Persistence of Memory (Bucky/Natasha)
Title: Persistence of Memory
Author: jtav
Recipient: dirty_diana
Prompt: Their past or their future
Word Count: 1000
Characters: Bucky/Natasha
Warnings, if including any non-con/dub-con/etc. None
Summary: An amnesiac Bucky meets a prostitute in New York.
New York, 1983
"Get your hands off me."
"Come on, baby. It's not like you don't sell it every night. Give it away for free just this once."
"I told you to get your hands off me."
Something in the girl's voice makes me whip my head around. Her voice quavers, but she doesn't sound scared. She sounds like she's trying to pretend that she's scared. She's about my age or a little younger. Her hair is dyed black and cut into a crude bob. Her shorts barely cover her groin. Her legs... I've never even seen legs like that, long and graceful. Legs like that should be on a dancer, not a hooker. A girl like that shouldn't be in a dump like this.
Her john is less remarkable. He's about six feet. Big, but more fat than muscle. And he's drunk. I can smell the beer on him from here. "Willie will show you what you're missing." He runs a chubby finger down her cheek.
A small crowd is starting to gather in the lobby. They watch. Some are frightened, some interested. None of them will help her. They're all hiding from something: the cops, their dealers, the Russian mob. They can't risk drawing attention to themselves. But I can. I 'm an amnesiac. I don't know enough to hide. "Let her go."
The john rounds on me. He spits when he talks. "Wait til I'm done. You can have your turn soon enough."
"She wants you to leave her alone."
"What are you? Some kind of knight in shining armor?"
"I have no idea." I draw back my arm and deliver a solid left hook. There's a crunch as metal hits bone, and the john goes flying. The whole thing takes about half a second. He lifts his head and stares at me with pain and hatred. He'd probably be cursing me, too, but I broke his jaw. Apparently, I am really good at beating people up. I'm not sure how I feel about that. The john staggers off down the hall "Are you all right?" I ask the girl.
She doesn't answer me right away. She's too busy staring. She looks from my gloved hand to my face and back again. I put my hand in my pocket, and she has the grace to look embarrassed. "I am fine." There's the barest hint of an accent in her voice. Eastern European. Russian. A slow cold shiver slithers up my spine. I've heard this voice before. I know this girl, but I have no idea how.
I step in front of her and tilt her chin up with my hand. She doesn't flinch, doesn't blink, doesn't show any emotion at all. Maybe I'm crazy, and I really don't know her. Amnesia is a mental disorder, right? I need to feel a connection, and so I do. I've had false flashes of memory before. A tall blond man with a square jaw sat next to me on the train from Chicago. He reminded me of someone, maybe a movie star I'd looked up to as a kid. Definitely someone I admired. But he turned out to be an insurance salesman from Poughkeepsie. Probably thought I was queer or something because I was asking him so many questions. I'm not. At least I don't think I am. The hooker makes my pants feel too tight. Or maybe I like both. "Do I know you?"
Her eyes widen the tiniest fraction, and her mouth opens slightly. I can smell her, all cigarettes and cheap perfume. The cigarettes suit her. The cheap perfume doesn't. She's looking at a point just beyond me, not quite meeting my eyes. "No." She is lying. I know it.
She steps back, but I grab her wrist before she can leave. I'm not going to let the first person who might know something about who I am just walk out. "I think you do. And I think that I know you." I close my eyes, trying to remember. "I don't remember anything, but you seem familiar. I think you must be important to me or something."
That gets her attention. "You have lost your memory? Completely?"
I nod.
"That... that is very sad. But I'm afraid that I don't know you. I remind many people of many things: mothers first loves, lost loves. Perhaps I am merely reminding you of one of those. It is part of my job."
Another flash. We're standing in a dark room. The furniture is battered and musty, and the air smells of cheap vodka. I don't like being here with her. It's beneath both of us. She deserves better, but at least I am here with her. I am holding her in my arms. Her hair is longer and a brilliant shade of red. I run my good hand through her hair."I don't like this."
"Why not? I will seduce this Dr. Hawthorne and get weapons schematics from him. It is a simple plan. Very little risk, just like you taught me." She frowns. "Is that what's bothering you? That I will have to pretend to be in love with him? That I will have sex with him?"
It does. Very much. "Of course not. Breaking into his office would be faster."
She chuckles and runs a finger down my cheek. "You are a very bad liar, my love. It would also draw attention that we cannot afford. Pretending to love those I hate is part of my job. At least I will always be able to be myself with you."
The memory ends, and I take a step back. "Now I know I know you. You slept with some Dr. Hawthorne to get weapon schematics. Are you some kind of secret agent? Am I?" It occurs to me that maybe I don't want to know the answer to that. I might not like the answer were what kind of person that makes the real me.
"I've never met a Dr. Hawthorne. You are delusional. Probably a side effect of your amnesia. I told you before that I've never met you. Leave me alone." She storms off. This time I don't pull her back.
At least I will always be able to be myself with you. It looks like she was wrong. I wonder who she works for, who she pretends for. I'd like to give them a punch in the nose. I hope her job is worth my memory.
Author: jtav
Recipient: dirty_diana
Prompt: Their past or their future
Word Count: 1000
Characters: Bucky/Natasha
Warnings, if including any non-con/dub-con/etc. None
Summary: An amnesiac Bucky meets a prostitute in New York.
New York, 1983
"Get your hands off me."
"Come on, baby. It's not like you don't sell it every night. Give it away for free just this once."
"I told you to get your hands off me."
Something in the girl's voice makes me whip my head around. Her voice quavers, but she doesn't sound scared. She sounds like she's trying to pretend that she's scared. She's about my age or a little younger. Her hair is dyed black and cut into a crude bob. Her shorts barely cover her groin. Her legs... I've never even seen legs like that, long and graceful. Legs like that should be on a dancer, not a hooker. A girl like that shouldn't be in a dump like this.
Her john is less remarkable. He's about six feet. Big, but more fat than muscle. And he's drunk. I can smell the beer on him from here. "Willie will show you what you're missing." He runs a chubby finger down her cheek.
A small crowd is starting to gather in the lobby. They watch. Some are frightened, some interested. None of them will help her. They're all hiding from something: the cops, their dealers, the Russian mob. They can't risk drawing attention to themselves. But I can. I 'm an amnesiac. I don't know enough to hide. "Let her go."
The john rounds on me. He spits when he talks. "Wait til I'm done. You can have your turn soon enough."
"She wants you to leave her alone."
"What are you? Some kind of knight in shining armor?"
"I have no idea." I draw back my arm and deliver a solid left hook. There's a crunch as metal hits bone, and the john goes flying. The whole thing takes about half a second. He lifts his head and stares at me with pain and hatred. He'd probably be cursing me, too, but I broke his jaw. Apparently, I am really good at beating people up. I'm not sure how I feel about that. The john staggers off down the hall "Are you all right?" I ask the girl.
She doesn't answer me right away. She's too busy staring. She looks from my gloved hand to my face and back again. I put my hand in my pocket, and she has the grace to look embarrassed. "I am fine." There's the barest hint of an accent in her voice. Eastern European. Russian. A slow cold shiver slithers up my spine. I've heard this voice before. I know this girl, but I have no idea how.
I step in front of her and tilt her chin up with my hand. She doesn't flinch, doesn't blink, doesn't show any emotion at all. Maybe I'm crazy, and I really don't know her. Amnesia is a mental disorder, right? I need to feel a connection, and so I do. I've had false flashes of memory before. A tall blond man with a square jaw sat next to me on the train from Chicago. He reminded me of someone, maybe a movie star I'd looked up to as a kid. Definitely someone I admired. But he turned out to be an insurance salesman from Poughkeepsie. Probably thought I was queer or something because I was asking him so many questions. I'm not. At least I don't think I am. The hooker makes my pants feel too tight. Or maybe I like both. "Do I know you?"
Her eyes widen the tiniest fraction, and her mouth opens slightly. I can smell her, all cigarettes and cheap perfume. The cigarettes suit her. The cheap perfume doesn't. She's looking at a point just beyond me, not quite meeting my eyes. "No." She is lying. I know it.
She steps back, but I grab her wrist before she can leave. I'm not going to let the first person who might know something about who I am just walk out. "I think you do. And I think that I know you." I close my eyes, trying to remember. "I don't remember anything, but you seem familiar. I think you must be important to me or something."
That gets her attention. "You have lost your memory? Completely?"
I nod.
"That... that is very sad. But I'm afraid that I don't know you. I remind many people of many things: mothers first loves, lost loves. Perhaps I am merely reminding you of one of those. It is part of my job."
Another flash. We're standing in a dark room. The furniture is battered and musty, and the air smells of cheap vodka. I don't like being here with her. It's beneath both of us. She deserves better, but at least I am here with her. I am holding her in my arms. Her hair is longer and a brilliant shade of red. I run my good hand through her hair."I don't like this."
"Why not? I will seduce this Dr. Hawthorne and get weapons schematics from him. It is a simple plan. Very little risk, just like you taught me." She frowns. "Is that what's bothering you? That I will have to pretend to be in love with him? That I will have sex with him?"
It does. Very much. "Of course not. Breaking into his office would be faster."
She chuckles and runs a finger down my cheek. "You are a very bad liar, my love. It would also draw attention that we cannot afford. Pretending to love those I hate is part of my job. At least I will always be able to be myself with you."
The memory ends, and I take a step back. "Now I know I know you. You slept with some Dr. Hawthorne to get weapon schematics. Are you some kind of secret agent? Am I?" It occurs to me that maybe I don't want to know the answer to that. I might not like the answer were what kind of person that makes the real me.
"I've never met a Dr. Hawthorne. You are delusional. Probably a side effect of your amnesia. I told you before that I've never met you. Leave me alone." She storms off. This time I don't pull her back.
At least I will always be able to be myself with you. It looks like she was wrong. I wonder who she works for, who she pretends for. I'd like to give them a punch in the nose. I hope her job is worth my memory.