James Bucky Barnes, the former soldier, doesn't think he's got any gentleness left in him. But Grace Juniper Cunningham, the former child prodigy, strongly disagrees.
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"𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯."
"𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴�...
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The tour consisted of Nat giving me the code to get into her apartment and then showing me all the places to avoid because she'd stashed weapons there. I resolved not to go sticking my hand anywhere blindly.
"So that's it," she said. "You can go get some of your stuff and bring it over here whenever."
Her apartment was almost bare apart from a couple of pieces of sleek, modern furniture that must have come with the room when she moved in. The sofa was angular and gray, but I knew already that it would be more comfortable than it looked. Pepper's tastes exactly.
"Thank you," I said earnestly. I tapped my toes in fours inside my shoes to hide it, but I was sure she still noticed my nerves. "I meant it—I'm really sorry I haven't called."
"Or texted," she added. She folded her arms and tilted her head to the side. Her face was masked with icy nonchalance.
"I'm sorry," I repeated, the words tumbling out. "It's not that I didn't want to talk to you. I missed you. It's just that—it's hard to explain. I'm sorry."
"No biggie," she said. "Everybody needs a breather sometimes. Trust me, I get it."
"Nat, really," I pressed. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone, but I know I did, and I really regret—"
"Relax." She exhaled, and her demeanor relaxed too. "Next time you want to disappear, just let me in on it. I can help you do it right."
I felt lighter already. She was letting the corner of her lip tilt up, and that was how I finally understood what was happening: She hadn't been deciding whether she should forgive me. She had been deciding whether she should let her guard down around me again.
"You're mad I half-assed it and let everyone know where I was?" I asked, trying to sound skeptical, although I was unreservedly beaming at her.
"I'm just saying you didn't utilize your network connections," she said. "If you'd given me a pint of your blood, I could've made you a passport, put you on a plane, and sent you footage of people crying at your funeral within 48 hours."
"Well, let's keep that in mind?" I suggested. "In case Rumlow gets loose. We might need that plan."
Her expression softened even more, this time with sympathy. She changed the subject, and I knew she was trying to get my mind to go elsewhere.
"Do you wanna go try Tony's swanky new coffee maker? It's ridiculously good. Clint mixed 8 shots of espresso with Bailey's the other day, and he says he met God."
She led me to a communal kitchen area at the end of a long hallway, which was presumably lined by other apartments. In the kitchen, I recognized Wanda Maximoff, whom I had only ever seen on the news. She smiled when she saw us, abandoning her mug on the counter.
"Dr. Cunningham? I'm Wanda." She shook my hand. "I hear stories about you all the time."
"Grace is fine," I said slowly. "Um, who's telling stories about me?"
