soft sound of breathing, but Natalia is most likely moving through the rooms and towards him.
He far too used to her that when she announces herself he doesn’t even jump. “Griby solomkoy, Kotik?” is purred into his ear.
He smiles, finishing setting the table. She’s warm, most likely drove here. The wind is restless outside, shivering with bone-deep cold. “Dlya tebya, pauk,” he murmurs, smiling at the delighted laugh that comes from Natalia.
“Oh, you’re wonderful, kotik,” she admits, brushing her fingertips down his arm.
He just smiles down at her, fondness swelling in his chest. “Will you wake Clint up? The julienne is ready,” he asks.
She breezes away from him, bare feet making not a sound. She drapes herself over Clint’s body on the couch and James looks away, still smiling. James and Natalia had first met at one of Clint’s New Year’s parties, had both been hovering at the edges of the crowd, eyes on the exits. Natalia had caught his eye, had looked at him with something in her eyes - something that alerted him how deadly she was. She’d been predatory, prowling the room as though she owned it.
They had gotten talking and James had found out he knew Russian. And Italian, French, Hindi, Spanish, Arabic, Portuguese and Bengali. Later on he discovered that he knew far more than just those, but after the confusing back-and-forth, of Natalia backing him into a corner, hunting him, they found they got along like a house on fire.
After that, they’d sat in the corner and just talked. There wasn’t much James - Murphy at the time - had been able to say; he’d only had about eight months of memory, but they managed. Natalia - then and now - seemed to have a glint in her eye, like she knew something he didn’t. But that was the thing about Natalia; if she didn’t want to talk, you’d never get her to. He figured if the day came where she would be willing to share, he’d be the first one to know.
“Dude, you made mushroom julienne!”
James looks up from his hand and raises an eyebrow at Clint. “I know,” he deadpans. “Dig in.”
Natalia laughs under her breath, settling down at the table like a queen taking her place on her throne. “So, are you still going by Winter, then?” she asks, picking up her fork.
James shakes his head. “New papers. James Barnes, now,” he says.
“Clint pick that name?”
James nods, taking a bite of his food. Clint hasn’t looked up from his food since he sat down in front of it. “I like it,” he shrugs. “I’m apartment hunting around here tomorrow.”
“Do you have a place yet? Or is that why I’m here?” Natalia’s lips curl into an amused smile, like she sees straight through him.
James gives her a look. “You invited yourself,” he reminds her.
“Do you need a place or not?” she asks, brushing the comment away with a flick of fiery hair.
James gives her his best angelic smile. “I would love a place, thank you so much, pauk,” he drawls, enjoying the way she glares at him.
She nods, rolling her eyes afterwards, before turning her attention to her food. Clint perks up suddenly, as if he’s just heard the conversation. “Hey, how come you always know what name he’s most recently going by? I can never remember,” he says, frowning at Natalia.
She frowns at him. “I’m attentive, Clint,” she says.
“Yeah, but no one ever knows where you are, so how does he let you know.”
James watches them, amused. Natalia looks tired. “He doesn’t. I hear things.”
Clint frowns at her and then at James, before returning to his dinner and most likely ignoring the fact that he’s gotten even more confused by asking. James huffs out a chuckle and Natalia glances at him, a fond smile on her face. Clint is most likely the only person she tolerates to any extent. She’d definitely given James more than one chewing-out before, but he’d never seen her give Clint anything but a look.
“So, James, I have an apartment in Red Hook if you’re interested? Don’t bother with rent, just pay the bills and you’re good to go. Oh, and there’s a mechanic's place hiring a few blocks away. You fixed up Clint’s truck pretty well, I’m sure you can figure out the rest,” Natalia speaks up again.
James looks at her, smiling. “Thanks, pauk, I’ll check it out. Are you staying in the apartment right now?”
“No, there’s something I’ve got to deal with overseas after this, but I might pop around. Keep the place tidy for me,” she sends him a wink, before finishing up her bowl and sitting back, a satisfied smile on her face.
James nods, standing up and taking their finished bowls and putting them in the sink. Clint’s already sniffing around for the leftovers, gravitating towards the fridge where he knows James puts them. “Are you heading straight to the airport?” James asks Natalia.
She shakes her head. “I’ll drop you at the apartment, first,” she says, standing up and walking over to Clint. She throws an arm over his shoulders and he looks up from the fridge, surprised. James snickers at the look on his face, but leaves them to say their goodbyes and heads to his room.
He double-checks he hasn’t left anything, then pops his head back out. “I’ve got something to pick up, I’ll be back in twenty,” he announces.
Natalia gives him a thumbs-up, but is otherwise occupied by Clint. James rolls his eyes and ducks back out, heading for the fire escape. There’s a rifle bag he needs to pick up.
*
The apartment in Red Hook is nicer than he expected, fully furnished and equipped with Natalia-standard security. He drops his bags just inside the door, resolving to deal with them tomorrow, and turns to Natalia. She’s hovering in the door, clearly needing to get going. James smiles, stepping forwards.
She wraps her arms around him, squeezing him into a gentle hug. “Good luck with the mechanic’s,” she says. “I’ll see you around.”
And then she’s gone, drifting back out of the building like a ghost. James takes a deep breath and locks the door behind her. Tonight, he figure he’ll just crash. He can sort out the rest of James Barnes’ life tomorrow.