Distressed // Steve Rogers

7 - Tethered

When she was left alone she lay still and silent. She focused on the feeling of the air filling her lungs as she closed her eyes and shut off her mind. Her body ached with the familiarity she could not understand. Around her were items she had no recollection of and others that seemed so like her own that it hurt. Looking at it all hurt. Her mind shot signals in the dark, flares calling for rescuers to find her, for her memories to find her and yet nothing came. She was not The Winter Widow. She was not Talia Romanoff. She was simply a shell; an empty vessel waiting for powers greater than her own to determine who she should be now. She did not want to think of who she might have been; who she should have been. She did not want to contemplate what had existed before all that she had thought she knew. She did not want to think.

*

Behind her eyes her handlers face swirled and span. His eyes traced her. His hands brushed over her form as he dressed her, styled her, moulded her. She became who they wanted her to be. She could see him as he stepped around her, assessing her as she stood on display. She could feel the burn of his desire as he circled her like his prey. She couldn't move. She couldn't run. She could only wait.

"Aктив готов?" The voice in the darkness growled. Is the asset ready?

She stared blankly ahead. Her mind was clear; a blank slate.

"Готов подчиниться." She whispered. Ready to comply.

*

A rap on the door pulled her from the burn of the memory and she bolted upright from where she lay. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest as he watched her correct herself and try to wipe away the ghosts of tears on her cheeks.

"Sorry." He whispered, a sad smile hardly reaching his eyes. "Mind if I just grab some stuff? I'm going to bunk with Buck for a while."

As she got to her feet Talia glanced around the room and back to him. It made sense of course, the small pile of books beside the bed, one cracked open as it lay across the others; the little brown notepad that sat tucked between the mattress and the bed frame; the sketch book and charcoal sitting on the small sofa at the far end of the room. This hadn't felt entirely her own. This place felt like a blanket by the fire on a stormy evening. It felt like a haven in the centre of hell. It felt like him.

"This is your room?" She looked to him questioningly.

"Well," he paused, biting his lip as he stepped into the room. "Our room."

Heat flamed beneath her cheeks as as she dropped her eyes to the one bed in the room. She felt her heart flutter and her breathing hitch as her mind roamed to the touch of his hand against her skin in the living room, the way she had felt the burn of his fingers as he took them from her.

"But there's only one bed," she smirked as she looked back to him, taking a small step forwards.

Steve shook his head and blushed furiously as she dragged her eyes up over his body. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she tried desperately not to giggle as he groaned loudly.

"Technically Runaway," he finally met her eyes and laughed lightly, "that's a sleeper sofa."

She turned to where he pointed and her smile faltered slightly. She felt the sting of disappointment as she reconnected dots she had thought she understood, instead assigning them new connections - new histories.

"Right," she nodded, "I'll sleep on that then. That way you can keep your room."

He felt the dejection within her voice, the bitterness of the sting of rejection and he sighed. He longed to reach into her mind and understand what it was that was going on beneath the surface of cool indifference. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and make her smile, he wanted to cocoon her in the safety of his protection and care and make her feel safe. Instead he simply moved to the bed and perched on the edge.