Work Text:
Her hair was the first thing he noticed about her. Fiery red and loose, sticking to her sweaty forehead and pale shoulders. She was the only one who chose to leave it down, and he wasn't quite sure how she got away with it.
Next, her eyes. She rarely had the courage to look his way, but when she finally did, he was intrigued. They were hooded and wide-set; something you'd only find in a back bedroom or brothel. He supposes that's why she's here.
He's never seen an emotion on her clear face, even months after they became acquainted - or as acquainted as you could get in the Red Room. Her pale face was consistently blank, poker faces trained to perfection.
She looks young - impossible to be under twenty-five, but not a day older than thirty. He knows she's enhanced; enhanced just like him, but she moves differently than him. She's silent in her approach as if she's a leopard hunting her prey. Every single one of her movements is calculated and graceful as if it were as natural to strangle someone with her thighs as it is to stretch in the morning before getting out of bed. She's brainwashed to believe she's a ballerina, so that may be it.
The longer he's there, the more his gaze lingers. She pretends to never notice, but he's been trained long enough to know she knows. He can read her like the back of his hand, inside and out. She may be one of the highest ranking assassins in the program, but he was the one who taught her everything she knows.
When he begins to train her, it's difficult, to say the least. She's holding back - he can tell. Her eyes never meet his and she's gone the second they're dismissed for the day, like a ghost. He barely spoke more than two sentences total to her - the occasional "try harder" when they're sparring - but still, she overwhelms him. She's there with him when he goes to sleep, even if she's only in his mind. He panics because he's never felt like this before and doesn't comprehend it. He always saw himself as a weapon, but now he was a weapon with feelings. With something other than bleakness inside. Winter occupied his shoulders, but summer was creeping into his ribs. He's unsure of how to proceed.
Her hands shake when she holds a rifle. It's such a small movement, it skates under the radar of their supervisors, but he notices. He notices everything. She's not thinking about killing the man, but what impact it will have on her afterward.
He leans forward slightly, shielding his mouth with her hair, so the guard in the corner wouldn't see. "Take a deep breath," he tells her in Russian, and she flinches. "It helps sometimes."
She's so still for a few moments, he's positive she shook off his advice. But he suddenly sees her shoulders rise and fall, and a sigh leaves her pink lips. Her hands stop shaking. She pulls the trigger.
She takes another deep breath before turning around to face him. Her hooded eyes look up at him from under thick lashes, passing the rifle to her trainer wordlessly. He accepts it, flesh fingers barely grazing hers. His touch is warm and surprisingly gentle, and his fingertips are electric. She gasps before her eyes cut to the guard to see if he noticed. He hadn't.
When she turns to glance back up at him, he's gone.
The next time they train, it's different. The tension is so thick, he's sure he's going insane. Her eyes zero in on him when he enters the room, and the room's temperature seems to spike ten degrees.
When they spar, she crowds him. She omitted his regard to personal space, just like he taught her to. She stays low, careful to avoid his metal arm. And before he knows it, her thighs are around his neck and he can't breathe.
He's in a daze when he taps her leg twice, and she releases him, sending him to his knees to gasp for air. She crosses her thin arms over the standard sports bra, glancing down at him impatiently. Her hair is, for once, tied up, flyaways sticking out in every direction. Her cheeks are flushed and she's breathing heavy. He taught her well.
When he finally stands, she pushes him backward before he could get his bearings, into the corner of the room where the cameras don't quite reach. She looks at him before she kisses him, slow and soft. So soft, it feels like she's a ghost.
His heart is in his throat and his head is swimming. He's afraid to move because if he does, she might disappear. It's unexpected but welcome. Her lips are warm and soft on his, and the hand on his bare chest lights his nerves on fire.
For a split second, he wonders if this is a continuation of her training. This is part of her skill set, after all. But when she pulls away, the look she gives him tells him otherwise. Her pale cheeks are flushed and her eyes are wild. She seems just as torn on what to do as he is.
But before either of them can decide, a guard walks into the room, making her jump away from him as if he were a wildfire. She swallows and closes her eyes for one... two... three seconds before wiping all emotion from her face, getting back to sparring.
Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months and he finds himself kissing Natalia more and more. At every dark corner, they take turns pulling the other in, using the other as some sort of release. He's captivated by her as if he can't quite get enough.
Eventually, he finds himself at the door of some run-down motel, Natalia looking up at him with sultry eyes as she pushes him in. He doesn't question how she was able to sneak out of the Red Room, but that doesn't mean much to him now as she takes her top off and pushes him back onto the bed.
She overwhelms him. Her hands never stop when she rides him; his knotted hair as she kisses him, his broad shoulders, his strong chest. He can't take his eyes off her as she sits up and throws her hair back, exposing her sweaty neck and chest to him. His metal hand is crushing her hip as he guides her, but she doesn't seem to mind. When she lowers her head again and locks eyes with him, her alluring smile does him in. He's officially hooked.
When he finishes, she allows herself to rest her head on his chest, even for a minute. But before long, she's standing and getting dressed again as he watches her intently.
She leans into him, to kiss him when she's done dressing. Her lips travel to his ear.
"You know what black widows do to their mates?" It's barely a whisper, but it's perfect English. It was the first time he's heard her speak.
He looks up at her, the moonlight coming through the window casting an eerily innocent light on her face. Her lips were still puffy and her fiery hair was still tousled. The sweat dried on her skin, adding a certain type of glow to her pale skin.
He raises an eyebrow. "You know that's a myth, right?"
After that night, he suddenly disappears. She's almost worried, but she's not programmed to be worried. To care. She already crossed a line sleeping with him, but to care? That was outside of her skill set. She could get killed. But she hasn't realized how accustomed she was to him. She's fond of him; she's never experienced that feeling before.
Nine days later, he returns, a little banged up, a bit on edge. He jumps when she sneaks up behind him, which she hasn't been able to do until now. His eyes are wild and darting as they train, and she even somehow manages to pin him to the floor during sparring.
It's not until he walks to the locker room with his back to her when she notices he's shaking. She glances left, then right, then up at the cameras. They're panning away from her, so she ducks into the locker room after him.
There's no sign of him except the water running in the showers. She rids herself of her pants and shirt before following the sound. She can't help but stop at the grimy mirror on her way to the showers, finger combing her hair, pinching her cheeks to add natural color.
She finds him with his back to her, one hand resting on the tile wall in front of him, the other working its way through his long hair. Taking a deep breath, she places her hands on his strong back, and instantly he reaches around to grab a wrist, yanking her forward, holding his metal hand to her throat. Once he saw it was her, he retracted his hand as quickly as it came, his eyes softening.
"I didn't mean to sneak up on you." Her voice is clear, practically soothing to him. It amazes him how good her American accent is. He supposes the Red Room's work is paying off.
He glances down at her, water pouring from his hair onto his face. "So she speaks."
She instantly raises an eyebrow, frowning. Wordlessly, she tries to move past him to leave him be, but he grabs her arm before she can go too far, pulling her back with a whisper of her name.
He moves in closer than before, his flesh hand placing his thumb on her hip, the metal arm resting just above her head. His face is so close to hers, if she leaned forward anymore, their noses would touch.
She's not sure why - possibly because it felt right - but her hands start at his chest, then travel upwards to his shoulder, skirting her fingers around his neck to grab his hair. The hand on her hip gets braver, and he closes his eyes at her touch.
"What did they do to you?" It's not compassionate or caring. Genuine curiosity.
He's so silent, she's sure he won't answer. So she just continues to thread her thin fingers through his hair, working the knots out gently.
"Sent me on a mission," he finally says, his voice dreamy, as if her touches are taking him elsewhere. "Then fried my mind to pieces."
She nods. "How do you-?"
"I know what it feels like to be electrocuted." His eyes are finally open again, and he's looking directly into hers. So that explains the shaking. "I don't... I don't know what they have me do, and I can't remember a damn thing. I have an idea, though. Fuckin' hell."
He sees a look on her face that he never saw before. Her eyes are soft, and her mouth is slightly parted, set in a frown. It was empathy. "They never- For me, I mean, I don't think..."
He's shaking his head. "They don't wipe yours," he says, referring to her memory. "For what they have you do, you need your memory."
"They need it," she corrects him, pulling him closer to her. He brought her comfort, in a sort of twisted way. "I'm just as much a pawn as you are, soldat."
He feels lightheaded when he leans in to kiss her. She responds immediately, the hands in his hair reaching out to grip his back, and she curls her body against his perfectly.
It's somehow more intimate this time, under the hot water. It's as if she's giving him a small part of her, and he's giving her a small part of him. Up until now, they never once disclosed anything, but she can tell their relationship has changed from the desperate way he kisses her.
She allows him to lift her leg at the knee and wrap it around his waist. This time, it's his turn to own her. She lets out the faintest moan as a hand grabs her ass, and it's enough for him to let out a groan of his own.
She's shuddering as he takes her against the wall. He's going slow, and she's sure she'll combust. She never had anyone be gentle with her, and she doesn't know what to do when he kisses her softly. She rigid and he knows.
"Relax," he murmurs in her ear when he pulls away, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the water. "You're safe."
She leans her head against the tile behind her as he kisses her neck, and although she desperately wants to enjoy this, everything is telling her to run. She isn't used to.... well, consensual sex. She's used to using her body as a means to an end. She's used to men having their way with her, regardless of what she was feeling or wanting. But the man in front of her, nothing but soft kisses and warm hands, is throwing her for an absolute loop.
She's compliant when he finishes and whispers her name into her ear. Her legs are jelly, and he has to support her when he puts her back on her feet. He senses her distress - he knows her inside and out, whether or not she's ready to admit that.
"Are you alright?" He watches her with careful eyes as she grabs a towel, quickly drying off before shoving a leg through her pants. She stumbles, hitting her foot on a bench.
"Dammit," she hisses in Russian through clenched teeth, and when his gaze meets hers, he sees tears welling in her eyes.
He instantly reacts, wrapping a towel around his waist before reaching for her. "Hey..."
She flinches away from him as if his hands are venomous. Her head is shaking erratically back and forth, she can't breathe. He looks at her as if she's just a broken girl, but she can't form any words before she yanks her shirt over her head, leaving before he can say anything.
He's gone for the next fifty-six days, and she's an absolute wreck. She heard whispers that he's gone to Brasil and finally met death. Other girls say he's in China, doing the President's bidding. She gets a new trainer, but he's young and inexperienced and she has him on the ground within a half-minute. She feels an ache in her chest that she can't possibly shake, and every day when she enters the training room and doesn't see him, it only gets worse.
She's not used to him. She ponders whether he feels what she feels. The ache in her chest. The draw to him. The need of his touch. It repulses her. She's in love. And if he's not here, there's not a goddamn thing to do about it.
He finally returns, and she's in awe when she sees him walk into the training room. His shoulders a slightly wider, his waist slightly thinner, his arms more defined. His hair is stringy but longer.
She doesn't know what to say when he catches her glance, or what she would even be allowed to say, and she can't bring herself to look away. But his expression is blank like he's staring right through her. She's paired up with her new trainer while he oversees the room, but she feels his eyes burning into her back when she pins her trainer on the mat between her thighs. Again and again, he's no match for her, ending up on the ground with a thud every time.
"Alright, enough," she hears his smooth Russian creep up on her, and she smiles. Goosebumps raise on her pale skin when his flesh hand goes to the small of her exposed back, gently guiding her out of the way to help the trainer up from the floor.
When she turns to face him, she's grinning. "Tired of watching?"
Her eyes may be deceiving her, but she's positive she sees the corners of his tired mouth twitch upwards. "You've gotten sloppy while I was gone."
She raises her fists, and he's quick to make the first move. She ducks easily. "Did you miss me?"
He falters slightly, and she lands a punch to the center of his chest. He moves to grab her, but she maneuvers in between his arm and his side, kicking his leg out from under him. He's stunned as he falls to his knees, allowing her to twist his flesh arm behind his back. She leans in, putting her lips to his ear.
"Who's the sloppy one now?"
Before she can comprehend, he reaches behind him with his metal arm, grabbing her, forcing her to the ground in front of him. His hand goes to her throat, straddling her hips with his knees.
"Now that's not fair," she coughs, tapping his wrist twice, waiting for him to release the pressure from her throat. "Not all of us can have metal arms."
He lets go of her, moving his hand to the space on the mat next to her hair. "Shouldn't make a difference," he tells her, staring down at her. "You should know how to defend yourself regardless."
"Right, because more than one person in the world has a metal arm," Natalia says with a roll of her eyes and a sly smile, more than comfortable with her compromising position under him. He notices.
"You never know," he grunts as he rises to his feet, holding a hand out to help her up. She takes it graciously. "One day, you might have to defend yourself against me."
She laughs out loud from the absurdity of his statement, and his eyes cut to the guards in the corner. They're suspicious, whispering amongst themselves, looking directly at her. Her laugh alerted them. Anger rises in his chest.
"Focus," he tells her, a bit too firmly, and instantly, she stops. "You're training to kill people. This isn't a joke."
If looks could kill, he'd be dead. "I know what I'm doing. I've been at this longer than you, American."
With that, she turns on the heel of her worn-out trainers and walks to the showers, calm as can be, as if the past minute didn't just happen.
He groans in frustration, wiping the sweaty hair out of his face before turning the other way, towards the exit.
"Soldat, you aren't finished for the day," one of his handlers shouts after him, but he continues his fast pace out the door. "Soldat!!"
"Natalia."
She's silent as she rolls over in between the uncomfortable sheets, opening her eyes, trying to see through the darkness. She's met with blue eyes behind a black mask and a cold grip on her hip.
Her eyes widen. "What are you doing here?" She asks in a whisper, sitting up, gripping the sheets around her chest to keep some modesty. "They'll kill you if they know you're here."
He's shaking his head before she finishes. "I don't care," he tells her. "Let them."
His metal thumb rubs her hip soothingly over the sheets as he kneels at her bedside, and they're in silence for quite some time before she finally speaks up.
"I'm sorry," she sighs, dropping the sheets from her chest, reaching forward to him, burying her hands in his long hair, resting her forehead against his. "I'm sorry for everything."
He sighs, too, from relief, pulling her into a tight hug. She doesn't care that she's naked or that his metal arm, cold from the Russian winter, was giving her slim back frostbite. He came back to her, almost two months after she last saw him, and that's all that matters to her in this moment. She wants to say something, but she can't find the appropriate words. She settles for silence, and he doesn't seem to mind.
Her eyes finally adjust to the darkness, and she laughs when she pulls away, taking in his full Winter Soldier ensemble. "I never saw you behind a mask before. Do you have a mission?"
He moves to sit on her small bed next to her, softly caressing her neck. "No. I just had to get out of there without them seeing."
Her eyebrows pull together in confusion. "You do understand the Red Room knows who you are, right? You're a terrible liar, soldat."
He forces out a chuckle, but he won't meet her gaze.
"Now you're scaring me," she tries to say jokingly, but it falls flat on her lips in the darkness. "Really, what's going on?"
He takes a hard swallow, and with a deep breath, he removes the mask covering his eyes slowly. When he looks her in the eye again, the moonlight hits his cheeks just right, highlighting bruises on his face that aren't quite gone yet, even with his accelerated ability to heal. She feels sick to her stomach when she reaches out to touch the tender skin under his eye, watching him wince in pain.
"Who did this?"
He clears his through and pulls away from her, but she wraps her fingers around the buckles on the front of his suit, forcing him to bring her with him. He lets out a sigh and brushes his hair away from his face when she kicks the covers from her bare legs, twisting her body until she's seated on his lap, straddling his waist. He eyes her carefully, but his hands go to her naked hips, pulling her closer. "Natalia..."
She leans in to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her hands in his knotted hair. He kisses her back, grabbing a knee with his metal hand, pulling it higher up his waist, getting her closer, the flesh arm supporting her back.
She has to physically pull his hair to end the kiss, giving him a soft smile, sliding her hands forward to his neck. He seems a bit more at ease - a bit less on edge - and that's all she wants. "You can talk about it if you want," she tells him, her voice a whisper, not wanting to interrupt the tranquil mood between them. "You can trust me."
"I do trust you," his voice is raspy as if he'd just woken up. The hand on her back crawls up and around, over her chest, before settling on the back of her neck. He pulls her in for another kiss, his lips soft, his tongue gentle. "But I don't want to talk."
She nods against his lips, surrendering to him. She completely gives him her body, because she trusts him just like he trusts her. He lays her down gently, ridding himself of anything resembling the winter soldier before allowing himself to touch her again. He didn't want to be that person anymore with her. He wanted to be a normal man, without all the murder and lies and deception attached.
Natalia feels as if she has a fever spreading through her body when he leans down to kiss her stomach. The moon is pouring into the room through the cracks in the blinds, casting shadows on her marble body. He looks up at her through his lashes, her eyes closed, her lips parted in pleasure. Her cheeks were rosy and her hands were shaking with anticipation as they tangled in his hair.
She's going against every fibre of her being to take this slow. Every second of her training for moments like this, destroyed. The rule book no longer mattered. He could take as much time with her as he wanted. She was his, tonight and forever.
"I love you," he mutters into the inside of her thigh, biting down on her sensitive skin, swallowing his words. Her whole body jerks when he drags his teeth along her thigh, causing her to bite down on her hand to prevent a moan. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, reaching under her knee, placing it over his shoulder, yanking her closer to him with rough hands.
She's out of breath when he puts his mouth on her core, his tongue hot as he completely devours her. She can't keep quiet when he adds his fingers, and he grips her tight with his metal hand, not allowing her to move as he surges forward, despite her desperate squirming.
She slaps a hand over her face when she comes, squeezing her eyes shut, biting down hard enough on her bottom lip to draw blood, trying to keep her loud cries at a minimum.
She feels him move up her body, forcing her fingers under her hand, prying it from her face. "I need to see you," he says gruffly, settling in between her legs, adjusting himself with his other hand. "God, let me see you."
He feels like he's drowning when he enters her, his ears ringing and his vision blurry. Natalia pulls his head down to hers, kissing him desperately, trying to drown out her moans. She's sweaty, his hands slipping on her hips as he thrusts, quicker and quicker every time.
She wraps her hands around his back and her legs around his waist, clinging to him, unable to comprehend anything other than him as he takes her. Her thoughts are jumbled and she hears him saying something, his lips locked on her neck, over and over like a mantra, but she can't understand. All she can do is throw her head back and let him do whatever the hell he wants with her.
His breath is shaky, cool on her sweaty chest, his metal hand gripping her hip just a bit too hard. "Fuck," he lets out through his teeth, keeping himself at bay just long enough for her to finish. And when she does, he's the one to clamp a hand down over her mouth, her face scrunched in ecstasy, seeing stars behind her closed eyes.
He continues to thrust into her, teeth clenched, hands leaving bruises on her hips. And when he finally comes, she clings to him like he's freedom. He lets out a long string of curses in every language he knows, shuddering under her grip as he kisses her neck.
He pushes his hair out of his eyes when he rolls off her, the strands damp, the room smelling like sex. When he looks over at her, Natalia's eyes are closed, the worry lines on her forehead he grew accustomed to, gone.
"What are you thinking?"
The lets out a sigh through her swollen lips, opening her eyes. "That this won't last."
But before he can say something - before he can fight her - she rolls onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow, reaching a hand out to smooth the bruises on his cheek. "I love you, too." Her eyes seem so frightened and cautious, but she continues. "You said earlier you loved me... I love you, too."
He watches her closely, averting her gaze from his, looking down at the stars she was drawing on his broad chest with her finger. "Think we'll ever get out of here, Natalia?"
"No." At least she was being honest. "Even if we did escape the KGB, the Kremlin would follow." She glances up at him then, leaning in to kiss him gently. "Maybe this is the happiest ending people like us are capable of getting."
They lay in silence a bit longer, her head on his chest as he combs through her hair with gentle fingers. When she falls asleep, he slips out from under her, redressing, putting his mask in place across his nose. Before he leaves, he kneels by her bed once more, kissing her forehead, brushing the red hair from her closed eyes. "I'll be back soon," he promises her sleeping form in a whisper, kissing her once more before slipping out through the window.
He never returned.