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When the subject of going undercover is brought up, Natasha is the obvious choice to lead the mission. She has the most experience and the most training and it would be downright absurd to send anyone else.
When it comes to choosing her partner, though, no one is more surprised than Steve when her gaze unerringly finds his.
“We worked well together last time,” she says, smirking. “Don’t you think?”
He wants to point out that being on the run is a lot different than an actual undercover operation but in the end, he doesn’t bother wasting his breath. Once Natasha gets something in her head, it’s impossible to shake it back out. She wants him as a mission partner and so she will get him as a mission partner; no matter what anyone else has to say about it.
“You’re going to regret this,” he feels the need to warn but she shrugs, unconcerned.
Two hours into the mission, he begrudgingly has to admit that she was right. They do make an excellent team.
His job is easy, of course. All he has to do is stand there beside her and smile while she charms everyone within hearing range. Arm candy, she called it. Whatever that means.
Still, it’s impossible to deny that falling into the easy intimacy of their covers - a young couple, completely in love - wouldn’t have been quite so effortless with anyone else. Natasha is one of the few people in the future that he actually feels comfortable around and so he doesn’t mind holding her close or leaning down to whisper in her ear. In return, she leans into his embrace and laughs at the appropriate times, turning soft eyes on him in seemingly random intervals.
There are other things, things specific to their friendship, that make it even more believable. The way they move together, completely in sync, thanks to months and months of sparring practice. The silent communication; expressions flitting across Natasha’s face lightning quick that Steve is still learning but mostly knows how to decipher.
He knows that Natasha can play this role with anyone in the world but it might not be as believable as it is now, with someone she knows. With someone who knows her . He also knows that he couldn’t have played the role with any other agent; none that are still active, at least. This level of comfort is one he only knows with people he’s closest to and it isn’t something he’s capable of faking.
“The auction starts in twenty minutes,” Natasha says softly as he hands her a glass of champagne. She smiles, smitten, and goes up onto her toes to peck his cheek. “We have time for one more circuit. Take a look at the pieces this time, like you’re trying to decide what to bid on.”
“Are we actually bidding?” He asks and offers his arm, leading her through the crowd again.
He does as she instructed, making a show of looking at the pieces displayed instead of the people this time. Not everything displayed will be up for auction - their mark just seems to enjoy boasting about his collection - but without looking at the plaques in front of each piece for an auction number, there’s no way to tell.
“Not unless you’re looking to add to your private collection,” Natasha answers dryly. “You’ll just be there for show. If anyone asks, I’ll be freshening up in the ladies room.”
With a grin, he nods and stops by a case to examine a particularly old vase. He never gets the chance to read the plaque and find out what makes it so special because through the glass, he spots another display across the room; tucked away in a corner like an afterthought.
Natasha says something else to him but he doesn’t hear it, suddenly feeling like he’s underwater, everything muted and distorted.
He abandons her right then and there without a second thought. Just leaves his partner mid-mission, walking away as if pulled along by an invisible force. He doesn’t stop until he’s inches away from the display in the corner, falling just short of actually touching the case itself. The only thing that stops him is his knowledge of the sensors and alarms embedded in each case; protection against any potential thieves.
It’s difficult not to touch it, anyways; to stop himself from breaking the case and reaching inside. Because there it is, safely encased in bulletproof glass, illuminated by a bright light like the other pieces.
A Bucky Bear.
The plaque attached to the front of the case reads: Mint condition, first-run Bucky Bear; circa 1940s.
Steve hasn’t seen one since he went into the ice. He hadn’t even known they were still around. It makes sense, though. The bears from the ‘40s would be vintage now and extremely valuable.
He drinks in the sight of it, feeling greedy and a little pathetic because of it. He’s so desperate for any connection that a child’s toy is making him feel like this; lost and aching.
The bear’s costume is just as he remembers, red and blue with a cape to match and a black mask over the eyes. The cape is pulled around to cover the bear’s left shoulder but Steve, close as he is, can see faded white thread peeking out from under the red. It’s shaped into a point and in the same moment that he realizes it’s the tip of a wing, he also realizes that the collector isn’t above lying to his customers.
This bear isn’t mint condition at all.
A terrible, wounded noise escapes him before he can stop it and Natasha appears by his side, as if called forward by the sound.
“Steve?” She asks, radiating concern.
That isn’t his name right now. She hasn’t called him that once all evening and she’s far too skilled for it to be a slip up. This isn’t an agent forgetting her cover; it’s a friend saying to hell with the mission.
Christ, he thinks. They’re in the middle of a mission. He can’t do this right now, it’s endangering them both. But he can’t seem to stop, either. He feels stuck to this spot, unable to walk away.
“What’s happening?” Barton’s voice asks through the comms, urgent.
“Shut up,” Natasha hisses. She touches Steve's arm. “Steve, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he says hoarsely. “Nothing, I’m fine.”
If he says it enough times, maybe he’ll start to believe it.
Natasha aims an unimpressed look his way, killing any chance he has at buying his own lie.
Don’t bullshit me, Rogers, that look says and Steve falters.
Caught out and knowing it, he swallows roughly around the sudden lump in his throat and nods towards the bear. Leaning towards her, he tries to play his part again; a man whispering something sweet in fiancé’s ear.
“It’s -- it’s his,” he breathes out, barely believing it himself. “The bear; it belonged to him.”
The collector doesn’t seem to know that fact. If he did, Steve’s sure it would be boasted about on the plaque; first-run Bucky Bear owned by Bucky Barnes himself.
The very idea makes him queasy.
Natasha laughs, bright and loud, her expression only melting into something darker, more serious when she turns into him, where no one else can see.
“How do you know?”
She peeks over his shoulder and glances around the room, assuaging any suspicions by putting on a disarming smile and making eye contact with a few people.
“When they started makin’ the bears,” Steve explains as he tries to follow her lead; tries to act like he isn’t crumbling to pieces right there in the middle of a mission. Somehow, he manages to smile at an older couple passing by. It feels brittle and broken. “Bucky was sent a prototype. The guys, they gave ‘im hell for it. Like the age difference in the comics wasn’t bad enough, now they were makin’ teddy bears. Had a good laugh over it, too. One morning, we caught Morita and Jones with it, sewin’ a pair of wings into the shoulder of the costume. To make it more authentic, they said.”
He tilts his head toward the bear, indicating the left shoulder and what’s hidden beneath the cape. Natasha leans in close and tilts her head to examine it; when she spots the wings, her lips purse together.
“It’s his bear,” he says again, sounding hysterical even to his own ears.
The thought of leaving without it - of allowing anyone else, let alone someone like their mark, to keep Bucky’s bear - well. Steve’s suffered through broken bones and bullet holes that hurt less. Except there’s no auction number attached to the plaque which means he doesn’t even have the chance to buy it back.
Something inside him dies a little.
It must show on his face - fuck, he needs to get better at hiding that, especially when they’re supposed to be undercover - because Natasha leans in a little closer, their shoulders brushing together. Comforting him.
“You want the bear,” she observes, quiet.
“It’s supposed to be mine,” he says immediately. A blush creeps to the surface of his skin when he hears how possessive he sounds; how petulant. “We were each other’s -- I mean, by then, we didn’t have anyone else. Anything happened to me, my stuff went to him. And the other way ‘round. When I woke up and it wasn’t there...I figured one’a the guys musta kept it. Or it got tossed before anyone realized what it was.”
He doesn’t tell her about the extra dog tag on his chain or the palm-sized notebook with faded writing in it - formulas and calculations that grow fewer in number, eventually turning into words; thoughts, musings, letters to home - that went into the ice with him and that he carries even now, stuck inside his jacket pocket like a good luck charm.
He doesn’t tell her that he needs these things, these little pieces of a man and a life that is long gone but that he misses so fiercely. That he aches for to the very core of his being.
In the end, he doesn’t need to tell her.
Natasha hums, considering him, and then turns her calculating gaze on the bear again. Grabbing onto his forearm, she smiles at Steve and pulls him away towards another display.
Her expression holds none of the urgency that’s in her voice when she says, “let’s go. We’ve been standing here too long.”
Steve allows himself to be pulled away and he doesn’t, not even once, look back. If he does, he’ll do something incredibly, unforgivably stupid.
In the end, the mission is a success. Steve sits through the auction and tries not to think about one item he desperately wants and can’t have. Natasha completes her objective in record time and they walk away with the information they came for. It feels like a hollow victory but he ignores that despairing part of him as best he can.
Hours later, they climb aboard the quinjet where Sam and Clint are waiting for them; their back up, if it was needed.
Steve avoids both of their gazes. He knows he’ll have to eventually but he really, really doesn’t want to talk about what they overheard right now. He’d be happy to never speak of it again, except that’s not really an option with their team.
“Hey, Rogers,” Natasha calls from behind him. He turns around just in time to have something gently pushed into his chest. She gives him a sly look. “This one’s on me.”
His insides do something complicated and painful when he looks down and sees the Bucky Bear. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.
“How?” He croaks, trying to ignore the burning behind his eyes as he looks up at her. She doesn’t answer, just smiles at him. Somehow, that is the answer. “You stole it?”
“You wanted it,” Natasha says with a shrug. “Now you have it.”
“This isn’t what I had in mind,” he tells her, stern, but his voice lacks the right quality to be truly disapproving. Softer, he asks, “why?”
There’s so much held within that one word. Too many questions to give voice to when he already feels his control shredding to pieces.
Why would you do that? Why risk it? Just for me?
Her smile turns soft, understanding, and Steve knows that she heard it all; everything he couldn’t say out loud. Stepping closer, she puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Your voice changes when you talk about him, did you know that?” She asks. “You’re not as put together. It feels...more like you. Like when people talk about home.”
Home, he thinks. He’s never heard a better description for Bucky Barnes.
Natasha gives the bear a significant glance.
“Everyone deserves a little piece of home, don’t you think?” She asks and then walks away.