The Ghost [Marvel | Steve Rogers]

Chapter 36

Barton Home, USA

Spring 2015

"You know, you strip that gun any more and you're going to polish it clean away." Nadine nearly started as Steve's voice broke through the absent musing she'd sunk into as her hands disassembled, cleaned and reassembled her Glock.

Off to the side lay all of the guns she'd been able to find, each freshly and expertly tended. She'd managed to track down Barton's personal collection, the firearms he had for his professional life—all with his permission, naturally—and had even gathered most of the (limited) arsenal from the Quinjet, though out of respect she'd left Natasha's regular sidearms alone. But once she'd finished with the Avenger's guns, she returned her attention to her own...repeatedly.

Normally the familiar task was comforting. Today?

Not so much.

Eyes snapping back to focus, having been staring blankly off into the distance, she looked to Steve. There was still a troubled shadow behind his eyes from whatever the Maximoff girl had done to him, but a tired sort of amusement had brightened his features as he watched her curiously. Replacing the last few components, she snapped the slide, priming the chamber—not that there were any bullets in it to load—before laying the gun down.

"It's a calming habit; familiar," she explained quietly, a wan grin meeting his. A faint, thoughtful frown appeared on his face at her tone.

"Just like Natasha." Her grin turned unintentionally brittle.

"Well, I was trained just like Natasha." They both fell into silence. Nadine's gaze turned back to the window, looking sightlessly out over the field surrounding the farmhouse even as her fingers trailed distractedly over the handguns on the counter. After the overwhelming mess of emotions she'd endured on the Quinjet, right now her mind was almost disconcertingly blank. It was a nice change, but also unsettling.

Steve's own eyes followed hers to look out into the waning afternoon, but they were soon sliding back to her. Not a trace of what she was thinking showed on her carefully cool expression, though flickers of emotion glinted too quickly to decipher in her pale eyes before being efficiently tamped down. "What has Natasha told you of her training," she finally asked softly. Steve's frown deepened before he answered.

"Not much. She's never really opened up about her past as so long as I've known her. Not even with Clint, though I suspect he knows more than the rest of us. I didn't even know what the facility was called, not until you showed up." Nadine nodded absently, the disquiet in her expression that had emerged with her question deepening.

Almost unconsciously she picked up one of the guns again, her eyes sliding shut. With a speed and efficiency that spoke of familiarity and experience only endless hours of repetition could impress, she had it apart and reassembled and ready to fire far quicker than she suspected he'd seen anyone—save perhaps Natasha—strip, check and ready a gun. As she set it back on the counter with a nearly gentle measure of control, she glanced up at him again, her eyes growing veiled as she looked away, gesturing weakly to the handgun.

"By the time I was nine, I could disassemble and reassemble over thirty different firearms blindfolded, not counting launchers. Even now, it comes...well, not easier, but it's almost more grounding when my eyes are closed. It was expected—but it's—it's..." She trailed off, her fingers trailing over the guns again, a faint twitch in her index and middle fingers revealing that she was feeling the urge to pick one up again.

She turned back to him, fixing Steve with an intent, almost pained look that had him looking faintly uneasy. "Had the Maximoff girl gotten into my head, it's a good bet that I would have been back there again, just like Natasha." She nodded bitterly at Steve's startled expression, answering before he even opened his mouth to voice the question that was quickly written on his furrowing brow, "and no, she didn't tell me what she was shown. I don't know exactly what she was forced to remember; there was...there were a lot of horrible things that happened in that place. Just singling out one would be hard. But I know her, even after all these years...and I know me. That sort of place? The sort of life we had there? It haunts a person.