Silently, Invisibly

Chapter 2

Steve Rogers managed to answer his phone before voicemail picked up, despite the clumsiness of the hand wraps. "Rogers."

"Cap," said Natasha's voice. "Can I have a word in person? In private?"

"Sure," he said. "I'm in the gym, but I can meet you anywhere you want."

"James Hotel, in SoHo. Room 112."

"Okay. Mind if I shower first?"

"No rush."

He was halfway to the hotel before it occurred to him that he was meeting a woman in her hotel room at ten o'clock at night. He half-smiled to himself. No, he was meeting a member of his team. That took precedence over everything else, including whatever stupid ideas someone might get.

He thanked the cabbie, paid and tipped him. (He'd come to think of cash as Monopoly money; he still got dizzy if he thought about the cost of things in actual dollars. The rather silly-looking, multicolored new bills helped.) He tried not to look embarrassed as he strode through the lobby. Asgard and Stark Tower had to some extent inured him to luxury, but he still felt more at home in the Y than in a place like this.

He tapped lightly on her door, and after a moment she opened it.

The sight of her tore into him like shrapnel.

She was pale, dead-white as if from blood loss, and she swayed as she opened the door; she held on to the door frame to keep from falling. He caught her by the upper arms.

"Are you hurt?" he said urgently.

She shook her head. "Come in," she said. Her voice was softer than usual, and a little slurred.

"What happened?" he asked as the door swung shut behind him.

She shook her head again. "It's been thirty-four hours since I slept. I tried, but I can't…look, will you stand watch?"

"Of course," he said.

"Thanks," she said. "Call room service if you want anything. I gave the desk your name; they'll put it on my tab. Feel free to have the TV on; it won't wake me up."

"I'm not much for TV," he said. "Go on and sleep. I'll be here."

"Thanks," she said again and crawled into bed, still in her jeans and t-shirt. He doused the lights and sat in the armchair by the bed. As far as he could tell, she was asleep the second her head hit the pillow.

At 2:20 a.m. she sat bolt upright with a gasp. He didn't move, but said her name, and waited until her eyes focused on him.

"Steve," she said uncertainly.

"I'm here," he said.

She nodded and lay back down. She made it almost an hour and a half before the next nightmare.

That one was worse. She was hyperventilating, eyes wide but unseeing. It took him three tries to get her to hear him.

Once her breathing had slowed, he asked hesitantly, "Would it help…do you…"

She nodded. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and put his arms around her. She leaned her head against his chest, shivering.

"I'm here," he said again. He disliked making promises he couldn't keep; "It's okay" and "You're safe" had turned out to be false too many times. He kept still, no stroking, no snuggling, just a firm hold around her back and shoulders, solid contact and warmth. After a while she relaxed and the shivering died down. He eased her down onto the pillow and slid off to sit on the floor, but kept a hand on her shoulder.

He thought about the battle: her crazy daring, and her speed and grace, and how easily he'd launched her small, slight body into the air. She'd sounded so calm, so confident—"It'll be fun"—while at the same time her eyes were glazed with terror. She used herself so hard. This was how it was, how it would always be, when he fought alongside a real human: courage and skill more than equal to his own, in a body so terrifyingly fragile. He wanted to throw himself between her and death, but he couldn't; it would be an insult, a desecration.

So instead, he did what he could: he watched her sleep. And someday he would probably watch her die.

In an hour or so she jerked awake again, recoiling from his touch, but this time she was aware almost immediately.

"Steve. I'm sorry."

"Not a problem," he said. He yawned.

She glanced at his watch and sat up, scrubbing a hand over her face. "You can go," she said. "I've had enough sleep to get by on. Thanks."

He shook his head. "Don't mention it," he said, and got up from the floor. "Um…I won't insist on a debrief, but is there anything you want to tell me?"

She shook her head, but then paused. "Maybe." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Barton's…Barton's fit for duty. He's in the wind right now, but if you call him, he'll come." She sat still, eyes still closed, and he thought at first she was falling asleep again. "I'm…not a hundred percent right now. I think…" She trailed off, shook her head.

Why did you call me and not Hawkeye? he thought, but he said only:

"Bruce told me what you did for Tony. It's no wonder you're exhausted. How can I help you?"

"You already did."

He sighed. "I'd be happier about backing off if I knew you had support from someone else. Am I right that things are…tense between you and Bruce, and more than tense between you and Tony?"

"You could say that."

"And Hawkeye?"

She looked away. "Hawkeye and I are having a…boundary dispute. We'll resolve it. Eventually."

"That leaves me and Thor," said Steve, "and Thor's out of reach. Let me help. Or let me get someone else—Pepper?"

"Pepper's got work to do," said Natasha. "I'll be all right."

"I don't have anything much on my agenda for the next few days," Steve said. "Let me at least get you something to eat, if you're sure you're done with sleeping."

"Okay," she said reluctantly. "Get yourself something too. Put it on my tab."

He smiled. "You have no idea how much I have piled up in my expense account," he said.

"Actually, I can guess," she said, "since you never buy anything for yourself." She slid out of bed and slowly stretched upright, inch by inch, still looking infinitely weary. "Yours or mine, it's all SHIELD's money anyway."

"Taxpayer money," he said with mock-earnestness.

"A lot of taxpayers are still walking around Manhattan because of us. It's not too much to ask that they buy us breakfast," she said.

"So what would you like?"

"Anything. No." She paused for a moment and a tiny glint of life appeared in her eyes. "Blini. With caviar. And a mimosa."

"I don't even know what blini is—"

"Are," she corrected.

"—Are, thank you, but I'm sure the kitchen staff does," said Steve gamely.

"They're similar to crepes," said Natasha helpfully.

Steve smiled and shook his head.

"Little thin pancakes with sour cream rolled up inside."

"Gotcha."

"I'm going to take a shower," she said.

"How much time do you want before food?"

"Go ahead and call now; the timing should be about right."

He didn't bat an eye when she came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, swathed in the thick hotel bathrobe, warm and steaming, slightly flushed and with fascinating little tendrils of damp hair framing her face. Not only had he spent several months traveling with a USO troupe, he'd just gotten back from Asgard, where they thought nothing of sitting naked in the sauna in front of all and sundry. Natasha was beautiful, but there were other beautiful women. And many of them weren't completely unreadable assassins.

Of course, rumor had it that if Natasha wanted that sort of attention from him, she'd find a way to get it. But that didn't seem likely.

"Don't sell yourself short," she said, glancing at him over the rim of her mimosa glass. "But no, I'm not going to make a pass at you."

Steve felt himself blush. "Glad to hear it," he said. "I'm sort of provisionally taken."

She smiled. "Someday when we both have time, I want to hear about Asgard. And Sif."

"Why not now?" he said reasonably, removing dish covers.

"Okay," she said.

And so over blini and caviar and fresh-squeezed orange juice (hers with champagne, his without), he told her about his trip.