Captain On Ice

Chapter 1

Natasha Romanoff was not a heavy sleeper; her training as a world-class assassin had made sure of that. The enemy never stopped to take a nap, she was always told; even during sleep, she had to remain alert. Focused. Deadly. So when she heard heavy footsteps emanating from the floor above her, she awoke with a jolt, sitting bolt upright with her pistol in her hands, safety off and hammer pulled back. She surveyed the room, its shadows creeping into her consciousness as her eyes found nothing.

With the flick of a switch, the lights were on, and she was temporarily blinded. She whispered a curse in Russian about Tony's lighting system in the tower while she adjusted to the brightness of the fluorescent bulbs. With a quick glance, she realized that she was alone, and the noise that had woke her up was not in her quarters. Lowering her gun, she slipped out of her bed and quickly shimmied into a pair of grey sweatpants that lay folded next to her bed, and Natasha hustled out the door after checking her clock. 3:37.

Her gun raised, she quickly considered the fact that this was Avengers Tower, and she was no longer living alone in her flat across the city. Could it be Bruce? Tony? Maybe Thor had returned from Asgard? Surely, Clint would have been more stealthy, and Steve's sleeping schedule was nothing if not consistent - lights out at 11 until he woke up at 6 for his morning run through the city. She tossed this notion aside, remembering the last time she assumed a strange noise to be someone else, her flat had been turned into what looked like a war zone; bodies littered the floor, plaster and drywall dust strewn about, and her favorite gun - a Glock - had been covered in blood after she pistol-whipped one of her assailants into submission. She may have come out unscathed, but she couldn't say the same thing about her flat. No, she would not make that mistake again. It was better to be overly-cautious than it was to be dead.

She crept to the stairs, knowing that the elevator was a death sentence if she was, in fact, confronted by an enemy. A steel cage with only one exit? That was a recipe for disaster; she knew from experience. Many men had met their demise in an elevator at her hands, and she did not particularly want to relive their last moments.

When she found her way at the top of the stairs, she pressed her ear to the door. Silence. With a quick turn of the knob, Natasha was out of the stairwell without making a sound. She was met with utter darkness yet again, the floor - the lounge - being devoid of any illumination save for that of the moon. Her eyes scanned the room until she caught a head full of blonde, the moonlight reflecting off of his neatly-combed hair. Steve. She holstered her weapon before slowly approaching his chair. Although Natasha was nearly silent, Steve seemed to be aware of her presence. Must be his enhanced hearing,she thought to herself, quickly pushing aside the momentary thought that she was losing her touch.

"Steve?" Natasha whispered, nearing his spot on the leather chair. He didn't respond, nor did he move. She tried again, "Steve," this time a bit louder. Still, nothing. As he came into full view, Natasha could tell something was off. His skin was ghostly pale, his lips were pursed into a thin line, and there was a thin shine of sweat coming from his bare forehead. The arms of the chair had been crushed, she noted, the metal awkwardly twisted into the shape of the inside of a closed fist. It was only then that Natasha noticed that Steve had not removed his gaze from the window. Although the moonlight was faint, it was obvious what Steve had glued his eyes to. Snow. Thick, white balls of it were coming down in heaps. Natasha understood.

"Steve, look at me," she commanded in a harsh tone. Ever the good little soldier, he turned his attention toward the fiery redhead. "Listen to me. What happened in the ice is over. You're here. With me. We're not going to let that happen again, do you understand me?" She realized she may have been too stern, but what Steve needed was guidance now; she knew that.

Steve nodded slowly before drifting his gaze back to the window. "I know," he sighed, barely audible over the deafening silence of the tower. "I just need time."

Natasha took that as a plus, and she cracked a smile for him. It wasn't for her, no, that would be preposterous. She didn't have any emotions; they were for children. What Steve needed now was reassurance, and she was the only one there. "Captain, why don't you head back to bed," she offered, "even the man who slept for seventy years might need some shut-eye eventually," hoping to bring a little bit of positivity to the situation.

Steve groaned in response, and something crossed his face - a look of pain, regret, and was that terror? It was gone so fast that if Natasha had blinked, she would have missed it, and Steve immediately realized his mistake. He tore his gaze away from her, refusing to make eye contact.

"Steve." He knew that tone of voice. His flesh was burning under her icy stare. Steve tried to stand when Natasha pushed him back down in his seat, refusing his leave.

"Please let go, ma'am."

"Tell me." With those words, he understood that he was not leaving without an explanation, and he sighed deeply before mumbling an incoherent sentence that left Natasha with a confused look on her face. "Captain, tell me."

"I was awake," Steve responded, his voice filled with fear and anger at the same time. They caught eyes, and Natasha could instantly tell that he regretted the poison that his voice contained. "I was awake," he repeated, quieter this time. Innocent. And then he was gone, already in the elevator.

It clicked inside Natasha's head. He was awake. He was awake in the ice. The whole time, he was awake. S.H.I.E.L.D. had assumed he had slipped into unconsciousness when the ice consumed his body, but he was conscious for seventy years. Natasha's mind went haywire with the thoughts of what went through his head for seventy years. What first crossed her mind was the thought that Steve knew that everyone he ever loved was dying while he was in the ice, and there was nothing he could do. He was helpless. He knew that Peggy was alive, but as each and every day passed, she came closer and closer to death, and there was nothing he could do. He had seventy years to blame himself for Bucky's death, running the event through his mind over and over like a broken record. The last thought that came through her mind was that Steve was alone. Alone for seventy years - conscious. And there was nothing she could do. For the first time in years, Natasha Romanoff sat down and cried.

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