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The building had long since been abandoned. Dust covered the floor in a thick rug, draping over the rotting furniture like forgotten clothes. The air was heavy with the past. A past full of shattered emotions and dreams. Anger, fear, pain. Love, heartbreak, determination. And more pain. With just a pinch of triumph.
Natasha stood in the center of the room, looking around. This place weighed heavily upon her shoulders. The ghosts of the past crowding around her. She felt cold. She had long since been trying to avoid this part of her past. But an encounter with a soldier had forced her to question her state of mind. A text had forced her to confront that question.
Chert poberi.
She turned to look at the foggy mirrors along the wall. This was the room where she had learned the graceful art of ballet. Where she had learned violent art of fighting. Where she had dared to break the rules. Natasha smiled. She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet, raising her arms above her head. Her torso lengthened. Her muscles flexed. Memory. She could hear the keys of the piano playing in the corner.
Slowly, she began to dance. Closing her eyes as she moved through a routine that she had practiced – and loved – obsessively when she was young and semi-innocent. Natasha lost herself in the thick memory. Her body shined with perspiration, her heart swelling. When she finished in the croisédevant position. It was then she realized that she was not alone.
The Winter Soldier stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He clapped slowly, his flesh and metal hands muted by the fabric of gloves covering them. His hair tickled his shoulders; a shadow covered his strong jaw. He wore black pants, boots, and shirt, with a padded leather jacket thrown over. A knife hinted at his belt. There was a gun probably tucked under the jacket. Another knife hidden in his boot. His brown eyes were heavy. Heavy and hard. There was a stab of agony within the irises.
The side effect of discovering Bucky.
He had always known he was James.
Had always known he was a soldier.
Had always known he wasn’t born a killer.
He just hadn’t known who he was.
Natasha watched him, pursing her lips. She knew that there were memories that had been stolen from her. And most, if not all, of those memories involved James. Her scars burned as she looked into his eyes. Suddenly the silence seemed too overwhelming. She crossed her arms over her chest and arched a brow.
James smirked and pushed away from the wall to walk towards her. He stopped within a couple of feet. He was close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. But not so close that she could reach and break the iron bubble that protected him. From her. From Steve. From World War II. And the life before.
Yet he had reached out to her.
“Why am I here?” she asked, breaking the silence.
James inhaled deeply before, “Why did you come?”
“Don’t answer my question with a question,” Natasha snapped, “I have better things to do than waste my time standing in an empty room, fraternizing with ghosts.”
“Do you?” James asked.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Natasha took a step forward, her body tense with sudden rage.
“That day, on the bridge, we knew what to expect from one another. We anticipated each other’s actions. Our years of fighting helped, yes, but there was something else. Something else that cannot be explained with words. A muscle memory,” James’s eyes burned into hers.
“I don’t-“
“Don’t deny it,” James cut her off.
Natasha froze before saying slowly, “What if it would be better to just leave that door closed? It could destroy us. Look at you. Discovering that you’re Bucky hasn’t exactly improved your health.
“I have to know,” James hissed, “I have to. I just know, in my gut, that in order to find everything that they stole from me…I need you. Our pasts are more intertwined than we know; you are part of the key. Part of the code. In Iran, when I shot you, I knew that you were an enemy. I knew that you were between my target and me. Yet, I didn’t want to kill you. I was ordered to do whatever it took, and whatever it took meant pulling the trigger on you. Yet I didn’t want to kill you. I made a choice, a nonlethal choice for reasons that I didn’t understand.”
“I don’t remember the memories. I do remember the emotions, as though they were embedded in my muscle. Pain. Something terrible happened in this very room. Between us. To us,” Natasha stumbled backwards, “I – we – can’t do this, James.”
“James,” he whispered, as though it were oxygen. Too late she realized that there was so much in that simple word when she uttered it. Then his face darkened as the other words caught up with him and he closed the distance between them. He didn’t touch her. Just snarled with sudden vehemence, “How will the Avengers ever fully trust you if you can’t even trust yourself?”
The words stabbed into her gut like carved, silver hunting knives. She saw Clint, her best friend and savior. A man who confused her more than any other person on earth. Steve, loyal and kind. Bruce, a man who had just as much rage as her. Tony…a rich, semi-heroic bastard. Thor, the overly cuddly god who could down vodka as easily as her. Fury, the only man who had her full admiration. Hill. Sam. Sharon. Pepper. Jane. Darcy.
Coulson.
Natasha closed her eyes against the sudden pain and fear blossoming in her chest. She was utterly terrified of what opening that door would reveal. She opened her eyes to see that James was still right there. So close that she could count his eyelashes. It was unnerving and felt oddly right. It unsettled Natasha even more so. Which was not a reaction that was acceptable.
“Khorosho.”