nerves_of

He'd hoped, after his first mission, to have proven himself sufficiently to be given another field assignment -- something that would let him use his particular skills to their fullest, for the benefit of Mother Russia and her people.

It's what had helped him hold fast to his official cover and the secret, unofficial one he'd crafted to put a veneer of plausibility on the Chinese intelligence from the supposed "engineer," even while the interrogators were working him over with every trick in their books - and some tricks he's certain had to come straight from that rat-faced doctor with his endless, agonizing tests--

-- well. No point dwelling on it; for whatever cause, he's not been given another mission. Not yet.

(He has no way of knowing the real reason... or the General's plans.)

No, instead, he is here, walking down yet another hallway, heading for yet another training room, under orders to assess the fighting skills of the latest Red Room recruit and do what he can to improve them.

It seems a waste of his time, but orders are orders, and there must be a purpose behind them.

He wouldn't think of disobeying... no matter how much it chafes.

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Romanova is already in the gymnasium, sitting on the ground and reading while she waits.

Not that she's immediately visible - she's sitting against the wall that the door is in, keeping the few chairs between her and the door. But when the door opens, she lifts her head, and waits for the man to walk in fully before getting to her feet.

Her eyes linger for a moment on his metal hand while she gives him a once-over to check weapons and stature, but just a moment. He's hardly the first man she's seen to lose a limb; the fact that he has a prosthetic is far more interesting. Still, despite her obvious youth, she gives him a sharp salute anyway.

(The book hangs by her side, the spine facing away from him.)

She's observant, at least.

He looks her over, taking several seconds to do so, then gives a crisp nod.

"Nataliya Alianovna?"

She's a slim girl, and one who looks young despite everything. Her short red hair does nothing to help that. But her eyes are sharp, and her stance balanced, albeit wary. Scars on her mostly bare arm.

"Yes, Comrade."

They never told her a rank - told her nothing, except that he was The Winter Soldier. And that this was a test.

There were, she was finding, tests all over the damn place.

He nods again.

"Why are you here?"

Innocent questions are the most dangerous, of course; very few realize just how much of a weapon words can be, what they can hide or reveal.

The real question is: will she?

Her expression turns a little surprised, but she answers promptly enough.

"To be tested. so they know if I am capable of serving as they want me to."

She sounds perfectly sincere, a faithful Soviet soldier.

"And because I was told to be here on time," she adds.

The corner of his mouth twitches with what might be amusement.

"And if you had not been told to be on time, Nataliya Alianovna, what would you have done?"

"Been here earlier, Comrade."

She steps out from behind the chairs, as if to be polite, and puts the book down on one of them. The Complete Sherlock Holmes, in English.

He continues to watch her as she moves, his glance flicking briefly to the book--

--at which point a flash of surprise is clearly visible.

"You like his mysteries?" he asks.

In English.

She studies his face and then, cautiously, smiles.

A little bit.

"Yes. They're interesting," she says. English, heavily accented but clear. "And it's...uh, good to think of plot. And they are friends."

He smiles back. It transforms the harsh lines of his face, bringing real humor and openness to his expression.

"They are," he agrees, still in English, as he reaches with his prosthetic arm to grab the back of the nearest chair and draw it around so that he can sit down.

"... a classic," the Brit insists, waving a book in the air before he tosses it to --

-- someone --

-- (a blond man?) --

"You both should read it..."

He shakes his head slightly as if to clear away the stray thought, even as he says,

"Friendship like theirs is rare, I'm afraid."

It's a kind smile. It might be a lie (and even as she smiles back, open as if her city had never been bombed to ruin and her country invaded, she does not fully trust), but there is a kindness there.

Kindness and humour are things to be enjoyed, because they might not last. She's learned that lesson very well.

"Yes. But it is good to believe in. Friends. And...caring. Holmes and Watson cares about people, and helps them. It's nice."

The smile fades, like a ripple stilling on a pond.

"Am I allowed to sit?"

"Da. Yes," he tells her, switching back and forth between Russian and English as easily as breathing. "Sit, please."

She is beginning to interest him, this young red-headed recruit, with her accented English and her book of mystery stories and her scarred arm. There is more here than he had expected to find.

Inwardly, he accepts that they had been right to send him here. Of course they had known what they were doing. He should not have doubted - not that he had let anyone see him doing so. He knows better.

"It is nice. And hey, we all need something to believe in, right?"

His English is casual and comfortable, and slides easily into the rhythm of American speech.

She bobs her head in acknowledgment of his permission, and moves the chair with the book on it around so she can face him. Then she sits, book firmly in hand. Protective, almost, but her fingers curl around the spine.

(Easy enough to throw, if she needs a weapon)

"As long as it's the right thing. Yes."

"The right thing," he repeats. "Sure. Of course."

A single beat of silence, as his eyes meet hers.

"Why are you here, Nataliya Alianovna? Why you?"

She doesn't look away, but it's not from fear.

"I am good at things. Learning languages from the soldiers who destroyed my city. Killing them, too. Not being killed in return."

Not fear, no false pride, just matter-of-fact honesty.

"I have no family, no...loyalties but Russia. That's why me."

He studies her for a second or two longer, then offers her his right hand to shake.

"Then by the time we are through," he promises, quietly, "you will be better than good."

Keeping her body loose in case she has to move quickly, Romanova leans forward to shake his hand. Her hand is the same as the rest of her; slim, unexpectedly rough. Closer, the scars scattered over her arm are a mixture of fading shrapnel cuts and a set of punctures, as if she'd been bitten.

"I look forward to that," she says, back to speaking her mother tongue.

"I am glad to hear it," he answers, matching his language to hers. "I hope you mean it, though--"

It's all the warning he gives. Even as his right hand meets hers, his left moves, more quickly than any metal should be able to.

The knife makes a sharp tzing! as it leaves its sheath, aimed for her ribcage.

She moves: twisting his hand to free hers as she dives to the side to avoid the knife. Being on the ground isn't the best idea, so she keeps moving, kicking the chair at him as she scrambles back.

"Good!"

He leaps to his feet as well, raising his right arm in time to deflect the chair she's kicked, accepting the bruising blow as worth the trade.

His metal hand flashes to the side, and the knife goes flying, embedding itself into the wall on the other side of the room. Both hands now free, he sweeps the chair up and throws it back at her, then snatches up his own chair and holds it as a partial shield between them as he moves sideways into a combat crouch.

The chair she dodges easily, springing back to her feet with all the uneasy grace of a street-cat. He's a half a foot taller than her, both well-fed and muscled, and that arm.

And she's armed with a book.

Fantastic.

Except there is the knife. In the wall. She doesn't look at it, just keeps her attention on him.

"Don't fight in the open," she says. German, this time. "But, this is a test, uh," she runs her spare hand through her hair, as if nervous, and pulls out one of her hair-pins as she does, the movement barely noticeable.

Edited 2013-03-11 06:34 (UTC)

... her German is better than his.

He can understand her, to be sure, but answering -- for some reason, he's not sure why, he's always had trouble when it comes to speaking German. He finds it ... distasteful, somehow.

"Oui," he answers, instead, and continues in French. "I will test you, and if you can, you should test me."

His smile flashes again, with a hint of teasing challenge.

French, Romanova's expression says with a good deal of eloquence, is cheating.

"I don't understand a fucking word you're saying," she says, thus using up a good deal of her Romanian. There is a small amount of thrill at swearing at someone who, even if he is rankless, outranks her - but test. This is a test, and she can read that smile of his.

A challenge.

Back to German, then, given he didn't reply in it.

"So, a lesson. We're in the open. You're bigger. You will teach me how to attack you," she adds, walking as she talks. Careful steps - uncertain, really.

"In war, I run away. Come back when you don't-" without changing breath or giving any warning, she lunges in, feinting at the last minute and aiming a kick at his kneecap.

"Expect it?" he finishes - in German, distasteful or not.

He spins on one leg to evade the kick, letting it flow past him, and uses the motion to slam the flat of his metal palm toward the book she's still holding like a shield.

"Run, yes, when you have no other option, but better than to run is for them to not see you as a threat, Romanova. You can make them believe it; then they will never think to look - and will never see your attack coming."

Rather than resist his attack on her shield, Romanova uses the force and flows with it, bouncing off his hand to pivot on her heel and send the heavy book at his head as she moves.

"Just a little girl," she agrees. She's eighteen, and looks younger - harmless.

Harmless little girl trying to get him to move more into the centre of the gym, away from the wall more so her quickness can offset his reach.

He ducks to the side, away from the book, moving into the open space and starting to circle to the side around her.

"Many men underestimate women." That flicker of amusement is back, in the momentary flash of a sardonic smile.

"Many men are fools. Our enemy has many, many fools, nicht wahr?"

"Men learn. You shouldn't...rely on them being stupid."

Stalingrad taught her that.

She can tell what he is doing, but her face merely goes blank instead of irritated. One sidestep, two, threefourfive, and she lunges at him again, her fist with the sharp hairpin swinging.

"Agreed," he says, and switches back to Russian. "Rely on yourself and what you can do, instead."

This time, he doesn't dodge, even when a glint of light flashes from the sharp point of her improvised weapon. He brings up his right arm in a blocking motion, accepting the injury that's likely to come -- and throws a boxer's punch to her gut with his left.

The force of her first behind her pin makes it a better weapon than one might think - you'd certainly not want to get in your eye - but it's still a hairpin. Her fist with the point connects with his arm, but before she can bring the book around to aim for his temple, his punch knocks the air out of her.

With a savage curse, she stumbles back, grabs another breath, and throws herself back at him, concentrating on his right side. This time, her punch is a feint, draw attention away as she sends her foot towards his knee.

He has learned what he needs to know; it will do, for now.

Instead of dodging away from either the punch or the kick, he does the unexpected and turns into them instead. The instant her strikes pass their intended targets, he turns sharply back to the left, sweeping his right leg around beneath hers, still raised from the kick, and into her other leg, knocking her off balance.

As he turns, he sends a swift elbow strike backwards with his right arm, aiming to hit her at the vulnerable center point just below where her ribs meet over her chest - and making sure to pull the blow just enough that it should not cause paralyzing pain, but only knock the air from her as the momentum drops them both to the ground.

"Enough!" he commands - and to his own surprise as well as anyone else's, he is smiling.

"More than enough. Very good, Romanova."

Between his elbow and the floor, she's winded enough to be momentarily stunning. But her instinct is to move, to get away, to roll over away from him and -

She stops at the order, her palm open on the ground to push herself up, the book forgotten.

"...I passed?"

"Yes," he confirms, still smiling. He sits up and turns to face her, drawing his right leg up and draping his right arm comfortably over his knee.

"You passed. Do you want to know why?"

She watches him as she sits up, wiping her pin across her trouser leg before sliding it back into her hair. Grabbing her book and holding it close to her chest, she nods.

"I do, Comrade."

"Skill can be taught. What can not be taught is what is most important; what is here--"

He taps the side of his head, his gaze never leaving her.

"-- and what is here."

He touches the fingers of his right hand to his chest, over his heart.

"You are smart, and you never stopped thinking, never stopped looking for a way to win against me. You never stopped trying. You never quit. You never gave up."

("Sometimes I think you like getting punched."

"I had him on the ropes.")

"That sort of thing is much, much more rare than skill, and highly to be prized."

He grins, then.

"Not that you're bad there, either. Street fighting?"

Romanova listens to him, meeting his gaze steadily. Whatever she thinks of the compliment, it doesn't show behind a quiet nod.

"Stalingrad makes us stubborn," she says, all mingled pride over her city and pain over the battle and destruction the Germans wrought.

Then she grins back at him, sharp and bright. "Some of the soldiers showed me a couple of things. But...yes. Street fighting."

"A good place to start."

He plants his left hand against the floor and pushes himself upward, rising to his feet with ease, then offers his right hand to help her do the same.

She watches him for a moment, weighing him and his offer up.

And then she reaches out, takes his hand, and gets to her feet.

He lets go as soon as she's standing, and crosses the room to retrieve his knife from the wall.

"I will make my report, and then we will begin your training. Tomorrow, I think."

"I'll be here, should they give me the orders."

He can make reports: if she's learned nothing else from the Red Army, things are run on whim as much as procedure.

"Can I ask a question?"

The corner of his mouth quirks with amusement at her correction.

(She has no way of knowing that he's already been given his orders; but she is right, of course. They could change their minds.)

He turns back to her, sheathing the knife with absent ease.

"Yes," he replies. "What is your question, Romanova?"

"If I am allowed to," she says slowly, as if her speech were the verbal equivalent of walking through a minefield, "could you teach me to speak English like you do?

Sound like an American?"

He blinks, once; it's the only sign of his surprise before his eyes narrow and he considers her.

"Sure I could," he says, in English, and switches back to Russian.

"Why?"

"Because you speak it...very well," Romanova says, in English. "No sounding Russian. That is useful. Like I will be."

Then the girl smiles, just a little.

"Maybe I teach you German."

Edited 2013-03-17 03:07 (UTC)

"... I can see you're going to keep me on my toes," he returns, in English once again, and smiles back.

"It's a square deal. I'll teach you, Romanova, and you teach me."

"Deal, Comrade Winter Soldier."

He nods to her, and turns to move toward the exit. One hand on the door, he glances back over his shoulder at her, and sardonic amusement twitches once again at the corner of his mouth.

"Until next time."

She straightens and snaps her heels together, giving him a nod and a crisp salute.

"Until then."

His smile broadens, just for an instant, and then he leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

She may be young, she may have been through hell in Stalingrad, but there's something about her - not to mention she's got fight enough and to spare. He'll teach her everything he can, he decides, more than the mere basic standard.

He's even looking forward to it.

The girl waits until the door is shut before letting her shoulders slump, 'Comrade Romanova' almost running off her.

Not that Natasha stays still.

She moves to the wall, hugging her heavy book to her chest. She's inside, sure, but the building is above ground. Roofs fall before walls. Usually.

The gym's wall is solid under her hand, and with a touch of irritation, Natasha takes a deep breath and pulls herself back to together, pressing her face against the top of her book. It's a bit more battered now, the spine protesting a little over its treatment, and in the safety of her mind, Natasha apologizes to it.

It'd been a useful shield, though, and it'd managed to get the Winter Soldier's attention. She was a bit more of a person to him now. At least, she hopes she is. It broke the ice, and hopefully if the lessons were allowed to go through, she could build on that start of a connection. She can't rely on Bruskin's support and protection forever, not if she didn't want to end up in Siberia. Or shot.

It's a start, and her next breath is a bit easier. She'd passed, and it's a start at forging an alliance, and hey, the man had said she'd never stopped trying to get at him.

Because her head is bowed over Sherlock Holmes, Natasha allows herself a tiny smile. She didn't need the Winter Soldier to tell her that men underestimate little girls.

She'd learned that lesson years ago.

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