A/N: I've given up on listing my reviewers from fanfic because there are just too many of them! But I will say: Thank you, all of you. You truly make writing this story that much more worth it.

Naturally, this might take more updates than I planned, seeing as I've been busy out of my mind. School will end this coming Monday, though, so hopefully I'll have this story finished quite soon!

On to the next installment.

~x~X~x~

The nightmares are haunting again.

Few and far between are the nights that Natasha wakes gently; after the sun falls away, after darkness has crept in, it's only a matter of time before her sleep is disturbed by the shadow and the blood. She wakes in an icy sweat, every muscle seized with shaking, every breath a reminder that she is still alive, and she is still alone.

Once, when the night terror comes, what she screams is not a wordless plea, but a name — Steve, Steve, Steve — and when she comes awake like a drowning girl, all raw gasps and heavy limbs, she doesn't know if she's trembling from the dream or from the resurgent reality.

The window is open. The wind hisses, Natalia, Natalia, and Black Widow slams it shut, and she doesn't sleep again until sunrise.

And when she does sleep, she's screaming again.

~x~X~x~

Dream or nightmare, it unravels him.

For the first time, Steve Rogers has dreams not of Bucky Barnes, his friend twice lost, but of Peggy Carter, young and beautiful. He and she dance together to the same song, over and over, again and again — until he asks her a question, and she doesn't answer, and when he looks closer he finds that he's dancing with a skeleton. The skeleton, gleaming white, smiles up at him. The sharp edges of finger-bones prick the skin of his arms. And when he wakes, he can't breathe.

The dream never fails to startle Steve, though it is always the same; until once when, upon seeing the bones, he fails to wake. Instead, his dream-self stares and stares until new flesh clothes the skeleton, and suddenly he is holding a woman again — but a woman of dark eyes, and scarlet hair, and lean arms that guide him through the steps.

When Steve wakes, his heart is pounding. He has the most absurd sensation, as though the space beside him on the bed should not be empty. The air feels cold and stale.

And then his cell phone rings, and the caller ID says Sharon Carter, and there's only one reason that Sharon would call at three AM.

Steve answers with a trembling hand. "Sharon?"

Silence. A choked breath; a muffled sob.

"She's gone, Steve. Peggy's gone."

~x~X~x~

Natasha has a strategy for dealing with her sorrows. If possible, she knows how to kill an unruly enemy; she also knows how to vanish, throwing phantoms off her trail. But with her records now public and S.H.I.E.L.D. reduced to rubble, only one option is readily available.

Natasha drowns her sorrows in alcohol. Even so, she has no desire to repeat the incident after Nick Fury's pseudo-death. She recalls very little of it, save for blurry details — spilling vodka on her kitchen table, falling when she tried to sit down, her fingernails buried in Steve's T-shirt (and she doesn't want to know the context of that moment) — but she recalls enough to know that she ought to be more careful.

Going to the bar after revealing her many identities to the world is a startling experience. She's had to repel unwanted advances from strange men on more than one occasion — but now, people disperse when she sits down. Even the bartender shoots sidelong glances at another employee when she asks for a glass of wine. True to her streak of bad luck, the television behind her is airing coverage of her speech on Capitol Hill, and she can almost hear her own racing heartbeat as those around her connect the silent, serious woman before them with the bold ex-assassin on the news.

These know who she truly is; that person frightens them. Of this, she's as proud as she is ashamed.

Natasha drinks her wine slowly, trying to make it last. More than one drink could lead to a repeat of the vodka incident, so it seems better to err on the side of caution. She listens to the bar's music with eyes half-shut, willing her troubles to withdraw (if only for a night.)

When, at long last, she rises to leave (though she hasn't the slightest idea where she's going,) she's more than a little surprised to feel a hand on her arm. The grip is firm, unflinching. The touch of a man with singular purpose, but also surprising boldness.

Natasha turns to face the stranger, her voice like steel. "If you're looking for someone to warm your bed tonight, you've got the wrong —"

She barely has time to recognize the man's face before he presses the taser to her throat.

Natasha screams, or thinks she screams. Her world has become splintering light and surging heat and impact, her body crashing to the wooden floor with nothing to break her fall. Someone cries out and drops their drink, the glass shattering. There is a tangle of noise, a blurry rush of movement. She lays still, blinded by the shock.

When, after several long seconds, her vision clears, she sees that the bartender has dragged her attacker back, and another man has forced him to drop the taser.

The man stares at her, glazed eyes bulging. "That should have killed you!" His Russian accent is thick, even as he screams. "That shock should have killed you!"

Natasha gasps, her lungs burning. "Dreykov..."

"Are you even human?" he shouts, thrashing in the bartender's grip.

She wants to stand, wants to do anything but lie here like a prey animal, but her muscles won't work. "Dreykov, please..."

"I helped you, I hid you from the KGB, and this is how you repay me? This is how you settle your debts?"

Natasha's eyes burn. "Dreykov," she coughs, his name like a knife on her tongue. "I'm sorry."

"You killed my daughter."

Natasha chokes.

All at once, she's in the hospital in San Paulo, Brazil — she was only there for a flesh wound, that's all it was, and it was safe to visit a hospital now because S.H.I.E.L.D. had sealed her records — but it wasn't safe because they found her (the Soviet ghosts, the Russian phantoms, her handlers and her demons,) and she didn't have time to think when the explosives went off, didn't have time to consider anything but stay alive, stay alive, stay alive — and she really didn't hate anyone in that hospital, really did wake up screaming their names in her sleep, really wished she had gone back into the fire for them, but they had found her, they were coming, and they would kill her if she didn't run like hell — and when Clint asked her why she looked sleepless, she really did mean it when she said she was sorry, is sorry.

For leaving them to die for her mistakes. For forgetting the debt she owed to Dreykov, her old friend.

For forgetting that Dreykov's daughter had been traveling the world, and had been stopped in San Paulo by a broken leg.

Another regret, another mistake. Another secret she kept from Steve, though she wonders if he saw it on her face when the bunker exploded in New Jersey (and suddenly she was in the hospital again, and she knew in her heart she would still run and not look back.)

Dreykov's daughter. San Paulo. The hospital fire. There was a time when, among Natasha's enemies, only Loki knew of this — her greatest shame.

That time is gone.

The bartender shocks Dreykov with his own taser. Then, inflectionless, he says, "You're not welcome here, Natasha Romanoff." And they leave her on the floor for a solid ten minutes while she waits for the paralysis to wear off. Maybe they're afraid to touch her; maybe they don't care whether she lives or dies.

It doesn't really matter.

No one says a word when Natasha exits the bar, unsteady on her feet. The electric shock should have killed her; even if the serum in her veins resisted, the negative effects still persist. Her vision reeling, her head spinning, she stumbles down a back alley, afraid of being followed by other ghosts of the past — not an unfounded fear, it would seem, for her heart goes cold when metal fingers close around her wrist.

"Natalia."

She knows that voice. (A deeply buried part of her longed to hear it.) He shouldn't be able to recall her true name, not after what HYDRA did to him, and yet, here he is.

Her chest clamps. "You read my records," she says.

"No." His breath is hot against her throat; it awakens memories she thought she had forgotten. "Natalia... Natalia, I remember."

She turns and looks at him: the long, unkempt hair, the rough beard, the firm jawline, and those eyes — eyes she remembers — dark and deep, but soft if you observed them in the light.

"James," she says, and then her legs give way.

There is a blunt shock as her head strikes the concrete. A lurch in her stomach as he lifts her into his mismatched arms.

And then darkness.

~x~X~x~

A/N: In "The Avengers," when Loki tells Natasha that Barton told him all about her past, he references three things: Dreykov's daughter, San Paulo, and the hospital fire. As far as I know, none of those events are from the comics, so I took the liberty of combining them. Something about Natasha's face when the bunker exploded in "Winter Soldier" spoke of more than fear of death, at least, to me; it looked like a flashback. My headcanon is that she was remembering said hospital fire.

Bucky and Natasha's relationship will be explored in the next chapter! In the meantime, if you need more Bucky Barnes in your life, I urge you to read Lauralot's fanfic, "And I Am Always With You," which has destroyed my heart in the most beautiful of ways. And no, she didn't ask me to recommend it. I'm doing that because I'm obsessed with it (and have left some embarrassingly fangirling reviews.)

In other news, my parents have bought me the most fantastic birthday present ever, since I turn 17 on June 18th: I'm going to Philadelphia's Comic Con! It's my first con, and Sebastian Stan & Anthony Mackie will be there, so it suffices to say that I'm beyond excited. Any advice you have on cons is welcome, so don't hesitate to PM me or add it to the end of your review. I have no idea what to expect, but I can hardly wait! I'm going on Saturday the 21st. There will be fangirl shrieking. (Sadly, Scarlett Johansson and Chris Evans won't be there... I want to meet them so badly, though!)

That's all for now. Please do review, if you don't mind – and thanks for reading!