howlingplayground | The Memening... Soulmate/Arranged Marriage Bucky Only

She watches him, eyes locked on his as she tries to read his reaction. For the most part, he's completely unreadable. It would be more a maddening if she didn't know many who'd say the same about her. The recognition is clear. She read his file, so she knows about his own tattoo. They're linked... She just doesn't yet know why.

Her eyes follow him as he steps closer. Clearly he knows something. She shakes her head, "No. I didn't know it was dangerous, then." Pausing, she tilts her head at him. "Why have they been looking for me? What does this mean?"

He shakes his head, finally taking off the old cap and pushing his flesh hand through his hair. "I don't know." He admits. "HYDRA... they would say that if I had a tattoo, there is a pair out there. Meaning they're linked, somehow, but I don't know how." He sighs. "Maybe, if I had my memories... but I don't know."

And that frustrates him to no end. He wants to know, wants to protect her, and he can't. The harder he tries, the fuzzier it gets. "Have you asked him?" He might know - something from their shared past, perhaps.

She nods slowly, thinking. He would know how HYDRA operates, so she trusts his speculation. That's worrying.

"Good thing I'm good at hiding. And that very few know about this." She gives him a smirk. Really. She's been avoiding trained goons since she was a child. She avoided him for long enough. The mention of Steve erases that smirk and she shakes her head. "No. I didn't want him asking questions. Or getting him involved more than he already is." She pauses, looking up at him. "I wanted to talk to you, myself."

She may be good at hiding from goons, but HYDRA had hidden in SHIELD for almost seventy years. They're very good at hiding too.

He sighs and finally sits on the couch, putting his face into his hands for a moment. He wonders if he had his memories, if he could tell her of things from his childhood, adulthood, anything, if that would solve this mystery.

"HYDRA," he says, sticking to Russian, because how do you English, "they often had books strewn about. Magic, fairy tales, everything from Norse gods to Little Bo Peep." Obviously the whole 'Norse God' thing is true, but what about the rest? "Maybe they were looking for something?"

She follows, sitting on the coffee table so she can face him and give him a little space. She doesn't want him to feel like she's crowding him, after all.

Magic... She frowns, nodding a little. "That makes sense. They were researching the Tesseract, and Hitler was into supernatural things..." She paused, "Little Bo Peep? Really?"

"Hitler... knew nothing of what real power was. He left that to Schmidt. And then, Schmidt's pet." Who had turned him into a monster. He clenches his fists, remembering waking up and seeing the metal arm and wondering how they'd pulled that off, but then remembering nothing, due to the deep freeze.

He glances at her. "There is truth in fairy tales." He says softly, the Russian rolling out of him, so much easier than English right now. He's still half-feral and his mind can only function on one level, he's so tired.

She understands. She'd studied history, of course... The difference is he lived much of it. One eyebrow arches at the mention of Zola. "I met his pet. Well... What was left of him in the end. Gotta say, not a fan."

She isn't trying to make him laugh, but if she does? Bonus. Sighing, she leans forward, running her hands through her hair. "Do you think there's some fairy tale about this? These tattoos?"

He sighs, sitting back. It figures that Zola had figured out some way to survive. The damned little Swiss rat. He runs his flesh hand over his face. "I don't know..." He trails off, knowing certain things that won't help, but he's staring at the ceiling, watching a spider crawl across the white expanse. "It's the only thing we have." He points out. Really, what else are they going to do? He'd say ask Steve, but Steve would get suspicious, and the damned bloodhound that he is, would root out what's going on.

He wishes he could talk to others. Second World War vets, maybe someone from the old neighborhood. Someone, anyone that might know something. "What about Thor?" Or better.... "Or his brother?" Because they might know more than they did.

"They don't really get cell phone reception in Asgard." Nat smirks. But it's not a bad idea. There's got to be someone who knows something. Someone they can trust.

She echoes his sigh, dropping her head into her hands as she thinks. Her fingers tangle in her hair as she wracks her brain for anyone who might know something, or any thoughts at all about what those tattoos might mean. "We're connected somehow. The question is... how?" She had heard myths about people being tied together by invisible 'strings of fate,' something that links people together as soulmates or something childish like that. But tattoos... that's not one she's familiar with.

He huffs out what's close to a laugh. Cell reception in Asgard. Funny? A little. He continues watching the spider slowly making it's way over the ceiling. She's right. They're connected, somehow, someway. Red strings of fate are a thing in some folklore (Hey, he reads) but this isn't that. He's pretty sure, anyway.

"I've had the tattoo, since before HYDRA got me." He murmurs. Which means, long before her birth. So, the question becomes.... "When did you get yours?" He raises his head, watching the top of her head. It's really hard to lift his head. Harder than it should be. He's exhausted.

She smiles at that laugh. Soldat still has a sense of humor, that's good to know. At his question, she sits up. Her hands continue the motion, pushing her hair back from her face before falling to rest by her hips. She purses her lips as she thinks. When had she gotten it?

Finally, she shakes her head, "I'm not entirely sure. Likely sometime while I was in training. Why? What are you thinking?" She doesn't remember everything that happened in the Red Room, or much of her life before it, so it's likely she was given the tattoo sometime during that time.

He scowls. "What if... What if they're something that shows up, randomly?" He asks, leaning his head back again. It feels better leaning it back, but he might fall asleep, unfortunately.

"Mine showed up before HYDRA. That means World War II. You weren't born, so how did it know to show up?" He asks, tired and strung out and getting more and more that way. He should sleep.

She sighs, shaking her head. "Seems like too big a coincidence to me. I don't like coincidences."

It's obvious how exhausted he is. Standing, she extends a hand. "You need to rest. We can figure this out once you've had some sleep."

He sighs and takes her hand, getting to his feet. He's too tired to think clearly. He's too strung out to think clearly. A good solid four hours to sleep and he'd be able to string together proper sentences.

"How close is the library?" Because books have answers. To hell with the internet. "Maybe check there?" He'll be fine for a few hours. He'll be unconscious.

She keeps a hold of his hand, making sure he's solid on his feet. He might be a super soldier, but even they fall down sometimes.

"So old fashioned." She smirks. "It's not far, but I'm not leaving you alone. We're not far away enough, yet." She gently tugs him towards the bedroom. "You rest. I'll keep watch. I can do some digging on the internet for now. We'll check out the library once you're awake."

He can stand and walk! Just not do much more than that. And he probably will sleep better knowing that she's there to keep watch. He, well, trust is a ways off, but he doesn't think she'll knife him in his sleep which is more than he can say for pretty much anyone else.

He follows her to the bedroom and stops before just faceplanting on the bed and takes his boots off. "Natalia?" It's the first time he's used the Russian name for her. It's the first time he's ever indicated that he knew it. "Thank you." The words are awkward on his tongue, unused and rusty, but they seem appropriate.

He crawls into the bed, and is asleep before she closes the door.

Nah. She respects him. If she ever has any intention of knifing him it would be to his face so he could fight back.

Hearing her name on his lips makes her smile. It's a strange feeling. She's distanced herself from that name. That life... But from him it sounds natural. "You're welcome, Soldat."

While he sleeps, she scours the internet for any myths about tattoos. She... Doesn't find much. But what she does find leaves her with more questions than answers. By the time he awakens, she's rubbing her eyes to relieve some of the strain from reading on the computer for so long.

He sleeps. For four hours, when he's wide awake and it takes him a moment to realize where he is. He can hear her, the sound of her breathing, and knows that everything is fine.

He can hear the muted traffic, and somewhere a dog barks beyond the windows.

Okay. Time to get up. He pushes himself up and puts his boots back on. "Any luck?" The Russian is smoother, less weary than before. He wants to stick to it, since anyone listening? Will have to find a translator and by the time they do that, he can change languages.

Four hours can often be plenty of sleep for someone like them. Nat thinks nothing of it when he gets up and joins her at the table. She looks up and smiles a little. He certainly looks better. That's a good start.

"Not much. All I keep finding are histories of tattooing and mythology behind specific tattoo designs." She hesitates a moment, "With one exception... There's a tale about soul mates finding each other because of a matching pair of tattoos." Glancing up at him, she gauges his reaction.

Four hours is more than enough for him. He's used to sleeping in two hours bursts. He also doesn't eat very often, though he probably should.

He frowns at the 'soul mates' comment. That's not what he was expecting. "How reliable is the source?" He asks, curious. If they think that they are soul mates... well, that's a cruel joke. He knows what she's been through. She has to know some of what he's been through. They aren't the kind of people to find soul mates.

She shrugs, "It's an old myth. You're the one who said we should look at fairy tales." Raising an eyebrow at him, she opens a file and spins the laptop towards him. She gestures to the screen before crossing her arms. "Read it for yourself. Who knows how reliable myths are."

She's dubious. She'd never put much stock in fairy tales and stories about boogie men. She isn't sure she wanted to rely on one such story.

An old myth. Something teases at the edge of his memory, and he wonders if something he can remember will help. He stares at the laptop, chasing the thought, but it is elusive.

Sighing, he reads the myth, and frowns. Sitting back he shoves his hair back out of his face. "There must be more to this." He says. Pulling up Google, he puts in "soul mate tattoos".

He gets thousands of results. The first one is an Eastern European myth that says that tattoos bind the pair together, even across time. Well. That would make sense, but it's on a less than reliable site. He wants actual proof.

"I don't suppose you know anyone who specializes in myths." He says, dryly.

She watches him, curious about his reactions. Of course, they're similar to her own. Disbelief and the desire for more concrete information.

Sighing, she leans back in her seat and crosses her arms. "I've never had any need for one. I'm sure we could find one, though. I have to make those calls to arrange for our travel. I'll see if anyone has any thoughts on who we could talk to." She gestures to the laptop, raising an eyebrow. "Unless we can track down someone who wrote about one of these myths. They have to know something they didn't put in their article."

Edited 2021-03-13 16:26 (UTC)

He crosses his arms, and just scowls at the computer. "Trinity College in Dublin, seems the closest." He's surprised at that. "Think we can get to Ireland?" He asks. The travel is all on her. He could hit a safe house, but she's right, they're probably watching them and will grab him there.

From Ireland, mainland Europe is a hop.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Alright; make your calls. We'll head to Ireland if we can, and find out more from this professor." Their Russian won't be out of place in Europe. And he speaks more languages. So, they'll be fine.

She nods. "I don't see why not. I'll see if I can get us a plane."

Pulling out her phone, she dialed a number from memory. It was an old contact in Canada who still owed her a few favors. A contact who had access to decommissioned military planes. As promised, she kept the phone on speaker as they spoke. They alternated between English and rapidly spoken French as they first scolded Natasha for not staying in contact, mentioned they saw what happened on the news, then asked what she needed. She detailed her plan, saying she had a friend who would be traveling with her. Once her contact had seen she'd been burned, they'd figured she might need to get away. They were already working on fixing a jet that would suit their needs. It would be ready by the time they got there. She thanked them and hung up.

Turning back to Bucky, she nodded. He'd been sticking to Russian, so she tactfully summarized, "We have transport. We just need to get to Newfoundland to get to it"

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