IC Voicemail, Driftfleet:

[tothefly]

[There is no recording, just a few clicks and a beep.]

[Leave any IC voice messages or texts for Natasha here.]

Comments

action;

[redactions]

[ He just grins at her message, if she really wanted to play she'd have made it harder to get to this point. True to his word, ten minutes later he's knocking on the door. It's open, but it's her space. (And it looks a lot like a ballet studio — reflected in her grace, the form.) ]

Hey.

Re: action;

[tothefly]

[She'd found this out-of-the-way space while pacing the halls one night, caught a glimpse of herself in the window and decided to claim the space as her own. Maybe there would be more traffic eventually, but for now, there was silence, privacy.]

[She holds the pose a moment longer, then slides easily into a seated upright position, curling her legs to one side and stretching an arm over her head. She doesn't turn to look, not yet.]

Hey yourself.

action;

[redactions]

[ Their voices echo in the room, staying as contained as them. Bucky sits, his legs crossed, at one side, watching the door. ]

Thinking of making this a dance studio?

Re: action;

[tothefly]

Maybe. Thinking of doing something with it, anyway. The Windrose gets pretty cramped these days.

You name your gym yet?

[She's not in any hurry. He'll get to what he needs from her when he's ready.]

action;

[redactions]

Yeah, the downside of space travel.

[ He's in no hurry either, and settles in to wait. ]

What d'you think of "Lou's"?

[ It's where he learnt to box, and taught Steve to throw a proper punch. A place with lightbulbs, the smell of old rubber and sweat. Something old, and kept that way. ]

Re: action;

[tothefly]

[Stretching the other way is a little harder thanks to the cast, but she manages well enough. Enough to shoot him a quick look.]

Sounds old-school Brooklyn, but I guess that's the point. Feeling homesick, Captain?

[redactions]

[ He smiles wryly at her. ]

What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

[tothefly]

Evasion by Shakespeare. Point to Brooklyn.

[She shifts easily into a split, leaning forward onto her elbows.]

You didn't come here to watch me warm up, did you? Not that I'd blame you if you did.

[redactions]

[ That earns a soft laugh, which bubbles to the surface and breaks as an amused huff. ]

I consider it a bonus. [ She's a beautiful woman. His eyes drop to her legs, making no secret of the appreciative way he's looking over her, then back to his hands. ] I figure I can wait a couple of minutes. It's not urgent.

[tothefly]

[She's worked hard to make the most of what she is, both before and after. The only weapons that can't be taken away from you are body and mind, the first lesson she'd learned, and the hardest. Everything can be taken. So she practices. The beauty is incidental.]

[But he can look, if he wants. No harm in a look. Her voice holds traces of that same humor as she answers, gesturing with her chin towards the window.]

In that case, enjoy the view. I'll be done soon.

[redactions]

Then I will.

[ His eyes settle on her again, using her permission for what it is. But — tellingly — there's no lust, no rakish smirk as he takes her in. Only the care one has looking at a work of art: something that might've been cracked but is still beautiful. The beauty is intrinsically part of her, he'd argue. One of her base components. Predators are beautiful, if you have the eyes to see them with. Pure, perfect killing machines. And even then, they play, they learn, they love. ]

[tothefly]

[She's no different than them, but she's always been a private person. Her personal life stays just that--and it's the last thing she's going to give this audience. Seeing her with all her guard down. She's always careful, to keep herself walled off. No matter the situation, the person, flirtatious banter or meaningful looks, she is unreachable, untouchable. There's a boundary that says this far, and no further, to everyone, whether or not they grasp the subtleties. Looking is occasionally permitted, but never touching.]

[But then, she's not had to worry about that once with him, and it's as much comfort as the rest of their stilted, strained relationship. Maybe he doesn't know her all that well, but he knows Natasha, knows what Natasha is and what she can be, appreciates it with looks like that, and keeps the careful distance she requires. It's enough. To be appreciated, but not threatened. Not tempted.]

[So she stretches, muscles lithe and limber, body responding to what may as well be wishes, and after a moment she stands to finish.]

Can't do the rest until I get this cast off. I feel like I'm losing my edge.

[redactions]

[ All in perfect form, typical Natasha. ]

Mm. [ absently, ] I think a couple of days more would do it.

[ He uncrosses his legs, and sits with his back to the wall, rolling his shoulders to ease any stiffness. ]

Thank you.

[ For letting him see. It doesn't matter if this was half an act, another play, one more twisting thread in the web. For the time he was here, it was real, and that's what matters. ]

[tothefly]

Beverly said it looked like another week. I'm supposed to go by again in four days to see if it's fine.

[Perfection takes a lot of work, but it's soothing. Almost a kind of mediation, for her. He sits, and she moves to the window, leaning back against the heavy, cold glass, silhouetted by stars. A beat, a breath, then:]

You're welcome.

[Meant in both ways. She's always putting on an act these days, performing for an unseen audience, but at least some of what this is, is genuine. As much as she can let it be.]

[redactions]

[ Perfection does take a lot of work, as it's punishing to both body and mind. Buck taps his fingers on his knee idly, and gets straight to the point: ]

I need to learn Russian. He's fluent, mine's only conversational.

[ Enough for a short term cover, and nothing more. ]

[tothefly]

[She's already still, but manages to go even more still at his words. No need to ask who he means, or to ask if he knows what he's asking from her. He knows. She answers with a moment of thoughtful silence, followed by a question.]

You don't think it's a better idea to get him used to English again?

[Languages hold memories, after all. She knows this intimately.]

[redactions]

I don't want to put him in a box, [ he answers, softly. Not a correction. An offer of information, the next step in this long slow waltz. ] and he reverts to Russian when he's stressed or comfortable. I need to know what he's saying.

[ And after a moment of unhappily pressing his lips together, ]

And if they did that — there might be trigger phrases in Russian, too. We should try and figure it out. He hasn't done anything besides your encounter, but something like the Winter Soldier doesn't just disappear because he's not actively using it.

[tothefly]

[It's clear he's thought about this. Not just looking at it optimistically, hopefully, but practically. Any trigger words or phrases they'd buried in his mind would have to be teased free carefully. Otherwise, they could all end up paying the price.]

[She cocks her head to the side, a gesture not quite a nod, and her fingertips trace indecipherable patterns on the glass.]

What did he tell you?

[About their meeting. She'd mentioned it to him, of course, but she'd been light on the details. Neither one of them was dead, or missing anything important. That was all that had mattered.]

[redactions]

[ It feels like approval, of a kind, and he's emboldened by it. James Barnes never gave a whit what other people thought of him, never walked with the rest of the flow. Just -- her opinion matters, deeply. He'd like to be in her good graces. ]

Nothing. I didn't ask him, so he didn't offer. I could order him to, but [ he shrugs ] you're alive, you handled it.

[tothefly]

[Approval, yes. Especially at his words. She's alive, she'd handled it. It shows in the slight shift of her shoulders, a softening in the line of her mouth. Guess you could teach an old dog new tricks.]

He does well with orders. Comfortable with them. Probably better to save that for when it's necessary.

Only spoken Russian, or written, too?

[redactions]

Spoken. I don't think they let him write, much, he holds everything like he's about to stab somebody with it.

[ He scrubs a hand down his face, but he too has eased up unconsciously, mirroring her. ]

Orders are always necessary at this point. He wouldn't even eat until I said so. [ What kind of master does that? ] It's going to be a long, long time before we can break that. Priority is convincing him the mission is pointless and HYDRA doesn't have his best interests at heart.

[ Waiting for his shot. He's patient. Spiders are patient, too. ]

I thought it'd be harder, but it's like he just — doesn't want to. [ A soft huff. ] He's adjusting way easier than I did, anyway. I don't think it's an act. If it is, it's a very good one.

[tothefly]

[She listens as he talks about his observations, what the Soldier is here. She can admit to some of that being self-preservation, the predator looking for a weakness. But some of it...some of it's for that 'we,' the plural she can't quite seem to contradict. She may not be able to help him outright, but this much she might be able to do. Besides she owes a debt to Steve. Even if he isn't here, maybe this will help to pay it.]

[A decision, then. Made with a sharp, decisive motion of her head.]

It isn't an act. He wasn't taught to act. Just to fight, and to take orders. They took him apart and put him back together so many times he's forgotten how to be human. They made him a weapon. Anything left of the man...it's pieces at best.

[The words aren't intentionally cruel. Just honest. She's that with him, at least, as much as she can be. Evasive, but she hasn't lied to him outright.]

[redactions]

[ Do her reasons really matter, if she's offering plain and honest (useful) advice like this? He listens raptly, expression calm but thoughtful. ]

I don't need him to be Bucky.

[ It's a firm correction of the trajectory she's seeing. He can't in good conscience box in another man, not after what HYDRA's done to him. ]

He might be James Buchanan Barnes. Who that is, it's up to him.

[tothefly]

[He takes her words for what they are, and it's enough. Whatever his expectations are, he's got them under control, it looks like, and she tilts her head again, looking at him with unblinking eyes.]

And what if he wants to be someone other than James Buchanan Barnes?

[He's never going to be Bucky again. Bucky died in the war, would have died even if he came back. Every soldier died on their first battlefield, in some way. It's the price of war. But what if he decided he wanted to be the Soldier? What if...]

[redactions]

[ She says, what if he decides to hurt us? and it stops him in his tracks. He's silent, listening, calculating — ]

It'd be his choice.

[ And wherever that led, they'd do their best to be ready for it. ]

If it's us or him — [ he sighs, heavily ] then we do what is necessary.

[ Even then, he doesn't know whether he'd be able to pull the trigger on his alternate. If he hurt Steve or Nat? Sure. Otherwise... it just seems unfair, not to give him as many chances as he can. He's not at fault for what they made him into, but if he chooses the same, does that make it different? ]

[ Bucky huffs, irritated, and quietly, admonishing, ]

Not what Steve would do.