[nerves_of_ice]

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.

Comments

[nerves_of_ice]

"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.

[redintheledger]

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.

[nerves_of_ice]

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."

[redintheledger]

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?"

[nerves_of_ice]

"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?"

[redintheledger]

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."

[nerves_of_ice]

"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?"

[redintheledger]

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."

[nerves_of_ice]

"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.

[redintheledger]

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.

[nerves_of_ice]

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."

[redintheledger]

"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?"

[nerves_of_ice]

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?"

[redintheledger]

"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?"

[nerves_of_ice]

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?"

[redintheledger]

"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."

[nerves_of_ice]

"... 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."

[redintheledger]

"Deal, Comrade Winter Soldier."

[nerves_of_ice]

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."

[redintheledger]

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

"Until then."

[nerves_of_ice]

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.

[redintheledger]

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.