Three
She still thought about Steve often. Not as often as she had in the beginning – she had long since abandoned her hopes and dreams of him breaking down the door, his shield gleaming in the dim light as he rescued her – of her time in this real-life hell, but he was still with her in her thoughts. Did he miss her? Had he ever looked for her? Did he know, or at least guess what had happened to her or had he been as clueless to her fate as he had been about the rumors that circulated around them? Did he blame himself for it all? Had he imagined rescuing her as many times as she had imagined being rescued?
Did he think her dead?
Had he forgiven himself for it all yet?
A long time ago, he had asked similar questions about the fates of Bucky and Peggy, regret and ‘what ifs’ shining a light on the guilt he held inside for not being able to save them, or even be there for his best girl. She had listened patiently as he finally found the words to unload the burden he bore with words, rather than with punching bags in the early hours of the morning. However, she had ultimately told him that those questions would never amount to anything. They could never change what had happened, or what could happen. Those questions would only eat him alive until all he had was guilt and regret tinted memories of people who had loved him, and they deserved better than that.
She remembered that night with fondness. In the weeks prior, he hadn’t truly opened up, beyond simple pleasantries, and she felt he only played along with all because she was a lady, and if there was one thing Steve Rogers would never do, it would be to intentionally disrespect and offend a lady. However, in the afternoon before, he had left his wallet in her office, before leaving, and she had chased after him all the way down to the garage until she had fallen over gasping for air just as he was climbing onto his bike, caught in the throes of an asthma attack.
He, of course, had sprung into action, digging through her purse that she had dropped as her lungs betrayed her and refused to cooperate. Easily, he retrieved the red inhaler that she had been unable to locate. Steve had kept an arm around her as they sat together on the dirty garage floor while she slowly regained her ability to breathe. He never questioned, just calmed and tried to help her find a steady breathing pattern, explaining that Bucky used to do the same for him back before the serum. Eventually, with a sheepish grin, she pulled out the slim wallet from her back pocket and handed it over to him with a simple, “You left this in my office. Next time, jog a little slower for me, yeah?”
And then, for the first time in her presence, he laughed.
All she had now were those memories to keep her company.
In her mind, he was happy. He had grieved for her, and then moved on with his life. He still smiled, and laughed as easily as he had done with her. He saved the world one fight at a time and only remembered her fondly.
She knew better than to believe that, but she told herself the lie anyway.
And maybe if she told it enough, she’d even believe it one day.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
He wouldn’t touch her. Summer had turned to fall, and the chill of Winter could already be felt in areas of the base, but not once had he dared lay a finger on her head.
He had watched as her newest of injuries slowly became scars and had winced as she had removed the stitches he had sewn, or so she had told him, but never did he touch. He didn’t dare.
It had been his hands that had hurt her so, and his orders were to protect her from harm, so he protected her from himself.
She didn’t talk much at first, and he almost preferred it that way, but the look in her eyes, that pained look of wanting to say something, but holding herself back began to eat away at him. He could always tell what people wanted, what people were thinking, but she was a mystery to him. Nothing she did made sense in a way that seemed logical to him. He had clearly hurt her, yet she looked at him with a sort of longing, as though he was someone she had once been close to, but now was just left with a shell of a reminder to deal with. She should fear him, and yet she didn’t. She should abhor him, yet she was so kind to him. She made no sense to him.
“Do you have a name?”
Her voice was sheepish and quiet as she glanced at him from her far corner where her stained bedroll lay. Her scarred arms were protectively wrapped around her legs so that they were hugged closely to her chest, a gesture he realized that was in order to comfort herself, not protect herself from him. She was inching into territory that she was unsure how he would respond to, and she was reacting with the only cautionary way she knew how to.
“No.” Well, that wasn’t right either. The blond man – Steve – had called him many names that made his brain hurt. He didn’t want any of them. They were not his names. They couldn’t be. He didn’t want them to be. He was an asset. He had no name. But… The way her expression fell in disappointment made his brows furrow.
She was trying to be nice.
No one else was ever nice to him.
“I am not your… Winter.” That much was certain. Whomever she had known, he was no longer. However… “But, I like… Jay.”
Not James, as his target had called him, but Jay. He could be Jay.
And it was the smile on her face.
“Jay…” She tested the name out on her quirked lips, staring at his face intently as if she was trying to assign the name to go with his face, and he found that having such a direct and focused gaze upon him made his face feel warm. “Can I ask you a question?”
His brows furrowed together, unsure whether or not he truly was prepared to answer whatever question she might have for him. Prior to this moment, and that first day, the only words said between them were the daily thanks she gave for the food he brought for her and when he told her to sleep.
“Da.”
He watched curiously as she nibbled on her bottom lip as she mustered up whatever courage she seemed to need in order to voice her question, but made no effort to encourage her, content to simply wait.
“Every night you call me ‘Moya Roza.’ What does that mean?”
His head tilted to the side, staring at her silently for a moment that was definitely longer than comfortable for her before answering her. “My Rose.” He paused, waiting for his answer to sink in, but the look of further confusion on her face forced him to find the words to explain. “You… You don’t fit here. Too fragile, too pretty, too innocent for this place. Like a rose.”
A white rose in a blood-stained room…
The look of confusion slowly faded from her eyes as she replayed his answer over in her mind and slowly accepted his explanation, even if it was incomplete, and he was again rewarded with that rare smile she had. How she could find any reason to smile in this place, he did not know. However, those musings were abandoned to the corner of his mind as he watched her shiver violently and try to curl her arms tighter around her legs.
Only then did he truly feel foolish. He had watched over the passing weeks as she spent more time curled up into that little ball, with the thin blanket wrapped around her abused frame, assuming she was shielding herself from him. However, with that vicious tremble did he finally note how often she seemed to shudder, mistakenly assuming she was afraid of him.
But that had never been the case at all.
She was cold.
His brows furrowed in concern as his gaze locked onto her. She was suffering. She had been suffering all this time and he had missed it. He was supposed to protect her from harm and he had failed to see her discomfort that was right in front of him.
Why he was surprised by it all, he was unsure, after all, there was no heating in this room, by design. Everyone else had long since dawned wearing thick coats, even returning with flecks of snow in their hair that quickly melted. And yet, she had been left here, with only the shorts, thin shirt, and blanket to try and keep warm.
And it was not enough.
“You are cold.” A statement, not a question, and she didn’t even attempt to dignify it with a response. Instead, she opted to try and ignore him.
A heavy sigh passed from his lips. Why was she always stubborn? She could get relief so much easier if she only cooperated… But then she had never simply cooperated in the past. Though, how he knew that, he was unsure.
Silently, he stood, careful to remove the hidden weapons that were tucked away in his clothes – after all, they could hurt her, and his duty was to protect her – and left them in a pile on the floor. The fastens on his leather jacket were undone and the leather slid from his arms. Only then, without the protective layer could he feel the true chill in the cell, causing him to frown. She had so little. Why had she not spoken up sooner?
‘She feared that would have a price,’ answered the voice in his head sadly.
His jaw clenched at that thought, as he stepped towards her, jacket hanging in his metal hand, but still she would not look up at him. With another, heavy sigh, he crouched down beside her, suddenly finding the words that he needed felt heavy and awkward.
“You are cold,” he repeated gently, slowly wrapping his warm jacket around her frame in a gesture of good faith. Thankfully, she neither recoiled, nor shrugged off his jacket, solidifying his resolve. “Let me keep you warm. Let me help.”
Had she refused, he would have retreated instantly, sure to never press the matter again. However, she simply nodded, accommodating him as he adjusted them both. His shirt had been shed too, ripped into two pieces before wrapping them around her feet in a crude form of sock. His jacket, she wore backwards, allowing him to curl around her back protectively as they laid down on the bedroll, his warm skin combatting her icy skin. The blanket was wrapped around her legs securely, attempting to make up for her lack of proper pants while his metal arm curled under the pathetic pillow protectively. Lastly, his flesh arm wrapped around her torso. Her frozen hands greedily sought out his forearm and the warmth that emanated from him.
Truth be told, he hated the cold. It gave him flashes of an icy room that put him to sleep. Whenever they awoke him from the ice, it always made him sick, but with her so tightly pressed against him, a slight sense of satisfaction washed over him when he finally felt her muscles that had been trembling to try and produce some sort of heat finally relax and unclench.
“Jay?” There was no fear in her voice this time. No tentative edge to it, just an unfamiliar sense of contentment. “Thanks.”
She sounded exhausted, and he figured she ought to have been. It was well after when he had returned with dinner, so no doubt the sun had set hours ago. However, the ease to her tone couldn’t be placed solely in fatigue. She was comfortable. She felt safe.
Briefly, the corner of his lips quirked into a ghost of a smile while his flesh hand felt the thrum of her heart in her chest slow gradually. Flashes of memory of a woman standing over his before kissing him on the cheek when he was very young played through his mind. It was a happy memory, and he remembered feeling comforted and content at the gesture. The woman made him feel safe.
He stared at her shoulders for only a moment as his resolve settled. He wanted her to feel safe. He was supposed to protect her, to keep her safe. But he wanted her to feel as happy as he had in his memory, as comforted by himself as he had by the woman. So slowly, without warning, he craned his neck to press his lips to the cool skin of her cheek.
As soft as a rose petal too…
“Sleep. I’ll be here…” His whisper died for only a moment as he focused before uttering one word he never had before:
“Ruby.”