A WinterWidow Fling

Morning

      Get up, soldier! Get up! He bolted upright with a groggy wail, the bright lights burning his eyes, the needles sunk in his arm, drugs torching his mind--

      A soft touch grazed his bare back. "James?"

      He swiped at his eyes, panting. No lights. What had happened to them? He rubbed his right arm desperately, tried to rid himself of the needles but they held fast; he couldn't make them go away--

      Arms slipped around his chest. "James," a gentle feminine voice crooned in his ear. "It's okay."

      It wasn't okay. It would never be okay. He was a slave to murderers' whims with no control over himself, his mind forced to take the backseat while his body carried out unspeakable atrocities--he sobbed and tried again to brush the needles off, bruising his own skin as he gripped his arm tightly. Leave those alone, soldier! You'll damage the equipment!

      A soft yellow light snapped on. Natasha straddled his lap and took his face in her hands until he looked at her, bewildered, panicked. Her green eyes held no judgement, no ill will, only understanding. "What's happening? What are you seeing?" She was wearing his shirt, he realized.

      "My arm," his lips trembled with fear. He gestured shakily. "Needles. The labs in Siberia--" He shuddered, squeezed his eyes shut. His heart was rushing around in circles within his chest. "Drugs..."

      "Hey," she put both her warm hands to his chest. "What year is it?"

      "It's...2016."

      "And what's your name?"

      "James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky." The angry voices were fading. He opened his eyes.

      Natasha smiled faintly. "Siberia's in the past. All of that is." She reached down for his right hand, clasped it in both of hers. "Feel this?" He looked at their intertwined fingers and realized his were shaking; he willed them to stop. "That's not what I'm worried about." She squeezed his hand. "Do you feel that?"

      "Yeah?" The needles sent minor implosions of flame across his muscles. He hissed in a breath and held it.

      She shook him. "No. Breathe."

      "What..." He slipped his hand from her grasp and rubbed his eyes wearily. "What are you even trying to--"

      "I'm trying to teach you how to focus on what's real." She explained. Her bright hair was sticking up at odd angles. "On what you can feel. So you don't walk around looking so lost all the time."

      He grunted and reached for his phone. "You're so weird."

      "You're a hundred years old and have an arm made from the rarest metal on Earth." She retorted sharply. She tugged his shirt over her head. "Don't talk to me about being weird."

      He willed himself not to stare and quickly gave up. Her underclothes were presumably still in the untidy pile by the bed; her lithe body glowed faintly in the soft yellow light. She frowned at him as she reached up to tie her hair back. "Your mouth's open."

      He shut it. "So?" He ran his tongue over his lips, ready to say more--he blinked. "Huh."

      "What?" She leaned over the edge of the bed to retrieve her clothes.

      He watched the smooth muscles of her back ripple beneath her skin, wonder blooming in his head. "Needles are gone."

      She pursed her lips. "Maybe instead of teaching you mindfulness techniques I can just flash you."

      He snorted a laugh and rolled out of bed.