Natasha stood alone in the darkened observation room, watching him through the mirrored glass. It was the first time the prisoner had been out of his cell in days, but other than a brief survey of the room – marking the exits, the racks on the wall empty of even sparring weapons – he stood frozen, his back to her. He'd been that way for nearly a half hour.

She wasn't stalling. People are most themselves when they think they're alone, especially if you let them grow restless. Most people, anyway. But this wasn't most people. He'd eliminated four Hydra cells before Rogers had been able to bring him in, singlehandedly and with extreme prejudice. Some would say he did them a favor. Steve saw it as an act of contrition, but they couldn't take any chances.

"If we're going to rebuild," Fury had said, "we'll need every asset we can get." So why was she hesitating? Was it frustration at being sidelined, tasked with playing the babysitter? Fury trusted her opinion; her evaluation would help decide the prisoner's fate. He needed someone impartial. But there were some things even Fury didn't know.

He turned then, looking directly at her through the glass. He would see only his own reflection - the dark hair and shadowed chin, the eyes that seemed so penetrating and yet so sad. They had allowed him to keep the arm, after Stark made a few modifications. He assured them it was now no more dangerous than a normal prosthetic, but that didn't make her feel better. As long as he drew breath, the Winter Soldier would be one of the deadliest men she had ever known.

She could feel his eyes on her as she bent over the computer and shut off the cameras in the training room. It had been her idea to do this here, in a language she knew they both would understand. There were no uncomfortable questions, no regrets, not in the language of violence. Fury wanted her to test his skills and that's exactly what she would do.

With a nod for the guards on the door, she stepped into the room. He still hadn't moved, stood studying his reflection as the door slid shut behind her. She knew how strange it could be, how you could forget yourself, knew better than most. He wasn't the only one whose fragmented memories had recently come rushing back. It had been easier when he was just a ghost, a target, a stranger behind a mask. That face was one she had never expected to see again.

But she wouldn't let it throw her, not now. She'd been preparing for this since Fury made his request. Even if he didn't know who this man was – really was – he knew her. He knew that she would do what she had to.

She was ready when at last he turned to her, ready for anything but that empty stare, the complete lack of recognition. Still, he managed a weak smile.

"Here to beat me up? I thought they might finally be taking me to trial, but considering where we are…"

"Accountability will come later."

"When?"

"Not my department." She moved across the padded floor on silent steps. "I'm just here to talk."

"Talk, sure."

"The only reason you're still seeing daylight is because Steve Rogers seems to trust you. I'm here to find out if that assessment is valid."

He turned back to the mirror. "You can trust Steve." The hesitation on the name was almost imperceptible.

"Rogers didn't start a firefight in the middle of D.C."

He grimaced at his reflection, the memory overtaking him. He'd been examined, of course. The doctors had found considerable scar tissue, but without Hydra's clean slate treatments they were confident that his memory would return. She didn't envy him that. Some fragments would take longer than others, they said. She wondered how long she had.

It took him a moment to recover, his eyes finding hers in the mirror. "You were there." He turned to her, searching her face. "…Natalia?"

"Actually, it's Natasha now."

He was still struggling, grasping for something he couldn't quite reach. "Did we… know each other? I mean, before?"

It's almost enough to shake her, but she's better at this than he is. Stilling her features, she lifted her shirt, exposing the scar on her abdomen. "We've met."

"Sorry." He clearly didn't remember, but it actually sounded like he meant it. "Bet if a guy gets close enough to see that he doesn't really notice, though."

"Cute. Rogers did say you taught him how to talk to girls." She played it lightly, stepping back into the center of the sparring mat.

"Yeah?"

"Not your fault it didn't take." She gestured for him to come at her.

Still, he hesitated. "So… you're my handler now?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"On if you can be trusted. On if your skills can be of any use to us. On if this whole idea doesn't blow up in our faces."

He scowled. "My… skills. That's what you want."

"We're not Hydra. You want us to trust you because Rogers does? Rogers trusts us, trusts me. Even though maybe he shouldn't."

He lunged at her without warning, faster than she'd expected, but she grabbed his wrist, deflecting the blow as she twisted away. He was holding back, testing her.

"Something you're not telling me Natal— Natasha?"

"You're not the only one who's done things they regret." She hadn't wanted to go down this path, not yet. But to get, you had to give. "You do regret what happened?"

"The hell do you think?" He swung at her again, stronger, quicker in his anger. But as she leapt lightly out of the way, he grimaced, the memory more painful than her counterpunch.

It was an advantage that she could push. He was still unstable, a victim of his own mind, of new memories and old horrors. With the right pressure, he would tell her everything. If only she could bring herself to do it.

"I think you're dangerous." It was her turn to take the offensive, each strike swift and precise, and just as easily blocked. "I think having you here is a liability." She pressed him back. "But I also know you weren't in control."

As confused and exhausted as he seemed, his form was perfect. When she dropped and attempted to sweep his legs from under him, he rolled easily aside. As he stood, her second kick connected with his chest, but he caught her ankle, holding it in both hands. With his arm at full strength, he could have crushed it easily, but she'd still left herself vulnerable. From the twitch of his lips, he knew it, too. "So that's the question. Am I in control?"

Leaping up, she kicked with both feet, pushing off of his chest and rolling away. She crouched across the mat. "They say you're getting your memories back. All the things you've done, the people you've… hurt. You might not be a slave to Hydra anymore, but the past can be even more cruel. The question is can you move past it?"

"How?" His cheeks were flushed, but he turned with her as she moved around him, mirroring her stance. "What if I can't? What if I don't deserve to?"

"I did. My ledger's just as red as yours."

"I doubt that." He struck low this time, covering the distance between them faster than she had expected, almost throwing her off balance. Almost. If he remembered, he would know it was the truth.

But she wasn't about to compare body counts. Rolling with the momentum, she spun out of the way, landing lightly on her toes.

He almost smiled. "Moves like that, you could have been a dancer."

"Maybe in another life." She pulled into a pirouette, then stretched her leg above her head. "Well? Show me what you've got."

"You asking me to dance? I don't think a girl's ever asked me before."

"Is that a problem?"

He chuckled. "No, I like it."

His kick was high, aiming for her shoulder. Her own struck at his middle, but he sidestepped with ease. Offense and defense, give and take. The rhythm was old, familiar. He might even get her to break a sweat. But that thought lead down paths she'd rather not follow, not if she wanted to maintain focus.

"So how did you do it? Move past it?" He caught her eye over a deflected punch.

"I taught myself to look forward, not back."

"Isn't that counterintuitive? Looking only in one direction is how you get yourself killed."

"Says the guy refusing to see any other option." She raised an arm to block his kick. "I didn't say I forgot. I know who I am, who I was. There's no way around that. The point is to be something more, to do something to make up for it. That's the opportunity I'm here to offer you."

He considered it, twisting away as she tried to pin his arm. Flicking the hair from his eyes, he shook his head. "What if it's not enough?"

"It might never be. But we can try."

He rubbed at his shoulder. "Yeah… okay. I don't think I'm cut out for the quiet life, anyway."

Then he lunged again, putting all of his momentum into a single punch, but he wasn't looking to connect, not really. Instead he moved with her as she spun aside, pulling her back against him and pinning his arm across her middle.

His breath was warm against her ear. "How'd you get so good?"

It was an effort to maintain her calm. She pinched shut her eyes, tried not to think of how many years it had been, how it somehow felt like yesterday. "Good teachers… some of them, anyway."

She expected him to pull away, to keep fighting. He had to, because she didn't know if she could. But instead he went rigid, his grip on her tightening painfully. She could hear his breath catch, hear it return thick and ragged.

"…Natalia?"

She spun in his arms, pulling the knife from her sleeve and pressing it to his throat in one swift motion. "Let. Go."

She saw it in his eyes, everything she had hoped for, everything that she'd feared. She almost wished he'd been trying to hurt her. That, she could have handled.

"Oh god, Natalia." His eyes were wide, his face a mask of shock and relief and horror. He knew her now, knew everything. He didn't even seem to see the blade.

"Let go. James, let go."

He released her, taking a shaky step as her breath came rushing back. She'd likely bruised a rib, would have to have a talk with Stark about those "modifications." Taking it out on someone else would be easy. Forcing herself to raise her eyes, to meet that wondering gaze, wasn't.

"Nat, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"We're done here. I'll tell Fury you're in."

She left him there – this man who had trained with her, who had loved her, who she'd lost. Looking back was a risk she couldn't take. Stalking from the room, she left him in the hands of the guards and tried to focus on what mattered.

The prisoner would cooperate. The asset was theirs. Her mission had been accomplished. But what had she compromised?