Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He knows she’s watching him. He saw her lithe figure crest the top of the hill, but he’d turned his face away before she could know that he knew she was there. He keeps his gaze fixed on his goats and tries not to let his hand shake too badly as he strikes the dry ground with a shovel. It’s tough digging a hole with one hand, as is most things, but he’s making decent progress. 

They’d arrived late last night, her and Steve and Sam, their Quinjet whistling through the star-studded sky at speeds suitable for three government fugitives fleeing from the States. It’d been another one of those nights where he’d awoken with a nightmare on his heels, visions of red and gunpowder and blood tearing through his mind like a bullet. Once he was able to distinguish reality from memory - these days it takes longer than he’d like - and realize that the walls of his hut weren’t closing in on him, Bucky had grabbed a blanket and settled into his chair outside. His hand had just stopped trembling when the plane cut through the stars, undetectable by anybody not staring at the sky. But he had been, so he watched the black shadow land on the roof of the palace a few miles away. 

Bucky didn’t have to see the plane to know who was on it. His chest tightened. His shaking hand curled into a fist. He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. 

“Captain Rogers said he’d come by today,” Shuri told him the next morning, her brown eyes searching his blue ones as she spoke. “Help repair the fence that broke.” Bucky purposely stared at the dust coating the toe of his boot instead of the princess, not wanting to answer the unspoken question in her eyes. 

“It doesn’t need fixing,” he’d grumbled to the ground. What he really wanted to say was that he’s not sure he wants Steve, or anybody else from his past for that matter, poking around his home. Trying to fix more than a fence. The land granted to him by T’Challa - his six goats, a donkey, a small garden, and four acres of sprawling African savannah - was his territory. His place. Despite its weather-torn roof and dry soil, it had been his sanctuary since his memories had been restored. He wasn’t sure that he was ready for the faces he sees every night to be tangible. He still isn’t.

“Smooth your fur, White Wolf,” she’d said, having noticed his unfocused eyes and tight shoulders. “It’s not going to be for that long. They just need a place to lay low for a few days.”

“I don’t want to feel like this,” he had confessed, feeling a bit like a pouting child. “Steve was - is - was - my best friend,” he corrected, not sure which word is right. “What if things are…weird between us?” He had tried to kill the soldier more than once. He doesn’t mention Sam, or her, unable to say her name even in his own head. 

Shuri’s eyes had softened. “Rogers is the one who fought tooth and nail to get you here. He visited as often as he could while you were in cryofreeze, and I know it saddened him that he couldn’t be here with you while you were recovering your memories. Despite how your relationship has changed, he still cares about you.”

Bucky grumbled again but didn't argue. Even if he doesn’t know Steve like he used to, he has no doubt that the heart of the man is still as pure as it was before Bucky had taken a long walk off a short…well, train. 

Enough about Steve. He had cleared his throat. “And, um. What about the other two?”

Shuri saved him from having to say her name. “Wilson and Romanoff? I’m not sure. They might stop by too.”

Bucky sucked in a breath at the idea of her in his home. Sam was one thing, perhaps the person with whom he had the most sound relationship out of the three. At least they knew where each other stood. It was Steve and Romanoff that he wasn’t quite sure of. Even now, as he stares at the cracked ground, the images he’d thought of earlier flash through his mind. 

Her shoes by his door. 

Her slender fingers streaking the dust that covers most surfaces. 

Green eyes evaluating every scratch, nook, trinket, and misplaced dish scattered around his house. 

Her bare feet on the carpeted ground, her delicate footprints left in the patches of earth that make up other parts of the floor. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” Shuri had said softly, bringing his attention back to the present. “I know this is a big step for you. Try not to run.”

Her words still dance on the edge of his mind. He knows they were meant to strengthen him, to provide some source of comfort and support, but the shame they’d filled him with keeps his cheeks pink, even now. The Army trained him to move towards danger with patriotic ferocity, to lead groups of men to victory. Then HYDRA taught him how to be the danger. How to attack, fight, and kill without an ounce of remorse or loyalty. They’d taken his arm and replaced it with a bionic reminder of what he’d lost and who he’d belonged to. The serum that runs through his veins was a second step ensuring his ruthlessness. He has never once been a runner. Until now. 

Shuri left shortly after that, leaving him alone to do what he did everyday: not much of anything. He’d watched her go, his gaze traveling from the retreating princess to the sprawling palace a few miles away. He’d stared at the tiny windows, attempting to catch a hopeless glimpse of the woman he knows is in there. He tried to picture her walking the halls of the castle, tried to take the woman from his memories and implant her into the present. It’s useless, and he was left with a faceless redhead slipping through his mind like mist.

Until now. And she’s not a redhead anymore. 

Bucky strikes the ground with his shovel again, continuing his task of hole-digging until he’s carved out enough room for the post to fit. It’s a painstaking process and the blisters hurt. One of the field dogs barks in the distance. 

He doesn’t dare turn to face the hill she’s standing on, doesn’t want her to know he knows she’s there and chase her away because even though he thinks he might throw up, he doesn’t know if it would be better or worse if he looked up and she was gone. He reaches for the tools leaning against the fence, a movement that could be made easier if he would just turn to the right, but she’s there and he can feel her green eyes boring into him as he fumbles for the wooden handles. 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut as his fingers wrap around the splintery wood, letting his long hair fall in front of his face so she can’t see his expression. 

Get it together. 

He gathers the tools awkwardly under his one arm and walks back towards the faded barn, boots kicking up dust as he goes. It’s a walk that usually takes less than a minute, but it might as well have been an hour to him. His whole body tingles, knowing that her eyes are tracking his every move. 

Bucky lets out a breath he doesn’t remember holding once he’s inside the barn, the familiar smell of hay and oil and dirt filling his nose and chasing away the chill running down his spine. He turns to peek through the cracks in the wood, not sure how to describe the feeling that surfaces when he sees Natalia still standing in the shade of the tree, or how to name the suffocating feeling that rises in his chest as his brain tries to reckon the image of the woman in his memories with the woman in front of him. 

Two different people in the same person. A woman who kisses his scars in his dreams and a woman whom he kills in his nightmares. A woman whose name he used to be able to say aloud. 

He watches her through the wooden slats, squinting so he can see her face better. Straight blonde locks frame her heart-shaped face, the soft round edges of her jaw contrasting with her high cheekbones. He pauses, noting her hardened eyes seemingly staring right at him. He can’t decide if the face he’s picturing is the one before him or the one he sees in his sleep. 

Then she turns on her heel and walks away. She’s limping, he notices, favoring her right leg every so slightly as she stalks back toward the palace. For just a moment he imagines what it would be like to step out of the barn and chase her down, to grab her hand in his and spin her around to face him. He tries to think about what he would say to her but he can’t find the words, even in his imagination. So he watches her in silence until she disappears, leaving as quietly as she had come. 

He doesn’t know if it’s regret or relief that fills his stomach at her absence. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, curling his hand into a fist so tight his nails bite into his palm. They aren’t long enough to break the skin, but the tiny bite of pain is enough to force back the nausea climbing into his chest. He gives a soft shake of his hand, as if he can erase the pins and needles crawling over his skin.

Get it together.  

Sucking in another deep breath, he resumes his task of fixing the fence that broke in the last storm. He crosses to the other side of the barn to grab the new post for the hole he just dug, the wood chalky in his hand as he carries it back into the Wakandan afternoon. Once his eyes adjust to the light he can see a new blonde is waiting for him by the fence, hands shoved in pockets nonchalantly. 

Steve .

His oldest friend, his battle buddy, his commander, his assignment, his obstacle, his enemy. A man he has hurt over and over again and yet still shows up every time. He manages a small smile for the captain. 

“Rogers.”

Steve returns the smile, extending his hand as he takes a step forward. Bucky clasps it, and as he’s pulled forward into one of those half-hugs that guys like to give, he’s aware of the empty space where his other arm should be. The sleeve of his t-shirt hangs between them, a solemn reminder that things aren’t as they used to be. Steve’s aware of it too, Bucky can tell by the way he steps back. His eyes are shifty, cheeks a light pink. He was never good at hiding his discomfort. 

“So, can I help you with anything?” Bucky is relieved that Steve doesn’t ask how he’s doing or anything related to his well-being because he doesn’t know how he’d answer. So he and Steve work together to fix the broken fence, a task that goes by much faster with three hands instead of one.

They talk about various topics as they work, discussing weather, Bucky’s house, the more gritty details of Steve’s vigilante days, why he’s suddenly become a goat farmer. Stuff like that. 

Steve tells him a few stories about his time on the run, reminding Bucky of when they were kids and Steve would steal apples from the little grocery store down the block from his house. 

“I can’t believe you remember that,” Steve says with a chuckle, but it dies on his lips. The light fades from his widening eyes, realizing what he’d just said. But Bucky shrugs. 

“I remember a lot of things these days,” he replies, keeping his tone light. He doesn’t want Steve to feel like he has to tiptoe around him or his memories, or feel bad about commenting on them. “Like how you got caught a block away from the store.”

“I would have gotten away with it too,” Steve grumbles, shoulders drooping with relief. “If I hadn’t tripped.”

“You always did wear shoes that were too big for you,” Bucky reminds him. 

“Shut up.” But he’s laughing, Bucky does too. He can’t remember the last time his laughter was genuine. It feels nice. 

“Hey,” Steve says as they walk back towards the barn to put the tools away. “Did Natasha stop by? She said she was going for a walk earlier. I was wondering if she came by here,” he adds as Bucky does his best to keep his face neutral. A familiar weight settles on his shoulders. He clears his throat as Steve waits for his response. 

“Uh, no,” he says, the words falling around in his mouth like rocks. “I didn’t see her. Her and I don't talk much.” Bucky doesn't know what hurts more: knowing that he's telling the truth or wishing that he wasn't.  

Steve doesn't dwell on his words. He shrugs. "She’s probably still sore. I doubt she went far.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to frown and ask questions. “Did something happen to her?” Natasha's limp springs to mind as he forces himself to keep casual eye contact with Steve. 

Steve sets the tools in their racks with a nod. “She was attacked in her apartment yesterday. That’s part of why we flew in late last night. T’Challa owed me a favor and the medicine here is much more effective than anything in the States. Plus, the fact that we’re all fugitives wasn’t doing us any favors.”

“Is she alright?” The question falls out of his mouth quicker than he’d expected, mind already racing with a thousand possibilities of how she could have been hurt. 

Steve shrugs, and though he does a good job of keeping his expression nonchalant, he was never quite good at hiding his true feelings. “Stabbed. Mid-thigh. She’s alright though. The plasma patches Shuri created seem to be working well. I tried to convince her to take it easy today, but she doesn’t really listen to me.”

Bucky forces a chuckle, but it catches in his throat and sounds more like a strangled groan. “I don’t doubt that.” He hates it, hates that he can’t have one normal conversation about this woman and one of Steve’s closest friends, but he can still picture her retreating figure, her hardened green eyes watching him from a distance. It sends chills down his spine.

He dusts his hand off on his pants, looking up to meet his friend’s eyes. Steve wears a thoughtful expression. It’s his turn to analyze Bucky, blue eyes flitting over his face. He doesn’t like it, suddenly afraid Steve will be able to see every crack in his carefully constructed mask, one that has been crumbling since the night he got his memories back. He’s relieved when the captain’s only comment is, “Anything else I can do while I’m here?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No. But thanks. It’s getting late, you should get back before it gets too dark.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You know I am,” Bucky says, earning a coy smile from Steve. 

“Whatever.” He gives Bucky one last embrace. “Punk.”

“Jerk.” Another familiar memory pokes at the edges of his mind, this one warm and comforting. Steve, sitting on the edge of his mother’s flowered couch, eye red and swollen. Another noble fight lost, though his head is still held high and chin tilted proudly. Bucky can recall the same words traded back and forth between the two of them, playfully teasing as he held a washcloth to the boy’s puffy eye all those years ago.

As Steve retreats the way he came, exiting the barn with his wide shoulders rolled back, Bucky can still see the confidence he carried himself with as a teenager. Though Steve is no longer the scrawny sixteen year-old having to be pulled off of alley floors, the teenager still walks with the Captain. They are one and the same. 

For a brief second Bucky wonders what his teenage self would think of him now, hoping that the hopeful soldier he once was would recognize him, but he’s caught sight of himself in the mirror enough times to know that the person he was before he fell off the train no longer exists. 

A bubble of jealousy rises in his stomach as Steve disappears over the hill, knowing that he has held on to every part of his past the way Bucky has lost all semblance of the man he used to be. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

Chapter Text

“How was the visit?” Shuri asks, careful to keep her eyes focused on the task at hand. Her small fingers gently poke at his healing arm, examining the array of metal gears and latches that will soon attach to the arm she’s been working on since before his memories were restored. He wishes he could say it's strange feeling to look down and see metal where there was once an arm, but it's not. If anything, it's comforting to see the silver and gold interlocking over his shoulder socket.  His toes brush the ground as he sits atop the steel table, goosebumps creeping across his flesh arm.

Shuri always keeps it cold in her lab. 

“Fine,” Bucky responds, craning his head so he can see her work and stall from having to give her the answer she’s looking for. It took some convincing before he agreed to do away with what was left of his flesh arm and his shoulder and replace it with another metal contraption, but he trusted Shuri and she’d delivered on her promise ten-fold. He stares down at the intricate vibranium creation, unable to look away from the machinery. Sergeant Barnes may be dead and gone, but his fascination for machinery lingers like a ghost. His shoulder whirs softly as Shuri runs another test, the metal prongs searching for its other half. 

“Any pain when I do this?” Shuri presses on the skin around the mechanism, gentle fingers retreating when he pulls away from her touch. The skin is no longer puffy, and though the skin is laced with ropy scars, the few remaining nerves whine in protest. He winces. 

“Yeah, a bit,” he tells her as he straightens back up. “Not as much as last time though.”

Shuri leans in closer to study her device resting in his skin, evaluating it like another piece of the puzzle that is his body. When he'd first arrived in Wakanda and had been analyzed and surveyed by every doctor under the protective dome, he'd felt equated to a mutated science project under a microscope. But now, even though Shuri wears a pair of goggles with at least twenty different lenses, it's been a long time since he's felt self conscious in her lab. His fingers no longer itch for a blanket to hide his many mottled scars, his stomach no longer churns uneasily at the thought of showing her the most intricate part of his past. 

Shuri nods like she expects his answer. “You’re just about healed. I’d give it two or three more days until you’re pain-free.”

He frowns, looking down at his shoulder. “I thought my quick healing factor would speed things along.”

She lifts one of the glasses, finally revealing one of her eyes. He's sure it helps her see all the tiny intricate parts of her invention, but to him she just looks like a fly. “It is. Trust me, if you were any other person, you’d still be bed-ridden. You just had this procedure done a week ago,” she reminds him. “Removing what was left of your shoulder and replacing it with a vibranium socket is not an operation I do on just anybody.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m your favorite?”

The princess glares at him. “You like to make everything about yourself, don’t you?”

“That’s not a no,” he teases, smirking when she rolls her eyes. 

“Shut up.”

“I’m your patient, you can’t talk to me like that.”

She throws him a look as she starts to re-wrap his shoulder. “You’re my worst patient.”

He feigns mock offense, the weight in his stomach lessening a little as he chuckles. “What? I am not. Why would you say that?”

“No reason,” she says, lips curved into a gentle smirk. She looks from her work to Bucky, expression thoughtful. She's never been one to hide what she's thinking, especially when he's the one she's thinking about. Bucky sometimes wonders if she does it on purpose so he'll take the bait. More often than not, he does. Today is not an exception.  

He frowns. “What?”

“You seem lighter,” she tells him. “Did the Captain’s visit do more good than harm?” 

“That’s not the saying,” he grumbles, shifting his weight and averting his eyes like a scolded child. 

“Don’t avoid the question.”

His lips press into a scowl. 

Bucky doesn’t like when she does this. Shuri has a habit of finding the most inappropriate and most opportune times to have these kinds of conversations, especially when he’s in a situation he can’t get out of. Like a post-op checkup. The only reason that he entertains her questions is because she’s damn convincing and impossible to stay mad at. Had it been anyone else he would have hopped off of the table and walked out, but Shuri reminds him too much of his sister for him to do that. She and Becca have the same laugh, the same dimple decorating their left cheeks. 

So he pushes his one hand through his long hair and gives in without much of a fight. “It was fine,” he starts. “He dug the rest of the hole and helped me put the post in.”

“That’s great,” Shuri says in a tone that tells him that’s not the response she was looking for. “How was it to see him again?”

Bucky fights the urge to shift on the table, wanting to clasp his hands together but finding it difficult to do so given the circumstances. “Fine. But it always is.” 

Their stories, Steve’s comfortable laughter, his bitter jealousy. Bucky doesn’t want to tell her that he didn’t sleep much that night, spending the better part of the evening in his chairs staring at the stars. He could probably tell her that stargazing is something that helps him feel better, but then she’d ask why and he doesn’t know how to explain that, so he doesn’t mention it.

“Shuri,” he adds before she can encourage him to elaborate, “You know I love these talks of ours, but can we talk about something else? Please?”

He’s relieved when the princess smiles, nodding understandingly. “Of course we can. I’m sorry,” she apologizes as she slides the neoprene cover over the fresh gauze. “You must be exhausted by all of this talking.”

“It’s alright,” he says with a shrug, even though he’s aged another hundred years in the few months he’s been in Wakanda. Shuri is right - he is exhausted. Day in and day out he walks around in a fog, trying to decide if the faces he sees every day are real or more memories trying to push their way to the front of his mind. It’s like a tidal wave of people and places and events threatening to drown him. He can’t escape it, even in his sleep.

He has half a mind to ask Shuri for some medication to help but knows that all it’ll do is make it harder to wake from his nightmares.

He looks up from his shoulder only to peer over Shuri’s, opening his mouth to ask her a question. She’s been standing in front of him, blocking his view of the door, so when she shifts to his left to check something and he catches a glimpse of short blonde hair being whipped over someone’s shoulder he forgets how to breathe. He doesn’t know how he knows who it is, just that he is one hundred percent certain that the retreating woman is the same one from his memories. All the air that was in his lungs gets pushed out in a gasp-like-groan, an involuntary sound that he’s never made before. It’s a sound Shuri’s never heard before, judging by her response. She slides in front of him with a new sense of urgency, ducking her head so they make eye contact. Hers are wide, eyebrows pulled together, searching his face for signs of physical distress. His gaze is fixed on the glass doors behind her, trying to catch another glimpse of her.

“Are you alright?” Shuri asks in a worried tone that tells him she knows his answer. “What just happened? Are you in pain? You’re pale. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

He has. 

“I’m fine,” Bucky says bluntly, even though he knows she knows he’s lying. “Can I go?” He slides to the edge of the table apprehensively, knowing he needs to go now if he wants to catch her. 

“No, wait,” Shuri says, putting her hand on his shoulder in an attempt to slow him down. It’s futile, and he stands to his feet without much effort as she continues to follow him. “What is going on? I don’t know if I should let you out of here. I’m not entirely sure that you’re not about to have a heart attack.”

He’s thankful for her worry but at this specific moment it is doing more harm than good. He shakes her off. “I’m sorry but I have to go,” he calls over his shoulder as he starts making his way to the door. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Ugh,” she cries at his retreating figure. “If I find you dead in a ditch somewhere I swear I’ll kill you!”

He slams the doors open, the hinges preventing the handles from slamming into the walls. Then they close softly behind him, slowly cutting off Shuri’s threats. He pauses in the middle of the cold hallway, straining to hear anything over the deafening silence. It takes a moment, but eventually he picks up the very faint sound of boots on tile. They’re moving fast, betraying the identity of who they belong to.

His heart leaps into his throat as he starts making his way down the hallway after her. 

The hallway surrounding Shuri’s laboratory is circular, with hallways branching off every few hundred feet or so, like the spokes of a wheel. He has no idea which hallway Natasha - Natalia? - would have chosen, so he heads for the nearest one, putting himself in the shoes of someone wanting to disappear quickly. He strides down the hallway, doing his best to ignore the questioning glances of the few people he passes. 

A tiny part of him tells him that there’s no use in hunting her down, that if she wanted to disappear she would. He taught her how to do it, after all. 

But another part of him reminds himself that there’s a reason he was so untraceable for decades, why HYDRA sent him after some of the most remote, untraceable targets and why he came back with their heads every time. 

Bucky falls into his old routine with ease, slipping around corners and lightening his step without thinking. He takes the paths he knows she would, even if he doesn’t quite understand how he knows. He’s an excellent tracker, if not one of the best, but Natasha Romanoff is just as good at this game they’re playing. He tries to predict her moves, her countermoves, and her offensive strategy, but he doesn’t know her like he used to. 

He’s not surprised when he loses her, standing in the hot African sun outside the palace and squinting out across the city. It glints under the blazing sun, the sun reflecting off of the buildings mockingly. They wink, as if they know a secret he doesn’t. 

He scuffs the ground with his boot, telling himself it’s for the best. What would he even say to her? How would he explain himself? He’s banking on the hope that she’d remember him, that he frequents her dreams just as often as she does his. He finds himself wondering if he’s just another face to her and cringing at the possibility that it might be true. 

What if he had caught up to her? What if he had grabbed her by the arm? What if she had spun around to face him? What if it wasn’t her? What if it was? What would he say? What would she say? A chill runs down his spine, and though he shivers, he can’t shake it. 

Bucky closes his eyes as the sun washes over his face.

Trying to predict her every move is exhausting, especially when he doesn’t know his own. He’s drained just thinking about the possibilities where Natasha is involved, drained by the emotional strength it takes just to piece her together in the present. The parts of her that live in the recesses of his soul push to the front of his mind, flashing behind closed eyes.

Red hair.

Fair skin.

Pink lips.

Green eyes. 

High cheekbones, a heart-shaped face.

The grooves of her fingernails stained with blood. 

His own hand, black with gunpowder.

His metal fingers against her slender ones, entwined so tight he’s afraid he’ll break her.

If he concentrates he can feel her lips on his neck. Or maybe it’s the wind.

He opens his eyes, not sure which hurts more: seeing her face or watching it fade. 

Bucky sighs, pushing his hand through his hair. He knows he should probably go back to Shuri’s office and finish the appointment they have scheduled, but he heads in the opposite direction of the building, back towards his house.

Ayo tells him that he shouldn’t grow complacent in his routines, but it’s just one more word of sage advice he won’t heed. He knows he should listen to her, he knows there’s a lot of things he should probably do, and yet he does none of them.  

As Bucky slips through the grass he finds himself questioning her presence at the laboratory, wondering why she was down there and arguing with the part of him that says it was a coincidence. But it’s exhausting, arguing with himself and running circles around his own memories that by the time he reaches his tiny house he’s even more tired than when he left. It’s early evening now, the stars beginning to poke through the dusty pink and orange sky. He goes about his usual evening routine of making dinner and tea before sitting outside in his trusty chair and watching the grass dance under the soft touch of warm gusts of wind. 

He blinks and it’s the snowy Russian woods, fat flakes of snow turning green in his night vision goggles. It’s so real he could reach out and touch them. It turns his stomach.

I’m not supposed to be here.

Bucky shakes his head quickly, the African savannah returning to him so quickly it makes him dizzy. He closes his eyes and presses the soles of his shoes into the dirt, listening for the rocks that crunch firmly under his feet. It’s grounding, a physical reminder of where he is and how far he’s come. He relaxes a little. But when he dreams that night it’s the snow that crunches under his boots instead, the fluffy white mounds turning red beneath his hands.

Chapter Text

The marketplace is busy for a Tuesday afternoon. Women carrying baskets of brightly colored cloth and vibrant fruits push past him, calling after their children who run underfoot.  Vendors shout at Bucky from their stands, and though he understands Xhosa, he doesn’t turn his head at the deals thrown his way. 

He’s never been a fan of huge crowds, even as a pre-war teenager. Too many people, too many voices, and on the streets of Brooklyn, too many pickpockets. Now, it’s too many unseen threats, not enough escape routes, and too many possible assailants. He’d prefer to do his observing through a scope from at least two miles away, but he can’t buy feed and supplies from that distance, so he swallows his discomfort and mindlessly shoves through the throngs of people.

Two women pass him, deep in conversation. 

A tall man pulling a donkey walks past. 

To his left, a vendor dangles intricately beaded jewelry for the crowd to see. 

Children, immersed in their own game, pay Bucky no mind as they push by him. 

A fruit merchant cleaves open an orange fruit, the sharp snap of steel on wood catching Bucky’s attention. He looks over as the red juice trickles across the cutting board. 

He freezes in the middle of the market, transported to another one a lifetime ago. 

His breath billows before him, slipping out from under his mask. The snow he lays in is freezing, the falling flakes sliding off of his weather-proof jacket. The cold Siberian wind bites at his ears and stings his fingers, one of which sits coiled around the trigger of the rifle nestled against his shoulder. He peers through the scope, waiting for her to appear in the reticles. 

She’s walking with her arm around that of the target, their heads tilted together as if sharing secrets. It’s dim, the snowy clouds covering the sun, but Bucky can still see a flash of white teeth when the man smiles. Then she’s pushing him down the alleyway, innocent hands exploring his coat with the cruelest of intentions. 

His finger tightens around the trigger. He itches to pull it, to feel the cold metal slam back into his shoulder, but it’s not his call. 

The target ducks his head closer to hers, one hand on her cheek and the other on her waist. She brings her gloved hand to his neck, pink lips pulled back in a tempting smile as she nudges him against the stone wall and leans in close. 

He lines up the target’s head in his scope and envisions it exploding in a spray of red mist.

Then the target is on his knees, grabbing at his throat as blood spills over his hands. The cobblestones turn red as the man slouches over at her feet, the light draining from his eyes as the blood pours over his fingers. The knife blade glints in the dim light as she snaps it closed and tucks it into her sleeve.

Target terminated. No witnesses. 

Her red hair is tossed over one shoulder as she turns around. Though he’s watching her from a mile away he can see her face clearly, her green eyes staring knowingly in his direction. Bucky can see her face through the scope. He notices her heart-shaped face is freckled with blood, red dots bridging her nose and sprinkling her pink cheeks. 

It makes her look younger and so much older at the same time, a gut-wrenching paradox that pulls him away from the scope so he doesn’t have to think about it. When he looks back, Natasha is hoisting herself over the alley wall and disappearing like he taught her to. 

He rises onto his knees and starts to disassemble his rifle, unable to stop thinking about the blood-freckled redhead or the dead body laying in the alleyway, his blood slowly leeching into the cobblestones. 

Bucky blinks and it’s the red fruit instead, the juice soaking into the white cloth the vendor is wiping the cutting board with. His stomach twists. He looks away as shoppers crowd the stand.

He continues on his way, his footsteps feeling heavier than they had been a few moments ago. He moves from stall to stall, gathering the supplies he came for, eyes searching for more than supplies. He kicks himself for it, embarrassed at his own foolishness and yet unable to stop hoping for a glimpse of red - no, blonde - hair and green eyes. 

If only his handlers could see him now. He can almost hear the scathing insults, his actions comparable to that of a young boy on a schoolyard. His face tingles with shame as he forces those thoughts out of his mind. 

She’s not here, he reminds himself. So stop looking.

He can’t deny that he looks for her often. Around corners, down hallways, on top of the hills on his property, and when she isn’t in his dreams he wakes up feeling empty. More often than not he’s embarrassed at himself because of it. He’s too old to feel the way he does, too broken to hope as much as he does. Too proud to admit he’s as afraid as he is.

Bucky continues to push his way through the marketplace, allowing himself to fall back into his old habits. It’s soothing, a vague sense of comfort settling on his shoulders like a warm blanket on a cold day. He scans the crowd, profiling each face and sizing up potential threats even though the marketplace is the least violent part of town. The most action it sees is price haggling and the occasional apple stolen by a sneaky child. He makes mental notes of exits and maps escape routes in his head, deciding on possible weapons should he need one. It’s the most relaxed he’s felt all week.

Bucky has just neared the end of the marketplace, bag of feed under one arm and various supplies thrown over his shoulder when he catches sight of the person he’s been looking for for days. 

A heart shaped face. 

Blonde hair. 

His blue eyes find her green ones from across the stalls. 

She freezes, eyes widening like a deer in headlights. 

And then she’s gone. 

Bucky knows it’s her. There’s only a few faces he can be certain of these days, and even though he has no idea what she means to him, he knows it’s Natasha Romanoff with absolute certainty.

He expects surprise at seeing her again. Fear. Excitement, even. So when anger pushes itself to the forefront of his emotions, he’s not expecting it. It makes his face hot. His hand tightens into a fist. 

She’s following him, Bucky quickly realizes. Has been for days. Toying with him, sizing him up like a cat would a mouse. He doesn’t know what’s more insulting: her tracking him like an animal on the loose, or the fact that she got away with it. He thinks back to all the errands he’s ran this week, all of the places he’s been, and pictures her there, too. Behind him, watching, taking notes. Has she been reporting back to someone? 

He shudders to think that it’s Steve sending her after him like a dog on the hunt. Bucky doesn’t know what to think anymore, only that he cannot let her get away without the answers he needs.  

It’s fury, not fear, that drives him forward.

Bucky drops what he’s been carrying on the closest stand, ignoring the angry protest of the shop owner as he starts heading after Natasha. It takes a few moments, but soon he catches sight of her short blonde hair bobbing through the stands. A slight limp tampers her gait but she’s still fast, slipping through stalls and crowds as if she planned her getaway.

Lucky for him, so has he.

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to realize that she’s following the same escape route he’d mapped in his head. He adjusts accordingly, doubling back and crossing two rows of stalls, a move that puts him diagonal to her position as she heads in the direction of the palace. Just as he predicts, she turns right as he passes one more stall, and he cuts to his left just in time to grab her by the arm and push her into a secluded corner. 

Natasha splutters, stumbling over her feet as he forces her backwards. It’s a surreal feeling, his hand around her bicep, her cotton t-shirt soft against his skin. The fact that she’s close enough to him that he can smell her lavender shampoo makes him falter slightly. She spits a curse at him as her back slams against the wooden wall of the stand behind her, tossing her hair out of her face as she snaps her head up. Her green eyes are narrowed into slits, and he’s not entirely sure that she won’t gut him right here. 

This is not how Bucky expected their first meeting to go. In all the scenarios he’s played out in his head, there’s not one that involves him hunting her down and cornering her in a crowded marketplace. He’s imagined her at the doorway to his home or standing at the edge of the lake a few miles from his barn, hands in the pockets of a sweatshirt or her arms folded gently across her chest. His imagination has lured himself into a false sense of security. He didn’t anticipate cornering her and shoving her into a corner, and now her expression tells him that any words about to come out of her mouth will be hot, sharp with anger and defiance. 

“What the hell is your problem?” she spits as she looks up at him, returning the fury he’s confronting her with. 

If he wasn’t so mad, Bucky would have fallen over. Her voice hits him like a train. He’d like to argue that it hurts more than the real thing. He would know. It’s deeper than he remembers, the edges of her words sharp and full and distinctly American. It hollows him from the inside out. “How long have you been following me?” he demands, hoping that she’ll chalk his shaky tone up to anger. His grip on her arm tightens as if he can squeeze the answer out of her. 

Natasha’s eyes run over his face, examining every line and curve that makes up his expression. She picks him apart without even trying, looking him up and down with a gaze that stares straight into his soul. He almost forgets why they’re in this corner of the marketplace to begin with. 

“I thought you would have known that answer,” she responds hotly, yanking her arm out of his grip. He understands what she means all too well. It’s like someone has dropped a glass ball on his chest. He forces his face to remain neutral as the shards splinter painfully inside his ribs. 

Natasha Romanoff remembers him as the Winter Soldier, HYDRA’s finest creation, the machine with too many confirmed kills to sleep well. She knows him as a weapon, a sledgehammer, a one man SWAT team, someone who can sniff out a target the way a starving dog is drawn to frying meat. 

She expects Bucky to be on top of his game. His fist bruises her skin too often in his nightmares for her to remember him as anything but a battering ram. But the flashes of her lips on his skin make him hope that that’s not true.

Natasha Romanoff does not know him as Bucky Barnes, the man with swiss cheese for brains and a metal plate for a shoulder. The White Wolf, the refugee, the shell of every person he used to be. The man who owns goats and tends a garden and runs from every face in his past like a coward. 

And then it’s Bucky’s turn to evaluate her like she does him, to track every eyebrow raise and pursing of her lips, to break apart the mask he taught her how to wear. Her eyes, though narrowed defiantly, are just slightly too bright, her cheeks too pink to successfully portray her seemingly nonchalant expression. 

For just a moment Bucky wonders if she isn’t the same woman he remembers either.

But her words tell him more than any expression can. She could have easily reworded his question to make it seem like their run-in was a coincidence. Convinced him that she was here for pleasure, not business. Her sharp response also tells him that she’s willing to sacrifice her upper hand for the satisfaction of insulting him. 

Which begs the question: why? Is she angry? Afraid? He wants to believe that her hostility stems from surprise, that she’s baring her teeth at the fact that she’s been caught. 

Bucky regains his composure as best he can. “Who sent you?”  

“T’Challa,” she answers, explaining before he asks more questions. “You haven’t been attending your appointments.”

“That’s not your business,” he retorts, composure abandoned. He bristles like Natasha has poked him with a stick. The knowledge of his meetings with Ayo are not to be freely disclosed, let alone shared with a spy. The only person who knows about his disdain for his appointments is… he looks away for a moment. Shuri.  

Bucky makes a mental note to never tell her anything personal ever again. 

“Why’d he send you? And why didn’t you say anything?” The Dora Milaje storming his hut and dragging him back to the palace would have made more sense. To send the Black Widow after him would have been understandable a few years ago when he was wanted in nearly every country he’d set foot in. Bucky hardly ever leaves his house now. 

Natasha tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Because you seemed…okay. You weren’t holed up in your house or avoiding people. I didn’t want to bother you unless I had to. And-” 

A gunshot splits the air, followed by a shrill scream. They both jerk their head towards the sound, Natasha reaching behind her for the firearm concealed in her waistband. Considering that he doesn’t keep weapons on him anymore, he’s glad for it. 

“That can’t be good,” Bucky mutters, watching market-goers scatter. 

“You think?”

They both start moving towards the sound of the gunshot, pushing through the group of people fleeing from a livestock stand. Bucky is suddenly hyper-aware of Natasha’s presence at his shoulder, the way they fall into step without trying. He tries not to think too much of it despite the feeling of deja vu creeping down his spine. His skin prickles in the heat. 

When they reach the livestock stand they find a young woman leaning against it, her knuckles turning white as she grips the edge of the countertop. She’s facing away from them, staring at something behind the stand. They can’t see her other hand, but Bucky would assume it’s covering her mouth.

Natasha puts her hand on the woman’s shoulder, encouraging her to turn around, but the woman jumps like she’s been burned. She jerks herself out from under Natasha’s grip, whirling around with a sharp gasp. They both step back as the girl steadies herself. 

“Are you alright? What happened?” Natasha asks, lowering her weapon. While the woman responds in panicked Xhosa, Bucky peers around her shoulder to see what she was staring at. 

A young sheep lays on its side, legs stiff and coat dirty. Its throat has been slit, dark red blood soaking into the dirt. Bucky frowns, looking around the small space. It’s the only sheep of the herd that’s been singled out. The rest of the livestock watch warily from the far corner of their enclosure, staring at the slain sheep with wide eyes. 

So much for a peaceful marketplace.

“Natasha,” Bucky calls behind him, her name heavy on his tongue. “You should see this.”

She’s at his shoulder again, blonde hair frizzy from the wind and chaos. Her eyes darken as she stares at the blood seeping into the ground. “I’ll take her back to the palace,” she decides. “She can talk to T’Challa. This was an act of unprovoked aggression and he needs to know about it.”

“I agree.” 

Killing for sport sends a message. Leaving a dead sheep in the dirt for the vendor to find means business, business that might be left unfinished. “I’ll escort you two back to the palace,” Bucky adds. “The person who did this might still be around.”

Wrong thing to say.

“I can take care of myself,” Natasha responds hotly, to which he fights the urge to huff and roll his eyes. Tell her that he knows how capable she is, how stubborn and fierce and blunt she can be when faced with adversity. He knows all of these things and so does she, but he wishes that she knew he knew. 

“I never said that,” he retorts, having nothing better to tell her. “But I’m still coming.”

He knows that the words he really wants to say won’t come out the way he wants them to, so he swallows them like a bitter pill and turns to follow Natasha away from the market and towards the palace.

The young vendor clings to Natasha as they walk, a sight that surprises Bucky. He knows enough about Natasha to know that she is not a physical-touch person. Hell, she’s not even a people person. But she lets this stranger hold onto her arm without so much as a tight jaw or a balled fist, leading the way with a confident gait. It’s interesting. She’s almost protective. 

As they near the palace, Bucky can’t help but wonder what the past couple of years have been like for Natasha. What softened her. What strengthened her. He knows clearly now what happened to her to make her a battering ram, that he was a part of shaping her into one of Hydra’s most formidable weapons. What he longs to know is what kept her from the darkness she was forced into, what made her kind. What kept her human. 

Bucky listens to the grass crunching beneath his boots, focusing on that instead of the memories throbbing at the edge of his mind. They’re not all there, and he knows that if he tries to remember them too hard he’ll lose them. It’s like approaching a scared dog.

Slowly, as not to scare them away, he carefully grabs at the images before him. 

Snow squeaking beneath his boots. 

The smell of ballistol and lead.

The hourglass scratched in the tree. 

Her footprints, nearly filled with powdery flakes. 

Then her white hand in his metal one, her pale fingertips nearly blue. 

His lips on her split knuckles, kissing away the cold. 

Bucky shudders involuntarily. He can’t tell if it’s from the imaginary cold or the imaginary fingers against his lips. He lifts his hand to his mouth, the skin rough against his chapped lips. It’s not enough to simulate hers , but for a brief second he can taste the blood on her lips and feel her teeth against his tongue when she smiles. 

He looks up, cheeks flushing pink as he reconciles the woman in his memories with the one before him. She’s a familiar person in a stranger’s body, and it fills him with a surprising sadness. He shakes his head as if he can clear the cobweb of memories strung from ear to ear. 

It doesn’t work. 

Chapter Text

“Were you hurt?” 

It is his first question T’Challa asks after the vendor finishes telling her story, and though she is still teary, the woman is more steady on her feet than when the three of them were first escorted into the throne room. The King chooses to stand before them rather than sit, positioning himself close enough to the woman to offer comfort and security. 

The vendor, whose name they’ve learned is Imani,  shakes her head. “No, my king.”

T’Challa nods. His posture lightens, imperceptible to the untrained eye. But to Bucky, and he assumes Natasha, he can tell just how much the man cares about his people and their wellbeing. 

“Did you see the person who did this?” T’Challa’s voice is calm, a stark contrast to Imani’s frantic tone. The king’s eyes fall on Natasha and Bucky, his gaze even as he stares at them from the opposite side of the dirt circle they all stand in. Imani turns at his question, her eyes still red from the emotional recap of her story. They brighten slightly at the hope that maybe one of them saw the attacker, but the light dims as the two of them shake their heads.

Natasha answers first. “No. We found her afterwards.”

“He’d already gotten away,” Bucky adds, wanting to contribute to the small conversation that has so far consisted of the vendor, T’Challa, and Natasha. 

T’Challa folds his arms thoughtfully, turning slightly to address Okoye. She stands silently at his shoulder, an ever faithful general. “Please make sure Ms. Imani receives two more sheep in replacement and is reimbursed for the money she lost.”

Bucky shifts his weight from foot to foot. So far it’s been a long conversation with not much of a solution, but the offer of reimbursement helps. There isn’t much T’Challa, or anyone for that matter, can do without the identity of the attacker, but the king shows the same generosity Bucky was shown when he first arrived in Wakanda.

“And please send your best to accompany her back to her home,” T’Challa adds as Okoye turns to leave the room. The general nods and beckons for the woman to follow her. Imani thanks T’Challa repeatedly as she is escorted from the room. Her step is lighter and head held higher, and Bucky is glad to see her in much better spirits than when she arrived. 

Then the king turns to Natasha and Bucky. His gaze turns analytical. 

“World's greatest spy. And yet he caught you.” The man’s eyes twinkle with humor as Natasha dips her head. Bucky’s stomach falls at the mention of their encounter, the same hollow sensation creeping up his chest and choking him with icy fingers. T’Challa’s words strike a nerve. He’s used to hearing about Natasha in the past and present, and referring to himself in the same ways, but never once has he heard someone else refer to the two of them as existing in the same tense. 

“We have the same training.” Her words are even as she explains herself but the tips of her ears turn light pink as she straightens. Her jaw twitches slightly, betraying her disdain for having been called out. For someone who has been known for her ferocity and efficiency, being reminded of anything close to a slip-up is disconcerting. 

Bucky can understand more than he probably should. 

“Hm.” T’Challa hums. He starts to walk back towards his throne, offering no other insight into his thoughts. He settles into the vibranium throne, folding his hands in his lap. “We will pull the footage from the cameras in the marketplace. Hopefully we should be able to find whoever did this within a day or two.”

“You think you’ll be able to find them?” Natasha doesn’t do well at hiding her uncertainty. Maybe she doesn’t mean to.

T’Challa doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t even curl his hand into a fist. Instead, his lips curl into a small smile. As if he expects her doubts. Bucky flicks his gaze between the two of them. Maybe they know each other better than Bucky anticipated. 

He doesn’t like the feeling that knots in his stomach. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He knows that T’Challa has had a long-standing relationship with Steve Rogers, and by default, Natasha. It makes sense that they would know each other, but he can’t stop his hand from balling into a fist. As if he can fight off the jealousy snaking up into his chest. Jealousy because this is his place, his people, his relationships. Jealousy because he wants to be able to ward off Natasha’s sharp tongue with a gentle smile rather than flustered stammering. He doesn’t know how well T’Challa and Natasha know each other, but the king knows this version of her better than Bucky does.

The Natasha that Bucky knows lives in the darkest corners of his mind, a Natasha that he’s not sure exists anymore. He glances towards the woman standing on his left, at her short blonde hair and narrowed green eyes, at the green - not black - vest she wears. She’s as familiar to him as a stranger and as foreign to him as an old friend. It’s a bitter oxymoron. 

“We’ve found people with less information,” T’Challa answers, which Bucky finds surprising considering how limited their own information is, but he doesn’t question it. If it’s one thing he’s learned about Wakanda, it’s that nothing is impossible. 

“Well,” Natasha says, in a tone that implies she’s ready to leave, “please let us know when you find them. I’ve never been a fan of stories without an ending.”

“Of course. Get home safely,” T’Challa tells them as he stands. “We’ll be in contact soon.”

They turn to leave, Bucky all too aware of how they both lead with the same foot, shifting their weight at the same time. They don’t get far. “Oh, Ms. Romanoff,” the king calls, as if he’d just remembered something, “I meant to ask. How is your leg healing?”

Bucky watches Natasha pause, not blind to the way her gaze flicks to him before she faces the king. He wishes he could tell what she was thinking.

“Good. Shuri’s plasma patch worked well.” 

Bucky recognizes her vaguely worded sentence, having a conversation without saying much at all. He knows because he uses that same tactic when Shuri or Ayo tries to get him to talk about something he doesn’t want to discuss. 

But T’Challa doesn’t press. Unlike his sister, Bucky notes silently. “Good to hear. Rest well. I will see the both of you soon.”

And then they’re dismissed. The wooden doors creak shut behind them, closing with a soft thud. 

Bucky starts to head down the hallway, taking his well-worn exit out of the palace without letting himself think too much of the woman he’s walking away from. Or trying to. It doesn’t take long for him to realize that Natasha is still at his shoulder. Her gait is uninterrupted as she matches his pace, her hands stuffed casually into her jean pockets like they’re out for a stroll. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, not sure what answer he’s expecting her to give him. He asks it quietly, as if he might scare her away. He’s reminded of their earlier conversation in the marketplace, the murderous look in her eyes and her sharp tongue. He’s suddenly worried that they’ll pick up where they left off.

But he can’t just say nothing. He’d spend the rest of his life hating himself for missing this opportunity, as small as it may be. He decides that whatever she says would be better than silence, so he steels himself as she turns her green gaze on him.

“Walking to my room,” Natasha responds, as if it’s obvious. But her gaze is even, softening her tone. She looks up at him expectantly, but he doesn’t know what it is that she’s expecting from him.

“What?”

“Usually a conversation requires participation from both people. Unless you plan on cornering me first.”  

Bucky pushes a hand through his hair, recalling how he’d grabbed her in the marketplace. “Yeah. Sorry about that. But in my defense,” he adds, itching to gain some kind of upper hand, “you were following me.” 

It’s her turn to apologize, ducking her head slightly as she does. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I should have been honest with you from the beginning.” 

Bucky has hardly had time to adjust to the fact that they’re having a normal conversation, let alone that she’s apologizing to him. The surprise must show on his face because she looks away.

Before he can start to ask what she’s thinking, she says, “You look like Rogers.” It comes out quietly, as if she can’t believe she’s admitting it. 

He blinks. Whenever he’s compared to Steve, it’s usually to praise the Captain, or at the very least put his accomplishments on a pedestal while Bucky’s exploits are hastily brushed over. Which is fair. 

“What do you mean?” he asks her. 

Natasha shrugs, hands still stuffed into her back pockets. She looks up at Bucky as she responds, “He gets the same surprised look on his face when I apologize to him.”

“Do you apologize often?”

“Not as much as I probably should,” she admits. It’s strange seeing her like this. Open. Relaxed. Even-tempered. Honest with him when an hour ago they were about to kill each other. Bucky doesn’t know Natasha well enough to be sure that this conversation isn’t a trick to get back at him, but he’s already had enough used against him. He decides that even if it is a ploy, he’ll take what little conversation he can get.

“Yeah, I can tell you’re out of practice.” It’s a lame jab, and one that makes him hold his breath, but he relaxes slightly when her lips turn up in a small smile. It lightens her whole face, softening her features and brightening her eyes. He wants to make it happen again, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. 

“Shut up,” she says through a chuckle. A tendril of warmth curls in his stomach, cutting through the rocks that have been sitting in his gut for weeks now.

They continue their walk down the hallway, and as they nears the exit in silence, Bucky can’t help but ask, “So, how’d you hurt your leg?”

It’s a personal question, but it’s one he knows the answer to, which is why he asks it. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to ask another question of that caliber without being prepared for the answer. Now, as she takes a second to carefully construct her response, he’s still not entirely sure what she’ll say. If she’ll lie to him or tell him the truth.

“I’m worth a lot of money right now,” Natasha starts. She pushes her blonde hair behind her ear with one hand. “It’s not exactly a secret, and because the American government would love to throw me into a maximum security prison for the rest of my life - or for someone else to - they put all of my personal information online and I made the stupid decision of going back to my apartment. I was attacked, and the assassin for hire stabbed me in the thigh.” She says it simply, as if she’s telling him about a trip to the grocery store or a walk in the park.

“Are you alright?” Bucky asks when she doesn’t offer any more information. 

“Please.” She scoffs. “Don’t you know me?”

Bucky nearly trips over his own feet. Her question fills his stomach with acid where a few minutes ago there had been liquid light. He doesn’t know how to explain that he thinks he does, that he used to know her back when she was the Black Widow and he was the Winter Soldier and the only thing that made sense to him was her. His hand tightens into a reflexive fist as the images he sees in his sleep roll over him in waves. 

Her chin between his metal fingers, tilted up so he can see her face.

Her pale hands, covered with grease and gunpowder, leaving gray fingerprints on his skin as she touches his cheek.

Her green eyes, blurry with sleep as she rolls over to face him. 

Snow sloughing off of his vest as he slips out the window before her handlers wake.

The images flash by so quickly Bucky can barely see them. It turns his stomach, not knowing how real the memories are and yet feeling her touch so vividly on his skin he can’t believe that they aren’t.

Does she have the same memories? Can she remember her hands threaded through his, his eyes on her in training, the way he kissed the bruises he was responsible for, how her body fit perfectly in the shape of his?

The thought of Natasha not sharing in his memories nearly cuts him off at the legs. 

Natasha blinks, and as her eyes search his face Bucky prays that she can’t tell what he’s thinking. She backtracks as best she can and he doesn’t try to stop her. 

“Shuri patched me up,” she says quickly as he pushes open the doors to the outside. “I’m almost as good as new.”

Bucky nods, feeling stiff. “I’m glad to hear it.” 

They both stop just outside the doors to the palace, standing under the blazing sun as they both try to figure out what to say next. 

“I think you passed your room,” Bucky says eventually, gesturing towards the building behind them. It’s a pathetic way of trying to get her to leave, but he’s afraid that if he’s with her for another minute he’ll say something he can’t take back. Kind of like she’s trying to do now. 

Natasha’s blonde hair fans out behind her head as she turns to look at the building with its thousands of gleaming windows. “Oh. Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Well, I need to get going,” he says, and even though it’s the farthest thing from the truth, he convinces himself that he needs to leave. “I’ll see you around.”

He doesn’t wait for her response, letting the hollow feeling in his gut turn him away. He’s all too aware of her eyes boring into his back as she calls after him.

“See you.” 

********

Bucky spends the next few days holed up in his home, hoping that Natasha doesn’t show up and almost wishing she would. He can’t keep from glancing up at the hill she’d stood on a week prior, hating the weight that presses on his stomach when she isn’t there.

He spends most of his time trying to reconcile why he hates himself for feeling the way he does.

Steve stops by from time to time, offering to help with odd jobs like a teenager scouring neighborhoods for money. Though Bucky feels impossibly awkward around him, he can’t deny that he finds himself looking forward to the visits more than he dreads them.

The visit that he finds himself appreciating the most, though, is Sam Wilson’s.

The former soldier-turned-Avenger walks onto his property a few afternoons after the marketplace incident, dust trailing behind him as he goes. Bucky watches him approach from his spot by the fence, not sure what he’s doing here but not willing to question it. He watches the brown bag swing from Sam’s hands and wonders what he could possibly have. He assumes it’s tools of some kind, maybe even plants or greenery. Shuri tries to encourage Bucky to plant flowers from time to time and he wonders if she’s convinced Sam to finally make it happen.  

“Don’t worry,” Sam says as he nears, lifting his hand in mock surrender. “I didn’t drive here.”

Bucky’s confusion must show on his face because the smile on Sam’s fades a little. “Y’know, because of the whole steering-wheel incident? On the highway? You broke the windshield?” Sam continues as Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

Then, in a memory of glass and gunshots, Bucky can recall a shattered car windshield and a leather steering wheel being flung behind him. “Oh, yeah,” he says. Sam’s face relaxes. “When I pulled the steering wheel out of your car. In DC.”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Sorry. Lame joke. It would have been funnier if I didn’t have to explain it.”

“It’s okay.” Bucky pulls the shovel he’s been working with out of the ground. “When I got out of cryofreeze, Shuri had to scratch markings into the trees just so I could remember my way home.”

Sam doesn’t laugh. Or maybe he wants to and doesn’t know if it’s appropriate.

“You can laugh. That was a joke,” Bucky tells him, gesturing to the side of his head. “I’m actually pretty good at remembering things these days, all things considered.”

“Shocker,” Sam says, but his words are edged with caution. He doesn’t take the jab further than that. 

“Are you here to help me?” Bucky asks him, almost dreading the answer as he turns towards the barn. If he had a penny for every person that used the guise of ‘helping’ to check up on him, Bucky could afford to fix all the problems he has.

“Actually, no. I wanted to see if you wanted lunch.”

Bucky pauses. He turns back around. “Lunch?”

Sam holds up the bag he’s carrying. “Yeah. I figured you’ve been working all day and you’d be hungry.”

“And you wanted to eat with me?”

It’s the soldier’s turn to look surprised. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’ve tried to kill you,” Bucky says, but even as the words leave his mouth he finds himself wanting to take them back. As if Sam will suddenly remember all the times they’ve gone toe to toe and decide coming here was a bad idea. But he just shrugs. 

“It was a two-way street. All is forgiven. I have weirdly shaped fruits someone recommended and sandwiches. If you eat that sort of thing.”

“What, did you expect me to chug motor oil and bolts?”

Sam’s smile turns genuine. “I mean, yeah. Kinda.”

Bucky glances towards his house. “I don’t have much in the way of food, but I have tea and coffee and water if you want to come in for a little.” It’s the first time Bucky has invited somebody inside his home purely for a visit and not a wellness check. It’s also the first time he’s found himself hoping that Sam will take him up on his offer.

The man shrugs. “Sure. I could go for some water.”

Bucky sets his shovel back down and starts leading the way towards his house. He pulls open the door and lets Sam walk inside first. It’s only when he closes the door does he realize that the man hasn’t taken a step past the entryway, taking in every detail adorning the walls. 

As his eyes adjust, Bucky can see what Sam sees: the hastily made bed directly in front of them, the table to the right with the mismatched chairs and splintering wood, the tiny kitchen with its random cups and multicolored plates. There’s not much in the way of furniture or decorations as Bucky doesn’t have any pictures to hang or trinkets to display, nor does he have enough people over to need a sofa and sitting chairs. It’s a fact that suddenly warms his cheeks. He looks around at the wooden floors with its collage of dusty carpeting and fights the urge to grab a broom. Or straighten the blankets on the bed. To do anything to make his eclectic home seem more put together than it actually is. 

The most he can do is offer a lame apology and hope that Sam doesn’t inspect the house too carefully. “Sorry for the mess,” he mumbles as he steps past the man on his way to the tiny kitchen. 

“I don’t mind,” Sam says as he follows, taking a seat in one of the two chairs at the table. Bucky is almost glad that the man makes himself at home. It takes away the pressure of having to entertain. “It reminds me of the tents I used to live in in Iraq.”

Bucky looks up from the task at hand. Sam’s file comes back to him in a blur, single words piecing together a haphazard collage of history in his mind. There’s a beat before he asks, “How many tours?” 

“Two. I would have done more, but once Riley was killed I didn’t really see a reason for being over there.” His shrug is casual but his words are just slightly too monotone, betraying a sentence that Sam has surely repeated over and over until the emotion had left it. 

Bucky has never heard of Riley. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who he was and why his death still follows Sam around to this day. But he asks Sam about him anyway, hoping that the mention of his partner’s death was Sam’s way of trying to connect with him. 

It’s funny, Bucky thinks, how death is the one thing that has bound him to so many people in his lifetime. What’s one more, he figures. 

“Who was Riley?” 

“My partner. My friend,” he corrects with a nod. “We enlisted out of high school together. Same training group, same battalion. He loved technology and gadgets, so when we got the chance to test the EXO-7 Falcon, he couldn’t say no. I wish I had. I wish I'd known they would have killed him. The day he was shot down, well, it felt like I was up there just to watch.”

Sam’s words strike a nerve. Bucky suddenly realizes that Sam and Steve have more in common than he’d originally thought. Sam lost his best friend the same way Steve did. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bucky says after a moment, the only thing he can bring himself to say, because what else can you say? 

“Thanks,” Sam replies, stabilizing the small variety of fruits he’s poured out amongst baggies of sandwiches. Then he says, “You were Infantry.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. His statement is matter-of-fact, and for a moment Bucky wonders if Sam’s words mean to unite them through their shared experiences. He also gets the feeling that the man is ready to talk about something else. 

Bucky nods, happy to oblige. “107th. But I’ve lived through enough wars to fill a lifetime.”

Sam exhales sharply, as if realizing how much world history Bucky has been privy to. 

“Damn. I guess that’s true. Not even Steve can hold a candle to that.”

It’s the first time Bucky’s accomplishments have been compared to Steve’s in an admiral tone. Bucky focuses on pouring the water so he doesn’t have to think about it.

“There’s a lot that I’ve done that Steve hasn’t. There’s also a lot that Steve has done that I haven’t,” he points out as he crosses the room to Sam. He sets a cup of water in front of the man, and as he takes a few short steps to retrieve his own, Sam asks: “Like what?”

Bucky wraps his hand around the cup as he brings it back to the table. He settles in the remaining chair across from Sam. Seconds stretch between them as he tries to find the right words to answer the question.  “I don’t know. Steve was always destined for greatness. Or at least martyrdom. I’m sure you read my file. You know what I’ve done. Steve saves lives. I’ve made a career out of taking them.”

Sam’s response is another shrug. It makes Bucky frown. Shrugs are reserved for dismissing jokes, playing off a witty sentence, or disguising a rush of embarrassment with a change in body language. Sam is using it to dismiss the murders he has committed, which doesn’t sit well with him. He opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by Sam. “You and I both know you didn’t have a choice.”

Bucky huffs out a frustrated sigh.

Shuri has said this. 

Ayo has said this. 

Steve has said this. 

T’Challa has even offered these same words in a meager display of comfort without really succeeding. 

He wants it to feel different coming out of Sam’s mouth. He wants the man’s words to bring him a new sense of peace and comfort, to relieve him of the burdens he’s carried for decades. All it does is make Bucky squirm. 

“Everyone says that,” he says into his cup. “But the fact that I didn’t want to do it doesn’t take away from the fact that I did it.” Anger bubbles up in him as he speaks. Not at Sam, and not because of him, but because of his sympathy. Because of everybody’s sympathy. Bucky doesn’t deserve any of it. He speaks again before the logical part of him can tell him not to. “I’m tired of people not being mad at me for this. Like I get a free pass because I got smacked around for couple of decades. For people treating me like I’m innocent, for holding my hand, for giving me a home and food and help when what I really deserve is to be punished over and over again for what I’ve done. It’s not fair.”

“What isn’t fair?” Sam leans back in his chair, expression thoughtful. There isn’t a trace of judgment in his features, and it makes Bucky feel a little better about his outburst. He fiddles with the rim of the glass as he answers the question. 

“What I’ve been given." He gestures around himself. "It’s not fair for me to have all of this. It’s not fair to the families I’ve torn apart, for the lives I’ve changed and ended. I don’t deserve it.”

“Is that why you live out here, away from everyone?”

It’s Bucky’s turn to ask a question. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you live miles from everyone. You live in a tiny home with little to no amenities and wear clothes designed to hide yourself. You force yourself to do labor until your blisters scar. I’ve seen the blood on the handle of your tools. You could wear gloves,” he adds when Bucky starts to argue his point, “but you choose not to. Don't get me wrong, I know how much having this place means to you. I know it is your home and I am in no way trying to take that away from you. I also know that you could have more than this if you asked for it. And I know that while a part of you is out here alone because you don’t think you deserve nice things, I also have a feeling that you’re out here choosing to live in pain because you feel like you deserve to keep paying for the crimes you’ve committed.”

Bucky swallows. Turns his eyes down so he can focus on the water at the bottom of his cup. Sam’s words are a punch to the gut. They fill in the blanks he’s been trying to fill for months. They tap cracks into his soul, and Sam’s next words split him clean down the middle.

“Don’t you think you’ve suffered enough?”

His response is almost immediate. “I could live a million lifetimes and still not suffer the way I deserve,” he responds, voice hoarse. He blinks. Blinks again. He looks away towards the dimmest part of the house and hopes that Sam can’t see how shiny his eyes are. His stomach hurts but his chest feels lighter, like something has broken the cement laying across his ribs. The pieces twist in his stomach.

Sam leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. “You have suffered enough,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “You have endured more than any person should ever have to. You were tortured, ” he says, and Bucky turns to look at him straight on as he continues. “Not knocked around or pushed a little bit. You were tortured.  What happened to you wasn’t because of what you did. HYDRA didn’t torture you because you killed people. They tortured you because they wanted you to kill. And you didn’t deserve any of it. Anybody who tells you differently is lying to you.” He raises a finger and points it in Bucky’s direction. “And any part of you that tries to justify what happened is also lying to you. I don’t know much, and maybe Steve’s knack for speeches is rubbing off on me, but I know you deserve healing. You deserve to be okay. You deserve nice things. And,” he finishes, “though I might not be able to sell you on the happiness part today, I’ll come back for that some other time.”

It takes Bucky a minute to find words. He feels exposed, his entire body aching like he just swam a hundred miles. He’s thankful when Sam quietly reaches for the fruits strewn about the table, not expecting a response to his statement. 

This small hut is Bucky's home. It is his safe place. He chose it because it was far away, because it meant limited interactions with people and time to be alone. Sam's words make him realize that he had been using the isolation to punish himself, in a way. Despite the fact that he lives in one of the most technologically advanced cities in the world, asking for more things after everything he'd been given didn't feel right. Happiness was a foreign concept, and living with a weight on his shoulders felt normal. Uncomfortable, but normal. Until now. Sam's words feel liberating. He'd pieced Bucky together like a puzzle, and he finally feels whole for the first time in months. Raw, exposed, but whole. 

“So, tell me what all of these are. Because I was just trusting the vendor. I haven’t seen anything like these -”

“Thanks.” Bucky cuts him off. The moment for gratitude - or any kind of response, really - has passed but he can’t not say nothing after the reality bomb Sam just dropped on him. And that’s all he says. He can’t bring himself to say much more, but he gets the feeling Sam knows. 

The man nods. “Anytime.” And then he starts up his sentence again, holding up a spiky orange fruit whilst commenting on it. Buck can hear himself responding, even watches himself get up and grab a dull knife so he can cut open the fruits.

As the two sit there, swapping slices of fruit and picking at sandwiches, Bucky starts to feel lighter than he has in months. He sits up straighter. A smile graces his face more times than a scowl does. He doesn’t feel entirely better, but he feels heard. He feels seen. He knows that the possibility of eventually being okay isn’t far out of his reach.

Chapter Text

Bucky stands in front of T’Challa less than twelve hours after Sam’s visit. Natasha stands on his right side, hands clasped behind her back as she leans over the table they’re gathered around. T’Challa hadn’t lied: it had only taken his team two days to analyze the security footage from the marketplace and run extensive background checks on every pixel-y individual. On the desk before them T’Challa has laid three grainy photographs with the identity of each person written beneath them in neat Nsibidi handwriting. 

The bare faces of Jacob Alcot, William Ryder, and Nathan Richards stare up at the three of them, and though the photo lacks vibrancy and pixels, they can see the men well enough to count moles and freckles and scars.  

The king motions to the data before him. “These are the men responsible for the attack two days ago. Ex-military, dishonorable discharges for all of them. They are working for a man named Colin Kingston, an ex-military strategist who employed them to do his dirty work.” T’Challa taps the table and a screen materializes under his fingers. After some configuring he produces a much clearer image of an average looking man. Level brown eyes stare at the camera from a rounded face. He’s a man with just enough weight on him to be seen as unassuming, but the pale scar worming its way down the side of his face tells Bucky he’s not a person to be dismissed quickly.

Next to Bucky, Natasha leans forward for a better look. Her blonde hair, usually tucked behind her ears, falls like a silver curtain across the side of her face. She’s close enough that Bucky can smell her lavender shampoo when she moves. His right hand twitches on its own accord, fingers itching to pull the strands out of her eyes and back behind her ear. 

It’s like watching her from behind a pane of glass, staring at her like she’s a painting in his museum of memories.  

The muscle memory he’s fighting against produces an onslaught of fragmented images of his past, the bits and pieces slipping through his mind like her red hair does in his silver fingers. He blinks quickly, trying to brush away the intimate images that dot his skin with goosebumps. 

T’Challa’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “All three specialized in military intelligence and strategy of some kind. Kingston's area of expertise was explosives and demolition before he was discharged. I don’t know exactly what kind of technology they have access to but I’m assuming it’s of a pretty high caliber.”

 “Did you find out where they were headed after the killing?” Natasha asks. 

“We’re not sure if Kingston has a home base somewhere, but we have records of a commercial plane taking off about an hour after the attack. Their faces were picked up on airport security cameras and we have reason to believe they’ve hopped the next flight back to the United States. I’m planning on sending a scouting team to track them down and bring them back for questioning.”

“Where in the US?” Bucky asks, frowning at their choice of relocation.

“Columbus, Ohio. We’ve assumed that’s where they’ve set up shop. At the very least it’s a rest stop. I’m hoping to get exact coordinates soon.”

“When are you sending your scouting team out?” Bucky asks, and Natasha straightens as T’Challa responds. 

“Tomorrow. I’d like this settled as soon as possible.”

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to go with them,” Natasha says, and a strange weight settles on Bucky’s chest. He can’t explain why he thinks her offering to go is a bad idea, and he definitely doesn’t have the authority to stop her, but her name falls out of his mouth before he can stuff it back in.

“Natasha,” he starts, but it’s the king who cuts him off. Probably for the best. Who knows what he would have said if he’d been allowed to keep talking. 

“What for?” 

Natasha looks towards Bucky to seek his support. She doesn’t get it, only because her question fills him with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. He tilts his head, silently asking the same question as T’Challa. She looks back and forth between the two of them as she answers. 

“It’s almost too easy.” She pulls a few photographs close to her, motioning to them as she makes her point. “They kill a sheep in broad daylight with dozens of witnesses, intentionally looking directly at your cameras so that their faces will be seen. Then they hop a commercial flight while making no effort to conceal their identity. If they-”

“It sounds like a trap.” Bucky doesn’t mean to cut her off, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling that knots in his stomach as she lays down her reasoning. “It’s exactly like you said: it’s almost too easy. The killing of the sheep and not a civilian is an intentional choice and it reads like they’re sending a message.” 

“I know,” she concedes, nodding her head. “I have the same gut feeling. I just can’t decide if it’s a message worth reading.”

Now Bucky turns to T’Challa. “Is it worth sending a team after a group of ex-military individuals to avenge a single sheep?”

“It’s not just about the sheep,” the king replies. “It was an attack on my people and their livelihood. Regardless of what was killed, it was done by a foreign group whose actions pose a significant threat to the wellbeing of the people I swore to protect. I would like to bring these people back for questioning and go from there.” T’Challa looks Natasha up and down, his calculating gaze lingering on the bandages underneath her cargo pants. Bucky remembers what Steve told him, how she was attacked in her apartment and stabbed. A flash of worry shoots through his chest, a question forming on his tongue, but T’Challa voices his concerns before he can.

“I am grateful for your offer, Ms. Romanoff. I am just not sure if it’s wise to put you in the field, considering your injury and your current status in the United States.”

Natasha folds her arms across her chest. “I’m a wanted woman practically everywhere. I don’t think it matters much where I go anymore, the risks are about the same. And my leg is practically healed. Please.” She looks towards Bucky now. “There is something deeper going on here and I’d like to find out what that is.”

“Why not let the reconnaissance team go?” Bucky asks. “They can bring the information back as they get it.” He doesn’t have the authority to challenge her decision, or the relationship to advise her properly, and yet can’t ignore the nagging feeling of dread blooming in his chest like a poisonous flower. He asks his question with a level tone, knowing that challenging her openly would only reinforce her decision to go. 

“I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel like this is something I have to do.” Her green gaze is insistent, her body language determined. The argument is on his tongue, but he bites it back. He looks to T’Challa, hoping the king will forbid her to go. 

His stomach sinks when he says, “Get cleared by Shuri and then we can talk further.”

Natasha nods, shoulders relaxing. Her green eyes glimmer with anticipation, and Bucky can almost see her physically resist the urge to turn on her heel and run to Shuri’s lab. She’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet as she says, “Alright.”

Bucky does his best to ignore the growing weight in his stomach. 

“Thank you for your help,” T’Challa says as he begins to gather the various data sheets and photographs into a plain manilla folder. Natasha approaches the table and starts to help him. Bucky’s lone hand twitches. He should help too, he thinks, but as questions surface about how everyone is adjusting to the city, Bucky finds himself turning towards the door. These aren’t questions he has the social merit to hear the answer to and as the conversation takes a more personal turn, he pulls the glass door open and slips out.

Bucky chokes back the bitter taste rising in his throat as he walks down the hall, doing his best to ignore the headache and the heat that blossoms across his forehead as the voices fade. The young soldier in him wants to turn back and return to the conversation, to ask questions and make jokes and let words roll off of his tongue with the grace he used to have, but the beaten-down assassin in him has lost the boy-ish charm he ran around Brooklyn with. 

Both the assassin and the soldier would like to get to know the redhead more, and though Bucky would like nothing more than to take the puzzle pieces of the present and try to match them to the half-built picture in his mind, he’s missing the parts of him that would allow him to retrieve such information and he abandons the idea before it takes root.

—

Bucky has been sitting outside in his chair long enough for his half-drank tea to turn cold. His joints are stiff under the blanket he’s wrapped himself in, but he can’t pull his gaze away from the glittering night sky. It’s the first time he’s felt at peace all day, and he brings the cold ceramic mug to his lips until the last of the tea is gone. 

He’s just gotten comfortable again, having bent over to rest the mug on the ground, when a black figure cuts through the black sky. He stills.

Her hands are shoved into the pockets of her sweatshirt, blending her slender silhouette into the sky, and as she gets closer he can hear her boots crunch in the dirt. Her gait is loose, relaxed, and her hair shines silver in the moonlight. She stops a few feet away from his chair, walking onto his land like it’s a habit. He hates the way her eyes bore into him. It takes everything in him not to shift in his chair. 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” she admits, answering the question he was about to ask. She says it matter-of-factly, with an air of confidence he’s not entirely sure she has. It makes him feel better about his own nerves.

“I was about to ask,” he responds, crossing his ankle over his knee. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She shrugs. “Among other things.” 

He stops himself from asking what those things are, although he’s fairly confident he could get away with it now. He’ll ask her later. Instead, he offers her tea. 

“No coffee?” she says, mouth curved into a hopeful smile. He shakes his head. 

“Don’t like it.”

“Tea is fine.” 

He stands and focuses entirely too much on not running into the open doorway as he ducks inside. She follows him, but only so far. Her shadow melts into the black of the doorway as she leans against it, not outside his house but not entirely inside of it, either.

He lights a small lamp, remembering his conversation with Shuri at the lake shortly before Steve and Sam and Natasha had arrived in Wakanda. Figments of his imagination replay in his mind, conjuring up what it would be like to have her in his home. Now that she’s here, and also isn’t, he doesn’t know how to reconcile her current presence with her imagined one. 

She speaks before he can dive down that rabbit hole. “How’s the digs?”

He’s surprised to find a chuckle escaping his lips. He turns to face the stove, placing a pot of water over the flame. “Digs?” 

Bucky can feel her roll her eyes. She lets out a sigh edged with a laugh. Her boot hits the dirt. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

“My digs are fine,” he responds. He turns, gesturing to two different boxes of tea. “Which one?” He falters at the sight of her, backlit in the lamp light in the doorway. He does his best to hide his expression.

Natasha’s smile reflects in the dim light.  “I can’t see them.”

“Oh. Right.”

She crosses to him. Her boots leave impressions in the dirt, prints that abruptly stop as she walks across the carpet that makes up most of the floor. She analyzes her options as they sit before her. In the few seconds it takes her to make her selection, he watches her dark eyes dart between the two boxes and tries not to stare at her slightly pursed lips. 

His cheeks warm and he looks away, feeling guilty and not entirely sure why.

Natasha selects the vanilla chai, and after thumbing out a bag he sets it in one of the few mugs he owns. They fall into silence until Bucky makes an excuse about grabbing an extra chair for her, and he instructs her to watch the water until it boils. 

“Sounds difficult,” she says as he steps past her, but he doesn’t respond. 

The tea is ready by the time he steps back inside. He pauses, watching her pour the water and add sugar like she’d done it a thousand times. Like being in his house at three in the morning was the most natural thing in the world. 

“Do you want a refill?” she asks. “I saw your mug by your chair,” she adds before he can ask her how she knows he’s in need of one.

Bucky stoops to grab his own mug, now his turn to cross the hut to her. He doesn’t necessarily want one, but he figures it’d be good to have an excuse not to talk every once in a while. He’s all too aware of the half-made bed, the dusty floor, the collection of dishes piled in the sink. He fights the urge to tidy the house as he goes, hearing his mother’s voice in his head. 

Your state of mind is reflected in your surroundings.

Bucky prays that Natasha hasn’t been psychoanalyzing his cluttered house as he holds his cold mug out to her. She lifts her own hand to steady the mug, their fingers millimeters apart as she focuses on pouring the scalding water. The water steams as she pours it, and though it hisses and spits on his skin, he doesn’t pull away. Then she drapes the tea bag into the water and her hand falls away. 

He steps back and tilts his head towards the doorway, and beyond that, the chairs. “Want to sit?”

“Yeah.”

They ease themselves into their respective chairs. Natasha folds one leg beneath her as she settles. He watches her from over the rim of his mug, finding it hard to believe that the woman sitting next to him is the same woman who’d just about slit his throat a few days ago. He’s not sure what to think about her, doesn’t know how to trust this peace just yet.

Bucky looks up at the sky. She takes a sip from her mug, pressing her tongue to her teeth when the hot water burns her mouth. 

“Ow.”

He should ask her if she’s alright but doesn’t. Not because he doesn’t care, because he does - probably more than he should - but because he can’t not ask the question that’s been on his mind since she stopped in front of him.

“Why are you here, Natasha?” 

The blonde’s fingernails click against the ceramic. Bucky can practically see the gears turning in her head as she runs through multiple scenarios in her head, just like he does. 

“Do you think I’m making a mistake, going with the Dora Milaje to bring those guys in?” She lifts the mug to her lips. The steam curls around her nose as she takes a sip.

“Why do you care what I think?” That’s not the answer she’s expecting. 

“Because you think like I do.” That’s not the answer he’s expecting. He holds his tongue, waiting for her to elaborate. “Rogers is very…logical. Noble. He’d tell me not to go, and because he’s an American standard of righteousness I tend to rely on him to make sensible decisions when I’m afraid I won’t. And I think that you have the ability to look at this with an impartial eye.”

Impartial . Unbiased, impersonable, neutral. Everything she thinks he is and everything he wishes he was when it comes to her. 

“You think it’s a bad idea?” he asks.

“I think that there are substantial risks involved,” she concedes. “I’d be stupid to ignore them.”

“So what’s telling you to go? It can’t be that you want to avenge a sheep.”

“I don’t. Wakanda has always been good to me. These people have taken care of me despite my past, my reputation, and my career. I can’t help but feel responsible for what happened the other day, and I want to make it right.”

“You didn’t kill that sheep,” he points out.

“No, but I feel like I’m partly responsible. A group of American ex-militants attacked these people and then fled. It doesn’t strike me as a coincidence that they did it while Steve and Sam and I were here. It feels intentional. And I feel responsible, even if it’s not necessarily my fault.”

Bucky breathes out a sigh. He takes a sip of his rapidly cooling tea. He looks Natasha up and down, surprised at her candor. At her openness to share this with him. He does his best to meet her honestly halfway. 

“If you feel like this is something you have to do, I won’t stop you. But you need to be absolutely sure that this is the right decision. And you need to have a contingency plan in case something goes south.” He feels like a lecturer, an advisor, but the instructions roll off his tongue with practiced ease. This advice doesn’t feel genuine, not when he’s relayed it thousands of times to wide-eyed trainees, and a chill runs down his spine knowing that she was once one of those agents. It feels wrong that he can’t find a scrap of original advice to offer her, after all this time. 

Natasha’s face changes too, green eyes dulling for just a moment. It’s too brief for him to begin to wonder why or what she’s thinking of. 

Bucky downs the last of his tea, the sugar that hadn’t quite dissolved in the water grainy as it slides past his lips. 

“What about you?” she asks, and he frowns. 

“What about me?”

“Are you planning on getting back into combat again?” Natasha doesn’t say it in a condescending tone, and he knows she doesn’t mean it to be insulting, but something sharp stabs into his chest. It makes him bitter, which is not an emotion he is used to associating with her. 

This is a conversation reserved for a closer friendship. Steve, Shuri, even Sam. Natasha does not know him well enough to discuss this topic, and so he says, “I’m retired. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

Her once relaxed posture shifts into a defensive one. Though it’s almost imperceptible, her tone sharpens. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” And then silence falls over them like a heavy blanket. 

“Well,” Natasha says, and stands to her feet. He can see her bite back a wince as she places her weight on her injured leg. 

Though he’s still bitter, he can’t stop himself from asking, “Did Shuri clear you?” 

She nods her head. “Yeah. I’ve got one more plasma patch waiting for me in my room, and I’ll be good to go tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” It’s sooner than he thought. 

“Yeah. Can’t wait, you know?”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the tea. I’m glad-” She bites back her sentence and he wishes she wouldn’t. “Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

Then she turns to leave. He doesn’t know why it falls out of his mouth, but it does. “Wait. Natasha.” 

She turns, blonde hair fanning out as she faces him. “What?”

Bucky can’t find the words. They dance in front of him, and though he tries to grab them, they evade his grasp. “Just-” 

“Spit it out, Barnes.”

It’s the first time she’s called him by name, and it takes the wind out of him. “Nothing.” His sentence eludes him for the final time, and all he can say is, “Stay warm is all. Be careful.”

“I will.” And then she disappears the way she came, hands stuffed into her sweatshirt. Despite the chill, she holds her head high. 

It’s not until he’s set their mugs in the sink and is pulling the blankets of his bed aside does he realize he should have offered to let her stay instead of letting her walk the few miles back to the palace.

But it’s too late, and she’s gone, and he can’t chase her down and ask her. He can’t rewrite this part of the story anymore than he can erase others, and the hollow feeling in his gut sits with him until he finally falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Bucky stands on the rocky shore, watching the water from the creek bubble over the rocks as it joins the small pond. Despite its short distance from his hut, he doesn’t come here as often as he would like to. It’s peaceful, and today it serves as an escape from bleating goats and the deafening silence. He's only disturbed by his own intrusive thoughts.

He’s spent the last three days trying not to think about her. 

Here, Bucky doesn't have to avoid the mug on his dusty shelf or  walk to the market for more vanilla chai. He can stare at the water and try not to remember the Royal Talon Fighter taking off across the pink and orange sky. He toes a rock into the water and watches the ripples cascade outward until the pond goes still again.

He'd gone to bed late and woken up early enough to still see stars in the pale sky. He'd expected to watch sun rise behind the palace with a mug of tea, not for his tea to go cold while they boarded the jet. It wasn't long before the Talon Fighter took off across the sky, cutting through the pink sky like a bullet. He'd took a sip of his cold tea, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in his gut.

If he was brave Bucky would admit that he was worried about Natasha, and if he was braver he’d admit that he envied her. Her independence struck a nerve in him, and as the days went by he almost resented her courage. But he doesn’t have the willpower to stay at his home and think about it, so he’s here amongst the trees and bugs. He has yet to feel better.

He’d asked Shuri about the mission a few days after they’d left, as casually as he could. He’d been standing in her laboratory while she inspected his quickly-healing shoulder. 

“So, when do you think they’ll be back?” 

She’d shrugged, more focused on the vibranium in front of her than his question. “I don’t know. T’Challa said within the week. He doesn’t include me in the schematics of combat that often.”

He’d frowned but said nothing. 

Shuri made a show of leaning forward and looking up, her eyes finding him even though he was staring at the ground. Though he’d done his best to make it genuine, he knew his smile had resembled a grimace.

She’d noticed his hesitation, like always. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He'd made a career out of lying, but he'd since retired.

“You could have gone with them, you know.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, I couldn’t have.” 

“Why?” 

He shrugged. “Because. I’m not a soldier anymore. I don’t even have the part of me that made me so valuable. I’d be useless out there.”

“Losing your arm doesn’t mean that you’d be useless, and it definitely wasn't what made you who you were. You’re not all muscle, you know.”

He’d managed a smile at that. “I’d like to test that theory.” Shuri rolled her eyes, returning to the object at hand. Her deft fingers prodded at her work. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” he’d said quietly.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit for how far you’ve come.” She tried to meet his eyes, even grabbed his chin between thumb and forefinger and forced him to look at her. He’d shook her off. “I know you’ve lost parts of yourself. I know how hard it is to rebuild those pieces, especially when you don’t know what you’re looking for. And I know you hate pep talks,” she’d added as he started to shift his weight from foot to foot. “But speaking as your friend, please let me help you put one piece of yourself back together. You might like what I’ve made.”

“You know you’ve already done more than enough for me, right? You and your brother both.”

“I know,” she’d said, eyes twinkling as she turned and crossed the room. “But don’t say that quite yet.” Shuri paused in front of a large black box, the varnish glittering in the light. Blue light reflected off of the vibranium arm nestled within the velvet. A lump rose in his throat as she lifted it out and turned to face him.

“You don’t have to leave with it today. But would you like to try it on?”

Bucky’s first instinct was to say no. The same urge to flee welled up in him so strong that he curled his toes in his boots to keep himself in place. He was about to shake his head when Sam’s voice rang from the back of his mind, so clear it was as if he was in the room with them. 

Don’t you think you’ve suffered enough?

You deserve to be okay. You deserve nice things.

This is a nice thing, he’d told himself. The machinery before him, created by one of his closest friends, was for him. Not for a greater good, not to benefit an organization, not even as a weapon, but so he could get his life back. He’d looked up at Shuri, at her beaming face full of pride and hope. “You made this.”

Her smile faltered, nervous and unable to read his tone. “For you. I want you to be happy. Whatever that looks like. And if you don’t like it-” 

“I want to try it on.” His own declaration had surprised even himself. He’d cleared his throat. “Please.” 

“You do?” Shuri smile was so wide he swore he could count every tooth. Her reaction had sparked a rush of guilt as he realized that she must have been expecting him to refuse her offer. Like he’d done so many times before. 

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.” 

“Good,” she said as she stepped closer to attach it. “Because it’d be a shame if you went through that surgery for nothing.”

“It’s too much work to do nothing with,” he concedes, and she’d gone about fixing the arm to his shoulder.

Now, standing at the edge of the stream, Bucky looks down at his arm-less shoulder. For all his enthusiasm to wear the arm, he’d almost been glad to feel soreness, to have an excuse to take it off. Shuri had promised it was a result of the newness of it all, not the technology or her work. He’d made a promise to come back and try it on again, and she’d insisted on having a workshop set up when he did. He'd agreed without a fight. He needed to be less of an ass about this, and Shuri needed a win after months of his refusals. 

That had been three days ago. He was approaching the appointment with the same enthusiasm he would a dead animal, but he knew he needed something to take his mind off of her. If Shuri was right about the Dora Milaje returning within the week, he’d expect them to be back within the next two days. Not that he was counting. 

What Bucky didn’t expect was to be met by a pair of Dora Milaje soldiers, standing casually by his front door upon his return home. He only classifies their presence as casual because they aren’t carrying six foot vibranium spears. 

“Can I help you?” he asks, stopping just out of their reach. 

The tallest of the two women nods. “Your presence is needed at the palace.” Did Shuri reschedule their meeting? He hasn’t checked his calendar recently. Maybe he missed their appointment? 

“If this is about my meeting with Shuri, I haven’t had-” 

“This isn’t about Princess Shuri. The king has an urgent matter he needs to discuss with you.“

Bucky frowns. “Did he say what about?”

“No. Only that it’s urgent. Please, come with us.”

So he follows the two soldiers through the African heat, trying not to think about what happened to warrant his presence before the King. 

Has he broken some unknown rule? Insulted a dignitary without realizing it? Overstayed his welcome? Maybe he’d been too reclusive for too long and was about to be rehomed like an unwanted dog. 

Bucky had a handful of pleas and arguments ready to go when he walked into the conference room, T'Challa's serious expression making him wary. He chooses to remain silent as the king rises from behind his desk. He nods a thanks to the two soldiers, who leave as quietly as they had appeared. 

“Bucky. Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.” 

He nods, still not convinced he’s not about to be kicked to the curb. “What is this about?”

T’Challa sighs. He rubs a hand across his eyes, suddenly looking very tired. Bucky frowns. “We’ve lost contact with the Agent Romanoff and the team.”

Every worry that’d been building in his mind is  replaced by a much larger, more intense fear that radiates from his chest outward. His breath catches in his throat, which he clears in an effort to seem much more nonchalant than he actually is. “When was the last you heard of them?” He figures if he can address the problem from a tactical perspective, maybe the answer would be easier to find. 

“Consistent communication stopped yesterday, shortly after General Palesa's squad infiltrated the compound. This was the last message we received." He pushes a button and one of the monitors on his desk blooms to life, a short message displayed on the hologram. Bucky leans in to read it and immediately wishes he hadn’t. 

BLKWID 4-562     

Asset 506

Location: 39.9612° N, 82.9988° W

Status: Active

T-

Mission compromised.  Soldiers down. Backup requested at 

22:41am

He reads message over and over, as if he could find a secret message embedded in the gaps. He stares at the blank space radiating from the world “at”, hating how close she was to finishing her sentence. Knowing that she hadn’t made his entire body ache. As worst-case scenarios started to flash before his eyes, a rage he hadn't felt in months began to stir in his chest. His hand curls into a fist at his side.

“Did she say anything else?” 

T’Challa shakes his head. “No. And it’s been radio silence ever since.”

Bucky does his best to keep his face impassive. There are only two people who have even the slightest idea of his relationship with Natasha. T’Challa is not one of them. Which raises the question, given the absence of Steve and Sam: “What do you need from me?”

T'Challa shrugs. “I don’t know anything. I don't know if they're kidnapped or wounded or alive or dead, and I won't leave them behind. And I can't let the targets get away." The idea of Natasha lying dead or injured in a compound somewhere turns Bucky's blood to ice. “I know that while Agent Rogers and Wilson are here,  I don't want to bring them in and risk getting anybody else killed.”

There it was again. Teammates. Her friends, allies, companions. All things that he wasn’t and yet was to Natasha. Things that couldn’t possibly affect his performance and yet had the ability to bring him to his knees. 

It doesn't take Bucky long to realize why T’Challa has requested him in particular. The same reason he was afraid of on the way here was the same reason he was here. He was a recluse. A retired assassin-soldier hybrid with an affinity for silence and guns. Which made him the perfect candidate to finish what had been started. 

"And you want me to go after her."

T'Challa nods. "And any surviving Dora Milaje. I know it’s unfair to ask this of you so suddenly without much time for consideration. If you do choose to accept, I’d need you to leave tonight. Sooner rather than later.”

Bucky looks from T’Challa to Natasha’s message, then past T’Challa to the sprawling window behind him. He looks out over the golden grass and the trees cropping up behind it, at the bird-filled blue sky. This place has been his sanctuary for the last two years, and he knows that accepting this mission meant not just leaving this home but the person he’d created within it. For the first time, he’s not so certain that it would be a bad thing. 

Five minutes later he flings open the doors to Shuri’s laboratory, startling the young scientist hard at work. She yanks out one of her earbuds and opens her mouth to tell him off, but he speaks first. 

“I need the arm.”

Chapter Text

Shuri does him one better. It takes only minutes to attach the arm, and for the first time since his operation, there is no pain. He rotates his shoulder to test the durability of the machine. It clicks and whirs with every powerful motion, the air whistling sharply as the metal cuts through it. It feels painfully familiar, but he doesn’t let himself think about it for too long. 

Then the young scientist pulls a mannequin from a corner of the room. “And I made this.” Her smile is small but proud.

Bucky pauses. “When did you have time for this?” He steps forward to examine the suit she’s created for him. As far as he can tell there is no special technology built into it, but the polyester and leather that makes up the suit is comforting in its familiarity. There’s a mask off to the side, made of the same mesh vibranium as T’Challa’s suit.  He runs his hand over the bulletproof, vibranium vest and the few simple straps, allowing himself a few moments to take in her handiwork. “Shuri, this is great.”

“I’ve had it on standby for a while now,” she admits. “Just in case.”

“I decided to come out of retirement?”

“You said it, not me.” She waves him towards the suit. “Now go on - you have lives to save.” Her voice falters ever so slightly, eyes fixated at the ground when he turns to look at her. She tries to hide it from him, but he notices the teardrops balancing on the edges of her eyelashes. In all the time he’s known her, Shuri hasn’t been anything but enthusiastic, even in the most dire of situations. In the chaos of everything he hadn’t stopped to think about how she must have been feeling. 

He steps closer to her. “Aw. Hey.”

She sniffs, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. 

Neither one of them are big on physical touch, they barely even high-fived as it was, but he rests his hand on her arm anyway. He’s surprised she doesn’t shrug him off, even more shocked when she leans into him. 

Bucky puts his arm around her shoulders and says, “I’m going to do everything I can.”

“I know they’re probably dead,” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“Don’t. Don’t say that. We don’t know anything, not yet.” For all his insistence, he can’t ignore the images that spring to life behind his eyes, the pictures he’s been forcing back since reading Natasha’s message. He’s seen her lifeless body behind his eyelids more in the past few minutes than he ever has in his nightmares. 

“You can’t protect me from this, Bucky. People died. I know that.” She sniffs. “Just bring back who you can. They’re my friends, and I-” She’s cut off by her own sob, her hand flying to her mouth to keep anything else from escaping. 

Bucky has never been one for speeches, let alone comfort, so all he does is silently put his arms around her until she pushes him away. It takes longer than he expects. 

“Get off of me, you sap.” There’s a glimmer of humor in her tone, and he’s glad to hear it. She manages a small smile, and he returns it. 

“Keep your chin up, kid. It’s going to be okay.” 

“Be safe,” she says as she starts to take the suit off the mannequin. “I expect a story or two when you get back.”

“Deal,” he says, taking the suit from her. “Be back soon.”

“Bye,” she calls as the laboratory doors close behind him. 

* * * * * *

Bucky is given Natasha’s last known coordinates and their mission plans, as well as a small jet and a few supplies. It’s not much, but compared to what he used to work off of, he’s a rich man. 

He’s just finished locking up his few weapons when the door to the hangar opens and closes with a soft hiss. He turns to find Steve walking towards him, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. 

Bucky turns to face him straight on. “Hey, Steve.”

His friend offers a small smile. “Hey, Buck. They told me I could find you here.”

“Not for much longer. I’m hoping to get out of here within the next ten minutes.”

“Yeah, I know. I just wanted to catch you before you left. Say good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ve been outta the game for a minute, I’ll need all the luck I can get.” It’s the closest he gets to voicing his other fear, the voice in his head trying to convince him that he’s not ready for this. But, considering that Natasha could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, it’s not a fear he’s exhausted himself with.

“Naw. You’ll do fine.” Steve does his best to seem lighthearted, but he was never a good liar. His shoulders are stiff, his jaw tight. He won’t meet Bucky’s eyes, and he has a sneaking suspicion why. 

“There’s something else,” Bucky says. He’s reminded of Natasha’s trip to his home last week, how she stood with her hands in her pockets and made small talk until she couldn’t anymore.

Until he’d asked her why she was there. He does the same of Steve now.

Bucky watches various emotions play on the soldier’s face like a drive-thru movie. It takes longer than he’d expect for Steve to respond, and when he does, there’s no humor in his tone. “Y’know, I gotta be completely honest with you, Buck. I don’t understand why you’re going and I’m not.” It’s a childlike declaration, one that turns the supersoldier into the skinny 17 year old he knows so well in his memories. 

Though his words sting ever so slightly, Bucky can’t argue with him. If the roles were reversed he’d feel the exact same way. He knows Natasha and Steve are close. They’ve spent the last ten years as each other's partner-in-crime, and he knows that there is very little they wouldn’t do for each other. He also knows that the only reason Steve isn’t suited up and forcing his way on this plane is because he respects T’Challa’s orders. 

Bucky hopes that it’s also because Steve respects him, too. 

“I know. And I’m sorry. I know you care about her.” He wishes he could tell him that he does, too. 

It’s clear Steve wants to say more, but he either can’t find the words or decides it’s not worth it. So all he says is: “No chance I can come with?”

Bucky’s face softens. His eyes grow sad. “You know I’d let you if I could.” 

A tiny black tendril of a question snakes up around his heart as soon as the words leave his mouth. But would I?

He looks at his oldest friend, at his tired eyes and pale face and knows how distraught he must be over Natasha’s disappearance. A sudden twinge of jealousy cuts through him. For a brief, selfish second he wants to swap places with Steve. He wants to have a genuine reason to fall apart over this, to be as broken and beat down without having to explain it because people would know. They would know about him and her and the two of them. And yet, the metaphorical red tape has sewn his mouth shut. How could he tell Steve that Natasha was his saving grace? And even if he could, would Steve understand? Would he want to? His head hurts.

“For what it’s worth,” Steve says, interrupting his runaway thoughts. “I’m glad it’s you who’s going after her. I know you’ll bring her back.”

He nods. “I’ll do my best.” He looks at the clock. Steve does too, and sighs. 

“Well, I’ve kept you for long enough. Stay safe out there, you hear? I don’t want to lose another friend.”

“You haven’t lost either one of us,” Bucky says as he steps into the belly of the plane. He makes Steve the same promise he’d made Shuri. “I’ll be back soon.”

Steve gives him a small salute as he watches the plane take off, and his figure grows smaller and smaller until it disappears completely. 

* * * * * *

It’s dusk by the time Bucky lands in Columbus. Following his predecessor’s plan, he touches down three miles away from the circled compound on the map. Personally, Bucky wouldn’t have set up an evil lair in an abandoned storage facility, but he’s not actively concocting plans to destroy the United States. That was years ago. 

He steps out of the plane with a rifle slung across his back. The grenades at his belt click against one another, breaking the still evening air. He’s surprised to find that the gun at his waist and the extra rounds of ammo carry a familiar, comforting weight. Soothing in a way that gunpowder and steel can only be. 

The brief sense of peace he’s conjured up over the last few seconds is shattered when he looks to his left. The Talon Fighter, in all of its technological glory, sits abandoned at the tree line. He approaches it like he would a wounded animal, expecting it to lunge and bite him when he rests a tentative hand on its cold hull. It doesn’t so much as creak in the wind. 

He takes a quick survey of the dusty ground, finding a few faded footprints amongst the rocks and twigs. He picks out the one set of prints that’s different from the rest and follows Natasha through the woods. 

Bucky does his best to remain vigilant through the first half-mile, falling back into his old routine with an ease he didn’t quite expect. He keeps his tread light, instinctively avoiding dry twigs and leaves in his path. But the air is thick with humidity and mosquitoes, and the chirping crickets and the smell of warm grass evokes a string of memories he hasn’t thought of in years. He does his best to force them out of his mind as they come, but his mental discipline is lacking and it’s not long before he’s eight years old and sprinting through his backyard with Becca on his heels. Her laugh rings faintly in his ears, carried away by the wind. If he focuses he can almost hear his mother calling their names. 

Then it’s 5am and he’s a young soldier standing bleary-eyed in front of a drill sergeant, trying to stay awake long enough to shout commands. His uniform is itchy on his neck. The memory wiggles like mirage when Bucky reaches his metal hand up to slap a mosquito away. 

The dry leaves rattle in the wind, and the Ohio sunset is suddenly a Russian sunrise. This is the clearest memory yet. He’s looking at the orange sky through a dusty window, only distracted by the peeling yellow wallpaper fluttering in the wind. Though this memory has a color of an old movie and gaps he’ll never be able to fill, he swears he can feel a pair of arms slide around his waist like they did back then. 

And then her voice is in his ear. “звезда моя. мне нравится наблюдать, как ты готовишься к работе.” 

My star. I love watching you get ready for work. 

Bucky can almost smell her shampoo, feel her hand on a metal arm she’s never touched. 

His boot slams into a root and the words fall away like shattered glass. 

Focus, Barnes, he tells himself. His face warms, and not because of the heat. He tries to get the memory back, wanting to live in that fleeting, beautiful moment for just a second longer. 

He’s learning he doesn’t often get what he wants. 

If only his instructors could see him now. Bucky can picture them rolling in their graves over the once-great Winter Soldier losing his footing over a few old memories. 

He finds her about a mile from the facility. It’s barely nightfall, and though the stars glimmer in the sky above, everything around him is black. The trees, the rocks, and the masses of dead leaves all look the same to him, which is why he doesn’t realize who he’s happened upon until he nearly kicks her in the ribs. 

Bucky mutters a curse as he sidesteps the person before him, tripping over his own feet as he  stumbles away from the dead body. He sucks in a breath. Even in the gloom he can tell she’s facedown, head tilted to the left, but her matted hair has fallen across the exposed half off her face and he can’t recognize her. 

The end of his rifle has a flashlight. He takes the risk of being spotted and turns it on. 

The earth-toned suit of the Dora Milaje tells him that she’s not Natasha, but as he rolls the woman over to reveal sallow skin and a swath of cultural tattoos, he can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. It’s quickly squashed by the weight that settles on his chest.

Bucky is in the business of dead bodies. He’s seen every kind of death under the sun and dealt it himself in unspeakable ways, but this is one of the very few losses that brings him from one knee to two. 

“General Palesa,” he can’t help but whisper as he sits back on his knees. He’s only seen her from afar, commanding troops and advising the king, but the stories of her accomplishments in battle traveled farther than she ever had. He looks behind him, stomach knotting as he follows the flattened path in the grass. The path that she’d dragged herself through in a desperate effort to make it back to the Talon Fighter. 

The sizable wound in her stomach had made that impossible. He realizes that whatever had caused the wound had made it under her vibranium chest plate. It hadn’t exited out her back, though, which is why he assumes she was able to make it as far as she did. 

Bucky doesn’t have much time, but he can’t leave General Palesa like this. While he can’t give her a proper Wakandan burial like she deserves, she’s earned the right for a respectful sendoff. He walks a few feet away to find a patch of wildflowers, flowers that he hopes have more color than the twilight lets on. He’s never had a hand for decor, or design, or flower arrangements for that matter, but she deserves the best he can do.
It’s only when he’s placed the last flower that he spots the glint of a pen trampled in the dirt. He picks it up, brow furrowing. There’s nothing special about it, but the engravings on the side of it tell him it belongs to General Palesa. A scrap of paper poking out from her tightly closed fist is his second clue, and he nearly rips it in half pulling it out of her hand. It looks like she tore off one of her uniform tags and used it as a sheet of paper once she realized she wasn’t going to make it back to the Talon Fighter. 

Her note is short but not cryptic.

Morningstar. Southeast toward DC. They have her.

The flashlight falls away as he lurches to his feet. He can still picture the letter even as the darkness rushes back to him, the paper crinkling as he balls his hands into fists. 

Morningstar. Of course these fuckers chose another storage facility to hide out in. And DC. They would only dare to set foot in the nation’s capital if they had something worth more than them, and Natasha’s bounty is definitely worth the risk. 

Bucky looks towards General Palesa’s body, knowing he needs to get moving but hating the idea of laying a great warrior to rest in such a desolate place. He’s had to leave soldiers behind before, but this feels different. Wrong. 

But there’s nothing he can do that he hasn’t done already. 

It might be redundant to thank a corpse, but he does it anyway. “Thank you. It won’t be for nothing,” he promises.

Then he sprints the two miles back to the jet. 

Bucky all but throws himself into the pilot’s chair, coaxing the plane to life with the flip of a few switches. While it whines to life, Bucky pulls up the plane’s map and begins to search for any and all abandoned Morningstar facilities within a hundred-mile radius. He finds two.

The chair creaks as Bucky sits back in it, looking between the points in front of him. 

Red or green wire? 

Heads or tails?

It’s a fifty-fifty shot and the odds aren’t in his favor. They haven’t been, not in a while. His finger hovers over the keys while he prays this is where his luck changes.

Fuck it. Red wire. 

It’s not much longer before the plane lifts into the sky, engines roaring. Bucky settles into the chair, staring at the point on the map. The red dot he’s chosen blinks back at him as if daring him to choose differently.

Before he can convince himself to listen to the blinking light, the coms go off. T’Challa’s voice fills the cockpit.

“Barnes? I see you’re airborne again. What’s going on?” Though his tone is serious, it’s edged with hope.

“I’m headed southeast towards DC. General Palesa left a note telling me where to go.”

“General Palesa?"

He rubs a hand across his forehead. “Yeah. I found her body about a mile from the compound they’d infiltrated. It…wasn’t good.”

T’Challa goes quiet. He can picture the king’s expression as he says, “I see.”

“I pulled some flowers,” Bucky tells him, wanting to bring him some comfort. “She was a great warrior and she served Wakanda well. I hated leaving her like that.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Barnes. I’ll send a team to retrieve her body for a proper burial.”

“It was the least I could do.”

“I’m sure her family will appreciate your kindness.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” There’s a beat of silence. “So, Agent Romanoff is alive?”

Bucky swallows, doing his best to keep his voice neutral. “I think so. Kingston’s goons are headed toward DC. I’m assuming to cash in on her bounty. She’s worth more alive than dead, so-” It’s his own emotions that cut him off, welling up in his throat so suddenly that he has no choice but to go quiet. He pinches the bridge of his nose, forcing his burning eyes to stop leaking. Fuck. 

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“-so it’s highly possible that she’s still alive.” Bucky doesn’t offer an explanation, hardly able to explain it to himself. He focuses on constructing every single word and delivering it perfectly, forcing the emotion out of his voice. He might sound robotic, but he doesn’t care. “I’ll let you know when I touch down.” 

T’Challa doesn’t pry. “Safe travels. Good luck.”

The comms go silent with a beep.

Bucky hunches forward, a small gasp escaping his mouth as his elbows hit his knees. He presses his fingers into his eyes, hating the moisture that dampens his skin. 

He’s been fine until now, he tries to convince himself. Calm, collected, unfeeling, every inch of the assassin he used to be. 

He should have known better. 

There’s no room for ‘unfeelings’ when he has spent the past two years feeling everything. Anger, sadness, and deep profound grief had nearly drowned him during his time in Wakanda. It’s here, gasping for air in the cockpit of a tiny plane, does he realize he’s been barely treading water for decades. 

It doesn’t take a genius to piece together who’d been keeping him afloat.  

The Winter Soldier may be pieces of glass now, but James Barnes is still in the reflection. It was Natasha who’d put him back together in the Red Room, who’d touched what was left of his humanity and made him whole again. It was her memories that’d tied him back together, even once the Winter Soldier was gone. 

So why does he feel like he’s unraveling?

Bucky lurches to his feet and stumbles down the hallway, shouldering his way into the tiny bathroom. He leans over the sink, splashing water on his face until his sleeves drip. It’s cold but it wakes him up.  

He’s aware he’s running again, fleeing from the fear that’s been clinging to his back since he was young. Stop , the voice in his head says. Just stop. Breathe.

So he does. He fills his lungs with deep breaths until his heart is no longer trying to break through his chest. Until his head clears. 

The water runs over Bucky’s lips as he straightens, finding his own eyes in the mirror. 

He isn’t one for pep talks, especially to himself, but it can’t hurt. He searches his own eyes for some words of encouragement, but finds himself repeating Sam’s words instead. 

You didn’t deserve any of it. 

You deserve to be okay. 

You deserve to feel happy. 

Bucky takes one last breath and returns to the pilot’s chair. He has forty-five minutes until shit hits the fan, and he refuses to spend it scared. He can’t afford to be anything but courageous, not if he wants to get her back. Whether she knows it or not, Natasha is counting on him. He can’t let her down.  

Chapter Text

20 Miles Outside Washington, DC

4:21am EST 

Bucky’s rifle clicks against the rusty chain link fence as he steps through the precut hole, following the sets of footprints he’s been tracking since he stepped off the jet. The barbed wire wrapped around the top of the fence rattles softly as he slips through it. 

The night turns the random chunks of furniture and machinery into ominous black blobs, the overgrown grass changing the landscape into an ominous wasteland. The building itself sits tiredly in the soft ground, and its yellow windows and broken doors wearily watch Bucky as he slinks toward the front of the building. He lifts his gaze from the faded footprints he’s been following, trying to ignore how the smallest set becomes drag marks the closer they get to the building.

There’s only two guards on duty, standing by while they wait for the shift change. His earlier observations told him that Kingston’s ex-militia group is low on weapons and muscle, having only counted 10 or so individuals during his reconnaissance. It’s clear that their run in with the scouting team has left them worse for wear. 

Bucky slips behind the two soldiers posted guard at the front doors. He catches the tail end of their conversation as he nears close, their exchange about football and quarterbacks drummed out by the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. Their rifles are held loosely in their hands as they face the expansive forest in front of them, the forest that Bucky has just crept out of. The overhead lights flicker erratically, throwing their surroundings in and out of pitch black darkness.

Dark, light.

Dark, light.

Dark, light.

Pop, pop.

Two silenced gunshots later and Bucky is dragging their limp bodies into the waist-high grass. Their boots hit the muddy ground with a wet thud, and he leaves them concealed in the shrubbery. Bucky returns to the entrance, stepping around the bloody streaks that stain the concrete. It's seen better days. One dented door hangs off its hinges and the other is missing entirely. Paint peels off the walls in gray strips and chips of concrete and dirt litter the floor. A long, dark hallway lies beyond the door, the white hallway lined with long-abandoned storage units. Some of the black doors have been yanked halfway up, revealing dusty boxes that have since been pillaged by looters or teenagers looking for a scare. Only a few storage units have been left alone, the dingy locks on the doors untouched by whoever had been through here before.

There’s multiple hallways and even more units, leaving Bucky to wonder why a group of ex-militants would choose here to hide out in. It’s dark and cold, with very little room for comfort or protection from the person coming after them.  

But why do bad guys do anything that makes sense?

Bucky nestles the gun into his shoulder as he steps into the eerie building. Like most storage units, this one is a maze of identical hallways. He walks a pattern as he follows the sign towards the lobby, on the hunt for the mercenaries within.

In the few minutes it takes him to get to the lobby, he only encounters a lone soldier, out for a coffee and a walk. A single gunshot silences him permanently, and Bucky drags the body into a nearby unit.

Bucky continues on his hunt, spotting a few loose wires taped at the base of the units. They’re dusty and dirty, probably belonging to the broken light fixtures that flicker above him. They turn the tile floors a bright, sickly white. A headache begins to drum behind his eyes.

Then Bucky reaches the door to the lobby. There’s five men milling about the space, carrying cups of either alcohol or coffee with their rifles slug across their backs. A few talk quietly, but some stare out the nearby windows with blank expressions, either exhausted or anxious. Maybe both.  Beyond the lobby, in what must be an office, are two back-lit individuals who Bucky can only assume is Kingston and his second-in-command, Jacob Alcot. And there’s only one path to them: through the men in front of him. 

Bucky lifts his rifle to the window before him, hoping that the dim lighting gives him the coverage he needs to line up the shot. The eyes of the man he’s chosen go wide as he’s spotted. Then the window shatters and the soldier drops with a thud. 

Four pairs of eyes shoot to the door as it’s thrown into the wall. Paint chips sprinkle from the ceiling as Bucky kicks the nearest man in the chest. The force of his kick sends his opponent into one of the abandoned vending machines, and the glass turns silver in the low light as it cascades across the floor.

Dull metal glints as a rifle is raised, but Bucky grabs the gun with his metal hand before the soldier can get a shot off. He crushes the gun barrel like a soda can, using his flesh hand to knock the guy out. 

The remaining two soldiers fall shortly after, victims of a knife blade and a single bullet. Call it habit, but Bucky finishes every man off with a gunshot to the head, not willing to leave anything to chance. 

Then he approaches the office. It’s silent, which tells him that the two men inside have heard the commotion outside and have devised some kind of a plan. It goes into action as soon as he rips open the door. He’s immediately met by a barrage of bullets upon entry, most of which he’s able to block with his metal arm. A few lodge in the wall behind him, but a few hit him directly in the chest. They’re absorbed by the kevlar-vibranium vest he wears, keeping him from feeling the impact of the artillery. It gives Bucky the opportunity to fire two shots into the chest of Jacob Alcot. He crumples like a rock, leaving only Kingston. And he’s just run out of bullets. The soldier’s eyes go wide as the gun clicks in his hand. 

Bucky crosses the room in two strides, grabs Kingston by the neck, and throws him into the dirty wall. The man’s fingers claw at Bucky’s metal wrist as his hand locks under his jaw. 

“Where is she?” Bucky demands, fury turning his voice cold. 

“I don’t know,” Colin chokes out, his boots scrabbling for purchase on the dirty carpet. 

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” Bucky’s grip tightens, and for a brief second he wonders if Kingston’s eyes might actually pop out of his skull. 

“202”, Kingston finally gasps out. “202!”

Bucky relaxes slightly, allowing Colin’s feet to lay flat on the ground. 

“Unit 202,” he chokes as the pressure around his throat lessens. Kingston coughs violently, grabbing at his bright red neck as he’s released. He doubles over, bracing his hand on his desk as the blue fades from his face. “But you’ll have to find her in time,” he manages through his hacking fit. 

Bucky goes still. “What?” 

The man straightens as best he can, still massaging his neck. “I knew someone’d come after her. You really didn’t think I’d let you walk in here without a backup plan of my own?”  

He thinks back to T’Challa’s debrief after they’d tracked down Kingston and his men. Kingston's area of expertise was explosives and demolition before he was discharged.

“You motherfucker,” Bucky curses once he realizes exactly what the man means. Then he notices Kingston’s gaze. He follows it to a pristine tablet, blinking red. It’s counting down, and there’s 3 minutes left. 

That’s why they’re here, Bucky realizes. Not as a hideout but as a failsafe. He thinks back to the anxious guards, their choice of a hideout, the wires at the base of the units. They didn’t belong to the light fixtures like he’d previously thought.  

Colin’s lips curve up in a smug smile, noting Bucky’s wide eyes. “I’ve had this building rigged to explode for a while now. It’s been my contingency plan since I started this line of work. We weren’t going to make it to DC time. But,” he adds as he rises to his full height. “Maybe there will be a body to turn in once the dust settles.”

He’s wasting too much time. 2:03 flashes at them from the tablet. 

Bucky lifts his gun and prays he won’t regret killing Kingston now. “They’re definitely not finding yours.” 

He turns away before the body hits the floor, taking off down the dark hallway. He doesn’t spare a glance at the litter of bodies in the lobby as he throws himself through the door.

Time remaining: 1:52

“Natasha?” he calls as he turns corner after corner, following the dirty signs to unit 202. “Natasha!” 

It takes a few turns and some backtracking, but he finds it. There’s a lock on the door, but he crushes it in his metal palm. 

The hinges squeal as the door is ripped open, the slab of sheet metal rattling as it’s slammed into the end of the track. The tiny room is littered with a few cardboard boxes, a covered armoire, and paintings wrapped in blankets. But that’s all there is. Forgotten belongings and dust. No Natasha. No signs of life anywhere.

No. No, no, no. 

Kingston lied and Bucky was foolish enough to believe him. 

His metal hand curls into a fist, so tight that the gears creak beneath the strain. The nails of his flesh hand dig into his palm. Damn it. 

Time remaining: 1:05

“Natasha!” he shouts the empty warehouse as he turns away, voice edged with desperation. Please hear me. Please hear me. His boots thunder on the tile floor as he moves from hallway to hallway, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as he reminds himself of how little time he has left. 

And then he hears it. 

A soft rattle, a muffled grunt as someone pounds on the sheet metal with as much strength as they can muster. 

Relief floods his body, turning his limbs into dead weight. His muscles ache as he breaks the pristine lock on the door of unit 406. It shrieks as he throws it open. 

Time remaining: 27sec

Bucky spots her instantly, slumped against the wall beyond a golden mirror and a few cardboard boxes. She’s handcuffed to the wall, her wrists raw and bloody from where she fought against the cuffs. A handkerchief has been tied around her mouth, and her eyes are wide and glassy in the darkness. Her entire body tenses with surprise as the door is ripped open, but her shoulders sag with relief once she realizes who it is. She says something, but it’s muffled by the bundle of cloth in her mouth.

Bucky lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he was holding as he crosses the room to her. “Oh, thank God.” He drops to his knees beside her and starts to untie the knot behind her head. He can’t stop his hands from shaking. She’s no longer a blonde, he notices, her freshly dyed red hair caught in the knot of the handkerchief.

Natasha does her best to hold still as he works, but her entire body trembles, hands shaking from where they’re held out in front of her. Her eyes fall shut for just a moment, pulled closed by either relief or exhaustion. A tiny silver tear rolls down her cheek. 

“It’s okay, Tasha. I’ve got you,” he murmurs as he unties the last knot.

“James,” she breathes through chapped lips as he pulls the fabric away from her mouth. The corners of her lips are red and raw, fabric creases pressed deep into the sides of her face. Her voice is raspier than usual, thick with relief and exhaustion. “Thank God you’re here. I didn’t think anybody was coming.”

“Of course I came,” he says as he reaches for the cuffs, too caught up in the chaos of the moment to remember that she doesn’t remember him the way he knows her. “But we’re not out of the woods yet.”

Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

He snaps the chain linking her to the wall and grabs her hands. He’ll get the cuffs off later. “Kingston rigged the building to explode. We gotta go,” he explains as he pulls her to her feet.
Her face pales in the dim lighting. “How much time do we have?”

“Not a lot.”

Time remaining: 6sec.

They’ve just stepped across the threshold of the unit when tiny red dots begin to appear at the base of the wall. His stomach falls. They’re out of time. 

It’s Natasha who throws herself at Bucky as the red lights begin to blink rapidly, slamming into him with enough force to knock him back into the dark room. He can feel her hands lock around his vest as they hit the floor, and the only thing he can think to do is throw his metal arm around her head as the world goes white. 

________________

Bucky doesn’t expect to open his eyes. When he does, he’s expecting to see the faces of his mother and sister, to join them in a white paradise where there is no pain. Instead, he’s greeted by gray smoke and burning rubble when he cracks his eyes open. Every muscle in his body protests as he pushes himself onto one elbow. 

Little remains of the storage facility. Parts of the brick walls lay in piles, others stand like a white flag in the gloom. The ceiling of what used to be unit 406 has collapsed, the twisted sheet metal and concrete suspended above them by the cabinet they’ve been thrown next to. It reminds him of a ghastly tent, one with the ability to crush them should it shift even an inch.   

Bucky has just started to realize how lucky they are when he sees her.

Though he’d thrown his arm around Natasha before the blast had gone off, she now lays in  a pool of glass, pressed up against the wooden cabinet currently sparing them from a second horrible death. The mangled skeleton of a golden mirror lays nearby. Bucky pulls himself towards her, his blood running cold as he grabs her limp shoulder. He gives it a soft shake in an attempt to rouse her.

“Natasha?”

She doesn’t make a sound, much less move. 

Bucky rises to his knees at her side, gently rolling her onto her back. Her head lolls to one side, bloody lips parted slightly as her limp body moves on Bucky’s accord. Then he sees it, the shard of glass jutting from under her vest. It glistens in gloom, slick with blood and its natural reflection.

His face pales, heart dropping into his stomach with a thud.

Bucky’s first instinct is to cup his hand around it, gently applying pressure to the wound without making it worse. Everything suddenly seems very far away, as if he’s looking at himself from above, and for a brief second he closes his eyes and hopes that this is just a very real nightmare.

The hot blood spilling over his hands tells him that it’s not.

Bucky opens his eyes, steeling himself against the reality he’s in. He can’t afford to disassociate, not now. He gives her another gentle, careful shake, his throat dry and voice low with fear. “C’mon doll, wake up. Don’t do this to me.” 

Then he takes her face in his right hand, feeling for a pulse with his fingers. A sharp sob escapes his lips when a small beat drums under his fingertips, and his head drops as if his neck is no longer able to support its weight. Bucky squeezes her shoulder, the pad of his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “C’mon Tasha, show me those big green eyes of yours.”

Her name is on his lips when she stirs. 

Her brow furrows, closed eyelids fluttering at his encouragement. “Yeah, that’s it. You got it, doll. Come on.”

And then her big green eyes are shining in the gloom, half closed as they search in the direction of his voice. “James?” she manages through cracked lips, her voice barely audible.

“Oh, thank God,” he says for the second time.

Then her green eyes sharpen as her brain catches up to the physical injury, her body trying to throw her upright in response to the wound. A pained cry escapes her lips, her hands flying to Bucky’s as she jerks under his touch. 

Keeping one hand around the shard, he grabs her by the shoulder with the other and forces her to still. “You’re going to make it worse.”

“What is it?” she grinds out through gritted teeth, craning her neck to see the source of her pain.

“It’s a piece of glass,” he explains. “One of the mirrors shattered in the explosion and it caught you under the vest. I’m gonna get you stabilized and then we’ll go, okay?”

Natasha’s head falls back against the floor, eyes squeezed shut. “Okay.”

With shaking hands Bucky fishes in his belt for the few gauze and bandages he brought. “This is going to hurt,” he warns as he produces a gauze square, looking to Natasha for a sign that she heard him.

She’s draped her arm across her eyes, red fingers curled into a tight fist as she braces for his touch. She swallows. “Just make it quick.”

One might have thought Bucky had thrust a hot poker through her ribs. Natasha’s muffled cry fills his ears as her bloody hands push on his, leaving red streaks in their wake as she tries to push him away.
“I know, I know,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over her cries. His heart twists in his chest so violently he’s afraid its torn itself in half.

“It hurts,” Natasha says again, nails digging into his skin. He can feel her abs through her suit, the way her muscles roll under his hands as she fights against his efforts. She’s up on one elbow now, curled in towards her wound. He can feel her hair brush against his jaw, the sharpness of her shoulder as she leans against him.

“I’m almost done,” Bucky tells her as he reaches into his belt for a roll of medical tape. His hands shake so violently he can barely rip the tape, but by some miracle he’s able to get his crude patch job secured. “I’ll fix it later,” he promises, then he digs in his belt for the few painkillers he has. He hands them to her, helping her get up on one elbow so she can take them. “Can you stand?”

“Just wait,” she says, head falling back as she takes a deep breath. The slender slope of her neck is exposed, shining with sweat and tears. She doesn't say anything for a few moments, silent as she sucks in a shaky breath. The shard of glass bobs up and down as her ribs expand and contract. Then she manages a small nod. “I can try.”

Bucky carefully gets to his feet, crouching next to her so he can slide an arm around her back. “On three, okay?”

She nods, face pale. His grip on her tightens.

“One, two, three.”

A cry of pain hisses past her teeth as Bucky starts to lift her to her feet. Her hand finds his vest, gripping the straps for support as she pulls herself upright. “There you go,” he encourages as she finds her footing. “You’re doing good.”

She slumps against him as he rises to his full height, pulling her with him. One hand stays firmly wrapped around her wound, the pristine white gauze now soaked through with blood. He fishes in his belt for another square and presses it to her wound. Her sticky fingers cover his, searching for the cloth. 

“I got it,” she says, her words barely a breath as her hand replaces his. “Just get us out of here.”

It’s easier said than done. She does her best, but what little strength Natasha had has quickly faded. She can barely keep her head upright as they stumble through the rubble, her boots catching on chunks of debris. A strangled moan escapes her lips every time her wound is disturbed. 

By the time they step through what was once the entrance, she’s leaning on him heavily, depending on the arm slung around her waist to keep her upright. “James,” she pants. She tugs on his vest, forcing them to come to a stop. “Please. I’m so tired.”

Her face is ashen when he looks down at her, the side of her suit glistening with blood. Her wound isn’t getting any better, but if she can just make it back to the jet…

“I know, doll. I’m gonna get you outta here, okay? I just need you to make it back to the jet.”

She doesn't answer him, too exhausted to formulate a sentence. She just nods. 

His arm tightens around her, pulling her tighter to his side. He can feel her arm strengthen slightly from where it’s locked around his waist. “Atta girl.”

The jet is only a mile away, but with Natasha’s dead weight it may as well have been a hundred. It’s clear that she’s trying her hardest not to slow them down, that she’s putting all of her faded strength into every step she takes, but it’s not long before Bucky stoops to lift her into his arms. He does so with the utmost care, doing his best not to make her wound worse. She lets out a pained yelp as she’s moved, but then her head falls against his collarbone as she settles. Her breath is hot on his neck, her body warm in his arms. It chases the chill of the fading night, and as he gets closer to the jet he notices tiny tendrils of orange stretching across the lavender sky. It reminds him of early mornings in Wakanda, and he wonders if the faded stars are the same ones he’s been watching for two years. Then he looks down at the woman in his arms, feeling his heart soften at her closed eyes, her eyebrows knitted together in discomfort. 

“You awake?” he asks her, and he can feel her forehead press against his collarbone as she shakes her head.

“No.”

“Don’t fall asleep,” he warns, and her eyes flutter half-open.

“I know.”

“We’re getting close,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

She grunts. “Like I’ve been stabbed. How long’s the flight back?”

“A little over five hours,” he says gravely, sharing in the concern that blossoms over her pale face. 

“I don’t think I can go five hours like this,” she says, her voice as weak as he’s ever heard it. She’s done her best to hold herself together, but she’s exhausted and in pain, and her tolerance for bad news is fading quickly.

Bucky knows she’s right. She’s lost enough blood as is. Who knows what would happen to her, thousands of miles in the sky without access to medical aid. Bucky knows how to set a bone and tie a split and throw a stitch, but his skills are rusty and unreliable. Still, he offers them to her.

“If I can find somewhere for us to lay low, I can try to pull it out and stitch you up. It wouldn’t be great, but it’d be something.” 

Natasha is silent as she weighs her very limited options. Then she clears her throat, nodding her assent. “It's better than nothing.”

“Okay.”

Bucky lowers the liftgate of the jet as soon as they cross the small clearing he landed in earlier. His footsteps echo on the metal ramp as he carries her inside. Natasha shifts in his arms as he approaches one of the benches along the cargo hold, wrapping her arm around his neck for stability as he bends to lay her on her back. Her fingertips brush the back of his neck as her hand falls to her stomach, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Her touch lingers as he  hunts down something to prop her legs up on. He eventually grabs his duffle bag, and though it’s not full of more than an extra set of clothes and a few miscellaneous supplies, it’s thick enough to act as a comfortable bolus. He removes his sweatshirt from the bag and tucks it under his arm as he walks back to her. 

“This might hurt a little,” he warns as he stoops to grab her feet, trying to be as gentle as possible as he sets her legs on the duffle bag. Discomfort twists her face, but to her credit she doesn’t make a sound. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, knowing how much pain she must be in.

“No, don’t be,” Natasha says. “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

Bucky frowns. “Why? I hope it’s not for this. It’s not your fault.”

She turns her head to the side so she can see him. She clears her throat, wincing when the motion sends a spasm up her side. “Not just for this. For everything. For following you and running from you…for making you feel like you couldn’t be trusted. I-” 

He cuts her off as her voice begins to shake, her usual level tone strained by the emotion in her words. “Hey. No. Don’t apologize. It’s okay, I’m not mad at you. If I was, I wouldn’t be here."

She huffs out a small chuckle, but there's little humor in it. “Yeah. I guess I owe you one.”

“Well, if I’m ever kidnapped and stabbed, I’ll give you a call.”

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “Deal.”

At the mention of her wound, Bucky is reminded of the soaked-through gauze pads that are staining her hands red, the dark blood a grave reminder of the reality of their situation. Dropping the sweatshirt that had been under his arm, he fishes the last of the gauze pads out of his belt and gently presses them to her wound. He’s relieved to see that the blood isn’t absorbing as quickly as it did before. 

Bucky straightens once her hands replace his, the beds of her fingernails rimmed with blood so dark it's nearly black. It looks like she's been gardening without gloves. “Try to relax. I’ll find a place for us to lay low.”

He turns away, but she motions towards the sweatshirt he’d dropped on the floor. “Cold?”

“Oh.” He’d been so caught up in her pain and their conversation that he’d almost forgotten about it. “No, actually, it’s for you. It’s not the best, but it’ll make a better pillow than the bench.”

She blinks as he approaches her with it, craning her neck so he can set it under her head. She shuffles a little as she gets comfortable. Her pained expression morphs into one of moderate discomfort, and she turns to flash him a small smile. “That’s much better. Thank you.”

His face warms at her lopsided smile, the way her green eyes glimmer in the low light. He hopes that his red face isn’t obvious. It feels weird to accept her thank you. Her grace weighs on him like a hot blanket, which is why he shrugs it off. “Don’t mention it. Just get some rest.” 

Natasha’s eyes close so quickly it almost scares him. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” he says quickly, almost relieved to see them flutter open again. She groans.

“But I’m so tired.”

“You can sleep soon,” he promises. “Just hang on for a little while longer.”

“Sir yes sir,” she mumbles, slinging her arm over her eyes to shield them from the lights in the cargo hold. It’s why she fails to see Bucky nearly trip over his own feet.

He shakes his head as he walks over to the pilot’s chair, trying to get her words out of his brain. He doesn’t recognize or understand the emotion that warms his gut, nor does he try to make sense of why his entire body suddenly tingles. Damn this woman and her hold on his heart. 

Bucky distracts himself by choosing their next location carefully, knowing that a place nearly devoid of people would be hard to come by and of even lower quality than the storage facility they were just in. He eventually charts their course towards a decently clean motel a few miles outside of town, the built-in GPS letting him know that they’ll be there within the next thirty minutes. 

God bless the speed of the QuinJet. 

Bucky sets the plane to autopilot and walks back to the cargo hold, dimming the cabin lights as he goes. Natasha watches him from underneath her elbow, green eyes nearly black in the low light. 

“All good?” she asks, voice thick with exhaustion. She’s barely awake. 

He nods. “Yeah. We’ll be there in about 30 minutes. How are you feeling?”

“Uncomfortable.” The syllables melt together on her tongue. 

She doesn’t notice his silence, doesn’t question it if she does. Her head falls to the side, nose tucked into the crease of his crudely folded sweatshirt. Her eyes remain half open, her blinks slow and irregular as she fights against the sleep her body craves. It makes his stomach hurt, the guilt of forcing her to stay awake for so long so strong he’s afraid he’ll develop an ulcer. But he needs her awake, needs her to fight for just a few more minutes because the only thing worse than the guilt of keeping her up is the horror of her death should she succumb to the shock of her injuries. 

He refrains from watching her too closely, knowing that she can feel eyes on her like one can feel the sun on their face. Instead, he leans his head against the wall and does his best not to fall asleep. For the first time in a long time, his brain fills with static and nothing more. Maybe it’s the stress finally mellowing him out, or his own shock settling in, but every limb in his body feels impossibly heavy. He doesn’t think about the events of the past few hours, the blood that’s still tacky on his skin, or the pain in the socket of his metal arm. He tunes in to the sound of Natasha’s shallow breathing, the feeling of her foot against his thigh, and stares at the wall until the GPS signals their descent.

Chapter Text

Bucky lands as close to the motel as they can afford, and even with the cloaking technology engaged it’s a stretch. Though Natasha is barely hanging on as is, he can’t risk hauling her another mile or two without suffering the consequences. Best case scenario, she makes it to the hotel by the skin of her teeth. Worst case scenario, she dies en route. Her face is ghastly pale, even in the dim lighting. She doesn’t acknowledge Bucky’s presence when he returns from the copilot’s chair, perhaps not even noticing his return at all. 

“We’ve landed,” he informs her, to which she manages a tiny nod. 

“Okay.”

He carefully pulls the duffle bag out from under her feet, not wanting to deprive her of the much needed elevation but needing to pack before they get moving. A first aid box and suture kit are the first to join his spare set of clothes, along with a few water bottles and protein bars. Though giving her any kind of food or water isn’t an option right now, she’ll inevitably be hungry and they both need to eat eventually. He slings the bag over his shoulder as he turns to face her. 

“Okay doll, let’s get you up.”

She doesn’t argue, nor does a lighthearted rebuttal fall from her lips. She just nods in assent and starts pulling herself up. He takes her by the arm to help prop her upright, one hand sliding under her back for extra support. Her skin is ghastly pale in comparison to his metal hand, and when she cracks her eyes open to look at him, they’re red and bright with pain. Bucky holds out two painkillers to her, but she nudges his hand away. 

“I’m fine.” 

He was wondering when her stubbornness was going to kick in. 

“Natasha,” he begins, trying to convince her that taking them is a good idea. 

She shakes her head before he can say much more. “No, James, please. It’s just gonna come right back up. Go get us a room or something. I don’t care how. I’ll be fine until you get back.” 

He frowns. “I didn’t land in the parking lot,” he says. “If I leave you here, it’s gonna take the better part of an hour for me to get there and back, and then back again. And I don’t think leaving you alone is a great idea.” 

“I don’t need you to be my keeper,” she argues, continuing before he can respond. “I’ve been impaled by a giant shard of glass,” she says pointedly. “Unless you feel like answering questions about it, or want to be arrested for dragging me through the streets, I’m staying right here.” What little humor she’d retained since the explosion has evaporated, and discomfort has made her tone sharp. He can’t blame her for it, but he can’t risk leaving her and having something terrible happen, so he takes her hand and forces the two orange tablets into her palm.

“I know that you’re exhausted and in pain,” he tells her, very aware of her piercing glare as she looks up from the pills in her hand. “But I need you to take these. You have lost a lot of blood, and considering your current relationship with the United States government, you cannot go to a hospital. You will not make it back to Wakanda, and I’m not letting you die. So I need you to get up and come with me. Please.”

“Barnes,” she begins, an argument on her lips, but he shakes his head. 

“No, Natasha. I don’t want to have to drag you, but I’m more inclined to do that than let you stay here alone.” It’s the first time he’s told her no outright, and the first time he’s ever demanded something of her without giving her the chance to refuse him. It requires authority he’s not sure he has, but his voice rings with it anyway. She’s in no position to make decisions, and despite all of his personal and emotional ties to her, he’s not afraid to call the shots at the risk of making her mad at him. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. 

Natasha holds his gaze for so long he starts to wonder if she’s even heard him. Something flickers behind the wall of exhaustion glossing over her eyes, like a flame not yet snuffed out. Then she pops the pills into her mouth and swallows them with a grimace. “Happy?”

“Very. Come on.” He holds his hand out to her, silently asking for her permission to help her up. She takes it, and as she rises on shaky legs he steps close to wrap a gentle arm around her waist.

“Can you walk?” he asks as she sags into him. He doesn’t know why he expects anything less than a ‘yes’ from her, but she nods.

“Just let me lean on  you.”

Bucky almost regrets asking her the question as they begin to walk. He would like to pick her up and carry her like he did earlier, to take everything into his hands and do it his way, but as long as she breathes there’s a very slim chance of that happening. Natasha Romanoff is not someone who relinquishes control easily, if ever, and he can only imagine how hard it must be for her to depend on him, much less sacrifice her own voice in the matter. So, despite the alarm sounding from the rational side of his brain, he lets this beautiful, infuriatingly stubborn woman hobble alongside him for as long as her body will allow it.

They haven’t even crossed the cargo hold when Natasha's legs buckle. His arms are the only thing that keep her from tasting the stainless steel of the floor, and he can tell in the way that she fumbles for a grip on the wall that she’s embarrassed. 

“Damn it,” she mutters, her words catching on the emotion in her throat. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything as she rights herself, knowing she’d rather die than have him comment on her current state. He just stands with his arms around her waist, allowing her to use his vest and arm to get her back on her feet should she need it. The familiar curve of her body returns to his as she leans on him again, and in the same motion it takes to open the liftgate of the Jet he bends down to carefully lift her into his arms. 

Bucky is ready for an earful from her, considering that he’s in no position to ignore her, but all she says is, “I never thought you were this much of a cuddler, Barnes.”

“Feeling better?” he asks as sunlight spreads across the cabin, blaming the early morning air for his warm face.

“I will bite your ear off,” she says flatly, and despite the seriousness of the situation, he manages a small smile. There she is.

It’s an unfortunately long trek to civilization, and though Natasha’s body grows steadily heavier in his arms, he refuses to break his stride. The small town he walks into is desolate, and he thanks the early morning for chasing potential witnesses away as he steps onto the cracked blacktop of a parking lot. The few people out and about at this hour have presented him with various vehicles to choose from, and he zeroes in on a truck parked next to a dumpster. The position blocks it from the view of those in the diner across the lot, providing them with just enough cover to get in and get out. 

Bucky tries the door handle on the passenger side, not expecting it to swing open. Yet another thing to thank the early morning for: it makes people forgetful.

He nudges the door wider with his knee, carefully lowering Natasha into the passenger seat. Though she’d been relatively quiet, the motion of the transfer pulls at her wound and a sharp gasp of pain breaks the quiet morning air. Tears spark to life in her eyes, and she bites her lower lip so hard he’s afraid she’ll bite right through the skin.

Though they’d had a good handle on the bleeding earlier, the gauze darkens as blood starts to spill from the wound. Shit.

He meets her teary eyes, his own wide and surely filled with fear. 

“Just get in,” she tells him, voice thick. “Gawking at it isn’t going to make it better.”

Bucky sets the duffle bag at her feet and hops in the truck like the frame has electrocuted him. It takes longer than he’d like to jumpstart it, but it starts up with a low rumble on his third try. It’s a glorious sound. 

They make it to the motel in record time, partially thanks to the four red lights he ran at the risk of being caught by the cops. There's not enough smooth talking in the world that would get them out of that traffic stop. His left hand stays firmly on the wheel as he drives, while his flesh hand remains pressed against the nearly black gauze that Natasha doesn’t have the strength to hold on to.

The tires squeal as he turns into the motel parking lot. He makes sure to park away from the doors, hoping to keep the witnesses to his stolen truck to a minimum. Though Natasha is bordering on the edge of consciousness, he risks leaving her only to get a room. Normally he’d risk breaking and entering, but he can’t afford for someone to find them in this state, or getting the cops involved.

“I’ll be right back,” Bucky promises as he steps out of the truck. His heart pounds against his ribs as he crosses the lot, every second she’s out of his sight feeling like hours. 

The transaction is quicker than he’d expected, and the bored receptionist barely bats an eye as Bucky shoves a crumpled wad of cash at her. She hands him a room key in return and goes back to scrolling her phone.

The room is on the ground floor, which he’s thankful for. The process of getting Natasha out of the truck is excruciating, blood now flowing freely down her side. It soaks into Bucky’s suit as he pulls her towards the room, praying the receptionist doesn’t see them cross the lot. 

Bucky forces the door open with his shoulder, hauling Natasha into the motel room after him. She stumbles as the toes of her boots catch on the uneven carpet, his arm around her waist the only thing keeping her limp body from crumpling to the floor. Pieces of glass and chunks of dirt sprinkle themselves across the worn carpet as they stagger deeper into the room. He locks the door behind them.

It’s what he paid for. A dark bathroom sits a few paces past the worn queen bed. The brown sheets are flanked by equally damaged nightstands. A lamp sits on the farthest one, the yellow lampshade riddled with holes and weird stains. It fills the room with a warm glow, reflecting off the dusty TV mounted above the dresser.  A sunken couch sits under the window by the door.

Bucky comes to a rough halt by the bed. His stomach churns at Natasha’s weak groan as she’s forced to stop beside him. Her grip on him tightens instinctively, ashen hands gripping the straps of his vest. “I know, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, knowing his words aren’t making anything better. “Come on, let’s get you down.”

Bucky slides her arm off his waist and eases Natasha to the floor so she can sit against the bed, and she slumps against it like a marionette. He drops the duffle bag from his shoulder, the supplies inside clinking against one another as it hits the floor. He shrugs his vest off with a wince, and even though his muscles ache and his skin stings from superficial wounds from the glass, he can’t afford to think about anything except the woman before him.

Natasha’s bleary eyes land on him when he joins her on the floor. At this point, he’s not sure she can even see him. He rummages through the supplies he’d grabbed earlier as he runs his eyes over her torso, over the rips in her suit and the dirt covering her from head to toe. Her red hair, usually vibrant and shiny, is nothing more than a dull, matted mess in the dim light. 

The strength she’d clung during their trek has run out completely, and though he reminds himself of her energy back at the plane, he can’t lie to himself about her current state. It’s like the Natasha he knew her to be had been left behind at the explosion, and the little pieces of her that had remained have fallen off. They’ve been replaced by a frail shell of a woman who barely had the strength to hold her head up. His gaze darts from her to the duffle bag as he digs out supplies. Her eyes meet his, but he looks away quickly, trying to offer her what little privacy he could while at a nose length from her chest. His cheeks warm as he turns his eyes down. 

He sucks in a breath, now closer to her wound than he’d been before. It’s worse than he’d realized. 

“I know it’s not good,” Natasha mutters, then coughs. Her hand flies to the shard, teeth gritted as the jerking motion makes the pain worse. She turns on her side slightly, curling in toward the shard as if she can protect herself from the pain. 

Bucky fights to keep the worry from showing on his face. “I know,” he tells her, resisting the urge to reach out and grab her hand. “But I’ve got it. It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna take your vest off now, okay?” 

She’s barely able to do more than nod. A silver tear rolls down the curve of her jaw and settles in the hollow of her neck. 

Bucky shuffles closer, reaching over and undoing the straps on her bulletproof vest. She tries to help him, lifting her arms as best she can, but she moves with the fluidity of rusty machinery and it does her more harm than good.

“Don’t,” he tells her gently, encouraging her to put her arms down. She does so without a fight. “Just relax. I’ve got it.” 

He lifts the vest over Natasha’s head and discards it behind him. After unwrapping his crude patch job from back at the storage facility, he reaches for the scissors in the med kit. The blade slices through the suit with ease and he cuts it away until he’s exposed all of the glass poking out from the bloody, dirty wound. The shard moves with every rise and fall of her chest.

As he exposes more and more of her skin, Bucky can’t help but notice the long, thin scars that stretch over her exposed ribs, intertwined with shorter, thicker ones that disappear under the rest of the jagged fabric. His heart sinks at the multiplicity of them. Years of abuse are written over her skin, similar to his own. He knows what lies below the rest of her suit, specifically under her left collarbone and above her left hip. Her terrified face sparks to life in his mind, an expression he thought he’d blocked from memory until now. 

“What’s going on?” Natasha asks him breathlessly. She’s picked up on his hesitation. “Is something wrong?”

“No, sorry,” he apologizes. She looks at him for an explanation, but he doesn’t offer one. Apologizing for the scars he gave her isn’t appropriate, and he doesn’t know when it ever will be. He's ready to proceed, but can't do so until his hands have been washed. It makes for a convenient excuse to gather his runaway thoughts. “I’m gonna wash my hands before we get started,” he tells her as he rises to his feet, unable to look her way.

Bucky can’t afford to do much more than scrub the dirt from under his fingernails and rinse her dried blood from his skin, but he uses the thirty seconds it takes to wash his hands to force the residual memories from his mind. Get it together.

Bucky steps from the bathroom, trying to put a new spring in his step, but the sight of her nearly brings him to a halt. She’s slumped over on one side, eyes closed. He can’t see her chest rise or fall.

“Natalia,” he says breathlessly, falling to her knees beside her. His face is nearly as white as hers, but his body floods with warmth when her eyes flutter open. 

“Thought I was dead?” she croaks out, noting his panicked expression. 

“Only a little,” he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Fear makes him bold. “Don’t do that again.”

She doesn’t respond, just blinks at him. She’s fading fast. 

Bucky does his best to clean the wound with saline solution, and though he tries to be gentle, a small hiss escapes her gritted teeth. Bucky reaches for the shard after dousing his hands in sanitizer, bracing one hand on her side. “This is going to hurt.”

He lets her take a breath before he pulls. She gasps, a broken, strangled sob, and her bloody hand flies to his as he drops the glass onto the carpet. It’s the most she’s moved since they got into the room. He starts to pack gauze into the freely bleeding wound, pressing down firmly and trying to ignore the moan of pain that catches in her throat. 

“You got lucky,” he says, trying to distract her. “It wasn’t super deep, and it doesn’t sound like it hit a lung. Once the bleeding stops, I can clean it out and sew you back together.”

She doesn’t respond, but he takes comfort in her ribs expanding under his hand.

When he peels the bloody gauze away to find a manageable wound, he reaches for the saline. Bucky can’t tell if it’s because it’s finally stopped bleeding or if it’s the massive amount of blood loss coming to fruition, but he doesn’t think too much about it. 

Natasha’s hand clamps down on his arm the moment the solution makes contact with her torn skin, the quickness of her movement surprising him. Her chest heaves under his hand, her muffled screams bit back through gritted teeth. She squeezes his arm so tightly that, had it not been made of metal, Bucky might have been worried that she’d tear a hole through it.

“Okay, okay,” he says once he’d rinsed away all the dirt and grime, wrestling his arm away from her. “I’m done.” Silently, her grip relents and her hand disappears from his line of vision. She inhales a shaky breath, lifting her bloody hand to her face to wipe her tears away. Red streaks are left in the wake of her fingers.

“The worst is over,” Bucky says, giving her arm what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. “I’ve just got to stitch you up.”

Natasha’s voice is thick when she responds. “Okay.”

The stitches are the easiest part, and even though she utters a slight groan at every puncture and tug, she remains relatively quiet. It’s a weird feeling, threading the needle through her skin and watching the pale flesh kiss with every knot he ties. He tries not to think about it too much, focusing intently on the silver needle as he works. 

Natasha breathes a sigh of relief once he finishes the last stitch and covers it with a wide sterile bandage. “I don’t think I could get up if I tried,” she tells him.

“It’s okay,” he responds. “Stay seated. I’m not done.”

She frowns. “What else do you have to do?” Each word ends in a sharp exhale.

Bucky leans over to grab another pair of painkillers and one of the water bottles he’d packed. He opens the twist cap before handing it to her.  “Small sips,” he instructs her as she takes them from him. She nods and lifts the bottle to her lips, a question still lingering on her face.

Then Bucky reaches down to take off her boots. The water bottle falls away from her mouth. 

“What are you doing?”

“I doubt you can bend over to take them off on your own,” he says as he undoes the buckles, maintaining his hold on her feet as she tries to pull them out of his hand. 

He met her eyes, almost glad to see her slightly annoyed. “Let me do this for you. You saved my life back at the warehouse. The least I can do is make sure you can sleep comfortably.”

Her cautious gaze softens, her surprised expression bordering on incredulous. “ You just saved my life. If anything, I should be taking off your shoes.”

“You don’t want to be anywhere near my feet, Tasha.” 

“Oh, and you think mine are any better?” Some of her strength has begun to return, and he’s glad for it. She sounds a little more like herself. 

“Considering the events of the last 24 hours, your feet are not the worst thing I’ve been exposed to.”

“Very true.” And then, as he tugs the boots off, “Thanks.”

This time, he lets himself accept her gratitude. He nods. “You’re welcome.”

They sit in silence after that. Bucky helps her to her feet once her boots are off, a process that is much easier now that there isn’t a shard of glass in the way. He leads her to the side of the bed and pulls aside the blankets so she doesn’t have to bend down.  She gets one knee on the mattress before looking up at him. “Where will you sleep?”

“The couch is fine,” he reassures her.

"Are you sure?”

“Even if it wasn’t, I don’t care. You need to sleep, and there's no way in hell I'm taking the bed from you.”

Natasha looks uncertain, but the temptation of a mattress and clean sheets wins her over. She crawls the rest of the way into the bed, settling down into the pillows as if magnetized to them. Bucky helps her pull the blankets up to her chin and steps away as her eyes close. He places her water bottle on the nightstand and leans over to turn off the lamp, throwing the room into relative darkness. 

He moves about the room as quietly as he can manage, picking up the bloodied gauze and scraps of fabric that litter the floor. He throws them into the wastebasket in the bathroom, the shard of mirror clinking softly against the plastic trash. Good riddance.

Bucky also lays out his change of clothes at the end of the bed for Natasha should she wake before him. He could change into them if he wanted, but despite the events of the past hour his suit is relatively intact, save for a few rips and blood stains. He doesn’t need them like she does. He kicks off his boots and all but falls onto the couch.

Bucky expects to fall asleep the second he lays down, the way Natasha did. He makes a few attempts to close his eyes, and though they fall shut without much encouragement, it doesn’t take long for visions of Natasha’s dead body to bloom behind his eyes. The image of her slumped against the end of the bed has been expanded on in his mind, and each image is more vivid than the last. His brain does a good job of convincing him that she isn't just asleep in the bed across the room, that she's dead and cold and he’d been too late to save her. His heart beats in his throat, pulsing at his temples. 

He knows the danger of blood loss, the effect that shock has on one's physiology, and the rational side of his brain is nowhere to be found. It cannot chase away the intrusive thoughts that fill his mind, scattering it with Natasha's pale face and his own bloodied hands. 

It’s enough to sit him upright. Bucky swings his legs from the couch and crosses the room in a few strides, coming to a halt at her bedside. One arm lays at her side atop the blankets, the other tucked up by her face. She's sound asleep, or so she appears to be. Keeping his touch light, Bucky gently turns her wrist over and feels for a pulse, his heartbeat only slowing when he feels hers. It fills him with enough relief to bring him to his knees, and he's too tired to pull himself back up. It’s there, slumped up against her bedside with one hand on her wrist, that he finally sleeps.

Chapter Text

Natasha POV

It’s still light out when Natasha cracks her eyes open, which surprises her. Given the events of the past week and a half, she expected to curl up and sleep for the next ten years. It’s not the lumpy bed that wakes her, or the weird-smelling pillow that her cheek has sunken into. Not even the sun streaming through the broken blinds could have pulled her from sleep. 

It’s the hand encircling her wrist that attracts the attention of her subconscious. A rush of frustration warms her stomach as she rolls over onto her side. She’s momentarily bitter at being awoken at this hour in her state, and it twists her face into a scowl. Her bleary eyes narrow against the early afternoon light when she cracks them open. The sun casts a golden glow across the room, brightening the dull wallpaper and caramelizing the deep brown sheets she lays beneath. It turns the worn motel room into something almost pleasant. Her attention is drawn to the end of the bed where, near her feet, a neatly folded sweatshirt and change of clothes sits. 

That’s when Natasha is reminded of what woke her in the first place. She looks to her left.

The golden rays also illuminate the hand draped over her arm, his skin tan and rough against the soft flesh of her inner wrist. Pale scars dot the back of his hand, the lighting turning them silver. His arm has been slung across the mattress, elbow resting near the edge to ensure that his hand won’t fall away from hers in his sleep. 

A strange feeling settles in her gut, chasing away the bitterness in her throat. The little color that sleep has nudged back into her face drains down her neck.

It takes all her strength to roll onto her side, her barely healed wound screaming as she pushes herself onto her elbows. Stretching forward, she peers over the edge of the mattress to get a better look at the man slumped against the side of the bed. 

It’s a strange sight. 

Bucky has tucked his face into the curve of the mattress as he sleeps, partially hidden under his outstretched arm like a cat. He’s eerily still, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest, and is as peaceful as she’s ever seen him. His face has been softened by much needed sleep, expression so relaxed he looks almost boyish. Locks of black hair fall across his freckled brow, long enough that they nearly touch his dark eyelashes. Her fingers twitch on their own accord, fighting the urge to reach out and brush his hair off his forehead like she’s done so many times before. 

The thought that he might not remember her doing so wilts her heart in her chest, its petals dropping into her stomach like rocks. 

Bucky’s innocent expression is marred by the blood streaking his cheeks, the dirt and debris from the explosion still folded into the creases of his uniform. She glances from his blood-freckled face to his hands, at the dried blood that curves under his fingernails and turns her own fingers black. Hers are almost necrotic in appearance, so dark that they hide in the lowlight. 

Natasha rests her heavy head on the mattress, unable to keep it upright but unable to look away from him. She turns her head to rest her cheek flat on the bed, her nose inches from their tangle of hands. The crisp smell of gunpowder and the sharp tang of iron roll off of his skin like a familiar cologne, settling into her bones like it did all those years ago.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand why Bucky’s hand is where it is, why, after her near death experience he’s practically glued himself to her side. Natasha’s heartbeat pulses against his fingertips, drumming steadily under the bandages packed against her ribs. It’s a painful reminder of why they’re here. A pang of regret strikes her in the chest as she glances down at the exhausted man before her.
The man came after her when he didn’t have to. 

Who carried her miles through the woods. 

Who held her upright when she could barely stand. 

Who pulled the shard of glass from her side and stitched her back up without batting an eye. 

The man who now sleeps against the side of the bed instead of the couch, his hand on her wrist to make sure she’s still breathing. 

Natasha doesn’t know how to describe the feeling that takes her by the throat, the icy hands that force tears to her eyes. A feeling akin to acid slips into her stomach, threatening to eat away at her from the inside until she’s nothing more than a heap of bones on the mattress. 

How many nights has she laid awake, hoping for this very thing? How many nightmares has she awoken from, gasping for breath and for him, her soul longing for someone who no longer exists?

Why, now that she has everything that she’d hoped for, does it feel wrong?

She looks down at him now, following the slope of his nose and the gentle curve of his cupid's bow like she used to do with her fingers. It’s the face Natasha remembers, the face she sees behind her eyelids every time she closes them, but it’s not him . This is not her James, not her home, not the man who’d nursed her humanity back into the darkest parts of soul when it was all but lost. He hadn’t been hers in decades, not since they’d melted every piece of her out of his brain and sealed him away in that cryostasis tube.

Love is for children.   

Natasha had been unable to make him remember her on that frozen mountain in Siberia or under the overpass in DC, not even in the middle of the Vienna National Center two years ago. Nothing, not a garrote nor cognitive recalibration, could bring him back to her. It’d earned her two bullet wounds, a concussion, a necklace of bruises, and nothing more.

You could at least recognize me. Natasha’s own words reverberate in her ears like a gong, loud enough she half expects it to fill the silent motel room. They’re on her lips as she stares down at him but she won’t say them. He hadn’t heard her then and he can’t hear her now. 

And yet….

Natalia.  

Natasha had heard him, even in her half dead state. She’d been glad for it at the time, knowing that her already sallow skin couldn’t lose more color if she’d tried. And her name on his lips, rimmed in his American accent and spoken like he was never going to say it again…it’d zapped what little strength she’d had. 

Natasha wasn’t unaware of his recovery in Wakanda. Bucky’s best friend was hers, and Steve had no problem regaling her and Sam with stories of his improvements. Because he and Sam were practically cut from the same cloth, they were able to have almost clinical conversations about Bucky’s recovery while she sat in the third chair and did her best to keep a straight face. 

Questions about his treatment took up most of the conversation, and while Steve’s responses were carefully crafted and thought out, they didn’t begin to answer the questions she’d never asked. 

How could she ask Steve about her relationship with his oldest friend? A relationship that seemed to exist in the back of her mind, suspended in tortured limbo between her memories and reality? 

Natasha knew that Wakanda had healed him, had helped him close the gaps in his memories and sealed the darkness of the Winter Soldier away. And yet, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been sealed away with those memories, that who she was to the soldier had disappeared with him, too. 

Bucky is inches away from her now, the closest he’s been to her in a long time and yet somehow further than he’d ever been before. Her fingers twitch under his hand, spurned by faint muscle memory that longs to reach out and touch him, to feel the firmness of his jaw and softness of his lips, to hear him say her name once more. 

It’s a bad idea, and Bucky moves before she can even think about stretching her hand out to him. 

It’s an involuntary movement, his shoulders rolling under his shirt as he shifts in his sleep, but it freezes Natasha where she lies. A small sigh escapes his lips, and though he’s out cold, his hand tightens around her wrist as if on instinct. Then he settles, his grip relaxing as his shoulders fall. 

Natasha can feel his fingers on her skin long after she tugs her arm free.

She rolls onto her back, tucking her arms close to her body as she sinks into the uneven mattress. A single, tiny tear rolls down her temple and around her ear. It slips onto the pillowcase and spreads under her neck, its cold fingers sending a shiver down her spine as it soaks into the nape of her hairline.

Pull it together, Romanoff, she tells herself as she wipes her face. It doesn’t matter and you don’t care.

The mantra she’d been reciting to herself for the better part of two years doesn’t have the same impact, not anymore. Something dangerous has slipped behind the wall she’d built in front of her heart. Hope buds like an invasive flower in her lungs, its roots slipping through her chest without her permission.

Natasha rolls onto her side to face the wall, curling her hands in towards her chest. His hand lingers on her wrist, her side, her shoulders. For the first time in decades she’s surrounded by him, his clothes and his touch, and she hates it because it isn’t him.  

But isn’t it? 

He has to remember her, right?

Natasha’s eyes close before the answer can spark to life, and it dies in her chest before it can catch flame.

Bucky POV

Natasha is still asleep when Bucky wakes, which is a good thing. He doesn’t know how she’d react to his figure slumped against her bedside, or how he’d explain it if she asked. Once his eyes adjust to the gloom he notices that she is no longer in his peripherals. She’s nothing more than a blob in the dim light when he turns to look for her, realizing that she has rolled away from him in her sleep and is now curled on her side facing the far wall. If he squints hard enough he can make out the slender curve of her waist from where she lies. The thin sheets rise and fall in time with her breathing, slow enough that Bucky is confident that she’ll be asleep for a while longer. 

His arm still rests on the mattress, fingers reaching for someone who is no longer there. His entire arm is tingly and pale from lack of circulation, and it falls like a weight back to his side when he drags it off the bed. His joints instantly fill with static and he gives it a small shake as he pushes himself to his feet. Every muscle in his body groans in protest as he rises to his full height, his body no longer accustomed to the demands of espionage and assassination. His legs beg him to sit back down as he starts walking, but he ignores their objections as he swipes his clothes from the foot of the bed. He has a truck to move and medication to grab, not to mention the hunger that claws at his stomach and demands food. 

Though he’d originally left the clothes for Natasha, none of his tasks are easy to do when dressed in bloody tactical gear. He hopes she’ll forgive the rescindence of his silent gift and steps into the tiny bathroom.

Dirt and debris sprinkle across the cracked tiles of the floor as he peels off his suit, half expecting a pile of dust to rise from the pile when he drops them on the ground. He’ll shower when he gets back, he decides, unable to ignore the persistent hunger driving him out the door. 

He rinses his hands under the faucet after donning his civilian attire, scrubbing the dried blood from his skin as best he can. He uses the thumbnail of his right hand to clean the grooves of his metal hand, and the water quickly turns to rust in the dirty white sink as he works. 

Bucky is surprised at how natural the feeling is, barely batting an eye at the red water that slides down the drain as he falls back into a routine he thought he’d abandoned. Maybe it’s the five hours of sleep he’s working off of, or that his brain hasn’t left ‘work mode’ since he donned Shuri’s suit, but the only thing that surprises him is the bags under his eyes and the stiffness of his muscles. 

Everything hurts: his back, his shoulders, his legs, even his fingers ache as he works. He’s been in relatively good shape despite his retirement, but throwing hay bales around has done little to compensate for the demands of his previous profession. The familiarity of the pain is almost comforting, but it’s unwelcomed all the same. 

Bucky pushes his wet hands through his greasy hair in an effort to make it appear cleaner than it actually is, knowing that the ball cap will cover up the lingering dust that turns it gray.

He shoves it over his damp hair and steps out of the bathroom. The room is brighter now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and he casts one more glance to Natasha before heading out the door. 

She hasn’t moved since he last saw her, sound asleep with locks of red hair falling across her face. She’s pulled her hands under her chin and has crossed them over her chest, as if holding something in her arms. Her slow, heavy breathing is only interrupted by the irregular snore that slips out of her slightly open mouth. Bucky’s fingers twitch on their own accord, longing to cross to her side and brush her disheveled hair from her face.

He doesn’t need an intact memory to remember all the times he’d done it before, all the times he’d leaned over her tiny twin mattress to press a kiss to her lips, all the times she’d begged him to stay while grabbing hold of the collar of his vest. 

Her pleas echo in his ears as he rounds the corner of the bed and crosses the room, not to her side like he wants, but to the nightstand a few feet away. His legs are heavy as they bring him to a halt, and his metal hand shakes ever so slightly as he grabs the provided pad of paper and pen. It exacerbates his already messy handwriting as he scrawls out a barely legible note for Natasha to read should she wake before he returns. 

N-

Went for supplies around 1700. Be back soon. 

-J

Bucky’s skin tingles as he heads towards the door. It takes every ounce of strength he has not to look back at Natasha’s sleeping figure. He steels himself with a breath once he shuts the door behind himself, trying to catch his runaway thoughts before they derail completely. It’s only when he goes to lock the door does he realize that he’s crimped the brass door handle with his metal hand. 

It’s his reminder to pull on the pair of gloves he keeps in his sweatshirt pocket. The smell of blood and gunpowder might not be evident to those passing by, but an arm made entirely of vibranium is bound to raise questions. 

There’s a few more cars in the parking lot than there were this morning, providing him with a little cover to slink over to the stolen truck half-hidden in the parking lot. Though it takes a little longer to start than before, it rumbles to life under his hands after a few attempts. 

Jumpstarting it is relatively easy. Hiding it is a different challenge. 

Cops haven’t come to poke around yet, but it won’t take long for someone to notice something out of sorts in a town this small. Especially following a major explosion a few miles away. 

He’s fortunate to find a parking garage a few blocks away, and while it’s closer to the motel than he’d like, he doesn’t have many options and time is of the essence. He can’t bring it back to the diner he stole it from and leaving it in the open for much longer would attract unwanted attention. If they’re caught, he’ll be expedited back to Wakanda with a slap on the wrist. For Natasha, it’s twenty-five to life in a maximum security prison. And that’s if Ross is feeling generous. 

Bucky leaves the truck near the top of the parking garage, tucking it into a corner spot of the empty deck. Then he descends the attached staircase and emerges onto the street. The lamps have just turned on, lining the street with a soft yellow glow.

There’s not much in the way of food in this tiny town, but he finds a small gas station a mile or two in the opposite direction of where they’re staying. The walk back might be long and painful, but he’d rather stretch his sore muscles than risk being traced back to the motel. 

The cashier doesn’t pay Bucky much attention when he steps inside, the bell above the door jingling to announce his arrival. 

“Magazines are two for one,” the bored cashier says flatly from behind the register, not bothering to look up from his phone. “Cigs are back here if you want ‘em.”

Bucky bypasses both of those things for an armful of painkillers, water bottles, soap, shampoo, and the healthiest food options he can find. Plus a pack of gummy bears for Natasha. There’s very little about her that he doesn’t remember, and her favorite candy is not one of those things. They keep well on missions, shoved in pockets and bags, and he can recall the bright candy between her teeth as easily as he can his old address.

Bucky adds a bottle of saline solution and adhesive bandages to the mix, knowing that the few supplies he’d snagged from the jet are running low. He dumps his collection of supplies on the counter, ignoring the cashier’s mildly surprised expression. “Doomsday prepping?” he asks as he starts to scan the items, attempting to make small talk.

Bucky shrugs, keeping his hat pulled low over his face. “Something like that.” 

He hands over the appropriate amount of money from his dwindling stash of cash, telling the cashier to keep the change before stepping back outside. 

The sky has changed from pink and orange to dark blue, the dim town only illuminated by the streetlamps and a few passing cars. It’s a long walk back to the motel, but not unenjoyable. It’s cooler than the nights in Wakanda, the air thick with the promise of rain and only disturbed by a gentle breeze. Fat raindrops begin to fall as he enters the parking lot of the motel, and they sprinkle his gray sweatshirt and tap against the brim of his hat. His fingers fit perfectly into the indentations he’d left in the doorknob, acutely aware of the lamplight shining through the window as he turns the handle and pushes the door open. 

Natasha is sitting cross legged in the nest of sheets, carefully dragging her fingers through her knotted hair. Her scowl of frustration slips from her face when he steps inside. She doesn’t drop her fingers from her hair, but her hands still as they meet each other’s eyes across the room. She looks from him to the plastic bags he carries. 

“Bring back anything good?”

“Depends on your definition,” Bucky replies as he locks the door behind him. “Do you count painkillers and protein bars as good?”

“Considering that you and I both got tackled by a building yesterday, yes.” She resumes attending to her hair as he drops the bags on the bed, attempting to appear nonchalant. He almost buys it.

He’s closer now and can see the glassy sheen covering her eyes, her knitted brows that betray her discomfort. Not even the warm glow of the lamp can hide her pale skin. 

“How long have you been up?” he asks as he digs through the bag, choosing not to ask about her obvious discomfort. 

“Not long. Thirty minutes, maybe.” She ties off her freshly braided hair and folds her hands in her lap, her knuckles turning white as she twists her hands together. 

Bucky knows her pain, understands it well. He also understands why she’s hiding it from him, recognizes her desire to appear perfectly fine while being anything but. It’s what makes her a capable leader and a formidable opponent, but also a horrible patient. 

“Here.” Bucky holds a granola bar out to her, unsurprised when she wrinkles her nose at it. 

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know,” he says. “But you’re in pain and you need to eat before you load up on painkillers. And if you want these.” He produces the bag of gummy bears he’d bought, smiling slightly when her eyes light up. She looks from him to the brightly colored bag, expression soft. Her glazed eyes glimmer with an emotion he can’t name. 

Her voice is quieter than he expects when she says, “Are you bribing me with candy, Barnes?”

He shrugs. “Depends. Is it working?” 

Natasha looks up at him one more time. Then she swipes both items from his hands. “I hate you,” she mumbles as she rips open the packaging of the granola bar. 

“Hate me all you want, but I also got shampoo and soap.”

She blinks, then manages a smile around a mouthful of food. “Is this your way of saying I smell bad?”

He chuckles, unfazed by the mock seriousness in her tone. Sitting before him, cross legged and wide-eyed, she’s as intimidating as a baby deer. Which is why he gets away with saying, “Yes. Horrible. If this doesn’t do the trick, I’m getting my own room.”

She rolls her eyes as she shakes two painkillers into her palm, tossing them into her mouth and chasing them with a sip of water. Then she turns her attention to the real prize: the candy in her lap.  

Bucky is surprised at his boldness, at the words that fall out of his mouth without his approval. Most of his conversations require thoughtful planning and execution, every word used as a block to construct the image of a well put-together, mild-mannered former assassin. Even before, when Natasha had shown up unannounced at his house, he’d been methodical with his sentences. He couldn’t afford to let himself slip up in front of her, afraid of what could accidentally be revealed if he’d let his guard down. 

But the last few days have emboldened him, put him in control, forged something new in the fire of the explosion. Maybe it’s Natasha’s own playful banter that’s made it easier, or perhaps he hit his head when the bomb went off, but conversation is more natural now than it had been in two years.

“Did you grab a change of clothes, by any chance?” Natasha asks, leaning forward to inspect the bags. She’s still wearing her catsuit, the black fabric hanging in tatters. Spots of pale skin appear like stars against the black of her uniform, a constellation of white exploding across her side from where he cut her suit away. 

“Oh, damn.” He shakes his head. “It totally slipped my mind. I can run out and grab some, though.”

“No,” she says quickly, stopping him before he can move. “It’s fine. I was just curious. You’ve already gotten a ton of stuff, I’d hate to ask you for one more thing. Hell, you even got me my favorite candy.” Her gaze flicks to his, and though her tone is playful, her gaze glimmers with barely disguised suspicion. “How did you know?”

It was too much to hope that she’d gloss over that detail. 

He doesn’t know how to describe her piercing stare or the goosebumps that crawl up his back as she waits for his answer, but he does know how to lie. It’s what made him a good assassin, an invaluable skill that’s kept him alive, but his silver tongue has since turned gray. He’s not sure how reliable his skills are now, but it’s better than admitting the truth. 

“I didn’t know they were your favorite,” Bucky says with a casual shrug. His shoulders feel heavy. “You needed something to keep your blood sugar up, and that was the first candy I grabbed.” The urge to admit the truth lingers on his tongue, his confession pressing against the back of his teeth, but all that comes out is, “I’m glad you like them.” 

Natasha holds his gaze for a few more painful seconds, deducing the truth in his words. Her eyes narrow, brows furrowed, and he’s ready for her to call his bluff when she says, “Lucky guess.”

She pops a bright red bear into her mouth and swings her legs to the side of the bed.

“Careful,” he says when her face twists into a grimace, hands reaching to steady her, but she shrugs him off.

“I got it.” 

“Okay.” His hands fall to his side.

Something has changed, an imperceptible shift that has draped a heavy blanket over the room. His cheeks flush at the same time goosebumps spread over his skin, trying to dissect Natasha with his eyes. He might be a good liar, but he’d taught her how to weave the same web. She’s better at spinning it than he is, and now he can’t tell if she’s hiding something from him, too. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” Natasha announces as she stops by the end of the bed, bending down to grab the soap and shampoo. He remains motionless even as she hides her grimace of pain, afraid that offering help might cause more harm than good. 

“Okay,” he repeats, at a loss for words as she straightens. 

Natasha spares him one more glance before slipping into the bathroom, her eyes bright with pain and another emotion he can’t name. 

Disappointment?

Frustration?

Regret?

No, he tells himself, shaking his head to clear away the unrealistic thoughts filling his head. He’s grasping for straws at this point, seeing things that aren’t really there in the hopes of some kind of explanation as to why her mood has shifted.

Bucky may not be able to read her like he used to, but he can do one more thing for her. He can make up for his lie by doing something genuine. 

He slips out the door as the water turns on, not wanting her to hear his departure or have to explain where he’s going. It’s raining heavily now, the fat raindrops soaking into his sweatshirt as he hurries back onto the street, but he doesn’t care. He can either wallow in shame or make it right, and he’s done enough self-pitying to last him a lifetime.

The convenience store is one of the few stores open at this hour, presenting him with only a few options. He doesn’t bother psychoanalyzing Natasha in the name of clothing, not wanting to lie his way out of a corner again. He grabs at the first thing he’s presented with, pays, and hurries back to the motel. 

A wall of exhaustion hits Bucky like a truck the moment he steps back into the motel room, the warmth of the room chasing away the cold of the rain. He’s left with only the strength to dump his purchase onto the bed and stagger over to the couch. It’s more comfortable than he remembered, and despite the lumps he finds himself nodding off before he can convince himself not to. 

There’s no one to worry about keeping alive, no nightmares lingering in the back of his mind, no threats of death to keep him alert. Bucky falls asleep before Natasha emerges from the shower, unable to see her expression when she notices the clothes on the bed. 

He doesn’t see the emotions that twist her face, the surprise that pushes her lingering frustration away. She tugs the clothes on without much hesitation, only making a sound when it disturbs her wound. 

Bucky doesn’t feel her eyes on him when she crawls into the bed, facing him as she curls up onto her side. He doesn’t see the hint of a smile or the way she buries her nose into the collar of the sweatshirt, watching him sleep until she does, too.

Chapter Text

“Hand over the girl.”

“Not a chance.” Bucky’s hand tightens around the woman he’s pushed behind him. He watches the mercenaries in front of him through the sight points of his gun, the posts focused on the forehead of the white-haired man before him. Karpov holds one grisled hand out to Bucky, the other hovering just above the gun in his side holster. It doesn’t matter if he can draw it before Bucky gets a shot off; the two soldiers on either side of him would shoot Bucky with their own weapons before he could move.

Natasha’s nails dig into his palm as she peers out from behind his shoulder. She gives his arm an insistent tug. “James,” she whispers hoarsely, her breath white in the cold air. “You have to let me go.”
He gives an imperceptible shake of his head, looking from soldier to soldier as he responds. To surrender would mean death, or worse: the chair. “I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” she responds, but she lacks conviction and her words fall flat. They both understand the severity of their situation, both know what waits for them when they’re inevitably brought back for punishment.

She speaks again, not to him but to the men they’ve been surrounded by. “If I go with you,” Natasha announces, voice rising to be heard from where she’s been pressed against a tree, “you have to promise me that you won’t hurt him.” The russian accent she’s been trying so hard to get rid of rolls off her tongue like a thick blanket, and it rings with a reminder of her youth and inexperience. It’s why the soldiers ignore her demands. 

“Natalia,” James hisses. “Don’t.”

Don’t make it worse than it already is, he wants to tell her. Don’t talk, don’t move, don’t breathe.

He looks from man to man, stomach twisting. This isn’t how the plan was supposed to go. 

They’d broken away from their respective stations like planned, using pre-recorded footage to loop through their absence. It bought them enough time to meet two miles east of the compound, skirting dogs and soldiers alike on their way to each other. For all their forethought and planning, it hadn’t been enough. Handlers had been waiting for them two miles south of freedom. Their cars now sit like sleeping beasts in the snow, powdered white and glinting in the moonlight. 

And now here they both are, trapped between a tree trunk and the barrel of a dozen guns, HYDRA’s most valuable assets clutching each other’s hands. 

“I don’t have the patience for this,” Karpov says sharply, fury wrapped around every syllable. He snaps his fingers. “Get them.”

Snow sprays as they’re rushed.

Bucky’s single shot goes wide as he’s grabbed from all sides, pulling him away from the tree and the woman he’s pinned against it. It takes three men to hold back his metal arm as he tries to pull himself free.

Natasha’s scream is piercing as she’s tackled into the snow behind him. Her red hair spreads like a bloodstain across the white ground, fighting against the men trying to pin her arms behind her back.

Hands clamp down on Bucky’s shoulders and arms, holding him in place before he can lunge towards her. A heavy boot lands in the back of his knee and knocks him into the snow. It takes the remaining men to keep him pinned. An electric baton in his side not only keeps him stunned but weakens the electronics in his metal arm, giving them the chance to force it into a special handcuff. He’s powerless, forced to watch as the rest of the soldiers pull Natasha up, not before landing a dozen or so blows to her body. 

Her nose drips with blood when they pull her to her feet, hair falling in a disheveled curtain across her face. Her terrified eyes find him in the chaos.  

“James!” Her cry turns into a strangle cough as she doubles over from the fist in her stomach. Her boots carve a black trail through the snow as she’s dragged to one of the cars. 

“I’m sorry,” he calls after her, praying she’ll hear him. “I’m so sorry.” He’s unable to say what he needs to, unable to tell her how much he loves her before he’s forced upright and met with another strike of the electric baton. He tries to pull away from them and to her, shaking off the hand that has fallen on his arm. 

A voice cuts through the fog. “James!”

He pulls his arm away again, unable to shake the hold on it.  

“James, wake up!”

Opening his eyes is like coming up for air. Bucky shoots upright on the lumpy couch, reaching for a weapon he doesn’t have to fight someone who no longer exists. It takes a moment for the Russian wilderness to morph into the Ohio motel room, the tapping of rain on the window luring him out of his trance. The next thing he notices, after the yellowed walls and dull TV, is Natasha Romanoff’s hand on his arm.

She’s on her knees by his side, one hand wrapped around his bicep. Her grip is firm but gentle, and though her eyes are wide her voice is steady. “It’s okay. You’re alright. It was just a nightmare.”

Bucky mutters a curse as he leans forward. Natasha’s grip on his arm tightens, refusing to let go. He presses a hand to his brow, trying to force away the residual images that flash behind his eyes. It wasn’t a nightmare, he knows that much. Nightmares are defined by their nonsensical nature, the darkness and impending sense of doom that can’t be described. That was a memory, and he can still feel the snow soaking into his suit like he did all those years ago. His metal arm still tingles, his body is sore, his skin crawls with goosebumps that all the warmth in the world can’t chase away. 

“What can I do?” Her voice breaks through his fog.

Bucky doesn’t respond. It’s not that he can’t, it’s that he doesn’t know how. Or what to ask for, if anything. How many times has he sat upright in his bed, heart pounding in his throat, horrific images flashing before his eyes like a cruel slideshow? There were many nights after he’d regained his memories where he’d lain awake, fingers ghosting over the empty mattress in a desperate search for someone no longer there.

He’s been quiet for too long, Bucky realizes as she stands, her hand falling from his arm. The warmth from her touch lingers, and he tries to hold onto it for as long as possible before the cool air chases it away. She disappears from his line of sight to fetch something he can’t see, offering no explanation for her departure. 

Bucky can’t force himself to look up from his hands to see where she’s going, afraid that if he does he’ll be forced to see her terrified expression once more. So he stares at the ridges in his metal palm as her bare feet pad in and out of his vision.  

A few silent moments pass before a plastic water bottle is pushed into his hands. “Drink,” Natasha encourages, and takes a seat on the couch beside him as he unscrews the lid. She doesn’t say anything until he caps the bottle. He can feel her eyes on him without turning his head. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head. “No.” Even if he wanted to, how on earth could he put that memory into words? 

It’s nothing major, just reliving the worst night of my life. How did you sleep?

That would go over well. 

He’s thankful that she doesn’t pry. Her serious tone shifts to something more lighthearted. “Well…do you want to watch trashy TV?”

A light smile tugs at her lips when he looks over at her. Her eyes bear a mischievous glint. “What kind of trashy TV?”

She shrugs. “Anything you want.”

Bucky wouldn’t know where to start. He hasn’t watched any kind of television in the past two years, unless you count Shuri’s animated recounts of her current favorite shows during their appointments. He now knows way more about vampires and werewolves than he would like to, not to mention tales of the occasional zombie apocalypse or exploding planet that she regales him with when he’ll listen.

He hands Natasha the gray remote, not wanting the responsibility of show-picking to fall on him. “You choose. I’ll watch whatever.”

Her fingers graze him when she takes it from his hands. “Alright,” she says as she shifts on the couch. “What are you in the mood for? I’ve got bitchy housewives, yacht parties, vampires, love triangles, etcetera, etcetera.”

Bucky shrugs, managing a small smile at her enthusiasm. “I don’t know.”

“Bitchy housewives it is.”

Natasha spends the next few hours introducing him to her favorite TV shows. Couples fight, women throw glassware at each other, chefs scream at each other from across industrial kitchens, but the best sound is Natasha’s stifled laughter from where she sits beside him. Her shoulder bumps his with every chuckle, one hand pressed against her lips to keep herself quiet.

Bucky spends more time watching her than he does the shows, resisting the urge to reach over and pull her fingers away from her mouth so that her laughter can fill the room.

Tea is his go-to post-nightmare remedy for when he wants to chase the chill away, but the warmth that fills his chest at her joy couldn’t be replicated by anything else.

The pressure in his chest has lessened considerably by the time the early morning light pokes through the blinds, and his hands no longer sit in balled fists in his lap. They’re both content from where they sit shoulder to shoulder, neither one in any hurry to get up. He’d like to freeze this moment and stay in it forever, but Natasha’s growling stomach catches his attention. 

“You hungry, Romanoff?” he asks her after her stomach rumbles for the third time.

She looks over at him, the red and yellow lighting from the TV spreading over the side of her face like translucent splashes of paint. “Is it that obvious?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He leans forward, moving to stand. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”

“Do you think I’ll look weird in sweats and combat boots?” she asks as they stand, gesturing to her outfit. It’s a simple question, one that she probably didn’t mean anything by, but it brings him to a stop. 

He looks her up and down, feeling heat creep into his cheeks as he takes in her disheveled hair and baggy clothes. The combat gear and jeans he’s used to seeing her in can’t compare to the sweats that hide her slender frame. The Natasha from his past wiggles like a mirage before him, trying to settle into the lines of the Natasha standing in front of him. It makes him pause. Her heart-shaped face is warm and flushed, eyes wide in anticipation, and he longs to feel the fullness of her cheeks beneath his hands. They ball into fists at his side. He swallows. 

“I think you’d look fine in anything.” It’s not what he wants to say, but it’s the closest he’ll get to telling her how absolutely beautiful she is. 

Her eyes soften, an emotion he can’t name flickering across her face like candlelight. She pushes a hand through her red hair. There’s a pause, and then she says, “Okay, then. Give me two minutes to pull myself together.”

“You might want to think about changing your bandages while you’re at it.”

“That's probably a good idea.” She disappears into the bathroom, leaving him a few moments to collect his thoughts. 

He picks up the remote and puts it on the bedside table. 

Arranges the boots by the bed. 

Pulls the bed sheets to the pillows. 

Collects empty water bottles and throws them in the trash. 

Mindless tasks that he hopes will chase the heat from his cheeks and the images from his mind. 

A small thud from the bathroom catches his attention. The toilet lid rattles slightly. And then, “Barnes?” The closed bathroom door muffles Natasha’s call. 

Bucky lifts his head, frowning. “Yeah?”

“Can you come here?” Her voice is low, edged with caution. It makes his heart skip a beat.

He walks over to the closed door, crossing the room in a few strides. He stops outside the bathroom door, not sure what he’s about to walk into. “Is everything okay?” he calls through it.

“I need your help.” Her voice, though louder due to his proximity, is still uncertain.

She’s bleeding, he decides as he reaches for the doorknob. Dying. Her wound has ripped open and he’s going to have to stitch her back up again. Or she’s fallen, hit her head, and is bleeding out on the bathroom floor. 

Bucky turns the handle, not sure what to expect when he pushes the door open. He does his best to keep his rapidly beating heart inside his chest as he steps into the room. 

He balks at the sight before him. “What are you doing?”

Various medical supplies are strewn across the countertop, and though gauze litters the floor and bloody bandages spill into the sink, that isn’t what makes him stop. A perfectly healthy Natasha has climbed onto the closed toilet lid and is leaning against the tank, eyes fixed on something in the corner. She turns to look at him as he stops in the doorway, her expression pleading. She holds out a tissue to him. “Will you please kill it?”

“Kill what?” He looks around the tiny space, following her pointed finger to a fat cockroach in the corner of the shower. 

Bucky barks out a laugh. “Are you serious?” 

She scowls. “Don’t laugh at me. They fly!”

“Natasha, I thought you were dying. Or hurt.”

“That has yet to be determined,” she says. “Do you have a shoe?”

He ignores her question. “Don’t you have, like, a thousand confirmed kills?”

“It’s about to be a thousand and one if you don’t do something.”

“Are you talking about me or the cockroach?”

She groans. “Just kill it before I lose my mind, Mr. Two-dozen-assassinations-in-fifty-years.”

He’s still chuckling as he walks over to the shower. “Sorry, little guy,” he says as he smashes it with his shoe.

“Don’t apologize to it!” Natasha protests from behind him. She’s still standing on the toilet lid when he turns around, the crushed cockroach folded between the tissue paper.

“Happy?”

“Very. Thank you.”

She moves to hop off the toilet, but not before he holds it out to her. Her eyes narrow, her entire body pulling away from his outstretched hand as if electrocuted. “Touch me with that and you die.”

He makes a shoo-ing motion with his hand. “Get off the toilet if you want me to flush it.”

The lid rattles as she steps down. The squashed roach disappears down the pipe a few moments later. 

“What do you do when there’s a cockroach in your apartment?” Bucky asks as she turns to face the mirror. “Set the place on fire?”

“I’m a very clean person. I don’t get cockroaches.” 

“I’ll take this mess on the counter as proof of that.” Natasha rolls her eyes, but he speaks before she can fire off a retort. “How’s your side?”

“Not awesome,” she says, nose wrinkling in discomfort as she pulls the hem of her sweatshirt up. “But not as bad as it was.” She’d pulled off the bandage prior to her confrontation with the roach, and the black threads of her stitches stand out from where they’re tied into her pale skin. Her abs contract as she moves, the muscles of her side rippling as she reaches for a fresh swath of bandages. 

He rips his eyes away, clearing his throat in an effort to push away the heat in his face. “Do you need help?”

“I think I’ve got it,” she says distractedly, taking the fabric of her sweatshirt between her teeth as she tries to stick the bandages in place. 

“Here, let me,” he offers, half expecting a rebuke to be thrown his way. He’s pleasantly surprised when she turns to face him without complaint. It’s only when they get face to face do they realize how small the bathroom truly is. The small space has brought them nearly chest to chest, and Bucky can see every golden fleck in Natasha’s eyes when she looks up at him. He can smell her shampoo when she ducks her head. 

Bucky doesn’t want to compromise her security in the small space by bending down, so he takes a step back and sits on the closed toilet lid. She walks closer to him, coming to stand between his knees while he assembles his supplies. 

Natasha pulls up the hem of her sweatshirt once more, revealing to him the long wound that stretches from under her ribs to the soft pouch of her stomach. It stops in the vicinity of the since-healed bullet wound that pokes out from the top of her hip, a wound that he knows all too much about.

Bucky forces himself not to think about it as he gets to work. Natasha’s fingers fiddle absentmindedly with the drawstring of her pants. The knot she’s tied has come loose, allowing the waistband to hang around the widest parts of her hips. Lines of muscle disappear under the gray fabric. 

Once again, he finds himself tearing his eyes away. He’s a gentleman, he reminds himself, and gentlemen do not stare. 

Bucky takes the bandages between his fingers and leans forward, gently pressing his left hand to her side to stabilize his wrist. Her skin explodes with goosebumps under his touch, involuntarily shying away from his hand. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes quietly, pulling away. He sits back a little. “I know it’s cold.”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. You can’t help it. If you need to put your hand back, you can.” 

His metal fingers fan out against her skin, curling around her waist just above the curve of her hip. They both fall silent as he works, examining the healing skin and intact stitches. It doesn’t take long for him to clean the wound and reapply a bandage, but Natasha doesn’t question it when the two minutes turn into seven. She just shifts her weight from foot to foot while he finishes his work. 

“Alright,” Bucky says as he flattens the final bandage and leans back. “I’m done.”

“Thanks,” she says, stepping back. Her hand smooths imaginary creases in the white covering, sweatshirt falling back in place. As if on cue, her stomach rumbles. 

“Let’s get you fed,” Bucky says as he stands, scooping up the remaining supplies and shoving them back into the first aid kit. He hopes she doesn’t notice his unsteady hands as she slips past him and into the main room. 

-----------------

“Where do you want to go?” Natasha asks as they step out onto the street. Mist still hangs in the air and the smell of fresh rain wafts from the concrete. Cars cut through crisp puddles with a hiss, their headlights turning the water golden as they pass. 

“Me? I should be asking you that question.”

“Well, we both need to eat, don’t we?” She looks up at him from under the hood that she’s pulled over her hair, the red locks that have escaped her tiny ponytail curling around her jaw.. 

“I mean yeah, but you reserve the right to pick.”

“Why? Because I got jumped by a mirror? Nuh uh. I’m fine with whatever.” 

“See, women always say that and then they always mind.”

“Not this woman. I promise. I won’t even protest if you walk into a pancake house.”

Pancakes? He frowns. “How do you know I like pancakes?”

“What?” Natasha’s eyes are wider than usual. She fixes her hoodie, reminding him of a turtle retreating into its shell. “No, I mean, I just said the first thing that popped into my head.”

His eyes narrow suspiciously. Either she’s a terrible liar or he can read her too well. But he lets it slide because she didn’t press him about his half-assed answer about the gummy bears. “Whatever you say, Tasha.”

First one to get spotted pays for breakfast. 

Damn. 

I get to pick the restaurant too. 

Fine. But no pancake houses. 

The memory appears in his mind like a flashbang, the pieces twinkling in his mind like shattered glass. He glances at Natasha from the corner of his eye, noting her distracted expression and wondering if she’s thinking of the same memory, too. 

But it’s an indulgent, selfish thought, and one that he pushes away quickly. He has to remind himself that she doesn’t remember him like he does her. It’s nice to pretend, though.

For her sake Bucky refrains from stepping into the pancake house they pass, but when Natasha pauses in front of a small bakery he pulls the door open without a word. She steps past him with a grateful look, immediately drawn to the warmth and the bright pastries that sit in their trays behind shiny panes of glass. 

They’re the only customers, the bell that chimes to announce their arrival grabbing the attention of the shop owner. She steps out from the back room, flour flying as she dusts her hands off on her bright blue apron. The stitching in the top left corner of her apron reads Linda, and though she greets them with a warm smile, they both return it warily. This town may be small, but their reputations are large and faces well-known. There’s no telling what this woman does and doesn’t know. 

Bucky probably should have suggested that Natasha wait outside, but it’s too late for that. Besides, pulling her away from the displays might get him shot. 

The woman cheerfully offers her suggestions as they look at the options, chattering away like they’re regulars. Her expression is kind and unassuming, and the sole camera aimed at the cash register lessens Bucky’s fears of discovery. Still, he hovers close to Natasha as she makes her selections. 

The baker nods approvingly at her choices and fills a small paper bag with croissants and danishes. Natasha’s final selection is a pancake-flavored donut, and though Bucky can’t imagine that it’ll be any good, he doesn’t say a word when the owner places it in the bag.

They follow her over to the register, keeping their heads low to avoid the camera. He tries to hand over some cash to pay, but the owner shakes her head and pushes it back. 

“It’s on the house,” she says. “Thanks for stopping by!”

“Thank you,” Natasha tells her. “We really appreciate it.”

“Of course. Come back and see us soon!” she calls after them, and Natasha offers her a small wave as they step back into the dreary day.

“Well, that was nice,” Natasha remarks as they start to walk back to the motel. 

“It was,” he agrees. “I guess small town hospitality isn’t dead.” Bucky takes a chocolate croissant from the paper bag and holds it out to Natasha, unable to feel its warmth in his hands but smiling when her eyes light up. She takes it from him. 

“Try yours,” she says as she takes a bite. “Tell me if it’s as bad as it sounds.”

He produces the donut with a display of grandeur, holding it in front of himself like it’s a trophy. She watches as he takes a thoughtful bite, her mouth full with chocolate. He turns to her, eyes wide and bright.

“Oh, man,” he says, and she leans forward in anticipation.

“Well?”  

“It’s as horrible as it sounds.”

She barks out a laugh, her hand flying to her mouth. “No,” she says disappointedly. “I was hoping it’d be good.”

“It’s impossible to get every flavor of a pancake into something that is not a pancake,” he explains, motioning to his donut. “But this was a good try. And it will not go to waste.”

She takes another bite of her croissant. “You’d break that old lady’s heart.”

It has begun to drizzle by the time they enter the motel parking lot. The drizzle turns into a downpour in the thirty seconds it takes them to cross to their room, and Bucky presses himself to the wall as Natasha fights with the door.

“Will you hurry up?”

“I will lock you outside,” she tells him as the key slides into the lock. 

“Then who would kill your cockroaches?”

She shoots him a glare as the door swings open and the two pile into the room. The rain pounds on the door as Bucky shuts it, begging to be let inside. 

Natasha tugs off her sweatshirt as she walks deeper into the warm room, a groan of pain bit back between clenched teeth as she pulls it over her head. Her heavy eyes betray her discomfort when she turns to face him.

Bucky stops himself from asking a million questions, knowing that his inclination to help would be met head-on by her own stubbornness and they would get nowhere. Or somewhere, after running around each other in circles. He shakes two painkillers into his hand and holds them out to her, and though she doesn’t look enthused, she takes them from him. Her fingernails scrape his palm lightly, leaving his skin tingling.

“Thanks,” she says as she chases the orange tablets with water. 

“No problem,” he says, shrugging off her gratitude like it’s a wet blanket. If it hangs around his shoulders for too long, it might give him a chill. “What’s next on the docket?”

“Unless you fancy yourself Gene Kelly, I will be sitting on that bed until further notice.”

“What, not a fan of the Ohio rain?”

“Or singing,” she says with a pointed look. “I’ve had enough Ohio rain to last a lifetime.”

“How so?” he asks as she crawls onto the bed, still holding the paper bag. The rusty hinges protest as she gets comfortable. 

“I grew up here,” she says, and he’s momentarily surprised at her honesty until she adds, “but that’s enough about that.”

If they were closer Bucky would press her for an explanation, but their amiability only goes so far. He heads towards the couch, wanting to give Natasha her space, but she calls him back. 

“Where are you going?”

He looks at her like it’s obvious. “To sit.”

“I don’t bite,” she says, offering him a spot on the bed without saying it outright.

You’re a gentleman , he reminds himself. He doesn’t move. “I don’t want to intrude.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just come sit. That couch is as comfortable as concrete. I don’t know how you’ve slept on that.”

He doesn’t respond, just awkwardly sits down on the bed as she slides over to make room. He leans against the wooden headboard, the carved ridges pressing into his back. Natasha takes ownership of the remote once again, but instead of selecting another reality television show, she opts for something a little hair-raising. 

Bucky turns to look at her, one eyebrow raised. 

“What?” she says, mouth full of croissant. 

“I didn’t think you were a fan of scary movies.”

She shrugs. “I wanted something more sinister.”

“Sinister? You chose Scream . A ten year old could fall asleep to this.”

“I don’t do the paranormal ones,” she says as Drew Barrymore picks up the ringing phone.

“Hello?”

“Afraid of ghosts, are we?” 

“Shh. Movie’s starting,” Natasha says as Ghostface responds. 

“ Hello.”

The rain continues to stream against the window as the movie runs. The room grows darker as the gang of teenagers are routinely terrorized by the masked psychopath, and by the time the film reaches its peak he’s swung his legs fully onto the bed. The lingering awkwardness has been shoved aside by his desire for rest, and though the headboard still presses into his shoulders, the pillows he’s slouched against alleviate the discomfort.

“My mom and dad are going to be so mad at me,” Stu wails through bloody hands. Bucky chuckles, shoulder brushing Natasha’s. It’s her soft sigh that catches his attention, and he’s just begun to turn his head when her own falls gently against his shoulder. He freezes, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. When he cranes his neck to see her face, his own warms at her closed eyes. Her cheek is pressed against his shoulder, arms folded across her chest as she leans against him.  

Bucky has seen Scream a thousand times, but if you were to ask him how the movie ends this time around he wouldn’t be able to tell you. It’s only when the credits finish rolling and the room is cast into hazy darkness does he dare utter a word.

“Natasha,” Bucky whispers, voice hoarse from not having used it in an hour and a half. She doesn’t move. He calls her name once more, relieved when she doesn’t wake. He’s calling her name out of obligation rather than wanting to, because what he really wants is for them to stay like this until the world ends. Carefully, terrified that the smallest movement will disturb her, he leans over to grab the remote from where it lays between their legs. The TV shuts off with a click.  He settles back into the pillows, unable to suppress the smile that spreads across his face when she snuggles closer to him in her sleep. Here, in the darkness, he doesn't have to admit how much he enjoys this. But he doesn't have to deny it either.

Bucky eventually closes his eyes, hoping like a little kid that they’ll run into each other in their dreams. Maybe there he’ll say everything he can’t when he’s awake.

----------------

Bucky doesn’t dream of her. Doesn’t dream of anything, actually. Just dark static until his subconscious prods him awake. The red clock on the bedside table tells him that it’s just past three am, but that’s not what he notices when he first lifts his head.

He’s alone. 

He forces himself up onto one elbow, finding himself to be in the same position that he’d fallen asleep in. The only change is his arm stretched out to the side, fingers splayed across the empty sheets where Natasha once was. 

Jarringly, Bucky is reminded of all the times this has happened before, waking in a cold bed with the window wide open, the Siberian chill replacing Natasha’s warmth. 

Bucky looks towards the window now, the same disappointment he’d felt decades years ago creeping into his chest until he realizes this window is closed. The blinds are still drawn shut. The room is warm, the air only slightly disturbed. 

Bucky sits up, reminding himself that he’s not in Siberia. 

But neither is Natasha, and her trademark disappearance begs the question: where did she go?

It’s not a question he really needs an answer to, but his brain has a tight hold on his past and it makes sorting out the present much more difficult, especially when he wakes. He’s not strong enough to force himself not to care. 

Soft yellow light creeps through the cracks in the doorframe, sneaking past the closed bathroom door in search of the darkness. He can hear the faucet running as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, listening for further indication of her presence as he gets closer to the door.

“Natasha?” he calls. “You okay?”

No response. Bucky’s first thought is that she’s changing her bandage again, or taking a shower. He’s poised to turn around, only slightly concerned by her silence, when she makes a sound he doesn’t recognize. 

 He turns back around, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Natasha?”

The sound comes again, a strangled gasp that hits him right in the chest. She’s crying. And Natasha Romanoff does not cry.

His hand flies to the doorknob like it’s magnetized. “Tasha, are you okay?”

Has she ripped her stitches? Fallen? Did she have a nightmare?  There’s not many things he can think of that would elicit this reaction from her. 

The doorknob doesn’t budge under his hand, and he refrains from twisting with his metal hand, knowing from experience that he’d break it off before he broke the door open. And then he really wouldn’t be able to do anything. 

“Open the door.” It’s less of a demand than it is a plea, begging her to give him some sign that she can hear him. Ten seconds go by, then thirty, then a minute, the time expanding between them like a black hole. “I will kick this door down if I have to.”

He’s just stepped back, preparing himself to plant his foot right next to the door handle, when she answers. 

“No.”

Not the response he was hoping for, but at least she’s talking. He lowers his foot and steps closer to the door. “What’s going on?” 

“Don’t kick the door down. Don’t do anything. Just go away.”

Her words don’t hurt like one might expect them to, mainly because he doesn’t plan on going anywhere no matter how cruel she is to him. It might be the adrenaline, but at this moment she doesn’t scare him. 

“You know I can’t do that,” he says. “Just tell me what’s going on. Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not fucking okay,” she snaps, voice muffled by the door and her own tears. He can hear her sniff. “Please, just leave me alone.” 

Frustration blooms in his chest like a poisonous flower. Damn this woman. “Natasha, I don’t know what’s happening.”

Up until now, Bucky was fairly confident that their timid relationship was a good one. Not great, and definitely not built on the most stable foundation, but they’d had a good day. They’d shared jokes, laughed, she’d even stepped in when his nightmare had all but dissolved him. And he’d let her. Why won’t she let him help her now?

“Please, I just-I can’t-” Natasha’s words fall on top of each other until her sentence derails entirely. “I can’t talk about this with you,” she finishes, rounding her words off with a gasp for air. It sounds like she’s being strangled. It doesn’t take him long to realize why. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Bucky says, hoping to alleviate her panic. He presses his hand to the door, trying to reach her through the barrier.  “Just breathe. In and out, through your nose.” 

All the questions he wants to ask would fall on deaf ears. Pointless, ridiculous, selfish questions, designed to soothe his own worries and not those of the person behind the door. So he forces the what, the why, and the how from his mind and crouches by the doorframe. “Tell me something you can see,” Bucky encourages, trying to remember the tips he was taught to get through his own panic attacks. “Or feel.”

Silence. Well, not silence per se, but she doesn’t say anything apart from her short gasps. The longer it continues the more worried he becomes that she’ll actually pass out, and then he would have to break the door down. Neither of them want him to have to do that.

He has to think of something, and fast. 

“Here,” Bucky says finally, easing himself onto his stomach by the foot of the door. He pushes his hand through the gap between the transition strip and the door. The wooden edge cuts into the crest of his hand, preventing much more than the tip of his fingers from feeling the tile of the bathroom. Still, it’s enough. “Touch my hand.”

The same silence follows his request, even after he makes it again. He’s aware that he’s intruding on her space, the ex-super soldier HYDRA assassin who is responsible for at least two of the scars on her body, and that out of all of the people who could be here right now, he’s the last one she wants. 

But Natasha is stuck with him, Bucky and his newfound, self destructive urge to help - not to mention their newfound friendliness - and he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do,” Bucky promises. “I just want you to be okay. I want to help.”

It’s the most honest he’s been in recent days, and his conviction beats in his chest like a drum. Bucky can practically feel it against the floor that he’s laying on. 

The hammering echoes in his ears as time passes, pounding in his fingertips, loud enough that he can hear it the second his heart rate spikes when her fingers brush his. 

His eyes shoot to the door, to his hand, to the fingers touching his. And beyond that, a single green eye. It’s bloodshot and shiny, rimmed with tears and exhaustion, and sits in a pale face as it stares back at him. 

“You okay?” he murmurs, jaw rocking against the floor as he speaks. 

Her voice is hoarse, depleted of the ferocity it once had. “Not really.”

“That’s okay.”

“Can we just lay here for a little?”

It feels awkward to nod, but he does it anyway. “Yeah. Whatever you need.”

And then, “I’m not mad at you. I just-”

“I know,” Bucky says softly, cutting her off. He knows what she’s trying to say without saying it. “It’s okay. I get it.”

“Okay.”

Bucky doesn’t know how long they lay like that, separated by the wall between bedroom and bathroom, fingers touching as they try not to look at one another. If it was a different circumstance he’d let himself indulge in this moment. He’d soak in the feeling of her hand against his, memorize the gold flecks in her green eyes like he doesn’t already know them. And yet, despite how surreal this moment is, the only thing he can bring himself to do is wait for her to get up. 

After an hour, or maybe two minutes, she asks, “Can you feel your legs?”

He shrugs as best he can. “Kinda. Left arm is a little numb.”

She smirks but her chuckle is hollow. “I don’t think I can move.”

“You’re a sitting duck for those cockroaches,” he says, and he can see her shudder. Her hand falls away. 

Bucky has just pushed himself into a sitting position when the lock on the bathroom door clicks. He looks up at her illuminated silhouette as she opens the door. He doesn’t say anything as she pauses, looking down at him. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says. 

Bucky would like answers to his questions, but he doesn’t have the jurisdiction to ask them. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you thought about it.”

He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re not a mind reader.”

She’s poised to rattle off a witty response, eyebrow cocked to accompany it, but instead her expression turns sober faster than he’d anticipated. “I really am sorry.”

It’s his turn to hold back a snarky comment, ready to say something about how apologizing isn’t in her repertoire, but instead he finds himself saying, “You don't have to be. It’s okay. Really.” He pulls himself to his feet, now his turn to look down at her. “I'm not one to judge, especially about this kind of stuff. Don’t lose sleep over it.”

She nods. “Sleep. Right.” 

“Which you need,” he adds. “Considering that you’ve gotten seven hours worth in the last two days.”

Her only response is a yawn, drawing warmth into her pale face. Despite her returning banter, her eyes hang heavy. “If you insist.”

“I do.” He nudges her a little. “Go on.”

“I’ll need my strength if I’m going to keep falling apart in front of you.”

He chuckles. “Falling apart? You’re the most put-together out of the two of us.”

“But still,” she says as she stops by the foot of the bed. “It’s not a habit I’d like to make.”

Bucky understands more than anyone. “Don’t worry. You're still the strongest person I know." He continues before either of them can think too much about his statement. "We need to head back to Wakanda tomorrow anyway. Then we can go about the rest of our lives pretending we have it together.”

It’s her turn to laugh, but he pauses at the lack of humor in it. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling that ripples through him, waves of dread pulsing into his fingertips. What will become of this timid alliance the second they step foot onto Wakandan soil? Will she run off with Steve and Sam, leaving him to his hut and goats while they skirt the US government?

Bucky doesn’t try to figure out an answer. The timid thought of them going their separate ways in twenty-four hours sparks a flame in his chest, and it reaches out with burning hands to grab him by the throat. He shakes the smoke out of his ears. Get it together. It had to happen at some point, right? This Ohio bubble of contentment is as permanent as his memory, and he reminds himself of that as he watches Natasha bury herself under the blankets. 

It shouldn’t sting as much as it does.

Chapter Text

Bucky spends most of the night staring at the ceiling, actively trying not to think about the woman beside him. Natasha curls up on her side and is asleep within moments, clearly not fazed by the two of them sharing the queen-sized bed that he takes up most of. It wouldn’t take much for the two of them to come face to face, something that Bucky is all too aware of as he lays atop the sheets.

He stares at the popcorn ceiling above, trying to discern shapes among the stipple in an effort to keep his wandering thoughts at bay. He knows that their time together is running out like sand in an hourglass, the minutes slipping like grains through his fingers. This tiny Ohio bubble will disappear with the sunrise, and their timid friendship along with it. They’ll return to Wakanda, Natasha to Steve and Sam, and Bucky to his goat farm and life of peace. 

That’s what he wanted, right? When asked for his own home miles outside the city, that’s what he hoped for. Calm. Silence. Isolation. Space where he didn’t have to fake being James Barnes or pretend like the Winter Soldier was gone for good. It’s clear that the HYDRA assassin still lives within his veins, that the blood that runs through them still pulses a violent red. And yet, despite the memories the violence has brought forth, the soldier within him has retreated to the edges of his subconscious. He doesn’t press, doesn’t taunt, doesn’t remind him of the atrocities he’s committed. His mind, despite the thoughts that race through it, is strangely calm. 

Bucky knows why, even if he can’t say it out loud. He knows that it has nothing to do with Ayo’s recommended coping strategies and everything to do with the woman curled up next to him. 

Which is as frightening as it is soothing. 

That’s as far as Bucky lets his mind wander. Every new thought that creeps past his defenses pulls him closer to the edge of the cliff he’s so close to going over, and it’s taken every scrap of self control to stay rooted where he is. 

Still, he can’t stop himself from imagining what it would be like to turn on his side and nudge Natasha awake. What it would be like to take her round cheeks in his and pull her mouth to his. What it would take for him to resign himself to this motel room for the rest of his life if it meant just five more minutes here with her. He actively tries not to think about it, but as he gazes upwards at the popcorn ceiling he can’t help but find her face amongst the ridges. 

Bucky expects to wake first, given that Natasha’s healing body has quite the affinity for sleep, but it’s her hand on his shoulder that jolts him from sleep. He sits up quickly, rising before he can fully understand what’s happening or why he’s been prodded awake. 

“Easy.” Natasha’s voice is reassuring, if not an octave lower than usual. He stills, legs hanging off the side of the bed. “It’s almost five,” she tells him, answering his question before he can fully form it. “We need to pack and get moving if we’re going to get out of here unnoticed.”

Bucky nods through a yawn, nodding his head as he does so. “Yeah. Good call.”

“You should shower,” she recommends as she steps back from the bed. She’s been up for a while, he notices as he slowly grows more alert, given her wet, auburn-colored hair and freshly washed face. 

Bucky grunts his agreement. “Yeah, probably.” 

“I’ll pull things together out here,” Natasha offers. “Just grab the stuff from the bathroom when you’re done.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t question her withdrawn tone. He does watch her turn from the bed though, frowning at her neutral expression as she crosses the room. In a world where facial expressions say more than words, a neutral countenance is more alarming than any other. 

Bucky rises, trying to catch Natasha’s eyes as he passes her. She’s busy gathering half-drunk water bottles and wrappers from the floor and doesn’t look up. He forces himself not to question her behavior, knowing that she has allowed him that same luxury without argument. 

The tiny bathroom is cockroach free but still littered with scraps of gauze and other miscellaneous items that Bucky doesn’t pay much attention to. It’s not until the shower turns on with a squeal does he realize it’s been days since he’s actually stood beneath running water. The promise of clean skin and hot water is irresistible, and he practically throws himself under the showerhead. Gray dirt circles the drain, accompanied by blood that turns the water at his feet a light pink. Natasha’s blood, he realizes, still clings to his skin and nails despite his efforts to scrub it away.

It’s a sinister type of poetry, one that the poets could blister their fingers with.   

The spray of the water and hiss of the showerhead drown out his thoughts like white noise, and despite the multitude of emotions battling for center stage in his chest, he closes his eyes and lets the hot water run down his face until he can’t tell where it starts and he begins. Another kind of poetry, a different color, a different kind of ache, one that the poets probably wouldn’t lose much sleep over. 

Bucky drags himself from the shower before too long, before the water can run cold or before Natasha can question the elapsed time. They have a plane to catch, he reminds himself as he pulls on clothes and wipes the fog from the mirror. His vibranium arm is misty from the steam, the cloth cutting shiny patches into the metal as he dries it. 

“You okay in there?” Natasha calls, her voice muffled by the closed door. 

“Fine,” he calls back. The steam escapes the bathroom as he opens the door, dragging a towel over his hair as he walks into the main room. Natasha looks up from where she’s been piling their things by the door. She’s half hidden in the gloom, but he catches the protein bar she tosses his way. 

“You must be hungry,” she tells him. 

“Did you eat?” he asks. 

She nods, holding up her own half-eaten bar. “Yeah. That’s the last one, though. Figured you’d want it.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He opens the wrapper and stuffs it into the trash bag by the door. The two of them move around each other in silence as they gather their few remaining items, a task that doesn’t take long. Bucky takes this time to swallow the rock that’s been sitting in his throat since they decided to leave, and no amount of self reassurance can convince it to dissolve. It only falls so far, scraping past his lungs and dropping into his stomach with a hollow plop. It makes him nauseous.

Natasha stoops to lift the duffle bag from the floor and slings it over her shoulder. While Bucky doesn’t love the idea of her lifting heavy things in her half-healed state, he knows she would hit him with it if he objected. 

“Ready to head back to civilization?” she asks.

Bucky grunts as he grabs the trashbag, the closest he’ll get to telling her how he actually feels about them leaving. “We’ve got a plane to catch.” 

“If it hasn’t been discovered already.”

“Trust me,” Bucky says as he pulls the door open. “Ross would be here by now if that was the case.”

They’ve been incredibly lucky to have stayed off the radar considering the events of the last week, and he knows that their luck is bound to run out eventually. The chances of a SWAT team knocking their door down increases with every hour that passes, with every hour that the stolen truck sits in that parking garage and with every camera that they shy away from. Leaving sooner rather than later is the wise choice, but a small part of Bucky is willing to risk it if it means he’ll get five more minutes with Natasha in this Ohio bubble that they’ve created.

He shakes the thought from his head before it can slam into the others. 

Natasha mutters her agreement around a mouthful of granola as she steps past him. Bucky casts one last glance back at the dark motel room, knowing he’s leaving behind more than cockroaches and mold. The rock creeps back into his throat. 

________________

The trek back to the plane, while longer than before, isn’t rushed. Or difficult, now that he’s not hauling 130 pounds of dead weight through the woods. Bucky only drags his feet a little, blaming his pace on anything but the truth. The heat, the people, Natasha’s wound. Definitely not the knowledge that each step takes him further away from this moment, never to be recreated again.  

To her credit, she doesn’t encourage him to go faster or question his silence. They walk shoulder to shoulder for two blocks, and if they weren’t assassins trying to go undetected in a tiny town, Bucky might have let himself appreciate their closeness. But doing so would push him even closer to that edge, and he can’t afford to let his thoughts derail until he’s back in Wakanda. Home, but not really. 

“So,” Natasha says, as if reading his mind. “Is it back to farm life for you?”

Her question sounds like a resignation, like they’re preparing to go down two separate paths and never see each other again, and he doesn’t know how to answer it in a way that doesn’t make the feeling a reality. 

Bucky refrains from answering. Doing so would only speed this process along, and he’s selfishly trying to hold onto what little time they have left. He shrugs, hoping that it will suffice. “What are you going to do?”

She shrugs. “T’Challa gave me a room bigger than my old apartment. I plan on laying around until I melt into my bed.” She’s smiling when she says it, but it fades as quickly as it appeared. “Sorry. That sounded braggy.”

“Why, because I live in what’s basically two steps up from a yurt? It’s not braggy to have T’Challa take care of you,” he points out as the stop on a street corner. He hits the crosswalk button with his fist. “He likes you guys. You and Steve. And Sam, I think.”

Natasha’s smile reappears, softer than before. “He likes you too, you know. Why don’t you ask for more?”

Careful. That’s his first thought. She’s touching a part of his psyche that only Sam has been able to dissect. He knows that Natasha can do it too, if she pushes hard enough, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for her to crack him open.

“This isn’t the place for that conversation,” Bucky says, inadvertently telling her that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He understands the ache that builds in his chest when she gives him exactly what he wants, falling silent as she adjusts her ponytail. He understands it and he hates it all the same, hates how much he wants to talk to her about it and hates himself for refusing to. His mind is a living juxtaposition, and he hates that too. 

The crosswalk beeps at them, the little white man appearing across the way, and they both look left and right before stepping onto the painted lines. 

“How long do you think you’ll stay in Wakanda?” he asks her as they cross to the other side. 

She shrugs, shoving her hands into her pockets. The duffle bag swings from her shoulder as she walks. “I don’t know. I’m letting Steve and Sam take the lead.”

“Tired of making decisions?”

“Tired of running,” she said pointedly. “I ran from one family for years and it took me in circles. I want this time to be different.”

“How so?”

“I have more to lose,” she says, turning her head to look at him straight on. The shadow of her baseball cap cuts her face in half. Her green eyes are brilliant in the sun. They bore into him, one dark, one bright, looking him up and down without moving. “My reputation, my friends, my own life even, has more color than it did before. I don’t know, I guess I’m just more aware of what I have now.” The pupils of her eyes dilate as they step into a spot of light.

“Not to mention your life of freedom,” he adds, and she chuckles. 

“I have gotten really good at breaking people out of prison,” she admits with a small smile. 

“I like that, though,” he continues, remarking on her earlier statement. “Finding the color in your life. I’ve been trying to do the same for a long time.”

“It’s never easy, especially after what you’ve been through.” 

There it is again, the familiar phrase that stokes the coals of his insecurities. Bucky knows she’s trying to validate the emotions that live in the back of his mind, but he shrugs it off all the same. 

“I know that’s what everyone says, but it’s not that easy.”

She scoffs, which surprises him. Natasha comes to a stop on the sidewalk, cupping her hand over the bend of her baseball cap to look him in the eye. Her mouth curves into a sympathetic smile, trying to soften her outburst. “Of course it’s not,” she begins, and he looks from side to side at the few people going about their day. They don’t pay either of them any mind, but it doesn’t settle his stomach to have this conversation in broad daylight. It’s one thing to have therapy sessions with Ayo in the heart of the palace, but a heart-to-heart in the middle of a small town with Natasha Romanoff is another. It’s not safe, his mind screams, all too aware of the people around and the heaviness of this conversation.

“Natasha, this is not the place for this,” he starts, but his plea falls on deaf ears.

She takes his hand and tugs him down a small alleyway between the Indian restaurant and boutique. Their hands fall away as they come to a stop. Passing traffic and city noises drown out Natasha’s insistent words.

“I know how hard it is to live with the truth. I know what it’s like to wake up every day feeling like a monster and a machine with no real life. I’m not saying that you’re supposed to pretend it never happened or lie to yourself about who you are. You’re a killer. I’m a killer. It’s what we do, but it’s not all we are.” Her harsh words send a jolt down his spine, like she’s dumped cold water over his head. It’s refreshing, in a way, and it’s why he stays quiet. “I’m not saying you need to forget that or shove it deep down inside so you never feel it again. I’m saying it’s about knowing what you’ve done and learning to live with it. Not because you want to, but because you have to. It’s the only way to move on.” Natasha takes a step closer to him. Her hands play at her side, twitching as if searching for something. His fingers tingle.

“How?” he asks her, desperate for her answers. “How do I live with it?”

Her voice is soft when she replies. “You find something to live for. You find your purpose in something new.”

“I don’t know what that is.” It’s as honest as Bucky has been since Sam’s visit last week, and his skin feels like it’s being peeled off his bones with every admission from his mouth. He’s hot and cold and God, he wants to run.

Natasha nods like she understands, and like his conversation with Sam, he knows she does. It doesn’t settle his stomach, but it makes her advice easier to hear. “And you might not, not for a while. Start with the little things. Like your goats,” she says enthusiastically, excited to have found something he could possibly relate to. “You have that.”

“It’s a means to keep my hands busy. I don’t want to be a goat farmer for the rest of my life.”

She’s unfazed. “So, what do you want?”

Looking at Natasha now, with her wide eyes and intense expression, all Bucky wants to do is take her heart-shaped face in his hands and kiss her. To press her against the brick wall and hear the fabric of her shirt catch on the grit of the stone, to see if her skin is as warm as he remembers. If her mouth still feels the same against his. In the same heartbeat, he wants to tell her the truth. 

I know you . It hangs off his tongue as he stares at her, the words begging to climb past his teeth and taste the open air. I know you, I know you, I know you. Do you know me?

The need to tell Natasha suddenly outweighs his fear of his confession, of what would happen if he were to blurt out the truth. He could do it now, he thinks, as the steam from the restaurant billows out of one of the pipes, filling the alley with the smell of curry and spices. He could tell her the truth about everything, about them, about his memories and how she’s at the center of them all, if he would just open his mouth and commit.

Natasha watches him patiently, head slightly tilted, waiting for his response. And he doesn’t say it. Bucky stuffs the words back into his mouth, knowing that such confessions have no place in this tiny alleyway. He forces the rock in his throat back into his stomach, swallowing the words he wants to say along with it. Instead, he confesses something arguably worse, something vulnerable, and his face warms at his honesty. 

“I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” Bucky admits, his admission skinning him raw. He can’t look at her, can’t stand to see her sympathetic expression and big eyes. He continues, the words sucking the moisture from his mouth and falling from his lips like sawdust. “I just…I hate feeling like the shell of someone I used to be. Who I used to be no longer exists, and I don’t know how to reconcile that with everything I’ve done and who I am now.” It’s addicting to admit these things, to divulge the parts of himself he’s barely begun to recognize, and he’s about to kill himself by admitting his feelings when two slender arms wrap themselves around his waist.

Bucky doesn’t realize what’s happening until the smell of eucalyptus shampoo fills his nose, until Natasha’s soft hair brushes against his skin. The top of her head fits perfectly under his chin, like it was made to rest against his collarbone, and her body is warm as she presses herself to him. 

His entire body goes still, flashing hot and cold as he tries to remember how his arms work. Right over left, left over right? Do they even cross? Does he have to do something with his legs? Oh, fuck it.

Bucky’s arms wrap around Natasha, magnetizing to the familiar curves of her body with a hunger he doesn’t recognize. His heart pounds, the blood roars in his ears, and yet everything is quiet as he holds her tightly to him. The smell of garlic falls away. The cars fade from the street. The people passing on the sidewalk vanish, and Bucky and Natasha are left to stand together in a world alone. 

“It’s okay to be scared,” Natasha whispers into his shoulder, cutting through the silence. “It means you’re going the right way.”
Bucky’s grip on her tightens, unable to respond. He’d forgotten what it was to be touched, to be reassured, but he hadn’t forgotten this . This woman, this feeling, this missing piece aligning herself perfectly with the rest of his body. His entire body tingles with electricity, a rush of dopamine filling him from head to toe. It’s delicious, intoxicating, a whole other kind of drug he’d been sober from for too long. He doesn’t know how long they stand there, between the Indian restaurant and shop, arms wrapped around one another until one couldn’t tell where he ended and Natasha began. 

Bucky doesn’t know how to explain the muscle memory that takes control, the instinct that lifts one hand and slides it up her arm to cup the back of her head. His fingers push through her hair to catch on the band of her ponytail, pulling her face away from his shoulder and tilting it up towards his own.

Natasha’s eyes are emerald slits as she looks up at him, flickering across his face as he stares down at her. Their mouths are centimeters apart, so close he can feel her breath on his lips, and he could kiss her now if he wanted, just duck his head and bring his mouth to hers, but that damn car honks in the distance - crushes the horn in a fit of rage - and it snaps the both of them back to reality. 

They jump away from one another as if electrocuted. His arms feel empty when they return to his side. 

Natasha adjusts the bag on her shoulder with a cough, busying herself with the strap that doesn’t need adjusting.

Bucky turns to look in the direction of the car, trying to convince the color that heats his cheeks to drain from his face. “We, uh,” he starts after a moment, trying to regain what little professionalism he has left, “should probably get going.”

Natasha murmurs an agreement as she steps past him, tightening her ponytail as she goes. 

_____________

The QuinJet’s cloaking technology works well. So well that it takes a few swipes through the open air for Bucky’s metal hand to connect with the steel hull. A dull thud shatters the silence of the small clearing, frightening a few birds from their perch. They take to the sky with a cry of alarm, and Natasha watches them disappear into the distance.

“For a spy, you sure are loud,” she remarks as Bucky walks the length of the plane, feeling for the hidden button to disengage the security system. Her voice fills the small clearing, echoing off of the pine trees. It’s the most she’s said since they’d left the alleyway. Even their three-mile hike through the woods was done in silence, most of which he spent replaying their almost-kiss in his mind. He can still feel her sweatshirt under his hand, the warmth of her body against his, and if he really focuses he can smell her shampoo when the wind blows. 

Bucky rounds the back of the plane. His fingers find the button on the side of the liftgate. “I found it, didn’t I?”

“You probably dented it.” Her response is muffled by the two pounds of steel separating them.

The stealth technology falls away in pixelated flashes. The QuinJet appears in all of its matte gray glory, shrinking the already tiny clearing with its presence. Natasha joins him as the back of the plane begins to open, the hydraulics whirring softly as the liftgate lowers to the forest floor. She’s the first to board the plane, barely sparing him a backwards glance as she passes him on her way up. Bucky follows.  

He’s glad that Natasha doesn’t seem fazed by their almost kiss, and that she hasn’t tried to discuss it since. He doesn’t know what he’d say if she did. He can’t tell if he’s disappointed or relieved that she’s choosing to say nothing about it. But then again, he hasn’t said anything either, so he does his best to shake away the tingling in his spine. 

Natasha drops the duffle bag on the bench and makes a beeline for the front of the plane. She busies herself with starting the engine as he locks down the cargo hold. There’s not much to secure, but if it means he gets to relive their moment in the alley for just a few more minutes, he’s willing to break out the drill and tighten the screws in the floor. 

The plane roars to life as Bucky joins Natasha in the cockpit, taking a seat in the copilot’s chair as she flips switches and presses the brightly lit buttons on the dash. 

“How’s your side?” he asks, unsure if her stoic expression is one of focus or one of pain.

“Fine,” she replies, still fixated on the instruments before her. It’s only when the Jet begins to rise in the air does her expression soften. Her shoulders relax. She looks his way. “A little sore but not bad.”
“Need anything?” he asks, knowing he’s reached the point in her recovery where he no longer gets to call the shots, even if they are in her best interest. 

She shrugs. “Not yet. If it’s still bothering me after an hour or so, I’ll grab something.”

“Okay.”

Natasha pulls a set of headphones over her ears and adjusts the foam tip of the microphone before she speaks. “This is Black Widow. Does anyone copy?”

Bucky can’t hear the response, but her intent expression is softened by a smile. “Hi, your Highness. How’s it hanging?” Her green eyes glint mischievously when she glances towards Bucky, and he returns her expression with a small smile of his own.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Barnes took good care of me. No, yeah, well, we’re in the air now. Making our way back to you guys. Oh, I don’t know, maybe five hours or so. I’ll let you know when we’re about to enter your airspace. Mhm. Tell the boys I say hi.” She laughs at something T’Challa says, and as soon as she stops he wants to hear it again. “Okay, yeah. We’ll be there soon. Bye.”

She pulls the headset off her ears and rests the headband around her neck. She leans her head back against the seat and stares out the window of the cockpit. 

“All good?” he asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Glad you’re alive?”

“Most definitely.”

He pauses, and then says, “Me, too.”

Natasha tilts her head to look his way. Her expression softens at his bold declaration. “You too?”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline still warming his veins, but he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t run from his statement. He nods. “Well, yeah. It’d be a shame if I’d come all that way just to have you die.”
She smiles a little, something like disappointment flickering across her face. He can’t explain it, and she doesn’t give him time to figure it out before speaking. “It’d be almost as inconvenient as my kidnapping. But seriously,” she continues after a moment. “I never thanked you. For coming all this way to get me. And for, you know, saving my life. So, thank you. Really.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“I know. But I wanted to say it all the same.” She offers him a small smile before standing, setting the headphones down and patting him on the shoulder as she disappears into the back of the plane. He listens to her fading footsteps, hearing the bathroom door open and close. 

Their ETA is five hours and fourteen minutes, set to land in Wakanda around mid afternoon. Bucky shifts in his seat, folds his arms across his chest, and stares at the passing clouds as the Jet cuts through the sky. 

Five minutes pass, then ten, then fifteen, and Bucky is about to go check on Natasha when she steps back into the cockpit. He tries to read her face, seeing if her body language will reveal something she won’t admit. She’s favoring her left side only slightly, which doesn’t surprise him, but he can’t read her beyond that. 

Natasha is holding something in her hand, and he doesn’t get a good look at what it is until she holds it out to him. “I found a deck of cards. Wanna play?”

Bucky hasn’t played any kind of card game in forever, but he remembers the bright red diamonds and hearts amongst kegs of beer in German bars. The sight of the red Bicycle box alone is enough to bring back sounds of muted laughter, and he can see the dimly lit booths and wooden tables without closing his eyes. He nods. “But you’ll have to teach me.”

“I can do that.”

They swivel their chairs so they’re facing one another, and Bucky pulls over a small weapons box to act as a table. Natasha sits crisscrossed in her chair while she deals the cards. It only takes a few practice rounds for Bucky to remember how to play, and soon they’re keeping score. 

“So, he starts as Natasha fans out her cards. “Where’d you learn to play?”

She leans forward to pick up a card, adding it to her hand. “The Red Room,” she says as she examines her cards. “The girl who slept next to me in the dorms brought back a deck from an assignment and when it was lights out we’d play. Of course, we never had real games, so we made up our own. And then Clint taught me how to play real games when I got out. Poker, blackjack, slapjack, spoons, speed, the works. Came in handy on a couple of casino assignments.”

He chuckles at the idea of Natasha Romanoff playing spoons. “You any good?”

“You tell me.” She lays down a run of spades. He groans, and she chuckles. “Clearly you’re not.”

“Hey, I’m still learning,” he protests. “I haven’t played a card game in eighty-five years.”

“I forget you’re an old man.” 

She discards a three of clubs, which he picks up. He then puts down his own set of threes. “But I can still be taught new tricks.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Well, look at that.”

“Try not to act surprised.”

She grins. “I won’t.”

They play until their scores become four digits. Natasha leans back in her chair after tossing her cards down, rubbing her eyes with a soft groan. Bucky throws his own cards onto the pile.

“You done?”

She nods through a yawn. “I can still see shapes when I close my eyes.”

Bucky chuckles. “Go take a nap. You must be tired.”

“Yeah, I might do that, actually. What with my stab wound and all.”

“Can’t hurt.”

Natasha uncrosses her legs and stands. “If I’m not back in an hour, come get me.”

He nods as she passes him. Her hand lands on his shoulder in a friendly pat, and her touch lingers long after she walks into the back of the plane.

Bucky watches her disappear towards the cargo hold she’d laid bleeding in only a few days ago, and when she eases herself onto the bench he’s reminded of her pale face and bloodstained hands. It doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep, and while she rests Bucky stares out the window of the cockpit and fights the urge to turn the plane around. 

It’s bright and sunny when they land atop the palace. T’Challa and the Dora Milaje are waiting under the awning of the building, and as the landing gear of the plane kisses the hot tarmac Bucky can see the apprehensive figures of Steve and Sam waiting amongst the soldiers. 

He and Natasha stand side by side while the liftgate opens. The sun spills towards their feet as the ramp lowers, and then they’re met by the happy chatter of the people who gather at the base of the plane as they descend.

T’Challa shakes Natasha’s hand warmly. “I’m glad to see you, Agent Romanoff. You had us all very worried.”

Her bright smile dims a little. “I’m so sorry about your soldiers, King T’Challa. I did everything I could.”

“I know. We are lucky to have you.”

She gives him a small nod and steps away, walking into Steve’s open arms. Bucky turns his attention to the King so he doesn’t have to watch their reunion. General Okoye watches them from her place a few paces away.

“Sergeant Barnes. You did some great work out there.”

He shrugs. “I just did what anyone else would have.”

“Just accept the compliment, white boy.” Shuri’s voice rings out before her brother can respond. She appears from behind T’Challa, beaming widely. “You live!” 

He returns her smile, finding that he is truly glad to see the vibrant young woman. “Much to your disdain.”

“Only because I made a bet that you’d be back in three days. Now I’m out fifty bucks.”

“I’m back, aren’t I?”

“Your goats will be happy to see you.”

“Oh, really? No one else?”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile makes it impossible for him to take her seriously. “Fine. Maybe I missed you a tiny bit. But only because no one else would listen to my stories.”

“No one wants to hear your hundredth recount of Grey’s Anatomy ,” T’Challa interjects. 

“But George just died ,” she argues. “I gotta talk about it with somebody!”

The King claps Bucky on the shoulder. “Well, you’re in luck. I’m sure Barnes missed your tales of medical grandeur.”

“Don’t volunteer me for this,” Bucky says with a groan, looking from sibling to sibling. He catches sight of Natasha over their shoulders, talking animatedly with Steve and Sam. He doesn’t have time to look away. Steve catches sight of Bucky and waves him over. 

“Buck!”

He’s embraced tightly by his oldest friend when he excuses himself from the royal siblings. Steve’s eyes are creased by his smile, but not even his joy can disguise the bags under his eyes or the red that rims them. Bucky’s smile is sympathetic.

“You look worse than we do.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“You okay?”

“I should be asking you that question.”

Bucky’s response is quick. “I’m fine. Just tired. Been a long day.”

“I can only imagine. But I’m glad you’re back.” He looks from Bucky to Natasha. “Both of you.”

She smirks. “Always a sap. But I’m with Barnes,” she continues. “I’m beat. Not that I’m not happy to see you two, but I need a shower and a nap.”

“I second that,” Bucky agrees.

Steve nods. “Of course. You both need your rest.”

“Let us know when you’re feeling better,” Sam says. “We can all go grab something to eat.”

Bucky finds himself actually wanting to take him up on his offer. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Just let us know. We’re not going anywhere.”

The group proceeds inside, followed by Shuri and T’Challa, as well as the Dora Milaje who had gathered. They don’t make it too far inside before the king pulls Bucky aside.

“I wanted to offer you a room in the palace, if only for today. I know you’ve preferred your home by the lake for a while now, and you still have the option to return to it if you would like. But if you wanted a place close by to rest for today, I set aside a room for you.”  He holds out a black key card.

Bucky looks from it to him. “That’s a very kind offer.”

“You’ve done a great job. Not only in bringing Agent Romanoff back, but in the way you’ve worked over the past couple of months. This room is a permanent offer, and you may return to it as little or as often as you’d like. Just know that you don’t have to stay so far away if you do not want to.”

Bucky can’t help but feel slightly bitter, like the only reason this offer stands is because he’s proved that he’s not a psycho assassin anymore. “Is this because I’ve proved myself to be a functioning member of society?”

T’Challa frowns, surprise flickering across his face. “Of course not. I wanted to offer you this room the day you arrived, but I also understand your need for peace and quiet, especially while you heal.” His brow furrows. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you had no choice but to stay away.”

Bucky swallows, looking down at the key card still held out before him. He can’t deny the truth to T’Challa’s words any more than he can deny the consequences of his own actions. Natasha's words ring in his ears. 

Why don't you ask for more?

“Even if I felt that way, it was my decision. And it was the right one for me at the time. I really am thankful for all of the time and resources you’ve given me, and I don’t take it for granted anymore than I do this.” He reaches for the key card. The metal is cold when he takes it from T’Challa. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Sergeant Barnes. Please, let myself or General Okoye know if you need anything. And, of course, Shuri is always on hand if you need entertainment recommendations.”

Bucky chuckles. “Thanks.”

“Of course. And please, know that you are always welcome here.” 

It is only when the King turns to continue his walk down the hallway does Bucky notice the person lingering at the end of the hallway. This time, though, Natasha doesn’t disappear when he turns his gaze on her. She nods respectfully to T’Challa as he passes, looking up at Bucky when he walks over to her. 

“Still stalking me, I see.”

She raises one shoulder in a half shrug. “Old habits.”

“Mhm.”

“You need a tour guide?” she asks as he studies his room key card. “This place is a maze.”

He takes her up on her offer, if only for his own selfish reasons. He doesn’t want to leave her, not yet. Not so soon. The sand in the hourglass is nearly out, and though he can't grab ahold of it, he can stop the pour if only for a few minutes. 

He holds the black card up so she can read the gold lettering. “Yeah. Can you show me where room 509 is?”

She nods. “Sure. It’s down the hall from me.”

“Where are the others?” Bucky asks as they start walking. “I didn’t think they’d leave so soon.”

“I told them I’d hunt them down later. They were hungry and I insisted they eat. I swear Steve has gotten skinnier.”

“You probably had him worried sick.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you didn’t help by running off after me.”

“We’re going to turn that boy gray,” Bucky agrees.

“Maybe I should jump off a building next. See how many wrinkles that gives him.”

He chuckles. “You might kill him.”

“Probably. I’ll wait a month or two to test my theory.”

“Lull him into a false sense of security.”

“I gotta keep him on his toes somehow.”

“I’m sure he appreciates that.”

She snorts. “He most certainly does not.”

They turn down a softly lit hallway, the small lights embedded in the wall lighting their way. They’re both comfortably quiet as they walk the rest of the way in silence, shoulders brushing when they come to a stop outside room 512. Bucky lifts the card to the box above the doorknob, and the sensor flashes green with a click. He turns the handle and pauses.

“You’ll be okay?” he asks as he turns away from the door. 

She nods, eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion. “Yeah. I’m only two doors down.”

“No, I mean, after this last week. You went through a lot.”

She tilts her head, folding her arms across her chest. “You sound like Steve.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He can see her knuckles whiten from where she grips the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She swallows, and for a second he hopes that she’ll tell him the truth. That she’ll share what she’s truly thinking. But she’s cut from the same cloth he is, and honesty is a stitch that has undone itself long ago.

All she says is, “I’ll be okay. Get some sleep.”

He doesn’t press. “You, too. I’m here if you need me.” He’s certain she doesn’t but he offers it anyway, unable to stamp out the hope that she might take him up on it. Then he turns the handle and steps into his room. 

It’s bigger than Bucky had imagined. The entryway itself is larger than his kitchen. It’s decorated with a large mirror that hangs above the glossy entry table. He drops his keycard into the gold bowl atop it, fingers brushing the leaves of the tall plant that leans over the table. He walks deeper into the room, stepping into the living room that their Ohio motel room could easily fit into.

Most surfaces are clean and bare, save for a few side tables that hold lamps and a few abstract figurines. A thick emerald rug is surrounded by a peacock blue couch and two purple wingback chairs, their gold legs illuminated by the ambient lighting lining most surfaces. Large windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling, framed by blackout curtains that cut the sun into slits. 

He looks to the kitchen on his left, marveling at the white marble countertops and matte appliances that sit in the shadows. Thickly woven red placemats stand out against the dark wood of the kitchen table, set with gold plates and silverware.

It’s intimidating to be in a place this nice, and Bucky feels like an imposter as looks around the richly decorated spaces. It’s strange to believe that this is all for him, and as he looks around at the books about technological advances and the wolf figurine that sits on the shelves, it’s even more difficult to accept that this place was made with him in mind. That it’s been here all this time, waiting for him to stand up and take the hand he’s been biting at for nearly a year. 

Guilt creeps up into his chest as he looks around, his familiar friend pressing down firmly on his lungs. This must be what it feels like to be resuscitated, he thinks as the ghostly hands manipulate his breathing. 

Sam’s speech comes back to him again, cutting through the fog settling across his frontal lobe. 

You deserve healing. You deserve to be okay. You deserve nice things . 

It’s those three sentences that make this place a little easier to stomach. A little easier to accept. He makes a mental note to say something to Sam when he gets a chance. 

The bedroom is decorated in the same plush style. He pushes the door open to reveal a massive king-sized bed, made up with silk sheets of dark green and covered with heavy blue and gold blankets. Two dark nightstands flank the bed, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls. 

The bed is as comfortable as it looks, and he’s greatly disappointed to find that he’s wide awake the second he lays down. He stretches out as far as the king sized bed will allow, tossing amongst the blankets in an effort to convince his mind to settle down and sleep. It takes longer than he’d like. 

The alleyway comes back to him without trying, replaying in his mind like a broken record as he stares up at the ceiling. Her touch, her skin, her voice, her shampoo, it all rushes back to him the moment his mind quiets. Her words run through his head.

What do you want?

His answer is instant, easily confessed in the seclusion of his own room. He wants her. All of her. The sick her, the funny her, the Natasha who will stand and fight and laugh and teach him card games. The Natasha who cares deeply and loves with a passion, the Natasha who threw herself in front of him when the bomb went off. The Natasha who stood in the alleway and encouraged him, who reassured him and insisted that he was more than his past. 

He's spent so much of his time believing that he'd never get the chance to tell her that he hadn't realized that it wasn't a choice made for him, it was made by him. It was his choice to resign himself to a life of isolation, to believe that he'd never get the chance to tell her without allowing himself to imagine what could happen if he did.  Sure, she might tell him that she doesn't know him, that he might discover that reading his file is the closest she'll get to knowing his past. 

But he has to try, right? He owes it to himself to find out the truth rather than assume it, and he decides that he'd rather have loved her for a short while than go a lifetime with the possibility that he could have and didn't.

One admission leads to another, and he finds himself sitting up before he can fully register what he’s doing. All he knows is that he has to say something. She's two doors away. He has to tell her before she can jet off to another part of the world and he’ll lose this opportunity forever, before he chickens out and has to spend the rest of his life wondering what if .

Bucky has spent enough time running from his past, trying to ignore the memories that sit in fragments behind his skull. He’s spent enough time trying to outdistance his shadow, and he's tired of being afraid.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. 

Shoves his feet into his shoes.

Yanks his sweatshirt on as he heads to the front door.

He swipes the keycard off the table and reaches for the doorknob with shaking hands, his heart pounding in his throat.  There’s no telling what she’ll say or how she’ll react, but he can’t afford to keep guessing. He has to know, and he has to tell her.

Do it scared. Do it scared. Do it scared.

He grabs a hold of the door knob and takes a deep breath. He opens the door to find Natasha standing on the other side. Her fist is raised, prepared to knock on the door that he’s just opened. She pulls back in surprise as he freezes. Her hand falls back to her side.

“What are you doing here?” he asks after a moment of silence.

Her eyes are wide and round as she looks up at him. Her face is flushed, mouth open in a slight ‘o’. Her hair is wet from her shower, the auburn locks soaking into the collar of her shirt. “I, uh, was coming to see you.”

“So was I.”

“Oh.”

“I need to talk to you."

“I need to talk to you, too.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to force his racing heart to still. “Do you, uh, want to come in?”

“Yeah.”

He steps aside, pulling the door open wide so she can come in. She does, and he catches a slight whiff of her perfume as she walks past him. It’s soothing in a way he doesn’t expect, but it also makes the situation all that more real to him. She’s here and he has to tell her. He takes another breath as he closes the door, letting his hand linger on the doorknob for just a second.

Do it scared.

“You’ve got a nice setup in here,” she says as she looks around, hands shoved into her pockets. 

“Natalia.” He can’t let her change the topic, can’t afford to stall. He has to act now while he’s still brave. 

She turns to look at him, face softening. “James-” 

“When we were in Ohio,” he begins before she speak. “You asked me what I wanted. What my purpose was, what I wanted it to be. I don’t know what that is. I don’t know who I am. But I do know you. I remember you, I remember us.” Her face drains of color. He can hear her take a breath as he continues. “You…haunt me. You are the one memory I can’t shake, the one person they couldn’t get out of my head. I’m sorry that it took me this long to work up the courage to tell you, and I’m sorry if it’s weird for you to hear, but I needed you to know. Even if you don’t remember me, I need you to know that I remember everything about you.”

His declaration hangs between them as the room goes quiet. A kaleidoscope of emotions plays across her face, surprise and shock flickering in her eyes like candlelight. She swallows, eyes glassy. "I remember you too.”

His body flushes hot and cold. His racing heart drops into his feet as his lungs expand, taking a much needed breath as he fights the urge to fall to his knees. His voice is barely a breath when he asks, “You do?”

She nods. “Your punishment is to forget. Mine is to remember. They wiped you and made me watch, and I would rather be stabbed in the chest a million times over than have to go through that again. Not knowing if I would get you back has been the greatest pain of my entire life.” She swallows, ducking her head as she blinks back the emotion creeping into her throat. It makes his heart twist in his chest. “I knew you were working on restoring your memories while you were here, but I didn’t know how to ask about your progress. I don’t think I wanted to know. I didn’t think I could bear it if your memories came back and I wasn’t one of them. But the way you called me Natalia, back at the motel, it gave me hope. Even when I thought for certain you didn’t remember me. And now-”

Natasha cuts herself off, biting her lip fiercely to keep her tears from spilling over. Bucky takes a step toward her, closing the space between the two of them. He reaches for her hand, and her fingers curl instinctively around his like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she doesn’t hold on. “Being around you is like muscle memory. I couldn’t forget you if I tried. You are the joy of my life and I would find you in every universe if it meant I could have five more minutes with you. I’m sorry it took so long to tell you. I didn’t think I could stomach it if I poured my heart out to you and you didn’t know who I was.”

Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears, creased by her smile. She squeezes his hand tightly. “I will always remember you, James.” 

Her words untie the knot inside his chest, unwinding from their place around his lungs. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to respond to the poetry she’s just voiced, the sweet words that spill from her mouth like honey. He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. This time, when Bucky leans down to kiss her, it’s not muscle memory or instinct. It’s wholly his choice, made because he desperately wants to, and Natasha wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him to her with a force he doesn’t quite expect. His hands slide around her waist as her hands cup the sides of his face, and for a few glorious seconds the world goes completely silent. There’s no fear, no worry, no sadness or pain. Just this moment with this woman for whom his heart beats for, and for the first time in nearly two decades he finally feels like he's home.

Chapter Text

It’s early morning when Bucky wakes. The sun has begun to poke its head around the thick curtains when he rolls over, squinting against the tendrils of light that curl through the room. The emerald sheets rustle as he slowly sits up and looks around.

He’s alone.

Which wasn’t the case when he fell asleep a few hours ago. A pang of anxiety hits him in the chest, suddenly afraid that Natasha disappeared in the dead of night, or even worse: she was never here in the first place. Sleep deprivation does funny things to the mind, and he’s just about to convince himself of that very thing when he spots her shirt on the floor by the bedframe. 

Bucky’s shoulders relax. A breath of relief escapes him as he swings his legs off the bed. He’s still in his sweatpants from earlier, which despite the clothes littering the floor, confirms his second suspicion: they didn’t have sex. The events of the night start to come back to him as he pads across the floor to the door, finding it already slightly ajar. They’d decided not to, he remembers as he walks through the living room, the both of them agreeing that it was too early and too delicate of a relationship to cross that line. Instead, Natasha had ordered room service for the both of them and they’d spent almost the entire night talking. She told him about Yelena and her time with the Red Room, recounting her stories in between bites of pizza. He’d asked about her blonde hair and she’d asked about his new arm, and when the food was all gone and the conversation fizzled, she curled up in his arms and had quickly fallen asleep.

It was a marvel to him, how instantly she’d loved him and how quickly she’d let him into her world. He had lain awake long after her breathing had slowed, not entirely believing that she was real. Or that the events of the past twenty four hours had actually happened.     

Bucky pauses in front of the still-warm coffee maker in the kitchen, noting the brown rings shining on the marble. A bird cries in the distance, a sound too crisp to be muffled by the glass windows. He turns to his left to find the sliding door to the balcony slightly ajar, and just beyond, Natasha sitting cross legged in one of the lounge chairs. She’s facing away from him, hair falling to her shoulders in messy red waves, a cup of coffee raised to her lips. 

He crosses the room to push the door open, leaning against the frame once it’s wide enough.

“I think that’s my shirt.”

She snaps her head to the sound of his voice, a smile lighting her features when her gaze lands on his shirtless figure. Her grin turns mischievous.

“Oh, I don’t know. If this is what I get as a result, I think I’m going to steal all of your shirts so you can’t wear them.”

His heart flutters in his chest. He looks down at his torso, the scars that crisscross his abdomen and the ones that border the edge of his metal arm. Everything he thought would make him an eyesore, and she looks at him with a fondness he’d forgotten was possible. 

Natasha seems to pick up on his thoughts, reading him with practiced ease. She sets her mug down and holds a hand out to him. “Come here.”

Bucky doesn’t argue. He walks across the stone balcony to where she sits and takes her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it before clambering onto the lounge chair. Natasha leans against the back of it, stretching her legs out before her, and he lays down between them with his head on her chest, snaking his hands around her back. Her fingers slide through his hair as he relaxes against her body, warmth filling his chest when her hands slide down the back of his neck to draw lazy circles between his shoulders.

“I missed you,” Bucky says after a moment. Her nails skip a beat on his skin. Her palms flatten against the widest part of his shoulders, then slide up to lock around the back of his neck. 

“You have no idea,” she says eventually, smiling when he lifts his head to look at her, “how much I missed you .” 

Her thumbs fall under his jaw, and he stretches up to meet her when she leans down for a kiss. 

They spend the rest of the morning like that, Bucky sprawled across Natasha while she finishes her coffee, occasionally resting the bottom of the mug on the back of his head. Neither one of them are in any rush to start their day. It’s only when the morning cools off and the sun comes out in full force do they retreat inside. 

Natasha finds a box of pancake mix in the well-stocked pantry, and Bucky leans against the kitchen counter while she stands at the stove. A golden stack of pancakes start to accumulate on a nearby plate, one of which Bucky grabs before she’s done cooking. And then another.

“There’s not going to be any left if you keep it up,” she warns, but doesn’t try to stop him when he reaches for a third.

“How’s your side?” he asks, avoiding her statement. 

She shrugs, side eyeing him as he steps closer. “Fine. Nothing to complain about.” She turns to face him straight on when his fingers grab at the hem of her - his - shirt, and she doesn’t protest when he pauses, asking with his eyes if this is okay. The lighthearted air they’d kept up has faded to something heavier. He pulls the fabric up until her hip is exposed, the white of her skin marred by the jagged scar under her ribs. It breaks out in goosebumps when he presses his fingers against it. 

“Hurt?” he asks softly, noting the small breath that escapes her lips.

Her response is a whisper. “No.”

Bucky stares at the silver mark under his thumb, examining its almost-healed state before spotting another familiar one below it. He drops his hand to the curve of her hip, to the scar that sits to the left of her belly button. His eyebrows furrow. Images of bloody snow and a mangled car come back to him as he stares at the scar. 

“I remember this. Odessa. When I shot you.”

“James,” she begins, trying to catch his gaze.

“I’m sorry.”

Her hand falls over his. “It’s okay. I understand better than most why it happened. I don’t blame you.” She reaches up to take his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. It’s harder to meet her gaze than he expected. “It doesn’t make me love you any less.” Before he can respond, her own hand finds his skin. Her fingers are warm, deft, running across his side like she’s done it a million times before. They stop on one of his most notable scars, a thick silver rope that stretches from under his ribs to disappear around his back. “I gave you this in training. Caught you under your vest with my combat knife when you let your guard down. And this.” Her fingers move again, leaving his torso to grab his flesh arm. She flips it over and points to the scar in the center of his forearm. It’s not much bigger than a dime.  

“When I broke your arm over my knee. I threw up after that, you know. The guilt nearly ate me alive.”

He remembers that day, the pain, the nausea of rolling over on the mat to see bone sticking through his forearm. The sneer of disgust from the girls around him, the acute rage and disappointment in the eyes of his own handlers as they looked down at him. 

Bucky says nothing, waiting for her to continue. Her hand tightens around his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“We’ve both done awful things to each other in the name of violence, for political agendas that don’t exist anymore. We didn’t have a choice in what we did. Forgive yourself like you’ve forgiven me. Like I forgive you.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to, or how to let her words sink in. So instead, he takes her hand and tugs her to him. She leans into his embrace as his arms slide around her, a content sigh escaping her lips. 

“I think Steve has been rubbing off on you and Sam,” he says after a moment, remembering the conversation he’d had with Sam a few weeks ago.

“Sam?” Natasha looks up at him, resting her chin on the center of his chest.

“Yeah. All three of you have a knack for superhero speeches.”

She chuckles. “You and Yelena would get along. She said the same thing. But like I told her, that’s not really my thing.”

“Really? It should be. You do a damn good job of it.”

She stretches up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips.

“Natasha,” he says against her mouth.

“Mm?”

“Your pancakes are burning.”

***

They receive the invitation a few hours later. Hand delivered by Shuri herself. She’s grinning before he opens the door, and she excitedly shoves the paper into his hands before he can open his mouth.

“What is this?” he asks as he begins to unfurl the page. 

She sidesteps him into the apartment. “Just read it.”

He scans the sheet as he closes the door behind him. “Rooftop celebration. Friday, 6pm? For our most esteemed guests? Is the Queen of England paying you a visit?”

“It’s a welcome back party!” she says excitedly. “For you and Agent Romanoff. My idea. I’m delivering her invitation next.”

“No need.” Natasha comes up behind Bucky, much to Shuri’s surprise. Her eyebrows raise at the Widow’s presence, noting her choice of clothing and messy hair. 

“Well, this is a new development.”

“Not really,” Bucky says, and offers no further elaboration despite Shuri’s bewildered expression. He holds the paper out to Natasha. “We’ve been invited to a party."

Shuri doesn’t miss a beat. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, it’s in two days. At 6. It’s an excuse to dress nice and eat good food. I hope you’ll come.”

Natasha’s face softens into a smile. “A party in my honor? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Her face falls as if suddenly remembering something. “But I don’t have a dress.”

Shuri’s eyes light up. “Well, that’s an easy fix. I can take you shopping!”

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” she begins, but the glimmer in Natasha’s eyes - and the enthusiasm in Shuri’s - tells Bucky she’s not planning on putting up much of a fight. “It’s been a minute since I’ve had an excuse to wear anything that isn’t kevlar.”

“That’s what being on the run will do to you,” Shuri says unabashedly, and Natasha chuckles.

“When do we leave?”

“Whenever you’re ready. Although I would suggest at least a pair of pants. Maybe some shoes.”

Bucky smirks when Natasha looks over to him. “Really?” She looks down at herself. “I thought I would start a new fashion trend.”

“Let’s save your good ideas for tomorrow,” the princess says. “Will you be ready in an hour?”

Natasha nods. “Make it forty-five minutes.”

Shuri winks as she heads towards the front door. “Can’t wait.”

Bucky turns to the redhead when the door shuts. “Did you just agree to a shopping trip?”

She looks him up and down. “And where is your suit, Mr. Always Prepared?”

“Suit?” He motions to his sweatpants. “I thought I’d take a page out of your fashion book.”

“No complaints from me.” She steps closer and smiles when he wraps an arm around her waist to pull her to him. She takes his face in her hands. “But you should at least shave. Maybe get a haircut.”

“I might need your help with that one.”

Her smile deepens. “Only if you get a suit.”

“Deal.”

She steps out of his embrace and begins walking toward the bedroom, calling over her shoulder, “You go do that. I need a shower.”

There’s laughter in his voice when he replies, “Is that an invitation?”

She pauses beyond the door frame, looking over her shoulder at him. Her eyes glitter in the darkness. “Not a chance.”

He does join her a few hours later, though, after she walks into the bedroom with a garment bag in hand. The bag is black, offering no insight into what lies beneath.

Bucky looks up from where he’s reclining in bed, book in hand. “I take it your trip was a success?” 

She nods. “Was yours?”

He points to his own recently purchased suit, hanging on the back of the door. “Steve and Sam helped me pick it out.”

“Well, I can’t wait to see what kind of taste they have.”

“Ye of little faith,” he says as he climbs out of the bed. “I believe you offered me a haircut and shave in trade?”

“I see your memory is improving.”

“Anyone ever told you you’ve got a quick wit?” he asks as he tugs her to him. 

“Not to my face.” He can feel her smile when he kisses her. 

Which he’s been doing a lot of lately. The little touches they share, the looks they trade, everything about their new routine is so natural and easy that it’s hard to believe that there’s ever been a time where one was without the other. 

Bucky dips his head to kiss her again, letting his mouth travel from her lips to her jaw, then her earlobe. She leans into him with a soft sigh, but before he can do much more she steps away from him. He frowns. 

“Before we get too carried away,” she starts, running her hands down his chest as she smooths away imaginary wrinkles. “We have both been summoned by T’Challa. So go easy on the kisses, soldier.”

“Just the two of us? Why?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s just us. But we’re expected to be in the throne room in twenty minutes. I figured I’d tell you before we’re both late and need to explain ourselves.”

“Unless Shuri’s given us away already. Is she the one who told you about the meeting?”

Natasha shakes her head. “No, Okoye caught us on our way back. But as far as Shuri goes, I’ve sworn her to secrecy. Under threat of death. Well, not death exactly,” she backtracks when Bucky’s eyebrows raise. “But the threat of something bad, for sure.”

“Only you could get away with threatening a Princess in her own castle.” 

She nudges him towards the closet. “Go change.”

Bucky obeys, disappearing into the spacious walk-in closet. It’s full of clothes, much to his surprise, and he yanks the first shirt he finds off the hanger. It’s soft, well made and the perfect weight to combat the African heat. “So,” he calls to Natasha. “I take it we’re not telling people about us?”

Her response is muffled. “I wasn’t planning on it, at least not yet. I mean, it’s been, what? A day? Less than that?” She ducks her head out of the bathroom as he walks out of the closet, tugging the shirt over his head. “I kind of like having you to myself.”

“You know we just spent a week together, right?”

“I was mortally wounded. That didn’t count.”

“Fair enough.”

***

They meet up with Steve and Sam outside the throne room doors. The two are also dressed in casual clothing, hands shoved into pockets. Their postures are relaxed, expressions neutral.

“So I take it you don’t know what’s going on, either?” Bucky asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Let’s go find out.”

T’Challa is standing with his hands clasped behind his back when the four of them enter. Okoye stands off to one side, the rest of her soldiers lining the walls. Shuri sits in a nearby chair. 

“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice,” the King greets them. “I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“It’s not a problem,” Steve replies. “What couldn’t wait?”

“Something is happening,” T’Challa says, and though his tone is calm, his shoulders are stiff. Tension radiates off of him, his soldiers. It practically echoes off the walls of the throne room. “We don’t know exactly what.”

Okoye steps forward and holds up her wrist, the beads encircling it projecting a blue screen into the air. A video feed plays on the screen. 

“That’s Tony,” Steve says after a few seconds, recognizing the iron-clad man flying in and out of the frame. A man in a long red cloak sweeps by. “And Strange.”

“And Parker,” Natasha adds, stepping closer to the screen. Her brows are furrowed, arms crossed as she watches the teenager web up what could only be classified as an alien of some kind. A massive one, at that. “What’s going on?”

“We just received this feed,” T’Challa explains. “That is the Black Order. Thanos’s henchmen. Ebony Maw, Corvus Glaive, Black Dwarf, and Proxima Midnight. They attacked the Sanctum Sanctorum a few hours ago. They were chased off by Stark and his friends, but not without leaving behind significant damages. And injuries.”

“Are they okay?”

“Your team is.” T’Challa misses the tension that flickers across Steve’s face. “The same cannot be said for bystanders.”

Sam leans in closer. “I only see two bad guys here. Where are the others?”

T’Challa’s expression is grave. “We think they’re on the hunt for the Infinity Stones. Thanos has two: Space and Reality. The location of the Soul Stone is unknown. There are only two on Earth at present. Strange protects the Time Stone. And the other…”

“Vision.” Natasha’s lips purse into a fine line. “And Wanda. You think they’re going after them next?”

“Yes. We’ve tried to reach out to them, but to no avail.”

“We’ll go get them.” Steve’s answer is quick. Natasha and Sam nod in agreement.

T’Challa dips his head. “Then I need you to leave now. If you are able to get to them before Corvus Glaive and Proxima Midnight do, bring them back here. While you do that, Barnes, Shuri, and myself need to figure out how to extract the stone from Vision without compromising the integrity of his structure, and then find a way to keep them from Thanos.”

“Is that even possible?” Bucky asks. “To hide them from someone like him?”

“I don’t know. But we have to try.”

“Let’s do it, then.” Sam’s tone is level, determined expression matching that of his teammates.

“Is a jet ready?” Steve asks.

“They’re prepping it now. I’d suggest you do the same for yourselves.”

The three Avengers share a look, conversing without saying a word. “Let’s go get our guys.”

***

Bucky stands at the edge of the landing pad, watching the sun glint off the hull of the Talon Fighter from his place beneath the awning. Soldiers and crewmen run about the pad, stocking the plane with every kind of supply possible. 

“Do they think the apocalypse is coming?” Sam asks, noting the commotion as he arrives at Bucky’s shoulder. He’s clothed a black flight suit, accented by the red and silver details that lead the eye to the pack strapped between his shoulder blades. 

“With Thanos, it’s entirely possible.”

The man’s expression turns grim. “I hope you’re wrong.”

“Me, too.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, watching the movement on the pad, before Sam clears his throat. “How’s Nat doing?”

“Good,” Bucky replies, forcing himself to answer Sam’s question the way an indifferent teammate would. “On the road to recovery.”

Sam nods. “She seems good. Lighter, despite it all.”

Curiosity gets the better of him, if only for a moment. “How so?”

Sam tucks his hands into his pockets. “The Avengers’ divorce - as I call it - was hard on everyone, but Natasha especially. Though she’ll never admit it, and she doesn’t talk about where she went after Leipzig. All I know is that she busted us out of that prison with a new outfit and hairdo to match. Steve has tried asking her about it a few times, but he never gets a straight answer.”

“I bet he hates that,” Bucky notes, thinking back to last night when Natasha had sat across from him in bed and told him everything about Yelena, Melina, the Red Room, Alexi. Her time in Norway, running from Ross. Things he hadn’t realized she’d kept from her teammates, the closest thing she has to a second family. Things she’d told him in confidence, and he plans on keeping it now.

“He knows Natasha well,” Sam remarks. “He’ll respect her privacy.”

Bucky makes a sound of agreement. “You ready to go?” he asks after a second of silence. 

Sam shrugs. “Piece of cake. We’ll be in and out. Oh, by the way,” he adds. “This party that Shuri is throwing, is it still on for Friday?”

Bucky chuckles, remembering his earlier conversation with the Princess once the meeting was over. “Yes. Shuri was adamant about how ‘the show must go on’. She’s very insistent.”

“Okay, good. It sounds like a fun time.”

“Just make sure you all get back in one piece so you can enjoy it.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Sam says. “We’ll be alright.”

“Famous last words,” Bucky teases, but his tone is strained at the memory of the last mission that occurred, one that was supposed to be simple and ended with a near-fatal injury.

Sam seems to sense his worry. He claps Bucky on the shoulder. “We’ll keep in contact. Let you know when we’re on our way back.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Of course.” Sam dips his head. “I’m going to see where they’re at with the Jet. Steve and Nat should be right behind me.” And then he walks off, suit gleaming as he steps into the sun. 

Not long after, the door behind him opens with a soft hiss. Two sets of boots, one heavy and one light, thud against the pavement. He can sense Steve before the soldier stops at his side. 

“Hey.”

Bucky turns, offers his friend a smile. “Hey.”

Next to Steve, Natasha leans forward, craning her neck to see around the Captain’s shoulders. She smiles, too. It’s soft, knowing, and she  - like Sam - dips her head and heads off to join the Falcon without a word. Bucky watches her walk away, notes the black suit and green vest she wears, the dual batons sheathed between her shoulder blades and the Glock 9s strapped against the curve of her thighs. Dark fingers of worry coil in his stomach. He swallows, trying to dislodge the rock in his throat. 

“Sleep okay?” Steve asks, a inconsequential question that begs to be something significant. 

Bucky looks over at his friend, his oldest friend, and is struck by a comparison that makes him blink a few times. He’s seen this expression on Steve’s face a thousand times: furrowed brows, downturned mouth, wide eyes. The spitting image of boyish concern wrapped in thick lines of muscle and combat. 

Erskine had said that the serum would enhance the nature of whoever it touched, that good men would become great, and that bad men would become worse. Steve was living proof of that theory, his selfless nature only exacerbated by the serum running through his veins. Anyone who had laid eyes on the man, listened to him speak, knew of his leadership and strength, would agree. 

He wonders what Steve sees when he looks at him. 

So he says, “You’re a good man, Steve.”

The man blinks, not expecting his answer. 

“So are you, Buck.”

“I’m glad you think so.” It’s as close as he’ll get to saying what he truly thinks. 

“I know so,” Steve says insistently, picking up on the tone in Bucky’s voice. “I-”

“Rogers!” Natasha’s call turns both of their heads. She’s standing by the liftgate, hand over her eyes to shield from the sun. “We gotta go.”

Steve sucks in a breath through his teeth. He shouts an agreement back. “Be right there.” He turns to Bucky, needing to say one last thing. His eyes gleam with insistence when he motions to Natasha. “Bad people wouldn’t have done what you did for her. Saving the life of someone you barely know isn’t something bad people do.”

Bucky is silent only because he doesn’t know how to respond. He clears his throat, forcing back all of the words he wants to say. “Yeah. Right.” 

“Thank you,” Steve adds. “For going after her. For saving her life.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, feeling hollow. “You should go. Your friends need you.”

“You’re my friend too, Buck. I’m here for you, too.”

He offers a weak smile. “Til’ the end of the line.”

“Until the end of the line,” Steve agrees. And then he turns and heads for the Jet. 

“You know,” Bucky calls after him, unable to let him go without alluding to some of his and Natasha’s history. Steve slows and turns. “We are friends.”

The blonde flashes him a smile that could make the cover of a magazine. “Good.”

Natasha is still waiting for the Captain when he approaches the liftgate, and she turns to follow him up into the plane when he passes her. They fall into step almost instantly, a sun and his shadow. Then she stops and turns back, using the hand that was over her eyes to wave at Bucky.

He lifts his hand to wave back, and for all the heaviness in his chest, he can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. At her ability to get up and keep going after everything that has happened, and to smile while doing it. 

The liftgate closes with a hydraulic hiss, obscuring Natasha from his view as it seals the team inside. The Talon Fighter roars to life after a few minutes, and within seconds it is nothing more than a gray streak as it shoots across the sky. 

The hollow feeling returns to his gut as he walks back inside. 

***

He’s just stepped back into his apartment when his phone rings in his pocket. He hasn’t had it for long. It’s been maybe twenty minutes since Shuri helped him set it up, and the number that glows on the screen isn’t one he recognizes. Hell, he wouldn’t recognize Shuri’s number, and she just gave it to him. So he lets it go to voicemail as he drops his keys in the bowl on the entryway table, and the clink rings through the apartment as he walks to the kitchen. 

His phone buzzes a second later, a text from the same unknown phone number lighting up his screen. 

Ghosting me already?

Bucky chuckles. He calls Natasha back, and she picks up on the second ring. 

“Hey.”

“Hi,” he says as he reaches into the cabinet. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you so soon. How’d you know I even had a phone? Shuri set it up, like, ten minutes ago.”

“I’m a woman of many mysteries.” And then, “Shuri gave me your number.”

“Of course she did. Well, that saves me the trouble of having to ask for it, then.”

She chuckles. 

“I take it everything went well?” He holds his breath until she responds. 

“Yep. Wanda and Vision took some considerable hits, and we're a little banged up, but nothing that can't be fixed.” His shoulders drop slightly. Her voice fades as she speaks, like she’s turned away from the speaker. “Everyone is asleep. Even Steve, and I didn’t think that was possible. Sam snores like a caveman, which I did not know.” She’s quiet for a moment, and he can picture her gaze falling over each of her teammates. Her voice is louder when she speaks again. “How are you? Did you make any progress with Shuri and T’Challa?”

Bucky huffs out a sigh as he crosses the kitchen. “Some. Shuri thinks she can extract the stone from Vision’s head, but it’s going to take time and precision. What’s the likelihood that your alien pals will follow you here?”

“Pretty high. Corvus Glaive was seriously wounded. Maybe dead by now. They’ll be after us for retribution at the very least.” She sighs, and he can picture her rubbing her forehead. “The sooner we get the Mind Stone out of Vision’s head, and the sooner Wanda destroys it, the sooner this whole mess will be over.”

“That still leaves Thanos and his plans for world domination.”

“Hey, my job was to go get Wanda and Vision, kick some alien ass, and bring them back in one piece. I thought you were on the strategic end of things.”

“Forgive me if my strategy skills have been on ice for the last two years.”

“They served you well in your venture to come get me,” she replies. 

“I didn’t have a plan. I just killed anyone who got in my way.”

She’s quiet for a moment. He can’t picture her face. And then, “You certainly know how to make a girl blush.”  

“I didn’t know murder could constitute flirting.”

“It’s a love language.”

He chuckles. “When are you supposed to be back?”

“Early tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know when we’re close.”

“Okay.” It’s silent for a moment, and then, “Is it too early to tell you that I love you?”

He can hear a soft smile in her voice. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that for fifty years.”

“You make us sound old.”

“We are old.”

He smiles “I love you, Natalia.” 

“And I love you, James Buchanan Barnes,” she says quietly, her voice warm and soft. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Stay safe.”

“I will.”

The phone clicks as she hangs up. 

Chapter Text

The plane touches down at 2:41pm. Despite the layer of dust coating the metal, the Jet is nearly blinding as it circles the tarmac. Bucky stands off to the side with a few other soldiers, watching from the shade as T’Challa and General Okoye walk towards the landing plane. A squad of soldiers follow in their wake.

“When you said we were going to open Wakanda to the rest of the world, this is not what I imagined,” the General says to the King as they walk.

He glances her way. “And what did you imagine?” 

She shrugs. “The Olympics. Maybe even a Starbucks.”

T’Challa gives her a long look as the plane lands. 

Electric blue fire spits from the sides, the wings folding in on itself as the engines are cut. The door lowers with a mechanical groan, and he hears the footsteps of the group before he sees them. Steve and Natasha emerge first, walking side by side with a synchroneity that would rival most military processionals. Their shoulders are rolled back, chins high, and they survey those waiting before them with victory in their eyes. 

Though it had originally been only Sam and Steve and Natasha that had boarded the plane, they are followed by two men Bucky doesn’t recognize. A tall, skinnier black man and a shorter, salt-and-pepper haired white man step into the sunlight after them. 

“Should we bow?” the shorter of the two asks, tugging a jacket over his shoulders despite the heat. 

Bucky resists the urge to laugh as the older man replies, “Yeah, he’s a king.”

Clearly, the two know each other well. 

“Seems like I’m always thanking you for something,” Steve remarks as he stops in front of the king. He extends a hand in thanks, and T’Challa shakes it with a smile. 

The gray haired man clears his throat, clasping his hands in front of his chest and bending into an awkward half-bow before the king. 

“What are you doing?” his friend asks out of the side of his mouth.

T’Challa holds his hands out to stop him. “We don’t really do that here.”

A glare and a smile is exchanged between the two men as T’Challa turns and falls into step with Steve. “So, how big of an assault should we expect?”

“Um, sir, sir,” the bowing man from earlier speaks before Steve can, hurrying to catch up with the group. “Sir, I think you should expect quite a big assault.”

“How are we looking?” Natasha asks over the King’s shoulder.

“You will have my King’s Guard, the Border Tribe, the Dora Milaje, and,” T’Challa nods towards Bucky’s waiting figure. 

“A semi-stable one-hundred year old man,” he says as he steps forward to greet them. 

Natasha chuckles as Steve embraces Bucky. 

“How you been, Buck?”

“Uh, not bad. For the end of the world,” he adds with a small shrug. 

He flashes the group a small smile, his gaze landing on Natasha. Her lips are pursed into a smile of her own, and her eyes twinkle as she meets his gaze. She stands by a woman Bucky recognizes. Tall, with long auburn hair and dark eyes. Her cheekbones are high and nose slender, features that blend together to create a striking facial harmony. She was saving his life the last time he saw her, using her magic to keep T’Challa’s vibranium claws from ripping his throat out. 

He nods towards Wanda, but she doesn’t move. He’s not even sure that she can see him, or anyone for that matter. Her eyes are faded and glassy, staring and nothing and everything all at once. A long cut decorates her temple, stopping at the edge of her eyebrow. She keeps her attention fixed on the red man beside her, brows furrowed as she watches him clutch at his side. Vision leans heavily on Sam, and despite his non-human nature, his face is contorted into an expression of pure agony. His skin, which was explained to him as a combination of vibranium, Asgardian lightning, and the Mind stone, is pulsing gold from the massive stab wound marring his suit. His red skin glitches like a malfunctioning circuit board. 

It’s horribly fascinating.

“Let's get you all to the med bay,” T’Challa decides, surveying the group. “You should all eat and rest before we do anything else.”

Wanda clears her throat. “We need to get this stone out of him.” It’s the first time he’s heard her speak, and though her shoulders droop with exhaustion, her voice is insistent. Edged with fear. 

“And we will,” Okoye reassures her. “But you all must be strong enough to withstand it.”

“I am strong,” Wanda says weakly. Her lips purse into a fine line, wide eyes shining with unspilled tears. For all of her power and intrigue, she reminds Bucky of a child in that moment, young and exhausted.

Natasha lays a hand on the woman’s back. Leans in and whispers something in her ear. Wanda nods as she speaks, taking the hand she’s offered. Her knuckles turn white as she clings to Natasha, holding on like she’ll disappear if she lets go. 

“Come on,” Natasha says gently, and leads the way inside. The group follows, talking amongst each other as they go. 

“So,” Bucky asks as he falls in step with Steve, the two trailing behind the group. “How did it go?”

“About as well as could be expected,” he says. “We wounded one of ‘em pretty good. I’m not sure if we’ll be seeing him again, but I think we’ve sent enough of a warning to buy ourselves some time to prepare. Maybe a day. Two if we’re lucky. Lord knows Vision needs it.”

“That bad?”

Steve nods grimly. “He took quite a few hits. Wanda included. If we can give them at least a day to recover, we’ll stand a better chance of getting through this.”

“You think we will? Get through this?” he adds.

“I can’t think of any other outcome,” Steve says with a confidence that would be hard to argue. “I can’t afford to think about anything other than victory. Neither of us can. If we go into a battle expecting the worst, we’ve already lost.”

“I guess that’s why you never lose, huh?”

That earns him a laugh. “Exactly.”

The team is dropped off at the med bay, Steve and Sam and Natasha included. They’re ushered in, despite their repeated insistence that they’re fine. The bay is as long as it is wide, with a row of beds creating a path down the middle of the room. The lighting is softer than expected, the warm ambiance offset by chirping monitors and indistinct conversation. 

Bucky is the last to step into the facility, turning his head toward the sound of Natasha’s voice.

“I’m okay, really,” she is saying, protesting the young nurse gently ushering her towards one of the beds.
“Listen to the woman,” Bucky calls. “You were stabbed,” he adds when she shoots him a glare. 

A few people turn towards the sound of their conversation, the two men from earlier sharing identical, confused frowns. 

“Yeah, like a week ago,” she calls back. “I’m fine.”

“So get it documented,” he argues as her red hair vanishes behind the white curtain that the nurse pulls shut. Natasha’s middle finger shoots up over the curtain rod. 

Bucky leans against the wall and watches the room fill with chatter and movement. Everyone involved in the extraction is obscured by sterile curtains, some examinations taking longer than others. He watches the makeshift exam room Natasha had been shown to, patiently waiting for her to be done. 

The gray-haired man from earlier is the first of the group to finish his exam. He tugs his jacket back over his shoulders as he walks away from the exam table. He looks from Bucky to Natasha’s curtain as he walks over. 

“So, you’re the Winter Soldier?” he asks as he joins Bucky by the wall, looking for a way to segue into a conversation without knowing where to begin. Obviously, if that was his first question.

He shakes his head. “Not anymore. Just Bucky.”

“Ah. Okay.”

“And you are?”

“Oh, Banner. Bruce Banner.” He holds a hand out for Bucky to shake. “And the Hulk, when he wants to make an appearance. Which isn’t often these days.”

“I saw you in the footage,” Bucky says when the silence stretches. “In New York.”

Bruce grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Not my best work.”

“No, no,” Bucky says. “It’s okay.” 

The hissing of a curtain gets their attention, and they both look over to Natasha as she steps out from behind it. She says something to the nurse who follows her out, tucking her folded vest under one arm as she goes. The redhead stops just outside the curtain, looking across the aisle to Bucky and Bruce. Something flickers in her eyes as she looks between the two of them, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. He frowns but says nothing, giving her a questioning look as she walks over to them.

“How’d it go?” Bruce is the first to ask her, and she shrugs.

“Fine. Pointless, really. There’s not a scratch on me.” She motions to her suit. “Just gross alien blood. So, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go wash up.”

Natasha gives them both a nod and turns on her heel, slipping out of the med bay before anyone can call after her. Bucky resists the urge to follow after her, his frown deepening as she walks away. 

Bruce clears his throat. “I, uh, should probably go too. I need to find Shuri and work on a plan to get the Stone out of Vision’s head.”

Bucky dips his head. “Don’t let me stop you. She’s most likely in her lab, if you need a place to start.”

Bruce nods. “Thanks.” He straightens and walks out of the room. Bucky watches him pause in the hallway outside the facility, looking in the direction Natasha had gone before walking the opposite way. 

“That was weird,” Bucky remarks as Sam, done with his exam and having seen the whole interaction, stops by his shoulder. 

The man shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

“They were a thing, weren’t they?” Bucky asks, still watching the empty hallway.

“Yup.”

“I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“I do.”

Bucky turns to Sam. “What do you think?”

“I think that Natasha should be with someone who is like her,” he says after a moment of thought. “And Bruce should be with someone who is like him.”

Something warm blooms in Bucky’s chest. He nods. “Makes sense.” 

And that’s all they say about that.

***

The marketplace is packed, teeming with swarms of people. Children run underfoot in games of tag, dogs cut through the steam billowing from various stands. Vendors shout to the crowd, holding out handfuls of beads or brightly colored fruits to those that walk by. The smell of spices slips through the throes of people, filling the air with the comforting smells of cumin and pepper and curry. 

Bucky leads the way, and though Steve and Sam and Natasha follow at his back, nobody casts a look their way. They move undetected through pathways and stalls, taking their time to look at the individual shops and trinkets being sold. 

“Why don’t you two go take a look around and Steve and I will grab lunch for everyone?” Bucky offers once they find a quiet place to stop, and Sam nods.

“Sounds good to me. I saw a knife vendor I was hoping to check out.”

“I like knives,” Natasha chimes in. “I’ll go with you.”

Sam’s eyes twinkle. “Maybe they’ll sell mirrors, too.”

Natasha strikes like a viper, jabbing him hard in the soft part of his abdomen. She hits him right under his ribs and he doubles over with a cough, clutching at his side. 

“I think I’m going to buy a knife just to stab you with it,” Natasha remarks. She grabs him by the arm, and though he flinches and tries to pull away, she keeps hold of his shirt and drags him down one of the pathways. “Come on, давай, большой ребенок.” Come on, you big baby.

The two continue to argue as they head down one of the pathways, hands moving frantically as they bicker back and forth.

“What are the odds that Natasha is the only one who comes back?” Bucky asks, watching them go.

“Pretty high.”

The two Supersoldiers head in the opposite direction, Bucky once again leading the way through the familiar stalls. Steve is forced to follow a few steps behind, knowing that if the two were to walk side by side they’d take up most of the pathway.

Despite the vivacity of the marketplace, they walk in silence. Bucky can sense the apprehension radiating off of Steve’s tight shoulders, feel the not-so-subtle glances the man throws his way. He knows that Steve wants to talk like he always does, and like always, he stops himself out of fear that he’ll say the wrong thing. Like one word will trigger a myriad of Winter Soldier violence. 

And Bucky doesn’t blame him for it. Sure, he’d like it for Steve to not handle him like he’s a live grenade, but considering all that Steve has seen of him, the fact that he’s stuck around through it all is something he doesn’t take for granted. 

He glances back at the man four steps behind him, at the man who has transcended time and reality and is still the exact same person Bucky grew up with. He’s hollowed by the fact that the James that Steve used to know is gone, scraped out and replaced by the Winter Soldier. That the knowledge that there wasn’t anyone left to replace the Winter Soldier with after he was bled out of his skull is the barrier between him and Steve and the friendship that they used to have. 

They should talk about it, he figures, at least before the world ends, but a crowded marketplace with watchful eyes and open ears isn’t the place for it. 

So Bucky steps up to the vendor selling bread bowls of meat and curry and potatoes and orders four bowls of bunny chow while Steve looks on. The vendor, recognizing Captain America himself, gives them the bowls for free. 

“I was just about to ask if they had a senior discount,” Steve says as they turn away from the stand.

Bucky laughs. “I didn’t think you even knew how those worked.”

“Please,” Steve says, like it’s obvious. “Natasha harasses me about it enough.”

They find a shaded spot away from the marketplace, far enough away that they can’t hear the commotion but close enough that they can still smell the spices in the air. They take a seat in the tall grass while they wait for Natasha and Sam - or maybe only Natasha - to arrive. 

“I think I owe you an apology,” Steve says after a moment.

Bucky frowns as he lifts his bowl. “What do you mean?”

The man takes a breath. “There’s a difference in letting friendships get torn apart, and then there’s letting them fade entirely. What happened in Germany, with Zemo and Stark, was as torn apart as a friendship can get. What happened with you and I…”

Something heavy climbs into Bucky’s chest and takes a seat in the back of his throat. “Steve, you don’t have to-”

“I’ve been too content letting you live in the shadows,” Steve continues, ignoring Bucky’s plea. “Or on the edge of nowhere, not asking questions because, well, because maybe I didn’t want to know the answers. If there’s anything that the last two years have taught me, it’s that we are stronger when we’re together. And I’m sorry that I have not been there for you the way that you needed me to be.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, placing his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Where would I be without my best pal, right?”

Steve smiles a little.

“You did everything you could,” Bucky insists. “You got me help and a support system. The whole retreating-from-society thing was on me.”

“Nobody holds that against you.”

“I do. I didn’t mean to disappear.” 

“You needed space. I get that. I just didn’t know how to respect that without feeling like I was bothering you every time I stopped by. And I guess that turned into me just staying away.”

“Nobody holds that against you.”

Steve shrugs. “I do. I’m sorry I wasn’t the friend I was supposed to be.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t, either. I’m doing well,” he adds. “Really well. And that’s thanks to you and Natasha. And Sam, I guess. So don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Steve nods. “Same to you.”

“Deal.”

Two voices sound from behind them, growing stronger as they approach. They turn to see Sam and Natasha walking towards them. Sam stands at least six feet away from her, arms tense at his side while she walks casually beside him. In hand she holds a small silver knife, a small smirk on her face.

“Do you enjoy tormenting him?” Steve asks when they approach. 

She nods as Sam says, “I am this close to turning her into Ross.” He holds up his hand, his thumb and index finger centimeters apart. “I swear I’ll do it.”

Steve sighs. “Just sit and eat.”

Natasha looks at Bucky. “See what I have to put up with? Ten years of this shit.”

“It has not been ten years,” Sam argues.

She points her knife at him. “Shut up and eat your food.” 

“I’m the one who has to put up with you children,” Steve says as Natasha and Sam sit down. “Heathens. I don’t know how we got anything done.”

Bucky chuckles, the laugh rising in his chest and forcing out the lump that had taken up residence in his throat. It’s an honest, true laugh, one that makes his face hurt as the group trades insults and jokes back and forth. The food isn’t the only thing that fills him with warmth. 

After the laughter has died down, Sam points his fork at Bucky. “Nice haircut, by the way. You finally look like a functioning member of society.”

Bucky’s response is quick. “Fuck you, Wilson.”

Sam chokes on his food, Natasha and Steve hiding their own laughter behind their hands. Natasha meets Bucky’s eyes over her hand, eyes twinkling knowingly. She’d made good on her promise a few hours ago, using the window of time they had before this venture to cut his hair. She’d even helped him shave, and he runs his hand over his jaw now, remembering the feeling of her fingers on his chin, lips, neck.

“We have a party tonight, or did Shuri rescind your invitation?” Natasha asks, snapping Bucky out of his thoughts before they can progress any further. 

“Why would she do that?”

“Because you’re an ass.”

“I’ve been told it’s called ‘charming’.”

“This is why you don’t have any friends,” Bucky says. 

“I have you guys.”

“We’re work colleagues. Big difference.”

Sam puts a hand on his chest. “Words hurt, Barnes.”

He chuckles. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Steve turns at the sound of a notification, all of their phones buzzing in their pockets. They open them up to find a newly created group chat that Shuri has named ‘The A Team’. 

meet in conf room b. 15 mins. asap. do NOT be late

“Was she never taught basic punctuation and capitalization?” Steve asks as he looks up from his phone. 

Bucky claps him on the shoulder. “Settle down, old man,” he says as they all stand to their feet. 

“You’re just as old as he is,” Sam points out as they start walking.

Bucky looks toward Natasha, jabbing his thumb towards the man. “Is he always like this?”

“Unfortunately.”

***

Despite the large ballroom on the first floor of the palace, Shuri has chosen to throw her welcome-back party on the roof instead. Ropes of string lights and fresh greenery have helped transform it into a cozy, intimate space already full of people. The night sky has snuffed out the remaining bits of sunset, and it now glitters with thousands of tiny stars. 

Bucky is late, thanks to a second meeting with Shuri and Bruce that had run longer than he’d expected. He hadn’t seen anyone since the first meeting with the entire team, and he’d left both feeling just as uncertain as he had when he’d stepped into Conference Room B. He’d gotten dressed with a pit in his stomach, trying to ignore the thoughts pressing against the front of his skull as he’d stared at himself in the mirror. Tying his tie had taken longer than he’d had expected. 

Bucky adjusts it now as he steps out onto the rooftop, surveying the crowd for the one person he wants to see. It’s strange to see people out of their usual attire, dressed to the nines in extravagant dresses and suits. Deep blues and purples reflect the light and blend with the warm red and orange gowns, creating a kaleidoscope of color across the dance floor as they turn with the lively music.
Bucky fiddles with his cufflinks as he slips through the throngs of people, noting the Dora Milaje that border the edge of the roof and the subtler, harder-to-spot undercover soldiers that mingle with the crowd. He’s not surprised to see the security detail, noticing Shuri standing a few yards away with a few friends. He spots T’Challa standing with Sam and Steve, and weaves through the crowd to join them. It’s only when he gets closer do the people part, revealing the object of his search. She’s facing away from him when he sees her, and he stops dead in his tracks as he takes her in. 

The fabric of the black dress she wears falls down her shoulders to meet in the middle of her lower back, her muscles rolling under her skin when she reaches her hand up to adjust her red hair. Her curls have been pulled back with delicate, diamond-studded pins that match the tiny diamonds embedded in the fabric of her dress. Her entire body glitters like the night sky, twinkling when she moves. It’s like she’s pulled down the night sky and clothed herself in it. 

Sam spots Bucky first, waves him over. “Barnes!”
Natasha turns at the sound of his name, a glass of champagne at her dark red lips when she meets his eyes. She hides her smile behind the rim of her glass as he looks her up and down, trying not to stare at the way the dress hugs every curve and muscle in her body. 

Oh, baby.

Oh, man. 

“ты просто потрясающий,” he tells her after a moment, trying to remember how to walk as he takes a step forward. You are absolutely stunning.

Her cheeks flush, smile deepening. Sam and Steve exchange a look when she replies, “ты сам так плохо не убираешься.” You don’t clean up so bad yourself.

Bucky tightens his hands into fists as he steps up to her side, taking the glass that Sam offers him if only to keep his hands preoccupied. Every part of him is dying to take her hand and pull her onto the dance floor, to hold her against him and never let her go, to whisper in her ear exactly what he thinks of her in that gown. The fact that he can’t sets his entire nervous system on fire. 

Natasha shifts her weight to her right hip, her arm brushing against his ever so slightly when she moves. 

You’re makin’ me crazy.

You’re really drivin’ me mad. 

But that’s alright with me,

It’s really no fuss.

He downs the glass in one go.

T’Challa and Sam and Steve make small talk as they stand by the edge of the dance floor, laughing at a joke Bucky never hears. The conversation slowly turns to that of work and battle and the world ending in a few days, all topics that were discussed at the meeting and topics that he cannot listen to for a second time. It’s all he can do to act like a functioning member of society with Natasha standing beside him, and he lasts about three more minutes before he sets his glass down and grabs her by the hand.

“Dance with me.”

She blinks, red lips curving into a small smile. “Okay.” She turns, looking all three men in the face as she hands her glass of champagne to a very confused Sam. His expression is mirrored in Steve and T’Challa’s faces. 

The three look on as they step onto the dance floor just as the music changes. 

As long as you’re next to me,

Just the two of us.

“I’m surprised it took you that long to ask me to dance,” Natasha says as she presses close to him. His hand slides around her waist to rest against her lower back, her skin warm against his hand. 

“Do you know how stunning you look tonight?” he asks as her free hand slides into his.

“I’d rather you tell me.”

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he says softly, smiling when she does. Her face flushes a soft pink, darkening the rouge on her cheeks.

You’re my, my, my, my kind of woman.

“You’re something of a smooth talker, you know?”

“So I’ve been told.”

She pulls back to look him in the eyes, expression thoughtful. “How are you doing?” she asks as they turn with the music. “With all of this.”

He shrugs. “It wouldn’t be the first time I thought the world was going to end. It is the first time I’ve had to fight aliens instead of terrorists, though.”

“I mean with us. The last two weeks have been a lot. I just want to make sure you’re okay with…everything that’s been going on.”

Bucky meets her eyes, eyebrows furrowing as he examines her face. Her wide eyes, slightly furrowed eyebrows, her red lips pulled down in a small, worried frown, the slow rise and fall of her chest that tells him that she’s holding her breath while she waits for his answer. 

My, oh my, what a girl. 

You’re my, my, my, my kind of woman.

He drops her hand to cup her face. “Even though the world as we know it could end in two days, there is nowhere else I’d rather be than right here, with you. I love you, Natasha,” he continues as her expression softens. “I know that I’m not the same man I used to be, but everything that I am is because of you. Everything that I have left is yours. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not afraid. Of this, of us, of anything.”

And I’m down on my hands and knees,

Beggin’ you, please, baby, 

To show me your world.

Her hand falls over the one that’s holding her face. “You’re a good man, James.”

“Not really, no,” he says softly. “But you’re the only one who understands that.”

Oh, brother,

Sweetheart,

I'm feelin' so tired,

Really fallin' apart.

And it just don't make sense to me.

I really don't know

Why you stick right next to me

Wherever I go.

Her eyes sparkle. “Do you know how glad I am to have you back?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He leans down and kisses her instead, and the small gasps that his actions elicit fade away when she locks her arms around his neck and pulls him closer to her. Natasha’s hands slide up his neck as the song finishes. 

You’re my, my, my, my kind of woman.

My, oh my, what a girl

You're my, my, my, my kind of woman

And I'm down on my hands and knees

Beggin' you please, baby

Show me your world

When they break away, maybe seconds or hours later, it’s not the passing glances that catch their eye, but the myriad of shocked expressions on the faces of their friends. Steve has frozen with his hands in his pockets, eyebrows pulled together like magnets. Sam’s mouth is slightly agape, arms frozen where they’re folded across his chest. Bucky is surprised to find a small smirk on T’Challa’s face, the man’s eyes warm and knowing. 

“How long?” Bucky asks him when they rejoin the group, Natasha still holding his hand. 

“How long what?” T’Challa replies.

“When did Shuri tell you?”

The king says, “She never told me,” at the same time the young woman exclaims, “Hey!”

Bucky turns to see her coming up behind him, an offended expression written across her features. She smacks him on the arm when she stops at his shoulder, dropping the hem of her purple dress to cross her arms across her chest. “I’m not a snitch, thank you very much.”

“I put it together myself,” T’Challa reassures him. 

Sam clears his throat. “Well, I wish you would have given the rest of us a heads up. How long has this been going on?” He wiggles a finger between the two of them. 

Natasha and Bucky look at one another.

“It’s a long story,” Natasha says eventually. “But that’s a story for a different time.”

Sam drags a hand down his face. “I need a drink.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said she should be with someone like herself,” Bucky points out.

Natasha looks between them, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“We were talking about you and Banner,” Sam tells her, and she smacks him in the arm.

“There’s no ‘me and Banner’,” she protests. “It was short lived, anyway. He ignored my heartfelt pleas to come back and disappeared off the face of the Earth, effectively ending whatever it is that we were. Or weren’t.”

Sam holds his arm. “You’re violent, you know that?”

She smacks him again. “Only when people air my dirty laundry.” She looks at Bucky. “We will discuss this later.”

He chuckles and wraps an arm around her waist, smiling when she leans into him. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, whatever the story is,” Shuri interrupts. “It’s about time you told us! Do you know how long I’ve had to keep it a secret?”\

“Three days,” Natasha says pointedly. 

“Yeah, well, it felt like three hundred.”

Steve smiles softly. “Well, congratulations. I’m happy for you both.”

“For a guy who's genetically prone to speeches, that’s all you have to say?” Sam asks. “Your two best friends just confessed that they’ve been dating in secret for whoever knows how long, and that’s it?”

Steve’s expression is incredulous. “What, do you want me to get on a table and tap on a champagne glass with my knife?”

“Nobody has to get that carried away,” Bucky says, holding a hand up. “Let’s just enjoy the rest of the night.”

“You can save that idea for the wedding,” Shuri says, leaning towards Steve, and Bucky and Natasha groan in unison. 

“I need another drink,” she tells him. “Care to join me?”

“I would be glad to,” Bucky says, looking pointedly at all his friends, and takes her hand as they walk away. 

Natasha leans into his shoulder. “Well, that went about as well as I expected.”

“You gotta love ‘em, right?”

“I think ‘tolerate’ is a better word.”

Bucky chuckles softly. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad they know. I know we wanted to keep it quiet for a while, bu-”

“I’m glad too,” she says, looking up at him when they stop by the bar. “I’m proud to be your girlfriend, and I want them to know that.”

Bucky grins, leaning against the bartop. “Girlfriend, huh?”

“Oh, whatever, boyfriend,” she says as the bartender slides them their drinks. “Whatever you want to call it, you’re mine and I’m yours. That’s how it goes.”

His stomach does backflips in his stomach as he looks at her, feeling his smile widen. Her own does too, as she watches him from over the rim of her glass. 

“You amaze me, you know. You make me feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

“Careful,” she says. “You know what flattery will get you.”

“Do tell.”

“It requires your keycard to get into,” she says, eyes glittering with mischief.

“We’ve been here for ten minutes,” he reminds her. “People will notice if we leave now.”

“Thirty minutes,” she suggests. “We’ll make the rounds, do some dancing, and then we’ll leave.”

“And not a minute more.” He leans in close to her ear, whispering so he can’t be heard. “Because I really want to see what that dress looks like on my bedroom floor.”

“You know we’re in public right?” Her breath is warm against his ear.

“Hence the whispering.”

Twenty nine minutes later, after they’ve carefully extracted themselves from their friends and have made their way off the roof, they walk down the silent hallway side by side. Bucky’s suit coat is around Natasha’s shoulders, the straps of her high heels hanging from his fingers. They fall from his hands the moment they step across the threshold of his room, pushing his suit coat from her shoulders the second her lips meet his.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she confirms between breaths. 

His heel against the door is the only answer she needs. 

Chapter Text

ACT TWO:

Infinity War and Endgame

“What do you think is going to happen today?” Natasha asks, breaking the warm silence that has filled the room. She lays against him amongst the tangled sheets, her head on his shoulder and arm wrapped around his chest. Her hair spills around her face in a brilliant messy halo when she looks up at him. Despite the layers of her question, and the heaviness wrapped up in it, he can't help but feel perfectly happy as he looks down at her, sprawled across his bed and entangled in his arms.

Bucky hums thoughtfully, fingers tracing absentminded circles against her arm as he thinks about her question. “I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought. Have you?”

He can feel her ribs expand against him when she takes a breath, and hear her shaky exhale in the stillness of the room. “I’ve lived through a lot of ‘last days’,” she starts. “I thought the world was going to shatter into a million pieces when Loki attacked New York, and I thought the Earth was going to implode on itself in Sokovia. Same with Lagos, and with Dreykov and the Red Room. I’ve felt my heart drop into my stomach a thousand times over and somehow, I’m more scared today than I was then.” She takes another breath, confessing to the reason behind her fear. “I don’t want to lose you, not when I just got you back. We deserve more time. I need more time.”

His fingers still against her skin, curling around her arm to hold her close to him. “Who said I’m going anywhere?” he murmurs into her hair.

“You know what I mean, James.”

And he does. “I know.” She snuggles closer to him. “I do. And I know that while I don’t know what’s going to happen today, I do know that nothing is set in stone. For all we know, you and I could be right back here by the end of it all.”

Natasha looks up at him, eyes wide and striking in the light. She motions to the room, to the bed they lay on, the sheets they’re entangled in. “Right here?”

He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Right here.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Me, too.”

“I love you, James. No matter what happens today, I need you to know that.”

He frowns. “Hey. Look at me.” She does, not looking away when his tone grows insistent. “I love you. We’re going to be okay.” 

“You can’t promise that,” she says weakly, her expression transporting him back to that storage unit, the plane, the motel room. His grip on her tightens, remembering what it was like to come moments away from losing her for good. 

“No, but I sure as hell can try. You make me brave, Talia. Because of you, I have something to fight for again.”

She raises herself up onto her elbows, shifting so she lays across his chest. His arms slide around her back, her skin warm and muscles taut under his hands. She takes his cheeks in her hands, soft eyes running over his face. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“I should be asking you that question,” he says as she leans down to kiss him, his hands sliding up her back to thread through her hair. Her kisses grow hungrier, more insistent, and as he rolls her over he has half a mind to say something about the meeting this morning, about how T’Challa and Steve and everybody are probably waiting on them, but at this moment nothing else matters. Not the threat of world domination, or the aliens primed and ready to deliver it, nor the responsibilities of their jobs and the billions of people depending on them to save the world. Just the woman in his arms, whispering promises of love and devotion against his skin. He murmurs them back, promising her the same and praying that he will be granted another day to deliver on them.

*** 

They meet everyone in Shuri’s laboratory, dressed to the nines in combat gear and weapons. Despite their delay, Bucky and Natasha are not the last to arrive. Their entrance is followed shortly by Steve and Sam, and the two join the group gathered around Shuri’s exam table, watching as Vision tries to make himself relatively comfortable before the examination starts. 

“I’m okay,” Vision tells an onlooking Wanda, his android face making an expression of pure human concern. Wanda nods, a tiny smile gracing her lips. It relaxes her own worried expression, her furrowed brows and narrowed eyes softening as she watches him.

Shuri extends a fist out to Vision, holding her hand over his chest. Slowly, she begins to move her hand upwards towards his head, light from her Kimoyo Beads casting a grid-like pattern across the android.  A hologram of the Mind Stone appears in her palm when she turns her hand over, and her expression contorts into one of fascination as she examines it. 

“The structure is polymorphic,”  she realizes, looking at the several distinct forms of the Stone as they turn in her palm.

Bruce nods. “Right, we had to attach each neuron non-sequentially,” he explains as they both look at the hologram. 

She looks away from it to meet his eyes. “Why didn’t you just reprogram the synapsis to work collectively?”

The group goes quiet. Vision cranes his neck to look at Bruce, equally curious as to what his answer will be. Bruce stares for a moment, the gears in his head turning while he looks at the Stone. “Because…we didn’t think of it?”

“I’m sure you did your best,” Shuri says through a smile.

“Can you do it?” Wanda asks, her eyes narrow and expression analytical.

Shuri looks towards the woman, waiting a moment before dipping her head. “Yes, but there are more than two trillion neurons here. One misalignment could cause a cascade of circuit failures.” She looks at T'Challa. “It will take some time, brother.”

“How long?” Steve asks.

“As long as you can give me.”

A chime sounds, and everyone looks towards Okoye as she raises her blinking Kimoyo Beads. Her expression is grave when she announces to the group, “Something’s entered the atmosphere.”

Sam looks at Bucky. He jerks his head towards the long windows, alluding to the landing platform where Rhodey has been keeping watch. “We gotta go.”

Bucky nods. “We’ll go check it out.” He looks towards Natasha, standing between Okoye and Wanda. A thousand emotions flicker like candle light across her face when she looks at him, but with all of the eyes on them, all she says is, “Be safe.”

He nods. “We’ll see you soon,” he promises. Then he turns and follows Sam out the double doors. 

Their boots are the only sound as they slam against the tile floor, the buckles and metal of their suits clinking against one another as they hustle down the hallway and to the landing deck outside. They burst onto the platform, turning in circles as they look up at the sky. What can only be described as a gigantic rocket smokes through the sky, striking the protective dome with an earth-shaking thud. They both jump at the sound. 

They stare up at the sky, watching as the blue amoeba-like fingers flare across the dome upon impact, absorbing the shock of the collision and effectively keeping the pyramidal rock from landing in Wakanda below.

“God,” Bucky mutters as he stares at the tech above, watching as it destroys the vessel. “I love this place.”

“Don’t start celebrating yet guys,” Rhodey warns. “We got more incoming outside the dome.”

Beyond the dome, seven more vessels shoot through the sky like deadly shooting stars, smoke following in their wake. They smash through the trees in the distance, puffs of smoke and fire radiating through the trees as they sink deep into the earth. The creatures that emerge from the depths of the carriers are ants in the distance, swarming over each other in their hurry to get to the wall. They slam into it with animalistic force, and from his spot on the landing platform, Bucky can see the blue pulses that shoot up the dome upon impact.

Sam sucks in a breath from beside Bucky. “Kinda wish I was on a hot, sunny beach right about now.”

“You and me both.”

They join the team by the carriers. The soldiers have almost finished loading, with Natasha and Steve and T’Challa among the last to board. Natasha spots Bucky and Sam approaching and hurries to meet them. 

“Thanos’s army touched down by the south wall,” she says when they stop in front of her.

Bucky nods. “Yeah, I know. We saw."

“We’ve got a hell of a fight ahead of us,” Sam says, and looks toward the carriers. “I’m gonna help them get loaded up.”

He heads off to join Steve and T’Challa. Several of the ships lift into the air, engines whirring softly.

Okoye steps back as T’Challa climbs into the carrier at the front, looking from him to Bucky and Natasha. “Barnes. Romanoff. We must go.”

“Be there in a second,” Natasha calls. She looks from the General to Bucky, taking a deep breath as she looks him up and down. Her shoulders are stiff, eyes wide, and her fingers grip the straps of her vest so tightly her knuckles turn white. It's the first time he's seen her this worried.

Bucky takes one of her hands in his and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Hey. You know I love you, right?” he says after a moment. 

Her worried expression fades a little. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You better.”

“It’s going to be okay. I’m going to see you soon, okay?”

Her red hair catches the light as she nods. She sucks in a breath. “I love you.”

It’s his turn to smile. “You better.”

She stands on tiptoe to kiss him. It’s soft, gentle, and not long enough. They break apart after a few seconds. Natasha motions to the carriers as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ears. “You need to get going. Before they leave without you.”

“They need you too, you know.”

“Yeah, but you go first. I like to watch you walk away.”

“You’re something else, Romanoff.” He gives her one last kiss before heading towards the transports.

“You know that’s my gun, right?” she calls after him, noting the rifle that’s slung across his back. The same one he’d stolen from her locker before he and Steve landed in Siberia. The same one he’d held onto for reasons he couldn’t explain, up until now.

“It’s for good luck,” he calls as he boards the carrier.

She shakes her head as she climbs in beside him, taking the hand he offers to help her up. The transports shoot off seconds later, screaming across the African landscape to meet the cluster of aliens at the border. Natasha touches her earpiece as she turns to look behind her. “How we looking, Bruce?”

The scientist, having somehow located Tony Stark’s old Hulk containment suit, sprints through the transports in the HulkBuster. The suit is sized in accordance with the Hulk, having been built to take him head-on, and the ground shudders with every massive step that Bruce takes. “Yeah, I think I’m getting the hang of it,” he says excitedly through his earpiece. “Wow! It’s like being the Hulk without actually-” The metal toe of the suit catches on a rock, and dirt sprays as he sprawls across the ground. Okoye gives the man a long, dubious look as she passes him. “I’m okay,” Bruce says, getting to his feet. “I’m okay.”

Overhead, Sam and Rhodey fly by, relaying what they’re seeing to the ground troops. “We got two heat signatures breaking through the tree line.”

The transports slide to a stop, leaning starboard to allow the soldiers to dismount without losing momentum. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers sprint through the tall grass, dust kicking up in their wake as they rush to the border. Platoons begin to take shape as Steve and T’Challa push to the front of the line, Bucky and Natasha following steps behind. Chants radiate from the soldiers, rallied by M’Baku. He stops as T’Challa nears him. The two shake hands.

“Thank you for standing with us.”

M’Baku nods. “Of course, brother.”

Steve looks towards Natasha. “We’ve got a standing appointment.”

She watches the treeline that Proxima Midnight and Obsidian Cole have emerged from. Their tiny figures grow slowly bigger as they approach the outside of the dome. 

Natasha’s gaze hardens. Her jaw tightens, setting her face into an expression of pure determination. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Bucky watches as T’Challa, Steve, and Natasha walk to the edge of the barrier. Proxima Midnight tests the integrity of the dome with the blade of her sword, watching the shield hiss and crackle under its point. She lowers it as the three soldiers stop in front of her. Try as he might to listen, they’re too far away for their conversation with the members of the Black Order to be heard. The only sound is the wind cutting through the grass, whipping the dry blades into one another. Beads and metal rattle softly as the troops stand in silence among one another. 

Bucky’s stomach twists when Proxima lifts her hand, and though he can’t hear her cry, several large ships emerge from the forest behind her.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Around him, a few soldiers murmur their agreement, uneasily shifting their weight from foot to foot.

Natasha, T’Challa, and Steve turn away from the barrier and walk back to the front line.

“They surrender?” Bucky asks as the three rejoin the group. 

“Not exactly,” Steve replies. 

T’Challa stands a few yards in front of the battalions, watching as the alien Outriders swarm from the woods. They tear up the ground in front of them in their desperate, simple-minded attempt to destroy the barrier. The King begins to lead his troops in a war cry as the aliens smash into the dome, frying themselves in it as they try to push through it.

“What the hell?” Bucky mutters softly.

“Looks like we pissed her off,” Natasha replies, scanning the chaos at the front.

“They’re killing themselves,” Okoye says in horror as the Outriders ricochet off the barrier, some cutting themselves in half as they shove their way through the translucent wall. The impact sends puffs of blue and yellow shooting up the dome. 

The aliens that do make it through begin to race up the hill. The soldiers at the front whip their cloaks in front of themselves, the Wakandan technology within turning it into a shield. Behind them, spears are raised over their shoulders. On T’Challa’s command, they begin firing at the Outriders. Bucky lifts Natasha’s gun to his shoulder and starts shooting. Sam and Rhodey fly overhead, using their tactical advantage to take out as many beasts as possible. 

“You see the teeth on those things?” Sam shouts as he turns to avoid the claws of the lunging creatures. 

“Alright, back up, Sam,” Rhodey warns. “Or you’ll get your wings singed.” He flies over a section of land that’s been breached and drops a swarm of mines from his suit. A massive explosion rocks the earth, and hundreds of aliens with it. Much to everyone’s dismay, however, the fire does little to stop the creatures that do survive. 

“Cap,” Bruce starts, watching the line of aliens expand down the wall. “If these things circle the perimeter and get in behind us, there’s nothing between them and Vision.”

Steve’s response is short, determined. “Then we better keep them in front of us.”

“How do we do that?” Okoye asks T’Challa.

“We open the barrier,” he says after a moment of thought. Okoye gives him a long, uncertain look, but does not object. Natasha watches as the King lifts a clawed finger to his ear. “On my signal, open Northwest Section Seventeen.”

“Requesting confirmation, my King,” the officer that responds says. “You said open the barrier?”

“On my signal,” T’Challa replies.

M’Baku’s expression is grave. “This will be the end of Wakanda.”

Okoye lifts her chin. “Then it will be the noblest ending in history.”

T’Challa shouts a command to his soldiers. Their shields fall away. Adrenaline ripples through the battalions. One one signal, everyone begins to rush toward the barrier. 

“Now!” T’Challa cries as the crowd closes in on the creatures, and the dome glitches as the requested section is opened. Hell breaks loose when the two sides meet. T’Challa and Steve move as one, launching themselves into the air before descending upon the aliens with unmatched fury. 

Outriders crumple into the mud. Soldiers fall. Blood sprays, dirt flies, and screams - both human and not - fill the air. Metal rings, bullets fly, and claws and knives meet in a flurry of violence. 

“How much longer, Shuri?” T’Challa calls over the comms.

Shuri’s exasperated voice replies. “I’ve barely begun, brother.”

“You might want to pick up the pace,” the King tells her as he sinks his claws into the nearest creature. 

Long-range rifles only work for so long, Bucky quickly realizes, and pops off a few shots before his gun is smacked out of his hands. The alien that does so is on him before he hits the ground, and Bucky barely avoids its long swiping claws before plunging his knife deep into the side of the beast. And again, and again, until it dies with a shriek and he shoves it off. 

Similar attacks begin to befall even their strongest fighters, with Rhodey being knocked out of the sky by Obsidian Cole’s massive battle ax. T’Challa’s vibranium suit works well, fending off the attacks from the aliens trying to pull him down the hill, but it's quickly become clear that they're outnumbered. Even Bruce’s suit does little to deter the Outriders, and he too goes down in a swarm of arms and teeth.

“There’s too many of them!” he cries, sparks flying as the beasts rip his suit apart.

And then a massive beam of light slams into the earth, pinks and greens and blues mixing with the brilliant white pillar of light that sends aliens flying into the dirt. It’s the crackling ax that flies out of the beam, however, that takes out hundreds more before anyone can blink, slicing them into pieces with ease. It knocks the creatures off of Bruce, Steve, before flying back to its owner. 

The light fades to reveal Thor, Groot, and Rocket Racoon, lightning crackling around the trio. The battleground stills.

Natasha cocks her head, and Steve gets to his feet with a relieved smile. Bruce’s helmet retracts as he shouts to the crowd, “You guys are so screwed now!”

It is Thor’s turn to lead the soldiers, and electricity crackles from his very being as he sprints towards the waiting crowd. “Bring me Thanos!” he shouts, gigantic bolts of blue lighting raising him high into the air. He brings his ax down with a roar.

“Holy shit,” Bucky says, marveling at the storm clouds that gather at the god’s presence. 

“Not something you see everyday,” Natasha agrees from a few feet away, tightening her grip on her own electric batons.

“I’m just glad he’s on our side.”

And then the world explodes in combat again. Cries of battle go up, lighting crackles, and gunfire and ringing metal fill the air. T’Challa launches himself at Obsidian Cole, striking the massive alien with enough force to send a pulse of purple kinetic energy across the battlefield. From beside Bucky, Rocket fires repeatedly at the approaching Outriders, maniacal laughter in his voice as he cries, “Come and get some, space dogs!”

Bucky whips his head towards the aliens closing in behind the raccoon, and after a few seconds and well-calculated battle math, he grabs Rocket by the back of his suit and lifts him into the air. He spins in a circle, and Rocket, having quickly caught on to Bucky’s plan, fires in unison with the soldier. “Come on, get some, get some!”

Bucky drops him shortly after the area around them goes still, and then lifts his gun and keeps shooting. 

“How much for the gun?” Rocket asks him after a brief second, having paused to examine the rifle that Bucky holds. 

“Not for sale,” he replies, the butt of the rifle slamming against his shoulder as he fires at the still-attacking aliens. 

“Okay, how much for the arm?” 

Bucky drops the rifle from his shoulder and gives the Racoon a long, silent look before walking away.

“Oh, I’ll get that arm,” Rocket mutters, and heads in the opposite direction.

And then, through the blazing forest, what can only be described as five massive gears burst through the earth, having burrowed under the force field to get to the battle. 

“Fall back!” T’Challa shouts to his men as the blades tear up the ground, closing in on the soldiers and shredding those that are unfortunate enough to end up in its way. “Fall back now!”

Everybody obeys, turning and sprinting back in the direction of the palace in one motion. Everybody, that is, except for Natasha and Okoye, and those who hadn't heard the King's cries. The two women have ended up in close proximity to one another, and Bucky freezes as he watches the Thresher close in on them. He doesn’t have time to shout, let alone give a warning, and he is utterly powerless as the blades descend on Okoye and the woman that he loves. 

Natasha and Okoye flinch, bracing for their seemingly inevitable shredding when a puff of red smoke envelops all five mechanisms with ease. Wanda lands in front of both women, using her telekinetic powers to lift them into the air. Aliens, having noticed her arrival, begin to sprint towards her. In a split second decision, she brings all five gears down with a cry. They cleave the earth around her, carving deep trenches into the ground as they shred the aliens in their path. 

Bucky takes a breath as Natasha straightens. Okoye flips her spear in her hand, motioning behind her. “Why was she up there all this time?”

“You okay?” Bucky asks Natasha through his comms, and watches as she turns his way. She flashes him a thumbs up.

“Never better.”

“Watch out for, you know, giant hunks of metal.”

She grins and darts off. Bucky gives a small shake of his head as he rejoins Steve. 

“All good?” he asks.

Bucky shrugs. “There’s nothing like watching your girlfriend get nearly shredded to pieces on a random Tuesday.” He’s cut off by Sam’s alert.

“Guys, we have a Vision situation,” he warns before getting tackled out of the sky. In the same heartbeat, Bucky and Steve are surrounded. 

“Somebody get to Vision!” Steve shouts before shoving the blades of his shield deep into a pouncing alien’s face. He’s tackled by another one shortly after. 

“I got him!” Bruce replies. In the distance, Bucky can see the thrusters on the HulkBuster ignite, and the giant red suit shoots off into the distance.

“I’m on my way,” Wanda volunteers, but is cut off by Proxima Midnight’s attack. Bucky loses a visual on her as she’s knocked into the trenches, powerless to watch as the horned woman hops into the ground after the Scarlet Witch.

Slowly, Bucky begins to fight his way toward her, fending off swipes and gnashing teeth that come inches from his neck. He only knows that Bruce has come to Vision’s aid when, through the comms, he can hear him say, “Oh no, oh no, you don’t. This isn’t going to be like New York, pal.” Bucky can picture him before Obsidian Cole, arms outstretched. “This suit’s already kicked the crap out of the Hulk-” 

And then his comms go quiet. Bucky only hopes that his silence isn’t indicative of something worse befalling the scientist, and continues fighting his way towards the trenches that Wanda and Proxima had fallen into. He’s only a few yards away when Bruce’s voice comes back. 

“Guys,” he says, voice strained. “Vision needs backup now!”

Steve breaks free of his opponents and makes a beeline towards Mount Bashenga, the same area that a rocket emerges from. Bucky watches the streak of smoke collide into the barrier, and upon closer inspection realizes that it’s Obsidian Cole, not a rocket, that gets dragged across the electric barrier.

Bucky shrugs and continues fighting his way toward Wanda. As he gets closer he can hear the ringing of metal and hear Okoye’s cries of battle, but has to duck when a Thresher jumps across the trench and continues on its merry way down the field. 

Steve’s voice crackles across the comms, full of adrenaline and fear. “Get out of here! Go!”

He must be talking to Vision, Bucky realizes as he guns down the alien in his path. 

Another familiar cry joins Okoye, and the crackling of electricity and bursts of red hair that flash through the trench tells Bucky that Natasha has come to Wanda’s aid, too. He can see her batons strike against Proxima’s own blades, and his stomach falls when he watches the alien lean over what he can only assume is Natasha’s fallen figure. He looks from the trench to the bladed Thresher carving up the ground before him, looking between it and the trench. With a grunt, he shoves the final alien away and jumps into the pit to find Proxima’s sword at Natasha’s neck. The redhead strains against the blade threatening to cut into her skin, using all of her strength to keep it from slicing her throat open. Bucky lands a kick to the alien woman’s side, knocking her off of Natasha and into Wanda’s waiting puff of magic. The thresher roars, seconds away from impact, and Bucky throws himself over Natasha as Wanda lifts Proxima into its path. 

Her strangled cry is quickly cut off, and blue blood sprays the group as she is shredded in the mechanism’s claws. 

Wanda collapses with a gasp, chest heaving. 

Bucky backs off of Natasha as she rolls onto her side, lifting herself onto one elbow. “That was really gross,” she says through a grimace.

He leans back into the earth when she turns to look at him. She lifts a hand to his forehead, wiping her thumb across his brow. 

“Blood?” he asks, and she nods.

“Blue.”

“Gross,” he agrees, and helps her stand to her feet once she drops her hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, dusting off her suit. “You?”

He shrugs. “Been a hell of a day.”

She bends down to pick up her batons. “Let’s hope it’s almost over.”

The battle is slowing across the field. The exploding ships beyond the dome catch their attention, and the group looks to where Thor is cutting through the alien transports, puffs of smoke and fire following in his electric wake.

Wanda lifts into the sky. “I’m going after Vision.”

Natasha nods. “We’re right behind you.”

Bucky helps boost her and Okoye out of the trench, and the three are met with little hesitation as they head towards Mount Bashenga. The aliens they encounter grow few and far between, but the air that falls across the battlefield does little to reassure them. Despite the slowing chaos, those still standing grow still and quiet as the eerie feeling settles across the grass. Something feels horribly wrong.

“Everyone, on my position,” Steve says through the comms. “We have incoming.”

The group joins the Captain moments later, finding him standing protectively before Wanda and Vision. Natasha looks up through the whistling trees as everyone forms a loose circle, staring at the branches that whip back and forth in the cool air.

“What the hell?”

Nobody replies. 

A puff of blue-black smoke materializes in the clearing, pulsing a few feet away from the group. The HulkBuster whirrs as Bruce turns to look at it. And then, through the cloud, Thanos emerges. A golden glove covers his left hand, glowing with five glistening Infinity Stones and ending halfway up his massive purple arm. A simple vest of armor covers his chest, his shoulders and head and neck left exposed to attack. Somehow, it doesn’t make Bucky feel better.

“Cap. That’s him.”

Wanda sucks in a rattling breath as she produces a red ball of kinetic energy between her hands. Steve raises his arm, the plates of his shield whirring as they click into place. 

“Eyes up. Stay sharp.” He walks to meet a slowly approaching Thanos, but it’s Bruce who attacks first. 

His metal boots thud against the dirt as he charges the alien, but with a twist of his golden fist Thanos phases Bruce through the air, stepping through the suit with ease. He renders the HulkBuster immaterial until it’s half-buried in the cliff face behind him, freezing it into the stone. 

“Fucking hell,” Bucky gasps.

One after another the group attacks, every valiant effort dashed by the sheer power that Thanos wields. Steve goes sprawling in the dirt. T’Challa is grabbed by the neck and punched into the ground after him. Sam’s flight gear is dismantled, and the Army vet goes down in a spray of dirt.

Behind Bucky, he can hear Vision pleading with Wanda. 

“You must do it. Wanda, please. We are out of time.”

She shakes her head, chin wobbling as Vision presses her hand to his face. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he insists as he takes her hand, spreading her limp fingers. “You can. If he gets the stone, half the universe dies.”

She purses her lips, tears in her eyes as he continues. “It’s not fair. It shouldn’t be you, but it is. It’s alright,” he reassures her as she takes a step back, hand still outstretched. “It’s all right. You could never hurt me. I just…feel you.”

Seconds pass like hours until Wanda sends a beam of red light straight for the stone in his head. 

Rhodey fires every kind of ammunition available at Thanos, only for the metal of his suit to be crushed like a soda can. He’s tossed across the forest, wood splintering under his suit.

Bucky takes a step forward, then another, then another, lifting his rifle with a shout as he sends a spray of bullets towards Thanos. Useless, he knows, and is met with a wall of purple mist that sends him flying into the ground. 

Natasha and Okoye charge past him, weapons at the ready, but they are met with a similar fate. Okoye is thrown backwards by the same purple mist, but rocks are lifted off the ground to encase Natasha, pinning her into the dirt. She fights against them with a groan, but the weight is too heavy, and she stays trapped.

“Natasha!” Bucky cries as he stumbles to his feet, and she turns her head to look at him as he falls to his knees beside her. 

“I’m okay,” she says through breaths. “I’m okay. Can you get them off?”

He looks across the rocks crisscrossing her body, entombing her in stone. “I can try.”

Steve charges Thanos while Bucky does his best to free Natasha, landing blows that would render any ordinary opponent unconscious. 

Thanos doesn’t even bleed. 

Bucky is about halfway through the rocks when he catches sight of Steve, straining to hold back Thanos’s gloved hand. He doesn’t have time to come to his friend’s aid before he is dealt a massive blow to his jaw and neck, and the great soldier crumples into the dirt. Natasha sucks in a breath as Bucky’s body flushes white hot. He's seen enough felled men to know when something horrible has happened, and yet he prays that he is wrong.

“Go,” Natasha cries. “Go to him! I’m fine, please go see if he’s okay!”

Bucky doesn’t argue, running towards Steve before he’s fully on his feet. Thanos, caught up in Wanda’s efforts to free the Mind Stone, hardly spares him any attention as he rushes past the hulking alien.

Bucky hits his knees beside Steve, fingers frantically searching for a pulse in his neck. “Please, please, please,” he whispers, heart dropping into his stomach when he finds none. He scans Steve's face, finding cold, lifeless eyes where just minutes ago there had been bright determination. Bucky swallows, looking away from the face that he's sure will live in his nightmares for a good long while. “Oh, God.”

Natasha wails in the distance, fighting against the rocks that keep her pinned. She’s only dislodged when an explosion rocks the earth, a golden glow radiating through the woods as the Mind Stone is destroyed. 

Bucky does not care. He can’t, even though he knows he should. Natasha falls into the dirt beside him, her hands feeling Steve’s face and neck the same way Bucky had.

“Oh, God,” she cries, sobs wracking her body when she finds emptiness where there used to be life. “Steve.”

Bucky wraps an arm around her as she leans into him, her hands clamped over her mouth doing little to stop the cries that escape it. His own vision is blurry when he looks towards Thanos’s hulking figure, standing over a distraught Wanda. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t hardly move as he watches the purple man approach the woman.

“I understand, my child,” he says as he walks closer to her. “Better than anyone.”

“You could never,” she chokes out as she stares up at him, fury and raging grief darkening her features.

Thanos extends a meaty hand towards the woman, caressing her hair as if to offer comfort. “Today, I lost more than you can know. But now is no time to mourn. Now…” he says as he approaches the black matter coating the ground, “...is no time at all.”

He extends his hand, the gauntlet clenching as a detailed emerald ring envelopes his wrist. Before it, a golden orb begins to glow as time is reversed, and in seconds Vision materializes before Thanos. Whole, intact, and ripe for the plucking.

“No!” Wanda cries, lunging for him.

In the same heartbeat, Steve takes a gasping breath before them. He shoots up onto one elbow, coughing furiously. 

“Steve?” Natasha asks through her tears, grabbing at his face and neck and hands before he can properly open his eyes.

Bucky blinks as the Captain looks up at her. He reaches a shaking hand up to massage his neck. “What happened?”

“You died,” Natasha says hoarsely as Bucky reaches for Steve’s neck, finding his pulse in seconds.

“You’re alive,” Bucky says through a breath, unable to believe his own eyes. 

Steve grimaces. “Did we win?”

They look toward Thanos in time to watch the life literally drain out of Vision. The android’s red body fades to gray, and Thanos tosses him away like he’s a plastic bag. Even from their distance, the three soldiers can see the crater of wires and vibranium where there used to be the Mind Stone. No, they have not won. 

Thanos holds the Infinity Stone now, staring at the golden glowing rock before slowly lowering it into the waiting spot on his gauntlet. The energy surge that results from the union is intensely powerful, and Thanos screams as iridescent static and electricity swarm his torso.

Bucky helps Steve get into a sitting position as they watch, horrified, as the Titan stares down at his gloved hand.

And then he’s thrown backwards by a massive bolt of lightning. He recovers as Thor breaks through the trees, ax thrown back over his shoulder as he descends on the clearing. Thanos uses the combined power of the Stones to intercept StormBreaker, but even they can’t stop the ax from embedding itself in his chest. Thanos is brought to one knee as Thor lands in front of him. He stabilizes one hand behind the alien’s neck and uses the other to push the blade of the ax deeper into Thanos’s chest. “I told you,” he says over the crunching of bone, “you’d die for that.”

“You should have…” Thanos says weakly as Bucky gets to his feet, the other two following quickly behind him. The Titan groans, voice slowly strengthening as he adds, “You should have gone for the head.”

He lifts the gauntlet, and with a steady hand, snaps his fingers. 

Thor’s shout can barely be heard over the sound of pulsing magic, the power of the Snap filling the entire forest with blinding white light.

“What did you do?” Thor roars as the ringing fades, repeating himself as Thanos looks around the clearing. His left arm is charred into atrophy, the golden gauntlet corroded and smoking. StormBreaker falls with a thud to the earth as Thanos disappears the way he came: through a cloud of smoke. Thor goes deathly still as he stares at it. 

Natasha pushes Bucky and Steve, an arm wrapped around her side as she approaches Thor. “Where’d he go?” she asks the man, looking around frantically for any sign of Thanos. “Thor…” she trails off. “Where'd he go?”

Flecks of dust start to appear in the air, catching the wind and swirling between Bucky and Steve. Steve swallows, confusion contorting his features as he raises a hand. A hand that is slowly disintegrating. 

Bucky stills, staring at his oldest friend fading before his eyes. The blood drains from his face. “Steve?”

Steve’s eyes are wide and horrified as he stumbles. Natasha turns. And then Steve collapses face-first and vanishes in a puff of brown dust.

Chapter Text

Bucky steps numbly into the patchy clearing, having returned from his futile search for the others. Out of those who’d assembled the front lines, Bruce, Thor, Rhodey, and Rocket are the only ones who remain. They pause behind Bucky at the edge of the clearing. In front of them, in the same position he’d left her in, Natasha sits crumpled beside Vision’s gray body. She doesn’t turn at the sound of their return.

Rocket sags against the log behind him, staring silently at the dust blowing across his feet. Everybody else stands motionless, looking from Bucky to Natasha’s still figure. Nobody knows what to do, and for a brief second, neither does Bucky. He’s struck by the fact that, with Steve no longer here to take charge, all of the decision-making is now on his shoulders. It’s obvious, with the four pairs of eyes staring at him, that everybody else knows it, too. 

As he crosses the clearing he tries to imagine what Steve would do if he was here, coming up with a mental checklist of things that need to be done as he nears Natasha. 

Mobilize units. 

Check on the injured.

Organize cleanups.

Get people home. 

It’s a small list, but it’s a starting point. And it’s better than nothing.

“Hey.” Bucky says softly, crouching beside her to rest a hand on her back. “We’ve gotta go.”

She doesn’t react to his touch, her gaze fixed on Vision’s dull body. Her voice is hoarse when she replies. “Go where?”

“Home. Back to the palace.”

She blinks. “Who is left?”

“Bruce, Thor, Rhodey, and Rocket.”

She closes her eyes, realizing how few people remain. “Are they okay?”

He shrugs slightly. “Yes and no. They’re shaken.”

She starts to get to her feet, groaning as she does so. He follows her, standing to his full height as she wraps an arm around her stomach. Her face turns a pale shade of green as she sucks in a breath.

“Natasha?” he asks. Concern creases his brow as she turns away from him.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she says as she stumbles into the treeline. 

Bucky immediately turns to wave off the group behind him. “Go to the palace,” he orders. “We’ll join you there.”

Though concern etches their faces, nobody protests. Not a sound is made as they turn as one and disappear back the way they came. 

Bucky follows Natasha’s path through the woods, quickly finding her bent in half with her hands on her knees. He comes up behind her and rests a hand on her arched back, making small, soothing circles she gasps for air. 

“Tasha?”

She doesn’t answer. It’s when her shoulders begin to shake does he realize that she’s crying. 

“Oh, Tasha,” he says, and wraps an arm around her side to pull her into his arms. She doesn’t resist, sagging against him without protest. She’s barely able to stand as she cries into his shoulder. Her hands lock around the straps of his vest, clinging to him like she’s afraid he’ll disintegrate, too.

“James,” she says through her tears. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he says into her hair. “We’re just gonna take it one thing at a time, okay?” 

“I didn’t think it was going to end like this.”

He continues to make small circles against her back. “I didn’t, either.”

“Do you think we can get them back?” she asks against his shoulder.

“I don’t know, but we have to try,” Bucky tells her. Even as he says it, he has no idea how to even start on such a daunting task. 

Natasha pulls back to look at him, cheeks glistening in the lowlight. “We need to find Shuri. She can tell us how to start.”

Her insistence almost makes him smile. He swipes his thumbs under her eyes, catching the tears that continue to fall. “I agree. But we need to get things under control here before we can do anything else. We need to figure out who is still alive and if this is happening anywhere else.”

She wipes her nose. “Okay.” 

“Come on.” Bucky extends a hand to her and she takes it as they start to walk. 

They make the trek back to the palace in silence. They cross streams and trenches and avoid the bodies of fallen soldiers and aliens alike, unable to ignore the destruction and death coating the golden field. 

Bucky adds another to-do on his list as they splash through puddles of mud.

Organize funerals.

Okoye is at the head of those assembled when they reach the palace, and the crowd parts to allow Bucky and Natasha passage through the front. The General’s expression is somber when she meets their eyes. “T’Challa is gone.”

“And the Princess?” Natasha asks from beside him, a dangerous glimmer of hope in her voice. 

Okoye only shakes her head. 

Natasha exhales a quick, shaky breath, like she’s been punched in the stomach. Bucky ducks his head, closing his eyes against the sudden mental image of the bright and vibrant woman reduced to ashes.

“White Wolf,” Okoye says after a moment, and though her eyes glisten, her face is stoic. “This is no time to mourn. We must keep moving.” Her encouragement does little to rally him, maybe because he can hear Thanos’s voice in her words. Still, he lifts his head. 

“We need to get units mobilized,” Bucky says to her after a moment. “We need assigned groups to bring in the dead and see to the injured. Anybody with medical training needs to report to the medical bay and prepare for the influx of wounded.”

Okoye stares at him for a moment, as if considering his authority. Then she dips her head and begins to shout orders to her soldiers. Her golden armor glints in the sun as she walks across the deck. 

Bucky then turns to Natasha, heart sinking at the distant look in her eyes. He takes her hand, encouraging her to look at him. “You need to go find the team and see who needs medical attention,” he instructs when she meets his eyes. “If they’re still standing and capable, send them to join Okoye’s groups."

“What will you do?” she asks. 

He looks towards the soldiers splitting off into platoons, watching as some start to head inside. “I’m gonna help set up for triage in the medical bay.”

She gives his hand a firm squeeze. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I should be asking you that.”

A small, timid smile breaking through her features. He’s relieved to see it. “Yeah.”

She gives him a kiss before disappearing amongst the sea of soldiers. It’s only once she’s out of sight does he turn and begin the task at hand. Those still standing have begun to help the wounded into the building, guiding them towards the medical bay where doctors and nurses wait. Bucky steps up to a limping man and pulls his arm around his neck, letting the soldier lean against him as they walk. Though he keeps his free hand pressed firmly against his side, blood trickles through his fingers and leaves a red trail in their wake.

The bay is loud and chaotic when they enter. A doctor rushes to greet them, immediately escorting him to an open bed.

“What can I do?” Bucky grabs the attention of a passing nurse, noting the packs of medical supplies she holds in her arms.

She jerks her head towards one of the supply stations. “Everything is packaged according to wound type. Figure out what the doctors need and bring them what they need. Jump in where you can. We need every possible hand.”

In the hours that pass, the team of assembled medics sees hundreds of wounded men and women. Some with minor scrapes and bruising, others with injuries so severe Bucky couldn’t believe they were still standing. Though his medical skills are few and far between, he lends help when he can, providing comfort and support when he can’t. He walks down the long row of beds, clasping the hands of the soldiers that reach for him and murmuring prayers over those who ask. 

It’s only once the influx of wounded begins to slow that he starts to excuse himself. Bucky is only a few paces from the door when someone calls his name. He turns, spotting a hand held high in the air. It belongs to the man from earlier, the one he’d helped into the bay.

“I’m Ora,” the man introduces himself when Bucky shakes his hand. “Bucky,” he replies. “How are you feeling?”

The man looks down at his tightly-bandaged torso. He shrugs. “Better than before. Thanks for your help back there.”

“I wish I could have done more,” he admits. His words echo beyond this space, reverberating back to the moment before Thanos snapped.

Ora shakes his head. “We will always wish for more without realizing how far we’ve come. You should go home,” he continues before Bucky can speak. “Be with your family. Rest for tomorrow.”

Bucky nods, wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed with Natasha and sleep for days. He clasps Ora’s hand. “Take care of yourself.”

The man dips his head. “You do the same.”

The late evening light shines in through the windows, casting a golden glow across the desolate hallway. He doesn’t run into anybody on his way outside, though he finds himself hoping Sam or Steve will turn the corner and fall into step beside him. He slams his hands into the push bar, trying to shake the tingly feeling crawling over his shoulders. He forces himself not to look over his shoulder as he steps outside. The sun has already sunk below the trees, turning the air cool and brisk. The breeze cuts through his shirt as he walks to where the groups of soldiers are assembled in front of Okoye. He joins at the edge of the crowd, catching the last of the General’s words as he scans for a pop of red hair. He finds Natasha quickly, standing towards the front of the crowd with her arms crossed over her chest.

“-get some rest. Visit with your families. I will send word when we need you again.” Okoye looks around the crowd and gives them an approving, dismissing nod. With that, the assembled crowd begins to dissipate. 

Bucky begins to walk further into the platform, searching for Natasha as he pushes through the throngs of people. They spot each other at the same time, locking eyes from across the way. Natasha’s lips curve into a gentle, tired smile. He’s reminded of yesterday as people walk between them, of the rooftop party and dancing and her in that dress. 

He returns her smile as she stops in front of him, taking her hand in his. “Hi, doll.”

Natasha reaches up her free hand to cup his cheek, her eyebrows knitting together in concern. “ Moya lyubov'. Are you okay?” she asks, her eyes searching his. “You look exhausted.”

He tries to nod convincingly.  “Nothing that can’t be cured with a little sleep. How are you? Did everything go okay?”

Natasha nods as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We got some of the damage cleaned up, but it’ll be a while before that part of the dome is functional again. The fields are still a wreck. It felt like all we really did was move rocks from one place to the next.” She casts a glance towards the darkening field. “So many people are gone.”

Bucky leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “I know.”

She leans into him. “Can we go home?”

"I thought you'd never ask."

“It’s a miracle we’re both standing,” she mumbles as they walk inside, sliding an arm around his back. 

He murmurs an agreement. 

The room they’d left Tuesday morning feels like a completely different one when they push open the door. The air is cool and still, having gone undisturbed for nearly a day and a half. Natasha’s boots send up puffs of dirt when they land on the floor, his own following after. She shrugs her vest from her shoulders with a groan. “I cannot wait to shower.”

“I don’t know what sounds better: shower or sleep. Or both.”

“I’m at the point where the threat of drowning isn’t a deterrent.”

By the time Bucky crawls into bed he can hardly see straight. He has long discarded his metal arm, the socket of his left shoulder now throbbing with every beat of his heart. His muscles protest every motion, his limbs impossibly heavy and begging for rest as he crawls into bed. The sheets are cool against his face when he lowers himself onto his stomach, a small groan escaping his lips at the instant relief. The mattress caves as Natasha joins him, curling up on her side to face him. She extends a hand to rest on his sore shoulder, half of her face buried in the mattress when she looks at him. 

“You okay?” she asks, her thumb sliding back and forth across the silicone sleeve that covers his shoulder. 

He shrugs as best he can. “Not really.”

The smile she offers him is small and sad. “Me, too.”

He tugs her close and presses a kiss to her forehead. She tucks herself under his chin, arm wrapping securely around his back. It’s then that they finally sleep, wrapped around each other like they’ll never get to hold each other again.

***

A pounding headache threatens to split his skull open the second Bucky opens his eyes. The rain drumming against the window only makes it worse, every raindrop amplified in his skull. He grimaces against the sound, pressing his palm against his eyes. It’s only when he moves does he notice the lightness of the sheets, the coolness that radiates from Natasha’s place beside him. He looks to his right to find it empty. 

Bucky sits forward with a groan, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes as the pressure spikes. “Talia?” he calls weakly.

A groan echoes from the bathroom. “In here.”

He appears in the doorway after a moment, still rubbing his eye. He frowns. “What are you doing?”

Natasha is only slightly visible in the darkness, slumped against the bathtub across from the toilet. Her eyes shine in the dim light. “Trying not to throw up again.”

He pads across the tiled floor to crouch next to her, reaching out his hand to brush her hair away from her forehead. “How long have you been in here?”

“I don’t know. Long.” She squints up at him. “Is your headache as bad as mine?”

“I don’t think so,” he says, offering her a sympathetic frown as he stands to grab a cup off the counter. He fills it and hands it to Natasha with two orange painkillers. She takes it, mumbling her thanks from around the rim as he lowers himself to the floor beside her. Natasha leans her head against his shoulder once he’s settled. 

“Y’know,” she starts. “I thought that I would wake up and realize that yesterday was just a horrible dream. That Steve would be down the hall and not…wherever he is.”

“You don’t think he’s…?” Bucky doesn’t dare voice the thought.

“Dead?” she finishes. “No. No, I don’t think so. I mean, you saw it. He turned into dust. I don’t think that constitutes dying. Does it?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, doll.”

“Oh, I wish Shuri was here,” she says with a groan, shifting away from him and towards the toilet. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

He’d half expected to wake up to a text from the princess this morning, or for her to break down his door with Steve and Sam in tow, insisting that the last twenty four hours were just a big prank. As such, his door remains intact and his phone silent.

Bucky rests his hand on Natasha’s back. “Can I get you anything?”

She shakes her head as she sits back, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her shirt. “No. Just sit here with me.”

“Okay.”

Natasha leans her head against the cool glass of the shower door. She’s silent for a moment, and then says, “James, I think I need to go to New York tomorrow.”

Her eyes are half open when he turns to look at her. “You do?”

“Nobody is returning my calls. I can’t reach Clint or Yelena, and Tony could be offworld for all I know. I need to see if everybody is okay, and I want you to come with me.”

“You do?” He can sense the serious undertones in her offer, and knows what deeper part of their relationship it speaks to. He so desperately wants to take her up on it.

“Of course I do. With all the craziness that has happened over the last couple of months, I couldn’t imagine going through this without you. Whatever news awaits us in New York, I want you there for it.”

Bucky takes her hand. “Oh, Natasha, I want to go with you too. I just…” He trails off, thinking back to the wounded, defeated soldiers from yesterday, of the hundreds of men and women lying in flag-draped caskets in a private room of the palace. He’s reminded of the destroyed buildings and fields, knowing that the people who have supported him for the last two years have had their world turned upside down. There’s still funerals to plan and communities that need to be rebuilt. His heart swells at her offer, at what it means, and yet…he can’t accept it. “I think I need to stay here,” he says softly. “At least for a little while. These people…they’ve just lost everything. T’Challa is gone, Shuri is gone. I can’t leave them when things are like this. There’s too much work to be done here.” He gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “I love you. You are my family, too. I would love nothing more than to go to New York with you. I just can’t go, not yet.”

Natasha offers him a small, sad smile. She leans forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “I understand.”

“Under any other circumstance, you know I would go with you in a heartbeat.”

She nods. “It’s okay. We’ll just have to go to New York together, you know, when we can actually enjoy it.”

“Maybe for Christmas,” he offers. “I’ve never been.”

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Really?”

He shakes his head. “I mean, if I did, it was probably on assignment. Between all of the shooting and killing, I didn’t get time to appreciate it.”

“Yeah, that does put a damper on things.”

“But just because I can’t go doesn’t mean you shouldn’t,” he says decisively. “You should go and see your family. Make sure they’re okay. I’ll get things under control here and join you when things are settled.”

“I will. Once I think I can stand without throwing up.”

Bucky presses a hand to her forehead. “Well, you’re not warm. Must just be a hell of a concussion.”

“I’ve had enough to know you’re right.” Her eyes scan his face. “Are you feeling okay?”

He shrugs. “I hurt less when I fell off the train. I can’t even come up with a metaphor to describe how I feel right now.”

She chuckles, immediately grabbing her side as her abdomen contracts. “Oh, don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

“Sorry.”

“So,” she begins once she leans against his shoulder. “I probably won’t leave until tomorrow. What do you want to do today?” 

He looks down at her, suddenly reminded of the morning they’d spent in the motel room in Ohio. Ideally, he’d want to get started on rebuilds and planning, but his entire body protests with every movement and he’s exhausted just thinking about going further than his front door. “Well…do you wanna watch trashy tv?”

Judging by the way she smiles, it’s clear that she understands his reference. “I would love that.”

He slowly gets to his feet as Natasha disentangles herself from his arm, eventually helping her stand. 

“At some point it’s gotta be my turn to help you,” she jokes as they walk out of the bathroom. He turns to look at her.

“Natalia, you have no idea how much you already have.”

She blinks, expression soft. “I love you, you know that?” And then, “You’re not just saying that as a way to get me into bed, are you?”

He chuckles. “The only reason I want you in my bed right now is so you can rest.”

“And room service,” she adds as she crawls under the sheets.

“Obviously.”

They spend the entire day sleeping and staring mindlessly at the TV, only bothering to move from the bed for food and water. Natasha’s favorite cinema categories play across the screen as the hours go by, the darkness of the room broken up by bitchy housewives and vampire love triangles and old James Bond movies. The only thing he enjoys more than her quiet laughter is when she snuggles closer to him, playing lazily with the collar of his shirt as she stares at the TV.

Knowing that Natasha has to leave tomorrow brings back the same hollow feeling from their last day at the motel, and coupled with the tragedy of the last twenty-four hours, it’s all he can do to focus on the television in front of him. Still, despite everything that has happened, it’s her presence beside him that reminds him of everything he still has, of hope despite the painful impermanence of this moment.

“What are you thinking about?” Natasha asks quietly when the screen goes dark between programs, shifting her position. 

“Losing everything,” he says after a moment, continuing when she looks up at him. “And then finding it again.”

***

Bucky says goodbye to her the next morning, unable to shake the heavy feeling in his stomach as various crewmen run around the landing pad. He’s reminded of the last time he stood here, watching as Steve and Sam and Natasha prepared for a similar takeoff. It’s hollowing to know that half of their quartet is gone.

Based on the expression Natasha wears as she walks over to him, it’s clear that she’s thinking the same thing. She stops in front of him, dressed in a simple sweatshirt and jeans. She runs a hand over her hair, pulled back into a small ponytail. 

“I hate leaving like this,” she admits, looking around at the barren platform. “It feels wrong.”

He rests a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not wrong. I know it feels that way, but this is something you need to do. I would be doing the same thing if I was in your shoes.”

She sighs. “I know. I know everybody here is in good hands with you in charge.”

“I don’t know about ‘in charge’, but I’ll do my best. And it won’t be for too long.”

She cups his face in her hands. “You’ll do great. I can’t wait to hear about it.”

“Does it sound desperate if I say I’ll call you every day?”

“We can both be desperate then,” she says as she looks back towards the finished aircraft. “But it won’t be forever. At least we’ll see each other in a few weeks.”

“You really think a month will be enough time to get everything sorted?” It’s both too much time and not enough.

“I don’t know. But if we make it any longer I’m afraid I won’t want to leave. And I have to go.”

Despite the heavy feeling in his gut, he offers her a soft smile. “I know. Call me when you land, okay?” he says as the flight crew begins to disperse in preparation for takeoff.

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Let me know how things go.”

Natasha raises on tiptoe to press a long, firm kiss to his lips, hands cupping his face as she does so. He returns it, holding onto her as tightly as he can in the hopes that it’ll be enough to make her stay. It doesn’t last long enough. She’s pulling away before he knows it, giving him one last smile over her shoulder as she heads towards the humming plane. He watches her walk up the ramp and disappear inside, and it’s only a matter of moments before the plane lifts into the air with a powerful hiss. He still waves even though he can’t see her, keeping his hand raised until she’s nothing but a spec of gray in the distance. Everything falls silent once again, and he remains motionless on the platform long after she’s gone, knowing that once he turns to go inside that the work begins.

It’s only when his phone buzzes in his pocket does he move. He pulls it out of his pocket as he turns towards the doors, managing a smile at the text on the screen.

Miss you already.

Chapter Text

Natasha’s POV

– October 2018 –

The gravel driveway pops under the wheels of Natasha’s car as she pulls into the curved driveway. The music playing softly on the radio shuts off abruptly as she turns the car off, the cabin falling silent as she leans forward to look out the windshield. The hulking building comes into view as she crosses her arms across the steering wheel, resting her cheek tiredly against the leather. The compound sags in the earth, its once-gleaming windows dusty and dull in the moonlight. 

Tony had moved to his upstate property following the collapse of the Avengers, not bothering to sell the multimillion dollar building after the team had gone their separate ways. Nobody had bothered to come back to it after the split, and the building had gone untouched for the last few years. Her code for the front gate had still worked, however, begging the question of what else hadn’t – or had – been changed. 

Tony.

Surely off-world, though she was unsure if he had been turned into ash or not. Unsure who he’d been with, who’d he’d fought with or against. Who was still standing. 

Natasha’s stomach twists as she reaches for the handle of her car door, pulling her gaze away from the building as she does so. Her fingers slip on the cold metal, hands uncharacteristically sweaty. The night air is cool when she steps out of the car. She casts her gaze across the football-field sized front yard, staring for a moment at the twinkling silver grass that spreads across the estate. Her welcome-back party flashes through her head as she lifts her eyes to the night sky, the twinkling stars reminding her of the gem-studded black dress she’d worn, of James’s hands against her back as they danced, of the same dress in a heap on his floor later that night. Natasha’s lips purse into a small smile as she opens the passenger-side door to retrieve her bag. 

Her boots thud against the wide concrete steps as she makes her way towards the dark front door. A pang strikes her in the chest, a painfully nostalgic feeling washing over her shoulders as she goes. She’d climbed these stairs a thousand times over, up and down, left and right, even slid down the railings on a dare from Wanda. 

Wanda.

The woman’s terrified, quickly disintegrating face appears before her eyes without much encouragement, and Natasha shakes her head to rid herself of the terrible image. She extends a hand to the keypad, silently promising to make it right. To bring back everyone that had been taken from her, to kill Thanos for what he had done.

She punches in the same code she’d used for the gate, one that Tony had so cleverly chosen when he’d assigned them to everyone shortly after buying the building. 

733.

Red.

To her, it meant red widow, red room, red ledger. A slight jab to her past and her line of work, even if Tony hadn’t intended it in that way. Then, the longer she spent in the company of her friends, it had become her nickname and a term of endearment. Though she’d often threatened to hack the system and change the code herself, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Even if it was a simple code, and a breach of national security if broken, she let it be. 

Now, as the light on the thumbpad pulses red and then green under her finger, she can’t help but recall the words Tony had spit at her on the hospital balcony in DC.

Boy, it must be hard to shake the whole double agent thing, huh? It sticks in the DNA.

That, Natasha knew, was intentional. Born out of frustration and anger, he blamed her for Rhodey’s accident and paralysis, even though that wasn’t her fault. It was Steve and James’s escape that was her fault, and though she hadn’t punched Tony into hamburger meat and left him for dead in Siberia, the billionaire considered that to be her fault, too. She hadn’t bothered to correct him. 

Natasha’s constant headache drums at her temples as she pulls open the heavy door. 

The moonlight does little to illuminate the shadowy space, and she walks through the dark lobby like a cat through a minefield. Dust coats the front desk, the wooden surfaces bare but undisturbed. Folders and dead tablets sit in an organized fashion by the keyboard and monitor. The lobby furniture is uncovered, the once vibrant upholstery now dull shades of blue and purple. Dark cabinets and bookshelves line the walls, rising ominously in the background.

She looks up at the chandeliers that hang from the ceiling, their fat crystals twinkling in the dark.

Lights . 

She’d never been afraid of the dark, but the dark vacancy is unsettling. It reminds her of standing in a graveyard.

Natasha walks over to reception and flips the array of lightswitches hidden beneath the desk. With a soft hum, the chandeliers and sconces on the wall spark to life and the first floor is flooded with warm, comforting light. So, he still paid the electric bill. 

Her body softens, the stiffness in her shoulders fading as she looks around. The first floor was reserved for purely diplomatic matters. Board meetings, budget meetings, meetings with politicians and marketing executives, things of policy that Natasha had rarely involved herself in. Dark conference rooms sit beyond the reception desk, the white light from the coffee bar reflecting off of the glass walls. 

Duffel bag still in hand, Natasha heads for the elevators. She doesn’t bother to turn the lights off, not wanting to throw such an intimate place into cold, unfamiliar darkness.

The elevator is cold and the air stale, but it rises smoothly as it sails upward through the building. The red numbers change in slow uniformity. She can hear her own heartbeat in the silence. 

The team had been granted the luxury of their own rooms at Stark Tower, and the final fifth and sixth floors of the Avenger’s Compound was turned into a communal living space. The boys had been given the fifth floor, and per Natasha’s request, her and Wanda had been given the top floor. Their rooms were across the building from one another, joined in the middle by a living space with comfortable, plush couches that could not be found anywhere else. 

Natasha had looked for them everywhere, spending her time in her Norway trailer home browsing various furniture store websites for something similar. Pointless, she knew, but she still looked all the same.

She’d kept the lease on the tiny New York apartment she’d lived in before the Fury had assembled the Avengers, only holding onto it to serve as a fallback plan in case something went sideways. Hardly furnished and barely lived in, she’d only gone back to it three times in her whole career: after the disaster at the TriSkelion, after the Avengers fell apart, and after the fall of the Red Room. Going back to the same unsecured location more than once went against every part of her training, proven to her by the mercenary laying in wait upon her final return.

The following fight had left the semi-furnished apartment akin to a warzone. What little furniture she’d owned had been punched through with bullet holes, her plates and mugs smashed to pieces, all finished by a six-inch blade to her thigh and a bullet hole in his head. 

Limping back into Wakanda wasn’t how she’d wanted to reunite with T’Challa, especially after she’d electrocuted him in the airport, but he’d set her up with the best medical care possible regardless, and for that she was entirely grateful. Which is why she’d gone after the mercenaries who’d killed the livestock and, once again, gotten herself into trouble. 

Natasha leans back against the wall of the slowly rising elevator, the events that followed after that night replaying in her mind.

The initial gunfight, the bodies of the Dora Milaje unit scattered across the ground until she was the only one still standing.

The overwhelming amount of mercenaries, the butt of a rifle against the back of her head knocking her out. 

The handcuffs against her wrists, the gag they’d tied around her mouth after she bit Kingston hard enough to draw blood. 

The dark storage unit they’d locked her in.

The same one Bucky had ripped open after hearing her muffled cries. 

The explosion, her choosing to instinctively shield him from the blast, him automatically wrapping his metal arm around her head. It was the only reason she didn’t walk out of the facility with a concussion. 

The dirty mirror glass under her ribs that moved with every rise and fall of her chest.

Bucky’s hand under hers, his skin sticky and hot with her blood. 

The trek back to the plane, the walk through the woods, the musty smell of the truck he’d hotwired in the Denny’s parking lot. 

Bucky’s words of encouragement as she did her best to hold herself upright.

Him lifting her into his arms with ease. 

She was barely conscious by the time they’d reached the motel and he’d pulled the glass from her side, but she can remember him taking her boots off and helping her into the bed.

Bucky’s hand on her wrist, feeling her pulse while she slept. 

The days they’d spent in limbo, Bucky watching stupid television shows at her request without protest, the bakery they’d walked to the day before they had to leave. 

Her panic attack, his willingness to lay down on the floor with her while she caught her breath. The hand he’d shoved under the bathroom door in an attempt to get closer to her, the fingertips she’d held onto while her heartbeat slowed. 

The walk back to the QuinJet the next day, the alleyway she’d pulled him into. His body in her arms, melting into her with a softness she’d forgotten was possible.

Their almost-kiss, his hands in her hair, his lips centimeters from hers.

The plane ride back, the card game she’d taught him, the chatter of people that had greeted them upon their arrival. 

Steve’s arms wrapping in her in a hug, his embrace feeling lopsided in comparison to Bucky’s. Like opposite ends of a magnet. 

The shower she’d taken after walking Bucky to his room, unable to shake the feeling that tugged her back to his door. The door that had opened before she’d had the chance to knock, surprise taking over his face.

Their confession, their shared relief, his lips on hers before she could move. 

The party at the end of the week, the gorgeous dress Shuri had helped her pick out, the expression on Bucky’s face when he saw her. His hands against her exposed back, the smell of his cologne and shampoo as she rests her cheek against his shoulder.

The elevator chimes Natasha’s arrival and she blinks, pushing herself off the wall as the memories from that night fade from her mind. Instead, it’s the sickness she’d been fighting off for the last few days that pushes itself to the surface instead, and she barely has time to revel in nostalgia in her haste to get to the bathroom.

She pushes through her old quarters, passing through a room frozen in time. It’s when Natasha sits back on her knees, hair falling back around her face, does she realize that her bathroom has also gone unchanged. The same shower curtain hangs in front of the tub, her usual grey towels are draped over the rod, and her few trinkets still sit on her bathroom counter. The entire bathroom is slightly dusty and untouched, still in the relatively clean state she’d kept it in. Like she’d never left. 

The nauseous feeling she’d had while stuffing a duffle bag full of clothes and guns in this exact bathroom is back, but for a different reason. She stands to her feet, pressing one hand to her forehead. 

What is going on with me?

There’s a lot of reasons for the constant sickness, the stomach aches, the exhaustion, the strange bouts of tears that seemed to hit her at random times. Considering the current state of the world and her family, she doesn’t think anyone would blame her for it. That’s what she’d chalked it up to: her body’s reaction to a catastrophic battle that ended in grief and panic. 

There was another, less logical, explanation for her symptoms, but considering its improbability, she’d forced herself not to think about it. 

Which meant she found herself thinking an awful lot about it. 

The Red Room’s graduation ceremony was simple and effective. Sterilization was a practice they’d long perfected, turning women into weapons by depriving them of their supposed weaknesses. Natasha had already mourned the life she could have had, hiding her sorrow while watching Clint’s children grow up. She’d loved them like they were her own, doting on them with the love of an aunt while wishing she could have a child of her own to join them. Knowing she’d never have children was a fact she’d accepted, a grief she’d learned to live with, and hadn’t allowed herself to think anything different.

Did you ever wish for kids?

Yelena’s question echoes in her mind, just as clear as when she’d asked it from across that splintered picnic table. 

Natasha looks down at her hand wrapped around her stomach and forces the tendrils of hope back down. It’s a concussion, she tells herself. Nothing more.  

Her phone rings then, echoing off the marble walls. Natasha pulls it from her pocket, hoping it’s her sister returning her many missed phone calls and texts. James Barnes flashes on her screen instead, and she manages a small smile as she answers his call. She presses it to her ear as she walks into her bedroom. 

“Hi.”

“ Hi yourself. Make it in okay?”

She flips on the lamp on her bedside table, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Yeah. I’m at the compound now. Everything okay there?”

“Yeah, nothing too crazy yet. The real work will start tomorrow. What about you? What’s first on your list?”

Her fingers tangle in her hair. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’m just glad I got through the front gate.”

Bucky chuckles, his voice reverberating low in her ear. “Stark didn’t change the code?”

“I guess not. The entire place is still in working condition, so it looks like he’s been paying the bills.”

“ Well, if it’s any help, I can send you the statistics Okoye has gathered over the last couple of hours. She’s trying to get global numbers, but she started with the States.”

“That would be great.” 

The room falls silent. Natasha follows the lines in the ceiling with her eyes, falling back against her pillows. “I’ve been thinking,” she says after a moment, “about kids.”

His response comes after a moment of silence. “Oh?”

“The kids,” she clarifies, wishing she could see the expression on his face. “The ones who have lost their parents to this nightmare.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Yeah, I hadn’t thought about that.”

Natasha looks around her room, thinking aloud. “This place is awfully quiet with everybody gone. And big. Maybe they could come here.”

“What, all the kids?”

She shrugs, fiddling with a loose thread on her jeans. “Yeah, even if it’s temporary. Maybe I could set up an orphanage of sorts. Give them a safe place to stay until they can be reunited with other family members, or until we can figure out how to reverse this.”

“I know Tony spared no expense on the compound, but I don’t think it’s big enough to hold all of the displaced kids in New York.”

Natasha huffs out a sigh, knowing he’s right. “I know. I’ll play around with some ideas tomorrow.”

“I think it’s a noble idea all the same. I know you’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks.”

“ Well, I’ll let you get some rest. I know you’ve had a long flight. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

She smiles. “I’m glad you called. I’ll miss you.”

“Hopefully not for much longer.”

“You still think everything can get sorted in a month?”

“With the resources here, I don’t think it’s an unrealistic timeline. And now I have even more motivation to get the job done.”

“Saving the world isn’t enough?”

“It’s a close second.”

She chuckles. “I love you. Sleep well, moya lyubov .”

“You too, doll. Love you.”

The phone beeps as the line disconnects, and then the room is thrust into silence. It’s the same as she’d left it, a few personal touches scattered across her dresser and nightstand. Upon quick glance her room has the same makings of a hotel room, with a simple cotton bedspread and matching pillows resting against the linen headboard. Spread across the bed are a few blankets she’d chosen for herself, fuzzy and soft to the touch.

Natasha runs her hand across the fluffy material, remembering all of the nights she’d used them to stave off the winter chill. The faint smell of her perfume still lingers among the fibers, filling her nose when she tugs it closer to herself. Vanilla and berries flood her senses. Her stomach twists at the memories that come rushing back to her, and she manages a small smile despite the painful nostalgia. 

She sits upright after a moment, carefully setting her blanket aside as she looks to her bedside table. On it sits a lamp, an unused glass, a few hair ties, and a picture frame. The glass is dusty when she picks it up, and she runs her fingers across the surface to clean it. A myriad of smiling faces appear under her fingertips. Peter Parker had taken this photo, a candid one of the game nights that Steve often suggested. Sam and Tony stand nose to nose over the coffee table, a pixel-y monopoly board between them. The rest of the team sits sprawled across the couches in the background, in varying stages of laughter or protest. She’s drawn to the shot of herself, tucked in the corner of the couch with a giant smile lighting up her face. She was happy here, content. At home and at peace with her family.

How quickly everything had changed only a few months later.

Natasha sets the frame down. 

She turns her phone over in her hand, praying for it to buzz. For a text back from Tony, Yelena, Melina. She assumes their fate, knows deep in her heart that they’re probably gone too. She can’t confess it aloud, can’t make it a reality any more than she can the reason behind her sickness. Instead, she fishes her few toiletries from her bag and walks to the bathroom. Tears prick at her eyes as she shrugs off her clothes, a painful lump welling in her throat as she slides the shower curtain open and turns on the water. Steam quickly fogs up the mirror, the hot water mixing with her tears as she turns her face to the showerhead. She cries until she’s spent and her eyes are red, the water pooling at her feet turning cold after what could have been minutes or hours.

With shaky hands Natasha turns the shower off, drying her face with a towel.

Pull yourself together, she tells herself, breathing in the lingering scent of linen and cotton as she approaches the sink. 

Numbly, she unpacks her small bag of toiletries and carefully arranges them on the counter, a feeling so familiar it’s unsettling. She then tugs a shirt over her head as she walks into the bedroom, the smell of Bucky’s cologne filling her nose. The comforting smell of soft sage and rich bergamot settles over her as she crawls into bed. The mattress accepts the curves of her body, hugging her as she burrows into her pillow. 

Natasha pulls the spare pillow to her chest, wishing it was the man she’d spent the last week sleeping beside. Her heart pounds painfully in her chest, begging for relief as it drums against her ribs. She counts every beat as exhaustion lulls her into sleep, a single silver tear soaking into her pillowcase as darkness overtakes her.

***

It feels wrong to set up in Tony’s office, so Natasha takes one of the conference rooms. Her old passwords still work, so she logs onto one of the dusty monitors and begins to compile notes.

Census logs are being updated hourly by the state, so she sets up one monitor to display the slowly accumulating numbers while she gets to work.

The global statistics that James emailed her take up another screen, proving that Thanos had done exactly what he’d meant to: wipe out half of the world.

Sent emails sit in her inbox, waiting for replies from senators and government incident managers; people of power who could give her some potential answers. She knew that getting in contact with the very government that was trying to have her thrown into prison wasn’t a great idea, but considering all that had happened, she was hopeful they’d pardon her. At least, temporarily. 

While she waited for that bomb to go off, she’d even emailed a few building owners about possible rentals, hoping to find a space to house the displaced children in New York. A task even more daunting than her attempt to patch up her relationship with the US government.

Notepads and scrap pieces of paper begin to spread across the desk, and bright sticky notes sit like flags on the edges of her monitors. To-do lists and contact info takes up most of the pages, accompanied by various scribbled notes.

By the time Natasha finds a stopping point, it’s 3pm and her head hurts. She scoops her phone off the desk with stiff fingers, the knot in her stomach tightening at the black screen that greets her. Not even a text from James appears when she turns it on. 

She tries Yelena’s number again.

Voicemail. As usual.

Still, she leaves one.

“Hey, Yelena. It’s me again. I’m assuming that because I haven’t heard from you, that you’re gone too.” She pauses and sucks in a breath, willing the tears in her eyes not to spill over. She presses a hand to her tired eyes. “Um, but if you haven’t, and you’re still alive, please give me a call so I know you’re okay. I need to talk to you. A lot has happened and I haven’t quite figured it all out yet, but if you could just call me back that would be great. So. Yeah. I love you.  Please call. Bye.”

Natasha hangs up as the tears begin to fall down her cheeks and, frustrated, she rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms. As if she can force the tears back into her eyes. She’s tired of crying, of being sad, of this exhaustion that she can’t shake and the anger she can’t put down. Grief and fury are parallel lines running straight through her body, and they burn and throb like a forest fire. 

With a huff, Natasha pushes herself away from the desk and slips out of the conference room. She bypasses the elevators and takes the stairs to the basement, flipping on the fluorescent lights of the home gym as she goes.

Exercise had always been a form of distraction for her, and as she’d learned how not to use it as punishment the way the Red Room intended, she often found herself in this very gym for hours on end. She’d spent hundreds of hours perfecting her form and skills, even hesitantly practicing ballet when the mood struck her. Though she still wasn’t entirely sure that her ballerina past wasn’t an illusion, she’d never lost the form or routine. Her old ballet slippers are still tucked in the cabinet she’d left them in, but Natasha ignores them for the punching bag that hangs in the corner. It’s worn and frayed, the black canvas grey in places from repeated use. She doesn’t bother wrapping her hands before she launches herself at it, attacking the bag with the anger that has been coiled in her chest for days.

She lands a variety of punches and kicks, sending the bag swinging on its chain. The sound of her bare skin against the canvas echoes off the walls. Faces fade in and out of her vision as she moves, a new person appearing with every new strike. 

Punch. Kick. Punch. Kick. 

Wanda. Vision. Shuri. 

Kick. Punch. Kick. Punch.

Steve. Sam. Yelena.

Punch. Kick. Punch. Kick.

Thanos. Proxima Midnight. Corvus Glave. 

Kick. Punch. Kick. Punch. 

The chain clinks as the bag swings. The word fades away, leaving only the hollow sound of her own hands against the canvas. Sweat runs into her eyes. Her hair sticks to her forehead. What could be hours or minutes passes. Natasha doesn’t back off until her muscles scream at her to stop, begging her for rest until she has no choice but to oblige. She finally drops her hands and reaches out to steady the swinging bag, realizing her knuckles are raw and bloody as sound comes rushing back to her. Her hands sting and her knees burn under her leggings. 

Natasha reaches up to wipe her face, her shaking hands coming away slick with sweat and salty tears. She realizes she is crying at the same time her legs give out, and her knees slam into the padding as she crumples. Hands balled into fists vinyl, her shoulders tremble as she sobs. 

It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair.

The same sentence that she’s been repeating for decades, the same fire that has burned a brilliant red in her chest since she was young. 

Her autonomy was the first to go, taken by Dreykov and his men to be turned into a weapon and a pawn, only preserved by the blue hair she’d chosen for herself while undercover in Ohio. 

The Ohio operation had ended as quickly as it had begun, with her and Yelena and Melina being tossed back into the Red Room to undergo countless years of training and conditioning. 

Then James, her love and confidant, and their punishment for their desperate attempt to run away. Losing him had been like losing a part of herself, a part she hadn’t gotten back until a few weeks ago.

Her few years of peace with Clint and the Avengers, the second family she hadn’t chosen but had grown to love. 

And now they were gone too, taken by the power of the Infinity Stones and the alien that had wielded them. 

It isn’t fair. 

She cries until she’s spent, laying on the mat until strength finds her again. Her ribs expand against the floor as she sucks in slow breaths, listening to her heartbeat drumming in her ears. It pounds so strongly she can feel it in her jaw, and she finds her body relaxing as it begins to slow. 

Eventually, she regains the strength to push herself to her feet. Her muscles groan with every movement, and her hands are stiff and caked with dried blood. It probably wasn’t the best use of her time, laying into a punching bag with little self control, but by the time Natasha gets back to the first floor her head feels strangely clear. The urge to check her inbox is strong, but she knows a shower and bandaids are in order before she can do anything else. 

Her stomach grumbles with a vengeance as soon as she steps out of the shower, and she dresses hastily on her mission to curb her stomach’s painful hunger. She tears into the few supplies she’d packed in her duffle bag, even finding a jar of peanut butter in the back of the pantry as she made a lap through the kitchen. There was no doubt that the jar belonged to her, as the team had made it very clear about their disdain for her favorite snack food. 

Get groceries quickly made its way onto her to-do list.

Natasha’s hamstrings have all of the stretch of a wooden board as she lowers herself into her chair. A pained groan escapes her lips as she settles against the cushy leather, a glass of water in one hand and a pen in the other. 

A few unread emails are in her inbox when she turns the computer on, and excitement jumps into her throat. Finally, we’re getting somewhere . It’s not great news, as the few people she’d messaged reiterate her concerns: what had happened in Wakanda was happening everywhere, and no, they were just as unsure as her. They promised to keep her updated with any developments, including status updates and related reports on various countries around the world.

Bonus: no one had mentioned her strained relationship with the government. As of now, it seemed her charges of treason were being put on the back burner.

Okoye had CC’d Bucky on an incredibly detailed email she’d sent, complete with a day-by-day plan of attack for helping Wakanda recover and move on without a king and princess. Natasha copied it into her notes and began creating her own outline designed for New York, hoping to pass both hers and Okoye’s along to other world leaders and government officials. 

The few landlords she’d emailed hadn’t replied yet, which she told herself was fine. Considering she didn’t know who was and wasn’t ash, she was happy to let them take their time. Someone would answer eventually, she figured. 

Finally, once the sun sets, Natasha sits back in her chair and picks up her phone. Multiple notifications flood her screen, including one missed call and text from James. 

Bringing her sore legs up to her chest, she decides to call him back before dealing with the rest of the alerts. It takes a moment for him to pick up, and when he does his voice is thick with sleep. She winces, realizing what time it is there. “Did I wake you?”

“No, doll. You’re fine,” he rasps.

“I’m sorry. I forgot about the time difference. I just saw I missed your call and was seeing what you were up to.”

“Don’t be. It’s good to hear your voice.”

She manages a small smile. “It’s good to hear you, too.”

“How was your day?” She can hear the sheets rustle in the background as he shifts.

“Long,” she replies with a sigh. “I was glued to my computer all day and yet I feel like I did nothing. It’s just hard to get started when nobody knows what to do.”

“I know. I’m sure you saw the detailed itinerary Okoye sent to you.”

“I did. It’s very impressive. Helpful, too. It gave me a starting point.”

“I’m glad.”

“How are you holding up?” she asks him, to which he yawns.

“I’m okay. Tired. Confused. A little scared.”

“Me, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s just…a lot.” 

“I’m sorry you have to do it on your own. I’m hoping to get out of here in a few weeks so I can come help you out.”

She waves him off, even though he can’t see her. “Do what you need to do. I’m fine right now.”

“Stubborn as ever,” he says affectionately. “You still feeling okay? Concussion still got you down?”

She plays with a loose thread on her sweatshirt. “It’s not as bad. I’ll probably grab some meds when I go out later.”

“Okay. Let me know if you want me to send you anything.”

“You, too.”

“The one thing I want is eight thousand miles away,” he says knowingly, to which she smiles. 

“You know what they say about absence,” she begins. 

“And what is that?”

“It makes the heart grow fonder.”

He chuckles. “I definitely think that’s true.”

“I love you. I’ll let you go so you can get some rest. Call me later?”

“You know I will. Love you, doll.”

“Bye.”

Natasha lets the silence hang in the air for a moment, the ringing silence replacing the droning dial tone after he hangs up. Her stomach growls again, drawing her back to the last thing written on her to-do list. 

Get groceries. 

With a groan, Natasha hauls herself to her feet and grabs her keys off the counter. Might as well , she thinks, knowing she’ll kick herself in the morning if she doesn’t stock up now. She drives back to the grocery store she used to shop in, feeling an odd sense of deja vu as she grabs a cart and begins to make her way through the familiar aisles. 

Natasha fills her cart with mostly healthy items, blaming her growling stomach for the occasional sweet that falls in beside the broccoli and ground beef. She turns down the medicinal aisle before going to the registers, adding ibuprofen and anti-nausea meds to her basket. Another box joins the cart after a few minutes of contemplation, pink and blue and so foreign it scares her. She’s bought them before, when Laura Barton was so bedridden with morning sickness she couldn’t get out of bed to confirm her suspicions. Now, buying them for herself feels wrong. Especially considering the fact that her tubes had been tied for eons. The chances of a pregnancy was less than one percent. She’d googled it. She knows it’s foolish to even consider the possibility.

Still, that tiny voice in the back of her mind had sent her reaching for them anyway. Just in case. 

You’re being ridiculous , she tells herself, but she can’t bring herself to put them back on the shelf. 

She walks up to the cashier, a tired older lady who doesn’t question Natasha’s hat and sunglasses. They don’t make conversation, not even when the box of pregnancy tests is scanned and put in the plastic bag. Natasha pays and takes her receipt, finding herself holding the cashier’s gaze. She gives Natasha a soft smile. 

“I hope you get the result you’re hoping for,” she says kindly. 

Natasha swallows, taking the last of her bags. “Thank you,” she says after a moment. “We’ll see what happens.”

“Good luck,” the woman says with a soft smile. “And take care of yourself.”

Natasha returns her smile. “You too.”

Once home, she forces herself to slowly and carefully unpack all of her groceries. She restocks the fridge and pantry the way she used to, organizing everything in straight lines and even rows. Thor had always teased her about it, but she’d caught him doing his best to replicate her organizational style with his own items. Now, as she lines up her boxed foods on the pantry shelves, she’s reminded of his carefully arranged boxes of poptarts that would take up most of the space.

She can’t help but smile at the memory. 

Only once all of the things are put away and the countertops are clean does she lock herself in her bathroom. It doesn’t take long before she’s setting her phone time for three minutes, forcing herself to keep the test face down as she watches the seconds pass on her screen.

Thirty seconds. 

A tiny tendril of hope winds its way into her throat. She stuffs it down. 

It’s just a concussion, she tells herself. Nothing more. You’re going to break your own heart over a head injury.

Ten seconds.

She dips her head, staring down at her tennis shoes as her bandaged hands grip the edge of the sink. 

Five.

Please.

The alarm rings. 

She stares at the white and pink stick. 

This is stupid , she thinks as she reaches for it with shaking hands. It’s not going to be anything.

Natasha picks it up. The plastic is cool against her fingertips.

She closes her eyes.

Turns it over. 

Opens them. 

Holy shit.

Bucky POV

– November 2018 –

Bucky leans over the large oak desk before him, his fingers splayed across the smooth wood as he stares at the mess strewn across it. Spiral bound pages and glimmering screens are scattered atop the dark surface, half-completed plans written across them in both English and Xhosa. He follows the lines of the stained wood with his eyes, Okoye’s gaze boring into the top of his head as she waits for his answer. 

“Sergeant Barnes?” she asks, brow furrowing as her earlier sentence hangs in the air between them. Okoye’s most trusted advisors stand in the shadows by the door, all of them waiting for his answer. 

What do you want to do next?

What Bucky would really like to do is see his girlfriend, considering that it has been over a month since he’d last laid eyes on Natasha in person. Video and phone calls have done little to stave off the ache in his bones that seems to worsen with every day they stay apart. Knowing that there’s still work to be done is almost crippling. 

Natasha had thrown herself into her work in New York, trying to get her orphanage up and running while helping the rest of the world function. Last he’d heard, the charges held against her had been dropped in the name of civility, which was good. The less of a threat over her head, the easier he could sleep. It was hard enough to find rest as it was, trying to manage his own balancing act with Okoye. Still, despite the sleepless nights and hours spent poring over graphs and statistics and civilian reports, they’d made good progress. 

“The Dome is officially back online,” Okoye continues after a moment, reminding him of all they’ve accomplished in two months. “Funeral services have been performed, monetary allowances distributed, and most of the damage has been repaired. The injured are healing. Everybody is slowly getting back on their feet.”  

Bucky straightens with a sigh. “While that is something to be celebrated,” he begins. “N'Jadaka village is still being rebuilt. Now that the Dome has finally been reprogrammed and funerals have been carried out, we can start diverting the rest of our resources solely to humanitarian aid.” He fishes through the heaping piles of papers, producing the letter sent to him this morning. Okoye takes it when he holds it out to her. “Out of the supplies they received a few weeks ago, these are the ones most needed as of today.”

Okoye’s dark eyes flicker as she reads the list. “I’ll see to it that it’s done.”

“Let me know when you have everything assembled. I’d like to go with, to oversee and help with the rest of the rebuilding.”

She gives him a long, scrutinizing look before turning to her soldiers. She murmurs a few commands in quick Xhosa, and they slip out of the room at her command. Okoye turns to follow them as Bucky eases himself into the chair behind him, the leather creaking under his weight. He rests his elbows on the desk before him, dropping his head into his hands as the heavy doors shut with a soft thud. 

Alone at last. Blissful, buzzing silence, and then: “Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky snaps his head to the sound of Okoye’s voice. He blinks. “I thought you had gone.”

She steps closer to the desk, arms folded across her chest. Her eyes are uncharacteristically soft. 

“You should go home,” she tells him. 

He nods, pushing a hand through his hair. “I know. I’ve got a few more things to finish up, and then I’ll head back to my room.”

She shakes her head. “This is not your home,” she says gently. “It is not where your heart is.”

He stills, the hand that she cannot see tightening into a fist. He knows who she’s alluding to. “Where my heart is is of little importance these days.”

“I know you know that that is not true.”

He leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as he examines the woman standing before him. A woman he has found a quiet friendship in, someone whose advice he has come to rely upon as they’ve worked together to rebuild Wakanda. Now, however, he finds her counsel to be more uncomfortable than comforting. 

“I want nothing more than to board the next flight and go to New York,” he says flatly, his honesty piercing the air. “I talk to her nearly every day, and it is still not enough. I think it was naive to hope everything would be rebuilt in a month.”

Okoye rests a hand on the spear at her hip. “Considering all that has been done in such little time, I would think you’d be proud.”

His smile fades as quickly as it appears. He pushes his hands through his hair. “I know, and I am. It’s just…”

“You should go see her.” The General’s eyes are soft, a glimmer of understanding softening her expression. “You’ve earned a rest.”

“It’s not fair to leave you to do the rest.”

She makes a noise of dismissal. “Ach. There is little else to be done here. You know that. Besides, what good would I be if I couldn’t take over?”

“You’d be a lousy general, that’s what,” Bucky says as he stands to his feet. “I’d at least like to help the team-”

She holds up a slender hand. “Go. You’ve done more than enough.”

He stares at her for a long moment. “Are you sure?”

Please say yes, he thinks. Please say-

“Yes. I am very sure. You have done Wakanda a great service, and for that I thank you. I know if T’Challa was here, he would too. I’ll get you a plane prepared.”

Bucky gets to his feet, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” she replies, eyes shining with restrained laughter.

“I’d smack you if you weren’t so highly decorated.”

“And because I’d kill you.”

He grins. “That too.”

“Ach. Look at you. Already so much happier.”

“You know me so well.”

“Unfortunately. Now go. See Natasha. Tell her I say hello.”

“I will. And seriously.” He stops by her side and extends a hand. “Thank you. For everything you have done.”

She dips her head. “You are welcome, Sergeant Barnes. Fly safely.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Bucky packs quickly, throwing every belonging into his bag. He barely thinks about what he needs, knowing that the faster he can pack the faster he can get on a plane. To Natasha. She’d been a little AWOL, but knowing her tendency to get lost in her work, he hadn’t been thinking too much of it. He just hoped she hadn’t lost herself while on her efforts to help everybody else, something she was prone to doing. 

They’d tried to talk on the phone everyday, exchanging texts and emails when they couldn’t get their schedules to line up. Which had been happening more than he liked, part of why he’d found himself worrying more about her than usual.

Still, Natasha never gave up asking when he’d finally be done, seeming more interested in his progress than her own at times. He’d promised her that he’d be home ‘soon’, never knowing exactly when that would be but hoping that he’d stay within the month time-frame that he’d promised her. 

Bucky calls her as soon as he zips his bag closed. 

“Hi,” Natasha answered, the rustling in the background telling him that she’s in the middle of something. 

“You’re never going to guess what I’m doing right now.”

“What?”

“Packing a bag and getting on a plane.”

She's silent, and then, “To where?”

He smiles at the barely contained hope in her voice. “To New York.”

She inhales a tiny gasp. “You’re coming home?”

“Yep. We’re finally at a good stopping point. Okoye can take it from here.”

“Oh, James,” she says. Her voice is soft and thick, and he can hear the relief in her tone. “That is the best news I’ve gotten in a long time.”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve got a plane.”

“You don’t even have a ticket yet?” He can hear the affectionate exasperation in her voice.

“Okoye is going to set me up with a plane. I don’t need a ticket to get out of here, you know.”

“Duh. Sorry. My brain is all over the place.”

“I can’t wait to see you.”

“I’m so excited. Based on our last few conversations, I was afraid you’d be in Wakanda indefinitely. Which wouldn’t be good, because I have something for you when you get here.”

“Have you been planning a party or something?”

Natasha snorts. “It’s a one woman show over here. The closest thing you’re going to get to a welcoming party is me throwing confetti around in circles.”

“Count me in.”

She chuckles. “Go get on a plane so I can see you.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll text you when I’ve got something.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“I can’t wait,” he repeats.

“Me, neither.”

Okoye works quickly, and a roaring Talon Fighter is waiting for him when he walks onto the helipad. A small ground crew retreats back to the bay as he walks up the ramp, sliding into the pilot’s chair as the liftgate rises. After a few signals and tower communication, he’s airborne. He sends Natasha a text as the plane slips through the protective Dome. 

Five hours starts now.

***

Natasha’s back is to him when he steps into the kitchen. He knows that she knows he’s here; the beeping of the keypad was alert enough that he was home. She’s adjusting something on the counter, A small helium balloon twisting under the air conditioning above her. The kitchen is mostly dark, save for the few canister lights that cast a soft yellow hue over the room.

“Natasha?” he asks as he steps into the kitchen, his voice breaking the silence. His gaze is questioning as he sets his duffle bag down. 

She turns to face him, a timid smile warming her expression. “Hi.” She shifts her weight from foot to foot as he walks deeper into the kitchen, her wide eyes tracking his every move.

“Hi,” he replies as he takes slow steps forward, unsure as to what he’s walked in on. Her eerie stillness has his senses on high alert. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Is this the thing you were telling me about?”

Natasha steps to the side to reveal a collection of items behind her. A small letterboard stands on the granite countertop and a grey cloth is folded in front of it. Coming Soon is written on the board, and as he gets closer he notices the tiny black boots sitting next to it. Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat as he gets closer to Natasha, looking from her to the items. 

And then he notices the plastic stick she’s holding. His brow furrows at her shaking hands, her knuckles that are nearly white. Her smile looks more like an apprehensive grimace, her face pale in the dim light.

His heart leaps into his throat as realization dawns on him. “Are you…?” He can’t voice his suspicions aloud. 

Natasha looks down at her hands, turning the stick over so he can see the two dark lines in the window of the pregnancy test. “So…it wasn’t just a concussion.”

All sound seems to disappear. The world falls away, leaving only Natasha standing before him.

“You’re pregnant?” His question is barely a breath.

She nods carefully, turning the test over in her hands. “I found out a few weeks ago. I wanted to tell you, I just didn’t want to do it over the phone. And I guess I didn’t know how to feel.”

It takes all the strength in his body to take a step forward. “How do you feel?”

Her eyes glisten as they hold his own. “Happy. Scared to death. How do you feel?”

“Natasha…” he begins, trying to find the words as he crosses the kitchen to her.

She swallows as he steps in front of her, turning her chin to look up at him. Worry darkens her expression. He takes her hand, a wide, soft smile spreading across his face. Her demeanor softens. And then he pulls her into a crushing hug. 

“This is the most incredible news I’ve ever heard,” he says against her hair. 

Her entire body sags against him, arms wrapping around his neck as his arms wrap around her back. Her skin is warm, her body soft, and she smells like vanilla. He wants to hold her forever.

A sigh of relief escapes her mouth. “Really?” 

“Are you kidding?” he says as he pulls back to look at her, smoothing the hair out of her face. Her expression is joyful, eyes rimmed with unshed tears. 

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You have given me a purpose again, and now you’re telling me we get to raise a kid together? That’s nothing short of a miracle. I didn’t even think it was possible.”

She looks down, hand pressed against her stomach. “I didn’t either.”

“Have you gone to see anybody?” he asks, taking her hand in his.

She shakes her head. “No. I didn’t want to go alone.”

“We’ll go tomorrow, then,” he decides. “Together.”

Natasha smiles. “It’s a date.”

She stretches up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips. He meets her halfway, kissing her fiercely as she melts into him. She chuckles against his mouth as the force of his kiss bends her backwards, supported only by his hands wrapped around his back.

“Easy soldier,” she murmurs, and he can feel her teeth when she smiles. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says when they break apart. 

Natasha rests her forehead against his. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much. I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Me, too." He wraps an arm around her shoulders, turning them back towards the little display she’d made. “Now, tell me about these baby shoes. And is that a onesie?”

She grins. “Yes, it is.” She reaches forward to hold it up so he can see the lettering on it. 

SHIELD Agent in Training is written across the front. 

He laughs. “That’s amazing. Where on earth did you find that?”

“I made it.”

“Did you really?”

“Yup. It’s pretty great, isn’t it? All it took was thirty minutes and a set of iron-on letters.”

“I’m impressed.”

She leans into his arm, resting her chin on his shoulder. “I’m flattered. Oh. And this, too.” 

Now that he’s closer to the countertop he can see the small dusting of golden confetti she’s sprinkled around the sign and shoes. She scoops up a small handful and tosses it in the air, letting it fall around them like snow. 

“Confetti. As promised.”

He grins, brushing the golden flecks out of her hair. “You’re a dork.”

“Takes one to know one,” she replies.

He looks down at the grey cloth in his hand, then to her. She’s already staring at him when he meets her eyes. “There’s going to be a baby in this soon.”

Her expression softens. “You’re going to be a dad,” she whispers, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“And you’re going to be a great mom.”

“You really think so?”

“There’s not a doubt in my mind.”

“I can’t wait to do this with you,” she says. “There’s no one else I’d rather go through this with.”

“I still can’t believe it’s real,” Bucky murmurs. “I’d given up on the idea of having a family of my own decades ago. Now you’re telling me it’s actually happening?”

She nods. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

“We should go celebrate,” he says. “Go out to a nice dinner, just the two of us.”

Her eyebrows raise in surprise. “Right now?”

“Oh, no.” His arms slide around her back. “I haven’t seen you in two months. Right now I want you all to myself.”

Her eyes glimmer mischievously. She leans in close, her hands sliding up his chest. “Good, because the things I want to do to you aren’t exactly family friendly.”

“Oh?” he asks as she leans in close. “Do tell.”

“Why tell you when I can show you?” she asks, and begins to nudge him backwards. 

Bucky chuckles against her mouth. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

“Tasha, you’ve gotta relax.”

The plastic paper crinkles under Natasha’s weight as she shifts uncomfortably on the examination table. She gives him a look.

“I hate doctor’s offices.”

Bucky stands at her side, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “I know.”

Natasha looks around the small space, her gaze landing on the various clinical objects scattered throughout the room. Framed artwork hangs on one wall, a desk with a dark computer sits against another. Silver tools and gauze fill the metal tray that rests on the desktop. An ultrasound monitor fills the far corner of the room. Her chin tilts as she glances up at him. “You’re staying for the whole thing, right?

“Oh, I thought I’d run out and grab a coffee while the doctor’s in,” he says seriously, not sure why she’d think he wouldn’t stay. 

She raises her eyebrow, a murderous glint in her eye. 

He chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple. “Yes, Natasha, of course I’m staying. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Natasha lets out an anxious huff, fidgeting with the hem of her paper gown. She’s about to wear a hole through it. Bucky reaches down to take her hand, having to wrestle it out of her own grip. “It’s going to be good, Talia,” he reassures her. “We’re going to see our baby.”

A small smile spreads across her face as her shoulders droop a bit. “I know. I’m excited about that.” She looks up at him again. “Are you excited?”

He squeezes her hand, her uncertainty making him worried. “Of course I am. Hey.” He cups her cheek. “What’s going on?”

She gives him a nervous smile. “Nothing. I just hate doctor’s offices. And I want everything to be okay with the baby.” Her hand falls protectively to her stomach. 

“It will be,” he reassures her as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. “I know it’s easy to worry, so just know that we’ve found a great doctor and she’s going to take great care of the both of you. Okay?”

As if on cue, Doctor Emily Morgan knocks on the door. She’s the most reputable OB/GYN in New York, coming recommended by hundreds of patients and fellow colleagues. After running an extensive background check on Dr. Morgan and her office, Bucky and Natasha had both agreed on meeting with her under highly confidential terms. It had taken a little longer than they’d have liked to get set up with her office, but they’d been able to get an appointment a week after Bucky had gotten home. While they filled out patient paperwork in the waiting room, they’d had their own set of forms for Doctor Morgan to fill out as well. An NDA, a few government clearance forms, and a document ensuring that all bloodwork and DNA-related collections would be disposed of. 

Dr. Morgan holds them up as she closes the door behind her. “Signed, sealed, and to be delivered.”

“Yeah, sorry about all the forms. We just really want to keep this as quiet as possible,” Bucky says as he steps forward to shake her hand. 

Dr. Morgan offers him a reassuring smile as she takes his hand, giving it a firm shake. “Not a problem. My lips are sealed, you don’t have to worry about a thing. Now. How’s mom doing?”

Natasha leans forward to peer around Bucky. She waves her hand in a little wave. “Hi. Good.”

Emily pulls up a rolling chair and sits in front of her. “Well, it’s great to meet you, Natasha. Tell me about your symptoms. How’s the morning sickness?”

The paper crinkles as Natasha shifts again. “Uh, well, everything seems to make me nauseous. I feel sick all the time and I’m exhausted. But considering my line of work, it’s nothing I haven’t been through before.”

Dr. Emily smiles knowingly. “Concussions much?”

Natasha shrugs. “Just a few. That’s actually what I thought it was,” she says, looking down at her stomach. “And the fact that I thought it wasn’t possible for me to even get pregnant.”

The doctor tilts her head. “Can you elaborate on that for me?”

Natasha looks over to Bucky, who nods reassuringly. It’s not an easy conversation for her to have with those she trusts, let alone a complete stranger, and discussing the most sensitive parts of her past with the doctor is -- in a word – uncomfortable. Still, she swallows. “I had my tubes tied when I was younger. I was told I could never have children.”

Dr. Morgan’s gaze is sympathetic. “A tubal ligation is almost always effective, up to ninety-nine percent of the time. You’re the one out of one-hundred who get pregnant despite the procedure.”

“Figures.”

“So how is it possible?” Bucky interjects. “I mean, I didn’t think it was possible for me, either.”

Emily folds her hands in her lap. “Sometimes the fallopian tubes can grow back together or form a passage for fertilization. It’s called tubal recanalization. Or if the procedure itself was done wrong, the tubes themselves can be improperly blocked. It’s also possible that, given your age, it just failed overtime. What I really want to make sure of, though,” she says as she stands, “is that you don’t have an ectopic pregnancy.”

Natasha brings both hands to her stomach, brows furrowing. Worry darkens her expression. “I read about that. But I don’t think I have any of the symptoms. It’s life threatening, right?”

“Talia,” Bucky starts, but Dr. Morgan speaks first. 

“Yes it is,” she answers honestly. “But I don’t want you to be afraid. Considering what you told me, I don’t think that’s something we have to worry about. Of course, I want to rule out every possibility to be safe. Now, can you lie back for me?”

Natasha looks over at Bucky as she moves back on the table. He steps back by her head, taking her hand as Dr. Morgan flips on the ultrasound machine. A small hum fills the room. Natasha looks up at Bucky, her eyes so perfectly wide with worry that he can’t help but smile. “Everything is going to be fine,” he tells her again. 

She nods at his words, exhaling as if convincing herself of the same thing. Emily also offers her a reassuring smile. 

“This is the exciting part.”

Natasha’s expression softens a little, her grip on his hand tightening. “Let’s see this baby.”

The black screen begins to turn grey and white as Doctor Morgan gets set up. “Now, I don’t think we’ll be able to hear a heartbeat today. We’ll get you set up with some routine checkups as you progress, and when you come back for the next one we’ll try then.”

Natasha nods, her neck craned to see the screen. “Okay.”

The sound of static begins to fill the room, accompanied by a slight woosh-ing noise. They both lean in close as Dr. Morgan lifts a hand to point at the screen. “And there….” she says, “is your perfectly healthy baby.”

She removes her hand so that they can see their child, no bigger than a blueberry. The baby is just a blob on the screen, but to Bucky it might as well be the whole world. He’d given up on the hope of having children long ago, after the countless years in a cryostasis tube and the unknown - potentially devastating - effects of the serum he’d been given. Now, staring at the screen before him, he can’t believe that he’s been given another miracle. Looking down at Natasha, it’s clear that she feels the same. Her eyes are soft and gentle, all worry gone as she stares at the screen as if caught in a trance. She stretches a hand out, touching one finger to the blob. 

“Hi, you,” she murmurs, voice thick with emotion. 

Bucky’s heart stutters. Skips a few beats entirely. He’s absolutely certain that there is nothing better than this moment right here, and that there is nothing he wouldn’t do to protect the family before him. The love is so strong it almost scares him, his body flushing hot as emotion pours through him. 

Bucky reaches down to smooth Natasha’s hair from her forehead, replacing his fingers with a small kiss. Her hand reaches up to cup his face, eyes not moving from the monitor.

“Look,” she says. “That’s our baby.”

“I know,” he replies, leaning in closer. “How cool is that?”

Her smile is wide, eyes brimming with unspilled tears. “So cool.”

Dr. Morgan smiles softly. “Would you like a picture to take home?”

They both nod at the same time. “Yes.” “Definitely.”

Natasha slips the photo into her purse as they duck out the side door, pulling her hat low on her head as they step into the sun. She takes his hand as they cross the almost-empty parking lot. “That was better than I thought it was going to be,” she admits as they walk to the car.

“I’m glad,” Bucky says. “I was hoping it would be. I know that environment is hard for you.”

“Dr. Morgan was great. That helped a lot.”

“She definitely seems like she knows her stuff,” he agrees.

“And,” she says, a smile splitting her face, “we got to see our baby.” She practically hops up and down. 

Bucky returns her smile, pure joy warming his chest. “She looked perfect.”

Natasha’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “So you think it’s a girl?”

Bucky shrugs, unable to shake the smile from his face as they get to the car. He opens the passenger side door for Natasha. “Oh, I don’t know. For all intents and purposes, yes. I mean, I had a younger sister growing up, so it just feels natural to raise a baby girl. I just feel strange referring to our baby as ‘it’.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Natasha concedes as she steps up into the truck. 

“What do you think we’re having?” he asks as he slides into the driver's side seat a few moments later. 

She hums thoughtfully, hand on her stomach. “I like the idea of having a girl. But I feel like I’ve raised Cooper, Lila, and Nathaniel, so I’m prepared for anything.” Though she smiles, her expression fades at the mention of her godchildren, of the third family she lost to the Blip.

He takes her hand as they pull forward, and she holds it on the center console as they begin their drive home. Music plays softly through the speakers, uninterrupted as they sit in content silence.  Natasha hums along to the songs she knows, staring out the window as shops and trees fly past. Her blinks grow slower until she's watching with half-closed eyes, head tilted to rest against the glass. Exhaustion has been at the forefront of her symptoms, not to mention the frequent morning sickness and cravings she'd been fighting off. Though he often found her in the conference-room-turned office, it was common for her to doze on the small couch he'd brought in for her, pages in hand and phone glowing on her chest. She''s warmer now, too, her skin softer and more radiant. He runs the pad of his thumb across the back of her hand as they drive, tracing small circles against her knuckles.

They’re about halfway back to the compound when Natasha’s phone chimes. She flips it over with her free hand, her movements lethargic, but after a grunt of surprise she pulls her other hand out of his. 

“Everything okay?” he asks after a minute of silence, questioning her furrowed brow as she scrolls through her phone. 

“Wait,” she tells him, leaning forward ever so slightly as she gets to the bottom of her page. Then her face spreads into a gigantic smile, her cheeks warming as she begins to hop up and down in her seat. “Yes!”

He laughs incredulously. “What is going on? Did you win the lottery or something?”

“Basically!” she says, turning her phone he can see the screen. 

“Talia, I can’t read that," he tells her, trying to glance between it and the road.

“I got it! I got the space!”

“What? What space?”

“The one I asked about! The-the retired school that I spoke to that non-profit about! I got it!”

“The one you want to turn into an orphanage?” He chuckles at her excitement, his own building in his chest. It was everything she’d been working towards for weeks now, spending countless hours poring over paperwork and emails and fielding phone calls from every source possible. He'd been exhausted for her, and apprehensive, too. He'd debated hiding her phone just so she could go a few minutes without checking her email.

She beams. “Exactly. Can we go see it? It’s not far from here.”

“Right now?”

“Yes!”

Her joy is infectious. He puts his blinker on. “Of course we can.”

She pumps her fist as he shakes his head affectionately. Natasha grabs his arm again, with more strength than before. He looks over at her, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m proud of you, Natasha. This is great.”

"Thank you, babe." She picks up her phone again, scrolling through the email like she's afraid the words will have changed since she read them last. “I can’t believe I got it.”

“I was getting worried they wouldn't get back to you,” he adds. "I feel like you've been eying that since you got back to New York."

She nods. “I’d gotten in contact with as many building managers and nonprofits as I could when I got back, but between all the global unrest and stateside chaos, I figured my emails had fallen through the cracks. Which would have been unfortunate, because there's thousands of kids who have been displaced since the Blip.”

“It’s good,” he says as they turn onto a tree-lined road. “These kids will finally have somewhere to go. Even if it’s for a short while, even if we get their parents back in a week, they will be taken care of until then.”

Natasha nods, her head tilted back against the seat. “They will be safe.”

He gives her hand a squeeze. “And they will be happy.”

She smiles. “Because they will have us.”

He lets out a breath, returning her smile. “I guess we’re going to have a couple hundred kids to practice on before the real thing.”

She smacks him in the arm but she laughs all the same. “Practice,” she mutters, shaking her head.

They pull into a parking lot, the late November chill spilling leaves across the cracked asphalt. Dried tree branches knock against one another. Natasha pulls her jacket tight around her as she closes the truck door. She meets his eyes over the hood of the truck, gesturing grandly to the building. “So, this is it.”

He gestures towards the building in front of them. “Well, do I get a tour or not?”

“Come on,” she says with a smile, taking his arm as they walk towards the front doors of the elementary school. The winter wind urges them across the blacktop. “We can’t go inside until I get keys," she explains as they stop in front of the front doors. "But we can at least walk around the property.”

“Sounds like a date,” Bucky says as he peers inside. Dusty, and a little run down, but relatively clean. “How long has it been abandoned for?”

“The property manager said it hasn’t been in use for about five years. He said the school was closed down because they didn’t have enough staff. Kids got phased out and rezoned into other schools. It’s old enough that there’s no risk of someone randomly needing it again, and it’s new enough that it doesn’t need to be remodeled beyond the simple stuff.”

“Lucky us.”

Natasha leads him around the side of the building. The cold air has yellowed the grass and it crunches under their feet as they cross the grounds. The wind shakes the trees that they pass under, rattling the dried leaves hanging from the branches.

“So,” Bucky begins as they follow the sidewalk. “How is this all going to work? Assembling them, getting them here, keeping them all alive and happy? What about building maintenance and bills and the like?”

She hums thoughtfully. “I don’t have it all figured out yet, but I’ve been talking to a few non-profits that want to help. Some have offered to supply transportation, beds, clothes, food. Others have made donations, which has been great. Social workers and child services have been a big help in getting me connections and my foot in the door in some areas. I’m tentatively approaching some lower-level government positions for help getting the place staffed. I’m hoping that, given the state of the world, I’ll be momentarily forgiven for my past transgressions.”

“Like electrocuting the King of Wakanda?”

“Among other things,” she says with a knowing smirk. “In my defense, however, I was protecting you.”

“You know what they say,” Bucky adds as they approach the weathered playground sets. “One good act always sparks another.”

“I hope you’re right,” she concedes as she runs her hand along one of the metal bars. “Because that ‘good act’ is forgiving an alarming amount of felonies.”

Bucky shrugs, looking across the playground and the fields beyond. “The world is a little out of sorts at the moment. I don’t think they’re going to interfere with your child-saving efforts.”

She snorts. “Let’s hope not. Now come on.” She reaches for his hand. “It’s cold and I want hot chocolate.”

“Whatever the missus wants, she gets,” he says as he entwines his fingers with hers.

She grins. “I like those rules.”

Bucky pulls her to his side, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as she wraps her arm around his waist. They’re about halfway back to the truck when she pokes him. He looks down. 

“Yes?”

Her smile is wide and knowing. “We got to see our baby today.”

His stomach jumps at the memory, warmth blooming in his chest. He loves her happiness, the pure joy that makes her eyes twinkle every time she talks about the baby. It makes everything seem a little less daunting. 

“And she’s perfect.”

Natasha leans into him. 

“Speaking of the baby,” he begins, starting to voice the idea that had been on his mind for a minute. “What would you think of getting our own place?”

“What, like a house?”

He nods. “The compound is good for now, but soon it’ll be full of people and plans and chaos. It might be easier to raise - and grow - a child in a place a little more tame.”

She frowns, considering. “Maybe…would it be possible to find something close by? I like the idea of being in our own place, I just don’t know if it’s feasible considering all of the back and forth we’d be doing at the Compound. Not to mention that I just bought a school, so I am a little financially drained at the moment.”

Bucky opens the passenger side door for her, watching as she climbs in. “Just something to think about.”

“Definitely. Hey, what do you say we stop for something on the way back?”

He smiles, leaning against the door to the car. “Hungry?”

Natasha points knowingly at her belly. “We both are.”

“What do you two want?”

“French toast?”

“Since when do you like french toast?” he asks with a chuckle. 

She gives him a knowing look. “Since you knocked me up.”

“French toast, coming right up.”

Natasha elects to take a nap when they get back to the Compound, which Bucky encourages. Though exuberant and lively at the news of the school and the doctor’s appointment, her energy had been quickly drained, sapped by the events of the afternoon and the efforts of growing a human. She slips quietly into her room, calling to the AI assistant in the ceiling as she goes.

“Friday, dim the lights please.”

The AI’s pleasant chirp responds instantly, the room darkening instantly. “Yes, Ms. Romanoff.”

Bucky leans against the doorframe, watching as she crawls into the middle of the bed and sinks into the blankets. “Need anything?”

Her voice is muffled when she replies. “No, I’m okay. Just tired. You go do stuff.”

“I love you. Sleep well,” he says as he closes the door behind him. “Friday, let me know if I’m needed.”

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn’t know why Friday had chosen to call him by his rank; he hadn’t asked her to and didn’t think that Tony cared enough to program his information into the system. Regardless, Friday had addressed him by rank almost immediately and he hadn’t questioned it.

The Compound is relatively clean, given that they’ve mainly occupied the kitchen, conference room, and bedroom upstairs. Still, he cleans up as he goes, picking up random glasses and bowls and bringing them to the kitchen. The one room he leaves relatively untouched is the conference room Natasha had set up in, with her hundreds of papers and sticky notes scattered in organized chaos around the room. 

Bucky takes a seat at the computer once he’s satisfied with the state of the compound. It’s been roughly two months since the Blip, and while Wakanda had mostly pulled itself together, larger countries were still struggling. Natasha was trying to make the most out of her connections, searching for both stateside and global informants who could help her get things organized. The orphanage was a good start, and with the new property, it was looking like there was finally going to be some headway.

He takes a hold of the mouse, about to open one of the newer emails from Carol Danvers, when FRIDAY chimes overhead.

“Incoming call, Sergeant Barnes.”

He looks up toward the ceiling. “From who?”

“Tony Stark, sir.”

Bucky goes very still. It’s so quiet he can hear the air conditioning whirr. “I thought he had been dusted, too.”

Natasha had reached out to everyone she possibly could: Yelena, Melina, Alexi, Clint, Laura, Bruce, Sharon, Maria, Fury, Carol, and Tony. Among others. Carol was the only one who’d responded, promising to make her way back to Earth as soon as she could. Thor, though he’d come back to the States a few weeks after Natasha, had been MIA. Bucky and Natasha had come to the tragic conclusion that everyone else had been Blipped, turned to dust like half of the world. 

“That doesn’t appear to be the case,” Friday says softly. Though artificial, he could swear that she’s surprised, too.

“Okay. Put him through.”

There’s a faint beep, and then, “ Hello? Does anybody copy?” The man’s voice is rough like sandpaper. He can barely be heard over the ambience of the airplane cabin he’s in, the rattling and humming drowning out his words.

Bucky swallows, knowing that his voice will come across as clear as day. “Stark?”

The line is quiet for a minute. “Who is this?”

“It’s-it’s Barnes.”

“Oh. I was trying to reach Romanoff. She called. Why-” He pauses to clear his throat. “ Why are you there?”

“She’s…asleep right now,” he answers, massaging the back of his neck. “We’re trying to run things from this end. Putting the world back together. That’s why she’s been trying to reach you. We didn’t know if you were alive or not.” 

He can hear Tony’s noncommittal grunt. “Well, you should probably wake her. We’re landing within the next few hours.”

Bucky pauses. “Landing where?”

Tony’s response is tired and impatient. “In the front yard.”

No use arguing. Not that he would be listened to if he protested. “Okay. And who is ‘we’?”

***

The Milano touches down about a few hours later. Its headlights cut through the black sky, moonlight glinting off of the metal as it descends. Bucky, Natasha, and Pepper cross the silver yard to the plane, its lights reflecting off of the moisture on their boots. Carol Danvers, having just arrived, follows closely behind. Thor is the only person who hadn’t joined the group, electing to stay inside and brood in silence like he’d done since his arrival an hour ago. Not even Natasha could get a word out of him, and she’d tried her best.  

Bucky runs ahead of the group as the ramp of the plane lowers, coming to a stop at the foot of the stairs that Nebula is helping Tony down. The billionaire’s face is a mixture of exhaustion and distrust as he stares at Bucky’s extended hand. Tony had been beaten and bloody the last time Bucky had seen him, lying on the concrete floor of the bunker in Siberia. Bucky had been barely able to make him out, what with his own injuries, but what he could see he’d never forgotten. He deserved Tony’s anger; hadn’t questioned it or tried to change it. It’s clear that Tony hasn’t forgotten either, and the rage in his tired eyes is just as fresh as the night he’d learned about the death of his parents. 

“I know,” Bucky tells him quietly. “I’m sorry. About everything.”

Tony examines him for a long moment. He opens his mouth, about to say something, and then Natasha and Pepper meet them at the bottom of the stairs. His attention turns to them.

“Tony.” Natasha’s voice is gentle. Protective.

“Oh, Tony.” Pepper’s voice is mournful. Relieved.

Tony steps past Bucky’s hand for Pepper’s outstretched arms, melting into them like ice meeting fire. 

“I couldn’t stop him,” he tells her. Thanos.

Natasha nods sympathetically from his shoulder. “We couldn’t either.”

“I lost the kid,” they can hear him say into Pepper’s hair. She holds him tighter, eyes closing.

Bucky looks to Natasha for an explanation. Crestfallen, her hand reaches up to touch the necklace at her throat. “Peter,” she whispers, explaining.. “They were close. He was a good kid.”

“Oh.”

Natasha steps towards Pepper and Tony. “Let’s go inside. You need rest. Rhodey will be here soon.”

Tony turns away, not to protest, but to scan the group gathered around him. "Where's Rogers?" 

Bucky sucks in a breath. Natasha stills. "Did you get my voicemails?"

He nods incredulously. "Yeah, all one-hundred of them. I listened to the first three. Are you telling me I should have listened to the other ninety-seven?"

"Tony," Natasha starts, expression mournful. "Steve was Blipped. He's gone." Emotion catches in her throat as she stares at him.

Stark's head falls, as if pulled down by an invisible weight. A muffled curse escapes his lips as Pepper's arm slides across his back. "Come on, honey. Let's go inside."

Tony takes a numb step forward, then another, and another. It's too dark to see his expression, and a part of Bucky is glad for it. Carol Danvers watches as Natasha leads the way back to the Compound, side-eyeing Bucky as she falls into step beside him. 

“He doesn’t look too good,” she murmurs. No judgement, just worry. 

Bucky grimaces. "He basically just found out his friend died," he points out. 

“I know," she says. "But in general. He looks sick, like really sick. Do you think we should call for a doctor?" 

"I have Bruce Banner on standby," he reassures her. "But he's an hour out, so let's hope we don't need him right away."

"Well, if taking on Thanos was hard for you guys, I'm sure it was hell for him and his team."

He looks back over his shoulder, watching as Rocket takes a seat beside Nebula. He extends his hand - paw? - to her, and she takes it and holds it with both hands. Grief and exhaustion plays transparently on their faces. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. 

Tony, despite his grief and Pepper’s pleas, is insisting on a round-table meeting as the group walks into the conference room. “Yes, yes now,” he’s saying as Bucky and Carol trail behind the group into the conference room. Carol stoops beside the mini fridge and grabs a plastic water bottle. Thor, positioned in the far corner, barely looks up. “Right now. I need to know what’s going on.”

“No you don’t, not right now,” Natasha argues as he pulls up a chair. “You need to rest, Tony.”

“If I get an IV started, will you relax?” he snaps, easing himself into said chair. 

Natasha huffs and folds her arms across her chest. “I think it’s a terrible idea.” She wrinkles her nose at him as he glares up at her. “Space has made you more unpleasant than usual.”

Carol and Bucky share a look. 

Pepper nods in agreement, cutting off Tony’s surely sharp retort. “Honey, you’ve been to hell and back. Please, just take some time to sleep.”

He takes her hand, his scowl softening. “Ten minutes, tops,” he promises. 

She frowns. “Fine. But not a minute more. And wait for Rhodey to get here. Wait,” she adds, seeing Tony’s building protests, “for Rhodes.” She raises her eyebrow.

“Fine,” Tony eventually grumbles.

“Here,” Carol adds, stepping forward with a water bottle in hand. “You must be thirsty.”

Tony looks from it to her. “And who are you?” he asks, his tone conveying that he doesn’t care what her answer is. Still, she responds.

“Carol. Carol Danvers. Natasha reached out to me, so I’m here to help.”

“Where were you a month ago?” he mutters as he takes the water bottle. Carol takes a silent step back as he cracks open the cap. 

Natasha looks between the four of them with an expression Bucky can’t quite read. Her emotion at Steve's fate has faded, replaced by something he can't name. “I’m going to get an IV bag,” she tells them, and slips from the room before anyone can argue or offer to go with her. 

Bucky takes a seat at the table and begins to pull together a rough summary of their plans. He’s all too aware of Tony’s eyes on him as he works. He silently compiles global status reports, census records, and information on those who have been blipped. He refrains from sending them to the big screens until everybody is here. 

Tony looks towards Thor. “Point Break. What are you thinking about over there?”

The man - god? - doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even blink, his eyes glazed and fixed on a point in the distance. 

“It’s no good,” Bucky advises, almost regretting the words that fall from his mouth. “Natasha tried to get him to talk.”

The room is silent for a few moments, time that Bucky spends kicking himself for even trying to reach some semblance of a common ground with Stark.

“So,” Tony says eventually, his scrutinizing gaze watching Bucky’s every move. He shifts in his wheelchair. Not uncomfortably, but as if he's trying to size him up. “You’re in charge now? You and…Natasha.”

Pepper lays a hand on his shoulder, either as a comfort or a warning. 

Bucky keeps his face passive, not sure what Tony is getting at. “Yes. She and I are working together. She got set up here while I was getting Wakanda back on its feet.”

“The last time I saw you and her together, you were strangling her on a cafeteria table,” Tony says blandly. “So…what? That’s all forgiven? You’ve joined forces in an effort to fix the world?”

This time, Bucky looks up. He keeps his expression unreadable, plain and even like his tone. “Yes.”

No further elaboration. He can tell that Tony wants to know more, to understand why the sudden switch in their dynamic, but that’s a story he doesn’t feel like sharing with the man who has yet to rip his throat out. Natasha returns just as he’s pulling up the last few slides, pushing a four-legged IV pole with the bag in hand. A small bag of medical supplies hangs from her arm. Tony drops the water bottle from his lips. His mournful expression morphs into one of skepticism as she approaches, looking from Natasha to the equipment she carries.

“Do you even know how to start one of those?”

“You underestimate my skill set,” she says cooly as she hangs the bag, looking down at him pointedly. “You know, the one that sticks in the DNA.”

It’s the first time Bucky has seen a semblance of shame cross Tony’s face, and the billionaire practically flushes red. He avoids Natasha’s piercing gaze as she takes a hold of his arm and straightens it. Bucky meets Pepper’s eyes from across the room, who is just as confused by Natasha’s phrasing as he is. A look in Carol’s direction confirms that they’re all on the same page. Whatever Natasha is referencing, she hadn’t told him about it.

“I’m going to get Rocket and Nebula,” Carol whispers to him before ducking out of the conference room, eager to make herself useful. Or sparse. He’s not sure which. 

Natasha ties a tourniquet around Tony’s upper arm as he huffs. “Red, I really am-”

“What? Sorry? For throwing my past in my face like a selfish, thoughtless jerk?” The last word is practically spat as she ties off the tourniquet.

Tony grimaces as the plastic snaps. “Yeah. For all of it. You…didn’t deserve that.”

Natasha doesn’t look at him.

“You know,” he continues. “I heard from some higher-ups that a covert Russian organization fell out of the sky a few months ago. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Yeah, well,” she mutters as she preps the needle. “I was trying to do something good.”

Tony gives a defeated shake of his head, his posture softening as she lays a gloved hand on his arm. “You’ve always been good, Natasha.”

Her green eyes are piercing as they scan his face, dissecting his expression in seconds. She must see something, because her own gaze softens slightly as she looks away. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be an asshole and then make me like you.”

“Sorry.”

Natasha doesn’t reply as she positions the needle, focused on trying not to stick him more than she has to. It takes a few tries, but eventually she steps back as the IV begins to work. Tony shifts in his chair as the drip starts, about the same time Friday chips from the ceiling.

“James Rhodes has arrived.”

“Let him in,” Natasha and Bucky say in unison.

Tony’s curious gaze flits between the two of them, but before he can begin to ask questions Rhodes practically sprints into the conference room. Carol follows behind with Rocket and Nebula trailing in her wake. Rhodey is as disheveled as Bucky has ever seen him, which is once before in Germany. Seeing him in civilian clothes is a new sight, his clothes wrinkled like he’d just picked them up off the floor and thrown them on. 

“Tony,” he gasps, anguished at the sight of his malnourished and sallow-skinned friend. 

Tony manages a small smile for his oldest friend. “Rhodes. What took you so long?”

Rhodey huffs, frustration and concern etched across his face as he crosses the room to clasp his friend’s hand. “I thought you were dead, man.”

“That’s been the group consensus,” Tony replies. He raises a hand, as if dismissing the room’s concerns. “I’ll be up and running in no time.”

“No, you won’t,” Pepper scolds, before taking a step forward to embrace Rhodey. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Pep.”

“Okay, the sooner we get this started the sooner it can end,” Bucky speaks up, drawing the room’s attention to him. Five pairs of eyes land on him, expressions varying from scrutinizing to uncertain.

Tony is peeved at his interruption but doesn’t protest like Bucky was expecting him to. 

Natasha moves to stand up beside him, the two of them barely able to have a silent conversation before the slides begin to appear in the air. Still, she holds his gaze for a beat longer than normal, a thousand questions and answers playing across her face as she answers and responds to his. Her reassuring nod is barely detectible as she turns to the group.

Friday begins to read off the list of casualties as the group scans the holograms. 

“World governments are in pieces,” Natasha begins, her expression pained as she watches the changing faces on the screen. “The parts that are still working are trying to take a census. And it looks like he did... he did exactly what he said he was gonna do. Thanos wiped out fifty percent of all living creatures.” 

Tony averts his eyes from Peter Parker’s blue portrait, grief and shame bright in his eyes. “Where is he now?” he asks after a minute. “Where?”

“We don’t know,” Bucky answers, leaning against the desk. “He just opened a portal and walked through.”

He looks towards Natasha, stomach falling at the tears in her eyes as she looks up at the portrait of Laura Barton. Photos of Lila, Cooper, and Nathaniel Barton follow in sequence. Clint is the only face not pictured, his location still MIA. Grief pales Natasha’s expression as she looks away, trying to wipe away her fallen tears without drawing attention to her. 

Furniture creaks then, the group’s focus shifting to Thor. The man has yet to speak, much less move a muscle. Tony frowns. 

“What’s wrong with him? I think this is the longest he’s gone without speaking.”

Rocket speaks for the first time since the Milano landed. “Oh, he's pissed. He thinks he failed. Which of course he did, but you know there's a lot of that's going around, ain't there?”

Tony looks at the racoon from over his glasses. “Honestly, until this exact second, I literally thought you were a Build-A-Bear.”

“Maybe I am,” Rocket retorts. 

“We've been hunting Thanos for three weeks now,” Bucky continues, hoping to deflate whatever tension has fallen over the room. “Deep Space scans, and satellites, and we got nothing.” He pauses for a second, watching Iron Man in his wheelchair. They have questions, and he’s the only person who might be able to answer them. He doesn’t want to have to ask him about his experience with Thanos, but they’re running out of options. So he says, “Tony, you fought him.” 

Wrong thing to say.

Tony’s attention snaps to Bucky, as if seeing him for the first time. “Who told you that?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “I didn't fight him. No, he wiped my face with a planet while the Bleecker Street Magician gave away the Stone. That's what happened. There was no fight because -”

“-okay,” Bucky interjects.

“-he’s unbeatable,” Tony is saying. 

“Did he give you any clues?” Bucky asks, cutting him off again. “Any coordinates, anything?”

Tony scoffs, his expression morphing from appalled to jeering. He lifts his hand in mock salute. “Wow, so you really are running this thing, aren’t you?”

He’s enraged, the small amount of common ground he’d found with Natasha earlier crumbling under their feet.

“Tony,” Natasha starts, pushing herself off of the desk she’s leaning against. 

“You know,” Stark continues, cutting her off. “I saw this coming a few years back.” Bucky and Natasha share a confused glance, which he addresses scornfully. “No, not this. Not…mommy murderer and Russian spy playing hero. No, I had a vision. I didn’t want to believe it. I thought I was dreaming.” He points to Natasha. “You died, Steve died, everybody that I ever cared about died.”

“Tony, I’m going to need you to focus,” Natasha says, trying to get him back on track. If she’s fazed by his stinging insults she doesn’t show it.

“And I needed you,” he hisses. “This team. Needed. As in past tense. That trumps what you need, present tense. It’s too late, Natasha.” He begins to stand, ignoring Pepper’s insistence that he stay seated. “And I need a shave. And I remember-”

“Tony, Tony,” Rhodey is saying, stepping forward as the man begins to rip out the IV taped to his arm. 

Natasha and Bucky share a deeply concerned look, unsure of how to proceed. Bucky has no moral high ground, no leadership skills or heroic merit that would force Tony to listen to him. Natasha does, though, and she begins to take a step forward as Stark continues to speak. 

“-telling you that what we needed was a suit of armor around the world. Remember that? Whether it impacted our precious freedoms or not, that’s what we needed!” 

“Well, that didn’t work out, did it?” Natasha’s tone is soft but not cowardly. She stares Tony down as he turns his attention towards her. Bucky takes a single, calculated step closer to her, inching his way between the two of them. Between his girlfriend, their baby, and the man who hates him more than life itself. 

“I said, ‘we’d lose’. Steve…Steve,” Stark spits, “...said ‘we’ll do that together, too’. And guess what, Romanoff? We lost. And he wasn’t there. None of you were there. But that’s what we do, right? Our best work after the fact? We’re the Avengers, not the Pre-vengers.”

Rhodey steps forward as Tony gets closer, ensuring that Natasha doesn’t have to lay a sickly man out on the floor. “Okay,” he’s saying, ushering the man back towards his wheelchair. “You’ve made your point. Just sit.”

Yet, Tony manages to push his way past Rhodey to square up to Bucky. His voice drops to a whisper. “I’ve got nothing for you, Barnes, ” he hisses, spitting out his name like it’s sour in his mouth. “I got no coordinates, no clues, no strategies, no options. Zero, zip nada. No trust. Murderer.”

“Tony, I’m -” Bucky begins, an apology on his lips. And he is sorry. Sorry for what he did, for what Tony’s been through, for the grief and pain he caused, for Tony’s anger and loss. 

“Don’t.” Stark jabs him in the chest, fingernail sharp. “Don’t fucking apologize to me. I don’t want it. I don’t care how sorry you are, I don’t care what you’ve been through or what you’ve lost. It makes me sick to see you sit where he did and pretend like nothing has changed, after everything you’ve done. You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, acting like saving the world will clear your conscience. Well, it won’t. I don’t forgive you.”

Despite their sting, Tony’s words come as no surprise to Bucky. He knows that he’s responsible for the death of Tony’s parents and for the end of his and Steve’s friendship, formative relationships that have structured Tony’s life. He also knows that-

“It wasn’t his fault.”

Natasha. Pushing her way between the two of them with all of the strength in 5’5” body. Tony, aghast at her statement, gapes at her.

“Tasha,” Bucky begins. He doesn’t want her to defend him, he doesn’t want her to have to. Still, she does. She does because she loves him, and because she’s not afraid of Tony’s anger.

“I know you don’t understand and I’m not asking you to. I’m not saying you have to forgive him or even respect him, but you need to listen to him. Like it or not, he fought against Thanos and his army of freakish aliens even though he didn’t have to. He rebuilt Wakanda after the Blip. He has gone to hell and back for the sake of the free world, just like you and me and Steve and Clint and Thor and Bruce.”

“So, so what?” Tony’s laugh sounds like a scoff. “You’re saying he’s, what? An Avenger? A fucking Avenger? He killed my parents, Romanoff, my mom. You want me to forget all of that for the sake of the free world?”

Natasha’s expression is stony, her eyes darting across Stark’s face as her lip curls. “I am asking you to get out of his face and to give us some answers.”

“You want an answer?” Tony slams a fist into his own chest, rips off the triangle-shaped arc reactor and shoves it into Natasha’s palm. “You take this. You find him, you put it on. And you hide.”

And then he falls to one knee. 

Rhodey moves first. “Tony!”

“I’m fine,” Stark mutters. And then he slumps over onto the floor.

***

They call Bruce Banner. He arrives just as Pepper is settling into a chair at Tony’s bedside, book in hand. Natasha explains the situation in hushed tones as Bucky and Rhodey file out of the room. They exchange a few words before she slips out, too. 

Bucky shifts his attention from Tony to Natasha as she stops by his side. “How is he?”

She shrugs, hands in the pocket of her sweatshirt. “Not great. Bruce is giving him a sedative.”

“He’ll probably be out for the rest of the day,” Rhodey adds as they walk back to the group. Carol passes them on her way to the door. “You guys take care of him. And I'll bring him a Xorrian Elixir when I come back.”

Natasha frowns. “Where are you going?”

“To kill Thanos,” she responds simply. 

Bucky and Natasha have the same shocked expression on their faces, sharing a look before walking after her. 

“​​Hey, you know,” Natasha calls, encouraging Carol to stop. “We usually work as a team here, and between you and I, morales's a little fragile.”

The woman turns around, looking between Bucky and Natasha as they approach. 

“We realize that up there’s a little more of your territory,” Bucky says, motioning to the sky, “but this is our fight, too.”

“Do you even know where he is?” Rhodey asks.

She shrugs. “I know people who might.”

A gravelly voice speaks up from the far corner of the room. “Don't bother. I can tell you where Thanos is.” It’s the first anybody has heard Nebula talk since her arrival, and startled, everybody turns her way. She blinks, surprised to have everybody’s attention. “Thanos spent a long time trying to perfect me. He took me apart and put me back together in the name of excellence, and when he worked, he talked about his great plan. Even disassembled, I wanted to please him. I'd ask him where we would go once his plan was complete. His answer was always the same: "To the Garden."

The room is quiet for a few minutes, absorbing her words. 

“That’s cute. Thanos has a retirement plan,” Rhodey says dryly. 

“So where is he?” Bucky asks. “My knowledge of space is pretty limited.”

Rocket speaks up this time. He steps up onto the table to be closer to the monitors, motioning to the screens hanging around the room. “When Thanos snapped his fingers, Earth became ground zero for a power surge of ridiculously cosmic proportions. No one's ever seen anything like it...until two days ago.” A hologram of a planet pops up, with a shockwave rolling across the surface. “On this planet.”

Nebula nods, agreeing. “Thanos is there.”

Natasha leans in close to the projection, the hologram reflecting in her narrowed eyes. “He used the Stones again.”

Bruce, having stepped out of Tony’s room a few moments ago, voices his own concerns. “We’d be going in short-handed, you know.”

He’s right. The entire Wakandan army could barely fend off his aliens, not to mention the six-versus-one that Thanos won without so much as batting an eye. Going up against him on a foreign planet with no idea what he’s armed with or who he’s with isn’t a good idea. 

“Look,” Rhodey begins, agreeing with Bruce. “He’s still got the stones, so…”

“So, let’s get him. Use them to bring everybody back.” Carol’s idea is simple and straightforward. The Stones are unknowingly powerful, and it’s not a stretch to consider their abilities. Surely, the same thing that devastated half of the planet can bring it back? Bucky is almost relieved for her confident tone and the rallying effect it has on the room. Backs straighten, chins lift. 

“Just like that?” Rhodey asks. He raises his eyebrows in surprise. 

Bucky nods. “Yeah, just like that.”

Natasha straightens, looking from the hologram to the room. “Even if there's a small chance that we can undo this... I mean we owe it to everyone who's not in this room to try,” she says insistently, a twinge of emotion wrapping around her words. 

“I know,” he tells her softly. “We’ll make it worth it, I promise.”

He’s all too aware of the eyes on them as she reaches forward to take his hand. Still, he doesn’t pay much attention to the varying level of surprise playing across the group’s face. He gives her palm a reassuring squeeze. 

Bruce clears his throat as he steps forward, looking between the two of them as they face him. “Look, if we do this, how do we know it’s gonna end any differently than it did before?”

Carol folds her arms across her chest. “Because, before, you didn’t have me.”

Rhodey’s expression turns sour, her confidence dipping into insensitivity. “Hey, new girl,” he says, arms folded across his chest. “Everyone here is about that superhero life. If you don't mind my asking, where the hell have you been all this time?” 

Carol, noticing the toes she’s stepped on, backtracks a bit. “There are a lot of other planets in the universe. And unfortunately, they didn't have you guys.”

Furniture creaks again as Thor, who has yet to speak up about anything, stands. It’s like watching a statue come to life. Carol turns as he approaches her, her hands falling from her hips to her side as he squares up to her. His expression is stony. 

Everybody freezes, unsure of what is about to happen or how to help. Who to help, should it come to that.

Thor lifts a hand, his arm stretching past Carol’s head. She holds his gaze, not flinching as the walls begin to rattle. 

Stormbreaker rises from its corner and flies straight for Thor’s hand, Carol’s blonde hair caught in its wake as Thor sets it down in front of him. Bucky can’t help but be impressed by her blatant courage, and judging from the expressions of those around him, he isn’t alone. 

“I like this one,” he says finally, looking around the room as if daring someone to challenge him. Nobody does. 

Bucky nods. “Great. Let’s go get this son of a bitch.”

***

They change in silence. Sweatpants and slippers aren’t ideal for fighting alien warlords on a foreign planet, so they trade weapons and socks alike as they quietly move around the bedroom. It’s Natasha’s sigh that catches Bucky’s attention, exhaling heavily as she pulls her bulletproof vest over her head. He looks up from the safe he’s rifling through. 

“You okay?”

She nods as she fastens the velcro around her waist. “I’m fine. Just exhausted.”

He leans back on his heels, watching as she smooths away imaginary wrinkles in her catsuit. His gaze immediately falls to her stomach, to the barely-there bump imperceptible to the unknowing eye. The tight fit of her suit accentuates it more than usual. 

“It’s been a long day,” he says.

Natasha tilts her head back. She closes her eyes. “It was a good day, too. We saw our baby, I got the school, I had a great nap, and now…”

“And now we’re about to go kill an alien overlord.” 

He knows he should be more enthusiastic. Finding Thanos means finding the Stones, which means restoring half of the world. Steve, T’Challa, Shuri, even Sam. It means getting everybody back, and yet…he hesitates. He wishes he wouldn’t, that he could strap on weapons and kevlar and charge into battle like he’d done for decades, but he is suddenly aware of how much he has to lose. Natasha, their baby, the family they could have together if the fate of the world didn’t rest on their shoulders. He wants to get down on his knees and plead for more time, for a minimum of nine months of normalcy, but he knows it’s no use. So he doesn’t voice his greatest concern: Natasha face-to-face with Thanos, not to mention whatever other threats await them. The threat not only to her, but to their baby. Their family. 

His concerns must play out across his face because Natasha frowns. She lays a hand on his shoulder when she stops at his side, using it to lift his face. “What’s going on, мед? Something’s bothering you.”

He shakes his head tiredly, weighing his options. Truth, lie, throw it under the rug completely. He tries a combination of options two and three. “Nothing.”

He’s a good liar, but she’s better at reading him. Her frown deepens. “Tell me,” she encourages softly, the pad of her thumb brushing his chin. 

Kneeling on the floor, looking up at her, lying for a second time seems impossible. So he sighs. Option one it is.

“I’m worried about you going.”

Natasha’s stance changes, body weight shifting from her right hip to her left. She presses her lips together, so quickly he almost doesn’t notice it. She’s not one to be held back by anybody’s request – not even his – and he knows that a part of her is offended at his statement. He also knows, based on the way her hand naturally falls to her stomach, that there’s another part of her that understands why he’s nervous.

“I know I can’t ask you to stay behind,” Bucky continues, speaking before she can argue. “And I know you wouldn’t listen to me if I did. I just…the idea of you standing in front of Thanos is terrifying.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, James,” she promises. 

“I know,” he agrees. “And I’m not worried about you. I know you can handle yourself. It’s this.” He reaches out to lay his hand against her stomach, her baby bump a gentle curve under his palm. Her dark green eyes search his face, her expression softening as she covers his hand with her own. “It’s this little girl or boy that I’m worried about. Because the only way I can protect them is by protecting you. And it’s taking everything in me to not ask you to stay because I can’t ask that of you. It’s not fair. But I am as scared as I’ve ever been thinking about everything that could go wrong because there is so much to lose now.”

She crouches down at his admission, his hand falling away as she takes a seat on the floor across from him. “I get it. I do. But I can’t stay. I can’t not go, not when there is so much to get back. After all of the work I’ve put in, after everything we’ve lost-” She squeezes his hand. “- I can’t sit around and wait for you to get back. I have to go, now, before I gain a thousand pounds and my feet swell and I’m grouchy all the time. If I’m going to stare down Thanos, now’s the time to do it.”

“Just…promise me you’ll be careful. Because I know that while half of the world is at stake here, I’ll give it up in an instant if it means keeping you safe. The both of you.”

She gives his hands an insistent squeeze. "I love you. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. She's not, either."

"Good. Because I'm pretty committed to the idea of family life."

"Good." Her smile is soft. "Because I am, too."

They finish suiting up and head downstairs. There’s not much left to do except load the Milano, which Rocket and Nebula have been preparing since the group split up to get ready. Bucky ducks outside as Natasha slips into Tony’s room to get an update from Pepper.

Both Rocket and Nebula are subdued as they pack the ship with supplies, barely conversing as they work. Bucky doesn’t mind, welcoming the silence after the tumultuous events of the last few hours.

He’s glad that neither one of them addresses it, either, not knowing the dynamics of their partnership with Stark or what he’s told them. 

One by one, Thor and Carol and Bruce and Rhodey and Natasha begin to trickle outside, helping where needed and waiting in the yard when they’re not. Once the final box is stored, they board and prepare for takeoff. 

Rocket looks back at the group as he fiddles with the instruments in front of him. “Okay, who here hasn’t been to space?” 

Natasha, Bucky, and Rhodey raise their hands. 

Out of all of them, Rhodey is the most skeptical. He frowns at Rocket’s question. “Why?”

Rocket gives all three of them a long look. “You better not throw up on my ship.”

The plane begins to rise into the air, rattling and humming as it does so. The Compound slowly grows smaller and smaller, and once it’s no bigger than a Lego, the ship shoots towards the exosphere.

Natasha, sitting across the aisle from Bucky, extends her hand towards him. He takes it as the stars shoot past the nose of the plane. Their entwined hands hang in the empty space between them, warm and steadfast. 

“Approaching jump in 3…2…1…,” Nebula calls, and the entire plane barely has a chance to take a breath before the ship jumps forward into a wormhole with a massive jolt.  

Their fingers tighten around each other as their free hands lock around their armrests. Bucky can feel the metal bend beneath his vibranium fingers. 

The entirety of space flies by the hull of the Milano, swirls of black and purple and electric blue shooting by as they’re rocketed into the atmosphere of the planet Thanos has chosen to call home. It resembles Earth from the surface, with green continents surrounded by dark blue water. Fluffy white clouds dot its surface. 

Natasha, Bucky, and Rhodey all suck in shaky breaths. They look between themselves, as if to confirm from one another that they did indeed just travel through space. 

Carol appears in front of the ship before Bucky had even registered that she'd left. “I’ll head down for recon.”

Rocket flips a switch and the seatbelt icon chimes. Comical. “We’ve got a few minutes,” he calls to the group. “Bathrooms are on the left.”

“The raccoon’s got a sense of humor,” Natasha whispers to Bucky as they stand on wobbly legs.

Bucky shakes his head as she steps into the aisle. “Technically, I don’t think he’s a racoon.”

Natasha pales before she can make a witty retort, her mouth snapping shut as she turns on her heel. Bucky frowns as she heads towards the back of the plane. “Tasha?”

She shakes her head and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Bucky follows, entering the tiny space in time to watch her throw herself over the toilet bowl. He kneels next to her, pulling her hair out of her face as she retches. Her groans echo off the stainless steel. “Whoever called it morning sickness owes me a phone call,” she mutters. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. She sits back on her heel, leaning against him as they kneel on the floor of the tiny bathroom. He runs a hand up and down her arm. “You good to go?”

Natasha wipes her mouth with her sleeve. “We’re here, aren’t we?” 

“Not quite the answer I was hoping for, but okay.”

S he nudges him. “I’ll be fine. Carol is going in first, anyway, and with Bruce in the Hulkbuster and Thor with his Asgardian-ness, all you and I really have to do is stroll in there and ask some questions.”

“And get the stones.”

“Easy peasy.” She rests her head between his jaw and shoulder. The scent of vanilla and berries fills his nose as she leans against him. She sucks in a breath, her ribs expanding under his arm. “I can’t believe this could all be over in a few hours.”

“And then we can go home.”

Home. He can picture it instantly: the house he’d been building in his head since Natasha told him she was pregnant. A big farmhouse on a few acres of land, a wrap-around porch with a picket fence, a big backyard with a garden, dogs, chickens. Space where they can raise their son or daughter in peace, where they can host quiet gatherings of friends and sleep in on Saturdays. 

Natasha nods. “After the last few years, I’m ready to take things slow.”

He kisses her hair. “Me, too. I wish I could fast forward through all of this and come out the other side, no matter the ending. No matter what happens, I just want to be done. I want normal, too.”

She turns her head to look up at him, her eyes searching his. “This is going to work, James.”

He holds her gaze for a long moment, soaking up her insistence and confidence. He knows that until Thanos is taken care of and the Stones are returned, they can’t have the farmhouse in the woods or dinner dates in a small town. They can’t have normal , not truly, not while America and the world are looking to them to do something heroic and life-saving. 

“I hope so,” he tells her. “Because I don’t know what I’m going to do if it doesn’t.”

She’s quiet for a moment, scrutinizing his expression. She picks him apart the way she’s always been able to, seeing him the way no one else has been able to for decades. He doesn’t have to tell her that he’s tired, that he’s worried, that after all of this is over all he wants to do is slow down, because she sees him. All of him, as plain as day. 

He makes his expression as apologetic as possible, knowing what his hesitation means to her, to all of the work she’s put in over the last month and a half. Natasha, his beautiful, fierce, compassionate, warrior of a woman, manages a smile. She reaches her hand up to cup his face. “I know,” she tells him, speaking to his unspoken concerns. “And it’s okay.”

“I know what we’ll do,” she says, using his shoulder to push herself upright.  “No matter what happens, even if this whole thing goes south and the world goes to hell in a handbasket again , we’re going to get a house.” He blinks as she looks down at him. “Something with a trellis and ivy, a breakfast nook, and a hot tub. I’m going to open an orphanage, we’re going to get someone to spearhead the Avengers, and then you and I are going to find a quiet spot to settle down so I can grow a human.”

“That’s a big list,” he tells her as he stands, but his smile threatens to split his face. 

She shrugs. “It’s only three things.”

“I love you,” he says as he pulls her to him.

She smiles. “I love you too. Thanks for doing this with me.”

He kisses her on the cheek. “You know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.”

“Ew.”

They turn towards the door, finding Rocket standing in the doorway with his tiny arms folded across his chest. He wrinkles his nose at them. “So you two. You a thing?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You need something?”

“No, no, by all means, continue to stand in the tiny bathroom. You two get cozy while we go kick an alien’s teeth in.” 

Natasha points a finger at Rocket. “I will taxidermy you.”

“Have there been any developments?” Bucky cuts in.

Rocket turns away from the bathroom and begins to walk towards the front of the plane. “Carol is back.”

“No satellites, no ships, no armies, no ground defenses of any kind,” she’s saying when the group approaches the windshield. Uncertainty darkens her eyes. “It's just him.”

Nebula speaks for the group. “And that’s enough." 

Chapter Text

Bucky lets Natasha shower first. The water turns on with a soft hiss as he sits on the edge of the bed, watching as his fingers untie his boots. Muscle memory takes over as he sheds his gear, his belt – still heavy with ammunition – falls to the floor with a soft thud. He glances towards the bathroom as the shower door bangs shut from within.

Natasha hasn’t spoken since Thor chopped off Thanos’s head in the Garden, and since then he’d watched her collapse into herself like a dying star. She’d let Bucky guide her back to the Milano, barely responding to his hand on her arm as he’d nudged her up the steps. Upon boarding she’d curled up in her chair and fixed her eyes on the headrest in front of her. She became eerily still, and if it wasn’t for the silver tears that had run one-by-one down her cheeks, he wouldn’t have known she was crying. He’d helped her off the plane upon landing, walked her and the rest of the team across the yard to the building. He didn’t know where everybody had gone after they’d reached the doors, focused solely on getting Natasha inside and upstairs. 

It’s unsettling, her statuesque silence, because it’s different from the team’s silence of defeat that filled the cabin on the flight home. Hers was a crushing, grieving silence, one that he wasn’t quite sure how to navigate. Hell, he didn’t know how to navigate what he was feeling. 

Bucky catches sight of his clean suit on the floor as he scoots back on the bed, the material having slid off of his body with insulting ease. It hadn’t been plastered to his skin with sweat or alien blood, and no dust and rubble had fallen from it when it dropped to the floor. It was physical proof that they had all lost for a second time, and without a fight. 

Vivid images of Thano’s decapitated head play in front of him, with Thor standing in front of the Titan’s headless body. He hated Thor for his impulsiveness, that he had decided for the team what Thanos’s fate should be. If Thanos’s head hadn’t been chopped off without warning, maybe they could have gotten more information from him. A where, when, why, of how to get the Stones back. Instead, their fate had been sealed with the swing of the axe, and fifty percent of the world along with it. 

The shower, having most certainly run cold by now, shuts off with a smooth hiss. Nothing like the squeaky mechanisms of the shower in Ohio. Muffled silence, and then steam billows out of the bathroom as the door swings open. Natasha’s silhouette appears in the doorway, his shirt hanging down to her thighs, and then disappears as she shuts the light off. 

“Hey,” Bucky calls to her, his blank expression softening as he looks her way. “How are you doing?” 

A pointless question, but it’s better than asking if she’s okay. 

His tone is hollow; he can’t help it. The sting of defeat is still fresh, the wound of grief deeper still, and it circles the room. Natasha doesn’t answer him and he knows it’s because she doesn’t know how to. The lamplight illuminates her lithe figure as she crosses the room to him, and the mattress bends under her weight as she crawls across it. She falls into his waiting arms, settling into the curve of his body like it was molded to fit her. Her hair is still wet from her shower as she rests her head on his chest. Her torso expands as she sucks in a deep breath.

“Natalia?” he whispers, sliding a hand up her arm. 

Silence, and then she bursts into tears. Raw, body-wracking sobs shake her small frame as she clings to him.

He’s certain she can hear his heart break in his chest.

“Oh, Natasha,” he whispers as he gathers her closer to him. “I know.”

Bucky doesn’t have any proper words of comfort to offer her, knowing that if he were to voice them they’d fall on deaf ears. There isn’t anything that he can say to make this better, to take away the crushing blow that is the loss of half of the world. Half of their friends. Half of their family. A now irreparable tear through their souls.

So Bucky lays with Natasha until her shoulders stop shaking, holding her as tightly as she does him. He doesn’t know how much time passes until her cries subside, and he doesn’t care. Eventually she falls silent, and when she finally speaks, her voice is impossibly small and hoarse. “What are we going to do, James?”

If his heart hadn’t shattered already, that would have done it. 

His answer is honest, despite the time it takes him to find the words. “I don’t know. I have no idea where to go from here.” He feels useless, knowing he can’t provide her with the comfort or the answers she needs. “What do you think about taking some time off for a while?” he asks after another moment of silence.

She sniffs. “What, from being an Avenger?”

“Thanos is dead. The threat has been neutralized, for the time being. I think we should go somewhere warm and tropical and not think about anything but ourselves and the kid. I know the world is still recovering, but you need it, too.” He runs a hand down her arm. “We both do.”

Natasha shifts in his arms, thinking. “So, we just disappear?” she asks monotonously, still not fully convinced.

Her question transports him back to a room with peeling yellow wallpaper and frosted windows, decorated with a rusted twin bed and a disintegrating rug. The Red Room, HYDRA; a place wrapped in a Russian winter as they discussed similar plans of escaping. She’d asked that same question decades and decades ago, in a place where running was punishable by death or worse. He holds her tighter, like he did that night. 

“Yeah.”

“But what about here? Who takes over? Tony is in no condition to step up, and everyone else is…gone.” Her voice catches on the last word.  

“Rhodey,” Bucky suggests. “Carol, maybe. I’ll figure it out. But is that something you’d want to do?”

She nods after a minute. “Yeah. I think so. I want to get the school up and running before we do anything else, though.”

“We can do that,” Bucky says softly, gathering her closer to him. She lays her head on his chest, right above his heart, and her ribs expand and contract under his arms as she huffs out a tired sigh. “Sleep,” he tells her, sliding his hand around her back. “Everything is going to be okay.”

She doesn’t reply, the events of the day and her constant exhaustion overtaking her within seconds. It’s only once her breathing slows and her body relaxes does Bucky finally close his eyes. He’s thankful for the darkness that greets him, the silence and emptiness that fills the spaces where nightmares should be. He sleeps for what could be hours or days, only waking to the sun poking through the cracks in the curtains.

Bucky cracks open his eyes, squinting against the gently illuminated room. A soft hue has settled across the furniture and walls, and as he follows the streaks of light with his eyes, his gaze falls to the golden bed sheets beside him. Natasha’s side of the bed is empty, the blankets messy from where she’d slid out from under them. The mattress is flat and cold when he runs his hand over it.

He sits up with a groan. It was too much to hope that she’d sleep in with him, but Natasha has always been an early riser no matter the circumstances. Growing a baby certainly hasn’t changed that. 

Bucky rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he swings the legs over the side of the bed. He grabs a sweatshirt from the dresser and heads downstairs, pulling it over his head as he goes. The Compound is quiet, only disturbed by the faint sound of the birds and illuminated by the sun filtering through the bay windows that line the walls. He knows it’s an illusion, that the November chill is only staved off because of the thick insulation of the facility. The kitchen is quiet and cold when he walks through it, but water rings on the countertops betray the presence of someone there before him. A keyboard clicks faintly in the distance.

He finds Natasha at her usual seat in the conference room, surrounded by papers and glowing screens. One knee is bent to her chest, hair styled messily atop her head, a pencil between her teeth. Slender tortoiseshell glasses reflect the light of the monitors she’s staring at. She’s as serious as always, her expression holding no trace of the defeat from yesterday. Only a faint trace of exhaustion peeks through her eyes, making him wonder how long she’s been up for. 

Natasha looks up when he walks in, a gentle smile brightening her face when she sees him. It fills his chest with warmth. “Hi, you,” she says when he stops at her side. 

Bucky leans down to press a kiss to her hair. “I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he says as he examines her face. “I like it.”
She adjusts the frames on her nose as she leans back in her chair. “They’re just blue-light glasses. My eyes get tired from staring at screens all day. I figured I’d get ahead of it today.”

He scans the cluttered desk before him, noting the presence of a single half-empty cup of water and nothing else. He looks back to Natasha, knowing she must be hungry. “Do you want something for breakfast?”

Her nose wrinkles. “Kinda. I’m starving but I’m also so nauseous that I don’t know how much I can keep down.” 

“Think you can stomach a smoothie?” 

Natasha’s eyes light up behind her frames, a sight he’s happy to see. “Oo. Yes. That sounds good.”

“Okay. I’ll be back. Don’t work too hard.”

“No promises,” she replies, giving him a knowing look over the rim of her glasses when he turns to look back at her. Then she focuses her attention back on her computer.

Bucky shakes his head as he walks back to the kitchen. He’s glad to see her in better spirits after the events of yesterday, but finding her glued to her computer so early in the morning raises some alarms. Natasha has never been one to openly discuss her emotions, and he has a feeling that after yesterday, she’s pushing past everything that happened yesterday. Constructing the perfect mask, repairing the gap in her defenses, proving that she’s on top of it. Throwing herself back into work because it’s the only way she knows how to be. 

He understands it, and he can’t ask her to be any other way. 

“Hey Tash,” he calls into the next room as he pulls open the fridge.

“Yeah?”

“You’re 5 weeks, right?” he asks as he examines the sparse shelves.

Suspicion laces her response. “Yeah, why?”

“No reason.” 

A quick google search tells him that their baby is about the size of a poppy seed. Not really an ingredient you can incorporate into a smoothie, but the fruits and vegetables in the fridge are too big. So he grabs his coat and calls to Natasha as he heads towards the front door.

“Be back in a few minutes, Tash.”

Her voice echoes back from the conference room. “Where are you going?” 

“You’ll see,” he says as he shuts the door, not giving her enough time to question him further.

His phone buzzes as soon as the car rumbles to life. 

Am I going to like what you’re bringing back?

He shoots back a reply. What makes you think I’m going to get something? 

The dots that indicate that she’s typing appear and disappear rapidly for a few seconds, and then: 

Can you bring back a pack of gummy bears?

He chuckles. You got it.

Bucky returns thirty minutes later with a smoothie, candy, and pastry bag in hand. Natasha is in the kitchen when he walks into the Compound, mug of tea in one hand and phone in the other. She looks up when he enters. Her eyes fly to the food he holds, eyeing the paper bag suspiciously as she takes the smoothie and gummy bears from him.

“Thanks for doing this. We appreciate it,” she says, motioning to her stomach. He loves when she does that. Then she stretches up on tiptoe to kiss him. “What’s the secret third thing you’ve got?” 

Bucky holds the bag out to her. “Take a look and see.”

A curious grin tugs at the corner of her mouth as she sets it on the counter. “It’s warm,” she remarks as she pulls the package from the bag. “It smells good. Lemon?”
He motions to the bag. “Keep going.”

She pulls apart the parchment paper to reveal a small loaf of lemon poppyseed bread. Her expression is quizzical as she looks his way. “I feel like this means something, but I’m not sure what.”

“You’re five weeks, right?”

She nods. 

“Well, google says that the baby is the size of a poppy seed. I didn’t really know how to incorporate that into a smoothie, so I went another route.”

Her expression softens as she looks down at the cake. A gentle frown contorts her features. For a second he thinks she might cry, and when she reaches a hand up to wipe her face he pulls her to his side. 

“Sorry, doll. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“No, no,” she says weakly, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “I’m not upset. This is just so sweet and thoughtful and-” Bucky pulls her to his side as her voice rises to a very un-Natasha-like octave. She sags against him as her sentence cuts off.

“This is your fault,” she starts again after a moment, her voice muffled and pitiful against his chest. “I used to be this hardcore, super-spy assassin with no feelings. And then you knocked me up and now I’ve gone all soft. And I cry over cake.” 

He chuckles softly, running a hand up her arm in soothing strokes. “You’re still a hardcore super-spy assassin to me, Natasha. Now go eat your cake.”

“If I wasn’t pregnant and starving, I’d argue with you,” she grumbles, her voice still muffled from how she leans against him.

“Oh, I know,” Bucky says as he steps away to get her a fork. She takes it from him with a halfhearted glare, which fades once she takes a bite of the cake. Natasha’s eyes widen in delight, a happy smile brightening her face when she looks over at him. “Good?” Bucky asks.

She nods, closing her eyes as she savors her bite. “So good. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you. I’m happy to do it.”

She gives him his favorite smile: a smirky, lips-pressed-against each-other, happy smile. “You’re too good to me.”

“You make it easy,” he says with a shrug, and she smiles through her second bite of cake. “Both of you.”

Natasha’s smile deepens. “We both love and thank you.”

“Ditto.” 

They fall into a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Natasha goes between sipping her smoothie and taking bites of the bread while Bucky straightens up the kitchen, absolutely refusing to let her help. 

He looks over when Natasha’s phone chimes. He watches as she scoops it off the countertop with one hand, the other wrapped around her half-drunk smoothie. The light from the screen flickers across her face as she changes apps and starts scrolling. He doesn’t realize how pale her face has gotten until her expression drops. She holds her phone out to him, which he takes concernedly. 

An email glows on the screen. He reads it quickly. 

Natasha,

My name is Annie Hamilton. I was a Black Widow like you. You don’t know me, but I know your sister Yelena. I’m sure that by now that you are aware of what has happened to her, and for that I am sorry. I don’t know exactly what your plan is now, but Yelena spoke highly of you and your reputation alone precedes you. You’re an Avenger and a Widow and I know that you have a plan. If I can be of any use to you now, I will help in any way that I can. You can reach me here, and I’ll attach my cell phone number below. 

Ana

He looks back up at Natasha, who seems to be at a loss for words. He doesn’t know how to interpret her perception of the email, or how to read the expression on her blood-drained face. “Is this a good or a bad thing?”

“Uh, good,” she says after a moment. She nods affirmingly, but her blank stare tells Bucky that she’s trying to convince herself of that fact. “I think. I don’t know.”

He looks back down at the phone. “How’d she find you?”

Natasha twists her fingers together. “I’ve been using my old Avengers email. Kinda like a work email account. You can get it from our - the - official Avengers’ website, and that’s how she must have found me. But I didn’t think-” She wipes at her face quickly, wrapping her arms around her torso. “After the Red Room and Dreykov, Yelena took it upon herself to free the rest of the Widows from the whole mind-pheromone-control Dreykov had us under. She kept me updated regularly, but we kinda fell out of touch towards the end. Hearing that she was with a Widow when she went…it’s a strange kind of bittersweet.”

Bucky steps around the kitchen counter towards her, analyzing her posture to best decide what she needs from him. The mention of Yelena surely took her by surprise, and after yesterday’s loss, he knows she’s trying to keep it together as best she can. Hell, it’s been hard enough to keep Steve’s disappearing figure out of his own mind, and it’s been over a month since the Snap. Bucky stops just inside Natasha’s reach and waits for her to continue. She doesn’t make a move to embrace him, but she takes the hand that he holds out to her. He doesn’t know which part to address: Yelena and the emotions that come with her, or the potential door that Ana’s email opens. He chooses the door. 

“Annie offered to help,” he points out as he runs the pad of his thumb across her knuckles. “Can you use her?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure I can, I just don’t know how.”

“Well, it’s a start, right? Why don’t we try to go from there and see what happens?”

Natasha nods. “Okay.”

He gives her hand a squeeze. “You okay?”

This time she meets his eyes, glistening with unshed tears. “Yeah. I just miss Yelena. She should be here. I’ve been trying not to think about her and Steve and Clint, but it’s been hard. Especially with the baby.”

Bucky sucks in a breath, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists. “Yeah. I get it. All I want to do is tell Steve about the baby. And Sam. I can almost hear what they’d say.” 

Steve, never one to make a scene, would be quietly proud. Congrats, Buck. I’m happy for you.

Sam…well, maybe it was for the best that Sam wasn’t here now. He’d make a vaguely suggestive remark, a joke about his age or something crass. Guys your age are typically considered great-great grandfathers. 

Still, more than anything, Bucky wishes they were here.  “Family should be there for you when you have a kid,” he says quietly. “It sucks that they aren’t.”

Natasha nods in agreement, and he watches as something changes in her expression. It’s subtle, imperceptible to the untrained eye, but the sadness in her eyes changes to something resembling determination. When she speaks, her voice is steady. “So let’s go get them back.” She raises her chin as she speaks, emboldened by her own tone. “We have a job to do, and standing here being sad won’t do us much good.”

He knows she’s right. She always is, and she’s always been better at compartmentalizing than him. Sometimes he’s glad for it, for the times when he doesn’t know how best to proceed and she can sweep in with her logicality and decisiveness and set the path straight. Most times it’s frustrating, because it’s how she avoids the emotions that make her feel weak and unreliable. He’s grateful that she’s still being vulnerable with him, though, because it means that she’s not forcing herself to have it all together. It means that he’s become someone she can rely on, not only for life-saving procedures, but for the moments when life is hard and scary and sad and she can’t push everything she’s feeling down. 

Natasha gives his hand one final squeeze and drops it, stepping around him to grab her phone and smoothie before walking towards the conference room. He follows in her wake. 

They spend the next couple of hours tacking various aspects of their to-do list, trying to decide their next immediate steps. 

Natasha replies to Annie’s email, telling her about the orphanage she’s starting and asking if she’d be willing to help run it. Ana’s reply is almost immediate, ending her almost enthusiastic email with the contact information for the Widows who still remain, the ones that Yelena spent the last year freeing. 

While Natasha reaches out to them, Bucky sends his own messages out. To Carol, asking her about potential off-world emergencies. He hasn’t seen or heard from her since Thanos’s death. Similarly, Rocket and Nebula went their own ways together, departing from Earth after dropping everybody else back off at the Compound. He’s only half-certain of their goal, having a feeling that whatever they’re doing is space-operations related like Carol. Still, Rocket left his contact information on a scrap of paper, so Bucky sends him a message. 

He adds ‘emailing a raccoon’ to his list of oddities he’s encountered since reclaiming his memories. 

He reaches out to Okoye, half inquiring about Wakanda’s status and half asking about his friend. He hasn’t heard from her since he flew back to the United States, which isn’t all that unusual given the tumultuous events of the last week. He tells her about their loss and what they plan to do next, which isn’t as much of a plan of attack as it is a repairing-the-world effort. 

The next few hours fly by as they field various incoming messages and phone calls, including ones from pretty high-ranking government officials. There’s not much that can be done beyond crisis management and attempting to repair the mass trauma and economic devastation caused by the Blip, so Natasha and Bucky are encouraged to keep doing “whatever it is that you’re doing”, according to the man on the other end of the phone. Natasha’s orphanage idea has rippled through the state legislatures, and there’s talks of hopefully expanding it globally so that the displaced kids can have a safe, stable place to stay if they need it. 

Bucky and Natasha come to the conclusion that their next immediate step is to get the orphanage up and running as quickly as possible here in New York, to ease the chaos and confusion of the displaced children being constantly moved in and out of homes and government facilities. By the time mid-afternoon rolls around, Natasha has connected with roughly fifty or so Widows, all of whom are willing to help with the New York orphanage. 

Natasha’s expression is soft when she tells him of the support that she’s amassed, weary but proud. “It’s all because of Yelena,” she says through a yawn. “I had no idea she’d saved so many.”

Bucky shares her smile. “That’s fantastic. Did they say when they can be here?”

She leans back in her chair, lifting her arms above her head in a big stretch. “Some can be here in as little as forty-eight hours. Others can be here by the end of the week. I want to get the school as close to functioning as possible by the time they’re all here, so we can get started getting kids moved in ASAP. And so that they’ll all have someplace to stay.”

Bucky folds his arms across his chest. “Do you have any idea of how many kids you’ll be housing?”

Her expression turns grim. “A lot. More than the school can handle, for sure.” She leans forward, shuffling through the piles of papers in front of her. “In this county, I want to estimate at least 1000. So it’s a start. And the fact that the government wants to incorporate more orphanages across the nation is a good thing. So we’ll take as many as we can handle, and pray that another door opens in time.”

She explains this through a bout of yawns, each one longer than the last. By the time she’s done talking, she’s rubbing at her heavy eyes. 

Bucky gives her a soft, affectionate smile. “You should go get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” she agrees through another yawn, dragging her hands down her face. “I am so tired.” 

“I can only imagine,” he says. “Go get some rest.”

Natasha slowly stands from her chair without protest. Her hand falls to her stomach, its natural resting place these days. Her bump is imperceptible to the unwitting eye, barely disrupting the natural flow of her shirt, but she wraps her hands around it protectively regardless. Their baby is a true miracle, still new enough that the fear of something happening is constantly at the forefront of both of their minds. 

That’s as much as Bucky allows himself to think about it, refusing to let himself dwell on the possibilities and instead focusing on the good that this child brings.

Natasha stops by his chair and lays a hand on his shoulder as she leans down to kiss him. He meets her halfway, smiling when she slips her hand up the side of his face to hold him in place. 

“I love you,” he tells her. “Sleep well.”

“Mm. I will. I might sleepwalk my way upstairs,” she says with a laugh, and his heart swells in his chest at the sound. “What are you going to do?”

Bucky voices the idea that’s been at the back of his head for most of the day, but one he hasn’t been able to act on yet. “I think I’m going to see Stark.” He hasn’t checked on the man since he collapsed a few days ago, and while he’s sure that Tony is glad for that, he feels like it’s something he should do.

Natasha frowns, her eyebrows knitting together concernedly. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Bucky shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably not. I think he’s still asleep. But if Pepper’s there she might be able to give me an update.” He figures that there isn’t anything to report, that if there was Pepper would have come to get them. Still, it’s worth a shot. 

Natasha’s expression is still uncertain, but she doesn’t argue. He has a sneaking suspicion that she wants an update on her friend’s condition, too. “Okay. Let me know how it goes.”

“I will. Promise.”

They share a small smile before she murmurs a soft goodbye and slips out of the room. He waits until FRIDAY alerts him that Natasha has made it upstairs, per his request, before heading to the west wing of the building.  

The silence that greets him is eerie, its cold stillness almost clinical as Bucky walks through the hallways. A quick survey of the wing tells him that Rhodey nor Pepper are nowhere to be found, which doesn’t bode well for him should Tony be awake.

The door to his room is slightly ajar when Bucky approaches it, and he takes a steadying breath before pushing it open. He slowly pokes his head in. Stark’s room is dim, with the light from a standing lamp casting soft shadows onto the wall. It’s the only source of light in the room, minus the glowing medical equipment reporting positive numbers. Bucky would consider it to be cozy if it wasn’t harboring the man who hates him more than life itself.

Which is understandable.

Tony’s still form lies amongst the sheets, which rise and fall steadily with his breathing. A half-read book lays face down on the chair by Tony’s bedside, a pair of reading glasses on the side table. Pepper. Maybe she’s here, maybe she went for coffee. He figures he’ll wait for a few minutes to see if he can catch her before heading back to his and Natasha’s area of the Compound. 

He’s just begun to back out of the room when a gravelly voice cuts through the silence. 

“You really can’t take a hint, can you?”

Bucky freezes like a deer in headlights. He looks towards the Tony-shaped lump in the bed, truly at a loss for words. Their conversation from a few days ago comes back to him, and he has a sinking feeling that anything he tries to say will be met with the same fury and spite. 

And what do you say to the man whose mother and father you slaughtered in cold blood? Even if it wasn’t your fault, even if you didn’t have a choice, you can’t change what has happened. You can’t change how he feels, and Bucky doesn’t know what to tell him. Apologies weren’t a part of the HYDRA Book of Assassination. 

He swallows, finding his voice far slower than he would like. “I’m not here to bother you. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

A scoff comes from the bed. “Your very existence is a bother to me.”

Bucky dips his head. “I know.”

“I’m doing great,” Stark says blandly, his face still enshrouded in the darkness. “Now, I would appreciate it if you would leave me the fuck alone. Please and thank you.”

Bucky nods as the Tony-shaped lump in the bed shifts. “You got it.”

He takes a step back without another word, but a shrill alarm pierces the air before he can shut the door. Tony begins to cough and splutter, his shadowy arms flailing for something out of his reach. Bucky is across the room before the logical part of his brain can kick in, stepping into the light to figure out what the source of the alarm is.  

Tony is cursing and protesting through his coughs, and as Bucky nears his bedside he can see the nasal cannula the man is trying to reach for. It dangles just outside of his reach. Wordlessly, he grabs it and hands it to Tony, who snatches it from his hand like a viper. 

Stark shoots Bucky a glare as he adjusts the tube under his nose. It’s the closest he’ll get to a thank you, which he’s not expecting. It’s closer to a fuck you , which Bucky has been expecting. Still, he raises his hands and backs away. “I’ll leave you be. Feel better, Tony. If you want, when you’re ready, I’m more than happy to fill you in on what’s been going on.”

Stark’s reply is immediate. “I don’t want anything from you.” 

Bucky shrugs, and for once the man’s words don’t sting like they did before. “Fine.”

“What-what makes you think that you can just walk in here like nothing happened?” Tony demands, his eyes narrow. “Like you aren’t who you are.”

Coming here was a mistake. “Tony, we don’t need to have this conversation right now.” Or ever.  

“No, no. I want answers. You owe me answers.”

Bucky lifts his chin, analyzing the man before him. Tony’s questions are persistent and laced with poison, his insulting tone hiding years worth of hurt. But there is a profound sadness in Tony’s eyes that not even the darkness can hide. For the first time Bucky sees him not as a vengeful man, but as a grieving boy. 

“I’m not who you think I am,” Bucky replies after a moment. “What I did all those years ago, to your parents…I didn’t have a choice. I knew your father. Howard was a good man. I didn’t want to kill him or Maria. Please believe me when I say that I am truly sorry for what I did. And I’m sorry that Steve lied to you about it. That wasn’t fair to you.”

He has a suspicion that the lie is where most of Tony’s anger comes from, and because Steve isn’t here to take Tony’s anger, Bucky is the punching bag for all of his suppressed anger and grief. It doesn't help that Bucky is doing the job that Steve most certainly would have done, filling the shoes of the man whom Tony respected and trusted. He can only imagine what a slap in the face his presence is to Stark. 

Still, Bucky continues. “I could stand here and tell you that Steve did it for the right reasons, but I really don't know what his reasons were and I don't want to lie to you. I understand if you want nothing to do with me, but I hope that I can eventually be someone you can trust. I’m glad to see you doing better, and I want to make sure that you know that if you ever need anything, we will be here for you.”

Tony is quiet for a moment, absorbing Bucky’s roughly executed speech. His expression morphs from outrage to suspicion like a kaleidoscope. as if he’s debating whether or not to trust what he’s been told. When he slouches back against the pillows, as if the argument has left him, Bucky’s own posture relaxes slightly. Stark’s following chuckle has no humor in it, and he pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s in pain. “God, you and Steve really are cut from the same cloth, aren’t you? I don’t know if it makes me hate you more or less.”

He hopes less, but Bucky has a feeling that Tony is gearing up for more insults or, at the very least, a few scathing accusations. He dips his head in farewell and begins his walk to the door. “Get some rest, Tony.”

He receives no reply. Either Tony doesn't know what to say, or he doesn't care enough to send him off with one last retort. Maybe it's both. 

Bucky shuts the door behind him, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding as a physical barrier falls between them again. He’s glad he went, that he said what he said, but he has a feeling it won’t ease the tension of their next encounter. Maybe it would have been better not to have come at all. 

“How’d it go?”

Bucky looks up and to his left to find Pepper standing a few arms lengths away with a cup of coffee in hand. Her tense expression betrays her relaxed posture, and her big blue eyes scan his face for answers. She strikes him as straightforward despite her gentle demeanor. It must take a saint to put up with Tony, and that's who he hopes he's about to have a conversation with. Hell, she might hate him just as much as Tony does. 

He sighs. “About as well as you’d think.”

“I figured.” Pepper’s heels click on the floor as she approaches, and he wonders why he hadn’t heard them before. “Are you okay?” 

Her question takes him by surprise, and it must show on his face because she offers him an understanding smile. “I know he’s not the…easiest person to get along with.”

Bucky shrugs halfheartedly. “I killed his parents. Steve lied to him about it to protect me. Tony has every right to be angry with me. I’m not here for his forgiveness, either. I just wanted to see how he was doing.” He glances back to the room. “I actually think I might have worsened his condition.”

Pepper chuckles at that, which makes him feel surprisingly better. “Tony will be alright. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You have enough going on as is.”

He scoffs, dragging a hand down his face as he leans back against the wall. Natasha, the baby, restoring the world. He doesn’t know what scares him more. “Yeah.”

She frowns. “What’s going on?” Her tone is soft and sympathetic, bordering on older-sister-ly. When he meets her gaze he finds that all of his worries fly to the tip of his tongue, aching to be spilled. Mostly, he wants to tell her about the pregnancy because he hasn’t told anybody about it and he would really like to. But he bites his tongue, knowing that it’s not his news alone to share. It would be wrong to tell Pepper without Natasha there, too. 

So when he looks at Pepper, Bucky hopes that his expression conveys everything he wants to say and can’t. “There’s just a lot going on right now. Trying to balance it all is…hard.”

“I’m sure,” she agrees, not poking further. “It’s a lot for a person to handle.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have Natasha,” he says honestly. “She keeps me straight most days. I think I’d have gone insane by now if it wasn’t for her.”

Pepper smiles gently. “You two make a good team. You compliment each other very well.”

That makes his entire body flush warm, and he shares her smile. “Yeah. I’m lucky. She’s…” he trails off, trying to find the right words. “...my entire world. I love her.”

So much of their relationship has been covert; it feels strange to talk about it freely with someone he doesn’t completely know. His stomach tenses as the words leave his mouth, and as they sit in the air between them he analyzes every possible twitch and blink Pepper could make, praying that he’s made the right decision in trusting her with this information. 

Pleasant surprise flickers across Pepper’s face at his admission, which he takes as a good sign. “Ah. I had a feeling that’s what your dynamic was, but I wasn’t certain. I’m glad.”

Her expression doesn’t harbor anything but happiness. He pushes it one step further, testing this tentative trust they’ve built.

“Yeah, me too. There were a lot of times where I didn’t have anything, so being able to have her here is enough for me. The rest of the world could fall apart tomorrow and I’m certain that as long as I have her, I’ll be okay.”

A plethora of emotions plays across Pepper's face as she looks towards Tony’s room. “That’s how I feel about him,” she says, affection softening her tone. “He’s an asshole, and stubborn, but he’s my rock. He’s a good man. I don’t know what I’d do without him." He’s glad to hear his own sentiments reflected in her words. “My first loyalty is to him,” she continues with a nod. “But I really hope that you can find some kind of common ground. I think you’d get along, in a strange way.”

“Time can only tell.” He offers her a half smile. “I’m not holding my breath.”

“Good. You might pass out.”

“Probably,” he agrees, and pushes himself off the wall. “Well, I won’t keep you. It was nice to meet you, Pepper. If you ever need anything, you know where to find us.”

She holds out her hand, which he gladly shakes. “You’ve done plenty. Thank you. It was really nice to meet you too, James.”

Pepper turns the opposite way as he starts down the hallway. The door opens and closes softly in the distance as Bucky heads back the way he came, feeling significantly lighter than before. Golden sun rays shine through the large bay windows as he heads upstairs to his and Natasha’s room. He’s sure there’s a hundred emails to read and voicemails to listen to, more plans to be made, but all he really wants to do right now is be with Natasha. 

The room is dark and comfortably cool when he pushes the door open. The light from the hallway sweeps across the bed, illuminating Natasha's frame settled deep within the mattress. Her breathing is soft and deep in the silence of the room, and it catches slightly when he crawls into the bed beside her. 

She lifts her head up, her bleary eyes cracked into emerald slits as she searches for him. “Mm. James?” she murmurs as she turns towards his figure. 

He presses a kiss to her warm cheek as he lowers himself to the mattress. “Shh. It’s okay. Sleep.”

Sshe settles back down almost instantly at the sound of his voice. It’s when he curls up behind her that she relaxes back into his chest, her hand falling atop the one that he lays over the curve of her stomach. It’s here, in the darkness of this room that they share, with Natasha wrapped in his arms, that he feels truly at peace. At home. He looks down at her sleeping figure and is certain that there is no better feeling in the world than this. 

Bucky is suddenly filled with the desire for textbook normalcy, for a house with a big backyard and a dog, for pictures on the walls and a laundry room overflowing with clothes. A ring on both their fingers, two cars in the driveway, the sound of small footsteps stampeding across the floors.  He knows it’s not practical, not now at least, but he finds himself aching for the day that it can be. 

Until then, as long as he has Natasha here with him, he knows that he has everything that he could need.

Chapter Text

Natasha POV

Natasha has always been a light sleeper. It’s how she was trained, it’s how she stayed alive, and because of the career she continued to choose, it’s now deeply ingrained in her psyche. No amount of sleep aides or holistic tricks have helped, despite her continued attempts to get them to work. She has grown accustomed to waking before the sun and crawling into bed long after it has set, craving a task or a project to busy herself with.

When she was a Red Room recruit, her only task was staying alive long enough to graduate and earn the title of Black Widow. She became HYDRA’s pawn shortly thereafter, and then her project was whatever target they assigned her. Within a few days, the pristine manilla folder she had been given would be handed back to her handlers adorned with smudges of grease or blood. Sometimes both. 

It was the same with SHIELD, with less mind control and psychological conditioning. Target assigned, target acquired, target eliminated. In and out, over and over, like clockwork. She would have burned out trying to prove herself if it wasn’t for Clint.

He became her friend and brother and closest confidant, and she became his sister and godmother to his children, best friends with his wife. Then Natasha became busy with the tasks that those titles brought: school drop-off and bandaids for skinned knees, bedtime routines and lessons in punching. In turn, Laura had taught her how to cook more than box pasta and cans of tuna fish, and she’d insisted on wine nights and lounging by the pool when it was too hot to do anything else. Natasha never developed a love for hunting the way Clint did, but she’d gone with him every time he’d asked her to. He was the one who turned SHIELD into more than a job, bringing her coffees and cleaning her guns and teaching her how to play pranks on Coulson when morale was low. 

It was Laura who’d taught her how to be still and enjoy the silence, Clint who’d reminded her how to be a person and not a robot, and their children who showed her what a life full of color truly looked like. 

Then she became an Avenger, and when she wasn’t chasing down bands of mercenaries or fighting off alien invasions she became tasked with the responsibilities of a friend and coworker. The title of secret keeper, doctor, sparring partner, battle buddy, and a pain-in-the-ass (courtesy of Tony) all lengthened her resume. Things she used to be, but different.  

When the Avengers fell apart and she was on her own once again, the title of sister and daughter found her for the second time. The sister aspect didn’t come as naturally as she’d hoped it would, and she’d bandaged Yelena’s wounds while holding her at arms length. It wasn’t until Yelena had thrown herself into her embrace amidst the rubble of the Red Room that Natasha realized that she’d needed her sister just as much as Yelena did her. And while she’d never felt like a daughter to anybody, she’d bid Melina and Alexi goodbye while holding their hands as tight as she had on the day they’d all been separated.

Now she’s taken on the title of Avenger once more, with countless news outlets describing her and Tony as the “ones still standing”. They didn’t quite know what to make of James yet. The first articles that came out were critical, others cautiously optimistic. She doesn’t know what the public opinion of them is now; they’ve been ignoring emails and phone calls from journalists asking for their latest updates. Some want to know about the work they’re doing, others about the Avengers’ divorce, with a few trivial questions about their personal lives sprinkled in.

Natasha understands why. 

The Avengers were a symbol of confidence and protection to the world for a long time, so it’s only natural that people would gravitate towards something seemingly certain. Pillars of hope are still pillars, regardless of how cracked they are. Still, Natasha knows that it’s Bucky who has truly earned the title of Avenger. He stepped up where she couldn’t, shouldering the weight of the workload so she didn’t have to carry it alone. She couldn’t imagine doing this by herself, much less pregnant. A mom. 

Her latest title was the one she’d equally coveted and feared.

Natasha hadn’t known her own parents beyond two tombstones by a chain-link fence. Her childhood in Ohio was a ruse, and Alexi and Melina’s parenting never felt genuine. Her only true example of motherhood was Laura, and nothing seemed to come more naturally to Laura than being a mom. She’d made even the hardest parts of parenting seem easy. 

Natasha wants nothing more than for Laura to be here now. Apart from her time with the Barton kids, her experience with children – let alone babies – was slim to none. She has thousands of questions and very little answers.

She googles everything these days, often at night with a blanket over her head to keep the light of her phone from waking James. In between her frequent trips to the toilet to throw up and the brief moments of sleep she gets with all her anxious tossing and turning, she researches every possible question she has. Some with simpler answers, others scary and complex. Sometimes the answers make her feel better, like learning at what age babies laugh or why newborns smell so good. Other times they scare the shit out of her, especially when it comes to the things she can’t control. 

Like tonight. She’d been good about leaving her phone untouched for most of the night, but all it had taken was one fitful nightmare to send herself scouring the internet for peace of mind. Which didn’t work. 

Now, her phone long abandoned on her side table, Natasha stares at the ceiling and watches the fan blades cut through the darkness. Bucky snores gently from beside her. He hasn’t awoken to her anxious tossing and turning or stirred at her trips to the bathroom to throw up, like he often does. She’s thankful for it tonight. There’s not much he can do except stare at her heaving figure crouched over the toilet bowl and murmur encouraging words. Whoever decided to call it morning sickness was sick in the head. 

Natasha cranes her neck to look at the clock on her bedside table. 4:47am. 

Early, but not so early that her presence around the Compound would be questioned. Not that there was anybody around to question her anymore. Bruce had given Tony the all-clear about a few weeks ago, and the pen had barely lifted from the release form before Tony was out the door. He and Pepper had the same idea as Bucky and Natasha: retirement. Or, at least a break from Avenging. They’d left for the Stark Eco-Compound, Tony’s high-tech cabin in the woods. She didn’t know when – or if – she’d ever see him or Pepper again.

Natasha couldn’t blame him for leaving, but she was jealous that he was able to. All she wanted was for her orphanage to become fully operational and for the world to right itself so she and Bucky could get the hell out of here. Every passing day they spend in this Compound is one more reminder that it is no place to raise a child. Or grow one. 

She’ll reach her ninth week of pregnancy on December 3rd: her birthday. It’s the only gift she wants, and that’s what she told Bucky when she asked. Then, upon further inquiry, she’d told him that she wanted to look at houses. Even though he’d enthusiastically agreed, she knew it was a long shot. They’ve both been so busy with running everything that they’ve barely had time for themselves. House hunting required significant time and effort, not to mention all of the security they’d have to put in place if they were to go the traditional house-buying route. It was exhausting to think about, so she chose not to. She had enough to deal with. 

Now Natasha lays wide awake staring at the ceiling, running a hand across the small swell of her abdomen. Most times it’s soothing enough to get herself to fall back asleep, but when another glance at the clock reads 4:52, she carefully disentangles herself from the blankets and swings her legs over the bed. Her stomach churns in her gut, even though there’s nothing for her to throw up anymore. Once the nausea abates, she carefully dons one of Bucky’s sweatshirts and slips out of the room. 

It’s chilly in the Compound, thanks to the late November winter that’s begun to roll across New York. The cold floor soaks into the soles of Natasha’s socked feet as she heads downstairs. The tall floor-to-ceiling windows do little to stave off the chill, but it’s not long before she has a hot mug of herbal tea between her hands. Multiple varieties of tea have replaced her coffee station, and stacks of boxes decorate the counter. Bucky, in an effort to show his solidarity, has also sworn off caffeine and brings her a new variety every other day. Some she loves, some she hates, but she keeps them all anyway. She already has an impressive collection, despite not being very far into her pregnancy.

This morning, the soothing smell of peppermint floods her nose as she brings the mug to her lips. She looks out over the kitchen to the rest of the building, her eyes gravitating towards the paper-strewn conference room. They have a lot to get done today. Her orphanage is in the process of being redone after its internal demolition, so there’s emails to return and plans to review, and she should probably make a site visit in the next day or two. There’s at least four respective email updates from Carol and Rocket waiting in her inbox, who are monitoring situations off-world. Her head hurts just thinking about it. 

She looks at the clock. 5:17am. 

She decides that she’ll give herself until 6am to get to work. 43 minutes of quiet before the day explodes with phone calls and screens full of data. Just off the kitchen is a small patio area, decorated with a few chairs and a table. It’s secluded, but open enough that James can easily find her when he wakes. She grabs a blanket and settles in to watch the sun rise over the trees, steaming mug in hand. 

Bucky POV

“I want french doors.”

“Really?”

Natasha stares him down from across the table with her piercing jade eyes. She levels her pencil at him. “Hey, I didn’t say anything when you said you wanted a curved driveway.”

“Curved driveways are in right now,” Bucky says seriously. "Look at the one in front of this building."

An incredulous laugh escapes her mouth. “ ‘In right now’? What 90s gossip column did you just jump out of? Besides, if anything is ‘in right now’, it’s french doors – which have never gone out of style.”

“Okay, okay,” he relents, one hand raised in surrender as he scribbles her idea onto their ever-growing list of house non-negotiables. “You’ve made your point. A set of french doors for the lady.”

She motions with her own pencil, with which she has done zero writing. Occasionally she’ll tap it against the rim of her mug, drumming a tune while she thinks. “And a claw-foot bathtub.”

He nods in agreement, adding it to the list. “See, I like that idea.”

“I knew you would.” Natasha lifts her mug of tea to her lips as she watches Bucky add to their growing list. She’s pulled the hood of his sweatshirt around her neck to stave off the bite of the wind, her porcelain fingers pink from where they poke out of the sleeves. Steam from her mug curls around the tip of her red nose when she takes another sip. 

It reminds him of a time so long ago it’s as if he’s imagining another universe, one where she sat next to him outside his hut in Wakanda, staring at the stars from over her mug of tea and wondering if she was making the right decision. And while it ultimately brought her a stab wound and a near-death experience, it has also rewarded them with the life they’d never thought they would have. He watches her now, one hand resting absentmindedly on her stomach as she thinks, and his heart swells in his chest. 

Briefly, he wonders what would have happened if she hadn’t gone after those mercenaries. Would they still be here, sitting across from one another on this patio, planning for their future? Or would he still be in Wakanda with his goats and donkey, would she still be evading every government on earth? Or would she be here alone, trying to piece everything together? Would he be helping Okoye, or would he be dust like Steve? Would they ever know about each other the way they do now?

Despite the daily pressures sitting on his and Natasha’s shoulders, he knows he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d rather have this crazy, overwhelming, wonderful life with Natasha than live any other one without her.

Bucky turns back to the list, scribbling a few more ideas down while Natasha gazes out over the trees. Her birthday is coming up in a few days – December 3rd. Big celebrations have never been Natasha’s favorite, so he wasn’t surprised when she’d told him she didn’t want a “whole big thing”. 

But she deserves the world and more, and Bucky is determined to give her whatever it is that she may want. So when he had asked her what she did want, she’d simply told him she wanted to look at houses. 

That had been a surprise, but a welcome one. Sure, they’d talked about it before all the shit with Thanos had happened, but plans of wraparound porches and chickens had been forgotten in the wake of worldwide rebuilding. So when Natasha told him she wanted to look at houses, he began searching for anything and everything possible. Which was a lot harder than he’d expected. Realtor or no realtor, two bedrooms or three, and how many bathrooms is too many? Should they look for something close to the Compound or find something as far away from all of this as possible? He’s never had a house of his own, much less bought one for more than one person, and the questions and possibilities are endless. 

Then he went back to his idea of building a house compared to buying one. While he knew that it was an unrealistic idea – considering that it could not be built within the roughly six remaining months of Natasha’s pregnancy – he mentioned it to her anyway. She didn’t shoot it down immediately like he’d expected, and while they both agreed it wasn’t right for their current situation, they find themselves here on the patio today scribbling ideas for their future house. 

“We’re going to need at least four bedrooms,” he says, touching the pencil to the yellow paper. 

Natasha raises an eyebrow as he starts to write. “Planning a big family, are you?”

“One for us,” he says pointedly. “One for the baby. And two left over for whoever decides to visit. I feel like that’s a solid start.”

She leans forward to read as he designates each room on the paper. Master. Nursery. Guest 1. Guest 2. Her metal chair rattles as it scrapes against the concrete. Bucky looks up as she walks around the table to him. She’s warm when she stops at his shoulder, lifting her own pencil to add to his list. Her neat handwriting appears next to his. 

Guest 1 - Yelena

Guest 2 - Clint

Guest 3 - Steve

Guest 4 - Sam

Bucky slides a hand around her back when she straightens, only to lean into him. Her arm falls across his shoulder as her weight settles against his side. She’s soft and warm and smells like his cologne. 

“I didn’t think we would ever be six-bedroom-house kinda people,” he tells her as he pulls her closer. 

“Well, it’s all a pipe dream right now,” she replies. “Hopefully it can become a reality one day. In more ways than one.” Her gaze lingers on the names she’s written. He knows what she’s thinking, because he’s thinking it too.

“It’s strange not to have them around,” he says, looking down at the names on the yellow paper. “Especially now.” 

Sometimes, often when he can’t sleep, Bucky imagines what it would be like to have their friends around now. Steve, trying to do everything at once, turning his hair grey trying to plan everything just right. No stone would go unturned with him around, and Bucky wishes he was. Sam would try – and fail – to build everything, leaving Clint no choice but to step in and put bookshelves and dressers together. A task Bucky knows he would have taken upon himself with the utmost pride. Sam would take over the little things: carpools and heavy lifting and fully stocked fridges overflowing with all their favorite things. And Yelena, who would be only an arms length away from Natasha at all times, vying for the role of her shadow and protector. 

It would be cruel to go the rest of their long lives without them around, even worse for their child to never know them to begin with.

Natasha’s slender fingers entwine in the back of his hair, playing with his curls absentmindedly.  “I know. I always thought they’d be here for this. If it ever happened.” She looks down at her stomach, the small bump hidden underneath the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. “But it has, and they’re not here.”

“They will be. It might take awhile, but we will get them back,” he promises her. 

“Damn right,” Natasha agrees, patting his shoulder. “Come on. We’ve got a lot to do today.”

She slips from his side to head towards the door, and as he watches her walk away he thinks back to another day, another time, another moment when it was just the two of them. The memories from a year ago play through his head: a motel room with flickering lamps and cockroaches, bloody gauze and stolen glances, life and death, uncertainty and miscommunication. How different they are now, without the weight of their secrets hanging over each other. The wanting, the longing, the unknown, now all replaced by certainty and having. He has her, he has their baby, and though the world is in need of repair and their family is gone, she still is  - and always has been - his bright spot. 

As Bucky stands to cross the patio to Natasha, standing by the door absentmindedly scrolling on her phone, he’s suddenly reminded of that alleyway in Ohio. The restaurant and boutique they were sandwiched between, her intense expression, having just lectured him about humanity and purpose. 

What do you want? 

He’d wanted to kiss her then, and he does so now. 

Natasha barely has time to look up from her phone before he’s grabbing her around the waist. Her gasp of surprise is quickly captured by his lips, and she chuckles against his mouth when the force of his kiss knocks her back a step. Her arms lock around his neck when he pulls her in, like he did in his room in Wakanda. 

Her words from that day echo through his head. I couldn’t forget you if I tried.

“What was that for?” she asks when they break apart. She keeps one hand on the side of his face, her palm soft against his cheek. 

He shrugs. “Just because I can.”

She smiles and leans in to kiss him again. “Such a romantic.”

“Weren’t you saying that we had things to do today?” he asks when her kiss lingers. 

“Hey, you started this,” she says when she pulls away again. Her finger pokes him in the chest. 

“You should know better than to play these kinds of games with me.”

“Why, because I’ll lose?”

Her soft smile turns mischievous. “Because you’ll win.”

He gives her a look. “You are making our to-do list seem incredibly unappealing.”

A knowing smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth when she turns away from him. “Check some items off our list and then we’ll talk.”

***

“FRIDAY, any update on Clint?” Natasha calls to the ceiling, tapping the eraser end of a pencil against her hand. Leather creaks as she leans back in her chair.

Despite her insentient form, Bucky could have sworn there was sadness in the AI’s response. “No, Ms. Romanoff. His last known location was Brașov, Romania. As of three weeks ago. It appears he’s still hunting down those who pose a threat to the world, and covering his tracks as he goes.” 

Natasha’s pencil stills against her palm as FRIDAY goes silent. Her expression darkens as she swivels her chair back to face the table. “Even when he’s sloppy he’s good,” she mutters. 

“We’ll find him, Tasha,” Bucky reassures her as she turns her attention to the computer in front of her. Holograms of maps sprinkled with coordinates appear in the air next to her screen. They change to architecture layouts and demolition plans as she begins to type furiously. 

They’ve had no luck reaching Clint, despite the piles of bodies he’s been leaving in his wake. He’s moving too fast and too cleverly to be tracked down beyond a handful of coordinates. Any  attempt to reach him has proved futile. He’d dumped all his points of contact, but his anger hasn’t kept him off of security cameras or from appearing on street footage. 

“Do we know where he’s going next?” Natasha asks to the room. 

“While he appears to be moving west, his exact path is unknown,” the AI replies. 

“Keep tracking his movements,” Natasha instructs. “The second he appears on a camera, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, Ms. Romanoff.”

Even though Natasha’s attention returns to the screen before her, Bucky knows she’s not really seeing what’s before her. He watches as she types a few words here and there, sliding between tabs while her mind furiously dissects Clint’s latest exploit. Her leg bounces under the table. 

She does look over when Bucky closes his computer, brows furrowing when he stands to his feet and walks over to her. “What are you doing?”

He holds his hand out to her. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“And go where?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here. I’m tired, you’re tired, and I don’t know about you, but I have a headache from staring at the same screens all day.”

Her lips curve into a small smile. “As long as we get food along the way.”

“Say less,” he says, and she takes his hand. 

“Good. Because I really want a milkshake and french fries.”

Thirty minutes later, Natasha is sitting in the passenger seat of Bucky’s truck with her feet on the dash, dipping heavily salted french fries into the sweetest milkshake possible. Planes land and take off from the airstrip beyond the windshield, leaving white tails as they cut through the cloudless sky. It’s a reminder that the world is slowly returning to normal, a fact they both find comfort in after a long day of feeling like they’re not getting anywhere. 

“I don’t understand Clint,” Natasha says, breaking the silence that had fallen over the cab. She stabs a fry into her milkshake. “Maybe I’m just being selfish, and correct me if I am, but I don’t understand how he can go off and do what he’s doing when we are here. All of our friends are gone. They’re either dust, or they’ve retreated into the mountains never to be seen again. He is the only friend I have left, and it feels like he doesn’t care. I know that he lost Laura and the kids,” she continues before Bucky can speak, purposefully keeping her gaze fixed on the plane lining up on the runway. “But so did I. And I’m here. You are here. Trying to fix things. You and I are actively trying to bring them back, and he’s just killing.”

Bucky quickly realizes that she’s not talking for the sake of advice, but to externally process every good, bad, and ugly thought she’s had about this entire situation. So he stays quiet and lets her.

“If I could go after him I would, but I can’t risk it. Not in my…condition.” She dips another fry and continues. “And the thing is, I do understand him. I know why he’s doing what he’s doing. If I didn’t have you, and our baby, and a moral duty as an Avenger, I’d probably be right there with him. I just think that if he knew what we’re doing here, he would stop.”

She goes quiet then, letting her head fall against the back of her seat. Her shoulders fall with a heavy sigh.

“I think he would too,” Bucky agrees after a moment. “And you’re right. If I’d lost you, I’d probably be trying to burn the world down if it meant getting you back.”

“You kinda already did that,” she points out, recalling the warehouse and the fiery explosion and the shattered mirror. 

“And I’d do it again,” he promises. 

A humorless smile graces her face. When she turns her attention back to the food before her, Bucky reaches over to take her hand. Her skin is cool and slick from the condensation of the cup, and grainy with salt. Her green eyes pierce right through him. 

“We’ll get him back, too. I’ll make sure of it.”

Whatever she wants, she gets.

Her small smile turns gentle. Trusting. “Is it wrong that I want to bribe him to come back with the promise of a niece or nephew?”

Bucky chuckles. “No, because that was my idea.”

She laughs too, and turns her attention back to the runway in front of them. Her shoulders are more relaxed now, and her feet tap a tune on the dashboard as she watches a plane line up to take off. It’s humbling to realize how much of an effect his confidence has on her. To know that he has become her rock through this whole ordeal, and that it is his strength that she relies on for comfort. It wasn’t too long ago that his stability was frequently questioned – by doctors and diplomats and therapists alike. 

Now, he’s stable enough to be trusted. To be considered as a leader and a resource, and beyond that: a boyfriend and a soon-to-be father. It’s terrifying and liberating all at once. He knows he couldn’t do any of it if he didn’t have Natasha by his side. He relies on her just as much as she relies on him, maybe even more so. 

Bucky and Natasha continue to hold hands over the console as the planes follow their schedules, and they make up stories for who is on each airline and where it's going. It’s only when the sun starts to set and Natasha starts to yawn does Bucky put the truck in drive. 

“Let’s get you home, Tasha.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” she agrees. “I’m starving.”

***

“Do you know if there’s pickles in the fridge?” Natasha asks as walks into the Compound, shrugging her jacket off as she goes.

Bucky frowns as he follows behind her. “I’m not sure. I’d assume so.”

“Hmm. What about peanut butter?”

“I hope you’re not thinking about combining those two things,” he tells her warily. 

“Hey, you try growing a human and then get back to me.”

He raises a hand in surrender. “Alright, I’ll see what I can find.”

Natasha flips on the lights as she walks into the kitchen, but they only get a few steps into the room before they both freeze. The light to their office is on, shining in the distance beyond the kitchen. Bucky frowns, reaching for the gun at his waistband. “I know I turned off the lights before we left.”

Beside him, Natasha reaches for her own weapon. “I didn’t get any kind of alert that the perimeter had been breached,” she tells him in a hushed, cautious tone. “Maybe we did leave it on.” 

“Maybe. But I’d rather be safe than sorry.” There’s very little he’s willing to risk when Natasha and their baby are involved. 

They share a silent look of agreement before proceeding towards the light. He can’t hear anything as they approach, no clicking of keyboards or rummaging of paper. He’s just about convinced himself that he’s being overly paranoid when a dark figure appears beyond the glass walls. 

Just as quickly as Natasha and Bucky raise their guns, they lower them. Tony’s figure, leaning over the conference room table, stops them in their tracks for a second time. He’s not shuffling through the layers of papers like Bucky expects, not rooting for answers to what they’ve been doing. Instead, he’s picked up the first sheet that’s caught his eye. The yellow paper is stark in his white hands. Bucky is close enough to the glass walls to see his brown eyes scanning the sheet. Impassivity cloaks his pale face as he reads. 

“Stark.” His name sounds more like a statement when it leaves Bucky’s mouth. 

Tony doesn’t jerk his head up in surprise. In fact, he remains so still Bucky wonders if he’s been heard. He shares a look with Natasha as they both holster their guns. 

“What are you doing here, Tony?” Natasha asks as they pause outside the doorway. That gets Stark’s attention. She crosses her arms over her chest when the man looks up. 

“You ask me,” Tony replies after a moment. He turns the yellow sheet of paper around, the same yellow sheet they’d been brainstorming on this morning. “I came to grab a few things.”

“And stopped to poke around?”

He shrugs. “Can’t help it. I thought I’d be out of here before you got back, but I got sidetracked.” He does a poor job of hiding his shock as he taps the paper. His finger lands on the word Nursery. “Does this mean what I think it does?”

Natasha lifts her chin as Bucky takes a step forward, not knowing where to put himself during this exchange. He decides to let Natasha do the talking, letting her choose how much sensitive information to disclose. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.”

“You’re pregnant? I didn’t think that was possible.” Surprisingly, Tony’s tone is gentle. Not condescending like they would have expected. 

“Join the club,” she responds dryly. She’s practically bristling, unsure of where this conversation is about to head. 

“And planning a house?” This time, he looks at Bucky. “The two of you?”

Bucky dips his head in assent. “Yes.”

Then, Tony chuckles. “Oh. So that’s what this has been.” His finger flicks between the two of them. “I thought I picked up on this…dynamic. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to believe it.”

Natasha shrugs. “It’s a long story. And I’m too tired to get into it."

Tony’s expression softens imperceptibly. “I bet. Are you…feeling okay?”

They both frown at his question. Natasha responds warily, not sure how to trust what sounds like concern. “I’m fine. The usual.” 

Tony doesn’t try to push past the walls she’s put up. If anything, he looks regretful. “Well, I’m happy for you. Really. I am.” He casts a glance towards Bucky. “Both of you.”

Bucky’s frown deepens. “The last time I talked to you, you wanted to kill me. Now you’re…” He gestures to Tony. “Civil?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Out of the two of you, I’m partial to Romanoff. Just to make that clear. I owe her something. You…not so much."

“Tony,” Natasha warns, her gaze darkening. “Say whatever it is you have to say and get out. Insult him in the process and I will break all of your fingers. Between the two of you, I’m partial to James.”

“I would hope so,” Bucky says under his breath, and Natasha barely suppresses a smirk.

Tony sets the paper down. He scans their list of house wishes before straightening. “I’ll build your house for you.”

He folds his arms over his chest as they gape at him. “You’ll what?”

“Don’t make me say it again. I don’t like regretting impulsive decisions.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” Natasha asks, dumbfounded. “The last time I saw you, you were so pissed at me I thought you’d kill me. Not to mention James. And now, you show up here unannounced, snooping through our stuff like you’ve been here the whole time. You’re half-way human about my pregnancy, and now you want to build us a house?” 

“Technically, I own the building. I think that lets me come and go as I please.”

Natasha’s jaw twitches as she stares him down. She takes a step towards Tony, leveling a finger at him. To the man’s credit, he doesn’t back up. “But you haven’t been here, Tony. You haven’t done a single damn thing to help us. We’ve been here since everything fell apart, trying to put everything back together. You don’t get to come and go as you please if you’re not going to be of any use to myself or James. If you’re not going to be an Avenger. So you can just get out.”

Tony holds his hands up. “I know. I know I haven’t been around. I’m not proud of it. But I do want to try to make things better between us. I want to make up for what I did, and for what I said the last time we spoke. And the time before that. Besides, grand gestures are kind of my speciality.” 

Natasha stares at him suspiciously. “This is Pepper talking, isn’t it.”

Tony groans. “No. This is all me. All my ideas. Can I not express a positive human emotion?”

“I didn’t think that was possible.”

“An old dog can learn old tricks,” Tony concedes. “So, what do you say? Can I do this for you?”

Natasha stares him down for a moment, analyzing every twitch and change in his expression. Briefly, Tony looks towards Bucky. “Does she ever look at you like this?”

Bucky, not quite believing that Stark is addressing him without venom lacing his words, shakes his head. “No.”

“Build my orphanage.”

Their attention snaps back to the redhead.

“What?” Tony asks.

Her expression is unwavering. “My orphanage. Willow House. It was just demo-ed. Renovations are about to start. Cover all the bills and get it up and running and I’ll forgive you. I don’t want a pity house, but I will accept a pity orphanage. And an apology.”

Tony lets her words hang in the air for a moment, and then he agrees. “Done. Send me an invoice. And if there’s money left over, you can use it for whatever you want. House or no house. I don’t care. I won’t ask for it back.”

Natasha dips her head. “Great. And?”

Tony’s expression sobers. For a moment he looks pained. “And I’m sorry. For what I said about your reputation. You’re a good person, Romanoff. I trust you.”

Natasha blinks as the weight of his honesty hits her. Only Bucky catches the emotion in her eyes before she dips her head. “Apology accepted.”

“Great. I’ll get out of your hair so you can enjoy your pickles and peanut butter. Gross, by the way.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but there’s a glimmer of humor in them despite her annoyance. “Get out or I’ll make you try it.”

Tony makes a face. “No need to threaten me. I’m going.”

“That’s her favorite thing,” Bucky tells him, and when Tony looks at him there’s no malice in his eyes. It makes Bucky wonder what has happened since the last time they spoke, and if Pepper truly had something to do with Tony’s sudden change of heart. He’s grateful for it, even if he’s not sure how much he trusts it

They follow Tony to the front door and watch as he heads to his car, strategically parked in a secluded part of the driveway. Which explains why Bucky hadn’t seen it when they’d pulled up. 

“What just happened?” Natasha asks as Tony gets into his car. 

Bucky huffs out a breath. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him apologize once. Unless he was being sarcastic. Maybe he’s planning something.”

“What, is he going to come back and spray-paint “parent-killer” on the wall?”

“That’s not a plan. That’s just vandalizing.”

Tony’s car roars to life, the turbocharged engine practically growling before it idles in the driveway. There’s a beat, and as he begins to drive away Natasha’s phone pings with an alert. She pulls it out of her pocket as Tony’s red taillights fade.

“Son of a bitch.” Her mouth falls open as she stares at her screen.

Bucky frowns, leaning in closer to get a better look at her phone. She turns it around to show him a bank transfer. “He just sent me three million dollars.”

Bucky’s eyes nearly fall out of his skull. He reaches for the phone, which she hands over. “Are you serious?” He knows she is because he can see the proof before him, but he still can’t believe it. 

The note under the bank transfer reads, “4 the kids”. 

“Why would he do that?” Bucky asks.

Natasha scoffs. “Because he’s a rich asshole with a god complex and an overwhelming sense of guilt. He’s such a jerk.” There’s no venom in her words, though. Bucky is surprised at the emotion that thickens her voice. Her face twists as she tries to keep her expression neutral. “Ugh. He should know better than to do that to me.”

“Aw, Tasha.” Bucky chuckles as he pulls her to his side, certain that she can hear his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Not a word of this to him,” she warns as she wraps her arm around his waist. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“You’re overestimating just how close Tony and I are.”

“He did just buy us one hell of a baby gift.” Natasha huffs. “Knowing him, he’ll never shut up about it.”

“Probably not.”

“It is a relief, though,” Natasha points out. “That’s one less thing we have to worry about.”

Despite his and Tony’s grievances, he has to admit that the true gift is the peace of mind that Tony has given them. Natasha in particular. Tony will never be Bucky’s favorite person, but he will always be thankful for the weight that the billionaire has taken off of Natasha’s shoulders. 

Bucky starts to guide Natasha inside. “Come on. This calls for a celebration.”

“All I really want is peanut butter and pickles.”

He chuckles. “You can have whatever you want.”