[If Natasha wasn't dreaming, if Bucky Barnes wasn't a very odd echo thrown out by her subconscious, she'd rock back on her heels, avoid the touch. But she is dreaming, he is an odd echo, so she stays still. This might as well happen.
Their chests light up with the eerie blue glow she's still struggling to consider her new normal, and feelings flood between them. From her, he gets a tumble of surface level tired frustration mixed in with a deeper kind of ache that's harder to name.
Certainty -- transferred through the touch -- sinks into Natasha's bones. The feeling of him is entirely foreign to her. An entity all on its own, and nothing like anything she might dream up.
Her clothes change again. Dark cargo pants with more pockets than she know what to do with, stiff leather boots still waiting to be broken in, and a simple black tank top. All things currently sitting neatly beneath the bed in the small apartment she shares with three strangers. Her hair is a mess of red curls, shorter than she's ever worn them, a couple of inches short of looking nice.
Color floods into the landscape. The cliffs still starkly gray and shaded, but the sky tinges a soft pink like dawn is coming.
He's real.]
You're real?
[A sharp look of longing flickers through Natasha eyes. Her face open and vulnerable for a fraction of a second before her features shift back to the carefully guarded expression that's her default.
She used to tease Steve -- a man out of time -- for the way he clung to things from the past. His past. Now she understands.
Sorry. This changes things. Shifts priorities. Forget the cliff, the fall, waking up, falling back asleep. Forget breaking this.]
You're here. How long? Where? When? Did it-- [Did it work? Did she fall for nothing? But the question sticks in her throat; she's not ready to know that yet.]
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Their chests light up with the eerie blue glow she's still struggling to consider her new normal, and feelings flood between them. From her, he gets a tumble of surface level tired frustration mixed in with a deeper kind of ache that's harder to name.
Certainty -- transferred through the touch -- sinks into Natasha's bones. The feeling of him is entirely foreign to her. An entity all on its own, and nothing like anything she might dream up.
Her clothes change again. Dark cargo pants with more pockets than she know what to do with, stiff leather boots still waiting to be broken in, and a simple black tank top. All things currently sitting neatly beneath the bed in the small apartment she shares with three strangers. Her hair is a mess of red curls, shorter than she's ever worn them, a couple of inches short of looking nice.
Color floods into the landscape. The cliffs still starkly gray and shaded, but the sky tinges a soft pink like dawn is coming.
He's real.]
You're real?
[A sharp look of longing flickers through Natasha eyes. Her face open and vulnerable for a fraction of a second before her features shift back to the carefully guarded expression that's her default.
She used to tease Steve -- a man out of time -- for the way he clung to things from the past. His past. Now she understands.
Sorry. This changes things. Shifts priorities. Forget the cliff, the fall, waking up, falling back asleep. Forget breaking this.]
You're here. How long? Where? When? Did it-- [Did it work? Did she fall for nothing? But the question sticks in her throat; she's not ready to know that yet.]