BuckyNat Oneshots

in spite of everything (we'll work it out)

Rated M for sexual content 

~~~~

The blizzard hit out of nowhere, delaying Natasha and Bucky's extraction for another 12 hours. Steve apologized profusely for not being able to send the team out there. It's nice that he's concerned for her because of their 'history.' She's been keeping Barnes at arm's length since he joined the team. They assume it's because he shot her, but that's not why. No one knows the real reason but her. Anyone else who knew is dead. She saw to that personally.

Outside the cabin, the frigid wind howled through the trees; inside, their fire was nearly out. It's been 10 hours since either one of them had anything to eat, and they only had one MRE to split between the two of them, and he's a super soldier, so things aren't looking great. Natasha wasn't even supposed to be on this mission, but then Hill had to go and get injured, and she was the only other female agent who could've pulled it off. Now she is here, stuck in a cabin in the middle of a fucking Blizzard. In Russia, of all places, with the Winter Soldier. Isn't that just fucking perfect?

"Here, take this," Barnes says from behind her, making her jump out of her internal thoughts.

"Thanks," she takes the dusty blanket from him as she shivers, sitting on the floor by the fireplace.

He finds an old, raggedy mattress in another room and carries it over. "And this. I can take watch while you get some sleep." Ever the gentlemen.

"No," she began as she moved onto the raged bed. "Lay with me. I'm going to need your super soldier body heat."

He stretches out beside her, gingery, doing his best to keep her warm while remaining distant. Natasha tosses and turns for 20 minutes before she can't take it anymore.

"Barnes," She whispers through chattering teeth, "It's too cold."

He shifts his body, and his eyes meet hers. "I'll go out and try and find some more firewood," he says as he stands up from the mattress. "Maybe there's another blanket lying around here. Hold on."

"Barnes," She says louder. "Just come lay behind me. I'd rather not freeze to death."

He pauses and looks at her. He seems hesitant but eventually obliges. He gets back down and scooches closer to her, and she curls her body into his chest as he wraps his human arm across her back. He keeps his metal arm to his side, trying to give her as much space as possible. He's probably ashamed of it, she thinks. He's ashamed of what it symbolizes, what his life became after he received it. But she knows from experience that that arm can be as tender as it is destructive.

She thinks back to their time in the Red Room. How many times did he hold her like this? How many times did they depend on each other to survive? Hundreds? Thousands? She keeps her hands tucked into her chest but wishes she could reach out and touch him. She wishes she could run her fingers through his chest hair and feel his muscles contract under his skin. Wishes they could spend this time relearning every inch of each other's bodies. Each freckle. Each scar. Each callous on their hands.

"You'd think we'd be more accustomed to the cold after all the years we spent in Russia," he tries to joke, breaking her train of thought.

She lets out a weak laugh, "Yeah. I guess you're right." She takes a beat, "I'm not afraid of it, you know," she tells him softly.

"What?" he questions.

"The arm."

"Well, you should be. I am," he whispers the last part as if it's a secret. They're accustomed to secrets in their line of work. They know how to keep them and use them against people. They know secrets can get you killed. So the fact that he shared that with her means he trusts her. They've shared secrets before. She wonders if he knows.