If this didn't feel so nice, I'd sleep on the couch.
Of course, Steve and I woke up tangled in each other again, legs twisted together, noses inches apart.
I don't dare move, except to tip my head a little closer to his.
He shifts a little, but he's not awake. He will be.
"Steve?" I murmur, barely a breath against his lips.
He hums a bit and shifts his head.
"Steve?" I say a little louder, trying to extract myself from his arms. His eyelashes flutter open, but he squints, taking a moment to reorient. I groan and roll over top of him, grabbing his ringing phone from where it slid out of his pocket last night. He grunts when I slip back to my side of the bed, my fingering hovering over the answer button.
"You squished me," he moans.
"Yeah. Now shh." It's that agent, Natasha. I blink the last of the sleep out of my eyes and answer the phone.
"Steve?"
"It's Bucky. Steve takes longer to wake up than I do."
"Okay, umm... is he near?"
"...yeah." I hand the phone off to Steve. He squints at me in confusion, and I shrug. He rolls back over.
"Nat? Is everything okay?"
There's a pause. "I'd say yes, but the true answer is everything's gone to hell."
"Are you alright? Is it Tony?" Steve seems wide awake now, shooting upright in bed with a ferocity that surprises even me. I continue eavesdropping, even though I probably shouldn't.
"No, no, I left Tony's a few days ago. I've got some... personal problems I should deal with before it gets too severe, but I was just gonna let you know before I go off the grid for a while."
"Can I help?"
"I've got my own demons, Steve. I have to handle this. There's somebody in Russia..." She sighs. "I wasn't ever the only Black Widow, and it's coming back to bite me."
Steve rubs his face. "Okay. Okay. I trust you. If you need anything at all, let me know. Please be safe, Nat, okay?"
"I'll meet up with you as soon as I can. There are other threats that need to be dealt with after this one, but I can take this on my own." And with that, she hangs up the phone.
Steve and I trade confused looks. I'm the first to speak. "What was that about?"
"Natasha has a dark past. She's a skilled fighter and a loyal friend, but I guess it's caught up to her now. I want to help, but it doesn't sound like I can."
I furrow my eyebrows. "What do you mean, a dark past? She's one of the original six Avengers."
"Do you really want to know?"
"Now that you're hesitant to tell me, yes."
Steve sighs. "She used to train with Hydra in the Red Room."
He says those two words and I feel like I'm sinking. The images come on like a tidal wave, so fast I can't even put my hands up to stop them. One second, I'm sitting in bed with Steve, and the next, I'm standing in the corner of a dance studio, watching, waiting, observing.
A thin woman with her hair pulled back in a slick bun watches the girls with thinly veiled interest. Her eyes flick over them, watching each movement as they leap and twirl and pose, hands curled behind their backs, all in perfect sync.
This woman has authority over me. I don't speak. I watch, same as her, although I'm not certain what I'm looking for, until there's a mistake. A misstep, a gasp, a twisted ankle, a fall.
The girls freeze, pausing on the tips of their toes, hands curled over their heads. They don't even look at the girl who fell, who's already sobbing and gripping her foot. I can tell it's not just the pain that's making her cry. Her frantic eyes flick between me and the teacher, approaching her swiftly.
The teacher grabs her by the hair and hauls her to her feet. The girl screams and claws at her teacher's arm, but it's no use. The woman drags the flailing girl over to me, and wordlessly gives me my assignment.
She lets go, and the girl stumbles forward, not falling, but barely standing. I watch as her eyes finally meet mine, and she knows. She's seen it before.
It's a heartbeat, a flash, and then my hands are around her neck, twisting skin, jerking flesh in a way it wasn't supposed to go, and she falls lifelessly to the floor. I fit a hand under her leotard and lug her tiny limp form out of the room. I'm not making a show of it, but the other girls get the message.
There's another image. I want it to end. I want it to stop.
I watch carefully. I watch every flicker of the fingers, every dart of the eyes, every rise of the chest. The girl raises her gun and shoots with practiced precision. She's good. She's accurate. Each of her ten rounds hits its mark dead on. She'd be a ruthless killer, but I see it.
I tilt my head and whisper to the woman next to me. My voice is rusty with disuse, but she understands. "Точный, но не способный. Она нервничает. Затем."
<Accurate, but incapable. She's nervous. Next.>
The woman gives a curt nod and motions the girl out of the way. The next one takes her spot and someone in the shadows gives her a fresh target. I watch the new girl. Her eyes are locked on the target, her breathing steady. She, too, hits every shot perfectly. I take a moment before critiquing this one. Finally, I settle on my review. "Она плохо впитывает выстрелы. Она опасна для нас. Затем."
<She absorbs shots poorly. She is a danger to us. Next.>
Each will be discarded. Eliminated. The next Widow needs to be flawless.
I want to scream, but only a strangled sound comes out. My eyes roll back in my head, but it doesn't stop the memories.
I tisk as I survey the room. "Что здесь случилось."
<What happened here.> It's a question, but I don't phrase it as such. Of course, they wouldn't know. It's only my job to kill whoever did, not to get answers.
16 teen girls lying in pools of their own blood across the room. Survivors of a necessary game that would put Hydra on the map, their very life spilling out into the cracks between the tiles. What a shame. Whoever succeeded in this feat would've made a great Widow, if they hadn't defected.
I pace slowly towards the doors, following my predicted path of bullets and bodies and shots. I know how this game works. I'm just enforcing the rules.
I've caught the girl by the neck within the hour. She tries to kick, bite, scratch, anything to get out of my hold, but her weapons lie half-buried in the snow, her feet hanging a few inches above that. Her ending isn't merciful or quick. I watch the life fade out before abandoning her next to the same gun she uses to murder the other girls.
What a waste.
That redhead who saved me. She said her name was Natalia Romanova. Distinctly Russian. She doesn't use that name, though. She goes by Natasha Romanoff.
The Black Widow.
Not the only living one. Not anymore.
I can't breathe. I can't do it. The things I've done, I don't deserve to have the luxury of breathing at all. Images of little girls in chains and bleeding onto the floor flash through my mind, and I realize the Americans had their soldier, the Soviets had their ghosts and me, and Hydra manufactured deadly cookie cutters. Identical paper dolls stained with crimson. I decided which dolls to scissor off.
"I did all of that." The carnage I caused ran deeper than I thought. You trained, you observed, you obeyed, you killed, you were a threatening symbol of failure and success and divinity. Whose images of what don't matter anymore, because you still did it.
Steve's arms are wrapped around me, and I try to push away, but he doesn't let me. He's crushing my rib cage and I push harder. He's breaking my spine, and I think for a second, maybe I deserve it.
He's not. He's rocking me back and forth as I struggle to force air into my lungs. My tears stain the shoulder of his shirt, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.
"They were so young..." my voice breaks on the last word. I did that. I killed dozens of little girls who never had a say in the matter. I tortured Natalia. Natasha?
He's shushing me, and I obey. Maybe it's a flicker of my programming. I can't tell anymore. Are any of my choices actually me?
Steve presses his face next to mine. "I read the report. I know."
It takes a second for the words to form. "You have to hate me, Steve."
"I can't."
"Hate me."
"I can't."
"I did horrible things. I killed little kids. Why can't you just hate me? Tell me to leave and that you never want to see me again and let the agents get me or, better yet, put me out of my fucking misery and kill me yourself." I'm pounding on his shoulder, but my punches are weak and have barely any effect. I'm sobbing hard.
He pulls me closer, and I realize the tears aren't all my own. There's a knife in my pocket. My left pocket. Take it and do it yourself. At least it's me, what's left of me, and not you.
"I can't."
"You have to!" I wail. "Please." The last word is broken, my last attempt at begging.
"Stop." His voice wavers. I do. Something tells my jaw to stay shut.
He takes a shaky breath. "I hadn't trusted Natasha for a long time. She was cold, mysterious, not particularly forthcoming, and too close to Fury for my liking. She was flirty and observant and too good a fighter to have a normal past. It took four years before I realized she was playing both sides because she felt insecure and lost. She needed an anchor. I didn't think I could be that, but she saved my life more than once. I owed her that little bit of stability. She tried to ease my transition into the 21st century more than anybody else. And then I found out about her past, and I realized why she was cold and mysterious and observant."
"If you're going to tell me to get out, here's your chance." I shuddered against him, waiting for those words.
"I didn't stop trusting her."
"Say it. Get out, James."
"That wasn't who she was."
"I never want to see you again."
Steve took a breath. "I can't kick you out. I can't... I can't kill you because of something someone else made you do and tried to make you forget." He tilted my chin up and pressed a kiss to my lips. I couldn't stop shaking, and in moments, I collapsed against his chest, still crying.
"What would your ma say, Buck?"
"She'd tell me I'm a horrible person and to leave."
"Buck."
It takes me a second to recall. I can see her face, just a little.
"She - she'd say just because you're human... you messed up and you get up and you move on." I hold my hand metal hand up. "I'm not human. I'm a monster."
"This is a new arm, a fresh chance. You're freed from what they made you do."
"How could I?"
Steve rubs the tears off his cheeks. "You think you're heartless."
"Aren't I?"
He presses a hand against my chest and my sobs are reduced to ugly hiccups for air. He leans a little closer. "You've got a heart. If you didn't, you wouldn't be crying over things you'd rather forget. If you didn't, you wouldn't love me like you do."
A part of me remembers the little girls and tells me that Steve has seen those photos of me standing over their bodies, that he can't possibly love me after that. The other part tells me that Steve recognizes I didn't have a choice and even though it still haunts me, he's been here the whole time, hasn't he?
"I love you so fucking much, Steve," I choke out.
"I know. I love you too, no matter what, okay? And I mean that."
And I know he does.