St. Petersburg, Russia
1962
He knows that something is out of place the second he steps foot in his assigned quarters. The furniture is all in the right place, everything is where he left it-- even, he notes with a sigh, the mug he'd left by the sink before leaving-- but he just knows somewhere in his gut that something is off.
Something is there that shouldn't be.
He cocks his gun and drops his bag to the floor silently before moving farther into the house, making sure to cover his every movement in case they're already trying to eliminate him- his heart stops. What if they found out? Where is-
"Natalia," he breathes softly as the subject in question materializes, surrendering herself to the moonlight streaming in through the crack in his tightly drawn curtains. "You shouldn't be here," he drops his gun with a clatter.
He tries to make his tone as punishing as possible, but how can he be mad when she has risked so much to be here?
It's not helping that she looks absolutely stunning standing there in the moonlight, her skin a silvery cream color, a stark contrast to her red curls, which are pulled back into a messy ponytail to reveal her bright green eyes, which are fixed on his face. She's wearing the standard training outfit; a pair of old black shorts that have always been pushing the line on being too short, and a plain black tank top, but somehow she looks so beautiful to him in the moment that he can't help but let the tension in his face let up.
"You don't want me here?" she asks, her eyes still trained on his face.
"Nat," he breathes. "You know that I do."
I just don't want you to get in trouble. He knows she can take care of herself-- certainly better than anyone else here. But he can't help but worry.
"So then why fuss, soldat?" she slinks forward, trying to slip past him into the kitchen.
Reaching out to catch her is purely instinctive, and about a half second later, he's eternally grateful for this particular action as she melts into him, snaking her arms around his neck, immediately soothing the ache.
He holds her there against his heart, right where she belongs.
She doesn't speak, doesn't ask how his mission went- she probably already knows every detail just by looking at him. He holds onto her fatigued body, wondering how she was treated while he was gone.
In public, he maintains a strict and firm distance, mostly because she's irresistible and if he gets too close, he's going to be the one to give them away. Ever the talented actress, Nat has managed to convince everyone they absolutely hate each other- an idea that proved to be beneficial to both of them, as now their handlers pair them together on purpose.
"Have they let you shower today?" he breathes into her hair.
She shakes her head, and he notes the slight lag on the left side.
"Dislocated?" he guesses, and she nods her head. "From training?" she shakes her head this time, and he frowns, pulling back a little to examine her.
Now that she's a little closer, he can see the bruises littering her face and upper arms and the nasty gash on her neck.
"Nat-"
"I was stupid," is all she gives him, and he takes that to mean that she got in trouble somehow and hopes with all of his being that it had nothing to do with him. "And careless."
I doubt it.
"Well, order overridden. Let's go shower," he murmurs against her skin, trying to kiss each bruise, hoping that somehow it makes them hurt less. She nods and makes to walk away, but he scoops her off of her feet and, ignoring her indignant squeal, carries her off towards the bathroom.
Much later they lie in bed wrapped around each other, two weapons combined to make a tangled pile of limbs. He strokes her hair back, praying the sun will never come up and she will never have to slip out of his window.
"Thank you for coming," he whispers.
She doesn't say anything, but the kiss he gets in response tells him everything he needs to know. They don't say the three words begging for release, but they're both thinking it, and that's enough for now.
****
Brooklyn, New York
2014
His entire body aches when he steps inside the door. There are too many knots in his shoulders to count, and there's an ungodly ache in his left calf, but the second he steps into the living room, he forgets any of his ailments.
She's lying on the couch in one of his t-shirts, which will always look better on her than him, hair splayed out across the pillows, eyes gently shut, a rare expression of serenity on her face. Dodger is curled up on her lap, and opens his eyes when Bucky steps inside, but makes no move towards him, instead yawning and putting his head back on Natasha's lap.
"Hi buddy," Bucky whispers.
Dodger lets out a sleepy bark, causing Natasha's eyes to flutter open. She take a moment to collect her surroundings and then her eyes fall on him. Her face breaks into a sleepy smirk, and she moves to sit up, causing Dodger to whine.
"Don't bother," he moves to kneel by her side.
She gives him a sleepy smile once he's eye level, and he isn't able to stop himself from leaning down to give her a soft kiss. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down and closer to her. Dodger protests, and they break apart laughing.
"Damn dog," Bucky chuckles. "Stevie hasn't come back yet?"
"No," she gives the dog a few reassuring strokes, then returns her attention to him.
"Eh, well, he likes you best anyways. Where's everyone else?" he doesn't really care for any purpose other than knowing where the closest place he can whisk her away to is.
"Clint went home to babysit his kids, Steve dragged Sam along on his mission, and Wanda is asleep," her speech is slurred from sleep, her fatigue accentuated by the heavy Russian accent that seeps into each word.
"Shower?" he raises his eyebrows.
She yawns and looks at Dodger who sniffs as though sensing that Natasha might leave.
Bucky rolls his eyes - only Dodger could possibly thwart his plans for Natasha. Even so, he knows the best way to get what he wants is to give her exactly what she wants and right now that seems to be sleep. Lord knows he's tired enough.
Later, they're tangled in the sheets and he fixes his eyes on her, running his flesh hand through her curls.
"I love you doll," he murmurs. She yawns and repeats his words, nuzzling into his chest. "Thank you for waiting up, you didn't have to."
"'S what you do when you love someone."
