Heya! So, I started another story. Kinda out of nowhere, I know. I'm trying to write a million stories right now, but this one really kicked off!

Anyway, rating and reason for the rating: T, but for mature teen etc. This is mostly for

1) referenced/implied rape. Very minimal. Not described. But if you don't want to read that, this wouldn't be a good story for you.

2) some gore, i.e references to blood. Natasha and Bucky are assassins, after all. Part of the job.

3) language! Again, fairly minimal. Mostly for humor (or attempted humor anyway).

Is there anything else you guys need to know? Idk, ask me questions through the review section or whatever if you want to know something.

Oh, and this was inspired by Little Spider because that story is where I saw the idea of Bucky and Natasha being Peter's parents. Also some other general ideas of the story are homaged here. Basically this story was created with the same spirit. Or this is my idea of how things would go if Bucky and Natasha were Peter's parents. Anyway, Little Spider's an adorable story written by an awesome author, so definitely go check it out! (And sorry Peter isn't in this chapter. I think he'll show up in the next one.)

Enjoy the story!

"How would you describe love?" the Red Room's director asked, breaking the long silence and leaning back.

Natalia Alianovna Romanova shifted in her stiff stance before the desk, hiding confusion behind an immaculate, blank mask. This was not what she'd expected to be called for. "An emotion people feel for others that clouds their judgment and makes them easy to manipulate. Love is weakness, Vasilisa Alexeyevna." Natalia addressed her properly and formally, as was appropriate. Other Russians could, once familiar enough, call her Vasilisa or Vassa; foreigners, in their ignorance, would use Madame Ivashina or even Madame B, in a strange mutilation of her name, Василиса; but Natalia would always say Vasilisa Alexeyevna. Regardless of how high she rose in rank and skill, Natalia would always be lower.

Vasilisa regarded her carefully. Her eyes, grey as the cold concrete of the facility floors, pierced Natalia's own, and she leaned forward just slightly, back still straight and poised. "And what of what others say?" she challenged.

"Some say it's strength. Others say it is 'what makes life worthwhile.' But even fools recognize the danger of it." Natalia allowed some of her disdain to creep into her tone.

Vasilisa flicked a hand as if swatting away a fly. "Yes, yes, but many believe the benefits outweigh the hardships, do they not?"

Natalia hesitated and begrudgingly conceded. "They do."

"So," she said, leaning back once again. "How do I know you will never fall in love?"

Natalia fought the urge to become defensive and stated her reasoning with calm confidence. "People in love lose control of their emotions. I will never allow that to happen to me."

Vasilisa rapped her fingers on the wood of her desk. "They say love unavoidable. It comes upon you suddenly and cannot be easily shaken."

"They also have no emotional intelligence or training. I am your best student."

"Indeed," Vasilisa said slowly, and Natalia was pleased by the director's eyes refocused on the person in front of her, and Natalia knew a decision had been made. She straightened minutely.

"Instead of graduating with the rest of your class," Vasilisa continued, "you will continue and be trained as the next Black Widow. A representative of a highly accomplished and secret organization will be here soon to discuss a possibility in your new training regime. He's been watching you this week. I know you have not disappointed me."

Natalia could hear the warning in her tone. "I will not fail."

Vasilisa nodded and turned to the papers on her desk. Natalia stepped aside and waited dutifully, but her mind spun with triumph and anticipation. To become a Black Widow was monumental. Even to be one of the few considered for this position was an honor. Most failed in the training, and the last Black Widow had been active 80 years ago, before the turn of the century. She had been instrumental in prosecuting the revolutionaries of the time, and some in the intelligence community said that if she hadn't died, the Revolution of 1905 never would have happened. This was what Natalia was determined to live up to.

There was a knock on the door, and Natalia stood ever so slightly taller. Vasilisa simply swept her papers to the side of the desk and stood, motioning the guard at the door to open it.

The man who entered was broad in the shoulders and stern in expression, a man who'd fought violence with violence. His clothes were military style, though his rank was not indicated. Despite that all, however, Natalia didn't feel very intimidated by him. Perhaps it was her training; perhaps it was his height, noticeably shorter than her.

"Vasilisa, it's a pleasure to meet at last," the man said, removing his gloves to offer a hand respectfully.

She took it, and they shook hands. "The pleasure's all mine, commander," she said, returning his greeting.

They both sat. "Do you happen to be related to Vasily Danilovich Sokolovsky, Marshall of the Soviet Union?" Vasilisa said, starting the conversation off pleasantly.

"As far as I know, no, I am not," the commander said, "but my family is proud to share his family name." Natalia could tell he liked that Vasilisa had noticed the connection by the pleased look in his eyes.

"As they should be," Vasilisa said. She switched subjects deftly, fingers once again drumming the desk quietly and slowly. She exuded competence and control. "How has your stay with us been so far?"

"My congratulations," he said, face once again stern. "You run an accomplished academy. Though your Black Widow certainly stands out." He motioned his hand towards Natalia without looking. She didn't mind, especially with his flattering use of her potential title, and simply continued to follow the conversation and their body language closely.

"Do you agree then?" Vasilisa's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

He folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. "I will do it," the commander said finally. "As long as your student will not attempt to seduce him."

"I am confident that Natasha will be perfectly professional. I interviewed her myself," Vasilisa said, motioning her student over.

"I only seduce my enemies, commander," Natalia said strongly, having stepped forward.

Vasilisa turned the question back on the commander. "Yours won't coerce mine?"

"The Asset is under my control," the commander said, stiff but self-satisfied.

Natalia stood in the training room, waiting for the Asset. It had been a long day of training, but she was surprisingly excited. This new instructor, the American as her fellow students had taken to calling him, would be leading her through the last, most intensive training she needed to graduate as the Black Widow, and Natasha couldn't be more ready to succeed. But despite her excitement—and nervousness—, she showcased the value of her training and projected a calm and above all emotionless air.

Just as she had begun to wonder if the American would not come, the door across from her swung open, and he walked in. His eyes scanned the room and her, checking for threats, exits, potential weapons. Natalia was pleased when he scanned her longer than usually required for a weapon, indicating he considered her dangerous enough to be a potentially serious threat. Good.

As he set his bag beside the door, she eyed him discretely. He was tall, strong, like someone who'd rely on their strength to win a fight. His metal arm presented an especially unique threat. In fact, the arm appeared to be advanced, so it likely had special capabilities. She wondered if he had been improved and enhanced through experimentation, as she had been.

He stopped in front of her, and they looked into each other's eyes. His were blank and emotionless, dead, and Natalia knew hers were similar.

After a long silence, he spoke first, as was proper. "We will fight; you will learn. There will not be instructions." His voice was hoarse, as though he rarely used it, and though faint, Natalia could detect his slight American accent. Where exactly in the States he was from, she couldn't place. She was impressed by how natural Russian sounded on his tongue.

"Understood," she said with a firm nod.

He did not react to her response. Instead, he stiffened into a discrete fighting stance, and she followed, preparing.

He attacked, faster than a striking snake, and she dodged, immediately countering.

Training had begun.s

The American never gave his name, and no one seemed to know it. The lack of introduction wouldn't bother Natalia if it didn't make addressing him difficult. Eventually, she decided to address him as 'instructor,' and since he never commented on the title, she operated as though he'd given his specific approval.

It didn't end up being much of a problem. They never spoke, and Natalia preferred to learn through observation, trial, and error anyway. For nearly a month, there was no change in their interactions, only in Natalia's skill.

During the third session of the fourth week, however, she noticed a flicker of emotion in his eyes. Natalia had lost another fight and fallen still for more than several seconds to a particularly nasty hit from his metal arm, and as she pulled herself up to start again, she saw a flicker of hesitancy or regret in his eyes.

It had caused Natalia to pause, which the American had immediately used to gain the advantage in their next fight, but later that night, as she lay on her cot, she wondered if perhaps there was something greater at work here than a perfect mask. Otherwise, why would he react now, when he'd dealt her far worse blows in the past?

As the week continued, Natalia only grew more and more confused as he started to become easier to read more and more often. He became distracted, and she found herself winning their fights far too often to be normal.

During the second week after the incident, for the first time since they had met, he spoke.

"Your shoulders tense," he said as she moved to stand again for another fight.

Natalia realized he was referring to the move she had been trying to use against him and failing each time. Pushing aside her shock at hearing him speak, she asked, "When?"

"Before you begin the kick."

So that was how he anticipated the move.

Not knowing how to respond, she nodded and started the next fight.

This time, she remembered to keep her shoulders relaxed, and the move was successful.

From then on, he infrequently gave her advice. Eventually, he also wrestled his concentration back under control, and his fighting came back up to par. His emotions, however, became less and less hidden to her, and before long, she found it easy to read his eyes and small facial expressions and know what he was thinking.

The more he opened up, the harder it was for her to hide her own emotions from him. Soon, probably too soon, she allowed vague hints of her feelings show every once in a while during their sessions. She knew he noticed each time by the look in his eyes.

"Your sessions have been going well, Natasha," Vasilisa said.

Natalia did not let herself smile at the compliment. "Thank you, Vasilisa Alexeyevna."

Vasilisa dipped her head in recognition and continued. "I have decided, and the commander has agreed, to begin sending you and the Asset on missions together. They need him back on the field, and you need more experience."

Natalia nodded. "I will not disappoint you."

"I know," Vasilisa said simply, and she waved Natalia from the room. Natalia nodded respectfully and left.

The first mission was quick and went without a hitch. They went in, Natalia assassinated their target, and they were back at the compound before nightfall. Because of the nature of missions and the privacy it allowed them, however, they ended up speaking to each other more than they had in their whole time of knowing each other. It had been surprisingly comfortable, all things considered. Natalia supposed that after so much time spent communicating nonverbally, moving to speech wasn't too large of a jump.

They only discussed the mission

They knew the second would be longer from the start. A high-level government official of the old USSR had defected to the English two weeks ago. Because he had information important to maintaining what was left of Russia's power, the American and Natalia had been ordered to hunt him down, retrieve the information, and cut off all loose ends, including the traitor's life. It would take several days at least.

When they arrived in England, they found no leads on the traitor the first day, so they mutually decided to hole up in a run-down hotel on the outskirts of London.

The American led the way to the front desk, and both he and Natalia looked relaxed and comfortable in each other's presence.

"My wife and I need a room for the night," the American said, smiling casually. Natalia was briefly startled. She'd never heard him speak with his accent before. Now that she could hear it clearly, she pinpointed it as from New York, perhaps Brooklyn.

Natalia tucked an arm under the American's metal one, which was covered and gloved, and smiled at the night porter to appear open and friendly, though she kept her expression tired as it allowed her to not speak. Her own American accent was not as good. Perhaps enough to fool the porter, but there was no point in risking it.

The night porter nodded and pulled out a clipboard and pen.

"Name?" he requested, yawning as he did.

"John Wilson," the American said without hesitation.

The night porter scratched the name onto his paper, yawning again. "That's 120 pounds—oh, unless you're wanting anything else? Help with your bags—"

"That's everything," the American interrupted, neither harsh nor kind. He placed the necessary bills on the desk.

The night porter yawned and nodded, taking the money and handing them a key that had been hanging on the wall behind him. "The room number's on the key, and the elevator's to the right," he said, waving vaguely to the right.

"Thanks," the American said with a last smile, and they walked to the elevator.

They dropped their smiles once the desk was out of sight, but they remained relaxed. Only once they reached their door and checked the room for surveillance did they allow the act to drop.

The instructor dropped his travel bag at the end of the one bed in the room. "I'll take the left side," he said softly in Russian, and Natalia nodded, moving to place her bag on the right-hand-side chair.

She sat on the bed with a nearly undetectable sign, listening as a light switch clicked and a door was shut with a quiet thump. Not long after, she heard the water faucet twist on.

She felt unsettled. She'd never had to sleep so close to someone before, and it unnerved her to be forced into something so personal so suddenly. He could reach out and strangle her in her sleep and barely need to move.

Natalia made her hands into fists and used them to lean on the bed, arms stiff, head down, and eyes closed. Did she really distrust him so much? Her gut told her to at least consider trust, and her mind told her that was ridiculous.

It shouldn't matter, she knew. She shouldn't care because trust was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. She and the American were allies alone, and that was that. She was to be wary of everyone, but obey her superiors unquestioningly, regardless of trust. She shouldn't want or need to consider whether she trusted him or not.

She thought about it anyway.

The door clicked open again, and she jumped. Quickly grabbing her toiletry bag, she headed for the bathroom before he could see the way she'd been so obviously conflicted.

It took only minutes to wash her face and teeth and tie up her hair, so after slipping into night clothes, she lingered, trying to clear her mind. When she finally switched off the light and reentered the main room, she was thankfully calmer.

The lights were dark, but she saw him sitting on his side of the bed, checking his weapons quietly. The soft scratching and shifting of gun barrels and knives were familiar and comfortable, and Natalia soon snatched up her own weapons and sat on the bed, back to the pillows. Her checks were quick, though, and before long her gun was on the bedside table and she was slipping under the bedcovers.

The sound of his breathing lulled her to sleep despite her reservations about the situation.

The next couple days passed quickly. They eventually found that the traitor was going to be a professor at a local, London college, and that allowed them to easily find his home address, where they stood now, in the dark, out of the way of the street lamps.

After a quick examination of the traitor's residence, they crept behind the building and approached his back door, where Natalia picked its simple lock as the American kept watch from the shadows. Within seconds, they were quietly sneaking into the house.

It was small, separate from the other homes only by thin walls. It was new, too, the doors, wooden floors, and stairs never squeaking. Faint lights came from the night sky through the uncovered windows, and pricks of red shown out from the household appliances: a TV, an oven and microwave, a refrigerator.

The stairs opened up at the front of the first floor, so they slipped silently through a small hallway to reach it. As they crept up the stairs, Natalia began to hear soft snoring from the room at the front of the house. The traitor lived alone. That must be his room.

The bedroom door opened silently, and the street lamps' lights caused the door's shadow to grow down the hallway and past the stairs. Natalia and the American shadows slid up the room's walls as they moved toward the bed.

There the traitor lay, on his back with his white hair almost glowing in the dim light.

Gripping his knife, the American swiftly moved to the bed's side and lifted the knife over the traitor's body, preparing to strike. Natalia stood at the ready near the foot of the bed.

Inexplicably, he paused, staring at their target's face. Natalia could not see his expression, but she tensed, holding her own knife steady at her side.

Then, suddenly, the traitor's eyes shot open, and before he could yell, Natalia leaned over and stabbed him in the throat.

The American stumbled back as the traitor choked on his own blood for several long moments. He fell still with a final choke, blood dripping from his mouth.

Natalia pulled her knife back out of his throat with a jerk.

Everything was still and silent for a split second. Then, as though nothing had happened, the American began to search for the information the traitor had taken. Natalia put her knife in a plastic bag from her pocket and covered her hands in gloves before following.

The files and computer drives were located in several different spots around the house, but they retrieved all the info quickly. Neither bothered to close any of the doors as they left through the back and fled the scene.

Natalia's mind hurtled from thought to thought as they stepped up to another hotel, the blood cleaned off and their clothes replaced. Why had the American stopped? The target had lain at his mercy. His knife had been ready. No matter how she tried, she couldn't think of any logical reason for his hesitation.

It didn't make sense. The American never froze, not unless to confuse her in a fight. He had never held himself back, never hesitated.

She tried to search his face as they finished signing in to a new hotel, sending smiles to the night porter. She saw nothing. Only his smiling, relaxed mask and the emotionless one behind it.

The elevator dinged, and they stepped in, the old compartment shaking and grumbling slightly as they did. As the elevator doors shut, Natalia debated whether she should bring up the incident or not. She would never have questioned her other instructors... but this situation and this instructor was different. She fought alongside him, not for him. He had his own people instructing him, just as she did, and he had gone on missions with her where they both had roles with equal importance, for the most part. They should be on equal enough standing for her to mention it, if not question him on it.

The elevator rumbled to a stop, and the doors opened with another dull ding. Natalia let him take the lead out of the elevator and up to their room to unlock the door.

Shutting the door behind her, Natalia stepped up to the bed and placed her bag on it, opening it. Without turning towards him, she started the conversation neutrally.

"You hesitated."

She heard him slow to a stop. The silence was thick.

"Yes," he finally said. His voice gave nothing away.

She turned around and waited, watching his face in the dark room. It was shrouded in shadows, facing his bag as he pulled his weapons and clothes out for cleaning.

"That won't work," he said, not speaking again even as she waited.

She shifted and crossed her arms lightly, leaning against the wall beside the bed, where she stood. "Then tell me what to do."

He looked up, weapons on his bed and clothes in his arms. For a moment, his eyes held hers. Then he turned, moved into the bathroom, and pushed up the handle to the sink to switch it on.

Natalia pushed off the wall and followed. "Why?" she asked. He continued to rub blood from the sleeve of his shirt. "Why did you hesitate?"

He squirted soap onto the shirt sleeve and began to rub it in with the water, not meeting her eyes. "...I don't know."

Natalia narrowed her eyes. "Don't lie."

He stiffened and turned to her. His face was only a few inches from her face, but she didn't move back. "I don't have to answer to you," he said in a low tone.

"Then why did you answer in the first place?"

He paused and then went back to rubbing his shirt. She waited.

"It suddenly felt wrong."

Natalia shifted. "Wrong in what way?" she asked more softly. "We had orders; he was a traitor."

"I know," he said, rubbing the shirt more aggressively. No more blood ran down the drain. "I just—" He slowed down and forced himself to become emotionless again, putting the shirt aside to dry and grabbing the next article of clothing.

When he didn't speak again, Natalia left to empty her own bag and began to clean her knife with a cloth she damped slightly with the water from the sink. Nearly five minutes later, the bed dipped beside her, and the instructor began to check his guns.

"I think I remembered something," he said softly a minute later. Natalia continued to clean her knife rhythmically, letting him speak when he was ready, but she was... startled by the emotion in his voice. Confusion. Pain. Longing.

"I lifted the knife, and I saw this picture of a boy, blond hair, very skinny, standing with his fists held up, prepared to fight anyone who…well…" he drifted off. Natalia glanced at him. His eyes seemed far away. "Does that make sense?" he asked even more softly than before.

Natalia took a moment to gather her thoughts. She could think of no response.

"I'm not sure."

The next morning, they woke with the first light of day and were packing soon after. Neither spoke until they were nearly finished.

The American cleared his throat discreetly. "What will you say?"

Natalia continued packing. "Today? Nothing."

"And tomorrow?" He was emotionless again today, at least in terms of facial expression. She could detect hints of emotion in his voice, hints of dread.

Natalia paused. "Nothing." She zipped her bag up with a snap.

Out of her peripheral, she saw his shoulders relax minutely. "Why?"

"You're my instructor," she said simply. She knew he would understand the nature of hierarchy.

Lifting her gun, she checked its barrel and magazine and, seeing it was loaded but not active, tucked it into the protective, inside-the-waistband holster at the small of her back. Grabbing a second, smaller gun, she attached it to the holster on her right ankle, and her knife went in the concealed holster at her waist. The rest of her weapons she placed carefully in her second bag.

Beside her, she heard the American finishing up the rest of his own packing. When she turned to face him, bags in hand, he was covering his metal arm and hand in clothing.

His eyes flickered up and then back down to his hand. "What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

Natalia almost let her mask drop. Perhaps she did, a little. She had never been asked for her name, not since she had been recruited. She had been a child, only four. Now, she was eighteen. She liked the idea of being able to introduce herself.

If she gave him her name, though, she had several options. Only two seemed worth considering. She could go with 'Natalia,' and they would remain acquaintances and allies only, or she could risk using 'Natasha,' and they could possibly come to trust each other and be friends.

She analyzed him carefully before deciding.

"Natalia, but you can call me Natasha." The name seemed to cause a ripple in the air, as though something had changed irreversibly. Natalia—Natasha—wasn't sure if she should view the change as good or bad.

"Thank you, Natasha," the instructor said sincerely. Natasha almost smiled.

He turned and started for the door, but Natasha grabbed his arm and he paused. "Wait," she said. "What do I call you?"

He shifted, eyes down. He seemed ashamed, or perhaps embarrassed or awkward. "I don't remember my name...before," he said finally, raising his eyes to meet hers as he spoke. "Most people call me the Winter Soldier. Or the American."

"You could pick a name," she suggested.

He paused, deep in thought. Finally, he named himself. "Djenya"

She raised her eyebrow. "Why a Russian name?"

She saw the flicker of a smile on his face. "I met someone here, once, who didn't treat me as a weapon. His name was Yevgeny, but I heard him called Djenya."

Natasha nodded in understanding, and after a moment, they mutually decided to leave.

When they were at the compound, they never used each other's names. Natasha was Natalia to her fellow students, and Djenya was the American. In fact, they hardly spoke to each other except when necessary. There was no point in risking it.

Natasha could always tell if Djenya was having a good or a bad day, though. On good days, when the memories he had were relatively clear, she could read his emotions, faint as they were behind his mask. He seemed alive on those days, more relaxed. On bad days, when his memories were muddled and far away, he became dead to the world, a robot or puppet with only a physical resemblance to humans. No hints of emotion. No hints of her friend.

Natasha grew to hate the bad days, especially as became more used to their absence. They reminded her of how fragile her and Djenya's friendship was, how much it relied on the ignorance of other people.

When they left the compound for missions, they allowed themselves to be freer. They could be alone, away from overseers. They could speak openly with each other.

Over time, they trusted each other more than any other, and they learned to genuinely express their emotions with each other.

They were walking down a street in Barcelona when Djenya drifted to a pause at a book stand. Natasha's brow furrowed, and she paused beside him.

"Djenya? The contact's still a while away."

He looked up, eyes slightly unfocused, before his gaze was caught again by the book his fingers were gently touching, as if he couldn't believe it was real. "I remember this book," he whispered. "I think I read it as a child."

Natasha gave it a closer look. The bindings were loose and cracked, the pages bent. On the cover, a picture of a man wrestling an alligator was painted. It looked like one of the cheap adventure novels Americans sell to kids. "It's old," Natasha remarked.

"It wasn't when I read it," Djenya said quietly.

Natasha watched him slowly pull his hand away and come back to the present.

"They—the books—they always made me laugh," he said with a bittersweet smile. He looked back at her. "Did you ever read books like that?"

Natasha shrugged, slightly self-conscious. She'd never seen so clearly how different her childhood was from other people. She wasn't comparing her life to fiction this time. "The stories the Red Room required always made me sad. Or confused."

"Why?" Djenya asked.

Natasha straightened the books on the stand, not meeting his eyes. "I didn't understand how they could be so carefree."

Djenya hesitated. "Do you remember... ever laughing?"

Natasha shrugged again, and they soon continued on their way, both deep in thought.

"Well that sucked ass," Djenya said in English two weeks later after a particularly hard mission, dumping his bags on the bed.

Natasha froze in the doorway, having just shut the door to their room, and suddenly, she burst out laughing. Djenya spun around, alarmed by the strong response. She laughed harder.

"What?" he asked, laughing a bit himself even as he pretended innocence.

"Oh god," she said, laughing between words. "I never realized how American you are. You did that on purpose, I know it."

"It wasn't that American," Djenya said, a smile tugging at his lips. "I got you to laugh, though, so I suppose we're fine."

"I can't remember ever laughing," Natasha said, still giggling sporadically. "Oh god, I can't believe you said that."

"How old are you?" Natasha asked one day without warning.

Djenya shrugged. "Somewhere between 20 and 24, I think. It's hard to tell. Why?"

"The woman over there, the thirty-something. She keeps ogling you. But if you're close enough in age..."

"Ugh. Germans."

"...seriously?"

"What?"

"Do you ever wonder if we're on the right side?" Djenya asked quietly. They were lying in bed facing each other, but neither could sleep after their last mission. Their target's family had shown up part-way through the infiltration, so they had had to kill them all.

Natasha didn't respond for a long time. When she at last spoke, she did so softly.

"Only sometimes."

When she had nightmares, sometimes she'd wake up with his arms around her comfortingly. When he had nightmares, she always ran her hands through his hair and curled up beside him until he calmed down.

"A flower." He handed her a rose he'd cut from their target's garden as they left.

"And for you," she said, handing him a flower of his own. He laughed, and she grinned.

The first time they kissed, Djenya initiated it. Their mission had gone south out of nowhere, and they had been split fleeing the building.

As she fled, Natasha spotted the file they had been looking for, and she grabbed it as she ran past it and out the side door. Nearly a mile from the building, she ran into Djenya.

Natasha smiled slightly and lifted the file as she said, "I found it—"

His lips were on hers.

Natasha froze, and she felt him freeze also and lean back. She was too distracted to act, though. She'd been kissed before, of course, but she'd never really liked it. This...this had been nice. Very nice.

Her eyes went up to meet his. He was nervous and surprised, and it showed in the creases of his eyes.

Natasha felt a small smile pull at her lips. "What was that for?"

"I was just, well I mean I felt—I'm just glad to see that you're alright," he said, stumbling over his words. Natasha had never seen him so nervous.

Natasha grinned and leaned in to kiss him again. It was very nice.

"We should run now," she said after they broke apart, and they did, smiling sillily.

Who knew kissing could be so wonderful?

"You know," Natasha said during another night of another mission. The bathroom door clicked open, and Djenya walked out, giving her an inquisitive look. "Only a month ago, I would have thought this was completely insane."

Djenya smiled. "Which part?"

Natasha smiled in return, but she grew more serious before she responded. "All of it. I was trained to see love as a...weakness. As a ridiculous, human stunt. I'm supposed to be...more than human. Better."

Djenya walked over and sat beside her on the couch.

"Were you taught that?" Natasha asked, watching his eyes carefully.

Djenya did not respond for some time. "I was told that I had no emotion. Only humans have emotion." He looked down and squeezed her hand more tightly. "Sometimes I wonder if this is real," he whispered.

Natasha understood immediately. Their circumstances seemed too good to be true.

"Sometimes I feel weak," she whispered back, head going down briefly before she met his eyes again to convey her emotion. "But other times... other times I feel stronger than I've ever felt."

He leaned down, and they rested their foreheads together, drawing strength. "I've felt it too."

"We should stop," Djenya said, slightly out of breath, pulling away from kissing her. She pulled him back in, deepening the kiss, and he melted back in for a moment before remembering again. "Wait, wait," he said, trying not to smile. "We don't want to risk it, remember?"

He kissed her one last time, but as he began pulling away, Natasha placed a hand on his chest. He stopped, and they watched each other intently, mere inches apart. "Why?" she whispered. "Why should we stop?"

His brows creased in confusion. She'd never questioned their unspoken agreement before.

Natasha continued softly, willing him to understand. "I want to be the one to decide who I'm with, just this once... This may be our last time together before I graduate, and they'll take this choice away in the ceremony. And you'll be gone."

He seemed to understand the implications of what she was saying immediately, and he didn't look surprised. Only sad. "Maybe—maybe we can find a way to get away," he said.

"Maybe," Natasha agreed, pulling so close their noses were touching. She closed her eyes. "But right now, I just... want to forget everything. For a moment."

He breathed out a small, almost disbelieving laugh. "That won't be too hard if you keep on like this," he said, his lips nearly touching hers.

She smiled and leaned in to close the gap. They kissed with a newfound desperation.

"I still think we could leave," Djenya said the next morning as some of the happiness and carefreeness of last night began to fade away and reality set in again. "We could leave before it ever happens."

Natasha shrugged, trying to pretend she didn't care. "I want to, but we'd need a plan, a very good one. If we made one mistake, they'd find us, and the consequences... It may be too risky."

"I know," he said. He sounded weary. "But I think we could do it. We'd have to fake our deaths and go far away, but we could make it work, I know we could."

"What if I graduate before we have a plan?" Djenya started to speak, but Natasha interrupted. "No, Djenya, really. I could graduate any day now. I could graduate tomorrow when we return. I don't know."

He searched for an answer before finally sighing and saying, "We have to try." His eyes pleaded with her.

Eventually, Natasha nodded. She didn't think she could stand it if they didn't at least attempt an escape.

Over the next two weeks, they planned extensively. Each planned their own part since they could not communicate in the compound, and they knew how close the other was to being ready through the discreet messages they could read in each other's faces and body postures.

With each day that passed, Natasha could tell that her graduation was coming closer and closer. Her instructors kept dropping hints, and she saw them whispering to each other excitedly in corners of the building, watching her as she passed. It made her feel nauseous and sick, but her face remained emotionless.

By the time they were assigned their next mission, they were ready. The plan went off without a hitch. They snuck into their target's house, killed their targets, detached Djenya's metal arm and placed it and a bomb near the targets. With Djenya's arm and both bodies at the epicenter, it should look like they had all been caught in the blast, and it would be difficult to tell who's ashes were who's or if all the bodies were there, as nearly everything would be disintegrated in the blast. Their superiors would spend little time looking into it.

They fled the scene quickly and efficiently after the explosion, and before long, they were boarding an airplane on their way to France, where they would take another plane to the United States.

"We're leaving," Djenya said in wonder, bucking his seat belt. He spoke English to hide their conversation from others but not draw too much attention.

"I almost can't believe it," Natasha said. They were both smiling in relief.

"To America, huh?" Natasha said teasingly. "Very American choice."

Djenya laughed quietly. "It's far away. And convenient."

"Hmm," Natasha said, holding onto his hand tightly. "I can't wait to see it."

They talked the whole trip, slowly becoming more and more relaxed. When the transition to the next flight went smoothly, they relaxed even further, and eventually, they leaned into each other, sleeping in turns.

So that's the start! Hopefully you like it.

What do you think of Bucky's Russian name, btw? I know the usual name is Yasha (which is actually a diminutive of Yakov, believe it or not), but I read that that actually translates to Jacob, which, sure, is a diminutive of James but...I don't really like the name Jacob for Bucky. Sorry if your name is Jacob. I don't know, I couldn't shake that impression out of my head. So I went with Djenya, which is a less common (I assume since I see Zhenya on the internet more often) diminutive of Yevgeny/Yevgeniy, the Russian equivalent of Eugene (one of you guys pointed this out first, actually, so thank you!). It does sound kind of like James (more than Yasha anyway), so I thought it fit.

(Here's the link if you want to read the Tumblr post that inspired all of this btw: wintergaydar. tumblr. com post/71487710917/hello-class-today-i-would-like-to-tell-you-why. Hopefully that works)

Also, in the reviews (which I love, please send me reviews and criticism! I promise you won't crush my soul or anything), you could maybe mention what you thought of the romance? And the love scene? I'm ace and I'm a little bit aro and I've never been in a relationship, so I try to avoid writing it. But it just kinda happened here, and, well, I really ship Nat and Bucky. So yeah. Hopefully my ace-ness didn't show in the writing (the kissing scene. It was so stinkin' hard to write. I kinda just winged it... I feel like it may have felt awkward so I just added lots of smiling? Idk? And every time I read the scene before they do the do I wince cause it's just so awkward).

Help me out with all that, please! I probably won't go back and edit (unless it's really, really bad, otherwise I'll just ignore it and try to continue writing), but it would be extremely helpful in the future!

I'll try to write again soon. Thanks for reading!

UPDATE NOTE: I have change a fair amount of this. Some of the scenes were rearranged. Added a scene. Took out a scene. Completely changed several scenes. Anyway, one rather big change was the naming. I realized that the names and the way the Russian characters were interacting was incorrect (thank you Tumblr and the internet!).

So yeah, Madame B. is now Vasilisa Alexeyevna Ivashina (her name, written in Russian begins with a 'b').

Use of first name (Vasilisa) + patronymic (Alexeyevna) is the most formal way of addressing someone.

Medium range formalness is simply the first name.

Least formal is the short form of a name (for Natalia, this is Natasha). It is used between friends (not acquaintances unless both are young, ie teens) and family but also to address someone who is significantly lower than you in rank (in the case of Vasilisa and Natasha). It's all rather fascinating.