The frustrating thing-one of the most frustrating things-was that he knew he knew this woman. He just didn’t know how or from where. Bits and pieces of the time he’d spent in the Soviet Union were slowly coming back to him, but the vast majority, he just couldn’t remember. He remembered frantically whispered Russian, his gun becoming even more of an extension of him than it had been during the war. He did not know when they gave him that metal arm, nor did he know how he was supposed to know the woman with the fiery red hair.
“I’m-sorry if this sounds bad, but...could I have your name?”
Soviet Russia had been a cold, hard place in time. Somewhere tucked within her memory, a something that she could, and couldn't hold onto; it was forever slipping from her grasp. There were small things, that were definitely permanent. And he was one of them. And it was when she'd seen him, while walking within the streets here, that reaction had her arm shooting out, stopping him. Bright eyes, shining with that glint of recognition, shock, even, that resided within them. But the words he spoke, shooting holes in that brief flicker of honest and open vulnerability.
It was back to ice, back to calm, back to empty. Tasha, just what were you thinking? This isn't the same man you loved, back when the war was waging, cold war, warm war, whatever the fuck war. "... you really don't remember?" Flinty steel, her voice controlled by the forceful iron grip she kept on them. Tasha, you may bend, but never break. A lesson that she had never let get away from her.
He shook his head with a small, apologetic smile. “I know I’m supposed to, but I don’t.”
The brainwashing had done its job, alright-was still doing its job even after he woke up from its spell. Before, it had kept memories of his past life, of Steve and America out. His Russian had been flawless along with his nationalism for a country he hadn’t been born in. Now, he couldn’t remember what had happened between his “death” and the time he woke up, but he could remember what happened before. As far as he was concerned, it was still the 1940s, except that he knew it wasn’t. Nostalgia for jazz and Rosie the Riveter juxtaposed with iPads and internet.
But he did. He had to. How could he forget? There was a moment, a flash, of anger that radiated within the small woman. All five foot four of her screaming to slap him across the face. He'd been a lover. Not the first, and not the last, but one of her own, and she knew, Tasha knew, she as not a forgettable face. A half remembered dream. She was, she ever had been, the Black Widow, and he had been one of the few to make it free without the sting. How was it that he had forgotten...?
The words cut deep, eyelids falling shut. Breathe. Woman, breathe.
Fingers curled up within themselves to form a fist, studying him with a calm that became her. Had always been hers, really. "What was the last thing that you remember, then?" The and on his arm still tight, demanding his attention. Because if he couldn't remember her... no. Throat constricted. He hadn't forgotten only her, had he?
A hand dragged across his face as he thought about it. “The last thing I remember real clear is...falling.” He shuddered. It wasn’t a pleasant memory, but it was the only clear one he had in his head. But it always brought back that cold.
“I’ve got bits and pieces here ‘n’ there,” he elaborated, “but nothing concrete after that. I know I was in Russia. I remember speaking Russian. Don’t remember how I got this.” He held up his metal arm. “Which is why I wanna know who you are.” Anything at all would be a great help. And there was that vague recognition there, like he was supposed to know her.
Falling... falling? His reactions gave a lot away to what he felt, was feeling. Unsure herself if she should reach out and say something, give him all the pieces, puzzle fit, or...
Or was this a test of sorts? Another trick of the mind, false memory planted. Just as he couldn't remember, she could hardly trust herself, Natasha's hand released over the material of his shirt, finally, withdrawing. "... Russia. If you remember Russia, do you remember... the time?" The hardest part about the difference between the then and the now was how to explain it. How to say, look at us then, look at us now. We are the same, despite it all.
The sun gleamed off of the arm, artificially created, reaching out to trace it over. "You still have it..." remembering that exact moment, glancing to meet those eyes of his, a softer touch hitting her, unconsciously, betraying her. "Natasha. My name's Natasha."
His brows creased. “What time? Gonna have to be a bit more specific.” That being said, he couldn’t remember much, and would not be at all surprised if he couldn’t remember to what she was referring, either.
Natasha. No, the name was unfamiliar, but confirmed his suspicions that she was Russian. That momentary softness, the hint of desperation as she urged him to remember led him to believe they had been close. Had they been lovers? Not likely, he decided. But then how had they known each other? And how did they get so close?
What place in time should she begin? There really only was one, so far. The one where he'd been the man of Winter. The Soldier himself, until Mother Russia could hold him no more. But that was a something that she thought, better left out of mind. But wouldn't that leave her in a solid position, not with him at least. What had happened to leave him so stranded and lost? Although their meeting was but a brief moment in her thus, long, long life, it was strange to see him still here. She had, after all, seen many of her own creators fall to disease, death, old age... and yet here he stood. Fresh, like she was, with only the eyes to tell what life had done to him
( ... )
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“I’m-sorry if this sounds bad, but...could I have your name?”
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It was back to ice, back to calm, back to empty. Tasha, just what were you thinking? This isn't the same man you loved, back when the war was waging, cold war, warm war, whatever the fuck war. "... you really don't remember?" Flinty steel, her voice controlled by the forceful iron grip she kept on them. Tasha, you may bend, but never break. A lesson that she had never let get away from her.
Reply
The brainwashing had done its job, alright-was still doing its job even after he woke up from its spell. Before, it had kept memories of his past life, of Steve and America out. His Russian had been flawless along with his nationalism for a country he hadn’t been born in. Now, he couldn’t remember what had happened between his “death” and the time he woke up, but he could remember what happened before. As far as he was concerned, it was still the 1940s, except that he knew it wasn’t. Nostalgia for jazz and Rosie the Riveter juxtaposed with iPads and internet.
“I’m trying, but...I can’t remember much yet.”
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The words cut deep, eyelids falling shut. Breathe. Woman, breathe.
Fingers curled up within themselves to form a fist, studying him with a calm that became her. Had always been hers, really. "What was the last thing that you remember, then?" The and on his arm still tight, demanding his attention. Because if he couldn't remember her... no. Throat constricted. He hadn't forgotten only her, had he?
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“I’ve got bits and pieces here ‘n’ there,” he elaborated, “but nothing concrete after that. I know I was in Russia. I remember speaking Russian. Don’t remember how I got this.” He held up his metal arm. “Which is why I wanna know who you are.” Anything at all would be a great help. And there was that vague recognition there, like he was supposed to know her.
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Or was this a test of sorts? Another trick of the mind, false memory planted. Just as he couldn't remember, she could hardly trust herself, Natasha's hand released over the material of his shirt, finally, withdrawing. "... Russia. If you remember Russia, do you remember... the time?" The hardest part about the difference between the then and the now was how to explain it. How to say, look at us then, look at us now. We are the same, despite it all.
The sun gleamed off of the arm, artificially created, reaching out to trace it over. "You still have it..." remembering that exact moment, glancing to meet those eyes of his, a softer touch hitting her, unconsciously, betraying her. "Natasha. My name's Natasha."
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Natasha. No, the name was unfamiliar, but confirmed his suspicions that she was Russian. That momentary softness, the hint of desperation as she urged him to remember led him to believe they had been close. Had they been lovers? Not likely, he decided. But then how had they known each other? And how did they get so close?
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