Archive of Our Own

"What do you think about him?"

He walked out again. She walked in and he walked out, didn't even pick up his stuff and left. All she can do is nod towards the door where he disappeared. Clint shrugs. "I mean, as long as he doesn't blow his fuse and kill all of us -"

"I don't mean that," Natasha interrupts.

Clint picks up the next arrowhead and frowns at it. "He's weird about you. I don't like that."

"Weird how?" Natasha probes.

Clint snorts, nodding towards the door. "Oh, like you haven't noticed anything?"

"I just want to know if I'm overthinking it," Natasha defends.

"It's not like you're the only person here that he tried to murder a bunch of times," Clint remarks. "But you're the only one he treats like you're going to blow up if he just looks at you."

Natasha smirks, though it feels hollow. "Am I that scary?"

"He jumps out of planes without a parachute, he doesn't know self-preservation," Clint points out. "Nah, I don't know what it is but it doesn't seem good."

Natasha swallows. "There's - There's more there than I've told you about."

Clint grins, holding the arrowhead up against the light. "Yeah, figured, or you wouldn't have asked about him."

Natasha shakes her head. "You know me too well."

"Eh, I try." Clint turns the arrowhead between his fingers. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Don't know," Natasha replies. "I don't know if any of that still matters. Forever ago, right?"

"Sounds like it matters to you," Clint remarks.

"I told him we would start fresh," Natasha replies. "Blank slate. No grudges, no nothing. There's no reason to make it complicated."

"Oh, Tasha," Clint sighs. "Isn't there always a reason?"

She's probably overthinking it. It was a brief episode decades ago. That's it. So what if it had some of the happiest, sweetest, truest moments of her life? He probably doesn't even remember, probably never will, too much brain damage, or maybe repressed like a trauma, something so painful - Who's to say that even if he remembers, it will mean to him anything remotely resembling what it means to her? And even for her, she was young, she had very limited experience of the outside world, of course she would idolize the guy who climbs through her window in the middle of the night just to see her, of course she would be impressed with the first guy who showed any interest in her, of course she would imbue the memory with all this meaning for her sense of self and her future when really, it was barely two weeks seventy years ago. She's reading way too much into some early bug in his programming that they straightened out as soon as they became aware of it. Doesn't say anything about him. She never even knew him, if she's honest, and neither did he himself. Looking back at it, it was nothing more than a stupid mistake that almost got both of them killed, and her consistent romanticizing is her own problem, not his.

But really, whatever he remembers, whatever he makes of it now, that's no reason to avoid her like the plague.

It gets worse the more she tries, and the worse it gets, the more she feels like she has to try. This is no way to work, let alone live, but if he won't talk to her, won't even look at her -

He's in the pilot seat, ears covered with headphones, and they've lost the door a while back so it's very loud. She's careful, approaching slowly, at the right angle, making noise even if he can't hear it, reaching out to touch his right arm -

He doesn't startle but it's way worse, he turns and only then, when he sees that it's her, only then he recoils, the invisible knife turning in her stomach, Jesus, what did they do to him that he is so afraid of her, that she makes him so visibly sick, how did they break that part of him - This is no place to discuss this, though, no place to discuss anything, in fact, so she ignores the invisible knife and signs whether she should take over and he shakes his head briefly before turning back to the levers, buttons, blinking lights, acting like she's not even there, like she just disappeared, if not for his tense shoulders -

She heads back to the others in order not to raise attention, pretending it's nothing. She's good at that. Less good at forgetting his wide eyes as he recoiled from her simple touch.

She leads Bruce into a longer speculation about whether you can really condition someone to fear someone else by showing him The Hunger Games. Like, isn't that sci-fi, a manipulation that would require new or even not yet existing technology? (No.) Weren't they exaggerating the intensity of the feelings created? (Not really.) Wouldn't it wear off at some point? (Not if the trauma is deep enough.) Cheery topic.

She jokes about it with Steve, when she enters a room and Barnes walks right out on the other side, that he's in some kindergarten phase where he can't stand girls. Steve doesn't think it's funny, obviously, but he agrees that it will probably just work itself out with time. And maybe it really will, he doesn't exactly look viscerally scared when he sees her, rather very uncomfortable, nervous and somehow repulsed. Maybe that'll fade. It seems like he makes a conscious decision not to be around her rather than compulsively jumping up and running out of the room. So maybe, at some point, he could make the conscious decision not to do that.

It's also the only thing he's so irrational and inscrutable about. Her. He's a perfectly good agent otherwise, never blows his fuse, actually has his shit together. Well, he used to be a perfectly good killing machine, too, except for the climbing through her window part. She just brings that out in him somehow.

She should just let it rest, really, but it torments her to think about what they must have done to him, because of her, when she knows so many horrible things that they did to him and that somehow seem to haunt him less than whatever this is. Not knowing is awful. Feeling responsible is worse. And there she was with her rose-colored glasses, just because she got out of the whole affair almost scot-free, barely a slap on the wrist, of course he won't share her fond memories if the story was longer and way more painful for him. So no, she can't let it rest until she knows what harm she caused.

It's really hard to catch him and catch him alone. She learns that he often raids the kitchen at night, just like Steve, supersoldier hunger attacks, so she hangs out there, sleeping on the couch. Either he doesn't even show, like he knows she's there, or he's in and out without waking her, eerily quiet. But tonight, she hears the fridge and knows she's got him.

Like last time, she makes herself known before directly engaging with him, shifting and sitting up. He doesn't turn, tensely staring into the fridge, back to her. She suppresses a yawn. "I think we should talk."

He doesn't say anything, gripping a bottle but not taking it out. Her heart sinks. "Do you even know what I -"

"I can't," he interrupts sharply. "I can't - I really can't."

That's like a stab, too. "Oh."

"I'm sorry." He slams the fridge shut, pitiful noise. "I- I just can't. Sorry."

He's out before she can ask him what he's sorry for when it's all her goddamn fault.

It gets worse. She's sitting in a chopper all strapped in, ready to take off at a moment's notice, anxiously looking back and forth between the runway and her watch. "Jesus, can one of these old men be on fucking time for once?!"

"I think there's still shooting down there," Sam remarks when something pops up on his arm pad. "Hold on, he just wrote - We should leave without him."

"What?!" She groans. "Is he crazy, does he not know the whole island will blow up in five minutes -"

"Says he's hunkered down and won't get out anytime soon and we shouldn't put ourselves in danger," Sam adds. "Jesus, that idiot, Steve's going to murder us -"

Someone comes out of the bunker, unfortunately not Barnes, seeing the chopper on the landing pad and heading for - Sam shoots him. "They're manning the air defense. Get us up."

"I'm not leaving without Barnes," she insists.

"We'll figure something out," Sam promises, strapping in. "Just get us away before they blow us to pieces -"

She starts the chopper and lets it take off, albeit reluctantly. Shots ring out below them, big caliber. Jesus. Sam tries to position Redwing to fire back while she flies them around the island, away from the air defense system. "Write him to stop texting and to get his ass out of there, if he's not on the landing pad when we're full circle, I will personally drag him out of the ocean, every little piece -"

Sam probably can't hear her anyway and now there's another explosion rocking the island, she yanks the chopper back to vertical. "Think that was the cannon," Sam shouts, staring at the screen on his forearm that she wishes she could catch a glimpse of, not even two minutes left on the clock, her heart beats in her ears as they round the North end of the island -

She notices that he's there before she notices that no one's shooting at them, at least not from the air defense system, she lowers over the landing pad and Sam throws down a rope and when he gives her the sign, she pulls the chopper up in the air, twenty, fifteen, ten -

The shockwave is massive, knocking her forward in her seat. Deafening noise. She chances a look back when she can, a giant sigh escaping her when she sees Barnes spread on the floor on his back, smeared with blood. He's in. That's all that counts, they'll stitch the rest back together later. Something beeps angrily at her. "What the fucking hell, man," Sam yells. "Are you trying to get killed?"

She's probably imagining it but she thinks she can hear him breathing hard, though never replying.

The chopper, for all its blinking red lights, carries them just fine to the coast and even a little beyond so she can land them orderly outside a farm slash safehouse. Sam, young guy with plenty of energy that he is, jumps straight out and heads inside. Barnes is just sitting up when she turns to stare at him angrily. "What the fuck was that?"

He groans under his breath, pushing up with his left arm. Oh, he's actually hurt. At least some of that is his blood. "You think I'm just leaving you there to die?" she questions.

"Why not?" he mutters, fighting to get on his feet.

That takes her aback. "What?!"

He bites his lip, the physical pain seemingly secondary to something more diffuse. "I read the report."

"What fucking report?"

"From the interrogation," he replies, and before she can ask, he climbs out as well. Jesus, she deals with reports and interrogations all the time, hundreds, thousands, if not millions of them, how is she supposed to know which one he means, and what the hell has that to do with any of this anyway -

Oh. That report. From that interrogation.

When she looks up, he has already disappeared inside the house.

She remembers that day very well, even if it was seventy years ago. She was sitting on the reflecting side of the one-way mirror, for the first time, and was thinking that if anyone with a gun or a knife would come in, she would take it and kill herself. They chained her to the table but that was more pro forma, they knew that wouldn't keep her from anything. And since no one was coming in, she was pondering whether she could successfully smash her head on the table or whether she would pass out before it became lethal. Of course, it would be easiest to slit her throat with shards from the broken mirror but they might just stop the bleeding in time. Plus, it would be too many steps, breaking free and breaking the mirror and cutting her artery, she wouldn't hold out against the gas for long enough. Smashing her head on the table would at least come without a warning.

The door opened and Madame B came in, alone. Unarmed as always. Another hope dashed. Though she should have known from the Madame showing up alone, and from the almost soft look on her face, after all of her disobedience -

Madame B sat down, studying her face like when she broke her leg during ballet class. She should have known then. "<I'm sorry, my dear Natasha.>"

But she didn't know, so she thought it was about the punishment she was about to receive, and she squared her shoulders and tried to look defiant. It was the right move anyway. Madame B nodded slowly and gave a sign to the mirror. "<Out.>"

That was unusual. Nothing was unwatched in the Red Room, constant surveillance from sunrise to sundown, nothing escaping the superiors' notice, you would have to climb up three floors of brick wall in total darkness and even then - She couldn't see behind the mirror but she heard a door. It's a trick , her mind supplied. Madame B leaned in. "<Just tell me what happened, my dear.>"

What happened? That she had felt alive for once? That she had actually cared about something, someone for maybe the first time in her life? That she had gone against everything they had ever taught her? That she had felt young and invincible and now they were paying the price? She had no idea where they had dragged him, no idea what they were doing to him, hadn't even heard a scream. Maybe he was already dead, an unreliable weapon, discarded. Tears pricked at her eyes and she looked away. Stupid.

"<You don't believe me>," Madame B observed, pushing her chair back. "<Look.>"

She left the room. Maybe now was the time to break the mirror and end all of this, if there was really no one ready to press the gas button at a moment's notice. She hesitated, though. Never hesitate . The mirror turned to glass, revealing Madame B standing in the empty observation room, really banal-looking considering how much power there always seemed to be behind the mirror. The glass might be bulletproof, though. Then she should smash her head against it instead of futilely trying to break it. Madame B was ripping cords and plugs out of the wall. Real showmanship. She hesitated again. Never hesitate.

Madame B came back and closed the door behind her, sitting down before she began to talk. "<I know it is painful but you can tell me. We are truly alone.>"

Trap. Why wasn't she angry at all? She wanted something, that much was clear. "<I don't want to talk about it,>" Natasha muttered.

"<You're strong, Natasha,>" Madame B said. "<The best student I've ever had. I've tried to protect you and I have failed.>"

She suddenly caught the drift of all this and her heart almost stopped. "<No.>"

"<Yes, I have,>" Madame B replied. "<I've tried to make you as strong as possible but failed to see there would still be men stronger than you.>"

She could hear her blood in her ears. "<What will happen to him?>"

"<That is, unfortunately, beyond my control,>" Madame B replied. "<But they will fix him, which should be punishment enough, and he will be taken away from here. I promise you he will never bother you again.>"

So it was in her hands. If she didn't play along, if they found out what actually happened, it would only get worse for him. She had to slander him to protect him, as far as she still could. "<I hope so,>" she muttered shakily.

Madame B took her hands. "<How often did he force you?>"

Never. She almost had to retch up the word. "<Twice.>"

She could cry now, actually. It only made it more believable. She could show the weakness she was feeling and it wouldn't be punished. Madame B caressed her hands. "<I'm sorry, little one.>"

She nodded, sniffling. It was perfect, actually. They never punished him for being hungry, why would they punish him for other desires breaking through? Sure, they would have to stamp it out, which would be painful enough, but it didn't mean he was compromised. Not like if they found out he had actual thoughts and feelings and made his own decisions. But if she was only helping him, why did it feel so much like betrayal?

"<I know we teach you to respect your superior's orders,>" Madame B said. "<But you should have told me, in this case.>"

She was certain she was going to throw up. "<I didn't want to seem weak.>"

"<I understand,>" Madame B agreed. "<But there are things you cannot handle on your own. You are strong but the group is stronger.>"

She pretends to try to get her breathing under control. "<What happens now?>"

"<I will give you a week of leave,>" Madame B replied. "<That should give you time to recover. However, I will have to cut your rations so it does not appear like you are on holidays.>"

Bitch. "<Thank you.>"

"<And you will write a report about how exactly this could happen,>" Madame B adds. "<Spare no detail.>"

Sam patches him up. It would have been a life-threatening injury for other people but Barnes appears annoyed at best. She doesn't know what to say. She had totally forgotten about the report and she has no idea where he would have gotten it. Not like it's on the internet free for all to see like her SHIELD files. She doesn't know what to say and before she knows it, he has retired to one of the bedrooms to rest. She hears him push the closet in front of the door. Sam rolls his eyes, then asks whether she's okay because she looks so pale. She excuses herself and goes to lay down as well.

Not that she could sleep. That fucking report. She really had forgotten about it, after all, it was seventy years ago and as far as she knows, nothing ever came of it. They were already separated and she wouldn't see him again until decades later, under very different circumstances. She thought that she was helping him with that report, at least not making it worse. But what if she did? His SHIELD files start way later and all she ever got from the Soviet ones were the few loose pages she gave to Steve. Nothing to do with her. A blank spot spanning decades.

She doesn't even remember what exactly she wrote, only that it was imaginative. Fictional. Nobody ever asked her about it. Even oh so empathetic Madame B seemed to have forgotten after a few weeks. But why would they give it to him, after thoroughly scraping her out of his memory? To make him feel bad? To poison any fragment of a memory he might have of that whole episode? To justify the next round of brainwashing? She can't tell, and she's not sure she would dare ask.

Sam, just as bad of an early bird as Steve, is already at the breakfast table when she gets up. "We're getting an extraction around noon, if all goes well."

She nods absentmindedly, opening the fridge and staring inside until she realizes she has no idea what she wants. "Have you seen Barnes?" Sam asks.

She shakes her head, taking a bottle of orange juice before realizing there's already one on the table. "Why?"

Sam shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't know but, does he also seem not so low-key suicidal to you?"

"Well, he never talks to me," she mutters, pouring herself a glass.

"Yeah, yeah." Sam sighs, looking out on the yard. "Maybe I'm overreading this but he seemed genuinely annoyed that we came back for him."

Why not? Is she supposed to say that he seems to think she would or even should leave him to die? "He's always annoyed, isn't he?"

"You're right," Sam admits. "Yeah, he's weird. Glad if I don't have to work with him."

"Looked like he would need some recovery time anyway," she suggests. "So I think we'll do the next one alone."

"Oh, you don't know him," Sam replies. "He could have a literal hole in his chest and you couldn't even tell by the next day."

She doesn't want to think about that. "Mhm. Well, I guess you don't mind if I steal the warm water?"

"Already showered," Sam replies. "After going on my morning run. I even made breakfast and read half of the Washington Post before one of you showed your face."

When she gets back, she irrationally starts skipping through every report she ever wrote at SHIELD. Like he would mean some other report. But she truly can't imagine where he would have gotten it when even she never got to see that thing. Of course she finds nothing, unless he means the report about how he shot her outside Odessa, but that is only a stiff run-down of factual events and it didn't involve an interrogation. Not like the other, salacious and disturbing one.

Even if he read the report, she's not sure how he understood it. Did he think it was true? That would explain why he thinks she might feel like leaving him to die on an exploding island. Is he mad at her for slandering him? She'd get that, though she doesn't think anyone else has seen it. Or maybe they used that report on him somehow, against him, maybe they showed it to him to convince him that he was a danger and needed to be controlled, maybe he remembered some fragment and they needed to convince him that his memory was wrong. Whatever it is, it's not good. Jesus, what was she thinking when writing it? Like it ever helped anyone to give the Red Room what they wanted.

"Doesn't seem like it's working itself out, huh?"

She looks up to find Steve standing in front of her desk. "Bucky," he clarifies, like she didn't already know, like she wasn't already thinking about that.

She shrugs, turning back to her files. Steve pulls one out. "Is that relevant to your current mission?"

"I don't have a current mission," she replies. "And you know that."

Steve, that little shit, grins. "Are you into archiving now? I thought going through old stuff was my thing."

"Just jogging my memory," she replies. "How is he?"

"Fresh like a morning espresso," Steve says, putting the file back. "And just as bitter."

She smirks. "You should write poetry."

"Who says I don't already?" He crosses his arms, leaning his shoulder against the wall."Seriously, though, whatever it is, I thought he would have gotten over it by now."

"Some things, you never get over," she suggests.

"I guess," Steve admits. "Is it that kind of thing?"

She snorts. "Hell if I know."

"I could make him talk to you," Steve proposes. "Would that help?"

"Probably," she replies. "But I doubt you could make him."

"Well, I could try." His gaze wanders off. "Actually, I've tried bringing it up but he always shuts down, says he doesn't want to talk about it. Basically just have to say your name and it's over."

"Well, tell him I still want to talk to him," she suggests. "Chances are he won't but what are you going to do, I guess."

"I mean, this is not doing him any good," Steve remarks. "Not to mention the impact it has on the team."

"That bad?" she asks.

"Have you ever seen him at a team meeting?" Steve asks back. "Yeah, exactly."

"Trust me, Clint would do the same thing," she jokes. "If he thought he could pull it off."

She wakes up to find three messages from an unknown number, reading I'm sorry, But I can't, I'm really sorry, sent between 11 pm and 1 am. Jesus. She doesn't even need to check to know that it's from Barnes. She hits "Call" and waits anxiously as it rings through. He doesn't pick up. Oh, for fuck's sake.

She jumps up and throws on a sweater and heads to his room, which is locked, of course. After some arguing with FRIDAY, she learns he's not in there anyway. Not so low-key suicidal. She finds Sam in the kitchen making a smoothie. "Have you seen Barnes?"

"Isn't he working?" Sam asks back. "Can't remember where, though."

Right. A tiny little bit of weight lifts from her chest. "Can you call him?" she pleads. "He sent me really weird texts in the middle of the night, and now he doesn't pick up."

Sam frowns, fumbling his phone from his pocket. "Uh, sure. Weird how?"

She takes her phone out as well to show him. "I mean, he has never texted me before, so that's weird all on its own -"

Sam puts it on loudspeaker, the sound reverberating through the kitchen. "Maybe it's time zones. Don't remember where he went."

"Maybe," she agrees nervously, crossing her arms.

Sam's phone keeps ringing through. He frowns at hers. "Oh yeah, that sounds guilty."

"You think so?" she questions.

"There are three messages and two of them are I'm sorry," Sam reminds her, handing her her phone back. "Maybe ask Steve whether he knows where Barnes is?"

"I can just look it up," she suggests. "I have literally all the clearances."

Sam grins. "Right. Why did you even -" His phone interrupts to let them know they can leave a message. Sam groans. "Come on. Why does it always have to be like this with that guy?"

"Try again," she orders, hacking away at her phone. "Maybe he's just busy."

"Maybe he's asleep," Sam mutters, starting the next call. "Remember what I said after he kinda tried to get blown up with that island?"

"Yeah?" she asks nervously.

"Sounds exactly like that," Sam replies. "Uh, I'll text Steve."

Still no one answering the phone. "Do that."

"Really hate that I always have to deal with that guy," Sam mutters. "Yeah, he's still not picking up."

"He's in London," she announces. "Middle of the day there."

"Great," Sam remarks. "So he's just being a dick."

"I'll go there," she states. "You tell Steve."

"He'll want to come along," Sam points out.

"Well, tell him in an hour," she replies. "That should be enough."

"You're evil," Sam sighs. "Fine. I'll let you know if he calls back."

She calls Barnes a few times on the way to the airport, with no result, and then twice after she touches down late in the evening. She's on the train into the city when he texts her Stop calling. Amateur. She smiles and starts locating his phone.

It's Friday and the city is busy, even at Midnight. She loses his signal around Streatham and wanders around aimlessly until she remembers he must be hungry , so she starts checking every food place in the neighborhood that's still open at this late hour. Finally, she spots him at a chicken bar alone in a booth with heaps of meat and fries in front of him, not even three seconds until he spots her, too, tensing all over. She swallows. Right now, she's blocking the exit. If she goes in, he'll be out in seconds. If she stays outside, she can't talk to him.

She goes in.

There's a long line of people waiting for their take-out and she ducks through between them to get to Barnes' table. He wipes his fingers, staring at her nervously as she slides in, but he hasn't bolted yet. "Listen -"

"I can't," he interrupts. "Told you I can't - I know you want to talk about it, I get that, I just- I can't do it. Sorry."

"About what?" she asks.

"Don't make me say it," he returns. "I'm sorry, really, I can't imagine how you feel, but I'm just not - Fuck."

She tries to grab his arm as he brushes past her. "Barnes -"

"I'm sorry, Natalia," he whispers, and then he's in the crowd, she curses and darts after him but when she reaches the door he's nowhere to be seen. Fuck.

She goes to the safehouse but of course he's not there and he doesn't come back all night. She paces up and down the hallway listening for every minute noise, flips through the stuff he left behind, clothes, guns, files. That particular report nowhere to be found. She texts Steve whether Barnes ever mentioned a report and Steve texts back You're funny. Right.

She also texts Steve and Sam that she can't talk when the truth is that she doesn't want to talk. He called her Natalia. That wasn't in the report and he wouldn't have picked it up now, nobody else calls her that. He remembers something at least. I can't imagine how you feel. Why would she feel differently from him? And he didn't mention the report, so it can't be about the report itself, about the fact of it having been written, only about what's in there. Jesus, if only she remembered it better, if only she could get her hands on that damn thing. Wherever he got it from.

She looks through his stuff again to figure out whether he'd come back for it eventually or whether he'd just leave it here and fly back without it, anything so he doesn't have to talk to her. A few fake passports that might be useful. Lots of guns. Nothing he strictly couldn't do without. It's a job where everything is discardable, papers, personal belongings, relationships, people. The past.

She sleeps a little but not really. Dreams something wild she can't quite remember but it involved the electric chair she knows from the files, jolts awake a few times, already feeling the memory slip away. Her stupid head. Once, she wakes from a knock at the window but she imagined that as well.

When he's still not back in the morning, she heads out without plan or direction. Of course, he discarded his phone not far from the chicken bar. Nothing to trace him by. Then again, she knows what he's working on, so she can figure out where he'll show up sooner or later. Time to dive into alien artifact smuggling.

And she figures it out just in time, getting to the warehouse while the woman in the reinforced Protoss suit is beating the shit out of him. She sneaks up on her calmly and tasers her, making her drop like a plank. Barnes, with his blood smeared face, groans, refusing her hand to get up on his own. "Thanks."

"No problem," she replies. "More of those around?"

He spits on the floor, holding his left side. "No idea."

"Great," she remarks, crouching down to permanently disable the Protoss suit. "Let's take -"

Pang.

He jumps onto her, all of his weight crashing down and pressing the air out of her lungs, her shoulder gets twisted but all she can think is that this is her fault, she should have checked the surroundings before coming in, he could have held out another minute or two, she just didn't want to wait because of stupid sentimentality - He shifts and there's another explosion ringing through her ears and then he rolls off her, groaning, leaving her free to reach for her gun and fire at the door. Normal goons, no one with any special equipment that she can see. Drop like flies. She approaches the door, peering out both sides, painfully forcing air back into her lungs. Clear.

She looks back at Barnes smearing the floor with his own blood, Jesus, so much blood - She disables the Protoss suit for good before crouching down next to him. He coughs up more blood. "Sorry."

"Why are you apologizing for giving me cover?" she asks in disbelief, rolling her shoulder absentmindedly. "Where did you get hit?"

"Hip," he sighs. "And shoulder. Left."

"The metal one?" she questions, leaning over him. "Doesn't that just -"

He startles when she touches him. "Next to - Next to the seam."

He's bleeding a lot but really, she's not sure he's physically capable of bleeding out. More likely he would starve to death. She swallows, reaching to her belt for the mull and taping it over the wound. "My car's outside. Can you walk?"

He pushes up with his left arm. "I'm fine. Let's get out of here."

He has lost at least a liter of blood, not to mention the bruises, the actual bullets stuck in his hip and shoulder - "Sure?"

He gets up not without problem but on his own, limping towards the door. "Yeah. Before more of them show up."

She quickly searches the woman in the Protoss suit and the goons she shot, gathering phones and wallets and what else she can. Barnes drops into the passenger seat of her car with a groan, smearing blood all over the door. Jesus, she hopes they don't get stopped. He really doesn't look good, wincing whenever she hits a bump in the road but she doesn't want to slow down. "You really have a talent for getting shot, don't you?"

"Happens," he mutters. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" she repeats, finding the jammed traffic suddenly quite stressful. "You kinda took a bullet for me there. Two, in fact."

"I know you want to forgive me," he sighs, barely comprehensible. "But you don't have to."

"If it's about the report -" She breaks off because someone's honking at her, steering hard to the right, brakes screeching. "Fuck."

"Later," he promises, eyes closing. "Later."

She drives him to the ER where the staff completely panic, probably unwarranted. He doesn't even have the bullets anywhere lethal. But they roll him into the operating suit, without anesthesia because he refuses, and she's left standing outside with her blood-covered clothes. Great. She texts Steve his buddy managed to get shot again but he'll probably be fine. He's always fine.

She falls asleep in the waiting room, waking up completely disoriented. After blinking at the neon lights and the darkness outside until she remembers where she is and why, she catches a nurse to ask him where and how Barnes is. Turns out that motherfucker already discharged himself. Oh, Jesus Christ.

She heads back to the safehouse ready to give up. She'll just fly back and write him an e-mail or something, and if he doesn't respond to that, well, she'll just leave it alone. She's tired and done with this, too much emotion, too many memories.

To her surprise, he's at the safehouse folding up his clothes, looking up nervously when she opens the door. She groans. "You really couldn't have woken me up before leaving the hospital?"

"Sorry," he replies, looking away. "Chickened out."

Well, that's honest. She closes the door behind her, turning all the locks. "Did they stitch you up?"

"It's fine," he says. His face is already a lot less swollen. "You don't need to ask."

For all the time she spent trying to get him to talk to her, she really didn't think very much about what to say. She bites her lip, crossing her arms. "So, how did you get that report?"

He swallows, still not looking at her. "Listen, I - I think I genuinely didn't know. I think I was too broken to even realize - Well, what's it matter."

Her mouth is dry. "Realize what?"

"Doesn't change anything, does it?" he asks. "Doesn't change what happened, and now I'm somehow here and you're here and it just makes me want to put a bullet in my brain -"

"Barnes," she interrupts, alarmed.

"Should've," he mutters. "I can't make it undone, wish I could, and the - You are so nice to me, undeserved, when really, how it must feel to you, and then -"

"Listen to me," she tries to interrupt. "Listen -"

"- don't trust myself with you," he continues. "I guess you want to work through that but I can't, really, I'll fucking break, not strong enough to -"

He freezes when she kisses him, pushing her away almost immediately, groaning and backing away. "Don't do that, don't, I'll, I'll - Please, Natalia, Natasha, don't -"

"The report was a lie," she says.

"What?" he asks, stupefied.

"Start to finish," she replies. "One big fat lie. Well, I threw in just enough truth to make it believable, I didn't really know what details they already knew -"

"Why would you do that?" he asks, horrified. "Why would you lie about something like that?"

"Because -" She swallows. "That's what they already assumed, and I figured - I figured it would be less bad for you if they thought you just saw a girl you liked and raped her, less bad than if they realized you were feeling all these things you weren't supposed to -"

"Less bad," he repeats numbly.

"Yeah, like, they would just - just punish you," she explains nervously. "A flaw that could be fixed, no reason to - to send you to Siberia or, or, to shoot you in the head - Well, and I guess they wouldn't put me up against the wall either -"

He blinks at her. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, of course," she confirms. "Don't you remember?"

"So I never hurt you," he states in disbelief.

"I mean, you tried to kill me a bunch of times since then," she reminds him. "But other than that, no."

He rubs his face. "Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, but -"

"Maybe that was wrong," she hurries to say. "Maybe that didn't help you at all, maybe it was just as bad, maybe they didn't care for the difference at all - I don't know, I just tried to do what I could."

"But I remember, " he insists. "I remember -"

"You're imagining that," she interrupts. "You're making it up because you've read the report and you think it must have been that way, but it wasn't."

He sighs. "So I can't trust my own head either -"

"You can trust me," she whispers, inching closer. "Tell me, what did they do to you?"

He blinks at her. "So you said that to protect me?"

"Of course." She takes his right hand. "I knew I would never see you again but I didn't want them to kill you because of me -"

"Because of you?" he repeats. "You didn't make me do anything, Natalia."

She chuckles, inching closer. "You were the only one who called me that."

"It was your name," he mutters, breathing her in.

"Typical yankee," she whispers. "Doesn't understand Russian names -"

"I didn't even speak the language," he remarks, eyes darting down to her lips.

She smirks. "Well, you do now."

"Yeah," he breathes. "Now -"

She lunges up to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he hesitates long seconds before kissing her back, she moans when she feels his hands on her hips, he smells like hospital and tastes like blood but also like freedom , forgiveness, she pulls him down to her as far as she can and he groans, parting his lips just enough for her tongue to slip through, more noise than they ever dared to make, he lifts her up effortlessly, hissing when she wraps her legs around his hips, the pain doesn't matter at all, he's so warm, almost feverish, she licks the blood out of his mouth, more, more, more -

He drops her on some sideboard or on the kitchen counter, she couldn't care less, he obliges her by grabbing the neckline of his shirt and yanking it off with a hiss, his torso covered all over in bloodied bandages but no scars, heals too quickly to scar, she struggles her pants down to the point where he rips them off, coming back to kiss her, finally, kissing down her neck and behind her ear and she moans, dragging him closer with her feet, intoxicated with the way he smells, old and new, her head bumps back against the wall, sideboard, some impulse makes her reach over and flick out the light, he cups the back of her head with his right hand and she clings so close to him he automatically picks her up when he straightens, he groans with pain and lust as she accidentally rips off a few bandages while trying to get her shirt off, they're so close, at least until he drops her on the bed but he climbs right after, hands wandering around the lower edge of her bra but he hesitates and she snaps it off herself, never hesitate , she groans at the feeling of his metal hand and him sucking on her breast. "You're so pretty," he mutters into the darkness, "almost hurts looking at you -"

Her panties stick to her as she tries to get them off but he's on top of her, in the way, "Couldn't help but think how pretty you are," he breathes against her breast before tugging on it with his teeth, "Every time I saw you, and it felt so horribly wrong -"

She gasps, pushing his head down forcefully. He obliges, not without kissing roughly where the scar on her abdomen should be, too dark to tell, he's too agitated to pull her panties down without ripping them, the sound of tearing cloth - She kicks when he starts licking into her, no time for niceties or teasing, it all feels like release, like finally, she buckles and screams, finally, an ecstasy that was never allowed, he keeps going relentlessly, urgently, every second counts, every breath and every moan and every jolt of her hips, his left arm holding her down, she bucks and bucks and bucks, head thrown back and chest arched and toes curling like she has to let it out somehow , her screams echoing down from the ceiling -

It's not enough, though, and she flips him over and climbs on top of him, blindly feeling down to his belt and the button and the zipper, he groans loudly as she sinks down on him, gripping the headboard so hard the metal bends with a screech, she wastes no time rocking him deeper and deeper, whole body sliding against him and the semi-loose bandages, hospital and blood all stripped away and leaving nothing but him, nothing but the best, he groans with a little more pain than she is comfortable with but when she pauses, he pulls her hips down himself, palming her ass as she starts riding him again, they meet in the middle in the most joyous of ways, it's loud, the creaky bed and the slapping skin and the grunts and moans, she loses her mind over every millimeter she can get him deeper into her, every bit more than she thought she would ever get, a constant release, her head swimming in tears -

He flips her over and she screams with joy as he slams back into her, not deeper but harder, faster, he tries to kiss her but can't keep it up with the intensity of his thrusts, she needs it, screaming and flailing around wildly, no inhibitions, seeing colors and stars in the darkness that aren't there and feeling heat that is, a current to the beat of his thrusts, humming along faster and louder -

It's over too soon but she truly could have kept going forever, and she could have kept him on top and inside of her forever, too, but she's too fucked out to cling to him when he rolls off her, feels so soon but it probably isn't, her head is boiling and she doesn't care she's leaking everywhere. It's dark and she listens to his breathing, the heat slowly subsiding to the cool of the room. She has never felt like this before, so needy and so content, so sad and so happy, so unsure and so right. The heartbeat she hears must be her own but she imagines it is his.

He takes a deep breath. "So that was -"

"Third time," she replies. "Yeah."

He shifts but she's too fucked out to tell how. "And you liked that?"

"Yeah," she breathes, never liked anything as much as this. "You?"

He chuckles. "Oh God."

She's still feeling hot all over, especially her head. She'd like to hug him but doesn't dare, doesn't even know where exactly he is on the bed. "So, where did you get that stupid report?"

"They gave it to me," he says, sitting up, the metal glinting in the faint light.

Oh God. "When?"

"Don't know exactly," he mutters. "Can't have been long after - The brainwashing didn't work as good yet, and I still remembered some - some pieces of you. I was worried what your people were going to do to you, what they had already done maybe, and I - I begged them to let me go back for you, to - I don't even know. And then they showed me the report."

Her chest tightens. "I'm sorry."

"You couldn't have known," he replies. "I didn't want to believe it at first but they showed me photos of your bruises and -"

"I had bruises all the time," she interrupts. "That wasn't from you."

He swallows. "Well, I wasn't so sure anymore, and then they showed me the video - It was corny but you looked so miserable, and then you said you hoped I was gone for good and that I had forced you -"

Tears prick at her eyes. "I thought they didn't record that."

"They always had video of everything, right?" he asks drily. "Well, after that, after they convinced me you wanted nothing less than to see me ever again, I let them put me on ice until they could figure out a way to make me safe again -"

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"You couldn't have known," he says. "They would have found some other way to make me think I was a danger to everyone, too. They always did."

"So you knew?" she asks. "When Steve brought you in?"

"They made me forget later, together with everything else," he returns. "I didn't remember anything about you except when I tried to kill you. That came later."

"When?" she probes.

"I don't know exactly." He sighs. "Wasn't so clear-cut but I always felt so uneasy around you, and - Felt like you looked at me like I should remember something, too, with expectation - And when it came back piece by piece, well, that was horrible . I know you said blank slate but I couldn't do that, couldn't bear looking at you, couldn't help but constantly think about how I must be making you feel -"

"I thought you just didn't remember at all," she replies. "Didn't want to make you feel bad for that, or like you should - Didn't want to pressure you while you were just trying to find your place."

"You said you didn't blame me for what I did while I was brainwashed, right?" he remarks. "Right at the beginning. And I initially thought you meant me trying to kill you, but later, it suddenly made so much sense with the other thing, too - For you, it must have been forever ago, and maybe you actually wanted to forgive me, but I really didn't want you to. For me, it was fresh, and it felt so wrong to just let it go -"

She groans, not wanting to hear any more of it. "That's horrible."

"Yeah," he admits. "Wasn't fun. And I didn't want to tell anyone either, didn't want them to know what I'd done to you -"

"You didn't do anything," she assures him. "So, um, what now?"

He chuckles. "Oh, no idea -"

Something rings, startling them both. She groans. "Oh, my fucking phone -"

"I'll get it," he offers, the bed shifting under her.

"Leave it," she orders half-heartedly but he has already flicked the light on. She groans, covering her eyes.

He doesn't find it, though, judging by the constant annoying ringing, and when it's suddenly quiet, she listens anxiously - Nothing. Oh, she's glad he missed it, wouldn't want to talk right now. "It's fine, I'll check later."

He comes back into the bedroom, the bloodied bandages hanging off him. She can't help but grin. "So, how many life-threatening wounds did I rip open?"

He shrugs, studying the one on his left hip. "Only two or so. Maybe three."

"Wouldn't have happened if you didn't sneak out of the hospital like a coward," she accuses. "And I had to follow you here -"

He grins, crossing his arms. "Well, in that case, glad I didn't wake you."

"You're bad." She sighs. "Oh, you bled all over me, too. Not to mention the sheets."

"You know that movie?" he asks. "With the icepick?"

She snorts, sitting up. "I'm shocked Steve let you watch that."

"Didn't ask him for permission," he replies. "But you look sexy covered in blood. Wait, that sounds wrong."

"Does it?" she asks innocently. "What was that about the icepick?"

"Just saying, I don't want you injured or anything," he adds. "I didn't mean that."

"You're fresh out of the hospital," she reminds him. "And your blood is dripping down your leg."

"Eh, don't worry about it," he replies. "Uh, you took some stuff from the warehouse, right?"

Right, the warehouse. The actual job. Should focus on that and not get into sentimentalities again. "Uh, yeah. Might have left it downstairs in the car."

He clears his throat. "Right. Should get cleaned up, then."

Her phone rings again. She groans, kicking the sheets down, following the noise into the living room. So many clothes strewn all around, not to mention the knocked-over couch table. She didn't even notice that before. "Where is it?"

"No idea," he replies. "Sounds like it's coming from the kitchen."

"I didn't even go into the kitchen," she complains, sifting through her pants. Lots of loose change but no phone.

"I'll go change the bandages," he announces, heading for the bathroom.

"Wait," she tries. "Let me -" The phone suddenly stops ringing and she groans. Great. Two missed calls. But she stops worrying about it when he emerges from the tiny bathroom with the medical kit. "Yeah?"

"I'll do that," she offers. "You shouldn't strain the one on your shoulder."

He pulls a face, trying to look down at the blood smeared over his chest and the metal shoulder. "Fine."

She directs him towards the dining table, carefully pulling the old bandage off and cutting off the new mull. Jesus, why does she have a lump in her throat now ? She can't even look him in the eye. He swallows uncomfortably as she presses it to his skin. Oh, this isn't over, that was just an eruption of feelings and hormones and now it's awkward. She should wash the blood off him but that might open up the wounds again. Maybe later.

This is so unreal somehow, just him being here, just talking about it, like it's something that can be put into words, and all the blood - She learned so much and still doesn't know anything. "You think they knew?"

"Hm?"

He's getting goosebumps from her touch and she's not sure that's good. "That the report wasn't true. From your reaction."

"Not sure," he mutters. "I think you sold it pretty well. Maybe they really thought I was just too broken to realize you didn't want that."

"That's dark," she whispers, ripping another bandage off.

He bites his lip. "Welcome to my brain."

"Did you really -" It's uncomfortable to ask. "Did you really think I wanted you dead? Because of that?"

"No," he replies. "But you should've."

A shiver runs down her spine. "On that island?"

He sighs. "Listen, the last thing I wanted was you putting yourself in danger just to get me off there as well -"

The locks turn, suddenly, one by one, she drops the tape in surprise - Barnes pushes her behind him, stepping between her and the door, shit, she can't even find her phone, how is she supposed to find any weapons -

The door opens and it's Steve, absolutely priceless face at the nakedness and the blood and the - "Guys! What the hell?"

"What are you doing here?" Barnes asks, surprised.

"Well, you weren't at the hospital and neither you nor Nat picked up-" Steve flushes. "Nat?"

She tries an innocent face. "Five minutes?"

"Two," Steve returns. "Jesus, you're bleeding all over -"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm aware," Barnes interrupts. "Close the door, please and thank you."

"Can't believe you guys," Steve mutters, pulling the door shut. "Two minutes!"

Barnes exhales, unclenching his fist. "Well."

"Great," she remarks, picking up the tape and cutting off more of the mull. "Let's finish this, then I'll take a shower and you figure out what to tell him."

"Oh, thanks," he returns. "I literally have multiple gunshot wounds -"

"You didn't seem to care about that earlier," she points out.

He grins. "I mean, I was kinda preoccupied -"

"Yeah, yeah." She picks up her pants and her shirt. "Have you seen my bra?"

"Bedside lamp," he replies. "Don't even bother with the panties, they're for the trash anyway."

"Wonder whose fault that is," she mutters, heading for the bedroom where her bra is really hanging off the lampshade. "Oh wow."

"Just leave it there," he suggests innocently, pulling on his shirt. "I'd love to see Stevie's face -"

"Nope." She snatches the bra off the lamp. "Throw the sheets in the washing machine, too."

"I'm not going to look for the washing machine now," he returns. "Just close the door."

"Great." She throws him his pants and squeezes into the tiny bathroom. "See you later."

She doesn't understand a thing they're saying over the water crashing down on her and honestly, she's okay with that. She takes the opportunity not only to rinse the blood and everything between her legs off but also to wash her hair with the generic shampoo that somehow always smells like wet paint. By the time she's drying herself off, it's quiet outside.

The blood is off but she actually finds she has a nasty-looking bruise on her shoulder. Right, that. Looks worse than it is. She brushes her wet hair and puts her clothes back on (except for the panties, she'll fish those out of the sheets later), then takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Steve is sitting at the dining table with a laptop, looking up when she steps out. Barnes is nowhere to be seen. "You alright?"

She nods, looking around. "Where'd he go?"

"Ah, he wanted to get something from the warehouse," Steve replies, looking back at the screen. "I'm looking through it right now. At least one of them is on the Wakandan Most Wanted list, for vibranium smuggling."

"Huh." She sits down. "Makes sense, I guess."

Steve studies her over the rim of the screen. "You didn't get shot, right? Didn't get hurt?"

"Nope," she replies. "He threw himself on top of me and then he got shot in the shoulder."

"Oh wow." Steve snorts. "Romantic."

"Yeah, and then he bled all over me," she adds.

"Can't believe that worked on you," Steve remarks.

"I mean, was a little more complicated than that," she replies. "You tell me if you need help with that, right?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "Thanks. I know how a laptop works."

She shrugs, not feeling like teasing him. "Why'd he go? Was it urgent?"

"Nah." Steve frowns. "To be perfectly honest, I think he just didn't want to be here when you came back."

Great. So they're doing that again. "Why are you even here in the first place?"

"Had a layover in London anyway," Steve replies. "Thought I should just check up on him, after all that weird stuff. Did you know he just threw his phone away?"

"Yeah, I know, I found it," she remarks.

Steve rolls his eyes. "Oh man. Yeah, just wanted to check he's not doing anything stupid."

"That would be a first, wouldn't it?" She smirks.

"True." He shuts the laptop. "Okay, so, seriously, what is all this?"

"Not sure yet." She crosses her legs on the chair. "Haven't had the time to figure that out."

"Huh." Steve frowns. "But, like, do I need to know?"

She shrugs. "Not really. No."

"Great," Steve decides, reaching for his vibrating phone. "Let me know when you figure it out. Hold on, Sam wanted to call me back."

"Hey Cap," Sam greets. "Found your problem child?"

"Yeah, yeah, he's fine," Steve replies. "Nat's here, too."

"Oh, hey," Sam adds. "What's going on?"

"Oh," she lies blatantly. "Nothing much."

Steve gives her an incredulous look. "Right, so I looked into that ship you asked me about," Sam remarks. "Registered in Malaysia but it seems to be going around the Persian Gulf a lot. Last anchored in Doha four days ago. Owner is the Spectitrade Unlimited LLC, registered in the Bahamas, that's really just an empty front."

"Guess I should look into that," Steve sighs. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, actually, Hill pointed out that Captain Marvel asked about a stolen Irathium cannon a while back," Sam adds. "Barnes didn't come across that thing by any chance?"

"Not that I know of," she replies. "We'll ask when he comes back."

"Comes back?" Sam repeats. "Why'd you let him go away in the first place? So he can get shot again?"

"He's not that bad, Sam," Steve remarks.

"Hell yeah, he is," Sam counters. "Just ask Nat."

"I plead the fifth," she replies. "So -"

"Wait, you what?" Sam cuts in with amusement. "Seriously?"

"Don't ask," Steve mutters. "I need a memory wipe, too."

"Oh no," Sam states empathetically. "Nat, how could you?"

"None of your business," she replies. "We're talking again, that's all you need to know."

"Sounds like you traumatized poor Cap with your talking," Sam returns. "Well, good luck with that idiot. Call me if you need anything else, I'm actually just hanging around right now."

"Thanks, man," Steve replies, hanging up. "Mhm. Think he's getting in trouble again?"

"How long has he been gone?" she asks. "Ten minutes, fifteen?"

"Something like that," Steve agrees. "Ah, I'm sure he's fine."

Barnes doesn't come back that soon and then Sam calls again because something comes up in their mission, so she runs off to infiltrate that facility. The usual mess. She only meets him when she's back at headquarters and he's just strolling out of the medical wing with a bandage wrapped around his head. She grins. "Oh, did you get shot again?"

He snorts, ruffling through his hair, visibly annoyed with the bandage being there. "Nah, just knocked my head. Not that big of a deal."

"Really can't leave you out of my sight, can I?" she jokes.

"Hey, last time I got shot, you were there," he reminds her. "Uh, coffee?"

Well, she can write that report later. "Sure."

He pours them two mugs and they head outside to the patio. Clint is shooting at a target in the distance. Barnes clears his throat. Yeah, there's that awkwardness again. "Did you just get back?"

"Pretty much," she replies. "You?"

"Couple of hours ago."

They're silent again, staring out over the fields. An arrow lands close to the bullseye. "What did you tell Steve?" she finally asks.

"Everything," he replies. "Pretty much. Figured that was okay."

She's not sure how she feels about that. "Probably."

Another arrow hits the target. He drinks a sip of the coffee that's still way too hot. Anything in order not to have to say anything. She frowns. "And about - about what we're doing now?"

He chuckles. "That I have no idea."

"Me either," she sighs.

"I mean, I really think you're very pretty," he offers. "But that was more a spur-of-the-moment thing."

"You really meant a lot to me back then," she admits. "But - No offense but I don't even really know you."

"Same."

"Great," she remarks. "Just great."

"Could be worse." He squints at Clint pulling the arrows out one by one. "We got all the time in the world now, right? We can figure it out."

She bites her lip. "If you don't run away again every time -"

"Sorry." He shakes his head. "Was all a bit much."

She tries the coffee just to find it's still too hot. "Remember what I called you? Because I was so outraged you didn't have a name?"

"Not sure," he admits. "Was it - Kostya?"

"Yeah." She smiles. "Or when I tried to explain to you that you should call me Natasha because that's short for Natalia and you insisted that that wasn't any shorter -"

"Well, I had a point," he remarks.

"You sounded so weird," she mutters. "Oh man. That was really forever ago."

"How old were you even?" he asks. "You were so young -"

She snorts loudly. "Like, 27. Not like I was 17."

"Kinda felt that way," he confesses. "But maybe I'm misremembering that, too."

"Yeah, probably." She shakes her head. "I felt young, though. Not like now."

"Let me tell you," he replies. "You look really great for almost 90."

She grins. "Eh, you're not doing so bad for your 101 either."

"Wow," he returns. "Thanks for reminding me."

"You're welcome." She carefully sips on the hot coffee. "So, we just see where this goes?"

"Yeah," he agrees. "Let's just see. No pressure."

"Mhm," she makes. "And what do we tell the others?"

He snorts. "That they should mind their own goddamn business and not stick their noses into ours. How about that?"

"You know what?" she asks. "I think I like you, James Buchanan Barnes."

He grins. "I like you, too, Natalia Alianovna. Natasha."

"Oh my God," she remarks with amusement. "You learned it."

He snorts. "Well, I had more than enough time, right?"