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Scarlett is a promiscuous purveyor of experiences with a capital E, happily employing dirty tricks to keep one of the more wanted souls in the western world content. Long as no one in SHIELD lies awake wondering about Bucky's whereabouts — and they do — and no sorties flown over New York airspace interrupt, the night is theirs.
A Broadway opening strobes the air with huge, long silver-white beams on a rotating cluster. More than a few streets over, another famed theatre opens 36 Hours in its New York debut, coinciding with the excitement in Los Angeles. Otherwise flakes fall slowly through the sky from intermittent flurries, thin clouds scoured and torn as they reach the grey harbour. Pretty, and admittedly unusual for a winter flight.
"I'd tell you to wear goggles, but I have the impression you might not have much view if you do," she warns him, suited up and standing on their rooftop in the dormant winter garden. A turtleneck and a good scarf are all she needs; flight suits can be overly fancy otherwise. "Would you fancy a run up the Hudson and then swing around Throg's Neck and down the East River?"
*
"Sure, sounds good," He's all wrapped up against far more cold than they're experiencing on the ground. Sweater and coat and long underwear, scarf and goggles, though the goggles are on his forehead. "Hell, anywhere you want to take me, sweetness," he adds. Hair pulled back tightly, so it won't be blowing in his face or hers in flight. All but bouncing in excitement.
*
"Iceland. The Blue Lagoon where the waters nigh glow under the aurora borealis. We can watch the dawn rise on the edge of the mountains and sea after hours floating under the blissful, bone-melting heat," she answers without preamble. No doubt the constant index of ideas simmer under the surface of Scarlett's quicksilver mind. "Elsewise Tahiti. I have fond memories of this lovely island, all azure lagoon and incredible reefs teeming with life, every stripe of fish imaginable, and ridiculously personable dolphins." Even this late into winter, Scarlett acquires a thorough travel bug, a lust to be off adventuring, nomad driven by the winds. Wavering possibilities carry on downriver when she tucks the loose ends of her scarf in and considers James, top to bottom, measuring up his physique.
"A harness," she murmurs, "would give you some freedom and mobility rather than cuddling up to me the whole time. Not that I regret in the least you holding me with unfailing devotion. But I could rig something up. Until then…" One step back and three up, and she bows from the waist in a complete jackknife, hand held out. "Whilst thou partake of this dance, o mine paramour?"
*
"I think it sounds like a good idea," he agrees. "Like mountain climbers - we can rope together for safety's sake." James, innocent soul, thinks only of that. "And…I'd love that. Never made it to Iceland before. Or the Pacific," A beat of pause, blank-eyed. "Well. Not to the nice parts of the Pacific." Murdering people somewhere in Kamchatka isn't the same. Then he's stepping into her embrace, hand to hand. "Thought ou'd never ask," he tells her, with an immense grin.
*
Somehow the tidal estuary of Long Island Sound comes to lack a great deal of charm compared to blue waters and blue aurorae. Cue recorrection in orientation, plans altered considerably. "Iceland takes about an hour and a half or so, at reasonable speeds." Green eyes flash in the shadows, enriched by a calculated recognition. Math and ideas crunch. Nonetheless, she lifts him up by the hand alone, her arm weaving around Bucky's midsection in a comfortable curl. "I will not lie, at the speeds I would travel, you will feel uncomfortable. Going more leisurely takes longer, though you can enjoy the view of Greenland and Labrador." Because that matters so much in the dark, following the Titanic's ill-fated berg back to a source. "Would that agency of yours possessed some kind of flight suit rendering you resistant to G-forces. Maybe. I shouldn't be thinking of stealing one."
While they speak, she's already ascending, snowflakes sticking to skin and clothes alike, sloughed off in a lazy drift.
*
"I dunno if even the astronauts get those," he says, musingly. The path to the Moon stretches out before NASA, but Glenn's already made his orbits. And Buck's been interested in it. "Well, we can strike a balance, maybe?" he says, arm around her, in turn. Looking down, watching the earth fall away beneath them, avid, rather than frightened. "Man, you're a miracle, sweetheart," he tells her.
*
"Newfoundland does not have volcanic hot springs. We can blitz there the coast and set you down to see how you are bearing up, then make a dead run after dawn. It will still be dark there much of the time," observes the redhead, bemused at the position of the stars painted in her head rather than anywhere in sight. Navigation by dead reckoning might be cause for fear. "Though something tells me I ought to turn south and set you down on a warm Caribbean island where we can dance in the worst of ways. Havana would elude American eyes, but further along the Windward Isles, our own little private wonder. Montserrat, say."
Let Bucky paint his own dreams about their whereabouts. She squeezes close, arms firm around him, and one of those lazy pirouettes spinning them wide. "No miracle, the price paid for this was too high. But it brings us here, so though the memories haunt me, I accept them for the privilege of you."
*
Bucky kisses her temple, for a moment. "Thanks," he says, tenderly. "Thanks," She's been through her own version of hell, hasn't she? "And Cuba might be a bad idea, but somewhere in the Caribbean. Hell, I'd go to Florida. I've never been, and I've heard the Gulf coast there is gorgeous. White sand beaches, warm water, fresh oranges," Speaks the child of the Depression, for whom oranges were exotic novelties. "Hot springs do sound good." He's pulled on mittens, the warmest hand coverings he's got.
*
He might be happier passing out in her arms, and awakening to the sunny glow of some distant vista unraveling at his feet. So speaks a child of the Depression to a nomad of the Wandervogel, the very embodiment of bohemian dreamers that wandered across the face of the US and further yet. Nestled together, the usual positioning points her backwards rather than leave James exposed to the cruelties of the lower atmosphere. "Make sure to appreciate the view and tell me when you see the ocean cutting away to land. We have a ways to go. As long as you can see, you'll stay intact. Speed demons, love."
Her toes curl in her boots and Scarlett lazily points a trajectory very clearly revealed as south, essentially inclined at the shallowest angle to break the wind against her shoulders. The build up of speed is always a rush and a terror, surely, the wind going from a gentle pat to a tearing, streaming friction rush of the rainbow.
*
The goggles may restrict the view, but they're essential to keep his eyes from tearing into sightlessness. The Soviets didn't give him nictating membranes, after all. He's got his mask, too, as well.
He can never relax i nto it, not with that rush of speed. Muffled from head to toe, no exposed skin lest he end up with frostbite. Clinging to her carefully - not hard enough to try and squeeze the breath out of her, but enough to keep contact.
*
Imagine what aircraft on patrol might think, had they even the cameras to keep up with her in any details. Redheaded girl laughing in the wind — immune to its bite, nearly, carrying the Winter Soldier in that characteristic black mask like a Hellfire or Sidewinder missile to unleash on the unsuspecting public. Perhaps they might somehow line Scarlett up for the Avenger she is, and presume she removes a troubling being from the airspace of the United States. Possibly they believe her fatally compromised, and in a sense she is, untrustworthy. As a lover in danger on the edge of a knife of longing, her loyalties are not easily detached.
Bone-jarring force always accompanies the first kick through the initial sonic barrier, the compressing air no impediment for the girl who would shatter it time and time again. Every morning begun dancing on the sky's rim deserves such rattling buisiness, though one day she might twirl in the barrens of the Great Karoo where only the startled, rare antelope lift their horned heads and spring away for safety. Another, she might play in the empty Atlantic. But sharing the moment with Bucky compels her to streak down the midnight coast, outlined in white spindrift and cold beaches, until snow is a distant memory. Flying backwards at that speed is initially a little dizzying, until the borrowed gyroscopic senses take over, and the brunt of atmospheric friction and violence give such imperfect friction. It's a good thing they're roughly the same size, it eases her ability to protect him. Words are nigh to pointless, but he might well see the face of the bohemienne laughing in pure exhilaration. This low in the atmosphere, the wetness of the briny surf and the humidity are both totally apparent.
*
Pleasant…and once they're far south enough the cold is less bitter, he motions for her to land them. Somewhere remote enough there are no city lights to glow on the horizon, the only lights the stars and moon above, and the distant ships out on the vast expanse of the sea. Let them pause and rest, let him stretch a little.
*
Give it roughly an hour and she will have traversed the length of the Thirteen Colonies in the greater portion, passing the drowned valley crushed by a long-ago bolide to open up Chesapeake Bay, the drowned wrack of Norfolk, and scudding past the Carolinas. Where the continent bulges outwards to hit Cape Hatteras, she has already cut inland, well away from the seashore, and all the inherent danger that could bring about being spotted. Whatever radar station picks up their signatures might set off some frantic radio warning here or there, but the only thing being bombed is potentially twenty-five miles outside Florence. They end up in a peach orchard, still by dark, in land so flat that getting turned around would be terribly easy.
The first thing she does is scratch an arrow pointing in the heading she held, though the starry sky overhead gives a good fix for the circumpolar constellations partly blurred by light of the moon.
*
He's the one breathing a little hard, though he's been doing none of the work. Mask, goggles, watchcap, are all peeled off so he can pant a moment, grinning at her incredulously. Then he leans over to give her a resounding set of kisses, first one on each cheek, the last on her mouth, her face cupped by mittened hands.
*
Scarlett has a few asanas lined up to perform: the warrior's pose, greeting the sun, surging forward into a deep lunge to give her knees a break. The triumphant back bridge until kicking over onto her hands and supporting her weight, lengthening her spine between the vertebrae to support the proper assumption of good form. All that comes after being kissed.
Thank the experience guiding her, the way James moves into her vicinity urging her to brace mentally but not with the fearful freeze-up witnessed in the past. A stilling of the mind and body comes naturally when flying is nigh to Zenlike for her. Still, the fizzing zing of a good champagne carbonates the meeting of their lips, the smack of lips softened into surprising depths when she tilts her head to him.
*
Another, longer kiss. The only fare he can offer for passage on this particular private airline. "You gotta teach me that," he says, musing as he watchesher. "God knows you're the most flexible woman I've ever met who wasn't actually in a circus. I wonder if I even could, with all the welds and bolts and stuff I have me."
*
Longer kisses will ever be the way to get first-class service, even if that means clinging desperately to the pilot while bombing across the horizon. Her hands fall upon his shoulders and knead firmly, almost rough, not with intention to hurt but stir up his circulation. "Try a few jumping jacks before you attempt anything for yoga, and then I can show you the simpler asanas. The forms are focused on core strength and balance when you begin," she murmurs, still a tad dizzy and glancing about in case any searchlights slice through the midnight sky. Then begins the asana rotation, one after the other. She starts at the simple one, balancing her legs wide, swiveling her torso and stretching out her arms at shoulder height as though casting a spear in classical statuary composition. "Wrapping up yourself like a pretzel attacked by a scarf, unlikely."
*
Buck laughs, unoffended. "Fair enough," he says, as he leans in to those hands. Muscles tight - it's always an effort to relax him. The Soviets didn't reconstruct him with any care for comfort, only function, and the asymmetries do get to him, at times. "I'm pretty flexible, but…you always seem so supple and relaxed."
*
Soviets never determined a woman who bends steel bars like pipecleaners to be responsible for massage therapy. Beating down his native resilience to finally relax comes more easily for a girl with persistence, and never mind the danger inherent in her touch. Rather like a poison dart frog combined with Atlas; one inadvertent touch, and that's game over for a while. "Never easily relaxed," she murmurs, "but I practice daily and learned from a guru some of the best techniques. He still corrects my form now and then. Though you can learn what I have, certainly." Transitioning from warrior to raising her palms directly over her head, arms arrow straight, Scarlett almost moans when her vertebra slides into a pop. "We'll be at the shore in about half an hour, if that. I could stop in Florida, but why when we can have a sure tropical beach?"
*
Bucky watches her with bright eyes. Testing the air, he tucks the hat away in a pocket, buttons it to keep it from fluttering out and down to startle some poor peach farmer in the morning. "Sure," he says, amiably. "I go where you wanna take me, Autumn." The name he only uses in public, smiling at her, as he watches.
*
"You know where that is," Scarlett answers, rising to the occasion of her true name spoken on anyone's lips. His, in particular. Her hands press together and turn, palms framing the southern approach to the cornflower sea under dark. "Island hopping after we depart the peninsula sounds about right. I can skid off Cuba. Less likelihood we get lost and end up at Bogota or Windhoek if I make a wrong turn." Right, because people randomly mistake the island turn and keep going until they hit the Skeleton Coast of Namibia. Such is probably a joke wreathed in black Russian humour, borrowed by way of that slim yank on his soul. "Though we go together, and wherever you wish is my delight. Make sure you really shake yourself out, though, darling. We're going to be moving fast off Key West to keep from exciting Castro."
*
Bucky laughs his soundless laugh in the dimness of the orchard. There's the sound of the breeze in branches still bare from winter, the barking of a dog who must be at the farmhouse. "Will do, Captain," he tells her. And then he's going through his own series of stretches. Far less graceful, the kind of calisthenics designed to loosen up muscles for fighting.
*
Captain indeed. Scarlett lazily drops into another handstand, inverted and flexing her knees to really strengthen her inverted position. Control counts for walking back over into another bridge, and she drops into a roll, bouncing up to dust herself off. Why not? He fascinates her with his own movements, and she endeavours to watch. "Fine to tug upon the scarf to slow, rap on my chest three times to lower altitude, other simple signals. Speaking up there is nigh to impossible, I know."
*
"I tried that first time. Dried out my throat like crazy. I hadn't had it that bad since I was in the desert," he says, as he stretches wrists, shoulders, ankles. "I'll remember that. Because yeah, I can't. I generally can't hear you, either, I'm all muffled up."
*
"I have not considered this." Laughter flushes her lips, vibrating at the deep curve. No hope there of suppressing the reaction unless she wants to freeze up, hand over her mouth. Forget that. "We need to add that to some kind of flight-suit with built in comms. Might as well just ask for a jetpack to go with that." A dramatic sigh lingers between them, a brief interlude of the hush. The ground crunches under her heels as she closes in, holding out her arms.
*
Satisfied, he steps willingly into her arms, having reassembled goggles and mask. A pleasure to think it's the only time he uses them, now. For the thrill of flight, in his best girl's arms.
*
She kisses his cheek, or rather the mask and goggles unmarred by bullets. For a moment, just the two of them together in someone's field while the dog keeps yelling about his territorial rights being violated is about as romantic as they need to be. "Convince me not to walk into some resort and lock you in a beachside hut for a week." There are seven excellent reasons, but holding James close to her is more than a bit self-indulgent. Up again straight — they'll curve out following her positioning along that arrow once airborne, arrowing for the southern reaches of the US and the sea beyond. Those volcanic archipelagoes are suitable, but if she's to really have her druthers?
Aruba, Jamaica, ooh she wants to take you to Bermuda, Bahamas, come on Winter Soldier, Key Largo? Nah, Montego…
*
The seven dwarves, waiting on their Snow White. Though which of them it might be. "Work," he says, wryly, voice muffled. "Family. Responsibilities. But we gotta take avacation. I'm years overdue." As they lift off, "Russians never gave me any benefits beyond medical care." Gallows humor again.
*
"And dental." Because that would clearly fall into the parallel benefit. Vision, dental, medical; it's better than what most receive in piss poor jobs, albeit as a government worker, he ought to pull much more. Airborne, Scarlett holds the former sidekick of Steve Rogers — hero to a nation in his own right — tight to her and cuts a hard trajectory on ideas of great circles. Find the specks of light to mark out towns and highways, they'll be low enough to the ground that it isn't hard. But her kick ascends to a thousand feet as a matter of safety as they run down the southern parallel.
*
"Dental wasn't worth much. I had a filling, but… even my teeth regenerate. It's weird," he says, musingly. "I never heard of that. It popped out one day. I wish my arm would." Then he's silent, tucked down into the windstream, listening to the rush of air past his hair. The pony tail doesn't last long - his hair's going tobe a mare's nest by the time he gets to the ground again.
*
Imagine, teeth regenerating. The envy of anyone ever considering a crown, the power to restore enamel and cause the redhead to shake her braided tresses lightly. Food for thought when they land. Will it not satisfy Bucky to know that his landing point will probably allow for immediate showering, and he certainly might want to invest in a proper hat. A knitted cap, a premiere option for him to avoid being rendered into a disheveled assassin.
Considerations for other moments, when they come roaring over the crashing waves and fleeing swamps, striking across the Florida Strait and leaving behind the strength of the North American craton. If he holds any fear of open water, now is not the time to reveal such. Tearing along the gap passes in a quarter of an hour, at most, putting them square into Communist territory where human history almost stopped. They pivot, pirouetting on a serpentine arc at horrendous speeds, shuttled further south. Past the Bahamian sprawl, out of the reach of Turks and Caicos, until Jamaica is in sight.
*
He's craning his neck, trying to see, though still happy to let her be the needed human shield. If he's afraid of it 0— and he is — well, there's nothing to be done about it until the passage is over. If she can feel the pounding of hisheart through his coat, best to blame it on the thrill of the ride.
*
Shield for the prodigal son of SHIELD? That has notions to tug down.
Give them another tick of the clock and they land within arm's reach of the surf. Scarlett punches a spray of sand into the craters around her boots. She manages another few steps supporting James' weight, trusting him to find his land legs well enough, though his chest thunders with that valiant heart against her own, and weariness cleaves her to stiffen rather than fall over. That would be a bit cold.