110.
Washington, DC
June 29th, 2012
The first week after leaving SHIELD feels like a blur for Isabel. In Steve's two-bedroom apartment, the world outside might as well not exist.
She rarely ventures outside the confines of the four walls that surround her, her sense of reality fractured by the weeks of torment, isolation, and the sheer confusion of waking up in a time she doesn't understand.
The apartment is modest—comfortable but stark, filled with memories of Steve's long-forgotten past. The walls are lined with simple furniture, some photos, and the faint scent of clean laundry and old books. It isn't much, but it's a place where she can breathe, even if every breath feels like it's being forced.
Isabel spends the days staring at the walls. She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know what she's supposed to feel. She isn't sure how to function. The silence of the apartment is both a comfort and a trap, echoing the hollow emptiness inside her.
Steve tries his best to help her adjust, but his actions speak louder than his words. He cooks meals, though Isabel never seems to have an appetite, and he knows what he cooks is mediocre at best. He speaks to her gently, his voice offering some semblance of normalcy, but there's always that quiet distance between them—a gap neither of them can bridge, no matter how hard they try.
But at night, the darkness comes, and with it, the nightmares.
Isabel doesn't scream, at least not aloud anymore. It's getting better.
They fall asleep in the same bed now, because she asked him to stay and she felt bad about him sleeping on the couch that's much too small and uncomfortable for him, but Steve always wakes in the middle of the night, hearing her murmured crying from the other side of the door. She always takes herself to the couch or the corner of the living room, curling up with her back to the wall.
Steve hears the soft, guttural sounds she makes as she relives the horrors of her past. The nightmares are never clear—just flashes, fragmented moments she can't piece together, yet they haunt her relentlessly.
A bright white light that hurts her eyes.
Cold, mechanical hands holding her down.
The sting of ice against her skin.
A faceless, shadowed figure looming over her, whispering commands she can't obey.
The silhouette of a broken man in the corner of a cell, arm glinting in the light of the overhead lamps.
She wakes up with her breath shallow, her chest tight, and her body drenched in sweat.
Each time, Steve is there, holding her, without fail, without hesitation. His arms wrap around her, steady and warm, grounding her to the reality she can't quite hold onto. He whispers assurances, though his voice is always tinged with concern, as if he isn't sure if she'll ever find peace.
"It's okay, Belle. You're safe now. You're not there anymore."
Isabel never says anything in response anymore, not like the first few nights. She just buries her face in the crook of his neck, trying to silence the storm inside her. The cold grip of the nightmares is still there, clinging to her like a shroud. But Steve's presence, the warmth of his body pressed against hers, is the only thing that makes it bearable.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, she isn't alone in the dark.
He carries her back to bed afterwards, tucks her in under his arm, runs fingers through her hair and promises to stay away all night to starve off the bad dreams for her.
She manages to fall back asleep, listening to the beat of his heart and counting his breaths, her face pressed up against his chest, his other hand cradling the back of her head.
They mould together perfectly, she realises one night, amidst a jumble of other thoughts. The way they hold each other, they way their bodies slot together is like a perfect puzzle piece. Natural. Safe.
Gradually, they start sleeping in the same bed all night, not just until the nightmares begin. Isabel wakes up with Steve, feeling the closeness of his body and the warmth of his skin to ground her.
Steve works hard to keep her there all night, and it seems to be helping. It's both comforting and necessary. Isabel needs the physical closeness—something to anchor her in a world that's too vast, too unfamiliar. Steve never says anything, never tries to make it feel like it's anything more than a simple act of support. He doesn't want to rush her, but in the silence of the night, they both know it's the only way she can find any semblance of peace.
As the days turn into weeks, Isabel starts to show subtle signs of adjusting, but the scars run deep. During the day, when the light fills the apartment and she can almost pretend she's still part of the world she once knew, she's semi-normal. She sits by the window, staring at the street below, her eyes distant, as if she's watching a life she can no longer touch. She listens to music on the radio, and writes out her memories in a little book Steve gets her, trying to piece it all together.
When he gets home one day, a bag of groceries in hand, she's turned one of the blank walls of the apartment into a massive map of all her memories, mapping out name's and faces and events. She's written everything out on tiny pieces of paper, shreds and note pad pages, and stuck it all to the wall with blue tack she's found in a drawer somewhere. She's trying to organise it, sitting on the couch, just staring at it all.
Steve puts the grocery bag and comes over to have a look. There's still so much missing.
"There's lots of gaps," she says, her voice quiet.
"Yeah," Steve says easily. "It'll come back. Don't worry."
Isabel frowns. "Is what I have now correct?" She asks.
They sit for hours afterward, trying to organise every semblance of what Isabel remembers. Steve gets out a pencil and they draw lines, arrows, pictures on the wall, write things, make the connections known. Steve gets out the photos he has, everything he's managed to print and collect, and they add them too – people, places, it all starts to slowly come together.
They step back after a while, admiring the map.
"A map of tiny, perfect memories," Isabel whispers, her eyes flicking over all of it. "Can we leave it there?"
"Of course," Steve promises. "And we can add to it everyday. Whenever you need to."
Isabel nods. She slowly, hesitantly reaches across the expanse between them, her hand slipping into his. And they just stare at the wall for a while. Together.
The moment the sun dips below the horizon and the shadows creep in, the change is instantaneous. The fear seizes her again. The warmth of the sun no longer feels like enough protection. The cold, the dark—they trigger something inside her, a visceral panic, like a deep-seated fear her body remembers but her mind can't.
Steve quickly realizes that the cold is a source of deep trauma for her. He notices it the first time she shivers uncontrollably, even though the apartment isn't cold enough to warrant it. It isn't just a chill. It's like she's reliving something, her body bracing for the icy grip of something far worse than mere temperature.
Through the few conversations they have, Steve deduces something he doesn't want to admit: Isabel has been subjected to something—some form of cryogenic freeze, most likely. The idea of being frozen, of being trapped in a state of suspended animation, seems to make sense when he thinks about how she looks so unchanged, as if she's hardly aged a day. It's the only explanation that makes sense.
"Cold," she mutters one night after a particularly hard flashback. "It… it was cold."
Steve doesn't ask more. He doesn't need to. It's clear enough.
From that point on, he makes it his mission to keep her warm. Layer upon layer of clothes, blankets piled high around her, heaters running constantly. He sits beside her on the couch, rubbing her arms to bring some warmth back into her skin. He never asks for anything in return. He simply stays by her side, a constant presence in her life, even if she doesn't speak.
During the day, when the sunlight seems to restore some semblance of normalcy, Isabel is a little quieter, her movements a little slower, but there are moments of connection. They watch documentaries together on the couch, the vibrant colours of the television screen captivating her. Isabel has never seen colour television before, and to see the world come alive in such a vivid way seems to spark something inside her. She's amazed by the small things—the way the images move, the way people talk in different accents, the sheer novelty of something so simple.
Steve explains things she doesn't understand, taking the time to tell her about the world she's missed. Well, the parts of it he's understood so far. The little things. The things most people take for granted. He tells her about the advancements in technology, the new inventions that have changed the world, the things she would've seen if she'd been able to live freely.
It isn't a perfect existence. It isn't even close to being normal. But it's something. It's something they can hold on to.
And for Isabel, in that small, quiet apartment, with the steady presence of Steve by her side, that's enough. For now.
But every night, when the lights go out and the dark closes in, Isabel remembers the things she can't explain, the things she can't forget. And as Steve holds her close, whispering that everything will be okay, she can't help but wonder if that promise can ever truly be kept.
Isabel starts to leave extra notes around for herself to help her remember.
Steve finds them in the most random places.
She carries a notepad and pen with her all the time, writing down what she remembers and then leaving the notes scattered. Taped to the bathroom mirror. On the pillow. Scattered across the dining table. On the coffee table. On the kettle.
Some of them, she's vaguely tried to organise, tried to group the ideas and thoughts and memories together to help her remember, to try to make sense of it all. At the end of the day, they round them all up and add them to the memories wall.
A shadow man.
I see this person, sometimes, in my mind. He's got blonde hair and blue eyes, and he smiles at me like I hung the moon.
I don't know who he is.
He changes in height. Sometimes he's tall, and well-built. Other times he's small and thin – this was Steve, I remembered Steve.
Super-soldier serum – they gave it to me.
A cold cell.
Dripping ceilings.
I nearly died.
I had to give orders.
He has the same face and the same crook in the ridge of his nose – Steve.
Sometimes they gave me a hug?
Never outside. Underground?
Memory – He kisses the top of my head, runs his hands through the back of my hair.
His hands are gentle, and his body is warm, and his voice is kind. He feels safe. He feels like home – Steve.
The shadow man… I think I used to know him.
Steve reads them all, every time there's a new one, trying to understand what happened to her and what she remembers. And every time, his heart breaks just that little bit more.