James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nerves_of_ice) wrote2014-03-01 08:10 pm
nerves_of_ice) wrote2014-03-01 08:10 pm
He and Shostakova report together to Comrade Lieutenant Budanov, who accepts both the written shipping files that he hands over and his verbal report on the trip there and back. Budanov nods a few times along the way, then peppers Shostakova with questions before sending her to report to Comrade Sergeant Tkachyova for further instructions.
She handles herself well. He hadn't expected anything less.
It's two weeks before he sees her again, two weeks in which he grits his teeth, endures a battery of laboratory tests and painful scrutiny, and spends every free minute training in the gymnasium or on the range. It keeps him busy and leaves him little time to think, which is just as well.
He's in the gymnasium, in fact, when she walks in, accompanied by Tkachyova, Budanov, and a small host of others of varying rank. Budanov leads most of them to the seats set aside for observers; Tkachyova mutters something sharp to Shostakova before going to join them, a clipboard in her hand and a pen poised to take notes.
His expression doesn't change as she joins him in the ring.
As before, he's the first to attack, and as before, she evades the strike - but this time, she falls into a combat stance of her own. They circle each other, testing, assessing; aware of the watchers' eyes on them both, yes, but only in the most abstract sense. What's here in the ring is all; this fight, this test of the two of them together, is everything.
Even so, he's not expecting it when her sideways kick catches him in the ribcage, sending him staggering, off balance. She follows up quickly, moving forward to grab hold of him and then dropping back and down as she plants her foot, sending him flying over her head in a perfect tomoe-nage throw. He lands flat on his back in the middle of the ring, hearing the air whoosh out of him; even at that, it's a quieter sound than the sudden harsh gasps among the onlookers. He's back on his feet quickly enough, and the fight continues.
By the time they're done, both of them are breathing heavily and each bruised from the various blows they've traded - but there's quick, silent satisfaction in the look they exchange as Budanov calls an end to the match. As though they'd planned it, they turn in fluid harmony to face the audience for a moment before separating and crossing each to their own side of the ring. They duck through the ropes and are each joined by their handling officer. He doesn't watch as she leaves with Tkachyova, but mops his face with a towel as Budanov approaches him.
"Very good, Comrade Winter." Budanov's far too skilled a lieutenant to let his relief show, although he's nearly sick with thankfulness at how well this little show has gone. Not that he'd ever truly doubted his charge - charges, now - but he's been very, very aware of both the colonel's and the general's interest. "The two of you will be leaving soon for your next mission."
"Ah. And where will we be going?"
"Paris," Budanov tells him. "Your cover will be that of an American businessman, one in shipping."
He hesitates for an instant at the oddly wry expression that flickers over the Winter Soldier's features, but the man says nothing, and so he continues,
"She'll be your wife, of course. You'll be Boris and Nancy Rushman--"
"Faugh!" the Winter Soldier interrupts, turning a look of pure disgust on him. "An American named Boris? Are you mad, or just trying to get us caught?"
"Of course not!" Budanov snaps back. "If not Boris, then something else - Pyotr, perhaps, or--"
"James." Flatly said, with no room for argument.
Budanov stares at the Winter Soldier. "James? Why James?"
The other man shrugs. "Why not? It's American, to be sure, which is better than what you came to me with."
"Fine. I'll notify them of the change. Is there anything else?" Budanov finishes, sardonically, daring him to challenge him again.
The Winter Soldier shakes his head. "No, Comrade Lieutenant." A beat. "The general won't regret this."
"See that none of us do."
She handles herself well. He hadn't expected anything less.
It's two weeks before he sees her again, two weeks in which he grits his teeth, endures a battery of laboratory tests and painful scrutiny, and spends every free minute training in the gymnasium or on the range. It keeps him busy and leaves him little time to think, which is just as well.
He's in the gymnasium, in fact, when she walks in, accompanied by Tkachyova, Budanov, and a small host of others of varying rank. Budanov leads most of them to the seats set aside for observers; Tkachyova mutters something sharp to Shostakova before going to join them, a clipboard in her hand and a pen poised to take notes.
His expression doesn't change as she joins him in the ring.
"Nataliya Alianovna? Why are you here?"
"To be tested. So they know if I am capable..."
As before, he's the first to attack, and as before, she evades the strike - but this time, she falls into a combat stance of her own. They circle each other, testing, assessing; aware of the watchers' eyes on them both, yes, but only in the most abstract sense. What's here in the ring is all; this fight, this test of the two of them together, is everything.
Even so, he's not expecting it when her sideways kick catches him in the ribcage, sending him staggering, off balance. She follows up quickly, moving forward to grab hold of him and then dropping back and down as she plants her foot, sending him flying over her head in a perfect tomoe-nage throw. He lands flat on his back in the middle of the ring, hearing the air whoosh out of him; even at that, it's a quieter sound than the sudden harsh gasps among the onlookers. He's back on his feet quickly enough, and the fight continues.
By the time they're done, both of them are breathing heavily and each bruised from the various blows they've traded - but there's quick, silent satisfaction in the look they exchange as Budanov calls an end to the match. As though they'd planned it, they turn in fluid harmony to face the audience for a moment before separating and crossing each to their own side of the ring. They duck through the ropes and are each joined by their handling officer. He doesn't watch as she leaves with Tkachyova, but mops his face with a towel as Budanov approaches him.
"Very good, Comrade Winter." Budanov's far too skilled a lieutenant to let his relief show, although he's nearly sick with thankfulness at how well this little show has gone. Not that he'd ever truly doubted his charge - charges, now - but he's been very, very aware of both the colonel's and the general's interest. "The two of you will be leaving soon for your next mission."
"Ah. And where will we be going?"
"Paris," Budanov tells him. "Your cover will be that of an American businessman, one in shipping."
He hesitates for an instant at the oddly wry expression that flickers over the Winter Soldier's features, but the man says nothing, and so he continues,
"She'll be your wife, of course. You'll be Boris and Nancy Rushman--"
"Faugh!" the Winter Soldier interrupts, turning a look of pure disgust on him. "An American named Boris? Are you mad, or just trying to get us caught?"
"Of course not!" Budanov snaps back. "If not Boris, then something else - Pyotr, perhaps, or--"
"James." Flatly said, with no room for argument.
Budanov stares at the Winter Soldier. "James? Why James?"
The other man shrugs. "Why not? It's American, to be sure, which is better than what you came to me with."
"Fine. I'll notify them of the change. Is there anything else?" Budanov finishes, sardonically, daring him to challenge him again.
The Winter Soldier shakes his head. "No, Comrade Lieutenant." A beat. "The general won't regret this."
"See that none of us do."