Chapter Text
“You’re like eighty years older than me. Shouldn’t you be better at this?” She’s taunting him. He’s never liked fighting with women; he comes from a time when it was ingrained in him to never do so, no matter what. But there’s not much of an option when somebody is coming at you like a pint-sized tornado.
Finally, he gets the girl subdued under his metal arm. “What’s your problem?” he asks. “I have literally no idea who you even are.”
“NATASHA,” the girl explodes, squirming against him. “Natasha was my SISTER.”
“Oh,” he answers, not letting go but feeling his stomach drop. “Then I’m sorry, but I had nothing to do with that.”
“I know, you idiot,” she answers.
“Then why are we fighting?”
The girl stops struggling and shrugs. “Sometimes I just like to have a fight with somebody who can hold their own.” Bucky lets her go, throws back his head, and laughs.
“Glad to provide you some amusement,” grouses the small blonde, putting her fingers through her hair and straightening her shirt.
“Look, if you want someone to play with, there’s younger Avengers,” he says, still grinning. “You can go meet the spider kid or something. No reason to settle for a grandpa like me.”
The girl steps forward and jabs a finger into the center of his chest. "But Natasha said you were crazy. I like crazy.”
“Not any more,” he answers. “But I’m sorry for your loss, genuinely. She was an extraordinary human being.”
“We’re all extraordinary,” says the girl re-tying her ponytail with a vengeance. “Look where that got us.”
So it was that the day Yelena Belova attacked Bucky Barnes outside his building was also the day he brought her home to stay in his tiny extra bedroom. It was the least he could do for the memory of Natasha Romanoff.
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One Week
"What do you actually do?"
They've hardly spoken. Yelena comes and goes at strange hours, but it's not like he has much ground to complain about that, since he's doing the same thing around her. Sometimes she uses the kitchen; he can tell by the scent lingering in the vents, but she always leaves everything scrupulously clean.
Finally, after six days, their paths cross for more than a few minutes. Bucky comes home in the evening to find her flipping TV channels with a pepperoni pizza on the counter.
"What do you think?" she asks drily. "Obviously I'm a secretary for a mid-sized securities firm. Haven't you seen me in my business suits?"
"Fine," he huffs. "I'm taking missions with Captain America. Your turn."
She turns around from the TV to look over at him, a smile on her face as she munches her pizza. "You're so traditional. I love it. It's like--black and white movies."
Stop changing the subject, Yelena. What are you actually doing right now?"
"Right now I'm eating pizza and trying to find something to watch that isn't reality television," she answers.
Bucky rolls his eyes. "You know I mean in general--what are you doing right now as a job?"
"Why do you care so much?" she asks.
"You're living in my apartment," he answers. "I--should care."
Yelena gets up and puts a slice of pepperoni on a plate, handing it over. "Thanks, Dad, but I can take care of myself, and my employers aren't interested in me talking about them."
"Take care of yourself, Yelena," he answers, unwilling to rise to the level of true annoyance. "People worry about you."
"Not many," she shoots back.
"Fine," he replies, sitting next to her with his pizza. "I worry."
"Fair enough," she says. "I like it."
"You're absolutely impossible," he grouses.
"Thanks," Yelena grins.
"I'm not a dad," he continues crossly. "If anything, a big brother."
"Big brother," she echoes, putting out her fist.
To his own annoyance with himself, Bucky can't resist fistbumping her, shaking his head in exasperation.
One Month
“You shouldn’t drink so much,” Bucky says softly. He hasn't seen Yelena drunk before, but she seems to be a sad drunk. That's the only explanation he can think of for why she's standing by the counter crying when he gets home from a three-day standoff.
“I’m not drunk,” she answers, rubbing her eyes. “Just sad.”
“You want me to put on Don McLean?” he asks. He knows American Pie is her favorite song. She'd told him that within the first week.
Yelena just shakes her head no. “That’s sweet, though. You’re sweet. Nat said you were sweet.”
“Did she really?” he asks in wonder. “I—shot her once, when HYDRA was controlling me.”
“I know,” comes the tearful answer. “She didn’t hold grudges.”
It doesn’t feel right to see her crying so much. She’s usually so strong, so buoyant, like a life preserver bobbing in the ocean.
“What can I do?” Bucky asks, still standing nearby, finally putting down his duffel bag.
“About what?” she asks, jabbing at her wet eyes again, as if she’ll frighten them into drying up.
“To help—you stop crying,” he answers softly.
“There’s a way, but you don’t want to do it,” she answers, not looking at him.
“Try me,” he says. It’s the least he can do for Natasha's little sister. And, if he admits it to himself, he likes Yelena for herself, too. It hurts him to see her so vulnerable.
“Give me a hug,” she says. When he doesn’t immediately move, she adds through renewed sobs, “I told you you wouldn’t want to.”
“It’s not that,” he says. “I just—couldn’t believe you meant it.”
When she says nothing else, he approaches slowly and then cautiously puts out his arm and pulls her close. He half thinks she’s lying or messing with him, but she melts into his chest with a relieved sigh. He’s glad for the nine inches and considerable bulk he has on her, which allow him to fully envelop her in his embrace.
“See,” she says, “Natasha said you were sweet.”
“Now stop crying,” he commands softly. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m going to cry as much as I want if this is what it gets me,” she says, reaching her arms around his middle, eyes closed and smiling through her tears.
“You can just—ask me for this,” he hears himself saying, which he can hardly believe, even though it's coming from his own mouth. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” she says, finally pulling away after giving him a tight squeeze. “Best friends.”