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Who: Bucky and Nat
Broadcast: nooooope
Action: SS Windrose
When: nowish

He should know better than to go on a name. Steve. It'd rolled off his tongue like seventy years hadn't separated the last time he'd used it in person, or the untraversable miles that exist between them now in outer space. There's no reason it should be any different just because someone by the last name Romanoff is here too. Hope's not a part of the view, when Bucky looks out at the world. There's what's real, what can be done about it, and everything else slots into place. This — having Natasha, of all people, around — shouldn't be an ill-fitting piece. She's been part of his world for long enough.

All he does is place a quick call, and receives a neutral reply. That's worrying, but it might just mean she's beat a strategic retreat and is pulling on the various threads to find the one web she can wait in on. Either way, his usual patience fails him again, as it did once when he woke up to find his whole world gone. The Windrose is quiet, and his footsteps echo as he walks towards what might be a heartbeat.

'Nat?' he calls, worry folded into the tone, 'Natasha?'

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She should have expected this, here. Especially after the other one. But how could she? A Steve Rogers that's no Captain America, not by a long shot, and now this. A James Barnes that wasn't the Winter Soldier. A man that spoke like he knew her, warmth and relief in a voice she'd never heard speak with anything but cold precision. To her credit, she'd done well enough with it. Kept her cool, didn't show anything of the storm in her mind, made proper arrangements. Stashed a few weapons from the armory in strategic areas of the cargo hold, had a quiet word with Polly--

--and then waited, in the shadows, with the weight of memories heavy on her shoulders. Cold metal arm against her throat, searing heat of a bullet through her shoulder, fear thick as the smoke in the air--that dead look in his eyes. Зимний Солдат. Winter Soldier. The man who'd spoken to her on the comm wasn't anything like Winter. And for once, she doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know who he is, or who he used to be, not like she knew Steve. James Barnes is just words on paper.

But here he is, calling for her like a ghost she never knew. For a moment she sinks back further into the shadows, fighting an urge to run, but this is her ship and her invitation. She'll keep what control she's got left. Taking two deliberate steps out, she waits, arms crossed.

"Here."

'Nat!' he says, and heads towards her immediately. Relief doesn't show on the face as much as it radiates from the body: the unclenching of the jaw, no tension in the shoulders, the lack of wariness in the knit of the muscles. There's no such thing as absolute safety, not in the world they live in, but he's learnt to drop those walls around her.

And then it vanishes the moment he takes a look at her, a real, proper look, and finds that he maybe doesn't know her after all. He's not used to her blank expression being directed this way, at him, and not being able to read what she means by it makes his feet shuffle, uncertainly, and make himself small under her scrutiny. It occurs to him he should prepare a threat response — anyone who can pretend to mimic Natasha Romanoff's mannerisms and voice enough to fool him is dangerous — but it's not in his heart to take another strike like the one the other Steve dealt him.

He falters, but stands firm where he is.

'What's going on?'

That nickname again. Never been said in that voice before, let alone with that sort of tone, relief obvious in not just the sound but in the way he drops everything resembling a guard and moves towards her. She doesn't flinch back, but apparently the subtle tension radiating from her is enough for him to notice--to notice and stop. Stop and shift his weight uneasily, to stop and look at her more closely with eyes she doesn't even recognize, there's so much more in them. Hers only meet his gaze for a moment, searching, then drop to a very real-looking left arm, fingertips, nothing like the cold metal she remembers there. Nothing on this man is anything like what she remembers. She doesn't like it. Maybe even less than she likes knowing what Steve is supposed to be and seeing that other man in his place instead.

"I was hoping you could tell me. What do you remember?"

A question that asks everything and nothing. The curiosity in it is genuine, as is the intensity. The need to know. Even if the pretenses might be false, the spirit behind it is absolutely genuine.

He follows her line of sight to the left arm, and understands — or thinks he does. His Natasha dislikes the flesh sleeve intensely, but lets him keep it. He watched Steve suffer for over two decades. Even if it's normal for veterans of war to come back scarred, he knows, acutely, how the world looks at them. (How he looks at himself, too.)

He considers removing it, and then sets his jaw, stubborn, and his fingers flex as he shifts into parade rest. This is an interrogation, and while it's the familiarity he needs it's also annoying that she'd turn this on him.

"Getting here and hoping it's not 2082," he answers. She never specified a when, and he's testing the waters. Another seventy years gone? He'd break something.

Another stance that's slightly jarring. She'd seen the Soldier at parade rest a half-dozen times, but this isn't the Soldier, just a soldier, reporting. Who does he think she is? She can't imagine. It's disconcerting, but she'll still try to play the role, because she can't not.

"They seem to be a little vague on things like time, here," she says, a faint whisper of something distracted in her voice as she studies the rest of him, eyes always coming back to that face. Looking like she's searching for something. "What about before that?"

Seventy years is a very specific amount of time to lose, and the frequency of hers he was listening to as he spoke is utterly silent. His brow furrows, and he goes completely still. What exactly does she expect him to be? He's already moving towards it before he stops and realises he has no idea what it is or even if he'll fit. Even so, he tries. He's spent his life being what's useful and needed, except without context here it leaves him floundering.

(There's the brief thought, of course, that this is one of Fury's insane tests to break it to him gently but — why would Nat agree to be part of it?)

'Seems like they're vague on a lotta things,' he answers, finally. 'Before I answer that, are you Natasha Romanoff or aren't you?'

It's a very unique sort of frustration, one she doesn't face often these days; getting signals and cues from another person and not being able to interpret them, not being able to spin it to her advantage. Even more unique, because if she didn't know better, she'd swear he was doing the same thing. She doesn't move, even as he goes as still as the body she remembers, and her eyes flicker to his hands again-watching for movement, the telltale flicker that could be an attack.

The name has her looking back up, and the faintest of frowns creases her brow. Natasha, not Natalia. Not Widow. Natasha, Nat. That accent, one she hears hints of another time and place in. The frown only deepens.

"Who were you expecting?" It's a question with a lot of answers.

It's not a question of who he expected as what she is to him specifically — she's not pretending, she genuinely doesn't know. His shoulders slump like he's just been punched to near-KO in some back alley, palms open and facing her. He feels — lost, and small, and part of him wants to lash out and demand she turn herself into something recognisable. She would, if he asked, he knows. Natasha always uses the most efficient method. Natasha will be whatever you want her to be.

'You're not her,' he says, quietly. 'And I'm not him, I'm guessing. The question is: who those people are.' A beat, and he looks down, away, steeling himself. The presence of his misery and vulnerability doesn't mean he can't use it to his own ends, and his eyes flit back up to her after a moment. 'I'll show my cards if you do.'

His posture gives her pieces, small bites of information she's not sure she's comfortable with. A feeling she's probably going to feel a lot more of, when she turns it over later, examines all the edges and facets. Whoever that other Natasha was, she meant something. She could see the defeat. Loss? Something. It's probably the last thing she'd expected from this whole encounter.

But he comes to the conclusion she's had to twice now, though part of her still wonders, and he states it so simply, it almost feels like the words echo in the empty cavern of a room. She doesn't look away, even as he does, is still looking when he meets her gaze again, unknown things swimming through the depths of her eyes like sharks through the ocean.

She's never been the type of girl to lay them all on the table. Always has a few cards up her sleeve. She doesn't think any version of her would be much different, unless it's a Natalia whose parents never died, and that's a person so foreign she'd be a stranger. "I don't think you'd like my hand very much." It's a simple truth as much as it is an evasion. Old habits die hard. But she's still not backing away, and that's something.

It's a Natasha answer, and he gives her face a last once-over, then decides it's the truth of the matter. Natasha from another world, just like Steve. Better not be some awful mirror; his world is as real as hers... and as real as that other Steve's, too. Maybe it's not the wisest option, to decide what the truth is when he's only been here five minutes, but he can't fathom any reason for her to lie. Mislead him, yes. She's being evasive, now. It's not the same as lying. And ultimately, he learnt to put his faith in her. He'd rather that remain what it is.

'I think you'd like mine even less,' he says, wryly. He'll remember how she looked at his arm, his hands. 'Should we ah — sit down first?'

He isn't the Soldier. No amount of brainwashing could give a man a face like that. Every trace of sorrow is hard-won, every bit of weariness earned. He isn't the Soldier, but who is he? Who is she supposed to be? She needs to know. Needs something, at least, because what she has right now is worse than nothing and she hates it.

His words gain a look around the mostly empty cargo hold, a thoughtful glance of her own at his face. A deliberate not looking again at his hands. Finally, she takes a step or two back, just far enough to hoist herself on top of a crate, one of several stacked around this part of the ship. There's a clear path back towards the front of the ship, directly behind her, and something almost ironic in the way she gestures at the crates surrounding him. "Help yourself. I wasn't exactly planning on company."

He selects one that gives him a good view of the whole cargo hold, and half-turns away from her, mirroring her posture at first out of habit, and then stretching out one leg, and drawing the other up to his chest to rest his chin on his knee. A neutral position, that's neither open, hostile, or vulnerable.

'My name is James Buchanan Barnes,' he offers. 'You already knew that, though. The world knows me better as Captain America — but I wasn't the first one. That was Steve. He —' his breath hitches, a fraction, but he keeps going, 'was killed in action in 1945. About a year ago they found me in the ice, where I'd crashed the Valkyrie. I work for SHIELD these days, usually with the Black Widow I know.' A pause, and he adds, quietly, fondness colouring the edges, 'We're a good team.'

Then he studies her. 'What about you?'

She doesn't miss the way he follows her lead, almost like he's done it before, and often. Sits the same way, before drawing his leg up in a pose that seems almost intentionally designed to keep him small, nonthreatening. It's not exactly unwelcome. Even if he's still augmented like the other one, she's within hand's reach of a gun and is at least 80% sure she could shoot him before he was on her. She knows her options and her exits. He's on foreign ground.

Most people wouldn't recognize or notice the expressions that cross her face as he gives her a clear, concise summary of events she doesn't recognize in the slightest. Sure, she can follow the logical thread. A world where Steve Rogers still became the super-soldier face of a country at war, where he fell instead of his companion. Where James Barnes became Captain America, where he piloted the Valkyrie, with the tesseract onboard, she presumes, into the icy waters. Where things happened exactly the same, but different, because Steve Rogers would never have spoken of her with that tone in his voice. Not even before that op on the freighter, when they'd actually been fairly close to friendly.

Logically it makes sense, maybe, but it's still practically meaningless in complete terms. Who is she, there? Is she the same Natasha she thinks she is now? How has it changed her? Has it changed her at all, with the good man gone bad, or with the bad man never bad at all? What does this mean for now? She tries to focus on that. Her eyes sharpen again at his question, coming back from that place she always goes to calculate the odds and find her opponent's number.

"Steve Rogers is still Captain America," she says simply, a slight shrug of one shoulder as she draws her feet up slightly, toes dangling just off the ground. She always seems smaller when she sits. "I worked with him under Director Fury." Her tone isn't harsh, but it's not exactly as empty as it usually is, either. He's bound to notice her distraction, as she thinks three steps ahead of her words. "We did alright together." She doesn't mention his name anywhere in there, only looks nearly through the crate he's sitting on. Some things she doesn't want to share, just yet. Not with either of the men who aren't at all what she's expected them to be.

"How did you know I was here?" Of course, there's only one logical answer to that too, but she has to ask.

Bucky's not completely comfortable giving over so much control of the situation to a Natasha he now knows to be an unknown variable, but there's few other options. And besides, if they needed to work together... teams had to trust each other. Trust, he thought he'd earned long ago and was finding that it was topsy-turvy. She'd expected James Barnes to attack her. He might've, once upon a time, used his stature and his rage to intimidate her, but actually hurt her? That's puzzling, and the back of his mind works on it as he looks up at her.

His own expression is a soldier's stoic mask as he listens, but he's more interested in her facial expressions and the tics in her body language instead of the content of her words. Natasha says more by not saying anything at all, and that little piece of familiarity slots into the image he's building of her. Word after word slams into him like sledgehammers, a Steve who didn't fall, who lived the life he's had. It means he's the one who fell, and that doesn't bother him in the slightest. He was never supposed to make it out, and if Steve lived through to the modern day: he's fine. He's strong. He's always been stronger than Bucky.

(But she still knows a James Barnes, and how?)

'The other one told me,' he answers, simply. 'The not-Steve. He let it slip.'

She may not know his face as well as he seems to know hers, but she knows what a man thinking hard looks like, and she sees when he comes to his own conclusion. She's more or less come to the same one herself, going through what she knows of the war through the dossiers, these two men and the relevant few years' time. There's only so many places things could have diverged and still run parallel to each other. Had to be the train. It isn't right, not completely, but she isn't going to be the one to tell him about the rest. What happened after the fall. Not only unnecessary cruelty, but also potentially useful for later.

'The other one' is how she refers to him in her head, the man who looks like Steve but couldn't be further from him. "Be careful with him," she says after a moment's pause. "He isn't the man you remember." That much is clear, and still disappointing. She'd expected better from Steve Rogers. She isn't sure what she expects of Bucky, but the warning still stands.

A wry smile lights his face. Losing his best friend once, and then coming here and seeing him, losing him all over again. She's trying to be kind, and make him divorce the two in his mind; protect his memory.

'I don't think it's that simple,' he replies, tilting his head to rest it on his knee as he looks up at her. There's unhappy lines creasing the brow, but he doesn't feel a need to hide that it does hurt. It never won't, seeing a version of Steve in that much pain and confusion. 'You're right, though. It's too early for me to tell how much of him is still in there.'

Because it is, he's sure of it. The sun rises in the east, water is wet, and Steve Rogers is not a man who will move when the wind is against him.

If any one expression makes him look like a stranger, it's that smile. Any smile, honestly, but especially that one. Amused and sad, tired, resigned, she thinks, but it's an odd feeling, trying to learn completely new patterns and behaviors from a face that should be all but familiar.

She still looks at him like she's trying to memorize him, but it doesn't seem like it bothers him, really. Instead, he smiles and says those worrying words. Her only answer is a firm, wordless shake of her head. "Not enough." The conviction in her words is surprising, even to her. She hadn't realized how much she'd counted on Steve's immutable nature. Goes to show how much had changed, the last few months.

Bucky lets her conduct her observations, keeping his worry inward. She's assessing him like a threat response, not an initial one and then gone as she gets his number, but one completely unknown and expected to behave unpredictably, and hostile. He decides, immediately, he doesn't like this other James Barnes very much.

'No, not enough I s'pose.' He looks away. She might not've realised it immediately but she's just given him an exploitable weakness: she cares for her Steve. She'd follow him to Hell. In the hands of someone she expects to hurt her — whichever way he looks at it doesn't end well. She doesn't trust him, when she and Sam have always been why his feet are planted firmly on the ground: the two people who make sense of it so his world doesn't end when he wakes up in the morning. What does he do without either?

'So. Uh. Where to from here?'

She's not exactly expecting him to attack her at this point, no more than she would any other person like him. Capable soldier, enhanced genetics, trained to combat. It's a perfectly reasonable caution. It's just that face that keeps surprising her with its expressiveness, the fact that he seems to have both hands. She can't help being tense, a little still, even if she clearly isn't in active combat mode any longer. Her conversation with the other one, if you could call it that, it's still uncomfortably fresh in her mind. Yes, she cares about her Steve. As much as she cares about any of the partners she'd trust with her life, few in number as they are. This man isn't Steve Rogers, and there's a not inconsiderable part of her that views it as a betrayal.

He looks away, and after a moment, so does she. Eyes roam the walls, restless. She's feeling caged more than ever, today. "We wait," she says after a moment, glancing at him from under lowered eyelashes. "Not much else we can do." It's not exactly a specific answer, but it is an answer. And it's a plural. That's at least an acknowledgement, of some sort.

"Where have they assigned you?" Not with the other one, she hopes.

'The SS Heron,' he answers, promptly, trying to make his heart stop from where it's just jumped. She said we. That doesn't mean anything. Keep it together, Barnes. 'I'm the engineer.'

He's a little surprised it's not something else, but he's always liked fixing things, and technology is one of his favourite things about the future. If the world seems too big, he can always try rewiring the stereo to improve the sound and the mechanical nature of it helped weather the tide.

'What about you, what do you do?'

The Heron. She doesn't know anyone on the Heron, she thinks, but she'll have to check her notes to be sure. The augment is surprising, though, a fact that's expressed through the slight arch of her brows. "Not security?" She'd expect that, of any soldier. This place didn't always place someone according to their strengths, but so far most people she'd met had certain proficiencies or predilections that made their augment make sense.

Hers, for example. "I'm the Windrose's counselor," she answers, and there are faint sounds of a dry, ironic amusement in the words. It's certainly something to laugh about.

Not security, he's about to agree, but bursts out into honest, helpless laughter when he hears her augment. Natasha. A counsellor. Well, it's suitable, in a horribly ironic way, and it's so ridiculous when everything up to this point has wrung him dry, that he thinks, why not laugh.

'Oh, I bet you got a kick outta that.'

That laugh startles her, not just by its occurring but also by just how open it is. She's never heard a laugh like it from the other man who wears his face, and it goes a long way towards cementing the differences she's marking out in her mind. It's hard not to smile, that small trace of humor and acknowledgement curving the corners of her mouth.

"You could say that." She would have laughed, if she hadn't been so pissed at being bagged and collared, and even if that hasn't changed she can at least find the twisted humor in it now. "My skills aren't really in high demand right now, unfortunately." Any of them. This asteroid belt hasn't been conducive to her leaving the ship, and she's a little antsy. Moreso, after that encounter with the other one.

Her head tilts in contemplation, and she watches his face, the lines laughter carves in it. "I guess you knew your Natasha fairly well." She can admit a certain amount of curiosity.

Spinning her wheels. It's a weakness for all of them, Steve included, if this Steve shares that much with the one he and Nat remember. The smile lingers, affection lighting up Bucky's face before he remembers to dial it down to something faintly warm. It's still the same way he's always looked at Steve, and now spares for Sam and Natasha alone.

'She let me,' he admits. Natasha gave nothing away, the only time he'd ever seen her walls cracked — he doesn't enjoy thinking about how easily she can mislead him and chooses not to. He has to tread carefully. He and Nat both know it's easier to turn yourself into someone other people expect and can tolerate. Pour yourself into something comfortable. It doesn't hurt as much to be a little less you, sometimes too. And even so, he desperately wants his friend. But it's not fair, to try and compare the two and see the overlap. He'll just take this Natasha on her own terms.

'You're not her. I can compartmentalise.'

Having too much time to think is never a good thing. She doesn't much care for forced idleness. There are no good places left in her head, and she too often finds herself lost in the bad. Better to be moving. Or, secondarily, to lose herself in being someone else. This whole thing is a dangerous distraction. Dangerous especially because it would be so easy to become an idealized version of herself, to be the kind of person that makes a stranger's face light up like that.

But he's right. She isn't that person. And he isn't the person he looks like. "I'll try to do the same," she says, and again the slight tones and implications say more than the words. She'll try. Meaning this might not be both the first and the last time they'll talk, meaning she does know another man with his face, meaning that it isn't exactly a friendly relationship between them. She doesn't take bullets personally, it was only ever about the mission with the Soldier, but still. Some wounds stay under your skin. "You should remember that about the other one, too. None of us are who we remember." In his case, that might not be a bad thing.

Edited 2015-06-12 15:20 (UTC)

It'd be this simple to ask her to fit his Natasha. He won't. It's not fair to. He has to hold on to that piece because it's one of the last few good things, that lets him be James Barnes at the end of the day with only a little less chagrin than when he left himself and turned into someone else for the mission. Life is easier with direction.

He stands, and wanders over to her, shifting his feet uncomfortably, betraying that he's used to being much closer.

'Whatever he did to hurt you,' he says, softly, biting his lip. 'I'm sorry. I know it's not the same coming from me, but — I'm sorry.'

He makes himself small again, invisible, in a crowd people's eyes would just pass him over. It's a useful little trick for when he's out and doesn't want to be recognised, but here it's an unconscious response to the guilt. Another man's actions. It's not rational or healthy to put them on his shoulders, but nobody said he had to be in the realm of either adjective.

It wouldn't be fair of either of them, not really, but it would be easier. She's been so many people, what's one more? She's still easily half a dozen people on this godforsaken show, playing whatever role she has to to pass. It would be so very easy. He would have something close to the woman he remembered, and she would know how to act around him. How to blend. It's a very tempting way to think.

She doesn't tense as he approaches her, but she does remain very, very still. They're still strangers. There's still other memories with that face in her mind. But his words are nothing like the other version, not even like Steve, really. There's so much guilt, even as he clearly makes himself stop short of where he wants to be. She wonders again just how close "they" were.

"You aren't him," she says, meeting his eyes as she finally stands, stepping just slightly away from her seat. "Don't apologize for someone else's actions. I won't apologize for not being her." That much is fact. This man isn't that one. She doesn't trust him, but it isn't because of his face or a shared name. She just doesn't know him. Not yet. And he doesn't know her. Honesty is a decent start, coming from her.

'No,' he replies, after taking a step back. He's a stranger, and this will be earned all over again. At least it gives him a goal to work towards, and all else considered this is not the worst way it could've gone. 'What do you want me to call you?'

She doesn't move, doesn't answer at first, instead just looks up at him and considers. "Would it make it easier for you, calling me something else?" She's gone by more than a dozen names. She'll answer to anything. And if calling her something other than Natasha reminds him that she isn't the woman he knows, maybe it's for the best.

Typical. Not out of the question, but very, very typical. Part of him wants to push, jab at her to the point where she states what she wants, instead of thinking of how best to fit this new unwanted piece of the puzzle. But it's how they both work, and he gives the matter serious thought.

'You're a lot of things and a lot of people,' he says, eventually. 'All can be true and all are Natasha. I don't see why that name doesn't work just fine. Now — who do you want me to be? I'll be anyone but James. That name — is hers.'

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