Archive of Our Own ^beta

Captain Steven Grant Rogers uses the toe of his boot to overturn the body of the nearest Hydra agent, lying prone and motionless in a pool of his own blood. 

Dead, he confirms, with slowly mounting frustration. Same as all the others. 

He can hear his backup slowly pouring into the building behind him, the movements of the SHIELD agents sounding almost muffled after the prior cacophony of the short-lived but vicious firefight Steve and his team had neutralized only minutes ago.  

The scene of the altercation—a dilapidated, bullet-riddled warehouse—is rife with sprawled, bleeding bodies, all of them Hydra, and none of them seeming to have survived the skirmish.

His earpiece crackles to life as he moves to check the next motionless body, the low voice of Agent Greene flowing through the connection.

“Captain Rogers, sir, we’ve found something.”

“Copy.”  

Steve swings his shield onto his back. Officially, all known hostels have been confirmed dead, either by himself or the rest of the agents moving about behind him. It’s not the outcome SHIELD had hoped for. Not the outcome Steve had planned for.

So much for gathering intel.

“Location?”

“Southwest corner of the building. There’s a hidden door. Looks like it leads underground. Basement, maybe.”

“On my way.”

Steve had been assigned to this op after SHIELD’s analysts had discovered valuable intel concerning the possible whereabouts of codename: Winter Soldier—the single, most dangerous assassin anywhere on record.

A Hydra-affiliated contract killer, the Winter Soldier has been a thorn in the side of SHIELD and countless other alphabet agencies for literal decades. A frankly unprecedented amount of resources have been spent attempting to hunt the man down, and—until now—there’s been embarrassingly little to show for all that effort. 

From the miniscule amount of information analysts have managed to scrape together, though—barely half a page of data, and a few blurry photos of what could be a shadowy figure with some sort of metal armor encasing his left arm—there are certain details all the agencies hunting him take as fact: that the Soldier is Dominant; that his long list of kills places him somewhere in his late forties to early fifties; that he is exceptionally competent.  

Competent, intelligent, cunning. And nigh untouchable. 

The Winter Soldier is mastery incarnate when it comes to his particular skillset, and bringing him down has long been a priority of SHIELD’s—along with just about every government agency across the globe.

Never has SHIELD been closer to accomplishing this goal than they’ve gotten within the last few months. 

Three months ago, in fact, in what had been a crippling blow to the pride of the American government, former U.S. Secretary of Defense, Alexander Pierce, had been exposed as the long sought-after head of the neo-Nazi organization, Hydra. 

Discovery had led to the subsequent weeding out and elimination of Pierce at the hands of SHIELD, but the death of Hydra’s leader had also led to the Fist of Hydra, the Winter Soldier himself, dropping summarily off the map.

A ghost, no one has seen hide nor hair of him since. 

The popular assumption is that, following the death of Hydra’s commander, the Soldier went underground, along with Pierce’s right-hand man, Brock Rumlow—also Dominant, also Hydra scum. Rumlow, too, managed to drop off the radar, right about the same time as the Soldier.  

Pierce’s death, and the ensuing eradication of many of Hydra’s most prominent cells, had significantly quashed the limits of the criminal organization’s reach. A reach that had formerly managed to extend across the globe, occupying countless locations within countless countries. 

Now, as more of Hydra gets wiped out every day, the number of places for Rumlow and the Soldier to hide are quickly diminishing. 

To further tighten the noose, SHIELD placed a number of operatives out in the field, each tasked with the assignment of performing reconnaissance on locales where the last vestiges of Hydra could potentially attempt to reorganize; recover; rebuild. 

The valuable intel SHIELD’s analysts had most recently uncovered owed its discovery to this decision. Less than two days ago, one of SHIELD’s field agents had called in to report a sighting of one Brock Rumlow.

The report alleged that Rumlow was lying low, holed up within a series of derelict warehouses settled along the waterfront in Westport, Washington.  

He wasn’t alone. 

As many as fifteen additional Hydra operatives were suspected to be hiding out with him, and though he hadn’t been spotted, SHIELD had strong convictions that the Soldier, himself, might be among them. 

The mission generated from this intel ranked top-priority. High enough that Captain America had been assigned to lead the team. The task was to infiltrate the warehouses. To take the criminals off-guard with enough fire-power to convince them to surrender—an outcome that proposed minimal casualties. The goal: to apprehend Rumlow and as many Hydra criminals as possible. If they were extremely fortunate, the Soldier would be among them. If not, SHIELD had ways of making men talk. 

But Hydra hadn’t become as dangerous and high-profile an organization as they were by accident. Their cunning was world renown, as was their sharply-honed talent for sensing potential danger. True to form, somehow Rumlow and his team had been tipped off, and instead of smoothly infiltrating a base of ill-prepared criminals, Steve and his team had encountered a group of armed operatives, ready and waiting for them.

The highly-trained, Hydra affiliates had engaged Steve and his team with lethal force, and Steve’s team had responded in kind. 

They managed to quell the Hydra rabble, even did so without their team sustaining any major casualties—though there were a number of bullet wounds and shattered bones to deal with. But the time it took to subdue the group had worked against them, and Steve had little doubt that any important members of Hydra who might have been there before—certainly Rumlow, and certainly the Soldier himself—had already made their escape by the time the firefight reached its bloody conclusion.

Which wasn’t the plan. 

Neither was having no one left alive to question, no one to even confirm whether Rumlow or the Soldier had even been there. It’s more than disappointing. It’s a fucking train wreck. 

Convinced the only thing left to be found is the route by which Rumlow and the Soldier took their escape, Steve approaches the southwest corner of the building to find agent Greene—on SHIELD record as submissive—waiting for him, along with agents Thompson—Dominant—and Rodriquez—a switch. Greene catches Steve’s eye before motioning silently toward a panel resting slightly ajar along one bullet-riddled wall.

Through the opening, Steve can just make out the beginnings of a concrete stairwell descending into a dark, underground room.

Nodding at Green, Steve quietly unholsters his SIG Sauer. With his other hand, he pulls his flashlight from his belt, raising it beside the gun and aiming both down into the stairwell. Another nod, and Greene slowly nudges the panel until the gap is wide enough for Steve to slide through, the other agents silently falling behind him as he makes a cautious, quiet descent down the stairs.

As the lower level comes into view, Steve shifts his light, using the bright beam to create a slow, all-encompassing sweep of the room. It’s a trained movement, long turned natural, and it helps him to absorb the surrounding details with quick efficiency. Like how the small, cramped space of the room is almost bare, a shabby, broken-down bureau the only piece of furniture he can see. How the air is frigid, and thick with the scent of blood. How the faintest sound of strained breathing scrapes through the quiet darkness, probably only detectable to Steve’s enhanced hearing.

As that last detail registers, the blue-white beam of Steve’s light catches upon a single, kneeling figure in the far corner of the room. 

Adult male, his brain catalogs automatically as he stays the ray of light, keeping it fixed upon the unmoving form. Well-muscled, though not stocky. Somewhat youngish in appearance. Though it’s difficult to be sure behind that length of tangled dark hair, the equally-dark strip of a blindfold covering near-half of his face.

The man is dressed from head to toe in dark, unrevealing clothing, his arms folded tightly behind his back and it’s that final detail which adds the final stroke to a truly unsettling picture. Blindfolded and on his knees, arms caught behind his back—all of this in combination portrays a submissive status with explicit unambiguity.

What in the everloving fuck is going on here?

It’s unnerving, downright disturbing, to see this kind of display in the current setting, where it has no right to be. Where it should never be.

Nevertheless. “Hands where I can see them,” Steve directs, his tone smooth and unruffled. Professional. His thoughts stay to himself, his gun: steadily aimed.

The man doesn’t respond, doesn’t move at all apart from the unnaturally quick rise and fall of his chest, breaths shallow and discordant.

The lack of compliance draws a low growl from behind Steve as agent Tompson moves to position himself between his team leader and the unknown submissive, infusing his voice with the harsh command his Dominance, by nature, affords him. “That wasn’t a request, boy.”

Greene shifts uncomfortably, Rodriquez letting out a small tsk of displeasure as the force behind Thompson’s command sweeps through the room.

Steve, outwardly unaffected, has to fight to keep his inner irritation from showing on his face. 

While there is the slightest possibility that Thompson’s display is little more than an off-color attempt at cozying up to Steve—acting to reinforce the superior Dom’s order in hopes to engender Steve’s favor—throwing around his dominance, and with a complete stranger, is entirely unprofessional.

So. Theory: Thompson is an asshole.

Steve hasn’t been working with this particular team of agents long enough to be sure, but Thompson’s little demonstration definitely has him leaning toward “asshole”.

In addition—omitting the fact that the other Dom’s behavior is both pretentious and reckless—the kneeling sub has completely failed to react, making the irritating display of dominance also completely fucking pointless.

“Thompson,” Steve directs mildly, “in line, please.” The words, in themselves, are blandly spoken. But there is an edge of power to Steve’s tone that is unmistakable. Hearing it, Thompson’s bravado falters, the weaker-willed Dom deflating slightly as he moves back into position.

When it’s just him again, between the kneeling man and the other agents, Steve moves closer, shifting his advance so that he approaches the submissive at an angle rather than straight-on. The change in perspective allows him to see that the man’s arms aren’t simply clasped behind his back, they’ve been rigidly tied into the position, coarse rope spanning a crisscross pattern from shoulder to wrist. 

What he’d previously mistaken for a high neckline is, in fact, a metal collar, locked around the submissive’s throat and trailing a thickly-ringed chain embedded directly into the cement flooring. 

There is a glove on the man’s left hand, none on his right, and the odd detail gives Steve more pause than anything else thus far. 

“Greene,” he orders, “Get me some lights on in here.”

Greene wastes no time using his own flashlight to sweep along the walls of the room, quickly locating and flipping the switch for the single, dusty bulb protruding from the ceiling. Flickering and dull, the dim light barely reaches the corners of the gloomy room.

It does, though, bring the scene into clearer focus.

Beneath the dark-colored blindfold, the kneeling man’s skin is pale, his brow beaded with perspiration, long strands of hair clinging messily to forehead and neck. His muscles quiver with faint trembles and the back of his long-sleeved shirt—what can be seen of it past his tied arms—is patchy with small, rust-colored stains. 

He’s got a split lip. Dark bruising along his jaw. And there—between where the sleeve of his shirt ends and the glove on his left hand begins—the smallest sliver of silver gleams bright and metallic.

Steve clamps a tight rein on his shock, thoroughly blocking it from coloring his expression even as his mind begins to whirl because, It can’t be.

No way can this be him, the decades-pursued master assassin, SHIELD’s most elusive adversary, the fucking Winter Soldier.

Steve shoves his flashlight back onto his belt as he moves closer to the kneeling form, gripping the glove on his left hand and ripping it away. 

Metal fingers, perfectly articulated, glint up at him and, It’s not armor at all, Steve realizes, tugging roughly at the neckline of the Winter Soldier’s filthy shirt. It’s not armor. His entire left arm is made of metal.  

Steve blinks, taking in the intricate detailing of the arm— 

Prosthetic. It’s a prosthetic. 

A prosthetic that appears to have been grafted directly onto the Soldier’s body, if the thick scarring surrounding it is any indication. It looks heavy. Solid. Entirely threatening as it gleams beneath the dim light. Seeing it up close, with his own eyes, there’s no way to mistake the arm as being anything other than the decidedly real, deadly weapon it is. 

Which means—Steve realizes, letting go of  the stretched fabric still caught in his too-tight grip—there’s no way this can be anyone else but him: the Winter Soldier.

Distantly, Steve hears the three agents behind him reach the same conclusion. There’s a low gasp, a quiet shuffle as the agents go rigid with shock, the faintest creek of hands going even tighter around deadly weapons. 

Steve moves. Standing before the kneeling figure once more, he jerks the blindfold away, affording himself the first glimpse of the Winter Soldier’s face anyone outside of Hydra or the assassin’s countless ill-fated victims has ever had. 

He isn’t prepared for what he sees.

Wide, blue eyes blink dazedly up at him, and there is not the slightest bit of comprehension to be found in them. There’s no aggression. No hostility. The Soldier’s expression is completely, totally, empty. 

Any second thoughts, any suspicion that this could be an elaborate ruse—a performance of faux vulnerability meant to draw him in so that the world’s most infamous assassin can take out one of SHIELD’s top agents—withers away as Steve stands there, absorbing the scene in front of him: the Soldier kneeling and bound; quiet, shivering, and completely passive despite the fact that so many strangers—at least two of them unknown Dominants—stand over his indefensible form.

No Dom would ever allow himself to be so helpless, so completely at the mercy of whoever found him, whatever they wanted to do to him. It’s— There’s too much vulnerability. Too much risk in the situation. 

The reality, the unbelievable truth, is simple: this man—the Winter Soldier—is a submissive. A goddamned fucking sub.

Not the Dominant that SHIELD—that countless of other organizations alongside—had pegged him as. That Steve had pegged him as, having too many times had to swallow the bitter pill of frustration as the assassin slipped through his grasp again . And again, again, intangible as smoke.

Now, Steve stares at the sub with that same familiar sense of frustration.

He looks— Fuck. He looks so young. Younger, even, than Steve ; he can’t be much older than twenty-three...twenty-four?  Far younger than anyone had ever presumed, considering the extensive list of kills attributed to him. 

And, how is that even possible? He’s been accredited with over two-dozen assassinations within the last thirty years. 

It doesn’t make any sense. None of it makes any sense.

And there’s nothing Steve can do about it. 

Not here. Not now, as he stands before the sub, the disconcerting realization that the Soldier is down—far down, dangerously deep in subdrop—becoming glaringly apparent.

Judging by the state he’s in, Steve would bet that he’s been down for hours. 

The Soldier’s dark pupils are blown wide, his empty, glazed expression lacking any awareness of the danger he’s currently in as he struggles, and ultimately fails, to meet Steve’s frustrated gaze. Anodyne and guileless, the Soldier drops his eyes, bowing his head like a good sub, meek and yielding to Steve’s dominance.

It’s goddamned unsettling. Steve isn’t the Soldier’s Dom. The sub is under no obligation to be good for him. But that doesn’t seem to matter. 

This whole situation screams fucked-up, and the more Steve thinks about it, the stronger the conviction that something is seriously not right solidifies in his gut.

Because who the hell would put a sub down in the state the Soldier is currently in? 

Blindfolded, tied, and covered in injuries is a sure way to plunge any sub into a drop deep enough to be dangerous. But to then leave him alone… 

They are essentially in the middle of a battleground—not somebody’s fucking bedroom—barely ten minutes past a deadly firefight between enemy combatants, and in the bowels of a dank, prison-esque basement. There’s nothing soft or comforting in sight. Nothing the sub could even attempt to use to ground himself. The entire situation is as far from safe as could have possibly been created in the derelict warehouse.

The more Steve thinks about it, the deeper his unease becomes.

Because Hydra had been expecting SHIELD’s attack. They’d been waiting for them; already organized, and prepared to engage.

Which means that putting the Soldier into this state, leaving him in it , and leaving him behind, hadn’t been a mistake. Someone had deliberately induced the sub’s current condition. Had—from the looks of it—beat him to all hell, sense-dep’d him, and then left him to experience the full agony of his injuries, cut off from any equilibrium his sense of sight or the ability to move might have afforded him. Cut-off from all ability to even help himself. 

It’s cruel and inhumane and, unfortunately, not as rare an occurrence as many people would like to believe. Steve’s heard of subs being treated this way, even seen some of the after-effects in subs who’d survived similar mistreatment at the hands of Nazis during the war.  

The ugly, unavoidable truth, is that there’s always been a power imbalance between submissives and Dominants. Human decency, and federal laws have done much in the way of tempering that imbalance. But, rooting it out altogether is more or less an impossibility. 

There will always be cases of abuse, because there will always be Dominants seeking to lord their authority over those weaker than them. 

Looking at the Soldier, seeing his injuries, his empty docility, Steve wonders if this isn’t the case with him. If Hydra hadn’t actually gotten their hands on the most perfect of pawns: extraordinarily competent. Incredibly skilled. Instinctively compliant. 

What Steve can’t wrap his head around, is why they’d left him. The Winter Soldier is nothing less than legendary. Infamous for his skill, his deadly accuracy, his ability to disappear completely, leaving no trace to follow. 

And Hydra had left him to die. 

SHIELD has made no secret of the fact that eliminating the Soldier is top priority. In fact, a bullet to the brain seems to be everyone’s chosen solution to the persistent problem that is the Winter Soldier.

Even if Hydra’s mercs had come out on top, the way the Soldier is bound, the manner of his injuries, and the effects these things have likely had on his current mental condition all point to the conclusion that there’d been no plan to recover the sub. 

The Soldier had been tossed aside; trussed up and readied for slaughter.  

A slaughter that Steve is meant to carry out. Except… Seeing the Soldier as he is—young, deep down in drop, and very obviously misused—Steve doesn’t know if he can go through with it. 

As an operative of SHIELD, Steve’s intentions toward the Soldier have never wavered. The assassin deserved a bullet to the brain, and Steve has never had any compunctions about being the one to provide it. 

With SHIELD having taken the lead in all things involving the dismantling of Hydra, it’s almost expected, at this point, that Captain America will be the one to bring the Soldier down, at the end of the line. 

After all, Captain America has always been Hydra’s greatest enemy. He hates Hydra. Everything they stand for. Everything they’ve managed to corrupt. He died to keep Hydra’s evil from pervading the world, and he lives now to destroy its every last remnant. It’s what he does these days, mission after mission, op after op. It’s the thing that drives him hardest of all.

Yet here he stands, staring down at the Soldier he’s aimed to eliminate for so long, and finding himself in the wholly unfamiliar territory of having no idea how to proceed.

Surely it’d be a kindness, Steve reasons, to end it here. There’s no telling how much self the Soldier will even retain, assuming he’s even able to come back from the hellish drop he’s currently locked in.  Deep down as he is, the likelihood of there being irreparable psychological damage is high. Steve remembers some of the subs they’d rescued back in the war. Even free from their oppressors they’d been...broken. Desperate for approval. Eager to fulfill a Dom’s—any Dom’s—every whim. 

Steve should do this kid a favor. Put him out of his misery. Put a bullet in him. 

The world would thank him for it. SHIELD will commend him. Hell, he’ll probably get another medal—one more shiny decoration to add to the frankly, ridiculous amount currently collecting dust among his effects.

Not to mention the fact that he’ll be getting rid of a murderer, a killer, responsible for the suffering and deaths of countless victims. 

Steve raises his gun, levels it at the sub’s forehead. 

He’ll make it quick, he decides. Easy. Painless. No doubt a kinder fate than many of the Soldier’s own victims ever received.

Blue eyes lift, staring with vacant stillness down the barrel of Steve’s gun before the Soldier drops his gaze back to the floor, body seeming to curl into itself even as the sub doesn’t move a muscle. As out of it as he is, the Soldier apparently understands Steve’s intent. The fact that he does nothing to try to avoid it is both tragic and unnerving.  

Steve hesitates, finger held clear of the trigger. 

It’s such a waste, Steve thinks, suddenly. 

If any part of the sub’s spirit isn’t irreversibly damaged, if there’s anything of him that can still be salvaged...

But there’s no way to determine what’s salvageable without bringing the sub out of the drop. And if Steve does that...  If, by some miracle, there is something left, some reason keeping the sub alive is a viable option...

Not killing the Soldier means Steve will be going completely against protocol. SHIELD will not be happy with Steve keeping this enemy alive. 

But when has Steve ever cared about others’ opinions on him choosing to do the right thing?

Steve sweeps his gaze over the Soldier. He’s disturbingly silent, he realizes. Hasn’t made a single sound. Nothing apart from the ragged draw of his breathing. 

Steve gently fingers the trigger, giving himself one final chance to change his mind before he breathes out a half-sighed curse and holsters his weapon.

He won’t kill him. Not like this; bound and defenseless and waiting docilely for his bullet. 

He’ll at least make sure there is nothing left of the sub to save. Then maybe he’ll be able to do a better job of convincing himself that shooting the Soldier is a merciful deed rather than one more cruelty heaped upon countless others.

“Green,” Steve instructs, decisive now that he’s made up his mind. “Radio the medics. Tell them we’ve got an injured sub in here, that he’s deep in a drop, and that I’m going to try to bring him up. I’ll need a blanket, some water or Gatorade, and clothes if you can find them, something dry for him to change into.”

“Captain— Sir,” agent Thompson protests. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? That’s the Winter Soldier. SHIELD wants him dead. So he’s a sub. So what? Suddenly he deserves special treatment?  He’s a fucking murderer.”   

“Agent Thompson,” Steve responds with deliberate calm. “Why don’t you go on back upstairs and take an inventory of the bullet casings leftover from our firefight with Hydra.” 

The way he says the words removes any hint of request, though he makes his tone perfectly congenial. “If you’re very good,” he adds, “and don’t miss a single one, I’ll consider not recommending you for demotion to professional toilet scrubber during whatever remains of your time with SHIELD.” 

Thompson goes red, sputtering wordlessly for approximately five seconds before he wisely shuts his mouth and turns on his heel, heading back up to the first floor of the warehouse. 

Some of the tension seems to exit the room alongside Thompson, both Rodriquez and Green losing a measure of their stiff discomfort. 

“I’ll radio the medics,” Green says. Then, “Sir, if it’s any consolation, I think you’re making the right call.” 

Rodriquez offers her own nod of support. “He may not end up worth saving,” the agent states plainly. “But killing him when he’s down…it doesn’t feel right, sir.”

So Steve isn’t the only one feeling thrown off by the Soldier’s current state. Maybe they’re all going soft, Steve muses, as Green disappears up the stairs, but he doesn’t think so. 

The Soldier’s submissive orientation changes things, maybe. But what really throws a wrench right into the middle of everything is seeing him as he is now: beaten, helpless. Clearly not in his right mind. Maybe he’s guilty. Maybe he’d chosen to murder every one of his targets, with full cognizance, for the sake of Hydra. But his submissive status introduces just enough doubt into the situation that Steve can’t be sure. 

“I’ll wait by the door,” Rodriquez offers as Steve stares at the Soldier, mentally formulating a plan of action. “Give you some space.”

It’s not a bad idea. Too many people looming over the sub is bound to work against any attempt to bring him out of his headspace. Same with keeping him tied.

As Rodriquez moves away, Steve steps in closer, putting himself within arms-reach of the Soldier who glances up in response, eyes glazed and unfocused, barely tracking.

Steve holds that gaze, says plainly, “I’m going to free your arms.” 

It’s clear-cut, informative; the best chance he has at getting through to the sub right now. “I want you to give me a ‘yes’ if you’re comfortable with that.  ‘No’ if you want me to leave them.”

Glassy eyes flicker to Steve’s lips, away again. The sub shivers, half-shakes his head, but he doesn’t vocalize. Steve carefully quashes a stab of frustration. 

Some subs have difficulty verbalizing when they’re down, he reminds himself, and this one’s hurt, and confused on top of that. You’ve already decided to help him, he admonishes. Save your frustration for someone who’s earned it. The sub—in his current condition—hasn’t. 

“I’m gonna need more from you than that, buddy,” Steve says, keeping his voice low, measured. “A ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. Nod, or shake your head. It’s okay, you can tell me.”

But the sub doesn’t so much as twitch. His head stays down, hair covering much of his face, and Steve suddenly wonders if maybe the Soldier doesn’t speak English? All intel indicates that he does, but then, it had also tagged him as a Dom. 

Slow and careful, Steve grasps the Soldier’s chin, raising his head until those blue eyes focus on him again. The Soldier leans into the touch, eager and desperate, a low, barely audible scrape of sound escaping his throat. 

“Can you understand me?” 

Again the Soldier’s eyes flicker to Steve’s mouth, and though his expression begins to slide toward fear, the Soldier makes no effort to respond. 

Steve blinks, struck with a sudden revelation. “Can you even hear me?” 

Instead of waiting for an answer, Steve uses his grip on the Soldier’s chin to tilt the sub’s head to the left. 

He hadn’t noticed it before, with the Soldier’s dark tangles covering much of his features, but now that he’s looking it’s easy to spot: there, trailing from his ear—blood. It’s much the same on the other side and Steve lets out a low curse. So, on top of everything else, they’d fucking deafened the sub as well.  

The Soldier doesn’t react to the curse—because of course he can’t hear it—but a slow, shuddering tremor rolls through his form and Steve doesn’t have to see his face to know that he’s aware, enough, to be scared shitless. 

Steve hushes him, instinct dropping his voice to a low murmur. “Shh, it’s okay. Don’t be afraid.” He pets a hand over the dark head, a soft repetitive motion, and the sub makes that small sound again, pressing as much as he can into the touches. 

He’s clearly starving for it—touch, affection—and Steve swallows down a surge of bitter pity, running his fingers through tangled, sweaty hair with careful fingers. As much as he wishes the situation were different, it's a small thing to offer, these scraps of affection. 

“Okay,” Steve says, somewhat to himself now that he knows the sub can’t hear him, but also for the benefit of Rodriquez, now far enough away that Steve’s steady commentary is the only way for the agent to stay apprised of what’s going on with her team leader. “Okay pal, I’m making the executive decision: arms free. You can’t be very comfortable right now.”

Steve extracts his hands from the sub’s hair and draws a sharp blade from his belt, sinking to one knee in front of the Soldier with steady ease. Wide eyes flicker to the weapon and away again; back and forth, as if the sub can’t quite manage to track it but still knows that it’s important. Dangerous. 

Fear definitely isn’t an emotion that will help with bringing the sub back up, so Steve makes sure to keep his movements slow, careful; maintaining a constant stream of steady chatter as he leans forward to feel for where the too-tight cords wrapped around the Soldier’s arms have the most give. “‘S okay. Not gonna hurt you. Just gonna find a good spot, okay bud? Gonna cut you loose.”

The position has him leaning firmly into the Soldier’s space, the sub shuddering as Steve’s hands brush over his bound arms, breath fanning quick and warm against the bare skin of Steve’s nape, just above the neckline of his suit. 

A few sharp swipes is all it takes for the coarse ropes to part like butter, the ties quickly unraveling as Steve gently tugs them from the Soldier’s arms, tossing them to land in a haphazard pile across the dirty concrete. 

“There you go,” Steve says, sitting back, resheathing his blade. Freeing the Soldier’s arms is a small thing, a tiny step in the right direction. But it should, at least, help the sub feel a little bit less miserable. 

Except the Soldier, even with the bindings removed, makes no attempt to relax his arms. He stays exactly as he is, unmoving, until Steve takes his wrists and carefully draws his arms forward, letting them rest neutrally at his sides. 

The Soldier leaves them there, limp and motionless, and it occurs to Steve to wonder if he’s come up against one of the sub’s rules. 

Considering the weapon grafted to the left side of the Soldier’s body, it’s not much of a stretch to guess that the Soldier’s handlers would have wanted a way to control him outside of missions. If he wasn’t a willing agent, keeping him bound would have been as good a method as any. And when he wasn’t bound...it’s likely that they would have given the Soldier strict rules for when he wasn’t tied. 

Seeing the Soldier’s non-response to having his arms freed gives Steve a pretty good idea about what those rules would have entailed: Don’t move without orders. Stay where we put you. 

Steve can’t ask—the Soldier wouldn’t even hear the question—but he has no doubt that the sub is following orders, that he’s being obedient; even though his handlers are nowhere nearby, even though doing so has to be causing him significant pain. The level of extreme compliance is...horrifying. He won’t even move his own fucking arms without prompting.  

Steve runs a hand down the sub’s flesh arm, grasping his pale fingers and finding them icy cold. The ropes had been too tight, so much so that they’d cut off circulation, and the callous cruelty behind that has Steve fighting down a surge of hot anger. 

It’s second nature to gently massage the limb, encouraging blood-flow, instinct driving him to offer care where he can. The Soldier watches, eyes fixed on Steve’s hands with something like baffled fascination, like he can’t quite understand what Steve is doing, or why he would bother. A moment later, his eyes flutter shut, jaw clenching tight and breath hitching as resumed blood-flow brings with it the painful sensation of feeling returning to his numb limb. 

Cool fingers twitch within Steve’s grasp, but the sub doesn’t pull away, doesn’t make a sound, and though his hands are occupied, Steve’s brain is free to catalogue details he hadn’t paid much attention to before. Like the thick sweep of the Soldier’s dark lashes; the red, full curve of his mouth; the model-sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. Steve sees these things and registers, with a sort of distant surprise, that the sub before him is beautiful. 

Even beaten, bruised, and not all there, even with Steve knowing who he is—there’s no denying that the Soldier is fucking gorgeous. 

It’s a shitty thought, and if Steve allowed himself more than a second to dwell upon it he might start to feel like scum just for thinking it. 

Except he doesn’t, because he’s a professional, well-trained in the art of compartmentalization, and now is not the time to be realizing that the broken sub before him is breathtaking. So he pushes the newfound awareness away, shoves it down into his mental forgetaboutit box where it belongs, and focuses on doing his job. At the moment, that involves helping the sub to come up, if he can, or else regain whatever equilibrium he can manage in his current state.  

Under Steve’s careful attention, the limb regains its natural color and Steve releases him, placing the Soldier’s hand gently back in his lap where the Soldier, unsurprisingly, leaves it. 

Steve’s eyes fall to the metal collar, then, and he decides right away that that abomination needs to go next.

With careful fingers he lifts the unresisting sub’s chin, angling his head so that he can get a better look at the thing no self-respecting person would ever mistake for a proper collar. It’s a crude piece of metalwork—heavy, with no padding and sharp edges—a single ring centered at its front where the bulky, industrial-like chain connects. There’s no clasp, no locking mechanism that he can find to release the collar, just a simple hinge on one side and a tiny, pinprick of a keyhole. 

A keyhole, but Steve’d bet money that its respective key is nowhere to be found. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know where the key for this is, would you?” Steve murmurs, sliding his fingers between the collar and the sub’s throat. The Soldier swallows, breath dragging roughly, but no sound comes from his mouth. 

There isn’t much room between skin and metal, but Steve’s fingers are just as strong as the rest of him and it turns out there’s just enough space to give him the leverage he needs to wrench the collar apart. It separates easily, no match for serum-enhanced strength, and as soon as the two ends are wide enough apart Steve pulls it from the sub’s neck, tossing it to the floor where it lands with a loud clank. 

The Soldier is officially free, untied and unbound, and Steve spends about half-a-second wondering if the sub might see it as a chance to escape. He knows better; it’s very apparent that the sub is too far gone to attempt anything of the sort. But knowing doesn’t prevent the surge of adrenaline, nor the conflicting spike of disappointment when the sub doesn’t so much as twitch out of position. 

It’s not that Steve wants the Soldier to rebel. That could only end in disaster. But. He almost finds himself wishing… Wishing for the tiniest shift in behavior, some small sign that there’s still a person behind the sub’s empty eyes. Irreparable psychological damage, Steve reminds himself. That’s the most likely outcome for this situation. Don’t get attached. Just do your fucking job. He’s SHIELD property now. 

With the collar gone and the Soldier’s head angled just as Steve had left it, the sub’s throat is easily visible, and Steve can see that it’s rubbed raw, the skin where the collar had rested red and blistered, openly weeping in some places. 

“Shit.”

Just when he’d thought the sub’s situation couldn’t get any worse. 

All in all, it's a perfect time for the medic to show up.

The sound of footsteps descending down the stairs prompts Steve to his feet and he stands, turning to meet the approaching dark-skinned man arrayed in SHIELD’s medic uniform. The word ‘paramedic’ is displayed in large block letters across the front of his ballistic vest. 

“Captain,” the man nods in greeting. “Heard you ran into a situation.” There’s an unopened warming blanket in his hands; a brightly-colored bottle of Gatorade; a set of scrubs he must have grabbed from the stack of extras Steve knows the medics like to keep around in case of emergency. Over his right shoulder hangs the distinctive first-responder’s kit all SHIELD medics carry into the field with them. “Heard I might be able to offer a hand.”

“Right,” Steve says, moving to allow the medic a better view of the Soldier; kneeling, silent and motionless. “Found this one down here like this. Guess someone did quite a number on him.”

The medic’s focus shifts to the sub, dark eyes narrowing as he takes in the whole of the scene, gaze sliding from the coarse remnants of the bindings to the wrenched-apart, sorry excuse of a ‘collar’, to the sub himself: shivering and glassy-eyed and very obviously not at functioning at full mental capacity. His expression goes grim, but his voice is calmly level when he asks, “What can you tell me about his condition?”

“Not much.” Steve glances at the sub. “We found him about fifteen minutes ago: dropped, tied, and blindfolded. He’s got some bruising. Maybe some injuries on his back, too. And I’m pretty sure they busted his eardrums; he hasn’t responded to a word I’ve said.” 

The sub’s eyes dart between Steve and the medic before he returns his attention to the floor, a subtle, almost non-existent wrinkle marring his brow. Confusion, maybe. Fear, almost certainly. He watches their lips and hands and never quite meets either of the gazes turned upon him. 

“The finer details of speech may be lost on him,” the medic says, “but it’s possible he can still make out some sound. In a lot of cases, perforated eardrums don’t destroy the sense of hearing entirely.” 

That’s good, Steve figures. Perhaps his constant stream of chatter wasn't completely wasted on the sub after all. 

The medic steps forward to crouch in front of the Soldier, who darts another uncertain look in his direction, but doesn’t otherwise move. Dark brown eyes take in the Soldier’s raw-skinned throat, his sweat-dampened brow and shallow breathing. 

He doesn’t try to touch the sub, keeping his assessment primarily visual, but he does continue to pump Steve for pertinent information: You check his circulation at all? ‘Just his arms—arm—when I untied him. I had to get the blood-flow going again.’ Mmm. No major external bleeding, but... He been breathing like this the whole time? ‘When I first came in. He seemed to calm down a bit, when it was just us, but I guess he’s nervous again.’

“If I were a betting man,” the medic says, “I’d wager they gave him something before they left. I don’t see the injection site, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t dose him. Down deep as he is, drugs could definitely be responsible.”

It’s not unheard of for an abuser to chemically exploit their submissive. Drugs make the drop more overwhelming, the submissive even easier to manipulate. Drugs might also explain why the Soldier’s stayed so pliant, even when surrounded by unknown operatives. Why he’s been so amenable to Steve—an unknown Dominant—suddenly inserting himself into his personal space, touching him, interfering with the scene his previous Dom had put in place.

Steve draws his right hand into a fist, tapping a slow rhythm against one thigh. 

He’d planned to bring the sub up. But trying to bring up a sub who’d been drugged down would both be an exercise in futility, and an added stressor upon the sub who literally couldn’t do what was being asked of him. 

It’s a good thing, then, that the medic said something. Even if drugs mean Steve’s severely limited in what he can do for the sub. 

Warmth. Something to drink. A change of clothes. Those things, he can provide. 

But if he can’t bring him up—and he definitely can’t, if drugs are involved—he’ll have to leave the rest of the sub’s treatment to SHIELD. The medics will get him stabilized. See to his injuries. But then it will be up to SHIELD command, including Director Fury himself, to decide what will be done with him. Steve’s involvement, past whatever aid he supplies over the next few minutes, will end, just as soon as he turns the sub over to the medical team. 

It’s not exactly how Steve had hoped this would go. He’d hoped to at least get some answers out of the Soldier about what had happened here. Where the rest of his Hydra accomplices might have run off to. Who of them are still alive. 

None of that is an option now, and Steve finds himself holding back a sigh. This is not ideal. 

But.

At least, a quiet, pragmatic side of his brain whispers, if the Soldier has been drugged… If some of the severity of his drop can be attributed to narcotics rather than trauma, there is at least a better chance that he might come out of this still functional, still with something left to salvage. 

“There’s an empty syringe,” Steve tells the medic. “Near that corner over there.” He nods toward where he’d seen it earlier. “I noticed it when I swept the room. Didn’t think much of it at the time.” 

This room, much like the rest of the warehouse, is covered in filth. Scattered trash and cigarette butts. Unidentifiable stains. Broken furniture. All of it covered in a thin layer of dust, with a good smattering of cobwebs adding to the ambiance. One used syringe hardly stood out amongst all of that.

The medic nods. Sets the small bundle of items he’d brought with him onto the floor before he gets to his feet.

“I’ll check it out. See if I can find out which drug they might’ve used on him.” His eyes take a final, visual sweep of the sub, cataloguing details, assessing his status. Then, “He’s in bad shape,” he tells Steve, plainly. “But none of his physical injuries look to be life-threatening. The biggest threat to him right now is subshock.”

Subshock. A variant of psychological shock, most often triggered when a sub is already down, which makes it difficult—sometimes impossible—to pull the sub out. Driven by the need to protect himself from severe abuse, a sub can quite literally get lost in his own headspace if he stays there long enough. When that happens, vitals become weak. The sub can drop into a coma. He can die there, wrapped up in himself for too long a time.

The best treatment for subshock is the quick intervention of a Dom. One willing to offer kind words; gentle touch; warmth; reassurance. A Dom to counteract the abuse that pushed the sub toward shock in the first place. 

Here, in this setting, the best Dom to offer help is, Steve knows, himself. He’s already inserted himself into the sub’s space; presented himself as a Dom to be, at the very least, complied with. 

On top of that, the sub has already begun to defer to him. It’s in the way he’s stayed exactly as Steve put him. In the glances he shoots toward Steve at regular intervals. Quick, darting looks—as if checking to see that he’s behaving as Steve wants him to.  

Steve sees these things, acknowledges them and, feeling the weight of responsibility settling onto his shoulders, takes a mental step back; gives himself a moment to deliberate whether he wants to get any more involved in this situation. He could always delegate the task to another Dom. There are other agents upstairs who could take his place. He could leave the sub in someone else’s care. He could, but… 

In the end, there isn’t much to debate. 

The facts are simple: the sub needs help. Steve can provide it. 

In the end, it’s not even overly difficult to find the will to help the sub, even knowing who he is, even knowing what he’s done. A definitive part of that owes itself to Steve’s dominant nature, but also: He's taken an oath—as Captain America, as an agent of SHIELD—to serve where he can, to protect those in need, to be a good man.  

A good man wouldn’t leave a sub to suffer in this condition. 

Whatever justice the Soldier deserves to face for his crimes, this isn’t it. 

So when the medic asks Steve to take lead in helping the sub into the dry clothing, getting him to drink the Gatorade, and seeing if he can’t get him wrapped into the warming blanket, Steve straightens his shoulders, sets his jaw, and nods his assent.

“Yes. I can do that."

“And don’t worry, man, I’ll be here the whole time. But it’ll be better for him if you take care of the hands-on stuff. He’s stretched thin enough as it is. Don’t want to make that any worse.”

Don’t want to force the sub to worry about following directions from more than one source at a time, he means. 

“Right,” Steve agrees. “Of course.”

The medic favors him with a charming, gap-toothed smile, raising a hand to clap him on the shoulder. “‘These things we do’, right?”

“That others may live, ” Steve finishes, offering a small smile in return.

The medic nods in approval. Gives Steve’s shoulder a little shake. “Yeah, man. That’s exactly right.”

He moves away then. Likely, in part, to give Steve some space to work with the sub—a modicum of privacy—while he radios his team in a low voice, goes over to bag the used syringe, sweeps the room for any other signs of drugs. 

Steve turns to the small pile of items he’d left behind. 

Fluids, dry clothes, warmth, he decides. In that order.

He picks up the bottle of Gatorade, shaking it slightly to get the sub’s attention. 

“Hey.”

Blue eyes flicker, a brief sweep across Steve’s features, then slither down to focus on the luridly green, “apple” flavored drink in his hand. 

Steve nods. “This is for you.” He cracks the cap, letting the Soldier see that the seal is being broken for the first time, then extends the bottle, putting it within the sub’s reach. “Go ahead and drink some for me, will you pal?” 

The sub blinks, a slow flutter of eyelashes, and tentatively reaches for the bottle, taking it from Steve’s grasp without so much as brushing their fingers together. Another, fleeting glance, flickers Steve’s way but, when Steve nods again, the sub raises the bottle to his mouth, all hint of hesitation vanished. 

Gaze flat, the Soldier begins swallowing down the Gatorade in messy, too-fast gulps. There’s no finesse to his movements, as if he’s used to consuming whatever he’s been given as quickly as he can physically manage. He coughs—a tiny, choked sound, pale green liquid spilling over his chin in thin rivulets—but he doesn’t stop drinking, and Steve, worried that he’ll choke worse, that he’ll make himself sick drinking too much, too fast, throws out his hand in a sharp, unthinking gesture.

“Whoa there, buddy. Slow down.”

The Soldier freezes, wide-eyed and nervous, more of the Gatorade spilling down his chin before he jerks the bottle away from his mouth, lowering the drink to his lap. A fine tremor shivers through his muscles, fingers going white around the plastic as he bows his head shamefacedly, the picture of anxious repentance. 

‘I’m sorry,’ his posture says. ‘Please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry.’

Steve steps forward, close enough that he can reach out and pet the top of the sub’s head, gently drag his fingers through dark, tangled strands.

“‘S okay, pal. ’M not angry. And I'm not gonna hurt you.”

In spite of his anxiety, the tension coiling through his body, the sub presses hungrily into Steve’s touch, shuddering and desperate; like his senses are dialed up to a thousand—his need for contact sharp-edged and painful—and Steve’s hands are the only source of relief. 

Steve keeps touching him, drawing out the contact, giving the sub time to decompress, to settle down. With his free hand, he cups the back of the Soldier’s skull, gently coaxing the sub to rest against him, forehead to thigh. 

Gradually, the tremors subside and the sub returns to pliant stillness. 

Steve takes his time. Gives the Soldier another minute of undisturbed quiet before he taps him on the shoulder, wordlessly petitioning his attention.

It takes a moment, time hanging in slow-stretched silence, but eventually that hazy focus returns to Steve, the Soldier angling his face to where Steve can see his emptied expression. 

“Alright, pal. I've got some dry clothes, here.” Steve lifts one hand to point at the small pile, then at the Soldier. “For you to change into.”

The Soldier’s gaze travels to the clothes; down to himself. He blinks, leaning back as his fingers, metal and flesh alike, curl sluggishly around the hem of his sweat-soaked t-shirt. He pauses there, waiting, and when Steve makes no move to correct him, pulls the shirt over his head, dropping it onto the floor beside himself. Without hesitation, his boots go next, then his tactical pants, his underwear. 

It’s not the best way to draw the sub from his headspace—having him undress. It is the best way toward getting him warm, though. 

Steve, out of deference, averts his gaze, keeping the sub just within his periphery, even as his thoughts snag on the fact that the Soldier apparently has no reservations about pulling off his clothes in front of complete strangers. Ugly ideas that could explain why the Soldier doesn’t seem to care about his own basic modesty start to form in his mind, but Steve pushes the thoughts away. 

It doesn’t have to mean anything. The sub is so completely compliant because he’s down. Of course he’s not going to balk when Steve gives him directions. 

On the edge of Steve’s vision, the Soldier wiggles into the dry scrubs and back into his boots. He’s slow and uncoordinated, fingers clumsy and inelegant around his laces. Through the entire process, Steve notices, he never stands. 

He wonders if the sub assumes he’s not allowed. If, maybe, it’s another one of his rules. Certainly, it makes him less of a threat, if he keeps himself low on the ground. So it isn’t much of a stretch to guess his former handlers might have kept him there rather often. 

His knees and feet must be killing him, with as long as he’d spent kneeling. 

The sub gives little indication of this. Even goes to settle back into position. But Steve’s already seen, firsthand, how the Soldier will ignore his own pain, so he reaches out to stop him, catching him around the upper part of his flesh arm just as he starts to kneel. 

The sub doesn’t startle, exactly. He’s too far under for that. But his muscles pull tight; body tense, brow wrinkling. His eyes travel from Steve’s hand on him to the floor, back and forth again.

Eventually—between pantomiming what he wants, and providing a stream of constant reassurance in low, coaxing tones—Steve gets the Soldier to sit with his legs tucked underneath him instead, no longer in the kneeling position he’d held for so long. 

He looks uneasy, there. Like he’s doing something that isn’t allowed. Like he’s waiting for someone to tear into him for it. But he’s no longer knelt on the balls of his feet, at least, and Steve counts that as a win. Especially when he can see the subtle signs of relief, a lessening of tension in the Soldier’s frame, a slight easing of strain from his expression. 

Steve spends a minute stroking the sub’s brow. Brushing soft fingers over his cheekbones and across his shoulders in gentle reward. “That’s good, pal. You did just what I asked.” Then he steps away. Heads over to retrieve the warming blanket. 

Ripping open the packaging, he shakes the folds out of the cloth, allowing the air exposure to activate the heating process. The Soldier watches him, eyes following his movements, something like quiet longing buried in the depth of his expression.

For the briefest of instants, Steve catches that gaze; glimpses that hint of underlying emotion. Then the sub’s lashes flicker down—breaking the moment of connection, shutting the door on whatever else he might be feeling—and Steve is returning to the Soldier’s side, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, tucking the ends into his mismatched hands.

The sub lets out a shaking, shivery exhalation as the warmth settles over him, tugging the blanket tighter around himself, and Steve settles back, surveying the scene, checking off the items on his mental ‘sub care’ checklist. 

Fluids and dry clothes. Warmth.  

It’s the best he can do for the sub, under the circumstances, but it’s definitely not the only care the Soldier should receive. On that thought, Steve turns his attention to the medic still standing on the far side of the room, radio turned down so as not to draw attention to himself as he murmurs into the device, reporting on the situation. 

The medic clocks Steve’s attention right away, sending him a quick nod before he glances at the sub, ending his transmission with, “Yeah, let me finish here. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Copy,” the radio responds and goes quiet. 

Reclipping the radio to his belt, the medic turns the rest of the way toward Steve. “Looks like you’re about finished.”

Steve lifts a shoulder. “Done as much as I can, I think.”

“You’re good with him,” the medic says, reaching into one of the many pockets of his tac pants. “Doubt I could have done better myself. Might need you to stick around a little longer, though, If you’re willing.” 

Steve raises a brow, spreading his hands in inquiry and the medic pulls his hand from his pocket, opening his fist to reveal a small, glass phial. “Found this on the floor. The label says “Zophanol”. It’s a classic downer drug—and it’s empty. One guess what they used it for.”

Steve steals a look at the sub, frowning. “There’s counteragents for some of those drugs.”

The medic nods, a quick bob of his head. “True. And I can check the truck, see if we’ve got one for this. Honestly, though… Considering the amount of trauma he’s been through, it’s probably best if he comes up gradually. He’s stable, breathing okay. We can afford to wait it out.” 

Steve rests his hands on his hips, tucking his thumbs into his utility belt. “Okay. We should get him moved, then. He still needs medical attention.”

“Yeah. So, back to why I asked you to stick around. I want to make sure the way’s clear before we take him up there. Less exposure, less distress, you know? And I’ll get the truck moved as close to the front as I can. I’d like him to walk out, if that’s possible. Don’t want to strap him down any sooner than I have to, which—” The medic reaches up, scratches at the side of his face with a thumb. “That’s another thing I wanted to ask about.” 

He turns to sweep his eyes over the sub, before looking back at Steve. “Is that something we need to do? Strap him down? He’s not presenting as much of a threat, and I’d like to avoid pushing him any further into his headspace if I can.” 

If this were any other sub, anyone less potentially dangerous than the Winter Soldier, Steve might consider forgoing the restraints. The Soldier has been nothing but compliant. He’s shown no aggression; is finally inching toward something resembling calm . Putting him in restraints could end up undoing all of that progress. Push him right back into the state he’d been in when Steve had first found him. It’s understandable that the medic would want to avoid such an outcome.

But the medic is looking at the situation through the eyes of a healer, and Steve is decidedly not. No matter how he might sympathize with the sub’s situation, there’s a limit to how far he’s willing to cater to his needs. 

From a tactical standpoint, leaving the Winter Soldier unbound would be incredibly irresponsible. He’s far too valuable an adversary to risk any chance of him escaping. On top of that, if something triggered him to start fighting, his deadly competence makes him too highly dangerous, a lethal threat to everyone around him.

The last thing Steve needs is to end this clusterfuck of an op by having to explain to Fury how sentimentality led to him losing the Winter Soldier. Or worse: losing good agents to the Soldier.

“I’ll help you get him up to the truck,” Steve says. “Push it off as far as we can. But before I leave him in your care he has to be locked down. You can decide how that will look. We’ve got reinforced handcuffs, or—if it’ll make things easier—we can cuff him to the gurney. But restraints are non-negotiable.”

The medic presses his lips together. “Yeah, alright. Figured it was a long shot, anyway.” He folds his arms. Shrugs. “Let me grab the truck, then, and make sure the way’s clear. I’ll radio you when it’s time to bring him up.”

There isn’t much else for Steve to do, then, but wait. After a minute of silent debate, he takes a seat on the floor; close to the Soldier, but with enough distance between them to allow the sub his own space, if he wants it. 

The sub regards this with short, sidelong glances, eyes settling on Steve for about half a beat before he looks away, then back, as if he can’t help the direction of his focus. 

“Hey.”

Steve raises a hand, turning his palm upward as the Soldier zeros in on the movement and motioning toward himself. “Hey, pal. Wanna come over here?” He pats the top of his thigh, arching his brows in casual query.

The sub tucks his lower lip between his teeth. Looks at Steve’s hand, resting innocently on his knee. At the floor. His own knees. Back at Steve’s hand.

“Up to you buddy.” Steve taps his fingers, a short, staccato rhythm. Turns his gaze purposefully away from the Soldier. 

A long beat, and then the sub moves, surprisingly graceful as he shuffles across the few feet separating him from Steve, bringing himself close enough to touch. 

Steve rewards him with a close-lipped smile, a gentle touch to his flesh shoulder. Carefully, he guides the Soldier forward and down, getting his forehead settled against Steve’s thigh for the second time tonight. The sub rests there, unresisting but not relaxed.

Until Steve touches the crown of his head, tucks a strand of dark hair behind one ear, and all of the tension washes out of him in one sudden rush. He presses against Steve more heavily, a small whisper of sound spilling from his lips, the exhalation warm where it permeates the fabric of Steve’s tac pants.

Silence reigns, thick but unoppressive, occasionally broken by the sounds of agents moving around above, gathering evidence, clearing out lifeless bodies. He wonders how long before they’re ready to extract the Soldier, quiet and docile as he lies using Steve’s thigh as a pillow.

His curiosity is short-lived.

“Evac in five, Captain,” his earpiece informs him, and Steve acknowledges, brushing rhythmic fingers over the Soldier’s dark head, other hand a firm pressure between the sub’s shoulder blades, just below where his neck is raw from the collar.   

Five minutes later he’s coaxing the sub to his feet, keeping one hand firm around the Soldier’s flesh arm just below his shoulder. Helping to steady him and, more importantly, making sure he has no opportunity to bolt. 

It’s not long before they’re stepping outside, the short path to the ambulance bracketed on both sides by armed SHIELD agents. They hold their positions, not moving in, but all of them are on high alert, weapons and eyes pointed unerringly toward the Soldier. 

Steve guides the sub toward the gurney just outside the ambulance. Gets him to lie flat; to tuck his wrists into the reinforced cuffs affixed to the metal frame. It’s disturbingly easy: strapping him down, tightening the restraints to the point where even the metal arm won’t be able to free him without extreme effort. 

The red tinge of emergency lighting and the blatant threat of unholstered weapons projects a garish sense of menace over the entire scene, and the Soldier—never resists. 

His breathing kicks up again, harsh and jagged, and the full-bodied shivering returns with a vengeance. And he doesn’t resist.

Steve checks the integrity of the cuffs, makes sure the straps are completely secure, and then steps away, glancing up at the medics who’ve been watching him from the back of the ambulance. The man who’d been with him in the basement nods at him, expression carefully bland, though not unfriendly. “We set?”

“Everything looks good,” Steve affirms. “He’s all yours.”

Tension bleeds from shoulders and faces relax as the surrounding agents lower their weapons, everyone breathing in stark relief now that the Winter Soldier is officially contained. Two of the medics jump from the truck, moving to the side of the gurney so that they can lift it into the truck and Steve takes another step back, getting out of their way. 

The light shifts, and something makes Steve look up, gaze catching unexpectedly upon the Soldier’s pale face.

He’s looking at Steve—directly at him, for the first time—eyes very wide and very blue. There’s terror in his expression. Terror, and panic, and something desperately pleading. 

And then the sub is being lifted into the ambulance, his frightened gaze getting cut off as the medics move in to do their jobs, one of them closing the doors on the scene with a sharp snap.

Steve blinks. 

Looks away.

-

He doesn’t see the Soldier again for a long time.

-