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“Nat, it’s me—it’s Steve! You’re okay, you’re home. It’s me!”
The words came out choked and with effort. Steve’s gullet burned as he forced them up his throat and past his lips, forced them around Natasha’s hands, which were wrapped around his neck and rapidly tightening. Tears stung at his eyes from the lack of oxygen, blurring the image of her emotionless face—those blank eyes—as she hovered over him. She was straddling his waist, her thighs trapping his arms against his thighs and clamped so tight that he couldn’t free himself from her grasp without harming her, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Natasha wasn’t hurting him knowingly. She was just caught in one of those lapses she occasionally fell into when she had night terrors, the ones where she still thought she was trapped in the Red Room, still being subjected to their abuse, to their torture…
Steve rapidly blinked as he felt his head go light and saw his vision slowly fade to black. “Natasha,” he gasped. Her face was still expressionless. “Nat, please…”
He flexed his hands against the inside of her thighs in an attempt to get them free. He didn’t want to throw her off of him, didn’t want to hurt her. Natasha was strong, but he was stronger. Still, she tightened her thighs even more around his hands so that he could barely feel them, let alone move them.
“<I am one of twenty-eight ballerinas with the Bolshoi. The training is hard. But the glory of Soviet culture, and the warmth of my parents, makes up for…>”
“<Natasha, wake up. You’re safe. This isn’t the Red Room. You’re home. You’re with me.>” Steve gasped out. He’d learned Russian early on in their relationship—he had never been more grateful for it than at that moment. “<This isn’t Russia, they can’t hurt you anymore. I—>”
Suddenly, the constricting around his neck stopped. Her hands were still there, but they weren’t tightening any more. No, they were trembling. “…Steve?”
She had switched back to English. She was there again. Her eyes were no longer empty, her face no longer blank. Steve could see that she was back, could see her it in her strikingly green eyes, even in the darkness of the room. He managed a nod, ignoring the burning in his lungs as he answered, “Yeah. It’s me. It’s Steve.”
“Steve?” Natasha repeated, her voice quiet. She slowly lifted one of her shaking hands and lightly touched his cheekbone, as if to make sure he was really there. He would have taken her hand in his were she not still pinning it to his side with her thigh, but instead he leaned a little into her touch.
“It’s me, Nat. You’re safe. It’s me.”
That was when she choked out a sob. “Oh, god. God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Natasha scrambled off and away from him, stumbling over nothing as she staggered backwards across the room. Steve abruptly sat up in an attempt to reach for her, but his hand met air—she moved quickly, if not clumsily, until her back thumped against the far wall, where she slid down and drew her knees to her chest. “I’m sorry. Steve, I’m so sorry.”
She was sobbing, sucking in heavy breaths of air between her words but sounding as if she was choking on them at the same time. She was going to have a panic attack if she didn’t stop. Steve was quick to cross the distance between them, dropping to his knees in front of her. Natasha flinched away from him, shaking her head and tucking her hands underneath her arms.
“I hurt you. I’m sorry, Steve. I hurt you. You could’ve died. I’m—”
Steve reached for her, mindful not to move too quickly lest he wanted to scare her. “Hey, shh, come here…” He murmured, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest. “It’s alright. I’m alright. You didn’t hurt me, okay? I’m fine. See?” He lowered Natasha’s head so that her ear lay over his heart, allowing her to hear his heartbeat. Despite the situation, he’d managed to keep his pulse calm and steady, at least for her sake.
It didn’t work. She shook her head against his chest, eyes upturned to look at the harsh, finger-shaped marks that had quickly reddened over his Adam’s apple. “You’re not fine. I hurt you…you could have…”
“The marks will be gone in an hour. Less than that. I’m okay,” Steve gently insisted. He pressed his lips against her temple. “You didn’t hurt me. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Relax, Tasha. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Steve…” She protested, though she sounded less…feral. Less hysterical. The emotion had left her body just as quickly as it came, but it was now replaced by exhaustion—and something that sounded akin to fear.
He pulled her tighter against him, finding her hand with one of his and squeezing in assurance, in an effort to tell her that she didn’t need to apologize anymore. He didn’t blame her, couldn’t blame her, for losing herself in her memories—memories that haunted her, even if she didn’t show it or admit it. Instead he held her close, engulfed her in his warmth, and waited until her pulse stopped thrumming erratically throughout her body until he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Better?”
“A little,” she murmured.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Her fingers briefly clenched against the fabric of his t-shirt, and he took that as a no. “It’s alright. You don’t have to, I understand. I used to get them bad, too. After Bucky died. After I woke up from the ice, especially.” He paused, swallowing thickly. “I used to dream that I was frozen again. I couldn’t wake up, couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe, eventually. I’d wake up gasping.” Natasha pressed her cheek to his chest, and he could feel the dampness from her eyelashes seep into his shirt. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’re not alone in this. I know what you’re going through. I know it’s hard. But it does get better.”
“I’ve been having these dreams for years.”
“So did I,” Steve went on. “And it took a while for them to go away. But they did. I can’t tell you how, I can’t tell you when, but they’ll stop coming. I promise you that. But until then, I’m going to be here by your side, okay? Each and every time. I’ll be here.”
Natasha lifted her head so that she was finally looking at his face, though he noticed she pointedly avoided looking at his throat this time. “Steve, I nearly strangled you to death. Who knows what will happen next time?”
“Who knows if there will even be a next time?” He pointed out, curling a finger under her chin and looking her dead in the eye. She had nothing to say to that, even if they both knew that this time was more than likely not the last she would have a night terror. “I’ll be fine. And you will too, I guarantee it.”
She bit her lip, averting her eyes as she felt them moisten once again. “Thank you,” she finally murmured.
Steve kissed her forehead. “Of course,” he whispered. “I’m with you.” He paused then, recalling the words that always seemed to cheer him up, even in the darkest of times. “Till the end of the line, alright?”
“Alright,” Natasha nodded. She closed her eyes as Steve briefly pressed their lips together before shifting her in his arms so that she was resting comfortably against the front of his body. “Till the end of the line,” she whispered; almost to herself, as if she was testing the words on her tongue.
He held her tighter and never loosened his hold, not even when she finally fell back asleep in his arms. Not even when his back began to hurt with the position he was sitting in, or when he even nodded off himself. He never let go, because he made a promise. He’d be with her through it all.
He’d never leave her, not even when the line did finally end.