The soldier had been drilling the girl in the same sequence for close to two hours now. It was giving Natalia an uncharacteristic amount of trouble, but the soldier didn’t realize how frustrated the girl was until, after being knocked to the ground yet again, she began to cry. She tried to hide it, holding her arm over her eyes and swallowing back her sniffles, but the tears leaked out anyway.
The soldier knelt down beside her, wiping a tear from Natalia’s cheek, and slipped a hand beneath her chin to tilt her head up. “I know this is a difficult exercise, but listen to me, Natalia,” she said, looking her in the eyes. “No matter how hard things are, you always, always get back up.”
Someone had said that, once. Someone. It was one of the American’s memories, the soldier supposed, and so she should have reported it to Dr. Rodchenko, but she never had. A small rebellion, really, but that tiny nugget of wisdom had often kept her going far beyond what the General thought she could endure.
She offered Natalia a hand and smiled when the girl pushed herself to her feet without it, the familiar stubborn set returning to her chin. On impulse, the soldier pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. “Good girl,” she said. “Now. Try it again.”
II
The Black Widow was beautiful and cunning and deadly, all roses and creeping briars and too-wise eyes. The soldier respected her. She took a measure of pride in the woman’s skill. She even, privately, cared for her. But she had never imagined that this might happen.
They were on a mission in Omsk, holed up in a filthy hotel with only each other and the roaches for company. Natalia had returned from a food run, shrugged out of her coat, and was changing into clothes more suitable for sleep. And the soldier could not force herself to look away.
“What is it?” Natalia asked.
I want to kiss you, the soldier thought. But she did not – could not – say it aloud. Desire was not a luxury that she had ever been granted.
Natalia, though, with her mind like a scalpel – Natalia must have read it in her face, for she stood on her toes, graceful as the ballerina she’d never been, and pressed her lips to the soldier’s own. Her mouth was warm and soft, and the soldier’s lips parted on instinct. But she pulled away after a few breathless moments.
“Natalia–”
“Shh,” Natalia said, pressing a finger against the soldier’s lips. “I need to know – do you want this?”
Did she want this? Yes. Yes, she wanted it, wanted Natalia’s lips on hers, her arms around Natalia’s waist and her hands against her skin. But if they were caught—
The punishment that would crash down upon them would be terrible to behold.
Still, the word escaped before she could bite down on it. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, I want this.” She met Natalia’s eyes, beautiful and sun-flecked, and forced herself to ask the same. “You,” she whispered, “do you…want…”
“Yes,” Natalia said. The soldier pressed a kiss to the pulse in Natalia’s neck, Natalia dropped her hands to the soldier’s hips, and they melted together like butter, like snow, like chocolate left too long in the sun.
III
It was still dark when the soldier slipped out of bed and began dressing. She was whisper-silent, but Natalia stirred anyway. “Don’t go,” she murmured, rolling over and stretching her hand out towards her lover.
“I have to,” the soldier said softly. “You know that. If we’re caught—” She clasped her bra and yanked her shirt over her head. “Besides, I leave for Poland tonight. I have to spend the day in prep.”
Natalia frowned, but nodded. “I know,” she agreed. “But I wish you could stay.”
“So do I,” the soldier said, perching on the edge of the bed. Or leave, she thought. I wish we could run, leave all this behind, start fresh somewhere. But they couldn’t, and neither of them was stupid enough to attempt it. So she contented herself with leaning over and pressing her mouth to Natalia’s in a slow, warm kiss.
“Stick to the shadows,” Natalia said when they finally broke apart. “And be careful.”
“I will,” said the soldier. “Whip Bullski into shape for me,” she added, and Natalia smiled like a knife blade.
“Oh, trust me, I will,” she said. “He won’t know what hit him.”
The soldier returned her grin and then slipped out the window into the dark.
IV
“How do you tell which memories are real?” Barnes asked one night, lying beside Natalia in the back of their stolen van. She would have preferred to be outside; the constellations hadn’t changed since the 20th Century, even if everything else had, and she took more comfort in that than was warranted. But it was safer inside. So she stared up at the dark ceiling instead and said, “I remember— Just moments. Little flashes. But they’re slippery. They slide back and forth and I can’t get them to fit. I don’t think they’re all real, but how do I know?”
“What do you remember?” Natalia asked. “If it’s from the Soviets… Maybe I was there.”
Barnes was silent for a long, long time, the seconds stretching out fragile as blown glass. “I remember you,” she finally said. “Training you. Missions with you.” She shifted onto her side and scrubbed her hand over her eyes. “Kissing you,” she added, barely audible. “Was that real?”
She felt Natalia move beside her, pushing herself up onto one arm, but she wasn’t prepared for Natalia’s lips on hers.
“Yes,” Natalia whispered. “That was real.”
V
Natasha was sprawled out in the sun beside Stark’s pool, her cherry dark bikini complementing her hair and giving lie to the claims she’d made to Steve years ago. She leaned back in the pool chair, sunglasses and a floppy straw hat shading her face, and sighed luxuriously.
“If anyone decides to invade New York today, I will kill them,” she said, quirking a half-smile at Bucky. “I have no plans to move for at least another hour.”
Bucky laughed, but her eyes were drawn, like always, to the scar that adorned her lover’s stomach. The scar that she had put there. A sudden impulse gripped her and she left her own chair to kneel beside Natasha’s, brushing a kiss across the scar, half apology and half reverence.
“What’s that for?” Natasha asked, brushing her hand through Bucky’s hair.
“You,” Bucky said, smiling up at her. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“I do,” she said, tossing her head and crossing her ankles, and Bucky laughed. “Now,” Natasha said, “how about you put some sunblock on my shoulders, hmm?”
“Yes ma'am,” Bucky said, laughing again. She kissed Natasha’s stomach once more and then stood to fetch the sunscreen, her smile bright as the sky.
My muse has just started crying, thinking they were alone. Send ╥ for them to react to seeing your muse.
Bryce didn’t cry in front of other people. Ever. She had once but the individuals in question were currently either dead or gone from her life. Crying meant being punished, meant being jeered at for being weak. At best it was being asked she was on her period, at worst being seriously asked if it was going to be an issue because of the Other Gal.
But sometimes it all got to be too much. The anger, the pain, the memories, the overwhelming guilt that threatened to choke her. It started pressing out from inside her until she felt like she was going to burst, like her skin would split a seam and Hulk would pour out.
Yes, technically the living room was a public space and others had been known to drop by but she’d just assumed that she’d be able to get a few minutes to herself to let it all out somewhere that wasn’t her room where her own presence suffocated her.
She was embarrassed to realize that Natasha must have been standing there for a least a little while and seen the whole thing. Her sobs and loud sniffling must have covered up any sound the other woman made when she came in. Wiping the heel of her hand across her eyes, she sniffed particularly hard and looked away from her. “I’m really not in the mood for one of our conversations.” Her voice was thicker than she would have liked.
redgossamer replied to your post “If you look like this, I’d hate to see the other guy.”
Natasha nodded, wincing a little from her wounds, but she'd had worse. "I'll live. Going to be paying for it int he morning, though."
Steve nodded once, securing his shield on his back before glancing around again. “Extraction point’s around here somewhere, isn’t it?” He asked, brows pulling together as he looked back at Natasha. “You sure you’re alright? D’you need to rest a minute before we start movin’?”
Send me “Please don’t leave again” for my muse’s reaction to yours asking them to stay.
redgossamer
He had a bag slung over his shoulder, cap tugged down low, and his eyes a bit distant. His shoulders hung low and to anyone else he looked like a broke man and they weren’t entirely wrong. He was tired to the bone and the three day hiking trip had taken a toll on him. It was a chance to get away but he wasn’t sure it worked as much as it should.
“I’m sorry Natasha..” he drops the bag, giving a weak smile that lasted no longer than a second. “I shouldn’t have left. I-I’m sorry.”
redgossamer replied to your post:"Don’t look at me like that."
“We both need fresh air, and going out for a walk would accomplish this. It won’t be /that/ terrible. We wouldn’t even be leaving Stark Tower’s grounds.”
"It's not the fresh air I'm objecting to. The part that doesn't thrill me is the possibility of being recognized since my identity is public knowledge now."
