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Normal days are rare for people like them.
They aren't really normal people. In her case she never really has been. James can remember a childhood and an early start to life but there's been so much that's happened since then that they're distant and changed in his mind.
Like her, his childhood ended with weapons and war and the evil things people do to one another.
Somehow now after all of that they're still here and somehow they've been drawn together.
When a normal day comes they both try not to take it for granted.
They sleep in and stretch in the sheets, toes tickling and legs touching.
She wishes, a childish part of her wishes that she could wake up next to him every day but these days are rare and so she takes her time watching him wake, watching his eyes start to open and the muscles in his face twitch.
He see's her looking and smiles. "We don't have to do anything today." He whispers, nipping at her shoulder.
She smiles too and pretends to scold him for his affections, rolling on top of him and resting there.
"No, nothing."
They stay in bed too long and kiss and nip at each other but it doesn't go further than that and then it's off to the bathroom.
The sink is too small and they elbow for room, playfully trying to gain the upper hand. She's seen a commercial where a married couple did the same thing. It makes her stop for a moment but then she reminds herself that that was fake and this is real.
They brush their teeth and she thinks that she's still only catching glimpses of a normal life through other people.
Staged Christmas photos and fake smiles.
They eat at home, toast and coffee and then she say's they should go out because they have the day and he nods, going along with it.
Outside it bright and the air is getting crisp for fall.
She zips her jacket up and they look both ways, up and down the street before deciding on a direction.
"Where do you want to go?" He asks.
She thinks of her commercials and her fake photos. "Let's just walk." She say's.
He nods and slips an arm through her's.
He'd had a life, however fleeting and it had vanished. She's never had one and yet here they are, arm in arm and they look almost like anyone else on the street.
Almost.
He's a little too muscular and if someone looked closer they might see the outlines of weapons hidden in their clothes.
Even on normal days you don't go out unarmed because for them there aren't really normal days.
One moment of peace. . . one second relaxing too long and it's over.
They walk to a park and look at the leaves on the ground.
They look at the leaves still on the trees and the kids on the swings.
"There was a park like this in one of the neighborhoods I was planted in." She say's, almost nice memories coming back to her. "I used to play there. Actually play. Not just pretending."
He nods. "That's why you were good, even then."
She smiles. "What did you have?"
But he only laughs. "Military brat. I had army bases to play on and. . ." He seems to try to think. "I know we had playgrounds but I don't remember seeing them in the parks where I lived. Most kids just played in the street. You could do that back then. As long as you didn't break a window."
They're neither of this world.
Her's the Red Room and his the past.
They leave the park and the kids on the swings.
The leaves on the ground and the one's still on the trees.
They dodge cars in traffic and get honked at.
He yells back at the driver, he's adapted to New York's twenty-first century almost flawlessly it seems and she has to stifle a laugh as he grumbles.
They eat sandwiches at a sub shop and watch a lady trying to calm a crying baby on the side walk.
Little things like that, the truly normal will never be theirs. They're just visiting this world. They'll go back to safe houses and missions and bullets soon enough. They'll go back to nights and days spent in hiding and all of the red and awful that comes with it.
The baby calms down eventually and she wonders who he'll grow up to be and if he'll have a normal life.
He looks at her and she can see his little mind trying to figure something out.
Then he smiles and she smiles back, waving and winking and making him beam and wave his small hands frantically.
The mother is bent over her toddler now and doesn't notice.
It's a private moment between Natasha and the baby.
Bucky stays out of it, watching politely and watching her.
He smiles at her.
"What?" She asks.
He shakes his head. "Nothing."
No point talking about it.
They know.
They leave the shop and walk over fallen leaves, their boots tearing the red and yellow stars.
"What about pancakes for dinner?" He aks, arms swinging at his side.
Metal and flesh.
She looks at him.
He always wants pancakes.
"I suppose you've been good." She teases, walking faster.
He catches up easily. "I think so." He say's, eyes happy.
She likes seeing him happy because he sometimes looks like he's going to kill himself. He doesn't but she knows he thinks about it.
Happy is good.
Happy is rare.
Like normal.
They wander aimlessly and she makes him go to a shop with her. She buys a new jacket.
He examines some jeans but doesn't but them.
"I have enough." He say's.
"No one has enough." She teases because that's how it is here. Everyone wants more and more and more. They've never had nothing here. They don't realize what's enough but it isn't their fault. It's a good thing the people on these streets don't know.
Growing up the soldiers told her about eating grass during the war and boiling bark and starving. She'd listened to uncles and aunts describe the horrors. The hungers. The losses.
Horrors James was there for.
Hungers she hoped he wasn't.
Losses they both knew too well.
They get some ice cream later and sit on the side of the road, watching cars and trucks pass, listening to people chatter and horns blare.
This is normal.
There's a .26 down the back of her pants.
This is as normal as it get's and when the ice cream is done he makes them stop so he can look at a magazine stand.
He picks one and tucks it under his arm as they head home, walking back up the street they'd come down.
She takes his arm again, looping her own around his flesh one and leans her head against his shoulder.
"You okay?" He asks.
She nods. "Yeah."
He makes a soft noise and doesn't ask again, stepping lightly back over the red and yellow stars.
They're more careful this time and don't tear as many.
When they reach the apartment they set aside their small shoppings and he does the dishes while she changes the bed.
Normal and almost domestic.
She finishes first and comes up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head against his shoulders.
She can feel where the metal plates meet his skin.
"Almost done." He say's and she stays there until he is.
When he's dried his hands he turns around and looks down at her. "You sure you're okay?"
She nods and doesn't know how to express what's in her heart. This day has been good, she wants a million more like it and she's already accepted the fact that she'll never get them.
They go back to the bedroom and lay down.
He strokes her hair and she debates the comfort against the physical and the physical wins.
She kisses him like she did that morning and then she's on top of him, feeling his body and his hands run down her own.
They mess up the newly made bed and when it's late enough finally roll out of it and start on their pancakes.
This is a good day.
This is normal and it's been theirs.
At the end of the day there's a new stack of dishes and a tousled bed with sheets that need to be changed.
Her jacket is still in the bag and the street outside is littered with red and yellow stars. His magazine is on the coffee table and inside things are as normal as they're ever going to get for them.