A/N: Okay, this is a sort of epilogue set some time after the events of CATWS (because I didn't want to leave you sad). It ties in with my story I Would For You (specifically, chapter 8), but I'm sure you can enjoy this without reading that :) Thanks to everyone who's appreciated this story, and especially if you've favorited, followed, or reviewed!

13. We try to fill the spaces in between

Something familiar and deeply upsetting awakens her, and she comes to halfway across the room from the bed, a knife in her hand. Then she realizes it was the sound of James screaming that woke her, and it takes her a few moments to calm down. He's stopped by now, so doesn't need immediate attention. She has enough time to compose herself before attempting to help him. She'd forgotten most of it, their time together, but she'd especially blocked what it was like to hear him scream like that. It isn't a memory she'd been hoping to regain.

Quietly, slowly, she leaves his bedroom and stays in the doorway until her looks at her. His expression is terrified, perplexed, and she moves hesitantly toward him. He doesn't react except to cling to his blankets and stare at her until she's right next to the couch where he'd been sleeping. She speaks to him soothingly and offers her hand, which he eventually takes. It takes some time, and requires her to be more honest than she has been in years (decades?), but she manages to talk him down.

She wonders as they talk just how much he remembers of his time in the Red Room. And how much she remembers. She doesn't think she had anything done to her like what was done to him, but she can't be sure. They could have messed with her memories if it was affecting her performance. After he'd been taken away from her, she doesn't know what happened. Was she able to snap right back into her lessons and training? Or had she spiraled and had to be altered to return to duty? Curious as she is, she doesn't mind not knowing.

It is better to focus on more pressing matters. Not her sordid past, despite most of her current problems coming from it. How will she do any missions if she has no covers? Is Clint right in thinking her house is no longer safe? How long should she stay here with James, lying low? Those are the things she should be thinking about, not how she ended up this way. James needs her here and now, anyway, and needs to see that there is the possibility of coming back from what was done to him. To them.

When he tells her that he's broken, she gets angry. Not so much at him, of course, but at the people who made him (and her) this way. "You're not broken," she tells him firmly, standing up. He watches her, blue eyes wide and clearly surprised by her reaction. "They wanted to make a perfect weapon, and, by God, they did. But just because you aren't him anymore doesn't mean you're broken. You're not malfunctioning, James. You're just being –" she searches for a word "– human."

Earlier in the evening, before the nightmares, he'd told her that she was the only thing that made him feel human in the last seventy years. And it hurts to think about that, both for his sake and because she fears that kind of responsibility. He's a good man, or was, better than she's ever been. How helpful can she really be to him?

The smile that slowly appears on his face is grim at best. "Do most people wake up like this?" he asks bitterly.

Frowning with something like annoyance, she pulls him to his feet and looks up at him intently. "Most people haven't gone through what you have. But you survived. And here you are, still surviving. So you may not sleep as much as everyone else. But we aren't like everyone else, James. So don't compare yourself to them," she tells him.

"Then to whom should I compare myself? Steve? Because that's not going to end well for anyone," he replies, the bitter edge remaining in his tone.

She shakes her head at him. "James, you were with me in the Red Room. You may not have been completely yourself, but you were getting closer every day. And you taught me how to reclaim myself from those monsters. Even if you don't remember it, I owe you for that."

He frowns, clearly surprised. "I did?"

"Yes, James," she says with a small smile.

Slowly, he looks down at his hands again. "You were the one good thing," he whispers, echoing what he had told her earlier.

Following his gaze, she reaches to take his hands in hers and turn his attention back to her face. "I know you think you've only done terrible things. But I've seen you do some impressive things with your hands. And I don't think, James, that you should sleep out here anymore. Come with me," she suggests, heart pounding at the reality of the offer, of where this could lead. Because of who he is and how fragile he is right now; is she wrong to act on this impulse?

His dour expression changes to one conservatively hopeful, and she hides a smile, feeling a little relieved. "Alright," he says.

She releases one hand and leads the way to his room, not glancing back at him. He follows silently and shuts the door behind them. After a moment of hesitation, she lets go of him entirely and climbs back into the spot where she had been sleeping before. She is aware of him watching her, waiting, but she doesn't look at him, just settles back.

The weight of him next to her is startlingly familiar and she wonders how often he'd snuck into her room before they were caught.

"Natalia," he murmurs tentatively, questioning.

"James," she replies.

"What else – what else do you remember about me?"

She turns onto her side to look at him, and he seems afraid of her answer. "I remember a good instructor who taught me everything I know," she offers. He bites his lip and nods, waiting. "I remember a man who saw my potential. A man who was kinder to me than anyone I'd known." His brow furrows at that, but he doesn't speak. "A good friend. My first, probably," she admits.

"A friend?" he asks in an even tone, despite the pained look in his eyes.

She smiles at his foolishness. "I don't mean like Steve is my friend," she teases and he smiles ever so slightly.

"That's – that's good."

"What do you remember about me?" she asks, tossing her head to show she's still teasing. That whatever memories he's lost are just fine.

He gets a faraway look and considers. "You told me stories, talking a lot. No one else talked to me, mostly just gave orders and asked if I could follow them. You were always interested in what I had to say, and took to heart whatever advice I gave you."

"Go on," she murmurs.

His gaze fixes on hers again and he's silent for a few moments. "I remember kissing you."

"Do you?"

He clears his throat. "And… more than that."

Warmth crosses her cheeks against her will and she hopes it's too dark for him to be able to tell. "I see," she says with a smile.

"Do you remember the first night we – the first night we were together?" he asks haltingly.

She isn't sure. "Maybe," she says.

He wets his lips and seems like he wants to look away, but doesn't. "In a hotel, after you – when you had trouble on that mission."

"When I failed it, you mean," she answers, and he nods slightly. The fact of it had always been burned in her brain, but she'd forgotten the details until he came back into her life. Her tone is softer when she answers his question. "Yes."

"Do you remember what I said to you?" The importance of the question seems to hurt him and she's pained not to know what he's looking for in answer.

"I think so," she offers.

"I said you always impressed me. And you still do. I don't… I don't know how you recovered from all that. How you do what you do, and are still so good at it," he tells her fervently.

She leans forward to kiss him gently, and he closes his fingers around her forearm to keep her there. "You'll get the hang of it, too," she promises, leaning back slightly.

"How do you know?" he whispers.

"Because I know you," she answers.

He seems satisfied with that response, at least enough that he doesn't ask any more questions. Well, not existential ones. Later, when he's dozing, she lies on her side beside him and studies the place where his metal arm is attached. She's always been curious about it, but never seemed to have the time to satisfy her curiosity before. The hand is not particularly cold; machinery rarely is, but it is not quite the same temperature as his other hand. The arm was certainly heavier than his real one, and she wonders how he manages it.

And how it is supported. She runs her fingers across his collarbone and down to his ribs, trying to determine if any of them are made of something more substantial than bone. Fast enough to startle her, he snatches her wrist to arrest her movement. Realizing the effect his reaction had on her, he lifts her fingers to his lips and kisses them lightly.

"Tickles," he explains hoarsely. She smiles as he slides his left arm under her pillow and pulls her against his chest using his right. "Go to sleep." Wrapping an arm loosely around his waist, she settles down to do as asked.