Chapter Text
What remained of the Avengers returned from the attempt to kill Thanos with shadows in their eyes and the atmosphere in the weeks that followed was tense. Bucky kept to himself, talking only to Steve when he visited his room or they met in the gym. Steve tried to put on his brave Captain America face but even after so long apart, Bucky knew it was bullshit and that the punk was suffering just as much as the rest of them. Not that he would talk about it. Steve tried to keep the topic of conversations on the past, not the future. It was nice to reminisce about life before the war and clarify his fuzzy memories, but that kid Steve knew was never coming back after Azzano, never mind after everything else.
Steve hadn't been keen to include Bucky in anything Avengers related despite his offers to help. As a result he was restless and unsettled and the days were hard to fill. The nightmares didn't help, reliving all of his sins every time he closed his eyes. He had made peace with knowing the triggers were gone in Wakanda, but freedom from his handlers came with a cost - there were no more mind wipes to take away his guilt. This time he had to remember everything: every scream, every gunshot, every pool of blood in his wake. He woke sweating and panting, sheets tangled round his hips where he had slept on the floor. Tonight, he had dreamed of Howard and Maria Stark, not for the first time since moving into the Compound. It wasn't surprising considering the building's owner, though Tony hadn't been there since his rescue from space. It made Bucky's stomach flip just thinking about it, but Steve promised to have his back if Tony ever made an issue of it. Stark had bigger problems right now and had officially retired.
Bucky kicked his sheets away. On nights when he couldn’t get back to sleep after a particularly bloody nightmare, he would go for a walk just to remind himself that he was free. Tonight, heavy rain lashed against the windows and outdoors didn't seem quite so appealing as normal. Instead he pulled on pants and a T-shirt and wandered to the kitchen in search of tea, like his mother used to make when he was sick. He never lingered alone in the common areas much, other than the gym. The atmosphere when others were around was thick with regret and sadness. He didn’t want to add his own trauma into the mix. He's not sure what his place is here. It was easier to stay out of the way. He was not an Avenger. He didn’t quite know what he was.
The kitchen was open and spacious and dimly lit. The floor-to-ceiling windows normally offered a stunning view of New York in the distance beyond the compound, but with the rain falling in sheets it was hard to see much beyond the blurred outlines of skyscrapers like stars in the night sky. He lifted the kettle from the stove once it had boiled and poured the tea into his mug.
"l almost forgot you lived here," said a voice from behind him and he spun, hand going for the knife at his waistband. But it was only Natasha, small and barefoot and dressed in a soft grey hoody over leggings, arms folded. The woman and not the assassin, if it was ever possible to separate the two. She nodded towards the kettle and he took the hint.
He should have known she'd be the one person in the building capable of sneaking up on him, and he turned back to reach for a second mug for the tea. He didn't want to ask why she was awake at this time, because then he would have to explain himself too. He could guess from how exhausted she looked that her sleep hadn’t been anymore peaceful than his. There were dark circles under her eyes, obvious in contrast to the bleached blonde hair that didn't quite suit her. He liked it red, and would never admit to anyone that he had thought about her and her long red hair more than once since D.C., and not just because he had been intrigued by how close she had come to kicking his ass.
"It's been a long time since I've been around so many people." His voice felt rough and disused. He offered her the mug and took his own to the breakfast bar.
She took it gratefully, wrapping both hands around it as she sat across from him. "Take your time. When I first defected I didn't speak to anyone outside of Clint and Fury for two months."
It felt like an offering, and he took it. “KGB, right?"
She curled the corners of her mouth up and raised an eyebrow. "Are we gonna pretend you haven't read my files?"
"Like you wouldn't have done the same?"
"Fair point,” she shrugged. "But official records aren’t everything, you especially should know that.”
"Yeah, I'm familiar with what the Soviets get up to off the record,” It wasn’t a pleasant thought, and definitely not something he wanted to pursue after his recent nightmare. “Pretty sure the two of us working together for the West is some sort of horror story they told new recruits in the KGB."
She grinned behind her mug before taking a sip. “And yet here we are, drinking tea in the middle of the night like normal people.”
It was the first time he had been alone with her. He had watched her since they had left Wakanda, recognised the mask she wore. Little glimpses of honesty broke through when she was surrounded by what was left of her team. Bucky felt that earning her trust would be a monumental task worth the effort, and knew he had to say something long overdue to even start.
“I never had the chance to apologise to you.”
“For?” She raised an eyebrow and he realised she was being playfully obtuse. Was it a defence, he wondered, or was she really that comfortable with him? She's a flirt, Steve had warned him. So was Bucky, once.
“Stealing your rifle.”
She laughed, small but genuine and bright as a sunrise after a long, dark night. Bucky felt a flutter in his chest that he hadn't felt since his first teenage crush. He always was a sucker for a redhead, even if she was currently blonde. He indulged the thought, then tucked it away. Being able to act on an attraction to a beautiful woman was a nice thought, but that was all it could be, especially with what he had to say next.
"I'm sorry about shooting you in Odessa. And D.C. I hope... I hope I didn't hurt you too much." It felt a woefully inadequate thing to say to someone you have shot, twice. Of course it had hurt her. The gunshot to her gut in Odessa would have been a life-threatening injury and the memory of her falling to the ground with a shocked gasp of pain made his stomach twist in shame. At the time he hadn’t considered her anything more than a nuisance who stood in the way of his target.
Natasha shook her head. "I don't need an apology, Barnes. That wasn't your choice, and I’m still here."
"Well, I need to say it. Not a lot of the people I hurt are still alive. I gotta make amends where I can or I’ll never sleep at night.”
"Is that what you want? To make amends?”
“Gotta do some good to make up for all the bad.”
She looked down at her tea and ran her fingertip around the rim of her mug. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “You don’t think life owes you, instead of the other way ‘round? No one would blame you if you wanted to get out.”
He had already played with that thought after both Steve and T'Challa suggested it, and it didn't sit right with him at all. Sergeant James Barnes was a war hero, the longest serving POW in history, he fought and sacrificed for his country even before HYDRA got their hands on him. No one would blame him for leaving the fight and trying to reclaim as much of a normal life as he could, Steve had said. He shook his head. “Can’t see any other way of living with myself. It’s not like HYDRA are ever gonna try to make up for what they did, so someone has to. I might as well be the weapon they wanted me to be, just for a better purpose.”
Natasha looked at him for a long moment, eyebrows furrowed. Her expression was unreadable at first, but something broke in her and she smiled softly. “Yeah. I get that. If it helps, I will accept your apology. And I’m glad you’re sticking around.”
He hoped his face didn't look as flushed as it felt. “Thanks, Natasha.”
She slipped from her seat to set her mug in the sink. As she passed by the space behind his chair, she set her hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Thanks for the tea. Goodnight, James.”
He said goodnight, and exhaled loudly. The rain still hammered against the glass, and the memories of the nightmare were still lurking around the edges of his mind. But he thought that maybe if he managed to get back to sleep, he might dream of red hair instead of blood.