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"That is a lovely dress," James noted.
His stare was intense. Natasha enjoyed the heaviness of his gaze upon her. She pulled up the thin red straps and smoothed the skirt over her hidden knives, then shot him a small, coy smile.
"The mark likes red," she told him, as if she didn't know perfectly well that James liked red on her too.
Something flickered in his eyes, but he turned that intense gaze of his back to the window. He was casing the street before they left the hotel room. He was the Winter Soldier, untouchable to the young woman he had spent so long training.
Natasha studied the unreadable line of his jaw, the tense alertness in his posture. She couldn't quite read him, as good as she was, the best Black Widow produced by the program so far. She could bed the Winter Soldier, draw him in with a gaze, a look, a pretty red dress that clung to her curves, but she could never know if she was comfort or love to him, a haven in the storm or just a pretty mark and trainee he kept under control with his regard.
Silence stretched. He looked over at her, seeming curious that she had not filled it with the lighthearted voice of her alias as she slid into her cover. Something flickered in his eyes and she wondered, for just a moment, if she was the only one that didn't know.