We'll Always Have This

Chapter 3

Natasha woke to darkness; it was not yet dawn. The burning in her back woke her from a fitful, fevered sleep with disturbing dreams. The vodka probably hadn't helped despite the pills he'd given her. She shifted under the clean, crisp sheets, wrestling out from under them. Her eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark, but she knew, or more accurately, remembered where she was - a mattress on the floor of James Buchanan Barnes's apartment, but her surroundings were too unfamiliar to orientate herself. Sitting on the side of the mattress, she closed her eyes, counting, making herself breathe slowly. Listening, sensing, imagining the room in which she'd fallen asleep in her head. She reopened her eyes, now more adjusted to the night's dim and faded grey pallet. The room appeared empty. An empty vodka bottle sat on the floor by the sofa as well as some discarded clothes that hadn't been there earlier. Where was James? He'd promised he'd stay. As her eyes adjusted, she noticed natural light coming from the kitchen behind the units. She stood and eyed his shadowy form, sitting in the open doorway in the kitchen that led to not a balcony but what appeared to be a small outside walkway. Shirtless in nothing but his boxers, he sat looking out the door, appreciating the cool night air. In his lap sat a notebook and, between his fingers, a pen.

"James?" she padded cautiously towards him.

He turned to look at her, "Hey, you OK?"

"Yeah, my back woke me up. Have you been awake this whole time?"

His face turned grim, "I slept briefly. Like I said, I don't sleep much.

"Nightmares?" she asked.

"Only dreams I ever have; every time I close my eyes."

She stepped forward and sat cross-legged in front of him.
"I have a recurring dream, you know."

"Yeah? What's your dream?"

She took a breath, "I dream that I'm an Avenger. That I'm anything more than the assassin they made me."

He didn't say anything, just looked at her until finally, he gave a half-smile and nodded; he understood.

"What do you dream about?" she inquired.

"Violence, murder, death; they're my memories." He looked down at his closed notebook. "With my defection from Hydra, my mind started healing. No more cryo or shocks destroying my brain; I remembered who I was before Hydra, but I also remembered everything I did for them."

"What are you doing?" Natasha motioned to the closed notepad in his hand and the pen.

"I write or sketch anything useful. Sometimes, it's the names of my targets. Other times images, faces of the bystanders I killed just for being there; for seeing what they shouldn't."

"Why write that down?" Natasha asked.

He frowned at her question in the moon's silvery grey light as though it should be obvious.

"To make amends one day for the wrong I've done. Closure for them and for me."

"Can I take a look?"

Bucky handed her the book. Natasha flicked through; the names went on for pages, and then came images or descriptions of people who weren't the primary target, page after page.

Bucky saw shock register on her face that she'd failed to hide as the pages continued, "You didn't think there were that many?"