Archive of Our Own

He is standing in a dark room lit by a single small fluorescent bulb in the middle.

The light falls on a red-head ballerina, wearing a soft, pale pink tutu, standing on her tiptoes, spinning without pause.

Her hair is held up in a neatly made bun, her thin arms are posed delicately.

She looks like a porcelain figure in a music box as the period of her rotations shortens, each turn taking less and less time.

He watches in fascination as her motions start to blur from the speed. The light on her grows whiter, forcing him to tighten his eyes involuntarily.

Suddenly, a high-pitched sound echoes in his ears like a car screeching, nails dragging across metal, an animal squealing. Or maybe someone screaming.

The white, eye-straining light gives way to an amber one from the lampshade next to his bed.

He tries to breathe as his hands form fists in the flannel sheets he’s gripping tightly.

He doesn’t know why a ballerina spinning affects him this much. After all the dreams he has had about the people whose lives he has ruined, this one seems like such a simple one.

It honestly makes no sense to him that his heart beats faster than it does when the images of little children looking at him with fear in their eyes appear in his nightmares.

But it does.

The ballerina dream turns out to be more than a one time thing, which surprises him even more. It's not a long dream that makes him feel like it was real when he wakes up. It's parted and full of holes.

Sometimes he walks, runs towards the ballerina only to never get any closer to her. Sometimes he finds himself so close to her that he can feel the wind of her turning cool him but she is spinning too fast for him to be able to catch a glimpse of her face.

It's not hard for him to figure out that it's not just a dream, none of his dreams ever are. He is aware that this ballerina had been a part of his life and the reason he can't see her face is understandable after all the memory wiping and brain washing he has been through.

He is not even sure if he wants to see how the memory goes on. Watching the ballerina spin is way better than watching himself murder her. The details of her tutu are visible and recognizable in those dreams, recognizable enough for him to not want to remember it covered in blood.

He doesn’t want to remember her face only to get himself one more pair of eyes that make him feel like the guilt is swallowing him whole.

He already has too many demons he has to face every night. Innocent people as much as the guilt ones, young people as much as the older ones, scared, armless people as much as the mass-murderers.

Some nights he doesn't sleep. He was a soldier, so he can sleep through practically anything, almost at will. But the two frequent dreams keep haunting him: the redhead spinning ballerina and Steve.

It's already been half a year since Steve disappeared with Thanos's snap and it still feels surreal. Even more surreal than meeting his closest friend again after a whole century or fighting him without recognizing who he is.

You could at least recognize me.

The voice echoes as if it slams against the walls, hurting his brain. Natasha, or Nat as Steve used to call her, was the one said it, he remembers. After shooting her once, it's understandable that she thought he might remember her.

But he is the Winter Soldier and he doesn't think any human brain would be capable of remembering every single person he hurt. Let alone a brain that had never been allowed to keep any memories.

He remembers almost everything that matters, though-or he likes to think so. He remembers Rebecca. He remembers Steve. He doesn’t really want to remember anyone else. Because remembering someone means grieving that person too and he already spends all of his time grieving his sister and his closest friend.

He lives in a small apartment in Brooklyn, only leaves his flat to get some groceries.

He drinks and watches vlogs of normal people who live normal lives on YouTube whenever he doesn't sleep or overthink. The first thing Steve claimed as the pro of living in 2000s was being able to watch whatever you want at home whenever you want. And he agrees with him. He can imagine Steve sitting on a couch, wearing t-shirts and jeans and watching an old movie from their time with a small smile on his face. Such an emotional, goofy old guy he was.

He is not surprised that no Avenger tries to contact him or check on him. Sam is gone just like Steve. It was always clear that Stark never liked him and never would. He doesn’t even remember talking to the nerd one who turns green. The guy with the arrows was giving everyone around him dirty looks the last time he saw him. He doesn’t even know if the witch with red hair or the god one survived. Though he also doesn't know if the later one could even die with a snap. He does know that Natasha survived though. He remembers the last time he saw her, the tough spy looking devastated as she was talking to Stark.

He remembers her helping them in the airport. He could see that she cared about Steve then even though he soon found out there was nothing between the two. At least that was what Steve told him. It's weird to imagine Steve with someone after seeing him with Peggy all those years ago but one thing he knows about Steve is that he deserves to be happy. He deserved to be happy.

Six months he spent with the least human contact ends with him deciding to visit his sister's grave.

He feels guilty for not being able to see her for all those years even though her seeing him would not be a good thing. At all. But a part of him will always feel bad that he couldn’t be there for her at her hardest times.

The graveyard is only a street away from the Avengers -or Stark- tower and it almost feels like the closer he gets there the closer the possibility of a sniper waiting for him gets.

He doesn't really blame Stark for hating him, he even feels grateful that he has been civil after everything and not kill him the first time he saw him right after the half of population turned into dust. He doesn’t try to convince people that him and the Winter Soldier are two different people. He doesn’t try to tell them that he too feels scared of the guy they turned him into. He too feels scared that one day it will be the Winter Soldier waking up instead of him.

He doesn't stay in the graveyard much. He stares at the stone with his sister's name on it for a while. He doesn’t talk, doesn't get emotional. His face is set in stone.

He doesn’t expect to see a familiar face when he walks out of the graveyard. But a red-haired woman stands there, wearing baggy jeans and a black sweatshirt, her hair is tied up in a messy bun. He doesn’t know if she is dressed that way because it's comfortable or if she is in undercover. Either way, he can't say she doesn’t look good. Steve is a damn fool for not making a move on her.

“Sergeant,” she greets him with a small smile. She looks different than the last time he saw her. Less sad, if it's the word.

He is too shocked to answer, so he only nods as he walks toward her. “Back to the red hair?” he asks finally, once he’s standing in front of her. His hands are in his pockets as he tries to act normal.

“Didn’t think being blonde suited me,” she replies with a shrug.

He doesn’t respond, he too thinks red is the right choice but something not suiting her sounds ridiculous, he just waits for her to tell him why she’s here. He isn’t naive enough to think she was just passing through. And it’s easy to figure out she has been tracking him for a while and knew what he was up to.

"You want to grab a cup of coffee?" She asks, surprising him. One of her eyebrows is raised with a daring look in her eyes.

He doesn’t reply with words, but she doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer anyway. She starts walking with a confidence that makes it clear she knows he’ll follow.

Soon, they end up in a small coffee shop in the middle of Manhattan. He keeps waiting for her to tell him what she wants from him but she only takes a sip of her espresso, sitting as if she has all the time in the world.

There’s something about the woman sitting across from him that he can’t quite figure out. Something that makes him feel- makes him feel human.

He spent six months acting like the most boring, useless version of one, but all the years he lived as a machine don’t seem like they’re going to stop haunting him. And his arm doesn’t really help.

He can't decide where to put his hands. Pockets? Table? Crossed? Nothing feels human-enough for him. But the red-head doesn't look judgmental towards his awkwardness.

“So,” she says, putting her cup back on the small wooden table between them, crossing her legs as she leans back in her chair, “how’s the normal-human life treating you?”

He can’t help the smirk. “You tell me. Am I any good at it?” His hair falls into his eyes again. He pushed it back five times already but it seems to refuse to work with him at this.

She smiles back at him, doesn't look surprised that he knows she had tracked him. “Well, humans tend to be more social than whatever you’ve been doing.” She shrugs. “But you’re not terrible. I mean… you made it to Rebecca’s grave. That’s something.”

His smile drops instantly at the sound of his sister’s name.

It seems the women in my life always found my humanity but you know that, Becca. You were my little sister.

His posture straightens, his expression hardens. He tries to not go blank with the memory that's trying to come to the surface as his eyes draft in the coffee to have something to hold on to, something turning out to be the woman across him.

“Sorry,” she says quietly, her own smile fading. "I know- I understand how much she mattered to you."

"You understand." He repeats her questioningly.

She hesitates for a few seconds, weighing her words. “I had a sister.” A small shrug. Nothing more. But the shrug comes a beat too late, like she has to remind herself to do it.

He nods. They let the silence settle between them, neither pushing the other. The tense she used is enough, past tense is always a wound. He too had a sister. A best friend. A family. An almost-normal life.

Outside, someone starts arguing loudly in the street, an ugly normal sound clashing. Other than voices like that the quiet holds until they are back in their coats, stepping out into the cold together. He’s preparing to say his goodbye and go back to his lonely apartment when she gently grabs his flesh arm.

Is that the first time in six months that he has skin contact with a person? He shivers with the realization of this being true.

With her other hand, she offers him a small white card.

“If you want someone to talk to,” she says, a gentle but hesitant smile on her lips.

He nods and takes the card, the hesitation now in his own, vibranium fingers.

He has the dream again that night, once he finally manages to sleep.

Another failed attempt at seeing the ballerina’s face. Another scream-like sound ripping through the darkness, sharp enough to make his ears ring as if they’re bleeding.

He considers searching if there are any super heroes-it seems like before Thanos's snap there were super heroes for anything you can imagine like they were some kind of herb-who can stop these dreams of his but the idea of someone controlling dreams, or in that context memories, makes him feel the nausea rising. Also searching something like that on internet doesn't sound like the best choice either, he knows that much with his every day-growing internet knowledge.

Another week goes by like this, empty vodka bottles, trashy YouTube videos and too many nightmares. Apparently four days is all it takes for him to gather enough courage to text the woman who handed him her number on a business card like she runs a cooporation.

Now that he’s had actual human contact, someone other than delivery guys and the bored salesman at the grocery store, he can’t bring himself to keep rotting in his dark hole of an apartment.

He's been having the incredible urge to buy a plant to his apartment just to have something alive waiting for him. He's basically craving for something to make him feel alive.

She replies the moment he hits send, even though it’s four in the morning.
Maybe he’s not the only one who can't sleep.

"The same coffee shop tomorrow at 1 p.m.?"

He can’t stop the smile tugging at his lips as he texts back. He feels like a teenage boy, and noticing that makes him feel even more ridiculous. The old Bucky, the Bucky Steve knew, would roast him for this.

He doesn’t really sleep after that. His mind is too crowded with thoughts of Rebecca and Steve.

He’s been trying to remember the memory he almost grasped during his last conversation with Natasha.

Some illogical part of his brain keeps insisting it isn’t one of his old memories from before the war. But he’s not exactly someone who can trust his own mind or his memories.

By the time the sun rises, he’s already in the kitchen, sipping coffee.

He really does feel like a teenager as he tries to pick something decent to wear. It’s been ages since he actually tried. Most days he just brushes his hair, throws a coat over sweatpants and a T-shirt, and leaves it at that. But today he actually finds dark gray jeans and a lighter gray sweater that make him feel at least presentable. He doesn’t take a coat even though the weather is way too cold.

He walks out of the apartment with a kind of confidence the door has never witnessed from him before. He has no trouble finding the small coffee shop tucked in the back alley close to the graveyard.

Thinking of the graveyard makes his mind go blank for a moment, and he sees her, Rebecca, older than he ever imagined her. With a blurred-woman sitting next to her bed, talking to her.

A hand lightly touches his shoulder.

“You okay?” He hears her voice before he can see her face.

He nods, even though he’s still shaken by what he saw.

It can’t be real. How could he have seen Rebecca that old? It shouldn’t be real.

But the damn memory is there, vivid and heavy, as real as the woman standing in front of him now.

She’s wearing a beige puffy coat and light blue jeans, her red hair loose and wavy around her shoulders.

She looks amazing. Adorable. And he suddenly feels the need to stop drowning in the past and focus on her as she leads him to a small table. He sees the barista from before behind the counter and it feels oddly comfortable that some things stay the same and not everything changes overnight. The blond barista, who looks like a college student or maybe younger, keeps counting change under his breath with a frown on his face as they sit down.

As they pull chairs for themselves the scraping sound of the chair legs triggers a painful memory of middle-school detention all because he was trying to protect Steve from some bullies. A memory that he has no complaints about remembering after everything he had to remember.

They talk more than they did last time. She tells him about the TV show she’s watching, he talks about the YouTube videos he watches. They talk about technology and weird new-age foods.

For a moment, it’s almost like they’re not two trained assassins, but actual normal people having coffee together.

And maybe that’s what this new world gives them after all it took and all the pain it caused. Maybe giving them a new, almost-human life is how universe apologizes to them for taking everything from them and leaving them with nothing but pain so many times.

Hours pass without them talking about the purple giant's snap or Steve or anyone else they've lost and every passing second makes him feel even more comfortable, talking to the one woman who always looked guarded to him until now. 

When she gets up to leave, he feels something twist in his chest. He doesn’t know why watching her walk away causes him such pain. He barely knows her.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking home, trying to shake the weird feeling. A strange warmth he has no right to feel for a woman who’s practically a stranger.

That turns into a pattern for them. Twice a week, they meet at the same coffee shop, though always by his request. He sometimes wonders if she would worry about him if he stopped texting but the good old Winter Soldier does not have the guts to try and see that.

It only takes two months for him to realize he already trusts her with his life, his memories. He doesn't really know why it's so easy to trust her but it must have something to do with knowing Steve having trusted her.

He has to admit that knowing Steve had other friends, almost a family as he was being used to murder people was not the greatest knowledge. But the more he gets to know Natasha Romanoff, he feels thankful that Steve had people like her around him when he, himself couldn't be there for him like he used to when they were young.

She is funny. Not in a always-joking and trying-to-cheer-people-up kind of way. But sarcastic and naturally-funny with almost all of her comments. And she is smart, clearly smarter than him. She doesn't talk much about it but he knows she keeps tracks of everyone he could possibly remember. She did kept a track of him too, that's how she ended up in front of him the day he visited the graveyard.

She is gorgeous too, obviously. The name Black Widow tells enough. She is just amazing and he gets more aware of it with every passing day. He is sure that in another universe, under different circumstances he would make a move on her. But they are in this universe and in this universe he is the Winter Soldier with blood of so many people in his hands and she is his only friend. He doesn't deserve her and he damn well can't lose her friendship.

The coffee shop is closed that day, or at least that's what Natasha's text says. She proposes meeting in a small park close to their usual place instead.

The weather is cloudy that day, the morning feels like a gloomy afternoon. He can hear his neighboors who live upstairs fighting, screaming at each other. It helps tensing him more as if the weather did not already mess with his mood.

He struggles with the iron as he tries to straighten the wet pale green shirt, just out of the washing machine.

It's not like he is stranger to the concept of irons but like every other technological device people seem to have found a way to make it more complicated too. Technology is supposed to help people, make their lives easier. But it's safe to say even if he can't complain about televisions or smart phones or microwaves, it was the technology that ruined his life in the first place. The Winter Soldier is a pure product of technology with every aspect of it's being.

He pulls the zipper of his coat to the highest point before he walks out of the apartment.

He walks on the pavement with slow steps as the cold wind slams into his face.

A woman with a little boy next to her pass him, the child's eyes wide as he looks at the vibranium arm at his eye level.

He doesn't look scared but he looks fascinated by the strange, cool arm. It's a nice change.

When he finally reaches to the entrance of the park, it takes him only seconds to find the woman he's looking for watching him with a little smirk on her face.

They walk for hours, non-stop. She starts the conversation, because with him she always does. She talks about Thor, who as she says, supposed to be in depression. It sounds ridiculous to him. If even gods are depressed, they really must be desperate.

He talks about the last dream he had, about him killing the Starks. One of the things that have been suffocating him ever since Siberia.

Steve and Stark have been friends, before him at least. They have fought together, kinda lived together, laughed and had fun together.

He is the one who took this friendship from Steve. There is no need to deny that. He just wishes there was a way to fix that for him.

She doesn't tell him it's not his fault. She doesn't try to comfort him. "There are some things we can't make amends for. Don't dwell on it." She says, her hand reaches to squeeze his flesh ones momentarily.

The subject she uses doesn't really surprise him anymore. She does that a lot, talks about his horrendous past like she shares it with him.

He tells her about the little boy from that morning, she tells him about the black stray cat she feeds every day though was not around in the morning.

They end up sitting on a bench as the summer rain starts lightly, neither of them is disturbed by it.

"Why did you come to the graveyard that day?" He finally asks without looking at her face.

"Honestly?" She asks as they sit on the bench, watching the city life and people moving hurriedly in the rain as if half of the population didn't disappear in just a second, as if they've got everyone they need with them. "I just wanted to check on you."

A part of him has been expecting a more complicated answer. Maybe something that would end with him running around with a gun again. But her answer also doesn't surprise him.

His silence makes her nervous, he realizes too late. She starts talking again before he can answer. "I know Steve would want someone to make sure you were okay." She explains, her voice doesn't carry any distress.

He nods but doesn't answer. He doesn't know how he feels about Steve being the only thing that connects them anymore.

His dream that night is slightly different than the ones before.

He is still in that dark room and the ballerina is still spinning in front of him. But this time her hands are not moving with the delicate grace of her dance. Her arms are raised above her head, a position he recognizes from classical ballet. A gun points upward in her grip as she keeps turning.

The light grows whiter and the noise swells until it drowns everything else. But before the dream can end, she lowers the gun and aims at him.

The sound of the shot echoes in his ears even after he wakes up drenched in sweat and hardly breathing.

It takes him almost a minute to recognize where he is even though he instantly realizes it's not his apartment.

He is in Natasha's apartment which she insisted for him to come after the rain started to pour harder.

He is on a comfortable, puffy coach in her living room with a grey blanket over him. The room is dark, other than the moonlight sneaking in.

He puts his feet to the ground with a silent yawn. He walks in the living room, his eyes focused on the frame that is hang on the wall. It pictures a happy family in a garden. Two little girls, one blonde and one blue-dyed haired. The mother is a dark haired woman who wears a melancholic smile. The father is the one with the biggest smile. It must be a fake family photo for if someone who shouldn't, finds her house, he thinks. There are some books on a small shelf: I Never Promised You a Rose Garden by Joanne Greenberg, The Pearl by John Steinbeck, Jamila by Chinghiz Aitmatov, Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë, Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol... There is an arrow shaped trinket, right by the books and an hourglass.

The couch, tv and the shelf are not the only stuff in the living room. There is a big dinner table in the middle of it like an eight-people family lives there. He realizes that there are some papers on the table soon. No, not some papers- so many papers. He hesitates about taking a look at them but he knows that the woman who lives here is smarter than just dropping secret papers out there with a guest.

They are files. About children at different ages. The papers have Stark logos on them but that doesn't really help him understand why those papers exist. Stark was not a kidnapper, the last time he checked.

He could sense her before he hears her voice. "Their parents got dusted." She walks towards him and pulls a chair to sit down. "Tony and I are trying to find all of them in need and give them a place to stay." She explains as she pulls another chair for him.

He sits down and finally looks at her thoroughly. She is wearing a dark green morning coat that makes her green eyes look deadlier than most of the time though it doesn't cover all of her legs.

"Most of them lost their whole family. I've been trying to keep a track of these kids since Thanos's snap. And then Tony found out so we've started to consider opening a shelter for these kids. At least the ones we can reach, which is a lot but not enough." She explaines as she takes one of the papers and her finger travels over the picture of the little girl.

"These children need someone to take care of them. So that no one takes them to train them to use them for their vicious goals."

"Like they did with you." He talks before even he realizes the words leaving his mouth. He has no idea why he’s saying what he's saying. 

Not too shockingly, the face of the spy has a surprised emotion on it too. She looks at him with her eyes almost shining with question marks in them. Her surprisement only lingers for seconds though. Her face quickly loses all the emotions. "What do you mean?" Her voice is cold.

"I-" He doesn't know, he really doesn't. "I don't know. It just slipped out of my mouth."

She only nods and turns back to the papers which surprises him even more. Maybe it's because he just made something up that wasn't true, which doesn't seem likely with her shock when he first said it. If the roles were reversed he would be full of questions. Or maybe it's because she just knows he doesn't have any of the answers she looks for.

They don't sit there any longer. She goes to the kitchen to make breakfast for them as he folds the blanket and places the pillow he used on it.

Having a breakfast is a different thing from what he's been doing in the mornings in the last few months, he soon realizes.

The moon slowly fades away as they eat their omelets and drink their coffees. They end up sitting on the couch he spent the night on with another cup of coffee.

She tells him stories about the Avengers. She talks about the time they all fought over Sam's mother's cookies. She talks about the fights Steve and Tony had about Tony wanting to build Steve a technologic shield.

So he tells his own stories.

"Well, good old Captain America wasn’t always the heroic Captain America." He says before taking another sip from the coffee mug.

She sighs with a small smile as she looks at outside from the window, the sun starting to rise. "It's hard to imagine, though."

"There was this one time that I was trying to teach him how to defend himself because he kept getting in trouble." He starts telling his story with a tone that makes her smile grow bigger.

"Oh God, I can’t even imagine him before the super soldier serum." She says with a laugh.

He smirks. "He threw a punch. Not a bad one, I could say. But he put all of his strength to it, like you could understand it from how red his face was. And then he span himself around and nearly fell. You wouldn't believe the amount of sweat he produced at that moment. I thought he was going to throw up."

He feels incredibly proud of himself at that moment as her laughter fills the room.

He is the Winter Soldier. He is used to hurting people, making kids cry, the most strong-looking men beg. But there is this incredible woman in front of him, laughing purely at something he told.

So, maybe there is still hope for him.

Their mixed laughters fade after a few more Steve anecdotes from both of them and they both rest their backs on the comfortable couch they sit on.

He takes a look at the red-head woman only to see her staring at him with a weird look in her eyes, her laughter gone. She doesn’t even seem to be aware of him catching her look, which is absurd considering she is an amazing spy.

She looks sad, that much he can see. She is probably missing Steve and he too feels the same. But it feels like there is something else that is wrong that he doesn't seem to be able to name.

"So, you've got some of your memories back." She voices her observation, breaking the silence.

He nods, though he is surprised at the change of point. "Most of them, I think. They are usually full of holes but as long as I know the things that matters," he shrugs. "I'm fine with it."

"I'm glad." Natasha says. She is wearing a smile and her tone is flawless but he can't help but feel like she is not as glad as she tells, like there is something bothering her.

He doesn’t ask her what it is and she doesn't tell him.

When he leaves her apartment, it's already noon. The city is buzzing with people, more crowded then yesterday with the weather being warmer.

They look happy, people do.

It's such a strange picture for him. He remembers the day he moved to his apartment, he remembers looking out from his window at the 9th floor. He remembers the usually-crowded streets looking empty like there was a curfew. He remembers hearing the soft crying of his neighbor at night as he was lying down on his bed with his eyes shut.

But now after something like ten months, the world seems to have healed. And it's ridiculous because there are as many as people who will never have the chance to heal as the people who laugh in the streets.

It makes no sense and it's not fair. Steve Rogers having spent sixty-six years frozen in ice only to disappear with a snap is not fair.

The world is not fair.

He hears his own voice, cruel. He can see the trembling man in front of him, begging him to let him live, trying to convince him that it's not fair.

He swallows the lump in his throat and keeps walking to his apartment.

There are some things we can't make amends for. Don't dwell on it.

You are a good man.

Natasha's voice mixes with a younger woman's voice and makes his head blurry.

Natasha is right, there is no need to dwell on it.

The other woman, not so much.

He certainly is not a good man.

"I'm just worried about Clint, that's all." Natasha says as she keeps folding the napkin she is holding until it's as small as it can be.

"The archer guy?" He asks, trying to warm his cold hand by grabbing the coffee cup fully.

They've been in their usual coffee shop for almost fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of her not talking and him not getting any warmer like it's not the early September but the freezing-cold January.

"He is my... what Steve is to you, I think. I mean there are several issues about this comparison but at the end..." She explaines without raising her head to meet his eyes. "He lost his whole family in one day and I've had someone following him but the damn fool lost him." She grits her teeth with anger.

He frowns. "Scared that he is going to harm himself or what?"

"No, at least not physically. But I'm afraid that he is doing something that's going to end up hurting him and lots of other people." She takes a deep breath before finally raising her head.

"Anyways." She forces a smile on her face that would look real to most but doesn't to him.

"We can keep talking about it." He says with a shrug. "Or whatever else you want to talk about. This whole thing isn't supposed to be about me."

He is aware that it's been about him for the last few months mostly. But she's been kind of opening up to him too and he wants her to talk about her problems.

If she has time to sit with him, have coffee with him, walk with him or have him at her house overnight; she surely doesn't have many of a people she can share her problems with. He wants to be that person for her. Not only because she is that person for him but because there is something about making her smile that makes him feel like a freaking super hero.

She gives him a soft smile. "It's not like I have a say on how Clint lives his life. If he wants to kill every bad guy out there like it’s going to give him his family back, that's his choice. He could've simply stayed here and lived with me." Her voice sounds frustrated in a way he hadn’t heard from her before.

A question mark appears on his mind about how much she seems to care for this guy. He doesn’t really remember them together, her and the archer. He remembers them even fighting in the airport. But then, almost all the people who have fought with each other there were friends once.

The red-head woman shakes her head and sighs before taking a sip of her coffee. "It's just the losing track of Clint thing, really. It wrecked my nerves last night and I didn’t sleep well, that's all."

He nods and they are silent for a while until he speaks again. "So how's the shelter thing coming up?"

The first real smile of that day appears on the woman's face. "It's really coming up. Tony has bought this incredible building and Pepper and I and some designers Tony picked chose most of the furniture. Tony's lawyers have talked to the legal guards of the most of the kids in our files. I give it two months for everything to be done."

He can’t help but smile at her excitement.

Trying to compare the woman who is talking in front of him to the woman he tried to choke to death is almost impossible. He doesn’t know if she is showing a side of her she only shows to her friends to him or is it a new version of her born after Thanos's snap.

They sit there and talk for another hour before they stand up.

"There is this nostalgia night," Natasha says as she wears her coat. "At cinema, next week. Wanna give it a shot?"

He says yes before he even considers the question. Going to watch a movie with her sounds great and it’s not like he could have plans for the next week.

They don't see each other for eight days until the next thursday. He doesn't spend this time apart with his usual drinking-watching ritual though.

After seeing it on her shelf he bought himself Dead Souls, the only one he remembers. The book is not what he expected of it, if he has to be honest. The name of the book was enough reason to make him want to read it, it made him feel connected to the book but the plot of it, even though not what he expected, is better than he imagined. He hasn't read in ages and even before the war he was not a great reader so it took him two weeks to read only the 300 pages. But reading makes him feel more alive than the stupid YouTube videos do.

It is the second week of September but the weather is back to being warm in just one week. The sun is up and there is no cloud in the air. He wears a white, plain t-shirt, a leather jacket and black jeans.

He looks at the mirror, expecting to see a look that is enough to make him feel presentable but what he sees only disappoints him.

Something looks off and it takes him half a minute to decide what he should do.

He takes a scissor from his table and walks to the bathroom only to walk out of there with his long hair gone.

It's better, he says to himself. Not very stylish with some of the hairs being longer than the others but definitely more presentable than the long-hair-thing that's been going on for too long.

It feels like getting rid of another Hydra-related thing, he realizes. He will never get rid of his past, of his arm, of his body, of his eyes that has seen too much but getting rid of the hairstyle will do it just fine.

"New haircut?" The red-head asks when she is finally next to him in front of the cinema. "Decided to get a make-over after watching Princess Diaries?"

"What?" He asks even though he knows she is referencing a movie he hasn't seen before.

Natasha smiles at his frowned brows. "You look good."

She is wearing a long, black coat that doesn't let him see her outfit but her hair is wavy and looks shiny under the dimmed light. She is wearing a dark red lipstick that distracts him for just a second.

"So, what are we watching?" He asks her as he looks around. The cinemas, not so unexpectedly, have changed over years too.

"Well, we've got options you can see up there. I'm okay with all." She says. "If we got popcorns, of course." She adds with a big smile.

He suddenly feels nervous with the burden of picking the movie they are going to watch.

"Uh," he swallows before he finally raises his hand to show one of the movies. "What about that one?"

"Yeah, no, I don’t think this one is for you." Natasha says, clearly amused by whatever she knows.

He raises one of his eyebrows. "Why not?" He is now not nervous but offended and it seems to make her smile grow.

"Well, soldier," she sighs exaggeratedly. "I don't think watching a romance movie about a war you were in, in a theatre full of people who basically don't know anything about it, might get you a bit upset. Am I right?"

He lets out a breath. "Of course there any movies about it. How could I not guess that?" He shakes his head, a small smile forming on his face. He remembers seeing a documentary about the WW2 on YouTube too. So, it obviously makes sense that there are movies about it.

"So then, what are watching? Any other movies there that you think are not made for me?"

"Well, I don’t think you would enjoy Matilda or The Wizard of Oz-"

"I would enjoy The Wizard of Oz." He interrupts her, his eyes basically sparkling in a way that baffles her.

"You've seen The Wizard of Oz?" She asks as she lets out an unintentional laugh.

He can’t answer her though. The sound of her laughter unlocks a part of his memory that he didn't know existed. There are no visions apparing in front of his eyes, he doesn't have sudden flashbacks. He just knows for sure that he remembers that voice, that shocked, surprised, happy laughter. And he knows that he doesn't remember it from anytime soon.

"Barnes?" He hears the worried voice of Natasha, signaling to him that he has been silent for longer than usual. "Hey, we don't have to watch anything. We can just go to one of ours places, if you want." He feels one of her hands on his flesh arm, the other on his face. But his eyes don't let him see her face for another ten seconds.

"No," he finally lets out a word as his vision comes back. "Let's get you some popcorn." He says as his eyes finally focus on the beautiful face that's way too close to his face and he gives her a shaky smile.

His smile doesn't seem to have any affect on the spy though. Her hand on his arm tightens as she pulls him with her to one of the leather seats on the side.

"I'm okay, seriously." He tries to say but he is interrupted by Natasha. "Bucky, what happened to you is not okay and no one expects you to be okay either. Especially with Steve being gone too. I don’t know what just happened but it's obvious that you don't feel alright. So if not for yours, than for my own sanity, let's postpone our plans to tomorrow."

He is silent for a few seconds. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve the worry and attention of this woman but he needs her now more than he has ever needed anyone. He is way outside his comfort zone but damn if he doesn’t trust her with his whole life.

"For my sanity," he starts his sentence. "let's stay here and watch The Wizard of Oz like two normal humans." He suggests with pleading eyes.

Her eyes seem to scan him. She finally sighs. "At least go, wash your face."

He nods before standing up and going to the restroom.

There is no one in there, which is weird but he doesn’t overthink. He slams the water to his face and suddenly his mind goes blank.

He is back in the dark room with the ballerina.

She is spinning again, the gun raised in her hands. He walks toward her without meaning to, like his feet are no longer his.

And for the first time in months, she slows. Just for a millisecond.

He sees her face.

The face that has been the one constant in his life for the last ten months. Younger. Softer. But unmistakably the same.

Her spinning accelerates again. Her arms lower. The gun points at him.

The gunshot cracks through the air, mixing with the high-pitched voice.

He is back in the restroom, standing upright, fingers white-knuckled around the counter. The water is still running.

Suddenly, he is not eager to watch a movie anymore.

“Maybe we can revisit the movie thing later,” he says when he finally stands in front of her. His voice doesn't carry the affection it has been carrying for her for months now. It's cold and he is sure she has no problems noticing that.

"You okay?"

He nods without meeting her eyes. He is not sure he wants to see her face.

He walks out of the cinema with his heart beating like it's going to break out of his chest.

He feels stupid- no, like an idiot for not making the connection before. Like there are red-heads walking everywhere. Like there are red-heads with guns everywhere. Like all the memory flood he has been having ever since he started to have coffees with Natasha was just a coincidence.

Now, he has two important questions left.

Who is she and why is she still around him after shooting him?

He feels like a hypocrite. He shot her too. He is not one to talk about hurting people.

But knowing she was deliberately hiding this truth from him hurts.

He answers her worried text with a plain old "I'm okay." that night. He lays on the couch in the dark with the TV off as he tries to connect the dots.

He has met her when he was the Winter Soldier, that's the only solid information he has.

He doesn’t know when or where. He doesn’t know under what circumstances. He doesn’t know what brought them against each other. S.H.I.E.L.D against HYDRA? The Red Room against HYDRA? He doesn’t even know who else she worked for.

He had no trouble trusting her before. Now that trust makes him feel painfully stupid. He knows nothing about her.

Was she keeping an eye on him all these months because of what happened back then? Was she waiting to finish something she had started?

He gets up and goes to the kitchen, pulls a bottle of vodka from the cabinet. The night stretches ahead of him, long and sleepless.

He forces his mind to remember anything else about her but it has never worked in his favor. It doesn’t now.

He doesn’t find an answer that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.

He doesn’t text Natasha again. He doesn’t want to see her yet. He doesn’t even know what questions to ask.

She texts him a week later. He lies and says he has a bad cough. He doesn’t want her to realize something is wrong. He doesn’t know who she is yet, he can’t risk anything.

Another week passes like that. Him trying to figure out who Natasha Romanoff really is when he’s awake and dreaming of the ballerina over and over again when he sleeps.

Natasha doesn’t text him again.

It’s what he wanted. He doesn’t want to deal with her. And yet, some small part of him aches that she gave up so easily.

She doesn’t want to kill him. That is the first conclusion he reaches.

If she did, he would already be dead. She has had plenty of chances.

She also trusts him, which is strange because she knows that he been getting his memories back. How could she share her worry for Clint with him if she knew he was going to remember her shooting him?

He considers if maybe she doesn't remember him either. Which seems like the only sane option.

But he still can't bring himself to trust her again. To see her again.

Luckily -or not- it's not up to his decision to see her again. He opens the door, wearing his grey sweatpants and a green t-shirt, his hair messy from sleep and she is right there, in front of him.

She doesn't smile, doesn't talk, just passes him and walks to his living room. She sets her black purse on the coffee table and takes a deep breath before finally looking at his face.

He doesn’t know what she is doing in his apartment but the look on her face tells him that there is something utterly wrong. And he is a damn fool who still feels worried for her after everything. "You okay?"

"I have to tell you about us."

"Us?" He asks even though he knows which us she is talking about. He also knows he needs real explanations, not short sentences.

"The Winter Soldier and me." Not you and me, like she is still subconsciously trying to tell him she doesn't see him as the weapon he used to be.

He sits down on a chair in front of her instead of the couch. He rests his elbows on his knees as he focuses on her. "We fought." It's a statement, not a question.

"We trained." A painful smile appears on her face that confuses him even more. "What does that mean?"

"Red Room and Hydra used to work together. You were one of our trainers." Her voice sounds shaky no matter how straight she obviously tries to keep it.

He wonders if he has hurt her. If that's why she shot him. He can't imagine Red Room and Hydra together being merciful towards the Black Widows. No, he doesn't even wonder if he has hurt her. He wonders why she is still there.

"When?" He forces the question out.

"1950's." She answers before breaking their eye contact and lowering her head.

"What?" He is starting to feel like he had more answers before he started to ask questions.

She closes her eyes and bites her lower lip with a look in her face that looks like she is in pain. "One of the affects of the Black Widow serum. Slows down the aging, enhances healing and reflexes and even more."

He was right, he didn’t know anything about her and this conversation only helps him be more aware of the painful fact.

"Why didn’t you tell me about this before? Why hide it? Why now that you figured out I remember something?" He asks, his voice sharp. Nothing makes sense.

"There was no use of it." She says with a shrug. "What good would it do for me to tell you I knew you as the Winter Soldier? You are not him anymore and I'm not that girl either."

He keeps his silence, he doesn't look convinced.

"I care about you." She says, trying to form eye contact with him, a pleading look in her eyes. "I have to admit that in the first place I cared about you because of our past. But that's not the only reason anymore. I care about the man in front of me even more than the man in my memories. That's what matters."

"Why would you care about him?" He asks, not really caring about her reasons but caring about the truth.

He is sure that he can see a brief sadness in her eyes, like the question causes her pain. "The Winter Soldier might have done horrible things. But sometimes, he was not as heartless as he was the rest of the time. There was once a time that he was the kindest, most thoughtful man in the room." She explains, now her voice doesn't try to cover the pain.

"Must be a horrible room." He speaks but his voice is not so strong anymore.

She smirks at his snarky comment. "It was. And you were the one good thing in that room." Her voice is softer than he has ever heard from her.

"The Winter Soldier. Not me." He reminds her.

She nods but doesn't answer.

"I understand if you don’t trust me anymore. I won't push you. I won't force myself on you. If you want to talk, you know where to find me." She visibly hesitates like she wants to say something else but shakes her head quickly. "But that's all I can say, Bucky." She finally says before standing up and picking her purse up. She gives him a one final smile before walking towards the door.

He doesn’t stop her, doesn't smile back. He watches her leave with an ache in his heart.

He cares about her too, he knows that even if he can't say it back. He is just not strong enough to have her in his life when he can’t even trust her.

"You shot me." He voices the one thing that's been weighing on him since the day he saw her face on the ballerina.

"Not that I recall." She says with a confused expression. But doesn't try to keep the conversation alive. She looks at him one more time before walking out of the door.

He sits on that chair for an hour, staring at the couch she was sitting on.

She doesn't try to reach to him again. She quietly disappears from his life.

The coffee shop meetings leave their place to occasional visits to the bookstore. He sometimes wonders if there is someone behind the shelves watching him for her but he is not sure he wants to find out.

The Old Man and the Sea introduced him to Hemingway and now he seems to not be able to stop reading him. He can't say A Farewell to Arms is easy to read. But he has nothing more than time.

It's a regular pasta night, the news streaming on TV as he has his dinner.

He hears her name before he sees her face on his screen.

"Billionare Tony Stark, known as Iron Man and former S.H.I.E.L.D agent Natasha Romanoff, known as Black Widow spotted together for the first time since the arrest warrant for Romanoff, at the opening ceremony of their orphan shelter."

A smile appears on his face as he looks at her, dressed in a dark green blazer and same color pants. He feels proud of her even though he doesn’t have the guts to tell her that.

His eyes stay focus on TV until the news change into a burglary that happens in New Jersey and he finally realizes his pasta got cold.

There are somethings you can't escape, no matter what. That seems to be the ballerina dream for him.

The room is even darker than he remembers. The red-head familiar figure is spinning with a grace he can only admire.

Even the gun looks elegant in her hands. She looks so young, he has never thought how young before he found out her age.

Her arms lower like usual. The gun aimes at him momentarily as she keeps spinning.

Their eyes meet and he is sure he can see a smile on her face before she pulls the trigger.

He hears a scream behind him. He turns behind to see a man lying on the ground with a bullet hole on him, already bled to death.

"One down, fifty-three to go." He hears her voice and turns back to her.

She walks towards him and grabs his shoulders to pull him to a kiss. "Wanna have burgers, later?"

He smiles and breaks the kiss. "You have such American taste buds for a Russian assassin." He teases her before they walk out of the room.

He wakes up, drenched in sweat like always. But for once in weeks, he is not as confused as he used to be. Like he is finally getting the answers he was looking for.

She did not shoot him.

It seems like it was the key to his memories about her, after not having anything new for weeks. Trust.

He doesn’t remember everything suddenly. He is still not full of answers when it comes to the decades wiped out of his mind.

But when he closes his eyes, he is back to sneaking into her room from the window at night. Back to training her, back to missions with her, back to walking in the cities they were assigned to kill people in like they were normal people taking a walk.

Sometimes remembering is not so good.

Some days he can see not only himself killing people but he can see her next to him through it and he feels the need to get even further away from her as if it's possible after not seeing her for this long. Some days she is not the bright side of the Winter Soldier but a part of his bloody past with hands also covered in blood.

But some days, she stands in front of him, in just as pain as he is. Trying to come up with a plan to run away from there with him.

Some days all he can imagine when he thinks of her is her face as they find them out and take him to wipe his memory off. All he can hear is her pleas. Her painful screams.

She is not someone who hurt him on purpose. She is not someone who he deserves the forgiveness of. She is another victim. She is another cruel assassin. She is another human-being in agony after the pain she caused.

She is what the Winter Soldier needed to feel human.

Though, when he ends up knocking her door one day, weeks after starting to get his memories about her back, it's not because he remembers her and their relationship and he wants to have that back. The Winter Soldier had fallen in love with the Black Widow. The woman who saw the good in him, the woman who believed he was more than just a weapon. He, on the other hand, fell in love with the red-head woman who was waiting for him outside of the graveyard, who gave him time and space and comfort and silent forgivenesses. Who kept a track of him to make sure he was alright but couldn't stay away any longer because she needed him just as much as he needed her without even remembering her.

Natasha is right. He is not the Winter Soldier anymore and she is not the girl she was back then. He would give everything he has to not have anything common with the Winter Soldier he remembers being.

But the memories he has about their times doesn't feel like the other memories he has as the Winter Soldier. They are like the memories of him and Steve wandering in the streets of Brooklyn before the war. They are like the memories of eating cheap candies with Rebecca. They are a part of who they are now.

And when she opens the door, wearing a pink top and black, red-trimmed shorts like the weather outside is not freezing cold for anyone else; he is once again sure that even if he had spent thousands of decades without her he would fall in love with her again. Not out of habit. But because he will always choose her.

The Winter Soldier and this new him has this in common. They both were just lost soldiers who forgot they ever had a home. Until her.

And when she smiles at him, a big smile with her teeth shining and eyes sparkling like she knows what he is going to say even before he comes up with words, he stops himself from talking and pulls her into a kiss.

"We have a lot to catch up about, Natalia." He says with a smile when their lips break apart.

"Then come on in, James. Because I've been waiting for you."