"Oh yeah," he breathed over her lips. "I'll be back." He knew it wasn't a question just as well as she did; however, the other part...
Somehow, from the depth of confusion and exhaustion, a slight hint of a challenge tickled him with her words. And he gave in to it, it was more familiar, after all... and possibly safer, on the off chance that despite her day, somebody might decide to include her in this at the last moment. He kissed her again, quiet but fast and deep, and then his eyes crinkled slightly.
"Know your terrain. Move like a shadow."
And he did disengage, though it took him an effort to make it as light as he could, and slid silently to the wall by the window to get a view of the outside without being noticed. The window was far less trouble to open quietly from this side, and with a nod good-night (or maybe, this is how it's done) he slipped out, and up. Small controlled bursts of motion, quieter than the wind making things creak, keeping his mechanical arm moving to its quietest minimal range and never moving long enough or abruptly enough to catch attention. It was only dangerous while he could be connected with where he was coming out from; being out and about in the night in a place where he was supposed to give roster duty in the protection of wasn't going to raise any flags. But until he was safely away... well. He was a ghost.
A ghost. Nobody existing.
The words were taking a whole different meaning inside his mind by the time he reached his own room, and he started the routine of securing the weapons that had been about his clothing and arranging them so that they would be accessible to him but not anybody coming into the room and a stranger to it. Systematic; mechanic.
He had no idea how he ended up sitting in bed, the blanket wrapped tightly around him and his knees curled up under his chin, shivering.
It hurt, trying to remember past waking up without his arm and trying to answer questions he didn't have the answers to. There were facts hanging over the empty space, but they didn't fit with it, corners sticking out and grating in the chill void. It literally hurt, but he wasn't going to stand up and retch, he didn't have energy left for that.
The facts didn't quiet fit. They made a story, but it wasn't his story, which would make sense if he had another story. But he didn't. Little shreds, barely more than ratty threads, like glimpses of where some of his motions came from, flashes of images too quick to catch. The name, the name he had given when she had asked. The kisses which were so hauntingly familiar as action and he couldn't recall a single thing about any kisses before. The certainty and the want and the defiance against knowing what he should do in this situation.
This wasn't the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier executed orders. Precisely and infallibly. And yet this difference... it was him. It fit in the emptiness better than the life before losing his arm that he knew... that he knew about.
When the waves of nausea receded, he was still clinging to that. Sticking to what he wanted. Making it work, despite the impossible odds. Making what work? Well, it was too soon to say. But... this. That. Which had happened in her room. Her. Natalia. Her and him and the way his knees were trying to turn to cheese when her eyes lit up because of him, or the way his whole body... heh. That effect was done with, after the attempt to see through the darkness, but he had been on fire, a burst of energy he was probably going to pay for, tomorrow.
There was so much about this which he would be paying for. Him, not them. Whatever happened, she would be protected from the responsibility of this. He was her trainer. She had to trust him, do as he said. That was going to be his story if... or when it all went south.
His mind was picking apart the possibilities of their course of action - their - when exhaustion finally overtook him with its own different kind of demon-ridden darkness.
no subject
Somehow, from the depth of confusion and exhaustion, a slight hint of a challenge tickled him with her words. And he gave in to it, it was more familiar, after all... and possibly safer, on the off chance that despite her day, somebody might decide to include her in this at the last moment. He kissed her again, quiet but fast and deep, and then his eyes crinkled slightly.
"Know your terrain. Move like a shadow."
And he did disengage, though it took him an effort to make it as light as he could, and slid silently to the wall by the window to get a view of the outside without being noticed. The window was far less trouble to open quietly from this side, and with a nod good-night (or maybe, this is how it's done) he slipped out, and up. Small controlled bursts of motion, quieter than the wind making things creak, keeping his mechanical arm moving to its quietest minimal range and never moving long enough or abruptly enough to catch attention. It was only dangerous while he could be connected with where he was coming out from; being out and about in the night in a place where he was supposed to give roster duty in the protection of wasn't going to raise any flags. But until he was safely away... well. He was a ghost.
A ghost. Nobody existing.
The words were taking a whole different meaning inside his mind by the time he reached his own room, and he started the routine of securing the weapons that had been about his clothing and arranging them so that they would be accessible to him but not anybody coming into the room and a stranger to it. Systematic; mechanic.
He had no idea how he ended up sitting in bed, the blanket wrapped tightly around him and his knees curled up under his chin, shivering.
It hurt, trying to remember past waking up without his arm and trying to answer questions he didn't have the answers to. There were facts hanging over the empty space, but they didn't fit with it, corners sticking out and grating in the chill void. It literally hurt, but he wasn't going to stand up and retch, he didn't have energy left for that.
The facts didn't quiet fit. They made a story, but it wasn't his story, which would make sense if he had another story. But he didn't. Little shreds, barely more than ratty threads, like glimpses of where some of his motions came from, flashes of images too quick to catch. The name, the name he had given when she had asked. The kisses which were so hauntingly familiar as action and he couldn't recall a single thing about any kisses before. The certainty and the want and the defiance against knowing what he should do in this situation.
This wasn't the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier executed orders. Precisely and infallibly. And yet this difference... it was him. It fit in the emptiness better than the life before losing his arm that he knew... that he knew about.
When the waves of nausea receded, he was still clinging to that. Sticking to what he wanted. Making it work, despite the impossible odds. Making what work? Well, it was too soon to say. But... this. That. Which had happened in her room. Her. Natalia. Her and him and the way his knees were trying to turn to cheese when her eyes lit up because of him, or the way his whole body... heh. That effect was done with, after the attempt to see through the darkness, but he had been on fire, a burst of energy he was probably going to pay for, tomorrow.
There was so much about this which he would be paying for. Him, not them. Whatever happened, she would be protected from the responsibility of this. He was her trainer. She had to trust him, do as he said. That was going to be his story if... or when it all went south.
His mind was picking apart the possibilities of their course of action - their - when exhaustion finally overtook him with its own different kind of demon-ridden darkness.