The Asset

Chapter 8

Sound returned first. It came in faint snatches – the steady beep of a heart monitor, the whisper of her breath, someone muttering off to her left. She let it wash over her, let the quiet rhythm dull the pounding in her head. Her back ached and her legs were cramped, but she was awake. And anything was better than the dreams.

Natasha opened her eyes. She was in a sterile room, not a hospital, but close enough. And she wasn't alone.

James dozed in the chair beside her bed, his chin sagging to his chest. Someone had bandaged the cut on his face, tended his scrapes and bruises. But his hair was loose and disheveled, his borrowed t-shirt rumpled. How long had he been waiting there?

The dreams still had their hold on her, old nightmares and more recent ones, things she wished she'd only imagined. She'd made many of those bruises herself. But James hadn't given up on her. He was still here and so was she.

She flexed her fingers and slid her hand across the bed, reaching for him. It was then that she noticed the straps, tethering her wrists and ankles to the railing that ringed the bed. Reality came crashing back but, given what had happened, it was a smart move. She couldn't blame them for being cautious.

"James."

He stirred, muttering again. His lips twitched, his brow drawing low as he struggled against something that she couldn't see. She wasn't the only one with nightmares.

Useless as it was, she reached for him, straining against her bonds. "James."

He startled awake, shoulders tensing as he gripped the arms of the chair. But when he saw her his expression softened, his eyes flooding with relief. He made no effort to hide it, to stop the sleepy smile that cracked into a yawn. After all the games, a lifetime of reflexively keeping her emotions in check, the honesty of it was enough to give her pause. But that was James. With him, she'd never had to hide.

"Hey." He reached over and took her hand.

"Hey." She wet her lips. Her throat was painfully dry, her tongue too thick. "Water?"

He had a pitcher waiting. Bound as she was, he had to stand, leaning over her as he held the cup to her lips. "Here... easy.... Unless this is just a ploy to get me to untie you?"

"I wouldn't complain."

"Sorry." He shook his head, setting the cup down and sinking back into the chair. "It's not my call."

"Look at you, following orders."

He chuckled. "You're the one who wanted me to play for the team. And it's nice, having a choice. Having orders worth following."

She smiled at that, shifting against the pillows. "So who ordered you to keep an eye on me?"

"No one." He blinked, his expression growing distant. "They're not keeping me locked up anymore and I just... didn't know where else to be." He took her hand again. "I'm glad you're back, Natasha."

"You called me 'Natasha.'"

"Yeah, well, it's growing on me."

She wanted to say something more, to find some way to apologize, no matter how small the words seemed. But his hand tightened around hers, the pressure accepting, reassuring. He already knew.

"...How bad?"

He shook his head. "By my standards or yours? Either way, I'd say the damage was minimal."

She nodded toward the bandage on his forehead.

"Yeah, you kicked my ass pretty good. But I've had worse." His eyes strayed to her belly, to the scar hidden beneath the sheets. "I've done worse."