It starts and ends with a single flower: the first on her pillow, the last in a vase on her table, Bucky's one and only nod to the holiday's typical traditions.

The edicts of romance might demand for candies wrapped in red foil and cards inscribed with laughable puns to mark the date, but he's had his sights on something a bit grander for weeks. Never having much opportunity to celebrate Valentine's Day in the past, he thought it be fun to treat Natasha with something better than chocolate, creating a cat and mouse type chase across the Island that stretches old skills while being more playful than a simple training exercise, short, handwritten notes left behind at certain junctures to egg her on with the promise of a worthwhile prize at the end.

The prize ends up being a simple, candlelit dinner prepared in her own home, him wearing a tie, and a much needed reprieve from their real lives for a night. He's only just finished pouring the wine when he hears her approach from outside, and he walks to the front door to meet her halfway, freshly showered with his hair parted neatly to the side in a style that probably dates him, but suits him nevertheless.

"Right on time."

There was never going to be a debate.

A change in environment this drastic practically begged for immediate exploration; while they'd each been provided with a(n all too) convenient map by their increasingly creative wardens, Bucky didn't want to trust the information. He knows London, has spent enough time there in his youth to have a decent grasp of the land, but if they're meant to believe this is still the Island -- and they are, given that the map's got the Compound marked down as being off of York Road -- a closer look is certainly called for.

Wrangling his new, bulkier arm into a coat had proven a challenge -- he might take to just cutting off the sleeve next time -- but undoubtedly the bigger one was accepting that his favorite gun had been transformed into an unreliable antique. His combat knife, at least, escaped more or less unscathed; it's a small favor, but at this point, he's not about to look any gift horse in the mouth.

And hell, at least Virginia seems happy enough. Her breed's made for this kind of change in weather, and she seems eager to get going, though Bucky's already decided he'll walk her rather than ride.

Huffing out a sigh that turns into a wispy cloud before his eyes, Bucky turns to look over the small group assembled for the occasion, the lot of them dressed in fashions older than at least a couple of them combined.

"Well," he says wryly. "This brings me back."

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."

True as it is that Bucky Barnes has been trained within an inch of his life, neither the brass at home nor the Brits overseas had anything to say about what to do upon waking up without a stitch of clothing to call his own, sandwiched between a nice looking dame and a detached robotic arm. There's a stiffness to his muscles he can't account for, a tightness in his chest he recognizes, dimly, as broken ribs, but neither seem particularly pressing in light of the circumstances; pain's meant to be dismissed whenever possible, and this is hardly a situation that calls for moaning about how sore he is. As Captain America's partner, it'll take more than a few scrapes to keep him out for the count!

Even so, he takes a brief, tense moment to stare, unmoving, at the thatched ceiling, trying to wrack his memories for some kind of explanation only to come up with zilch. He fell asleep in Europe, of that much he's certain, but wherever he is now is surely anywhere but, the heat and humidity oppressive, the sounds filtering in from the shuttered window distinctly tropical, like the soundtrack to a movie. He hasn't the foggiest idea what kind of trap he's stumbled into, but if there's one thing he knows for certain, is that he won't be stuck here for long. Tossing off the thin sheet with little mind to hide his shame, he jumps out of the bed, more concerned with arming himself than he is finding something to wear, though he lucks out when he finds a combat knife still holstered in a spiffy looking belt, half-buried in a pair of pants that are a couple of sizes too big, but'll do in a pinch.

Elapsed time: five seconds.

He's halfway to doing up the fly when he notices that his company's awake; he finishes the job one-handedly, his other hand now occupied with brandishing the combat knife he's only just found.

"I don't know what you Nazis are playin' at," he says, "but don't think I'm gonna fall for it just 'cause you've got a pretty face, lady!"