Author's Notes: Hello, hello, hello! Thank you guys for all the reviews. They're lovely, and I adore you all.

Now *rubs hands together* let's get to where we all know this story has been leading.

WARNING: Rated M for sex and torture and trigger-y things . . .

Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. The characters aren't mine but I love them all the more for it.

Chapter 17: Present

She's on the gurney again, but it doesn't bother her. Not initially. She's been on this ride before. She knows how it ends.

But something's different this time.

As she stares up at the lights, they begin to zap and flicker. Tendrils of electricity dance from the light bulbs and snake across the ceiling, growing louder and louder the closer she gets to the doors. No. She doesn't want to be here. No, no, no. She has to get away. She has to run. She has to escape. They can't . . . no . . . she won't forget, she won't . . .

The gurney vanishes, and rough hands grip her shoulders. Her feet drag along the cold floor but no one seems to care. Her thoughts are muddled and slow due to the sedative but it's wearing off fast. She thinks if she has just another thirty seconds, she can muster up the energy to incapacitate her captors. They won't expect her to have recovered so quickly. They're always underestimating her.

Twenty seconds. She can twitch her toes.

The doors are too close. She's hauled through them, and that's when she sees it. It sits in the back of the room, a plain leather chair you'd see at a dentist's office but surrounded by an arch of metal. Heavy restraints lock around the arms, far too large to hold her, meant for someone much bigger, much stronger.

James.

Karpov waits like a disappointed parent, arms folded in front of him, hands wrapped around a red leather book embossed with a familiar Soviet star. "It is a pity I should have to do this, Natalia," he says as she's brought forward.

Fifteen seconds.

"Yes, a pity," she agrees. "How about we just put it behind us?"

He laughs, genuinely amused, and then backhands her sharply across the face. When she looks up, his face is inches from hers. "I allowed you and the Asset your fun, and this is how you repay me?"

She lifts her chin defiantly. "I love him." She's never said it aloud before, and the words are sweet on her tongue.

But Karpov only tuts, "Love is for children."

Five seconds.

Karpov shouts orders, and she's dragged toward the chair. Three seconds. No, no, no, no. She uses the front of the chair as a springboard and flips over guards' shoulders, slamming their heads together as she lands. Her momentary victory is short-lived, because then Karpov is there with one of her own Widow's Bites and she crumples.

No.

She's half-conscious from the shock, and she thinks that's why she's silly enough, desperate enough to call for him. "James," she murmurs.

Her mind clears a little more at the sound of the restraints clicking into place. "James!"

Karpov talks heatedly with the scientists, urging them to start the machine. She doesn't know why until she hears a roar and a sharp bang of metal on metal. She can't move her head, it's in some sort of restraint, but her eyes dart to the left. She swears she can feel the whole room shudder when the next bang echoes. Karpov starts to shout, but she can still hear her name.

"Natalia!"

"James!"

There's a cackle of electricity as the machine comes to life. The restraints tighten. No, no, no, no. She closes her eyes and tries to steady her breathing. It's hopeless. She can still hear James, cursing and calling. He's close to busting down the door. She knows it. Everyone's frantic around her as the machine charges. She can hear the guards moving, hear their guns cocking.

The last words she hears are from Karpov.

"Remember, Natalia: Love is for children."

She gasps as she lurches from the bed. James is calling for her, and the sound of his voice has her scrambling for the bathroom. She falls to her knees just in time to vomit into the toilet. Everything in her stomach comes up but she continues to heave anyway. When she feels metal against her shoulder, she flinches and then curses at the intake of breath she hears behind her.

"You remember," James says.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine."

She shakes her head. "It's not." Taking a deep breath, she flushes the toilet and swallows, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "It's not your fault, James."

Though she stays on the floor, she turns around and leans against the pedestal sink. James mirrors her, though he's as far away from her as he can get, pressing his shoulders against the lip of the bathtub. Though he's not looking at her, she can see the tears lurking in his eyes. "It's not your fault," she repeats.

"There are two sides to every story," he says eventually. "I still don't remember mine."

"Would it be wrong of me to hope that you never do?"

His lips twitch sadly. "I won't hold it against you."

There's so much more to it than that, and she hears it in his voice, sees it in the defeated set to his shoulders. She knows that she could order him to leave and he wouldn't fight her for a second. He'd walk out without a word. And that infuriates her, because he just has to be so goddamn noble, doesn't he? And so willing to accept blame that doesn't belong to him.

In so many ways, he's just like Steve. She wonders if either man even knows which traits they stole from the other. She supposes in the end it doesn't matter. She loves them both in such different ways, but in the end, both of them are a giant, super-serumed pain in her ass.

Squaring her shoulders, she slides across the tiled floor until she's right in front of James, who looks so ready to accept her judgement that she nearly slaps him. Instead, she pointedly reaches for his metal hand. He resists her for a second, but she tugs harder and he relents. Slowly, she places his hand over her heart. She knows he can feel it beat. He's tried to explain to her how it works, how he has a strange sense of feeling despite the metal, but the technicalities don't matter in this moment. He just needs to know that she's not afraid, that he'll always be hers, metal and all.

"Natalia—"

"It's just you and me," she tells him, even if they aren't the words she truly means. Everything is so clear to her now. She wonders how she could have ever doubted this, them. "You and me," she repeats.

He stares at her like he isn't sure she's real, but he says it back. "You and me."

I love you.

They sit on the floor, staring at the other for a second longer, until James breaks the spell. He blinks and his eyes rake over her—mussed hair, glistening skin, red eyes, puffy nose—thinking that she's never looked smaller. Make it better . . . yes, he needs to make it better. "Why don't you hop in the shower," he says. "You'll feel better."

Natasha smiles briefly but nods. "Not a bad idea, soldat. You could wash my back?"

She's teasing him, and he's relieved to see the sparkle in her eye, even if it means fighting not to readjust the sudden tightness in his pants. "Even you're not that lucky, vozlyublennaya."

"Luck has nothing to do with it."

James smirks and leans closer. He can't help it. At this point, he thinks it's a foregone conclusion that there's no resisting the little spider in front of him. He's caught in her web with no escape and doesn't mind a damn bit. Fuck. "You couldn't handle it," he teases with a thread of warning. And challenge.

Natasha's smile is everything. "Bet," she dares simply.

He wants to, but he doesn't. He leans closer, his lips hovering over hers, feeling the warmth radiating from her and setting his skin on fire . . . only to grin before smoothly pulling away and standing. "I'll leave you to it," he says, turning on the shower with a quick flick of his metal wrist.

Natasha stares after him, inwardly incredulous though her lips settle into a thoughtful smirk as she watches him leave. The feeling of warmth and comfort lingers as steam fills the small bathroom, and for a few minutes, as she stands under the hot spray, Natasha is able to relax. But the spray steadily beats against the porcelain and her skin grows red and hot and the steam begins to suffocate her. She reaches out a hand to grasp the curtain as she feels her stomach heave and her chest contract. She closes her eyes as the memory assaults her again. The water on her head suddenly feels like bullets.

Love is for children.

Natalia!

I love him.

Remember, Natalia . . .

Just five more seconds.

James!

Natasha pretends that her tears are from the shower as she slowly sinks to sit in the tub, wrapping her arms around her knees and hoping that James can't hear her sob under the pounding spray.

James sits on the couch, a book in his hand, as he listens to the shower run upstairs. He turns the page without having read a word. His mind is a place that he's grown used to navigating—a patchwork of picture and emotion, all tangled up with connecting threads. But for once, his mind is blissfully clear and focused. It's a wonder on the surface, nearly novel. He can still think and hear and feel. He feels whole. There's none of the Soldier's emptiness now.

He'd never thought he'd miss it.

Thoughts of Natasha flood him. Memories swim in and out of focus like ocean swells. She's young and beaming at him in the Red Room, an apple in her hand. Then she's older, her hair straight and sleek, her smirk darker as she stands next to him in the Smithsonian. Then she's young again, her head thrown back on her pillow, eyes closed and his name on her lips. He remembers plums and whiskey and rooftops. He remembers pain and longing and hope. And he feels it. Every second of memory, he feels deep in his bones until he thinks he may explode.

Just you and me.

People like us, we don't get happy endings.

I've worn so many masks. I don't know if any of them is actually me.

We're not good people.

You're a good man.

Keep sayin' things like that, I might not let you go.

I deserve it.

James, my love.

My love . . .

Love . . .

James!

He shakes his head abruptly and stands. There's an unopened box of tea next to the coffeemaker, and James takes out a packet as he puts the kettle on. He doesn't want the tea. The tea is for Natasha. He hopes it'll calm her nerves. Or his. Maybe he will drink it.

James!

He flinches. It isn't his fault. He knows that. They both knew the risks. He only wishes that Natasha hadn't had to pay for it. James would have taken all the blame, all the punishment. He wishes he could do that now. The memory is punishment enough.

But he can't. He can't do a single goddamn thing. And he wants to. He wants to make it better. He wants to do something to ease this godawful tightness in his chest. He thinks that holding Natasha might help, but surely she wouldn't want that. That would cross a line they mutually drew in the sand once they both remembered Prague. You don't just remember and suddenly have everything fall into place. That couldn't be how things worked. They were both so different now. So old, so damaged. It couldn't work that way. It couldn't be that easy.

The kettle whistles. James pours the tea and holds the steaming mug in his flesh hand, letting the heat seep into his skin. His eyes flit to the stairs as his ears strain to hear past the gentle pounding of water against porcelain. He frowns. There's a hitch and then . . .

James is already on the stairs, tea forgotten on the countertop.

He doesn't give a thought to propriety or whether Natasha wants to grieve alone. He's pulling back the shower curtain, heedless of the water that splatters onto the tile floor and soaks his shirt, wrapping Natasha in his arms like he had done once before, decades ago. And just like last time, like they're both sixty years younger, Natasha fists one hand in the collar of his shirt and buries her face in his neck. James gently shushes her, murmuring nonsense as he sets about drying her off and pulling her arms through one of his flannel shirts that's lying forgotten on the floor from that morning. Natasha doesn't bother with the buttons, sniffing as she simply pulls it tight around her while James puts her to bed.

Once she's safe and warm, James debates leaving her be. He thinks he should. He thinks it's the polite thing to do, what his mother would tell him to do, but he stays. He perches on the bed next to her and brushes her wet hair from her eyes, and Natasha snakes out a hand from the blankets to grab his fingers before he can pull away. He lets her tuck their hands against her chest and sits patiently while she stares at the wall. He knows she'll talk when she's ready.

His patience is rewarded after nearly half an hour.

"Thanks," she says, her voice huskier than usual. She glances at him briefly. "I didn't mean to give you a free show. I'm classier than that these days."

James's lips twitch at her weak attempt at humor. "From what I remember, you were always classy."

Natasha snorts. "We're trusting your memory?"

"I like to think it's getting . . ." not better, but maybe, ". . . clearer." Natasha doesn't answer, but that doesn't bother him much. He thinks that he should feel uncomfortable, but he doesn't. Her, this . . . it doesn't faze him. And he knows it's because it's Natasha. It's because it's them, and god, it had always been this way, hadn't it?

"Do you think we're good people?" she asks.

"Why?"

"Just answer the question."

He frowns. "You said that I'm a good man," he says. "I'm not, but then you're the only one who could understand that."

Natasha smiles feebly. "Yeah."

James runs his thumb over her knuckles. "Why?"

"Remember when I told you that people like us didn't get happy endings?"

He looks down. "I remember."

"You think I was right?"

She looks at him then, and this time she keeps her eyes on his. He's hopeless not to stare back, and he sees so much of her in this moment. He sees the Soldier's little spider—every bit of her tenacity and mischief is still there, fierce and bright—and he sees James's ballerina, all of her hope and passion and love. But there's so much more there, now. A deeper sense of sadness, a gleam of quiet wisdom, and a desperate loneliness. He sees the remnants of every battle, every scar, and he loves her.

Jesus Christ, he loves her.

It doesn't make sense. It shouldn't make sense, but he loves her just as much as he did sixty years ago. Maybe more. Because they're both more now. Everything about them has grown and aged and now . . . she's here and he's here and he's fucking missed her.

So he manages the smallest of smiles, so like the first precious few she'd coaxed from him all those years ago, and says, "I don't know, sweetheart. But I'm still here."

And Natasha smiles back.

"Keep saying things like that, and I might not let you go," she warns.

He smiles fondly. "We've had this conversation before."

"Hmm, I still like the arm."

His eyes close. "Natasha."

"You keep calling me that, too," she says. "What happened to Natalia?"

"You chose to be Natasha," he says. "And I happen to like her. Though don't hold it against me if I slip occasionally."

It means more than Natasha will admit, that he's talking to her now, being with her now as she is, as Natasha, and not the girl that he remembers. She tugs him closer. "I don't mind," she says. "But I'm still calling you James. Bucky sounds like a circus animal."

James chuckles. "I don't mind," he parries back.

"So, I'll be Natasha, and you'll be James."

He leans closer. He's hovering over her now, his free hand pressing against the pillow beside her head. "Just you and me."

"Yeah." She trails her fingertips across his jaw. "You and me."

Natasha isn't sure who moves first, but she sighs into the gentle brush of his lips against hers. It's nearly too sweet and yet not sweet enough. It's innocent and pure, just like she remembers, and she revels in the light of it. There is no darkness. Not in this moment. There's just them.

But she wants more.

It takes a hard tug on his hair, and then she's suddenly upright and surrounded, straddling his hips and burying her hands in his hair. James's arms wrap around her, dipping beneath the folds of his shirt that's already slipping from one of her shoulders. His metal arm is cool against her back and hums as he presses her to him. His flesh hand is hot like a brand as it slides up her ribs before settling over her breast. She sighs into his mouth when he squeezes. Her mouth opens in invitation, James doesn't hesitate. Natasha moans victoriously. It's damn near a chuckle.

He bites her lip. She bites back. It's just like a spar, just like a dance, and Natasha has always been a brilliant dancer.

James suddenly pulls away, and Natasha nearly pouts before she realizes that he means to pull his shirt over his head, and then she's reaching readily to help. The shirt, still damp from when he'd lifted her from the shower, lands with a smack against the wood floor. Natasha barely register's the sound. She's too busy mapping his skin with her fingers, mesmerized by how familiar and yet new he feels beneath her hands. There are new scars but she lets them be for now. She'll study them later.

For now, she trails her lips over his neck, working her way to his collarbone, licking and sucking and nipping like the little vixen James remembers so clearly, and then she's placing sweet kisses on the spiderweb of scars that leads to where skin meets metal, and he shudders. "Nat," he breathes. "Fuck, I missed you."

His hand slides through her hair and he pulls her lips back to his as he spins them, sending them tumbling to the middle of the bed. They land with a little bounce that makes Natasha laugh, and god, she can't remember the last time she laughed in bed. "Just as smooth as ever, James," she teases, and he growls as he nips her neck, his lips trailing tauntingly over the rise of her breast before abruptly ignoring her aching, pleading nipple as he starts a wet trail down her stomach that has her squirming even more. "I forgot you were such a cocky bastard," she growls when he once again stops just shy of where she wants him.

James smiles against her skin. "I'm remembering you," he says.

"Well, remember faster."

"You know, I don't remember you being so demanding."

In the next second, James is blinking up at her from his back in surprise. His hands automatically snake along her thighs to her hips, and he starts to grin as Natasha bends to hover over him, her hair parting to hide their faces in a curtain of red. "Yeah, well," she says. "I've got a few new tricks."

James leans up to claim her lips, and Natasha allows it, though she pulls back just when he means to deepen the kiss. He groans. "C'mon, I'll be good," he says.

"I don't remember you being so easy."

"Yeah, well," he parries. "I've been waiting for this literally longer than I can remember."

Natasha laughs again, the sound low and sweet in her throat, and James smiles against her skin before kissing her neck. She doesn't remember them being so lighthearted. She remembers quiet sighs and passionate embraces. There'd been no time for laughter. The risk of getting caught had been too great.

But there's no one to catch them now.

The mood shifts once there's nothing between them. Reality settles heavily over them, and all teasing stops. Every touch becomes deliberate, almost defiant, and Natasha lets her head fall back on the pillow as James once again takes his time with her, and she readily lets him. There's no question of who's in control. For once, she's readily surrendered.

And it's so incredibly freeing.

James is meticulous. For all her memories, she'd forgotten that, but she relishes it now as he catalogues every hitch in her breath, every moan, every sigh. It's been so long since she's been touched like this, since sex has meant anything other than a means to an end. She moans loudly when his metal hand, now just as warm as skin, begins to gently massage her breast while his hot mouth closes over her nipple, teeth and lips teasing and pulling.

"James," she sighs.

They go so slow. She thinks its half James's intent and half their mutual desire to savor memory and reality. Everything feels different and yet the same. She remembers feeling light and free in his arms, and that hasn't changed, but everything else has. She's not that Natalia. Not anymore. She's not so easily distracted, so capable of burying her head in the sand, if only for a few blissful moments. She's far too old for that now.

So even as she writhes beneath him, she begins to think about HYDRA, about the Avengers, about how this, them, won't last. Just like before. She has a job to do. A life beyond this cabin. Eventually, much sooner than she'd like, she'll have to leave.

"Don't think about it," James says suddenly, kissing her sweetly. "This time will be different."

Her hands slide up his back. "How do you know what I'm thinking about?"

"Because I know you." He meets her eyes, more open and honest than she can ever remember. His eyes have never been bluer. "I'll always know you."

She's not ready for the overwhelming rush of love that floods her chest. The words are stuck in her throat, and she swallows them down. She's not ready to say it, and James isn't either. This right here is already pushing both of their limits. Sex isn't scary. Sex is nothing. It's just another weapon, another tactic that they've both used countless times. But this, this is something else, something different, something deeper.

They come together gently, and it's like their initial kiss that started it all. Sweet. Slow. Even shy. For a split second, Natasha feels like she doesn't know what she's doing, like it's all completely new, but it fades once they slip into a steady rhythm. The whole world fades away. So does the time. She closes her eyes and falls. Back to a narrow bed in the Red Room, frost in the air but her skin on fire. Whispered words and sighs, gentle endearments and surrendered curses.

She'd loved him then. God, how she'd loved him then. And she feels it now, but she keeps it close to her heart. It's too soon, too early, and it wouldn't do either of them any good. HYDRA is still out there looking for both of them, all her secrets are out for the world to see, and she . . . she wants to keep just one secret to herself.

She's owed that.

It seems to last forever, and she knows that James is drawing it out on purpose. Now matter how hard she sinks her nails into his back or how delightfully she angles and twists her hips, he refuses to move any faster. "James," she finally pleads.

He buries his face in her neck. "Not yet. Not yet, sweetheart."

When they finally, finally, collapse onto the mattress, she hums happily as she lets her fingers sift through his damp hair. James nearly purrs, and she sighs as his metal fingers brush her waist as he settles beside her. "Well, that was better than the memory," she says. "We should do it again to be sure."

He chuckles. It's really just a little chuff and barely a smile, but it's something. "Give me a minute," he says.

"Aw, did you throw out your back? What are you? Ninety-six?"

"Ninety-seven, you old crone."

"I think I look good for my age."

He pulls her closer, his scruff scratching pleasantly against her collarbone. His lips brush her neck. "You're still my red ballerina," he says.

She slides her fingers through his hair. "James?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"When you said that this time would be different."

He lifts his head and props himself up on his elbow to look at her. "Hey, it's you and me, alright?"

She smiles a bit. "You should awful confident for a guy who still doesn't remember half his life."

"I remember you. That's enough."

Natasha refuses to acknowledge just how much that means to her as she leans into his palm that cups her cheek and sighs. "Well," she says. "Who am I to argue?"

"It's just you and me."

"Just you and me," she repeats.

There you have it.

Tell me what you think :)

-AC