viuva | ⧗ 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫-𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝

( cont. from here )

i guess we as 6-year-olds were just built different then

[ ha ha ]

he said to me, "miss if you don't hand over the last oh henry bar i'm going to call the cops"
children are hilarious
was i this funny when i was six

[ They'd joked about dance lessons in her kitchen, but it turns out it's hard to schedule sort-of-almost-dates when one of you is an ultra-paranoid former assassin mostly living off-grid. (And, sure, Bucky is an ultra-paranoid former assassin, too, but he's more rooted in NYC now that he's a recognisable face: obeying the terms of his pardon, cooperating with authorities, showing up on missions beside the newest Captain America.)

But it meant they wound up being ships in the night. When he happened to be in Yelena's neck of the woods, then Sam had called him about a job in London, and so Bucky had grabbed his bag and left before he could contact her. The next time he was back home with some time to kill, he'd sent a gently inquiring text, but messages went into a black hole and her answering machine. Off on another mission, then, probably extracting more former Widows. The work was long.

So they subsist on sporadic text messages for a while, whenever they happen to be close to the same timezone and awake at the same hours. Messages in a bottle. Idle flirtation from afar. He has no idea when they'll be in the same place next; doesn't really know what he'd do with himself even once they are.

Tonight, though, Bucky's on his way back from SHIELD headquarters — at least he hasn't had to fly commercial in ages, turns out Sam-as-Cap can pull strings and get them jets when they need transportation — with a duffel bag over one shoulder and a new bullet hole in the sleeve of his jacket, as he unlocks his studio apartment.

And it's standing there on the threshold, head cocked, that he instantly realises something feels off.

Blame the decades of training, always teaching him to have a hand on the gun and an eye out for trouble. Blame it on him being neurotic and paranoid. But that's exactly why he lives in a studio, where you can see all the angles, so when he steps over the creaky floorboard and slowly lets his eyesight adjust to the darkness, he gets a view of his place.

There isn't much of anywhere to hide: it's just the one open-plan room, kitchen and dining and living room and bedroom all combined. He wasn't kidding about the lack of furniture, either. It's still mostly just the one armchair, dining chair, TV on its stand, and one endtable (is everything just an inch off from where he left it?). But he has finally gotten a bed, which lives in the far corner beneath the window, the sheets tucked in with military precision.

But his apartment has a thin strip of balcony (was it so he could have an easier getaway versus clambering through windows onto fire escapes? maybe), and he can tell there's a figure standing out there.

Even when he recognises the blonde hair, he doesn't fully relax. Moves across the apartment, tugs open the balcony door and joins her outside, gun still held low by his side. ]

Guess I'm lucky you didn't jump out of the closet and shout boo.

Hey, Yelena.

[ Bucky's voice is dry and his demeanour neutral, as ever, but there's something to that unfazed greeting which isn't unwelcoming, either. He'd be far more irritated if it was, well, pretty much anyone else breaking into his home unannounced. ]

( ah, yellow perch. what it lacks in strength and size, it makes up for in taste. the "bread and butter" of lake erie, he heard the guy at the tackle shop call it. it'll make for a good dinner if they catch enough of it and they should. yellow perches swim in schools so it won't be hard to fill the cooler. plus, as a bonus, the fish can be caught year-round, even when ice fishing.

but no ice fishing today.

it's too warm for that. frankly, a little too warm and balmy for him. but he's spent the past twenty years in a place colder than a witch's teat, what does he know? so he won't complain about the heat. indeed, alexei should consider himself blessed after everything: losing his girls, the seventh circle, almost losing his girls again, losing five years, and then losing natasha.

he is blessed. too blessed to be stressed, a delightful saying that has inched its way into his mind and life. a much better proverb to live by than the russian one that'll forever be etched on his psyche: trust but verify. he's done with that. done with the lying, the subterfuge, and the circle of accountability. he was never made for that, but he stomached it for the glory of the motherland.

but, in his heart, he is a simple man. a day fishing with his daughter and a cooler full of sodas and sandwiches made by his beautiful wife are enough to sate him for a lifetime. which is why he dragged yelena out at 8 am on a thursday to catawba island, about an hour west of their home outside cleveland. it's nice, yeah?

alexei wipes the bait muck on the inside of his hawaiian shirt. it's very cool and very red, like his uniform, with blue hibiscuses and white plumerias exploding on it like fireworks. it's been a few decades since he's fished. as a child living on the edge of society, he fished almost weekly, all year round; it was a guaranteed source of protein during the dead of winter. but that stopped when he joined the red army at seventeen then later became the red guardian. he was too preoccupied with proving himself an equal to captain america to concern himself with fishing. during their (too) brief stay in ohio, he had planned on taking natasha and yelena fishing one weekend, but he got called in to work overtime at the north institute and so the trip was canceled. the next thing alexei knew, he was laying on a plane's wing, shooting out a car's tires, as they attempted to escape to cuba, so the fishing trip never happened.

but casting the line comes naturally to him. he bends his knees a little, presses the reel button with his thumb, raises the rod over his head, and buzz. he presses the button again and kerplunk. his line lands about twenty feet out — perfect, a cast worthy of lee wulff.

with his sharp eyes on his line, alexei pulls a pack of juicy fruit from the side pocket of his cargo shorts. they are also very cool and very convenient with all the pockets. he pops a piece in his mouth and then holds out the pack to yelena. is it still her favorite? he doesn't know, but the yellow packaging reminds him of better days, warming him as the sun's rays do on the back of his neck. ) This is nice, yeah?

( yeah, he tells himself before she does. nothing bad will happen on catawba island in their spot devoid of other people. today, they will catch fish and catch up on conversations. and maybe catch some z's too. he brought a couple of lawn chairs for when they want to take the load off. solid dad thinking on his part. maybe they'll stay so late, he'll end up needing to build a small fire here and they can eat the fish right off the bone. melina won't be happy, but she'll soften when he tells her how much fun they had. just like old times — alexei and yelena, his little buddy. )

@finishitmyself

the kitchen heist.

government agents want me. fish fear me.