1737 HOURS | SEPTEMBER 12, 2014 | THESSALONIKI, GREECE

As Rhiannon pulled into her parking spot behind the apartment complex, exhausted after a busy day at work as a mechanic at the Port, she couldn't help but reflect on the past week.

On the previous Friday, she had done something so incredibly stupid and irresponsible and yet still could not find in herself to regret making the choice at all. Rather, she was wholly convinced that she would make that very same decision again and again and again without fail. No matter the difficulties, both minor and not-so-minor, that it had caused her. She would, in a heartbeat, choose to once again reach out and offer her help to a soul in pain.

She had come to the conclusion that at some point she had become the generous and self-sacrificing type. The new knowledge did not bring her any source of comfort, but it was a good thing to note in the event she made any other foolish decisions based on the newfound instincts of her bleeding heart.

But ultimately, despite the struggles, the week had gone far better than she had actually expected it to.

The bar was set low, however. And her interpretation of things going well was the fact that neither she nor her guest had physical maimed or killed one another and he hadn't bolted at the first chance.

That Saturday had been a mess of tension and tip-toeing around one another. Like a pair of prowlers that didn't know each other and were sizing each other up for an all-out brawl. But just like in the natural world, most top predators didn't want to fight each other if they could help it so nothing had come of their posturing.

It was a decent enough analogy for her and James' relationship on that first day. Just a pair of dangerous strangers with a wealth of combat experience who had formed a fragile truce but were still wrapping their heads around that fact.

She had taken a cat-nap after ensuring that James had anything he might need for the next few hours. She'd offered him the remote to the television and told him that he could watch whatever he'd like. She'd given him free range to the motley assortment of books – made of real paper and everything – that she had begun accumulating for no particular reason. And finally, a very brief overview of her fridge and kitchen cabinets and the assortment of a foodstuffs and beverages found therein if he happened to get hungry or thirsty again.

"Mi casa es tu casa," she'd told him blithely, unconsciously slipping into one of the few languages she could fluently speak, and there had been a faint quirk of his lips in mute appreciation.

And she'd slept for those few short hours, just on the cusp of wakefulness with her knives and gun by her bedside and her door opened just a crack, but woke to a peaceful and undisturbed apartment. She could just hear the sound of the music that she had forgotten to turn off and the subtle sounds of another person in the living room. The inhale and exhale of relaxed breathing, the faintest whir of mechanical parts shifting with movement and the raspy sound of pages being flipped.

She had been honestly surprised that he had chosen to stay.

A glance at the clock on the nightstand had told her that it was only just past seven in the morning.

Rhiannon had peered around the corner and into the living room, as quietly as she possibly could have, to try and catch a glimpse of her house guest in his most relaxed state. She was absolutely certain that any sense of absolutely calm would be shattered as soon as she emerged. With that in mind, she wanted to take an opportunity to see how James could truly be when not fearing for his life and safety. And true to her prediction she caught the briefest glimpse of him sitting on the couch and reading a book.

Then he glanced up, eyes just peering over the edge of the worn, second-hand novel and looked entirely unsurprised to see her standing there. But there had been no untoward reactions to her presence. No tensing up. No reaching for a weapon. He had just bookmarked the page and set it down on the coffee table with gentle care, right next to all of his guns and knives that were still laid out in an orderly line. All of them gleamed like new so he must've taken the time to clean them while she had slept.

"Good book?" she had asked, trying to start their day off on a lighthearted note. "Gone with the Wind. It's a popular classic, or so I've heard. Haven't gotten around to reading it yet."

His brows had furrowed in thought and a moment of tense and slightly awkward silence had followed. She had almost given up on getting a response, reminding herself that he had been fairly reticent about speaking, and had begun to turn to go the bathroom.

But then he had spoken, voice still rough and rasping from apparent disuse, and had chosen to drop an absolute bombshell into the middle of her morning routine.

"Remembered reading it before. When it got published in '36," he had said, looking down at the book before glancing back up at her with such a hurt and confused expression as if he didn't know how to properly convey his own thoughts or wasn't entirely sure that what he was saying was the truth. "Think I liked it then. Wanted to see if I still did."

Say what now?

And so, she found out, after asking a couple of hesitant questions, that her presumed thirty-something year old house guest had in fact been born in 1917 and was ninety-seven years old. James had clammed up shortly after admitting his year of birth, breaking eye contact and studying the contents of the table with a single-mindedness she knew was a method of evasion and distraction.

So, she had let him be, not about to push his limits and undo the foundation of trust she had been attempting to establish, but had left him with her own little nugget of truth to even the playing field.

"Well you look astoundingly good for a man of your age, but it doesn't matter to me when you were born," she'd said, keeping in line with her vow of total honesty. "Afterall, I was born in 2586 on an entirely different planet. So, I've really got no room to judge."

That had gotten his attention alright, blue-gray eyes snapping up in an instant, first in disbelief and then in blatant curiosity. But he'd asked no questions so she'd backed into the bathroom to clean herself up a bit more thoroughly from the previous night's adventure.

And that had been the extent of Saturday's excitement.

The rest of the day had been spent in near silence, with James finding idle tasks to do to keep himself occupied while Rhiannon did much the same. They'd eaten and depleted a good portion of her groceries while catering to James' enormous appetite combined in addition to her own. He'd read some more, finishing the first book and picking out a second. She'd cleaned her own gun and knives. He'd taken out a worn notebook and scribbled on page after page. She'd even watched television for a time, keeping to programs that she believed wouldn't bother him.

As midnight had approached, she had tried to convince him to sleep in the bedroom, claiming that a night in a soft bed might do him some good. But he had refused, shaking his head and non-verbally communicating that he was fine with staying on the couch, even when they both knew that it was far too small for his large frame. Part of her realized then that he had no intentions of sleeping that night. He might doze off when it became necessary, but he did not want to sleep.

She understood the feeling.

Sunday was very similar to Saturday and passed by in much the same manner. Then the work week was upon them and she was forced to leave him alone in the apartment for eight hours. But he hadn't run yet and their mornings and nights together were becoming almost habitual. James was still skittish and wary of her and she was still meticulously careful in her treatment of him.

But it was far from perfect harmony.

She'd witnessed him freezing up and looking panicked when there would be an unexpected noise, his hands twitching with the need to arm himself and prepare for a fight. She would calmly draw his attention away, explaining that the noise had just been an animal or a car or even one of her neighbors. Perfectly normal and everyday noises that were no reason for him to worry. She would remind him that he was safe and there wasn't anyone coming after him at that moment.

Occasionally he would zone out, suffering from what she knew to be dissociative episodes, to such a degree that she would try and speak to him and he would be completely unresponsive. She would sit down nearby, close but not crowding him, and patiently wait for him to emerge from whatever corner of his mind he had sunk into. Ofttimes he would return agitated and shaking, but she would do her best to keep him calm and help him come back to himself.

She wasn't a therapist or a psychiatrist. She was a soldier, just like him. But she had learned enough from personal experience on how to handle trauma. Both her own and that of others.

She wasn't perfect, but at least she was trying to help him as best she could.

Rhiannon would speak to him softly. Telling him her name once more and reminding him that his name was James. She would tell him where he was, how he came to be there and that he was safe from HYDRA. It wasn't foolproof by any means, and sometimes she was forced to repeat the same message four or five times before he came back to himself fully.

She understood well enough that he was ashamed of his fragile mental and emotional state and in the wake of these episodes he would often ignore her for hours afterwards. And that was fine. He didn't need to acknowledge her or talk to her, but she had been concerned that he was bottling up the feelings and thoughts that he should've been letting out. But her worries about that had been calmed somewhat when she had witnessed him writing furiously in his notebook after the second episode when he had thought she wasn't paying attention.

At least he was expressing himself to someone, even if was an inanimate object.

It was better than nothing.

However, on Wednesday, she had gone to bed for the night and found the tables turned.

James had been woken abruptly from his light doze on the couch, another book lying open across his chest, to a disturbance in the night. He sat up, listening intently – ignoring the constant noise of the city and the faint drumming of a drizzle on the roof – and reached forward to exchange the paperback for the gun he kept within arm's reach at all times. Something wasn't right, but the front door and sliding door to the balcony were still locked and the blinds on the windows hadn't been disturbed.

Another noise had his head snapping in the direction of the wall across from him where the television was mounted, just in time to hear another muffled cry ring out from the bedroom.

A sound of distress.

His heart stopped for a moment and his breath caught in chest as a split second of panic took him.

Rhiannon.

He found himself standing at the closed door to the bedroom in what seemed like the blink of an eye and without any memory of leaving the couch. He could hear what sounded like a struggle, a soft grunt followed by a murmured babble of unintelligible words. With his gun in one hand, he slowly turned the knob and opened the door, sliding through and leveling his gun at any possible intruder. But the room was empty, beyond the sole occupant of the bed, and he should've known that.

There hadn't been any evidence of an intruder. There hadn't been any other heartbeats or sounds of breathing beyond that of him and her. So why had he rushed to her side without a second thought?

But he already knew why.

He was beginning to care about her.

Despite all of his efforts to keep his distance he was growing attached to her, just as he had feared he would. He was curious about her and had found himself more than once opening his mouth in an attempt to talk to her. To tell her about himself without fear of her judgement and censure because the notebook wasn't as effective as method of coping as he had hoped it would be. To ask her the hundreds of questions that had sprung to mind since her blunt admission on Saturday.

This woman with a spine of steel and a heart of gold.

A woman from outer space and the future, apparently.

Sometimes he had found himself asking if she was even human, but quickly disregarded the question because he found himself not caring in the slightest.

And that was wrong.

He knew that he shouldn't be letting his guard down around her, but found himself doing it again and again. Accepting her help. Eating her food. Reading her books. Enjoying her company even if it was spent in silence or accompanied by the soothing sound of music or even the meaningless drone of the television in the background. He even enjoyed just watching her – without caving into his instincts to see her as nothing more than a potential threat – when she wasn't paying any attention to him.

The noise of distress interrupted his racing thoughts and he turned to its source, who tossed and turned in her bed. Her mane of hair, which had been far longer than he had initially assumed, was spread across the pillows and her usually beautiful face drawn up into a pained scowl. One of her arms was splayed out across the mattress while the other was tucked in close to her chest. Her long legs, freed from the sheets by kicking, were twitching and bending every so often like she was moving in her dream.

"No," she whined in her sleep and he found himself moving closer, no matter his need to flee and leave her to what was clearly a nightmare. That desire warred, and was losing quite miserably, with the need to comfort her just as she had comforted him so many times before. "Won't… Can't… No… Dad… Fuck you… Lying."

"Wake up," he said, hoping to be able to wake her without touching her or being loud enough to spark questions from the neighbors. "Wake up now."

She did not respond and continued to dream. Her left leg kicked out as a ragged sob, a gasping and choked exhale, escaped her mouth. The fist held to her chest clenched hard enough to turn her knuckles white with blood loss. A full body twitch had her entire body clenching up, curling into a near fetal position, as the rapid movement of her eyes beneath their lids drew his attention.

He didn't know what to do. Against his better judgement, after switching the safety on and shifting his gun over into his left hand, he reached out and gently shook her nearest knee with his right.

"Rhiannon. Wake up."

But it had been a mistake to touch her.

A terrible, terrible mistake and he regretted it immediately.

She had launched up from the bed, an unexpected and solid mass of body weight that charged into him, her eyes wide and unseeing and her teeth bared in a vicious snarl. She moved quick and he hadn't been prepared in the slightest, only just managing to toss his gun away and grab at her with both arms. Her weight was more than he had been expecting – far more than woman of her size should've been – and he actually found himself struggling to keep her contained without injury.

She wasn't in her right mind, blinded as she was by the afterimages of her nightmares, but he was entirely lucid for once and knew that he had to be careful to not hurt her. One wrong move with his arm or exerting too much of his strength when restraining her and she'd end up with broken bones at best. At worst, she'd end up dead and he didn't know if he could survive living with the knowledge that he'd killed someone he might've been staring to consider a friend.

Or maybe more.

He already had Steve's blood on his hands. He'd shot and stabbed and nearly strangled to death the man he'd loved more than anyone in the world. He didn't need to have the blood of someone else he cared about on his hands. It would be more than enough to send him over the edge, as if he wasn't standing on the edge of the cliff every day since starting to recover his identity and his memories.

Oh, yes. He'd remembered Washington. All of it.

From being activated by Alexander Pierce to assassinate the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. all the way until he'd fished the broken and bleeding body of Steven Grant Rogers out of the Potomac and left him for dead on the muddy riverbank.

But now wasn't the time to be thinking about any of that.

"It's James," he said, trying to sound as soothing as she always managed to be for him. "You're awake. Stop fighting. Please."

But she wasn't listening or she couldn't hear him. She wrenched his head to the side with one of her freed hands and jabbed at the side of his neck with the other. He dropped her, jumping back and coughing from the hit, but bringing his arms up regardless to fend her off while simultaneously trying to snap her out of it with his voice.

"Wake up," he demanded, still trying to keep his voice down, but knowing that if he didn't resolve this quickly someone would hear them.

"Shut it, IMC Dog," she snarled and lashed out with a leg. "I'll kill you for what you've done."

She was damned good at CQC and her style of hand-to-hand wasn't something he was familiar with at all, but still he did his level best to counter her at every turn. He blocked her kicks and deflected her punches, once again being caught off guard by how fast and powerful they were. She hit a hell of a lot harder and faster than the Widow did, that was for certain. He sure felt it when she managed to land a kick to one of his knees and a solid punch that knocked the air out of his lungs.

Desperate to end the fight he lunged forward and knocked her to the floor, using his superior size to pin her down, grabbing her arms and pining her wrists together in his metal hand. Her knees surged up into the side of his abdomen, one hit nailing him in the kidney and the other one coming far too close to his groin. He let himself fall on her, pining her down with his own body weight, holding her as carefully – but securely – as he could even as she grunted and strained against him.

"Stop fighting me, Rhia. It's me. It's James," he pleaded, growing more and more desperate to rouse her from her nightmare-induced fugue state. He repeated it again and again until her struggles began to wane. Until, finally, she fell still beneath him and for a few moments the only sounds in the apartment was of their elevated breathing, the soft patter of rain and the muffled sounds of the city.

"Oh God…" Rhiannon whispered in horror, eyes closing at she felt tears welling in the corner of her eyes, as her mind cleared from the red haze of her grief and rage fueled bloodlust. Her heart was beating at a rapid pace, with the familiar and heady sensation of adrenaline coursing through her body, and she was pinned to the carpet under the heavy press of James' weight.

She had attacked him.

If she'd been armed, even with just a knife, she could have seriously hurt him.

Could've killed him.

She'd been dreaming and it had been so vivid. So real. Just like it always was.

She'd been back on Typhon. Back during the initial landing for Broadsword that had gone FUBAR almost from the very beginning. Ships exploding left and right in atmo. Nukes being slung around like children's toys. Her dropship had been hit hard and as it crashed into a fiery pile of scrap metal she had bailed out and hoped for the best. After waking up, she'd been black and blue and spitting up blood, but Stim and a hastily applied med-patch kept her mobile. She rendezvoused with her partner who'd been lucky enough to land with only a few minor scuffs and scorch marks and then they'd been off.

Flourishing in their prime environment, tearing a bloody swath through their enemies to their objective.

And then over the radio…

"Oi, Girly, I see you down there. Mmm. Look at how you kill. You sure you don't wanna be a Predator, beautiful? You'd be making some damn good money and I'd have something nice to look at."

Blisk. Kuben fucking Blisk.

She'd have recognized his fucking voice anywhere.

She'd almost killed the sick fuck on Demeter, but had missed her shot and then gotten nearly blown to pieces and skewered with enough shrapnel to make even the strongest stomach's queasy.

Rhiannon had been quick to open the comm and nearly shout herself hoarse with threats and insults and every form of vulgar profanity she'd learned across her tenure fighting across the Frontier. Blisk owed her blood. Gallons of it. For the friends and innocents that he'd slaughtered on the IMC's payroll. And then he'd said eight words that had shattered her world.

"Down, love. No need to get so riled up, eh? Just wanted to offer my condolences for your loss. Your poor old Pops just kicked the bucket. And good riddance. One less thorn in my side, yeah?"

She'd closed the comm faster than anything, pinging her father's frequency with a desperation born of a violent fear and panic. No, no, no. Not him. He was all she had left.

"No. I can't believe it. I won't. He can't be dead. He's too fucking tough for that. Dad, come on, answer me. Answer me! Please! BT? BT, are you there? Where's Dad? Rome, why won't he answer? No, no, no. Fuck you, Blisk. You're lying. You have to be lying. Lying! Dad!"

And then she'd been pulled from the nightmare, not realizing that it was over and she was back in the waking world, only knowing that an unknown was in her room and he was touching her. For a split second all she had heard was Blisk's voice echoing in her head. Around and around and around. It was endless! Then that male figure at her bedside– despite his different body type and the wrong color of his hair and eyes and the fact that he had a shining metal arm – was Kuben Blisk and she was going to kill him even if it ended up killing her to do so.

But it hadn't been Blisk. It had been James and she'd tried to kill him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to – I swear I…"

He had let her up from beneath him, releasing her arms from the firm grasp of his metal limb, not saying anything in response to her babbling pleas for forgiveness. She'd been exhausted from the sudden loss of adrenaline and the surge of strong emotion. Instead he had just gathered her up into his arms and somehow, they had ended up sitting on the carpeted floor with her being cradled in his arms.

"I understand," he said, his deep voice rumbling in her ear. "It's not your fault. You didn't hurt me."

Rhiannon hadn't meant to stay there in his arms. It wasn't right. He was the traumatized one. The one suffering. Her issues were known and an old wound, another one of her innumerable scars. Some of them were very old and others having been there for less than a year, but still he had to be the priority.

And yet, she had relaxed into his embrace, welcoming the almost unnatural warmth of his body and the contrasting cool of his metal arm wrapped around her waist. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been held like this by another human being. Maybe it had been Cooper. Just after Typhon. They'd been fairly close friends after her father had made the decision to mentor him for his certifications.

Sort of like a brother that she'd never known she'd wanted.

But in James' mismatched arms, even for those few minutes before she slipped back asleep, she'd felt safe. And then she'd woken up in the morning, tucked into her bed like nothing had ever happened.

Thursday morning had been awkward in light of that night's events, a silent breakfast and an equally silent departure from the apartment when she'd left for work. But the bridge had been mended by that evening when one of her neighbors had suddenly asked her to babysit their dog for the night. A white and tawny Kokoni Mix by the name of Odysseus, nicknamed Oddy, who she had watched three times before and was great company and extremely well behaved for his age.

It had been like watching the sun rise.

James had lit up around the young and energetic dog, almost becoming an entirely new man right before her eyes. He'd be hesitant in those first few minutes, clearly worried that he'd hurt the dog in some way with his arm or his strength. But Oddy had decided that he was having none of that. Somehow that little dog had known, in that mysterious and instinctual animal way, that James needed comfort and had all but leapt into his lap and licked the man's scruffy face until he'd surrendered to the dog's whims.

They'd eaten dinner and she'd watched as he'd fed the dog little scraps of meat from his plate. They'd played fetch, or a rendition of fetch meant for the confinement of a small apartment, and tug-of-war with a stuffed snake toy. And after the dog had been played with into near unconsciousness, the three of them had ended up sitting on the couch together, watching a mindless television program.

But Oddy's influence had only been a temporary balm.

In the morning when he'd returned home to his owners, unaware that the dog had spent the entire night sprawled across the chest of a super-assassin, James had regressed to his pre-canine therapy state.

Silent, brooding and getting lost in his own mind.

It was hard to watch, all that progress undone in less than an hour. But it was still Friday – still a weekday – and she'd had to go to work. But for the entirety of the day all she'd thought about was how nice it had been to see James actually happy. He'd smiled and he'd laughed once or twice, which had Rhiannon vowing internally that she'd do her utmost to bring that version of him back into the light.

Permanently.

She knew trauma didn't work that way, but she was trying her best to remain optimistic.

For his sake, at least.

But it was time for her to get out of her car before she was late and James got suspicious. Tomorrow was Saturday and she had to pack for the trip north. There was a lot to get done and prepare for and there was an idea she had been mulling on in her spare moments. It was another dumb idea, but it would ensure another level of safety for James from HYDRA.

She would, of course, ask him if he'd like to help her. But for all she knew he would bolt as soon as the tracker was out of his arm. She'd be disappointed, but it was understandable, nonetheless. And even if he did leave, she was still going to do it. It would just take longer. She was invested in his safety and wellbeing and she wouldn't stop until she had helped him as much as she possibly could.

Afterall, what else did she have to do with herself while stranded on a planet not her own?