Present Day
You rolled over and peered at the small red digits on your clock. Red like the blood flowing through your veins, red like your hair, red like the country that you hailed from. You closed your eyes, but sleep didn't come for you. It was like this every night. You would lay in bed for hours until you finally drifted off, but tonight, the comforting arms of slumber were even more elusive. You glanced back at the clock, back at the blood red numbers. It was 1:47 am.
Things had been up in the air the last few weeks at the tower. Hectic, chaotic, but mostly,complicated. You knew this was a new scenario for everyone, since the amnesiac soldier had arrived, and that things were hard. Hard for Steve and hard for Bucky, but deep down, in a place that no one knew about, things were extremely hard for yourself as well. You shook your head slightly. It was strange, how quickly you'd taken to outwardly calling him Bucky, but in your mind, that would never be his name. His name was James... You thought back to cold, dark times; cold dark nights, when he'd had no name. He'd been the Soldier, and only the Soldier, and despite all of your trained detachment, it hadn't seemed right for a man to have no name and so you'd given him one. You'd called him James.
Not in front of anyone, of course. But he'd been James to you all those years ago in Russia, in the alleys and the dark and the underground, and when he'd arrived at the tower and you'd learned his real name was James Buchanan Barnes, you'd had to hide your surprise. He didn't know you now; he hadn't known you in a long time and he didn't know that he ever had, and you thought it would be easiest if you kept it that way.
You sighed, looking back at the clock, the numbers mocking you with their existence. Only three more minutes had passed. You rolled out of bed, you knew you weren't going to get any rest at the moment. The spectre of the Winter Soldier was looming large over you right now. He wouldn't let you sleep.
Your feet found the floor, and you padded across your room, down the hall of your apartment, the carpet soft beneath your toes, and out onto the balcony. Your rooms were up high in Avenger Tower; a bit higher than most of the other apartments, but not as high as Tony and Pepper's penthouse. You craved solitude, and so Tony had given you the first new flat on the floor above Cap, Falcon, and now Bucky. You wrapped your thin robe tighter around yourself against the chilly air of the new spring, and leaned against the railing, taking in the view of the city in the early morning hours. The lights never really went out in New York. The traffic died down a bit, and the businesses closed for a while, but the lights were always there. For a creature born of shadows, you found this disconcerting.
A noise from the balcony below you and to the left took your attention, and you looked down through the darkness. James, no, Bucky, was down there. You saw the faint glow of the end of a cigarette, before his eyes travelled up to you and he cooly hid it behind him and stubbed it out into a planter. He smoked and everyone knew it but he tried to hide it all the same. When he'd come to the tower, when Steve and Sam had found him, broken and strung out from coming off of the benzos or whatever drugs Hydra had him on for so many years to keep him docile and forgetful and calm, to make him both lose his mind and keep him from losing it all at once, he'd already taken up the unfortunate habit. You knew the nicotine did nothing to him physically; it couldn't possibly, what with the serum pumping through his veins. Mentally you guessed it calmed him. It was a terrible habit and self destructive. You weren't really sure why he did it. Maybe it had a placebo effect. But it wasn't your place to judge. The man had been through a lot.
He hastily got rid of the evidence, gave you a small wave, and retreated into his apartment. You continued to watch the emptiness of his balcony. That was really all there was between you; an uncomfortable emptiness, an almost tangible wanting that you were sometimes sure he felt as well. You couldn't blame him for the lack of interaction, and to be honest, it was a lot better than him trying to kill you like he'd nearly accomplished a few times before. But, despite all the years in between when he had been James and had known you, and now that he was Bucky again and you were just a woman named Natasha and he thought he'd just met you six weeks ago... the emptiness hurt. You wondered when you'd gone soft. Emotional attachments had been drilled out of you from a very young age. You sought physical relationships when you wanted them and left feelings out of it all together and that was the way you liked it. However, the arrival of the Soldier, James, Bucky, whoever he was now, had you in a state of confusion and you didn't like that. You were a woman used to being in total control of her body and her mind. You kept everything sharp like a weapon. But lately you were feeling blurred around the edges and distorted, and you knew it had everything to do with the dark soldier living one floor beneath you and the history you shared, but only you remembered.
You went back in to once again do battle with the night and the red numbers on your clock.
* * *
Your name was Natasha Romanova, Natasha Romanoff to the english speakers, and you'd defected from your home country of Russia seven years ago. Shield had sent an agent named Clint Barton to kill you after you'd dispatched several of their top agents trying to infiltrate the infamous Black Widow Program and it's training facility, the Красная комната (Krasnaya Komnata) the Red Room.
You'd been born on November 22, 1982 to a schoolteacher mother and a railroad worker father. By the age of five your intellect had gained you some notoriety in your neighborhood and in your school in Moscow. Your parents had died in a car accident that same year, whether it had been arranged by the government or not you would never know, and you'd been taken in by the Black Widow Program, raised fully and completely to be a spy. Twenty one years later, Clint had been ready to kill you; he'd come close, but he had been your unlikely savior that cold day in late March. He'd held out one last chance at humanity, dangled it in front of you, and you'd reached with weary hands and a wearier heart to grasp it. You'd never thanked him; he'd never needed thanks, never expected it. He knew it was there, as unspoken as it would remain. He'd become your best friend. His children were your God children now, his wife like a little sister, and Shield had made excellent use of such an asset as yourself. It had taken you a very long time to undo the majority of the manipulation and brainwashing that had happened in the Red Room; you knew that you could never truly be rid of it. The days of espionage, the lies, the deceit, they weren't over. They would never be over. Those traits were as much a part of you as your dark eyes and red hair, as your stealth and wit, your soft touch and steely gaze. But since the day you'd left, you'd found more of yourself than you had ever hoped that you could. More of the rest of yourself. THe Program and the Red Room had not been rife with opportunities to develop a sense of self beyond the Black Widow. In the years since that fateful day when Clint had chosen mercy, you had become an entire person. The journey of self discovery that you'd began on the snowy streets of Eastern Europe over a decade ago, some of it spurred by the Winter Soldier and with him by your side, had come full circle. The quiet moments in your life had changed from a disciplined stillness to a kind of strained peace. The time spent with your teammates, who you now considered friends, had gone from a chore to a necessity that you looked forward to. You'd been all over the world, dismantling the last remnants of the scattered KGB and the broken down Black Widow Program, even forming alliances with the newer Russian government, and later battling Hydra cells splintered everywhere. You'd forged a strange but ultimately solid and true friendship with Captain America. When Steve had come out of the ice three years ago, you'd been a founding member of the Avengers. When Shield had fallen to Hydra a little while ago, you'd helped him pull through and do what was right; you'd found yourself an unwitting pillar of virtue. And then his best friend had risen from the ashes like a dark phoenix, nearly killing both of you in the process, and ripping open the protective layer that had rested over your heart for so long.
Your shoulder still ached sometimes from that last bullet you'd caught, courtesy of the Winter Soldier. You'd have liked it to have been the only time he'd shot you, but it wasn't. There was that time in Odessa, too. Your former lover had nearly ended your life twice since Hydra had ended whatever meaning the two of you had ever hoped to share. And he'd done it with cold, steely eyes that had looked at you as though you could have been anyone; as though they had never gazed upon you before, let alone held you in their light for countless hours on and off the battlefield.
You shook your head to clear it and looked down into your coffee cup. You hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. Just as you'd known would happen, you'd tossed and turned, and when sleep had laced it's tentative fingers through your consciousness, you'd dreamed of long ago days and safe houses; tents on icy mornings and underground nightclubs and targets; alleys and guns and marks; and finally skin and scars and lips and fingertips grasping in the dark of nights that had long since come to pass. Events that you needed to forget. Events that you had forgotten, until Bucky had decided to show up again.
You looked around the dining room. It was very early still; Steve sat in the corner reading the newspaper. He was the only person you knew who still got an actual newspaper and didn't just read it on their phone. He was deep in some article, though, and didn't seem to notice you. You were relatively sure you were hiding your emotions and the truth excellently- that was what you did. You'd been trained to be a spectacular liar, and you used that ability when you felt it was necessary, and right now it was definitely necessary. None of the team needed to know that you had a history with Bucky; Bucky was remembering a decent amount about his life before Hydra and before and during World War 2, but he wasn't recalling much from his time in captivity and that suited you fine. If he ever did remember, which you doubted very much that he would with any clarity, you would cross that bridge when you came to it.
You got up and put your plate in the dishwasher in the kitchen. The only person who knew was Clint, and he had said nothing to you about it since Bucky had shown up at the tower, and you knew he would tell no one. You never talked about it and he never asked and that was how it went. You'd confided in Clint one time, years ago, over a few too many whiskeys after a mission in a smoky bar in Berlin. You'd told him about your former lover with the metal arm and then Odessa and how Hydra turned everything into a monster eventually. And when Clint found out you'd been shot that day on the overpass, his reaction had been simple.
"Was it him?" He'd asked you, raising one eyebrow, his fingers minutely grasping towards his bow, trying not to seem overprotective and like he was about to jump out of his seat and go hunting.
"Yeah." You'd replied shortly. You'd been cleaning your guns, all of your guns, which was what you did when something was bothering you. The sling you'd been forced to wear had gotten in the way of this and it had taken all of your obedience not to remove it altogether.
"Can I kill him?" He'd asked in turn. He knew you and therefore knew your tells and why you were so fastidiously polishing four Glocks, two Remingtons, and three Smith and Wesson's.
"Probably not." You'd replied, picking up your favorite, a Barretta. And that had been the end of it.
You could count on Clint to take it to his grave. Because that was precisely where you were going with it. To your grave.
* * *
Moscow, 9 September, 2002
The man was waiting for you when you returned from your latest trip abroad. Trip was a gratuitous term, really. You'd been sent to assassinate a foreign attache, and you'd completed your assignment early and been back to your small flat overlooking the Красная площадь, (Krasnaya Ploshad) Red Square, much sooner than expected, but somehow Fedorov was still at your door when you'd approached. You wondered if the young messenger had been waiting there long; if he'd been waiting since you'd left, perhaps? You really weren't sure what protocol was regarding him. You climbed the spiral steps and walked towards the lanky brunette. He moved from his position; he'd been leaning against the wall reading a book at the top of the staircase and waiting.
"Natasha, welcome back." He fell into step beside you.
"How did they know I'd be back so soon?" You asked, drawing a key from your pocket. "Why didn't they call?"
Fedorov shrugged, slipping the small book into the pocket of his trousers. "They sent me this morning. Told me to wait until you showed up. I'm glad you were early. I knew you weren't expected back until tomorrow and I really didn't want to sleep on your porch."
You gave him a small smile, unlocking the door and letting both of you into the small foyer. You made a lot of money working as a spy, but you spent little on your accommodations, choosing instead to save it. You weren't sure why; in reality, you probably wouldn't live to see retirement, so you had no real reason to save, but you did anyways. Your only display of excess was the location of your tiny apartment; a view of the Square, even from a few blocks away and several floors up, was pricey.
"They need me to come in, then?" You doffed your coat and hung it in the closet.
Fedorov nodded. "Yes. As soon as possible. A new assignment. It's a big one. No phone calls. Too risky. They have a partner for you."
You glared at him. "I work alone. They know that."
He shrugged again. "I know. But they want you to work with this man and I think you'll find him worthy."
"It's not another Widow?" You raised a brow. That was strange. The Widows were rarely partnered with outsiders. Little trust was placed on anyone not within the Program.
Fedorov shook his head. "No."
"Who is it?"
"An assassin from Hydra. They call him the Winter Soldier."
"The Winter Soldier doesn't exist. Nice try. Who is it really?"
"He's not supposed to exist. But I saw him, Natasha. If anyone is the Winter Soldier, it's this guy."
"How so?" You put your hands on your hips. There was no way anyone could live up to the fabrications that were told around the Russian Underground, the Dark Net, and the entire intelligence community, about the supposed boogeyman known as The Winter Soldier.
"Well for one, he has a metal arm."
"You know I'm not an idiot, right?"
"Yes, ma'am. But I'm not lying." Fedorov looked shaken. "He has a metal arm, and eyes like the sea on a cloudy day."
"From that description, I don't know whether you want to sleep with the man, or are scared shitless of him, Fedorov."
"I don't really know, either, Natasha." Fedorov stood in your foyer that day, an uncertain look on his face. He'd either seen an Angel or a Devil, you couldn't be sure. A ghost, maybe. The man, the Soldier, had him shaken. "They want you in as soon as possible."
You set a stack of mail back on the side table, and pulled your jacket back out of the closet. "I guess we'd best be on our way, then." You followed Fedorov out the door, back down the spiral stairs, and out onto the streets. He'd come in a car; a low black one, shiny and brand new and classy as though belonging to a foreign diplomat. He opened the door for you and you climbed into the back; he shut it and took his place in front, driving you to the compound. The roles you played were various and the hats you wore were many. Today you were an important person, being fetched from your home and driven about in style by a valet. Tomorrow you may be up to your ears in mud, fighting guerrillas in a hell hole somewhere and hoping to God your superiors didn't decide you were suddenly expendable. You smirked a little, taking comfort in the knowledge that of all of the Widows in Russia, you were the best.
Fedorov drove you in through the gate, up to the front door, letting you out and driving away. You stepped up to the glass; bulletproof glass. Placing your hand in just the right place, and your eyes looking into a retinal scanner set in the middle, you were cleared to enter. Down a long, darkly tiled corridor. People in business suits were here and there; mostly clerical staff with little knowledge of who they really worked for. You made your way to lifts, and to the top floor. You stepped out into an office with long, low windows extending all around, providing a 360 degree view out of the building. Your handler, Ivan Petrovich, was sitting at a long table with three men. One wore a dark blue three piece suit and had graying hair. Another was obviously security; he wore black and had a shaved head, but had been required to remove all weapons upon entry to the facility. He stood uncomfortably off to the side, surveying the scene with the look of a shepherd who has lost their sheep. You mentally scowled, but remained stoic on the outside. You hated seeing an operative so dependent on their weapons that they were useless without them. This man clearly was.
The other stranger had his back to you, and he didn't turn around as you approached, but you could tell by the subtle movements of his muscles, the twitch of his back and shoulders, that he was cognizant of every move that you made. His reflection in the window was watching you; his eyes beneath dark brows and darker hair trailing you with pupils that did not falter or waver, that had no shame or need to hide. Like the other, he had no weapons, but unlike him, he was a weapon in and of himself. A panther poised to strike.
You rounded the end of the table, and Ivan introduced you. "Agent Romanova, meet Alexander Pierce. He's come to us with an... unusual assignment and your cooperation is necessary for the cause." Ivan began. Just like Ivan. No pleasantries. He got down to business. You preferred it this way. Ivan wasn't a pleasant man and you'd rather spend as little time speaking to him as possible.
You shook Mr. Pierce's hand. He was a nice looking older man, pleasant looking almost. Definitely an American, which you found strange, but you would find out everything you needed to know later on. You turned towards the other man, the dangerous one, the one all in black who indeed had a metal arm, still sitting languidly at the table. "And who is this?" You asked, though due to your conversation with Fedorov only minutes prior, you already knew.
"This is the crowning achievement of Hydra." Alexander Pierce smiled, a devilish grin that struck both fear into your heart and excitement to pump into your veins. "Agent Romanova, this is The Winter Soldier." He gestured towards the sitting figure. You studied him. He had brown hair that reached his collarbones, hanging loose and wavy. A strong muscular build beneath a leather tactical vest, black pants, and sturdy lace up boots that had seen better days. His entire demeanor was that of an animal who was feigning relaxation. He was on edge, ready to kill at a moments notice, probably on the command of Alexander Pierce. He made no move, none at all, except his eyes. They came up and met yours, holding your gaze longer than they should have.
You felt your interest pique. You could tell that things were about to get interesting. This man, now hecould be a formidable opponent if push came to shove. He was someone worth being afraid of.