Ashe Vernon, from Boatman

there are very few who could sneak up on her successfully. paranoia — if that is really what has settled in the back of her mind, instead of training, instead of instinct — makes her hyper-aware. ( hypervigilant, some might say. not even shield therapists truly knew what to make of her. or were they hydra therapists? )

her world has fallen at her feet before this. that doesn’t make it any easier to cope with, but natasha has never been one to show vulnerability when she could instead put on a brave face and forge ahead. all of her official covers might be blown —— but this cover is older than the rest. the red room did not break her. she will be made of marble, now, too. 

           someone needs to keep from falling apart in the face of all this mess.                      it might as well be her. again. 

she startles when he appears, but just barely; the minuscule curl of fingers around the edges of her phone, the momentary dig of her shoulderblades toward her spine. ( he’s a ghost, she’d told steve. well. he certainly appears like one. )

“just to talk,” she replies; her mother tongue feels strange in her mouth. natasha shifts, slides her phone into the pocket of her coat. the shadow of his cap covers his eyes, and his short-hewn hair sparks a slow smile. is she remembering wrong, when she thinks it’s familiar? ( does she care? ) she switches to english, then: “how’s your arm?”

on being a ghost: shed your skin and puncture your flesh. drain your veins and abrade your ridges. he’s done each and every one of the rituals, praising the act of emptiness with the expanse of his vulture chest. he’s a claustrophobic coffin waiting for a resident, enclosing something else that fills the void with fading warmth. ribcage a spidery shelter for the lub dup of a lethargic heart, something that beats at all. cardiography that performs anything at all – he is the crooked flask that yearns for that.

                     ( this is the season of reaping after everything that hydra has sowed. )

he’s ripening, ripened fruition that inches closer towards rotting. and the fact that someone has managed to come this close to him only reminds him of that fact. the molten demons that seep into the pores, like coagulation formed from this holy waxwork.

“talk,” he echoes for an emphasis. his voice is gruff, curling around the syllable with quite a weight. he closes the gap between them; grabs her arm to bring her somewhere more secluded. a classic choice: the alley next to the convenience store. “why do you care?” he asks, even though he more or less knows the answer – if what he’s seen were his memories instead of fabrications. “my arm is fine. you know what happened to it.”

gravel grits under her heels, grinds against the sidewalk. she has plenty of experience walking the streets of strange cities after dark. the black widow could run a stakeout mission for almost a week straight before concerning herself with rest. 

                      natasha romanoff —— not so much. 

something worth considering: this is hardly a routine stakeout. vastly different than tracking a target for intelligence, or before eliminating them. colour her invested; points of convergence pique her interest, and natasha does not like to leave a personal mission left unfinished. she’d failed to find him once, after odessa. she is determined, now, not to fail a second time.

( but he’s a hard man to find. chasing a ghost would be easier; chasing her own has been. ) 

natasha stops outside a late-night convenience store, pulls out her cell phone. note-taking, twenty-first century style. as far as she can tell, she’s tracked him here, down to the city block — but she has thrown herself off her own path before. 

every footfall is a weight of caution against his globed shoulders, every sound becoming transitory with trickling paranoia within his framed thoughts. he thinks in carnage. he feels in caskets. the domino effects of everything end in the final push that prods against the barrier of his mind, and he’s weary. he’s weary trying to keep standing up instead of succumbing and falling.

           this time, it comes in the form of an arch, as aged as fine wine.                                            ( the last time he saw her, he noted nothing but to maim, to kill. )

this time, she’s more than just a potential casualty. this time, he’s more than just a corroded toy soldier.

                     this time, she’s become a poltergeist between his walls, haunting.

he suffocates from the yank of her anchor, pulling him downwards. running is easy – running is what he’s done for months; but running is easy when the people do not know him too well. in this case, that theory is rendered void.

eventually, he’s too tired to barge out of more exit doors. he knows he’s capable of it, but he’s too tired. tracking her in return is easy – he was trained to find, not to run; the predator instead of prey. he finds her in front of a convenience store. cap covers his cleanly shaven face and cut hair, jaw set. “what do you want from me?” he asks in russian, almost too quiet to hear.

what she means, of course, is that bucky barnes remains not only ALIVE, but apparently in fair health. that in itself is enough to toast to and she resists the urge to lift her coffee in cheer. the thought itself, wrapped in equal parts darkness and humor, reminds her to remain VIGILANT. even if she trust barnes, which she does, there’s no reason to trust the sort of people that would no doubt care to find him. 

“well enough, i stay busy,” she replies lightly, another sip of her coffee following. caffeine’s one of the few things that works to settle her nerves. another cup is necessary. she waves the waiter over, ordering another and gestures towards bucky. 

“you look far more RESTED than the last time i saw you, mr. barnes,” anja leans forward now, voice softening, “that’s good. a healthy night’s rest can do wonders, as i’m sure you know, though no doubt it can prove ELUSIVE.”

slender fingers reach into her purse, a small file produced. she slides it across the table, head inclining towards it. “i suspect you’ll care to read over it. rumors are you’re currently in FRANCE. i’d rather suggest holding off on any vacation you might have been planning there for a while yet.” fingers drums against the table, absent yet also ANXIOUS. “i’ll make certain to SOLIDIFY that rumor.”

the memories have been kind – or better put, sparing him some mercy. at least these nights, he has been in the company of lulling histories, where the soft hands of a mother and the callouses of a father drench his peripheral thoughts. at least these nights, he has been in the absence of cruel events, where the rattle of bullets and the swing of knives leave more sillage than necessary. sillage being the empty of a beating heart. sillage being the void of a wiped mind.

as a celebratory act, he lets himself order a round of caffeine – something that he doesn’t indulge much a lot of these days, when the nights are elongated with restless thoughts. anja’s words confirm the immediate effects of the nullified interruptions to the late hours, and he nods in agreement. “it’s elusive, indeed… but i have been resting much better than last time – keen eyes, as usual.” he gives her a small smile in approval.

heart skips a beat in the armoring paranoia when she reaches into her purse, thinking a threat is nigh. he nearly looks around, but she beats him to it – slid from across him is a file, and he skims through it with ease. in french: a language he’s not used to, but a language he’s equipped with regardless. “thank you,” he says, relief washing over. “you have been very kind to me.”

[ text; james ] supportive (adj.): providing encouragement or emotional help  [ text; james ] you don’t think me saving you hole-digging time is supportive? [ text; james ] :) :) :)

[ text to – bucky ] i hate you. [ text to – bucky ] supportive my ass. you’re not going to let me live with it for at least another century.