Her Prisoner

Chapter 8

His eyes are fixed on her but as they reach the trucks, she is taken to the one at the front, while the agents firmly usher him into another one.

He is silent, playing the scene over and over again. He wonders what he could have done differently. He is thinking he should have run away at another time. Maybe he shouldn't have stopped running at all. But she would have been shot, no doubt. He had to intervene and help. He couldn't just escape, not at the cost of somebody else's life.

He starts blaming himself over the smallest things. He shouldn't have gone for that route — he should have known the hill would be filled with traps.

Maybe he shouldn't have run away when she was alone. He had done so because part of him had hoped she would let him go.

Back to the headquarters, he is taken back to his quarters. His eyes search to catch a glimpse of Natasha in vain. It seems like she is kept away from him — or maybe she wants to stay away.

His thick handcuffs are removed and he is left alone in the room. Alone with his devouring thoughts. As strange as it sounds, alone with his guilt.

He remains seated on the edge of the bed that night, thinking over and over about his decisions. He finds it impossible to figure out which would have been the best to choose: run away and not look back, come back to help her, ask the Colonel to stop hurting her, try to escape at all...

He wonders what the next day will be like; if everything will be different and for the worst; if he will ever be allowed out of this room; if she will take her distance.

All those thoughts keeping him awake.

He wonders where she is now. Is she being looked after? Is she angry? Is Petranov with her?

And although he shouldn't have cared to ask himself the question — does she hate him?

He has no visitor the next morning. Neither in the afternoon. He is not really surprised. He knows it is part of his punishment.

He can stay alone. Solitude doesn't scare him. But he catches himself letting his eyes wander off to the chess board.

Two days later, the door opens. His body jerks up and he expectantly looks at the door.

It's Dimitri.

The young man is sheepish but slightly distant.

He is here to bring his lunch tray.

Steve is obsessed with a single question and every part of him forbids him to ask it. He first watches the young soldier in silence.

"Is there anything I can bring you, Captain?" Dimitri asks coyly. "Maybe new books?"

He shakes his head.

Dimitri nods silently and pauses. After a couple of seconds, he clears his throat and starts off towards the door. Steve is suddenly caught by irrepressible panic, like someone aware he might be losing the only opportunity he will ever get.

He cannot be proud. Not now.

"How is she?" he asks suddenly. Steve is calm and collected but if Dimitri wasn't so young he would have noticed that his eyes betray him.

"I am not allowed to say," Dimitri answers gently. He sounds sorry he can't say more.

Steve nods to himself. He should have known they would deliberately keep him in the dark. It is part of the process to make him docile. But he bottles it all in; he can't show it upsets or angers him.

For now, he has to put up with it.

_____________________________________________

After five days, an agent comes in and hold the door open for Natasha. She steps in with the aid of crutches. Her ankle is wrapped up in bandages.

She stands in the middle of the room and looks at him. He doesn't voice a word. He first wants to know where they both stand now.

She is calm and her face carries an unfathomable expression. She instructs the agent to leave the room in Russian.

Silence falls upon them again. She seems to be waiting; he just wishes he knew for what.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" she eventually addresses him. She points to the chair.

She sits and puts the crutches against the table edge. She then rests her arms over her lap and looks up at him with her green eyes. He searches them for a trace of anger but doesn't find any. The trouble is he cannot find anything and it is highly frustrating.

"How's the leg?" he eventually asks because silence has just become too unbearable.

She holds her gaze up. "It's not broken. I got lucky," she answers.

He realizes he just sighed in relief.

He clasps his hands together on the table and leans in.

"I know what you're thinking," he begins.

"Do you?" she says with a smirk.

He pauses. She won't get him to apologize for wanting to escape. No matter her sarcasm, no matter how guilty he feels for being partly responsible for her double injury.

"If I...All I wanted —," he takes his eyes off of the table to look up at her. "I had to try," he says with unwavering certainty. He could never say sorry for trying.

She looks at him in the eyes. "I know," she states matter-of-factly.

He freezes as she lets him, for a very short moment, read her emotions. He surprisingly finds them not to be belligerent. Nothing but placid understanding.

"I didn't know you'd pay the consequences of it," he continues.

"I know," she repeats similarly.

He frowns, taken aback by her well-disposed response.

"Looks like I know your thoughts better than you think you know mine," she comments ironically and smiles. "I can't blame you for trying to escape, Rogers. I expected nothing less from you. I let my guard down."

"Why?" he asks.

"Because I had begun to trust you," she said. "To see you as a teammate."

"You can trust me," he murmurs.

"I never said I doubted it," she corrected. "You proved me right. You came back to save me." She leans in closer. "Thank you for saving my life again."

Flabbergasted is the word that best describes him at this moment.

"Did you know he would hurt you?" he asks

Natasha's eyes flicker away. "It doesn't matter. What's done is done."

"He doesn't deserve someone like you to be loyal to him."

"He saved me," she mutters. "I owe him everything."

His voice grows raucous. "No, you don't. Not at this price."

Her eyes turn dark and her expression hardens. "One heart-to-heart conversation isn't enough to pretend to understand. You know nothing."

"I know enough," he answers softly. "And nothing could possibly justify the way he treated you. He's using you."

"And you used me," she retorts quite collectedly. "You took advantage of the trust I put in you. You say you care but you ran off without looking back."

He shakes his head and his eyes slightly begin to glow. "I looked back."

They both understand what he is referring to — he looked back and acted on it. She remains cold and indifferent.

"You know I'm right," he adds. She reaches for her crutches and stands up. "Romanoff," he calls. She pauses to look at him. His heartbeat quickens. "If it wasn't for the trap...would you have taken that shot?"

He came back for her and he hopes she wouldn't have pulled the trigger. Her pupils remain steady and blank.

"I guess you'll never know," she answers.

Then she heads towards the door and leaves.