tushanshu_logs | (no subject)

"Hard to tell, but I think so. Thank you."

Natasha swings into the seat behind him without any apparent hesitation now that she's made up her mind, and the moment she settles her arm around him, he'll be able to feel the heat radiating off her body. Yeah, she has a fever.

She keeps her injured arm held against her - moving it enough to wrap it around him hurts more than she's willing to deal with right now, and as small as the actual injury is, she's a little worried by that.

He swears quietly when she leans in against him and he can feel the heat even like this.

"Where to?"

It's what he can come up with. He's tempted to take her to his suite, but... well. Even - or especially - when she's this much in need of rest and recuperation, he's not going to presume.

... all right, if she doesn't let him go in with her to help, he so will presume, but still.

She's glad to be able to lean against him and stop moving for a while, even with the need to stay somewhat focused and hang on - she's tired, and a large part of that is probably the infection.

"My place. Just down the road from Steve's... I assume you know where he lives." There's a hint of weary humor in that last comment, as she drops her head against his shoulder.

"Damn right I do." And he's on the read, careful and slow, and, as much as he can, keeping one hand across his chest and over her arm, lending support to her body. Clearly more depleted than she was letting it be seen, when he saw her. She's not letting people see her weakness, he thinks, and can't help being impressed yet again.

"We met there, remember? For that thing with the flapper." Deliberate pause, the rumble of the engine barely coming over the noise of the city. "I mean flipper."

She lifts her head while she considers that, and then smiles faintly. "Of course."

Sure, she didn't meet him there - not for the first time, anyway, which is what he means - but it is the first time she saw him here, and she must be worse than she thought if she's forgetting simple things like that. Damn it.

"You did well there," she says after a moment. "I'm glad I conscripted you for my side of that."

Well, no, it wasn't, they first met in the streets, when she introduced herself... differently. But they did meet there, afterwards, since she commandeered Steve's place for HQ and... yeah.

Which is all easier to think of than the compliment. Which is why he turns his thoughts around and faces that head-on.

"Thanks. That's kinda... a lot, from somebody like you, you know."

Overwhelming, but Bucky's just enough of a guy to not admit that easily.

Oh James. Meeting cover identities doesn't count.

She actually smiles, cocking her head a little, and silently grateful for the conversation to keep her focused and present. Sure, she could use the pain from her shoulder to do that too, but this is a lot more pleasant.

"Someone like me?"

... well, how is he supposed to know that?!

His own mouth curves up in a smile. One of wonder.

"Let's just say that I've never seen anyone as beautiful as you in motion. Ever."

And that includes a supersodier whose body moves in near perfection. And also a lifetime of appreciating feminine beauty.

She laughs, though the sound gets a little strangled as the bike jars over a rough spot and sends a fresh jolt of pain to her throbbing shoulder. Her grip around his waist tightens.

"You should have been watching the fight, not me." It comes out too amused to really be disapproving. He did the job, which is all that really matters.

"Sorry, sorry." His hand comes up to touch her arm as soon as he steadies the bike, and he slows further until there is an actually good stretch.

"And I was watching the fight well enough. Not my fault you were the center of it, and it was nice on the eyes."

Putting it mildly.

"Where'd you learn to move like that?"

"It's okay," she says softly, though she doesn't loosen her grip now.

For a moment she's silent at the question. It's somehow surreal hearing him ask that, and it takes her a moment to get her mental bearings again through the vague haze of fever and the disorientation of that voice, bringing up those memories...

"Russia."

"Right. That thing where I keep getting the impression that it doesn't mean to me what it means to people living later on." It isn't a question. More, again, keeping some of her attention focused on him. Usual practice.

They are already in the Fire district, getting closer to their destination. Good thing, too.

"Probably not." There's another soft laugh, this one with too much of an edge to be amused. "You'll understand in a decade or two."

Will, not would. If they ever do go back home, back where they came from... She knows where he's going.

Well. That does shut him up for a moment.

"Gotta have a different person. I ain't got another decade or two."

The words taste oddly, in his mouth. Like lead. Like blood.

Natasha can feel his reaction to it, the sudden tension in his body even if it doesn't make it into his voice much. Natasha grimaces a little to herself. She hadn't meant to upset him, she's just not thinking clearly enough, not considering the consequences of her words as much as she should. She could say nothing, but with him tense against her...

"You have more time than you think."

Oh. That. He...

Bucky carefully parks the bike to the side of the building, then sits for a moment, clutching the handles, before standing up (not letting her hand quite go, just spinning away so he doesn't unbalance her) and helping her up. Yes, he'll wrap an arm around her back to support her. Just in case. ~~Carrying her may be happening if she stumbles, anyway.~~

"Natasha... I kinda wish that was true, okay? Then I'd get a chance to get my friend back from what he got himself into, and, I dunno. I just do. But I don't see how that could work. I mean, wouldn't Steve or Peggy or Howard or any of the folk who knew me from the future - well, future for me! - know about that?"

He is just. Trying to reason it out. Like that always works.

She lets him help her off the bike, and doesn't comment at the arm around her. Much as she'd like to lean on pride, her pride isn't going to support her if she stumbles, and the way the world seems to be pitching at odd angles now that she's on her feet again... she'd rather not risk it.

However, she doesn't immediately start for the door to her apartment, just looks up into his face, her expression quiet and sympathetic, with maybe a touch of... guilt? Regret?

"I don't think so. And I'm sorry, but maybe..." Maybe he doesn't want to know after all. Maybe it's best if they go on as they have, strangers in some curious orbit around each other... As if there's any chance she would let the topic go, if she were in his place.

The ground seems to shift under her, and she stumbles a little, catching herself with only a little wobble, but it's enough. She drags in a breath, reaching up to press a hand to her shoulder again. The wound throbs, and it's too, too hot, a burning brand against her hand. "Maybe you should come inside."

There is more going on here than he expected. And when she pauses, he stays with her, frowning slightly and listening carefully. Hanging on to her words. Paying sufficient attention to catch her and steady her as she stumbles.

And even with the unexpected conclusion, he rumbles, low. "I was actually gonna do that, anyway. Another friend was still running fever days after she'd been hurt, gonna go out on a limb and guess it was pretty bad to begin with. Not a situation to leave anybody alone in."

Sure, he's made an assumption. But no way in hell was he just leaving her alone.

Natasha shoots him a look at that, somewhere between frustrated and amused, but she can hardly deny she could use a little help, and after a moment she nods and starts for the door. She moves slowly, leaning subtly into his support to keep from stumbling again, and drops her hand from her shoulder to retrieve the key from her suit.

"This is not the way I usually invite men over," she says with a wry smile as she opens the door. As if she ever trusts anyone but Clint enough to invite him into the place where she actually lives.

Clint... and apparently now Bucky.

"I bet it ain't," there's a small grin mixed with worry in his voice. After all, the way she looks? He can absolutely guarantee there are men lining up to be invited. And that it's her choice, absolutely and always, who does go in.

But it's not his intent, not today. Not with the way she's burning up.

He takes a little more of her weight as she has to let go, then spends a moment to orient himself around the new space (so similar to Steve's and yet so different). Well, there's a--

"Couch, bed, kitchen counter?" For taking care of the damage. Her call, since it's her home and up to her to deal with how well the place can be cleaned.

If she were a little steadier right now, she'd say the counter - she's patched herself up in less comfortable places, and at least it's easy to wipe down. As it is, it's probably easier to change the sheets on the bed than clean the couch if she bleeds on it.

"Bed," she says, and starts in that direction, trusting he'll keep pace with her and help keep her upright. She's getting less and less certain she'd manage that on her own if she had to.

When they get there, she drops down onto the bed with a grateful sigh and unzips her suit with no trace of self-consciousness, shrugging it off her uninjured shoulder first, and then more carefully peeling it away from the wound. "There's a box of medical supplies in the bathroom, next to the sink."

"Got it."

He settles her gently on the bed, then follows the instruction, quickly, quietly, his eyes intent on the revealed wound when he comes back with the kit and a few towels and pieces of cloth he's soaked through. Lips pinched (he's seen worse, but he'd rather not), he sets about gently places the equivalent of paracetamol easy for her to reach. Both for pain reduction (not much) and fever reduction.

The towels... yeah, fever reduction is probably as important as getting the direct infection in check, hence the cool fabric for her to rest against while he works. It's not pretty. And he's glad she doesn't have to deal with it alone.

"I hope that if I hadn't run into you, you'd have called somebody in, for this."

It's... almost a tease. On the one hand, Steve does live next door. On the other... he really is not sure if that's something she would have done. Agents, as far as he's seen, don't seem the overly open and trusting kind.

She would have handled it herself, but since he seems willing and able to deal with it... she leans back on the bed, letting him handle it while she keeps an eye on the proceedings.

"I have a... partner, here," she murmurs, reaching over to take the painkillers and swallow them dry. "And I've handled worse on my own."

She honestly can't say if she'd have called for help or not. She likes to handle her own problems as much as she can, even with those she trusts - this is actually somewhat unusual for her.

"Sorry to hear that." About having handled worse. It's honest, too, sympathy without a trace of pity. Clearly she's come out of it stronger. Just... nobody should have to.

"Guess that goes with coming by your skills honestly, huh?"

He's not stopping his hands, for talking. Cooling towels against the skin he's not cleaning directly, careful fingers and not a wince to show just how bad the gash is (and it is bad enough). He dabs carefully at the oozing wound, wiping away the dirt as well, then picks out of the box a paste that she doesn't seem to have used, so far. Good thing he's met an apothecary's assistant, then (or maybe not - it could be that she's used up the previous jar) and knows this to be a strong antibiotic that actually works on foreigners.

"This may sting some."

Not 'a little' - he kind of knows it may be more than that. But warning is better than none, right?

She laughs sharply, managing a somewhat tense smile. "I suppose that depends on your definition of honest..."

Natasha nods a little at his warning, fingers tightening in the blankets as she clenches her jaw. There's hardly any visible reaction to the sting of the antiseptic on her wounds - she closes her eyes, swallows hard, but it's just a different kind of pain, cold and penetrating in place of the hot throb she's been dealing with.

Once she's adjusted to it, she forces herself to relax, hands unclenching, letting out a slow breath. She opens her eyes and looks back up at him, gaze a little hazy more from the fever than pain. Now that she's in a secure location, safe and having the injuries dealt with, all the stress and pain and exhaustion of the past few days is catching up with her; it's harder to keep the same sharp focus now.

"You know you don't have to do this," she murmurs. "You don't owe me anything."

(no subject)

...okay point. You are still killing her.

... would you prefer if Bucky was the one hurt? We could arrange that, next time.

no, Natasha hates that plan

Okay, then... I think?

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