Author's Notes: Well, here we are, my lovely readers. The final chapter has arrived. I just want to take a quick moment to thank all of you, profusely, whether you reviewed, alerted, favorited, or just read along. Thank you so much. This was not only my first fic in this fandom, but also my first fic in years. I was nervous! But you guys made it worth it. Thank you.

More at the end! But first let's get a bit of a reunion, yes?

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chapter 23: Present

"You know, I had you pegged as a cat person."

"Nick."

He sits in her blue wingback reading chair next to the window, absently scratching a panting Yasha behind the ears. Though he's yet to look up, she knows that he's watching her, silently assessing, and she waits. She knows there's only one reason he's here, but instead of outright asking, she says, "I thought you were in Austria."

He looks up. "I thought you were in Minnesota."

She smirks a little. "Guess we were both wrong."

"Guess we were," he agrees. There's a pause. "I have a mission for you, Romanoff."

"Technically, you're not my boss anymore."

"A favor, then."

She waits. Both of them know that this is all formality. Their banter is merely a way to judge the other's reactions, and Natasha knows by the way Fury is outright ignoring her deflections that whatever he wants from her he knows will be hard won. So she bows her head slightly, and asks, "What favor?"

"Banner."

She only narrows her eyes in confusion for a split second before understanding dawns. Her stomach drops like a rock, and she swallows back the acid in her throat. But she smirks anyway, face a perfect mask, and says, "That's one hell of a favor, Nick."

"You're the only one who can."

"Ask Stark."

"Stark doesn't have the gentlest touch."

"Is that what I have?"

"Natasha." She lowers her eyes at his tone. It's rare, soft, what she imagines as fatherly. And she knows that Fury knows that. "For the Hulk to be properly utilized, he has to be controlled. He has to trust. That's going to take some effort."

She scoffs. "Effort."

Fury gently nudges Yasha from his lap, and the dog drops dutifully to the floor and sits. "I know you don't want to do this," he says, "but there are some things that must be done, lines that we have to cross. I'm trusting you to be what you always are, Natasha. I'm trusting you to be rational."

So, are you?

The question rings loud and clear, and she lifts her chin. Her eyes were hard, her voice cold. "Always."

Nick nods, and she doesn't turn to see him out until he asks, "What'd you name the dog?"

She swallows. "Yasha."

And she watches as perhaps the one man who understands her in a way that no one else can sighs and says, "I'm sorry."

One Year Later . . .

He's in Kathmandu and lucky enough to be in a bar with a television when he looks up for the latest football scores and instead sees news footage of the Avengers in Sokovia. Thor is a blur on the screen. Iron Man is a red streak. He sees Steve on the ground. The archer is invisible but he sees the arrows flying. The Hulk is out causing a riot, smashing the—the fuck, are those robots?—like pancakes, but his ballerina is nowhere in sight.

That's when the whole city starts to fall, and the Arabic scrolling at the bottom of the screen reveals that the Avengers had saved tens of thousands of people, and all had gotten out safely with the help of ex-SHIELD Director, Nick Fury. Bucky continues to watch with the rest of the bar as the news footage continues to play. There's a swift, fervent rush of affection in his chest when he watches Steve and Natasha throw the shield back and forth. He's happy seeing them together.

Then Natasha's face appears on the screen again. She's standing on the edge of the helicarrier, her hair dancing in the wind—shorter than when he'd last seen her—and the look in her eyes has him in New York within forty-eight hours.

It doesn't take him long to find her. He knows her too well. She would heal on her own in her own space where she could be weak if she wanted. Undoubtedly, she still has safe houses throughout the city, and he has to smile when he finds her in an apartment in his old Brooklyn neighborhood. He scans the names at the door, looking for something familiar, and feels his chest tighten painfully when he reads the alias he knows is hers.

Natalie Barnes.

He buzzes her apartment. She doesn't answer. He buzzes again, and she answers but doesn't say anything so he just says, "Open the door, sweetheart."

The door opens.

Her apartment is 1917, and his knuckles have barely touched the wood before her door swings open and there she is and Jesus Christ, he's fucking missed her. She doesn't say anything, just stares at him with wide, stunned, happy eyes. He steps closer, crossing the threshold, and she lets the door shut behind him. Then she's in his arms. His face is buried in her hair for a blissful second before she's lifting her head and her lips are on his and why the hell had he ever left.

"James," she says. Her hands slip from his hair and slide down his neck to his shoulders. "You came home."

"I saw the news. I needed to make sure you were okay."

"You don't have to worry about me."

"I don't," he says honestly. "But you still get hurt, and I . . . I fucking hate it when you're hurt, Tasha."

She strokes his cheek. "I'm fine. Nothing a hot bath won't fix." He smiles when she presses against him and lowers her voice. "You could join me."

He joins her.

He's grateful for her indulgence in old clawfoot tubs that are wide enough and deep enough for both of them to fit. It's snug but he doesn't mind in the slightest since it only means that Natasha's hot, wet skin is pressed against his. She sighs contently, her face tucked into the crook of his neck as he gently traces his fingers over every bruise and massages every knotted muscle that he finds, all while placing sweet kisses to the top of her head.

"I missed you," she says, breaking the silence as she laces her fingers over the top of his where his arm is wrapped around her stomach. "Where have you been?"

"Started in Italy. Moved on to Hallstatt, then Berlin. Headed west after that. Spent some time in Prague." He smiles into her hair. "I was in Kathmandu when I saw the news." He chuckles. "They have good tea."

"I did tell you."

"Yes, you did."

"What about your dreams?"

"They're worse without you."

"You should stay."

"I can't."

She sighs. "I know."

Eventually they move to the bed, but never truly part. He lies on his side, arm outstretched under her pillow, the other resting gently over her stomach, his thumb rubbing absently at the gunshot wound on her hip. Natasha is as close to him as she can be lying on her back, and with her head turned toward him their noses nearly touch. She stares at him and he stares at her, drinking in the closeness they've both desperately missed, silently speaking. Bucky frowns after a while and says, "What really happened?"

Natasha smiles weakly. "Assignment. Nothing I haven't done before."

Bucky stares at her a second longer, searching. "But this time was different."

"He's a friend. Or he was. I don't know. He sort of Dear Johned me, in his own way."

Bucky isn't immediately upset. For one, he isn't sure whether he should be upset or not. It's part of her job. Part of their jobs. He knows that. So he can know it meant nothing, that it was all an elaborate con, but that's not what bothers him. What bothers him is the fact that Natasha is upset.

He kisses her softly. "Tell me."

"Banner."

"The Hulk."

"We needed a way to control man and beast. They share the same heart." Her eyes flicker up to his. "I didn't want to hurt him, James."

He's quiet. He doesn't want to placate her. Both of them are too old and cynical for that, but he does raise his hand to her cheek, brushing over the soft skin with his thumb and then tucking her hair behind her ear. "I don't give a fuck about Banner," he says. "I care about you."

"James."

"Natalia." He kisses her again. "What's wrong? Really."

Maybe it's cold of him, but Bucky doesn't think she's that upset about Banner. He knows she's all twisted up about deceiving a friend, but something still doesn't ring true. She's upset. She's hurting.

Natasha looks down briefly, her eyes settling on his jaw and his lips. He's just as scruffy as he was at the cabin, and she wonders if it's laziness or if he doesn't like seeing himself as he once was - clean-shaven and whole. She drags a fingernail along his jaw, feeling the slight resistance. James just waits for her, like always, and she almost hates him for it.

"He left," she says eventually. "How fucked up is that? I didn't love him, not like he thought. It was a lie. Lies aren't supposed to hurt."

Bucky sighs quietly as the pieces click into place, and he smiles, though with little humor. It's heart-breakingly endearing that his ballerina is so good at reading everyone else and absolute shit at reading herself. "No," he agrees. Lies don't hurt. Not to people like them. Lies are easy. "But the truth does." He cradles her face, tilts her head. Her green eyes are sad and confused. "I left," he said simply.

Natasha looks away. "It's different."

"Yeah. That's why it hurts."

"It's different. You had to leave. You needed to be on your own. It didn't have anything to do with me."

Yet as she says it - words that have swirled in the back of her mind for over a year - she doesn't quite believe them.

"What would we have done, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice soft. She doesn't think he's ever used such a tone before. It's tender but regretful. There had never been time for regret in the past. "You're an Avenger. I'm an international war criminal. There's no hiding from that."

"Of course not. That's not what I'm saying."

"I didn't leave because of you, Natasha," he says as he tucks her hair behind her ear. She meets his eyes again. She's missed him so much. "I wish I could've stayed. I wanted to stay."

"You said we weren't ready."

"Not for what you want."

"What's that?"

Her eyes are narrowed, her chin in the air. Defiant. He smiles faintly. "A life," he says. "A cover that feels real. You and me. Some apartment like this one. A dumb dog and fighting for visitation rights over Steve."

Natasha scoffs even as her heart clenches. "It wouldn't be a fight," she says, and Bucky chuckles. Her eyes close. He never laughed like that at the cabin. It's lighter now. Less haunted.

"One day," Bucky promises. "One day, it'll be you and me."

Natasha measures his words as she stares into his eyes. She's searching for the lie. Part of her wants to find it, that dark part of her that refuses to believe she deserves such a prize. Not after the life she's lived and all she's done. She's still drowning in so much red. But her James isn't lying. He's telling the truth, and oh, it hurts. It hurts because she wants it. That stupid, silly, normal day-to-day life that she's been denied her entire life. She wants grocery lists and dinners and dates and rings. She wants a ring. She wants the title. She wants him.

But it's not the right time.

So she sighs and shuffles impossibly closer to him. "Will you be here in the morning?" she asks softly.

He pulls her tighter. His eyes close. "Do you want me to be?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be here."

Bucky keeps his promise. When Natasha wakes up an hour before dawn, she's aware of many things at once. His arm beneath her head, his hand just below her breasts, curled protectively over her ribs. Their legs are a tangled mess, and his breath fans the top of her head in a gentle, steady rhythm. She smiles sleepily, still half-asleep, and lets her eyes flutter closed because she can.

There's no need to be immediately alert. No reason to follow through on decades of training that has always allowed her to be fully awake at a second's notice. She can be sleepy and slow and vulnerable because James is here. God, he's really here.

She's hesitant to move in case it wakes him. She knows that as soon as he's awake, he'll leave just as quietly as he'd arrived. It's too dangerous for him to stay. The UN has a task force specifically to find him. All US Intelligence is still out for blood after DC even a year and a half later. It's not safe for him to stay, and she knows that.

She just wishes that wherever he went, she could follow. At least for a little while.

God, she misses him.

The cabin spoiled her. Being with him all day, sharing a bed, making breakfast, sparring in the yard, living a life with him. It's hard to believe it's been a year since then, but she misses it. She misses curling into him after a long day and listening to him murmur in Russian about some part of their life from before that he's remembered. She misses their nights on the town when they were just James and Natasha. She misses watching James scowl as Yasha nipped at his heels and then finding the two of them napping on the couch later.

Not yet, she tells herself. One day, but not yet.

As if summoned by mere thought, Natasha hears the door creak and then a familiar soft pad of paws. She laughs internally when Yasha rounds her side of the bed and gives her the most disappointed eyes, as if he can't believe his place in the bed has been taken by someone else, and she reaches out to brush his muzzle with her thumb.

Which of course Yasha takes as an invitation.

The dog, now full-grown and a solid sixty-four pounds, lands on the bed like a lead weight, making the bed dip and generally disturbing the quiet peace Natasha had been so thoroughly enjoying. His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he happily trots over to her and settles halfway on top of her with a huff, his head resting smugly on her shoulder, and Natasha begins to chuckle when she feels the arm around her waist tighten.

She can just imagine the staredown going on between her boys.

"Tasha," Bucky's voice is lower than usual, still filled with sleep. "I thought we had a rule about the mutt and the bed."

"Did we?" she asks innocently as she tucks her face into Yasha's fur.

"I don't like the way he's staring at me."

"Well, you're sort of in his spot, soldat."

"The hell I am."

Bucky gently pulls her closer, and Yasha growls. Bucky growls back. Natasha laughs, but pushes Yasha back. "Not now, moy malen'kiy soldat," she says, smirking when both Yasha and Bucky huff.

"You did not just call him that," Bucky mutters. "Little soldier. He's a goddamn menace."

Natasha turns toward him as Yasha leaps to the floor. She cradles his face sweetly and yet teasingly. "You'll always be my soldat," she promises. "I loved you first."

She says it so casually and easily that Bucky has to blink in surprise. It's not as if he didn't know. He's always known, somehow, even when they didn't remember each other, but they've never said the words. Natasha smiles slightly as her thumb brushes against the scruff on his jaw. "You and me," she says softly. "Right?"

Bucky smiles then, gentle and sincere, and Natasha smiles back. "Always," he promises.

They make love slowly—the kind of lazy Sunday morning sex meant to last all day—and when Natasha is curled into him afterward, kittenish and content, Bucky kisses her temple and says, "I love you, too. Moy krasnyy balerinoy."

He holds her while she sleeps, only occasionally dozing as the day slowly passes by, and wishes that he could stay. But he merely closes his eyes and commits this moment to memory—the feel of her, her scent, the way her lips pout when she sleeps—and when the sun falls beneath the window sill, Bucky kisses her cheek to wake her. "I've gotta go, sweetheart."

Natasha kisses him, lips demanding and fervent. "Stay out of trouble," she says.

"Stay safe."

"Always."

And there we go.

So, a few things: 1) This chapter is my explanation for the where-the-fuck-did-that-come-from Brutasha relationship in AOA. Seriously, Joss, what the fuck, dude. 2) Brutasha just so happened to mirror a few themes I'd been playing with for Bucky/Nat. So, a begrudging thanks. 3) THE FEELS WE FINALLY GOT I LOVE YOU YAS THIS IS WHAT I WAITED 23 CHAPTERS TO WRITE FUCK YES.

*takes calming breath*

On another note, there's been chatter (both by me and my lovely reviewers) about sequel potential. Won't lie, I'd love to continue this. Bucky and Nat still have so many places to go and ways to grow. The thing is, I'm super busy finishing my last year of graduate school and working on my application for the Navy. I've only done some outlining about what I'd like a sequel to look like. I've also been working on a group of one-shots that leads up to Civil War and gives us some character insights during the events of the movie. All BuckyNat centric. It mirrors the same format as Haunting Memories that I posted before this story. Hopefully I can get that posted in the next few weeks.

Anyway, sequel: Do you want one? If so, what do you want to see? Steve's reaction to Bucky/Nat? Sam's reaction? Everyone's reaction? A pseudo-Black Widow movie with a Red Room storyline? Bucky's trial so he can be exonerated? Bucky joining Avengers? The list is endless people, and I need help controlling plot bunnies. Also, if I were to do a sequel, it would definitely be AU since I'd have to ignore what we saw in the leaked Infinity Wars trailer because I don't want to write my own version of Infinity War. I'll happily let the Russo Bros. do that.

So! Thoughts! Review! *blows kisses*

See you soon (hopefully),

AC