Her Prisoner

Chapter 12

He awakes some hours later with the unpleasant sensation of a cool space next to him, something he has sadly been familiar his entire life but which, today and considering the events of the night before, leaves a particularly sour taste.

He drowsily opens his eyes and looks about. He finds Natasha sitting up in the nude, as sunrays slip thought and delicately outline the curves of her silhouette from her neck to the waist. Her back still turned on him, she ties her hair up and slips in the cotton robe she picked up from the floor. She gets up and goes to the bathroom.

When she returns 15 minutes later, she is dressed in her catsuit, ready to face the outside world. She glances in his direction and grins slightly.

"Ready to meet me downstairs in 20?" she asks softly, then her eyes trail off to his bare figure hardly wrapped up in the sheet. "I'll make sure to give the owner a generous tip."

He smirks and represses the urge to conceal the flush on his cheeks in his pillow. When he steps in the bathroom a couple of minutes later, he hears the door of the bedroom shut shortly after.

When they depart together, the Russian woman eyes them with the same circumspect expression, and he suspects that his somewhat guilty expression, unlike Natasha's stoical one, can easily be read.

They step out of the tavern and resume their trek across the snowy plain. Half a day, Natasha said.

She does not talk much. And when she does she only discusses strategic details to keep a low profile. He shouldn't demand anything, but he wishes she would allow them to discuss the night before. He wonders if it meant to her what it meant to him.

But what did it mean to him? He is not sure he can clearly answer the question. What he knows, however, is that it wasn't just physical. Maybe she simply wanted to let off steam, or a distraction to put everything on hold.

But not to him.

She wasn't a distraction or some sort of pressure valve. He did what he did last night because he wanted to — he truly wanted to. A yearning to extend their connection. Because it is undeniable, they have a connection — she must be feeling it, too.

She isn't just anyone to him. She was different from all the people in that facility; she is different from all the partners he has ever gone on a mission with; she is different from all the women he has ever met.

Before Peggy, he had never met a woman so strong and intimidating. Before Natasha, he had never met a woman so complex and fascinating. She pushes back the limits of his reasoning.

She has taught him that the nature of people is far too intricate to be sketchily divided between black or white.

If Natasha was a color, she would be grey. Grey in all its complexity, in a rich and unfathomable combination of the other two colors. Not grey — silver. For that mixture is as precious as it is sophisticated. A silver color that is unstainable. Unlike the black that would immediately be scarred by a drop of white, or the white forever smudged by a drop of black, Natasha's grey grows, extends, thickens with every new addition. It is a fair and neutral balance between the two poles.

By the end of the day, they enter the town border. Natasha puts her hood on and makes her way to the train station. She goes to the ticket office and comes back with two tickets.

They wait nearly an hour for the train to call at the station. Natasha meticulously watches their surroundings, one hand clasping the firearm in the pocket of her jacket. He finds her a little tense.

They eventually get on the train and make their way to their wagon, to a medium-size compartment that they find unoccupied. She takes her backpack off and puts it at her feet before sitting by the window. Steve sinks down in the seat right across, by the window.