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The second time Steve wakes in his hospital room, he can tell the energy of the place has shifted. The music is gone, and so is Sam’s easy warmth, replaced by quiet and calm he’s come to associate with Natasha. She’s sitting in the bedside chair when he turns his head, one leg curled up under her and a tattered paperback open on her lap. On the book’s cover he can just make out a purple-petaled flower and a pair of shockingly green eyes, the title obscured by her knee.
“Welcome back,” she says as he meets her eyes, the corner of her lips lifting ever so slightly. She sets her book on the bedside table. “Don’t worry. You were only out for a couple hours this time, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t miss much.”
Steve tries to muster up the energy for a snappy comeback, only manages a weak smile, the stitches at the edge of his mouth still stinging a little. It’s been a long while since his body’s needed this much healing--the first time since the serum, really--and he finds himself swallowing down a wave of anxiety at that thought, as all the recent reminders of his own mortality suddenly seem to weigh on his shoulders.
“You’re all over the news,” he tells her instead, trying not to let his thoughts get too mired down in memories of the ice, of burning lungs and receding vision from even earlier still. He nods toward the television in the corner of his hospital room, where he’s pretty sure they’re playing footage of the helicarriers going down, belching toxic black smoke, on an endless loop. “And the internet.”
Natasha raises an eyebrow, then widens her eyes in a theatrical parody of shock. “Really? You know what that is?”
It’s a joke she’s been making for more than a year, and Steve doesn’t grant her anything more than an eye-roll this time. “Surprised to see you here. Would’ve thought you’d be in the wind by now.”
“What, and let you and Sam have all the fun?” she asks. There’s a darkness behind her humor, though, a fear she’s never truly allowed him to see, and Steve pauses for a moment to study her. She looks tired, he thinks, and younger than he’s ever realized, in sweats and a loose t-shirt, her hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“You really did it,” he says quietly, meeting her eyes again and gauging her reaction. “Put it all out there. Blew all your covers?”
She tenses, just enough for him to see. “That was the plan. You didn’t think I’d go through with it?”
Steve pauses, takes a moment to collect his thoughts, because he owes her this and so much more. “If I hadn’t trusted you with it, I wouldn’t have agreed to the plan. But I’m still aware that it was a big step for you. And one I’m proud of.”
There’s a subtle shift in her face at that, a flash of the same raw emotion he saw in Sam’s apartment, though he couldn’t name it then. It’s surprise, he thinks now, and something deeper, something a little like wonder. It makes his heart ache, suddenly, realizing that’s her reaction to being trusted, being valued.
“I wanted to ask you something,” Natasha says, after a moment. “You always talk about doing the right thing. But--when you’re the one giving the orders, how do you know what that is?”
Steve blinks, caught off-guard again by the question. “I don’t. Not always. But I try to think--How can I protect the people who can’t do it for themselves? And I guess I try to listen to my heart, too. Maybe you should do that a little more often. Seems to me it’s in the right place.”
“I’m not running away from this,” she says firmly. “Not until I’ve seen it all the way through. It’s not over yet, you know.”
He nods once, aware that she’s thinking of S.H.I.E.L.D., and HYDRA, though his mind is still consumed by a different mission entirely. “I wanted to ask you something too. A favor.”
“You want me to help you track down Barnes,” she says immediately, the fact that she’s already guessed and her use of Bucky’s name making Steve’s chest tighten a little.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “I’m not asking you to come along, you’ve got enough of your own to worry about. But--information, a lead, anything you can give me. I know you said you’ve tried to find him before. But this is something I have to do for myself.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” says Natasha, then reaches out and takes his hand. “Whatever they did to him--Seeing that happen to your friend? I know you can’t let it go until you’ve done everything in your power to get him back.”
“I guess you would know,” says Steve, hoping she’ll hear the weight of understanding in his voice.The exhaustion and pain are starting to catch up again, though, and he can’t manage much more than that in response.
“Want me to stay until you fall asleep again?” Natasha offers, the open warmth in her voice still unexpected despite everything.
He turns her hand gently until it rests palm-up in his own, runs a fingertip lightly across the lines there, the near-invisible calluses that belie her hard-won strength. She exhales at the brush of his fingers, shivers almost imperceptibly but doesn’t pull away. There’s something deeply comforting in her presence, and though it isn’t the first time he’s made that observation, Steve doesn’t think he’s ever been quite so grateful for it. Strange, he thinks, that his mother has been gone for nearly a hundred years, yet he still wishes for her in moments like this one.
“I don’t know,” he says softly, still aiming for their usual humor, but landing somewhere closer to genuine uncertainty. “Might take a while.”
“I said fall asleep, not wake up,” she teases gently, reaching for the remote and switching off the television. In the absence of the dramatic music and the alarmed voices of the news anchors, the room feels almost peaceful.
“Come here?” he asks, the words barely audible, then tugs lightly on her hand.
For a moment he thinks she’s going to protest, going to make this into another joke, another thing to tease him about. Instead she stands, climbs over the bed rail with feline grace, and stretches out along the side of the mattress so that their shoulders are touching.
“This what you wanted?” she asks, finding his hand again and lacing their fingers.
Steve swallows and nods. “Thank you. For everything.”
Natasha flashes him the little hint of a smile he’s beginning to see as a reward. “Go to sleep, Rogers. I hear old men need a lot of beauty rest.”
He laughs, and lets himself drift off to the sound of her breathing, acutely aware that he’ll be waking up to the beginnings of another new world.