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Natasha was excellent at tracking people down when she wanted to be, whether or not her quarry wanted to be found, which was why she was heading down to the homeless shelter three blocks from her apartment building, an hour after the Winter Soldier had entered.
(It wasn’t the first time she’d tracked him; he’d shown up on her radar several times by now, twice in Brooklyn and three times around the world, tracking down HYDRA and fucking their shit up. She’d physically followed him once in New York and once in Eastern Europe, trying to evaluate his mental and physical health; she hadn’t intercepted him, and she was reasonably certain he hadn’t noticed her either time.)
If she’d really been worried, she could have been there in half the time, but so far all evidence pointed to him being more James Barnes and less Winter Soldier, so she was willing to let him do his thing uninterrupted. Also, it was cold, more so than usual, and she hadn’t really wanted to go out at all. She was only justifying the trip out because it was in her neighborhood, and because she’d promised Steve she would keep an eye out for him, but mostly because she wanted to satisfy her own curiosity.
The shelter was in a slightly dilapidated part of town, shabby buildings and cheap holiday cheer. A multicolored string of lights was halfheartedly strung in the window; one of the bulbs was missing from the strand.
A bell over the door jingled as she pushed it open, but judging from the dreariness of the rest of the building it was mostly there to alert the staff rather than for any festive value. She’d barely stepped inside when the woman behind the desk said, “Fresh outta beds, kid. We got a waiting list,” without even looking up.
Natasha took it in stride, stepping inside and letting the door close, shutting out the sounds of cold and grumpy New Yorkers and the chill of the wind outside. “I’m actually looking for someone?” she asked, walking up to the desk. She picked up the waiting list and scanned through it, but there was nothing there that pointed to either the Winter Soldier or James Barnes. “A man, white, about six feet tall, dark hair, probably wearing gloves,” and that last detail usually narrowed her search field quite a bit, but today was possibly the coldest day of the year and she doubted Barnes would be the only man wearing gloves.
Sure enough, the woman gave her a dry look. “Anything else?” she asked.
“He probably came in earlier today,” Natasha provided.
The woman shuffled through the papers on her desk. “And may I ask why you're looking for this man?” she asked, and her voice was pleasant but there was an undertone of steel, a hardness there that Natasha respected. It wasn't like she didn't know what kinds of people this place sheltered - mostly people who had left unpleasant situations, who had nowhere left to go. No one working here would want to risk sending them back into the hands of the very situation they were willing to live on the streets to escape.
“He's a vet,” Natasha said, and hesitated, letting the woman look up at her before continuing, “He just got back recently, and he's not - he hasn't been doing well.” She sighed, looked down at her hands where they were resting on the counter, then added, “It wasn't easy for him, over there. I just want to make sure he's okay.” It wasn't exactly the truth, but it was the closest she could get without raising some very serious questions, and besides it was sympathetic and likely to get her the information she needed. Sure enough, the woman reached into her desk drawer and came up with a binder, which she handed to Natasha.
“We keep a log of everyone who stays here,” she said. “They gotta sign in when they show up, and they gotta sign out when they leave. You find your guy, I'll send someone back there to get him, see if he wants to see you.”
“Thank you,” Natasha said, infusing it with the sort of sincerity she was sure Rogers would have used, were he here in her place. She flipped through to today's date.
The log was messy, signatures bleeding into one another and times scribbled haphazardly beside them, sometimes in a different colored ink than the signatures. Barnes’ name wasn't on the first page, nor were any of the false names under which he travelled and did business. She flipped through methodically. It was on the fourth page that the times started to match up with when she had gotten the alert. Natasha scanned the names a little more thoroughly.
And there it was. Near the bottom of the page, in fading black ink, as if the pen he'd used had been about to run out, written in an old-fashioned scrawl similar to how Rogers wrote when he was in a rush, sandwiched between J. O’brien and Chanda S. , his initials: JBB . And next to them, a check-in time of 3:45. And next to that, a check-out time of 4:30.
She checked her watch; right now it was almost five. If she had come earlier she might have run into him. God knew what he could do with a half-hour’s head start; that time in the Ukraine he'd disappeared in only ten minutes.
Natasha closed the binder carefully.
“You find ‘im?” the woman asked.
“He left at 4:30,” Natasha said. She didn't have to fake her disappointment, or the fact that she was worried. “Thank you for your help.” She smiled halfheartedly and turned to leave, pausing outside the door to refasten her scarf while she collected her thoughts.
Snow was in the forecast for tonight, and it was already so cold, and Barnes had left the relative safety of the shelter; where was he planning on spending the night? He had most likely slept in the street at some point while he was on the run; he had sent Rogers a set of schematics for the arm and all the other hardware HYDRA had installed in him, three locations circled in blue marker, TRACKER written in all caps next to them, in a package that had also contained sugar cookies from a bakery in Chicago and a postcard in which he assured the recipient that he was now “100% certified tracker-free, so now I can sleep wherever I want, Rogers. Ain’t that the life”. (Steve had gone misty-eyed after reading the postcard, which had no return address. He had also given up on chasing Barnes around the globe; it was clear that he would come in on his own terms, when he was ready. Which was what she and Sam had been saying all along, but sometimes Rogers needed things spelled out for him, in his childhood friend's writing no less.) Was Barnes planning on roughing it tonight? She hoped not. If he was anything like Rogers he could survive the cold and go without sleeping, but she wouldn't have wished the circumstances on anyone, enhanced or not.
The freezing wind blew across Natasha's face as she stepped off the curb and towards the dingy cafe on the other side of the road. She went in and ordered a small latte, enough to warm her hands as she sat down; even the few minutes she'd spent standing out in the cold had numbed her hands to a point where she had barely any coordination left in her fingers. She finished her drink before her hands warmed, pulled out her phone, and slowly sent a text. With any luck, Barnes hadn't wandered too far from the city and her network of contacts would find him before he froze to death. She wasn't sure what she was going to do when they found him, but lately she'd been spending a lot of time with a bunch of ex-soldiers who excelled at jumping into things far more dangerous with far little planning, and the habit was apparently catching.
Almost exactly an hour after she'd sent the text, Natasha's phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She'd left the dingy cafe for a better part of town and was now holed up in a bookstore with far better coffee, reading a ridiculous supernatural romance in an enormous chair by the fireplace - she loved reading shitty romance novels, maybe more so than was healthy, but the sex scenes were always entertaining; it was all the euphemisms, she thought, flowery and poetic and very, very unsexy, that made them worth reading despite the unnecessary drama. She put the book down and pulled her phone out. One text, a set of cross streets not too far from the shelter. As she was reading it, she received another message from the same number: a screenshot of the weather forecast for the night, predicting snow and wind and other awful byproducts of winter.
“ Subtle ,” she texted back, and reluctantly got up out of the chair; she’d only finally gotten warm and comfortable, and she really did hate the cold. Natasha replaced her book where she’d found it and headed out. Her phone buzzed with a reply: a winky face emoji, followed by a thumbs up.
She found Barnes in an alley. He had his back to her and had evidently cleared out a spot for himself among the detritus and junk that littered the ground. He seemed to be pretty efficient at it. She cuffed her boots along the concrete; she didn't want to startle him, although if he was at all alert he had probably clocked her presence already. Currently he was dragging cardboard into the cleared spot.
“Nice place,” Natasha called out.
“‘S not for sale,” Barnes said, turning around to look at her. He was wearing a brown jacket over what looked like several layers of shirts and a hoodie, ball cap on his head, and dark jeans that didn't show any stains. Natasha brought her gaze up to his face, where it became clear that he had been looking at her with just as much intent as she had him. He raised his eyebrows. “What's a nice lady like you doin’ in a place like this?” he asked. His voice was raspy and hoarse, less than she'd expected it to be given his years of not talking, but not unpleasant.
Natasha snorted. Her initial assessment had been right: he was definitely more Bucky Barnes than Winter Soldier.
“Not sure about the place,” she said, playing along, “but I heard the company might be nice.”
Barnes gave her a wry smile. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he told her, gesturing at the sparse alley. “Whoever you talked to about the company, though, you might wanna rethink ‘em. Not much for that, these days.”
“My source disagrees,” Natasha said, and his smile, looking a little forced already, dropped at the corners. “I'd like to see for myself, though,” she continued, “if you'll let me.”
Barnes tilted his head; she took it as a sign to forge ahead.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“I ate four hours ago,” he replied. Well, she didn't know about him, but for her that was long enough to start wanting food again. Natasha didn't ask what he'd eaten; the answer would probably be depressing as hell.
“I don't know much about this area, but there's a place I like not too far from here,” Natasha said. “You had fusion food yet?”
Barnes shook his head.
“Well, there's a first time for everything,” she told him, and turned to leave. She stopped at the mouth of the alley, turned her head and asked him, “You coming, or what?”
Barnes let out a huff of breath, loud enough for her to hear, and grabbed his things. He swung his bag over his head, across his chest, and joined her at the place where the alley met the sidewalk. It was late enough now that they were alone on the street. They walked.
Natasha didn’t exactly have anything that could be called a motherly instinct, but she couldn’t deny that she wanted to take him home and feed him, make sure he was warm. But then she had spent the past months listening to Steve’s stories of him, and tracking him on his journey of self-discovery/HYDRA-hunting, and discovering in horrifying detail all of the awful things they’d done to him, and it made her want to know him, keep him safe. This man had seen so much, and survived it all; she had been lucky enough to have the opportunity to build herself into someone she wanted to be, in light of the horrors of her life, and she wanted the same for him.
Of course there was also the fact that his files showed evidence of his having spent time under the Red Room, and she couldn’t deny that she had a personal stake in his recovery. She needed to know everything she could about her past, and Barnes could provide her with new information, if he remembered. She hoped he remembered.
“Why are you doing this?” Barnes asked her. He was standing to her left and slightly behind, closer to the buildings, less exposed, as they waited for the stoplight to change.
Natasha looked at him. His face was completely blank, not an expression so much as it was a glaring lack of one. Clint had talked to her about this, about how in the early days of her recovery she would do this sometimes; “forget to have an expression” was what he'd called it. She'd never realized how disconcerting it could be, but it was. It was disconcerting as fuck.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked him. He looked at her, his eyes widening in disbelief; it was the only change in his expression. It would have been invisible under a muzzle and goggles.
“You're the Black Widow,” he said. “Natasha Alianovna Romanoff, former agent of the Red Room, former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Current affiliation: Avenger. Key operative in the destruction of Project Insight; traitor to the cause.” He blinked. “I shot you.”
“Twice,” Natasha agreed. The light had changed, and she led him across the street.
Barnes caught up to her. “Twice,” he repeated, without any inflection. He was quiet for a bit, thinking, most likely, until he gave up and asked, “When was the first time?” His voice was soft, but there was a resigned note in it - it probably wasn't the first time he'd been confronted with evidence of his having done something despite there being no memory of it in his head.
“Odessa, 2005,” Natasha said. “I was covering an engineer; you shot him right through me.” She brushed her hand over her hip, remembering.
“You weren't the target,” Barnes said.
“No. Just collateral damage,” she replied, and wasn't that something, the Black Widow being reduced to collateral damage in HYDRA’s plan for the world.
Barnes was silent for the rest of their trip, until they arrived at the restaurant and had been seated. He took his bag off and set it on the floor, looping the strap around his ankle before pushing it under the table. Natasha watched, bemused. Clint sometimes did the same thing. She passed him a menu when he was done.
He looked through it halfheartedly, chewing on his lip while he did. Natasha looked away. The group sitting to their right was being awfully rowdy, and she entertained herself by coming up with increasingly elaborate and ridiculous back stories for each of them; it was a great way to pass the time, and (she justified to herself) an excellent excuse to sharpen her observational skills.
“You didn't answer my question,” Barnes said, cutting into her thoughts, which were mostly busy imagining a three-way relationship between the dark-haired girl in the glasses and denim-on-denim, the boy in the floral tee, and the one sitting next in between them, with spiky hair and a face full of perfect makeup (she was maybe getting a little tired of reading love triangles in her stupid romance novels). And now she'd taken far too long to respond. Barnes seemed to take her silence as an invitation to speak, though, so that was fine.
“I know I don't exactly have a stellar record or anything,” he said, and boy was he wrong about that, Steve had nothing but good things to say about his best pal Bucky Barnes, and his service record was nearly impeccable, “but I am capable of looking out for myself, and if you're planning on bringing me to justice then I have to say, I'm not interested in being scapegoat for an entire Nazi organization. And if Rogers sent ya, tell him I ain't ready to see his ugly mug again. Not yet.” The last bit he said hurriedly, as if even thinking of Rogers was uncomfortable for him. Maybe it was.
“Rogers didn't send me,” Natasha assured him. “No one did. I found out you were in town, and I happened to check the weather forecast, and I didn't want to have dinner alone.”
Barnes looked skeptical. She didn't blame him.
“Look,” she said, leaning in closer over the round table. “I know what it's like to have to rebuild your entire self. I'm not here to pressure you into anything, even if Rogers is my friend and I know how much it hurts him to have only minimal contact with you.” She sat back. “I do have an ulterior motive, but it's personal.”
Barnes’ eyes strayed to where her hip was covered by the table.
“Not that kind of personal,” she laughed. “We had the same… employers, for a while. I'm trying to gather as much information on them as I can.”
“I'm not exactly a fountain of information,” Barnes said dryly. “I’m not even sure I know who you're talking about. But, if I can help.” He left the sentence hanging, not committing himself to anything. It was the smart thing to do. She wouldn't trust herself either, if she were him. Hell, she wouldn't trust anyone, if she were him.
Their waiter was approaching their table. “What are you getting?” she asked him.
Barnes looked back down at his menu. “What would you recommend?” he asked.
“Should I surprise you?” Natasha flicked her gaze over him. He seemed relaxed, slouching a little in his chair, hair falling into his face from where he'd pulled it back, probably with one of the rubber bands on his wrist.
He smiled, a small, crooked smile that made him look younger for a moment.
“Whatever the lady wants,” he said.
It was considerably colder outside after they finished dinner. Natasha walked with both of her gloved hands in her coat pockets, her nose tucked into her scarf. Barnes’ right hand was in his jeans pocket, and his left hand held leftovers from their dinner; Natasha had maybe gone a little overboard with her ordering. She'd ordered enough food that she and Steve could have finished it, but Barnes’ capacity for food seemed to be smaller, or at least diminished. He’d liked the food, at least, she could tell; he had looked at the leftovers on his plate longingly before declaring he couldn’t eat another bite.
Natasha led them both in the direction of her apartment building. Barnes followed at a sedate pace until they reached the door.
“So,” he started, just as she said, “Do you wanna come up for some coffee?” They both stopped and looked at each other, silent, Natasha because she was horrified at herself for using such an overdone line, and Barnes probably because he was waiting for her to talk first.
When it became evident that she wasn't, he cleared his throat and said, “So, I'd better get back,” and Natasha completely did not redeem herself by saying,
“To where? That pile of cardboard in an alley, three blocks away?”
Barnes looked affronted. “Yes?” he said. “I've been sleeping in alleys a lot, lately, it hasn't bothered anyone yet.”
“But it's so cold!” Natasha said. Possibly the cold wind had frozen her brain. “At least come in and take a shower,” she said, “You stink.”
“I do not,” Barnes protested.
“No, you don't,” Natasha agreed, (it was only partially true), “but I can't let you spend the night out in this weather.”
He was protesting, but Natasha could see him wavering. “I have hot chocolate,” she added, just by-the-way, and he sighed.
“With milk?” he asked, but she could tell he was doing it for the formality of the thing. She humored him anyway.
“Of course, with milk,” she said, “I'm not a heathen.” He stared at her for a bit, and she thought he was going to leave anyways, but then he seemed to shake himself and gestured grandly for her to lead the way.
Natasha took out her keys and opened the door. No one was at the front desk, but then it was late, and usually everyone who lived here was either already at home or they were out and coming back much later. She led Barnes into the elevator, pressing the button for her floor.
“You sold out for hot chocolate?” she teased.
“I negotiated for hot chocolate with milk,” Barnes replied seriously as the elevator doors closed.
Barnes was apparently very picky about his hot chocolate, because when she tried to mix it into cold milk and then blast the mugs in the microwave he had looked at her, appalled, and taken over. Natasha couldn’t deny that his stovetop recipe was much better than the way she drank it, but she wasn’t going to let him know that. But it was good to know that even 70 years of HYDRA brainwashing weren’t enough to change his snobbishness about hot chocolate.
In retaliation for his one-upmanship, Natasha all but forced Barnes into her bathroom, where he looked suitably impressed by her shower, her fluffy towels, and her heated towel rack; she had tried not to laugh at the expression on his face, but the truth was she’d never known it was possible for a grown man to look that incredibly happy , and seeing it on his face delighted her.
While he was in her shower, she went into her closet and pulled out the suitcase she kept her disguises in. She had an awful habit of creating partners for each of her personas, friends or cousins or lovers, and then buying outfits for those personas (she certainly had the money to afford it, and besides she loved putting on the innocent civilian act and doing mundane things like shopping), so packed in with her wigs and skirts and impractical lace underwear was an entire selection of men's clothing that she sometimes wore herself when she needed some seriously comfy clothes.
Before she'd realized what an awful undercover agent Steve made she'd bought an entire outfit in his size, a sweater and dark jeans and a scarf to complete the look (she'd also bought a pack of undershirts, but left the underwear up to him; she wasn't quite ready to speculate on what kind of underwear Captain America wore - especially since she was pretty sure the answer was "none”, at least under the suit). Barnes was broader than Steve, thicker around the waist and hips, with a more solid build, but he'd lost a lot of weight - mostly muscle mass, she'd guess, given how little he was used to eating, and it had affected his size. She wasn’t sure how much of it was from the homelessness and the general sad puppy vibe he had going on, but he looked much smaller than he had in D.C., or years before that, in Odessa. He would probably stretch the shirt and sweater, but not much. And if he did, well, at least she could ogle his shoulders and chest.
The jeans, on the other hand, she was sure wouldn’t fit him. Steve had no hips and no ass, but Barnes, from what she could tell, was more normally proportioned. She grabbed him a pair of sweatpants that Clint sometimes wore and a pair of thick socks from the same wardrobe, and knocked on the bathroom door.
“I’ve got some clothes for you, when you’re done,” she called over the sounds of the shower. “I’ll leave them on the bed.”
“Thank you,” Barnes returned. She turned to put the clothes where they’d be visible when he was done and left to do the dishes.
She was rinsing the last mug when he came back out, towel on his shoulders to catch the water from his dripping hair, with his dirty clothes in his hands.
“What should I do with these?” he asked her, holding them away from himself distastefully.
“I can wash ‘em, if you want,” Natasha offered, but he wrinkled his nose and grimaced.
“Better not,” he said. “Tell you the truth, I’d rather dump ‘em in a biohazard unit. You were right,” he continued, “I smelled somethin’ awful.”
Natasha grinned and grabbed a black trash bag out from under the sink. “Put them in here,” she told him, handing him the bag. He dumped his entire outfit in the bag. “If you put it out in the hall, maintenance’ll take the whole thing in the morning.”
“Convenient,” he commented, tying the bag and walking to the front door. He poked his head outside and set the bag out. Natasha had grabbed spare blankets from her bedroom and piled them on the sofa by the time he returned.
“I’m guessing it’s bedtime,” he said, looking at the spread.
“If I had a spare room, I’d give you a bed,” Natasha told him, “but the couch is pretty comfy. I’ve slept on it myself, a few times.”
“Better than sleeping on the ground,” Barnes shrugged, picking up one of the pillows she’d left out and fluffing it.
“And to think you were all ready to go back,” Natasha replied. “If you need anything, I’m just down the hall. Or just help yourself, I really don’t care.” She waited until he’d nodded in response before she said, “Good night.”
“‘Night,” Barnes replied. He moved to sit down on the couch, and Natasha went into her bedroom. She changed her clothes and brushed her teeth, then climbed into bed. Outside, Barnes was completely silent.
Natasha didn't always sleep light, especially not in her own apartment, but tonight with the addition of an unplanned guest she found herself on mission mode. She woke only a few hours after tucking Barnes and herself into bed; a light was on in the hall, spreading into her bedroom through the crack under her bedroom door. Yawning, she got up to investigate.
Barnes was standing at the window in her living room, the lamp on the end table turned on and glowing softly. He had the blanket she'd given him wrapped around himself and seemed to be trying to disappear into it.
"Sorry if I woke you," he said, flicking his eyes to her as she came up next to him and peered out the window. Huh. It was snowing. She was glad he wasn't outside in it.
"You're fine," Natasha replied, "I'm a pretty light sleeper." She eyed him. "Nightmare?" she asked, but he'd been fairly silent all night, and he didn't have that dead look around his eyes that she'd come to associate with nightmare-ridden soldiers after time spent with Clint and now, Steve and Sam.
Barnes shook his head. "Nah. 'S cold." And now that Natasha was paying proper attention she realized that he was rather overdressed for the relative warmth of her apartment. The heat had kicked in earlier that week and was working pretty much nonstop, and she'd given him her warmest blanket, and the sweater he was wearing was excellent at retaining body heat (she knew, she liked to snuggle up in it herself, sometimes); there was no reason he ought to be cold. But then, Steve was sometimes ridiculously susceptible to the cold despite his human furnaceness, and Barnes had to have had frequent, horrible associations with it. There wasn't much she could do other than nod understandingly at him and watch the soft flurry of snow falling outside her window, unless she wanted to invite him into her bed to share body heat, like the worst kind of cliché.
Well.
She could do that. He probably wouldn't be the worst person she'd ever shared a bed with; Clint kicked and Rogers snored, and Sharon did none of those but she did tend to starfish.
“It's warmer in my bedroom than it is out here,” she said, carefully not looking at him. “You could sleep in there.”
He snorted.
“I'm being serious,” she said.
Barnes turned to look at her. “I wouldn't want to put you out,” he said, slowly.
“You wouldn't be,” Natasha replied.
“What about you?” he asked.
“My bed is big enough for two,” she said. She tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, like she shared a bed with her colleagues for warmth all the time.
“If you're sure,” Barnes said, sounding less dubious than before. She hadn't expected him to give in this fast, or at all, really. She'd been preparing herself for a night spent on the sofa.
“Of course,” she said, “come on,” and she went back into her room. Barnes followed, shutting off the lamp and pulling his blanket and pillow with him. Natasha climbed into bed and under the covers, lying down. He paused in her doorway, taking in her room, maybe second-guessing himself. She gestured at him impatiently.
“You weren’t kidding about the bed,” he commented as he walked in. He had to walk around the bed to the far side of her room, by the window, to take the empty side.
“Mm-mm,” Natasha hummed, half-asleep already, comfortable in her still-warm sheets. Barnes laughed quietly, a little puff of air that she heard from across her bed, as he settled in beside her. She fell slowly asleep, wondering what exactly the hell she was doing, in bed with Bucky Barnes, but too comfortable to care.