It's the anger that does it, convinces her that it's truly James and no impostor. Natalia's seen the flare of his particular temper too many times not to recognize it, and this place's name, this Tabula Rasa. James would never accept a blank slate.
He drops the gun, not permission to approach, exactly, not for people like them, but Natalia takes it all the same, left hand peeling off the glove of the right so that when she reaches him, she fit the curve of her palm to his cheek. His skin is smooth and warm, not broken or bruised or beaten down as she'd feared. Nothing is as she expected, but it's welcome, and Natalia breathes a sigh of still bewildered relief.
It's short-lived. If what James says is true, if he's been here for months, he can't know the things that have been happening to him back home, the full implications of what that means for the Widow still at home, Natalia must save for a later time. "You were taken," she says, forcing herself not to hesitate. For some it would be a kindness to hide the horrors that await them back home, but James has had enough of his own destiny removed from his control. He would not thank her for the omission. "Tried in absentia for crimes against the Russian state. I was in Moscow, searching for a way to free you."
"Russia?" he echoes, and he's too tired to hide his confusion. That she's from after his time goes without saying, and for one fleeting moment, he's grateful that it's someone else's turn to shoulder the burden of the future, though he immediately regrets it. He'd been expecting a trial in the States upon his return; that he ended up convicted by the Russians is obviously news.
"What crimes? I don't remember--" he starts in a defiant rush, though he quickly cuts himself off, his lips still parted in surprise, his cheeks still flushed with anger. The slight weight of Natalia's hand is of greater comfort than he would ever admit, though, and his focus is drawn to the curve of her mouth before he looks up again to meet her eyes. "I came here straight from the English Channel Islands, right after the mess with Zemo."
"Yes, that is not so long ago for me either," says Natalia, schooling all but a trace of heat from her voice. She's forgiven him for it, perhaps, running off alone, punishing himself beyond what he deserved, but she won't soon forget the worry he'd caused her.
"James, the crimes for which they condemned you were two hits of the Winter Soldier's, one Victor Lodenko and Rina Szynski, cover names both. They say the Winter Soldier had gone rogue, but I believe otherwise, I believe these people had ties to the Red Room. They were sanctioned hits by the KGB on their own people. I..." She stops short. She's always recovered quickly, but it's all so strange, to be standing here with him after so long, like something from a dream. James has more color to him now, tanned by the sun if the lingering heat is any indication, a looseness to his limbs that she doesn't recall. He's more handsome than ever. Infuriating man. "I had a plan."
"Yeah, I have no memory of that," Bucky murmurs, half to himself as he tries to remember with no success. His life as the Winter Soldier comes to him mostly in nightmares, in splintered fragments when waking; some memories are clearer, now, than they've been in the past, but his recall is still far from perfect. Shaking his head, he lets out an aborted sigh. If they were sanctioned hits by the KGB, it's entirely possible he's not meant to remember; wracking his brain for answers is probably a fruitless exercise.
As is, he thinks, trying not to kiss Natalia; that he doesn't know he'd be able to stop with just a kiss is the only thing keeping him in check. The intel she has to offer is too valuable to have wait, and so it is that he forces himself to think with his head, much as his body is making a compelling argument to listen to it instead.
"No," Natalia admits. "Sharon and I were sent to gather intel. We had only just found the files I needed when we were ambushed by KGB agents." Natalia's fingers curl lightly against his back, gentle pressure over what must be flesh darkening with bruises. "I thought you were one of them. I knew as soon as I saw them that we couldn't do more without risking international incident. Steve couldn't shoulder the blame for that," she says, lifting her fingers from his back to card through his hair, straightening the sleepmussed tufts. "It would ruin him. I planned to go rogue."
The fight, unnecessary as it was, left him feeling looser than he has in months, but it feels better, still, just to be touched, to be intimate in even the chastest of ways; it's been a while, after all. He rests his free hand on the small of her back, his other occupied with the gun he has no intent of using any longer.
This part of the story, at least, doesn't come as much surprise; it's about what he expected. But then, he and Natalia are cut of a different cloth than Steve, both of them manipulated and strung along, molded into weapons. Even before the Soviets, Bucky worked in the shadows, doing what Captain America couldn't.
"He's here, too," Bucky says, something unreadable in his expression. "Steve, he just showed up a couple months ago, from the moment of his death after the Civil War. Time, here, it's--" He looks away for the first time, focusing on a point over her shoulder. "Whoever runs this place doesn't give a damn about keeping things in the right order. There's so much he doesn't know, that I haven't been able to tell him."
"You don't want to burden him," Natalia guesses, choosing the easier of two likely truths. James carries so much, far more than his due, and she doesn't ask how much of that hesitance is shame for what was beyond his control to alter. "Steve is very strong," she says, taking his face in her hands. "He can bear quite a lot."
Her thumbs sweep against the dark circles beneath his eyes, Natalia's chin lifting until she can press her lips to the spot. "Here for months," she says. "I see you sleep no better."
Bucky lets out a quiet sigh at the press of her lips, and pivots them on the spot so he can set his gun down on the table that houses the lamp without needing to put any more distance between himself and Natalia; he's not made of stone. With both hands at his disposal, he pulls her closer, fingers skimming greedily over the swell of her hips. He hadn't forgotten how beautiful she was, but his memories hardly compare to the reality; even so, he isn't entirely certain he isn't still asleep, the simple act of holding Natalia in his arms after all this time surreal. He's finding it harder and harder to focus on the conversation, his breaths slowly growing shallow.
"That's 'cause I've been sleeping alone," he says with a slight smile, trying for a joke. True as it is -- he's been faithful -- it's never really mattered if he was alone or not; his nightmares aren't so easily dissuaded. Bowing his head, Bucky rests his forehead against hers, and lowers his voice as if divulging a secret: "You're a sight for sore eyes."
"And you," she replies, falling a long way towards breathless when she feels his fingers tighten at her waist, hold onto her with purpose. It's all happened so quickly, and Natalia isn't given towards trust, but to those who've earned it she trusts everything, and she trusts James. However strange the last moments of her life have been, she knows that she's safe to close her eyes, that there's no need to secure the area before letting down her guard.
James is well and whole, and Natalia gives into the relief of it, long body rocking gently into his when she pulls him the rest of the way down, catching his mouth in a kiss.
Bucky's lips part against hers, deepening the kiss as soon as it starts; there's plenty they have left to discuss, but suddenly, none of it matters. Logic and higher reasoning have checked out, old instincts taking over, and his only pressing concern is making sure Natalia knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, just how much he's missed her in the time they spent apart. There's a desperate edge that colors his every move, both subtle and overt, an artlessness only Natalia has earned the right to see. She's the only one he doesn't have to lie to, and after months of keeping everything close to his chest, it's only now that he's able to let some of it go that he realizes just how close he came to snapping.
His hands slipping lower down her body to support her, he lifts Natalia off the ground, trusting his feet to get them to the bed, even if his eyes are shut.
She feels it when his legs brush the edge of the bed, and Natalia tumbles gracefully down, reaching for him as she goes with eyes wide open. She's seen him hit his breaking point so many times, and as painful as it is to watch James carry so much on his shoulders, the sight of him shaking it off again is beautiful to see.
Months for him, weeks for her. They've been apart for longer, but by choice, always for a mission or a worthy cause. Even during James' trial, Natalia had at least had the comfort of knowing he'd gone willingly into custody to clear his name, that he wasn't languishing without reason in a gulag. "I've missed you," she says, wrapping a leg around his waist to sate her need to keep hold of him while her hands are occupied, fingers finding the zipper of her suit and drawing it swiftly down.
Bucky braces himself on the bed, his forearms pressed against the mattress on either side of Natalia. Shifting his weight to one side, he places his right hand over hers, not to guide it so much as to follow along, his eyes soaking in each new inch of revealed skin with a desire he hasn't allowed himself to feel since they met last. It occurs to him, not for the first time, that in spite of the hell he's lived through, there are times when he really is one lucky son of a bitch.
Her comment prompts a rare grin, one untempered by any sarcasm; it's a look he wore often in the War, something he was famous for -- a smile that was equal parts impish and delighted.
Natalia laughs aloud. As much as she's missed the weight of his body bearing her down, she's missed that grin even more. The practical part of her has to wonder how often it's been seen on the island, how many friends James has let in, if any at all. Possessive as she might feel towards him, a part of her hopes there's been at least someone, Steve, perhaps, or someone with no history to sit heavy between them at all.
"Was it?" she asks, moving to shrug her shoulders and then her arms free of the suit. "Perhaps I've confused you with someone else."
Ducking his head, Bucky swallows his own laughter, trailing kisses along the line of her jaw, her neck, lingering over her pulse for a moment before he finally pulls back. He draws himself up a little to give her room to move, eager to help her out of the rest of the suit (fond as he is of her in it).
"Oh, indeed," says Natalia, lifting her hips when she feels James' fingers against the suit, quick grip peeling it away from her hips and then down the length of her thighs. She wastes no time once her toes are free of it, catching him by the shoulders to flip him and bear him down against the sheets. Resettling astride his hips, Natalia places one hand light against his chest to hold him as she looks her fill, the other tracing the curve of his smile with her fingertips.
His back's still raw from being pushed into the dresser, but the pain barely registers when he has her as a distraction. Catching her by the wrist, he pushes her hand higher to press a kiss to the center of her palm. It feels like a dream, having her here -- a good one, so unlike the nightmare that woke him tonight -- but he's not so selfish as to not realize she's now just as trapped as he is, the island's latest plaything.
Natalia's never needed his protection, more than capable of taking care of herself -- the Soviets made damn sure of that, and that he helped train her means he knows exactly what she's capable of -- but the difference is that here there's nothing here to fight. They're just supposed to grit and take whatever the island's warden has to dish out, and while he knows her to be strong, he knows her not to take anything lying down, as well. It's the aspect of this place that he's had the most trouble adjusting to, and he wonders how she'll fare in comparison. Better, probably; she doesn't have his temper.
"I love you," he says, snaking his other hand around her back to pull himself up to sitting, strong arms embracing her as he chases after her mouth for another kiss, this one backed with clear intent.
He drops the gun, not permission to approach, exactly, not for people like them, but Natalia takes it all the same, left hand peeling off the glove of the right so that when she reaches him, she fit the curve of her palm to his cheek. His skin is smooth and warm, not broken or bruised or beaten down as she'd feared. Nothing is as she expected, but it's welcome, and Natalia breathes a sigh of still bewildered relief.
It's short-lived. If what James says is true, if he's been here for months, he can't know the things that have been happening to him back home, the full implications of what that means for the Widow still at home, Natalia must save for a later time. "You were taken," she says, forcing herself not to hesitate. For some it would be a kindness to hide the horrors that await them back home, but James has had enough of his own destiny removed from his control. He would not thank her for the omission. "Tried in absentia for crimes against the Russian state. I was in Moscow, searching for a way to free you."
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"What crimes? I don't remember--" he starts in a defiant rush, though he quickly cuts himself off, his lips still parted in surprise, his cheeks still flushed with anger. The slight weight of Natalia's hand is of greater comfort than he would ever admit, though, and his focus is drawn to the curve of her mouth before he looks up again to meet her eyes. "I came here straight from the English Channel Islands, right after the mess with Zemo."
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"James, the crimes for which they condemned you were two hits of the Winter Soldier's, one Victor Lodenko and Rina Szynski, cover names both. They say the Winter Soldier had gone rogue, but I believe otherwise, I believe these people had ties to the Red Room. They were sanctioned hits by the KGB on their own people. I..." She stops short. She's always recovered quickly, but it's all so strange, to be standing here with him after so long, like something from a dream. James has more color to him now, tanned by the sun if the lingering heat is any indication, a looseness to his limbs that she doesn't recall. He's more handsome than ever. Infuriating man. "I had a plan."
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As is, he thinks, trying not to kiss Natalia; that he doesn't know he'd be able to stop with just a kiss is the only thing keeping him in check. The intel she has to offer is too valuable to have wait, and so it is that he forces himself to think with his head, much as his body is making a compelling argument to listen to it instead.
"Did Steve know about this plan?"
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This part of the story, at least, doesn't come as much surprise; it's about what he expected. But then, he and Natalia are cut of a different cloth than Steve, both of them manipulated and strung along, molded into weapons. Even before the Soviets, Bucky worked in the shadows, doing what Captain America couldn't.
"He's here, too," Bucky says, something unreadable in his expression. "Steve, he just showed up a couple months ago, from the moment of his death after the Civil War. Time, here, it's--" He looks away for the first time, focusing on a point over her shoulder. "Whoever runs this place doesn't give a damn about keeping things in the right order. There's so much he doesn't know, that I haven't been able to tell him."
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Her thumbs sweep against the dark circles beneath his eyes, Natalia's chin lifting until she can press her lips to the spot. "Here for months," she says. "I see you sleep no better."
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"That's 'cause I've been sleeping alone," he says with a slight smile, trying for a joke. True as it is -- he's been faithful -- it's never really mattered if he was alone or not; his nightmares aren't so easily dissuaded. Bowing his head, Bucky rests his forehead against hers, and lowers his voice as if divulging a secret: "You're a sight for sore eyes."
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James is well and whole, and Natalia gives into the relief of it, long body rocking gently into his when she pulls him the rest of the way down, catching his mouth in a kiss.
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His hands slipping lower down her body to support her, he lifts Natalia off the ground, trusting his feet to get them to the bed, even if his eyes are shut.
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Months for him, weeks for her. They've been apart for longer, but by choice, always for a mission or a worthy cause. Even during James' trial, Natalia had at least had the comfort of knowing he'd gone willingly into custody to clear his name, that he wasn't languishing without reason in a gulag. "I've missed you," she says, wrapping a leg around his waist to sate her need to keep hold of him while her hands are occupied, fingers finding the zipper of her suit and drawing it swiftly down.
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Her comment prompts a rare grin, one untempered by any sarcasm; it's a look he wore often in the War, something he was famous for -- a smile that was equal parts impish and delighted.
"Who, me?"
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"Was it?" she asks, moving to shrug her shoulders and then her arms free of the suit. "Perhaps I've confused you with someone else."
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"I bet he's an ass."
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"But he has his moments."
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Natalia's never needed his protection, more than capable of taking care of herself -- the Soviets made damn sure of that, and that he helped train her means he knows exactly what she's capable of -- but the difference is that here there's nothing here to fight. They're just supposed to grit and take whatever the island's warden has to dish out, and while he knows her to be strong, he knows her not to take anything lying down, as well. It's the aspect of this place that he's had the most trouble adjusting to, and he wonders how she'll fare in comparison. Better, probably; she doesn't have his temper.
"I love you," he says, snaking his other hand around her back to pull himself up to sitting, strong arms embracing her as he chases after her mouth for another kiss, this one backed with clear intent.
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