The nightmares began to dim after that night, when he began sleeping in her bed. Each scream was quieted, each splatter of blood greyed out and smudged, every dying face blurred. The red string started to pool at his feet, useless now.

On the nights he woke up screaming she was there, a burst of warmth and comfort by his side, fingers soothing raw muscles, her voice like a tinkling bell in the darkness. Come back. There was a night that he swung out in his sleep, the prosthetic slamming into her chin; when he came to she was spitting blood on the grey carpet, shaking her hand out in variations of "I'm okay."

He'd cradled her in his arms, overly gentle, horrified he was still feral, that he was still hurting her, telling her he was sorry, so so sorry. She shook her head, lazy-smug, a strand of hair next to her face soaked with red. "Keeps things interesting." She tried to smile, but he wept, holding her head in his hand, rocking her back and forth.

That was Ruby; barefaced and heedless. She incited him to be passionate, to touch her the way he wanted, to be as rough as he liked. She didn't understand at first his only desire was to be gentle, to protect and take care and be good to her. Soon he laid his hands on every scar, promising each one that they'd be the last.

Still her humor never faltered, her eyes consistently lit with fervor. She was vulgar when she was angry, witty when he was hopeless, kind always. He held her like she was made of glass, and she was often the one to pull him into her, to grasp and grip and remind him that she could take him toe-to-toe.

He made her apologize to her neighbors for the noise, listened to her laugh with the tenants, hands clapping together in jest. Her hands, her hands could calm him, could excite him, could heal him. There came a point when he realized he needed her to light the shadows, to pull him back above the surface when he was caught in the undertow.

She delved into the sticky tar of his mind and searched with him, fought with him and for him. She bought him journals, kept pens at an arm's reach all throughout her home, just in case something resurfaced that needed to be held down and anchored on paper. He helped her to speak Romanian, his tongue fluent with a sea of dialects, and she taught him how to cook meat, to judge the ripeness of fruit.

The first six months were the hardest. There were times that he almost left, told her not to look for him, that he was a monster, that he would ruin her. He thought about the innocent souls he'd stripped from their bodies, of what he'd do to himself if he hurt her. But still she fought, just as angry as she was benevolent, just as strong as she was gentle, her tongue sharp and quick.

"Don't be scared, James." She'd say, a beacon of forgiveness. Hadn't she hated him once? She should have hated him still, should have loathed him, and instead she laid him down, climbing over his legs, the ends of her hair brushing his face. "I'm right here."

Ruby. She told him stories about her life; jokes, raw secrets. For every memory that was missing from his mind he gained a new one of her. Her face in the morning, the length of her fingernails, the smell of her soap, the sounds of her rolled R's when she spoke to her neighbors, the flush of her cheeks when she threw her head back from underneath him.

They slept near the fireplace in the dead of winter; used the old, red-marked newspapers as tinder. She learned his birthday from HYDRA's records and made him a cake-candles and wine and records from the forties. She bought a potted tree and dotted it with ornaments for Christmas, made greasy-soft cookies, sang Bing Crosby in an overzealous lilt. They talked about the war, about HYDRA, about Steve. As much a sickly pain as it was, he remembered.

He remembered the friendship, the brotherhood, the long days running from bigger men until they were the bigger men. The asthma attacks and sarcasm and good-natured spirit of Steve Rogers.

Right before spring came through the windows she took a job in the square as a ballet teacher, taught toddlers how to dance and stretch and prance around. She'd come home in a twirling spell, jumping into his arms and begging to get out of her tights.

For every step of progress, though, there was the aching throb of paranoia behind him. He kept his shack on the other side of town, clothes and a rucksack, just in case, just to be sure. He kept his hat on when they were outside, kept his head down, encouraged Ruby to do the same. But six months became eight, then ten, then a year. No HYDRA agents came, the news stopped flashing his face across headlines, and things went from good to better.

Things were always better before they got worse.