Winter Widow One Shots

The Best You

There's a question people ask sometimes. The kind that lingers longer than it should. The kind that sounds simple, until it isn't.

If you found out there were multiple universes... would you trade places with the version of yourself who had the best life?

Most people laugh it off. Say yes without thinking, or claim they are already living in it.

James Buchanan Barnes didn't laugh. Because the thought didn't feel hypothetical to him. Not any more.

Because he was certain that somewhere, somehow... that choice had already been made for him.

And he had a sickening, hollow feeling about which side of the choice he'd been given.

The last thing he remembered was laying beside her. Natalia's arm draped lazily across his chest, fingers curled into his raggedy tee shirt. The faint scent of her shampoo clinging to the pillow. A quiet rare peace for them found only between missions and things going wrong.

Because something always went wrong.

They had enemies, too many. And the knowledge of a friend turning against them. It should've kept him awake.

It didn't.

Because she was there.

And that was enough.

He fell asleep listening to her breathing.

When he woke, the world was all wrong.

When he woke up, the room was cold.

Not the kind that happened when they left the window open, or cranked the AC. This was sterile, lonely.

Bucky's eyes snapped open to a ceiling he didn't recognize.

He rolled, reaching for Natasha, only to find the bed empty.

Not the empty when someone had gotten up early, or stepped into the next room. Not the kind that held a promise of return. This was an emptiness that had never been filled.

"Natalia?"

There was no one there.

No tangled red hair across the pillow. No half-mumbled complaint about him moving too much. No warmth left behind.

Just cold empty sheets.

His heart kicked hard against his ribs, panic rising fast, sharp. He sat up too fast, breath catching, heart racing. This wasn't his bed. This wasn't his place. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

And there was no trace of her. No lingering scent of perfume. No boots left by the door, or go bag packed beside his.

Nothing.

It was like she'd never been here.

"Natalia?" He tried again, louder.

The silence that answered him wasn't just quiet.

It was oppressive.

He swung his legs off the bed, scanning the room, every instinct on edge. This wasn't theirs.

Everything was wrong. So very wrong.

It was just him here.

He glanced down, catching sight of yet another piece of his life missing.

His left sleeve sat empty.

For one impossible, nauseating second, his brain refused to process it. Refused to accept the absence where something that was so intrinsic, so him, should be.