AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Yo, sorry for the delay. It's just that these future chapters have been such pain to write!!! I wrote 6 different versions of this chapter. Yes, 6. Hope it's worth it tho. Thanks for sticking with me!

It was a still night at the end of March, 2016.

The shower poured down constant streams of warm water; It was in fact so warm that the whole bathroom was covered in mists of hot, white steam.The beige tiled bathroom echoed the sounds of water sploshing, followed by content chortles and the faint sounds of lips clashing.

In the midst of all that, under the rush of water, Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff kissed like the world was their own, and inside the walls of these apartement rooms they were invincible-- not bound by the constrictions of time and the constant threats from their foes.

He'd just returned from a mission and she'd just returned from hers; she had several cuts along her limbs, he had fresh bruises all over his body, including his cheekbone and waist. He groaned when her thumb stroked over his cheek and she giggled with an apology. He kissed her harder.

I've missed you." He whispered, and that was the first ever sentence either of them has uttered eversince they left the shower, freezing as they felt the striking cold air of the apartment.

He dried her off with the towel in his hands and gave her quiet praises while he kneeled and traced kisses along her smooth, toned thigh. She ruffled with his damp blonde hair and bit her lip with a smile. "How can you not?" she teased when his lips landed on her pelvic bone.

"Mm. Patience." She gave him a flippant warning when his nose nuzzled on the space below her navel, travelling lower. He let out a dissapointed groan.

"Let's get those fresh wounds taken care of first."

It wasn't a new thing, tending for each other's wounds. All things considered, by now it already feels like a routine they'd do from time to time. Steve would never dare say this, but he actually preferred her touch rather than those assigned medics. She'd always been more careful and meticulous, not to mention a pretty sight to look at.

He sat on the edge of the bed while she dabbed an iodine-dipped cottonball on his back.

"Ouch." He winced a little. "Careful."

"It's only a little sting. You can take it."

"Still hurts."

"Be a good boy and I just might give you a little treat."

He laughed. She bit her lip and smiled.

He turned his head to meet her eyes and said, "You'll be the death of me, y'know that?"

She leaned in and kissed him, humming when she felt his arms cradle around her back and pulled her to his front, cupping on her breasts when she ended up on his lap. "Since when is Captain America this upfront, huh?"

"Since you." The corner of his lips quirked to a silly smile that made her kiss him even harder.

When Steve woke up, his senses heightened like a hurricane. His eyes snapped open and air traveled in and out of his lungs like that of a whirlwind. He could smell the faint scent of the ocean in his balmy surroundings. The ceiling of the room was white and shallow, with rays of soft, tangerine sunlight coming through a small window by the bed. The smell of freshly-painted varnish that glossed all over the wooden walls of the small room sent a swirl of light headache right to his brain. Where am I? He asked himself, shifting on the hard bed and the even harder pillow. He took a glance to his left and found a saline stand with a third-full bloodbag hanging on it, its deep-red-painted IV cord leading down to his wrist.

And then there she was.

Natasha was sitting on a chair across the tiny room, her head tilted to the side and her posture slouched, her eyes closed and her breathing soft and quiet. She was asleep. The sight of that brought a smile to his face as he replayed the memory he just had in his dream.

His smile didn't last long. A stream of pain struck his nerves and he furrowed as he looked down to the patches of gauze wrapped around his shirtless torso, and a thick layer that was wrapped around his left forearm.

He dropped his head back to the pillow and took in the ever growing pain on top of his heart. Stab wounds. Right.

Natasha caused this.

He lied there a little longer, convincing himself that what he was just dreaming of; one warm night in 2016-- however sweet and comfortable, was nothing relevant anymore given their circumstances now.

He'd let Clint die and she hated him because of it, and then she lost her memories-- prompting him to try and make her fall for him again and she was even more furious at him now for it.

And just then she tried to kill him.

So much for a love story. He let out a grunt after his failed attempt to sit up.

He also remembered that she pointed a gun to her own head.

"You should've let me go, Steve. You should've let me die." The whole scene replayed on top of his head, like a hard blow to his cheek.

Steve chewed over the scenery in silence. He knew staying with her won't be easy, even from the beginning. The sleepless nights when they both were too haunted by their own demons to let themselves rest, the mental breakdowns that drove them both mad. She had more of those compared to him, though, for he knew whatever things she endured in her past were so bad that she still refused to share them with him until now.

He never minded; He didn't mind getting less sleep and having to put up with her tantrums, didn't mind having to convince her over and over again that she was a beautiful person who deserved so much more than she thought she did.

He loves her. God, he does.

There has to be a way. There has to be a reason to keep her going.

"Hi." His body tensed when he heard her voice. "Thought for a moment you wouldn't wake up." He turned his head left and found her awake, her hand covering her lip as she tenderly chewed on her knuckles in silence. She looked anxious, uneasy.

"Hi." Steve murmured, barely a coherent syllable due to his weakened state. He studied her for a while, trying to read whatever he could from the sight of her. He could tell she was holding something back-- a rage, a happy squeal, or maybe a tear. He couldn't tell.

"How are you feeling?" She asked, soft and discerned.

"Been better."

"Listen, I'm-- I'm sorry. For everything."

He squinted and scoffed. "I'll get over it."

"No, you don't understand--"

"How can I not? You stabbed me all over." He meant it as a jest, but it wasn't after he'd said it that he realized it was the completely wrong thing to say. She shrunk where she sat, biting her lip and looking away from him. "Sorry." He said right after. "I was trying to make a joke."

"You were never good at jokes." She murmured grimly.

He took a deep breath and then hissed when pain shot up his senses. "Come here." He peered at her, bobbing his chin as a gesture. She looked back at him with a doubtful stare. "You won't hurt me."

"You don't know that."

"If you really think you'd hurt me you won't be in this room, don't you think?"

She wasn't in the mood for banter. Her voice only grew quieter and more afflicted. "I didn't want to. Sam told me you kept saying my name in your sleep, so he told me to stay here."

He felt his cheeks growing hot. "Oh."

She fixed her posture and huffed. "I'm just glad you're alive, Steve."

"Come here, then."

She shook her head again. "I don't trust myself."

"Fine. Then I'm coming to you." He struggled to get up. She began to frown.

"Stop it."

"I can take it."

"Stop that, Steve." She stood up and took a fearful step closer.

He let out a painful grunt when he finally dragged himself to sit up, and by then she was already at his side, pressing her palm against his shoulder to keep him in place with wide, scared eyes.

"Don't you do that again." She said languorously.

"Take a seat and stay with me."

"You're delirious."

"You won't hurt me."

"I almost killed you."

"That wasn't you. So stay. Please."

She shook her head, looking at him fretfully like he was some kind of idiot. But she stayed, though. She sat on the side of the bed, looking down at the floor with regret.

"Did you do all this?" He asked softly, knowing her too well not to know how bad she must've felt about this whole situation.

"Sam did." She mused. She turned her head and looked at him, her eyes filled with so much sorrow and regret. Then she carefully reached out, dug her fingers into his blonde hair, combing it backwards with a weak smile. "Your hair's longer."

"Happens when you're a fugitive, even more so when you're stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere." The corner of his lips pulled to a crescent smile. When her eyes widened as she realized what she had done, he gave her a look before she retracted her arm. "It's okay." He assured her. "You won't hurt me."

Her eyes studied him for a while longer, looking for reassurance and conviction before she decided that it was alright to touch him.

He watched her intently, glancing down at her fingers when they left his hair and swept over the patch of gauze on top of his heart. Her touch was so tender and light that he almost begged for more.

"We gathered med supplies from the empty boats and fixed you up. It was mostly Sam and Nick, though. I was too busy acting unhinged most of the time."

"I doubt that."

"You were unconscious. You didn't know what happened."

"I know you enough."

She bit her lip and smiled. "Maybe."

"Where are we?"

"We took one of the boats. The fastest, according to Nick. They're right outside."

"Is he alright?"

Her eyes darkened. "Got away with a couple stitches, a purple cheekbone and two missing mollars. Says he's alright though." Her voice went quieter, gloomier.

He frowned and reached out with his good arm. "Nat, it's alright--"

She shrugged him away. "Don't."

"Okay." He gave in and decided to change the subject. "Where are we going?"

"Back to the mainland. Brazil." She bit her lip and retracted her hand, her eyes darting away from his onto the view of the blue seas outside the window. "You need to rest. I shouldn't even be here."

He shook his head with disagreement, took a painful deep breath and mumbled, "Hey Nat, I'm sorry I lied to you."

It wasn't easy to read her-- it never was easy to, even when she's staring right at you. Her eyes, though-- those beautiful green eyes of hers, showed pain. Pain was the only thing she let show.

"You know, when you went under for hours and you were bleeding out you made me think." She said, her voice low and somber. She hadn't made any physical attempt to leave yet and for now that was enough for him. "I'd come to realize that... you're not entirely wrong."

"No, I was. I shouldn't have lied to you."

"You needed company. I can only imagine what surviving alone there must've felt like. You did what you had to do."

He kept looking at her as he pictured himself caressing through that crimson curls of hers, wavy and smooth and now tied to a messy bun on the back of her head. He remembered how just hours ago he'd just pull her to a kiss and he knew she longed for it as much as he did. Right now, though, seems like a lot of things have changed to the worse.

He wondered how she felt about him now.

""Natasha." He whispered her name, weak as he was. "Tell me what happened back there."

Her lips parted in a doubtful silence before she began, "I don't know-- what came over me. It was, uh, as if someone tried to jam a whole lifetime of memories into my head all at once. Everything hurts. Dying felt easy."

"Being dead wouldn't solve things, Nat. Think of all the people who care about you. Who died for you."

"I don't wanna talk about that, Steve."

"It's been two years we've never so much as dance around the subject."

"And we should leave it that way." She insisted.

"Clint--"

"I don't want to TALK about him with you." Her voice was raised. He was testing her patience but he couldn't care less.

"Clint thought highly of you."

One moment, and her green eyes turned bloodshot. "You're as much of a fool as he was."

"He died for you, Nat. It has to mean something."

"That's his mistake." She stared right at him, annoyed and stubborn. But then just as quick as that anger rose, it subsided when she took a deep, contemplative breath. She looked at him again, and she shook her head, realizing how unwise it was to start another argument when another subject still lies unanswered, "Why aren't you angry, Steve? Why are you being so kind to me?"

Steve's mouth parted but nothing came out. He took his time thinking of a reason, but he'd come to realize that there is none. "I don't know."

She let out a sigh and looked at him again, searching in his eyes. "You're such a good man."

He let out a sigh with a small smile and reached out with his good arm, placing his right hand to cup her cheek. This time, she let him.

She craned onto his touch but shook her head. "Look what happened to you. What I did to you. I don't know what I should do to make it up to you." Her voice was seconds away from shattering when she said it. Her boldness gave her enough courage to look him in the eyes, though--and it hurts, it hurts to look at those eyes.

"You don't owe me anything."

"I ruined everything, didn't I?" She let out a sarcastic, bitter laugh. She then covered a palm to cover her face. She was so close from tears. "Fuck."

"Nat," he frowned as he looked on. He knew he had to say more, he had to. He just didn't know what.

He lied there, halfway from sitting down, watching her trying her best not to look at him and fighting back a tear that threatened to escape her eye. He hated this. He hated the way things are between them right now. It reminded him a lot of the time when they were stuck in a muddy road under heavy rain inside her black Corvette, seven hours after Clint's funeral. They were heading home, to their shared apartment. She said nothing and neither did he. It was the most painful silence in the history of silence, and the fact that her car was stuck in the muddy road made everything worse.

He remembered how she let go of her strong clench on the steering wheel, let out a deep breath she'd been holding, leaned back against her seat and one moment later she was sobbing.

Then she opened the door, stepping onto the massive, wrathful rain, and began pounding on the hood of her car, screaming amidst the loud thunder and lightning.

"Hey, hey, hey!" He stepped out too, letting his clothes soak and his lips shiver amidst the cold. "You're not fixing anything!" He angrily reached under the car and lifted it, unstucking it from the mud with his strength while she stood there, looking at him with utmost hate. He didn't even know why he was so angry-- come to think of it he didn't have a good reason to be at the time. She just lost her best friend, had to deal with the scrupulous details of the funeral and had to comfort the whole family Clint left behind. The least he could do was hold her;

But of course she didn't want to be held.

He ended up being the one driving them home. It was a long, silent, drive and he hated every second of it with a burning passion.

By 11 p.m that night she already had her things packed and ready at the door.

That night, he watched her leave with his head between his knees, crying with regret.

And now two years had passed and looking at her right now, crying with regret after what she'd done to him and to them, he finally realized that he didn't care what happens or how they'd end up.

He just doesn't want to lose her. Not again.

So he caressed her cheek with his thumb, and pulled her to a kiss.

She didn't fight it. She kissed back.