Chapter Text
Since the final battle with Thanos, strange memories had been surfacing in his mind. Actually, memories had been surfacing for years that he'd had to learn to deal with. These had simply been... mostly of a softer nature, and that was somehow stranger than the violent memories he'd been dealing with for the past several years. But the strangest thing, perhaps, was the woman in the memories.
They'd fought side by side and he knew that she was close with Steve, but they'd never been close. He'd mourned her death with the others, but he wondered if the 'memories' that were surfacing now were just his mind responding to grief by inventing some sort of fictional history where there had been none. After all, if the things he'd been remembering and dreaming about were really true, wouldn't she have said something before? Wouldn't he have remembered earlier?
There were the memories of a stark, spartan training room with young women who were listening to him as he barked orders, and Natasha was among them. That was somewhat of a blur.
Then there were the missions together. How she'd worked with him seamlessly. How they'd shared sleeping space together and how he'd found it strange to inhabit such an intimate space with her when he didn't know how to simply be still while not on a mission. Not like she seemed to. There was one time when she insisted on bringing a book along and he caught himself watching her as she read. After awhile, she looked up and gave him an absolutely endearing sheepish smile.
"What?"
He shifted his gaze to the ground, ashamed to have been caught. "Nothing," he murmured.
She stood and approached him, her voice a little more insistent, though there was a touch of mirth to it. "What?" she repeated.
He shook his head. "I'm just surprised the Red Room allows you to read books that don't pertain to the mission."
Natasha took his chin and guided it so he met her eyes. His skin danced at the touch and he was struck by the realization that he hadn't been touched much beyond fighting in... well, he didn't know how long. Forever, perhaps?
"I perform my missions to their specifications. They don't get to dictate my every waking minute," she said firmly. "I'm allowed to choose some things for myself."
She released him and gave him a small smile before returning to her chair and curling up with her book again. He gaped at her for a good long minute before he tucked himself in to the cot that he'd set up in their room. She was headstrong and it was a wonder that the Red Room hadn't managed to remove that from her yet. And yet... he found himself thinking that was a good thing.
----
Another mission, and he'd gotten distracted just enough to catch a bullet to his side. Natasha's hands were steady with just a hint of gentle as she patched him up. He didn't grimace, didn't make any sound to indicate that he was in pain. He'd been trained that pain was a weakness that one could not show, the same as emotions. When she was done, he caught her hand and looked at her, surprised at the softness in her expression before she took her hand back and turned to take care of the supplies she'd used.
"Thank you."
"You'd do the same for me."
"You have more faith in me than I do myself. They didn't train me to heal anyone if it was outside mission parameters."
Natasha looked back to him. "Some things go beyond training. You wouldn't leave me behind if the tables were turned."
He looked down, ashamed, wishing that he could be the man that she saw when she looked at him. "How do you hang onto this ability to see good in people?"
Natasha considered the question and then attempted to catch his gaze again. When she did, he felt as though she could see right through him. "Someone once told me not lose my heart. It's advice that's kept me alive."
He cracked a bitter smile. "Pretty sure I don't have a heart. They scooped that out along with everything else when they made me into their weapon."
Natasha shook her head and put a hand on his chest, her fingers splayed out against his skin. He wondered briefly if this was part of her Widow training-making a man go weak with little more than skin to skin contact. Then he realized with a start that it was more than that. He was drawn to her in a way that he shouldn't be, in a way that his HYDRA masters would never have allowed.
"Still beating," she said softly, and from the look in her eyes, he wondered if she felt the pull too.
And then her fingers shifted ever so slightly and brushed up against the point where metal joined with flesh. He jerked away from her reach, as no one should have to feel such grotesque unnaturalness. He fumbled for his shirt and pulled it on over his head. "I'm still a monster," he said quietly, looking everywhere but her green eyes.
She caught his metal hand before he could tug the shirt all the way down, her touch still gentle. He still had some sensation even in that mockery of a limb. He clenched and unclenched the hand, unused to anyone touching it willingly.
"We are both what they made us. We also both have a little space in between missions and sleep where we get to be what we choose to be."
Her words might as well have been in some Archaic language for all the sense they made. He pulled his hand out of her grasp and shook his head once before heading to his side of the room to turn in. Choice was not a luxury he was afforded. And in the few minutes each day that she had choices, she could do so much better than him.
----
In the present day, Bucky still couldn't shake the dreams of that particular redhead. The memories that he couldn't quite trust were coming on faster than ever. He needed answers somehow. He didn't know what he'd do with them, besides find a way to make his peace with what he might have lost. So he checked in with Sam and told his partner that he was taking some time off. Sam was understandably concerned, particularly when Bucky refused to fill in too many details. But this was simply something he needed to do alone.
It took a few days to drive to Ohio. Fortunately, Autumn was setting in and the air had a crispness to it that enabled him to keep the windows rolled down and the music loud as he tried to drown out his thoughts. He stopped to sleep for a couple hours in cheap roadside motels when he had to, but he tried to drive for as long as he could.
Natasha's grave sat in a wooded area on the edge of a residential area. He didn't exactly know the significance of the spot, nor was he sure why he'd driven all this way when her body wasn't entombed here anyway. The Widow had been left on Vormir, and his stomach twisted at the thought of her body lying prone on some distant planet, unattended to and uncared for. Even if the memories that he'd recalled may or may not be real, she'd still been a teammate who had protected him and his friends and she'd fought at his side enough times that he had respect and fondness for her.
He stepped into the trees and found the grave marker, noting that the area around it was beautiful and thinking that it felt like a place she'd have chosen, though he couldn't say how he knew that. He took a deep breath and knelt at the gravestone.
"I don't really know if I should be here," he murmured to it. "In fact, talking to this like you're supposed to hear me... kind of weird, right?" he laughed nervously. "But..." He stopped and his muscles tensed as he heard a footstep crunch on the leaves leading up to the headstone.
He stood in one fluid motion, ready to attack, but he stopped short as he saw a petite blonde. As if the memory had always been there, her face came back to him along with a name. She'd been among the girls in that training room-one of the many groups he'd taught.
"Yelena?"
"Teacher," she replied in Russian. "It's been awhile."