broadcast 01

[tothefly]

Who: Natasha Romanoff and various guests
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: Post-broadcast, abandoned waystation? Action prompt in comments
When: During bugfest 20XX

[On screen, there's a very calm redhead looking thoughtfully at the camera, one brow slightly cocked.]

It's occurred to me that the fleet has about ten times as many firearms as it does medical professionals. It's also been pretty apparent that a lot of our cast members don't know the basics of gun safety and use. If anyone wants to learn, I'll be at the following coordinates.

[The message ends with a bit of text, the location of one of the abandoned waystations in near orbit.]

Comments

[redactions]

[ Some things you don't forget. He hasn't forgotten that Natasha always says or does something with some point in mind, works ten angles at once. No, it's that he's not used to not knowing what they are, even if he's aware because his Nat chooses to tell him. Otherwise he'd have... suspected, and that'd be the end of it, and followed around by this burst of uneasiness. ]

What, no ladies first?

[ It's unfair to look for overlap between Nat and Natasha, and he's trying to take her on her own terms. Even so, he can't help but be curious. His Nat would protest at being called a lady, but she never protested being treated like one. ]

[tothefly]

Is that what they're calling me, these days?

[She doesn't mind being called a lady, if that's what one wants to call it. She knows better. They don't necessarily need to. But she still can't quite help a sort of irony at the word, faint dry amusement. Her eyebrows arch, a slight tilt of her head indicating the lane again.]

Age before beauty.

[A joke. Of sorts.]

[redactions]

They call her a lot of a things. I just like to be clear.

[ He smiles at her joke; his expression far from the open warmth he first showed upon being around a Natasha, but pleased nonetheless. ]

That's real funny, targeting the elderly. I'm gonna remember that.

[ It veers into neutral, the blank mask of a soldier, as he eyes his target, aims, and squeezes the trigger for three shots. They're not perfect, as the Soldier's would be, but still possess superhuman accuracy. His whole body is still, not frozen in time, but assured. He's always been good with guns, and to shift into a man who has purpose with one — that soothes away the excess of emotion. ]

There, can you top that?

[tothefly]

So encroaching dementia isn't a concern. I'll remember that. [Almost teasing, as much as it is measuring, learning. It's when he smiles that it's easiest to differentiate them. Definitely not a carefree smile, true, but it's got life to it that the Soldier would never have managed. That the man he was afterwards wouldn't be able to give. He was haunted by too many ghosts. This one might be haunted, but the ghosts seemed quieter.]

[But then that smile fades, and she's eerily reminded of the Soldier again, or at least the soldier, with that blank, empty look; the stillness as he sights his target and fires, and she feels the phantom pain of a bullet through her midsection with each blast. When he turns to face her, there's still a shadow in her eyes, one she hides by turning towards her target, one hand at the base of her spine in a resting stance.]

Only one way to find out.

[Three shots, three perfect hits. Only a little better than his, she thinks, but they'd have to get closer to be sure.]

What do you think?

[redactions]

Yeah, yeah, next thing you know it'll be the hip joke. Or the fossil one, that's my favourite.

[ He lowers the weapon, finger notably off the trigger, eyes skimming over her. ]

Good shots; [ he says, admiringly, and then, lowering his voice, ] the Red Room didn't skimp out on you, huh.

[ She's measuring him as much as he's trying to get the measure of her, but it's tricky. Natasha can be so many people, and all at once, so step by step of giving her the picture seems to be his best option, and best to do so when they're not looking directly at each other. ]

[tothefly]

I would never be so cliché.

[The shots feel good. This blaster doesn't have the satisfying feeling of a Glock, not the same weight or balance, but she's always felt better with a weapon in hand. Even with those eyes on her, eyes she can feel measuring her as much as hers have been measuring him. She's used to being watched, performing under pressure.

But his final words are ones she didn't expect. Didn't think any version of her would have told someone like him about it. It implies an intimacy she knew was there, but--she didn't expect him to say it, to her. Her finger is still on the trigger, gun pointing at the wall, and she can feel it tense before she forces it smooth along the side of the guard and lowers the weapon.

She doesn't look at him.]

The Red Room's just a bedtime story, meant to scare the bad little children.

[Or it may as well be, with what she's done to it.]

[redactions]

[ Bucky cants his head, lightly, just listening, for a second. The sound of the oxygen in the ship. Her heartbeat. The skid of a shoe on a dance floor on a missed step. That last is a ghost, but ghosts can be real too, just as stories aren't always lies. ]

So it is.

[ Too much, maybe. He backs off, checks his pistol. ]

Best two outta three?

[tothefly]

[In her experience, the ghosts are often more real than the rest. More real than anyone she's been, especially during those nights when she can't sleep and all she sees is the blood on her hands. Her hand tightens its grip, and she exorcises all that she can, not a cloud crossing her face for all that there's a brief storm inside. A stranger does not know her. A stranger will not know her.

When she looks at him, finally, her eyes are serene, light and untroubled.]

I could be convinced.

[redactions]

[ His own expression has shuttered closed, though his feet, as always, betray him. He's shifting his weight, minutely, trying to judge music he doesn't recognise and steps he hasn't learnt. It's not the other her he misses, it's the sensation of having a friend — two, he made two whole friends where he'd had only one before, but that one had been more than enough. ]

I'm told I can be pretty convincing. [ he shrugs, one-shouldered ] But it was Barton, and half the time I never know whether he's actually screwing with me or not.

[tothefly]

[It's hard. He's trying, she can see that, that little nervous tic of a weight shift betraying him. He's trying, but he already knows all these things and it's a little terrifying, having someone know these things without knowing her. It makes her edgy.

The mention of Barton does the opposite, and even if she's still guarded, walled off, there's the tiniest twitch of a muscle in her cheek. It could have been a smile.]

Usually safer to assume he is.

But I'll bite anyway. Best two out of three.

[redactions]

All right. I'll have you eating my dust, Romanoff.

[ This is simple, shooting something. He can close in and let the cold bastard take over, that man who was born in the War and shaped by Zola's table. Who's quiet and patient and very, very good at killing things. ]

Now top that.

[ It's three Robin Hood shots, straight through his earlier targets. Not an inch off. ]

[tothefly]

[It's easier seeing that cold façade the second time around, maybe because she has one of her own. The banter is...still odd, but he's given her a role, more or less, and it's almost a comfort in this situation to slip into it. Easier to think about his shooting when she can pretend she hasn't been on the other end of his talents.

There's an appraising look on her face as she shrugs slightly, turning to face her own target again.]

Not bad, Captain, but...

[She fires her own three shots, and all three form an equilateral triangle, perfectly framing her last cluster of three.]

[redactions]

Not bad? Jeez.

[ He makes such a face, but it's exaggerated, and it fades into admiration soon enough. She's an excellent shot, and that in itself is a kind of attraction he tries not to think about. He's had more than enough of war, of bullet holes, and sharp things. ]

One more go for me, I guess. Gotta make it good.

[ It takes longer to line up the shot this time, he slows his breaths. A single shot, to the centre of the target, and for the other two, a perfect Mickey Mouse shape. ]

[tothefly]

[It's hard to tell if the expression on his face is genuine or not, but then she supposes it only needs to be as genuine as her own. It seems a relief for both of them to be able to relax into this. Might say something about the both of them, too, if she were at all inclined to think about it, the pair of them finding some comfort in this.]

Impress me.

[And he does, his form perfect, his shots made with precision and a grace she rarely sees. The look on her own face when he finishes is maybe a little more genuine than when they'd begun this, a keen sort of interest. Professional interest, maybe, but also personal satisfaction, one more piece of the puzzle falling into place. The marksmanship skills weren't just from the training.]

Out of curiosity, how are we going to decide who wins?

[redactions]

[ Aren't I always impressive? He stops it on the tip of his tongue and lets it roll away. Breathes out, barely missing a step. Getting used to this. Slow, but certain. ]

Oh I — wasn't thinking about that.

[ A sheepish look, and he glances between his lane and hers. ]

Yours are closer to the target, accuracy-wise.

[tothefly]

[Sheepish is a new look, and she watches it with some fascination. It's a tricky balance, remembering the other one while learning him. Can't forget what the Soldier could do, but she's developing a healthy curiosity about what this one can.]

But yours are more precise. The technically skilled shots. Depends on how you want to call this.

I've still got three shots left. I could miss.

[Was that a joke? Might have been.]

[redactions]

[ And that's bizarre, like she's categorising the particular expression or the cause of it. Perhaps she's got no reason to talk to her James Barnes very much, but anyway, he tries to shift through the uneasiness he feels. They're not the same man — or at least, they don't sound like it. He shouldn't be curious. ]

You could. You won't. Don't go easy on me.

[ It's a warning as much as it is a joke. He can handle whatever she has, because the same hues exist in him. ]

[tothefly]

[He shouldn't be curious, and neither should she. But she's always felt all knowledge was worth having. Who else would truly appreciate this chance, and the challenge that goes along with it? None of the people who might were here, and most of them were dead.]

Would I do that?

[A valid question. She might. But probably not. She doesn't know the other Nat, but this Natasha has a fondness for winning. And she usually takes great pains to do so. There's almost a smile on her face as she steps up to the line, a sidelong glance at him as she switches the pistol from her right hand to her left, bringing it to bear on her target--

--and then abruptly swings it to the left, enough to put her three shots into his target, fairly close to his own little clustered trio at the center. Lowering the gun, she takes a step backwards, cocking an eyebrow at him and looking for his response.]

[redactions]

[ He laughs, softly, not even tensing as she switches gears so unexpectedly, but that's a studied, practiced nonchalance, instead of a dangerously quick level of comfort. He too, is learning — the tune's faint and his shoes might be tight but he was always a good dancer. ]

I think you just answered the question. [ a brief glance, at the targets, then he steps over and hands her the gun ] You win, Agent Romanoff. Do you want a prize?

[tothefly]

[No, it's not comfort. A cautious neutrality, maybe; a willingness to see, and not look away. She's always been a fast learner. In this case, better to learn slow.]

[She takes the gun, offered butt first without hesitation, not only giving her both weapons but putting him within arm's reach. It's enough to make her look up at him, curious enough to show, the triumph of victory still lurking at the corners of her mouth.]

That depends. What would you give me, Captain?

[redactions]

A secret.

[ See. James Barnes has very few left that he can keep to himself: his life and Steve's have been splayed across the Smithsonian, newspapers, fictionalised narratives; they're everywhere. It's far from the truth. Even the SHIELD files that have to stay classified to protect Steve's image — they don't tell the whole story. So he offers something she won't resist: knowledge. ]

[tothefly]

[Seems there are some things she does have in common with that other woman, if his offer is any indication. Wary as she is, she's never been able to resist a secret. There's only a second's pause as she looks at him, considering. She's read the files. They aren't enough.]

I could be interested.

[redactions]

Nuh uh, darlin', [ he drawls it out, all Brooklyn, ] this is all in. Yes, or no?

[tothefly]

[She arches a single eyebrow, both at the accent and the endearment, but there's really only one answer to give, even if it isn't in the words he's given her. Simply:]

Tell me.

[redactions]

[ You'd think he'd take a while to consider which of his remaining cards to play, but it takes him all of three microseconds. He knows which truth to give her, and leans in; like children discussing some precious secret about someone watching them from across the playground. ]

I was drafted.

[ His tone is neither heavy nor light, not distant or overemotional. Only honest. ]