[ in a life before this one dance became second nature. on pointed toes she can convince anyone she's something else—a swan, a princess, an ally. holding a posture with the beat and playing out a scene is just as important as how to hold a gun, how to break bone, how to survive. the roles change, she’s found, but the moves remain the same. he was there, one version of him, when she mastered the form.
she swings blunt, unyielding hits at him with little of her usual grace. between his arm and the chemicals pumping in his veins she should’t be a match, but the pretense of a spar doesn’t dissuade her. it’s a dialogue after all; metal and bone collide in place of the words they’re careful not to say. which are you? which will you be tomorrow?
nostalgia is a dangerous thing. it became rooted in this life somewhere between a best friend and auntie nat. the problem with wanting is the shot that goes through isn’t quite so clean, even if no on else can see the scar. she should learned her lesson a long time ago when she was natalia and he was james. before a bullet ripped through her in odessa. before the bridge in dc. before metal fingers bruised her throat.
history doomed to repeat. ]
Bu—cky! [ the name feels wrong in her mouth, his arm laid over her neck and pressing firmer with each passing moment.
he’s off of her almost as quickly as it started. her trained composure wanes, body hunched over as her lungs struggle for air. natasha can hear the tone in his voice, remembers that fear of the disconnection between your mind and body all too well. what do any of them have, if not themselves? ]
James—[ she shakes her head and stops herself. that’s not who he is anymore. ] Bucky. You're alright.
wonderful! i'm glad! and this is amazing, ty for indulging me
she swings blunt, unyielding hits at him with little of her usual grace. between his arm and the chemicals pumping in his veins she should’t be a match, but the pretense of a spar doesn’t dissuade her. it’s a dialogue after all; metal and bone collide in place of the words they’re careful not to say. which are you? which will you be tomorrow?
nostalgia is a dangerous thing. it became rooted in this life somewhere between a best friend and auntie nat. the problem with wanting is the shot that goes through isn’t quite so clean, even if no on else can see the scar. she should learned her lesson a long time ago when she was natalia and he was james. before a bullet ripped through her in odessa. before the bridge in dc. before metal fingers bruised her throat.
history doomed to repeat. ]
Bu—cky! [ the name feels wrong in her mouth, his arm laid over her neck and pressing firmer with each passing moment.
he’s off of her almost as quickly as it started. her trained composure wanes, body hunched over as her lungs struggle for air. natasha can hear the tone in his voice, remembers that fear of the disconnection between your mind and body all too well. what do any of them have, if not themselves? ]
James—[ she shakes her head and stops herself. that’s not who he is anymore. ] Bucky. You're alright.