armeyets | for viuva.

[ bucky's caught off-guard by yelena just scrabbling into place into the crook of his arm, rather than forcibly moving him or simply telling him to budge over — but then again, maybe he should've predicted that. he set it up and dug this grave for himself by waiting for her like that. and when she asks the question, he cranes his left arm away so he can stare up at the ceiling, too. ]

It's probably not not weird?

But I like having you here. And people like us— I'm not sure if we're really that good at 'normal'.

[ spoken as someone suffering the same. he's reminded of a disastrous trainwreck of a date with a very nice bartender who deserved more than a man who had to lie through his teeth with every single thing he told her about himself. at least with yelena, he can be honest. even about the ugliest parts of himself, because hers mirror it.

he exhales, and she can feel the rise-and-fall of his chest beside her, since she's nestled so close with her head against his arm. and after a moment, he screws his courage to the sticking place — how come it's easier to jump out of airplanes than to do this simple thing? — and shoots yelena another sidelong look. there's an order to these things. they've been doing everything entirely out-of-order. maybe that's inevitable, but in some gentle, hapless attempt at resuscitating some of that order, bucky works up his nerve and says: ]

Can I buy you dinner sometime?

Weren't you the one that told me to try and live normally? Hypocrite.

[ there is no bite. no bitterness to her words. instead, they pull at the corners of her lips.

bucky's words, though — "but i like having you here," — they tug at her heartstrings. make it so that it skips a beat, then sets on an irregular pace and a feeling in her stomach that she can't quite place. perhaps it's because no one's ever said those words to her before (it's different with nat; they show their affection in a roundabout way), but maybe it's actually because it's coming from someone that means something to her.

she doesn't mean to, but she focuses her breathing and mimics his in an effort to swallow the lump in her throat before it even begins to form.

it takes a second for her brain to process that he's asking her on a proper date, and when it finally registers, she has to bite back a smile. ]

Do people like us even do dinner anymore? [ she couldn't hold back a snarky remark, though, but she rolls onto her side, much like she did before she passed out the night before, and faces him. ] Don't answer that. Yes. I would like that.

[ she lets out some kind of relieved sigh, no longer containing her grin. ]

If you waited any longer, I probably would have asked you out myself. Just saying.

Really?

[ his impassive face breaks into a matching smile as he's looking over at her, a buoyant warmth welling up in his chest and between all the cracks in his ribs. maybe it's ridiculous to feel that kind of relief when it would've been apparent to anyone else that they liked each other, but it still felt like picking through a rusty vocabulary, re-learning a language that had fallen into disuse. some things about dating remain the same, while other things had changed so much in the intervening years, and it left him lost. and when the girl you like is also an international former assassin without a normal dating life behind her, what do you do?? ]

Back in my day, women weren't supposed to ask guys out. They could strongly hint and drop implications and basically steer the whole conversation that way, but it was frowned on for them to actually take the initiative to say the words. Which, honestly, is really stupid.

But man. If you had, you really would've spared me some nerves.

[ where his right arm is trapped under yelena and around her shoulders, his fingers curl against her bare skin, fingertips trailing down the line of her upper arm. ]

How's your stomach feeling?

[ she doesn't even spare a second thought before blurting out, ] Really.

[ these days, it's easier for yelena to forget that the man laying next to her was the winter soldier. she'd only seen him in passing, back then and natasha would tell her that he was the reason for the bruises and the dislocated shoulder, but he is no longer the boogeyman that haunted her dreams, once upon a time ago.

she hasn't seen him that way in a long while (at least, she doesn't think that any boogeyman would ask if she wore just an apron while baking, so) and she thinks of him as no one but james barnes, whose eyes are kind and thoughtful despite his resting neutral face. james barnes, whose smile makes her feel like she's going to burst at the fucking seams.

james barnes, whose fingers leave a trail of goosebumps in the wake of his touch and he's not even doing anything. ]

Yeah, I could have. But I like to cause you grief. [ like now, she inches closer until her head is on his shoulder and her knee is nudging at his thigh, placing her hand very briefly on his chest— but only to play with the dog tag around his neck. ] The painkillers have definitely worn off, and it aches more than anything but I have a good pain tolerance.

[ and then, just because it's been weighing on her mind: ] I have never been on a date before. Somehow the idea of a date is more nerve-racking than doing... whatever this is. The cuddling. You know what I mean?

Completely.

[ he exhales while he says it, and it almost feels like yelena's punctured a balloonful of air, tumbling the truth loose between them now that she's named it for what it is. it feels like relief— a loosening of tension now that he suddenly and acutely understands that he gets what she means. bucky hadn't been able to put his finger on it or name the sensation, but now she's conveniently done it instead. ]

Like, not to make it even weirder or anything or hopefully not build it up too much, but— I haven't gone on a date in eighty years. So I have no idea what I'm doing anymore, or what's even expected or normal anymore.

[ he's warm and alight and suddenly talkative, explaining it, but she can also hear that tight-reined frustration beneath the words. a particular frustration and haplessness with modern life he hasn't really gotten to discuss with anyone — he could've talked to steve about it if he was still around, since he'd understand, but they'd had too many other problems and concerns to wrangle at the time. dating had been somewhere at the far, far bottom of the list; possibly buried somewhere six feet down. ]

But it sounds like we can muddle through together. [ a beat, then he adds hopefully: ] Maybe it's easier, that we can both be shitty at this.

[ there is an edge to his voice that she can easily detect now, despite having only met with him a couple of times now, but— he's much easier to read after realizing that they're alike in many, many ways. ]

Oh, right. You are a hundred years old. I forget. Ah, but if it helps, you don't look it. Not a single day over sixty!

[ funnily enough, tackling this common worry shared between them is consoling her in a way she's pretty sure he probably didn't mean to even do. it helps make her feel a little less neurotic even though she's acting completely calm laying so close to him. with his arm lodged under her, and fingers ghosting across her skin. ]

No one can tell us we're shitty at dates except for each other. [ yelena lets go of his dog tag and brings a hand up before him, folding all her fingers except her pinky for a pinky promise. ] You will probably not have to do much, anyway. Maybe except sweep me off my feet. [ she kid, she kid! ] But otherwise, I am a simple girl.

[ even those old WWII dog tags are a perpetual reminder of how out-of-time he is, although bucky's not self-conscious about them — they're a comfort, a reassurance, one of the few physical tethers to the fact that he existed at all. if she reads the letters stamped on the metal, she'd see his name, service number, blood type— and then "r. barnes" and an indiana address. the sister he'd mentioned.

there's a brief perplexed look when yelena holds out her pinky, but then, amused, bucky reaches out. his other arm is still trapped under her, so it's a cool, cold vibranium finger that hooks around hers.

now, that, he is self-conscious about. but somehow it's easier with this little ritual as a reason for the touch. ]

Is the pinky promise to sweep you off your feet, or to tell each other when we suck at this?

[ he might not know much about dating, but he's pretty sure this isn't how it's normally supposed to go. but then again, this already feels like the only way he could have gone about this, and with someone like her. a bouquet of flowers to a bartender with a normal civilian life and normal civilian concerns wasn't gonna cut it. ]

Both. I can't promise to sweep you off your feet but like I said before, I can give you a piggyback ride.

[ she is not a romantic by any means; she's fairly certain that neither of them are. it is, after all, kind of hard to be when you don't have time to go to the movies, or be spontaneous and just decide to go dinner tomorrow night when she doesn't know where she'll even be six hours from now. but maybe she'll dig more into his past then.

being on the run makes it so that she has to make the most of stolen moments like these — the only reason she's in his bed in the first place is because she happened to still be in the area. and because she was injured, and his place was conveniently there.

she keeps her pinky wrapped around his for several moments, fascinated by the contrast in temperature in comparison to hers. ]

I have a question. Sorry if it comes off as insensitive.

[ with their pinkies still hooked and without a second thought, she presses her knuckles against his to feel around his thumb with the pad of her own, unabashedly. it's all vibranium, it's cold and it's hard but — she still feels like she's touching him. ]

What does this feel like? Does it feel like the real thing?

[ normally he would be even more skittish, would recoil from that bold touch, from anything more than incidental glancing contact with the hand in particular. but bucky makes himself swallow that instinctive wariness (do not perceive me!!), and instead lets himself talk about it. most people never ask. ]

It doesn't. I mean, don't get me wrong, the Wakandan design is great— I can sleep with it on and it's still comfortable, and it's lighter than the old one—

[ a shrug, gesturing vaguely to the pair of them entangled together, the bed, the fact that she clearly hadn't seen him pop the arm out of its socket and put it away in a box or something in order to sleep. shuri had gone to great lengths to make it a permanent part of him rather than a clunky prosthetic; she'd made it comfortable. the old HYDRA arm wasn't. the old one had been heavier: forty pounds of brute titanium which had affected his gait to compensate, and which made the socket of his shoulder ache on cold days, the bite of chilly metal, carrying that weight. ]

It's better than what most companies can build outside of Wakanda. There's haptic feedback so I can tell when I'm touching something, and I can feel pressure, resistance, and how far I need to reach for something. I can feel your fingers. I kinda know when something's hot or cold, but they dialed back the temperature sensitivity and there's no pain receptors, since they figured — accurately — that I'd be in combat with it.

So. Yeah, I can pour a cup of coffee without looking. And I'd be a shit fighter if I wouldn't be able to tell how far away someone is to punch them, or whether or not the blow landed.

It's not as sensitive, though. It's like wearing gloves, I guess? You can still feel things, but it's muted.

Edited 2021-08-12 20:35 (UTC)

[ she did before, but in this particular instance — yelena didn't assume the possibility of bucky reacting negatively to her wanting to examine his hand of steel so up close and personal like this when she is practically already in his arms.

she wouldn't have been surprised if he had, but without speaking it aloud, she is thankful that he doesn't, in the end. they are, jumpy and guarded by nature — working in the shadows will do that to a person — bucky more so than she is, but it is still something they can relate to.

having a prosthetic arm is, unfortunately, not one of them, but yelena can empathize. she has always, always felt strongly; leaves her heart on her sleeve in an effort to relearn what it feels like to be in control of your actions, your feelings; to be a person again.

physical contact is a big part of that process, she thinks, and perhaps why she's so comfortable being here next to him. but even then, even if he still has the rest of him, she can't help but feel a wave of sadness wash over her. it's written all over her face too — the way the corners of her lips curve downwards into the smallest of frowns. ]

I see. [ she doesn't mean to sound or look so disappointed, so she cracks a joke: ] Well. You could probably braid hair one-handed then. Or maybe beat Alexei at an arm-wrestling match, yes?

[ her frown has dissipated and she just looks deep in thought now. she takes her pinky back and tries to pry his hand open, splaying his fingers up and apart if he'll let her— and if he does, yelena will trace her index across the palm of his hand, dragging her fingertips over where the creases would be, as if it were of flesh and blood. ]

I've noticed you make it a point not to touch me with this hand. I figure it is out of instinct. But you don't have to hold back. I don't mind.

[ he latches onto that joke like it's a lifeline, automatically rolling with it, batting the humour right back at her: ]

Y'know, he keeps challenging me and I keep telling him that it's not fair, it's not just matching Soviet super-serums, but that the arm gives me an advantage— I think he still wants to give it a shot to see how it goes, though.

[ but then yelena is uncurling his metal fingers, and running her own finger against what would've been lifelines. it's just a faint, distant pressure — nothing too sensitive, nothing that ought to knock him so far off-kilter, and yet he feels it like a shiver down his spine regardless, just with the objective knowledge that she's touching him; that her finger is running along his palm; that they are practically holding hands. brains are wired so weird. it's like not being able to look over the edge of a balcony and yet experiencing vertigo anyway, just from knowing how high up you are.

and there she fucking goes and names it again. bucky feels like he ought to be embarrassed at being called-out so easily, his ploys and behaviour so transparent; but in the end, his voice just sounds hesitant. doubtful. ]

Are you sure? It's not... I mean, I can't imagine it's comfortable.

[ he doesn't clarify if he means the cold metal, or the fact that it's a prosthetic at all, or something else entirely. it is a nice design: a sleek black silhouette and golden accents. not quite the iron weight it once had been, and yet no matter how good it looks — the ferrari of bionic arms — and how he's fine with it in combat, pouring a drink, chopping vegetables, bucky still feels subtly ill-at-ease with it for 'skin'-to-skin touch. for anything more intimate like holding a hand, like touching someone's jaw, or more. he's had decades and decades of his left hand being the bloody one: the one used for blocking bullets, for smashing faces and breaking bone and death, death, death.

humans are fragile, and so terribly breakable. ]

[ yelena is, as she often does in his presence, testing the waters. she doesn't want to push him, except his body language speaks volumes. it means something to her that he hasn't pulled away, not yet anyway, but she can gauge that he doesn't find the idea of her touching his left hand repulsive, to say the least.

her gaze flits over to his face, and she wishes she could run the pad of her thumb across his cheek, or pinch it just because that would be funny and it would probably reassure him all the same, but she settles with slotting her digits in the spaces between his own metal ones. ]

I really don't care, James. It is still part of you.

[ and what she really means is "i like all of you," and she could say it, but she thinks they're enough in tune that he'll be able to read between the lines.

what they have is a little puzzling (especially to an outsider, had an outsider been here in the room with them) and it's weirdly unconventional, but it still makes her insides twist and turn and flutter until it bubbles all the way up to her chest.

it's hilarious to her that they haven't even kissed but they have cuddled (unintentionally, but it still counts), she's in his bed and is still wearing his clothes. they've skipped many steps, and keep having to take one or two back but she doesn't mind. how could she, when he's almost holding her and he's so close she can feel the rise and fall of his chest. and when she finally lets her fingers clasp over his knuckles to actually hold his hand, she thinks it's pretty damn close to kissing. ]

Besides, how are we going to dance if you don't use both hands? [ she shoots him a toothy grin, and then, with her whole chest: ] Dumbass.

[ when was the last time he just held a girl's hand? he needs to stop asking himself that question, or every single milestone's going to freak him out with the broad crevasse of time stretching endlessly in front of it. (a certain number of freakouts are inevitable, but he can at least try to minimise them.)

so he carefully, carefully twines his metal fingers around hers, thumb jotting against her wrist, his knuckles entertwined with hers. he glances down while doing it; an old habit from when he'd first started physical therapy and was getting accustomed to the new arm, making sure he's doing it right, that he hadn't missed the target completely, that he hasn't broken the glass he was trying to pick up or, in this case, shattered the bones in yelena's hand.

but of course it's fine. it's fine. yelena belova is holding his hand, and the world has not ended. the corner of his mouth twitches when she insults him. (he's increasingly realising they have that in common. can teasing be a love language? maybe.) ]

I'm creative. I'm pretty sure I'd have figured something out.

How do you feel about swing dancing?

[ it seemed like it was starting to get en vogue again, with classes throughout the city for brooklyn hipsters, but he hadn't dared to attend alone. he could give them a run for their money, though. ]

[ yelena watches him look down at their linked hands; she can't quite place his expression, but it seems akin to fascination. or relief. like finding something you've been digging days for and you don't know what to do with it, but — ]

I don't know yet. I will let you know when you teach me how to.

[ her features soften when she feels the pad of his thumb brushing over her wrist; she forgets how small her hands are, but they especially tiny in his. ]

This — [ she gives his hand a gentle squeeze to show him what she's talking about. ] — is a good arm. You will use it. For dancing. Or slinging me across the room when we finally do the Lindy Hop. Or is that the Jive? Anyway, the one that involves throwing me. Just make sure I don't do Natasha's silly hero pose when I land back on my feet.

Hey, we all do the hero pose sooner or later. She's just showing off how flexible she is. I can't even do that full pose without throwing out my hip, probably. Haven't ever really been the yoga type.

[ thanks to the serum, he was fast, strong, durable— but inflexible. soviet engineering had never really prioritised grace for their winter soldiers, who were relentless battering rams compared to the elegant pliancy of the red room widows. ]

Add that to the pinky promise list: I'll take you to a swing class and sling you across the room. Maybe that can be our first date, before we grab dinner.

[ okay. despite the nerves in broaching that subject, this was nice. just... lying in this sun-soaked bed in the morning, talking to her with this kind of aimless and amiable back-and-forth chatter, it was surprisingly easy and pleasant in a way that almost ached. they were probably supposed to have done a dozen other things before winding up here — with her in his clothes, curled up against him, sleeping over in his bed — but he's actually fine having skipped those steps. this part is nice. ]

I'm flexible, too. [ she scoffs, her tone petulant. if her hands weren't occupied, she would've crossed her arms to make a point. ] You don't see me showing off my flexibility.

You just need to stretch so you're not tight everywhere, which you probably are.

[ he'd have to do more than stretch, and they both know that. she is only as lithe and graceful as she is due to years of rigorous and painful training. is it both a blessing and a curse to not have been injected with the serum because she felt everything; from the sprained ankles to the broken bones, from knife wounds to being tested on while conscious, but paralyzed.

but because of it, she can hold bucky's left hand and still feel enough for the both of them. ]

Oh, yes. I love showing up to restaurants all sweaty. [ she's not being serious, as shown by the smile dancing on her lips. ] And just a heads up: I am a quick-learner and have very good footwork. I might make you look bad and you are not allowed to resent me when I show you up at your swing class.

Better than going dancing after eating, and hurling your dinner all over me because you've been swung upside-down one too many times. But— fair point. You could borrow my shower again.

[ again, he says, just like all the little breadcrumbs she's been peppering throughout their various conversations: those hints and nudges and promising that they'll do a repeat. they'll see each other again. this isn't a one-off. for two people whose schedules are so sporadic and unpredictable and unconventional, it's actually a comfort to hear. an attempt at some kind of solid foundation and predictability. ]

And anyway, Belova, I fully expect you to show me up. Wouldn't be right otherwise. Aren't you technically a ballerina?

I don't think I have sat down and eaten a proper meal in a long time. [ since defecting from the black widow program, anyway. she doesn't eat during regular people hours and really only eats when she feels like it. while she doesn't have an actual eating schedule, she can be a serial snacker when she wants to be. (meaning, she'll probably snag his bag of stale chips in the cupboard on her way out.) ] I would have definitely vomited all over you. That would have been pretty funny.

[ ~~funny because neither of them are grossed out by anything so!~~ but then yelena's face lights up at the mention of his shower. ]

I will bring a chance of clothes. What is the dress code? Formal? Semi-casual? Costume party?

[ she pauses at his question. don't worry, it's not like she's coming up with some kind of outlandish scenario or anything— ]

I don't think I would be able to pursue a career in ballet now; I am too busy and I don't like being on stage like that. But if I had to infiltrate a... Oh, I don't know, some world-renowned ballet company to take down the evil forces working behind it I would be able to blend in seamlessly. So, technically, yes.

Hell, give me an hour and I could even be your swing instructor.

Semi-formal bordering on costume party, because I guess playing dressup for the roaring twenties or the forties is, like, a thing now.

[ his nose wrinkles— it's unusual, knowing that the time period he grew up in is a quaint piece of nostalgia now, something retro enough that it's coming back in vogue. although, shit, she'd look good in one of those dresses. ]

But if there's anyone I'd call to take down a world-renowned ballet company run by evil forces, it'd be you. Me, I wasn't really trained in subtlety. I could infiltrate, uh...

[ the fist of HYDRA had been such a blunt weapon compared to the widows and the way they could effortlessly integrate into any environment, unnoticed. so bucky casts around, trying to think if he has any skills whatsoever that have nothing to do with murder. his list of hobbies is about as depressingly empty as this apartment. but finally, he lands on something: ]

A fishing boat or factory. Shucking oysters and gutting fish. Sam taught me. That or being a boxing instructor, maybe.

I have always wanted to wear something with sequins. Now I have a reason.

[ noted, she tells herself and stores it away for when the day comes. she goes thrifting when she has time, so it won't be a problem for her to find a dress fit for a gatsby party. (though depending on her schedule, she might even have to pick it up the day of — which is fine, she's used to doing things on the fly.)

yelena is tickled that he acknowledges her ability to adapt to the very specific situation she came up with, but she's noticed that he doesn't have any qualms complimenting her. now, that is something she can spring up on him another time. they've done enough progress today, she thinks.

yelena is also tickled at the image of him as a fisherman. ]

Boxing instructor is too predictable, I feel like — also, kind of unfair considering your arm! But I like the idea of you on a boat, though. Shucking oysters and disemboweling fish with a fancy Ka-Bar. It suits you.

What else did Sam teach you?

Refurbishment. We fixed up his family boat, so I got to pick up some things about getting rid of rust, or sanding down wood, or replacing floorboards. I was pretty good with engines to begin with, though. The jeeps were always breaking down overseas and we always had to patch them together ourselves or wind up stuck in some ditch somewhere, with Krauts just over the next ridge.

[ there's a contemplative edge to his voice now, though, thinking about it. how satisfying it had been to take the paul & darlene and piece it back together. being able to build something, for once, rather than just taking things apart. huh. ]

Maybe in another life, I could've flipped houses.

You are such a guy.

[ she calls him a guy, but fondly. it reminds her of when alexei used to work on random things around their (fake) house in ohio when they were a family (also fake) for three years. but she can look back on the things that used to make her feel whole when she's in a good place mentally — and physically, she supposes it helps being in bucky's presence — without feeling an ounce of anger. ]

That, I think you can still do. Actually, hey. What about next time you're in Ohio— or whenever you find yourself in Ohio, you help me paint my apartment? I will pay you in pizza and alcohol. And you can meet Fanny, too.

That sounds perfect, even if you're just using me for my manpower.

[ the arrangement all sounds so banal, so normal, and yet bucky finds himself unexpectedly delighted with it. he hadn't realised that he could find such contentment and enjoyment out of something so simple as come over and paint yelena's apartment. at the mention of fanny, his expression turns thoughtful and he finally blurts out the question he'd been halfway-ruminating on, but hadn't had a chance to ask yet: ]

Is she okay without you, since you spent the night here? Like, do you have a babysitter, or...

Why have two people paint walls when you can just have James Barnes do it?

[ yelena has already lost count of how many promises they've made to each other within the last ten minutes — and though she's not entirely if he is; she is not usually in the business of making future plans. most of the time, something comes up and unless it's something that needs urgent attending, yelena will not follow up on it simply because she never knows what part of the world she'll be in a week.

but, she is willing to make an exception this time. (and for all the times that are yet to come.)

there is a twitch to her mouth when bucky asks if fanny is okay without her, a furrow to her brow because why would fanny not be? then she remembers that she never specified what kind of child she was. ]

Yes, of course! Oh my god, what kind of mother do you think I am? [ a beat, ] Well. Probably not the best kind because I left her in Alexei's care since he owes me a favour. But she is fine. She has a set eating schedule and always asks me to go on walks because she loves to play outside. She is well-behaved and plays well with others. She is such a good girl— I love her so much. You will, too.

Did you know she is blonde just like me? What are the odds.

[ in a way, all of it is making up for lost time. all of the things neither of them have gotten to do over the course of their lifetimes, all the date nights and movies and dinners and painting apartments and furnishing apartments and just existing. it might be a kind of play-acting at normalcy, but at least they can play-act together, and that's what matters.

his expression softens, listening to yelena's gushing about what he thinks is her daughter (and which, well, is her daughter of sorts, for all intents and purposes). she loves her a lot. ]

Adopted, right? When did you start taking care of her?

[ because the widows can't have children. a particularly gruesome detail that he's well-aware of. the way the red room had owned their bodies, carved their way into them without a choice; similar enough to the way he'd been on the slab for HYDRA, but at least his arm had already been ripped off by the time they found him. what the widows had been robbed of, he can't even imagine. ]

for viuva.

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