Bucky Barnes (
onlyapassenger) wrote2011-10-17 01:52 am
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[for Natasha]
He can't sleep. This isn't, in itself, that unusual. Hell, given the amount of time he and Jason actually spend in their house, it's a wonder they have one at all, their nights generally spent elsewhere (and in fairer company than each other). That Bucky's once again found himself sitting crouched in Natasha's window is little more than a bad habit, the only thing speaking to some deeper trouble being his timing and his attire. On a normal night, he might show up in pajamas and combat boots, minimally armed, with his hair already mussed from an attempt at rest that he knew would surely allude him.
Tonight, though, he's dressed in uniform, the shield strapped to his back. Backlit by the moon, the figure he cuts is more imposing than playful, a pronounced tension in the set of his shoulders. His timing leaves something to be desired, as well; it's much later than he usually shows up, and it's clear from the flush in his cheeks that he's been outside for some time, though his purpose doesn't immediately present itself.
Eyes falling on Natasha, he allows himself a small, tired smile, even as a sigh that speaks to weeks of unneeded stress escapes his lips. His fingers itch to reach out for her, but he performs the courtesy of toeing off his boots before he goes any further into the room, pulling down his cowl as he begins to undress. His heart feels tight in his chest.
"Sorry I'm late," he murmurs, slipping into Russian for no other reason than wanting the reminder of something that was uniquely theirs. (His sweep of the perimeter was clean; there's no one listening in -- he's not being paranoid, though life has given him every reason.) "Needed some air."
Tonight, though, he's dressed in uniform, the shield strapped to his back. Backlit by the moon, the figure he cuts is more imposing than playful, a pronounced tension in the set of his shoulders. His timing leaves something to be desired, as well; it's much later than he usually shows up, and it's clear from the flush in his cheeks that he's been outside for some time, though his purpose doesn't immediately present itself.
Eyes falling on Natasha, he allows himself a small, tired smile, even as a sigh that speaks to weeks of unneeded stress escapes his lips. His fingers itch to reach out for her, but he performs the courtesy of toeing off his boots before he goes any further into the room, pulling down his cowl as he begins to undress. His heart feels tight in his chest.
"Sorry I'm late," he murmurs, slipping into Russian for no other reason than wanting the reminder of something that was uniquely theirs. (His sweep of the perimeter was clean; there's no one listening in -- he's not being paranoid, though life has given him every reason.) "Needed some air."
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"You don't look as if it helped," she replies, on her knees and reaching for him. What solace the open air could not provide, Natalia is determined she will.
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"It didn't," he admits, as free as he ever is about his emotional state -- which is to say, not very. "Nothing to fight but shadows."
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"You sound disappointed," she says, pressing her fingertips to the worried crease of his brow. "Not even another child of Gotham to chase away?"
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"I know they're just kids, but..."
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"Come," she says, slipping her hands into his. "Tea? Or vodka?"
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"Something more than children is bothering you," she observes as she releases him, pulling down two glasses and a bottle from her meager pantry. The vodka is...borrowed, and Natalia unrepentant as she pours. What use is there in being a spy if she can't enjoy the perks, after all.
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"I'll put the glasses away," he promises, breath warm against her skin, if only because he can't be bothered to pull away until he needs to, reaching to take from her the bottle so that he, too, can take a drink. "Hell, I'll even make the bed in the morning."
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"Perhaps I'm no great fan of neatness after all," she says, reclaiming the bottle. He's delaying, she knows, but she trusts that he will tell her eventually. If not tonight, then soon. Given James' habit of bottling that which troubles him most, he'll explode long before she does.
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"Or maybe I just wear messy well," he suggests, teasing, and to his relief, it doesn't feel forced.
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"Can you charm this bottle back?"
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"That counts, right?"
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She angles her head, freely granting him access to the vulnerable skin of her throat, content for now to enjoy his good humor. "Or do you think me so easy?"
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Natasha understands him in ways no one could ever imagine; it's not something he takes for granted, and even if he remains reluctant to share what brought him to her window so late.
"You're perfectly difficult."
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"But I will concede," she adds, tracing a finger along the curve of his cheek. "I like to see you smile."
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"Sometimes I think you're the only person who sees it," he says, thinking aloud more so than confessing. If considering only the past few weeks, it isn't much of an exaggeration, but then, he hasn't been under such constant surveillance in a year.
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"Jason's family reunion. Being followed all the time. Stark. Steve's... preferred method of dealing with Stark. This place screwing with Lucy, again."
He sighs. "I've been here a year."
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Natalia returns her fingers to his hair, stroking it, as much to comfort herself as the man beneath her. "We will take them in turns. I can...dissuade the children, if you like." That much is easy. "And Tony..." The expression she wears then is decidedly sad, and takes longer than Natalia would like to remove. "I do not believe that man can be forced to see reason in any universe. I only hope that it will come to him in his own time. And Steve..." Natalia is not ashamed to admit, at times that man is her last hope, James' loyalty to him immovable. If there is tension there, she could almost despair for how to mend it. "Tell me, what does he do?"
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"But Steve... He's waiting. And I understand his reasons, but that sure as hell doesn't mean I like them."
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"Waiting on Tony?" she asks, short nails skimming along James' scalp. "To become the man we used to know? Or something else?"
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The statement's delivered with no lack of awareness; he'd never say as much to the man himself, perhaps, not without due cause, but that doesn't make it any less true. The quickest way to manipulate Steve, to anger him, is to make a slight against Bucky in some way. Of course, the same holds true in reverse.
"Though frankly, if Stark's going to make noise about me, I'd rather just take care of it myself."
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"What noise?"
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"'Wrong quip.' There's no noise -- not yet, not that I know of -- but that's what he's waiting for. Given that I doubt I so much as register on Stark's radar, though, my guess is that Steve'll be waiting a while."
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Laying her head against his shoulder, she breathes out a curse that suggest acts of great physical improbability, the depth of which would be lost in translation back to English. "I take it back. A fistfight would do them both some good."
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"My thoughts exactly."
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