2014-03-14 - Dinner with an Old Friend

The key scrapes in the lock, and the doorknob turns. The woman, dressed in black from head to toe: black leather jacket, black shirt, black jeans tucked into black combat boots-- steps into her apartment, shaking her head slightly as she pulls off the black knit cap, allowing her red hair to tumble down.

"James?" she asks as she steps in through the door, shutting it behind her with a bump of the hip. She's carrying a grocery sack, with various bits of food sticking out the top. "I brought things to make dinner." Or attempt to.

Out of the bedroom, walks James. He's got on a pair of sweat pants, and his chest is bare. His hair, wet. Looking like he only maybe stepped out of the shower, perhaps five minutes ago and skin in that strange space between neither dry or wet. The cybernetic arm is undisguised, the russian sickle and star no decal, and harder to remove than he'd like. "Sounds good," says the barefooted man.

There's a pause, "I met Clint. He seems decent." There's a fresh coat of spackle in the wall, where Hawkeye's face was introduced.

Natasha notes the fresh spackle and doesn't say anything... verbally. There's an entire set of questions in the eyebrow lift she gives towards it, though.

She settles the bag down on the counter, beginning to pull out the contents-- mostly vegetables, some herbs and spices (to be honest, Natasha's place looked like it had been rarely cooked in: there were dishes, but no spice cabinet), a loaf of french bread, some butter, a half gallon of milk, and a couple of steaks.

She stares absently at the food for a few moments, before beginning to pull out dishes, in theory, to start cooking dinner. She spends just a bit too long looking at the various pans before making her selection... nope, Natasha is /not/ a cook.

James isn't a cook either, at least, not a good one. Sure, he can survive in Siberia for a few days on his own, and eat roots and grubs or snakes, but ... to actually cook? Still, there's no sign of fast food wrappers or soda's around. The kitchen seems, more or less as unused under Bucky's care as it was under Natasha's.

Closing a little of the distance between them, "I'm heading overseas," he tells her, "For a few days. Helping Katrinka with - a thing. Retrieve some paintings that need to be returned to their rightful owners."

"Mm. More thievery from her, is it?" Natasha comments, turning on the stove and placing a pan on it with some butter in it. She finds a knife and a cutting board, beginning to slice the bread and stack it to the side. "I hope you don't get yourself in too much trouble, James. Or let her get into trouble. She's still mourning Steve."

"That's one reason I'm going," he agrees. He leans against the counter, folds his arms over his chest to relax, and watch. Oddly, there's a tiny little smile on his face. Afterall, the 'ballerina' he knew never cooked. "The other reason? I need to do something with myself. If I stay idle too much longer, I'm going to drive myself bonkers." Yes, James just said 'bonkers'. He hasn't caught up with modern slang, just yet.

"Figure it's something to do. And Steve would want me to watch out for her. So." He shrugs, "Don't worry. I'll be careful."

This one doesn't really, either. She's just good at faking it. She nudges the butter over towards James, and a cookie sheet. "Butter the bread for me, and lay them on the pan?" she asks idly. The salad was premixed. That's good. Supposedly the steaks were good for pan frying? She didn't know. And then the peas. They go into a pot, right? Yes. She dumps the frozen peas into a saucepan, with a chunk of butter. And throws the steaks onto the frying pan.

"You do need to do something. I know you and Stark are going after Alexi. Soon. Speaking of, he mentioned he wanted to see you sometime." Natasha hmms, turning on the oven.

"I suppose I could drop by that Avengers place," agrees James quietly. He shrugs, "Seems like a really big target to me, rather than a base." Maybe that's why he hasn't been back? Or at least, that's one of the reasons. "But I'll drop by, see what he wants." He pushes off the counter he was leaning against, and begins to butter the bread without ripping it apart. Buttering bread? He can do.

"Mainly been doing a lot of reading. Eating at the diner, across the street. They have good pancakes. After Clint and I took care of our misunderstanding, we went to Coney Island. That place has changed. But, yeah. Just. Need to do something. We'll see where it goes from here."

Natasha nods, dumping the bagged salad into a large bowl, pulling out a bottle of greek dressing and a bag of croutons and shoving them beside the bowl, then stirring the peas a bit. She turns the steaks over. It's beginning to smell good in the apartment.

She throws a bit of the contents of one of the spice shakers on the steaks with a shrug. "Reading my collection?" she teases lightly. She shakes her head, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear before returning to her 'cooking'. "And Coney Island? You let a carnie take you to a place where there are other carnies? I hope you didn't play any of the games."

"Won every one of them. Gave the prizes to a few kids," suggests the man, "It was ... fun." There's a pause, and his mouth pulls into a line. "Can't remember, apart from that, the last time I -did- have fun."

He places the bread in the cookie pan, as he was asked. "I read them because nobody else was going to," he counters. His eyes watch that movement, memories coming back but he says nothing of it. "Already looking better than anything I'd get in the mess hall."

Taking the pan and sliding it in the oven after adding some garlic powder somewhat liberally, Natasha glances over at James and cracks a small smile. "You think so?"

"You think we got steak? If it wasn't canned, or packaged, we didn't eat it," he says, with a dry chuckle. James offers, "There's some wine in the fridge. Picked it up for when you next visited. Vodka's in the freezer, too. Whichever works." James and romance? Generally don't mix. If that's what it is. "Glad you did drop by. You're probably busy as hell, doing all your - work." He doesn't ask questions. Knows better to ask a spy what she's doing.

Natasha gives James a tight smile. "So busy, with being demoted. And reduced to support for the Avengers." She sighs. "Mm, the wine, I think. I can justify that I think. I should have wineglasses-- oh. Mm, that's the one in London. We may have to drink it from regular glasses, actually." She turns the steaks again, and then moves to get a pair of plates and bowls for the salads. "But I am glad I dropped by too."

"Funny. Never had wine glasses in any of my safehouses. Just C4, some Sig Sauer's and Beretta's, and a few SMG's. A cot. That's about it." If he still has them? He doesn't go into detail, yet, as they'd have been something gleaned as the Winter Soldier. "Think we can make due with regular glasses," he agrees, pulling out the wine bottle from the fridge. A wine connoisseur he is not.

"Demoted? Who in their right mind would demote the best spy in the world?"

"Fury. Apparently withholding information... when it leads to Steve's death... and getting knocked up by Stark?" Natasha scowls for a moment, then sighs, shrugging, putting the steaks on the plates, helping peas beside each, and beginning to fill the bowls with salad. "I made my choice when I withheld the information."

"Ah." There's a pause, and he nods, agreeing, "Military doesn't like to be left out of the loop." He doesn't add on the rest of that, about Steve. But it's clear that either Bucky blames himself more than Natasha, or her not at all. He uncorks the wine. Pours it into two water glasses. "Military also knows when an asset is valuable, and how far that asset can be pushed. Fury was good at that, if I remember right. Clint seemed surprised when I told him I thought Fury was more mellow."

"He has... hardened... over the years." Natasha carries the salad bowls and the croutons and dressing to the table. "Mm, bring the cups. And I will get the plates if you get utensils?" She deposits the food on the table, turning to retrieve the plates and sets them down. Then she sits in her chair. "It's been longer for him than for you."

"Huh." There's a nod of acceptance, and then he carries first the glasses over, and retrieves then the utensils, setting them where the plates will go. He admits, "Don't know who has it worse, then." And, he sits at the table, looks at Natasha. A question, that's been bothering him, or that he wants, or maybe is just curious as to the answer to. "You going to raise the children? Or, leave them with Stark?"

"They'll be targets for every two-bit sociopath in a cape or cowl in the world," Natasha replies quietly, pouring a bit of salad dressing on her greenery. "And Stark is little better than a child himself. They will have potential to be..." she pauses, taking a bite, considering her next words. "With the parentage they have, there is a strong likelihood that they will make excellent super soldiers. That they can be the ones who pick up the task when, inevitably, we falter." She shrugs.

No judgement, only a nod. And, instead of asking the inevitable question of how the hell Natasha and Stark ever even got together, he begins cutting at his steak after taking a drink of wine in the water glass. "You ever need me, Natalie, you come find me."

Natasha takes a sip of the wine, nodding. "...that's appreciated, James." She takes another bite, and watches him, silently for a few moments. "This cannot be easy for you, James." No mention of how easy or hard it is for her. Not that she'd admit it.

"My life's been full of difficulties," is his response. He sucks in a breath, "Whoever the Winter Soldier was, I was a part of him. Some things don't change, even though everything around us does. We just have to learn to live with it." The words come slow, careful. He was never one good expressing feelings, at least, not verbally. But, he's purposefully not looking at the woman near him. Instead, he stabs at his steak. Pauses. "Just do me one favor. Make sure your kids have a better life than either of us did." Still not looking at her.

Natasha is silent in response to that. Then, after a few moments, she replies, "I wanted to, James. I wanted to take them away, give them to someone else. Let them be raised by people who aren't me, or Stark. Have normal lives. He wants them, though, and if they must be in the position they will be in, I will make sure they are capable as we are."

She swallows more wine. "That capability comes at a price. You know it as well as I do. We both have paid it."

Peas. The peas are interesting, aren't they? So round. So green. So not Natasha's face. He gets a forkful of them. Chews. There's a nod. "It's not my decision to make," he agrees. "Like I told you. I won't interfere."

He pauses, finally looks up. At least, a little bit. Now, his eyes are focused at the center of the table in front of himself. "You and Clint were pretty close, too. He seems like a decent guy. Fell over himself when he realized who I was."

It's Natasha's turn to not be able to look at James, focusing on the peas, and the salad. "We were," she admits. "Closest I came to..." she doesn't finish that. "After you."

Yep. She takes a bite, and then washes it down with the wine. "He was a fan, if I remember. Cap and Bucky. He has these comics..." she chuckles softly.

"He told me. Might ask to look at them, sometime," concedes James. This? This sort of thing is easier to talk about. "Back then, I was kind of a - well, I was sort of the example the military wanted, to get teenagers into the war mentality, behind their country. Even lead a few teams, back then, of teens who had abilities, or powers, while I worked on and off with Steve. They did some comics, to promote all of that. And of course, others with Steve and I." He exhales, and then takes a few more bites of steak.

There's a slow nod. "Clint seems like a decent fellow. A bit over zealous, but, a decent guy."

Nat chuckles. "Overzealous is a good word for him, yes." She smiles a bit, taking another bite. "And he is a good man. ...mostly." She looks over at James, taking him in for a moment, reading back over their conversation. "You do not like Stark," she says. It's half statement, half question.

"I don't dislike him," counters James, practically. "Steve seemed to have trusted him. Liked him. You do." He purses his lips, "I've only met him once or twice. But, he seems ...," he searches for the word. "Soft. Brilliant, from what I've found out about him, sure." And, she'd know him well enough to know he's not talking about being soft-hearted, or anything like that. "I could be wrong."

Natasha tilts her head. "Stark is... interesting. He's not a soldier, not like we are." Or Steve was. "He lacks discipline. He is self-centered, arrogant, and has issues with authority." She smiles slightly. So does Clint, truth to tell.

She sighs. "He is brilliant, yes. A genius. But in many ways, that is as much liability as it is an asset..." she trails off. Clint's questions echo in her head, and she shakes her head to silence them.

She forces a smile to her lips. "But he is a good man. He cares about the world, and he wishes to do good. He has... seen and experienced much. He is not as soft as you might think."

"I'll take your word for it," James agrees, meaningfully. "I'll get a better idea of him when we go after Alexi." His jaw tightens, some, but only momentarily. "You were never one to settle for anything less than you deserved." At least, when he knew her.

That was not exactly what Natasha wanted to hear, but she looks away. "No, I never was. But I have always done what must be done, whatever the cost, James." That, too, has been true.

That statement may be more insightful to him than she realizes; or maybe he'll read more into it than is there. He moves the peas around the plate a little bit, without intent to fork more of them into his mouth, just yet. "What do you want from me, Natalie?" Now, he looks at her, directly, his brown eyes unreadable, his features expressionless. It's not a question of exasperation, it's one of honest inquistiveness, and open invitation to ask what she would of him.

Natasha shakes her head. "Why could you not have come back a year ago?" she asks, with a sigh. "No, James. I want nothing of you other than to make sure you are adjusting well. THat is it." She can't think of anything else. She hasn't even admitted to any of her fellow Avengers that she and Bucky had been...

...whatever they had been. She finishes her salad. And another drink of wine.

Oh, the replies he could come up to that question. Instead, "Been asking myself that same thing," is all he offers up, "But in the end, I'm just glad I could come back at all." Now, he forks those peas, a wry twist of his lips. "Adjusting well enough, even though I don't know what half the things people say anymore mean. That's when I just start talking in Russian to them until they leave me alone. Worked when this group of teenagers were roller skating at me yelling 'Yo Low.'"

"YOLO? Ugh. Teenagers are stupid in any decade, I'm afraid," Natasha replies with a roll of her eyes. She looks over at James. "What do you wish of me?" she asks finally, turning the question back on him.

"I wasn't stupid," points out James, offhandedly. "I was busy selling merchandise I could get off base to the soliders, while learning everything I could from them," as if he were mock-offended. Though, as the question is flipped back to him, "Nothing you can give," he answers in return. "Beyond that you'll ask me, when you need my help. That you don't drift away on me."

Natasha gives him a small smile. "I work alone," she replies simply. "But if that changes..." she shrugs. "I will remember your offer."