fic: Be my ticket back home (Winter Soldier; Bucky/Natasha; pg)
Be my ticket back home
Winter Soldier (Comics); Bucky/Natasha; AU; pg; 2,375 words
The one where Bucky makes better decisions in the wake of Natasha's memory loss.
Goes AU at the end of the Widow Hunt arc. Rereading Black Widow #8 made me all teary about them again, so this happened. It was originally titled "Bucky, buddy, make better choices."
At AO3.
~*~
Be my ticket back home
Bucky's on his fifth--or maybe it's his eighth, he can't tell anymore--drink when Steve and Sam arrive. Logan keeps buying so Bucky keeps drinking, even when Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a squeeze that's probably as much a warning as it is sympathy.
"Maybe you should call it a night," Steve says. There's a mild frown on his face that makes Bucky want to do what he says--he's never liked disappointing Steve--but the thought of going home to a bed that still smells of Natasha's sweat and shampoo, of the two of them together, makes him reach for the empty glass Logan took from him.
"Let the kid drink," Logan says, waving the bartender over to refill Bucky's glass.
"He'll be miserable tomorrow," Steve points out.
"He'll be miserable anyway," Logan says.
"I'm right here," Bucky says, but they ignore him. And anyway, Logan's not wrong. There's a first time for everything. That thought makes him grunt in bitter amusement.
"Focusing on the hangover might give him something else to think about," Clint says.
Bucky snorts and squints at him. "Always looking on the bright side, eh, Clint?"
"I'm just a cock-eyed optimist," Clint answers. "Hey, that's from your time."
"A little after it," Steve says. "Good songs, though."
All Bucky can think about is Natasha in her tulle and toe shoes, how beautifully graceful she'd been. How exquisitely deadly. And how it had all been a trick inside a trick, yet another mindfuck courtesy of Department X and the Red Room. He'd thought he was done with them, but they keep coming back and fucking up his life. Natasha's life. He keeps failing to protect her. She'd call him an idiot and say she didn't need protecting, but she had this time, and he wasn't up to the job. And now he's lost her for good. He should just walk away and let her get on with her life. He's hurt her enough.
Sam is arguing with Steve over Kander and Ebb versus Rogers and Hammerstein now, but Bucky tunes them out, gets lost in his own head.
After two more belts of scotch, he's gone from maudlin to angry. It's not fucking fair. Natasha's had everything taken from her over and over again, given more than any one person should ever have to. He can't allow it to keep happening, especially not on his account. He's got to do something. He can't just walk away. Not after everything she's done for him. She might not know him anymore, might not love him anymore, but that doesn't mean Novokov is allowed to just take those memories away from her without a fight. He might not be able to bring them back, but he can at least let her know what was lost and who was responsible. And why. Even if it means she'll send him away without a second thought. He can't go without seeing her again. That's the coward's way out, and if there's one thing he's never been, it's a coward. He doesn't mean to start now.
He stands up and weaves a little. "Gotta go, gotta see Natasha."
"Whoa," Steve says, putting out a hand to steady him. "I don't think you should go anywhere but to bed."
"Can't." He waves a hand. "Smells like her. All her stuff's there. Gotta tell her." He sways a bit, even under Steve's calming hand. "Love her. Gotta tell her. Fight for her." He's pleading now, because he needs to let her know, even if it's for the last time. Especially if it's for the last time.
"I know you do," Steve says. "But she's sleeping now."
He glances over Bucky's shoulder and Clint sighs. "Come on, Barnes. I got a couch with your name on it. Smells like wet dog. You think you feel miserable now? Just wait till you've spent the night on it."
Bucky doesn't remember the cab ride very well, but he wakes up with a sore back and a crick in his neck from sleeping on Clint's couch, and he's way too hung over to deal with Clint's dog whuffling at him to go walkies.
"Bucky, meet Lucky," Clint says from somewhere above him, just out of reach of his flailing metal fist. Bucky squints up at him and growls. The dog barks happily in response, wagging its tail. "Steve's on his way, so I'm just gonna take my dog for a walk. Try not to break anything or set anything on fire, okay? My tenants don't need the hassle."
Bucky blinks slowly at him and then gestures at the door. Words are still hard to string together.
"Coffee's in the pot," Clint says, and then he and the dog are gone.
Bucky drags himself off the couch and finds the coffee pot, which contains enough stale coffee to fill one marginally clean mug about halfway. There's no milk in the fridge or sugar in the cabinets to make it more palatable. He drinks it anyway and then settles at Clint's kitchen table, his head resting on the cool and slightly sticky surface of the table. His hair feels lank and sweaty, and he should probably shower, but he can't bring himself to get up again.
"Hey," Steve says, standing in the doorway. "I was going to ask how you're doing, but you look terrible."
Bucky raises his head and flips Steve off. "I'm thinking," he says after a long silence.
"Don't hurt yourself."
"Ha ha." He pushes his hair off his forehead and steels himself for an argument. It hurts. Everything hurts. "I'm going to see Natasha."
"Okay," Steve says gently. "Maybe shower first?"
Bucky lets out a low, pathetic, little noise, but forces himself up out of his chair. Steve helps him dig out a reasonably clean towel from the cabinet in the hallway, and he's brought some of Bucky's clothes with him, so Bucky lets himself be led to the bathroom, and he takes the shortest, most miserable shower he's had since he got back from the gulag.
He rubs a hand over his chin and then decides not to bother with shaving, and he rubs toothpaste over his teeth with a finger rather than using Clint's raggedy-looking toothbrush. He towels his hair to keep it from dripping and pulls on the clothes Steve packed for him. He feels almost human again when he's done. The headache is still pounding behind his left eye, but it doesn't distract him from the gaping hole in his heart. It hurts to breathe, and he's pretty sure the hangover is just the razor-sharp icing on a very painful cake.
Clint's back by the time Bucky's done in the bathroom, and he and Steve are having a low-voiced conversation while Steve rubs Lucky's ears. He always did have a weakness for dogs.
"You gonna go see her?" Clint asks.
"She deserves to know," Bucky says. "Even if we're not--" He swallows hard, the stale coffee trying to climb its way back up his throat. "Even if--You know how she feels about anyone screwing around with her head. The least I can do is offer to help."
"Yeah," Clint says. "I know."
"I have to go back into the city for a meeting," Steve says. "Give you a ride?"
Bucky nods. "Okay." He turns to Clint and holds out a hand. "Thanks, man."
"Anything for Natasha," Clint says.
Bucky huffs a painful laugh. "Yeah."
The ride into the city on the back of Steve's motorcycle makes him feels like someone's taken a jackhammer to his skull, but it also prevents him from thinking too much. Steve pulls into the underground garage beneath SHIELD headquarters and says, "You want backup?"
"Nah. I think this is one of those things I have to do myself." Steve nods and looks stupidly fond and proud. Bucky nods back, his throat tightening. "Thanks, though." He tries a smile and probably doesn't pull it off. "For everything."
Steve gives him another one of those shoulder squeezes and then lets him ride up in the elevator by himself. It's one of the hardest things he's ever done. He swallows down the nausea and doesn't let himself consider heading back down to the garage and disappearing forever without seeing her.
Natasha is packing her things when he gets to her room in the infirmary. "You don't look like a doctor," she says.
"No, I wouldn't." He shoves his hands in his pockets and then takes them out again clasps them behind his back. Parade rest is comfortable, familiar. "I wanted to apologize for what was done to you."
She stops what she's doing to look at him more closely. "Oh?"
"Leo Novokov used you to get to me."
Natasha crosses her arms over her chest and her voice is sharp when she says, "So my memory is collateral damage?"
"Something like that." Bucky wonders why he thought this was a good idea. His stomach roils and he doesn't know if he can get the words out before he pukes. "You're very important to me." She raises a skeptical eyebrow, and he focuses on the window behind her shoulder. It looks like it might rain. "We were--We've known each other a long time. From back in your Red Room days, though I didn't know who I was then any more than you know who I am now. But we found each other again a couple of years ago and we're--we've been together for the past few years."
"Together?" She doesn't laugh, at least. He might find that encouraging later.
"Partners."
"Partners?" Her voice softens a little as she echoes the word.
"You said we were too old for the word 'boyfriend,' and you thought the term 'significant other' was silly." He closes his eyes against the flash of emotion on her face. When he opens them, she's composed again, though he knows her well enough to see how shaken she is. "Partners is--was--the best description. We worked together and we loved each other." The sweet words are sour on his tongue now, like milk past its expiration date. "I love you."
There's another flash of hurt on her face before she suppresses it. "I see." She gestures, encompassing the infirmary and the bed she was in last night. "I'm afraid I don't remember."
"I know. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I understand that you don't remember me, or anything to do with me, and that you might never get those memories back. If you want me to go away and never see you again, I will." He swallows hard and forces himself to continue, each word like a jagged shard of glass in his throat. "But if you want my help getting back what Novokov stole, I'll do whatever I can." He gives her a small smile. "I'm not a doctor or a telepath, but I'm very good at shooting people."
"Good to know." She holds out a hand, like they're just meeting for the first time. He guesses for her, they are. "Do you have a name?"
He takes her hand, the feel of it so familiar in his own, the slender, callused fingers, the scars across her knuckles, the cuticles torn where she occasionally chews them when no one else is around. "James," he says after the silence stretches awkwardly. "James Barnes." He holds on too long, but he can't make himself let go until she extricates herself with a small tight smile that looks more like a grimace.
"It's nice to meet you, James."
"Steve will confirm my story," he says hurriedly. "I'm not asking you to trust me. But, uh, if you go back to your apartment, it'll still be full of my stuff. I'll move out, find somewhere else to stay, but I wanted to tell you before you left."
"Thank you for letting me know." This time her smile is genuine. "I don't want to throw you out of your apartment. I can go and stay with Clint for a while."
"That's a horrible idea," he says. "His couch smells like wet dog." She raises an eyebrow. "I slept on it last night. And his coffee is terrible." He tips his head to the side. "Water pressure's not bad though. I'll give him that."
She laughs, and the sound is simultaneously the best and worst thing he's ever heard. He's always been proud of his ability to make her laugh, and he's glad he's still able to, but he doesn't know if this is the last time it'll ever happen. "That sounds like Clint," she says, a fond glint in her eyes. Bucky tamps down his envy. "Where will you go?"
"Steve's got a spare room," he says. "If not him, then Stark." He pushes a hand through his hair and thinks about having to be around Stark that often without putting him through a wall. For Natasha, though, he'd do it. Well, he'll try. "I'll be around. Whatever you need, just let me know."
"Thank you," she says again.
"I'll just get out of your hair now."
He's at the door when she says, "James? You didn't give me your number." She's holding out a Starkphone.
"Oh!" He brings up his name in her contact list. In the picture attached to it, he's grinning at her like a fool. "This is me."
She nods. "Of course. Well. I'll let you know when you can come and get your stuff, then."
"Okay," he says, feeling more awkward than he did when he was sixteen and trying to get his hand up under Trudy Wabash's sweater. "I'll just--go."
She gives him an amused nod. "You do that."
The elevator ride back down to the garage isn't nearly as painful as the ride up was. He still has a headache that would fell a horse, and his life is still pretty shitty, but at least Natasha didn't freeze him out or laugh in his face.
"Okay?" Steve says. He's waiting by the bike, wearing a concerned look on his face.
"No," Bucky says, taking a deep breath of oily, exhaust-filled air. "But one day, I think it might be."
end
~*~
Notes: Title and cut-text from "Mnemonic for the Destruction of Memory" by Kimberly Gray.
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/683485.html.
people have commented there.
Winter Soldier (Comics); Bucky/Natasha; AU; pg; 2,375 words
The one where Bucky makes better decisions in the wake of Natasha's memory loss.
Goes AU at the end of the Widow Hunt arc. Rereading Black Widow #8 made me all teary about them again, so this happened. It was originally titled "Bucky, buddy, make better choices."
At AO3.
~*~
Be my ticket back home
Bucky's on his fifth--or maybe it's his eighth, he can't tell anymore--drink when Steve and Sam arrive. Logan keeps buying so Bucky keeps drinking, even when Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a squeeze that's probably as much a warning as it is sympathy.
"Maybe you should call it a night," Steve says. There's a mild frown on his face that makes Bucky want to do what he says--he's never liked disappointing Steve--but the thought of going home to a bed that still smells of Natasha's sweat and shampoo, of the two of them together, makes him reach for the empty glass Logan took from him.
"Let the kid drink," Logan says, waving the bartender over to refill Bucky's glass.
"He'll be miserable tomorrow," Steve points out.
"He'll be miserable anyway," Logan says.
"I'm right here," Bucky says, but they ignore him. And anyway, Logan's not wrong. There's a first time for everything. That thought makes him grunt in bitter amusement.
"Focusing on the hangover might give him something else to think about," Clint says.
Bucky snorts and squints at him. "Always looking on the bright side, eh, Clint?"
"I'm just a cock-eyed optimist," Clint answers. "Hey, that's from your time."
"A little after it," Steve says. "Good songs, though."
All Bucky can think about is Natasha in her tulle and toe shoes, how beautifully graceful she'd been. How exquisitely deadly. And how it had all been a trick inside a trick, yet another mindfuck courtesy of Department X and the Red Room. He'd thought he was done with them, but they keep coming back and fucking up his life. Natasha's life. He keeps failing to protect her. She'd call him an idiot and say she didn't need protecting, but she had this time, and he wasn't up to the job. And now he's lost her for good. He should just walk away and let her get on with her life. He's hurt her enough.
Sam is arguing with Steve over Kander and Ebb versus Rogers and Hammerstein now, but Bucky tunes them out, gets lost in his own head.
After two more belts of scotch, he's gone from maudlin to angry. It's not fucking fair. Natasha's had everything taken from her over and over again, given more than any one person should ever have to. He can't allow it to keep happening, especially not on his account. He's got to do something. He can't just walk away. Not after everything she's done for him. She might not know him anymore, might not love him anymore, but that doesn't mean Novokov is allowed to just take those memories away from her without a fight. He might not be able to bring them back, but he can at least let her know what was lost and who was responsible. And why. Even if it means she'll send him away without a second thought. He can't go without seeing her again. That's the coward's way out, and if there's one thing he's never been, it's a coward. He doesn't mean to start now.
He stands up and weaves a little. "Gotta go, gotta see Natasha."
"Whoa," Steve says, putting out a hand to steady him. "I don't think you should go anywhere but to bed."
"Can't." He waves a hand. "Smells like her. All her stuff's there. Gotta tell her." He sways a bit, even under Steve's calming hand. "Love her. Gotta tell her. Fight for her." He's pleading now, because he needs to let her know, even if it's for the last time. Especially if it's for the last time.
"I know you do," Steve says. "But she's sleeping now."
He glances over Bucky's shoulder and Clint sighs. "Come on, Barnes. I got a couch with your name on it. Smells like wet dog. You think you feel miserable now? Just wait till you've spent the night on it."
Bucky doesn't remember the cab ride very well, but he wakes up with a sore back and a crick in his neck from sleeping on Clint's couch, and he's way too hung over to deal with Clint's dog whuffling at him to go walkies.
"Bucky, meet Lucky," Clint says from somewhere above him, just out of reach of his flailing metal fist. Bucky squints up at him and growls. The dog barks happily in response, wagging its tail. "Steve's on his way, so I'm just gonna take my dog for a walk. Try not to break anything or set anything on fire, okay? My tenants don't need the hassle."
Bucky blinks slowly at him and then gestures at the door. Words are still hard to string together.
"Coffee's in the pot," Clint says, and then he and the dog are gone.
Bucky drags himself off the couch and finds the coffee pot, which contains enough stale coffee to fill one marginally clean mug about halfway. There's no milk in the fridge or sugar in the cabinets to make it more palatable. He drinks it anyway and then settles at Clint's kitchen table, his head resting on the cool and slightly sticky surface of the table. His hair feels lank and sweaty, and he should probably shower, but he can't bring himself to get up again.
"Hey," Steve says, standing in the doorway. "I was going to ask how you're doing, but you look terrible."
Bucky raises his head and flips Steve off. "I'm thinking," he says after a long silence.
"Don't hurt yourself."
"Ha ha." He pushes his hair off his forehead and steels himself for an argument. It hurts. Everything hurts. "I'm going to see Natasha."
"Okay," Steve says gently. "Maybe shower first?"
Bucky lets out a low, pathetic, little noise, but forces himself up out of his chair. Steve helps him dig out a reasonably clean towel from the cabinet in the hallway, and he's brought some of Bucky's clothes with him, so Bucky lets himself be led to the bathroom, and he takes the shortest, most miserable shower he's had since he got back from the gulag.
He rubs a hand over his chin and then decides not to bother with shaving, and he rubs toothpaste over his teeth with a finger rather than using Clint's raggedy-looking toothbrush. He towels his hair to keep it from dripping and pulls on the clothes Steve packed for him. He feels almost human again when he's done. The headache is still pounding behind his left eye, but it doesn't distract him from the gaping hole in his heart. It hurts to breathe, and he's pretty sure the hangover is just the razor-sharp icing on a very painful cake.
Clint's back by the time Bucky's done in the bathroom, and he and Steve are having a low-voiced conversation while Steve rubs Lucky's ears. He always did have a weakness for dogs.
"You gonna go see her?" Clint asks.
"She deserves to know," Bucky says. "Even if we're not--" He swallows hard, the stale coffee trying to climb its way back up his throat. "Even if--You know how she feels about anyone screwing around with her head. The least I can do is offer to help."
"Yeah," Clint says. "I know."
"I have to go back into the city for a meeting," Steve says. "Give you a ride?"
Bucky nods. "Okay." He turns to Clint and holds out a hand. "Thanks, man."
"Anything for Natasha," Clint says.
Bucky huffs a painful laugh. "Yeah."
The ride into the city on the back of Steve's motorcycle makes him feels like someone's taken a jackhammer to his skull, but it also prevents him from thinking too much. Steve pulls into the underground garage beneath SHIELD headquarters and says, "You want backup?"
"Nah. I think this is one of those things I have to do myself." Steve nods and looks stupidly fond and proud. Bucky nods back, his throat tightening. "Thanks, though." He tries a smile and probably doesn't pull it off. "For everything."
Steve gives him another one of those shoulder squeezes and then lets him ride up in the elevator by himself. It's one of the hardest things he's ever done. He swallows down the nausea and doesn't let himself consider heading back down to the garage and disappearing forever without seeing her.
Natasha is packing her things when he gets to her room in the infirmary. "You don't look like a doctor," she says.
"No, I wouldn't." He shoves his hands in his pockets and then takes them out again clasps them behind his back. Parade rest is comfortable, familiar. "I wanted to apologize for what was done to you."
She stops what she's doing to look at him more closely. "Oh?"
"Leo Novokov used you to get to me."
Natasha crosses her arms over her chest and her voice is sharp when she says, "So my memory is collateral damage?"
"Something like that." Bucky wonders why he thought this was a good idea. His stomach roils and he doesn't know if he can get the words out before he pukes. "You're very important to me." She raises a skeptical eyebrow, and he focuses on the window behind her shoulder. It looks like it might rain. "We were--We've known each other a long time. From back in your Red Room days, though I didn't know who I was then any more than you know who I am now. But we found each other again a couple of years ago and we're--we've been together for the past few years."
"Together?" She doesn't laugh, at least. He might find that encouraging later.
"Partners."
"Partners?" Her voice softens a little as she echoes the word.
"You said we were too old for the word 'boyfriend,' and you thought the term 'significant other' was silly." He closes his eyes against the flash of emotion on her face. When he opens them, she's composed again, though he knows her well enough to see how shaken she is. "Partners is--was--the best description. We worked together and we loved each other." The sweet words are sour on his tongue now, like milk past its expiration date. "I love you."
There's another flash of hurt on her face before she suppresses it. "I see." She gestures, encompassing the infirmary and the bed she was in last night. "I'm afraid I don't remember."
"I know. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I understand that you don't remember me, or anything to do with me, and that you might never get those memories back. If you want me to go away and never see you again, I will." He swallows hard and forces himself to continue, each word like a jagged shard of glass in his throat. "But if you want my help getting back what Novokov stole, I'll do whatever I can." He gives her a small smile. "I'm not a doctor or a telepath, but I'm very good at shooting people."
"Good to know." She holds out a hand, like they're just meeting for the first time. He guesses for her, they are. "Do you have a name?"
He takes her hand, the feel of it so familiar in his own, the slender, callused fingers, the scars across her knuckles, the cuticles torn where she occasionally chews them when no one else is around. "James," he says after the silence stretches awkwardly. "James Barnes." He holds on too long, but he can't make himself let go until she extricates herself with a small tight smile that looks more like a grimace.
"It's nice to meet you, James."
"Steve will confirm my story," he says hurriedly. "I'm not asking you to trust me. But, uh, if you go back to your apartment, it'll still be full of my stuff. I'll move out, find somewhere else to stay, but I wanted to tell you before you left."
"Thank you for letting me know." This time her smile is genuine. "I don't want to throw you out of your apartment. I can go and stay with Clint for a while."
"That's a horrible idea," he says. "His couch smells like wet dog." She raises an eyebrow. "I slept on it last night. And his coffee is terrible." He tips his head to the side. "Water pressure's not bad though. I'll give him that."
She laughs, and the sound is simultaneously the best and worst thing he's ever heard. He's always been proud of his ability to make her laugh, and he's glad he's still able to, but he doesn't know if this is the last time it'll ever happen. "That sounds like Clint," she says, a fond glint in her eyes. Bucky tamps down his envy. "Where will you go?"
"Steve's got a spare room," he says. "If not him, then Stark." He pushes a hand through his hair and thinks about having to be around Stark that often without putting him through a wall. For Natasha, though, he'd do it. Well, he'll try. "I'll be around. Whatever you need, just let me know."
"Thank you," she says again.
"I'll just get out of your hair now."
He's at the door when she says, "James? You didn't give me your number." She's holding out a Starkphone.
"Oh!" He brings up his name in her contact list. In the picture attached to it, he's grinning at her like a fool. "This is me."
She nods. "Of course. Well. I'll let you know when you can come and get your stuff, then."
"Okay," he says, feeling more awkward than he did when he was sixteen and trying to get his hand up under Trudy Wabash's sweater. "I'll just--go."
She gives him an amused nod. "You do that."
The elevator ride back down to the garage isn't nearly as painful as the ride up was. He still has a headache that would fell a horse, and his life is still pretty shitty, but at least Natasha didn't freeze him out or laugh in his face.
"Okay?" Steve says. He's waiting by the bike, wearing a concerned look on his face.
"No," Bucky says, taking a deep breath of oily, exhaust-filled air. "But one day, I think it might be."
end
~*~
Notes: Title and cut-text from "Mnemonic for the Destruction of Memory" by Kimberly Gray.
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/683485.html.