Cheated of feature by dissembling nature;

[grimvisaged]

Earlier today, he'd stood barefoot in his post-shower fog and stared down the hazy figure staring back at him through the filmed bathroom mirror: Dark, bedraggled, indistinct. Fueled by a nameless compulsion, he'd snatched up the razor from its place amongst the neat line of complimentary toiletries, and didn't wipe the steam from the mirror until he'd finished.

It was a poor job, with patches of stubble and shaving cream overlooked, and he can't say whether he feels more or less like himself, not knowing what that feels like in the first place. All he knows is that it felt a little like relief to look into the mirror and see someone different there.

Hair still hanging in a damp and stringy curtain around his freshly-shaven face, he's now sitting in the corner of her room, a figure half in shadow, waiting for her to return.

Unlike Rogers, she almost always knows when he's watching her. She's patient and does not force his hand, but there is volumes to be read in her silent acknowledgment of his presence: The subtle stiffening of her posture or casual flick of her gaze. They speak the same rarefied language, they two, and there is a certain thrill which accompanies the knowledge that he is, in fact, not as singular as he had once believed.

Unlike Rogers, who comes packaged with a compelling yet overwhelming burden, she demands nothing of the man he is nor of the man he used to be. She is simply waiting for the day when his resolve breaks and he does more than watch her from the shadows. They both knew it was coming; it's been coming since he first laid eyes on her, here. It should bother him more how futile it's been, resisting her inexorable pull.

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[grimvisaged]

The memories of his missions are as hazy as those of who he was Before, but he has always been fully cognizant of his own abilities. He was crafted to be both relentless and accurate, and some part of him is aware that this woman is only alive now because he made the distinct decision not to kill her. It's a distant acknowledgment now, however, the remorse and bitter frustration of what he had done blotting everything else out.

He tilts his head away with a stuttered intake of breath, finding he can't look at her any longer, wondering how much of what he remembers of her is from loving her and how much is from when she was his target. The arm of the chair sharply cracks before he's even realized he'd been gripping it again.

He glances down at the silver glint of his hand and then away again.

"I'm sorry," he says, not meaning the chair.

[regimes_fall]

Her own instincts were a painful vice around her heart as unchecked and forgotten words and emotions swelled up in her and she clamped them down tight. The sight of him purposefully turning his face away from her was not one she hadn't expected, and still it stung to see the distance between them measured so exactly. He was not hers to touch, he was not anyone's anymore, and that stung, too.

She took a deep, calming breath through her nose when the chair cracked audibly in the room and his gruff apology followed soon after. It would seem little more than lip service to tell him that it was all forgiven, even though it was. Even worse to tell him that it would all be okay, because she could not ever speak for his life or his choices, even though she thought he could carve a way out in the world over time. She surely had.

"I'm fine," she told him as she moved to pick up the scissors once more, figuring a turn back onto more neutral territory was in order. "The shots healed, and they've never given me any problem since." She touched the final section of hair remaining to be cut, now drying soft and slightly wavy at the tips. "May I finish?"

[grimvisaged]

Having it stated aloud so clearly hurts him more than he might have imagined, even after having resigned himself to his own bloody legacy. Her mouth forming the words is a wound reopened, hastily-sewn stitches popped, and it takes him a moment more to swallow it roughly down.

Ironically enough, it is also her voice which brings him back to himself: Pragmatic, strong, brooking little argument even from him. This is why he loved her, he thinks. This is what sets her apart.

He nods his assent and obediently lifts his chin again, although his gaze refuses to be drawn back.

"Thank you," he quietly allows.

[regimes_fall]

Natasha remained silent as she lifted the remaining section of his hair between her fingers and began to align it for the final snips, her scissors near silent and swift, but not so swift as to be hasty. She knew he would leave her when she was done, and then only God knew when she would see him again. She was not a clingy person, or an overly demonstrative one, but she wanted to hold him close to her. Wanted to ask him to stay, even if they only sit in silence, but she knew that he would not, and she didn’t have the strength required to make herself so vulnerable to him just yet.

It was almost a shame she wouldn’t speak to Rogers about him, she thought. Of the three of them, he was the only one who clearly remembered what it was like to love James Barnes, and be loved by him in return. It would’ve been nice to have her shades of memory confirmed, but it was a luxury not meant for the likes of her, she was certain. If love for the man in front of her was hiding somewhere inside her, she wanted to discover it again for herself.

“There you go,” she said as she took a step back to admire her work, allowing the last, soft strands of his hair to fall to the ground beside him. Before her he was beautiful and bare-faced, and very carefully not meeting her gaze, for all she couldn’t stop looking at him. “You look very nice,” she added on before leaning in to dust the hair from his shoulders.

[grimvisaged]

When he had slipped into this room to wait for her, his goal had been simply to look different. It surprises him a little now to learn that some part of him is pleased by the compliment, a long-buried vanity scratching its way through the layers of his memory. He wonders, but doesn't ask, if she remembers how he looked when they were lovers, whether it was more like one or the other. He wonders if he had stopped caring by then.

His head feels lighter, and he lifts the fingers of his right hand to skim across the freshly-cut ends of his hair, feeling where the strands fall against his cheek. When he stands, he crosses wordlessly to the mirror, trailing pieces of hair across the floor, and then stares at the man beyond, at this hybrid of the two people he used to be. He flicks his gaze over and finds Natasha behind his reflection, watches her as if she were on the other side of the mirror instead of in the room with him. He finds himself always wanting to touch her, but she seems so often like his memory—Distant and unreachable, held carefully behind the glass.